A few days in, Dallen was getting to know the baron’s men. And what he knew, he didn’t like.

There were three of them on this little outing, walking down the great uneven hills and the cliffs that went from the baron’s keep to the lower part of the town. In preparation for what was to come, the baron and his men needed a good deal of funds. Which meant Dallen and the others would have to engage in the noble deed of tax collection — if you only took the word “noble” as it related to lords and their hierarchies. There was certainly nothing here that could mean the other kind of noble. Not with four armed men being sent to collect the taxes in a town like this. You only sent that kind of muscle when you expected a fight. Or wanted to put the fear in your subjects.

The people in the streets avoided looking at them. What a change from Callia this was. There, the knights of the Duke would trot through the brick streets atop proud steeds, banners caught high in the wind, as the people of the city would wave and cheer and toss spring flowers at their horses’ feet, proclaiming their hope restored. Here, the baron’s men walked sullenly across beaten dirt paths and muddy hills, as the townsfolk averted their gaze for fear or disgust. Their faces, scrunched up and pitiful, made Dallen’s stomach turn.

It didn’t seem to bother Lomund much. He strode through at the front of their horrid little group, not a care in the world, chin held high to show off a patchy, unkempt beard. Dallen pegged him for a man who before all else thought himself a soldier, yet was willing to put in none of the work of one. He carried around a sword on his hip like some fine Empyreal officer, though the only fights he’d likely been in were brawls with drunken and disagreeable townsfolk. Like Dallen, perhaps.

Ernolt walked right behind Lomund, beady eyes shifting back towards Dallen every once in a while. He had a constant complexion of someone whose stomach was fighting the contents of a soured breakfast — pallid and sunken-eyed. He had the mood like he was fighting down a bad breakfast too.

Bringing up the rear of their sullen group was Graf. A big, ugly fellow with a shaved head, and a big, ugly axe that he probably shaved it with. Graf didn’t do much but scowl. Didn’t do much talking, or drinking, or playing cards. Or thinking, from what Dallen could tell. Just scowled the same scowl, watched you with those empty, dull eyes, and followed whatever Lomund said.

Their company made Dallen sick. He could not imagine a more miserable group to spend his time with — and all for something as fickle as tax collection. Extortion, more like. If he didn’t have the thinnest of purposes to hold onto with Vanteus and his old fool’s hope, misplaced as it might be, Dallen figured he’d throw himself from the clifftop at this very moment, and try to catch something nice and solid with his skull on the way down.

Knowing your luck, he thought to himself, you’d wake up to some practitioner of dead magic stitching your head back together. Patching you up with vines from the rotting Evergrowth itself, perhaps.

They arrived at the lowest part of town, in senses both literal and figurative. There was a row of houses, tucked between the crumbling wooden wall and a section of cliff that had ripped the wall and a good number of the houses to pieces. Chunks of wood and rock were scattered about, leaving the homes splintered. They looked like they might have been nice once.

“People live here?” Dallen said, as the group came to a stop.

Ernolt gave him a sneering look of dissatisfaction, but Dallen was suspecting more and more that it was just his resting expression. Lomund turned to face Dallen with a flat look that might as well have been a smile and a kiss on the cheek, for how it felt against Ernolt’s.

“People gotta live somewhere.” His voice was rough but oddly warm. Like he could’ve been a friendly fellow, were it not for everything else about him.

“Bunch of fuckin’ lowlifes,” Ernolt contributed. “Can’t fix up their own homes, can’t pay their damn taxes on time.” He spat on the dirt.

As happened every time Ernolt talked, Dallen fought the urge to punch him in the teeth.

“Our job’s in that one,” Lomund said, pointing to the nearest house. It was smaller than the others, with a caved in roof that only shrunk it more. “Someone here is long overdue on paying their share of taxes, and we’ve come to collect. No more dodging the baron’s justice.”

It felt more like how bandits extorted a town than a lord’s justice.

Because it is, Dallen reminded himself. They’re all bandits; some of them just wear the Pattern.

“Seems like a lot of different people could be squatting here,” Dallen said. “How do we know who’s our man?”

“If someone’s squatting here, they’ll pay taxes too,” Lomund said, simple and blunt. “If they live on a property within the baron’s walls, they pay taxes.”

“Spare me the legal intricacies, Lomund. We’re obviously here looking for someone in particular.”

Lomund worked his mouth as if he’d taken a bite of spoiled food.

“A young girl named Irne. Lives here with her little brother, working and looking after him.”

And he speaks as if it’s just another day for them. How many times before has something like this happened?

“Is that a joke? Where are her parents?”

“It’s not my damn job to know where her parents are — it’s my job to collect.”

Dallen looked around at the others of his group, but none offered a face that was any more welcoming than Lomund’s.

“Really? We’re here to extort money — to threaten it — from a little girl?”

Lomund gave him the same flat look, though Dallen thought he could see a little bit of emotion tug behind his eyes. Maybe the man had learned long ago to shove all that down, serving the baron.

“If she lives on property within the baron’s walls,” he restated, “she pays taxes.”

“She’s old enough to work at Old Lady Kitz’ place,” added Ernolt. “So she’s old enough to pay her fair share of taxes.”

“We’re not gonna hurt her,” Lomund said in a monotone voice. “We won’t have to. Couple of big men show up at her door, she’s not gonna try anything. You bring more numbers when you want to prevent violence, see?”

“Right,” said Dallen. “All this armor and weapons is to prevent violence. Silly me. And armies march for peace, no doubt, in these fair and utopian lands you think we live in.”

Lomund ignored the comment, making his way toward the door.

“She won’t be able to do shit even if she wanted to. She can kick and punch as much as she wants, won’t make much of a difference. If it makes you feel better, I don’t plan on hitting back. Just makes things messier.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Ernolt. “If the little bitch tries to bite me, or kick me in the stones, I’m laying her out flat with a good backhand.” He tapped the worn metal on the back of his glove against his spear haft with a soft click.

Behind them, Graf stayed silent, not adding his thoughts on when he did or did not find it acceptable to beat little girls. He just scowled and looked forward to the house.

Dallen’s right hand started shaking, and he gripped it on the hilt of the Duke’s sword. He had to fight down the urge to draw that blade right now and lop all three of the men’s sorry heads off.

But what damn good would that do anyone? The whole town would be on him, and even if he cut through all of them like some unchained madman, the town would be left with twice as many corpses, the girl would still suffer some time later down the road, and Dallen would have that much more death on his hands. This way at least, he could make sure that whatever business the baron’s men had to do, they would do it bloodlessly. That way little Irne wouldn’t be left with a wound to accompany the sting of highway robbery disguised as taxes.

The group arrived at the worn front door of the old house. Lomund turned to the others.

“Watch the sides and windows, in case she tries to make a move.” Ernolt nodded, something like a wicked grin on his face; Graf simply turned, scowling, and moved around the other side of the house. Then Lomund turned back towards the door, and pounded it with three solid knocks.

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“Irne! Open up!” He knocked again, the rotted wood shaking and rattling in its hinges. “Come on, little girl! You’re a citizen of the barony, just like anyone else in this place, and you’ve gotta pay your share!”

He waited, turning an ear to the door. Dallen watched him, keeping his hand still on his belt. Ernolt poked his pale, grimacing face around the corner.

“That dumb little brat think she’s gonna give us the slip or something? We outta make her pay double.”

“She’ll pay her fair share,” said Lomund, taking one step back from the door. The next words he shouted loud enough for someone inside to hear. “One way or another!”

Lomund pressed all of his weight into a kick against the door, right by the handle. The wood gave a loud crack and a low shudder, but did not budge. Lomund stumbled back.

“Damn it all to the deep hell, girl! We’ll climb in a bloody window if we have to!”

He kicked again. The door was old, and worn down, and looked like it would have fallen off with a stiff breeze. But it was thick and well-made originally, built for a wealthy owner in the past. And it would not budge, for all of Lomund’s kicking.

“Piss it all to—Graf!” Lomund grabbed at his hip, wincing, and turned toward the corner. “Take that ugly axe of yours over here and break down this bloody door!”

The other two men were making their way back to the front door, but Dallen didn’t feel like waiting. And he didn’t feel like having Graf being the first one into the house — the first one Irne might see — scowling and swinging a big axe through the door. That, and these men didn’t need to be in any fouler a mood than they already were. So he stepped past Lomund toward the big slab of old wood, and carefully removed the glove from his right hand.

The smooth greyish material shone dully in the overcast daylight. The other three men grew quieter, watching Dallen work.

He went up to the door near the lock, flattened his right hand, and braced his other on the frame above it. There was a spot where door met frame, where the wood had chipped or rotted away, leaving a wider gap. With one quick strike, he stabbed his flattened fingers into it, snapping pieces of wood and sending a creak through the whole frame. Then, it was a simple matter of bracing the forearm against the thick frame and leveraging the strength of the arm against the door. It was a poor contest — after a second of groaning, the lock and the wood around it burst. Wood snapped and sent splinters flying, and there was the soft sound of metal bouncing on the floor on the other side.

Dallen looked at the Maker’s hand. There were a few splinters of wood still clinging to it, but they left no scratches whatsoever. He wondered if putting it up to a rough grindstone would even leave the slightest mark. But for now, he simply wiped off the pieces of wood and slid his hide glove back on.

“Right then.” Lomund coughed, shook out the leg he’d been kicking with, and stood up a little straighter, his chest puffed out. “Let’s get to it.” They all stepped through the freshly opened doorway and into the house.

The place was still with heavy air and solemn quiet. It showed no sign of whatever former glory it might have once had. Furniture was all but gone, objects were strewn about, the walls were chipped and cracked, and everything — even the air itself — was coated in a thick layer of dust. All but the muddy tracks along the floor that criss crossed through the house, like footprints on soiled snow. The place had been stripped of any valuable possessions long ago.

What in the deep hell are they going to pay taxes with in here? There doesn’t even look to be any food.

A memory of the baron, stuffing his face with eggs and sausage, flashed in Dallen’s mind. It was followed by a flash of anger.

“Irne!” called Lomund. His voice, loud as it was, seemed to be muted by the thick wood that the home was built of. Then he shook his head. “She’s hiding somewhere. Like it’ll do her any good. Come on, split up and look for her.”

Before the others could decide which direction of the house they wanted to look in, Dallen headed to the right. Toward a closed off room near the back corner of the big house, where one pair of tracks led. A pair of tracks that were fresher than the rest in the house — a fact that Dallen deeply hoped the others hadn’t noticed.

The room they led to was a simple storage room, packed high with cabinets and opened boxes and barrels, with a single small window letting light into the room. It was a quiet room, empty of all that it was meant to store. What had filled that emptiness was the hanging feeling of sadness and fear that tugged at Dallen’s guts. He walked slowly around it, looking for signs of someone hiding. Half hoping he’d find nothing. Half hoping that he would, so that the others wouldn’t find them first.

Dallen kneeled carefully beside a cabinet on the floor. It was ever so slightly cracked, the two doors just barely not flush with each other. Dallen reached out with the Maker’s arm and swung it slowly open. The door moved silently as mist across water, defying the rest of the old home’s creaks and groans.

Two small figures crouched inside. A young girl, in front of an even younger boy. Her eyes were wide with fear and glistening with the start of tears — his were closed and shaking. Her hands gripped a rusted kitchen knife, outstretched towards Dallen and quivering — his were curled up, his thumb in his mouth. Young Irne’s eyes twitched and welled, trying to find hatred, courage, focus, but finding only wide, confused terror.

Heavy footsteps beat from the floor above them. He could hear Ernolt’s whining voice, calling out. Sing-song, like he was playing a game with these children that only he enjoyed. The sound of something hitting the floor and shattering followed, and Irne flinched away. Dallen noticed that her hands were covered in dirty bandages. Between the wrappings, raw pink burn marks spotted her hands and forearms.

Dallen’s right hand gripped the cabinet handle in rising rage, the thin wood cracking and creaking under its force. Yet he kept his hand there. If it was not there, it would go to his sword. Or to the throats of the men he’d come with.

The little girl opened her eyes, darting them around. She drew a shallow breath in, looking at Dallen with tears, and tried to speak. Nothing came out but wispy squeaks, almost too quiet for even Dallen to hear.

Good, some part of Dallen thought. A rational voice cutting through the rising rage. We don’t want them hearing her. We don’t want them finding her, right?

He turned toward the small window. A crate sat just below it, against the wall. Perfect.

Dallen drew in a deep breath, calming his nerves. There was no need for a fight today. He could beat these baron’s men another way. He removed his hand from the now cracked cabinet handle, and slowly brought one finger up to his lips, watching Irne.

Shhh.

The girl’s look of terror leaned more toward confusion, and Dallen slowly closed the cabinet door. It slid silently into place, as if muted by the air of this tiny room.

The window had a lock on it that had rusted away years ago. He turned over his shoulder one more time, making sure the other men couldn’t see him. And making sure Irne had not moved from her hiding place.

“Hey!” Dallen shouted. There was a soft fumbling from the cabinet, but the door remained closed. “Stay still! Wait!”

He punched open the window. It cracked with no resistance, some of the already-broken glass snapping and falling to the soft dirt below.

“Stop! Don’t go—” he shouted to the empty window, starting to climb towards it, poking his head through. Three pairs of rushed footsteps approached the room. “Damn it all, get back here!”

The door to the room burst open, and Dallen heard two men stumbling and falling all over each other, shouting and cursing. Dallen continued fumbling with the window that was far too small for him to fit through, just to make sure the other men couldn’t see through it.

“You see them?” asked Lomund. Graf stoof behind him, scowl steady as if set in stone.

“Get the hell out of the way!” said Ernolt, grabbing at Dallen. Dallen resisted the urge to punch him, and instead opted to carelessly shove himself out of the window and back into the room, knocking back the little man. Dallen paid him no mind, turning to Lomund.

“Slippery little brats got away!” He shook his head, feigning disbelief. “I can’t believe — they’re quicker than you’d think.”

Lomund groaned, then pushed past Graf and out the door, calling after the children and cursing. Ernolt snarled and followed quickly behind.

“Little shits, we’ll make ‘em wish they never ran! Break their little legs, the damned…” His voice trailed off as he ran out the front door.

Graf stayed behind. His dull eyes had not moved from the window that Dallen had broken open. Now, they slowly, deliberately drifted toward Dallen.

A spike of ice went through Dallen’s chest. All elation from the success of his plan fled from his body, and he met the big man’s eyes. His thick hands were still by the axe now in his belt. Dallen formed a fist, not reaching for his sword. In a room like this, it was better to fight with the arm.

Graf’s eyes moved downwards. Toward the floor, and the cabinet. Pressing silence seemed to settle on the room, dampening the sounds of the world around it. Dallen could feel his heartbeat, pounding in his ears.

Go for him now. Snap his neck. Rip his throat out. Don’t give the brute a chance to hurt the children.

Dallen prepared himself to kill again. Sober of mind, this time. It would be just like the battlefields again. Especially when the town erupted into a battlefield of its own after this.

Something inside him itched to make the first move.

Graf’s eyes returned to Dallen. No malice in them. No intent. No fear. No…anything. A calm, even killer, then. Dallen’s own gaze burned with enough intensity for both of them, and the pieces of the Maker’s arm shifted and flexed.

Then, Graf nodded. Scowl still set. He turned, and followed the other two men out the front door, leaving Dallen with his heartbeat still beating in his ears.

After a minute, Dallen breathed out a sigh, and nearly stumbled from relaxing his muscles. What in the hell had that been about?

Dallen didn’t want to waste much time thinking about it. If he didn’t follow the other men soon, it would look mighty suspicious. He crouched down next to the pantry, speaking to the crack between the doors.

“If you have any valuables here, pack them up and run. Find some place to hide. Not Kitz’ bakery — they know you work there.”

Not waiting for a response — and not expecting to get one — he stood and left the house, hoping that the children would find better luck avoiding the baron’s men in the future. He knew he had only delayed their fates. He’d need to find another way to get those men off of their backs.

Dallen walked back up the hills and cliffs of Taverren, feeling a strange mixture of sickening cold and calming warmth in his guts. It was a strange feeling.

He didn’t much like it. He suddenly felt himself craving a drink, to drive it away.