Young Writers Society

1

Adam the 'prentice was carefully placing bronze ore into the crucible under the high thatch roof facing the main road in Ophem. His face was one of concentration - he had large burn scars on both arms from touching the sides of the opening, and learned fast that haste brought pain in this activity. He had to reach deep into the large stone furnace to place the ore into the crucible, and his arms were currently halfway up his biceps into the stone opening.

"Adam", a cold and deep voice spoke from behind him. Adam jumped, connecting the insides of both elbows with the top of the opening. He yelled in surprise and pain, dropping the ore haphazardly into the crucible and retracting his arms like snakes striking in reverse.

"Oooooo, ow, ow, ow!" Adam exclaimed, ripping off his heavy gloves and rubbing the insides of his elbows. He'd forgotten about the cause of his accident in his pain.

"Owie, oh man, that hurt! Wow!"

"Adam".

Again Adam jumped and turned in the direction of the voice. He squinted in the failing light. The figure was wearing a tan traveling cloak, the hood masking his face in darkness.

"W-who are you?" Adam asked feebly, still rubbing his arms.

Adre took a step forward, allowing the light from a torch hanging from the pole that supported the corner of the thatch roof to illuminate his face.

Adam's face lit up. "Oh, Adre! You scared the willies outta me! You shouldn't -"

Adam cut off mid-sentence. Was this Adre? This man's face was scary - seemed cut out of stone... and his eyes... was that the reflection of the torch? Must be, Adam concluded.

"Adre? Something wrong, good friend?" Adam ventured cautiously. The urge to flee was creeping up his spine, nearing his brain.

"The crossbow. Is it ready?"

Adam struggled to recall working on a crossbow - with Adre's firey eyes focused on him with such intensity, thought became even more rudimentary than was usual for him. His face started to twist into a look of despair - then it dawned on him.

"The crossbow! Yeah! Yeah, Adre, I finished it up just after you left". Then a question occured to him. "What are you doin' back here, Adre?"

"Something dear was stolen from me. I'm going to punish those who stole it".

Adam nodded stupidly, not understanding what Adre was talking about.

"The crossbow, Adam".

"Yeah, just a second".

Adam turned and went through a wooden door leading into the shop. As soon as he stepped through the threshhold, he felt much better. Something was wrong with Adre. He'd never made Adam feel uncomfortable before, always the opposite. Adam looked around in the torchlight and spotted a small cedar crossbow, reinforced with bronze. There were leather straps, two hanging from each side, as well as a circular brass magazine that wrapped around the forearm and held extra bolts. There was a mechanism inside the crossbow that used the energy spent firing one bolt to load another.

Adam carefully picked this well-crafted weapon and carried it out in front of him as though it were a relic. He exited the shop and looked at Adre. Adre's face and eyes were vacant, as though he were consulting an internal voice.

"Adre?"

Adre's vacant face came to life and his eyes locked onto Adam's. Adam was startled, but didn't jump. He held the crossbow out before him.

Adre gave it a cursory glance before rolling up the sleeze on his left arm, grasping the crossbow and slapping it onto his left forearm. Adam cringed. Adre quickly fastened the leather straps, then looked at Adam.

"How do I fire it?"

Adam pointed to a flat piece of bronze protruding from the front of the crossbow, underneath the bolt groove. There was a circular shape punched out of the end.

"See this? Pull it with your finger to -"

Adre pointed his left arm at a nearby barrel and pulled the trigger three times. Three bolts rocketed from the crossbow, impaling the barrel. A thick whump sound accompanied each one.

Adre brought the bow to his face, nodding.

"Excellent. This will do".

The urge to flee was growing unignorable.

Adre's firey eyes again focused on Adam. He reached into his cloak and produced a small pouch.

"Payment", Adre said, and held the pouch out in front of him. Adam brought a shaking hand to the pouch and took it. Adre saw this and frowned. His eyes softened.

"Adam, I've known you since you were young. You were always joyful, and it pains me to see you so shaken. It's only fair that I let you know that you may not see me again for many moons, if ever. I cannot return to Ophem after tonight. Someone... a sweet and innocent little girl has been killed."

Adre bared his teeth slightly and narrowed his eyes, and Adam couldn't tell if this was due to pain or anger.

"Whatever you see or hear, Adam, know that I was not responsible. But I'm going to find those who are, and they will know regret".

The import of Adre's words were not lost on Adam, even in his fear. "Okay, Adre. I understand". Adam held out his hand, and despite his urge to snatch it away, he allowed Adre to shake it.

Adre nodded and turned away, striding into the darkness. Adam looked after him until he was enveloped in the dark, then looked at the pouch he held. The agreed fee for the crossbow was 15 silver pieces - there was at least twice that amount here. Adam didn't care. He sulked his way into the shop and carelessly tossed the pouch onto the counter. A crime was commited. I was not responsible. Adam felt terrible. He may not ever see Adre again, and he might be in heaps of trouble. His head swam with worries and anxiousness, and he quickly locked the shop and started home, leaving the furnace burning.

2

Adre walked back to his horse with a heavy heart. He wished he could have avoided that errand, but he needed this weapon.

He could feel new strength flowing through him, and he assumed this was a result of consuming his heart. He shuddered at the thought. Such bloodthirst had consumed him, a need to eat. Not just anything - flesh. The taste and texture was still fresh in his mouth, and he was revolted. He spat.

He reached his horse, mounted it, and kicked the sides. The horse started forward. He kicked again and the horse broke out in a run. The neighbors would check on his house in the morning and find his and their daughters, slain. Witnesses would place him there. He had to put distance between himself and Ophem. He didn't want the guard catching up - not for his sake, for theirs. He didn't want to kill anyone, but he was resolute in his mission. No one would stop him.

3

Daemon-Eye Slayer watched Adre's progress from afar. Hades' ploy had worked without a hiccup, as to be expected from the king of the underworld, with nothing but time and animosity on his hands. Demon-Eye thought that hatred had driven Hades mad, but that wasn't his problem. The king had a knack for scheming, and calculated the man and motive that would suit their needs perfectly. Now the potential Slayer was in motion, moving generally eastward without much direction. The grand-chieftain planned to give him some. He'd given some two-bit chieftain information - just the right concoction of lies and half-truths to point the mark in the right direction, and give him some more motivation. Now he was putting him in the mark's path along with a small unit, guaranteeing a bloodbath. The hunger would do the rest.

Now the only wildcard was the estranged Slayer, Sharptooth. Demon-Eye couldn't use his clairvoyance to see him - how that was possible, he didn't know, but Sharptooth had effectively masked himself from Demon-Eye's sight. He could complicate things. Sharptooth would eventually contact the mark, but even then the Slayers couldn't reveal themselves around him. They could only hope Sharptooth couldn't make the mark stray. He had a way with words, that one, a way of provoking that was hard to ignore. He'd once been a loyal Slayer, but sought to regain his humanity - not unlike Demon-Eye himself. But Demon-Eye didn't have the strength to force himself from Hades' grasp as Sharptooth did. He was biding his time.

He continued his remote vigil on the mark, his body motionless in a red silk-lined chair in the grand-chieftain's hall, his eyes black and gleaming.

4

Chieftain Abrand was feeling proud. He'd been called to the grand-chieftain's chamber before departing for Tyfor and given specific orders, as well as let it in some clan secrets. He never saw the grand-chieftain, only heard his voice boom in a darkly lit hall. He'd knelt before an empty oaken throne to recieve his orders. Now he was camped in the town square in Tyfor, having routed the defenders earlier that day.

He'd been told to watch for a lone rider carrying a greatsword. Told to kill him on sight, and to utilize all his men to do it. Apparently this man was some sort of close combat expert. The description sounded familiar. He'd heard fevered reports of a man earlier in the day that had killed a great many of his soldiers, and he had used an iron greatsword. He didn't know what came of the alliance soldier, but this couldn't be the same man. One anonymous soldier didn't warrant Heath Abrand's strength and talent, the way he saw it.

He let the issue slip from thought as he devoured a greasy, roasted mutton chop in the equally greasy light of the lamp. These alliance cowards were far too comfortable here in there walled city to be a real threat. The clan had taken them utterly off-guard, and swept the defenders aside as a broom sweeps dust. Doubtless they were calling for aid from neighboring cities - a fruitless act. It would take days for reinforcements to arrive, days that Abrand had no intention of giving them. By daylight tomorrow, Abrand's force was assaulting that steep and narrow pass leading up the cliff, and these soft saps wouldn't resist for long. The mere appearance of the clan's footsoldiers - adorned in blood-stained bones and matted fur, faces lined with crimson war paint - was enough for many of the alliance dogs to turn tail earlier that day. Abrand was supremely satisfied with his current position, and the forshadowing of the lone soldier and the death that followed him was lost on the chieftain.