Monster In Our Midst

Twenty years have passed since Ptunem. In those years Sascha found what he’d been in search for, a purpose to his life. It came in the form of his beloved, Maritha. With her he settled down, built a life of substance as a farmer, even had a daughter they named Felicia. Alas, bliss did not last for his wife and daughter were taken from him, his village burned to ashen ruins.  That was what he found upon his return from selling crops at the city market.

No justice was ever dispensed, for no culprits were ever unearthed. So, as a result Sascha fell into a deep despair. What little remained to him, what had been in his care during those days of travelling to and from the city market of Hrem, he used to pay for drink until his coin was gone but his pain was not.

After that he took to bartering the majority of his few remaining possessions away including his horses and cart.

Surprisingly, coin and possessions do not get a man nearly as far as you might believe down the road of self-destruction.

Without payment to offer Sascha returned to the roads of Qwervee. Unlike the first time he was not looking for anything, except death.

Where he could he earned, only to quickly fritter it away on his prevailing desire to descend into alcohol fuelled oblivion. His hope was that it would take his life. That he would not, following such a debasement, resurrect, as was his tendency. It did not work and as the years passed he became a bitter man, filled with resentment and devoid of any will to be among civilization. The roads became his home, all he felt he deserved.

It was during this period that Sascha found himself, quite accidentally, back in Ptunem. He recognised it immediately. How could he not?

Alas, the village was not the same. The buildings were but…

It seemed deserted and the further he pushed into it the eerier the feeling the place felt to him. It was as if something tragic had transpired here. In spite of these feeling he called out, “Hello?”

“Is anyone there?” He followed up after a short pause.

“I’m not here to harm, I am a friend of Ptunem. My name is Sascha Numerov.”

The name is one the villagers should recall, after all the period that has passed is not so great for his name to have had chance to be forgotten surely. Yet there is no reply to his loud proclamations and statements.

With his brow furrowed he pushed deeper all the same still calling out, inviting any that may remain to dispense of the fear they potentially feel and greet him. None do.

At the far end of the village Sascha learns as to why that is.

Everywhere he looks the ground, which had once borne crops, is chock full of gravestones, poorly made and planted into the ground. Many are off-kilter, sunken, crooked, neglected.

The traveller hangs his head. If he had any light left in him it would’ve died there and then, he thinks. But he did not. It was nothing but compounding proof that the world feeds on nothing except suffering.

If that were not true then his wife and daughter would be alive today, or at the very least their murderers would’ve faced justice.

Is death by your hand justice?

Sascha is not inclined to dignify the voice in his head, the one that nags and gnaws at him, with an answer. It’s been a long while since he learned to ignore it. Though, it would be easier if he had something strong to drink, alas he does not.

“What travesty occurred here?” The undying traveller with nothing left to live for asks of no one. He expects no answer and gets none either.

Filled with sorrow his hands come to rest upon one of the graves marked with a name. He does not recognise it but the age of they who occupy the mound below stirs remorse filled anger. Before long his fingers curl upon the wooden surface of the headstone until his nails are digging.

The nomad wonders who it might’ve been that made these headstones. Weak hope sees him call out again. Maybe he’ll get a reply. He does not. His shoulders sink. More defeated than ever he begins to turn so he might leave his place, when he catches sight of something in the corner of his eye.

“It cannot be.” He mutters to himself while gliding over to the grave marked with cuts that form a picture, primitive, perhaps done by the hands of a child. The image depicts a blade; he recognises it instantly as the one he gifted to the boy forced to steal. The name on the grave is not one he knew when last he passed through but the age, he thinks, could be accurate. Anger boils from deep within. It’s a spark which blooms into a raging storm.

Casting his gaze around Sascha sees several more graves marked with the same symbol. He ventures to each of them in turn.

Those that bare names possess ones he does not know, the rest are unmarked.

By looks of things the unmarked ones are more recent. Whoever made these headstone, that took the time to lay these unfortunate souls to rest, evidently did not have the time they so desired to finish what they began. It would explain why some of the other headstones look unfinished.

But who was it that buried these people? Could it have been the boy? If it was then why is an image depicting the blade he gave as a gift carved onto some of the graves? And who is responsible for all these deaths? He rid this place of bandits. Did more come? He’s been gone a long time, it is possible.

There are no answers which is why the only sound is that from a faint breeze. It rustles the leaves but offers nothing else.

Clearing the last of the blade imaged headstones for reasons he could not give Sascha discovers a name. It is written in a language he does not speak but from his limited understanding it is a moniker. That storm of anger still present does not cloud his conclusion that perhaps the bandits did not all die that day, that some returned and dispensed vengeance. If that is true, what transpired here, then…

Without another thought Sascha does an about, gets his bearing swiftly and then marches off through the jungle wood heading to where that clearing he once wiped clean of bandits had once been.

Disgust weighs heavy on his chest when he sets eyes on that clearing, inhabited and bustling. He tastes vitriol on his tongue, enough to make him want to spit.

Instinctively he reaches for his repeater but it isn’t there. It was lost the day his village burned. If it hadn’t been he never would’ve sold it, no matter how much hooch he wanted to drink or the amount it might’ve got him.

Exhaling to let his anger swirl and fill his every being, Sascha clenches tight his angry shaking hands until his palms are white and the curled tips of his fingers are a deep crimson. It is though they are ready to burst, spray blood in arcs far and wide.

Is this a good idea? You might not resurrect again. It’s been a long time since you…

Snarling, ignoring the voice in his head trying to reason rather than antagonise him for once, Sascha saunters out of the undergrowth toward the nearest gaggle of bandits. Unlike those decades ago these specimens are dressed in armour, polished and sublime. It looks stolen judging by the crest, an image of the blade gifted to that boy made to steal by their ilk, is ragged and cockeyed. Not the sort of quality that would come from even a semi-competent mediocre fabricator or smith.

“Who are you?” A bandit exclaims having spotted the approaching man with short cropped blonde hair, dark brown eyes, tanned skin dressed in simple clothes that have long since turned to ruined rags.

The bandit thinks the sight of the man firmly places him as a beggar, a desperate, weak soul. The answer provided could not be further from that for the bandit is provided a swift execution, a snapping of his neck.

In response to this act of violence the others nearby bandits open fire. Sascha bests them all, claiming their weapons to aid his purposes, as primitive and borderline useless as they are.

Blood drips from his wounds. He feels no pain, no lethargy. Another bandit screams they’re under attack. A bell rings soon after. By that time the man with nothing but life assaulting the camp has killed several more of those who disgust him for their lives they have chosen, ones that bring nothing but pain.

This would be much easier if he had his repeater, but people like this are who took it from him; like they took his village, his home, his wife Maritha and daughter Felicia.

Roaring with venomous rage, Sascha unleashes a single punch on an attacking bandit. The strike caves in the man’s chest and sends his limp body hurling backward into an advancing group who are flattened, giving Sascha the opportunity to collapse upon them.

One dies to a shattering of their spine delivered by a stomp, another to their nose being forced into their brain. Several more are gunned down with their own class of makeshift weapons. Only after all that does Sascha finally fall.

The surviving bandits explode with cheers of victory, until a blinding light draws their attention. From that ball of light rises Sascha, alive and unharmed and ready to kill. His face still twisted with incandescent bloodlust is the last sight the closest of the bandits see.

Those beyond his immediate reach don’t fare much better as the man with nothing but life unleashes the confiscated weapons back upon them with ruthless efficiency, all while advancing toward the far side of the clearing where a large poorly erected wooden structure resides.

A bell tolls for a second time. Sascha doesn’t think it’s the same bell. More bandits appear either regardless. Unlike previously this time they encircle Sascha, he can feel it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt this is the final stand. They are itching to kill him but it will be he who prevails over them. His gifts remain and he will use them to their fullest.

However, the bandits do not attack the stranger in their midst. Rather, they hold position, even when a heavy chugging fills the air.

Sascha recognises it immediately and then is cut down by the bullets from his heavy repeater. He falls, dies. The bandits cackle and laugh. They soon stop laughing and take a step back when a ball of light gives birth to a resurrected Sascha, who is seething.

“Thieves!” He bellows.

“How did you get your hands on my repeater?” Comes the demand dripping with contempt.

“I gave it to them.” Someone says.

Sascha looks around unable to discern who it was that spoke, other than to say the voice was male.

“Then show yourself, coward, for I have questions.” The traveller who has lost everything that mattered to him spits through gritted and bared teeth.

A snap of fingers draws Sascha’s attention up to a balcony, rickety and uneven, that is occupied by a man. Sascha’s brow furrows as recognition flashes. He swears it cannot be. There is no way that it could be. It has to be coincidence. Anyone could have similar scars and short stubbly hair. It can’t be. All of a sudden the blade appears in the man’s hand.

“Remember this?”Is the taunting question uttered.

As the words are spoken, and after, the blade given as a gift is made to slice this way and that through the empty air as if it is part of some long forgotten dance to some equally long forgotten deity.

“Why?” Is all that is offered in the moments after.

“Oh come on Sascha, the saviour of Ptunem, don’t tell me you’re stumped.” The expression of joy carved across the man’s face is sickening. He’s enjoying this, the violence, the pain.

“I saved you.”

“Yes, you did. And then you abandoned me; walked off never to be seen again.” There is a snort of derision from the man. He goes by the name Weaver now. Something he chose for himself. He thought it fitting for he could weave a web incapable of being subverted by those of weak disposition, which turned out to be most. “Left me to the people of Ptunem to be feared, ostracised, loathed.”

The words being spoken make little sense for the villagers were good people, anyone could see that and so Sascha questions, “Why would they do that?

A cruel evil smile replaces the joy that had previously been ripped across Weaver’s face. A shrug of indifference soon follows with an accompanying, “Probably because they discovered I was the one controlling those bandits.”

The matter of fact way in which Weaver announces such a revelation makes it sound as though it should’ve been evident, obvious. Anyone would think it was written across the sky informing the universe of such.

Top lip curling the man with nothing reminds, “They were good people.”

“They were weak. They’re all weak, Sascha. Except those like us and there are so few that fit that bill.”

“You were the one who made me see those clouds swarm.” Sascha realises having solved a puzzle that he had been stuck with for all those years. He feels like a fool. He is a fool.

Weaver in response to the utterance takes a bow, proud of his efforts and for them having finally been recognised as his own.

“That it was. I was attempting to subjugate you. But your mind was too strong. So, I used a different tactic.” Are the honest words which follow the bow.

“You lied.”

“And you never suspected a thing. I was sure you would. Seems you weren’t so mighty, like the people of Ptunem liked to extol, after all. But, now you have to die. Kill him!”

No sooner is the command issued then the bandits, all of them, attack en masse. Evidently the aim is to overwhelm.

Determined, for justice must be paid, Sascha ignores the odds stacked against him as he erupts into a frenzy of blistering punches, spins and counters prior to claiming and using the bandits own weapons against them. Until, that is, he reaches the one brandishing his repeater. In a blink he crushes that particular fools’ skull, reclaims his weapon and unleashes it mercilessly.

Four minutes is all it takes, with the bandits clustered so close, to dispense the remainder of them now that he has Axe, the machines guns bestowed name, back in his grasp.

Luckily the thief who had been in possession of it had plenty of extra ammunition for it too, poor quality but sufficient for the task at hand as it turned out.

“It’s over. Everyone is dead.”

The retort offered in reply is, “Not everyone Sascha, I’m alive and so are you.”

“And what are you going to do, fight me?” The man with nothing but life and his reclaimed repeater doubts that.

“Yes, but first let’s have some fun.”

Immediately, clouds descend and twist surrounding a wide section of the clearing as if creating an arena within which Sascha and Weaver are to fight. Except Weaver, having leaped from the rickety balcony, is nowhere to be seen.

“I see you’re still going to be the coward.”

“I’m not hiding, I’m right here!” With that Weaver, gifted blade in hand, darts past slashing at Sascha. The traveller winces at the sting of pain inflicted upon, turns but Weaver is already gone.

“This won’t save you, I can’t die.”

“Who says I’m trying to kill you.”

“You can’t break me either.” The dark eyed Sascha roars with defiance.

Another flash of motion as well as a slash come alongside, “Wanna bet?”

Again the wanderer who has lost so much winces, spins about but finds only empty air there to greet him.

Grumbling to himself, his eyes probe at the arena cloud walls. They look impenetrable. For him they undoubtedly will be but for… he realises he has never known the name of the boy he saved, the one who is now a man revealed to be the true monster. He doesn’t know how to feel about not knowing a name.

“You’re starting to question yourself, your actions. I can see it on your face.” Is the taunt issued.

Weaver is dignified with no response. There would be no purpose beyond playing into his hands, partaking in his sick little game.

“I’m right here.” Is the declaration accompanied with another cut to Sascha’s flank, who on this occasion grunts, feeling the speed at which he can turn slower than it was previously and than it should be.

He could check to see what damage has been wrought but isn’t inclined to.

And alas, his adversary remains nowhere to be seen.

“The great protector of Ptunem lost and confused. Ha ha haaaa. It’s joyous to behold. But I never thought you’d come back here looking for me. That is why you came, isn’t it? You finally fathomed it out.”

“What?”

“You didn’t, you haven’t. You don’t know. This is chance; pure and accidental. Haha!”

In a flash Weaver appears, unleashes a quick succession of slashes and then… Sascha is quicker than should be possible and is on Weaver. The bandit chief cannot escape, withdraw. He has to fight and counter the older, physically stronger man well versed in the ways of combat.

By comparison Weaver learned only what benefitted him. As a result he has a certain style of fighting, clearly undisciplined and self-taught. Those are weaknesses, he isn’t aware of such but Sascha is and exploits them, forcing his opponent back without giving him chance to vanish.

Several parries and counters result in gifted blade locking with Axe, the men face-to-face. It is the first time in twenty years they have seen one another up this close.

Unnervingly Weaver smiles and cocks his head to one side, “I took everything from you, you know that?”

A hard stare burrows deep into Weaver, he doesn’t care. It doesn’t affect him. Sascha is all brute strength, no finesse. It’s lucky he can resurrect. However, it means he is a predictable foe as a result. Before long Weaver will control him like he has controlled everyone else he has ever come across and seen merit in doing so.

“I killed them; your wife, your daughter. I burned your village. Butchered your neighbours; left you as the only survivor.”

A cackle, mad and vicious, escapes from between Weaver’s thin, tight lips.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” The bright shining in Weaver’s eyes reminds Sascha of that day twenty years ago.

The man robbed of his future’s rage boils, a roar escapes his lips. With little effort he forces Weaver back, breaking the lock, the stalemate, they had been in. Weaver’s eyes go wide in disbelief. Sascha grabs a hold of his collar, hauls him off his feet and into the air.

“You can’t win. Here, I am a God!” Is the declaration given seconds prior to the cloud walls unleashing volleys of lightning.

The bolts arcs and strike the man who possesses naught but life. The pain forces him to release screams, but does not break his grip on Weaver. That is until the volleys are too much to withstand and Sascha crumples to his knees.

Back on his feet dusting himself off, Weaver chatters with laughter at the top of his lungs. Then he begins to dance around feeling victorious.

That is until a ball of light appears.

“No. No. NO!” Is all he manages as from that ball of blinding light Weaver refused to avert his gaze from Sascha is resurrected.

A nano second after the blinding light Sascha grabs Weaver by the throat.

“Is this how you saw your victory?”

“This isn’t over Sascha, I’m going to…”

With a single upward flick of his thumb Sascha snaps Weaver’s neck. Disgusted he releases the body from his grasp which crashes to the floor in a limp pile. Right after the wanderer feels a sting of pain. Axe slung across his back he groans, looks down and finds the gifted blade plunged to the guard between his ribs. He smiles mildly humoured by the effort, grabs hold of the grip and pulls the blade free before cleaning it, spinning it in his hand and then finally stowing it.

“You betrayed the gift. I told you only to use it to protect, and for breaking that contract you paid the ultimate price. The debt is fulfilled.”

With those words spoken, Sascha turns and walks away.

Justice for the people of Ptunem, for those of his village Uli, for his wife Maritha and his daughter Felicia has been secured. As well as for any other lives ruined by the boy who was a monster in our midst, the one who pretended to be exploited.