The truth didn’t matter because the truth never matters. What mattered was the coin, the thing he’d spent decades chasing like the scent of his lost love. He chased Tarquin to a small town deep in the Maze. It was the only place in the North that was more than dirt huts and twigs. Tirex was a city famous for its weapons. They supplied the archers who protected The Maze and they had made the dagger that was stuck into the back holster Alvaro wore. He was looking at the city now from a downcast gaze, his six foot frame slumped in feigned drunkenness against the wall.
The wall was blackened by the continual running blacksmith forges, and hot against his back from the burning fires inside the building. When he shifted the fabric of his black cloak stuck to his shoulder blades a second before pulling loose. He felt the pull of his ax against his upper back too and rolled his shoulders back to readjust the weapon hiding under his cloak. His hood was pulled over his head and shaded most of his face from prying eyes. He was a nothing here, a shadow on the wall that would disappear from the minds of people as fast as it appeared. Anonymous among the many.
He thought about the crew he used to run with. He thought about the people that tried to kill him and the ones he had to kill in return. In comparison to rooting them out, Tarquin was easy to find. Tarquin had dark hair that looked like navel fuzz and a curly, tightly trimmed black beard that looked like cotton. But, it was his unmistakable voice that betrayed him. A sound caught between a bellow and a nasally sniff.
Alvaro had lived many years and during that time he’d honed his senses. The longer you live the more God-like you become. He was far from a God, although he did have the same strand of ruthlessness they all possessed. But, he could sense things before they happened because he was in tune to the world around him. To some he seemed like a God. But, it was really just his finely tuned senses that picked up on the subtlest of details which made him appear that way.
Tarquin’s fat fingers were wet from sloshed beer and stuck through the handle of a beer mug that was propped against his big belly. Alvaro knew that he would kill him tonight. He also knew that while he could do that here, he wasn’t going to. Alvaro was going to leave a message. Alvaro was going to do it right. Then Alvaro was going to leave town with proof of the job and collect his bounty.
He turned away from Tarquin and his nasally, bellowing laugh and walked out the way he’d come, bumping through the crowd and sidestepping around the horse drawn carts that clattered on the brick. They were pulling carts of ore, the most popular commodity in this part of The Maze, whipped on by their merciless masters. They took the ore from their nearby mines and used it to create the best weapons in The Maze.
A few minutes later Alvaro was outside the city gate that dripped rust water when it rained in a line across the ground and permanently stained the barrier between city and the lawless land beyond. He took off at a run, his dark cloak snapping in the wind and pulling at his neck. He found the grove of bushes on the side of the road he’d stashed his horse in. Then he was kneeling and waiting with his Tirex made dagger in hand.
Alvaro was a soldier. Alvaro knew how to stalk. Alvaro knew how to wait. Alvaro knew how to kill. Right now he was waiting so he could soon be killing. He waited hours until the acidic smell of sweat and stale booze filled the air. He listened to the drunken scrunch of clumsy feet jabbing against the ground get closer, then sound right on top of him, then pass him by. He was stepping out then. He was taking the dagger he loved and swiping the blade across Tarquin’s drunk face while the palm of his free hand was pressing against the man’s chest.
What Alvaro loved most about his dagger wasn’t how well balanced it was, but how easily it cut through someone’s throat, as it was cutting through the throat of Tarquin right now. Some daggers tear. Others need muscle to get the job done. This was not those kind of daggers. This was an archer’s dagger and the blade was so fine it could slice open a throat in a quick, flick of the wrist without a sound and with more shock than pain, like it was doing now.
Then Tarquin was struggling, his legs kicking, a gurgle gurgle, like the gurgle of a bubbling stream, sounding from his exposed windpipe. But, Alvaro was big, over six feet tall, and strong. He’d been baptized in the river of violence and swam through the lakes of despair, especially after the God’s had turned away from him. He did not fear this man or care how ugly the death was. Death simply is another passing, a movement from one space to another, like walking from one room to another. Plus, he wanted to give an ugly death. He wanted the message sent. He wanted others to be afraid.
Tarquin would be dead soon. Alvaro had severed the main arteries on either side of the neck. The heart went on pumping and shooting spurts of bright red blood into the air and across the man’s shirt. It was impossible to live longer than thirty seconds when your main artery was cut open. The brain was shutting down and the man was slumping now. Then he was on the ground, blood still draining out of him and pooling in the dirt like a pig hung from barn rafters during a gutting.
“Hmmphm.” Alvaro narrowed his eyes at the dark, inky puddle and stepped to the side to avoid the pooling blood. In the same motion, he pulled his ax. It was a beautiful thing and he’d taken it off a dwarf a few months ago.
“Whoosh, chink.” It was sharp too. And in one blow he nearly severed the neck from the body. With one more blow Tarquin’s head was disconnected and rolled a half turn until the nose stopped it in the dirt. Death was business and some wanted perfect peace at the end while others wanted a warrior’s fight. Yet, all died like they fought, some with honor and some as cowards. He grabbed the head by the hair, blood still dripping out of the neck, gave two quick shakes to get more of the blood out, and shoved it into his bag.
He left the body. He left no tribute. One hundred coin for a birth. One hundred coin for a death. That was the rule of The Maze. The Gods want their coin. But, he was Godless so there was no point in pretending he honored them when he didn’t.
Alvaro took the severed head in his bag, whistled once, high pitched and fast, and waited until his horse arrived. Most of the time he traveled by horse. Sometimes he walked, having all the time in the universe and no need to rush anywhere. Alvaro had killed many monsters and many people so he knew the score of the universe. He knew that what he was searching for he’d likely never find. There was no rush to get anywhere. But, this was a paid job and he’d move a little faster for some coin. Coin was his purpose now.
This was the cruelty of the Gods that he’d once loved so much he killed for them. With the flick of a wine laden eye they could destroy the world of a mortal, send the pillars of his existence crashing down to nothing and dance in the dust of his confused despair.
The way out of his killing spot was a matted sheep path that went East from Tirex took him parallel to the Black River, ran from one end of The Maze to the other and ended in the Cascardillian Mountains. It was there he’d meet back up with Sexton, who worked for Kujia, king of the orcs. He was galloping now, picking up speed when Tirex vanished on the horizon, far enough away to put serious distance between himself and his crime.
By the time the three suns were rising and casting the day in that eerie, in between, golden and pink glow that starts the early mornings, he’d arrived at the inn where Sexton was meeting him. He was early, as he knew he would be. Alvaro liked to control his surroundings. Alvaro liked to control the game. Alvaro did not like surprises. Surprises meant death. Or, worse. Surprises could cost you the things that were most important to you, like they had him.
That familiar emptiness filled his chest with the roundness of the sun and pushed outward. He tried, like he always tried, to remember and found nothing. It was the same as before. The same as usual. A searching for something that wasn’t there, a void where the memory of something should be, but wasn’t. The hole bored into him by the Goddess of consciousness named Soros. Damn Soros. Damn that Goddess to the black.
Then Alvaro was inside the inn and dropping the bag with the head in it on the bar top with a thud and a squish. He was ordering a beer. He was drinking. He was waiting. Sexton arrived after beer three. Alvaro heard him enter and smelled him too. Alvaro felt the very air itself move around him as Sexton cut through it. That was the benefit of having very finely tuned senses.
Then Sexton was beside him, resting a hand on the bar and drumming it. He was looking with disgust at Alvaro. He was grunting. “I said dead or alive.” His eyes were on the bag now.
Alvaro took another drink. “Dead it is.”
“There was more coin in alive.”
Alvaro shrugged. “He deserved to die.”
Sexton laughed as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a purse of coin. “Do you even know who he is?”
“Was.” Alvaro corrected. And he had no clue on the specifics but he knew Tarquin was a bad man.
“The fucking Godless warrior.” Sexton whispered under his breath and tossed the coin on the bar top. It clattered and settled, the silence of morning returning once more. Alvaro wanted to kill Sexton for the comment. Instead, he took another drink of his beer and said nothing. The thing about being Godless is having the power to do what you want, regardless of what the Gods want. Sexton hated that Alvaro lived with such freedom. He envied it. That was all.
Sexton grabbed the bag. “We’ll be in touch soon, black cloak.”
“Hmmphm.” Alvaro grabbed the coin and pocketed it. The coin would keep him going for a while. He could take more time to walk. Stable his horse for a while and wander the country side. Maybe make his way down to the Corse Ocean and see if he could drown himself. He knew he couldn’t. He was burdened to live forever without the memories of who he was, a hopeless life that made the Gods laugh.
The beer was hitting him now and he ordered another one. Then he crawled away from the bar and found a booth in the corner. He slid into the bench, facing the front door. The kitchen was to his back and he heard the clattering of kettles and utensils. Someone was humming. Someone was preparing breakfast for the guests of the inn. The room would fill soon. He should leave before it did.
He grabbed his beer once more and made his way through the kitchen. He gave a nod to the cook, who nodded back and kept on humming. Pushing out the back door, he walked the seven feet to the barn and found his horse stabled inside. He groaned and plopped down on the fresh straw. His beer spilled. He brushed it off his black cloak.
The beer was hitting him harder now and he took another long drink, gulping hard. Yes, he’d wander after this. Make his way to the ocean in the West. He’d go chasing memories through the endless, lonely corners of The Maze, battling a sense of something forgotten that was on the tip of his tongue like the words to a song. Because the truth doesn’t matter. Truth becomes a memory and a memory becomes what we want it to be. Memories are who we are, the ways we’ve reshaped our past, and when the Gods take them you become as empty as your past, and as soulless too.