"If God had a sword, it would be made of helienum."

Anonymous quote.

In the end there were five who wore the hunter's leather doublet. Five hunters gathered at the bow of the ship, under the light of the stars that twinkled clear in the sky and diffuse in the smooth black waters of the central sea.

The tallest was also the thinnest, with a sharp oblong face, a hooked nose, a mouth as straight as the horizon line and not a single scar on his face. A rookie. To his left, with his legs crossed and his butt resting on his ankles, a bald, clear–eyed man with a stern look.

Continuing on the same side: a toasted man. The son of some Mohadi slave, the fruit of the endless war between the Sand Empire and the little kings of the Thousand Kingdoms. You could guess by his dark complexion like cocoa. A wise decision to run for hunter. At least this way he could earn the respect of his fellows for his merits. The only color that mattered among hunters was blood, and as far as Derren knew, it was red. Everyone's.

Derren closed the circle, leaning against the teak planks. Behind, standing and leaning against the varnished wood of the gunwale, was she. The only woman on board. The same hunter's doublet, girded by the same belt but with a different buckle. The buckle was crucial for those of her line, a sign of identity and reputation. The woman's buckle showed a cobra with empty eyes and a forked tongue: the kingdom of Serpentia, the largest and most powerful of the Thousand Kingdoms.

That buckle placed her as the best hunter of the five. All the kingdoms had the same number of hunters. Five. The rules were very strict. In the smaller territories, it was an attainable status, for the smaller the population, the greater the chance of gaining and keeping the position. In Serpentia, every year there were numerous aspirants who put their lives on the line to reach the honorary title of hunter.

Derren watched her stealthily through the mirrored edge of the axe the taller hunter held in his lap. He had never seen such an axe before. He thought how disconcerting it must be to see himself reflected in his rival's weapon in the midst of battle.

“Do you like it?” asked the wiry giant, raising his weapon. “It's a very particular type of steel. It comes from Dareniel as far as I've been able to find out. I took it off a corpse in Blue Forest, just two weeks ago.”

“Dareniel?” the bald–headed man spat aggressively. “Nothing good can come from those soft fucks who hunt on horseback.”

The toasted man nodded, implying that he felt the same way about the northerners. The lanky big man burst into loud laughter.

“They may not know how to hunt, my friend, but they export weapons everywhere. They reach the farthest corners of the world, even to the very islands of the rim. The steel is undoubtedly good.”

“How do you know that?” asked the toasted man.

“I have traveled. There are not only monsters in the Thousand Kingdoms.”

“Yes, you may have traveled, because you certainly don't look like you've done much hunting," the bald man said, with an accusatory edge to his voice. “You're not fooling anyone with your pretty face.”

“On the contrary, my friend, the best hunters are able to keep an uncut face, much to the delight of women.”

Derren couldn't quite agree with that. Not if he trusted the descriptions of legendary men like Kark the Grinning, because of the gashes on both sides of his mouth; Foki the Deaf, who had been left with a pair of holes for ears; or Borot the Striped, because of the three scars that ran diagonally across his face, from his temple to his chin, passing through his left eye, which he miraculously preserved.

He heard a faint chuckle from behind him that the others did not catch. The woman didn't seem to believe it either, which comforted him in his opinion. Although he didn't always get it right, he was good at judging people at first glance, and he was sure this guy hadn't hunted any monsters in his life. Maybe the occasional wild wolf, at best. But a wolf is a wolf, and a monster is a monster. No doubt the big guy would make a tasty snack for the dragonfly.

Derren woke up right there, sprawled out on his back. He rubbed his eyes to get rid of the eyelashes and looked around. The bald man snored like a wild boar, the toasted one slept peacefully, occasionally expelling discreet flatulence like a groundhog, and the haughty big guy had disappeared. The dawn was just beginning to swirl the waves with its orange beams. What struck him most was the sight of the coast on both sides. They were already in the narrow part of the sea. It would not be long now.

After clearing himself in the pleasant morning breeze, he fetched a line which he strapped to his belt to hang from the stern and unsheathed his catana. The gray–green blade glinted in the morning light and the engraved symbol on the guard flashed faintly. He heard a splash just off to the side and watched the circular ripples in the sea fade away. The next one would be his.

With his feet anchored perpendicular to the keel, the line pulled taut and his right arm poised above the water, Derren kept his eyes and ears wide open. He heard more splashes, but all far away. Patience. Not much, though.

The mackerels jumped frequently, probably frightened by the passing boat. The first one was spotted as soon as it stuck its head out of the water. The blade pierced its back and the fish was trapped, giving its last flaps in the air before suffocating to death. But it wasn't over yet. With the catch skewered, Derren continued to lie in wait, swinging the catana with astonishing speed and collecting unlucky mackerels.

He untied the knot and laid the five pieces on a cloth that was dyed red as they bled. He wiped the catana with the edge of the same cloth and fresh water from his wineskin.

“Is it helienum?” –asked a female voice behind him.

It was her, how the hell had she been able to get so close without him noticing? Derren turned, holstering the weapon in the scabbard hanging on his back. He nodded.

“Helienum, yes.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I inherited it from my father.”

“Those mackerels are not worthy of such a blade... I've been looking for helienum for several years, there doesn't seem to be a single gram left in the Thousand Kingdoms," the woman looked fleetingly down at her buckle. “Green Fangs... So you're playing at home. Have you ever heard of that dragonfly?”

Her voice had a syrupy tone. She carried a quiver on his back and the bowstring crossed her chest. Her eyes were green as the meadows of Endas and her hair was a curtain of tangled straw that fell gracefully over her shoulders. She was neither tall nor muscular, but something in her face reflected an air of menace.

Derren shook his head as he watched the others, who had already awakened, appear. The big guy pressed his lips together and let out a whistle of mock admiration.

“Wow! See them! And good pieces too! I can't wait to share that feast when we disembark around the campfire tonight! Or are they for the Fur Tournament?”

“Share the hunt? Are you crazy? What the fuck do they teach you in your fucking kingdom?” the bald man asked almost angrily.

“What's he hunting? Do you see that he's caught anything? It's fish! Five measly minnows, he won't get half a penny for that.”

“Green Fangs pays well for fresh fish," Derren knew he could get between eight pennies and a shield. He shrugged and then pointed to the line still knotted in the mooring. “I share the sea, not the fishing. If you want, there are still mackerels jumping over there.”

The bald man and the toasted one smiled in delight at the hunter's response. Derren imagined the lanky braggart trying to fish for mackerels with his heavy mirrored steel axe from Dareniel. It would be an amusing scene, no doubt. Contained laughter arched his lips as the alluded one gave him a rude grimace.

“Bunch of bastards, I'll tell you what you're going to share… the dragonfly's fangs!”

And off he went, tamping the wood of the deck that creaked under his boots.