(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Killian Darkbow's creator for revealing his avatar's "fun fact." He's doing…)
CHAPTER TEN: THE ARCHER: TARGET PRACTICE
Outdoor Firing Range at the Restoration Corps Compound
Who in their right mind would shoot targets in the middle of a thunderstorm, letting the rain lash his back?
Who would fire arrow after arrow into the deluge, knowing that in the end, they would always hit their mark?
Who would mutter a word darker than any curse, underneath his breath, every time his bowstring twanged?
Who, indeed?
Even now, as chilly raindrops spatter my armor and rise as steam, I wonder at this – and myself.
How much is left of you, Killian? How long before your ancestors call you home to prove your worth?
I nock and release another arrow. I add another exclamation to the ones I've uttered: ad'rokhen. In my native tongue of Infernal, it describes me better than any Common noun could. Did you know that in the language of my kind, there are more than fifty words for "damned?" Ad'rokhen is more accurately translated as "worthily damned by right of Plane-blood," so it's a compliment, not an insult. It isn't like ad'nul, "damned nothing," or ad'negod, "damned wretch." Both of these denote ordinary, worthless spirits who have been deemed fodder for the Abyss or the Nine Hells. They're meant to endure agony I am meant to inflict it.
Thwack. Another missile of mine finds its way into target-flesh, and I murmur uvyad' to myself. "Fading."
I'm disappearing. Fading away. Whatever scraps I still have of what men call a soul, I grasp with ferocity.
"Killian!" I hear Karuna bellow through the storm. "What are you doing out here? Come back inside."
"I thought rain didn't scare orcs," I call back, raising my middle finger in a half-playful, mocking gesture.
"Suit yourself." He returns it and ventures back into our compound. Good. I'm in no mood for company.
Our last mission, taking out some pirate scum in Spandeliyon, has put me off. Lord Ashdown might be rich as a king, but somehow he doesn't believe in paying us gold for our trouble. Rather, he gave us vouchers for magical items. How are we supposed to buy food with those? No innkeeper will take an enchanted spear or breastplate in trade for meat and ale. Therefore, I pretend the target is Ashdown's head as I aim two blazing arrows right between his eyes. Take these magic items, you sodding fool! Thwack. Thwack.
What Infernal words shall I add to the ode to my soul? Let's see: "worthily damned, fading…" Gah! Naught.
Even worse than being paid in arcane junk is being paid nothing, for a mission that turned out to be nothing. Ten thousand sovereigns we were offered, by one elf to capture another elf. A spy. He was reported to be working against the Vigil, to whom our Restoration Corps has ties. We were tasked with finding and arresting him, then taking him by force to Valprintalar. Such was what we were meant to do. Instead, we wasted the night at a dingy, stinking inn in Delthuntle, where we'd fought zombies on a ship that had run aground. I daresay that mission was more exciting than this one. We were remunerated in salvage then.
Now? In my mind's eye, the target becomes the pate of Governor What's-his-name. I send him to the Hells.
Still, no words come. I gnash my teeth, because like the souls I'm meant to torture, I'm suffering in truth.
What is this? What's distracting me from the hunt, from the kill? I hurl a fist in the air, and then it hits me:
Two vermin, fat and sucking leeches, won't release themselves from my mind: the two aasimar in our Corps.
Nevard and Tati. They've attached themselves to the skin of my spirit and won't let go. One seeks to save me, the other to defeat me. I can't believe our leader had the gall to reveal his plans for me to my face.
"Someday I'm going to get the notion of redemption through your head," he said. Redemption? That's for naïve fools like him, who reek of faith, and weaklings. I ask you this, slave of Ilmater: Would it diminish or strengthen me? If I spent the rest of my days saving farmers from bandits, preaching to peasants, and giving all my hard-earned coin to beggars, wouldn't that drain me more quickly than making my bow sing? It would be a betrayal of my nature, and that's why I loathe those who've "gone straight." Why be an honest laborer, breaking your back in the broiling sun for next to naught, when you can be a dishonest rogue and be rich? Moreover, if your heart's desire is to conquer and kill, redemption would be damnation for you.
Even Karuna, as witless and artless as he is, understands this. Neither of us sinners wants to be a saint.
Does Tati? Hmmm… As I think of her, I stride to the target, yank all the arrows out, and relish when a bolt of lightning splits the air. I refill my quiver, feeling myself stiffen slightly. I don't mean my spine, either.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Faster and faster, my arrows fly, as do the words to my ode:
A worthily-damned soul, by right of Plane-blood, is fading away.
As power courses through his bow, his own power diminishes.
With every forehead pierced, every skull shattered,
His flesh strengthens, yet his spirit shrinks.
Scraps of want and scraps of will. These are all that remain.
When the time comes for the one who wields
A bow of shadows and a blade of dusk
To return to his ancestors,
An abyss mirroring the larger one will yawn within his frame.
Naught he'll seek.
Naught he'll feel.
He'll be a vessel for his kindred's will.
Even as One from Below, as Karuna calls me, this fills me with revulsion.
I don't want to be a vessel for their will, but for my own.
As the storm calms, I receive an answer from within: Corruption. Debase her, and bring her down with you.
Satisfied at last, I head back inside. Target practice is over.