In one of many worlds in the cosmos, a place of magic and conflict, the irresponsible creation of a God destroyed by arrogance, a world of beauty and blight, a sun rose upon a shining forest of birches. Golden rays skirted the horizon, setting the beautiful leafy canopy of blazing red, yellow, and green alight with reflecting beads of fresh dew. Clouds parted, and birds flew to meet the glorious blue of the sky as the chilly mists exuded by wet soil under bone-white tree trunks rose slowly up to vanish into morning warmth. The forest was known by humans of the realm as the Shurai. A place of utter beauty. A place of peace.
Under the ground upon which the trees of this wonderful place took root, there was blight. Dark tunnels of blackness, unreachable by the sun. One man crawled through these cramped caves, smelling the oily stink of fear. He was simply garbed in deepest black, nearly every inch of his body sheathed in cloth or leather. On his back was a burnished sword, and he held out in one gloved hand a knife. He saw through the inky blackness only due to the jagged shard of nerid crystal in his hand, which glowed a warm blue. The place was damp, and the snaking coils of birch roots penetrated the low ceilings, scraping his head. Helt Nomarin slashed them with his gleaming hunting knife, originally forged for killing and skinning deer. Helt had killed no deer. Only men. He had lost count ages ago. He had killed perhaps a hundred, and very few knew his name. He had killed all kinds of people: men, women, children, even a few demi-demons. A cold murderer. A man of many uses to those with nefarious intent. He always took money for what he did. Some would call him a mercenary, but he did not consider himself one. The claustrophobic caves he crawled through were not natural, having being formed by a particularly venomous species of giant spider known as the veerat. Helt found it a peculiar job he had been assigned, but he was one of few willing to do it. And he would not turn down the plentiful reward offered, the job having been given to him by the Lord of the heavily populated city of Oerdiv. Down the tunnel, a rustling was heard by the man beneath his leather mask. He sheathed his knife, and hung the string to which the glowing stone in his hand was attached around his neck. He then drew his sword and proceeded. A fat veerat sprang at him from the shadows, claws and massive jaws clicking and spraying clear venom. Helt swung his polished blade and cut the giant spider through its repulsive thorax. The creature sqealed in an unearthly fashion and died with a violent spasming of its legs. Helt walked on, wiping the yellow fluids from his blade. Fear coursed through him with each beat of his heart, but he hid it deep within. Many minutes later, he was attacked again, by two more spiders. He swung his sword expertly once again, quickly dispatching the two. He knelt to look at the corpses. One of them was female, and its sac of a body bloated with eggs. Helt put away his sword, drew the knife from his belt and cut into the leathery skin of the sac.
In one corner of the forest, Helt emerged from a hole in a grassy hillock, with two jute sacks in his hands. A white horse awaited beside the hole, snorting and whickering in impatience. the morning had matured, ths sky brighter, cottony manes of cloud frosted white in the sun’s rays. The moisture in the air had thinned slightly, and birds called in gentle and harmonious chorus up in the shimmering eaves of the forest. Helt mounted his healthy steed, and with a swift kick of its haunches, rode away into the morning mist.
Deep in the heart of the bustling city of Oerdiv, Helt sat by himself in the stinking pit of a bar hidden in one of the various maze-like networks of alleyways that honeycombed the main streets of the fortress settlement. The dangerous man’s mask was off, but his gaunt face was still shadowed by the cowl of a black riding cloak. He sipped a clay cup of lemon tea and waited, basking in the smokey shadows of the disreputable establishment. It was not long before Lord Taishik’s messengers entered--Helt recognised them from before under the steaming lard lamps. He let them sit before speaking in a rasping voice, slightly raised so that it was audible over the smothering mumble of the crowd in the shabby place. But not loud enough for the words to go past their table.
"I have the bounty. A strange one, no doubt. But as promised, no questions. Just the reward."
The messengers of the newly appointed Lord of Oerdiv were wary of the man, having heard of his murderous record. He was undoubtedly one of the most dangerous men in the land, and they were painfully aware of the fact. They watched carefully as Helt opened a bag to reveal a reeking pile of what looked like small, pale onions. Veerat eggs, a bagfull. They were known to be outstandingly tough, lapsing into dormancy if faced with hostile conditions. Just as the Lord had asked. And, the other bag: Helt picked it up to show them: the bag was bulging and moving. A live veerat, very young to be so small.
"Very well. Come with us now. The Lord wants to deliver the reward personally."
Helt was angered, but agreed. It was no good arguing if they didn’t have the gold in any case.
Not long after, the group of two messengers and Helt were standing in the spacious throne hall of the Oerdiv palace, facing the Lord Taishik, who had sat on the oak throne for only one week since his appointment. He had been newly elected by the people, since the death of the previous Lord of Oerdiv had left the city without a ruler: and the Lord had left no heirs, and not even a wife. The new Lord was popular, and one of the few ever elected by a plebiscite of the people themselves, as the normal practice was inherited Lordship, handed down through generations of families. Plebiscite was but a backup, and one that the wealthy and popular Teldhin Taishik had taken advantage of, having been the previous Lord’s adviser. Taishik had been given an adviser in turn, whom he fired after three days, deciding his rule was supreme: he needed none to advise his on it. Beside him sat a thin, pale woman, presumably the Lady, her complexion artificially blushed at the cheeks through the use of various creams and powders, her lips darkened by berry paste. A lean, bearded man of about thirty, the Lord sat with a look of smug arrogance etched into his face. His robes were lined with gilt, and his fingers adorned by several rings, socketed with expensive gems: amethyst, diamond, emerald, and ruby. Around his neck hung an valuable amulet, within it set a polished and cut chunk of azure nerid stone. Helt found himself somewhat amused by the man’s gaudy decoration of himself, as well as his wife. Or rather, he would have allowed himself to be amused had it not been for the circumstance: he found himself growing increasingly suspicious about the man’s intentions. Why had he dragged him all the way to the throne room of his palace? He was slightly disturbed at this action, only slightly. He was also very aware of the two messengers by his side, and the fact that clubs hung at their belts. He also allowed himself to completely survey the throne room; it’s vast tapestries of ageing beauty, its crackling torches and wooden beams from which circlets of perfumed candles hung. The new Lord seemed to have a liking for sweet scent. After a moment of scrutinising the man he had hired but not seen until now, the Lord spoke, realising that Helt was not going to be the first to do so, let alone pass him a respectable greeting.
"So, this is Helt Nomarin. Killer of a Thousand, they say. A man of ill-repute you are, Helt. Very interesting."
Helt responded immediately.
"There is no proof of mine killing a thousand or one people. As for ill-repute, I care not as long as I get my money. I have brought you your unusual bounty, now I want the gold."
"Of course, but let me explain to you why I wanted the eggs. A remarkable feat, to get them. I am impressed. I asked of you this unusual task, as a mercenary, because I want to relive the golden days of nobility, good man. The days of old, when Lord Baramed ruled this city, and tossed his prisoners to their deaths--I want to re-create the tradition of spider pits. A form of entertainment, if you will. Also a convenient form of dispatching prisoners in secrecy. The pits haven’t been used since the Paladins came here from the north to wipe the slate clean so that the goodly serfs could live in harmony. But the serf war is over now, and the Paladins and the King far away. A shame to let the pits gather dust. I will breed veerats like Baramed did ninety years ago."
Helt seemed not to hear the speech. He only stood with an impenetrable blankness about his face, waiting.
"I am new to nobility, Helt. I am strong in my youth, and secure. I intend to take advantage of this before I degenerate into a fat man wieghed down by lust, greed, laziness, and complacency. I will secure my place here by then. You see, I have spies in the Oerdiv underground. There are rebel agencies, factions warring against nobility. Some of them plan to...kill me. And who better to do that job but the Killer of a Thousand, eh?"
Helt’s face darkened as realisation dawned.
"What are you trying to say, Lord Taishik?
"You see, Helt. Sometimes, the most complex and dangerous men may be defeated by the simplest of methods. And I need someone to test the pits on."
Helt gave him a questioning look, and no sooner was this done, his hand went flying to his knife. The blade was out, but too late as the two messengers had already drawn their blunt clubs. As he turned, the clubs slammed against his head, sending him down to the ground unconscious. One of the messengers staggered away, the knife jutting out of his reddened throat. He bled vividly down his tunic till it was drenched through. His fingers clawed at the knife in his neck but failed to grasp properly. A few seconds later, he was not breathing. He was Helt Nomarin’s final victim.
Helt awoke in a dank stone pit, with a skylight set in the high ceiling. His hands and legs were bound in chains. And in front of him was Lord Taishik, and two guards, fully armoured in steel. One of them held in his gloved hands the small veerat he himself had captured. It squirmed and struggled, dripping poison. The Lord grinned in his flowing black cape.
"Goodbye, my friend. The rebel factions will have to find an assassin to match you....a task most likely impossible. Now I will leave you to die. The spiders will be fully grown soon. For now one will have to do. Well, I suppose this is what might be called...poetic justice, aye? Those dozens you tore from their mother’s womb will be avenged, as will your many victims. I do the world a favour. Aye...poetic justice."
So saying, he left. The spider was placed on him, and the guards followed Taishik out. The veerat took no time in finding Helt’s throat, and sinking its fangs into him. The latches of the door boomed in the enclosed space of the pit. As the poison worked through Helt, he felt peace replace rage and terror. Peace, because Taishik had just explained his death. It was worthy that he should die--it was fate. He deserved this terrible death because of his deeds. As he lapsed into bitter coma that would precede his expiration, he clenched his teeth down on the agony and closed his eyes. He had never expected fate to finally catch and punish him for his monsterous deeds--but it had. Thus was his faith restored. Because he knew, he knew in his failing heart that if he was to be punished, Taishik would also temp fate. And Taishik would face poetic justice as well. Someday, he would...in the meanwhile, he himself would die...
Bio:Indrapramit Das is a young man of 17 years from the state of West Bengal, India. He is studying his "A" levels now and preparing for higher education abroad.
E-mail: indrapramitd@hotmail.com
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