Peter was dragged for what felt like days. Wounds disappeared and tore anew in a tormenting cycle. The captain rode for dear life, heedless of Peter’s choked cries, out of Stalpia and into Rahashel’s rural territory. Peter finally had to resign himself to the pain. His efforts to distract himself while being dragged by a horse like a sled were impossible.

Still, though, despite the incessant burn of being dragged over the rough ground, Peter couldn’t shake the memory of Iris’ old eyes, glazed over and innocent, looking down at him as he fell. She was still in Stalpia. He had failed. He couldn’t get to her. He couldn’t even reach out to her with the band on. He hated Court Rahashel. He hated the captain, who had done the right thing to save him but also doomed Iris for now. Most of all, though, he hated himself. He should have been smarter. He could have found a way to get to her discreetly. He should have tried harder to convince the captain to help.

The captain charged the horse, and it looked ready to collapse from fatigue. Peter would have felt bad for it — if he wasn’t being dragged behind it. The one good thing was that he had somehow managed to keep his hat on.

The captain finally pulled the horse to a halt and dismounted.

Peter rolled over a few times and would have groaned if the rope around his neck hadn’t cut off his airflow.

“Take the rope off,” the captain commanded.

Peter compiled and wrestled with the rope around his neck. By the time he was on his feet, the last traces of his drag wounds had disappeared.

Finally getting the knot to budge, he sucked in his first breath, far longer than should have been possible.

“Move,” the captain commanded. “Drop the rope.”

Peter obeyed, gasping, coughing, and trying his best not to retch.

The captain grabbed a rotted log, dragged it to the rope, and slipped it into the loop.

Peter was careful to not get too close; he didn’t want to leech the man. He was tempted to take the band off for a moment, but seeing the captain’s violent and angry eyes, he thought it might be better if he kept it on for now.

The captain slapped the horse on its rump, and it galloped off, dragging the rotted log with it.

“Follow me, but not too close,” the captain said as he started off away from the road. Peter followed the captain, who marched at a brisk pace. Peter quickly grew winded, and the captain noticed, but took no sympathy or showed any intention of slowing.

Peter’s old and weary lungs felt as though they were on fire.

“Can we slow down?” he gasped.

The captain ignored him and marched on.

Peter huffed as he jogged to close the distance. The sharp pain in his side was bad, but nothing compared to being dragged by the neck by a horse in a gallop.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, but the captain maintained his silence, his eyebrows drawn together in a dangerous scowl. Peter didn’t press him.

The chill intensified, and Peter’s clothes were hopelessly shredded, wet, and uncomfortably revealing. His tongue went dry, and he shivered as they hiked at least a mile north.

The captain seemed to know what to look for, because he stopped at a bushy tree. He pulled the branches back to reveal a wooden door mounted into a shallow hill. He knocked once, with a pause, then eight more times.

He stepped back as the door opened outward, thrown by a thin arm, and stepped through the doorway, motioning for Peter to follow.

Peter walked into a dimly lit and surprisingly spacious subterranean cabin. It was either built into the hill or buried and expertly camouflaged.

Three more people sat at a table in the dim light, and Peter blinked his eyes, trying to get them to adjust.

A tall man and an earnest woman leaped to their feet when they saw the captain; the third, a short man with a toothpick between his teeth, simply nodded in acknowledgment.

“Captain! You’re not undead!” The tall man cried. He was broadly shouldered but not deep-chested, perhaps in his mid-forties. He clumsily bumped the corner of the table as he stepped forward. He wore a long black coat and had a black goose egg bruise ringed in yellow bulging on his forehead.

“Van Dijk, neither are you,” the captain grumbled, almost sounding disappointed.

The three at the table looked past the captain at Peter in his shredded and bloodied clothes. Peter blushed when he realized a large portion of his backside was exposed through a tear in his pants.

“Let’s get you some new clothes,” the man who opened the door said as he stepped up to Peter. He was small and comfortably dressed in loose lounge attire and slippers, in contrast to the workers’ garb the others wore. Thin of the frame and lethargic in his movements, he didn’t strike Peter as a soldier.

“Marko! Get away from him!” the captain hollered, and Marko yelped as he scampered away.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“He’ll leech you!”

Marko paled. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a lich or something, I’m not sure.”

“If I can just say—” Peter started.

“Roal, Johan, Daniel, Sem, and Dani!” the captain snapped. “I lost five men to get you out of there, so no, you can't! I’m the one who will talk, and you’re the one who will do as I say!”

Peter swallowed and bowed his head.

“Now give me the weapon,” the captain articulated, through teeth that were clenched in grief.

Peter nodded and reached for the metal circlet around his arm but paused. “I’m so sorry about your friends,” he said sincerely. “I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never have.” Peter’s youthful sincerity sounded strange to him, particularly in his elderly voice. “But I need this to save Iris.”

The captain swore and clenched his fist. “I can make you give it to me!”

“captain,” Peter said apologetically. He hated opposing adults — though he was technically much older. “I was just chopped to pieces and shot to ribbons.” He said, raising his arms to expose the remains of his clothes as proof. “You dragged me behind a horse for miles. I don’t want you to try, but the truth is you can’t take it from me.” It wasn’t a threat, it wasn’t boastful; it was just pure factual logic.

The captain growled. “If we get your friend, you’ll give it to us?”

“Yes, without question!” Peter said. “Please, I hate to twist your arm like this, but I have no choice!” He meant every word.

“It’s not my call,” Captain Visser said with furrowed dark brows. “We’ll take you back to headquarters and see what the commandant says.”

“Thank you!” Peter cried.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, gramps!” the captain warned. “The Commandant may decide to rip you to pieces.”

Peter swallowed and nodded once. “I am sorry,” he said again.

“Don’t do anything stupid, and stay here? We’ll need to wait for Rahashel’s search parties to blow over.”

The captain suddenly looked exhausted. “I need to write a report.”

He turned and left the lodge room, and Peter looked at the others apologetically.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Well then,” the man Marcko called glanced at him carefully. “You won’t leech me if I get you some new clothes, will you?”

“I’ll try not to,” Peter said. “It’s not something I can control. It just sort of happens if you get too close.”

The man shifted back nervously.

“Not that far. Maybe two or three arms distance?”

Marko looked at Peter inquisitively. “You’re kind of polite for a lich, old man!” he said.

“He’s no lich,” The shorted man with a toothpick said from his seat at the table. He had thin, short sandy hair that was challenging to discern in the dark, a boxy face, and a round nose. He leaned back on his chair, tipping it back on its rear legs, and laced his fingers behind his head as he took a measure of Peter. “Take a look at his hand. He’s a newly born Nine Finger who stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have.”

Marko nodded and motioned Peter across the lodge and into a massive bedroom lit by glass lamps. He gestured towards a walk-in closet.

Peter wandered around the room slowly, awestruck. He was probably doing it too much justice, but he had grown up in little more than a shack of an apartment, so it seemed unrealistically big. The rooms were dark-stained wood. The pieces of furniture were delicately carved, luxurious, and finely crafted. The whole design was at odds with the fact that it was underground. Why did such a cabin exist?

The man gestured to the closet. “Feel free to take anything that fits.”

Peter nodded and entered the closet to find rows of dark clothing suited for the cold. Armored or formal shirts, vests, and trousers of every style and size were available. On the opposite side, coats, cardinals, dusters, suits, and cloaks hung on hooks and hangers. The incredible thing was the wall on the far side of the closet. Top hats, bicornes, tricornes, and every variant of hat that Peter knew hung on a hook. His heart skipped at least three full beats. Peter wasn’t a youth anymore. He wasn’t restricted by an expectation to a peaked beldar cap. So many possibilities.

“What is this place?” He marveled

“This is a Nine Fingers safe house. As far as I know, one of the only ones in Rahashelian territory.”

“It's so …”

“Old fashioned?”

“Big!” Peter said.

Marko looked around. “I guess it is, isn’t it? I’m just a house sitter, so I’m used to it. I don’t go out on operations like Captain Visser’s men.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to borrow some of this?” Peter asked, unable to believe his luck.

Marko laughed. “Please, keep anything you can wear. Aside from being chased and eaten by the undead, Nine Fingers has perks.”

“What exactly do the Nine Fingers do?” Peter asked.

“Hunt, spy, harass … We’re the only ones who have gone on the offensive in Nosmeria. All the magistrates around spend their efforts fortifying their cities. It’s futile, though, as no one has resisted an attack from Court Rahashel.”

“Seriously?” Peter asked. “But I heard that almost half of the country is still free … does that mean he’s never attacked any city that’s still free?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Marko said.

“What’s he waiting for?” Peter asked.

Marko shrugged. “I mostly just keep this place clean. I don’t analyze enemy movements.”

“Hey, Marko,” Peter said, suddenly growing embarrassed.

“Yeah.”

“If it’s not too much to ask, is there a place I can take a bath? I don’t think I’ve had one since I was seventeen.”

After Peter had bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, he felt like a new man. He even found a coat comparable to the one his mother had given him for his seventeenth birthday. The only difference was that it seemed heavier, thicker, and sturdier. It also had a series of buckles and straps sewn into the inside.

He returned to the main room to find the three soldiers who had been sitting there before. Like him, they had changed clothes and now wore dark button-up shirts, untucked and sleeves rolled up.

The short, toothpick-chewing man was cleaning a long gas rifle. On the table, he had an impressive array of solutions and brushes.

The taller one looked desperate to get the young woman to play him in a game of cards.

“Hey, lich-man!” the tall man called. “We need one more!”

The woman snapped at him. “Are you kidding? Do you want to die?” The woman had blond hair pulled into a tight military bun and fierce, deep-set hazel eyes narrowed at Peter suspiciously. Unlike the other two, who wore conventional lodge slippers, she wore boots laced and ready. Peter noticed a freshly dressed bandage on her arm.

“No, it will totally work. We just need him to sit over there, and he can show us his cards from across the room,” Tall guy insisted.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“Are you kidding? We’re here for at least a day, and the captain’s asleep, so we need the lich-man if it’s going to be any fun!”

“I’ll play,” Peter said hopefully. Not even a full day had passed in his normal mind, and he had been robbed of a lifetime of experience. He wasn’t going to spend it skulking in the corner, though part of him knew that’s exactly what he would have done if the tall man hadn’t offered.

“Shreds, Spear Line, or Double?”

“I only know how to play Shreds,” Peter said. “I’m no good at it.”

“You in, Owen?”

Toothpick chewer didn't respond, only stowing his dismantled rifle aside to make room for the cards.

“Marko! Cards?”

“Nah,” Marko responded from another room.

“Come on, Ella …” Tall Guy taunted the woman with a flourish of the deck.

“Don’t ever call me that again. We’re soldiers, not friends.” She growled but finally accepted the challenge.

“What’s your name, gramps?” He asked.

“Peter.”

“Not anymore!” he corrected as his eyes drifted to Peter’s missing finger. “Nine Fingers means rebirth, which means a new name. Who cut off your finger?”

“He said his name was Van Gutter.”

“Good soldier, Captain Van Gutter,” Owen said. “He was saved by the commandant himself. That means you’re the commandant's grandson.”

“Huh?” Peter asked, furrowing his brow.

“It’s just a thing we do,” the tall man with the cards said. “I used to be called Niels, but after I was rescued they started calling me Van Dijk. The man who rescued me became my new father, and if I cut off someone’s crop ring, they would become my son.”

“Or daughter,” the woman he called Ella pitched in.

“Right, or daughter.” Van Dijk agreed. “You and I are the only true Nine Fingers here. None of the others have ever had a crop ring on.”

“Captain Van Gutter is a good man,” Owen said. “You should be proud of your lineage … He didn’t happen to survive, did he?”

Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry. He was hurt pretty bad when I found him in the sewer.”

“Is that where he cut your finger off?” Van Dijk asked.

“Yeah,” Peter confessed.

“Well then … Van Seur,” Van Dijk said with a laugh.

“He’s not your son, Niels; you can’t name him,” the woman said.

“His father is dead, Isabella. If I don’t then, then who will?”

Isabella shook her head, not ready to commit to a debate with Van Dijk.

“Go sit over there, Van Suer. I’ll shuffle and leave your cards on the table.”

It took Peter a moment to realize that Van Dijk was speaking to him, so he jumped belatedly and ran for the chair once he made the connection.

Van Dijk began to deal the cards and was surprisingly proficient. He took his role very seriously and added dramatic gusto to every move. That seemed to be expected of him. Isabella tried to look annoyed, but Peter saw faint signs of a suppressed smile from across the room.

Owen just watched Van Dijk’s hands intently.

Peter watched and felt himself settle at ease. They seemed nice enough, not exactly the terrorists he envisioned based off of the public executions in the square. It was a great change from the captain, who seemed ready to dismember Peter if it meant getting the armband.

“HA!” Owen cried, slapping the table. Isabella and Van Dijk both jumped. “There!”

“There what?” Van Dijk stammered, shaken by the smaller man’s outburst.

“You’re dealing your own hand from the bottom!” Owen accused.

“What, no!”

Owen flipped Van Dijk’s hand and based off of Isabella’s reaction, Peter knew he probably had a hand of high, or trump cards.

“Very crafty,” Owen said with a smile, “I almost missed it.”

“What a coincidence …” Van Dijk bluffed, with too much drama to be natural.

“Reshuffle, start again.”

Van Dijk growled as he started to shuffle expertly. This time, Peter wished he was closer so he could keep an eye on the dealer’s hands.

This time, Isabella called him out. “You saved the top card for yourself!”

“What? You’re paranoid!”

“You’ve pulled the second card out from under it for our piles, and you gave yourself the top card!”

Peter quickly realized the game they were playing wasn’t shreds at all. They were playing catch Van Dijk cheating. Van Dijk grinned and shuffled one more time. Owen and Isabella watched helplessly as they failed to see what he did. Once the hands had been dealt, Isabella slapped her hand on his deck and claimed them for herself.

“Van Dijk! You actually shuffled honestly!” she cried in surprise as she looked at her stolen hand.

“Please!” he said with a grin as he took her cards. “I haven’t played an honest game in seven years!”

She looked at him appalled. “You dealt me the good hand?”

“You can’t prove it!” he said with a smirk. Owen took Peter’s cards and left them on the dining table. Peter had to go get them after Oven had sat back down.

Van Dijk won in two rounds, and both Owen and Isabella decided they were done.

“Hey!” Van Dijk cried in protest. “That was just luck!”

Peter put his cards aside and silently regretted the armlet. It was surprisingly lonely to be sitting on the opposite side of a room full of people. He was tempted to take it off, but he had no guarantee that one of the others wouldn’t make a lunge for it.

They seemed more friendly than the captain, but they were still soldiers under his command.

“Who is your friend?” Isabella asked, turning towards Peter. “The one you want to save?”

“Iris,” Peter said.

“Is she your wife, or your daughter?”

“What? No!” Peter exclaimed, growing embarrassed. “She’s a friend.”

“Oh?” Isabella asked, “Your girlfriend?”

“It’s not like that!” Peter cried. “She’s more like an annoying little sister!”

A sister that I crippled, he left unsaid.

Van Dijk perked up at Peter’s tone. “You’re not actually old!” he accused. “How old are you really? You know … inside?”

Peter blushed fiercely. “Seventeen.”

Van Dijk whistled. “You poor kid. I only had my crop ring on for three months before my father saved me. I’m twenty five.” Van Dijk looked almost twice that age.

“You look …” Isabella started in awe.

“Like my grandfather's great-grandfather?” Peter lamented.

“I was going to say adorable.” Isabella laughed. “I used to think childlike innocence and elderly innocence were similar, but they’re really not the same at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … you act more like a kid than an old man. And now that I know that you are a kid, I can’t unsee it.”

“I’m not a child!” Peter protested. “I’m old enough to be your parent’s parent.”

She laughed at that with twinkling eyes, and Peter felt himself blushing furiously. Now that she wasn't glaring at him, he could not deny that she was very attractive.

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “If anyone can help your friend, it’s Captain Visser.”

“You think so?” Peter asked eagerly.

Her face sobered. “Yes. I hope for your sake tomorrow goes well.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Peter asked.

“Tomorrow,” Owen said with no humor on his face. “You meet the commandant.”