Sixth of Harvest

Roulson dreamed of home. His wife had cooked bacon on the fire, and he followed the smell down the stairs of their humble home in King's Crossing. He greeted her with a kiss and took a sip of the ale she handed him. Home. It slowly faded away as he opened his eyes to the midday sun. He'd had the early morning patrol and had been rewarded with a late sleep.

But it didn't make up for the lack of wife, bacon, or ale.

He groaned as he rolled off his cot and strapped his sword to his waist. The other dozen night patrollers were beginning to stir, mumbling curses as they greeted another day on the border. Today they would be spared sentry duty, instead staying behind the barricades, such as they were. Roulson picked up his shield and made his way to the frontline. Orders from their detachment commander meant that there were no guard towers, no obvious signs of occupation. Their 'barricades' were razor wire strung between the trees, with marked gaps for sentries to enter and exit. It wouldn't stop a determined assault, but it could trick a bandit group into thinking that it was undefended. The logic made no sense to Roulson, but he wasn't the one writing the orders.

"Another day in paradise," an archer called out in greeting as he made his way past. "I'd kill for a beer."

"Gods, just some fresh fruit," someone else replied, earning herself a chorus of jeers.

"Someone give her a boar!" Roulson yelled. "She needs real meat!"

She made an obscene gesture, then laughed. "You've been here too long, friend."

"Silence!"

Roulson turned to see the captain running over. He dropped his voice to a low call. "Into positions. We have movement."

Roulson pulled his sword from its sheath and joined the forming line behind the razor wire. Some of the sentries came back inside the perimeter, one of them settling in next to him.

"What's going on?" Roulson asked quietly. The sentry glanced around before answering.

"Bandits, at least thirty. They're in the Deadlands now. Captain will give them a few minutes, then the archers will fire."

As if on cue, the detachment of archers passed through the line, moving towards the tree line where they could see the enemy.

"Archers will commence in two minutes," the captain said, walking down the line. "If any bandits make it across, you will show no mercy. Stay silent."

The time passed slowly, and Roulson found himself getting fidgety. Only when he heard the command for the archers to fire did he freeze in place. He could barely hear the bows firing, but the confused yells of the bandits carried through the air. Someone yelled out that the bandits were charging. A moment later, the archers came back through the wire, grinning at their successful hunt.

"Let them snag on the wire," the captain called out. "Kill them when they're trapped."

War is not a fair sport. Roulson braced himself as the yelling came closer, guttural cries in a language that he didn't understand. He could see leaves shaking, then the first bandit burst into view. He was unshaven, clothed in old hide. He grasped a short axe in one hand and roared when he saw the skirmish line. He ran as fast as he could, seeming to aim right at Roulson until he hit the wire. His eyes bulged as the barbs sliced into his flesh and held him fast against it.

"Hold!" the captain yelled as more bandits snared themselves. When the second wave stopped and began probing for gaps, the captain shouted, "Forward!"

The Svaletans shouted a war cry with one voice as they exploded into action. It took only a few steps for Roulson to reach the wire, and he slashed at the bandit stuck there. Blood splattered, and the man went limp. There was no time to pause as another bandit came running towards him. Roulson threw up his shield, absorbing the blow, then swung his sword and sliced through the man's throat. He stepped back from the corpse as it fell across the wire and glanced around. The attack was already faltering, the surviving bandits stumbling backwards to escape.

"After them!"

Roulson found the closest gap in the wire and charged through. He quickly caught up to a bandit who stumbled over a tree root and jammed his sword through his back. It took only minutes for the wood to be cleared, then the captain called for a halt. Roulson looked down at the man he'd impaled and saw the face of a fifteen-year-old.

"They're just children," he whispered. "What madness is this?"

"Gather the bodies!" the captain shouted. "Pile them in the Deadlands and burn them."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

As Roulson picked up the boy, he reminded himself that because of today a farm wouldn't burn, a family would sleep in peace. That was worth it, right?

Across the way, a lone figure disappeared into the Aliri forest. He'd seen what he needed to see. Roulson's detachment may have won the day, but their reckoning was still to come.

* * *

Despite Belkai's efforts, Milton's screams had been heard by two lovers in a nearby field. They saw nothing of his death, but the sound alone was enough for them to run back to town. Two of the town militia, a sergeant and a corporal, now rode their horses through the fields looking for the source of the screams. They didn't expect to find anything, but news of a failed bandit raid on the border had everyone on edge. After an hour or so of wandering, the corporal stopped and asked,

"Seriously, boss, how long are we doing this for? We'll never find anything."

The sergeant turned, struggling to hide his anger. The corporal wasn't one of his best, but he'd been the only man available when he'd left. Such was fate.

"You won't see anything if you're staring at the ground. That's lesson one."

The corporal frowned. "Then where should I be looking?"

The sergeant grinned and pointed to the east. "Look for birds. If there's a body, there'll be birds."

The corporal turned and saw a group of buzzards fighting over something in the distant grass. The sergeant chuckled.

"Alright, let's take a look."

It took another half hour to find the body, and by then the birds had already torn the remains apart. The corporal turned away, doubling over as he vomited. The sergeant waited, not taking his eyes off the corpse. When the retching finally stopped, he said,

"Go find Davos. He'll want to see this."

"What about you?" The corporal stood up, wiping the bile from his face. The sergeant looked around grimly.

"I'll be keeping the cursed birds away. They've done enough already, if you ask me."

The corporal didn't understand what was so important about the body, but he was junior enough to understand the need to simply follow orders. He set off at a trot, praying that he would not need to see the body again. The sergeant watched him go, then knelt and studied the corpse's face. It was definitely Milton Rais, a wanted smuggler. And the pig got himself killed, the sergeant thought. He wouldn't be missed, but his presence would raise concerns across the district. It's going to be a long day.

* * *

They found Davos teaching a class on unarmed combat in the garrison at Larton, the capital of Rignar's Hold. He certainly looked like he could kill a bear with his own hands, the corporal thought. Davos' body rippled with muscle, but he moved as light as a dancer as he knocked down three students who tried to stop him. The corporal waited until they were moving back into position, then got Davos' attention. The Chief Scout of Larton put his class on break, then walked over to the corporal.

"Can I help you, Corporal?"

"We found a body in the fields outside town. My sergeant sent me to fetch you."

Davos' eyes narrowed. "I don't run a funeral home."

The corporal swallowed nervously. "Yes, sir. But the sergeant seemed insistent. He asked for you by name."

Davos sighed. He knew the sergeant wouldn't have called him for no reason, but he had no desire to spend his day looking at a corpse. "Okay, let's get moving then."

He dismissed the class, then mounted his horse to follow the corporal. Along the way, he gathered what little information he could from the junior man, then spent the rest of the ride in silence. He noted that the corporal kept his distance when they arrived, and chose to head straight to the sergeant rather than check on him.

"What have we got?"

The sergeant gestured at the body. "We have one Milton Rais. I'd wager my week's pay."

Davos studied the body's face, then nodded. "Yeah, that's Milton. What happened?"

The sergeant's story matched the corporal's, and that was all Davos needed to know. He knelt down and tried to separate the body's wounds from the buzzards' handiwork. There was a gaping hole in Milton's chest, right above his heart. Davos frowned, then slipped his hand into the cavity. Milton's heart was gone – more precisely, it had burst.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, looking up at the sergeant. The man shrugged.

"I guess someone turned on him, then left him to the birds."

He didn't see it, Davos realised. For all his experience, the sergeant hadn't understood the unusual death that Milton had suffered. Perhaps that was for the best. Davos stood, wiping his bloody hand on his pants.

"Why'd you ask for me?"

The sergeant shifted uncomfortably. "My guess is that he smuggled someone over the border, then they killed him to keep him quiet. I'm not equipped to hunt someone who doesn't officially exist. You're Chief Scout, sir. It seemed logical."

Davos just grunted. For all his life, he'd been treated with equal parts hatred and begrudging respect. He may have looked like anyone else, but his blood set him apart. People first realised when they learned that he had no last name – only one group in Svaleta was denied that. He'd never known his father, and his mother was long dead. His grandmother had raised him for a few years before she too passed. An orphan that no one wanted, he'd learned the hard lessons of life in the harshest ways before joining the militia. The gifts that made him excel were also the gifts that made him cursed. Such was life.

"We'll cart the body back to the city, but I wanted you to see it how we found it."

"I appreciate it." Davos looked around. "No one else is around?"

"This place will be empty until harvest begins," the sergeant confirmed. "We were lucky two youngsters were around, or else we would have never found him."

"Young love can be useful," Davos said. "Alright, take him away. I'll see what I can find."

He waited until the militiamen had left, then knelt and sniffed the air. His curse was being a 'Lowborn', born to a human mother but fathered by an elf. Svaleta had its prejudices, and their hatred for the Lowborn was the result of centuries of tension with the Aliri. The positive was that his elf blood had given him a keen sense of smell, better than most tracking dogs. It wasn't something he publicised, but it made him unrivalled as a scout. He knew that two people had been present – Milton and his killer. He looked around and spotted some tracks, then followed them to the nearby brook. So Milton had chased someone until they killed him. But how had he died? Hearts didn't just burst. Davos didn't know of any weapon that could do that, at least not in the manner that he'd seen here. He retraced his steps and searched for more tracks. There were some leading south, but they quickly faded out. He decided to wait for his deputy, a captain named Ukari. Though he didn't know how the killer operated, he knew the signs. A second murder would guide his steps, then he could track them. Once a Lowborn was on your scent, there was no escaping. Davos always found his target.