Moving in the dark, Tom struggled to breathe evenly as he shuffled along the forest road. He held the pain at bay from sheer stubbornness, one hand carefully pressed against his deepest stab wound. Just a little longer, he hoped.
The night was moonless; he could barely see. For the time being, he stuck to the center of the road, where the dirt was most even and firm. Hopefully, he would be less likely to trip and fall that way.
They probably didn't go far…
This isn't where I expected to end up two days ago.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
The Lucky Sprite had been busy on Eightnight. Light and shadow flickered over the wooden beams as candles and patrons moved around. The air smelled of booze but didn't yet reek of it; the night was young.
Tom sat at the bar and shoved a lock of black hair out of his face. Time to cut it again, he mused. He listened to bits and pieces of the various conversations as his blue eyes tracked all over the room.
“That stubborn rock wouldn't shift no matter what I tried…”
“Bet you ten copper he's late again…”
“So I said, ‘why don't you come over here and say that!’ and he tried to pretend he didn't know I was talking to him. Damned coward…”
“Eight silver! Can you believe that? No way was I going to pay eight for that…”
“Eh, I'm glad Greg left, even if it leaves us a man short. Better nobody than someone you can't trust to watch your back on the road…”
Tom turned his head to look at the last speaker. Four men sat around one of the smaller tables. The man he had overheard had a shock of hair that was so blond it was almost white. The tanned face under it made an odd contrast.
“I know what that's like,” Tom called out from his stool. “You're good to be cautious. May I join you for a moment?”
“Who might you be?”
“Tom Walker.” He left his stool and strolled over. He caught the eye of a barmaid, swept his hand over the table and pointed at himself. She nodded. The men seated didn't miss it either.
“We can make room for a man who buys us a round,” a scrawny man with a florid complexion declared, to general agreement. “Julio.”
“Hi, Julio.”
“That's Vlad, Bob, and I'm Nictal.” The bearded man pointed out who was who. “What brings you to our table, Tom?”
“Well…” Tom paused to snag a free stool and was back in an instant. “I'm a traveler, I can guard, and I'm at loose ends. When I overheard you talking about being a man short, I thought I would say hello and ask questions.”
“We don't do the hiring, Tom,” Bob warned him. “We work for Kurt.”
“Who's Kurt?”
“That is Kurt,” Vlad declared, gesturing with his mug. Tom looked over, and saw a giant of a man with black hair and beard just starting to be touched with white in places. He was eating dinner. Tom was impressed; not many men were bigger than him, but he was downright small compared to this fellow.
“I see. What do you all do for Kurt?”
“We're mercenaries. Traveling guards, lately.”
“Where from?”
“All over. We just escorted a caravan from Southby. We're headed out again tomorrow, for Rivermarch.”
“Huh. Is Kurt a good boss?”
“Boss trains us hard in the evenings. Not everyone is fit for it. And he's quick to fire people he doesn't like. But we get paid and we sharpen our skills.”
“Yeah? How long have you guys lasted?”
“Five years.” “Three.” “Two.” “Two, in a couple of months.” The answers all came at once, and Tom quickly attached the numbers to the men in his head.
“So you guys are quality fighters, and you've been together a while. What's the pay?”
“Two and a half silvers per day, plus meals.”
Tom grinned, thinking about his appetite. “This is sounding better and better. I had meant to stay in Middleton another week or so, but I think I'll go talk to the boss, instead. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He stood.
“Good luck, Tom. Thanks for the drinks.”
“Thanks. Hopefully, I'll see you later.”
Carrying his mug, Tom navigated between the other patrons. He was big enough that he could have just bulled through and made everyone else get out of his path, but that wasn't his way. He approached Kurt's table. The man's dark eyes flicked briefly over him.
Tom stopped at the empty chair opposite and looked a question at the other man. The smallest of grunts and nods were all the invitation he got. Kurt kept eating as Tom sat and regarded the load on the man's plate. He eats even more than I do.Tom gave him a few moments to see if he would speak first, then resisted the urge to clear his throat, masking it by taking a sip from his mug. The taste wasn't awful, was about all he could say for it. He took a quiet breath.
“I hear that you're hiring guards to travel. I'm looking for work.”
Kurt swallowed, and looked Tom up and down. “Maybe. You look young. You have experience?”
“Some. I've done a lot of different jobs.”
Kurt gestured with a chicken leg at the short sword at Tom's side. “You know how to use that?”
Tom had expected the question. “I'm no genius with it, but I generally get the pointy end where it belongs.”
“Mmm.” Kurt took a swallow from his own mug. “You ever kill a man?”
Tom felt his mouth pucker. “Twice. I can't say I care for it, but sometimes it needs doing.” That appeared to be the right answer, from Kurt's expression. Good.
“Have you been a guard before?”
Tom nodded. “I was a town guard at Peter's Crossing for a few months. I've escorted a carriage between towns, and been a personal bodyguard for a while. I didn't care much for standing around near nobles, though I can do it if I have to.”
“Town guard, eh? Can you stop a fight without steel?”
“Usually.”
“You hunt?”
Tom shrugged. “I'm fair at it.”
“You cook?”
“Only if you're desperate.”
Kurt snorted, then sized him up again, dipping his fingers in a water bowl and wiping his greasy fingers on a rag. “You think you're strong?”
Tom considered how to answer, then shrugged and said, “Once in a while, I lose a bar bet. Not too often, though.”
Kurt finished cleaning his hands and pushed his plate to one side. “Let's see.” He thumped his elbow on the table and offered his hand. Tom set his mug well to the side and did likewise.
Should I let him win easily, or do my best to beat him? Tom braced for the beginning as he tried to guess what would get him hired. Maybe I—OOF!
Tom was glad he had braced, as his hand was being forced down slowly but steadily. Worried about making a poor impression, Tom dug deep and managed to bring a halt, but couldn't make any progress. He didn't lose ground for a while, but eventually his hand was slowly forced back until his knuckles hit the table.
Tom did his best to hide his reaction and wait for the verdict, retrieving his arm and flexing his hand a few times. Kurt calmly looked at his own hand for a moment. “Been a while since anyone managed to hold me off for a bit. What's your name, boy?”
“Tom Walker. Thanks for not busting it,” Tom answered.
“You can't stand your watch if you can't hold your sword.” Kurt nodded. “I think you'll do. The pay is two and a half silver per day, meals, and a bonus for combat. The caravan is leaving in the morning. Will you be ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kurt scowled. “Don't call me ‘sir.’ Be at the north gate at sunup.”
“I'll be there. Thank you…Kurt.”
“I can still hear the ‘sir’.”
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
Shuffling forward, Tom hitched his breath as his foot almost caught on a rock, and he had to stop for a few moments until the pain steadied. He peered up at the sliver of night sky visible above the road. He could see Copper near zenith, and a fair number of stars. Platinum must have set long since. Twisting his neck that way hurt, and his head was already pounding, so he lowered his gaze and stared into the forest instead.
If they are traveling all night, I'll never catch up…but what else can I do?
He forced himself to start moving again.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
The merchants were not quite ready at sunup Oneday morning. Tom wasn't surprised. The delay gave him a chance to meet the other guards. He carefully committed the names to memory and kept his ears open, knowing he had a lot to learn at the start.
“So the theater wagon and the spice wagon are gone, and we got one new one?” Bob asked. “That makes six wagons now.”
“Yup. Easier to guard six than seven. What's the new one, though?”
“Looks like another one where we don't want to ask,” Vlad observed.
“What's that?” Tom asked.
Vlad explained. “Well, the new wagon is taking the lead, apparently. In second place, we've got a grain wagon, right? That's the Parsons. Jeff Parson is in charge of the whole caravan. He seems a decent fellow. I don't know why he's not in front again.” Vlad seemed to think about it for a moment and then dismiss it with a wave of his hand.
“All right…” Tom encouraged him to go on.
Vlad pointed at the third wagon. “And that there's Mr. Whistler's fabric wagon. He's nice, but watch out if he asks you to gamble. Likewise, all the way in the back, we've got the two married Smiths with a load of ironwork to deliver to Rivermarch. Those three wagons are friendly enough. You want to stay away from the other three, though.”
“Why?”
“Well, the fourth wagon here is carrying booze.”
Tom nodded in understanding. “And that's why they've got three big guys of their own guarding it.”
“Right. They don't trust us not to steal a nip or two.” Vlad turned and pointed. “The fifth one, I have no idea what's in it, and neither does anybody else. Mr. Sashen is traveling by himself and he sleeps with his cargo. Won't say hardly a word to anyone, and whatever it is, it's all sealed up in crates. He's been with us for four stops and hasn't even told us his destination. I guess he'll let us know when we're not going in his direction any more.”
“And the new guys?” Tom tilted his head at the lead wagon without making it obvious.
“Those three are a real piece of work. Their cargo is wrapped up tight too. They smell like trouble.”
Tom took a surreptitious look. There were three men: one lean, one stout, and the leader, a man with a shock of red hair who looked like a fighter. Tom got one look at his face and started immediately thinking about how he would drop the man if it became necessary. Vlad has the right of it, I think.
“Yeah, I'm not curious enough to poke the bear,” Tom assured his fellows.
“Smart man. How old are you, anyway, Tom?”
Tom saw no reason to lie. “Eighteen. I left home four years ago.”
“Where's home?”
“Flax Hill. It's pretty far.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Yeah, neither has anybody else.”
Kurt came over to his men with a sour look on his face. Hangover? I doubt it, Tom mused. More likely talking to the new merchants ticked him off for some reason. Oh, I bet they were the reason for the delay.
“All right, they're finally ready. Bob, you and me in the front. Then Michael and Vlad, then Nictal and Pete. Julio, you've got Tom here and rearguard duty.” Thick fingers pointed out the rough spacing he wanted.
“Understood.” Everyone acknowledged the order.
Makes sense. He doesn't know if I'm any good yet, so I get the easiest watch while they figure out I know how to lace my boots without a helper. Just as well; if there are any special tricks to working under Kurt, I'd rather start off slow and easy while I learn.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
The day went smoothly and quickly. Julio bragged about women he had bedded, and others that he had tried to bed. Tom had no anecdotes of his own to share, a fact that Julio pounced on. “Four years on the road, and you're still a virgin? Incredible! You're not that ugly.”
“I didn't say I was a virgin!”
“But you didn't deny it, either,” Julio pointed out with cunning. Tom scowled and stared at his side of the road, and Julio laughed. “When we get to Rivermarch, I'll help you find a lady to improve your education.”
“Don't need the help.” Tom did his best to shut that down right away.
“What, you scared?”
“No, I'm just not in a hurry. There was this guy I knew, back when I was first on the road, and he lay with every woman he could. Then he ended up with the red pains and had to borrow money for the healer, and it all went downhill for him from there. He's probably going to be paying it back for the rest of his life.”
“There's ways to be careful, you know. Healers can check them in advance. Some cities actually have a healer visit every house of ladies every month.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Demon shit. That would cost a fortune.”
Julio kept up an earnest expression for a few more seconds before he grinned. “All right, so you weren't born last summer. Good to know.” He stopped talking for a few moments as something caught his eye. Then he scoffed. “Just a rabbit. Where was I?”
“You were telling me about Kurt.”
“No, I wasn't, nice try, virgin.”
Tom carefully repressed a sigh. The more I react, the longer they will tease. Act bored until it goes away. “If that's an invitation, I'm not interested in that side of the barn.”
Julio laughed. “Neither am I. I like the ladies. And speaking of, there was this one girl from the east…”
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
As Firstday faded into Firstnight, the caravan made camp at a well-used rest stop. Tom pitched in without being asked. He still had to prove himself to the group, after all. But he didn't get much done before Kurt called him. Tom nodded, finished dropping off the firewood, and headed over.
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“Time for training,” Kurt announced. “Michael and Vlad, you're on watch for now. Tom, you're with me. The rest of you, pair up and practice your drills.”
For the next half hour, Kurt put Tom through his paces. Tom demonstrated his usual sword drill, and his new boss had criticisms of every single stance and move. A lot of his instruction boiled down to using greater care and focus on each motion, to make each action more precise.
“You've got plenty of power, but you're too sloppy. You know the saying ‘repetition makes perfection’?”
“Yes?”
“That's wrong. Repetition does not make perfection. Repetition makes habit. Perfect repetition makes perfection. You need to pay more attention to each and every move. You should be doing less, but doing it better. Just focus on those first four moves for now. You want to get in the habit of doing things right, so that they'll go right when you don't have time to think about it.”
Kurt made him repeat the first four moves, and corrected him again and again. Tom started to feel frustrated, so Kurt made him slow down, and then slow down again, until Tom could make the first two moves roughly up to Kurt's standards.
“Practice it slow. Get it perfect when it is slow. Then speed up little by little, but don't settle for sloppy. Don't go faster until you can get it perfect at the speed you're already at.”
Mrs. Parson called them to dinner, and Kurt stepped back and nodded. Tom forced himself back to calmness as he returned the wooden practice sword. “Thank you…you're a good teacher.”
“A young man with patience? Make offerings to the gods.” It was a hint of humor that blunted Tom's internal tension and frustration. “We'll see how you improve in the first season.”
Tom washed his hands, even though the stream was close to freezing. He warmed them at the fire for a minute while everyone started eating, then grabbed his own dinner. It was a tasty stew and there was some fresh bread with it, since it was their first day on the road.
Tom ate quickly, then took his second full helping and sat back down, listening and watching the others. He didn't miss it when Kurt looked at Julio, and Julio gave a small nod. I guess I pass for today.
Then one of the men from the first wagon took a lot of the stew, shoved it into a pail rather than a bowl, and stalked off. Well, that's downright unfriendly. Too good to eat with us even? Or mad that I took a second helping? Tom did his best to put it out of his mind.
The conversation proceeded in fits and starts. Mr. Sashen ate quietly and then excused himself. The Smiths and the Parsons chatted, since they weren't in easy talking distance of each other during the day. Mr. Whistler approached Tom, and gestured at the log Tom was using for a seat. “Good evening, young man. May I?”
Tom nodded. “Good evening, sir.” The bald merchant settled himself with a groan.
“Philip Whistler, trader and tailor.”
“Tom Walker, traveler and guard.”
“Do you play cards, Tom?”
Tom hesitated. “I'm afraid not.”
“I'd be happy to teach you the rules of a game or two.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whistler, but I'm not rich enough to gamble.”
“Well…for fun, then?”
Tom tried to think of how to get out of this. “I'm sorry, but I don't really have a head for it.”
“Really?” Mr. Whistler's voice had an odd tone to it, like he was surprised and suspicious. “You seem plenty sharp to me.” Uh-oh. This guy is smart.
“Thank you, sir.”
The tailor eyed him another moment, then sighed. “Ah, well. One week to go.”
“To Rivermarch?”
“Yes. That's where my shop is. More importantly, that's where my dear wife is waiting for me.”
“How long have you been on the road?”
“Seven weeks. It's hard being away from her. She is the light of my life.”
“Do you have to do this a lot?”
“Once a year, or twice if it goes poorly. Eventually, I'll have to give it up and let other merchants rob me blind, but I'm not there yet.”
With a bit more effort, Tom managed to avoid getting roped into a game with Mr. Whistler without revealing why he was refusing. He chatted with the friendlier merchants and the other guards until the caravaners turned in for the night. Kurt paired him with Julio again for first watch. Julio had been talkative all day, but he fell silent when keeping watch, to let the others sleep.
When Tom turned in at the change of the watch, he felt good about his choice to join this group. He'd worked with all sorts of people, and this team was clearly among the better ones. He closed his eyes with satisfaction. I'll learn a lot from Kurt.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
As he shuffled onward, Tom felt blood on his fingers when he touched the bandage on his side. That's not good. He needed a physicker or a healer, but he would worry about it if he lived through the night.
There was a noise, and Tom froze. Something was coming towards him from the left. He made a snap decision. Moving as quickly as he could, which was not very at all, he managed to reach a tree trunk at the side of the road in time to hide, after a fashion. His vision swam a bit, or at least it felt that way. It was hard to tell in the dark.
A lone man came stumbling through the underbrush. He was muttering to himself as he broke clear into the roadway. Tom tried to make it out.
“No…no…no…get away…got to get away…”
He had to be one of the bandits. The rest must be close. I was right.
Instead of turning north or south along the road, though, the man crossed and plunged right back into the woods again, headed east. Weird behavior. The other bandits must have spooked him. Or he just cracked when he realized he'd killed a man. Some people had extra trouble dealing with it; Tom had seen it before.
He took stock of himself. There was no way he could catch someone moving that quickly. Reluctantly, he kept still and waited, looking and listening. No one else followed the first man.
Then the pain flared up and he had to take a minute to cope. His mind fogged up, and Tom simply focused on making it through each second to the next one, until he could sort of think again.
I don't know if I can do this.
Tom held his breath, then let it out carefully, trying to ride the pain. I have to do it. Once he could breathe without risking a scream, he trod softly along the edge of the road, ready to move behind a trunk if needed. After another minute, he found the small path the wagons must have used.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
Twoday passed in much the same fashion as Oneday. Instead of farms and clear fields, they entered the Great Oak Forest by midmorning. They planned to follow Forest Road north for nearly a week before emerging at the far end a day or so from Rivermarch.
Keeping guard in the forest was harder, of course; out in the open you could see an enemy coming for miles, and fewer predators wandered on the plains and fields. Now the mercenaries had to be alert for bears, wolves, and bandits, among other hazards. Kurt started sending Michael farther ahead to scout; the man reported back every half hour or so.
But nothing of note happened. Tom got spooked by a deer at one point, and the others ridiculed him for it; he took it with good humor. The rest of the day was boring. Boring was good.
Before dinner, Tom practiced the new sword drills Kurt had taught him, and tried to remember all the details. Kurt was quick to correct him. Sometimes the big man was surprisingly gentle when adjusting a pose that was almost right; other times the wooden sword cracked down firmly if he was too far out of position.
Kurt gave first watch to Michael and Vlad. Tom and Julio would take the next shift. Tom turned in with the others, expecting to be woken in a few hours. He felt pretty good about the day, and managed to fall asleep almost instantly.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
“FIGHT!”
Tom was startled awake.
He opened his eyes in time to see a knife flashing downward at him. He blocked instinctively, taking a big cut on his left arm instead of a stab in his heart. The man bending over him looked terrified but determined. Tom grabbed for the hand holding the knife but missed. He scrambled, trying to get his feet under him, and had to block again with the same arm. He seized his sword, scabbard and all, and swung it hard into his attacker, then bared the blade as he rose into a crouch.
Kurt was still shouting the alarm, trying to wake the others. A noise behind Tom warned him to roll to the side, but it wasn't enough; he got stabbed in the side. The pain didn't register at first, but suddenly it was hard to breathe.
No. I'm not going down without even taking one of them with me! A desperate swing caught the second man in the neck with the tip of his blade, slashing just deep enough for a mortal blow. Again he struggled to get to his feet, but wasn't given the chance. A third attacker cracked his skull with a club, and Tom lost consciousness.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
It was unclear how long he was out, but eventually an urgent need to pee prodded him slowly back to awareness. He almost wet himself from pain and apathy, but faintly realized that if he fell asleep again, he might never wake. So he forced himself to embrace the pain and use it to finish waking up. He could see nothing when he opened his eyes, and worried that he was blind, until the stars overhead swam slowly into sharp focus.
As soon as he tried to move, he wanted to throw up. Forewarned, he started moving very, very slowly, and managed to roll up to his hands and knees without losing his supper. He looked around. Everything was very dark, but his eyes adapted to the starlight eventually, with the horror around him appearing in slow stages.
The wagons were gone. The campfire was completely out. And there were a lot of bodies.
Demon shit.
He could barely see anything. His pack and weapons were gone. Are there other survivors? I need light!
He fumbled with his clothing and relieved himself with difficulty right where he was, since he wasn't sure he could do otherwise. Then he slowly crawled over to the closest body. It was that of a stranger. Tom could feel the neck was cut. This is the one I killed. A quick search didn't turn up anything useful like a striker or a rock light. He tried to remember where everyone had been sleeping, and started to crawl again.
His head spun and he vomited, which caused blinding agony in his side. He stayed on all fours, trembling, favoring his injured arm a bit, even though it at least seemed to be working. I should not be moving around.
I also should not be stabbed and bleeding to death, but here I am.
It felt like forever, but he crawled over the dirt to one body, then another, then stumbled across a fallen lantern that might still work a little, since not quite all the oil had spilled. More searching yielded a striker. It took far more concentration than he liked, but after nearly a dozen tries he managed a light. His eyes adjusted and he looked at the closest body.
Julio. Tom crawled to him, and checked him for life, then closed his eyes. This was a living man, who wanted to bed women and have fun and live to old age. He seemed like a good guy. Gods curse those bandit bastards.
He went from body to body, reading the tale of the battle from the signs left. Michael and Vlad both had crossbow bolts in them: Michael to his neck and Vlad to his face. They must have managed to take out both guards at once. The sound woke Kurt, though.
Kurt's corpse was surrounded by dead bodies of attackers. Tom counted six. Damn. Pretty impressive for starting from bed. He also had two crossbow bolts in him, as well as a lot of other wounds.
“I'm sorry, sir,” Tom whispered. “I only got one of them. Thank you for giving us a chance. Thank you for my life.” What is left of it.
Tom kept going with his grisly search. No one else was alive. At least the two women's clothing wasn't torn; that was a mercy. All the weapons had been taken, along with coin purses and the wagons. He stopped when he found Mr. Whistler.
“Sorry about this, sir.” He managed a pathetic bandage out of the man's clothing for his side, and a better one for his left arm. Then he had to stop and just breathe for a while.
Six days to Rivermarch. Two days back to Middleton. Cut off a day for finding someone living outside of town to help. Even so, Tom realized that he probably wasn't going to make it back out of the forest. His only hope would be to lie in the road and hope a passing messenger didn't think he was bait.
It's not fair. I want to live. The guys wanted to live…Mr. Whistler wanted to get home to his wife.
Grief threatened to overwhelm him, but anger helped him to push it down. If I'm dying, what do I want to do with my last minutes or hours? Put that way, the answer was obvious.
I want to kill the bastards who did this.
Tom grimaced. I'm not even sure I can stand up, though. I might be able to take one guy in my condition. I need surprise. Well, they left me for dead, so that might help. They think they're all alone out here.
I need to figure out which way they went. Think, Tom. Where would they go? Back to Middleton? No, too suspicious. People would remember the caravan leaving. One of the villages? Maybe, if they basically run their own village nearby. Instead of selling the goods they might use them—drink, eat, and make clothing. Some things would be valuable, but not to them, though. They would want to sell those, not just sit on merchandise worth some gold. Plus, if they are too close to Middleton, there's still a chance someone will figure it out.
The smart move would be to keep going to Rivermarch, and sell some of the stuff there. It's supposed to be a big city. Easier to disappear. But are these bandits smart or stupid?
Tom thought about the well-executed attack. Kurt was sharp. His guys were experienced. And yet the bandits took us down, with a bunch of casualties, but still. Whoever is running that gang is smart.
Tom nodded in his thoughts. They'll head north to Rivermarch.
He was starting to have some more difficulty breathing. I'd better get to the road, at least, before I die. My body will warn travelers. The lantern sputtered; it was probably going to go out soon. Tom took another look around while he could.
From one of the merchants, he took a water skin and emptied it into his throat. It helped a bit, so he scrounged another. He also got a final count: twelve merchants, seven guards, and fifteen bandits lay dead in the rest stop. Carrion eaters would be coming.
They took the weapons. Did they miss any? Tom looked over at Kurt's huge body. No way am I rolling him over in my condition. Which means the bandits wouldn't have bothered, either. Kurt would have a backup weapon, but probably didn't draw it. He died with his sword in his hand.
Tom crawled over to his employer. It took some doing, but he reached underneath and found a dagger in the small of the big man's back. The lantern sputtered and went out, leaving him in blackness again.
Water, bandages, dagger. Now to find out whether I can even stand. Tom decided to crawl out to the edge of the road first, in case he died while trying to stand up. The short path from the rest area felt like miles, but he managed it, eventually. He braced against an oak and prepared for the pain, then slowly rose to his feet, still leaning against the tree.
The pain actually lessened a bit. Weird. Experimentally, Tom leaned very slightly one way and almost blacked out, clutching the oak in a death grip to keep from falling. Don't vomit. Don't vomit or you'll die. Carefully, gradually, he straightened, then leaned a tiny bit in the other direction, and the pain receded some, enough that he could breathe.
He stayed that way for a couple of minutes, just relishing the ability to take in air. It's miraculous, breathing. It's wonderful. You just don't appreciate it until you almost lose it. Tom resolved not to take breathing for granted in the future, though it was unlikely he had one.
After a few tiny, cautious practice steps, Tom let go of the tree and stood on his own. Carefully, he figured out a shuffling walk that didn't make him feel worse, and started slowly north up the dark forest road, in pursuit of an unknown number of bandits an unknown distance away, with nothing but a dagger and a couple of bleeding wounds.
I might be about to die, but gods witness me, I will die trying.
∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘
Now that he had found the bandits, Tom kept his distance, watching and listening. They didn't keep much of a guard; most of them were celebrating and drinking some of the booze. He could hear arguments a couple of times, but couldn't make out the words. One voice was sharper and louder than the others, and held a tone of command.
He crawled forward when the bickering got loud enough to cover for him, and stopped when he could see the tops of the wagons and could hear what they were saying. Then he settled down to wait and watch.
A wave of exhaustion hit him as soon as he stopped moving. Don't fall asleep, he warned himself. If he fell asleep here and now that would probably be the end for him, even if he wasn't discovered.
He had a long wait ahead. He couldn't afford to move too soon. He couldn't afford to sleep either.
Tom tried to memorize the different voices and get a count. He didn't dare raise his head and risk getting spotted. The partying lasted a long while, and some of the men were getting drunk. Good. The more of them pass out from the booze, the farther I'll get with revenge.
There actually didn't seem to be many bandits left, which was satisfying. There had to be at least six, to have driven all the wagons here in one trip. At least five left, Tom amended, thinking about the soul-wounded man fleeing earlier. At least some of the arguments he heard were about going to look for him.
There were a few angry outbursts, and whenever one of them got too loud the leader's voice cut through it like a knife. He's the smart one. Tom got a bit of luck; the leader climbed up onto one of the wagons where Tom could just see him. In the firelight he could make out the man's features; his brown hair was an unruly mess, his mustache was worse, and he was dressed all in black. The boss bandit looked down at everyone and shouted orders and answered questions.
At least four. No more than eight, Tom estimated.
“If they don't come back, we won't even be able to drive all the wagons,” one man complained.
Only four or five!? He said ‘they’, so if more than one bandit disappeared after they got here, there are only four left!
Maybe I can do this. Tom's head began to pound worse from excitement so he forced himself to calm down. There was still a good chance he would die before getting revenge, but all he could do was be smart and wait for opportunity.
He wondered how much time had passed. He couldn't bring himself to look too far upward at the stars, but at the top of his vision he noticed Copper starting to drop below the trees. It's been a couple of hours, at least.
It felt like an eternity. Tom wondered if he had died and this was his afterlife: pain and lying in wait. He realized that was odd and couldn't even squeeze his eyes shut or shake his head to clear it.
Finally, finally, after what felt like hours more, all the voices fell silent and turned to snoring. The bandit leader walked into the woods for a minute to do his necessary, then resumed his watch. Tom was lucky again; the spot the bandit had chosen was not far from where Tom lay in wait. When the man was looking elsewhere, Tom slowly, slowly crawled closer. He picked the best place he could, and behind the trunk of a huge oak tree, climbed back to his feet, then leaned against the trunk, facing away from the camp, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Don't look, he warned himself. This is your best move, what you're already doing.
As minute after minute passed, Tom felt more and more tempted, but was firm with himself. If I peek and he spots me, it's all for nothing. He fiddled with his bandages. He waited…
Tom jerked awake, and his soul scrambled to catch up. The noise of footsteps on fallen leaves had woken him, and he was grateful for the rough bark that had helped to stop him from sliding down the trunk. He barely had time to grip Kurt's dagger tightly before the bandit walked past him, not six feet away.
Tom lunged, grabbing the man's shoulder for support even as he cut his throat. They fell to the ground together, and Tom watched the shock and fear as the bandit futilely groped at his neck, like anyone else desperate for anything to give him even a second more of precious life. Tom saw the realization in his eyes as the man recognized him, and the expression of despair was satisfying as the bandit finally went still.
Tom's eyes closed and he felt his soul starting to come loose, but forced the feeling back. Not yet. Almost done. Tom rolled to his hands and knees and retched again, which was nearly the end of him. Not yet, he insisted, refusing to give in. Not yet.
As he gathered himself, he looked over the bandit leader, took the man's dagger as a spare, and pulled off a belt pouch containing sundries including a rock light. Maybe I can blind one if I need to.
Tom crawled into the camp and found three men snoring. One by one, he cut their throats, and watched their eyes as they died. By the last one, he was feeling a bit sickened. The man looked like a simple farmer who had turned desperate. This will give me nightmares, he belatedly realized.
Then he snorted mentally. I doubt I will ever dream again, unless the temple masters are right and there is more life after this one.
He listened carefully to the woods. There are a couple more out there somewhere, but they might not be coming back. Tom knew his life was close to spent. There would be no more chasing, no more revenge. He was done.
Then he heard something. Not a forest sound—footsteps on wood. And then the sound of someone doing their necessary in a bucket. Tom's vision started to go dark around the edges and he fought to concentrate. Someone's sleeping in one of the wagons. I should have thought of that.
Maybe…I can get one more.
Tom rallied the last of his strength, and crawled over to the lead wagon. He had to use a wheel for support, but got to his feet. Climbing up onto the seat was impossible, so he shifted around to the back. The back flap had been left untied by the bandits. He lifted one corner, and tried to peer inside, but all was blackness after the light of the campfire had done its work on his eyes.
He felt iron bars. A cage? Then he caught sight of a pair of amber eyes reflecting the faint firelight. An animal? Curious, Tom fumbled the rock light out of the pouch and squeezed it twice to light it, closing his eyes against the initial flash of light. When he opened them again, he stared in shock.
The cage was full of elven slaves.
Tom had only seen elves a couple of times in his travels, and never up close. Most of these ones were asleep. The exception was a striking woman with amber eyes and straight black hair, who was staring back at him, shaking another elf awake while she did so.
Tom stared. “Those bastards…” he muttered. His vision swam a bit. Not my problem. I'm dying. He took a deep breath with difficulty.
Wait.
Tom had a worrisome thought. Everybody else is dead. The elves are trapped. If no one finds them, they'll starve to death. They were far enough from the road to be out of sight to casual view. It was a real danger. But I don't have it in me to go search for the key. Who would even have it? Probably the leader, back in the woods. I'll never make it all the way back there and back here.
Unless…
Gods, please do these elves a favor. Please let it be in here.
Tom dug into the bandit's pouch by feel, and his fingers closed on an irregular piece of iron. He pulled it out and immediately pushed his hand through the bars, offering the key to the woman. It only took a moment for her to get over her shock and dart forward to take it.
Good. Tom felt himself smile, a real smile, the last thing he expected in his final moments. He shuffled aside to get out of the way, and sank down to the ground.
Thank you, gods, for saving them. He remembered the woman's look of shock and hope, and it warmed him in his core. Thank you for letting me feel something at the end…besides…hate…
Finally at peace, Tom Walker let the darkness come.