by Alex Aguilar
“Bloody hells, he’s rushing!” said Milo.
“What is it, lad?” Ayisha shouted back at the boy, who came to a halt right beneath them.
“Rogues!” the boy said, struggling to catch his breath. “Th-They’re back!”
Feeling the hairs rising at the back of her neck, Ayisha’s jaw tightened with anger. She ran back inside the cabin and hopped down the stairs so swiftly, it startled everyone inside. Tails stopped playing his mandolin and Skinner paused in the middle of a story. Ayisha, who was known to act brash when she was angry, began charging towards their guests with ill intentions in her eyes.
“I knew it!” she growled. “I bloody knew it! Ye lyin’ bastards!!”
“At ease, Ayisha,” Skinner stood from his seat.
“They lied to us, sir! Ye let ‘em into our home ‘n’ they spit in our faces!”
“I said at ease, soldier,” Skinner had to step between Ayisha and Robyn; the young warden was calm within seconds but the fire in her eyes remained.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she breathed.
“Good. Now… calmly… what is happening?”
“Rogues, sir! They’re back in Grymsbi!”
As if it wasn’t quiet enough already, the room became soundless at the sound of Ayisha’s words. One by one, they all locked eyes with one another, as if questioning each other without ever speaking. Robyn, Nyx, and the Beast felt alarmed and out of place, like innocent bystanders amidst an impending riot.
Then another set of footsteps ran hurriedly down the stairs.
“Sir!” Milo shouted, nearly stumbling at the last step. “I’ve spotted them! Up the road, they are! They’re nearly here, sir!”
“How long?” Skinner asked gruffly.
“M-Minutes, sir…”
“How many minutes, lad?!”
“Two. Maybe three at the most.”
Skinner’s eyes began to wander, all the while the youths began mumbling amongst themselves. Three seconds, it must have taken. Three mere seconds for Skinner to concoct a plan in his mind…
Or, rather, to choose one…
“Attention, lads!” he said loudly, and every single one of the wardens of Grymsbi rose to their feet and stood up straight like a proper soldier. “Operation Fly Trap…”
They broke their stance simultaneously. So organized, they were, that upon hearing the words come out of their commander’s lips, they knew exactly what needed to be done and how.
“Set the bait!”
“On it!”
“Bows up high, blades down low!”
“Hide the gold!”
“Someone kill that bloody fire!”
“Already on it!”
Robyn leapt from her seat and placed Nyx around her neck, as everyone rushed and scampered all around her. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“Change of plans, little one,” Skinner said as he stuffed bread and blocks of cheese into a satchel. “Looks like we leave tonight, you and I… Well, you and I and… the serpent.”
“But what about the rogues?!”
“It’s not the first time they’ve tried to hunt us down,” Skinner grinned, strapping blades onto his belt and sliding more inside his sleeve.
“We can help!” Robyn tried to argue.
“No need, lass. They’ll handle it.”
“I want to help!”
“We’ll handle it, don’t fret,” said a friendly voice. Robyn turned around, only to find herself looking into Milo’s warm smitten gaze. “Here,” he said, handing her a jaguar’s tooth that was almost identical to the one Ayisha wore as an earring. “Something to remember us by!” he said, and it was then that Robyn noticed he was wearing a similar tooth as a necklace. In fact, in some form or another, every single one of the youths was wearing one.
“Oh… Thank you!” was all Robyn could think to say.
“It was a joy to have met you, Robyn Huxley of Elbon!” Milo gave her a nod, before he scurried away upstairs with a bow in hand.
By then, nearly everyone was in their proper position. Ayisha and Milo took the upstairs. Aldous, Yuri, and Mallory strapped blades to themselves and stealthily hid around the common room. Gibbons took the smallest child into the kitchen, where there was ample space to hide. The only one left was Tails, who was setting up a scarecrow made of hay in the common room’s armchair, its back to the door so that it looked like a sleeping person. Once he placed the old straw hat over it, he ran upstairs to join Ayisha and Milo.
“Ready, now?” Skinner asked Robyn, who appeared distraught and out of sorts. “Let’s get to the stables! Quick, now!”
But Robyn’s feet wouldn’t move just yet… Her eyes shifted immediately towards the Beast, who was standing nervously against the wall with his axe in hand. He looked worried and out of place, as if he wanted nothing else but to run back into the Woodlands, where he knew the land like he knew every edge of his axe.
It was all happening so fast, Robyn hardly had any time to take it all in. She stood there, lips quivering, her bow sliding from her sweaty palm. “Will you be all right, Beast?” she asked fretfully, her mind coming to the realization that she might never see the Beast again.
“Just go, scrap,” he replied, much friendlier than he had ever spoken to her before. “Go ‘n’ save yerself. Don’t ye worry ‘bout me.”
“But I can’t just leave you here!”
The Beast’s eyes drifted from side to side as if searching for a response. Despite his tormenting physique, he appeared almost like a lost child.
“Oi! You there!” Yuri, the orc girl, shouted suddenly from afar; the Beast glanced back and forth to assure that she was indeed talking to him. “They might need you upstairs, mate! Care to lend a hand?”
With a hesitant grunt, the Beast nodded and gave his neck a good crack.
“Brilliant,” Yuri shot him a friendly grin and gestured for him to follow her upstairs. “The big guy’s helping!” she shouted up at her comrades. “Get to your places!”
The Beast took one step towards the stairs, but something stopped him all of a sudden.
He looked back… Back at the girl that had saved his life…
Robyn looked genuinely woeful to be parting ways with him. And as much as he tried, he couldn’t deny the aching in his throat to be parting ways with her. But she didn’t hug him this time. She kept her distance, just as she knew he preferred. All she gave him was a head nod and a warm smile.
“Farewell, Beast,” she said. And then she headed for the back door.
The Beast closed his eyes and sighed, cursing himself in his mind, fighting back the little resistance he felt in his core. Then, with as much strength as he could muster, he gave in…
“Ignar,” he said.
Robyn Huxley froze where she stood. She let go of the doorknob and glanced back, her eyes broad with surprise. “What…?”
“My name,” he said. “It’s Ignar…”
Her face lit up with both joy and surprise. Though Skinner was shouting at her from the outside, nothing could have possibly stopped her from walking back for a proper goodbye.
“Robyn Huxley,” she said, holding her hand out as if they were meeting for the first time.
The orc’s hands were massive compared to hers. They shook, her pale fingers reacting against his olive skin like a jasmine on a flowering shrub.
“It’s been a pleasure, Ignar,” she said with a smile.
And then they parted ways.
* * *
John Huxley hadn’t seen much of the Rogue Brotherhood aside from the attack on Val Havyn’s royal palace, but he’d heard plenty of stories. He’d heard of their lack of honor, their lack of mercy, and once he even heard they kept slaves. The rumors alone would make his stomach turn. Gravenstone had plenty of troubles as it was, it did not need another plague of crooks to make matters worse.
Captain Malekai Pahrvus had left twenty men behind at The Stumblin’ Hare and took the rest with him. There were just as many villagers, if not a more,
but none had the courage to stand up to the Brotherhood. Never had John seen such behavior before his eyes, not even from the most vulgar of peasants in Vallenghard. The rogues were scattered throughout the tavern, prattling and helping themselves to any drinks or food on the table, regardless of whether or not it had already been touched. They mocked and harassed the peasants, as if the peasants were there for the Brotherhood’s amusement. The unworldly youthful bard was forced to sing songs he hadn’t heard of before and the rogues threatened to cut his fingers off if he didn’t make an attempt. There was even a young woman serving tables, and Clive, the red mercenary left in charge, kept grazing her whenever she was near him, knowing she’d be too frightened to repel.
The Brotherhood’s behavior was repulsive, to say the least.
Hudson Blackwood had stopped eating by then; he sat there silently with his hat over his eyes, looking meditative. John waited several minutes for the thief to conjure up some sort of plan, some plot to fight back. But rather than looking sprightly, the thief looked almost as if he was stalling. And so, after much hesitation, John leaned in discreetly.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
Hudson squinted his eyes at him. “Plan? What plan?”
“You’re not seriously staying put while these bastards do as they please…?”
Across from them, Syrena sat with a nervous hand pressed down on her satchel’s lid. Her eye was twitching madly again and every time Sivvy yelped or squirmed, she glanced about agitatedly like a gazelle in a lion’s territory. “Keep your voices down, will you?” she asked them.
“Tell that to the farmer,” Hudson said.
John’s mouth dropped from the aggravation. “Why am I the only one in this table acting like a sane person? Hudson, mate… You fought for us back in the Woodlands, you saved the entire company, you should be leaping up from your seat right now with your blade drawn!”
“Mate, allow me to indulge you in a good life lesson,” Hudson muttered gently, his eyes examining the room as he spoke. “If a matter is none of your concern, the best thing to do is to stay out of it. Trust me on this. It’s kept me alive so far.”
“Are you serious?!” John whispered a bit too loudly. He glanced up warily, but none of the raiders paid them any mind; their table was far enough in the corner that it was overlooked. When he turned to look at Hudson again, he did so with a look of betrayal, as if the thief had wounded him with his sudden egotism. “Hudson Blackwood, the famous thief and mercenary, shying away from a fight simply because it ‘doesn’t concern’ him?!” he said in a way that was meant to guilt the thief.
Hudson shot him an unpleasant grimace, like an irritated merchant shoving a beggar out of the way. “John, do you remember that annoying thing I mentioned?”
“What annoying thing?”
“The one you’re doing now…”
John scowled, unable to conjure up a good response.
“Bravery and recklessness, mate,” Hudson said. “There’s a bloody difference!”
“So I’m supposed to sit idly by while th-”
“Settle yourselves, both of you!” Syrena hissed at them with a heated dread, rubbing her eyelid to fight back the twitching. “You’re gonna get us all killed!”
“You heard the lady,” Hudson remarked. “Settle your arse or I’ll settle it for you.”
“Hudson, I won’t just sit here whil-”
“It’s not your fight, mate! What does it matter?! Sometimes you have to sit one out if you wish to see another day.”
“But look at these people!” John insisted. “They’re not soldiers or mercenaries! You can’t just expect them to defend themselves against these savages…”
Hudson scoffed and glanced at Syrena. “Hear him? Thinks he’s the guardian of peasants, this one.” But the witch was far too anxious to care for the thief’s mockery. With a trembling hand she reached for her ale, which was utterly untouched, and began gulping it down as if she’d die if she didn’t finish it soon.
John took a moment to observe the room. Half the peasants, the more brute ones, were by then drunkenly carrying on with their conversations without a care in the world, while the other half were cowering in fear as the red mercenaries shoved at them and ordered them to empty out their satchels.
John nearly leapt from his seat, he was so angry. These villagers looked like they could have belonged in Elbon; he felt if he glanced in any direction he could have spotted Missus Aelyn or Old Man Beckwit sitting among them. It pained him to be sitting comfortably while others in the room were being robbed and harassed, especially when the Brotherhood seemed to only be pestering the weakest.
Unable to reserve himself, John leaned in towards the thief again.
“Listen, mate,” he said. “If you want to spend the rest of your days sitting about, drinking the pain away, by all means do so… But life goes on with or without you, Hudson. These people have families! They have children waiting for them at home! And you sit there calmly and tell me I’m acting rash?”
“You were acting rash,” the thief said gruffly. “Now you’re acting stupid…”
“Fine,” John said, rising steadily to his feet. It was painfully clear in his nervous mutter that he had no plan, but was merely acting on impulse. “I’m the stupid one,” he was saying. “All right, I’ll show you ‘stupid’. Better to be stupid than selfish, if you ask me.”
“Sit down, John…”
“You sit. Have another drink, go on.”
“Sit down, you reckless bastar-”
“I will not!” John snapped, loud enough this time that a few peasants certainly took notice over the music. “Fine! You want me to say it?! That’s fine, I’ll say it! You were right, Hudson… I don’t know what I’m doing. Are you satisfied?”
John was now glaring down at the man he called his friend. Hudson, in his stubbornness, refused to look the farmer in the eyes and instead lowered the rim of his hat.
“You were right all along,” John went on regardless, his voice firm and confident. “I’m not as strong as I thought I was. Not as fast. Not as clever. Hells, if it weren’t for the sun I’d hardly know which way’s east… But I do know one thing…”
John hesitated for a moment, as if he was coming to terms with himself.
“I was not born to pick vegetables and feed sheep my whole life,” he said out loud for the first time. “I’ve missed plenty of opportunities in the past to do the right thing but, for just once, I… I want to take that chance rather than throwing it away. For once, I just want to do something right.”
Hudson took a moment to respond, as if he was either offended or distracted. Normally, it would have thrilled him to lecture the farmer, to sit him down and tell him why he was talking like an idiot. He had every argument ready in his tongue when a sudden commotion distracted them, stealing his moment away.
“Shut your arses!” a man shouted, a mocking snicker hiding within his words. “Let the poor lad speak, will ya?”
Seamus, the bartender and new owner of the tavern, was standing in front of a table full of red mercenaries. The young lady who had been serving tables was also there, sitting on the lap of the one called Clive, as he chuckled and sniffed her hair unwelcomingly. The look on the girl’s reddened eyes said she had no interest in being there, but Clive had a dagger in his hand and she was frightened of what he would do with it.
“Now, what were you saying, lad?” one of them asked.
Seamus nervously set down a tray of drinks. “Here’s the round ye asked for,” he wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath. “Umm, Faye… I think they need ye in the kitchen,” he said to the girl. Clive’s grin twisted into a grimace; the poor girl took the opportunity to slide away from the mercenary’s grasp and run off as quickly as she could.
“We was only talkin’ to her,” one of them said, laughing hysterically like a hyena.
Seamus cleared his throat. “That’ll be 5 coppers for yer drinks… please,” he stammered.
A few of them snorted drunkenly, as if it had been a joke. Clive, on the other hand, did not look very happy. “What?” asked the vile brute. “You can’t offer a few drinks to your guests on the house?”
Seamus inspected the table warily. While the five mercenaries sitting there looked tired and slow, they were armed while Seamus wasn’t, not unless a butter knife could kill a man. “W-Well,” he chose his words carefully. “Perhaps I’ll just keep a count for ye. And we could settle it later.”
“Yes,” Clive snickered. “Perhaps…”
Seamus turned to walk away, but then a boot kicked him in the heel. He stumbled face-forward, his jaw slamming against the wooden floorboards, and it was followed by a burst of laughter. To make matters worse, Seamus realized he’d fallen over the red stain from his late superior’s blood and his face went pale as he fought back the vomit.
“Look at his face!” one of the mercenaries nearly choked from the laughter, his face turning almost as red as his leather armor. “Yellow bastard.”
Had there been less people nearby, young Seamus probably would have sunk into tears, he was such a gentle soul. With men like the Brotherhood mercenaries in the village, there was no possible way he would survive as owner of the tavern for longer than a week. He placed both hands flat against the floorboards and pushed himself up; his cheekbone was starting to bruise and he could taste blood on his lips.
Suddenly, a pair of muddy boots approached and came to a halt in front of him.
Seamus became agitated at first, expecting a slap or a kick in the ribcage.
Instead, there was a hand; the man wasn’t there to hurt him, he was there to help him up.
Seamus couldn’t see the man’s face, only a blonde shadow contrasting against the lanterns’ glow. He took the hand and pulled himself to his own two feet. “Thank you… May the gods bless you, sir…”
“My name’s John,” the young man replied, and then with a determined glare he turned his attention towards the table of mercenaries. “Hey! You, there!”
The bard kept playing and the more drunken folks kept to themselves, but the commotion had certainly started to turn a few heads. Clive spat on the floor while the other mercenaries on the table watched him intently; he’d only been left in charge for an hour or so and already the man looked as if the authority was poisoning his mind. “Can we help you?” asked Clive.