Jason Lewis - Phoenix Rising

Wulf dropped the corpse in disgust and turned to Metrotis. He twitched his arms so that the chains rattled again. “Free,” he said. “Metrotis… free… Wulf.”

Metrotis was shaking, but he managed to nod his head in understanding as he gasped for breath. He stood, reached into a pocket and produced an iron key, then fumbled — almost dropping it — as he unlocked Wulf’s wrist shackles with trembling hands.

Wulf smiled and rubbed his wrists. Somehow, the pain felt good, it felt like freedom.

Freedom.

If he could get out of the building, he might have a hope of leaving the Adarnans behind, of finding his people.

He looked down at the body of Sigurd. His friend looked peaceful in death. A large pool of blood grew slowly around him from the gaping wound in his chest. The fisherman’s palms had been sliced open, probably when trying to grab the blade of the sword that killed him.

Sigurd was a distant kinsman, dead by the hand of an unknown and cowardly enemy. Those who attacked unarmed men had no place in this world, it went against all the laws that Alarus — great god of the sky — had laid down when he created the world. Such men should be consigned, screaming, to hell, where they would burn for eternity. He forced his gaze away from Sigurd. Somehow the man became the echo of every fallen kinsman, the shadow of past pain. He could not allow his people to suffer more pain.

Metrotis looked into his eyes. The man was afraid, his eyes flicking from the bodies in the room to the open cell door. “Wulf, you must help… us.” The words were slow, deliberate, and spoken in heavily accented Wicklandish.

A shout echoed through the building, distorted by distance, a death cry perhaps. He frowned as he registered the strangeness of Metrotis’s words “You learned my language?” he replied in Wicklandish.

Metrotis nodded quickly. “Yes, a little, yes. You learn Adarnan. I guess that already.” He drew a breath, hesitated. “…I learn Wicklandish… a little.”

Wulf laughed as he had not laughed since leaving his homeland, sudden mirth erasing — temporarily at least — thoughts of his people. He clapped Metrotis on the shoulder with such force that he winced. “You learned Wicklandish…” He shook his head at the sheer wonder of it. “Wulf likes you. You are tricky.”

In that moment, he decided that the little man would live. For now at least.

Metrotis shrugged. His eyes darted to the blood-soaked sword buried in the back of the hooded attacker. “Yes, well, yes… Tricky.” He paused and eyed the body again. “Like you though, Wulf. Like you.” Another scream echoed through the corridor outside. Metrotis flinched. “Wulf, I get help… Will you help? I free you…”

Wulf nodded. He needed to move. He needed to run with the sun on his body and the wind in his face. First though, above all things, he needed to vent his pent-up rage. “Yes, Wulf is free…”

He knelt down and pulled the sword from the corpse at his feet. His companion winced at the noise the blade made as the suction was released. He retrieved the dagger and handed it to Metrotis, who looked at it with a puzzled expression.

I am free, he thought. I should kill this fool and run. What do I owe this man? But he knew that he wouldn’t, he knew that he couldn’t. The strong did not prey on the weak and pitiful, who could not defend themselves. There was no sport in such work. There was no honour.

“Come,” he said, and beckoned towards the door. There were women in danger somewhere in the night. One had screamed only moments ago. He could not allow the weak and the feeble to go unprotected; he had sworn to himself in the south — in his beloved Wickland — that he would never again stand aside whilst those unable to protect themselves died needlessly. The screams of his people, as they were hunted on their way north, haunted him still; they had been swept away but their pleas for help still echoed in the night.

Without another word to Metrotis, he left the cell. An open door at the end of a corridor led to what looked like open space beyond. He moved quickly towards the door, his back against the wall, alert for the sound of other attackers. There was at least one more — the man with blond hair — and there could be others. He hefted the short sword in his hand; it felt more like a toy, a long knife, than a real weapon.

“Wait!” Metrotis shouted from behind.

He froze. The man is an idiot . Perhaps Metrotis did not wish to live after all. He turned his head quickly and beckoned the little man to follow.

Metrotis shook his head, eyes wide. “No.” He pointed in the opposite direction towards an open door further down the corridor. “Wulf, come.” Metrotis scampered down the corridor and disappeared within the room.

Every fibre of Wulf’s being urged him to abandon the fool and escape to freedom, but just as he committed to do exactly that, a strangled gasp from Metrotis stopped him. He found his legs carrying him towards the door, following inexorably in Metrotis’s footsteps.

He entered the room alert, his sword held ready, expecting to find Metrotis a bloody mess on the floor.

He was greeted by carnage.

Two grey-clad bodies lay on the floor, their limbs contorted at impossible angles. One stared, vacant eyed towards the door over his own shoulder blades, his blond hair straggling across the floor.

Metrotis stood inside the room on the left. He held both hands to his mouth. A green tinge coloured his sallow skin.

In the centre of the room, towering over the tangled corpses stood a man without a soul. His expression was blank, but his body suggested murder. It was as if his eyes focused on some object in the space between him and Wulf.

Although the man wore no chains, Wulf guessed that this was the other prisoner he had heard Metrotis speaking to.

“Who this?” Wulf said, and pointed his sword at the man. There was something disturbing about his eyes. Eyes like that did not, could not, belong to any normal man.

This man would be a challenge to beat in battle , a part of him thought. A challenge many would sing of . A challenge to build a legend that might be retold for aeons.

“This is Optuss.” Metrotis spoke softly, a slight tremor in his voice. “I think he killed these men.”

Wulf grunted. Do you think so? “Kill men, good.” For the time being there would be no profit in challenge. A man who could cause such havoc might be useful; the future could wait. He moved towards Optuss and picked up one of the fallen assassin’s swords. “You know fight?” he asked the man.

“He doesn’t speak,” said Metrotis. “Careful, he’s not supposed to be dangerous.” Metrotis’s eyes were wide. “But I think he killed these men; yes, I think he killed these men.”

Wulf glanced at Metrotis. The little man was developing a talent for stating the obvious, and he was beginning to slip into the fear after battle that many tribesmen suffered from. Men who would run screaming — heedless of death — into battle, would later sit shivering, shaking, sometimes crying out for no reason. Wulf could not understand why this happened, but Metrotis would be no help in a fight.

He reached out and presented the sword to the black haired prisoner. “You take.” The man’s arms glistened in the lantern light, smooth as marble.

Metrotis tutted. “Optuss won’t follow your orders. I don’t think he’s even here with us, in any real sense.”

It took Wulf a second to translate the sentiment. He tutted in return. The man has no soul, he translated. “He kill men. He know.”

He presented the sword hilt to Optuss again. The man’s eyes seemed bottomless, like the very pits of hell.