by Dan Avera
Inside the house it was cool and quiet, with none of the bustle and noise from the streets penetrating the interior. The living spaces, as Will had suspected, were small and sparsely decorated. “Priscilla!” Helena called, moving farther in. “There's someone here to see you!”
“You!” said a child's voice to Will's left, and suddenly something small and heavy collided with his leg. He looked down to see Priscilla hugging him, her arms wrapped around him and her smiling face staring up at him. He smiled, too, and knelt down next to her, carefully detaching her from his thigh.
“Hello there,” he said, “how is your father?”
“He's still sick,” Priscilla answered. “Mother says he'll be better soon, and then Helena won't have to work so hard and we won't have so much trouble with money.”
“Priscilla!” Helena gasped, and laughed nervously. “Master Blackmane doesn't want to hear those things.”
The honesty of a child, Will thought, and grinned despite himself. “No, I do,” he said aloud, half looking over his shoulder at the older sister. “I truly do. And please, don't call me Master Blackmane. Or anything like that, actually. It's just Will.” He looked back at Priscilla. “I never gave you my name before, did I?” he asked, and she shook her head. “Well,” he laughed, “there you have it. I'm Will, at your service.” He bent into a kneeling bow, and the little girl giggled.
“The old lady last night said the money was from you,” she said with a smile. “She brought it. A big sack.” She held her arms out to demonstrate its size. “Like this. She said you told her about us, and about Father. She comes into Mother's stall sometimes.”
Will nodded. “That I did. But...how did she find you, I wonder? I'd never have found this place on my own.”
“She said she felt compelled,” said a third voice, and Will looked up and over Priscilla's shoulder to see another woman, undoubtedly the girls' mother. She was pretty, but he could tell from the light bruises under her tired eyes and the slight slump in her shoulders that life had been unkind to her.
“Compelled,” Will repeated softly.
“Yes,” said the mother. “Like she was being driven by a hidden force. Her words.” She looked at Will curiously. “The rantings of an old mind, I'm afraid, but she has always been kind to me, if only in passing. But what brings you here?”
“How much was in the bag?” Will blurted.
“Three hundred silver marks,” she replied, and Will raised his eyebrows. “Yes,” the mother continued, “that was my reaction as well. I find it odd that a sellsword would turn down such a sum in favor of giving it to a family he does not even know.”
“Mother!” Helena hissed, but the older woman waved her silent.
“I find it even stranger that the same man would then seek out my daughter.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave Will an icy stare. “So tell me, Blackmane: what is it that you want?”
Will was taken aback, though he supposed he should have expected such a reaction. It was not an unheard of practice for impoverished parents to sell their children into bondage, and Priscilla's mother had undoubtedly made that connection.
“I...apologize,” he began slowly, “if I have offended or frightened you in some way.” He patted Priscilla's head gently. “I simply wish to speak with your girl for a short time. We talked at the festival yesterday, but...I fear I may have left the wrong impression.”
“How so?”
Will cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable at the prospect of explaining things to Priscilla, and even more so at having an audience of people who would understand not only his words, but what his profession entailed as well. It was completely new territory for him, and he feared the outcome should the little one misinterpret his words.
“Yesterday you asked me why you shouldn't hurt people,” Will began slowly, directing his words at Priscilla. “I...wasn't sure how to respond. I've done it almost my whole life, and I've never questioned why. I don't think I've ever even felt bad for any of the people I've killed.” He lowered his gaze for a moment, thinking, and the phantom Eastland girl flashed through his mind. “Well, not very many of them, at any rate. But yesterday, when you came up to me, I felt...different.” He shook his head. “I've done this for so long that I'd forgotten what it was like not to kill.”
Priscilla was staring at him with wide eyes. Did she even understand what he was saying? She was so young...
“My mother always used to tell me to treat people like I'd want them to treat me,” Will continued, and he smiled softly at the memory. “And then she always used to follow that up by saying that if someone tried to hurt me, I had to hurt them worse so that they wouldn't do it again.” He looked into the little girl's eyes and held her gaze, willing her to grasp his meaning. “So when I say don't kill or hurt people, I mean don't be like me. I do it for money, and that is wrong. Never hurt somebody unless they absolutely deserve it—without question.”
“If you feel so guilty about it, then why not just stop?” Helena asked quietly. Will had forgotten that she and her mother were still in the room.
He thought for a moment. Why not, indeed? He could have stopped ages ago...or could he? “I suppose...because it's all I know how to do,” he murmured with a shrug, though he knew that it was only half of the truth. “And Castor is my friend. I have to make sure he doesn't get himself killed.”
“You make it sound like you don't have a choice,” the mother said.
“I don't think I do, at this point.”
She held his gaze. “Everybody has a choice. There is no such thing as fate.”
Will smiled again, and then looked back at Priscilla. “Do you understand what I said?” he asked.
She nodded slowly. “Not unless they deserve it,” she said, and Will nodded back.
“You've lovely hair,” he murmured with a smile. “Just like Castor's.”
“You mean the Lion?” she asked, cocking her head to one side, and Will nodded again. “Do they call him names too?”
Will narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Do they call him names because of his hair?”
Will flicked his gaze up to the girl's mother but found only stony impassivity. He looked back down at Priscilla. “I...I don't know,” he said. “He's never talked about it, if they have. What do they call you?”
She craned her head around to give a questioning look to her mother, who gave a curt shake of her head. “I can't say them,” she whispered loudly. “Mother says they're very bad things, and I'm not to repeat them.”
Will felt his anger smolder and fought to keep it in check. “Don't listen to them,” he said. “They have no right to say such things.”
He stood abruptly, figuring that he had taken enough of the family's time. “I'm sorry to have intruded, milady,” he said to the mother, and he inclined his head.
“Please,” she said, “it's Myria. Myria Horoppa. And there was no harm done.”
He felt a hand touch his shoulder then, and turned to see Helena standing next to him. “I would like you to meet my father,” she said softly. “You saved him, you know. The money the old woman gave us—it should be enough to get him the medicines he needs.” She led him into an adjacent room, dimly lit by only a single candle. Against the far wall there was a ragged bed with a sleeping form beneath the moth-eaten blanket. Will could see only the back of the man's head, which was covered in golden hair peppered with gray.
A Northlander, Will realized. That explains the child's hair. The man turned over when he heard them enter, and Will was shocked to see a sallow face with pale eyes set amid bruised skin. The guards had not been gentle.
“Who is it?” the man rasped.
“It's me, Father,” Helena said quietly. “I've brought Willyem Blackmane to see you. He sent the old woman that gave us the money.”
Will inclined his head. “It's an honor, sir.”
The father simply stared at him for a moment. “Three hundred silver marks,” he said so softly that
Will had to strain to hear. “You turned down three hundred silver marks in favor of giving it to us. And you rid this city of its corrupt taen and his lackeys. I only wonder now what King Seriperco will do to you and your Ravens.”
“We are mercenaries in a land dominated by the trade,” Will said with a shrug. “Impartiality is part of the job. We go where the money is; the king understands that. It was his own man who hired us out to take Brightstone, after all.”
The man nodded weakly, his lips pursed. “I can only hope you are right. You've certainly done right by me. I'd hate to see you punished, but your people have a saying about good deeds.”
“I...” Will wanted to help this man, but how? “Listen—I've a friend who can look at you. He's very good with medicine—treats all our men when they're sick or wounded. His name is Hook. I'll send him to help you.”
“But we have the money now,” Helena said.
Will shook his head. “Nonsense. Save it. If Hook can't help you, then use it.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, both Will and Helena wanting to speak their side but neither of them willing to. The silence was broken unexpectedly by the father chuckling softly.
“A good man,” he murmured, closing his eyes and rolling back onto his side. “Such a good man.”
~
He awoke the next morning to a piercing ray of sunlight striking him with irritating precision in the eye. He rolled out of bed with a groan and sat on the edge, thinking about the day before. He hoped Hook would be able to do something for the man, but then chuckled at the idea of Hook as a healer; he had been quite surprised himself upon learning of the skeletal man's medicinal knowledge some years ago, and he was sure the rest of the Ravens shared his shock. Hook was a disturbingly gifted killer, and to find that such a man could be so gentle was...odd.
His reverie was broken by a soft knock at the door, and it creaked open a moment later. A maid poked her head in, eyes downcast. “Beggin' your pardon, sir, but Lord Castor has requested your presence downstairs.”
“Lord Castor?” Will said, half-laughing. “He's no lord. Tell him I'll be out in a bit, please.”
She curtsied. “There's hot water in the tub in the next room.”
The door slid softly shut a moment later and he got to his feet. He stretched, popping his spine, and ran a hand across the short stubble on his face. How many days had it been since he'd seen a barber? He made a mental note to go to one.
After bathing for the second time in two days—a luxury that he could decidedly get used to—he threw his clothes, armor, and weapons back on. The Ravens' successes and subsequent fame had recently begun allowing the mercenaries to live in a state of wealth that they hadn't known before, and Will's raiment reflected that fact. As one of Castor's two captains he was given a larger share of the accumulated wealth. Without the plethora of rips, tears, and patches that had plagued his older clothing, his new shirt and breeches looked almost dashing. They were red and black, respectively, as his clothing always seemed to be. Katryna had asked him once about his seeming fetish for the colors, but he only shrugged, unable to explain why he liked them so.
His armor, though, had felt the new wealth most heavily, and he had payed a blacksmith to retrofit his leather gear with metal reinforcements that, while heavier, had managed to save his life twice since Brightstone. His helmet and weapons he had left unchanged, however, as well as his faded black traveling cloak. He had always been a slave to sentimentality.
Downstairs Castor was waiting with Katryna and the innkeeper, who was leaning with his elbows up on the bar and laughing at something the commander had said. Castor turned smoothly and smiled at the sound of Will's boots thunking down the wooden stairs. “Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes!” he cried, standing and throwing his arms out theatrically. Will made a rude gesture but grinned nonetheless.
At the bottom of the stairs Will swept back his cloak and bent to one knee. “You sent for me, Lord Castor? As always, I am your humble servant.” He inclined his head and made a little flourish with his hands.
“Get up, you ass,” Castor laughed, and threw a heel of bread at him; Will caught it and tore a chunk off with his teeth. “Well?” Castor asked. “How did you sleep?”
Will shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. The heat is killing me, though.”
“Agreed,” said Katryna. “And between the heat and my man, I can't get any sleep either.”
Will raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Castor chuckled. “I didn't hear you complaining,” he said, nudging Katryna with his elbow.
“I wasn't, darling,” she said with a smile. “Though...you could use some practice...”
“There's been a message,” Castor said, ignoring her.
“Oh?” Will took another bite of bread.
“A little boy came by last night. Strange fellow. Seemed rather...distant. Anyway,” Castor reached into the satchel on his belt and produced a scroll of paper, “we've got a new job. Some town about a half-day's ride north of the city has been coming under attacks from a marauding group of bandits, and they want help.”
“This isn't the first one, either,” Katryna said. “I heard quite a few of the city folk here talking about it. A few other villages have been hit in the past few months. Some just got massacred—no survivors.”
Will took a seat and leaned back, thinking about the boy he had seen the day before for only a moment in the tavern. Could it be the same one? It might explain why the boy had been staring at him. He put it out of his mind for a moment. “Why would they ask for us and not the city guards...oh.” He scratched the back of his head and grimaced. “Ah, well then.”
Castor sighed. “Yes, well...it was addressed to the city guards.” He cleared his throat. “They, ah...seem to be a little short-staffed at the moment, though.”
Katryna snorted. “That's one way of putting it. You know, there actually is one who ended up being rather short staffed. I stuck my knife right in his—”
“So you want me to go help them, right?” Will interrupted, drawing a giggle from Katryna.
“No, actually,” Castor answered, “I'm going to take a contingent of men into the Foothills and take care of the problem.” He sighed. “It's my duty at this point, I think. Anyway, I'm leaving you and Katryna in charge of the rest of the men. The city guards are dead by my command, so I'm taking responsibility for this.”
Will held up a hand. “Castor, wait. Let me lead the group. There's no reason for you to go. You're the commander of the Ravens—what if something happens to you?”
“Yes, I agree,” said Katryna. “You should stay and watch over the larger force—and the city.” She directed her gaze at Will. “I've been telling him this all morning.”
Castor folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “This is a matter of personal honor, you know. I need to take responsibility for my actions and fix my own mistakes.”
Katryna circled her arms around him from behind and rested her chin on his shoulder. “Darling, there is a time for stepping up and doing things yourself and there is a time for being intelligent. This is the latter. Send Will. I've known him for a great long time; he's more than capable of disemboweling some bandits. And I won't be nearly as upset if he dies.”
“Your vixen speaks the truth,” Will said with mock sincerity. Katryna stuck her tongue out at him.
Castor sighed. “I suppose you two are right. Take ten men, Will. That should be enough, right?”
Will nodded. “Where is the boy? I'd like to speak with him before I leave.”
“He disappeared,” Castor said with a shrug. “I was going to have him stay for awhile, too, but...”
Will stood. “In that case, I'll be back tomorrow.”
~
The Southland foothills were renowned for both their beauty and their serenity—with the largest predator being the vicious but diminutive wood weasel, travelers had nothing to fear but the occasional hole chewed through their packs. Naturalists and scholars came from nea
r and far to visit and observe the wildlife of the foothills, drawn by the unique flora and fauna that could be observed in complete safety.
Will breathed deeply and smiled—it looked to be one of the beautiful summer days the area was famous for. In stark contrast to Prado, which had become infamous for sporting some of the most miserable summers in southern Pallamar, the more temperate foothills claimed air that was both drier and cooler. And with the light breeze rolling off of the mountains to the east, the mercenaries' journey was turning out to be quite pleasant. The birch trees that lined the hillocks and valleys around them provided a canopy against the sun, bathing the travelers in broken shade that, while not necessarily needed, was certainly not unwelcome. The trees to their left continued unabated until they melded into the gloomy darkness of a forest; to their right they thinned rapidly and soon disappeared altogether, giving way to the gently sloping rises from which the foothills derived their name. This time of year they were covered in tall, lush green grasses dotted with wildflowers. And far away over the emerald sea, down in the middle of the dead valley, Will could just make out the vague outline of Prado, its image distorted by a shimmering heat wave.
One of the mercenaries, a boy named Rik, played a wood flute as they rode, and it mixed with the rhythmic clopping of horse hooves to form a lively, upbeat tune. Will reached down and patted his mount—a gelding named, of all things, Horse. Castor found a great deal of humor in Will's lack of imagination, but the animal responded well enough, and that was all Will cared about.
“How much farther, Will?” one of the more seasoned mercenaries asked. “We've been on this trail for belltolls.”
“It's a nice day—you should learn to enjoy the little things, Sam,” Will called over his shoulder. “We'll be there soon enough, and then it'll be time to work.”
“Work,” another grumbled, stretching his arms above his head. “I worked enough in Prado, I should think. Come springtime next year I should have five little bastards of me own runnin' around the place, thanks to the ale they serve there. God damned strong stuff, that.”