*Clang!*
Steel clashed against steel. Sparks ran in the air. The strength of Leon’s longsword met the swiftness and weight of Ander’s falchion, resulting in a bind, with both adversaries throwing their might into the stalemate. The two swordsmen pushed against one another through their blades, always vigilant for some form of opening. Ander, though his blade was smaller, had the strong position in the bind, and with a quick movement he shunted Leon away with his shield.
“Good, good!” The older man said, nodding at his apprentice’s work. “If you’re put in a bind, make a move or you risk your opponent gaining the strong position. Legs work well, too. Throw a knee!”
With some distance between them, the two levied their blades into respective guards. Leon, in a small front stance, held his longsword in front of him at an incline toward the sky, while Ander held his out to the side. With the further reach of his opponent’s sword, holding his sword forward would put his extremities in danger of being severed. The position also gave his blade ample room to arc, creating more power in a more open swing.
From the sidelines of the courtyard, there sat the rest of the clan, eyes peeled as the two men circled one another. After six months of training, the young Idris found himself at his penultimate test. Before he was given his solo mission - the final hurdle before becoming a fully-fledged outlaw - he would have to prove his worth by besting his master, or in the least, stalemating him. Much knowledge had been imparted upon him in that time, and it was obvious through his display with his armament. Longswords were quick, dexterous and powerful. But falchions were quicker. His strategy consisted of quick charges. If he could strike Leon before he had time to react, he would be victorious. Counter to this, if he lingered, Leon would gain the advantage, and he would be defeated. The strength of two hands was far beyond the strength of one.
His shield was just as vital as his blade. During a charge, he could parry whatever counter attack Leon threw at him, allowing his blade to arc freely against its target. This was easier said than done, of course. The challenge of execution burdened his mind. This was his chance to prove his worth to his master, and he eagerly wished to do so.
Leon, having been on the defensive, took the initiative and swung forward, making the younger man throw his shield up to counter the swing. The wood of the punch shield was sturdy enough to weather the blows, and with his opponent’s side open, he threw his weight into a slash. But the older man was quick, and he pulled his blade down to guard his side, making Ander’s steel taste metal, not flesh.
A cruel thought came to the boy, and as he pulled his blade back, he switched to a reverse grip and stabbed the sword back out to Leon’s open shoulder. Seeing this, the older man grimaced, and after deflecting the weak attack, he raised his pommel to strike the boy’s forehead. The discipline made Ander stagger back, almost dropping his sword in the process.
“How many times must I tell you!” Leon shouted. “No reverse grip!”
“I know-”
“-If you know, then show me!”
“I will!”
With renewed vigor, Ander dashed forward, swinging for Leon’s hip. The position was difficult for his opponent to parry, and when he did, the boy arced his blade around for a second swing. It seems the forehead strike taught the apprentice well.
“He’s doing pretty well, isn’t he?” Sylas spoke, glancing at his compatriots at his side. Those who weren’t engaged in the event were all eager to watch. “This is as close to watching gladiators go at it as we’ll ever get.”
“It’s a whole lot more interesting than Thad and Dame’s duel, that’s for certain,” Bella huffed, seeing Thaddeus’ eyebrow twitch at the comment. She wasn’t wrong. During the christened archer's challenge, the boy was tasked with a test of accuracy, making it a rather unexciting display.
“Won’t they get hurt if they’re struck by a blade?” Damien worried. A shrug from Nallia is the only answer he received.
A smirk grew on Sylas's lips. “It’ll build character.”
*Clang*
Another bind was entered, with Leon having engaged it. He possessed the strong position, and was but a second away from breaking it with a stab into Ander’s jerkin - the protective padding used during sparring. Seeing this, Ander followed his master’s advice, and threw a knee into Leon’s stomach. It took away stability from his position, but it worked well in breaking the bind. Leon was still quite close, and so in the heat of the moment, Ander threw his shield into his clavicle. It landed with only an inch or so of separation from his jugular. A small mistake, and it could have proved a nasty sparring injury.
With Leon pushed back in such a crude manner, Ander was quick to try and apologize.
“I’m sor-”
“No, no! That was good, that was good. Keep it up. Control, though. Remember control!”
There came a change of expression in Leon’s face. In the piety of battle, Ander could see that the man was becoming invested in the fight. It put the apprentice on edge. If Leon were to fully let go and enjoy himself, it would be a terrible thing for him. The older man was holding back greatly, that was something the young Idris wished to keep constant. Control, he repeated the word in his mind. After his test with Sylas, control had taken position as a main theme in many of his lessons. I have control!
“Well, come on!” Leon taunted with a smile. “Standing won’t do you any goo-”
It was an excellent opportunity. Leon talking, that is. With the older man distracted by his speech, Ander flew forward and feigned a slice at Leon’s left. The man fell for the bait, and at the last moment he redirected his blade to come down on his right shoulder. But his strike never landed. A fraction of a second is what separated Ander from victory, as Leon was swift with a counter. Yet, it wasn’t over.
The swift attack had caught his master off guard, and a second opening appeared. A close-up bind had formed. The thought was quick to come to him, and with his right foot, he swept out Leon’s legs, making him tumble down onto the grass of the courtyard. Even as he fell, Leon dared not go down without a fight, and threw a final swing under Ander’s chin, but the boy's shield found the blade before it could find his throat.
The match was over, and as Leon laid on the ground defeated, Ander’s falchion was held an inch away from the side of his head.
“Hah,” Leon let his head fall back against the soft soil of the yard, as did his blade also fall to the ground. “A good move, *huff*, that was.”
“Thank you for teaching me it.”
“I taught you that?” Leon lost himself in thought, only to let out a chuckle a second later. “Oh, I suppose I did! That was the first day you started learning sword forms propper, wasn’t it? Oh you had one hell of a nasty look on your face after that. It was hilarious.”
“Yeah, it is quite funny from this angle,” Ander let a smile take his lips as he sheathed his blade. He held out a hand to the defeated man, and helped him up.
Leon let out a huff as he straightened out his garb before turning to their faux-audience. They all seemed quite content with the show they put on. “Well, it looks like I’ve been bested.”
“But you were holding ba-”
“What? Of course I wasn’t, that’s mad talk, Ander,” Leon threw a jovial elbow into Ander’s side. He made sure to announce himself extra loud to convince the rest. “Would you shut that troublesome mouth?”
Ander didn’t reply, but with a smile, he nodded his head at his master.
“Alright, then, my faithful apprentice,” Leon began as he held out a hand. “Hand me your sword.”
Ander complied, placing the blade in Leon’s outstretched hand.
“Good, now, on your knees,” the master commanded, watching the boy lower to his knees. While it may have been a subtle thing, he took pride in how he lowered to the ground. A swordsman must always be ready, and so when lowering or raising to and from the knees, the right leg should always linger back to help one bolt up if need be. And as Ander went to the ground, so did his right leg linger. He was prepared, just as Leon had taught him to be.
“You have yet to complete your mission of solitude, and so you’ve not yet graduated from your training. But you have graduated from my mentorship.”
“Do not think your lessons are over, not yet, not in a dozen decades will they be. But you do deserve recognition,” Leon spoke softly as he held up Ander’s falchion. He levied the blade to hover over, and then tap the boy’s right shoulder.
“Ander Idris, you have demonstrated deftness of the hands, temperance of the mind, and vigor of the heart. You have heralded my lessons well, and proven yourself in battle.”
“How come I never got this from you?” Damien crossed his arms as he spoke to his master, admonished by the sight.
“It’s because Leon’s a mistress for looks, boy.”
Leon moved the blade over to knight Ander’s left shoulder as he continued. “I am proud to call you my student, and you have demonstrated honor, and humility during your journey.”
“Do you now, after your trial, accept the title of swordsman, and all that it may carry?”
“Yes, I accept the title,” Ander spoke without the hindrance of a doubt.
“Good - hold still for me, would you?”
“Why wo - *Smack* Agghh!”
As the flat of his blade struck the side of his head, Ander threw a hand to cradle the impact site. It took great control within Leon not to laugh, control that Thaddeus didn’t seem to have as he howled with laughter. After a moment, Leon regained his composure, and spoke solemnly.
“Remember that pain, Ander. During your journey, you will be cut, you will be hurt, and some day, you are certain to die. But that pain we endure. Remember this sting as a different pain.”
“What you feel is the pain of hubris, the sting of pride. Do not let this small ceremony fill your head with dreams. You have only known a sword for six months, while many have loved it all their lives. You are skilled, but you still green.”
“There is no such thing as a fair fight, and you will always be at a disadvantage… But this is no excuse for failure. Even against all odds, you have a duty to be victorious, and in your victory, you must show honor and humility. Remember this pain always, and never let it grow familiar.”
The pain lingered, but beside it, there flourished gratitude in receiving it. Every part of Ander was thankful for having a teacher like Leon. A wise man, unburdened by cruelty, who never failed to deliver insightful lessons. Every word he spoke bore many faces, and all were coveted by the boy.
“You may rise,” Leon motioned for him to stand with his blade, holding it out for him to take. As he did, he went on to sheath it in his scabbard. “Now that you know how to be a swordsman, your next task is to learn how to be a thief.”
“And that is a lesson delivered only by experience,” Sylas approached the two from the side of the courtyard, followed by the rest of the clan. “With Leon’s blessing right there, you’re now to join us on our excursions. Through success, and failure, you will learn our way of life.”
“This man right here,” Sylas pointed to Leon, “has taught you honor. That is a great gift, but remember who we are. Honor is what you shall always keep, but life takes precedence. You will encounter danger, and in order to survive, you may be forced to forfeit what is right.”
“I know of this,” Ander dipped his head as he spoke. “That's how I came about this place, is it not?”
“It is,” replied Sylas. “And there may, and most likely will, come a day where you will have to do what we did. It may be the wrong thing to do, but survival trumps every other notion.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” Sylas looked over at his comrades. “We will see if you speak honest soon enough. Until then-”
The axeman turned to face the rest of the clan, “-Who’s turn is it to cook?”
“That pleasure belongs to me,” Bella let out a sigh, “Should I get on with it?”
“Likely. What time do you reckon it is?”
“Couldn’t be later than four o’clock,” said Damien.
“Still a bit early, is it not?” asked Leon.
“No. Actually, we’re cutting it close,” Sylas glanced up at the overcast sky, frowning. “Bella, you’re free to get started.”
“What are we cutting close to?” Nallia wore a strung expression.
“Do you remember those riders who stopped by this morning?”
“Yes, what about them?”
“They were messengers from the Corps gang. Cloaked, of course. Their visit wasn't long, but they delivered some mighty news. We have a hit to pull tonight, you’ll all learn more after supper.”
“Am I to join too?” Came Ander.
“I just said you’ll learn more after supper!” Sylas’ tone sharpened slightly, though his smirk softened it. “What you can do now is go help out Bella, we need to get this done quick. Thad, you’re with me, we need to run some prep.”
“Anything we ought to do?” Damien, who was making his way toward the entrance of the stronghold, called out to Sylas.
“I don’t know, find something to do. Clean something, or stand around and look pretty. Whatever sinks your ship.”
“He doesn’t have any problems doing that,” came Nallia in a sly voice. A groan escaped the younger archer as the group began filing into the stronghold. Beside the main entrance, there was a wall-mounted rack made to hang armaments when not in use. And so the two swordsmen went about hanging up their kit. This was until a call bellowed from the kitchen.
“Ander! Where’s my help at?”
“On it, give me a moment!”
His assignment had slipped silently from his focus, but with the reminder, he made an ardent dash for the kitchen. Things had softened considerably around the stronghold. His honesty with Damien in the courtyard those odd months back had planted the seeds of change inside of him. Where he was once forced to mull over the past alone, he saw that, under certain circumstances, he now had others to help bear his burdens. It was just as Leon had said during the day he took Ander under his wing. The past was not his alone to fret over.
This didn’t make it easy to open up about his past - not in the slightest. He was still tight-lipped about it all, and he restrained his honesty to only three of his peers: Damien, Leon, and not surprisingly, Bella. They were the trio he found it most easy to bond with. Where Leon was a steady hand to guide him, and Damien was a trusted friend to walk by, Bella offered something different. She offered compassion. The rest were all sympathetic, but when Bella listened, he could see emotion brew within her, like she was actually sharing some of his burden. It was a comforting sight, but it was a double-edged sword. He made sure to avoid her eyesight, as when he looked there, he saw the reflections of Nina staring back at him. It was a grizzly reminder of the first person he made a connection with during his exile. He could only pray that Bella never met the same fate.
But in a world as fallen as his, one never knows what the next day wrought.
“How long does it take to hang a sword?”
As he entered the kitchen, Bella sent a snarky remark in his direction. To be fair, he had taken his sweet time in arranging his kit on the wall. When he stepped foot into the sectioned off room, the aroma of a hearty brewing stew met him. The magii before him was right to work, fostering her ingredients for supper.
“I would rather it be done right than it be done rushed,” he shot back.
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“Well then, how about you rush to start cutting up the greens I washed, can you manage that?” Despite her attitude, she wore an endearing smile.
“How would you like them cut?”
“Dice the seasonings, cube the carrots and moore-roots.”
Alongside his lessons of combat and larceny, the thieves were abundant with teachings of life skills. The stronghold was where he learned to cook, to forge knots, to med wounds and even brew soup. Miscellaneous things to be sure, but all of the useful nonetheless. As he wasn’t a fully-fledged member of the clan, he had no spot on the meal rotations. There were three meals a day, all crafted by the members cursed by the rotation. There would be a lot every morning, and this morning, Bella had been pulled to put together supper. While it was a labor for her, it was a delight to everyone else. Not only had they been spared by the lot, but out of everyone, Bella was undoubtedly the best cook. Leon’s meals were bland, as were Thaddeus’ charred. Sylas was fairly competent, and Damien walked the middle road between all three.
“Hey, Bella?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask why Nallia’s not on the rotation?”
“Hah!” Bella, who was nurturing a large pot of broth held over the open flames of the furnace, let out a laugh in response. “To be frank, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Well, as is quite obvious, Nallia comes from a different, ehh, background than the rest of us. She’s a Nyx, and to put it plainly, her first time cooking was also her last time cooking.” She held a ladle in one hand to stir the pot, and in another, she flipped through a rather large cookbook.
“How so?”
“She made a stew on her first day here. I believe she wished to thank us for taking her in. Either way, the moment she arrived, she set about her work. And Ander… that stew was absolutely heavenly.”
“The-what?” The young man expressed his confusion as he worked to dice up some rosemary.
“I told you you wouldn’t believe it. It was such a remarkable stew, that we actually started fighting over who got the leftover bowl. Ander, have you ever seen Leon lose his cool? Because over that one bowl of Nyx stew he was damn near ready to lob off Thaddeus’s thick skull!”
“Really?”
“I’m honest!” She explained with a grin. “If you don’t believe me, go ask the girl yourself. She’s probably doting over Dame somewhere. That poor boy has a hard enough time under Thaddeus…”
“Is that why you always cook us a stew?”
“Not always!” She frowned at the boy’s words.
“But…”
“Perhaps,” she rolled her eyes. “There was just, just something about that stew that I’ve never been able to get off my mind. You see this book here? I’ve read through - honest to Essa - every page to try and find a description that would match her stew, and I have found nothing!”
“Have you asked her how she made it?”
“Ahh, now that's a right idea- Of course I’ve asked her!” Bella began to fume as she thought more about her trouble courting Nallia’s soup. For such a light topic, she was getting quite active over it. “After seeing what it did to us, she barred herself from ever cooking or even talking about Nyx cuisine around us. It’s absurd!”
“Alright, alright,” Ander let out a chuckle. “No need to get worked up over it, is there?”
“Yes, there’s every reason, I mean… *Sigh* I suppose you’re right, I ought not get mad over it. You have no idea how many times I have before.”
“Oh, and another thing. Is there something between her and Damien?”
When the question reached her, Bella’s face twisted up into a confused look. “Is there something between them? Heavens no! On one hand, the boy was cursed with absolutely terrible charisma, and on the other hand, Nallia doesn’t understand the word no… Are you done with my cutting yet?”
“Yeah. Want me to throw them in?”
“Just the seasonings for now, I want to give the greens a nice charr before tossing them in with the lot.”
Following her commands, Ander levied the spices into the steaming pot. When the seasonings kissed the rising steam, they let out an onslaught of savory aromas, so rich that one could be convinced it was dining fit for king Thellevon himself. It seemed her quest to replicate a legendary stew had its spoils.
“Now doesn’t that smell grand?” She reveled in the scent of her cooking. “I should be able to manage the rest, but would you stay in case I need another set of hands?”
“Of course,” he nodded. “To be honest, if I were to leave now, I’d be chewed out, wouldn’t I?”
“Probably,” the woman let out a sigh. “Probably…”
“He’s a stern leader, isn’t he?” Ander looked at the woman, who was consumed with managing her stew. “Sylas, that is.”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” a chuckle passed her lips. “There’s nothing he loves more than being a tyrant. It’s all for our well being, so it can’t be helped, can it?”
“I suppose it can’t,” the swordsman shrugged his shoulders. “How long do you imagine the stew will take?”
“Oh, no more five, maybe six minutes,” she corrected herself, throwing another chunk of wood into the brick oven of the kitchen. The metal pot hungrily consumed its heat, letting more and more steam out as it brewed.
“Back before we lived in the stronghold, I would have to pitch a fire every time we wanted something warm to eat. Thank the gods we came across this place.”
Ander’s hands stilled. A shadow passed over his face as he stared down at the cutting board, his jaw tight.
“...Why thank the gods?...”
“What’s that?”
“I said, why thank the gods?” Ander’s voice was low, simmering beneath the surface. He gripped his cutting knife tightly, eyes narrowed. “Why thank such terrible things…”
“Hah, Ander, I don’t seem to… follow,” Bella’s smile faltered at the boy’s dreadful words. “Do you have words for the gods?”
“Do I?” He replied. “Do I have words for hell, or for the cold? Do I have words for the wicked?... No.”
“What have the gods done that covets thanks? If they are all-powerful, if they are ordained with omniscience, then are they not the authors of my torment? Are they not the authors of all torment?... Are they not the ones who casted my village into flames, the ones who took from me my family?...”
“Are they not the ones who stole from me my life, and all of those I loved?”
“...Ander, I don’t think this is good for you,” Bella put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Beneath his tunic, she could feel the coldness of his skin. “This way of thinking will do you harm.”
“Harm? What more harm can come upon me? No, no no the gods deserve no thanks, they deserve no prayers, no nothing! If they have the right to make an omen of me, then I have the right to make a villain out of them!”
“Be it true or not, you shouldn’t let yourself foster hate for them.”
“Hate? This isn’t hate… Where were the gods when I was starving in the snow, when I watched people… When I would wake to find corpses at my side? Where were they, up on their mountains? Feasting till the days end to lie in paradise? I don’t hate the gods, but that doesn’t mean I have to thank them.”
“Then leave it at that, you needn’t say any more,” Bella spoke in a stern, yet sympathetic voice. “Your point has been made, Ander… Now help me take this off the heat.”
Her request conquered the boy, banishing the dark thoughts of immortal beings from his mind. Perhaps, she was right. Dwelling on such things would only stir him up further. Donning thick kitchen mittens, the two levied the pot of stew off the iron platform of the furnace. When the flames of the fire no longer graced the cauldron, it began to bellow steam, blessing the two cooks’ senses with endless delight.
“Go ahead and ring the bell for me, I’ll fetch the bowls.”
Ander nodded in response as he left the kitchen, and as he strode into the dining hall, he turned to his left and struck a wall-mounted bell. Its sound reverberated through the corridors of the stronghold, signaling to all that supper was prepared. It was a fun thing to do: ringing the bell. Any source of entertainment was gladly accepted, especially after mulling over such hated things.
“About time!” Rose Thaddeus’ voice as he appeared through the bulkhead on the other end of the hall. It was wrong to call where they ate a hall, rather, it was an oversized room. The roof stood taller and grander than the others of the stronghold, and the chamber was wide, as well as long. This was to be expected, as inside the room there stood a table, long enough to comfortably sit a few dozen men. The stronghold was a military encampment at one time. It was only reasonable to make such a large cantine.
“Have you any words of thanks?” Bella appeared beside Ander, carrying seven empty bowls stacked overtop one another. “Ander, would you go fetch some silverware?”
And so he did, tracking back to the kitchen to fetch utensils for the clan. As he walked, more voices echoed from the hall.
“Wow, Bella. You’re getting really close, I’m quite flattered!”
“You be quiet, you tree woman, you!”
There sounded a gasp from the dining hall, and then the rage of an angry tree woman. “I am not a tree woman!”
“Well, to be fair, you do have some woodland characteristics.”
Damien made his appearance amongst the rest, and as his words reached Nallia, there rang a sharp *Slap*.
“*Groan*, I suppose I deserved that, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did!”
Ander put aside the distracting circus in the hall and gathered the items requested by Bella. It took no great amount of time, and not a moment later was he back in the dining hall.
“Such chaos, must it always be like this?” His master appeared in the far corner of the room, a smile on his face. “It’s a miracle we can accomplish anything together.”
“Then we ought to keep praying miracles come our way,” Sylas and Thaddeus strode into the room, wearing solemn looks. “We should eat quickly, there’s much to talk about.
And so, they did. The two cooks set the table, and brought forth the heavy metal pot. They had made much in excess, but it would be drained in not a few days' time. As they ate, they did so swiftly, but still found time to make light conversation. It was as it always was at the table. Leon and Bella were the driving forces in the chatting, with Thaddeus and Sylas finding ways to chime in with chides and quips. Ander kept his tongue still, and took in the main conversation, as well as the small words mouthed by the Nyx adjacent to him. They were tormenting sounds of flattery directed toward the younger archer, who would squirm in his seat, as did he at most suppers.
“What kind of meat is this?” Sounded Thaddeus. “I can’t tell if it’s pork… Or chicken.”
“Is that an insult?” Bella wore an irate frown.
“No, not at all! I just asked what meat I’m eating.”
“It’s neither. I used up some of the duck we had buried in the under-storage.”
“Oh, okay,” the older archer nodded, drawing a spoonful of the stew to his lips. “Well, it’s quite good.”
“Was that an honest to Aldrr complement?”
“It’s not often you hear praise from the king of cruelty,” Leon let out a laugh.
“Hold your tongue or I’ll sew your mouth shut,” spat Thaddeus, his black-haired brother trying to contain his laughter at his side. “Sometimes things are deserving of praise. It’s not my fault that it isn’t so often rewarded.”
“...You softie.”
“-I am not soft!”
Laughter was bountiful that night, but the quick pace of their eating consumed it with a greedy appetite. There was much to go around, but no one ate their fill. If there was work to be done, it was best done on a content, but not full stomach. Lest one would fall sick, or tired.
“Alright, clear the table.” Sylas, after seeing the final bowl be drained of stew, stood up and announced. “I have with me a run down of the hit, clear the table.”
At his command the table was cleared, and then wiped with a rag by Damien’s hand. They weren’t a messy lot, but cleanliness was always appreciated. From beneath his chair, Sylas sourced a rolled up sheet of parchment. It was placed on the table, and then spread out by the gang, who held down its corners to press it flat against the wood. On the hide there were three maps drawn out in black ink. In the upper portion there was a small illustration of Thrassing’s Valley, centered around Vimbaultir, the major settlement of the area. Next to that, there was a more detailed portion of Vern’s forest, and largest of all there was a map of what appeared to be an outpost, or encampment. The outline contained a series of walls and rooms, and all about its structures there were lines of red ink, showcasing the steps the thieves would take during their plunder.
“What do any of you know about the Freemans?”
“Nothing,” came Damien.
“Not anything at all.”
“Those sick reprobates?” Leon put on a nasty scowl. The whole lot stood around the table, giving all an opportunity to chime in. “What about them?”
“Well,” Sylas cleared his throat. “According to the Corps, they’ve set their eyes on Thrassing’s Valley.”
“Surely they haven’t?” Came Bella.
“They have,” Thaddeus shook his head. The archer always wore one of two moods: jovial, or stern. And at that moment, he was quite stern.
“The butchers of Carthis are here? What business do they have in Vimbaultir?”
“They have business wherever there’s wealth to pillage,” replied Sylas, coldly.
“Forgive me, but who are these people?” Damien asked. Going by his peers' descriptions of them, he could assume the Freemans weren’t quaint folks.
“The Freemans? The Freemans are monsters, Damien. In this world, there are two brands of thieves. There are those who steal, and there are those who pillage. We are no holy folk, I don’t deny this. But the Freemans?”
“They are brutes unlike any other. They have not a shred of dignity, or honor. They rob villages to gain wealth… and then butcher their people to gain entertainment,” the remark rose from Leon.
“Golems?” Nallia, after processing her family’s comments, asked the single word.
“No, they're men. But they’re not too different. They share the thirst for war of the mad Jotunns. They thrive off massacre, and will bring nothing but wickedness to Vimbaultir.”
“If they’re so terrible,” began Ander. “Then why hasn’t Sylvee stopped them? Why hasn’t anyone stopped them?”
“There’s no one to stop them,” replied Thaddeus. “The Pact of Aeon has fallen far from the alliance it once was. With so much strength placed in the war, only major cities have the guarantee of safety. Even as large as Vimbaultir is, there’s no promise that any surrounding towns and the like will be safe.”
“Honest?”
“Unfortunately,” came Sylas. “And with how rare it is to come across a group of rangers, well, the underbelly like us have to come in to pick up the slack.”
“That’s what the Corps is, Ander,” Bella began. “It’s been like this for centuries. There’s a reason why, beyond us being careful, we’ve never been found out. Nor has any of the outlaw clans ever been found out, at least not the wise ones. We steal, yes. We kill, sometimes. But for the lower folk, we’re often a form of protection. And with the Freemans here, we now shoulder the duty of making them leave.”
“Dead or alive, and to be honest, I’d rather them leave as the former.” It was the often well-mannered Leon who made such a bold statement. “What have the Corps asked of us?”
“Nothing much, just a small hit,” Sylas began to point to regions around the map of Thrassinng’s Valley. “They came here yesterday and put up a fort right here, just around the Faroff Spring. It’s well known that whenever they move, they spend three days - only ever three - scouting out any nearby settlements. That means three days where their belongings are only protected by a shell crew. By the few who stay behind.”
“Which means that there’s three days worth of plunder?”
“Exactly,” Sylas nodded at Damien’s response. “That’s why we have to act so swiftly here. Other clans will fall upon their camp tomorrow night, and the night after. But tonight, we have free reign.”
“Hmm, if this is a Corps order, what’s their cut?”
“Nothing at all,” there formed a small smile on Sylas’ lips. “It’s because the Freemans are a force much too great for the wayward band to handle. Let it be known, this will be no easy task, and if they find out who any of us are, you can bid this home, and everyone in it, goodbye. But because of how risky it is, we get to keep everything we find.”
“And we’ll find a lot, so we’ve been told,” came Thaddeus, his arms crossed over his chest. “But we want to keep this quick, so no heavy items. We’ll only be taking coins, and we should be able to find them in this chamber.”
The archer leaned over to jab a finger into the outline of the Freemans’ camp. “Sylas, you want to give the positions?”
“Mhm. Insurgents will be myself, Leon, Bella, and Thaddeus. Nallia, you’ll be on interior scout - making sure we aren’t followed inside the campground - and Damien, you’ll be on high-watch. There’s a small ridge that overlooks the camp, you’ll be stationed there, Dame.”
“So same plan as always, then?” Came Nallia.
“Not quite,” Sylas turned to look at Ander, who stood beside Damien. “Ander, you’ll be shadowing Damien on the ridge. He’ll fill you in on how to run high-watch so we can move him into some interior work in the near future. Since it’s an open air camp, you two will have to relay to us whatever Nallia can’t see. Ander, I'll get you a mute whistle before we leave, the same one Damien has.”
“Bit of a big job for his first one, isn’t it?” Leon asked, trying to mask his concern.
“You’re the one who gave him the clear to be on the field. If you don’t think he’s ready, you’re free to say something.”
“I wasn’t objecting,” Leon stared across at Sylas, turning to Ander. “I was just making a statement… He’s ready, I’m sure of it.”
“What exactly does ground watch do?” Ander posed the question.
Damien, being the bonafide expert of the group, replied. “We’re responsible for surveying anyone who might stumble upon the main insurgents. We don’t want to be seen by anyone, and we’re responsible for communicating where the people are around the area.”
“How do we-what do we use to communicate?”
“The muted whistles,” he replied. “I’ll fill you in more on the ride there. I’ve got him, Sylas.”
“Fantastic,” Sylas looked over his peers' faces. Some were concerned about the weight of the task, but none bore any will of rejecting it. “You may feel nervous about this, you may be tense, but I have faith in us. All of us. We wouldn't have gone on this long if we were without tallent.”
“And concerning any Freemans we might find,” Thaddeus leaned over the table, glaring at those around him. “If it won’t get us caught, kill as many as you can.”
“Is that… just?”
The query rose from Ander, who unintentionally broke the stoic atmosphere. There was silence for a moment, before Sylas burst forth.
“Of course it’s just! These are monsters, Ander! Mon-sters. For Essa’s sake, they slaughter sons before their mothers, and take daughters before their fathers. There’s no place for such people in this world, and there’s certainly no place for them in Vimbaultir!”
The axeman’s sudden rage caught the boy off guard. He was stunned into silence as he looked over at his master. Leon too was tight lipped, before he sent Ander a nod.
“Sylas is right,” the swordsman announced. “Every living Freemans is capable of immense terror. It may not seem like a just thing to do, and in any most cases, it isn’t. But these aren’t people, Ander. They’re monsters who deserve death, and every one of them who falls is another family who gets to live.”
“Then this ought to be fun!” The bizarre call came from Nallia, who wore an ear-to-ear grin. “I may be getting a little over excited!”
“Leave it to a Nyx to make sport out of bloodshed.” Bella shook her head. She was thankful Ander asked his question before she found the will to ask the same one.
“Then we should be smart and learn from them.” Sylas reached over the table to roll up his parchment, sealing it tightly to hold under his arm. “Tonight, we are more than thieves. What we do will be for the good of Vimbaultir.”
Leon threw on a stoic look before pounding a hand on the table.
“Then let us do it well!”