The Shield

It took months for Ichta to pick up Yaret’s trail. She was not boastful nor a continued menace as many of the others had been, and so few knew her name—those that did had good things to say. It seemed she had left her mercenary ways behind her.

The journey was long and grueling. It seemed to Ichta she had crossed the entire continent in her pursuit, barely scraping by in long stretches of lawless wilds. Her arm would itch whenever she strayed too far from her path.

Olim-Vir had made it clear and loomed behind her still: Vengeance would be taken, it was not a choice.

She was a ghost by the time she arrived in the town of Inmoor, gaunt from the journey and her drive for the hunt long gone. She spoke less than ever. The people shied away from her and whispered as she passed, though they too seemed weary and worn. As fate would have it, she was not the worst terror to befall the town, which faced now the terrible misfortune to be visited by two children of the Wolf.

It had fallen beneath the shadow of the Spirit of Nightmares, who charged them with the Lucid Penance. It demanded a sacrifice, someone to be offered who would be placed in endless slumber for the spirit to feed on their dreams until nothing remained. Nightmares plagued all who lived there until the offering was made.

Ichta herself was not spared. Even far from Inmoor, for the past few days of making camp, she too had been faced with unnatural nightmares.

Every night it had started the same: she was back in her village while it burned. The shrieking buzz of cicadas filled the air, roaring behind the flames, while the cries of her people fell silent. Elkoron loomed over the scene in a twisted, monstrous form twice his true size. The first time, it was as she remembered it, and she managed to hide unnoticed as the rest turned to ashes. The next, Elkoron caught her and left her impaled on a spear to burn alongside her family.

Last night, she fled into her home to hide, only to find herself stumbling out into the courtyard of a burning fort. Ahead of her was a humanoid figure wreathed in shadows with a jagged, bright red grin plastered across its face. Wisps of the shadowy smoke that surrounded it shed away in the shape of feathers. She could hardly take a step before it lunged, shrieking, and lashed out with a whirling whip of flame. Ichta tried to fight, but she found her movements sluggish and was easily overpowered. The demon pounced, driving her down into the dirt, a single claw stabbing deep into her chest. The last thing she remembered before waking up were its jaws opening wide and rushing toward her head.

The image was still at the front of her mind when she arrived at Yaret’s home. A small, humble cottage. She hesitated at the door. Her arm itched. She pushed it open.

Inside was a warm, cluttered space that reminded her of the home she once knew. There was a fire in the hearth with a large pot hung above it, from which a pleasant scent wafted out to fill the room. A stout woman stood at a nearby table cutting vegetables. She turned her head as Ichta entered, only to return her attention to her work.

“In my nightmares, I’m always taken to the same place,” the woman said, her voice gruff and weary. “A clearing in the woods beneath a bloody sky. Vultures circle overhead, something in the trees is hunting me. And I see a great creature shadowed on the moon. Long, drooping snout and leering eyes. An anteater. The sage who aids us tells me it is Doom.” She set down her knife and turned to face Ichta. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Ichta kept her hand on her weapon. “...your monster in the woods, perhaps.”

“I can guess who you are. Heard the stories back before I cut all ties with that life. A monster hunting down the ‘Knights’,” the word seemed bitter on her tongue, “one by one. What was it they called you?”

The monster from her dreams flashed in Ichta’s thoughts, crimson maw and blazing chains. “Ichta,” she said, harsh, forced. “I am Ichta.”

Yaret sighed. “I figured you might catch up to me sooner or later, though I really did hope I’d gone far enough to get away from all of it. Suppose you’ve really worked down the list if you’re all the way out here for me.” She picked up her tray of vegetables and started scraping them into the pot over the hearth. She gave a dry, flat laugh. “How goes the hunt?”

“Elkoron is dead. The Knights are gone,” Ichta answered. She paused. Hesitant, she took her left hand off the chain at her side and raised it up to show the symbol marking her skin. Her hand faintly trembled. “But I swore vengeance on all of you, back then when the wounds were still raw. My work is not done.”

Yaret stared at her, going quiet for long enough that Ichta began to have the thought to simply throw her dagger and be done with it.

“I understand. That lot…we were monsters. I used to do terrible things so long as someone was paying.” She turned her attention back to her stew, slowly stirring. “Knew it then as well as I do now, just didn’t have the grit to care. Finally got the sense to leave it all behind after far too long. It’s peaceful here, I keep them safe. Until a spirit came knocking, anyway…” 

She paused to take a small taste of her meal. A gentle, weary smile spread across her lips. Then she dropped the spoon back into the pot and turned to face Ichta properly.

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. Whatever it is we took from you that set you on this path,” she said. “Don’t bring any of it back though, does it?”

“No.” Ichta drew her knife, hand back on the chain at her side. “Never.”

“Right. I’m not gonna try to talk you out of it, can’t say I think you’re in the wrong. Just give me one request,” Yaret said. “Let’s make this a proper duel. Outside, you and me, not here.”

Ichta nodded, fighting the flaring pain in her arm. She did not want to spill blood in a place like this either.

Yaret, armed with a sword and shield, led her to a nearby field. They stood at opposing sides, weapons brandished. The clash was brief; Yaret was bleeding out with Ichta looming over her.

“One…one last favor, please,” Yaret said, interrupted by a wheezing cough. She looked up at Ichta. “Watch over this town. I’m the only real warrior among them, without me…”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Ichta’s face hardened. She recalled her knife and crouched down. “You are not the last, my hunt must continue. I have no choice.”

She slit Yaret’s throat to put her out of her misery. The villagers screamed and cowered as she trudged back down the road, hands bloodied. She did not even spare them a glance as she walked off into the darkness.

One more still remained.

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