The Mortal Soulbinder (Severed Gods, #1)

Chapter IV: Maor

Maor

Cursing, Maor stumbled through the woods with no thought of where he was going. Branches reached out to him from all corners, tugging on his black cloak like long fingers. The darkness stretched around him, as he bolted ahead with legs spraying showers of mud behind him as if to bury the thing that he had left behind-- no not a thing, a person. He had left a person, a human being, to bleed and die. What was he becoming? No, he couldn't think about that, he couldn't... But what would his father say? A surge of horror stabbed him at the thought of his father. Shaking his head aggressively, in an attempt to disregard the horror, Maor continued running in no particular direction. It doesn't matter where I go, he thought, just as long as I get far away from here, far away...

But he couldn't. He knew that they would find him. They always did, no matter where he ran to or hid. They would seek me out and skin me alive if I were lucky. But If I go to them, they will learn that I didn't do all that they asked. Lord Verbyn's face swam up before him as Maor pushed himself through the leaves of a willow, the white petals catching in his eyes. He rubbed at them fiercely, but this did nothing to conceal Barikard's face before him. Eyes as sharp as the dagger that had cut him, he looked at Maor dispassionately; it was almost as if he were expecting Maor to do that. Of course, he expected you to do that, he heard his father's voice roar. He knew you weren't the real messenger, he could see through you, just as I can...

He halted, not knowing where he was. He looked down to see blood leaking from his finger, the red flower reminding him of his failure. Lord Verbyn had managed to cut him before he fled, though it seemed it had been deeper than he had thought. Wincing, he felt his neck, feeling the ribbon of pain that was wrapped around it, also reminding him of his failure when Lord Verbyn had pressed a dagger to his throat. He should have just killed me there and then. The Lord was right to be suspicious.

A howl in the distance tormented his attention and he disregarded his wound, pressing forwards. Ravens circled ahead, their wings merging into the midnight sky, with their quarks being carried far into the forest like a deafening signal. Ahead, the moonlight filtered through the trees, cascading down onto the ripples of water.

In front of him loomed the River of Justice. A dark and cruel place that was said to be haunted by those who had met with the water's justice. It ran through the woods, weaving through the trees like a spider's legs, the murky water as black as night. It was said to be over a thousand foot deep, but no one had lived to tell if it was true - many had attempted it, nonetheless, and the death-riddled waters evaporated their stench from below, making this area of the forest stink of death.

Walking towards it, Maor covered his nose with his woollen shawl, being careful not to touch the lapping waves. He turned his head to one side. He had left Halfdan near this river -- had Barikard even found that letter?

If he travelled up north along the river, he could reach the messenger and finish off what he had been ordered to do, before they found out. But that would mean he would have to walk through the entire night, relying only on the moon to light his way. He turned towards the south. This is where haven rested - or what was left of it. He could seek safety there, for a time, at least. He didn't know what to do. Shivering, Maor stood staring into the water, hoping that the silence would decide for him.

"There you are," a gruff voice spoke in his ear. A sharp coldness nestled under his chin as a knife was slid onto his neck. It stung.

Ragged, coarse breath wheezed in his ear and a foul stench entered his nostrils as Maor was dragged away from the water, underneath the shade of the trees. "I've been waiting for you."

Maor struggled against the figure who had locked him in a tight grip. He rocked furiously from side to side, hand grasping the dagger. Coarse laughter was made beside him. "You won't get away from me so easily, not this time."

"P-please, Lard--"

Shrieking, Maor was pushed forwards, straight into the bark of a tree. "Did you do it?" Lard asked, grabbing Maor's collar. "Did you?"

Trying to hide his fear, Maor looked up at the hooded man impassively, face made of stone. He nodded.

Lard, on the other hand, was not as skilled at concealing his emotions. He stared at Maor, surprise brimming in his eyes. He laughed, clapping him on his back. "Hah! I never expected you to actually do it. I half expected you to bail and for me to call the Black Brother's." His smirk revealed rotted teeth poking through cracked lips, stained with purple and blue. "Did you give him the letter? Did he believe it was actually from the king?"

"A-aye, I gave it to him. He had received it 'fore. But... but he believed me, anyway," he took the royal insignia out of his pocket, inspecting it closely. "Thanks to this."

Nodding, Lard snatched the coin out of Maor's hand, flicking it into the air and catching it in the other hand. "You say he had received the letter already?"

"A-aye."

Lard scratched his filthy, coal-black beard. "Hmm, I thought we had intercepted the letter. Clearly, somebody betrayed us. We need to find out who." His smile was an evil one. "We'll have to do something about that..." He paused, suddenly remembering. "Did you take care of that other scum?"

He means Halfdan. Maor could see the slumped body where he had left it, nestled beside the river, being concealed by the water's black waves. Maor had seen the bubbles rise to the surface. Halfdan had been alive then, but what about now...?

Smiling along with Lard, Maor nodded. He could feel the fine sheen of sweat drip on his forehead, and he quickly wiped it away when the man's eyes gazed over the distant horizon skimming along the water. He sighed, running a hand through his soaked hair. "Well..." he edged backwards, smiling. "I-I best be off. Uhh, don't want to wait around for the Black Brother's now, do we? Farewell, Lard."

But before Maor could walk away, Lard's fingers dug into Maor's arm and he pulled him back, breath steaming onto his face. His eyes burned like coal underneath the shadow of his hood. "Not so fast, boy. I need proof that you have done what you have said. You know what we do to traitors, don't you, Maor?"

Swallowing involuntarily, Maor's posture withered underneath Lard's strong grasp, fright making the adrenaline surge through his blood like wildfire, burning away his senses. All he could see what the burned brother, skin so charred it was falling off the bone like thin leather straps. "Pr-proof?"

Lard pulled him closer. His fingernails dug into his skin, drawing the thin trickle of blood. It felt cold against the midnight air. "Aye, proof, that's what I said. Did you think you could get away this easily, eh?" His breath was putrid. Grimacing, Maor tried to look away but Lard's dirty fingers forced him to look ahead into his eyes. The bile was on the tip of his tongue. "You give us what we agreed, then you'll be free to go."

"Wh-what... what we agreed?"

Lard shook the boy, so forcefully that his teeth chattered. "You give us his head. Or we have yours."