39. A Better Man
A Better Man
Fintan
The mines were a place Fintan never wanted to step foot in.
The dark tunnels squeezed the clear air whistling softly outside into thin wisps of oxygen.
The clang of picks and shovels hitting rocks were heard from below.
Rich, moist soil floated onto his skin in layers of dust, stuffing its way up his nose and coating his tongue.
Oiled ropes swung back and forth from rocks latched together in an unsteady bridge.
He gripped the thick, threaded cords and sent a prayer to Morana.
He pushed his breath in and out as he felt the panic of being underneath the mountain.
The open seas, with untamable waves hundreds of feet high, were better liked than the entrapment of walls growing smaller the farther down they traveled.
Rhydar turned his head at Fintan’s uneven breath. “Oi, breathe. We’ll be out of here in no time.”
Fintan nodded.
Steps carved in the side of the mountain led deeper and deeper. The noises grew louder when fires and lanterns began to lighten their path. They peeked out from behind a boulder. The sight crushed what little air Fintan had from his lungs.
Guards shouted at workers who stumbled or fainted under their heavy load, whipping them incessantly if they did not move.
Fintan gripped the hilt of his sword, grinding his teeth until they squeaked.
He had known the whispers and reports of how people were treated underneath the mountain.
He had believed they were thieves and vagabonds, deserving the life they were condemned to.
The sight in front of him was anything but.
Men, women, and children of all ages were leaned over in work.
Some as young as what could have been eight years old, their haunted eyes aged beyond recognition.
Elders with hair that should be white as the snow on the mountain peak were now stained a muddy brown from years in servitude.
“Moliath save their souls,” Rhydar whispered beside him.
They both knew the pains of war. The deaths, the guilt, the physical tearing of their bodies as they pushed to oblivion against all odds.
This was a different pain. This pain was felt in their chest as they coughed up blood and debris.
The pain in their arms from slinging heavy packs of rocks and precious stones onto carts and lifts.
The ache in their backs from the slash of whips riddled with rocks and sharpened bones of the very victims who never left the mountain.
It clung to their skin, flaying them with each crack.
A weak cry came from the left, drawing their attention. An elderly man crumpled underneath his pack.
Fintan froze, feeling the terror from the other slaves as they watched the grandmaster stomp toward the old man.
“On your feet!” The grandmaster bellowed.
The man groaned, trying to steady himself on arms too thin.
“I shan’t ask again.” The grandmaster reached for the whip on his hip. A sneer of disgust raised his cleft lip.
Rhydar laid a strong arm on Fintan’s forearm when his breath hitched at the crack of the whip. “Not yet.” He cast glances around him at the other guards.
There were only fifteen in the clearing.
Yet hundreds of slaves, beaten and starved into silence and hopeless servitude.
Rage, like he had never known, had him seeing stars when he closed his eyes.
The crack of a whip and the yelp of the man jerked through him and his eyes snapped open.
Again and again, until the man’s cry was silenced.
He was inches from entering Moliath’s gates in the afterlife.
“Stop it! Grandfather!” A young boy ran on lean legs, muscled from his lifetime within the mines. “Stop it. You’re killing him, you bastard!” He shoved the grandmaster away, falling to his scraped knees.
“You worthless worm.” Anger cracked the grandmaster’s voice. He angled his whip at the boy and cracked it down, catching him by his arm.
The boy yelped, crawling toward his grandfather, and throwing himself over the old man in protection.
The grandmaster roared with a laughter that would haunt Fintan until his last days. Three guards ran to the boy. They stretched his arms in a cross so his back would receive the full lashing to follow.
“Fuck this.” Fintan moved into action as he pushed off the boulder.
“Fintan,” Rhydar growled in warning.
He didn’t care. Nothing mattered but stopping the murder in front of him. Fintan felt Rhydar’s presence behind him before he split off to deal with the rest of the guards. Fintan charged toward the grandmaster who raised his whip.
He ripped his dagger from his hip and hurtled it across the distance. His aim struck true and sliced through the grandmaster's hand until the hilt was the only thing visible.
A coward’s scream ricocheted from the mountain and the grandmaster dropped to his knees in shock.
The guards dropped the boy and faced Fintan in a stupor which only angered him more.
He was death come alive, slicing the first guard up from ankle to carotid. The mountain shook as Fintan’s magic roared to life. Lightning littered his fingertips as he gripped the second guard by the throat and fried him. He could only distantly hear the shouts beyond where Rhydar fought.
The third guard ran. He shoved through the slaves, pushing them against the rocks, not caring if they stumbled or stood.
Fintan closed his fist, sparks pouring from his ring into a bolt of silver lighting. With a roar, he launched the lighting through the parted crowd, striking through the back of the guard’s neck, and severing his head from his body. He dropped like the very stone the slaves carried.
“You!” The grandmaster’s voice was laced with pain. “You dare attack us?”
Fintan’s ears were ringing from his magic and temper.
The boy he had saved crawled to his grandfather, who had already passed through Moliath’s gates.
“No, no, no,” the boy cried, tears streaming down his sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. “Don’t leave me!”
Fintan’s heart broke. Within his magic a door he had locked years ago ripped open.
He unleashed himself onto the grandmaster in a swarm of fists and blades.
His fist collided with the grandmaster’s nose, then his lips, his head, his throat, his skull.
His vision blurred red by the spray of blood across his face.
Fintan.
He didn’t stop.
“Fintan.” A distant voice.
He would kill this man. He would avenge every man.
Crack.
Woman.
Slash.
Child.
Crunch.
Every. Single. One.
“Fintan! Stop, he’s dead!” Rhydar shouted.
He had already lost control. His magic wrapped around him and the grandmaster in an orb of silver and lighting, blocking Rhydar out. His fists went through blood and bones straight to the rocks underneath them. Everything raged, everything singed, everything blurred.
Fintan let out a roar which shook the ground.
He had locked this part of himself away.
The warrior who had brought kingdoms to the ground for the King of Arkan.
The man who was the right hand to Kaiden Valencia.
He had promised himself never again. But the door had burst open and every secret, every temptation to return to the darkness keeping his daemons at bay clung to his magic and erupted around him.
A dark figure ran toward him and Fintan prayed Rhydar wasn’t stupid enough to try and fight with his magic.
Fintan tried to warn him but his lips were clenched tightly, muscles spazzing as he fought to unlock his jaw. Power matching his own emerged. A man identical to Fintan with graying edges and thirty more years of wisdom walked through his orb.
“Fintan Aariv,” his father commanded. “Control yourself.”
F-f-father? He shook his head, still unable to manage words.
“Yes, you can.” Byron placed a glowing hand on Fintan’s chest. “Just like you did as a young child.” Byron took a deep breath and breathed out. “Close your eyes, think of home.”
Fintan’s heart slowed at his father’s touch. His hands uncurled and he flexed them outwards as if touching the marram grass surrounding their summer estate. The roaring of the ocean as it broke on the white shores. His lighting flickered out.
“There you go,” Byron’s voice was soft and filled with understanding.
He had inherited his father’s magic, but it seemed like Byron never lost control.
Never once turned into a monster. Why was he so much better at being an Aariv than Fintan was?
He leaned into his father. The familiar smell of leather-bound books, warm candlelight, and the slight scent of his mother’s oil filled his senses.
Home. His magic sputtered and swirled into his potent ring, quieting his daemons who crept back behind the red door of his mind.
His vision cleared and he blanched at the sight in front of him.
What was left of the grandmaster was splattered across the rocks.
Fintan was covered with remnants of the terrible man.
Droplets of blood streamed into pools at his knees.
His father paid no mind and cradled Fintan’s head.
Tears burned behind Fintan’s eyes. Shame made him bow his head into his father’s chest as he wept.
Slaves gave them a wide berth as Rhydar directed them to the stairs. Ropes and lifts would lead them to the first breath of fresh air many had had in years.
Fintan met Rhydar’s quick glance. The tears of shame clouded his gaze, but he saw Rhydar nod with acceptance and support.
He pushed off his father. “What are you doing here?”
Byron’s face crinkled into the wide, warm smile Fintan had known his entire life.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Fintan scoffed, looking around. “What do you think?”
Byron’s gaze darted around, purposefully looking away from the remnants of the grandmaster.
“Father?”
“Let’s get you cleaned up first.” Byron gripped Fintan underneath his arms, pulling him up.