The Face of Duty

“Thank you for bringing me here.” Firin knelt before the patch of bloodstained grass, dark brown eyes trained on the empty cabin a few yards away.

“Y-you’re welcome.” the middle-aged man standing beside him shuddered. “I…need to get back, feed my pigs.”

Firin said nothing, only nodded.

The villagers of Arglas had not witnessed a murder for fifty years; their resident captain of the guard had not bothered to lift his bulk from his seat at the local tavern for a “farmer’s tale.” Decades of livestock blocking the main road, petty squabbles among a couple of neighbors, and false reports of a large beast known to be driven from the region outweighed the aged enforcer’s sense of urgency.

But this… Heart pounding, Firin made his way to the dwelling’s entrance.

He had attempted to convince himself that the pig farmer’s story of a local hunter lying in pieces on the cabin’s floor was nothing but a trick of the dimming evening light. But the wrongness of the account lingered in his mind—the same tension in his gut that struck him every time he saw a spring front’s dark clouds building in the distance.

The cabin door gaped in front of him, beckoning him into the blackness. No lanterns glowed through the windows, and his ears could not pick up the faint chanting of speech-powered light.

Drawing a deep breath, Firin swiped a strand of sweaty, chestnut-brown hair from his face and made his way into the small home.

If it can even be called that.

The building’s only room greeted him, splintery walls lined with thin pelts. A couple of leg hold traps rested on a small table in a nearby corner, metallic jaws stained from months of use.

Firin’s eyes widened at the crimson stains dripping from the overturned chair and soaking into the pine floor. The metallic tang of blood hit his nostrils.

Resisting the urge to gag, he traced a set of red footprints.

“A man doesn’t waver in the face of duty.” His older brother Hevnar’s words echoed in his mind.

Drawing a working knife from his pocket, Firin tiptoed toward the bed.

Never thought I’d be doing this.

Five years had passed since his little sister Mayla had disappeared. Although his entire family had pleaded with the captain of the guard for a search, no investigation ever began. The hasty claim that she had eloped had resulted in Firin’s father rearranging the captain’s nose with his fist.

That moment had destroyed Firin’s desire to become a guard.

Not that they’d take me after that, anyway. Arglas is too small for anyone to forget…especially the guards.

Tightening his grip on his weapon’s handle, he approached the still figure lying among tousled blankets. The sun’s dying light touched its face, revealing a pair of glazed eyes staring upward into nothing. Red splotches covered the man’s linen shirt, and a long gash ran across his throat.

Firin's eyes widened to twice their size at the glint of silver below the corpse’s mortal wound. The amulet that had once belonged to his sister hung around the stranger’s neck.

“Mayla?” His throat tightened, and tears began to blur his vision.

It can’t be. Maybe she did run off with someone—him. Maybe…

His heartbeat quickened at the memory of the last time he had seen his sister.

“That hunter—the one with the scar across his nose—I don’t…” She had shuddered, pale fingers clinging to a basket of fresh eggs ready to be sold. “Please, Firin, can you walk with me to town?”

His reply still haunted the depths of his mind.

“No…” Firin whispered as his gaze fell upon the pink line running across the bridge of the dead hunter’s nose.

In that moment, he knew that he would never see Mayla again.

Hot rage shot through his system, clouding his vision in a thick haze. His fingers tightened around the handle of his knife, and he lifted the weapon upward.

Before he could plunge the blade into the hunter’s cold flesh, his gaze caught the glint of another working knife lodged into the corpse’s chest. A small split in the tip of the handle told him of where Hevnar had been the previous night.

“Had to walk through the woods half the night to find the sow,” the young man had explained. “She was rooting under one of those big trees. I’ll have to buy another knife when I can. I think it fell out of my pocket when I went to catch her.”

Hevnar hadn’t bothered to replace his knife after it had sustained the damage to its handle. He never stopped using a tool until it fell apart in his hands.

Taking a shaky breath, Firin turned away from the dead man.

In a couple of minutes, he would make the walk back into the town. The Captain of the Guard would ask him what he had found, and Firin would give his reply:

“Nothing.”

If you enjoyed this story, read our other fantasy short story about redemption: “For You.”