Name: Seven
Age: 19 as of June
Gender: Male
Skills:
Apprentice close range fighting: Fighting with daggers.
Competent Sneak - Meaning moving silently, and the know-how of how to go from place to place unnoticed.
Apprentice Running
Basic Literacy - He knows how to read, but it does not mean he knows what they all mean.
Novice Husbandry - From his brief time at the farm. (Feeding chickens, cleaning their coop, that kind of stuff)
Personality:
Seven is basically socially inept. He's never had a proper conversation with his master, nor with the other Numbers. In fact, the first time he had spoken to anyone outside of the Dark Hand was Thaloran, and probably Rilian, but then she was a part of the order at the time, so she doesn't count. So Seven is a very socially awkward and oblivious young man. He will shy away from people, and do it pretty well too, but in all sense, he is an obedient one. He can be friendly in his own way, the only problem is that he doesn't know what being friendly exactly means. He will try though, if he finds someone that he likes, but he's not really sociable, and he will probably mess it up one way or the other. All of his time under his master had shaped him into a meek and innocent boy, whose actions had not been innocent, ironically.
Through his short stay with Thaloran and his family, he had picked up some valuable traits, such as loyalty, and compassion. These won't manifest themselves too often, and will only be shown to those that he opens up to. Another thing to note is that Seven is by no means independent. As Thaloran himself had wondered, Seven really can't do much on his own. He would have died of starvation if Thaloran hadn't saved him. When he first came across Thaloran, he deemed him as his 'master' figure, since his old master had died. Now that Thaloran was far away, he would most likely look for a new one.
Age: 19 as of June
Gender: Male
Skills:
Apprentice close range fighting: Fighting with daggers.
Competent Sneak - Meaning moving silently, and the know-how of how to go from place to place unnoticed.
Apprentice Running
Basic Literacy - He knows how to read, but it does not mean he knows what they all mean.
Novice Husbandry - From his brief time at the farm. (Feeding chickens, cleaning their coop, that kind of stuff)
![[+]](/images/collapse_collapsed.png "[+]")
Appearance
Appearance:
Seven isn't a pretty sight. He's only 4 feet 10 inches tall, owing to the fact that he never was provided with much nutrients for his body to work on. He has long grayish hair which is often hidden by the hooded black cloak he wears. Under the cloak, he wears a pair of black trousers and a simple plain black shirt. He doesn't wear any shoes, because he can't stand them. Around his neck, is a muffler, bright red, presented by Clove. It covers half of his face and only reveals his pale green eyes.
Seven isn't a pretty sight. He's only 4 feet 10 inches tall, owing to the fact that he never was provided with much nutrients for his body to work on. He has long grayish hair which is often hidden by the hooded black cloak he wears. Under the cloak, he wears a pair of black trousers and a simple plain black shirt. He doesn't wear any shoes, because he can't stand them. Around his neck, is a muffler, bright red, presented by Clove. It covers half of his face and only reveals his pale green eyes.
Personality:
Seven is basically socially inept. He's never had a proper conversation with his master, nor with the other Numbers. In fact, the first time he had spoken to anyone outside of the Dark Hand was Thaloran, and probably Rilian, but then she was a part of the order at the time, so she doesn't count. So Seven is a very socially awkward and oblivious young man. He will shy away from people, and do it pretty well too, but in all sense, he is an obedient one. He can be friendly in his own way, the only problem is that he doesn't know what being friendly exactly means. He will try though, if he finds someone that he likes, but he's not really sociable, and he will probably mess it up one way or the other. All of his time under his master had shaped him into a meek and innocent boy, whose actions had not been innocent, ironically.
Through his short stay with Thaloran and his family, he had picked up some valuable traits, such as loyalty, and compassion. These won't manifest themselves too often, and will only be shown to those that he opens up to. Another thing to note is that Seven is by no means independent. As Thaloran himself had wondered, Seven really can't do much on his own. He would have died of starvation if Thaloran hadn't saved him. When he first came across Thaloran, he deemed him as his 'master' figure, since his old master had died. Now that Thaloran was far away, he would most likely look for a new one.
Backstory:
He was running, perhaps faster than he had ever before. He still could not understand why he was let go; it definitely was not by kindness of heart, of that he was sure. He could still see the blazing fires and the glint of metals, and the screams. The screams, he doubted he’d ever forget the screams, he never has.
He shook them out of his head with some difficulty and forced himself to focus. It was a moonless night and the light from the fires had long since faded, so he had to watch where he was going lest he fell. Trees whipped past him and the thick canopy blocked even the stars from assuring his place. Needless to say, he had no idea where he was and where he was headed; he had never strayed into the forest before, and the peaceful atmosphere of the still summer night only made him all the more tense and stricken at the slightest indication of movement.
He kept his pace until his lungs threatened to burst, and when he felt he could run no longer, even for his life, the forest thinned and he tumbled out into a small clearing.
The clearing was on a gentle slope, with a small stream that cut through the middle that babbled in time with his breathing. The water was murky, and in the darkness, it looked like the blackest of inks, or, perhaps, a wound gushing blood.
He crouched and steadied his breath. His furtive eyes scanned the woods for any signs of movement and his ears strained to catch any sounds of threat, but the woods were still, and save for the gentle chuckling of the stream and his own troubled breathing, he could hear nothing else. After a few moments, he breathed out, and slowly made his way to the stream. He had left no tracks, and if they hadn’t given chase and stayed close, he should be safe, at least for now.
He knelt by the stream and scooped some water with his hands, only to flinch from a sudden sting. He studied his hands curiously and found several cuts on his palm, and on further inspection, discovered several more on his arms, legs, and every other uncovered part of his body. Where the branches had failed to harm, it had torn; there was a large tear on his black cloak that spanned from one end to the other, leaving precious few strands holding it together. Other smaller holes dotted the cloak, resembling a piece fabric after a teething dog had finished attacking it. He tore off the dangling cloth, and wrapped it around his neck; it wouldn’t do much against the cold, he thought, but it would have to do. Feeling slightly better, he touched one of the larger wounds on his arm and brought the finger to his tongue. It tasted of blood.
Why, he wondered. Why.
He cleaned up the rest of his wounds as best he could and got up to continue onwards, and nearly fell over from a sudden wave of nausea; the frantic run through the forest had taken more out of him than he had realized, and now he had barely enough strength to keep him standing. Feeling his adrenal strength ebbing away by the second, he dragged himself towards a tree with low hanging branches, and with the remainder of his strength, pulled himself up onto a groove where two branches met. He nestled himself in his cot, and unable to keep himself awake any longer, let go of his consciousness and drifted to sleep.
He shook them out of his head with some difficulty and forced himself to focus. It was a moonless night and the light from the fires had long since faded, so he had to watch where he was going lest he fell. Trees whipped past him and the thick canopy blocked even the stars from assuring his place. Needless to say, he had no idea where he was and where he was headed; he had never strayed into the forest before, and the peaceful atmosphere of the still summer night only made him all the more tense and stricken at the slightest indication of movement.
He kept his pace until his lungs threatened to burst, and when he felt he could run no longer, even for his life, the forest thinned and he tumbled out into a small clearing.
The clearing was on a gentle slope, with a small stream that cut through the middle that babbled in time with his breathing. The water was murky, and in the darkness, it looked like the blackest of inks, or, perhaps, a wound gushing blood.
He crouched and steadied his breath. His furtive eyes scanned the woods for any signs of movement and his ears strained to catch any sounds of threat, but the woods were still, and save for the gentle chuckling of the stream and his own troubled breathing, he could hear nothing else. After a few moments, he breathed out, and slowly made his way to the stream. He had left no tracks, and if they hadn’t given chase and stayed close, he should be safe, at least for now.
He knelt by the stream and scooped some water with his hands, only to flinch from a sudden sting. He studied his hands curiously and found several cuts on his palm, and on further inspection, discovered several more on his arms, legs, and every other uncovered part of his body. Where the branches had failed to harm, it had torn; there was a large tear on his black cloak that spanned from one end to the other, leaving precious few strands holding it together. Other smaller holes dotted the cloak, resembling a piece fabric after a teething dog had finished attacking it. He tore off the dangling cloth, and wrapped it around his neck; it wouldn’t do much against the cold, he thought, but it would have to do. Feeling slightly better, he touched one of the larger wounds on his arm and brought the finger to his tongue. It tasted of blood.
Why, he wondered. Why.
He cleaned up the rest of his wounds as best he could and got up to continue onwards, and nearly fell over from a sudden wave of nausea; the frantic run through the forest had taken more out of him than he had realized, and now he had barely enough strength to keep him standing. Feeling his adrenal strength ebbing away by the second, he dragged himself towards a tree with low hanging branches, and with the remainder of his strength, pulled himself up onto a groove where two branches met. He nestled himself in his cot, and unable to keep himself awake any longer, let go of his consciousness and drifted to sleep.
-=oOo=-
Blood, grime, and grit, these were the earliest memories of the boy. Far back as he could remember, he couldn’t recall a day that was without the sounds of clashing blades and the sight of blood; his, and on other times, his opponents’. Before he’d been given his name, that was his life. On a typical day he’d be woken up with a shout and a kick to his side, or if he was lucky, a bucket of foul smelling water. He would then wake, still weary from the previous night’s training, and plunge into another day of swordplay, blending in, and combat, combat, combat.
He never questioned why he was receiving all these “lessons”. His mentor was never the answering type, and rather than tolerating his student to waste his breath asking pointless questions, he directed his attention to more pressing matters, more basic matters. For instance, he forbade any food or water until he was satisfied with the boy’s performance, which happened very rarely. The boy would try and try again. He would pick up his sword with hands that were bleeding from reopened blisters, stagger to his feet and charge with legs that were long since beyond screaming in since. He would desperately try to keep track of his mentor’s sword hand with one eye swollen shut. But for all his efforts, he was kicked when he fell, smacked when he rested, and starved when he cried.
His mentor was a dark faced man, tall and always quite menacing in his stance. In his billowing dark cloak that concealed dozens of daggers and vials of poison, he easily towered over him, often glaring down at him with his piercing red eyes. His face was set in a constant scowl, he remembered, as if someone had carved the expression into his face, the scars that crisscrossed it being the amateur artist’s mistakes.
Once, he had seen his mentor without his armor, and saw that the rest of his body was marked by scars as well, disturbed in places only by his rippling muscles. The very next moment, he had been knocked to the ground, gasping for breath as darkness crept on the borders of his vision. Get up, his mentor would say, get up and try again.
The boy woke with a start to a loud whistling and an equally loud braying. The sun was already out, hanging high above and glaring. He looked away, blinking away the red spots that reminded him too much, and noticed that he was lying on a pile of hay on a moving wagon. He had a blanket over him and all his wounds were dressed. He sat up slowly and blinked at the winding path and the cloud of dust trailing behind them. The trees to either side of the road rustled in the gentle wind and as he watched, a couple of sparrows flew out of a tree and chased each other in circles.
“Awake now are you?” shouted a gruff but hearty voice from behind him. “Was bit of a nasty shock when I found you on that tree!”
He was about turn around and respond, but was interrupted by the wagon going over a bump on the road. The donkey brayed as the wagon tumbled, and, for a heartbeat, ran on two wheels. With a loud grunt, the man stomped hard on the wagon and it rightened itself, falling back on the ground with a dull thud.
The grizzly man swore and shook his fist at the donkey. “Oi! You damn stupid beast, watch the road!” He grumbled.
The boy stared. The man was huge, larger than any man he had ever seen before. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the entire front seat, blocking the donkey from his view. Under the large straw hat, he saw that the man had cropped soft brown hair, with an adequately tanned neck.
The man chuckled when he noticed his gaze. “Me donkey, Rosie, is a good one at the best of times, but she gets distracted see, when we have a stranger on us.” He pulled on the reins and set the wagon rumbling along again. “We found you on the tree just after sunrise. Rosie was having her drink, and so was I, and I saw a hand dangling off a branch, and some animals bustling by it. So naturally, I went over with me hatchet, and I found you, cold and bleedin’. I reckon you were nearly over the other side when I got to you. You were lucky we decided to take a shortcut.” He chuckled cheerily.
He continued to stare, overwhelmed. “I-“ he started.
“No need for thanks lad!” the man cut in. “We’ve got to help ones in need; ‘Tis how the world stays going in these troubled times.”
The man turned around and grinned widely at him. His yellowed teeth were like evenly sized boulders of limestone, arranged somewhat haphazardly. The man’s mellow blue eyes twinkled under the rim of his hat, the color of lakes, the boy observed, and were lined with wrinkles that the boy learned later to be laugh lines.
The boy nodded, still unsure what to think of the man, and the man’s grin widened still when he saw the boy’s benign response.
“Well lad, not much for talking are you?” He then chuckled. “Prefer a talker for a travelling companion myself, but it’s alright. Care to tell me your name?”
The boy blinked. “Seven,” he managed.
The man whistled. “Seventh o’ the bunch then?” he laughed merrily. “Ain’t so common to have a number for a name. But,” he continued, “if it’s your name, it’s your name.”
Seven remained silent as the wagon began to climb a hill. The man worked the reins and the donkey complained as she pulled them along.
“My name’s Thaloran by the way, you can call me just Thal,” he said looking over his shoulder. “’Tis what everyone calls me, but I won’t mind none if you call me Thaloran.”
Seven opened his mouth and shut it. “Thal…” he said quietly after a moment. He glanced at Thaloran who smiled encouragingly. “Thal,” he repeated, a little louder this time.
“That’s right,” he nodded with another chuckle. “So then Seven, we’ve got a bit of a ways to go still, you want to tell me your story? What were you doing in that forest all by yourself? Chased by wolves? A stroll in the night gone terribly wrong? Oh,” he slapped his forehead and turned to him with a worried expression. “Darn me blasted head and all, you weren’t with someone were you? I’d wager they’d be shouting all over the place for you.”
Seven observed a crease deepening over the man’s eyebrows and slowly shook his head. He then watched in wonder as the crease disappeared; he didn’t know they could clear up so quickly.
The man broke into a smile. “Thank the gods for that,” he said as he sat back round again. “That I haven’t at least caused some form of worry and grief. You’re traveling alone then I take it? Where did you come from?”
“I-” Seven hesitated, not because he did not want to reveal the information, but because he was genuinely unsure where he had come from. The sun was still much too high for Seven to get his bearings, and nothing in the distant horizon seemed familiar to him. “I don’t know,” he said eventually.
“Remember anything about the place?” Thaloran inquired. “Name, size, or anything about the place you remember in particular?”
“It was dark,” said Seven after a moment of thinking. “But it became bright. There was a lot of fire, and then there was a man with a sword.”
“Ah,” Thaloran replied uncertainly. “I see.”
A moment of silence followed, broken periodically by the donkey’s braying and panting. Unsure what he had done wrong, Seven looked down at his hands; they were wrapped in some coarse white fabric. Granted it was done clumsily, but it was enough to stem the bleeding. A dull pain shot up when he flexed his fingers, and it suited him just fine; he was used to pain.
“So then lad,” began Thaloran cautiously. “Change of topic. How do you like the sound of a loaf of fresh bread, and a bowl of steaming corn soup? I reckon you must be mighty hungry and tired.”
Seven blinked at the man’s backside. He knew of bread and corn and so supposed the man was suggesting a meal, but couldn’t figure out what he had accomplished to deserve it. He was certainly hungry and tired, but what if it was a trick? He might be punished for his insolence, and he definitely did not want that. Then again, he didn’t fancy his chances of getting food anywhere else; he didn’t know anything about the wilds, much less about the edible things in it.
In strife with himself, he fidgeted on the pile of hay, but in the end, his curiosity won over his fear. “But I didn’t do anything,” he said softly, scratching at his wounds.
Thaloran whipped around in surprise. “But why lad,” he exclaimed, “should that matter?”
Seven stared. He was confused, positively bewildered; this man was making no sense, but his manner told him that it wasn’t pretense.
“Because,” he started, and realized that he himself did not know the reason. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
“There, see?” said Thaloran with a chuckle. “Now, I don’t know how feeding works where you came from, but in my house, you eat when you want to, and work when you want to. Of course,” he sniffed, “you need to work to be able to get food for eating, but that’s a different matter completely. Do you understand me lad?”
Boggled, Seven just nodded. He didn’t understand how or why that logic worked, in fact, he didn’t understand at all. All he could wrap his head around was that he could have some food, and that this man, by the name of Thaloran, was definitely different from all the men that he knew.
“Good lad,” said Thaloran and ruffled Seven’s hair. He then took the reins again. “You’ll like me wife’s meals, she’s the best cook in the land.”
Seven had tensed slightly when Thaloran had reached out, and the ruffling came as a pleasant surprise. All the same, it was yet another baffling experience for him; the only times a hand had approached his head was to either drag him by his hair, or smack him across the face, and he was expecting the same from Thaloran. He ran his own hand through his hair and looked at the man. He was whistling again now, a sharp and quick tune that he felt strangely drawn to. It wasn’t like the whistling he knew: a single piercing note, often for signaling. He watched as birds fluttered out of the tree lines, and wondered whether the man was calling to them.
As he sat thinking on this, the wagon finished its climb. Seven could see a mountain range in the distance just over the top of the man’s head. When he leaned out over one side, he saw a farmhouse standing on a vast stretch of land that spanned beyond them. To one side of the house, unripe wheat rippled in a field next to another that grew corn. White sheets billowed on a clothesline and a yellow haired woman stood by it with a small child, who started running towards them, waving.
“Well then lad,” Thaloran spread his arms and grinned over his shoulder. “Welcome to me farm.”
The farmhouse was a single-story building with three rooms and a living room that acted both as a kitchen and a dining room. It wasn’t the best of the houses that Seven had been to, but considering that he was welcomed for once, it didn’t really matter. However, despite the warm welcome, he felt himself grow ever increasingly nervous as the minutes passed. He was seated at the dining table with Thaloran and a little girl while the woman busied herself by the cooking hearth, around which different plants and dried fruits were hanging down from the ceiling. He had seen plants and dried fruits by his mentor’s little chemistry table. Anyone that ended up drinking any of his concoctions started feeling dizzy after an hour, began coughing blood after twelve, and dropped dead after twenty four hours of drinking. He was certain that the woman by the fire had put some of the hanging ingredients into the cauldron she was stirring.
In the back of his mind he could hear Thaloran speaking, and vaguely heard him mention the name of his daughter, Clove, and his wife, Laura, but he was now too preoccupied searching for more potential threats to pay attention. There was a simple white cloth acting as a tablecloth on the table, on it sat a stout vase with some red flowers, beyond that and across Seven, sat Thaloran and beside him, his daughter. Behind the two were two doors, with another vase between them, a tall one, with some more possibly poisonous plants. On the adjoining wall to the left of Seven, was another door, slightly ajar, next to some clay pots on a small table by an open window. Young sprouts were growing in those pots, and who knew what they grew into?
“What’s the matter lad?” asked Thaloran, startling Seven thoroughly.
He was smiling, with one hand on his daughter, who was watching Seven curiously with her chin on the table. When Seven looked at her, her pale blue eyes widened and she smiled shyly.
Seven shook his head at Thaloran, and slowly turned his gaze to his right, where the woman was still working away. She was the biggest threat it seemed. Besides the ingredients that were hanging from the ceiling, there were other things on a stone counter that were cause for worry. The stone counter itself seemed harmless, there were only a couple of openings on the front that had been covered with a lid, but there were knives in a rack on top of the counter, one of which was out and laid on a wooden board where piles of different ingredients were set.
One pile was made of some green leafy things, with slices of some red balls sitting among them. He didn’t like the look of those red balls; they were oozing some sort of transparent yellowish liquid from the cut sides. The other pile was composed of numerous small darkish-blue balls, and some roughly crushed white brown stuff, which was more reason for him to worry.
“I think the lad is starving Laura,” said Thaloran with a chuckle, making Seven jump yet again. “He’s glaring at the salad like he’s about to jump on it.”
“I picked the blueberries,” piped in the young girl, Clove, and then giggled.
She had a tinkling voice he noticed, and resembled more her mother than her father. She was fairer for one, and had her mother’s yellow hair, slightly dulled by the brown in her father’s. She blushed when Seven turned his attention towards her, and shied away from him. She gave him a toothy grin from the edge of the table.
“The soup is nearly done,” said Laura, bustling by her station. “Why don’t you set the table dear?”
“I’ll do it!” chirped Clove and pattered to her mother’s side, collecting plates and bowls from the cupboards.
The likeness was more evident now that she was next to her mother; she was a miniature version of the woman. They had the same wavy hair, although the woman’s was longer, and they had the same face, the child’s with more vitality that is characteristic of the young. The woman herself stood tall, certainly not as tall as Thaloran, but definitely taller than himself. Her face was marked by lines that betrayed her otherwise youthful face. They were very much like Thaloran’s own, except hers were fewer and less prominent. Seven noted that she didn’t have blue eyes like the rest of the family; instead, she had green, a lighter shade, like the grass of the fields, like his. He suddenly realized that she was smiling warmly at him.
“Seven, wasn’t it?” she asked. “It’ll be just a minute now. We just have to let the soup simmer a bit. And,” she glanced over at the stone counter. “Let the oven finish baking.”
Seven nodded, or rather twitched his head, as if his neck muscles had a slight spasm. She didn’t seem so much of a threat now, even if she was concocting poison. He felt somehow assured that he wouldn’t get punished around here, that he wouldn’t have to expect pain and shouting for once. He began to relax; he sat more comfortably and was about to ask what an oven was, when Clove brought the cutlery to the table.
He never questioned why he was receiving all these “lessons”. His mentor was never the answering type, and rather than tolerating his student to waste his breath asking pointless questions, he directed his attention to more pressing matters, more basic matters. For instance, he forbade any food or water until he was satisfied with the boy’s performance, which happened very rarely. The boy would try and try again. He would pick up his sword with hands that were bleeding from reopened blisters, stagger to his feet and charge with legs that were long since beyond screaming in since. He would desperately try to keep track of his mentor’s sword hand with one eye swollen shut. But for all his efforts, he was kicked when he fell, smacked when he rested, and starved when he cried.
His mentor was a dark faced man, tall and always quite menacing in his stance. In his billowing dark cloak that concealed dozens of daggers and vials of poison, he easily towered over him, often glaring down at him with his piercing red eyes. His face was set in a constant scowl, he remembered, as if someone had carved the expression into his face, the scars that crisscrossed it being the amateur artist’s mistakes.
Once, he had seen his mentor without his armor, and saw that the rest of his body was marked by scars as well, disturbed in places only by his rippling muscles. The very next moment, he had been knocked to the ground, gasping for breath as darkness crept on the borders of his vision. Get up, his mentor would say, get up and try again.
-=oOo=-
The boy woke with a start to a loud whistling and an equally loud braying. The sun was already out, hanging high above and glaring. He looked away, blinking away the red spots that reminded him too much, and noticed that he was lying on a pile of hay on a moving wagon. He had a blanket over him and all his wounds were dressed. He sat up slowly and blinked at the winding path and the cloud of dust trailing behind them. The trees to either side of the road rustled in the gentle wind and as he watched, a couple of sparrows flew out of a tree and chased each other in circles.
“Awake now are you?” shouted a gruff but hearty voice from behind him. “Was bit of a nasty shock when I found you on that tree!”
He was about turn around and respond, but was interrupted by the wagon going over a bump on the road. The donkey brayed as the wagon tumbled, and, for a heartbeat, ran on two wheels. With a loud grunt, the man stomped hard on the wagon and it rightened itself, falling back on the ground with a dull thud.
The grizzly man swore and shook his fist at the donkey. “Oi! You damn stupid beast, watch the road!” He grumbled.
The boy stared. The man was huge, larger than any man he had ever seen before. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the entire front seat, blocking the donkey from his view. Under the large straw hat, he saw that the man had cropped soft brown hair, with an adequately tanned neck.
The man chuckled when he noticed his gaze. “Me donkey, Rosie, is a good one at the best of times, but she gets distracted see, when we have a stranger on us.” He pulled on the reins and set the wagon rumbling along again. “We found you on the tree just after sunrise. Rosie was having her drink, and so was I, and I saw a hand dangling off a branch, and some animals bustling by it. So naturally, I went over with me hatchet, and I found you, cold and bleedin’. I reckon you were nearly over the other side when I got to you. You were lucky we decided to take a shortcut.” He chuckled cheerily.
He continued to stare, overwhelmed. “I-“ he started.
“No need for thanks lad!” the man cut in. “We’ve got to help ones in need; ‘Tis how the world stays going in these troubled times.”
The man turned around and grinned widely at him. His yellowed teeth were like evenly sized boulders of limestone, arranged somewhat haphazardly. The man’s mellow blue eyes twinkled under the rim of his hat, the color of lakes, the boy observed, and were lined with wrinkles that the boy learned later to be laugh lines.
The boy nodded, still unsure what to think of the man, and the man’s grin widened still when he saw the boy’s benign response.
“Well lad, not much for talking are you?” He then chuckled. “Prefer a talker for a travelling companion myself, but it’s alright. Care to tell me your name?”
The boy blinked. “Seven,” he managed.
The man whistled. “Seventh o’ the bunch then?” he laughed merrily. “Ain’t so common to have a number for a name. But,” he continued, “if it’s your name, it’s your name.”
Seven remained silent as the wagon began to climb a hill. The man worked the reins and the donkey complained as she pulled them along.
“My name’s Thaloran by the way, you can call me just Thal,” he said looking over his shoulder. “’Tis what everyone calls me, but I won’t mind none if you call me Thaloran.”
Seven opened his mouth and shut it. “Thal…” he said quietly after a moment. He glanced at Thaloran who smiled encouragingly. “Thal,” he repeated, a little louder this time.
“That’s right,” he nodded with another chuckle. “So then Seven, we’ve got a bit of a ways to go still, you want to tell me your story? What were you doing in that forest all by yourself? Chased by wolves? A stroll in the night gone terribly wrong? Oh,” he slapped his forehead and turned to him with a worried expression. “Darn me blasted head and all, you weren’t with someone were you? I’d wager they’d be shouting all over the place for you.”
Seven observed a crease deepening over the man’s eyebrows and slowly shook his head. He then watched in wonder as the crease disappeared; he didn’t know they could clear up so quickly.
The man broke into a smile. “Thank the gods for that,” he said as he sat back round again. “That I haven’t at least caused some form of worry and grief. You’re traveling alone then I take it? Where did you come from?”
“I-” Seven hesitated, not because he did not want to reveal the information, but because he was genuinely unsure where he had come from. The sun was still much too high for Seven to get his bearings, and nothing in the distant horizon seemed familiar to him. “I don’t know,” he said eventually.
“Remember anything about the place?” Thaloran inquired. “Name, size, or anything about the place you remember in particular?”
“It was dark,” said Seven after a moment of thinking. “But it became bright. There was a lot of fire, and then there was a man with a sword.”
“Ah,” Thaloran replied uncertainly. “I see.”
A moment of silence followed, broken periodically by the donkey’s braying and panting. Unsure what he had done wrong, Seven looked down at his hands; they were wrapped in some coarse white fabric. Granted it was done clumsily, but it was enough to stem the bleeding. A dull pain shot up when he flexed his fingers, and it suited him just fine; he was used to pain.
“So then lad,” began Thaloran cautiously. “Change of topic. How do you like the sound of a loaf of fresh bread, and a bowl of steaming corn soup? I reckon you must be mighty hungry and tired.”
Seven blinked at the man’s backside. He knew of bread and corn and so supposed the man was suggesting a meal, but couldn’t figure out what he had accomplished to deserve it. He was certainly hungry and tired, but what if it was a trick? He might be punished for his insolence, and he definitely did not want that. Then again, he didn’t fancy his chances of getting food anywhere else; he didn’t know anything about the wilds, much less about the edible things in it.
In strife with himself, he fidgeted on the pile of hay, but in the end, his curiosity won over his fear. “But I didn’t do anything,” he said softly, scratching at his wounds.
Thaloran whipped around in surprise. “But why lad,” he exclaimed, “should that matter?”
Seven stared. He was confused, positively bewildered; this man was making no sense, but his manner told him that it wasn’t pretense.
“Because,” he started, and realized that he himself did not know the reason. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
“There, see?” said Thaloran with a chuckle. “Now, I don’t know how feeding works where you came from, but in my house, you eat when you want to, and work when you want to. Of course,” he sniffed, “you need to work to be able to get food for eating, but that’s a different matter completely. Do you understand me lad?”
Boggled, Seven just nodded. He didn’t understand how or why that logic worked, in fact, he didn’t understand at all. All he could wrap his head around was that he could have some food, and that this man, by the name of Thaloran, was definitely different from all the men that he knew.
“Good lad,” said Thaloran and ruffled Seven’s hair. He then took the reins again. “You’ll like me wife’s meals, she’s the best cook in the land.”
Seven had tensed slightly when Thaloran had reached out, and the ruffling came as a pleasant surprise. All the same, it was yet another baffling experience for him; the only times a hand had approached his head was to either drag him by his hair, or smack him across the face, and he was expecting the same from Thaloran. He ran his own hand through his hair and looked at the man. He was whistling again now, a sharp and quick tune that he felt strangely drawn to. It wasn’t like the whistling he knew: a single piercing note, often for signaling. He watched as birds fluttered out of the tree lines, and wondered whether the man was calling to them.
As he sat thinking on this, the wagon finished its climb. Seven could see a mountain range in the distance just over the top of the man’s head. When he leaned out over one side, he saw a farmhouse standing on a vast stretch of land that spanned beyond them. To one side of the house, unripe wheat rippled in a field next to another that grew corn. White sheets billowed on a clothesline and a yellow haired woman stood by it with a small child, who started running towards them, waving.
“Well then lad,” Thaloran spread his arms and grinned over his shoulder. “Welcome to me farm.”
-=oOo=-
The farmhouse was a single-story building with three rooms and a living room that acted both as a kitchen and a dining room. It wasn’t the best of the houses that Seven had been to, but considering that he was welcomed for once, it didn’t really matter. However, despite the warm welcome, he felt himself grow ever increasingly nervous as the minutes passed. He was seated at the dining table with Thaloran and a little girl while the woman busied herself by the cooking hearth, around which different plants and dried fruits were hanging down from the ceiling. He had seen plants and dried fruits by his mentor’s little chemistry table. Anyone that ended up drinking any of his concoctions started feeling dizzy after an hour, began coughing blood after twelve, and dropped dead after twenty four hours of drinking. He was certain that the woman by the fire had put some of the hanging ingredients into the cauldron she was stirring.
In the back of his mind he could hear Thaloran speaking, and vaguely heard him mention the name of his daughter, Clove, and his wife, Laura, but he was now too preoccupied searching for more potential threats to pay attention. There was a simple white cloth acting as a tablecloth on the table, on it sat a stout vase with some red flowers, beyond that and across Seven, sat Thaloran and beside him, his daughter. Behind the two were two doors, with another vase between them, a tall one, with some more possibly poisonous plants. On the adjoining wall to the left of Seven, was another door, slightly ajar, next to some clay pots on a small table by an open window. Young sprouts were growing in those pots, and who knew what they grew into?
“What’s the matter lad?” asked Thaloran, startling Seven thoroughly.
He was smiling, with one hand on his daughter, who was watching Seven curiously with her chin on the table. When Seven looked at her, her pale blue eyes widened and she smiled shyly.
Seven shook his head at Thaloran, and slowly turned his gaze to his right, where the woman was still working away. She was the biggest threat it seemed. Besides the ingredients that were hanging from the ceiling, there were other things on a stone counter that were cause for worry. The stone counter itself seemed harmless, there were only a couple of openings on the front that had been covered with a lid, but there were knives in a rack on top of the counter, one of which was out and laid on a wooden board where piles of different ingredients were set.
One pile was made of some green leafy things, with slices of some red balls sitting among them. He didn’t like the look of those red balls; they were oozing some sort of transparent yellowish liquid from the cut sides. The other pile was composed of numerous small darkish-blue balls, and some roughly crushed white brown stuff, which was more reason for him to worry.
“I think the lad is starving Laura,” said Thaloran with a chuckle, making Seven jump yet again. “He’s glaring at the salad like he’s about to jump on it.”
“I picked the blueberries,” piped in the young girl, Clove, and then giggled.
She had a tinkling voice he noticed, and resembled more her mother than her father. She was fairer for one, and had her mother’s yellow hair, slightly dulled by the brown in her father’s. She blushed when Seven turned his attention towards her, and shied away from him. She gave him a toothy grin from the edge of the table.
“The soup is nearly done,” said Laura, bustling by her station. “Why don’t you set the table dear?”
“I’ll do it!” chirped Clove and pattered to her mother’s side, collecting plates and bowls from the cupboards.
The likeness was more evident now that she was next to her mother; she was a miniature version of the woman. They had the same wavy hair, although the woman’s was longer, and they had the same face, the child’s with more vitality that is characteristic of the young. The woman herself stood tall, certainly not as tall as Thaloran, but definitely taller than himself. Her face was marked by lines that betrayed her otherwise youthful face. They were very much like Thaloran’s own, except hers were fewer and less prominent. Seven noted that she didn’t have blue eyes like the rest of the family; instead, she had green, a lighter shade, like the grass of the fields, like his. He suddenly realized that she was smiling warmly at him.
“Seven, wasn’t it?” she asked. “It’ll be just a minute now. We just have to let the soup simmer a bit. And,” she glanced over at the stone counter. “Let the oven finish baking.”
Seven nodded, or rather twitched his head, as if his neck muscles had a slight spasm. She didn’t seem so much of a threat now, even if she was concocting poison. He felt somehow assured that he wouldn’t get punished around here, that he wouldn’t have to expect pain and shouting for once. He began to relax; he sat more comfortably and was about to ask what an oven was, when Clove brought the cutlery to the table.
-=oOo=-
Thaloran was furious; he was still seething when the sun had set and dinner had been and gone. The vase that used to sit on the table was in pieces, and was now a miserable heap of ceramic just below the windowsill. The door was hanging haphazardly on its hinges, and there was a huge crack in the middle of it that put two halves at an angle. The lock was bent horribly, and it was quite obvious that the door was irreparable; he would have to see about getting a new door set in. But, more than anything, there was a red gash across Clove’s arm. On. His. Daughter’s. Arm.
“That little bastard,” muttered Thaloran for the millionth time. “If I find him again..!” He let out a frustrated groan as he made smothering motions in the air.
“Dearest,” sighed Laura. “He was clearly unwell. You can’t hold that against him.”
“Of course I can,” he grumbled. “He hurt our daughter Laura, that’s everything to hold it against him.”
“Daddy, I’m alright,” put in Clove reassuringly.
He turned a worried face towards her. “Are you sure?” he insisted. “You were bleeding, Clove.”
Clove touched the already mending wound. It was a sliver of a wound, hardly more significant than a paper cut, but a wound nevertheless. “See?” she giggled. “It doesn’t even hurt now.”
“The poor boy,” commented Laura, stacking clean bowls. “He must be so hungry. You should have known better. You knew that he doesn’t have anywhere to go, with his town razed to the ground and all,” chided Laura.
“I said that, yes, but,” he groaned. “But Clove.”
Laura rolled her eyes. “So Clove brings round the sharp things and he overreacts slightly.”
“Overreact?” said Thaloran abashed. “Laura, he-“
“He took a knife and threatened us to not come any closer, yes,” said Laura. “Then Clove took a step, still holding the rest of the cutlery, and then he slashed.” She brought a rag to the table and began wiping. “And he would have only cut air too,” she said with an amused look at her husband.
He shot a guilty look at his daughter. “I was taken by surprise,” he mumbled.
“You were always so bad at controlling yourself,” she said with a smile. “Last time, it was that bandit. You threw him out the window didn’t you? And we had to get the window frame replaced. Now, we’ll need a new door.”
“Don’t be so hard on daddy, mummy,” said Clove as she gave her father a hug. “He tries.”
Laura laughed while Thaloran scratched his beard with an awkward smile. “He certainly does,” she agreed. “Now, can you nip out and bring in some more potatoes dear? We’ve run out in the house.”
“Okay,” said Clove cheerily and ran out.
“Wonder where he’s gone now,” wondered Laura aloud.
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” said Thaloran, although he didn’t really believe that. “He was in a forest when I found him; he probably knows what’s what.”
“Hopefully,” said Laura. “Maybe he’ll-“
She was cut off by the creaking of the door, and froze staring at it. He saw fear. He whipped around, and saw a man in rags, with unruly long hair and bloodshot eyes. He seemed as if he hadn’t taken to water for months and drunk nothing but alcohol, and he was holding the point of a rusty sword on Clove’s neck with one hand covering her mouth.
“You,” spat Thaloran, feeling a surge of rage
“Bet you didn’t expect to see me again did you, Lucin?” sneered the man. “I had some rough times after you threw me out. My group abandoned me, and I was left for dead with nowhere to go. You have no idea what nethering shite I had to go through.”
Laura glanced at Thaloran for a second and shook her head slightly; he knew what she was trying to say: he wasn’t going to be able to hit only the bandit, he would end up hurting their daughter as well. He could tear apart the bastard limb to limb if it weren’t for Clove being the hostage, but now they would have to try to negotiate.
He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, what do you want?” He spoke as calmly as he could manage, which wasn’t much. He could feel himself practically shaking with fury, and it was probably obvious, because the filthy man sneered again.
“None of your Lucin things or the pretty girl’s head goes clean off, you hear?”
He nodded once. “Alright, no Lucin things,” he echoed.
“Good,” said the man and grinned. “Now, I like to think of myself as a reason’ble man,“ he belched, “so I’m going to let your girl off, if you do one thing for me.”
Thaloran exchanged glances with Laura and nodded at the man. “What’s your deal?”
The man grinned wider, a grin missing several teeth. “I want the, uh, pretty lady over there,” he said pointing at Laura with his chin. “To stab the bastard dirtbag over there.”
“What kind of-“ started Thaloran.
“Ah, ah, ah,” said the bandit wagging his finger. “Do it, or the girl here gets it.” He poked the sword tip into Clove’s neck, and a trickle of blood flowed down her neckline.
Clove whimpered, tears streaking down her cheek, and Laura gasped audibly.
“Alright! Alright!” shouted Thaloran, panic rising in his chest. Clove was looking at her parents tearfully, and he turned around reluctantly. “Do it,” he said to Laura. “Do it!” he repeated harshly when she hesitated.
Laura drew a knife from the rack and stepped closer, her beautiful face stricken and pale. As she came closer, trembling, he gave her a look, and winked. He was standing between her and the bandit, and was sure he was blocking her from view, most of her anyway. A look of determination settled on her face as the message got through, and she gave the slightest of nods.
“Hurry up then!” complained the bandit loudly.
Thaloran returned the nod slowly. He then counted three heartbeats, and ducked out of the way; the knife flew past him and sailed straight for the bandit’s head. She was a master with throwing knives; he knew, he had been there, and he was certain that the knife would be protruding from the man’s skull when he turned, but then, the man sneezed.
“That little bastard,” muttered Thaloran for the millionth time. “If I find him again..!” He let out a frustrated groan as he made smothering motions in the air.
“Dearest,” sighed Laura. “He was clearly unwell. You can’t hold that against him.”
“Of course I can,” he grumbled. “He hurt our daughter Laura, that’s everything to hold it against him.”
“Daddy, I’m alright,” put in Clove reassuringly.
He turned a worried face towards her. “Are you sure?” he insisted. “You were bleeding, Clove.”
Clove touched the already mending wound. It was a sliver of a wound, hardly more significant than a paper cut, but a wound nevertheless. “See?” she giggled. “It doesn’t even hurt now.”
“The poor boy,” commented Laura, stacking clean bowls. “He must be so hungry. You should have known better. You knew that he doesn’t have anywhere to go, with his town razed to the ground and all,” chided Laura.
“I said that, yes, but,” he groaned. “But Clove.”
Laura rolled her eyes. “So Clove brings round the sharp things and he overreacts slightly.”
“Overreact?” said Thaloran abashed. “Laura, he-“
“He took a knife and threatened us to not come any closer, yes,” said Laura. “Then Clove took a step, still holding the rest of the cutlery, and then he slashed.” She brought a rag to the table and began wiping. “And he would have only cut air too,” she said with an amused look at her husband.
He shot a guilty look at his daughter. “I was taken by surprise,” he mumbled.
“You were always so bad at controlling yourself,” she said with a smile. “Last time, it was that bandit. You threw him out the window didn’t you? And we had to get the window frame replaced. Now, we’ll need a new door.”
“Don’t be so hard on daddy, mummy,” said Clove as she gave her father a hug. “He tries.”
Laura laughed while Thaloran scratched his beard with an awkward smile. “He certainly does,” she agreed. “Now, can you nip out and bring in some more potatoes dear? We’ve run out in the house.”
“Okay,” said Clove cheerily and ran out.
“Wonder where he’s gone now,” wondered Laura aloud.
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” said Thaloran, although he didn’t really believe that. “He was in a forest when I found him; he probably knows what’s what.”
“Hopefully,” said Laura. “Maybe he’ll-“
She was cut off by the creaking of the door, and froze staring at it. He saw fear. He whipped around, and saw a man in rags, with unruly long hair and bloodshot eyes. He seemed as if he hadn’t taken to water for months and drunk nothing but alcohol, and he was holding the point of a rusty sword on Clove’s neck with one hand covering her mouth.
“You,” spat Thaloran, feeling a surge of rage
“Bet you didn’t expect to see me again did you, Lucin?” sneered the man. “I had some rough times after you threw me out. My group abandoned me, and I was left for dead with nowhere to go. You have no idea what nethering shite I had to go through.”
Laura glanced at Thaloran for a second and shook her head slightly; he knew what she was trying to say: he wasn’t going to be able to hit only the bandit, he would end up hurting their daughter as well. He could tear apart the bastard limb to limb if it weren’t for Clove being the hostage, but now they would have to try to negotiate.
He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, what do you want?” He spoke as calmly as he could manage, which wasn’t much. He could feel himself practically shaking with fury, and it was probably obvious, because the filthy man sneered again.
“None of your Lucin things or the pretty girl’s head goes clean off, you hear?”
He nodded once. “Alright, no Lucin things,” he echoed.
“Good,” said the man and grinned. “Now, I like to think of myself as a reason’ble man,“ he belched, “so I’m going to let your girl off, if you do one thing for me.”
Thaloran exchanged glances with Laura and nodded at the man. “What’s your deal?”
The man grinned wider, a grin missing several teeth. “I want the, uh, pretty lady over there,” he said pointing at Laura with his chin. “To stab the bastard dirtbag over there.”
“What kind of-“ started Thaloran.
“Ah, ah, ah,” said the bandit wagging his finger. “Do it, or the girl here gets it.” He poked the sword tip into Clove’s neck, and a trickle of blood flowed down her neckline.
Clove whimpered, tears streaking down her cheek, and Laura gasped audibly.
“Alright! Alright!” shouted Thaloran, panic rising in his chest. Clove was looking at her parents tearfully, and he turned around reluctantly. “Do it,” he said to Laura. “Do it!” he repeated harshly when she hesitated.
Laura drew a knife from the rack and stepped closer, her beautiful face stricken and pale. As she came closer, trembling, he gave her a look, and winked. He was standing between her and the bandit, and was sure he was blocking her from view, most of her anyway. A look of determination settled on her face as the message got through, and she gave the slightest of nods.
“Hurry up then!” complained the bandit loudly.
Thaloran returned the nod slowly. He then counted three heartbeats, and ducked out of the way; the knife flew past him and sailed straight for the bandit’s head. She was a master with throwing knives; he knew, he had been there, and he was certain that the knife would be protruding from the man’s skull when he turned, but then, the man sneezed.
-=oOo=-
The knife just barely missed the bandit’s left eye, and grazed his ear. He made a sound that was a mix between a yell and a sneeze, and it came out as a strangled cry, not unlike the cawing of an old crow.
“You damn…!” he managed, tears streaking his cheeks. “That’s it then..!” He said furiously and tightened his grip on his sword.
“NOO!!” cried both Laura and Thaloran in unison.
In that split second, Thaloran thought desperately for something, anything that could possibly save his daughter. The knife had missed, and Laura couldn’t possibly have enough time to draw another and throw it. He could run in and bash the bastard’s skull in, but there was a meter and more between them; he would never make it in time. He could throw something, maybe the vase right behind him. He could, he should do something, but he was out of options and out of time, and all seemed lost.
The dull metal edge sliced the air, and causing waves of reverberations, inching closer to his daughter’s soft exposed neck by the millisecond. The bandit’s scowl was the very manifestation of malignance. Clove had scrunched her eyes shut, tears still streaking down the sides. He closed his eyes too, dreading the cry and the scream.
But the cry that followed was not what he expected; it was much deeper in tone, and more pathetic. He peeped, and to his joyous surprise, the man had dropped his sword and was bleeding profusely from the wrist. His first thought was that Laura had somehow got another shot at the bandit, but she seemed as startled as he was. Nevertheless, he didn’t dwell long on the thought. He rushed in, and wrenched his daughter from the now screaming man. It wasn’t hard, he was plenty distracted.
“You bastards!” cried the bandit, and fell to one knee as his ankle was stabbed next. He screamed even louder, clutching at his wounded wrist with his other hand, and looking over his shoulder in absolute terror. “What the nether are you?!”
Then Thaloran saw what was causing the bandit so much horror. There was a person standing behind him, a small one. He could just about make out the tattered black cloak, the rest of him obscured in the darkness. The only other thing that he could see were the eyes, a familiar pair of pale green that seemed to shine like the eyes of beasts in the dark. And then he saw another thing: a gleam of light that only come from a brandished sword, or, a knife.
He was shouting before he knew it. “STOP!” he barked.
The tip of the blade stopped a centimeter from the neck of the bandit, and the green eyes turned to him, wide, as if to ask why. The bandit whimpered.
“There will be no killing in this house,” he said firmly. “Not even now.” He looked sideways at Laura and nodded.
She nodded back, color slowly returning to her face, and came round the table to sit by his side. He let Clove go over to her mother, and approached the bandit who was panting in an effort to stay upright.
“Please don’t kill me,” he whispered, trembling.
“You threatened to kill my daughter,” Thaloran growled. “And had me wife nearly stab me.”
“No, please,” he pleaded. “Don’t kill me, please, please.”
Thaloran glared down at the man now sobbing pathetically. It was absurd to think that just minutes ago, this bastard was so confidently trying to kill him. The man’s arm hung limp, dripping blood onto his floor next to his cut foot that was bent uncomfortably to keep him upright. The green eyes looked at him unwaveringly, as if waiting for orders, the knife held at point.
“Leave this place,” said Thaloran in a low voice. “Leave this place and never come back. If I ever catch you lurking about in these parts again…” he trailed off, and was satisfied to see the man nod frantically.
“Of course, yes of course, I won’t bother you again,” he stammered, shaking so violently that it was a wonder he hadn’t stabbed himself on the knife.
Thaloran gave a slight nod to the green eyes. The pale green orbs blinked, and then the knife slowly drew back and vanished with the eyes. The man breathed greedily and collapsed on the floor. He made a busy job of tearing his rags apart and bandaging his wrist, using his teeth to tie it tight, and then hurriedly moving on to fix up his foot, all the while glancing fleetingly up at Thaloran.
“I’ll just be a moment, just need to patch myself up,” he muttered very quickly, eyeing the rusty sword by Thaloran’s feet. “Not that it’s your fault of course, all mine, all mine. Very stupid of me to act the way I did. It’ll just be a minute now, and I’ll be off and out of your lives.”
Then very suddenly, he made a jump for the sword, his one good hand squabbling for the hilt. Thaloran roared, and a wall of air slammed into the bandit’s face with a satisfying crunch, flinging him out of the house far into the darkness. The bandit screamed insults in nasal tones and scampered off soon after. Thaloran breathed out in relief and looked over his shoulder at his family. Laura was seated on one of the chairs, looking dreadfully shaken up and cradling Clove, who appeared to have fallen asleep, from all the stress, he supposed. Laura smiled weakly at him, and kissed their daughter’s forehead.
He allowed a weary smile and turned back to the doorway. The bandit was out of sight now, although he could still just about catch his swearing. He poked his head out the house, and looked around. Light from inside the house shone on grass and some gardening tools to the right of the house, but there were no signs of anyone outside.
“Seven?” he called. “Are you there lad?”
No reply came. Nothing moved in the grass, and he could hear and see no signs of the boy. He frowned, wondering whether he had began to see things, but then remembered the glint of the knife, and the unmoving green eyes, and besides, there was the unmistakable pool of blood next to him. He gave his head a little shake as he pulled his head back in, and jumped as the boy came into view. It was as though the shadows had weaved themselves to form the small figure. His hood still hid the coarse dirty gray hair, and standing there, with what remained of his black cloak hanging over his other black garments that hung loosely on his body, and the other half wrapped like a scarf around his gaunt face. It seemed impossible that the boy had done what he had done, but the knife in his hand, still dripping blood, said it all.
Seven met his gaze steadily, and he saw neither remorse nor guilt in those green eyes. They weren’t wide and stricken with fear as he had seen countless times on the eyes of unseasoned soldiers on their first skirmish, nor were they proud and resolute like the eyes of strong warriors on the field. They were blank and unfeeling; as if they hadn’t just witnessed their master almost kill a man.
As he continued to stare down at the boy, rather shaken from all this, a sudden change came over the boy. He became more human; he broke the gaze and slowly looked down, all the while furtively glancing at Thaloran as a child does when he’s done something wrong.
He was nervous! He realized with much wonder. He’s nervous that I might yell at him again.
Seven began digging at the ground with his toe, and Thaloran, for the first time saw that the boy was bare feet. A small detail he missed that must have caused much discomfort in the cold outdoors. A pang of guilt came over him, and he almost bade the boy back in, but he remembered the bloodied knife, and the merciless eyes.
He outstretched a hand, which was received with a flinch from the boy. “The knife, lad.”
Seven looked to and fro, from his hand to his face, and tentatively placed the knife on his outstretched palm. He took a step back afterwards, half in the darkness, and began fidgeting.
“Seven,” he began quietly. “You’re seventh of something. What are you the seventh of?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “There were ten of us,” he answered after a moment of silence. “I was number seven.”
“Thal…” Laura chided from behind.
He silenced her with a hand and continued. “And, what did you lot do?”
Seven raised his head and looked at him. He had stopped fidgeting now. “We killed people.”
“You damn…!” he managed, tears streaking his cheeks. “That’s it then..!” He said furiously and tightened his grip on his sword.
“NOO!!” cried both Laura and Thaloran in unison.
In that split second, Thaloran thought desperately for something, anything that could possibly save his daughter. The knife had missed, and Laura couldn’t possibly have enough time to draw another and throw it. He could run in and bash the bastard’s skull in, but there was a meter and more between them; he would never make it in time. He could throw something, maybe the vase right behind him. He could, he should do something, but he was out of options and out of time, and all seemed lost.
The dull metal edge sliced the air, and causing waves of reverberations, inching closer to his daughter’s soft exposed neck by the millisecond. The bandit’s scowl was the very manifestation of malignance. Clove had scrunched her eyes shut, tears still streaking down the sides. He closed his eyes too, dreading the cry and the scream.
But the cry that followed was not what he expected; it was much deeper in tone, and more pathetic. He peeped, and to his joyous surprise, the man had dropped his sword and was bleeding profusely from the wrist. His first thought was that Laura had somehow got another shot at the bandit, but she seemed as startled as he was. Nevertheless, he didn’t dwell long on the thought. He rushed in, and wrenched his daughter from the now screaming man. It wasn’t hard, he was plenty distracted.
“You bastards!” cried the bandit, and fell to one knee as his ankle was stabbed next. He screamed even louder, clutching at his wounded wrist with his other hand, and looking over his shoulder in absolute terror. “What the nether are you?!”
Then Thaloran saw what was causing the bandit so much horror. There was a person standing behind him, a small one. He could just about make out the tattered black cloak, the rest of him obscured in the darkness. The only other thing that he could see were the eyes, a familiar pair of pale green that seemed to shine like the eyes of beasts in the dark. And then he saw another thing: a gleam of light that only come from a brandished sword, or, a knife.
He was shouting before he knew it. “STOP!” he barked.
The tip of the blade stopped a centimeter from the neck of the bandit, and the green eyes turned to him, wide, as if to ask why. The bandit whimpered.
“There will be no killing in this house,” he said firmly. “Not even now.” He looked sideways at Laura and nodded.
She nodded back, color slowly returning to her face, and came round the table to sit by his side. He let Clove go over to her mother, and approached the bandit who was panting in an effort to stay upright.
“Please don’t kill me,” he whispered, trembling.
“You threatened to kill my daughter,” Thaloran growled. “And had me wife nearly stab me.”
“No, please,” he pleaded. “Don’t kill me, please, please.”
Thaloran glared down at the man now sobbing pathetically. It was absurd to think that just minutes ago, this bastard was so confidently trying to kill him. The man’s arm hung limp, dripping blood onto his floor next to his cut foot that was bent uncomfortably to keep him upright. The green eyes looked at him unwaveringly, as if waiting for orders, the knife held at point.
“Leave this place,” said Thaloran in a low voice. “Leave this place and never come back. If I ever catch you lurking about in these parts again…” he trailed off, and was satisfied to see the man nod frantically.
“Of course, yes of course, I won’t bother you again,” he stammered, shaking so violently that it was a wonder he hadn’t stabbed himself on the knife.
Thaloran gave a slight nod to the green eyes. The pale green orbs blinked, and then the knife slowly drew back and vanished with the eyes. The man breathed greedily and collapsed on the floor. He made a busy job of tearing his rags apart and bandaging his wrist, using his teeth to tie it tight, and then hurriedly moving on to fix up his foot, all the while glancing fleetingly up at Thaloran.
“I’ll just be a moment, just need to patch myself up,” he muttered very quickly, eyeing the rusty sword by Thaloran’s feet. “Not that it’s your fault of course, all mine, all mine. Very stupid of me to act the way I did. It’ll just be a minute now, and I’ll be off and out of your lives.”
Then very suddenly, he made a jump for the sword, his one good hand squabbling for the hilt. Thaloran roared, and a wall of air slammed into the bandit’s face with a satisfying crunch, flinging him out of the house far into the darkness. The bandit screamed insults in nasal tones and scampered off soon after. Thaloran breathed out in relief and looked over his shoulder at his family. Laura was seated on one of the chairs, looking dreadfully shaken up and cradling Clove, who appeared to have fallen asleep, from all the stress, he supposed. Laura smiled weakly at him, and kissed their daughter’s forehead.
He allowed a weary smile and turned back to the doorway. The bandit was out of sight now, although he could still just about catch his swearing. He poked his head out the house, and looked around. Light from inside the house shone on grass and some gardening tools to the right of the house, but there were no signs of anyone outside.
“Seven?” he called. “Are you there lad?”
No reply came. Nothing moved in the grass, and he could hear and see no signs of the boy. He frowned, wondering whether he had began to see things, but then remembered the glint of the knife, and the unmoving green eyes, and besides, there was the unmistakable pool of blood next to him. He gave his head a little shake as he pulled his head back in, and jumped as the boy came into view. It was as though the shadows had weaved themselves to form the small figure. His hood still hid the coarse dirty gray hair, and standing there, with what remained of his black cloak hanging over his other black garments that hung loosely on his body, and the other half wrapped like a scarf around his gaunt face. It seemed impossible that the boy had done what he had done, but the knife in his hand, still dripping blood, said it all.
Seven met his gaze steadily, and he saw neither remorse nor guilt in those green eyes. They weren’t wide and stricken with fear as he had seen countless times on the eyes of unseasoned soldiers on their first skirmish, nor were they proud and resolute like the eyes of strong warriors on the field. They were blank and unfeeling; as if they hadn’t just witnessed their master almost kill a man.
As he continued to stare down at the boy, rather shaken from all this, a sudden change came over the boy. He became more human; he broke the gaze and slowly looked down, all the while furtively glancing at Thaloran as a child does when he’s done something wrong.
He was nervous! He realized with much wonder. He’s nervous that I might yell at him again.
Seven began digging at the ground with his toe, and Thaloran, for the first time saw that the boy was bare feet. A small detail he missed that must have caused much discomfort in the cold outdoors. A pang of guilt came over him, and he almost bade the boy back in, but he remembered the bloodied knife, and the merciless eyes.
He outstretched a hand, which was received with a flinch from the boy. “The knife, lad.”
Seven looked to and fro, from his hand to his face, and tentatively placed the knife on his outstretched palm. He took a step back afterwards, half in the darkness, and began fidgeting.
“Seven,” he began quietly. “You’re seventh of something. What are you the seventh of?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “There were ten of us,” he answered after a moment of silence. “I was number seven.”
“Thal…” Laura chided from behind.
He silenced her with a hand and continued. “And, what did you lot do?”
Seven raised his head and looked at him. He had stopped fidgeting now. “We killed people.”
-=oOo=-
He was always better with the dagger, he found. When it came to infiltrating and murdering people in their sleep, it was the most instrumental. It was easily concealable for one; he only needed to hide one or two under his cloak, and when his tasks involved places with higher security, in his boot. There was also the problem that Seven never had the proficiency in wielding anything longer than a dagger. It was too heavy for him. His master tried countless times to beat the skill into him, but he had to come to terms eventually that his pupil was too small, too frail, to meet his high standards. By then, it was far too late to change his training methods; Seven was already too old to reverse the side effects of malnutrition. His hair had adopted a shade of gray from stress and abuse, and he was short for a boy of his age, even compared to the other Numbers. But his master was too proud a man to accept failure. He would not stand derision from the other masters, he told him, and instead of pushing Seven towards the arts of advanced swordplay, he drove Seven to be even better at the one thing he was particularly good at: stealth. Soon, his light steps made no sounds when he jumped from shadow to shadow, and his small figure opened up a wide variety of hiding places.
He had always wondered why he wasn’t taught how to brew poison instead. On missions where he had accompanied his master, he had almost always used poison, provided by his master of course. A drop in a goblet of wine, or a needle in the right places; it had always got the job done, and the victims spurting blood was an ample distraction for a clean getaway. It was simple and easy, and he never had to feel that small kick that he felt in his hand as he drove the dagger into a person’s neck. Perhaps his master deemed him unworthy of such a method; he had deemed him unworthy of many, many things after all. He had never answered his questions too, that was her job. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten. Maybe. But then, he’ll never find out. His master was dead, that man with the sword and armor had made sure of that.
“What is your name boy?” the man had spoken in hushed tones.
Seven didn’t reply. He was busy backing away from his master’s body. His glaring red eyes were extinguished and were staring unseeingly at him from the floor.
The man with the sword studied him for a few moments, and turned the body over and began relieving it of all the daggers and vials. The fires his master had caused threw shadows that obscured the man’s features, but Seven could clearly make out the long sharp sword that the man still held firmly in his hand. The fire crackled in the dark corridor, slow to feed on the oil from the smashed pots.
“Green eyes and gray hair,” the man said after some time as he tied off his master’s weapons with his own cloak.
He didn’t reply.
“You’re Seven,” the man concluded finally. He gave him one good look then hoisted the cloak sack onto one shoulder. “You should come with me.”
Seven didn’t. He ran past the man with the sword. The man shouted and tried to grab him, but he was too quick for him. As he kept running he noticed that there were many more bodies in that place, bodies of many more people than he had ever realized were in that place. He stopped counting after ten; he didn’t know what number came after. When he came out through one of the exits - a crack inside a cave that opened out on the side of a hill - he saw that the mansion was on fire. The proud manor that had once stood on hilltop was crumbling; debris was falling all around it, and the heat blew out the windows. As he watched, several people jumped out through the windows and fell with a wet thud on the hard bricks.
They were screaming too. Screamed, until they could no longer.
Some fell into the fountain, while others fell onto the flower beds. They stained the flowers red, the poppies and the lilies, and among them, was a woman, a flower by her own right.
It was her.
She stood out, as she always had, a butterfly amongst the moths. She was looking up at the mansion in flames, her face set in scorn, or was it sadness? The distance made it hard to discern. Her hair was ablaze, the scarlet against the gloom of the darkness, fluttering in the warm drift from the fires. Her armor was shining, a polished plate metal that fit her so perfectly.
She seemed so alien, so resolute and commanding. He took a step back and slid on loose earth, alerting some men that he only then noticed. They began shouting, and in the spur of the moment, he had run.
Rosie was braying. She was pulling at the rope that tied her to the post, pawing the ground. She wanted to join in the fun, he could tell. He himself was seated on a log, with a nice mug of ale that he brewed himself, watching his beautiful daughter chase a chicken. Seven was awkwardly jogging after her, yet another chicken in his arms. The chicken was flapping madly, throwing feathers everywhere, and he was impressed the boy was holding on to it at all. He appeared dead scared too, with his mouth shut tight and eyes open wide, as if he was holding a rattlesnake.
Funny thing is, thought Thaloran. The chicken has more reasons to be afraid of him
A month and a half had passed since the whole incident with the bandit, and he still had doubts about the boy. He had conformed to his rules, to be sure, but even then, he couldn’t shrug off his suspicions. From what he could get out of him, Seven had been in this band of assassins, - band or organization, he couldn’t tell, the boy himself didn’t seem to know the scale of whatever group he was in - then some other opposing organization had struck their base, or ‘home’ as Seven put it, and killed everyone, except for him.
He had called up every connection he had, and began to make inquiries. He was supposed to receive a messenger soon, at least then, he would have some answers. But until such time, he decided to allow Seven to stay. The boy was practically harmless after all, unless he told him not to be, or when he was frightened. Or well, that was Laura’s reasoning.
Dangerous or not, he did save Clove, Laura had said adamantly.
He drank from his mug; Rosie had finally managed to break free. She had pulled the stake out of the ground, and it was now trailing behind her, tumbling along like an oddly shaped flail. She chased the pair of children for a few minutes, and then got bored and trotted over to the shade of a nearby tree to eat some grass. The children on the other hand, had finally managed to corner the chicken. Seven stood on one side, still struggling with his chicken, and Clove stood on the other, arms outstretched and smiling adorably. She was giggling all the while, and the chicken backed up into the wall of the house, feathers ruffled. The two closed in on her, slowly, taking measure of each step. Then the chicken made a dash for it. It blasted between them, a white feathery ball of force, and settled to rest somewhere near Rosie.
Thaloran chuckled. The two looked dumbstruck, staring at the chicken now preening her feathers. The other chicken in Seven arms clucked, clearly disgruntled, but exhausted. The two exchanged glances, and Clove burst out laughing. She took the miserable hen from Seven’s arms and pointed at the chicken coop. He glanced at Rosie and the victorious chicken, and followed Clove to the coop.
It isn’t too bad having him around, he thought. At least Clove has a friend now.
He then wondered whether having a friend that had possibly murdered people for a living was a good thing for his daughter, but then he really couldn’t say anything about that, and neither could Laura, he supposed. We’ve both seen the war and lived in her, and Seven, was just another casualty.
“We’ve caught one daddy,” said Clove proudly, bringing him out of his musings. “But I don’t think we can catch that one.” She pointed at the chicken pecking the ground for worms.
Rosie was ignoring the chicken. She could be very uncooperative at times.
“That’s alright, you go have a break now,” said Thaloran. “Me and Seven here will take care of her.”
“Okay!” replied his daughter brightly, and ran off back to the house, waving over her shoulder.
Seven was standing nervously, looking down at the ground where he was ripping up the grass with his feet. He hadn’t taken to wearing shoes. Thaloran had offered a pair to be sure, but after a couple of days of wearing them, the boy seemed so awkward and terribly uncomfortable in them that he had to let him take them off.
He patted the boy on the head. “You did good lad, you got the other chicken.”
The boy was shock still, as he always was whenever a hand came near him. His eyes were scrunched shut, and his fists were clenched tightly. Thaloran learned to get used to this reaction. He did wonder at times what kind of treatment the boy must have had received to have developed such a behavior, but he decided to ease him out of it. It wasn’t something that could be changed easily after all.
He moved his hand away, and only then did Seven relax. The boy nodded slightly, and took a step back. He stood straight in attention, and waited for orders. Thaloran had learned to get used to this as well. It was as if the boy couldn’t think for himself, unable to do anything without being told, like a perfect soldier.
A perfect soldier, he thought in disgust. Or was it a perfect slave?
He pushed the thought out of his mind and got up from his log, setting his empty mug on it in his place. “Come along then,” he said.
He took a few steps and the boy shuffled along behind him, ever so quietly and he felt a slight annoyance. The boy was like a slave, in more aspects than he cared to think about. He recalled the drooped heads and the diffident feet, and how much he had hated them. He stopped suddenly and felt the gentle thump as the boy ran into him. He heard a sharp intake of breath as Seven stepped away quickly. He turned around with crossed arms. The boy was a few feet away, rubbing his nose gingerly. When he noticed that Thaloran had turned, he briskly put his hand down and stood at attention. The tip of his nose was tinged with red, one that matched the colors of his cheeks. It was surprising what a month of a healthy diet could do to a growing boy; his cheeks were no longer hollow, and his limbs weren’t as thin as twigs. But looks can deceive; he was still a slave at heart.
Wordlessly, he drew Seven to his side and began walking again, one arm securely on the boy’s back. It was very apparent that he had startled the boy, but he kept walking anyway.
“How do you like the farm so far?” he said. “I daresay you’ve had enough time on it to know it as much as Clove does.”
Seven gave a small start. “I...” he mumbled. “I don’t know.” He glanced briefly at Thaloran, and fixed his gaze at Rosie. “I like it…?” he finished. The word ‘like’ was very awkward on his tongue.
“Glad you do,” Thaloran said cheerfully. “I like my farm myself, done a lot of work here. I would’ve been very disappointed if you hadn’t liked it.” He grinned at the nervous boy and whistled at Rosie.
The donkey perked an ear at the sound and lazily turned to face him. She frowned, no, grimaced, as if she knew why he was calling. She flicked her tail indignantly, and walked off slowly, leaving only the chicken under the tree. The bird on the other hand, was blissfully unaware of what was happening, cantering about like it owned the place. It dug at the ground with its foot, and began pecking.
He gave Seven a gentle push. “Go on then, give chase. I’ll keep her from escaping.”
The boy stumbled and tripped over some loose rocks on the ground but when he came back up, Thaloran saw the shift. The timidity was all gone, and in its place was a slate of carved stone. He had driven all emotion out, and was carrying out his mission. He began sprinting, each footfall on the grass silent. It was a feat Thaloran could only watch in wonder.
Seven closed the distance between the chicken in matter of seconds, but before he could make a dive for it, the bird sensed the threat and scampered away, flapping wildly.
He decided that Seven wouldn’t be able to catch the chicken on his own. The boy was fast, but a frightened bird could be even faster and unpredictable. He looked for the general area that he predicted the chicken would run into, then concentrated.
The air in a large area, much larger than he had planned to affect, shifted and shot upwards. The chicken clucked frantically as it was blown ten feet clear into the air and the boy himself floated about three feet before falling to the ground face first.
He scratched his head, and clicked his tongue. The effect was much bigger than he had anticipated, but at least it had stopped the chicken from escaping. “Seven, lad!” he shouted. “She’s right above you!”
Upon hearing his call, Seven rolled over and raised his hands to catch it. The chicken fell neatly onto his palms, and expressed her feelings about it. Thaloran laughed, and watched Seven slowly make his way back to him. His expression had softened, and he looked absolutely terrified. There were several scratches on his face, and he was covered from head to toe in feathers.
He gave the boy a pat on the back. “Well done lad, you’ve caught her.”
Seven nodded, trying very hard to hold on to the chicken, and keep it as far as possible from his face. He looked up at him with a questioning look, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
“Just go along with Clove,” he said. “There she comes now.”
Clove was jogging back with a small basket in hand. She was all smiles when she saw Seven with the chicken. “You’ve caught it!” she said excitedly. “Now we can put her back in her coop. Here,” she exchanged the basket with the chicken, much to the boy’s relief. “Some sandwiches mommy made for us.” She cradled the chicken in her arms, which funnily enough, settled down almost instantly. “Come on Seven!” she chirped, and led the way back to the coop.
Thaloran watched the pair walk away, his daughter, merrily, and Seven, somberly. They’ll probably wrestle with the chickens again sometime tomorrow. Seven didn’t really grasp the concept of letting the chickens out. His understanding of ‘out‘ meant out, literally, and the chickens had grabbed their first opportunity at freedom.
Rosie presently decided to come over, now that all the trouble was taken care of. She nuzzled his side, demanding a treat for having stayed out of the way. He chuckled and gave the donkey a run down. She nudged his pockets for some sugar, maybe an apple or two, but finding no such treat, she snorted in annoyance and trotted off.
He grinned at the cranky donkey, and made back for the house. Upon reaching the house, he noticed a familiar brown horse tied to a post by the front door. The horse whinnied when Thaloran came close, pawing the ground and shaking its head. Its silky black mane had been cropped short since the last time he had seen it, and it was carrying some traveling gear on its back.
He went past it and entered the house, seeing, as he had expected, a soldier clad in light armor with his longsword by his side. The soldier upon noticing Thaloran’s entrance, sprang to his feet, and saluted. “Sir,” the man said respectfully. The man was exactly as he had remembered him, stiff and proper, with stern eyes and a square jaw.
He returned the salute. “At ease soldier,” he said and went over to the other side of the table and sat down.
Laura came and set a jug of tea and a couple of cups, followed by a tray of cookies. “Have some tea and cookies, you must be exhausted from your trip.” She smiled at the soldier, who nodded appreciatively. “Thank you. It has been a long trip.”
“Well then, should I leave you two men alone?” she said to Thaloran.
He shook his head and gestured to a chair beside him. “I think you’ll need to hear this too dear.” He then nodded at the soldier. “Go on then, I assume you have some important things to say since she chose to send you, Lieutenant.”
The soldier nodded back and respectfully waited until Laura had taken her seat as well. “Sir, the reports are as follows: An organization of assassins, known as the Dark Hand had been confronted and disbanded. All of its leaders and associates are dead, and any that may have escaped or survived the attack are given a bounty, to be turned in alive.”
He unrolled a piece of parchment on the table. Thaloran took it, and gestured at him to continue.
“The commander-in-chief responsible for the attack was Commander Rilian, who herself, had been spying on the organization from the inside. The attack was held on a moonless night, a month and a half ago. They first –“
Thaloran raised a hand to cut him off. “No need for the tactical details,” he said. “I’m sure Rilian managed it well. Where was this organization located?”
“It was under a walled mansion just on the edge of Summerset Hills, sir,” the soldier answered. “Beyond the woods to the north.”
“Some distance,” he said thoughtfully. “How long would it take from here?”
The soldier gave himself some time to think. “I’d say about a half a day’s traveling time sir.”
“That would be on horseback?” he asked.
The soldier nodded. “Yes sir, on horseback.”
“Very well,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Just this sir,” he said and passed a letter across the table. “From Commander Rilian. She seemed very interested about the boy in black you had come across sir, and asks that you bring him over as soon as possible. She thinks that you just may have come across one of the survivors.”
“Well, I’ll give that some thought,” said Thaloran as he glanced at the letter. The letter had a royal seal on it, with nothing written on the envelope itself. Pah, as if she could lure me back there, after all these years. He made a mental note to burn the letter later.
He poured himself some tea. It was herbal tea of some description. He was never really sure what went into the tea, but they were refreshing and smelt nice, so he didn’t have quirks about them.
“Alright,” he said after a sip. “But you still haven’t told me why Rilian sent her best man all the way over to the middle of nowhere.”
The soldier too poured himself some tea, and took a cookie from the tray. “Sir, with all due respect, I think you know why.”
Silence fell on the room. Thaloran looked outside the open window, he could see Seven and Clove on the hills. Clove was on Rosie, and they seemed to be enjoying their sandwiches. They were a strange pair, the boy wrapped in his black, and his little girl in her white, on a gray donkey with an attitude. He sipped his tea and thought about the boy in black.
“I’m not going back Ryan,” he said softly.
“Sir,” said Ryan. “The portal to the Dusk Realm has reopened, they’ve already come through and made contact. Our Realm needs you,” he spread his hands as he looked between Laura and Thaloran. “Both of you.”
Thaloran exchanged looks with his wife. She shook her head. “We’re not fit for the plains of war, lad,” he said turning back to the soldier. “We wouldn’t be of much use.”
“And we’ve got Clove to look after,” Laura said quietly.
He reached out and squeezed her hand gently. She smiled back. “I’m afraid we’re retired now,” he said with finality. “We’ve seen enough of what war has to offer.”
Lieutenant Ryan sighed and nodded. “Very well, but let it be known that it wasn’t the efficiency as a soldier that put you in retirement; I remember the victories on the Planes of Yore.”
“So do we,” said Thaloran with a chuckle. “You were a wee lad then, who couldn’t tell one end of the sword from the other.”
“I remember having to patch you up even before the battle began,” reminisced Laura with a laugh. “You had cut yourself with your own sword.”
Ryan bowed, with an abashed grin on his face. “I was a mere recruit then.”
“And now, Lieutenant,” said Thaloran with a grin.
“All thanks to you sir,” replied Ryan politely. “And Lady Laura.”
Laura gave him a sweet smile. “Will you be staying for the night Ryan?” she asked. “I’m sure Clove will be delighted.”
The soldier shook his head. “No ma’am,” he said. “I will have to return to my post by sunset tomorrow. There is much tension in the air, and we have to be ready for anything.”
“Well then,” said Thaloran and got up. “You best be going then. It’s a long way back.” He set his cup down and saluted. “Safe travels soldier, give Rilian my regards.”
Ryan too got up from the chair and returned the salute. “I will. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“You are very welcome,” said Laura with a smile.
He bowed politely to Laura and turned to leave, but at that moment, Thaloran remembered something else that had been bugging him.
“Lieutenant?” he called.
Lieutenant Ryan turned on his heels and faced him with a curious expression. “Was there something else sir?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I didn’t mention this on the letters, but the boy staying with me is called Seven, does that name mean anything to you?”
To his surprise Ryan’s face darkened and he nodded gravely. “Yes sir. It means that the boy was indeed a member of the Dark Hand, and that I must take him back immediately with me.”
He exchanged frowns with Laura. “Hold on there,” he said. “How does having the name ‘Seven’ warrant a membership in an assassin’s guild?”
“Because sir,” explained Ryan. “The Dark Hand employed the method of raising children at a very young age to become skilled assassins. They would be taken from their mothers and are brainwashed, taught nothing but how to murder.” He paused a moment to look at their stricken faces and continued. “There were ten in the most recent batch, and as their tradition supposedly goes, they were given a number as their name, in this case, from One, to Ten.”
“We who attacked the attacked the mansion were given a description of each child, and were ordered to spare them except under the threat of death, that is, if the children chose to retaliate.” He paused again to take out a small piece of paper. “We currently have child Six, and Two under the care of Commander Rilian. One, Five, Nine and Ten have been put down due to their aggressiveness, and Three, Four, Eight and Seven are considered missing and alive, until proven otherwise.”
“That is horrible,” lamented Laura.
Thaloran drew her closer and squeezed her shoulder. “So what is the description of our boy?” he asked.
Ryan consulted his paper once more. “Seven, according to Commander Rilian, is a thin small boy with green eyes and messy gray hair.” He tapped the paper. “Commander Rilian, as you know, isn’t too great with details, but fortunately, I have met the boy myself during the attack. May I see him now?”
Thaloran glanced outside the window. “What will you do if it’s really him?” he asked.
“That sir,” replied Ryan. “Largely depends on the boy himself.”
He had always wondered why he wasn’t taught how to brew poison instead. On missions where he had accompanied his master, he had almost always used poison, provided by his master of course. A drop in a goblet of wine, or a needle in the right places; it had always got the job done, and the victims spurting blood was an ample distraction for a clean getaway. It was simple and easy, and he never had to feel that small kick that he felt in his hand as he drove the dagger into a person’s neck. Perhaps his master deemed him unworthy of such a method; he had deemed him unworthy of many, many things after all. He had never answered his questions too, that was her job. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten. Maybe. But then, he’ll never find out. His master was dead, that man with the sword and armor had made sure of that.
“What is your name boy?” the man had spoken in hushed tones.
Seven didn’t reply. He was busy backing away from his master’s body. His glaring red eyes were extinguished and were staring unseeingly at him from the floor.
The man with the sword studied him for a few moments, and turned the body over and began relieving it of all the daggers and vials. The fires his master had caused threw shadows that obscured the man’s features, but Seven could clearly make out the long sharp sword that the man still held firmly in his hand. The fire crackled in the dark corridor, slow to feed on the oil from the smashed pots.
“Green eyes and gray hair,” the man said after some time as he tied off his master’s weapons with his own cloak.
He didn’t reply.
“You’re Seven,” the man concluded finally. He gave him one good look then hoisted the cloak sack onto one shoulder. “You should come with me.”
Seven didn’t. He ran past the man with the sword. The man shouted and tried to grab him, but he was too quick for him. As he kept running he noticed that there were many more bodies in that place, bodies of many more people than he had ever realized were in that place. He stopped counting after ten; he didn’t know what number came after. When he came out through one of the exits - a crack inside a cave that opened out on the side of a hill - he saw that the mansion was on fire. The proud manor that had once stood on hilltop was crumbling; debris was falling all around it, and the heat blew out the windows. As he watched, several people jumped out through the windows and fell with a wet thud on the hard bricks.
They were screaming too. Screamed, until they could no longer.
Some fell into the fountain, while others fell onto the flower beds. They stained the flowers red, the poppies and the lilies, and among them, was a woman, a flower by her own right.
It was her.
She stood out, as she always had, a butterfly amongst the moths. She was looking up at the mansion in flames, her face set in scorn, or was it sadness? The distance made it hard to discern. Her hair was ablaze, the scarlet against the gloom of the darkness, fluttering in the warm drift from the fires. Her armor was shining, a polished plate metal that fit her so perfectly.
She seemed so alien, so resolute and commanding. He took a step back and slid on loose earth, alerting some men that he only then noticed. They began shouting, and in the spur of the moment, he had run.
-=oOo=-
Rosie was braying. She was pulling at the rope that tied her to the post, pawing the ground. She wanted to join in the fun, he could tell. He himself was seated on a log, with a nice mug of ale that he brewed himself, watching his beautiful daughter chase a chicken. Seven was awkwardly jogging after her, yet another chicken in his arms. The chicken was flapping madly, throwing feathers everywhere, and he was impressed the boy was holding on to it at all. He appeared dead scared too, with his mouth shut tight and eyes open wide, as if he was holding a rattlesnake.
Funny thing is, thought Thaloran. The chicken has more reasons to be afraid of him
A month and a half had passed since the whole incident with the bandit, and he still had doubts about the boy. He had conformed to his rules, to be sure, but even then, he couldn’t shrug off his suspicions. From what he could get out of him, Seven had been in this band of assassins, - band or organization, he couldn’t tell, the boy himself didn’t seem to know the scale of whatever group he was in - then some other opposing organization had struck their base, or ‘home’ as Seven put it, and killed everyone, except for him.
He had called up every connection he had, and began to make inquiries. He was supposed to receive a messenger soon, at least then, he would have some answers. But until such time, he decided to allow Seven to stay. The boy was practically harmless after all, unless he told him not to be, or when he was frightened. Or well, that was Laura’s reasoning.
Dangerous or not, he did save Clove, Laura had said adamantly.
He drank from his mug; Rosie had finally managed to break free. She had pulled the stake out of the ground, and it was now trailing behind her, tumbling along like an oddly shaped flail. She chased the pair of children for a few minutes, and then got bored and trotted over to the shade of a nearby tree to eat some grass. The children on the other hand, had finally managed to corner the chicken. Seven stood on one side, still struggling with his chicken, and Clove stood on the other, arms outstretched and smiling adorably. She was giggling all the while, and the chicken backed up into the wall of the house, feathers ruffled. The two closed in on her, slowly, taking measure of each step. Then the chicken made a dash for it. It blasted between them, a white feathery ball of force, and settled to rest somewhere near Rosie.
Thaloran chuckled. The two looked dumbstruck, staring at the chicken now preening her feathers. The other chicken in Seven arms clucked, clearly disgruntled, but exhausted. The two exchanged glances, and Clove burst out laughing. She took the miserable hen from Seven’s arms and pointed at the chicken coop. He glanced at Rosie and the victorious chicken, and followed Clove to the coop.
It isn’t too bad having him around, he thought. At least Clove has a friend now.
He then wondered whether having a friend that had possibly murdered people for a living was a good thing for his daughter, but then he really couldn’t say anything about that, and neither could Laura, he supposed. We’ve both seen the war and lived in her, and Seven, was just another casualty.
“We’ve caught one daddy,” said Clove proudly, bringing him out of his musings. “But I don’t think we can catch that one.” She pointed at the chicken pecking the ground for worms.
Rosie was ignoring the chicken. She could be very uncooperative at times.
“That’s alright, you go have a break now,” said Thaloran. “Me and Seven here will take care of her.”
“Okay!” replied his daughter brightly, and ran off back to the house, waving over her shoulder.
Seven was standing nervously, looking down at the ground where he was ripping up the grass with his feet. He hadn’t taken to wearing shoes. Thaloran had offered a pair to be sure, but after a couple of days of wearing them, the boy seemed so awkward and terribly uncomfortable in them that he had to let him take them off.
He patted the boy on the head. “You did good lad, you got the other chicken.”
The boy was shock still, as he always was whenever a hand came near him. His eyes were scrunched shut, and his fists were clenched tightly. Thaloran learned to get used to this reaction. He did wonder at times what kind of treatment the boy must have had received to have developed such a behavior, but he decided to ease him out of it. It wasn’t something that could be changed easily after all.
He moved his hand away, and only then did Seven relax. The boy nodded slightly, and took a step back. He stood straight in attention, and waited for orders. Thaloran had learned to get used to this as well. It was as if the boy couldn’t think for himself, unable to do anything without being told, like a perfect soldier.
A perfect soldier, he thought in disgust. Or was it a perfect slave?
He pushed the thought out of his mind and got up from his log, setting his empty mug on it in his place. “Come along then,” he said.
He took a few steps and the boy shuffled along behind him, ever so quietly and he felt a slight annoyance. The boy was like a slave, in more aspects than he cared to think about. He recalled the drooped heads and the diffident feet, and how much he had hated them. He stopped suddenly and felt the gentle thump as the boy ran into him. He heard a sharp intake of breath as Seven stepped away quickly. He turned around with crossed arms. The boy was a few feet away, rubbing his nose gingerly. When he noticed that Thaloran had turned, he briskly put his hand down and stood at attention. The tip of his nose was tinged with red, one that matched the colors of his cheeks. It was surprising what a month of a healthy diet could do to a growing boy; his cheeks were no longer hollow, and his limbs weren’t as thin as twigs. But looks can deceive; he was still a slave at heart.
Wordlessly, he drew Seven to his side and began walking again, one arm securely on the boy’s back. It was very apparent that he had startled the boy, but he kept walking anyway.
“How do you like the farm so far?” he said. “I daresay you’ve had enough time on it to know it as much as Clove does.”
Seven gave a small start. “I...” he mumbled. “I don’t know.” He glanced briefly at Thaloran, and fixed his gaze at Rosie. “I like it…?” he finished. The word ‘like’ was very awkward on his tongue.
“Glad you do,” Thaloran said cheerfully. “I like my farm myself, done a lot of work here. I would’ve been very disappointed if you hadn’t liked it.” He grinned at the nervous boy and whistled at Rosie.
The donkey perked an ear at the sound and lazily turned to face him. She frowned, no, grimaced, as if she knew why he was calling. She flicked her tail indignantly, and walked off slowly, leaving only the chicken under the tree. The bird on the other hand, was blissfully unaware of what was happening, cantering about like it owned the place. It dug at the ground with its foot, and began pecking.
He gave Seven a gentle push. “Go on then, give chase. I’ll keep her from escaping.”
The boy stumbled and tripped over some loose rocks on the ground but when he came back up, Thaloran saw the shift. The timidity was all gone, and in its place was a slate of carved stone. He had driven all emotion out, and was carrying out his mission. He began sprinting, each footfall on the grass silent. It was a feat Thaloran could only watch in wonder.
Seven closed the distance between the chicken in matter of seconds, but before he could make a dive for it, the bird sensed the threat and scampered away, flapping wildly.
He decided that Seven wouldn’t be able to catch the chicken on his own. The boy was fast, but a frightened bird could be even faster and unpredictable. He looked for the general area that he predicted the chicken would run into, then concentrated.
The air in a large area, much larger than he had planned to affect, shifted and shot upwards. The chicken clucked frantically as it was blown ten feet clear into the air and the boy himself floated about three feet before falling to the ground face first.
He scratched his head, and clicked his tongue. The effect was much bigger than he had anticipated, but at least it had stopped the chicken from escaping. “Seven, lad!” he shouted. “She’s right above you!”
Upon hearing his call, Seven rolled over and raised his hands to catch it. The chicken fell neatly onto his palms, and expressed her feelings about it. Thaloran laughed, and watched Seven slowly make his way back to him. His expression had softened, and he looked absolutely terrified. There were several scratches on his face, and he was covered from head to toe in feathers.
He gave the boy a pat on the back. “Well done lad, you’ve caught her.”
Seven nodded, trying very hard to hold on to the chicken, and keep it as far as possible from his face. He looked up at him with a questioning look, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
“Just go along with Clove,” he said. “There she comes now.”
Clove was jogging back with a small basket in hand. She was all smiles when she saw Seven with the chicken. “You’ve caught it!” she said excitedly. “Now we can put her back in her coop. Here,” she exchanged the basket with the chicken, much to the boy’s relief. “Some sandwiches mommy made for us.” She cradled the chicken in her arms, which funnily enough, settled down almost instantly. “Come on Seven!” she chirped, and led the way back to the coop.
Thaloran watched the pair walk away, his daughter, merrily, and Seven, somberly. They’ll probably wrestle with the chickens again sometime tomorrow. Seven didn’t really grasp the concept of letting the chickens out. His understanding of ‘out‘ meant out, literally, and the chickens had grabbed their first opportunity at freedom.
Rosie presently decided to come over, now that all the trouble was taken care of. She nuzzled his side, demanding a treat for having stayed out of the way. He chuckled and gave the donkey a run down. She nudged his pockets for some sugar, maybe an apple or two, but finding no such treat, she snorted in annoyance and trotted off.
He grinned at the cranky donkey, and made back for the house. Upon reaching the house, he noticed a familiar brown horse tied to a post by the front door. The horse whinnied when Thaloran came close, pawing the ground and shaking its head. Its silky black mane had been cropped short since the last time he had seen it, and it was carrying some traveling gear on its back.
He went past it and entered the house, seeing, as he had expected, a soldier clad in light armor with his longsword by his side. The soldier upon noticing Thaloran’s entrance, sprang to his feet, and saluted. “Sir,” the man said respectfully. The man was exactly as he had remembered him, stiff and proper, with stern eyes and a square jaw.
He returned the salute. “At ease soldier,” he said and went over to the other side of the table and sat down.
Laura came and set a jug of tea and a couple of cups, followed by a tray of cookies. “Have some tea and cookies, you must be exhausted from your trip.” She smiled at the soldier, who nodded appreciatively. “Thank you. It has been a long trip.”
“Well then, should I leave you two men alone?” she said to Thaloran.
He shook his head and gestured to a chair beside him. “I think you’ll need to hear this too dear.” He then nodded at the soldier. “Go on then, I assume you have some important things to say since she chose to send you, Lieutenant.”
The soldier nodded back and respectfully waited until Laura had taken her seat as well. “Sir, the reports are as follows: An organization of assassins, known as the Dark Hand had been confronted and disbanded. All of its leaders and associates are dead, and any that may have escaped or survived the attack are given a bounty, to be turned in alive.”
He unrolled a piece of parchment on the table. Thaloran took it, and gestured at him to continue.
“The commander-in-chief responsible for the attack was Commander Rilian, who herself, had been spying on the organization from the inside. The attack was held on a moonless night, a month and a half ago. They first –“
Thaloran raised a hand to cut him off. “No need for the tactical details,” he said. “I’m sure Rilian managed it well. Where was this organization located?”
“It was under a walled mansion just on the edge of Summerset Hills, sir,” the soldier answered. “Beyond the woods to the north.”
“Some distance,” he said thoughtfully. “How long would it take from here?”
The soldier gave himself some time to think. “I’d say about a half a day’s traveling time sir.”
“That would be on horseback?” he asked.
The soldier nodded. “Yes sir, on horseback.”
“Very well,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Just this sir,” he said and passed a letter across the table. “From Commander Rilian. She seemed very interested about the boy in black you had come across sir, and asks that you bring him over as soon as possible. She thinks that you just may have come across one of the survivors.”
“Well, I’ll give that some thought,” said Thaloran as he glanced at the letter. The letter had a royal seal on it, with nothing written on the envelope itself. Pah, as if she could lure me back there, after all these years. He made a mental note to burn the letter later.
He poured himself some tea. It was herbal tea of some description. He was never really sure what went into the tea, but they were refreshing and smelt nice, so he didn’t have quirks about them.
“Alright,” he said after a sip. “But you still haven’t told me why Rilian sent her best man all the way over to the middle of nowhere.”
The soldier too poured himself some tea, and took a cookie from the tray. “Sir, with all due respect, I think you know why.”
Silence fell on the room. Thaloran looked outside the open window, he could see Seven and Clove on the hills. Clove was on Rosie, and they seemed to be enjoying their sandwiches. They were a strange pair, the boy wrapped in his black, and his little girl in her white, on a gray donkey with an attitude. He sipped his tea and thought about the boy in black.
“I’m not going back Ryan,” he said softly.
“Sir,” said Ryan. “The portal to the Dusk Realm has reopened, they’ve already come through and made contact. Our Realm needs you,” he spread his hands as he looked between Laura and Thaloran. “Both of you.”
Thaloran exchanged looks with his wife. She shook her head. “We’re not fit for the plains of war, lad,” he said turning back to the soldier. “We wouldn’t be of much use.”
“And we’ve got Clove to look after,” Laura said quietly.
He reached out and squeezed her hand gently. She smiled back. “I’m afraid we’re retired now,” he said with finality. “We’ve seen enough of what war has to offer.”
Lieutenant Ryan sighed and nodded. “Very well, but let it be known that it wasn’t the efficiency as a soldier that put you in retirement; I remember the victories on the Planes of Yore.”
“So do we,” said Thaloran with a chuckle. “You were a wee lad then, who couldn’t tell one end of the sword from the other.”
“I remember having to patch you up even before the battle began,” reminisced Laura with a laugh. “You had cut yourself with your own sword.”
Ryan bowed, with an abashed grin on his face. “I was a mere recruit then.”
“And now, Lieutenant,” said Thaloran with a grin.
“All thanks to you sir,” replied Ryan politely. “And Lady Laura.”
Laura gave him a sweet smile. “Will you be staying for the night Ryan?” she asked. “I’m sure Clove will be delighted.”
The soldier shook his head. “No ma’am,” he said. “I will have to return to my post by sunset tomorrow. There is much tension in the air, and we have to be ready for anything.”
“Well then,” said Thaloran and got up. “You best be going then. It’s a long way back.” He set his cup down and saluted. “Safe travels soldier, give Rilian my regards.”
Ryan too got up from the chair and returned the salute. “I will. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“You are very welcome,” said Laura with a smile.
He bowed politely to Laura and turned to leave, but at that moment, Thaloran remembered something else that had been bugging him.
“Lieutenant?” he called.
Lieutenant Ryan turned on his heels and faced him with a curious expression. “Was there something else sir?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I didn’t mention this on the letters, but the boy staying with me is called Seven, does that name mean anything to you?”
To his surprise Ryan’s face darkened and he nodded gravely. “Yes sir. It means that the boy was indeed a member of the Dark Hand, and that I must take him back immediately with me.”
He exchanged frowns with Laura. “Hold on there,” he said. “How does having the name ‘Seven’ warrant a membership in an assassin’s guild?”
“Because sir,” explained Ryan. “The Dark Hand employed the method of raising children at a very young age to become skilled assassins. They would be taken from their mothers and are brainwashed, taught nothing but how to murder.” He paused a moment to look at their stricken faces and continued. “There were ten in the most recent batch, and as their tradition supposedly goes, they were given a number as their name, in this case, from One, to Ten.”
“We who attacked the attacked the mansion were given a description of each child, and were ordered to spare them except under the threat of death, that is, if the children chose to retaliate.” He paused again to take out a small piece of paper. “We currently have child Six, and Two under the care of Commander Rilian. One, Five, Nine and Ten have been put down due to their aggressiveness, and Three, Four, Eight and Seven are considered missing and alive, until proven otherwise.”
“That is horrible,” lamented Laura.
Thaloran drew her closer and squeezed her shoulder. “So what is the description of our boy?” he asked.
Ryan consulted his paper once more. “Seven, according to Commander Rilian, is a thin small boy with green eyes and messy gray hair.” He tapped the paper. “Commander Rilian, as you know, isn’t too great with details, but fortunately, I have met the boy myself during the attack. May I see him now?”
Thaloran glanced outside the window. “What will you do if it’s really him?” he asked.
“That sir,” replied Ryan. “Largely depends on the boy himself.”
-=oOo=-