Chapter 31: 31. Death’s Door

- DILLON -

I will soon die. 

This thought plagues my mind as I pull the iron poker from the old man's eye socket. As I wheeze heavy breaths. I feel cold but my skin burns. Fever has set in. My teeth chatter. The room spins. The only thing keeping me afloat in this sea of madness is my damned stubbornness. And perhaps a little lunacy.

Everything hurts.

I drop the poker, it clinks against stone along with strings of oozing veins and flesh that hits the floor with a wet slop. How much more must I endure? No matter how many fights I get into, the outcome has always remained the same. 

Always at Death's door. Never beyond.

I fall heavily to my knees and go through the dead man's pockets. Handkerchief. A few kells. A pouch of herbs for his pipe. Nothing useful. Now that I am on my knees, I have no strength left to stand. Maybe I should pray instead. Perhaps now the Angels will listen. Let Death finally take me. Take me to Hell along with all the people I murdered. 

I used to believe the men I killed were evil. Just more lies I tell myself to keep me warm and get me to sleep every night. I realise now that there is no evil. Just me and those who get in my way.

"I'm surprised you are still standing, boy." The old lady says from the top of the stairs. I crane my neck to the sound of her raspy voice. From the animosity in her tone and her body language as she stands on her wooden pedestal, I would've thought she had a personal grudge against me. Then again, I did just slaughter her partner. 

"I was certain I broke your nose but I guess that's how it always looked," I throw a petty jibe at her hoping she takes the bait. But she remains silent. Her face and upper body masked by the shadow of the second-floor landing.

"Tell me, why did you kidnap the princess when you are a dead man?" She takes a careful step downwards into the light. From the shadow, her face is revealed– swollen cheeks, a red, bloody countenance and a crooked nose. 

"Why did you lead us here?" I ask. Slowly, I lean on my right leg, inching closer to the poker but the pain at my feet and sides is blinding. Involuntarily, I expose my intentions. I cannot see if she has noticed.

"Answer me, boy," She growls and takes one more step. "I have a dozen comrades out there who are dying to cut and gut you. The Khronish traitor who killed the Beast of Illya. Coward of the century. Poison!" She lets out a crackly howl of laughter.

"Didn't want to challenge the king to a duel. Seemed a little unfair, don't you think?" 

She chuckles and takes another two steps, "Nah, don't buy it." When she reaches the bottom, she pulls a blood-stained machete from behind her and points it at my head. "You killed the pirate with honour. Don't think you're the sort to use poison."

"What made you think I had honour?" I ask and lean over to grab the iron poker. I slide it over to my left hand and with my right, I lean against the upturned table and pull myself to my feet. If this is my last fight, my end, then I will rage toward it.

"I seen you fight just there, gutsy and fearless. Don't seem like the type to slip someone poison when they're sleeping." She takes slow, careful strides across the foyer and into the kitchen. I stare at the sharpness of the blade and grit my teeth. With my current condition, she can walk up to me and swing haphazardly and I will not be able to parry her strike. There must be a way to end this that doesn't involve me being decapitated. 

"How much is the bounty on my head then?" I take a step from the table and tighten my grip around the poker. If Lux were here, he would laugh at the situation. I'm circling a wrinkled old hag like a great beast. But, she is not my enemy. This fever is. 

"Enough." She spits and sprints toward me in a fury. She lifts her dominant arm and slashes down with a heavy swing of her blade. I pivot to the side and jab her in the stomach with my left fist. She doesn't falter. The woman grunts and flicks her sword horizontally and slices at my hip. I pull my poker in time and parry the strike but her strength is greater than mine. Metal scrapes against metal, the sound is high-pitched and loud in my ears as the blade grinds again the poker then slices through my bicep.

"You think me weak cause I'm old but I been fighting long before you were conceived, boy," She backs away to take up her stance, both hands on her machete as she stares down at me like a predator. But she is wrong. I don't think she is weak due to age. I think she is weak because she is cocky. Overconfidence will be the end of her, not me.

"I don't think you're weak, ma'am," I pant and back away toward the hearth. Her dilated eyes don't leave mine. "I think you're careless." 

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I bring up my poker and throw it at her like a javelin. When she brings up her arms to defend herself, I sprint and grab her dominant wrist and tackle her. The machete slides out of her fingers and clatters against stone to my right. But, I don't have time to reach for it as she throws a punch at my arm.

I knee her in the abdomen and push my right forearm into the crook of her neck and push until she loses her footing. We fall ungracefully. She chokes out a breathless sob when she hits the ground. She throws heavy punches at my broken ribs, causing immense pain to jolt through my side. I roll off her when I see her other arm reach for the iron poker, but she is just short of grabbing it. 

"Bastard!" She coughs. When I rise to my feet, I hear screams and shouts from beyond. I was almost gutted due to that split-second of distraction as she takes the machete and slices upwards towards my stomach. I yelp and jump back, almost losing my balance.

A flash of lightning strikes at a dry brush outside the kitchen window. I flinch.

"What on earth?" The woman grumbles and stares bewildered as brushes are set ablaze. Flames begin to surround the house. Where in the Heavens did that lightning come from? Lightning storms are not common during this time of year and especially in this region of the continent. The old woman staggers to her feet and rushes out the front door. 

I limp after her. She stands in the middle of the path, stunned and still as she stares at something in the distance. I sprint out of the house, ducking and coughing as smoke burns my lungs. The heat of the flames is sweltering. Fires crackle and dance upwards, devouring the side of the house like a starved beast.

The woman sprints down the dirt path in a fury. She is fast. The light from the fire and the sun blinds me. The horse tied to the gate starts to snort and scream, struggling to flee from its reins. I limp over and yank the strap free. The horse turns and sprints. My only ride galloping away into the distance and over the hill. 

"Fuck!" I grunt. I don't have time for this shit. Arellia is gone. These bandits must've taken her and now the old lady has escaped. But she couldn't have gone far. I stare at her shadow in the distance. For a moment there is nothing in the world but the flames at my back and the scorching land in front. 

But then I hear it. A cacophony of screams and voices and horse hooves. Together, it is an ominous melody in my ears, like the screams of prisoners in the pits of Orris. I limp awkwardly after the lady, dragging my right foot across rocks and sand. 

I have brought no weapon, no supplies. The house will soon burn and along with it, our chance of survival. There may be other small houses in the distance but I cannot risk another fight. Soon, these flames and smoke will be a billowing signal. 

I stop when I reach the sight of unimaginable slaughter. The old woman is on the ground, completely dismayed and sobbing as she grips the machete in one hand and on the other, strokes the hair on the severed head of a young man. 

The ground is bathed in red. The air is thick with the coppery tang of blood. Only mere meters away, I see her. Tunic drenched in blood, hair plastered to the side of her face, tears running down the apples of her cheeks. 

She kills with frightening aggression.

I see her amongst desperate bodies fighting to survive. She strides with ease, a severed arm in her hand and a blood-drenched sword in the other. The woman I laughed with on a veranda, the woman I laid beside as we watched stars blanket the skies. Here she is as cold and unforgiving as the Northern sea. Beautiful silver eyes alight with grim determination.

I watch as she stands on the chest of a wailing man, her feet burn through his torso, pulverising his insides. Smoke rises. It should not be possible to commit such brutality with careless ease, but she does it gracefully. Moving through crowds of men as if she is dancing.

Organs are ripped from bodies. Arms and flesh are melted from torsos. I tremble in fear as my horizon becomes nothing but blood. Gore like I have never seen pours around me. I watch as men and women are butchered one by one. There is a twisted glee in her killing even as she sobs and pleads, begging for someone to stop her. But, I cannot. I am glued to the ground in horror. 

"W-witch!" A man spits from the edge of the carnage. He is nothing but a torso and one arm. He drags himself on one elbow away from Arellia. White bone and stringy sinew catch in the dirt. He collapses suddenly and wheezes his last breath. When he dies, Arellia collapses into the blood and retches. 

"Devil!" The old lady screeches and crawls away. I watch liquid pool around her legs, smell the pungent stench of piss. I pick up the machete by the dead boy's feet. In my peripheral vision, the old woman staggers away, wailing unintelligibly. Fear is poison.

I stagger over Arellia. She lies innocently, hunched up like a baby bird. My skin prickles as I stare down at her. How can someone so small and fragile instil so much fear in me? If she is not an Arcana, then what is she? If I let her be, will she butcher me as she did to these people?

But my hands go numb. My heart thunders. I drop to my knees and bring the machete to her neck. One quick cut. Make it painless. But it is not easy. There is a small part of me that aches when I look at her. I hear her laugh, I feel her touch. I see the anger in her, identical to mine.

I part her blood-soaked hair from her face and silver eyes flutter open. Her gaze softens. 

When she opens her mouth to whisper my name, I shove the blade into her throat.

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