Heart and Home Chap. 21

Blood coated the walls of the small keep and ran in little streams toward a crack in the floor. Fenris stood still as stone, breath misting in the air, counting heart beats. A man lay dying at his feet, entrails steaming in the cool air. He already smelled rotted, as if dead a week, though it had only been moments since he flung himself out of hiding at the elf. His companion was nearby. Fenris was certain of it. His ears strained for proof, muscles tense with anticipation. There, on his left. He spun, his sword humming as he brought the great blade over and down in a skull splitting arc. 

The man was fast. He rolled right and forward, coming up against the elf's chest. Close in, he stabbed with a small, curved dagger. It parted his armor with ease and opened the skin beneath in a wide, bloody arc. Fenris gasped and dropped his blade, tattoos growing brighter in a breath. The man, unaware of his peril, took this as a sign of triumph. He gave the elf a feral grin and drew back his arm, preparing for the final strike. Fenris returned the smile as his hand shot forward, sliding through armor and skin and bone to the beating heart of his enemy. It leapt beneath his fingers, fast as a rabbit. The elf tightened his grip, the tips of his gauntleted fingers digging into the meat of the organ.

The man gave a surprised shout and tried to pull away, but he was caught. He could abandon his heart only to lose his life. Some part of him knew there was no escape, and he slashed wildly at Fenris. The dagger opened wounds across the elf's forearms and shoulders, drawing blood across his chest. The man's movements became less coordinated, more erratic, the harder Fenris squeezed, until, with a final gasp, the heart burst. His body convulses as the elf tossed him to the ground, face twisted in disgust.

"Is that the last?" Tarun asked from the doorway. 

"It should be. We'll know soon enough." Fenris turned, dizziness and exhaustion sweeping over him. "Did they find anyone?"

Tarun shook his head. "Not from our clan. Some others, though."

Fenris nodded, "They are probably all sold or dead. What will the Keeper want now?"

The Dalish boy gave a shrug. "The hunters will want to pursue. The Keeper? I cannot say. I am sure he will tell us when he knows his own mind."

That was all the answer there was, thought Fenris tiredly. He barely cared. This fight or another, whatever he could find to fill the hollow in his chest and leave his nights to black exhaustion. There was nothing else for him, not anymore. The elf paced from the room and began to sweep for hidden soldiers. Taking the keep had not been easy. Fenris had used his power to reach through the door of a side gate to lift the latch in the dark of early morning. The hunters, silent as mountain cats, had crept in behind him. The guards on the wall went down quickly, but not without warning the other men. After that, hours of fighting in tight corridors and debris strewn rooms. 

The mangled bodies of the defenders lay cooling in pools of blood. It was enough to sicken, though the sight of the elves they held here in captivity made their fate seem gentle. Fenris tore down the red banner with its blindfolded skull as he passed from one hall into the courtyard. He didn't recognize their symbol and didn't care who they were. They deserved death and worse. I should be happy I could bring it to them, he thought grimly. I am the wolf again, and this time the prey I choose is my own. 

It took some time to track down Ferevale. The Keeper knelt beside a dying man, his robes brushing the pool of blood that spread from a gaping wound that opened the slaver from groin to sternum. "Remember for me," the Keeper said softly. "Where were they sent, the women and girls? Dalish, you captured them only a few weeks past."

He coughed, blood flecking his lips. "I . . . please . . . it hurts . . ." 

Ferevale nodded, face impassive stone. "It does. It will hurt until you answer my questions."

The slaver tried to take a breath, air bubbling through the blood seeping into his lungs. "Yes. I . . . sorry. I'm sorry!" He seized the Keeper's arm, knuckles white. 

"Of course you are. Now, tell me where they were sent? The Dalish women and girls? The children?" Ferevale ignored the hand grasping at him.

"Mont-montsimmard," the man burbled, red spittle dripping down his cheek and past his ear. "Th-there's a . . . a market . . . please, make it . . . make it stop."

The Keeper patted the man's hand and then pried it off his robe. "Thank you. That is what I needed to know." He stood and turned, only then noticing Fenris.

"So we are on to Montsimmard then?" The elf motioned to the dying man. "Do we trust him?"

"Yes," Ferevale replied wearily. "To Montsimmard, though gods can only know why. The Grey Wardens and circle there never were friends to the slavers before this season. I do not trust him, but there is little else to go on."

Fenris frowned, but in his heart, he was decided. He would pursue this to the end. "And my help?"

"Still needed, if you will still gift it to us." The Keeper waited, though his eyes said he knew the warrior's answer.

"Then I am with you still," Fenris affirmed.