Blackwood Marauders

by K. S. Villoso

  Part of this came from Crossfingers’ own history. In the old days, when the Kag lands were dark and uninhabitable, Agartes Allaicras came to liberate the people from the plague of beasts, starting with Crossfingers. He worked his way through the Hafed lands, and then later took a boat and started from the mouth of the Vildar River and all the way north to found the city-states. The academy was built to honour his name in the first place.

  It was different elsewhere. East of Hafod, beyond the reach of the king and his lords, the lands remained harsh and unyielding, the wilderness full of things you wouldn’t want to meet in the dark. Mercenaries filled the need for protection then—a convenient solution that has resulted in an inflated sense of power among the many groups.

  That much, at least, Luc knew. He hadn’t been to the tavern lately, and had been so engrossed in his own problems that he had missed out on whatever news was taking the town by storm. If Duke Iorwin had indeed called for mercenaries, then something foul enough must be afoot to drive him to such desperation. You didn’t want mercenaries strolling through town, not really. Their reputation was…dodgy, at best. He had heard of towns that were completely under their control, places like Cairntown and Ni’in where you couldn’t walk five paces without getting accosted by a mercenary gang or their rival. They followed no laws but their own and worshipped no gods.

  He glanced at Tasha, who was walking silently beside him. A mask of mourning was on her face. He had seen it before during funerals, even remembered it on his own father when his grandfather had died. “This Oswyn meant something to you, didn’t he?” he blurted out.

  She turned to him with a look that made him instantly regret speaking at all. “You…” she started, one hand dropping to her sword.

  Luc held out his hands. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. He sounded like a good man.”

  “Good,” Tasha repeated. “You’re fucking with me.”

  Luc scratched his head. “I meant to say…” He sighed. “It’s a common thing to say. For comfort. When a loved one is deceased.” He couldn’t believe he was still talking.

  Tasha narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t love him,” she said.

  “Well, yes, I didn’t mean it that way maybe, I just meant…”

  “You’re the noisiest hostage we’ve ever had.”

  “Thank you?”

  “It’s not a compliment.”

  They had reached the street leading to the Yohak temple. “The deadhouse is around the back,” Luc said.

  Tasha grabbed his arm. “You’ll run off.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know where your goat surgeon lives. Remember that. You ever seen a man bled out of every drop in his body? It’s not a pleasant thing.”

  “You just used me to threaten him. Lighten up a little.”

  She growled. “If you fuck with me, I swear on Agartes’ balls that I’ll—”

  “I’ll get Oswyn’s sword,” Luc said, straightening up. “You’ve got to trust me. And you’ll be watching the street, right? No chance in hell I can sneak off without you chasing after me?”

  Her scarred face tightened. After a moment, she nodded.

  Luc pulled away from her and trotted straight through the temple’s doors, all but crashing through them. As soon as they closed behind him, he found himself exhaling with relief. The mercenaries’ presence had felt like choking smoke, and the looming threat of his death in every corner had cleared his mind in ways he didn’t think was possible.

  The temple was empty during that time of the day. There was a giant tree on the altar, one that went straight up through an open rooftop—one of the first altars to ever be erected to the god Yohak, Namalah’s consort. Small beams of sunlight shot through the tangled branches, giving the tree the appearance of a sparkling, multi-faceted gem like the sort Luc had seen the priests wore on their rings.

  He made his way past the wooden seats, arranged in circles around the altar, and through the narrow hallway in the back. His footsteps echoed as he walked, and the smell of mold and damp stone soon filled his nostrils. He reached a large hall, where the scent was now tinged with the unmistakable sharpness of rotting flesh.

  Shadows danced in front of a lit candle up ahead. A robed man looked up from a body laid out on the table in front of him, and Luc recognized Brother Hamis, the priest and town undertaker. “Who’s this? Ah, Luc,” he said, his wrinkled eyes softening. “Your father was looking for you. You’ve come to visit Michell, I suppose.”

  He swallowed and nodded.

  The man glanced at the body in front of him. “Unfortunate, what happened. A tavern fight, I was told. He’d just been released by the guardsmen—trouble up at the academy. He had just passed the builder’s exam, but was expelled for starting a fight. I suppose he had gone there to drown out his sorrows and fell into trouble. You know how Michell was. Oh…” He trailed off, because Luc had stepped forward and the candlelight was now shining directly on his bruised face. “You fought with him in the academy. I should’ve known.”

  “I feel horrible, Brother, but I didn’t know it would lead to this,” Luc murmured.

  “We never do, child. We never do. Our actions do not come with warning labels.” He smiled a little.

  “He was picking on Alun. Again.” Luc found the courage to now turn to the body. He was surprised at how calm he felt. He had imagined that he would be filled with revulsion at the sight of Michell, that the same, childhood loathing would come curdling from within, but something about seeing him in death changed that. The pale, almost serene face was no longer twisted—nose and forehead cleaned of blood, eyes stitched shut, he seemed like he was simply sleeping. His mouth was a thin line. It was suddenly jarring to realize that no more insults would fall from those lips.

  “What do you think?” Brother Hamis asked. “Is he smiling too much?”

  Luc glanced up in confusion.

  “I’m trying to make you laugh. You seem upset.”

  “I caused this,” Luc breathed. “If I hadn’t attacked him…”

  “Ah, Lucky,” Hamis said. “With all respect due to the dead, but we knew he liked to provoke you and your brother. The god will have to forgive my moment of bias. The unfortunate chain of events…”

  “What do the texts say about this? Am I condemned to hell?”

  Hamis tapped his head, with its sparse white hairs. “Hell is…debatable. It is a foreign concept after all, brought in by the Forrehsi to taint and muddle our beliefs. Us priests of Yohak used to teach of the life-wheel, which has been dismissed in the past few years by high priests who have claimed to see from the other side. Forrehsi-influenced high priests.”

  “So you used to say, Brother. I did pay attention to our lessons.”

  He smiled. “The life-wheel idea has merit. To have Yohak determine your fate by how you have acted in the life before…ah, but I do not think the idea is worthless, even in theory. Look at him.” He glanced at Michell. “He’s probably a babe somewhere now, perhaps one with a clubfoot like Alun. If the old faith can be believed, he will retain nothing of this life but move forward so that he may understand such an affliction, be more compassionate…”

  Luc swallowed. “And I? Will I be reborn as someone who can offer more than trouble to my family?”

  Hamis lifted his eyes. “You’re not dead yet, Luc.”

  “I might as well be.” He took a deep breath. “I failed the entrance exam, Brother. I will not be going to Tilarthan after all. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”

  “Oh, my boy.” He caught a genuine note of sadness there. Brother Hamis frequented the tavern in the village, too, and no doubt would’ve heard their father talking about Luc’s prospects to anyone who would listen.

  “I didn’t even want this before,” he murmured. “I was more than happy to just live my life. So why do I feel like this? It’s ridiculous. I think I saw an opportunity and then I thought—I falsely thought—that destiny was finally making up for all the sacrifices that broug
ht me here.”

  “Your feelings are not unreasonable, Luc. You hoped. You have every right to be disappointed.”

  “To be disappointed that I’m a disappointment?” He shook his head. “My family doesn’t know, not yet. My father…” He trailed off.

  “I won’t breathe a word until you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.” Luc paused as he turned back to Michell’s body. “Could you give me a moment alone with Michell, Brother? I’d like to say my prayers.”

  Hamis nodded and left, closing the door behind him as he went. As soon as it clicked shut, Luc began to recite Yohak’s Litany for the Dead. He had it drilled into him since he was young and was surprised at how easy it drifted back into his memory, although he had never had to utter it over an actual body before. For a moment, he gazed at Michell’s face, and while his lips worked over the familiar words, he thought, I am sorry, for what it’s worth. But you never gave us a chance, did you?

  He continued with the prayers and drifted on to the next table, where the dead body was unmistakably the man they called Oswyn. He was so tall that his toes extended past the table, and even for an old man, the weight and muscle on him looked formidable. Luc wondered how Michell even managed to kill him at all—he was battle-scarred, and looked like the sort of man that could beat Michell and his entire gang single-handedly.

  Well, whatever he had been in life, he was mortal, and the gaping wound in his belly had been enough to end it. One quick knife to the gut, the mercenaries had said, right out in the alley with his breeches down. Funny how that worked out sometimes. He didn’t know where Michell found the strength and courage to gut a man so effortlessly, but he supposed people could surprise you like that.

  He found Oswyn’s sword in a box in the corner. It was a plain thing with a leather-wrapped hilt that would take two hands to hold—longer than Luc would know how to wield properly, if he even knew how to wield a sword. It was heavier than he expected, too. He managed to lift it without cutting himself and carefully made his way to the end of the catacombs, hoping that Brother Hamis wouldn’t notice the prayers had stopped. There was a long window there that opened up to the street. Luc cranked the shutters open, slid the sword through to the dark alley, and then closed it again before he returned to Michell’s body.

  He finished the prayers, just because it felt right to do so. Afterwards, he left the catacombs and returned to the main chamber of the temple. Hamis was sitting near the altar.

  “You should go home,” the old man said. “We both know your father will forgive whatever you think you’ve done. He’s worried about you, child.”

  Luc walked out of the temple to a bright morning, feeling sick to his stomach. He went around the alley, where the sword still lay on the ground. He picked it up and returned to where he had left Tasha. She was still there.

  “You took your time,” Tasha said with a low growl.

  “I wasn’t aware you wanted it done fast,” Luc murmured.

  “Obnoxious whelp.” She took the sword from him with a huff and carefully held it up against the light. “It’s his, all right,” she whispered. “He’s really…” She tightened her face and turned back to Luc. “Did you see him? Did they take care of him?”

  “If nobody comes to claim him, Brother Hamis will bury him in two days in accordance to Yohak’s rites.”

  “He didn’t believe in Yohak,” Tasha murmured. “Didn’t believe in any god but himself. The smug bastard.” She snorted. “Well, let’s not wait around for the guards to show up.”

  “How long do you plan to keep me around for?” Luc asked.

  Tasha didn’t reply.

  He wondered if he should try to make a break for it now. Oswyn’s sword was heavy—if she was caught off guard, she’d have to drop it to catch him. Luc was a pretty fast runner, given enough chance, and he thought he would be able to make it a few paces ahead before she could get started. They reached a rolling lane, and his eyes wandered over to the end of it. Even if he could make it to the ditch…

  He heard footsteps, and his eyes darted to the side, almost expecting—hoping—that they would run into guards. Instead, he saw Hana careening down the road, a bare sword in her hand and another one, still sheathed, at her waist. She looked breathless. “They found us,” she said as she came up to them. “They have Treda. They’re looking for you.”

  “Shit,” Tasha said. “Demon?”

  “Got out. Jumped through the window. Bastard can take care of himself. But the guards…”

  Luc stepped back. Tasha turned on him almost immediately. “Find us somewhere to hide,” she hissed.

  “I don’t—”

  “Or if we escape, I will find every single one of yours and murder them in cold blood. Do you hear me?” She grabbed him by the collar, pulling him up to her face.

  He would’ve said no. He wanted to say no. Kill me now. Let it end. But there was something in her eyes he couldn’t quite shake off.

  “The barn,” Luc found himself saying. “We’ve got no goats this winter. You can stay there. They won’t…they won’t look there if we go now.”

  He felt her loosen her grasp. The desperation was plain in her eyes. As he turned to lead them down the road, he found it difficult to think of anything else.

  Chapter Four

  Luc’s house was right at the edge of the village—a small, two-bedroom farmhouse with a loft. At night, you could count on Grandma setting out two lanterns by the gatepost, one on each side. Luc always looked forward to seeing them from the road, two sparks in the distance—a reminder of home, of the warmth and comfort that waited for him there.

  Even though it was still midday and he couldn’t count on the lights to be there, the thought of them now made him feel uneasy. All of last night came back to him, looming like a stormcloud. He happened to glance at the two women behind him—in their leathers and their dark cloaks, and weapons that clinked with every step of their firm boots—and realized that the weight of both problems were now bearing down on him full-force.

  He pushed the nagging thoughts away and whistled, leading them down the small path that led into the woods, through the thick brush, and past a bridge over the stream. It was a magical place during the summer—clear water, with thick purple and yellow flowers everywhere, but right now, only a trickle remained where he could see them. Frost had happened overnight—his footsteps crunched through the grass as he walked.

  The path grew narrower, eventually disappearing as they reached the woods. They reached a low-lying fence made of split logs, which he simply skipped over. The barn lay ahead—a dilapidated old thing that had been there since before Luc’s father had bought the property. “We built the farmhouse some ways away,” Luc explained to the women before they could get a word in. “All our goats got killed recently, and we keep the chickens closer to the farm. No one will bother you here.”

  “You’re leaving us,” Tasha said. Venom dripped with her every word.

  “Well, yes,” Luc replied. “I can’t stay here with you. My family’s been looking for me.”

  “And then you’ll hand me over to the guards.”

  “Why would I do that?” Luc asked.

  “Why shouldn’t you? You’re scared of us. That’s what frightened people do.” Tasha drew her sword.

  “Tasha, I think you should calm down,” Hana spoke up. “Breathe. I know the last few hours has been rough.”

  “Rough?” Tasha coughed.

  “I know. You’re taking Oswyn’s death badly. I…”

  “Bitch. You know this goes beyond Oswyn.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re barking like a mad dog over every little thing,” Hana said. She placed a hand on Tasha’s arm. “He hasn’t betrayed us yet. He seems like a reasonable fellow. Aren’t you? Lucky, Demon said you were called. Lucky. You’ve done us good so far.”

  “If I stayed here with you, we’d all freeze to death by nightfall,” Luc said. “Let me get you blankets and food. I’m hungry, and
I know you haven’t eaten, either.”

  “Why would you help us?” Tasha asked.

  “Is why not a good enough reason?”

  She stared at him with narrowed eyes, before allowing him to walk away for the second time that day. A wiser man might’ve bolted. But wisdom had never been Luc’s forte. He always left such things to his father, maybe even Alun.

  Thinking about his family made him pause at the edge of the field. He could see the farmhouse in the distance, a trail of smoke curling up from the chimney. He took a deep breath. Exhaustion from the last few hours was starting to creep up on him, taking whatever little courage he had left. It was sheer habit that made him continue past the little gate they used to keep the ducks in. They all waddled up at the sight of him, hoping he had brought food. Sheer habit, too, made him pat his pockets in an effort to find crumbs to please them with. He found the remains of a loaf of bread his father had made him take to Crossfingers for lunch and fed it to the ducks piece by piece.

  He heard the front door creak open. A thousand excuses ran through him at once, but the words turned to ashes on his tongue. It was almost a good thing, then, that it wasn’t his father who stepped out. The woman’s forehead crinkled at the sight of him, but nothing on her expression betrayed what she really thought of Luc being gone the whole night. The only thing Luc could gather from the way she stood there without a word, waiting for him to reach the end of the path while holding a dirty pot against her hip, was that she was all alone in the house. He took another deep breath, half-cringing at the sharpness of the cold air, and walked up to her like a hound waiting to be chastised.

  The memory of his first meeting with the woman they insisted he call Mother was just as strong as that day they first arrived at Crossfingers. Stronger, actually, though he must’ve been only two years old at the time. He had been playing with a leather ball inside the common room of the narrow house they shared with the rest of the family, Grandma’s legs blocking the door to prevent him from wandering out. He couldn’t remember the conversations around him, but he remembered the raised voices, the tension in the air, and Grandma trying to distract him with a piece of candied plum.