Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

36 | The Killer of Uncertainty

Archer crept along the halls. He needed to find Silta; he had no clue what to say to her or how to get to her, but he knew he had to find her somehow. He had no plan to implement, but then again, Silta had been the one to tell him to plan less and experience more.

He didn't feel like he was experiencing anything as of now. This was not something he'd look back on in a few years with a glow of fondness. This night would live in his dreams. Racing through these silent castle halls, fighting the stench of death as he aimlessly searched for someone he didn't even have the words to convince.

As someone searched for him.

He couldn't stop looking behind him. The halls were dark and every blind corner sent his heartbeat sprawling. He was beginning to walk sideways, so terrified of leaving his back to the open space.

He rounded another dark corner, his breathing sporadic and rapid. He needed to calm down. He was too on edge. Too jumpy. He needed to calm down.

He was so focused on his back that he didn't even think to look down. His foot hit it first, and he tripped right after, landing hard on his palms in some sort of puddle. He scrambled back, trying to get to his feet as he slipped again.

Nausea began building in his stomach. It was dark in that hallway, but he could smell it. The air tasted of iron, and the floor was slick with dark, fresh blood.

He froze, curled into the wall there on the floor. He hadn't tripped on a puddle or a gun. He'd tripped on a body. A blonde-haired, kind-eyed boy he'd once called a friend.

The blood dripped from Archer's hands as he held them out in front of him. It was on his arms where he'd braced his fall, stained on the knees of his pants, covering his boots.

He let out a low sob, lips quivering as he rested his head on the wall behind him. That loud, noisy bullet that echoed down these halls, resting there in Denver's forehead.

Nausea boiled up again, uncontrollable and persistent. Bardarian had done this. He'd forced Denver to take on too much, gave him reason to fear for his life if he wasn't good enough. Britter and Silta had done this. They put him on this team, knowing this might happen. They used his lesser skill to their advantage. Denver had done this to himself. He let his pride get in the way of reason. He went off on his own to prove something he had no business proving.

And Archer had done this, too. He'd let him wander off, let him run to his death.

So in the end, everyone helped kill Denver a little.

Shaking down to his core, he carefully got off the floor, ignoring the tap tap tap of blood dripping from his hands. He could not think about this. If he thought about this, then he'd start thinking of the people he'd killed tonight, the ones who had friends and family and children and lives. If he went that far, he'd never go back.

He stepped over the body and the blood. He ignored the wet feeling, the drip drip drip as he walked away from his dead friend. No thinking. No thinking. Just move on.

In front of him, the wall gave way to a railing. Below it was some sort of ballroom, the floors dark and musty, the air stale and stagnant. He couldn't see all the way down, but he could almost see something, maybe if he got a better angle.

He was wrenched back, his throat closing. He went to spin around, to see what was happening, but he was pushed forward again, into the railing.

"Evening, lad. You're a hard man to find." The voice was calm, but it reeked of rum.

Archer was being choked from behind, his entire body held in place by somebody much bigger and stronger.

"I don't normally kill like this," Bardarian said effortlessly, like choking a man to death did not strain him. "It's not exactly honourable, coming from behind, not giving you a chance."