Guuuuys, it's happeniiiing o_o I'm moving away to school bright and early tomorrow so I won't be able to talk for a little while. Damn, I wish I had time to finish this story before going. How was I suppose to know it would take me over a year?!
I swear that I will not give up on this. You have my word.
And thanks to you, "I love ur story" ;) Look, I updated! :D
~29~ Cold Irony
Will,
If you are reading this, then I have succeeded in delivering it but I'm afraid it's all I can do for you now. Though inadequate in returning the life debt I owe you, I hope that, when the time arises, it will be enough.
You are facing more than reluctant Champions like yourself, Will. Though you would know this by now, I must impress that you can never be too prepared. There is one man in particular who wishes to claim the glory of the Arena for himself. He has no regard for the life of others, not even for the people who brought him up as one of their own. He is Rodrigo Salvini, a Genovesan exile cast out of their order for betrayal. With him, he took the dishonour and treachery every pupil accumulates under their tutelage, and created a creed of his own.
Will, he is as skilled an archer as I have ever seen. He is a poisoner, and though the craft is not permitted in the Arena, like I said, he is not an honourable man. He can pinion a bird in flight with a thrown dagger. With a heart as black as night, he would be your greatest opponent. I fear for you.
He has a weakness though. His temper is greater than a god's, and it can be used against him. Exploit it, and be rid of him as soon as you can. This is no man to trifle with nor pity. Eliminate him, and your chances of survival increase by thousandfold.
Fortune be upon you.
~N
Will stared numbly at the message, sitting on a small chair before a mirror. It had been lying in the lather bowl, which he had ignored for three days. He had, after all, shaved earlier and was allowing a beard to grow in. Only upon chance did he notice the roll of parchment.
It was obvious that Niccolò had place the message, the warning. Will felt a swelling warmth for the lad for risking grim consequences in an effort to help the Ranger.
By now he had indeed realized that he wouldn't simply be thrown in the dirt with the seven other Champions and be expected to rise in victory, drenched in blood and howling for more. No, if they went through the arduous effort to bring an archer all the way from Araluen, then they would have plans for him, plans to leech out every ounce of entertainment from his skill before letting him die in the dust like a dog. This Rodrigo seemed to be a pawn in that plan.
Well, so be it, Will thought, face darkening. If he is as foul as Niccolò claimed, then the world will not suffer if his road ends too soon.
It felt strange wandering the corridors beneath Mount Gladius without any guard. It was as though they trusted the Champions not to do anything rash, not that Will had anything rash in mind as he made for the practice hall a few minutes later, longbow strung and on his back. His hood was up and he seemed to be striding almost lazily down the corridor, but his senses were bared like porcupine quills.
Even so, his instincts smelled nothing amiss until he caught sight of the entrance to the practice hall's antechamber. It was dark.
He paused. It was never dark. Torches were always lit in commonly traversed places, or else illuminated with sunlight.
He felt his hand fall to the hilt of his saxe knife, instinctual hackles rising. Cautious, he approached the short hall and peered in. Something glinted deep in the shadows there, and he continued a few paces, determined to figure it out.
Like many stretches that led into larger, grander places, the antechamber was lined with statues, carvings, of beasts on the attack. Between the double line of thick, fluted pillars, they sprang out from the apexes of the conjoining archways, jaws agape and claws ready for slashing at the passing Champions below. They were tigers, boars, leopards and other such creatures. Like the gargoyles perched on the roofs of cathedrals, the beasts would chase away the unworthy with their marble eyes that seemed to watch you wherever you go.
Will had ignored them for the past several days. He ignored them now as he squinted into the darkness, senses straining. There was something there, but he could not quite make it out...
He stepped in further, and then was suddenly, horribly aware of a pungent odour, unforgettable to all who've ever sensed it.
Something, it would seem, was hanging from a painfully thin rope tied around the gaping bottom jaw of a snarling panther, faintly lit by the distant torchlight. And then Will made out what he was staring at, and blanched.
It was Hikaru – the Senshi warrior of Nihon-Ja and Will's fellow Champion – hanging by the neck, purple tongue protruding grotesquely, and very much dead.
Will felt his knees go weak. Below the hapless warrior was his discarded kabuto helm, staring morosely up at him with its empty, beseeching eye sockets.
"Oh my God."
He took a trembling step back, mouth drier than the Arrida wastelands, and he was almost quick enough to draw his saxe knife as he heard the slight hiss of leather soles on flagstone, but not quick enough.
A garrote fell about his neck and tightened savagely, instantly cutting off his air. Hands scrambling at his throat, Will twisted and then kicked like a horse, vicious and unexpected, hoping to unbalance his assailant, to no avail. His elbow jabbed backwards, aiming for ribs, but his attempts were again thwarted and he was kicked contemptuously to his knees. His fingers fumbled at the thin cord cutting into the tender flesh of his throat, trying to pry it away. A flurry of thoughts whirled through his mind like a tempest, none of them even vaguely cohesive or logical. Soon the air was utterly spent in his lungs, and he remained there, mouth gaping uselessly, red flooding his face. The cord burned like a brand.
He felt hot breath on his ear.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" a voice purred, spiced with Toscan accent. "It must be insulting how such a thin rope can tear you away from the fruit of life itself. Cool, sweet air."
As though to prove a point, the garrote tightened, and as Will struggled, twisting to find leverage, his fingers were suddenly slick with hot blood. He felt the pain a second later.
His attacker chortled.
"Ah ha, like a hare caught in a snare. The more you move, the tighter it gets."
Will thought it couldn't constrict any further. He was wrong. But he took the hint and stopped thrashing even as his vision faded and his heartbeat grew dim in his ears.
"There's a smart lad," the assailant whispered soothingly, and the garrote loosened just so. Will choked, inhaling the barest whisper of air greedily. His heartbeat returned with a roar, and his vision turned red.
"Wad...d'you wan'?" he gasped. Hot blood tickled the base of his throat. His thick hood had protected the back and sides of his neck from the cutting edge of the cord, but it offered no relief from the agony.
"What do I want?" the attacker repeated, as though stunned. "From you, nothing. You are a bug to me, an insect. I can't even remember your name."
Will simply breathed raggedly through his nostrils, teeth bared in terror and rage.
"...But I know about you. About your...little bunch of tree-huggers. Rangers." He said it like he would a maggot on his lunch. "I had a mentor, once. Taught me everything I know and more. One day, his services were sold to some fool in Hibernia. A cult master."
Will's mind raced, scrambling to find a line of thought. He was only able to make out one thing – it was a Genovesan slowly killing him. Could it be the man Niccolò had warned him about? What was his name? He couldn't remember...
"He sailed away with two comrades," the killer continued, "and never returned. A rumour came in his stead. He was murdered. I suspect..." The garrote began to tighten again. "...that Rangers were involved."
Will kicked against the floor, struggling to regain his footing. One hand lunged to his double-scabbard with the last trickle of oxygen in his body, but the Genovesan hissed, kicking mercilessly at his elbow. Panic seized the Ranger, and he couldn't find the scabbard again.
"Don't take it personally, amico," the Genovesan purred into Will's pounding ears. "This is a fitting compensation for my own pain. An eye for an eye, I suppose."
Will no longer felt his feet, or his hands. Soon he felt nothing but his bleeding neck and his head, which seemed thick and swollen, ready to burst like an overripe fruit. His racing heart was stuttering, and his eyes saw nought but darkness. He was dying.
But...it was not so bad, he decided. Even as he saw a flash of flickering, golden light, the pain diminished, becoming the faded wisps of a forgotten dream. He relaxed, willing himself into bliss and oblivion. It was easier this way, he knew. A few moments of brief pain, and then it would be all gone, all of it. Every toil, trouble and trial would be swept away from his path of duty, of responsibility, and he would be free. Only a few moments of pain.
But what was that?
The sounds of a scuffle, the startled cry of outrage, and then the garrote was loose and it all came back with the fury of an avalanche.
The wave of pain hit him first, but he had no breath to scream. Even as it filled his lungs, however, he did not waste it on such a menial sound, and continued to devour air ravenously. On his hands and knees, he inhaled it so quickly that he succumbed to a debilitating coughing fit, rendering him as helpless as an infant. His gullet burned as though he had swallowed fiery razors, and each cough brought a fresh surge of agony that coaxed treacherous tears.
Motion. A blurred black form stood beside him and he scrambled away like a kicked dog, hand grasping for the blade at his side. But the movement was too much for his air-deprived body and he fell onto his front, dizzy. His heart pounded. What if it was the Genovesan, back to finish the job?
"Hold still. You'll hurt yourself."
Will looked up to see a figure slightly lit by torchlight on one side. He could not focus on it, but felt fear spawn in his chest once more as it knelt beside him. Freezing, Will's heart nearly pounded itself up his throat and out his mouth. The blurred figure's hands reached forward and gently tugged the garrotte that was still hanging loosely from his neck.
Relief washed over him as it was finally taken away.
"Are you all right? Can you speak?"
Will tried, but all he was able to accomplish was a pitiful squeak and a consequential cough.
"Let me see your neck."
Realizing that he had unwittingly covered the cut on his neck with his hand, which was sticky with blood, the Ranger gingerly permitted the man to pull his arm away, exposing the wound.
"It's not deep. You'll live."
Will rubbed his eyes with bloodied fists, clearing the dampness but leaving red streaks on his face. He sat himself on his knees, feeling slightly sick. The stranger waited patiently for the Ranger's vertigo to dissipate. His words were ragged and coarse when he finally spoke.
"Than'...you..." he gasped painfully. He finally looked up to view his saviour properly, and beheld an unfamiliar man not much younger than he, with a dash of raven hair and a lean physique. He had olive skin, and that, along with his satiny accent, betrayed him as a Toscan. Tight leathers donned his frame, a deep scarlet cape rippling down his back. A set of knives was belted to his hip, and he had a black recurve bow peaking over one shoulder with a matching quiver.
The man nodded.
"A pleasure...Will Treaty, is it?"
Will nodded, wincing as his neck twinged angrily. "That man, that Genovesan—"
"He's dead," the Toscan said bluntly. "I killed him. He was not in a right mind. Even as a child, one could sense something in him. Something...broken."
Will blinked, studying his rescuer's face. "You...knew 'im?"
"Come. We'll find you some water."
The man picked up a dropped torch, which was the sudden light Will had seen when he nearly passed into the netherworld. He saw the Genovesan's lifeless hand before it vanished into shadow, and could not stop the sharp intake of breath before it hissed down his throat. He grimaced, teeth clenched.
The stranger led him from the dark hall, back to the Ranger's quarters. Will didn't even bother to ask him how he knew where they were. He had known his name. He must have asked around.
"Sit."
Will sat.
"Drink this."
Will did not drink. He stared at the younger man, growing ever more leery now that his head was clearing.
"How did you know that man?"
The Toscan put the cup of water aside. "Antoni Ferrigo. I grew up with him on the streets of Genovesa, to an extent. His mentor was a close...compagno to mine. I never really knew him, for he struck me as too quaint, too off. I, as well as many others, avoided him."
Will managed to keep impassive. The man wasn't a Toscan as he had supposed, but was a Genovesan himself, a member of the neighbouring city-state. And if what he said was true, that the dead Genovesan in the practice hall antechamber was indeed Antoni Ferrigo, then there were two Munerian Champions now slain before the Games had even begun.
"He said his mentor was killed," said Will, frowning into a corner, "and he believed that it was by a Ranger."
"He believed the rumours," the Toscan said simply. "As did many others, not that any of them cared. Marisi was not a very popular man. Then again, what master assassin is?"
Marisi. The name chimed a bell of familiarity in Will's memory, but he dismissed it as immaterial.
"There was a reason Antoni joined the Champions, you know," the Genovesan continued. "For years, it was said that Antoni sat brooding and sulking in his home in the countryside, simmering in anger for his mentor's death. When word reached the Genovesans that one of them was to be recruited as a Champion, to face exotic warriors of foreign countries, he was the first to sign up. He saw it as a way to finally get his hands on a Ranger, without endangering himself too much."
"I can't imagine him being the only one, surely?" said Will. The other man shrugged, face deadpan as always.
"Genovesans are not renowned for courage or honour. I would think that no more than five or six even contemplated it."
Will frowned. This was true. When he, Halt and Horace had faced three Genovesans in Hibernia over five years ago, they were never challenged by the assassins out in the open. They were skilled in the arts of poisoning, and had keen eyes for their crossbows. They took out targets from a distance, made away with their blood money, and slept like babies when they got home, no conscience, no remorse.
It did not bypass the Ranger that it was entirely possible that he did indeed know the name Marisi. It may even have been an arrow from his own quiver that brought him down. But the odds, surely, were against that...Then again, Antoni did say his mentor was hired by a cult master...
Once more, Will turned his attention on the stranger before him, his timely rescuer, studying the man's face intently. But the Genovesan was not bothered by the scrutiny, and he couldn't help but be unnerved by the man's unwavering impassiveness. It wasn't like Halt's grim, brooding demeanour, but something darker, something that suggested that there was danger lurking in the shadows.
"Who are you?" he demanded finally. The Genovesan bowed his head.
"Your newest friend, and your greatest enemy. My name is Rodrigo Salvini. It is a pleasure to be meeting you at last."
