The Price of Deeds

Radiran Yrinsson grunted as the needle poked through his skin, drawn by the lithe hand of his wife. He bit his tongue as she pulled the sinew through, and he tasted the blood in his mouth.

“Could you be a mite more careful?” He asked, teeth clenched.

“If you promise you will be more careful with your scythe.” Lidya replied, thrusting the needle through the other side of the wound. “Honestly, Radiran, this is the third time this week. Farming was supposed to keep you from getting scars, not continue to add to them.”

“I haven’t done it that much.” He scoffed, wincing as she pulled the needle again, the gash on his leg closing slightly. “But do you really think that this is as awful as the Barabak wall? You were a Sewer. You know some of the wounds those men had.”

Lidya sighed as she finished, biting off the end of the sinew and tying it short.

“I know.” She admitted while wiping her hands on a linen rag. “I just hoped that things would quiet down after you were discharged.”

“Life is never quiet with you, dear.” Radiran smiled, rising onto wobbly legs. He gripped the table for support and limped over to his wife. “That’s why I married you.” Lidya smiled as he kissed her slowly.

“I think the pain must be making you addled.” She said, leading him gently back to his chair. “I am going to pick some herbs before I retire.”

“And I will be here, praising Aia for giving me a woman as marvelous as you.” Radiran said, bowing mockingly. Lidya simply rolled her eyes and walked out the door, shutting it softly behind her.

The smile dropped immediately from Radiran’s face the moment his wife was out of sight. With haste, he leapt up onto his feet and furtively slipped out the back door, stepping softly toward the barn.

The grass was slippery under his feet, the rain having just dissipated to reveal the bright sun. At least, it was bright in the sky. Even when staring directly at the blazing sun, Radiran perceived no brightness like he did when looking at a lantern.

Even after living for thirty years, Radiran still beheld the nuances of Oaiao with a childlike sense of wonder. Nearly every night he sat out in the hayfields, staring at the sky. He wondered how it was possible that the heavens could be filled with radiance and only a fraction of it reached the earth below. Harvesters claimed it was the doings of Aia; then again, they claimed that about everything.

But Radiran had no time for gawking at the heavens tonight. Tonight was the night he would finally rise above the station of a lowly farmer. Tonight, he would become a Bloodwielder.

Halfway to the barn, Radiran grunted and bent down to examine the wound on his leg. It was an unfortunate gash. Had Lidya questioned his story about the scythe even once, she would have immediately seen through his falsehoods; inevitably, she would discover his secret.

And then he would have had to kill his wife too.

* * *

“Truly, my lord, you cannot allow the Quasexans to have full control of the eastern Wall.” Highlord Yrit, master of Arms, purred while gesturing subtly to the map that dominated the council table. Wide and yellowed with age, the borders and major cities of the different nations were easily visible on its surface. Quasexa was covered in miniscule lead figurines, denoting different military groups and battalions. Glausiania’s southern border was particularly blanketed by them, a testament to the strength of the Quasexan border patrol. “If they were to make an alliance with the savages beyond it, they would be able to swarm Glausiania with men. Our kingdom would be conquered.”

“That’s preposterous.” A Viceroy countered, his jowls flapping at the force of his statement. “The Quasexans have nowhere near enough men or Bloodwielders to fight against Glausiania.”

“Yes, Yrit.” The Highlord sitting next to him agreed, glaring at his opposite. “You simply want access to the wall so that you may eventually conquer the wilderness.”

Gestarin sighed and rubbed his eyes as he listened to the Council bicker and bicker. Days like this were almost definitely the cause of his chronic exhaustion, which certainly did not assist with the already present fatigue he felt from his other state duties. “My liege,” Highlord Yrit crooned. “We require your humble intervention. What say you? Should Harvesters march in force on the eastern wall to preempt an imminent Quasexan invasion, or should they sit in their chapels and twiddle their thumbs whilst our glorious kingdom is dashed away by the winds of the Quasexan military?” Before Gestarin had even opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by a Viceroy.

“My esteemed lord, do not listen to this petty thief.” He said subtly, even going as far as to bat his eyes at the king after glaring at Yrit. “Reason with the Quasexans; they shall surely listen to your magnanimous integrity.” He sat back with a smug smile on his face as the table erupted into fierce contention as each member sought to prove that their idea was the most militaristically sound. Gestarin did not even seek to restore order; indeed, he welcomed the chaos. It meant that their sycophantic positioning was paused, for the moment.

“And I thought that the last time I would see a bunch of snivelling little boys was at the orphanage.” A new voice said, filled to bursting with contempt. “Truly even a pack of hyenas has better manners.”

The entire Council was silenced. Each and every member gaped at the man who had just walked through the oaken doors of the throne room. He stood with confidence, despite his apparent crusade to render the current fashion trends useless.

He wore a Quasexan sandrobe, flowing and long, that wrapped tightly around his body. It was for the most part unadorned, though a few jewels speckled the cuffs. On his head he wore a feathered headdress made from the feathers of Junarian songbirds, vibrant colors seemingly attacking the eyes of anyone caught staring too long. He was barefoot as well, though the cold floor surely made his feet grow numb; yet, despite all of this, he walked almost the same way the Gestarin did: like a king.

“My lords,” He said bitingly as he walked toward the council’s table, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “I can scarcely believe that the revered Council of Blood is not only considering the notion of invading our neighboring country, but is also squabbling like an insolent child over an issue that should not even be discussed.”

“Who are you?” A flustered Highlord demanded, ignoring any pleasantries he could have extended at that point. “What right do you have to burst into the King’s chambers in so garish a costume?”

“I have as much right as you, Elik.” The man snapped back, pulling out a chair and plopping into it. Dignity was obviously not his main priority. “I never realized that the Council of Blood could deny one of its members the right to attend.”

“What are you suggesting?” Yrit demanded with wide eyes.

“I am suggesting nothing, Highlord.” The man responded before pulling out a knife to clean his fingernails. Surprisingly, that action received more gasps of indignation than his outfit had. “Members of the Council of Blood are allowed in Council meetings. I thought that was obvious, though you never seem to be able to see anything less obvious than your gut.”

“Your name, sir.” Gestarin implored, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the grin that had appeared the moment this man stepped into the room. “You cannot expect us to know who you are on sight. Though,” He added, nodding to the man’s outfit. “I’m quite sure we would have been able to remember you if we had seen you before.”

“My king makes a good point.” The man laughed, leaning back and putting his feet on the table. “My name is Vixin, lord of House Xiviir. You may have heard of me.” This announcement drew the most gasps from the assembled men; they knew of this eccentric man.

“Viceroy Vixin.” Gestarin said, rubbing the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Who is your Highlord?”

“Ah, that would be me, your majesty.” A quiet, trembling voice said from the very end of the enormous council table. All heads turned toward the voice as a small, frail old man stood up. “One of my previous Viceroys perished, so I appointed Vixin to his post.”

“Ah, I see.” Gestarin said smoothly, lying through his teeth. “And why did you appoint him?”

“Because, your majesty,” Vixin cut in, sitting up in a halfway decent posture. “I was the best man for the job.”

“Just as a Flen is the best at their job.” One of the other Viceroys muttered.

“The allegations made against me are untrue, your majesty, though you may not believe that at first glance.” Vixin told Gestarin, shooting a dangerous look at the speaker.

“And these allegations are?” Gestarin asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Murder, your majesty.” Vixin said casually, almost as if he were pronouncing what he would like to eat for supper. “I have stood accused by the general populace of murdering a rather important man for over ten years now.” Gestarin’s eyes widened slightly in feigned recognition, and he leaned back in his chair.

“You are the one accused of overthrowing Xaxin, the previous Harvester King.”

Vixin’s only response was a grunt.

* * *

Radiran slipped open the door to his barn, hinges creaking only slightly. He cursed himself and the rusty pins; taking the time to oil them would have been much less dangerous than risking detection. Radiran looked around him, sighing as he found no suspicious glances toward him. With the grace and silence of a spider in its web, he squeezed through the wooden door and shut it, pulling a steel beam down to lock the passageway.

Through the whinnies and groans of the livestock, Radiran heard a small whimper.

Walking across the dirt floor, he made his way down the aisle of stalls, ignoring the clamor for attention from his beloved animals. Any other night he would have stroked his horses’ manes or patted his heifers’ backs, but not tonight. Tonight he had business with the stall in the back, and he would not miss it for the world.

As he wrenched open the door to the stall, he gasped as a wave of stink hit him in the face, nearly causing him to stagger backward. Manure and dust dominated the scent, but the coppery smell of blood and decay could be identified. Things had decayed much further than he had anticipated. He smiled at that despite the stench. It meant that he was doing his job correctly. A solitary lantern lit up the stall, casting flickering shadows over its inhabitant.

“Hello, Miriin.” Radiran said pleasantly, stepping over to the woman bound and gagged in the middle of the stall. She groaned in response.

As he did every in every instance that he visited his captive, he noted her appearance and condition. The bright red sequined dress he had found her in was torn in several places- her entire right side was revealed to the hip. Her pale skin was caked in blood, sweat, and grime, and the charcoal around her eyes had diluted to the point that black rivulets streamed down her neck and over her collarbone. Tears cascaded from her eyes, clearing the dirt to some degree. Miriin’s formerly luscious maroon hair now was crusty and knotted, its beauty masked by the deliberations of Radiran’s torture.

“Are you doing any better today?” Radiran continued, laying his hand on her shoulder and speaking as he would to a child. Her groans intensified, and she made a small effort to shake off his touch; yet, she had no strength. Indeed, Radiran was surprised she could still cry, as she had consumed no water in two days.

“Look at me,” he said, lifting her chin with his other hand and bringing her eyes to his. He stared into those deep violet pools, and all he could see was fear. “You are here for a great purpose.”  He crooned.

She whimpered and tore her gaze away from his, looking in the opposite direction and breathing as hard as she could through her mucus-clogged nostrils.

Radiran growled and lowered his hand to her left thigh, pulling the dress up to reveal the black cloth bandages tied to a bloody stump. Flies buzzed around the festering flesh,.

“You remember this, don’t you?” He snapped, grabbing her face and jerking it toward the grievous wound. “You remember what I can do to you?” He hauled his hand back and slapped her mightily across the face. She closed her eyes and moaned through the gag, her head lolling on her shoulder.

“Now you’ve made me lose my temper.” Radiran sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “But no matter. Today it ends.”

Miriin slowly turned her head toward Radiran, a look of confusion on her glistening face. She mumbled something unintelligible through the cloth that obscured her words. Radiran gently reached behind her head and untied her gag, releasing her mouth. She gasped for air and took deep breaths for several seconds.

“What are you talking about?” She choked as she tried to draw in more air. Her eyes glowed with a flicker of light. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Do you have hope, wretched one?” Radiran laughed. “ Because you should not. No, I’m going to kill you now.” Miriin’s face paled even further. Radiran laughed as he pulled the gag back into her mouth, tying it harshly and tightly around her neck. Miriin began to cry and wail through the gag.

Radiran snatched up the burlap bag that sat in the corner of the room, pulling its drawstrings open and ruffling inside. From it, he pulled a simple hunting knife, taken from Miriin only an hour ago. She had tried to escape from her captivity with it- Radiran had sustained the wound in his leg from that very knife. How ironic that it would now draw blood from its owner.

“And so we begin.” He said, brandishing the knife. Then, with a swift motion, he slashed it against Miriin’s chest, directly over her heart. Dark blood began oozing out of the wound, and Miriin flinched in pain.

Quickly tucking the knife back in the sack, he observed the laceration he had made.

“Maybe it is a little messy,” He admitted, “But a little blood never hurt anyone.” He chuckled as Miriin sobbed in pain. “You’re doing very well.” Radiran crooned, hovering over Miriin as she bled out from several more wounds. “Only a few more moments.” Miriin whimpered and sobbed, her cries muffled by the cloth gag.

Radiran reached back into the burlap sack in his hands and pulled out a strange object that glittered in the lantern’s light. It was a miniscule glass cube, smooth to the touch and warm from its contents: a few drops of blood. Radiran stared at the crimson liquid that filled the prism completely; there were no air bubbles whatsoever. It had taken him several months to procure an Outlet of this purity, but he had obtained it. And now he could use it.

“Void.” He whispered, turning the cube over in his hands. “You know what it is, don’t you?” Miriin only wailed louder; Radiran ignored it. “It is the essence of the dark expanse with the same name, present in the blood of all the living, stored inside of one of Aia’s prisms,” he explained, caressing it gently like a man stroking his dog. “Every Bloodblade needs an Outlet, whether it be of fire, water, earth, air, or blood. I’m sure you can see which one this is.”

He set the cube on the floor, then reached his hand back into the sack to retrieve its last contents.

“You may remember this item,” he said with a wicked smile. “After all, it does belong to you.” He excavated from the bag the polished hilt of a sword, white as snow and shimmering like a candle. Miriin gaped with wide eyes, tears falling down her dirty cheeks..

Radiran held in his hands a hilt made of bone, created from the remains of Miriin’s lower leg. The handle was like a concave cylinder, curving inward toward the center and then back outward near the pommel. The pommel held no adornment; the hilt ended in a round spike about two inches long. Set in the center of the handle was a small square socket.

Radiran held, almost lovingly, the hilt of a Bloodblade- only the hilt. The blade was the reason he was here.

“I carved it myself.” He said, displaying the hilt with his hands. “Though it was difficult to keep my wife from finding it, I managed.” Miriin mumbled something through the gag. Radiran growled, seized the knife from the sack, and cut open the gag.

“Why in Aia’s name are you doing this?” She wailed, shaking against her bonds. “What purpose could you possibly have?”

“You question me? A mangy Bedseller seeks to question my actions?” Radiran roared like a lion, slapping her once more across the face. “My wife has been nearly as low as you for all of our marriage! Our Var abuse us, our lords ignore us, and the Harvesters do not even care for the bruises.” Radiran ground his teeth and squeezed the hilt with his white hands. “No longer will I answer to a man who cares for naught but his own life. No longer will I let Bloodwielders slaughter the serfs with impunity. I’ve served in wars aplenty, and I have been nothing but wounded for it. Well, today, they will receive their penance. Harvest has come.” Radiran set his teeth with grim apprehension and picked up the Outlet from the floor, setting it into the socket on the hilt.