The Bloodbreaker

Chapter 1: Unchained may we be

Half a year in a cell, surrounded by festering walls, breathing moist air, should have broken anyone. Victor had refused to, even as his spine had slowly warped. He found shelter in memories that smelled much like the grapevines from his youth.

Muffled voices seeped through the blue-veined mountain rock. There was a yell, followed by the wooden clack of a chair. Then only a strange thrumming remained that had been nagging him for hours now.

His shackles bit into his wrists with warm familiarity as a heavy chain forced him into a permanent crouch. He stretched his aching left arm to the anchor, providing the leeway to relieve himself with his right hand.

A sickly sweet tang arose from the stone gutter.

Locking him up had changed nothing, he mused. Noble blood would keep spilling, even without him. He kept telling himself it had been worth it.

Heavy locks snapped him out of his thoughts. The door creaked open while Victor fought the short slack of chain and pulled up his breeches.

“I hate it when you do that,” he said, attempting to quickly button himself.

“So you keep telling me.” Tick entered the small mountain-carved space. “But I won't waste my time waiting for you to finish your piss.” He went on to inspect the bolted wall ring that secured the single chain ending in Victor’s shackles.

“Decorum is what separates us from animals,” said Victor as he slumped his backbone against the stone and sat down. He laid his hands on his upper legs.

“I don’t have anything to prove,” the guard sneered. “You know why? Because I’m not the one chained to that wall.”

“A chain does not an animal make.”

The old jailor barked a laugh as he plucked his mustache. “Even when you rot, you argue. Your mouth will surely outlive you.” He tapped the star emblem on his uniform. “They don’t pay me enough to suffer your talk. Not even close. You still want your bread, no?”

“Gladly. If it proves less stale than your wit.”

Tick reached out.

His skeleton was riddled with weak spots: ribs, nose and most parts of his throat. They were laid out clear as a map. Notably close right now was Tick's wrist. Victor could probably break it, using what slack his chain provided.

He pushed away the thought.

“Much appreciated.” Something vile crunched between Victor’s teeth. He forced it down. “You know what they call me?”

The jailor hesitated. “I do.”

“Many people do. And yet—” He looked up and frowned mockingly. “Your name is still completely unknown to me. I suppose I will have to keep calling you Tick.”

Tick’s mouth twisted. “You think you’re so much better? You have a long way left. A damn long way before you get to crawl out of the hole you’re in.” He looked down at Victor. “I bet you won’t ask the Lord’s wife and children for their forgiveness any time soon.”

“Forgiveness?” Victor echoed. “I have no need for absolution.” He slowly chewed on the remaining piece of bread. “I am no better than any of them. Just… less evil.” He slightly tilted his head. “I killed for the common people. For their freedom to dream their little dreams. People much like yourself.”

Tick delivered a hard backhanded slap. It hit his right cheek and part of his mouth, echoing against the damp mountain rock. Victor didn’t flinch. He simply licked his split lip afterwards. It tasted sweet. His cheekbone burned, but it burned like a small victory.

“Such a smug bastard.” Tick’s hand tightened around his sword hilt. “Must be nice when nothing gets to you.”

Victor spat red onto the floor. “Your foul manners do.”

There was no witty reply. Not even another violent outburst.

Instead, Tick produced a small, shiny object from his pocket. Victor recognized the blue immediately. He struggled to find words.

“Is that—"

“Oh yes.” Tick’s face broadened into a smirk. “Where’s that sharp tongue of yours?” He carelessly stepped forward, ring between two fingers, its sapphire sparkling weakly. “That’s hers, is it not?”

Her ring, bare in his filthy hands.

Victor's self-control evaporated. He crashed his skull into the guard’s guts with a meaty thud. Almost immediately the chain yanked him back—slamming his body against the floor like a sack of coal.

The guard hit the stone ass-first, sword clanging. He lay down on his back, both arms wrapped around his gut, desperately wheezing for air.

The attack had left Victor’s knee twisted. He winced as he tried to straighten his right leg, punished by his burning sinews. Watching Tick flap around like a fool helped. More than a little.

After a minute the jailor found his breath again. He slowly sat up straight. Every breath he drew came with a little squeak.

His watered-down blue eyes first focused on Victor, before turning cold. “Well now,” he said, wiping his gray uniform as he stood up again. “There you are.” Seething with anticipation, he presented the silver in the palm of his hand. “Not so civilized after all, are we?”

Victor’s muscles tightened. His throat closed.

He could see Vivia in the blue gem, her nose buried deep in a book. Anyone stupid enough to disturb her would feel her wrath. The Gods knew how he longed for that raw scorn. How he still smelled the lavender soap on her skin.

It had been a year, right? Close to forever since he had seen her.

He looked away from the stone, focusing on his cuffed wrists. Bleeding lines ran where the metal had shaved him. “I am no animal,” he declared. “I do not perform tricks.”

Tick just stood there. Slowly the gleam in his eye died. He flaunted the ring, then pocketed it in resignation. “The mighty Bloodbreaker,” he snarled. “What a joke.”

Victor didn’t reply immediately. When he did, his voice was dry with certainty. “Cruel, is it not? For me to rot in here and for you to die a bitter and lonely man. The joke is on both of us.”

For a while, Tick observed Victor, seemingly lost in thoughts. Then he started talking again. “I used to be… young.” He paused, then gestured around. “Now I’m stuck in here. You know what the worst thing is? Feeding the infamous Bloodbreaker, the mighty Ender of Bloodlines, is the biggest achievement of my whole damn year.” The jailor went silent.

His confession floated between them.

“I… much appreciate it.” Victor turned to the floor. He noticed the water on the flagstones was shivering. The thrum was becoming something else. It almost made sense. Almost. He squinted into the hallway beyond Tick. “That noise—what is happening?”

The guard pulled himself out of whatever memory had trapped him. “You don’t know?” No glee this time. No taunting. Only genuine surprise. “They’ve been closing in for days.”

“What do you—are they here?”

“Close by. And clearly coming for you.” Tick looked at the bolted wall ring. “Which puts you and me in this unfortunate position.”

Victor drew a breath so thick he almost tasted it. “Killing the Bloodbreaker might just be your biggest achievement yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Tick grinned. “I’ve fucked Tallie Finnson. Twice. You’re a distant third.”

Victor laughed and he kept laughing, his eyes wet with joy. When he was finally done, he closed his mouth again.

Both men kept quiet. Only the strange sound remained.

Not just one sound, Victor realized, but many of them. Hundreds and hundreds of people, thousands perhaps, moving in unison. Swelling drums, each beat more confident than the last, driving the thrumming march of the rebel army.

For Freedom. Unchained may we be. The lines from all those years ago. Maybe they still held true.

Tick shook his head. Not in disbelief, but something close to acceptance. Without looking he reached for his hip and unhooked a little flask. It released a sting of alcohol as it opened. Brown liquid ran down his chin and dripped steadily on his boot. He delved into his pocket and took something out.

It was a crude piece of near-black metal. He held it loosely, gazing way beyond.

“Funniest thing,” he said slowly. “I imagined this moment many, many times. You begging and me acting all high and mighty.” He let out a chuckle. Then it died away. “This feels nothing like it.”

His shoulders slumped. The flask slid back under the long tails of his uniform. He had never been big, but right now he somehow looked even smaller. Faded blue eyes drifted around, unable to grab hold. “Guess… this is it,” he said, uttering the words almost like a question.

Victor looked up. Tick smiled wearily. He leaned over and pressed two items into Victor’s withered hand: a crude key and a silver ring.

A single nod. Then he left. Headed for his likely death without even slowing his pace. Just… gone.

Half-expecting him to return, Victor stared at the open door.

Then the key escaped his stiff fingers. He cursed, eyes frantically darting over the floor. There it was, next to his left foot. Awkwardly he bent over, squeezing the most out of every centimeter the chain gave him, until he was finally able to hook the dark metal. He tried slotting it into the heavy shackle with his unwilling fingers. When the iron sprang open, a strong tingling crawled up from his wrist, through the rest of his hand and to the tip of every single digit.

He freed his other hand.

Without the chain, the weight, the familiar embrace, Victor felt way too thin. Like he would simply drift away. It took him a moment. Then he tried to stand. His crooked back and busted knee screamed so loudly that he sat down again.

“Get up,” he whispered. “Put your miserable back against the rock and push yourself up.”

Sharp pieces of rock gnawed into his thin shirt to leave drawn out marks. He kept pushing himself, battling gravity and his own body at the same time.

Somehow he stood straight. He even moved forward.

His bare feet dragged through the grit and damp mold. Until his right hand touched the open cell door. The splintered wood was so much softer than the metal or stone had been.

He stood still, listening. Then he shuffled into the hallway, catching a cold draft against his toes. No reason to look back at the rank shithole he had left. One question surfaced through his many pains and grievances. Would Tick make it out? Victor caught himself hoping so. Hard not to, when the man had gifted him his freedom only a few minutes before.

Every step hurt like nothing before; his spine was set ablaze and his knee only barely held together. Victor ground his teeth, leaning heavily on his fist, holding the key and Vivia’s ring. The corridor smelled of her, with a note of sweet lavender. He raised his head. Gradually, the flowery echo faded into the earthy scent of burning tallow. Then the last hint of her had gone.

There was a sharp bend, looming behind two sputtering sconces. Last time around he’d been choking on a burlap sack, so he had no inkling what it might be hiding. He dragged himself around the blueish rock, away from the darkness of his cell. Straight into the twilight ahead.

You want to learn a little more about this story? Feel free to read my (Dutch) blog post Mijn eerste vier werken.