It was late in the evening. Pale moon shone through tendrils of clouds. Hellrien shuddered, and wrapped her cloak tightly around her. She started to shiver. She felt a compelling urge to take a sip from her flask, but she knew that booze wouldn’t warm her much. It would only bring a moment of daze.
She conformed to the movements of her horse automatically. Every now and then she had to ward off bloody images from her mind. They kept surfacing irresistibly, demanding for an explanation.
Redshirt had died with horrible gurgling and thrashing on the floor, like a pig in a slaughterhouse. Afterwards they had searched the farm and found some coin to add to the Bloody Dawn’s coffers. They had decided to let the woman live, to spread the word of what will happen to those who cross the Dawn. Then they had left the ghastly place of slaughter behind and warned the hobbits in Woodhall and Stock. The little people may have been small, but they had their means of protecting themselves. It was never wise to underestimate the hobbits.
Coldness felt more chilling than ever. Death had once again been near.
The hours of the night passed by. They rode back with no hurry. Hellrien didn’t feel like talking to the others, for only solitude could bring her redemption, sellsword’s compensation – coldness and anxiety.
Late in the night they made camp. Tired, Hellrien wrapped herself under the blankets, trying to get some sleep.
Ghosts gathered into a dance. She knew them all. They came closer, reaching out for her. There was a new shape among them now – standing closest to them all… pale, wearing a red shirt and a leather vest, throat slit from ear to ear.
Hellrien started up, shivering from the cold. She grasped the hilt of her sword and was filled with irresistible urge to charge those creatures, to force them back into the kingdom of death and leave her alone.
Your time will come soon, sellsword! Your days are numbered – you are one of us! Are you prepared, sellsword?
Hellrien fumbled after the flask in her saddle bag. With trembling hands she tried to uncork it.
Aah, sellsword! Alcohol! Drink away! Try to forget… drink it!
She cursed roughly and threw the flask into the darkness. Then she loaded the chamber of her pipe and kept smoking until dawn came from the east. Misty rockface was like silk when rays of the sun touched it. Hellrien stood up and went to collect wood. When the fire started to warm she reached her hands towards it.
They were not trembling anymore.
Everything was normal again.
The image of Cole surfaced in her mind. So Cole was innocent after all. No doubt Taala would have a serious talking to with the man, but there was no reason to kill him now. Everything would carry on as normal.
Hellrien pushed the thought of Cole away. She didn’t want to think about him. She was a harbinger of death, and she had nothing to give to other people. She was just a killer without a name.
