Matins, Eighth Day Before Kalends of May

Eastpoint, Bahim, Drum

Logan awoke at dawn. He found that most his wounds had now healed. He left the mineshafts to take a walk around Eastpoint. He had never been to this town. He had only briefly passed through Bahim a few times during his time at the Tarrin weapons trade, but had never stopped at any of its towns.

The streets were empty, save for a few stray cats. Logan pet a few of them, but after one of them bit him he steered clear of them. Only after he had walked around the whole town once — there was not much to see, as it was simply a less arid version of Estrul — did he encounter the first resident of the town. It was a wizened old man, sitting at his doorstep, drinking liquor with a minty smell that Logan could not recognise.

When he saw Logan he said a few words in Bahim dialect.

“I do not speak your dialect,” said Logan.

“Oh,” said the old man. “You are one of the soldiers.”

Logan nodded and was about to turn back and return to the mines when the old man said, “do you fight for us or against us.”

Stolen novel; please report.

After a pause, Logan said, “I cannot say.”

“Your finger is bleeding,” said the old man. “Come closer.”

Logan obliged. The old man held out his hand, and Logan placed his hand in his. The old man’s palms were fiery warm. The old man tipped the flask from which he was drinking and allowed a drop to fall onto Logan’s finger, where the cat had bit him. The wound burned.

“You are a good man.” said the old man, smiling. “The young in these towns do not have the courage to become soldiers. It is easy to fight when you know what you are fighting for. You do not know why you are fighting, and yet you are giving away your life for it. You are a good man.”

After this the old man’s words became slurred beyond comprehension and soon he collapsed to his side and began snoring. Logan undid his cloak and lay it on top of the old man.

As he walked back towards the mineshafts he could not help but smile. The old man truly believed that there was honour in fighting! Logan, too, had romanticised war in his youth. That romance quickly died the moment he felt another human being’s warm blood rush down his arms and smelt the scent of burning flesh.

No, war was not beautiful. War was not noble. War brought death and destruction and despair.

If he was caught during this task, he would bring about war without a doubt. The thought sent an immediate shudder down his spine. No, he could not think such thoughts. He had to succeed. He had to think of this as yet another job. He recalled Garret’s words. Without work there is nothing. Yes, there was nothing else for him. For what else could he do? Walk away? Logan knew that would be impossible. He had nowhere left to go. In some ways he had already resigned to himself that the stench of death would follow him for the rest of his life.