Worthy Steelarm had never felt so tired. He was stronger than he’d ever been in his life, much more powerful than when he was an active Slayer, but even so, he felt an exhaustion that went down to his bones. It had started ever since Tyron went missing, and had really set in when he’d heard the boy was dead. Ever since, it had grown, like a sickness for which he had no cure, and even this rebellion wasn’t enough to fully shake the malaise.

“Sit down for a minute, Wor,” Meg said, stepping beside him and rubbing at his shoulder. “All this pacing isn’t going to help.”

Nothing was going to help, and they both knew it, but Worthy didn’t say anything. His wife was suffering just as much as he was, if not more. She hadn’t known Magnin and Beory all that well, but Tyron was like a son to her. His ‘death’ had been devastating, and learning he was alive and killing himself somewhere far from her hadn’t helped.

“I will,” he promised, reaching up and clasping her hand with his own. “I just need to speak to Rurin first, then I’ll be back. Are you cooking for the camp tonight?”

“I’ve got a beef stew over the fire.”

“With potatoes?”

“Of course with potatoes.”

“Have I ever told you I love you, Meg?”

“Only every day.”

“You say that like it’s not enough.”

“It isn’t.”

They both chuckled as he pulled her into a one-armed embrace. They’d repeated those words back and forth to each other so many times, it was less a habit and more like a ritual. It brought them both comfort.

One final squeeze, though Worthy was careful to control his strength, and then he was out the door. It was a simple timber structure, but it stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of canvas around it. Since Meg had decided to come with him, he’d had no choice but to build something for them to stay in. There was no way he was going to make her sleep on the ground without a proper roof over her head.

Many called out to him as he strode through the rows of tents, while many more just stared. They knew he was a Steelarm, had seen him fight and now treated him as something more than he was.

He hated it.

Just keep walking, he told himself, it’s no business of yours.

Rurin, Timothy and the leaders of the rebellion from Skyice could usually be found in the centre of the camp around the fire, when they weren’t out fighting at least. It was a fairly casual arrangement, one that suited the Slayers, though he found the constant presence of the Priests a little disconcerting.

“Well, if it isn’t Worthy Steelarm, hammer of the rebellion and champion of the people,” Rurin called, raising her mug cheerfully.

The Hammerman scowled and she burst out laughing.

“I have no idea how you stay so cheerful,” Worthy growled, walking up and taking a seat on the log beside the grizzled Slayer.

“What else is there to do?” she replied with a grin. “These are our final days, Worthy. You’ve known me for a long time, did you really think I’d die miserable and cold? Fuck no. I’m going out with a smile on my dial and a cup in my hand. Besides, we get to kill Magisters. If that doesn’t put some pep in your step, then you aren’t a Slayer.”

“I’m not a Slayer, I’m an Innkeeper,” he huffed, rolling his shoulders and staring into the fire in front of him. “Best damn Inn in Foxbridge.”

“You have your wife’s cooking to thank for that,” Rurin said, nudging him in the side and the Hammerman swatted her away.

Except… he wasn’t a Hammerman, not any more, not since he’d advanced to gold. Now he was a Hammerlord. The title still didn’t sit right with him.

There was some truth in what she’d said, Meg was a Cook, and a damn good one, but Worthy had been a damn good Innkeeper in a way that Levels and Skills couldn’t really define. He was just good at it, he was suited to the role. It was something he could do well, something in which nobody would compare him to his younger brother. A thought struck him.

“Do you think Magnin would have been a good Innkeeper?” he asked.

Rurin looked at him as if he were insane.

“What? He would have been awful, and you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“That’s what I always thought too.”

“Even if he weren’t awful at it, unless the Inn could fly, he would have abandoned it in a month or two anyway.”

“Aye, that he would have.”

I don’t like standing still, Worthy, Magnin’s face flashed into his mind, soft smile on his face and light dancing in his eyes, always feels like I’m wasting time.

What about when you’re here with your kid? Worthy had asked him. Is spending time raising your son a waste of time?

That smile had slipped, just a little, but then it was back, same as ever.

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Ty understands. I know it’s hard on him, but he understands. I love my son, Worthy.

He knows. That’s why it hurts him so bad.

That last sentence had gone unsaid, but now he wished it hadn’t. He wished he’d punched Magnin for every day of his damn life he’d spent away from that boy.

“I’m not sure I can stay here much longer,” Worthy said, still staring into the fire.

Rurin lowered her mug and sighed.

“I thought something like this might happen. Got the itch to start moving, like your brother?”

Worthy snorted.

“I am not my brother. No matter how much these fools want me to be.”

“I was wondering if that was starting to bother you,” Rurin said. “I can tell them to piss off, if you want. They don’t mean anything by it… it’s just…”

“It’s just that Magnin and Beory were the best damn Slayers this province has ever seen, and now they see a fraction of that glory in me,” he growled. “I’ve been dealing with it my entire life. That’s nothing new.”

It had never bothered him that Magnin had been so famous, so well known and so revered. In fact, he’d been Magnin’s greatest supporter. Since the time his little brother could swing a sword, everyone could see how gifted he was. Worthy had trained him hard, and had felt nothing but pride when he could no longer provide a challenge in the training yard.

What he hated was some of that renown falling onto him when he didn’t deserve it. He’d been a good Slayer, maybe even great, but he was respected far more than he’d deserved, all because of his surname. It hadn’t been so bad working at the Inn, but now, back among all these Slayers, it was worse than ever.

“So why do you want to leave?”

Worthy was silent for a long moment, unsure what to say. Eventually, he just said what he felt.

“I need to find the boy,” he said, shrugging his heavy shoulders. “I need to see him, make sure he’s okay. I should have gone as soon as I learned he was alive, and even now I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Rurin shook her head gently.

“Because I told you that you’d die before you made it anywhere near him. Because we need you in the fight. Because I said I wasn’t sure if he even wanted to be saved. Your nephew has grown hard and cold, Worthy. When I met him, he was like a block of ice, and if what I’m hearing from around Kenmor is true, he’s probably gotten worse.”

“What are you hearing?” Worthy demanded.

The old Slayer didn’t reply immediately, but took another long pull from her mug.

“Gah. This stuff tastes like yak piss.”

“Talk to me, Rurin.”

“Fine. I’m getting word of… patrols going missing… dead Marshals found on the side of the road. Recently, an entire Noble estate went quiet. I think Tyron’s been putting in a shift down there, and I don’t mean at his shop.”

Worthy surged to his feet.

“Damn boy is going to get himself killed,” he growled and turned to walk away. Rurin’s hand shot out and caught him by the elbow, stopping him in place.

He could pull away easily if he wanted to; she might be tougher than him, but he was far stronger. He turned back to face her, his frown morphing into a glare.

“Why are you stopping me?” he asked quietly.

Rurin met his eyes and released his arm.

“I just… I just don’t want you to waste what’s left of your life. I’ve always thought of you as a friend, Worthy, even if you never saw me the same way.”

He hadn’t. Rurin was Beory’s friend, and Magnin’s by extension. Worthy deliberately separated himself from Magnin’s friends. They had unrealistic expectations.

Reading his expression, Rurin shook her head and chuckled to herself.

“Alright, ouch, but I’m serious. Tyron is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to do, and we need you here, fighting with us.”

“You’re doing fine,” he rumbled.

“Things are going to change, and soon,” she warned him, an angry look in her eye. “We had a group range out as far as Weighbridge. They came staggering back yesterday, what was left of them.”

She took a shaky breath.

“The Magisters are sending golds against us.”

“Gold what? Soldiers? We’ve been fighting them on and off for weeks.”

“Not Soldiers,” she replied, eyes hardening.

Worthy looked at her, the blood draining from his face.

“You don’t mean…”

“Yes,” she nodded. “They broke them and sent them in to fight against us. Jessul said they had chains around their necks. Chains.”

She was too angry to continue, and Worthy could understand why. He was filled with shock and rage himself.

The gold ranked slayers, the ones who reached the pinnacle they were allowed to achieve and retired in glory. They were heroes of the province who’d put in over a decade of service, battling in the rifts with barely a break, keeping the realm from being overrun. The thought the Magisters might pit them against their former comrades had never even entered his mind.

“You’re sure about this?” he demanded.

“We’ll know for sure soon enough,” she told him. “If they were in Weighbridge, then they’ll be coming further west, and soon. If it’s only a few now, it’s going to be more soon enough. We’re going to have to kill them ourselves, Worthy. Don’t make me do it alone.”

He stared at her and could see the depth of her pain in her eyes. Rurin was old, way older than most Slayers ever lived to be. She’d refused to Advance and remained out on the rifts longer than almost anyone. Just how many people had she seen go on to become gold and retire? How many friends was she going to see over the battlefield in the next few weeks?

“I’m leaving,” he said, and turned away.

“Arsehole,” she growled at his back, but there wasn’t much feeling behind it. “At least talk to Tim before you leave!” she yelled at his back. “He might have a way to smuggle you into the city! If he doesn’t, try the Priests! Idiot!”

All she got in return was a rude gesture over his shoulder, but Rurin merely laughed to see it. At least he’d had a little life in his eyes, which was more than she could say about him lately.

Worthy trudged back through the camp, not even hearing the voices that called out to him, not even seeing the hero worship in the eyes of the younger ones. What Rurin had said about the Slayers filled him with rage. What she’d said about Tyron filled him with fear. Yes, they would needr him to fight, but he had to put his family first. He should have always put the boy first.

When he returned to the small cabin, he found Meg ambling around, gathering up bits and pieces from her herb stocks, preparing to head to the communal cookhouse and check on her stew.

The moment the door slammed shut, she turned to look at him, smiling just a little, but could immediately tell there was something different about him.

“I’m heading out, Meg,” he said, standing by the entrance. “I’m going to get Tyron.”

Immediately, tears sprang to the Cook’s eyes, and she nodded.

“I’m glad,” she said. “I thought you’d never leave.”

She spread her arms wide and Worthy stomped forward before he enveloped his wife in a crushing embrace.

“Bring our boy home,” she whispered in his ear.

“Aye,” he replied. “He’ll get here.”