Three hours have passed since Kitford’s men vanquished the monster in the dark. It was a pernicious, human monster. One whose face they will never have to look upon again. Without me, they never would have chosen the righteous path to freedom, but I’m not one to ask for credit. I am a humble man.

I lay on my back, gazing up and my life and love - the great Selune. She gave me strength to fight for the freedom of my hometown Cathiis, when it was raided weekly by thieves adorned as lawmen. She gave me strength to rise again after burying Cog, who was and will always be my truest friend. And she gives me strength to this day to help men like those I dine with tonight break their own chains. As is customary after a battle, some men chatter on and on - happy simply to hear their own voices again. Others prefer to maintain their distance, afraid of their own emotional development. A fool such as Captain Coran would have his men feel guilty as they become killers. I have Selune to thank yet again for the divine assurance that the ability to defend oneself is never something to shy away from.

Among the talkers are Malthen and Marshall. They recount mundane tales with the vigor of a bard singing legend, for they are truly happy. Gillan, ever the listener, sits and smiles with them, doubtlessly mourning the friends he has lost. He doesn’t realize how glorious and beautiful their deaths were. He doesn’t realize that their souls now walk in the fields of Sanctora, the vale in which all honored non-believers are lucky to live out eternity. How gracious and merciful are the Volcaryn that they would allow even heretics to prove themselves and enter eternity. I am glad for these Kitford souls. Sanctora is peaceful and just, but it is not where my soul is bound.

After I have given my One Hundred Years of Service to the Volcaryn and my body is no longer of use, Selune herself will bare my soul to the Vale of Celesnia. There, where no evil has been or will ever be, I will be free of my divine purpose and able finally to rest. I look forward to the time I will spend walking the fields of peace, but I do not yearn for it. In the light of victory, justice, friendship, and Selune’s divine radiance, I can glimpse what Celesnia must feel like. And that is enough.

The fireside ramblers anxiously avoid the topic of the recent skirmish, because they believe it in some way disappointing. I found it greatly illuminating. The battle hungry Heedy brothers, dead all, proved their valor as they charged through the wake I carved. Brandon, the cowardly killer died just as he had lived - quietly and in the shadows. Kha, the poor weak man, hid his head like the cow he is. I don’t hate him, though. Only the man who taught him to abhor violence. Brandon’s final resting place out of sight of sun and stars is fitting punishment for his calumny of justice.

Coran, for all his heresy, fought bravely and can count himself among my friends now. He entered the cave with a beastly scar and exited with three more, but complained neither before nor after. If only he accepted the light of her holiness Selune, I could cure his ailments in but a minute. As we trod towards the glorious cave entrance, however, he forbid me ever to lay a hand on him in the name of the Volcaryn; even if he lay dead or dying. It is a deeply erroneous judgment, but I will honor it out of respect for the man.

I did not see much of Gillan, only that he strove to save a young raider’s life after I put a dent in his chest. It concerns me that Coran is not wary of the old woodsman. The old man has displayed perfidious cowardice both before and during the battle, encouraging men not to fight and then tending to the enemy. On top of this, the old man rejects the true gods in favor of some idolatry of nature. I know myself to be a great judge of character, and he is not to be trusted.

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Mayor Herskel was found a few minutes after the last blood was shed. He escaped his bindings somehow and ran while we laid down our lives for his. He and Coran huddle far from the fire like two girls afraid of the dark, but I understand. If Cog were returned to me now, I would not let him out of my sight.

I saw the boy Malthen shed a tear last we talked, but I expect I will never see him cry again. He entered the cave at my tail, a follower and a boy. He emerged on his own two feet, carrying my body and saving my life. He struck the final blow to the raider’s leader and defended his comrades with honor. I began to like him when we talked as companions on the road, but now I respect him too. He walks with purpose now, but in my heart I know he has nowhere to go. I will take him with me once Kitford has been reunited with its men and thanks have been given. He has much to learn from the gods and I have much to gain from his company.

I had a companion of the heart once. We lay under the stars on nights like this one, in warm summer breezes such as this one, listening to friends talk as I do now. Her chest radiated a warmth like the summer breeze, and her eyes shone more radiant than the stars. I imagine her presence beside me now. Her body was soft, lithe, lively, and athletic before the thieves got to her. Her teeth were pearly and her smile wide, but not nearly as wide as it was once they were finished with her. I try to picture her face, but I see only Sirius. The bastard who defiled her. I see his face sneering, inches from mine, only hours before he lay slack in the mud.

I turn over and grunt, expelling the unpleasant thoughts from my mind. Tonight is too great a night to feel such hatred. The moonlight once again cleanses my soul and I submit my mind so that Selune might bear me to the dreamlands.

My fingers flex, tightening about the pommel of the combat knife Cog’s grandfather gave me on the first day of my eleventh Cycle. It is ready to dart from my side to the throat of whoever wakes me, but tonight there is no need. Malthen crouches beside my left shoulder. Far enough to evade any desperate knife strike I might make in a disoriented blunder. Smart man. It is his watch, and he has no reason to wake me while the moon still hangs so high. I begin to formulate a question, but he silences me with a finger to his lips. And I hear it.

A soft, recurring impact like that of a woodpecker or sacchen. But neither the Woodpecker nor the sigil of house Oram hunt at night. I thank Malthen with a nod and rise to my feet. The men who can sleep after a battle doze deeply, but Gillan and Herskel crouch silently by the fire. They seem undisturbed by the noise, so I forestall Malthen as he kneels to wake another. Instead, I tilt my head and gesture towards the sound. The boy understands and looks to me for further direction. He does not smile, but I can tell how content he is in my presence. I am glad, for I am content in his as well. I gesture again, palm upwards in satire of high-born custom, for him to lead the way. He slinks purposefully from the firelight.

As we approach the disturbance, the sounds become increasingly human. Here and there in between impacts a heavy breath. The shuffling of feet in the moist woodland carpet of leaves and bark. Then short, clipped breathing of one who has been crying.

Kha stands before the tree trunk against which he practiced earlier. Then, his axe strokes were tentative, weak even for a man of normal stature. Now he swings with the strength of passion. His hands spaced efficiently on the blackened pommel of Brandon’s battle-axe in a warrior’s grip. With each swing, both axe heads are consumed entirely by the wet trunk’s dead flesh. I have never faced a man of his size, but if I did I do not think I would fear him. Selune boldens the heart so that I fear no enemy. It is the ambiguity of our relationship that causes the slightest fear to wash over me now. He would not, and likely could not strike me. But if he did, no chain mail nor holy blessing could save my body.