In a cruel world shaped beneath a starless sky, a woman makes a pact with the Spirit of Vengeance to hunt down those that have wronged her.

The Butcher

STILL BENEATH A DARKENED SKY

Screams echoed through a night brighter than most had ever seen. The old fort was engulfed in flames, roughshod timbers buckling and shoddy stonework belching fire, its warm glow of retribution spilling out over the hillside. A hideous monolith wreathed in dancing lights for all to see its shame.

In the village below, the people cowered, watching from clouded windows and peering through doorway cracks. Their eyes were on a lone figure walking down the road.

Head bowed, steps even, the stranger marched up toward the carnage. At her side, a blade dragged through the dirt, bound to a length of chain in one hand. On the other, a silver gauntlet gleamed in the low light. Watchful eyes were drawn to the striking red scarf masking her face.

Were it not for the isolation of dark, they would know her by it. The man on the hill did too well.

The crackle and splintering of wood greeted her arrival at the summit, the eastern tower of the fort collapsing into smoldering wreckage. A trap laid well in advance to smoke out the rats. No walls would keep her from her quarry.

A burly figure stumbled out through the front gate, coughing and sputtering. He held an axe in one hand, a round shield in the other. Rising to attention, he saw the red-bound ruin that had come to his doorstep.

Ichta was not hiding.

“Damned witch! I knew you’d come for me!” he shouted. His voice was raspy, broken by coughs. “Perun gone… Delbin with him... you been busy. Really think you’re somethin’, huh? Really think you walk out of here alive,” he growled. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

Victor Bast. Enforcer. A particularly brutal warrior that took pleasure from the carnage. One of the worst of them all, in it for the thrill and the conquest. All of this she knew and more, yet she did not answer. He had not earned her voice.

The man spit on the ground. He rolled his shoulders, raising upright with weapon in hand, and gave her a pitiful look. At his side, two more men now stood, spears at the ready.

“Drop your little toy and maybe I’ll make this quick,” Victor sneered.

A flash of light, flame reflecting on metal. Ichta’s armored hand snapped forward. The mercenary on the right buckled, falling to his knees with blood pouring down from a knife in his neck.

The other took a step back. He glanced at the roaring flames, then the demon in front of him, and knew the stories were true. He threw his weapon down and ran—a dead man could not pay him either way.

“Coward! You’d better hope the moths find you before I do!” Victor roared. He stepped forward, shadowed by the flames at his back. “Don’t need help to cull a little whelp like you…”

Ichta stood firm. She grabbed her blade, whirling it by the chain in preparation. This battle was her purpose, she would not cower, nor would she let him flee. The pact was forged with her own blood, vengeance-bound: The Knights would all fall.

Much had been taken from her, but her teeth were still hers to bare.

Victor advanced. Ichta’s blade soared forward. The heavy clash of metal on metal rang through the air, then a pull on the chain brought her weapon back. Neither it nor her foe had chance of reprieve, blade hurtling forward again in an instant.

The looming specter, so calm and stoic till now, became a whirlwind. She danced circles around the brute, hardly touching the ground as she swung and pulled the chain, a subtle touch of her hand, leg, even foot letting it bend around to thrust her weapon where she pleased. The chain shimmered and glinted with the roaring flames around them as if she were weaving threads of light. Again and again the blade struck while she stayed beyond reach, each time blocked by shield or dulled by armor, still wearing down her foe bit by bit.

Then, folly. Victor got wise and swung his axe to catch the blade, chain wrapped around the haft and blade pinned by the head. She tried to pull back and disarm, but the brute was far stronger, returning the favor with all his might.

The chain pulled from her hand, her footing stumbled. A stunning blow from his shield sent her falling to the ground.

“Had me reeling for a minute there, girl, I’ll give you that,” he sneered. “Been too long since someone’s put up a real struggle.”

Ichta coughed, a small splatter of blood dripping to the ground below. It gave her no pause. She held open her right hand, felt a familiar vibration in her gauntlet, and in a faint shimmer of green her knife appeared in her grip, its edge still wet with the blood of its last victim.

She leaped back to her feet, a flick of her wrist snapping the knife toward her foe. He barely raised his shield in time to block it.

“Enough of this! Enough tricks!” he growled. “Don’t you get it, you mute little psychopath? You’re already dead! Kill me or not, do you think he doesn’t know? Do you think there are no eyes in the dark, girl?”

Ichta still had tricks to spare. He stepped forward; she reached for a vial on her belt. She shook it in her hand, the orange liquid within fizzing and hissing, then threw it between them. A blast of alchemical fire sent the brute on the backfoot the moment the glass broke.

“You little rat! You’ll burn with the rest of us, I swear it!”

He caught a glimpse of her darting around the flames. She threw her knife, he braced his shield. Before it struck, she recalled it to her hand yet again. In a moment's distraction holding for an impact that never came, she rushed beside him unchallenged. Her blade plunged deep through his throat. Victor slumped to the ground, sputtering for only a moment before collapsing, silent and still. The battle reached its end.

Ichta flicked her knife clean, an arc of crimson staining the dirt. Her left hand felt warm, a familiar tingling. She watched a faint red glow wash over the new marking there—a symbol of jagged vulture wings raised up in a V. Nearly a dozen more already patterned her arm.

On her march back down from the carnage, the people came from their homes, cheering. The tyrant on the hill was slain, they were free of his grasp at last. She did not even spare them a glance as she walked off into the darkness.

Four yet remained.

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