The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 10: Purifying Flame

The High Priest looked from his journal to the stretching lands before the hunting party. There was an expanse of forestry and green plains, massifs, and roads that led to major cities. There were grassy plains where patches of tiny violet flowers sprung up in small oceans, waving in the dying moonlight.

Vidarr waited, crouched on a boulder, enjoying the peeking light of early dawn.

Ashara was leaning on a tree near him and doing something similar, looking on with silent wonder at the fields and wishing the High Priest would end the hunt. Just then, he snapped his journal shut and said, “There’s a small settlement over those hills, there,” pointing at a village. “It’s marked here on my map as Crowshead—perhaps a small cluster of farmers and peasants.” He snorted a little to himself, slightly disgusted. “We’ll pursue this village tonight,” he said, though they could all see the sun coming up. ‘Tonight’ was hardly alive, still. The High Priest was desperate. “There could be someone with the Curse there. It’ll be a thorough but quick search. We won’t be needing many of you.”

Some of the younger assassins may have even looked disappointed at that, wishing for a chance to prove themselves. The High Priest began picking them all individually, waving away the rest he didn’t care for. Amongst those he picked was Dalibor, Signy, and to Vidarr’s surprise: himself and Ashara. Sindri, and two other neophytes were also selected. Those that weren’t chosen started back through the forest.

Sindri winked at him mockingly when he was pointed at.

“And will someone, for the love of Morros, please have a fire burning in my hearth by the time I am back?” the High Priest called after them. He was quite peevish now, no more inure to the lack of sleep than the rest were. “Useless bits of steel, they are,” he grumbled to those remaining with him.

Dalibor leaned in close. “They’ll probably even do a poor job of that.”

The Priest only grunted in response. Vidarr, Ashara, and even Signy rolled their eyes.

They were atop a cliff overlooking the forests bordering Crowshead. It was an easy, but long, curving road that would eventually take them there.

“Well, we best be—” the Priest started.

“W—wait,” one of the chosen neophytes blurted out. “I pray my High Priest does not misinterpret my words,” he continued, bowing slightly. He was a young one, with a dagger that still hadn’t tasted blood.

The air grew tight. They were all shocked, for one, because the neophyte spoke before being spoken to, and for another, because it was in the middle of the Priest’s sentence.

Vidarr looked at the neophyte with a small admiration, even though he knew it was the same admiration one might feel for a jester failing to perform overly-ambitious juggling routine.

His impatience flared. “Out with it, son. We do not play riddles here,” the Priest demanded. Hesitantly, the neophyte lifted his eyes to their leader. The small amount of skin uncovered by his hood and mask was nicked by thorns. There were dark rings under his eyes, and he looked wearied enough by the impositions of puberty on his body. “We have traveled for quite a long time, and we’re farther from our encampment than I have ever been.” The young assassin looked around at the others for moral support but found none. When Vidarr followed his eyes, he realized a few from the other party had lingered at the forest’s edge to watch the discussion play out. A sickening sensation was coiling like a snake in his stomach.

“This is accurate,” the High Priest snapped. “Skip to it, now.”

“In my fifteen years, I have only ever been asked to hunt in the Duskenwoods, or near to them. But to travel through it entirely and beyond, High Priest, and at this hour … it’s …” he struggled for words. The boy was just asking for a rest, nothing more. It wasn’t hard for Ashara to replace pity for him, though the rest who were watching were holding back laughter and raising their eyebrows.

“Are you saying you are … tired?” the High Priest asked, a hint of amusement in his voice..

“Not at all!” the assassin said. “Only, by now we would normally be on the path back to our village, perhaps asleep already. And Bafimer’s Bane will have risen soon.”

Vidarr looked to the horizon. The sun was starting to peek into the violet sky, emerging beneath the dark waters beyond the mountains of the Northern Moonlands.

The High Priest smiled, as if won over. “Come here, my child,” he said, extending a hand. The leader towered over the boy.

The neophyte smiled behind his mask. They could all see the stretch marks around his eyes as he felt a warmth in his heart that he’d never had before. It may have been one of the only embraces he’d ever been offered in his life. There was a beat of expectation in his chest as he was pulled into the hug that seemed to Vidarr the coiling of a serpent around its prey.

“Do you know what we say to the merciful?” the High Priest whispered to his follower.

“Of course.”

“Go on, then,” he whispered. The Priest drew a hand backward to unsheathe his dagger, ever so silently.

But the young elf was too excited to notice; so close to the only father he ever had in his life, previously unnoticed but now in his arms. “The blood falls upon the unmerciful, but comes from those of mercy,” he recited.

“That’s right.” The High Priest slid the dagger into the supple leather of the neophyte’s belt and cut it off. Only when the sheathed dagger fell with a thud did he feel something amiss.

“High Priest?” he whispered.

The Priest turned around, pushing the stumbling follower to the edge of the cliff as he did.

“Afimer light your way, child,” he said. With two fingers, he prodded his chest a single time. The boy teetered, flaring his arms and fingers in desperation to grasp the air around him. Vidarr fought to stay still as he watched the last of the boy’s toe slipped, a small chunk of stone to follow him loyally to the bottom of the cliff.

There was an unmistakable noise when his body met the bottom of the ravine. Vidarr thought he’d seen and heard many strange things in his days. Though when he tried to compare that sound to anything, he was stopped short. It was horrifically unique. It instilled a frightening amount of rage in him. He might’ve killed the High Priest then and there with a shot from his bow, if there hadn’t been so many other followers around him to take the arrow instead.

Vidarr’s eyes stopped at the followers’ dagger while the rest of them burst into boisterous laughter. Some of it echoed from the edge of the forest, where many had watched the spectacle with eager, red eyes.

“So …” the High Priest started, his mood significantly uplifted, “does anyone else prefer to rest? I assure you there is a quaint little inn below. From what I hear, you can rest for as long as you like and it won’t cost a single copper.”

The laughter grew louder at that. Ashara drew away from the crowd gathering at the cliff to see the elf’s remains, and sat beside Vidarr.

“Tell me, who was the brave soul who lost his blade to the back of the Cursed?” he asked. The other neophyte who had been chosen to join the party stepped forward proudly. He pulled his mask down, revealing a broad grin. “It was I.”

“The gods have a way of settling matters, don’t they?” he asked him.

“That they do.” At that, the assassin undid his belt and tossed the scabbard, along with the cheap replacement blade off the cliff.

“Rat’s metal.” The High Priest spat, waving a hand at the flying dagger. “Here you are,” he said while he offered him the deceased Hand’s blade.

The dagger was put on proudly, despite its recent history. Everyone seemed in good spirits, then, besides Vidarr and Ashara. The others drew back again to travel home, and the remaining party was left at the edge of the cliff.

It was not the first time this had happened. Lately, daggers were being shifted from corpse to body. The blacksmith who used to forge their weapons died nearly a year before, and since then no one has had a new piece of steel, or iron, for that matter. It’s all been scavenged or reused.

“Take a deep breath,” the Priest said to them all. “You won’t get another for a long while.”

Deidre was awake early, long before any of the others had risen, nudging around a rock with her toe. She had been up since Fenris left, not able to sleep with the worry that he may turn up one day, in that darker form or otherwise. Though, that did not matter to her as much, she only wished to see him. Their goodbye felt rushed, and stunted the fresh emotions that she began to feel towards him.

Thinking of him, still, she looked down at the river. On the far side the rising sun was glinting off the wet backs of boulders. The sun’s golden rays were beginning to warm her cold toes. She shivered with delight as the sun rose further, and seemed to warm every part of her body … then another shiver—one that chilled her—as an uncanny intuition pricked her back.

With drowsy, apathetic eyes, the harelip turned to see a group of Moon-elves approaching the village. There were seven of them, and one was unusually tall for their kind.

But these didn’t look like any Moon-elves she had encountered before, besides the light shade of their skin and their pointed ears that waved as they walked. Their eyes were extraordinarily red, (which would not be unusual for one or two of them alone), but the whole group had the same hue, besides one. It struck her as the kind of odd that made hunters run when they hear a shift in the bushes, when they realize they may be the hunted.

As they got closer, she saw the embroidery of a red hand on the tallest elf’s robes. She knew instantly, then, who they were and their business. Most everyone had heard a story or two about the Red Hand, the Scarlet Hand, or the Crimson Hand, both good and bad. And Deidre, who was inclined to make conversation with strangers whenever she visited cities, was no exception.

There was a seed of fear that began to burrow itself in Deidre’s heart when she saw them. But in that moment she remembered she had not much to live for anymore, besides the hope that she may see Fenris again. But even then, she had little hope for that. So, with little regard for her own livelihood, the harelip began approaching the seven elves herself, not minding the daggers at their sides or even the full quiver of arrows that Vidarr had.

She was not surprised to replace that all the fear she had for herself was instead placed for Fenris’ sake. After all, who else would they be looking for?

“Gods shine upon you this early morning,” she said warmly to them. She thought to herself, I must look strange, dressed in rags while they are all in matching armor, and here I am with the smile and them with their frowns.

“My, it appears those forsaken by the gods arise early,” the tallest elf noted aloud when he noticed her deformity. Deidre scrunched up her face at that. But he waved away the horrible introduction with a hand as if he could start over. “Excuse me, it’s been a long evening. What I meant to say was: and you as well.” He bowed his head slightly.

Deidre scowled, wondering why the one with the unmasked face was the rudest. His skin looked dry and was horribly pale, as if to be burned clean off the next time it was exposed to the sun. The long ears worked well with the sharp beak of his nose to make him look like an albino hawk. He was a disgrace to the aesthetic gracefulness of most Moon-elves, yet he stood proud as if he was the most alluring of them all.

Some folk are humbled when they are exhausted, or are simply more soft-spoken. This is not the case with the High Priest. If anything, it is as if the undertones of his personality are switched, and he becomes a loud, egotistical tyrant. Well, in truth he is always a tyrant, but he is often quiet about it.

He bent down slightly to meet the harelip’s height with an outstretched, gloved hand inching towards Deidre’s upper lip. “I wonder,” he thought aloud, “what you must do to anger the gods so much as to provoke a mark such as this.” His eyes seemed to indicate he was examining an animal he’d never encountered before.

“I was born with it,” Deidre snapped, slapping his hand away, “nothing more.”

“Preposterous excuses!” he exclaimed, though she only said one. “The gods do not dwell within time. The wickedness of your future and past are yours to bear now, whether you want to or not. There will be retribution, outside or inside of our understanding of time.”

“Well then,” Deidre said, smirking, “you must have done something quite wretched compared to me, seeing as how your face is cursed doubly. You are an ugly elf, if I ever saw one.” Two of the assassins looked to be smiling behind their masks, at that. Deidre could see the stretch marks of a grin at the corners of their eyes. But the other four had murder written across their foreheads.

The elf slapped her without warning. “You’d do better to watch your tongue when speaking to a high priest of the Scarlet Hand.” The sound of the slap rang through the crisp, morning air, and burned on her cheek. “I will not tolerate such impudence from a peasant—and a harelip!—of all types. You can hardly clothe yourself, girl.”

Deidre spat a wad of saliva at the High Priest that she had been saving since he’d first greeted her. It landed squarely on his left eye, and he raised his hand again—this time much higher—to strike her. Deidre stood stoically, unable to stop her face from clenching.

“Travelers!” a booming voice called out.

The High Priest turned to the two neophytes equipped with longbows and whispered something to them. They then walked off to the woods, and disappeared from view.

It was Boran, Deidre knew in a heartbeat of thankfulness. The bear had been watching from behind his door for the past several minutes, deciding what to do. Although he hadn’t formulated much of a plan, he didn’t wish to see Deidre struck again.

“Greetings to you!” the High Priest called back, wiping away the saliva with a handkerchief that he produced from the inner folds of his robes.

“And to you. It is not often we see Moon-elves in these parts. Calan has blessed us here, as you see.”

“Ah, indeed. She is a fair goddess. I trust she keeps you in good hands?”

“Aye. Indeed she does,” he said, chuckling and walking closer.

Vidarr was unimpressed by the false praise. You see, the High Priest scorned the other gods as much as he did the Cursed. If it wasn’t for the Priest’s constant scorning of Siflos, Vidarr would think the Priest to be a monotheist.

The talk continued idly like this, especially after Boran had planted himself next to Deidre and nudged her behind him. She hid behind his thick body, feeling much safer but still afraid of the High Priest’s unpredictably spiteful manner.

Boran was disguising his disgust well enough. Like many, he knew what the Red Hand did and how they went about their business.

“What can us humble folk do for you?” he finally asked them.

Others in the village had awoken after Boran’s loud greeting. They were starting to stare at the strangers from their cottage windows now, a few coming out of their cottages wrapped in blankets.

“A werewolf was rampant in these parts only days ago,” the Priest said.

Boran frowned, then cleared his throat. He bent down and said something into Deidre’s ear. She then edged herself away from them, heading towards the cottages.

“Well, we haven’t anything of the sort. Praise the gods, none of us had to look upon such a creature! This village is quieter than a thief’s footsteps,” he said proudly.

“How noble of you to compare your village to thieves. But I am not questioning the innocence of your village … uh?” he trailed off.

“Boran Brownbeard.”

“Right … Boran,” the High Priest said as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth, “as I said, it’s not your village I am afraid of it, not at all. It’s your people. You see, the Cursed have a way of spreading the affliction they carry.”

“I’m well aware of that … uh?” he mocked.

“My name is unimportant. You are the one in question, here.”

“Question?” Boran spat, his anger seeping. “What for? You cannot simply march onto free land as if you have toiled over it and demand the respect of the people here.” Boran’s face grew red as he thought what his fist might feel like buried in the elf’s cheek.

“Please, Boran. We are here to help you and your people. We are safeguarding the lands.”

But Boran had never felt more fearful for his people aside from the night of the attack, or even the night that Nevron changed for the first time. “We don’t need your help,” he shot back. “It’s hard, but we get by. And we do so with sweat and a prayer for each drop that’s spent. We’re the most grateful folk in these parts. You won’t replace more devout souls anywhere.” Boran huffed with pride, and it was true.

“That is all well and good, but I am not questioning your devotion to the gods.”

“Stop questioning me at all, godsdammit!”

Vidarr’s eyes widened with both apprehension and delight. He’d never seen someone stand up to the High Priest so boldly. The only person who’d ever gotten close to that level of disrespect was … well, himself. All the other villagers, townspeople, or adventurers who had spoken with the High Priest were made subservient purely by his demeanor.

Even the High Priest was surprised. He flinched at the outburst. And after a long sigh, as if he’d just watched a child throw a tantrum, he said, “Very well.”

Boran’s anger subsided to fear. The elf’s hand—as well the rest of theirs—were resting on the hilts of blades. It was of the same make as the one Fenris pulled from the Cursed’s back.

Then Riktor came. “Is everything all right?” he asked. His other son, Timothy, was scampering behind him, scarcely five years of age. He giggled and stomped around, having as much fun with the dirt on the ground as one could. Boran was thankful for the distraction, but soon returned his gaze to the elves.

“Yes, Riktor. Everything is ‘all right.’ In fact, the fine elves were just starting to make their journey back.”

Riktor loathed the Cursed since his wife fell at the hands of one, though that hardly outweighed the monstrosities the Red Hand committed. To most, they were feared just as much as those with the Lupine Curse.

James was standing just outside the cottage.

“What were these ‘fine elves’ doing here?” Riktor asked loudly, wearing a smile.

“Why, they were simply making sure we were safe!” Boran exclaimed with enthusiastic gesticulations. “But now, unfortunately, they are leaving. Farewell, travelers!”

The High Priest was a statue for a moment, what with his stare and his impeccable posture despite the heavy longsword on his back. It seemed the whole bunch had just been caught in a storm cloud, except for Vidarr and Ashara, of course, who were thankful for their masks—hiding gigantic grins.

“I suppose, then, we are leaving,” the High Priest said, defeated. In a lower voice, “We have yet a long journey beyond us.” They began turning back toward the road, and for a moment Boran thought they had avoided an unpleasant quarrel …

Just when Timothy ran ahead of both Riktor and Boran, faster than Riktor could reach out and grab him. The child stopped and stared at the dagger on Sinara’s waist. “Father!” he shouted, pointing at her. “Look, it’s the dagger Fenris took from the monster!”

“Timothy! Get back here!” Riktor hissed. But the damage was done.

The High Priest turned in his tracks, he himself grinning, now. “Excuse me,” he said, now walking back towards Boran—who was cursing every last deity he knew.

“Sinara, your blade,” the High Priest said. She unsheathed it at once and gave it to him, who crouched down in front of Timothy with giddy eyes.

Riktor marched up to the elf and put Timothy behind him. “You won’t lay a hand on my boy,” he said.

Immediately the High Priest recoiled. “Me? You think I would hurt such a lively and innocent child? Surely, Afimer is laughing in the skies, at that!” Riktor stood still, but the blades of the assassins unnerved him, and soon the elf went to coaxing the child closer. “Child,” he said. “Was it this blade that this ‘Fenris’ took?” The High Priest smiled at Timothy. Vidarr was keen enough to see the movement. He swore, in all his life, he’d never seen that elf smile so broadly.

“Yes!”

Timothy upturned fistfuls of dirt and threw them around. The child had not seen his mother die, and Riktor told him she was away at the city to stall the inevitable explanation. Without that detail, that evening was an exciting event which he could not comprehend for all its gore and deadliness.

“Die!” the child said, imitating a deep-throated voice. Then he grasped an imaginary hilt and pulled it loose from the equally invisible werewolf. “See! Father, father!”

“Timothy!” he hissed.

But the boy wouldn’t be quieted. “Just like Fenris!”

The High Priest blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend his luck. “Who is this ‘Fenris’? He sounds quite heroic, pulling one of our daggers from this ‘monster.’ ”

“Timothy, back to the house. Now,” the father commanded. But Timothy didn’t obey. The High Priest had jewels for eyes now, instead of hot coals. The boy was infatuated with this character that was suddenly fascinated in him and him alone.

“Child, what did this monster look like?” the elf asked.

Timothy quickly realized that his actions would explain more than he ever could. So he poured what he could into imitating that dark creature. And with glee, stomped around the dirt, bearing his (not entirely existent) fangs, and flaring his hands as if they were claws.

The father stared at the ground helplessly. It was lost. The High Priest was nearly as excited as the child, after the short performance. It was the first time the followers heard their leader laugh. It was a chuckle that cascaded into cackling; sinister enough that even Timothy stopped his reenactment, feeling uneasy.

“What a recollection your boy has!” the Priest exclaimed finally, clapping enthusiastically. “Now, where is this ‘Fenris’ of yours, hmm? I would very much be interested in speaking with him. Seeing as how, of course, he fought a Cursed without any of you seeing one, according to your account, Boran.” And just as quickly, he was cold again.

Boran winced. “You must understand, Priest, that to come across a Cursed is a foul thing. It hurts reputation. We were unharmed. I meant only to keep the name of our village clean.” He looked back towards Riktor’s cottage, at James, and called, “Fenris!”

The High Priest flinched at the boy’s name being called, but his eyes were boring through all of Boran’s lies at once. “I understand,” he said.

Nervously, James came, trying not to look at High Priest as if the entire elf was some horrible deformity. “Morning to you,” he said to the elf, holding his hands together to hide the shaking.

The Priest looked skeptical. For someone untrained in the ways of the Red Hand to get that close to a Cursed and survive unscathed … it was not only improbable, in his mind it was impossible. “Fenris, is it?”

“Indeed it is,” James said shakily. He was hardly convincing.

“And no cuts? No bites?”

“Not one.”

The High Priest looked him over, eyes sharper than blades. He knew the signs of the afflicted, but even he had to admit this boy did not have them. “… And this dagger? Where is it? I have warriors to put to rest who would wish to be buried with it.”

“The child is merely playing,” James assured. “It is wherever that creature is now.”

“Hmph!” he said, inspecting him further with prods and light touches around the body. When he found nothing, he stood there and merely stared at all four of them.

The tension grew. Meanwhile, Timothy was deflecting blows from an invisible opponent with an equally invisible shield.

“I can assure you, High Priest, no one here was touched by this beast of yours that you are tracking. We’re all—”

“Beast?!” the Priest cringed. “If you knew any better, you’d call it by its rightful name, so all would know. The Cursed One! Timothy!” the Priest barked suddenly. James was so shaken, he looked as if he was going to vomit.

The child turned stark pale. The Priest wasn’t so inviting now. He had turned into half a demon in half a moment. “Timothy,” he called again. Reluctantly, the boy came. The villagers didn’t dare stop the Priest, afraid to inflame his anger, though they kept themselves close behind the child.

“I’m so very sorry,” the elf said with feigned politeness. “I have but one more question. Is that boy Fenris?” He pointed at James.

Timothy’s hands were all in a tangle of a knots, as were his vocal chords. He stammered, then started to cry—before shaking his head.

“Out with it! Who is he, truly?” the Priest crouched down and started to shake Timothy by his shoulders. “Where then? Where is Fenris?!”

Riktor struggled not to throw himself at the Priest, but the elves behind him were all but pointing drawn daggers at him.

“I d—don’t know!” the child cried out, pointing his head at the sky and crying miserably.

The High Priest continued his relentless questions, no longer on the edge of madness but over it, hurtling down its abyss.

Riktor could not take it longer. He raised the heel of his boot and brought it down across the elf’s jaw. He spiraled to the floor, and in the same instant the whole group of assassins had their weapons drawn, except for Vidarr and Ashara of course, who drew themselves away from the scene

“To the cottage, Timothy! Go!” Riktor said as he threw himself upon the elf in a flurry of blows.

Boran shouted his name to stop him, but the aggregated love of a father was more madness than the Priest’s obsession to replace the Cursed. The first arrow—from Signy—whizzed past the father’s head and bit into the dirt behind Timothy’s heel. James stopped for a moment, unsure if to stay and fight, or to run. An arrow narrowly missed the High Priest’s head and sunk into Riktor’s chest.

Boran heard another arrow. Before he could look, James had fallen to the floor with half the shaft buried in his skull. The man roared in outrage.

The Priest scrambled for his dagger, only to replace that Riktor had gotten to it first. He raised the lethal weapon above him. “You filth!” he shouted as he brought the blade down. But Signy’s aim was all too deadly, and all too loyal, to miss the shot. It impaled Riktor’s armed hand, dead in the center of his palm. The father wailed, dropped the blade, and cried, “Hide, Timothy!” before another arrow went through his chest.

Vidarr and Ashara didn’t know what to do. The neophyte archers were crouched at the edge of the village’s forest, proving their worth with every shot.

Boran lunged to tackle the High Priest, but was met by an arrow that dug into his right shoulder. He screamed, barely managing to meet the Priest and shove him to the ground before another set of arrows riddled his side. Words of warning for his villagers stopped with the blood in his throat. On his knees, two more arrows went into him—overkill, such was the Scarlet Hand’s way—and he collapsed.

Riktor was laying still. He was clutching an arrowhead snapped off from the shaft in his stomach. His son lay behind him with dead eyes watching the scene unfold.

The High Priest had regained himself by then. He sheathed his dagger and went for his longsword instead as he noticed Riktor’s short breaths. “Why must you people always struggle?” he asked. His mouth was bloody from the villager’s boot. He spat some out on him. “Season after season we cleanse these lands of the Curse, we help you! We do the work of gods! Tell me, if you can with your last breath, what cause could be more valiant than that?”

With his final breath, Riktor slammed his right fist in the Priest’s heel. The arrowhead dug through the cloth of his robes and punctured the skin deeply. The Priest cried some unholy curses, then, and raised his sword to behead the villager … but his eyes filled with disappointment, after some of his followers’ shots finished the deed.

Behind Riktor’s cottage, Deidre was bent low amongst tall weeds and brush of the neighboring forest. She had seen everything, and held back her own outcries.

Riktor’s cottage was closest to the fighting, and besides Boran’s, was the only one with a backdoor. She crept through the door now, careful to ease the creaking, old wood, and rushed to the weeping child crouched in the corner of the room.

“You have to come with me, Timothy,” she whispered, putting a finger to his lips. Those elves will hurt us if we don’t leave. But we have to stay quiet, all right?”

“Father says you’re cursed because of your lip!” he tried to shout, but Deidre muffled him with a hand until he stopped thrashing.

“I know … I know what he says,” Deidre assured, “but he also said you must run, remember?” Timothy looked more convinced, with this. She looked around the room. “Where do you keep your food? Point to it.”

Timothy pointed to a small dresser beside a stone oven. Ducking beneath the height of the windowpane, Deidre crossed the stone floor and opened one of the drawers, seeing only neatly folded tunics and trousers.

Deidre mouthed the word, “Sack,” to Timothy. The child reached under the bed and slid a coarse, patched rucksack to her. She stuffed the garments into it, and then opened the door to the stone oven and found bread, which she also packed.

“Hey, that’s our food!” Timothy wailed, almost before Deidre could shush him. With the rucksack, she lead the boy toward the door, but he stood stubbornly there, crossing his pudgy arms. “I’m not going! Father told me not to play with you.”

On the verge of curses, Deidre looked into the child’s big, brown eyes, swimming with fear. “Your father didn’t want me to play with you because he knew I liked you,” she said, coaxing him with a smile.

“You like me?”

“I always have.”

His confidence rejuvenated, the child wiped away tears on his face and said, “I’ll play with you. But only this once.”

Once was all Deidre needed. She motioned for Timothy to climb onto her back. With the rucksack and the boy hanging from her shoulders, she crept outside the cottage, and seeing no one in their path, fled from Crowshead, and into the forest beyond, as fast as any hare.

Vidarr could feel tears creeping on his eyes. He brushed the corners and looked at Ashara, who had never seen this brutality enacted on villagers, though he had.

“Your eyes are red,” the High Priest said to him, keeping weight off the punctured heel. “Is is the sun?” he asked.

“Yes,” Vidarr lied. Of course, he had meant the skin around his eyes.

“I apologize for that. I didn’t think this would take so long.” He made the slaughter sound like a nuisance of an errand. “But before we can get this over with, I need this damn arrow taken from my foot. Wrap it up. And whatever you do, for the gods’ sakes, stop the bleeding.”

Vidarr knelt down with shaking hands and grasped the arrowhead. Willfully, he twisted and mangled the insides of the Priest’s heel before yanking it out. “Apologies, Priest. It was a stubborn tip,” he murmured.

But he was in too much pain to notice the purposeful error. And after Vidarr had wrapped him up with the cloth of his mask, he actually thanked him. “We’ll have to have one of the apothecaries look at that,” was all he said afterward.

Ashara was still frozen. She had not touched her dagger, and in fact felt like throwing it off the cliff. Two bowman came from their perch in the woods, like carrion crows, to circle the bodies and collect their arrows.

“Torches,” the Priest said, limping to some shade. He looked paler than usual.

One of the bowman retrieved a torch from a cloth loop at his side. He handed it to the Priest.

“Get a fire going first, you fool. What use is it to me if it’s not lit?” The assassin nodded and reached into his steel-and-flint pouch.

When the fire was ready and the torch was lit, the whole group of assassins stared at the two flames.

“High Priest, I wrapped your wound for you,” Vidarr began carefully, “I mean no disrespect … is this truly necessary?”

“Of course it’s necessary, fool!” Dalibor cut in.

The High Priest looked too wearied to say much. “They’re hiding something,” he mumbled in dark hatred. “The one who called himself Boran lied that the Cursed had been here at all. The boy, too, was also lying. This ‘Fenris’ is surely afflicted, there is no other conclusion. There is always someone afflicted. Always.”

“But that is all, High Priest. You heard the child. That boy wasn’t Fenris. He must’ve ran off. If there is a Cursed lingering in these parts, he has long since fled from this village. If anything, we should be searching for him, and depart immediately. The villagers are perfectly healthy. I’ll check each one myself, if—”

“We can’t be sure of that.” The Priest was looking stubbornly at his heel. Then, with a glance of consideration, he handed Vidarr the torch. “I am wounded. Why don’t you do it, if you are so eager to leave?” he asked.

Vidarr stared at him coldly. It is purposeless, he thought, he knows it, too.

“I’ll do it,” Dalibor offered eagerly, when Vidarr fell silent.

“Not you, idiot. If I wanted you I would have asked you.”

Dalibor looked like a reprimanded dog.

“Take it, Vidarr. Unless you want us all to be torched by Bafimer’s Bane, let us burn this place and be done with this damnable hunt. We will have known we’ve stopped something, at least.”

Vidarr could hardly believe himself as his hand reached for the torch and gripped the wood. It felt like iron. He wished, in some act of divine mercy, the flames would leap from the tip and devour him whole. Turn me to ash, he thought. Turn me to ash. Sweep me away with the dust. In a gust of wind … turn me to ash, he prayed.

But he was already walking toward the first cottage. When he opened his eyes, when he finished the prayer, when he realized he’d been crying, his arm was in distance of the thatched roof.

“Quickly, now,” the Priest urged from afar.

“Gods, take my horrid soul,” he whispered.

The end of the torch met the corner of the roof, starting a single, innocent flame at the ends of a few pieces of straw. It could have been distinguished by a fist. Vidarr almost did, too, but the flame grew and evolved into an adolescent, fiery rage. Vidarr watched, hating himself more with every second, as the flames ran around the roof gleefully and erupted into a conflagration.

“Vidarr!” the High Priest called. “There is no time for ceremony. Light the others now!”

There were at least a dozen cottages. Vidarr faced the same, slow agony of self-loathing the second time, then the third, and by the thirteenth, he was thankful he was at the end of the village’s road where the High Priest and the others could not see him—weeping hysterically.

He watched the same rushing waters that Fenris had stared into countless times, as Boran had, and Deidre, and many others—and it humbled him the same as it did them.

Mournfully, he tossed the torch into the rapids, thinking, Why don’t you just join it, you loyal, pitiful piece of shit? No one said you couldn’t die. And he almost did, if he hadn’t thought of Ashara first.

The Crowshead villagers tried to stay in their cottages for as long as they could, all of them being too afraid to face the same fate as Riktor, James, and Boran. But as the fires scorched their time away, they knew it was either a death of fire or steel.

They came out all the same, some on fire and others not—naked hands held outward in surrender. It didn’t matter, though. Either way, they all fell.

Vidarr looked back down the road, watching the scene contort with the heat of the fires, as the bowman drew and let loose arrow after arrow …

A woman—her backside engulfed in flame—ran from her cottage and threw herself at Vidarr’s feet, crying prayers and begging for mercy.

Unthinking, Vidarr removed the outer layer of his black garments and threw it upon her, dousing the flames. Her hair was singed and the back of her dress had gone to ash, but she was alive. From the ground, she looked up at him. “Gods bless you,” she sighed …

Before the arrow pierced her heart. It had sung its way from the entrance of the village, through the flames, only for her.

The threshold of Vidarr’s pain was being pushed; falling to his knees, watching, powerless as the last of her life bled away. He screamed … and screamed … and screamed, his soul turning to iron while the villagers wailed and fled with flames around them, some rushing around him to throw themselves into the river far below.

The smoke engulfed the village, it filled his lungs, and the raining ash turned his skin charcoal as he sank into exhaustion, the spirits of the dead tormenting his head, filling his ears, even after the last of the screams died away, even after the living had all departed, he could feel them all dancing around him with the fires. Dancing, arms linked, ashen ghosts and glowing skin, wailing songs of despair at their murderer.

As he came back to consciousness, away from the flames, being dragged in the arms of Ashara, he realized something else that kept him from the rapids: hatred.