She stood erect, in a long green dress, her auburn hair falling limply over her shoulders. Sharp, elongated features, cold eyes, and dead tears rolling lazily down her cheeks. She was no longer a little girl, and she had found the one she had spent so many summers searching for. She had found it, and she would have her revenge. She went to the bed and took out her bow and three arrows, tipped with a distinctive red feather. Quickening her pace, she slung it over her shoulder. She pushed open the door leading to the attic, and from there to the roof. She didn't slow down even when her arrows almost fell out. The autumn air refreshed her and dried her tears. Her face was frozen in concentration; she no longer thought about who the man she would kill was. She knelt by the high marble railing of the terrace. She laid out her arrows and strung her bow. She glanced at the town hall door; the first rays of the rising sun had long since slipped past the brass door, and the man hadn't emerged. A shadow of anxiety crept into her mind, but her hands still held the bow and the first arrow steady, ready to fire. Finally, the door opened, and her prey stood there. She recognized him sooner than she expected; after all, only four years had passed. She expected doubt, but when he emerged, she knew it was him. She expected hesitation. It didn't come. She released the first arrow, silently burying it in the man's throat. She reached for another, hitting him squarely in the skull, a third; right through the heart. He died before his legs gave out.
First.
She rose quickly, but not frantically. Silently, she slipped back to her room, packed her bow into her suitcase, and stepped out into the city, into the commotion. She stood in the crowd of onlookers, then retreated, searching for a carriage. She heard someone weeping, swearing to kill a murderer. She cried likewise, and kept her oath, made in a similar way. She saw a carriage, tightened her grip on her suitcase, barely able to keep her gaze from turning to the cry of despair reaching her.
"For you, Mother."
She headed toward the parked carriages. Suddenly, someone bumped into her, knocking her over.
"I'm so sorry," he muttered and ran on, not caring if the girl got up. She stood and began cursing to hide her confusion. She saw the madness in the young man's eyes.
"Please forgive him. He's just lost his father..." She heard the coachman's voice behind her.
"Who?" she asked, unsure of what she'd heard.
"Bedura was his father. The boy couldn't see beyond him," the coachman continued, taking her suitcase and leading her to the carriage.
"Bedura? "
The man nodded.
"He was the one shot with an arrow." – The man chuckled, opening the door gallantly.
The girl stood stunned. She hadn't thought this rat had any family. She hadn't known he would drive someone to the same madness this man had brought upon her.
"Where are you going?" he asked, closing the carriage door. Stunned, she sat down, startled out of her reverie.
"What?" she asked, completely disconcerted. "Run." It was the only sensible thought now racing through her mind. As far away from this young man as possible, as far away as possible…
"Where should I take you?" the coachman repeated calmly.
"To Ternapolis," she whispered.
She was riding alone, a relief. Behind her, completely lost in her thoughts, she heard a man's voice.
"Oh, these delicate young ladies, they wouldn't hurt a fly!"
The carriage moved, just as her tears did. She had dreamed of this day, always planning it before falling asleep, and now… She wondered what her life would be like if she hadn't met Heksa. He was the one who taught her swordsmanship and gave her dreams a reality. However, she had never told him what her dream was, so Heksa didn't even suspect she was raising a monster. Now she was filled with guilt; she had failed both Heksa and herself. There was no turning back; she had killed a man, the first time, and she knew that when hunger overwhelmed her, she would do it again. She was a mercenary, she had few choices. She waited for her tears to fall, marveling at herself for mourning a murderer and rapist.
It had taken him two years to find the killer. He had found her and hired her, now he was waiting, revenge was so close…
The bar was getting stuffy, sweat dripping from beneath her blonde wig. She felt sick at the thought of killing another man. With all her willpower, she forced herself to pretend to be drunk; she needed the money. She knew she was no better than a street urchin—they sold bodies, she sold souls. She looked at her target, the man at the other end of the tavern. He raised his glass, reminding her that he had bought her a glass of the local specialty. She pretended to drink it and smiled blissfully, though she was still far from that state. Finally, he approached her.
"Did you send the wine?" she asked quietly, batting her eyelashes.
"Yes, sweetie." His voice wasn't drunk, perhaps a little intoxicated, but not drunk. She felt a little worried, but quickly covered it with a smile. She felt sorry for his beautiful body, his gorgeous eyes, and his velvety voice. He had the body of an athlete and the grace of a butterfly. She looked at him with regret.
"How can I repay you?"
"Don't you worry about anything, kitty." He tugged lightly on her arm and led her upstairs to his room. Along the way, she tried to appear as drunk as possible. He believed her; she had at least half relaxed her tense muscles; he couldn't see it. He closed the door behind them and threw her onto the bed with a force she hadn't expected from him. He followed just as quickly, pinning her down with his body. At the last moment, she managed to twist to the side and slip away. He turned and smiled.
"Changed your mind, kitty?
" "I never change my mind," she hissed, simultaneously throwing herself at him and blocking him with her knee. Before he could react, she drew her dagger and plunged it into his chest, pulling until his ribs cracked under the pressure. The man groaned and died; she hadn't given him the slightest chance. She stood up, panting.
"One last time." She threw it at the murdered man and climbed out the window. Realizing she'd been lying in the same way for two years,
she found her clothes two streets away and changed. She knew she should throw off the trail of those pursuing her. She moved aside the beams that hid the street girl lying beneath them. She had died of a disease related to her profession the previous night. The girl had found her behind the grave before the local dogs had, and hid her. Initially, she intended to leave her in that grave, but now she changed her mind. The harlot was blonde, the same one who supposedly slept with her victim that night. She dressed her in clothes everyone had seen in the tavern, and she put a knife in her hand. She knew what the investigation would bring. The street girl had killed a man, fled, and then died. She smiled sadly and ran out of the alley. She left the city as silently as death, and like the death of the previous night, she left one less life in the city.
By the time she reached the stream, she was already half-conscious from the need to wash herself. She didn't even care how she'd put her things down. She simply jumped into the water and began scrubbing her skin until it was red. Perhaps she thought she'd wash away the blood? Or perhaps the smell of the streets didn't delight her? Once she'd washed away everything but her remorse, she let the cold, rushing stream refresh her and atone for the night's sins. Suddenly, she spotted movement among the bushes along the bank. She jumped out of the water and, with lightning speed, drew her bow. She waited. Nothing moved; she lowered it, certain it was only the wind. Then the bushes rustled again. She released an arrow in that direction. She heard a groan and a heavy fall. "I've killed someone again," she thought, drawing her dagger from her horse's saddle. She didn't consider that if her opponent was still alive, she wouldn't defend herself with a dagger, and her naked form would only encourage him.
The young man sat by a tree, his hand clutching the wound. An arrow protruded from his leg, the distinctive red feathers waving gently as the wounded man tried to move his leg. She smiled at the good work.
"What?" she growled, standing just above him. It was nearing dawn, and she could see perfectly. She felt as if she'd met this young man before.
"I just wanted to watch," he apologized. He didn't take his eyes off her naked figure. She'd been so absorbed in the fight that she hadn't realized when she'd become a beautiful, fully formed woman. The boy's gaze devoured her, reminding her of someone from her past. She knelt, knowing she was feeling faint. She plunged the dagger in beside her. She knew she could draw it if necessary. With one deft pull, she pulled out the arrow. He didn't cry out.
"Clamp here," she ordered, and he quickly complied, looking at her breasts. She left, not letting him say anything. A moment later, she returned with water and bandages, dressed in mercenary garb.
"Mercenary?"
She nodded. And she began dressing him. She didn't know why she was helping him; he reminded her of something, but she still couldn't remember what.
"What's your name?" he asked again. She had just finished bandaging him and stood up. "I'm Ian Bedura."
The girl froze. She looked at his eyes, his figure, the blood on his hands. The boy had found her; perhaps he didn't know yet, or perhaps he already did.
"Who are you?" she asked to confirm her suspicions.
"Ian Bzdura, I'm looking for people like you."
After these words, she regained consciousness, her voice becoming strong and dull again.
"That's not what I'm asking. Friend or foe?" Changing the question so the boy wouldn't suspect anything but distrust.
Now it was his turn to be surprised.
"Do you have friends?" She
remained silent, confused by the clear statement of the situation. He and she knew she didn't.
"If you do, I'd gladly count myself among them."
He smiled charmingly. The girl turned.
"I don't." With those words, she left. He heard her galloping away on her horse. He struggled to his feet and climbed onto his mount. He had one more important matter to attend to today, and this mercenary had almost ruined his plans. He froze, watching a small red feather melt in the pool of his blood. He jumped up and pulled it out. From behind his leather jacket, he pulled out a pendant with three identical feathers, a gift from long ago.
She clung to a branch. The clearing where she was supposed to collect the money was surrounded. Ever since she'd met Ian Bedure at the crack of dawn, she'd been morbidly suspicious, but now it helped. She would have fallen into an ambush like a mouse into a trap. In the center of the clearing stood three men. That was how many she'd agreed on, how many more she could defeat. But she wouldn't have defeated twenty, because that was how many she'd counted from her vantage point. A good enough one. There was a slim chance she hadn't seen anyone hiding. The tallest man held a purse and had his back to her. She couldn't see him, but she was tempted to see the one who'd ordered her to commit this murder. She hated him for giving her a chance to earn a penny. The man turned; at first, she didn't recognize him. She took a closer look and almost screamed: It was Ian Bedure. The boy she feared most in the world. She'd seen his madness the day her father died, she knew what such madness could lead to. She was the best proof of that. She also knew that escape wouldn't save her. He would hunt her until the end of her days. He would kill her when, it didn't matter to him. She bit her lip; he might be mad, but he was a man who wanted to trick her. She couldn't let him get away with that. Besides, he had a hundred of HER thalers. That and hunger were enough reasons for her to quietly slip down the tree. She walked along the winding path to the first two, who stood at the mouth of the clearing, tasked with cutting off her escape. She had to admit, twenty men pleased her mercenary nature. She pulled a dagger from her boot. She descended upon them silently, making no noise, silently releasing their souls. Whispering, "Flow, sins to heaven. Flow, so that I may clear the way."
"Eighteen."
She walked through the bushes and crouched. A dozen or so cubits away sat the mercenary, toying with his sword. She drew her bow and aimed. The arrow pierced his helmet, burying itself in his skull.
"Seventeen."
Suddenly, two men appeared right in front of her. If she hadn't noticed them first, she would have been lying with her throat ripped out.
"Fifteen."
She lay down and crawled over to the others. She froze when she noticed movement. One of the three card players had moved away from them. He was walking straight toward her, his hand fiddling with his zipper, and since he was going through a momentary crisis, the man gave him his full attention. He didn't notice the mercenary lying at his feet. She jumped quickly. Out of nowhere. She plunged the dagger in accurately and deeply. The soldier cringed, covered his mouth to keep him from screaming, and struck the back of his head, feeling something crunch beneath her fingers. His skull cracked. She couldn't believe she'd put so much strength into it.
"Fourteen."
As she ran, she threw out two daggers, they cut sharply through the air, hitting their target.
"Twelve."
She was running out of time. She quietly approached the bushes, Ian standing with his back to her. Suddenly, a mercenary emerged from behind her. He wanted to capitalize on his surprise, but he was mistaken; the surprise capitalized on his. The girl deftly avoided her target, her balance distracting the warrior enough to make him lose his balance. With an unnatural effort, she forced herself to quickly change position and pin her opponent face down. With a deft move, she slit his throat.
"Eleven."
She took a deep breath and continued on, but unfortunately, she stumbled and fell. Disoriented, she raised her head. Two mounds groaned.
"Learn to walk, you damned pigs..." The first mound groaned, that was all he managed to say before the girl plunged his dagger into what she thought was a chest. She was right
. Ten.
"Kat, what's going on there?" the second mound asked, rising from beneath the cloak of plants. The mercenary's hideous face emerged. He stared into the redheaded girl's large green eyes. For a moment, he thought she was a nymph.
"Boo!" the girl whispered, and she plunged the knife straight into his heart. He fell, taking her last dagger.
"Nine."
Now she was left with a sword and a few arrows. She rose, vowing to watch her step better. She hadn't gone far when she saw three archers with their crossbows drawn. She saw the precision of their weapons and froze. She knew that if it weren't for her obsession, she would be lying in the middle of the clearing, arrows in her chest. She reached for her quiver; there were five arrows. She knew she could release two at once, hitting their targets. She intended to catch the third while running, before they fell. It was a very risky idea, but there was no turning back. She aimed and released her sisters. They hit both targets precisely, red feathers rustling in the faint breeze. Before the bowstring stopped ringing, she began to run. When the third one drew his sword, seeing his companions slumping, she threw her own and hit.
"Six."
Lightning fast, she drew her sword and continued on. She ran into the next one as she skirted several large trees. He turned faster than she thought, surprising her, but not enough to prevent her from throwing his sword in her desperate movement. It sank softly and almost silently.
"Five?"
She was surprised and pleased; she clearly had more luck than sense. This alarmed her, and she redoubled her vigilance. The sword was no longer the color of beautiful steel; it was red. She crouched and peered into the clearing. Ian was now standing sideways, speaking to one of the mercenaries. She turned her head and saw three mercenaries to her right, lined up like targets. She had three arrows in her quiver; she knew that if she didn't take them all out at once, she might be dead. Seven was still too many for her. She pulled out her last three arrows, nocked them to the string, and looked at the target. She removed the right fletching from one arrow. She aimed and fired, mentally repeating, "It'll work,It will work!”
"Two."
She couldn't believe her eyes, but she didn't question her luck. She continued walking. She found one halfway to the mouth of the clearing, cleaning his sword, humming a mercenary song. She approached from behind, silent as death, and like death, it struck a treacherous blow.
"One."
She walked slowly, testing the ground beneath her feet, and had almost reached the mouth when she saw him. He was sitting on a tree trunk, his sword jabbed into the ground. His face was covered by a green cloak that fell to his feet, blending him into the background. She knew only one person who wore such a cloak. She was gone, gone, and would never return. She quickened her pace, her hand tightly gripping the hilt of her sword. The man slowly turned his head. His black hair flowed, and his hood fell from his head, revealing a beautiful, noble face. He smiled slightly. She stopped and stared into his eyes. Time suddenly stood still.
"Hexa."
The last one she expected to see here. The last one who would want her dead. The only one capable of tracking her down. The only one who knew her.
"Kill."
"Welcome." He spoke softly. She stood and looked at him, tears streaming down her face, it had been so long since she'd heard his voice.
"Welcome, master.
" "I'm no longer your master. Death is, I'm ashamed of you, even though they say you're the best."
She lowered her head; he scolded her, just as she'd imagined for two years.
"I fulfilled my dream," she whispered.
"And do you feel better?" Some dreams shouldn't be fulfilled, for they turn into nightmares.
He was right, damn how right he was, how wrong she was.
"Am I alone?" he asked again, looking at the clearing. She nodded. "I knew it. You're too good." She bit her
lip.
"Master, I'm sorry." Tears dripped onto her clothes, the sword fell from her hand. The man looked at her.
"For what?" he asked quietly, as if it were money lost.
"For what I did.
" "Pick up your sword." He demanded just as quietly, as if he didn't want to.
"I didn't want to!" She screamed, a cry of despair ripping from her throat and echoing across the clearing. He ran to her and wrapped his arms around her, tightly, to muffle her sobs and desperate howls. He was terrified; this shouldn't end the way Bedura wanted, not now that he knew she wasn't a cold-blooded murderer.
"Hush, everything's alright now, hush." It
wasn't alright, and he knew it perfectly well, the girl, lost in a world where murder was a profession, not a crime. He was to blame; he'd pushed her into this world himself. She wasn't ready for it yet; she might look like a woman, but deep down she was still a child. After a moment, she stopped crying. No one came running, which surprised her. She thought she was stupid and had embarrassed herself in front of her teacher.
"I'm sorry, I have to finish something," she whispered into his arms. He knew he had to; she never left tasks unfinished. He didn't stop her. He shouldn't have; he decided to wait his turn.
"I started this, and I have to finish it. Goodbye." She kissed his cheek and slipped out of his arms, taking her sword. She didn't want to do it, but she had to, otherwise she would never have been free from the fear she felt before this mad young man. She didn't look back.
"The one who survived."
She mounted her horse and rode into the clearing. She sat up straight. Her face was frozen in an icy mask again. She saw only one target, the overconfident Ian Bedura.
"Were you in no hurry? And I waited for you... Two whole years!" He hissed and raised his hand. His guards drew their swords, not a single cry escaped the bushes.
"I'm sorry..." She lowered her gaze.
"What?" Ian still didn't understand. One of his men went toward the bushes, returned a moment later, his face chalk white.
"They're dead. All of them. She killed them.
" "How much did they pay you for him? A hundred thalers too, was that all he was worth to you, a hundred thalers?" He shouted at her, unnerved, and her icy calm only infuriated him more. He gave the impression of someone oblivious to his defeat; he had just lost twenty men, losing two more was only a matter of time, he knew that all too well. She didn't answer, she sat and looked at him with sad eyes that had just been brimming with tears.
"Answer!" He screamed, his voice laced with not only anger, but also fear and bitterness.
"Your father..." She began slowly, never having said it aloud, but now she knew she owed it to that boy. "He died because he killed my mother and raped me. He died for the revenge of a little girl. A spoiled child."
"You're lying! Kill her!"
His men rushed at her, and she didn't even defend herself as they pulled her from the saddle and threw her brutally to the ground. One kneed her to the ground, leaving her breathless, but she continued to look straight into the boy's eyes, searching for a glimmer of understanding, but in vain. There was only pain, madness, and revenge. Suddenly, arrows whistled.
One.
Two.
"Only Ian remains."
She threw the dead off her and looked in that direction.
"Hexa."
She shot him a scathing look; she wanted to die, but he wouldn't let her.
"It's not fair. Boy, she killed your father, but he killed her first. Do you want revenge? Face her like she did two years ago." He stood and looked at them with a revulsion he couldn't hide, and it hurt the girl. He was against revenge; it didn't lead to peace, only to madness.
"I hope you'll fight honestly. In this situation, suicide is cowardly."
She knew who he was talking to, drew her sword, and wiped her tears. She was crying too much.
"Fine. May I at least know your name? I don't know what to write on the tombstone," he hissed, drawing his sword and standing in front of her.
"You will die, you insolent one."
"Write; Created and killed by Bedura." She retorted and charged. He deflected it, wounding her in the shoulder; the escaping blood awakened the will to live within her. Her mind went blank, her movements and evasions instinctive, her dead gaze sliding over the eyes of the young man, increasingly blinded by revenge. She knew it wasn't an even fight. She felt fear every time he approached her with maddening obsession. She deflected him, but her mind was paralyzed; he yearned for death.
"No."
She spun dangerously close in a pirouette and knocked his sword out of his grasp. She didn't want this, he should have avoided it and slashed at her from below. She would have been dead by now.
"Suicide is out of place here!" She heard her master's scolding cry, bit her lip, and with all her willpower forced herself into action. The boy raised his sword and charged at her again. She didn't notice; he cut her cheek painfully, making her stagger and fall.
"No, you can't!"
The gushing blood roused her and woke her from her lethargy. The mysterious hand raised the sword. She tensed and dodged Ian's sword. She arched her back, dancing with the sword, nimbly sliding along Ian's outstretched blade. She slashed him in the calves, sharp and accurate.
"Good girl."
The boy staggered, but managed to turn to parry another blow. She jumped back, did a windmill in the air, and fell on the boy. He prepared to parry, but at the last moment she changed the blade's flight, shifting her weight onto her right leg. She cut softly and accurately. He leaned over and fell, trying to stop the bleeding with his hand. He looked at her with wide eyes, certain he wouldn't survive, and he knew he'd fought with admirable agility despite his wounded leg. She knew it too, and admired him.
"What's your name?" He gasped, feeling the life draining from him.
She leaned over him and whispered.
"Those who know me call me Death."
The boy raised his dagger, but his hand froze halfway.
"I won't let you kill her, not now."
He died. She slowly turned toward her master, standing by the tree, looking at her with sad eyes. She staggered and fell. He walked over to her and lifted her.
"I'm sorry," she moaned.
"Don't apologize, it's me who should. I regret every lesson, forgive me...
" "One who will live to the end, and whom I will thank forever."
She killed because she was a mercenary, she cried because she was a woman, she died because she had killed too many. Death claimed her, and she had no time to atone.
"Most faithful of my daughters, come to my garden, through the path you have cut. Take the black rose and weave it into your fiery hair. Rejoice, daughter, our triumph has come."
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