Sin and Soil

by Anya Merchant

  “Is that…?” The largest of the men, who also happened to be their leader, made a show of squinting at him. “I suppose it is. Damon Al-Kendras. Good of you to make such a timely appearance.”

  Damon nodded, recognizing the man as much from his face as from the hulking, rusted iron war hammer hanging across his shoulders. “Gavel. I was told you were asking around for me.”

  Gavel had earned his nickname in a rather basic fashion. When he got angry, he liked to emphasize his point by slamming his hammer down on nearby objects, usually with destructive results. He didn’t look angry to Damon, but that wasn’t as much of a relief as it should have been.

  “Need another payment on your old pa’s debt,” said Gavel. “You gots to pay the extra, the uh… What’s the word again?”

  “Interest,” said one of his lackeys.

  “Interest!” said Gavel. “Yes. You gots to take interest in the extra on the amount.”

  Damon tried to make his expression as considerate and placating as possible. “I’m here, and I have a payment, but not on the interest. We’ve talked about this before, Gavel. I’ve only committed to paying the base amount of what my father owed you. That’s all you’ll get.”

  A slow, ugly grin took hold on Gavel’s face. “We have talked abouts it before. That’s true. What’s also true is, unlike before, we now know where your people are, Damon Al-Kendras. The farm with your, uh… Rovahn’s balls, what’s the word again?”

  “His aesta,” said one of the men. “It’s like godmother or some such.”

  “Aesta!” boomed Gavel. “That’s right. Now, you wouldn’t want to see us go to collect your debt from her instead, would you? ‘Specially if she can’t be paying. Might not end so well.”

  Damon hesitated, stopping himself from pointing out that Malon was one of the most capable and dangerous women he’d ever met. It was beside the point, and it would make little difference if they did manage to get the drop on her at night, or on one of her visits into town.

  “I don’t take kindly to threats, Gavel,” he said. “I have money to pay down the base amount. If you want that money, you’ll need to take it on my terms.”

  He let his fingers dance across the hilt of his wrathblade. For a moment, it looked as though Gavel might concede to his terms. He sucked in a breath as he saw the big man draw his war hammer.

  “I think instead I’ll just take the money, and keep my own terms,” said Gavel. “You should have taken the extra, uh…”

  “Interest,” said one of his men.

  “Yes,” said Gavel. “This is a lesson of what happens when you ain’t interested in your debts.”

  Damon drew his wrathblade in a smooth motion, falling into a guard stance. Gavel was in front of his men, but he took a step back, conceding his spot to a pair of men who could fight side by side more easily.

  The one on the left had a fishing hook on a broken wooden pole, like a poor man’s scythe. The one on the right had a thin claymore which he held in a manner that suggested he was familiar with at least the basics of wielding it.

  Though the shows the Damon put on with his fellow gladiators were often staged, there was nothing fake about his skill with a sword. He’d trained with every duelist who’d take students during his early years in Vernidan’s Curve, and for the last two, he’d been good enough to give lessons of his own.

  He spun into a feint in the direction of the man with the claymore, forcing him to take a step back. The other one slashed with his fishing hook and no subtlety. Damon caught the hook portion of the weapon with the guard of his wrath blade, the rusty tip missing his hand by mere inches, and then twisted, separating the makeshift weapon from its wielder.

  He managed a quick reverse slash intended to wound, rather than kill, and was only just quick enough to get his sword back up in time to block an overhead strike from the man with the claymore. Another member of the Dockside Lads moved to take the place of the wounded man, short sword already drawn.

  Damon parried another claymore strike, kicked the man in the knee, and then delivered a quick slash to his wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon. He hopped back, dodging the initial stab of the man with the short sword and countering.

  It was a mistake, but one that was unavoidable when up against multiple opponents. Gavel entered the fray in the same instant Damon struck out against the short sword wielder. The war hammer was a blur in his periphery, and Damon frantically threw himself sideways, giving the weapon the respect it deserved. A single hit from that and the fight would be over.

  He tried to circle sideways, and only then realized he’d made a second mistake. A blow landed on the back of his head, not from the war hammer, but a smaller, wooden club. The Dockside Lads had held one of their members back, ready to ambush him from behind. He’d assumed he’d kept them all to his front, and he’d been wrong.

  He covered his head as he went down, expecting the hailstorm of kicks to the ribs, shoulders, and skull that arrived in earnest an instant later. One of his ribs screamed in pain as an iron toed boot ricocheted off comparatively soft bone. Gavel laughed, enjoying his pain.

  “I be thinking I want some collateral on top of what we already have,” he said. “And that’s one nice looking sword.”

  “No!” Damon still had it gripped in his right hand. He tried to throw his left onto the hilt for more insurance, but one of the men stomped on his wrist.

  He felt Gavel prying his fingers back with brutal strength, chuckling cruelly as he worked.

  “Quit making this such a struggle,” said Gavel.

  Pain exploded through Damon’s index finger as the leader of the Dockside Boys snapped it sideways, breaking it at a horrific angle. He screamed. He couldn’t help it.

  He threw his head backward in a useless attempt to headbutt, or maybe to escape. The wrathblade left his grip, and the ornate scabbard was stripped from his waist in the moments after, soon joined by the purse of fifteen silver sables he’d just been given by Len.

  “That should do,” said Gavel. “Can’t be ruining him too badly. He still needs to pay. You will be paying us, won’t you, Damon Al-Kendras? You’ll pay us, and your pretty little aesta gets left alone, and everyone’s happy. See how that works?”

  Another kick slammed into his ribs. Damon would have tried to shield himself from it, but his broken finger was now taking priority over the rest of his body. Someone spat on the back of his neck, a gesture which the others soon joined in on, until a brief squall of saliva and nastiness was raining down on his face and clothing.

  The Dockside Lads laughed as they made their way back into their hideout. Damon twitched with rage as he slowly pulled himself up, cradled his finger, and headed back to the inn.

  CHAPTER 6

  “True Divine, Damon! What in blazes did you get yourself into?”

  Austine was the first of the troupe to greet him as he entered the common room and immediately pulled him down into a chair, wincing with concern as he saw the broken finger.

  “Nothing that I wasn’t already deep in,” muttered Damon.

  “Your wrathblade…” Austine shook his head as looked toward where Damon’s scabbard should have been. “They took it?”

  He could only manage a small nod in reply. The wrathblade had been his most prized possession by far, and even just acknowledging its loss was painful, let alone dwelling on it. He would likely never see the weapon again, but it still wasn’t his primary concern, at that moment.

  “I have to leave, Aust,” he said.

  “What?” snapped Austine. “Damon, we’ll go with you and make this right. The twins are always down for a brawl. Len will stay out of it, but whoever did this will pay for it. You needn’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried for myself,” he said. “I need to warn my aesta. There’s no telling what might happen if I don’t.”

  Len had come downstairs and immediately begun fussing over Damon’s finger. He had the bartender bring him a basic bandage, splint, and gestured for Damo
n to brace himself.

  “This is going to hurt,” said Len. “Ready?”

  Damon nodded. He hissed through his teeth as Len pulled the finger straight and quickly bound it back in place. It hurt like nothing he’d felt before, and it would hinder his ability to use a sword with his right hand at full strength for a good while. Regardless, he still felt as though he’d gotten off easy, knowing Gavel’s volatile temperament.

  Part of the reason why he’d been so careful about keeping Malon and the others at a distance was because of this very circumstance. The people his father had owed money to didn’t have qualms about threatening or attacking women.

  He’d left Malon’s lake farm at thirteen as much out of his desire to follow in the footsteps of the prouder side of Danio’s legacy as to protect her, or at the very least, to keep her from needing to protect him.

  “I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” said Damon. “I can’t leave Malon alone if the Dockside Lads are serious about their threat.”

  “You really care about her, don’t you?” said Austine. “You talk about her so rarely. I thought the two of you had become estranged.”

  “Only by time and distance.” Damon shrugged. “She wrote to me, but even writing back felt dangerous. The couriers sell information just as freely as anyone, especially those that risk the journey up north.”

  “Here.” Len had disappeared back upstairs and returned with one of their blunted prop swords. “You’ll need to sharpen it before its useful for more than making threats, but it’s the best of the bunch. Twill be a good weapon once you get it back into condition.”

  “Thank you,” said Damon. “The only other favor I’ll ask for is, well…”

  Len nodded. “I know. You’ll always be welcome back here, Damon. We won’t say a word to those pissants about where you’ve gone. I might even still have some opportunities to send your way if you can receive letters where you’re headed.”

  “You can send them to Morotai,” said Damon. “It’s a village close to the lake farm.”

  He trusted Len and Austine, but still felt wary about giving more specific details than that. He suspected that Gavel already knew where Malon’s farm was, but his father owed debts to various other unsavory groups who might still be in want of more leverage over him.

  “Damon,” said Austine. “Brother. Say the word and I’ll go with you.”

  “Leandra’s bush, you will!” snapped Len.

  “It’s fine,” said Damon. “I’d appreciate the company, Aust, but you’re needed here with the rest of the troupe. If all goes well, I’ll only be gone a few weeks, long enough to ensure that Malon isn’t in danger.”

  “Long enough for that finger to heal, I’d also be thinking,” said Len. “Convenient time to take an injury like that to your sword hand, at least.”

  “Always the optimist.” He forced a smile onto his face, ignoring his throbbing finger and aching ribs. “Thank you, Len. For everything.”

  Len pulled him into a tight hug, as did Austine. Damon took the time to look for the twins upstairs, but they weren’t around, and he wasn’t in a position to search them out or wait for them to return. Len and Austine promised to send them a warm goodbye on his behalf, which would have to be enough.

  ***

  The next few hours flowed smoothly into the next few days. A caravan driver looking for help picked him up outside the gates of Avaricia, and in exchange for moving crates and looking threatening, he received food and a ride.

  Malon’s farm were a good stone’s throw into the New North, the yet untamed forested region that the Merinian colonists mostly ceded to the Remenai, outside of a few trading outposts. It was near Morotai, which had originally been a Remenai village, one of the few that had welcomed the Merinians to the point of now having them as a majority.

  The forest surrounding it was known as the Malagantyan, a sprawling collection of ancient trees and dense foliage.

  Traditional Remenai legends surrounding the Malagantyan often related to its ability to swallow up travelers, never to be seen again within its tangle of trees and foliage. One of the traditional tribal roles within Rem culture was that of the green scout, the local navigator who spent their entire life learning the lay of the land and helping others find their way through it by the grace of Jad, the Remenai world god.

  The weather was warm and mild. Though Damon hadn’t spent much time in the wild during his time with the troupe, he was aware of how the Turning Festival marked the official passage of seasons, winter’s concession to spring. It was evident in every aspect of the terrain, the soft soil, the fresh grass, the abundance of young, vocal birds.

  If Damon had set out a few months later, much of the Malagantyan would be consumed by the intense wildfires common to its summers. The Remenai often abandoned their villages for weeks at a time, returning to flame scorched stone buildings built for enduring such extremes and rebuilding at the end of the season.

  “This is where the road splits,” said the caravan master. “We’re heading into Morotai for the night. You’re welcome to come along if you want to visit the town, but the farm you spoke of is down that path.”

  “Right…” Damon hopped down from the back of the wagon, finding the area oddly new to him despite the time he’d spent there. “I can make my way from here. Thanks for everything.”

  “Leandra’s blessing, traveler,” said the caravan master.

  He watched the line of wagons disappear down the road, turning his attention toward his own path. Compared to the main route between Morotai and Avaricia, it looked far less traveled, and substantially less maintained.

  Fallen branches and tree trunks littered a path overgrown by grass and weeds in most places, proving that it had at least been a few weeks since a wagon last passed through.

  With each step he took, the area became more familiar. It had been ten years since he’d left Malon’s lake farm, a decade of superficial changes across the terrain and a much broader evolution of his own perspective.

  The Malagantyan Forest had seemed so dark and dangerous as a child, which it was, but back then he’d had only a vague understanding of the various threats it posed.

  Wolf trolls, like Jorgan, were common enough to be a real danger and easily capable of killing a single unwary traveler.

  Colossus snakes were what Malon had always used as her go to justification for keeping Damon, Velanor, and Ria, when she wasn’t running away, inside during the night.

  There was a general trend for fauna within the Malagantyan to verge toward the extremes, with lots of small birds and varmint living within a system dominated by the massive predators. The sun had already been near setting when the caravan had dropped Damon off, and the thick, natural canopy overhead meant that the night arrived early.

  He moved to the left of the trail to avoid a patch of mud and then slowed, losing the path for a few steps before finding it again. A group of birds took flight to his left, followed immediately by the sound of aggressively rustling leaves.

  Damon’s hand snapped to his sword hilt on reflex, which resulted in both a grimace, as he remembered his broken finger, and disappointment as he touched the unfamiliar weapon and remembered his lost wrathblade.

  The silence lingered with the moment. Damon exhaled as he heard the noise of whatever animal he was dealing with scamper off in the other direction. He adjusted the splint on his finger, found the path, and continued through the encroaching darkness.

  CHAPTER 7

  Damon felt the full extent of his long absence during the last few minutes of his walk down the path, which were marked by several stumbling encounters with tree roots and encroaching bramble bushes as the shadows grew long and stubborn.

  He felt a smile sneak onto his face as he finally reached the clearing. Malon’s home was a long abandoned, lovingly restored Remenai tower house, which sat alongside a plowed field and small lake.

  It was beautiful, and the normally serene scene was made even more peaceful by that oran
ge haze of the setting sun. It was his home, and seeing it after so long brought Damon an unexpected rush of nostalgia and emotions that made his breath catch.

  Malon had repaired the window panel in the third-floor storage room. He and Vel had broken it through a bout of misbehavior years earlier, roughhousing and wrestling and accidentally striking it at the wrong angle. He’d nearly fallen out of it, in fact, and he’d been given extra chores from Malon as punishment, namely weeding the field, which he’d always hated.

  She’d also patched the roof, which had once been so leaky when it rained that it barely offered any protection at all. The pale stone of the tower was repaired by off-color bricks in various other places, giving the tower house a quilt-like architectural style.

  He stopped in front of the door, remembering the day he’d helped her take it off and replace the hinges. Vel had complained about her fingers hurting, and Ria had eventually shown up to chastise them both for holding it wrong and take her place while Malon finished driving in the nails.

  Damon reached for the door handle but stopped himself before making contact. Ten years was a long time. Could he even be sure that she still lived within the tower, and hadn’t just sold it to someone else during the interim?

  His doubt was enough to convince him to knock instead of simply barging in and kicking his shoes off, like he would have a lifetime ago when the place had been where he always felt like he’d belonged. He knocked three times, knuckles of his uninjured left-hand rapping softly against the old wood.

  Malon opened the door, looking so much like the woman he remembered, despite the time away. Her face was pale, with faint freckles and full lips. She kept her hair twisted into a simple red braid that hung between her shoulders, but as always, there were a few strands loose in front, like an accidental frame for her beautiful features.

  She wore a simple grey tunic over black leggings, a practical, borderline unfeminine outfit, with a splash of femininity thrown back in by the pale pink apron she nearly always had on. The soft glow of lamplight made her seem far younger and prettier than he remembered.