“BASTARDS!”
This outburst was accompanied by the sound of steel shattering on stone. And while such a combination of noises was certainly loud and certainly violent, it was not necessarily unexpected by those who laboured away by the oppressive heat of the forge fire. The source of the profanity was a tall and well-built man who was in the process of throwing off his protective mitts and kicking angrily at the shards of broken sword steel which now lay at his feet. While the tantrum briefly caught the attention of the other men in the area, it was just as quickly dismissed. They had come to expect that this figure, who usually would walk proudly with the dignity and poise of a soldier, would come to display random acts of anger and vitriol towards inanimate objects. After swiping away the last piece of debris with his foot, the man stood still for several moments, his chest heaving up and down. This seemed to have the opposite effect of calming him, if that was even his intention. His lungs filled again and again with the stiflingly hot forge air, adding fuel to the internal flame that threatened to spill over should any of the labourers around him make any snide remarks or even snide glances. No such remarks or glances were made, nor would they be. The man knew this, though nevertheless invited conflict with his battle-ready posture. Work in the forge carried on as normal.
Realising that this environment would only continue to worsen his mood, the man turned about-face and marched towards the steps leading up into cooler air. When he reached them, however, he did not loudly stomp his way up like some incensed child, but carefully and slowly placed one foot onto each successive step whilst steadying himself on the walls either side with his hands. Such a method of ascension seemed contrary to the venom with which he had just conducted himself, but again was not surprising to those in the forge who saw it. The reason for this sluggish rate of step-climbing was after all the same reason the man mishandled and dropped the newly constructed sword. It was the same reason his once prideful and self-assured demeanour was being replaced by one of bitterness.
The man was going blind.
Not that his state of near-blindness was particularly obvious at first glance, however. His eyes themselves, while red and strained, did not betray the fact that they were almost non-functional. And no other indications came from the rest of the man’s body to imply ill-health, either. Not his well-kempt brown hair; nor his clear olive skin; nor his tall stature; nor his slim frame that nevertheless bore muscle. And yet the man moved with burden. Not a voluntary burden, like the responsibilities he had gladly held as a soldier in the Dayguard, but an insidious burden, thrust upon him by the apparently uncaring hands of fate. The man knew perfectly well, however, that it was not fate’s hands that threw poison into his face. Those hands belonged to the Night-Kin.
Five days ago, on what was supposed to be a routine patrol through a quiet valley in the Amicary Glades, the man and his horse-riding companions were met with something that was certainly not routine. Turning a craggy corner out of the valley onto the long track back home, the band of soldiers were ambushed by a gang of Night-Kin recruits. Such attacks were rare, but not unheard of. Rare because people were not exactly eager to join a reviled band of murderers and marauders like the Night-Kin (named so after the nocturnal raids which first characterised their activity), but those that did join were expected to prove themselves in some perverted act of loyalty. These kinds of initiatory acts could include the theft of armaments, the destruction of crop fields, the arson of isolated outposts, or indeed, ambushes on soldiers. Ambushes were of course the most risky option, but successful attacks did much to earn good stead for the recruits with their fellow Night-Kin reprobates.
Yet the ambush that greeted this particular patrol of Dayguard soldiers was not a typical one. Not one of swords or arrows. Not one of fire or rocks. The attack instead consisted of several pots of hot water being thrown onto the group. Not even scalding water; hot enough maybe to make soup. And the aim of the assailers left much to be desired. One pot was flung far too forcefully, so that the water missed the group entirely. One pot was bungled and dropped down the craggy corner of the valley, soaking only the rocks below. Another was somewhat more accurate, but failed to connect with a mounted soldier and merely with a horse’s rump. The attack, then, should have been considered a failure. Lest for the fact that one soldier, heading up the front of the patrol, happened to look up at exactly the wrong moment. He had a keen ear, and was alerted by hushed whispers which carried on the spring wind. Turning up to see the source of the noise, he was unlucky enough to be square in the firing line of the only recruit competent in this particular form of ambush.
SPLASH!
The soldier was hit directly in the face by a plume of water. It took both him and the rest of his companions several moments to figure out what exactly was happening, and this proved long enough for the assailers to scramble back into the nearby forest that masked their escape. Swords were drawn, defensive formations were assumed, and eyes were attentively scanning the surrounding environment. But the attack was seemingly over before it even began.
Questions were asked of each other.
“Are you hurt?”
“Did you see how many there were?”
“Which way did they go?”
“Was that it?”
Eventually, a conclusion was reached that it was only the soldier at the front of the patrol that had been hit by the water, but there remained disagreements about what exactly should be done about it. Some pushed for a pursuit of the bandits into the woods. Others stated they should simply resume their patrol. The more astute and rational of the soldiers maintained that there was more to the attack than met the eye. Night-Kin raids were not teenage practical jokes, after all, and the assault should be taken seriously. The afflicted soldier was asked repeatedly if he was fine, and his response was at first in the affirmative as he wiped away the moisture with his gloves. But even sitting there in the moments after the attack, he noticed a stinging sensation manifest in his eyes. At first attributable to the unexpected contact with the water, but eventually lively and uncomfortable enough to believe the water may have been laced with something. Being a competent soldier, he made sure to inform his companions of this development, if for no other reason to make sure they avoided any remnants of liquid which lay around them.
The group decided to ride towards the nearest outpost, Gladewatch, to seek medical attention. Such a journey took maybe half an afternoon, and the patrol made good pace, but it was long enough for the severity of the affliction to become more concerning. While the stinging sensation in his eyes subsided, it left in its place a light grey ring around the edges of his sight. Subtle, but noticeable. The soldier continued riding; his years of experience accounting for any reduction of peripheral vision. Yet by the time the group arrived at Gladewatch, this light grey ring had hardened, forming a solid dark perimeter around his eyes. He was rushed to the infirmary, where assessments were made. Various herbal remedies were applied. The nature of the attack was described to the attending nurses. Still the darkness grew. The black perimeter had begun to extend tendrils into the centre of his vision, akin to some aquatic creature writhing its exploratory limbs. The soldier’s anxiety increased. One particularly wisened nurse resignedly stated that the water he was attacked with was probably laced with Caecus Root, a rare plant that was seldom used or sought due to its elusive nature, but that was responsible for a similar affliction the nurse had treated before. The soldier was told that there was nothing to be done, medically speaking, except provide accommodation and offer as much comfort as was possible. Within a week, she said, his sight would most likely be gone. So too would his position in the Dayguard. The other soldiers offered their condolences, but explained that they could not stay with him. They must return home, inform the rest of their garrison about the ambush, and mobilise some kind of counter-attack. Gladewatch would look after him for now, they assured. They left soon after. The soldier remained. And the darkness continued to grow. Around his eyes. Within his soul.
After finishing the last of the stairs, the man resumed a stride of indignation out of the forge area entirely and into the half-cobbled street of Gladewatch. Part lookout, part meeting point, part sanctuary, part repair station- it was a functional, if unremarkable, habitat. The man paid no heed to any of its denizens, though, as he loped towards the infirmary that was serving as his home for the last several days. His bunk was located squarely in the back of this establishment, and this suited the man just fine. There, he was less likely to be accosted by the limp condolences of the nurses or the judging gaze of the poor fools who were also unlucky enough to be receiving care.
Though his lungs were now inhaling spring air that was positively crisp compared to the forge heat, his mood remained at a simmer. No one dared interact with him. Not in the street, nor inside the infirmary he strode into with an ireful aura. His military boots clanked along the cheap wooden floor of its interior. Past the nurses’ station, beyond the rows of evenly spaced bunks in the main hall housing all manner of victims and vagabonds, and into the secluded corner that he had retreated into several times over the last few days.
The forgemaster assured him in moments of spontaneous rage that the man could take a break. He was also insistent that he needn’t work or labour away at all; that his efforts as a Dayguard soldier were greatly appreciated; that the forge’s heat would only irritate his eyes further. But this was outmatched by the afflicted man’s pride, which compelled him to be useful. No amount of pride, though, could refute the fact that his time in the forge was defined less by usefulness and more by pained attempts to navigate around an environment that was becoming increasingly harder to see. Nor could pride provide some kind of miracle cure to expand the narrow tunnel his vision was now reduced to.
Clambering onto his bunk, the man assumed his usual position facing the ceiling. Once in place, he lay motionless. The rest of the day would be spent here, his mind seething with a resentment and bitterness just as malignant as his affliction. This was his routine, until sleep came.
He thought of the vile depraved scum that had made the deliberate choice to find and use a Caecus Root just for the purpose of ruining his life.
He thought of his bully of an older brother, whose incessant insults and abuse growing up motivated him to build his strength and pursue a life of honour and respect in the Dayguard.
He thought of his fellow Dayguard soldiers, whose quick exit out of Gladewatch seemed to render hollow the ideas of loyalty and kinship.
“Bastards.” he whispered, for no one to hear.
The man awoke the next day. His eyes opened, but night’s darkness remained.
