Prime, Eleventh Day Before Kalends of May

Southern Hills, Tarrin, Drum

Logan’s employer was Garret, who was the head of the largest underground weapons trade in Drum. His job was to protect the carriages carrying the arms. He had worked with Garret for six months now, but he had only been ambushed once and even then the ambushers immediately fled when Logan revealed his Connexion.

And thus Logan had no reason to suspect that he would come under attack as he rode on horseback at the front of the line of carriages.

Alfred, a young man from Cyrill whose stubble made his rakishness all the more charming, and who often claimed to be a direct descendant of the venerated rustic poet Ronan, pointed out Logan’s injuries when they were setting off.

“I will be fine,” said Logan.

“Yessir,” said Alfred.

They rode side by side, as they always did, and Alfred talked to Logan incessantly to which Logan replied curtly but warmly, as he always did. Logan, though he did not show it, greatly enjoyed Alfred’s company. The day Logan joined the weapons trade he was regarded with distrust and fear, and Alfred had been the first one who approached him and cajoled him with various high tales and jokes. The man was a collection of fables, seemingly having travelled all across Kaps, having even hiked the Drum Mountains and ventured into the darkest parts of Cyrill Forest at some point. Logan enjoyed these tales, as well as the exuberance with which he told them. So in this way the two men were able to become close without divulging to each other their past or their hopes for the future, Alfred’s (if that was even his real name) obscured by his high tales and Logan’s obscured by his reticence. This was for the best, as being a mercenary was dangerous work and it was best not to reveal things about oneself that may later become weaknesses. Alfred did know that Logan was a defected noble, of course, and that he was the man who had single-handedly killed a hundred men at Reyken, but everybody knew that.

Today Alfred was telling a story about how he encountered the mystical Deer Lops in Cyrill Forest, who gave him a prophecy that he will become the nation’s hero one day. Alfred had told Logan that story before, and Logan noticed with wry amusement that many of the details were different this time around. But Logan was also somewhat disturbed by the way Alfred’s eyes, which were usually filled with rueful jest, glinted as he spoke of his prophecy. He had never spoken of such ambitions before. Logan could not recall the prophecy in Alfred’s earlier version of the story, but it was not tinged with such brute ambition.

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“I think I will be leaving here soon,” said Alfred suddenly.

“Leaving?” said Logan.

“Yes,” said Alfred, and was silent.

Logan was taken aback. He realised in that moment that he had stayed at the weapons trade for so long because of Alfred, because he was fond of his stories and his mirth, but most of all because Alfred had reached out to him and treated him as an equal.

“Why is that,” said Logan.

“Perhaps we should make a stop,” said Alfred. “We are almost halfway, and there is nowhere to rest when we reach Jollock’s Hill. I will let the rear guards know.”

“Yes,” said Logan.

Alfred turned and headed towards the carriages trailing at the back, leaving Logan feeling lonelier than ever. He was now recalling all of Alfred’s high tales, smiling at them despite himself. And so he was too busy Sensing his own Mind to Sense the conniving scheme that had blossomed in Alfred’s Mind, nor to Sense Alfred unsheathing his sword as he returned to him. Only when Alfred was just behind Logan and raised his sword did Logan Sense the sword as it descended, and turned his body to dodge it. However, he turned too late and the sword sliced his shoulder, the same shoulder had borne injuries courtesy of Kate.

Logan cried out, and when he turned to look at Alfred, Alfred instinctively knew that as he had failed to kill him in one blow he would now die. There was a flash of lightning after which the Body of Alfred, now charred and smoking, fell from his frightened horse.

Logan turned to see several other men behind him who had now unsheathed their weapons. And just like that, it was battle for Logan Floyd and he killed every man that had conspired with Alfred. In battle he was one with the rhythm of his sword, the path of his swing fractionating into a thousand arcs of lightning. He could barely smell the burning flesh or hear the guttural screams of his enemies, all of them men he had spent many nights encircled around a fireplace, listening to Alfred’s tall tales or Johann’s growling songs. O Johann, that beautiful bass! He fell during this skirmish and would enter an eternal silence, his lilting voice remembered by none.

Soon enough silence descended the scene, save for the screams of the terrified horses that kicked and reared up but could not break free from their harnesses. Logan found himself alone amongst fresh corpses of his colleagues, drenched in the blood of his colleagues. Not a single one had survived. For a moment he stood there, motionless, then turned and left the scene of massacre.