Blood Will

6

On the eve of the celebration, Hadjar decided to take a walk around the city. Just to unwind a bit and pull himself together. He couldn’t allow for any missteps to happen and spoil his plan.

In the late evening, as the atmosphere of an endless and incessant celebration of life filled the busy streets of the capital, Hadjar set off. Leaving some food out for Azrea, he took off his favorite old clothes and put on a tunic.

This instrument of torture that people called clothing by mistake had been delivered by Ralpie. The Generals had wanted to dress the General up for the celebration. In response to this, Hadjar had just waved his hand dismissively and the young man had left the outfit on the bed.

Having buttoned up, put on some boots, and a red cloak, Hadjar hid Moon Beam behind his back. After examining himself in the mirror, he skillfully applied face powder, mascara and other makeup. During the time he’d spent in the brothel, he had learned to change his appearance with the help of ‘women’s paints’, and he could do so with an almost professional touch.

Adjusting the sheath, the former General grimaced involuntarily. His wounds had already healed, but for some reason, he still believed that he shouldn’t draw the blade. It was a kind of otherworldly, inexplicable knowledge that he couldn’t justify. He just... felt it.

Wrapping his cloak around himself, Hadjar put on a wide-brimmed hat and went out the door. As always, it was noisy in the next room. Serra never really cared about whether her nightly moans and cries might cause inconvenience to anyone.

Downstairs, Hadjar blended in with the crowd of guests who were drinking, eating, and listening to the bards. They stopped for a moment, but when they saw that it wasn’t the General coming down the stairs, they resumed their merriment.

Convinced that his disguise was working, Hadjar left the tavern. Once he was outside, he breathed in the fresh night air and... Coughed immediately. It smelled like horse droppings, hard liquor, coffee, wet dust, tea, and sour wine. All the things he’d learned to go without in the Black Mountains.

Smiling at his own disgust, Hadjar continued on. He wandered aimlessly, barely paying attention to the road, occasionally stopping near a small pub or café to listen to people’s conversations or to look at young men dancing in the squares, throwing small coins into the bards’ hats. He would sometimes watch the lanterns and their light for a long time, especially when detachments of the city guards were passing by.

The soldiers scurried among the people almost as often as birds flew across the sky. So, despite the festive atmosphere, the air smelled of iron.

Turning away from the main streets, Hadjar headed toward the distant areas of the trade district. This was where the not so very rich people lived, or rather survived, trying not to end up behind the second ring of walls if they fail.

There was no celebration to be seen here. The heavy atmosphere of the night slightly pressed down on one’s shoulders. The few rare people wandering at such a late hour about their business were constantly looking around, afraid of the numerous robbers that plagued the city. The guards would often assist with the robbery. They’d stand nearby and chase their honest colleagues away.

After walking for a few blocks, Hadjar realized that he had come across neither guards nor passers-by. The streets were empty and quiet. The dim light of the cheap torches mounted on the walls of the houses revealed occasional squares with pedestals on them. Anywhere from one to five pillars could be found on these pedestals. Covered in a bloody crust, they sometimes emitted an iron ringing — the sound of the wind rocking the shackles and pads attached to them.

Hadjar remembered the almost forgotten scene from what felt like a past life. It had been one of the last days of his life as a brothel musician. He’d walked through the market and witnessed the guards beating a poor old man and his grandson to death…

“Stop! Please!”

At first, Hadjar didn’t realize that these pleas weren’t the ghosts of the past haunting him. Three guards were dragging a half-naked man by his hair across the pavement and toward the pillars. He was shouting something, trying to fight back, and tearing the skin off his hands as he helplessly struck the guards’ gauntlets.

Two more guards held a battered girl covered in bruises and abrasions by her hands. At first, it might’ve seemed like it was the man who had beaten her, but... judging by the thin trickles of blood running down the inside of her thighs, her torn nightgown, the demolished house behind them, and the guards’ absolutely inhuman eyes, it became abundantly clear why Hadjar hadn’t met any robbers in the city. The most dangerous criminals wore armor with the royal coat of arms.

The man was tied to a post and one of the guards unrolled a whip. Immediately, the shutters and windows of the neighboring house slammed shut and the street became even quieter.

The whip whistled, but the man’s cry never came. A strong hand had stopped the blow.

Hadjar stood in the distance and couldn’t understand why he hadn’t moved. Why hadn’t he helped the man? Or the woman, for that matter? He was also grateful to the Heavens for sending a savior.

n the platform, covered in the same dried blood as the posts, a tall girl stood. Her azure cloak fluttered in the wind. Her thick, bright golden hair could be seen peeking out from under the same type of wide-brimmed hat that Hadjar wore.

Her odd outfit, a mixture of military and civilian garb, and leather pants couldn’t hide her feminine and alluring shape. It was impossible to see her face, but the stranger’s figure alone could’ve driven any man crazy. But not Hadjar. After the time he’d spent with Nehen, he’d lost interest in most other women. Her body still awakened some animal instincts in him, but he was able to overcome them easily enough.

“What the hell are you-?”

The guard didn’t get to finish speaking before the girl’s fist punched into his helmet. Despite the lack of mass behind her strike, she easily crushed the iron plates covering the guard’s mouth. A fountain of blood shot out, an unpleasant crunch was heard, splinters of yellow teeth fell to the floor, and the guard was launched four yards away. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he collapsed against the wall separating one city block from another. The two guards who were still holding the unfortunate girl stood in a daze. They watched as their companion got beaten to a pulp.