“You have to teach me how to box!” little Rasmus declared as he jogged alongside Niklas. “I can’t believe it, you beat those saw men! Kefling said he saw you, said you beat six men at once!” Rasmus threw a jab and a hook in the air. “When you teach me, I won’t worry about Delbin anymore! I’d teach him a lesson if he tries to push Trygve again!”
Niklas walked down the muddy road, only catching every other word. Rasmus’ enthusiasm would have been flattering if it had been any other time. But as Niklas walked, he felt nothing but stress. Between losing his winnings, a murder in the yard, and the Sommerfeldts abandoning their Sharderin faith, he felt justified in calling it a bad day.
The key to control is planning and preparation. Edgar had always said. If you don’t plan for everything, you aren’t prepared.
Niklas shook his head. Who was he kidding? Niklas wasn’t Edgar. If Edgar were here, he’d have split up his winnings and sent Yelsing and the manager with only a fraction. Niklas had been naive. Besides, how did one prepare for everything to fall apart?
“Do demons in Pit box?” Rasmus continued. “That’s where you learned, isn’t it? I don’t think there could be anything cooler than learning boxing from demons–”
“Look!” Niklas stopped him with an upraised hand. “I don’t want to talk right now. I’ll teach you later.”
Rasmus stopped with a look of innocent guilt in his eyes.
Niklas sighed. “It’s not you, Rasmus. I just have a lot to think about.”
Rasmus nodded once, then sulked off, trying to hide his offended expression.
Great. Niklas had done it again. He would apologize later, but now he was in no mood to talk. Rasmus’ constant chatter was setting Niklas’ nerves on edge. His headache had finally disappeared, allowing him to focus on the pain from his other injuries, except for his knee. Niklas felt no pain in his knee, which he knew was wrong. He wondered what irreversible nerve damage may have happened to it.
He had to make a plan, and his rising questions made him feel further from home than ever.
He still was unsure of what to do next. He wanted to try another fight pit, but his promise to the Sommerfeldts stopped that.
He knew he couldn’t get the money needed for his current timeline. He may have to stay in Soutfel longer than expected.
The Prospect of honest work made him feel like he lacked control. Like anything could come over and quickly knock him down.
Taking shortcuts to remove the scar hadn’t proven reliable, so he consigned to the slower approach.
Several herdsmen and other workers were hired to do some repairs where the road had been washed out, so Niklas signed on. Even if he wasn’t making full wages, he was determined to at least alleviate the financial burden his presence had put on the Sommerfeldts.
He saw a group of men working in the mud ahead. The sun had broken through the clouds, and the humidity rose from the wet ground.
“Pit boy!” A pair of men waited for Niklas on the side of the road. Niklas perked up. Only men who watched his fight called him by that name.
They wore white shirts, dusty suits, and battered hats. The clothes marked them as higher-low or middle-class workmen.
“I’m sorry, boys,” Niklas said. “No more fights coming up.”
The younger of the two laughed; he must have been around Niklas’ age, possibly even younger. “I just wanted to say you handled yourself well in the ring. We made a bit of money on you.”
That caught Niklas by surprise. “What? Hardly anyone put money on me, only like–”
“Two,” the older agreed. He wore his suit well. Very broad and heavy, this man could have been a Sharderin Drone. “My cousin and I were the only ones to bet on you.”
“Well, thanks for your confidence,” Niklas said. “But I lost in the end.”
The older of the two frowned. “Got caught, did you? Ah well. We came to offer you a job.”
Niklas let out a bark of laughter. “What use would workmen need for a Sharderin freeman?”
They looked at each other with no small amount of amusement in their faces. “Then we ought to introduce ourselves.”
The older man, in his mid-thirties, swept off his hat. “I am Paramount Godwin Rowan.”
“And I am Paramount Klause Rowan!” the other said.
Niklas looked from one to the other in a stupor before snorting. “And I’m the Arbiter. What is this?”
“We’re serious,” the older man said. “We need your help.”
Niklas cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”
“We are planning something big. Prime Paramount Alred has something we need. We can’t give details here for obvious reasons, but we’re looking for fighters.”
Niklas felt the tickle of valor. They needed fighting men, but a Sharderin fighting for Relrins went against everything he believed.
“No,” Niklas said plainly. “Throwing fists in a ring is one thing. Fighting for you is another.
Klause frowned. “Why not? The Alreds hold thousands of debt bonds. They force the management of their region on the disorganized bureau and live off of the profits without contributing to Soutfel’s supervision. They think they’re better than you. Aren’t you a fighter?”
“Look,” Niklas started. “I’m trying to stay out of trouble. Besides, I’m not going to be a pawn in Relrin rivalries. I don’t care about your politics or crusades. I only want to go home.”
“I thought you were a fighter.” the young Klause said. “That’s what I saw in the ring. You’re content to let those you care about live in a system designed to keep them impoverished?”
“The only system I know is from the Relrin people as a whole. When you murdered my mother in front of me, it was military and peasant alike who purged us. A pink skin is a pink skin, and I won’t fight for you.”
Klause was about to retort, but Godwin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your women, Loga,” Godwin said with almost convincing sorrow. “We are trying to expose the sins of our fathers, not justify them.”
Niklas shook his head. “I tried working in the dark, and I was humiliated. I need to work honestly.”
Godwin nodded. “If you need an ally or change your mind, you can find us or one of our guys at the Waleston Pub.” He nodded politely. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Loga.”
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They turned and left Niklas with no further prodding or prying. He appreciated that, but it did little to calm his mind.
He marched to the roadside, which had washed out. A dozen men, including Ivar, were digging a new ditch and stacking sandbags. There was also a handful of women, including Esther, helping out.
Niklas shot her only a brief glance as he scooped a pickaxe out of the pile.
After receiving instruction, Niklas swung his pickaxe into the earth, and it bit deep. He strained every muscle, pulling out a generous load of wet dirt and rocks. His shoulder protested, and a spiderweb of stinging scabs ensured he couldn’t forget them. After cutting wood for so long, changing the routine felt great.
Niklas felt that he had gotten weaker with his time at the sawmill. The mundane work of moving lumber was nowhere as rigorous as the intensive Drone training programs he was accustomed to.
He swung the pick again and again. It felt good, and he could almost feel valor’s smile. It was work, and he was a Drone, so he continued the drone's work. Mind-numbing, pointless labor was what he was familiar with; it was what he was comfortable doing.
The sun claimed the day, and Niklas sweated profusely. Eventually, all the workmen started to remove their shirts.
This sparked Niklas’ interest. The workers at the sawmill always kept their shirts on. He had always wondered if it was cultural or because the dust would stick to them. He now concluded that it was the latter.
Sharderin Drones often worked shirtless, so Niklas discarded his stiff and wet Relrin shirt with a sigh of relief.
The sun began to beat down on his shoulders as he lost himself in the endless repetitious rhythm of breaking up the dirt with the pick, simplifying the job for the diggers.
He tried thinking of a plan as he worked. With his body busy, his mind was free to explore options.
He was back at the start. He wouldn’t seek after Dr. Geoffrey again. In fact, if Dr. Geoffrey saw him again, he threatened to have Niklas arrested. Niklas would just have to be sure to avoid the Doctor. He would have to commit more time to his earnings and find a different Esthetic Operator. He could go to another town.
Niklas swung his pick again. It distracted him from his agitated nerves. He had never been so consistently unsettled in his life. Just breathing at times took a substantial amount of effort. Sometimes, he found his hands shaking. He had almost lost his footing in multiple cases because he was lightheaded.
He knew sometimes he worked himself to fatigue, but it seemed all he could do to keep himself focused. He had worked harder than he had ever worked before.
And what do you have to show for it? Nothing.
Niklas threw his weight into his work, trying to distract himself from the thought, but a single name came to his mind.
Wilbur Teaman.
Teaman had set Niklas up. No one would have reported him if Wilbur wasn’t involved.
Niklas gripped his pick tighter, making his knuckles turn white as he continued his attack on the roadside.
Niklas started to imagine Wilbur's face on the ground under the blows of his pick. The pick seemed lighter with this fantasy.
Niklas swung his pick down, sinking it deep into the ground. Panting, he arched his back to stretch.
He suddenly became aware that he was far ahead of the rest of the workers.
Hot and sweaty, Niklas left his station and went to the water bucket. He took the ladle in a long drought of water and sighed with satisfaction. He filled the dipper again and poured it over his head. The cold water was satisfyingly refreshing as it ran down his head and over his shoulders.
Niklas opened his eyes to see an elderly workwoman eyeing him oddly. He suddenly felt horribly exposed. The Sharderin Drones worked shirtless but never in the presence of a mother.
The mother shook her head disapprovingly as she passed a ladle to another workman.
It wasn’t only her. Most of the mothers looked at him in strange and even hostile ways. In fact, Niklas would also catch the men stealing glances at him.
He felt very self-conscious of himself. What was the problem? All of the Relrin Men work without shirts as well.
Niklas quickly found Ivar, who was on the digging crew.
“Ivar, what’s wrong? Why is everyone looking at me?” he demanded.
Ivar chuckled and leaned against his shovel. “It’s your ink, man. They think you might be a pirate.”
“Why do they care?” Niklas asked, suddenly wanting to cover up. The Drone rune was on the left side of his chest. His name and birth year were also printed on his shoulder in Sharderin runes, and everyone eyed them like they might be an infectious disease. Niklas hadn’t noticed until now that not a one of the Relrins had even a tiny tattoo. He had never seen an unmarked Sharderin. Everyone was marked with their name, rank, and other badges of honor.
“It’s a taboo,” Ivar explained. “Sinful, in fact. It’s against the Kelarian commandments. If I remember correctly, Gyvans used to believe the same.”
That would be a change as well. Some Sharderins never marked their skin, and others labeled their children as they became soldiers.
Niklas stuck out his chin defensively. “It’s not like I got these to be contrarian. They were given to me when I turned ten.” It was a rite of passage given to all Sharderins to reach manhood.
“Not only that, lad,” a scruffy voice cut in from the side.
Niklas turned to see a bald man with a short white beard.
“I used to be a soldier, and after seeing the heat of battle on many an occasion, not even I, or most of my fellow warriors, are marked with as many scars as you carry, so it makes one wonder. Where did you come from?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Niklas said. He knew what the Relrins thought of mere mention of the forest. So he decided to stop telling them even a portion of the truth.
The man nodded and stuck out his hand. “Jeff,” he said.
Niklas took the hand, to his own surprise. It was uncommon to be treated equally, even by the peasants. “Niklas Loga.”
“Bear your marks proudly, boy. They tell your story. Don’t let others' judgmental opinions pull you down. All things considered, there is a special place in Frez reserved for us because of the horrors we did. We have no right to judge your upbringing; we are the ones who stole it.” He had a tone of remorse, and a depth of sadness clung to his eyes.
He was there. This man killed our Mothers.
Niklas pulled his hand away and scowled at the former soldier.
The old man's face showed only regret for his past.
Not giving the Mother killer another glance, Niklas turned to go back to his work but found Esther looking at him wide-eyed with concern.
Niklas wasn’t sure if it was the lump of edgy anxiety forming in his chest or the way she looked at him through big eyes that made his head spin. Maybe it was the memory of Wilbur sitting by her as he was humiliated.
“Esther?” he asked confused. Something unknown entity seemed to spin in his gut and mind.
She stepped up to him, examining his body. Her eyes flickered from each scar. Each knife wound, each burn, the teeth marks of the dog bite, and each lash. His body told his story, and she was reading it.
“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice low.
It was a new tone to him, but he had learned what it was. Pity. The confused stirring sensation melted away, replaced with a flare of resentment.
Was she not impressed? His badges of valor were not to be pitied. A Sharderin wore his scars with pride. Sharderins were strong, and the scars were their proof. Pity was for the weak, for the faceless.
Niklas’ eyes grew wide.
Faceless.
At that moment, he could feel the Zealot's brand sear just under his eye, the whip's lash, his shattered mask, the countless blows taken to prove that he was able, but worst of all, the rejection because he was impure.
Niklas set his jaw and clenched his fist. Pity. He hated pity. There was no place in a Sharderin soldier for pity.
The next thing he knew. Esther had a hand on his face, on his faceless mark. She was studying the mark with curious, sad eyes.
In confusion and with a snarl, Niklas snatched her by the wrist and jerked her away. His clutch was much tighter than he intended, and she let out a cry as she stumbled onto the ground.
She regarded him from the ground with a look of guilt coupled with surprise. Her large eyes twinkled as they looked at him apologetically. “Niklas,” she whispered. “I’m – I’m sorry.”
“Oi.”
“Git away from her.”
“Stand down, lad!”
Workers quickly gathered in a circle all around them. They brandished their tools like weapons protectively.
Niklas looked at the many workers, and the animal melted from his face. “I, I didn’t mean it,” he muttered. He looked down at the mother on the muddy ground, the mother he had put there.
If a mother wanted to touch him, she had the full God-given right to do so, and he had no right to do anything about it. That was the way that Gyva made things.
Niklas felt his gut churn inside him. He wished Stigki would call fire from the earth to consume him and send him right to Pit.
“I...I…” He choked on his words. He spun on his heel and pushed past a couple of workmen.
He wasn’t thinking. He had just gotten so angry. He wanted to serve mothers, not be pitied by them.
He grabbed his pick and made his way up a mound away from Esther. He couldn’t look back at her. What was happening to him? He had no valor. He looked at and spoke to mothers freely. He lived and worked for the mother killers. How had he fallen so far?
Coming to the top of the mound, Niklas swung his pick. He tried controlling his breathing but couldn’t calm down. There was a buzz inside that grew continually worse.
He swung faster and faster. Had he lost his reverence for Mothers? Relrins didn’t hold their mothers as holy. Was he adopting their sins?
He felt something tear in his hands. He cursed in Sharderic and dropped his pick. Looking at his hands, he saw that he had ripped a sizable chunk of skin off of his palm.
With a growl, he snatched his pick and attacked the ground more ferociously.