Serving Lant Agriche

Chapter 11 - What Murder Is Like

Do you know what it's like to kill someone? It is much easier than you think. Power isn't necessary depending on the type of weapon you use. Pulling a trigger on a gun a few times does not require a lot of energy. It only takes training to aim the weapon, breathe, and squeeze.

It is the same concept with knives and daggers. If the weapon is sharp enough and angled properly, it can cut through flesh and carve out bone with minimal strength.

Dion pulled at the safety pin in his smoke grenade with his teeth and threw the grenade over his path. In ten seconds, he was running through the smoke, a dagger in each hand, using his ears more than his eyes to detect human presence.

When fighting a larger opponent with a hand weapon, aim for the chest because it is the largest target, Achilles' tendons if the adversary blocks his chest with his fists. If the head is close enough, gouge the eyes. 

Dion flipped back when someone grabbed him from behind and shifted his centre of mass. He stabbed the man's hips and loins. Felt the grasp on him loosen. Kicked the dead man aside and moved on.

Killing the peasants was easier than training back home. Cutting through soft flesh than armour or wooden targets was child's play. The humans were expressive as well, gasping, laying still, crying, yelling, wet blood marking where Dion had stabbed them.

The village had been sheltered for too long. Since it was in close proximity to the Agriche mansion, the influence of Lant Agriche had protected them from bandits and mercenaries. The men were used to only chasing away an occasional, wild animal.

The sight of a child committing genocide also confused them. The slim boy weaving through the roads with a knife-looking weapon in each hand was surely an apparition.

To the few men who had had experience with a sword, Dion's empty, red eyes made them pause for a crucial second before they were slain. For some reason, the boy seemed more dangerous than the bestial demon who ran beside him.

"Circle the village. Don't let anyone escape," Dion said as he ran.

Wally gave an affirmative shout before veering off towards the other end of the village.

Dion leapt on a wood cart and threw his shoulder at an attic glass window. Shards fell around him as he rolled into the house, bracing himself with his foot before running down the stairs. The wife and two children were huddled on the lone bed, hugging each other tightly. The husband had a pistol in one hand and seemed alarmed that Dion had not gone through the front door or front windows.

The man did not even have a chance to draw a second breath before Dion swooped low and cut his adversary through the abdomen. Dion lifted his dagger, carving a line from stomach to chest. When the man had fallen, Dion retrieved the cheap pistol and opened the chamber.

The husband must have been a peacekeeper, unused to fighting. He had not even lifted the safety catch or cocked the bullet into the firing chamber.

Dion did not like pistols. They were not advanced enough in his world to be more effective than a broadsword yet. To the average gunsman, it was only an effective tool to use when the target was within twenty five metres. Even then, magazines had not been invented yet. Dion counted three bullets. It would take too much time to load the additional ammo that had fallen out the man's pocket.

The woman screamed as Dion came closer, aiming the gun at her. Her rough dialect and distress garbled her tongue. Although they spoke the same language, Dion could not understand anything coming out of her mouth.

The woman in the white apron and peasant dress pushed her children behind her on the bed and shook her head, letting her brown curls fly around her shoulders.

Spare the children, Dion guessed.

He shot her three times in the chest before slipping the pistol in the gap between his belt and the small of his back. He would get rid of the accursed thing later.

The children's cries stopped. Both were girls. The older blond one raised a blanket against her mother's chest as if to staunch the bloody wound. The smaller girl wouldn't take her eyes off Dion. She sucked her thumb as Dion took off his cloak and shook off the broken glass.

He was getting tired. He thought of burning the entire village down and taking a rest, but creating a town-sized bonfire may draw more attention to the toy.

Wally's howl echoed across the village.

Dionopened the front door and continued working.

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Dion sat on the hill near the ghost village and offered some of his dry bread to Wally.

Wally huffed and continued to lay on the ground, its head resting on his dog forearms.

Dion could still see some of the corpses strewn along the roads. He would make sure Wally fed on some of them before they left.

Only the young children and the farm animals had survived the massacre.

Go cry wolf, Dion thought.

He had spared the children.

He was learning that killing everyone wasn't the answer to everything.