James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

There was an impressed silence for a few seconds, then Gorron snorted. “Likely story,” he said, shaking his head in derision. “Three eights.”

Davian prepared himself. Gorron had lied. It was finally over.

However Gorron paused before making his bid, then stood, unbuckling the silver-sheathed sword from around his waist. He drew it out, laying both sword and sheath on the table. The blade itself was beautiful, elegantly curved with delicately worked gold inlay on the hilt. It looked more than ornate though. Like the sword of a master craftsman.

“The gold alone is worth about ten times what any of you have in front of you,” he said. “But the blade? The killer of a thousand heretics and abominations? It is priceless.”

Kelosh gave Gorron a look of open surprise. “You’re betting Slayer? Why?” He scratched his head. “This is just a friendly game, Gorron.”

Gorron was silent for a moment, then scowled. “I’m not going to lose to him , Kelosh,” he said, jerking his head in Davian’s direction. “I don’t care who he’s trained with, how many abominations he’s killed. Look at him! He’s a child!” He glared at Davian. “I find it hard to believe he’s ever even seen a real sword except from the wrong end. Let’s see him try and win one.”

Kelosh shrugged. “It’s your decision, Gorron,” he said, shooting Davian an apologetic look. He looked around. “Anyone want to call him on it?”

Davian saw Wirr shaking his head from the corner of his eye. Gorron obviously loved the blade. The killer of a thousand heretics and abominations . The fear that had been with him all evening was suddenly gone, replaced with a burning anger. These men killed Gifted. They killed people like him, Asha, Wirr. And they were proud of it.

“Gesh,” he said softly.

Gorron stared at him in shock, a stricken look on his face. Davian had so much in front of him to lose, and only a fool would have assumed Gorron was bluffing with a bet that large. Kelosh saw the expression on his friend’s face and groaned.

“Perhaps we can figure out an alternate means of -”

Kelosh was cut short by a cry of anger from Gorron. Before Davian could react the Hunter had drawn a dagger from his belt and was lunging at him.

Time slowed.

From the rage on Gorron’s face, Davian had no doubt the man was going for a killing blow. Still seated, he snatched Slayer from the table, desperately putting it between himself and the leaping Gorron.

The tip of the sword caught Gorron in the chest.

It slid in smoothly, more easily than Davian had imagined a blade would go through flesh. Gorron froze, the dagger clattering from his hand to the floor, then stumbled back. He looked uncomprehendingly at Davian; he gave a wracking cough and blood sprayed from his mouth.

Then his eyes rolled upward and he collapsed. Altesh rushed to his side, but Davian knew what he would say before he got there.

“He’s dead,” said Altesh, stunned.

The entire tavern was silent, everyone looking alternately at the corpse on the floor and Davian, who was still holding the bloodstained sword. He lowered the blade.

Kelosh stared at him solemnly for a few moments.

“I have never seen anyone move that fast,” said the Hunter eventually, his voice soft with awe. “You do Breshada credit, Shadat.” He sighed, shaking his head as he looked at Gorron’s motionless body, then gestured to the table. “You and your friend should go. Take your winnings; I will deal with the Watch. I’ll tell them it was between Seekers, and it will be fine. If they see how young you are, though, it will only hold things up.”

Davian just nodded, too numb to respond otherwise. He and Wirr quickly swept the pile of coins into their satchel, and Davian snatched up the silver sheath.

Before anyone could move to block their exit, they were outside and hurrying into the night.

They ran for a quarter hour before Wirr held up his hand, breathing hard, and came to a gradual stop.

“I don’t think anyone is following us,” he said between gulps of air. “We can probably -”

He cut off with a cry of pain as Davian’s fist crashed into his nose.

“What in fates were you thinking?” Davian hissed, putting as much venom into the words as possible without making too much noise. “You knew! You knew they were Hunters, and you sent me right to them. Worse. You didn’t even tell me!” His friend had struggled back to his feet, but Davian stepped forward and drove his fist squarely into his nose again, eliciting another moan of pain. “This is not a game, Wirr! We could die out here!”

Wirr stayed on the ground this time, looking up at Davian with pure shock on his face. “Dav!” He scrambled backward in the dirt as Davian took a menacing step forward. “I’m sorry!”

Davian looked at his friend – stunned, upset, scared – and the anger drained from him, exposing the emotion it had tried to cover.

Shame.

He sunk to his knees next to his friend, suddenly realising his entire body was shaking.

“I killed him, Wirr,” he whispered after a few seconds. “I just picked up the sword, and….”

Wirr hesitated, but seeing his friend’s rage had subsided, shifted over to sit next to him. He tested his nose gently with a finger. “It wasn’t your fault, Dav,” he said. “He was going to kill you - just like he killed all those other Gifted. Remember what he was.”

Davian stared at the ground, unable to concentrate with all the emotions swirling in his head. “And that makes it right?”

Wirr bit his lip, silent for a few seconds. “It couldn’t be avoided, Dav. Same as Talmiel,” he noted eventually.

Davian screwed up his face. “Except I wasn’t holding the sword in Talmiel.”

“So it’s okay for someone else to save your life, but not if you do it yourself?”

Davian ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know, Wirr,” he admitted. “I just feel… dirty. Sick to my very core. Like I just made the biggest mistake of my life, and there is no way I can ever take it back.”

Wirr just nodded, obviously not sure what to say. They sat in silence for a while, then Wirr cleared his throat. “I should have told you. But I knew you’d never go along with it.”

Davian took a deep breath. The silence had given him time to order his thoughts, push the shock of what he’d just done to the background. “How did you know who they were? And, fates - why, why did you choose them in the first place?”

Wirr grimaced. “Geshett is a Hunter’s game,” he admitted. “They say it helps hone their ability to tell when people are lying, and to conceal things themselves. It’s the only game they play, Dav, and no-one else is allowed to play it.” He shrugged. “Your ability doesn’t set off Finders and isn’t covered by the Tenets. It was the only way I could think of to get enough money.”

Davian gritted his teeth. It made sense, though they had been beyond fortunate that none of the Hunters had been suspicious enough to check them with Finders. “Just… tell me everything next time. It was all I could do not to run when I realised who they were.”

Wirr gave a slight smile and hefted the satchel, which made a jingling sound as he shook it. “All things considered, Dav, you did very well.”

Despite everything, Davian laughed softly. “All I could think of half the time was what Breshada’s face would look like, if she ever found out I was using her name to dupe her ‘brethren’.”

Wirr smirked. “Angry. Angry is how I picture her.”

Davian smiled, and a tiny part of the pain – the worst part – faded just a little. He stood, sticking out his hand. Wirr hesitated for a moment, then grasped it firmly, allowing Davian to pull him back to his feet.