It would be easier to die. The thought more than once crossed Myers’ mind as he crossed the frozen stretch between the glades of Firstfall and civilization along the riverbanks. The snowstorm had caught him in a white flash on the trail. Yet as his horse wandered him blindly into the snowfall, his mind wandered elsewhere from the present danger. Humanity would have died long ago if each took the easiest trail.

As he kept his arms cradled around his body, as his cloak tangled up to his cheeks where a fresh cut froze with his own blood, he remembered why he had to live. Whipping in the flaky wind, the long steel-blonde hair belonging to the Prince of Steel dampened with the memories of his beloved and of his benefactor. And how tangled the two seemed to have become.

Dark on darkness lied ahead. Hills, a ridge, sitting before mountains. It was difficult to determine the exact landscape given the severity of the storm. The horse was taking Myers uphill and keeping its chestnut head low to the ground. Should I feel some heavy burden for slaying an ‘old friend?’ The weight of his body had become light yet the sickness plaguing it made him feel heavier than the metal he was prince of. I have become so sick. So chilled no matter storm or shine. This had become a recurring thought and one that reminded him why he was, burden or none, set to slay the next old friend.

Then he saw it. Far off into distance. Somewhere on an obscured mountain. A spec of blue light. A fire, he knew at once. Part of Myers had hoped their first encounter was an illusion brought on by abrupt illness. That he had imagined their brief conversation and her stone cold commands. There wasn’t much left in Myers to die when he saw the blinking light nestled high in the storm. Yet some ignorant hope had flickered out in him there and then. She wishes to speak with me.

I’m in this storm because of the Runt, the Prince of Steel thought as he bowed his head like the beast below him. It’s all because of him. Even from the beginning.

Myers remembered where he was before the news came. Before the true storm came to swallow them all. He was outside his tent, sat on a small bench with his back gently laid against the deerskin behind him. He was far younger then. It had seemed he was always a young man up until recent events. His youth was a forgotten blur of carnage like how the storm surrounded him presently. Yet nine years ago his hair was thicker, earthlier. His body haler, his skin more toned. His prime was given to the Thatch Gang and it was in their camp he remembered the beginning of the end.

All around him were cutthroats and brigands. ‘Killers, reavers, and worse,’ as Thatch himself had once put it. Ahead from where Myers had sat that day were two of the finest among those descriptions. The two polar opposites of spirit, Abbott and Graves.

“What was he supposed to do at that point, hm?” The hum at the end of Abbott’s question had reeled in Myers’ attention away from the empty void of his meditation. “A man loses the top of his head but doesn’t die. What’s he to do?”

“He’s supposed to die,” Graves gave the obvious answer expected of him. Graves was beyond a cynic. He was a misanthrope. Self-confessed to have died inside years prior before becoming mixed up in the Thatch gang. His hair was shaggy and dark. His eyes bagged and darker. His spirits darkest of all. When he spoke the spirits of any and all festivities died like the light had in his eyes.

It was a fortune Graves spoke seldom, often only when spoken to. The thinly bearded Abbott, however, was more than another story. He was a collection of a thousand stories no one had asked to hear. It wasn’t enough the man loved the sound of his own voice, interjecting it at every chance he had. It was undeniable he put that honeyed voice to good use. Silvertongue they called him, though his hair was closer to bronze. Xander had once described him as the most dangerous man in camp without a sword. ‘The most annoying more like,’ the beastman Grissle had replied.

“Oh!” Abbott shrieked as if he had been stabbed. Myers peaked over and saw he was sitting down at a table with Graves. They were playing some simple board game. Not unheard of being stabbed over a game like that in the Thatch Gang. However, it became clear Abbott was merely being dramatic in response to Graves’ answer. “How can you say that? How can you mean that? The man isn’t dead. It’s just his scalp and maybe a bit of his brain. An ambitious haircut, we’ll call it. His death is not instant. Are you supposing he should politely excuse himself from battle and sit down and die?”

“Anyone with that kind of wound isn’t going to be able to simply continue about their business, Silvertongue. The pain would be extraordinary. Unimaginable. You would drop your own sword and hold at your wound until you died and make no mistake of it. You would die.”

“Maybe,” Abbott shrugged, moving a piece across the board. “You could at least keep fighting on before you died. Surely one could avenge themselves and return the favor to the one that took off a chunk of your head. Perhaps knowing your end has come will even embolden a dying man to throw himself against any and all odds left on the field.”

“You’re just describing how you play,” Graves said, sliding his own piece across the board. “You know it’s over and you’re thinking screw it.” Evidently that had been a good move. “Caught you.”

Abbott shrieked again, “Oh! You accidentally bested me, good sir! As punishment, I should hear you speak some more. Say it was you who taken such a wound-”

“I say I wish I would if it’d get me away from you.” With that, Graves took the bottle of wine sitting on Abbott’s side of the table. Clearly his reward, Myers thought. Graves was usually quiet. He was also usually drunk, preferring to keep rack or wine at his lips rather than committing himself to conversation. A sad drunk, Myers knew. The camp drunk if Lard was away.

“You’re welcome I let you win,” Abbott said before noticing Myers was looking his way. “Oh! Our prince is awake from his royal nap. How about you, Myers? Say the day comes and you finally fail to block a slice of steel. A deathly blow to the head like we gave that knight on the riverbank last night. How would you handle his boots?”

“Don’t answer him,” Graves groaned between sips. “Myers knows better than you that a wound above the eye ends a man.”

In truth, Myers no longer remembered the answer he was ready to give at that moment. All that remained of his memory then was the turning point. A commotion erupted in the camp, clear in view below the short cliff Abbott and Graves had seated their game over. The two looked over their shoulders and Myers joined their attention to Digs running up the hill to meet them.

“It’s the Runt,” the scrappy lad who dug holes for the gang’s dead muttered. He had garnered much abuse from other members of the gang for his belief that their ranks should be given proper burial. Nobody else shared the boy’s view, preferring to leave former allies fresh for the crows.

“What about’em?” Abbott asked as Graves knocked back his wine and Myers’ grasped the hilt of Whisk, the black blade resting against his knee. An enemy, Myers knew.

Marching down into camp, Myers found himself enveloped by the excitement following the Runt’s return. Graves had guessed the Runt had been found floating in a stream but Digs confirmed Myers’ suspicion. An enemy, yes, but his details were murky. Second hand. So Myers stood, his hand on the hilt of Whisk, and he waited for instruction.

Before long Grissle was lumbering out from his tent, “What’s with all the ruckus? Where’s the enemy? How many!?” They called Grissle a giant. Only Clay stood taller than him and he was prone to slouching and lacked the outrageous personality that seemed to make Grissle stand even taller. His beard was black and appeared to only curl at its very end. His hair was closer to the mane of a wild animal and his thick brows and broad nose gave him a primal look.

Rusted chainmail wrapped itself around Grissle’s large body. Three stitched together goat hides hung off his shoulders which most mistook for the skin of an albino bear. Already he was waving about his dented longsword, “How many!? How many are there!?” Grissle the Giant. Grissle the Beast. He hailed from beyond where the rivers ended. From across the sea. Men whispered he was a savage banished from his clan. What Myers knew was simple. He is cruel and a fool but until he gets himself killed he is our most ferocious fighter.

The men running by Grissle did well to ignore him as they favored gathering their own weapons and equipment. “Two weeks since we had us a proper fight! Not some whelps lost on the road,” was the last Grissle had to roar before the excitement as last settled.

All the men stood in place when Xander revealed himself around the corner of a tent.

Xander was many things to the Thatch Gang. A mentor to most. A strategist on the eve of battle. A physician to the wounded afterwards. A philosopher to those who would hear him by the fire. A wizard to the superstitious. In moments like this he was the calm breeze before the blizzard struck.

He wore a leather brigandine around his body at all times. Its color was dark, remotely purple. His sleeves were a fine, silvery silk. The glitter of their texture was only outshined by his sunny blonde hair which hung down his back and culminated in a ponytail tied just above his waist. His sharp eyes rarely blinked and his thin lips never smiled.

“Four horsemen on the road to the river, knights by the sound of it,” Xander said. “They caught the Runt sniffing their steps but cut him loose. Gave him a message, seems they wish to parley.”

“A trap,” Grissle spat.

“Clearly,” Xander said. “That’s why Thatch wants you and Myers at his side.”

“We’re going to actually meet with them?” Grissle asked.

“I am certain there are more than four lonely knights come to parley with the most reputable band of outlaws in the land,” Abbott said.

“Surely,” Xander put his hand to the dagger strapped to his chest. “The Runt said he spotted another odd ten on foot lagging a way down. We’ll pack our own surprise should things get messy.”

“Which it will,” said Graves.

Xander gave the gloomy man no response. “Chester, gather five lads. Stay in the woods and keep on our left. Wulf, take another five and keep on our right. Grissle, Myers, mount your horses, we take the road with Thatch.” With that command the motions resumed and men rushed to meet the orders.

“Four lousy knights,” Grissle groaned. “Wipe my arse with four lousy knights!”

“You’ll need a seasoned diplomat if you wish to actually speak with these lousy knights,” Abbott said.

“Stay at camp, Silvertongue,” Xander said, “and go look for one.”

At the edge of camp, at the border of the vast unremarkable woodland, stood the Lord of Thieves. Thatch the Terror. His back to the parties forming behind him. To his side was Trample, his grey coated stallion, occasionally stricken with white spots of hair. The steed had served as a good compliment to Thatch. Around his chest was checker-patterned armor, steel wrapped in linings of Titan Scale. The man is practically wearing Whisk, Myers thought anytime he saw Thatch ready for battle.

Then there was the thick hair. Grey despite his age. Thatch couldn’t have been forty but for as long as Myers knew his curled locks and trim beard were as grey as his steel. As grey as the armor that swiftly bathed itself in blood. He was tying his winged shoulder plates to his body when he spun to see Xander and company. Then the Thatch-smile shone.

“Speak plainly, damn it, no more riddles,” Grissle whined as the four rode their horses down the trail. Day was just beginning to tip into evening, a golden horizon absorbing the vibrant blue sky. “Why are we bothering with this envoy? What do you honestly expect to hear from them on horse that we can’t hear giving them to Hands?”

Thatch sounded as old as he looked yet not one wrinkle formed on his face when he spoke or when he wore his sly grin. A voice full of secrets. A voice full of gravel. “Been a couple weeks since we had any fun. I don’t expect four gong chuckers to be of much interest in a fight. Why, you’d just chew through them the second they drew their swords.”

Grissle snorted, “So explain it to me already. Why are we going through the bother of talking to them?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Xander asked.

Thatch looked back with his knowing grin on display, “I’m bored.”

Grissle looked over to Myers in disbelief, a face reading ‘are you hearing this?’ Myers looked away and stuck his sights on the trail. He heard Grissle scoff. Soon the only sound on the trail were birds singing to one another and an unseen stream of running water against sharp, rocky bends. Then came the sound of approaching hooves and the four knights appeared.

Four men, each mounted, each armored under surcoats dyed indigo. On them were matching emblems of three red robins eyeing the next within an arched window. The knight leading the small mounted order was a miserable looking man with a bushy mustache sporting a few frizzled hairs turning to grey on it. Pores were sprinkled across his cheeks like freckles and the color around his sleepy eyes faded to a shade of pink. When he steadied his steed, his companions mimicked his action, and so too did Thatch and his company.

After a tense pause the sleepy knight spoke with a not so sleepy voice. “Thatch. I see you’ve brought with you the Beast Among Men and the Prince of Steel.” As the man’s eyes fell on Myers, he realized his troubles were worse than mere exhaustion. This is a man who has been beaten by life. “If I didn’t know better I might assume you’re nervous.”

“I am a man of nerves, I promise you,” Thatch gave a smile that none reciprocated. He let his grin settle down only a hair. “You know me but I don’t know you.”

“We’ve met before.”

“I’ve met many before.”

“On the battlefield.”

“I’ve met many there too. Xander, refresh my memory. Who might this one be?”

“This is Sir Barberus of the noble house Marune,” Xander said with utter disinterest in his voice, “he is likely Earl Marune now. We raised his holding some three years back. A smaller estate. His father was frail and witless last I had heard. The Marune family is scorned, we hold audience with nobody of importance.”

“I am Chancellor of North Winding now,” Barberus said sternly. “And I am Earl of Pranding.”

Xander leaned over to Thatch and spoke softly as if he thought he were whispering, “We slew his older brother.” Thatch nodded like he knew. Myers was properly surprised. How Xander is able to recall all this is frightening.

“I know this,” Barberus said with clear offense.

“Cidney is dead,” Xander said.

“I know this too.”

“Then what further business do you have seeking us out?” Xander asked. “Your brother’s killer is dead. Do you wish to avenge your father’s sheep next?”

For a moment Barberus became quiet. There’s a lot more he would like to say about his brother, about Cidney, about his prior encounter with Thatch. This is about something else, Myers knew.

Barberus spoke, “You’re not the only wolves in the woods. There’s others. Fouler. Less…natural. I know you might think you’re this exceptional band of immortals. That’s out there but it’s not here. This band, this gang you call it. You’re just pups.”

“I take it you want those to be your final words?” Grissle began. He waited with a look suggesting he wanted a laugh. None came and his smirk went. “There's more to this then?”

“I haven’t even begun,” Barberus said. “Your time in the sun? It’s all just a gambler’s chance. You lucked out, aye. You took advantage of a prime opportunity if there ever was one. The continent has been in turmoil. The kingdoms across our corner in the world have busied and bloodied themselves silly. Of course a band of outlaws was going to rise out of all the chaos.”

“You’re fooling yourself,” Grissle said suddenly. “World’s been in turmoil for years. Years longer than when we came around.”

“War isn’t a recent invention,” Xander added.

“Aye, but remarkably consistent in your careers,” Barberus said. “You fought in a few. Waged a few of your own. Exploited the rest, that’s for certain. That’s changing.”

“Spit your meaning already,” Grissle demanded, his own horse becoming uneasy.

“I’m telling you times are changing. Your time of terror? That’s coming to its end. We’ve other, more pressing matters to contend with.” Grissle began to laugh but Barberus went on, “All the wars that have been going on. All the lords with their in-fighting and all the blood feuds. They’re over or they’re about to meet their end. There was a council, Thatch. We’ve been sent from it. Many matters have been discussed and settled in the interest of forging peace in the land.”

“Peace in the land,” Grissle spat, “I shudder at the thought of it.”

“Was this council last night?” Thatch asked. “Or is this a bluff while you move those ten odd men you have in the rear?”

Barberus hardly seemed phased, “We sent two messengers ahead of us already. The first was returned to us, riding back on his horse. He was scalped with the unopened letter we gave him nailed to his head.”

“A baseless accusation,” Thatch jested, “where is your proof of such a barbaric claim? You bring shame to yourself trying to tarnish the good name of me and my men.”

Barberus chewed on his response for a moment. “The second messenger we found on the road with an arrow in the back of his head.” Well, that was the Runt’s doing. He’s lucky they let him loose when they caught him.

“And so you bring the message yourself, Barberus.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Aye, might call it a proposition.”

“We don’t take contracts anymore.”

“Might want to reconsider. Not a contract, per se. But there are rewards attached. I don’t think men like you are deaf to the comings and goings of the wind. I think you know something is going on out east. Something that can no longer be left unchecked. The noble houses have already begun their preparations for it by setting aside all the old feuds. This is bigger than you and I, Thatch. Bigger than us all. So either you hear what the council has in mind for you or we deal with you before we deal with them.”

Myers suddenly realized the birds had stopped their chirping. The sky had grown more gold as twilight creeped across the sky. Even the sound of the stream’s flowing water had dimmed. Looking back on the day, it was difficult to remember any sound at all in that final pause.

Finally, Thatch asked, “Alright. What’s this really about then?”

And Barberus spoke one name and the chill that came to Myer’s bones never quite faded away.

“Melony.”

Myers returned from the stupor of the memory. Reliving it was to relive a suffering he did not care to swallow. Yet seeing the blue flame grow closer in the storm there was no helping it. What will she say this time?

His body was starved for warmth but Myers knew what he would find at the side of the fire. Gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering, his nameless horse carried him the last of the way upward to the fire.

It was lit in a small indent upon the mountain. As if the jagged land had taken a swing from a giant sword, the fire lay within the stone wound. A clean and smooth cut into earth that left a ceiling above Myers’ head as he led the horse into its shelter. The shiver did not leave him as he dismounted the horse and guided him to the ledge of the semi-cave carved in the mountain’s side. This horse is a tougher beast than I had thought. It handles the cold better than me.

Then he felt alone. Alone in a world absent of anything but the raging blizzard skidding across the ledge to the drop below. Standing in a hue of blue by the flickering flames on broken sticks and crushed leaves, Myers watched the fire begin to swirl. She’s here.

It was like seeing a mirage in the distance. A form shimmering. Fluid and undefined. With a spin and a rise of the fire, the flames froze in the air and Melony appeared through them.

The wicked voice he was loathed to hear spoke, “My champion.” Even now she curses me. Then the world appeared to darken as the bright visage of the witch took hold.

Melony the Spoiled. Melony the Accursed. The one who had doomed an entire kingdom. Not alive. Yet not quite dead. There she floated in her spiritual shade. Her skin was a rotten blue, even when Myers had cut Whisk through it. Her shifting hair was bushy and red like proper fire. Her eyes gold like the twilight the day he first heard her name. Her dress was sleeveless and a darker variant of her flesh. At her abdomen was the stain he had left her with nine years ago.

“Dying is not so easy a thing, is it Myers?”

Myers felt his knees tremble. I will not kneel for her. “It’s the easiest thing in the world.” All you had to do was lie down and wait. I have seen it done many, many times.

“Yet it was not so easy for your Runt.” She resumes our business then.

Myers did not wish to see or hear her a moment longer than needed. “What do you want?”

Though there was an icy flesh left on her, Melony was near skeletal in shape. Her body contorted as she twisted her ribs and bent her bony chin up, “To correct you, as always. To guide you on your quest. And, of course, to congratulate you for your service at Firstfall.”

It was not easy to hold eye contact with her, Myers found. He was happy to glare at her, to defy her, but the elements were against him. The flames shuffled her apart on a moment’s whim and the smoke was teasing a tear into his eye, “Say what you must and be done with me.”

“You are a humble creature, I see.” Those words topped Myers’ chill with an added shiver. She was a maker of creatures. An artist of flesh crafting, a clumsy one, but a resourceful one as well. Am I just another creature of hers now? Was this how they were made? Spirt flayed by the day?

“I am not-”

“In a position to debate,” Melony said as the fire flared. “You are my creature, my champion, my slave. You know what I want and what you’ll get in return for your service. Nothing has changed. But I do wish to grant you the privilege of conversing with your benefactor.” That title again.

“A privilege I would refuse and one you did not seem to grant the first time we spoke. The bloodbath at Firstfall must have truly been pleasing.”

“When I spoke to you last I was not so sure who would win that fight. However, you have done well and have shown me even with your blessing you are a half-way capable fighter.” She calls this curse a blessing? “Do not be mistaken though. I take no pleasure in bloodshed. To see men kneel or to see them wither away like you, those are not so pleasing as the joy of twisting flesh.

“You and your former companions made sport of killing. Took joy in murder and suffering. Such vile cretins you were. Yours was the arena of death. Mine was the pool life. Only I had the daring to reach into its depths and reimagine the world. Then you came along and whisked it away.”

And us vile cretins who remained were cheered on as heroes for a day or two. “An honor I did not share alone.”

“Which is why I speak before you now. Before I had tasked you with taking the life of the Runt. This time I shall tell you how many more of your ilk are left in this world and where you will find the next.”

There had been a hundred and fifty of us when we went after Melony. When she fell off of Whisk there was only me and twenty others. “Tell me who is left and where they are. After that you can leave me alone until I am finished with your work.”

“Do not think yourself fit to command me, Prince of Steel. The names are mine to covet but you may know their numbers. There are five others whose souls you must come to collect. You shall go to the city of Sunbury next. Down the mountain it will take you a fortnight to arrive. There you will reconnect with another old friend and I shall have my next offering.”

“Sunbury,” Myers found himself muttering. He knew the city. It has been under siege for months. One of my compatriots is hiding in a besieged city?

“A lovely city this time of year though sick with blank humans. Today it sits ripe to burn as it had when I was still among the mortal realm. Such plans I had for it back then. You did nothing to prevent the fulfillment of my rights in this world. I shall resume where I left off and I shall punish those who chose to delay my work. Go to Sunbury. Deliver my justice no matter the cost.”

A bit of snow whipped itself into Myers’ ear. He crook his head away before slowly winding it back to give Melony a defiant glare, “If you want me to deliver your justice then why curse me? Why make this so difficult?”

“Difficult,” the wraith cloaked in fire laughed. “The stories I had heard made it sound like the Prince of Steel could accomplish any feat so long as he had steel to whisk in his hand. So far it is true. Do not complain to me that I have given you my curse. Bask in the blessing I have given you. For I have given you the gift you have given many. I have given you death, Myers. See that you wield it well. Serve me or die. Either way I shall prohibit natural ends to those you must hunt. Until you strike down the next of Thatch’s cretins, I shall be waiting.”

Suddenly, as the fire dimmed and Melony’s devilish grin faded with the rest of her, Myers wished to speak further, “Wait, what of–what about-” What about Jos?

Then Melony was gone and the mystic fire with her. Alone in the cold, stranded in the storm, Myers sighed. She has taken the fire with her. She truly does mean to make me suffer. And why not? I was the one who expunged her from this world.

The horse came behind Myers’ shoulder and let out a foul breath that flipped over his hair. Yes, it would be easier to lie down in this storm and wait for death to claim me. But Jos. I have to do this for Jos. He remembered what his so-called benefactor had said. If nothing has changed then so be it. The deal is still on. My whole life has been death but not for her. Not for Jos. I will make this right for her.

So the Prince of Steel knelt at Melony’s altar. He examined his hand, found it shaking again, and clutched a rock. Crouched down to the smoking wood, Myers struggled to reignite the fire. To do nothing was to die. So the Prince of Steel suffered on and as the resistant sparks off the rocks failed to catch aflame, he remembered again the day they went after Melony.

The night sky was littered with the glow of the stars, some looking to vibrate as they blinked, others dropping ever so slowly down behind the mountains overhead. The moon was out, memory said it was full though Myers was no longer certain. It was large. Larger than he knew it likely were back then.

He was sat at the front of a tent at the center of camp. Whisk laid against his inner leg. His head tilted down, his ears were to the men barking about. There were one hundred and fifty mean or cunning bastards to Thatch’s ranks. Yet a mere thirty or so were truly a part of the gang. The select few who mattered, who had what Thatch could stomach in trust, stood between the scattered ring of lit fires.

“It’s another ploy,” Delfin said, as he paced from one side of the rounded yard, “they did this at Tavery, if you sots remember. Some lord of Sindor or another came up to our camp that time too. Said he had two thousand men waiting behind the mountain and ready to march down on us. Almost had Thatch fooled that time too until Xander called the bluff. Whiny lord didn’t have two hundred swords to his name. We almost fell for it until he started demanding our surrender. Suppose this Marune bugger took notes and tried some restraint.”

“Takes restraint listening to your pig-fucking arse for more than a minute,” Wulf hollered out from Thatch’s side. Xander might have been Thatch’s right hand but his blind yes-man was the hook nosed Wulf. “You show the commander respect when you dance before him.”

Delfin, always with his hood over his head, turned back around with his head low and his hand on his hilt, “I have something you can respect right here, boot-licker.”

“No bloodshed, damn it, I’m not in the mood for it,” Thatch, sat on one end of the yard, yelled out.

“Then be in the mood for reason,” Xander said, standing on the opposite half of the yard from Thatch.

Standing next to Xander, where Thatch was accustomed to be, was Grissle. “Hear him well, commander. Xander has the right of it and I say Delfin speaks true. They’re trying to point us in any direction but theirs.”

This is an unusual affair, Myers had thought then. Thatch might have been the leader of the gang but Xander was pivotal to his decision making. So much so, Xander effectively pointed where to on the map when riding. But on the rare chance that Thatch didn’t like Xander’s advice, the inner circle was called. We make for terrible family picnics.

On one end of the yard was Graves, sitting on a bench and swigging down a different bottle from the one he had won earlier. Replacing Thatch’s right hand man was Abbott. He’s just taking Thatch’s side to play devil’s advocate.

“Unfortunately I wasn’t around for the Earl of Pranding’s pitch,” Abbott said, his arm waving flamboyantly as he spoke. “But he does raise a fair notion. I’ve been to a tavern or two and I have heard queer rumors about what’s happening east.”

“Queer how?” Delfin asked.

Abbott shrugged, “High tales but they’re coming up to bars like war stories. Stories of a witch stealing a throne. Stories of monsters sacking villages. Something’s going on out that way.”

Xander shook his head, “If we double backed our steps the way he rode and listened to the stories we left at inns they would sound much the same. People spin tales of trouble. The east is open to the steppe. I’ve read about warbands forming hordes and riding out to devastate anything in their way. Could easily be that.”

“Which would make it part of a scheme to throw us on another enemy,” Delfin added.

“Barberus told us that much,” Thatch said. “He told us we would be fighting some enemy already. I don’t think he was lying.”

Grissle scoffed, “You really believe in talk of monsters?”

Abbott spoke up before Thatch could continue, “I don’t take what the priests in the temples say seriously myself. If I can bed Lady Luck my trousers are out the window but, really, I’m not a superstitious man.”

“You’re not a man at all,” Grissle said to some laughs.

Abbott ignored the jab, “But! We’ve never been out that way before. I think there could be some riches.”

Delfin spat, “You want riches then go visit our honored guest.”

The honored guest was on his knees between two of the men. His mouth was gagged with a sock while members of the Thatch gang were drunk and amused by the idea of dressing him in gold and jewels. They had stolen the gold from over a dozen kingdoms. The honored guest had been stolen while trying to take a piss away from the envoy during the parley between Marune and Thatch.

A new voice appeared. Youthful and stubborn. “Whose idea was it to bother snatching him anyway?” Creus stood arms crossed in front of his tent. He was the youngest of the gang and seemed a fool for always wearing steel plated armor. He is always eager for a fight.

“Never turn down an opportunity,” Wulf snorted, “which is why I say we head east.”

Creus might have been young and boyish looking behind his armor and loose muddy hair, but Myers knew him a genius in battle. He fought with a unique weapon. A razor sharp chain he would swing less like a morning-star and more like a whip. Arriving at a time Myers had already made a name for himself, people took to calling the fierce fighter Creus as the Saint of Chains. He knows how to kill unlike anyone else in battle but he thinks of nothing else.

“Delfin,” Creus said, “that time with the other lord. What became of him?” I stand corrected. Today is special indeed if Thatch and Xander are divided and Creus asks a question like that.

“Simund Sindor. He was gelded and had the end of his cock stuffed behind his sewn mouth.”

At once all eyes flickered over to the last major player at the yard meeting. Sat behind a table, with his leather gloved hands neatly folded under his chin, was the Hand of Hands. The Handman. Or just Hands to the gang.

Hands’ smile never quite fell off his narrow face and he spoke rapidly. ‘Like he had to hurry and take a shit,’ Grissle had described it once. “Why-does-everyone-look-me-like-I-said-I-did-it? That-was-before-my-time-I-assure-you-I’m-never-that-dramatic.”

But you are vicious, Myers thought. Hands’ hair was eerily similar to Creus’. Though it was less shaggy and he styled it over his left eye to hide the squint it developed from being stabbed. But while Creus savored fighting, Hands favored the handling of prisoners. Though with Hands in camp, prisoners never lasted long.

As for his strange set of names, Hands adopted a peculiar tradition from ancient times. His signature was severing the hands of the dead and nailing them to the homes of lords, priests, and widows. Yet that was what he did with the dead and that was what the living found of them. Nobody ever lived to spread rumors of what Hands did to the prisoners. I don’t want him watching my back in a fight. Actually, I don’t want him watching my back at all.

Creus spoke again, returning everyone’s attention from Hands, “I say there’s still time to round up those other knights. But only if I get to cut them up in a proper battle.”

“You say refuse Marune’s offer?” Abbott asked.

“I don’t care about his offer. For all I care I say we go slice his envoy to ribbons and then go after this witch his kings are so worried about. Doesn’t matter to me. I say we get a fight one way or the other.”

“If you’re not taking sides then shut your mouth,” Grissle yelled.

“You were right with them, Grissle,” Creus said. “I’m surprised the Beast Among Men sat with his legs crossed on his horse while they strode away.”

“You yellow brat, there’s more to fightin’ than swinging around some fancy chain! I expected a fray and they pranced off, none of us thought they were serious. My plan? I say we go follow them and get us a real fight with some real plunder! We don’t take orders from knights or kings, Thatch! If we go east or if we just sit on our bloody arses, we’re not better than the scum on their boots. There’s no choice. We have to hit them back or else we’re their lackeys!”

“I-do-hate-to-agree-with-the-Beast-but-that-is-dilemma,” Hands said. “This-council-of-theirs,” he tossed up a gloved hand and spun it, “They-will-consider-inaction-against-them-as-compliance. Not-to-mention-this-united-front. We’re-aware-we’ve-never-gone-against-them-all?” As Hands spat out his words the nearby Graves knocked back his drink. “To-me-it-looks-like-suicide. If-each-king-is-fucking-the-others-daughter. Well-aren’t-we-in-trouble? Best-we-watch-and-see.”

“What in the damned fire is he saying?” Creus blurted.

“More sense than you, you half-wit,” Grissle shouted.

As Creus and Grissle began to argue and other voices joined in, Myers caught Hands blinking over at him. His nasty smile spread for a moment before his single eye on display looked back to the crowd. That feeling again, Myers thought. Why is it when he looks at me I feel one day I will end him?

Myers would hear talk amongst the men after battle. Whenever the topic of Thatch dying popped up the men would always say, ‘Xander’s got four choices who to pick next.’ And what four choices he has when each hates the other. Myers didn’t want to lead. Grissle was a fool. Creus was young and Hands was too ruthless for his own good. Then what would the successor do with the losers?

Myers had that feeling when Hands looked at him. Grissle outright said he wanted to kill Myers in a duel. He would also talk about wanting to visit Creus in his tent what with that boyish charm he had. Creus saw Myers as a rival, somebody to best, and Hands would stare at Creus, playing with a knife like he would one of his prisoners. We four should not be seated together long. It turns into nights like this.

“I won’t be lectured by a boy on this matter! You shouldn’t even be here!”

“I don’t care to be told where I should be or what to do. Especially by some earl’s trick.”

“It doesn’t matter. Thatch, the Fool of Chains agrees with us-”

“I didn’t say I agree with you, Beast.”

As the Saint provoked, the Beast roared, Graves continued to drink and more voices entered the feud. The cacophony of drunks and challenges to duels subsided when Xander spoke again, “Thatch! Thatch, listen to me. Going east is the same as swearing allegiance to ten kings at once. Don’t forget the vows we made. We would never kneel to the aristocracy.” This is what it’s all about, Myers realized. Xander can’t get over his hatred for the nobility. This is why the two are splitting hairs.

Abbott spoke up for Thatch again, “Yes, but take the offer seriously. We’ve been not only promised pardons but titles. We could put this banditry to rest and we could be set for life as lords of our own holds!”

“I thought better of you, Silvertongue,” Xander began but the Saint spoke over him.

“Damn your titles,” Creus cried and the yelling resumed.

On and on the arguing went until an unfamiliar voice rose above the rest, “No! You bloody fools! You don’t know what you’re getting yourselves into!” The arguments quieted as all eyes moved next to the prisoner Hands had ungagged.

“We-spoke-earlier-for-a-moment,” Hands began. “This-one-is-from-the-realm-in-question.”

After a silent pause, Thatch nodded, “Very well. What is your name, young man?”

“Caleb,” the prisoner panted for fresh air now that the sock had been removed from his mouth.

“And where are you from?”

“Chercet,” Caleb said as a bead of sweat dripped down his dirty face and fell to the gold chains around his neck. “I am from…Chercet. It’s…it belongs to her now. The witch. She has despoiled the land. All of it. My village… I escaped, I was the only one. I’m the last one. I saw her, she-”

“Do you know the lord of your estate?” Thatch asked.

Caleb paused to catch his breath and settle his thumping chest. “The royal family. The Erwens. They’re all…all…”

“Dead?”

He shook his head. “Mel-the witch. The Spoiled God from the old stories. We were told…she changed them. Gave them ‘the blessing’ she calls it. They’re not lord or lady anymore. Man or woman. They’re monsters. She stormed the palace and made it her own. She turns people into…I don’t know, things. Warps their minds, twists their flesh. Once they’re changed they’re gone. They’re her slaves. It’s horrible. My family. My entire village. I managed to escape and met Earl Marune. I spoke to the council of the creatures I had seen. Some you can’t kill. Some can kill with a single look in their eye! Some…”

Caleb stopped to look several of the men around him in the eyes. He caught Myers’ stare as well. This isn’t a ruse. He means what he says. Caleb shook his head, a bead of sweat mixing with the blood left on his chin, “Commander Thatch? What Earl Marune would have told you…he wouldn’t have told you half of what he knows and he doesn’t know half of what I’ve seen. Chercet is lost. To go there-”

“Quiet,” Thatch said, raising up his hand.

“I would fight for you if-”

“I said quiet,” Thatch hollered back. “Myers. I don’t think I’ve heard you say a word all day.”

Now all eyes were on the Prince of Steel. Crooked smiles and narrowed glares alike. Shakes of the head and hands to the hilts. Here I was hoping they had forgotten me.

Looking back on it, the Prince of Steel did not know if the decision had already been made at that moment. If what followed could have been avoided. Yet still, he sensed nine years later, he would have said what he had then again.

A brief glance at his boots, then to Whisk, and back to Thatch. “Earlier when we spoke with Barberus. He mentioned the kingdoms would unite and deal with us before the witch if we did not fight their war for them. I suppose that’s telling who they consider the lesser threat.”

“The lesser threat,” Thatch mumbled to himself. Then he stood. “I’ve heard everyone out. I’ve considered our choices and I have made my decision. Tomorrow morning, we set out. East.”

Next everyone looked to Xander. “Very well.” With that, Xander returned to Thatch’s side and the rest prepared to leave.

“One-more-item,” Hands said, stopping most in their tracks. “A-question-of-the-philosophical-kind.”

“What is it?” Xander asked.

Hands clapped his gloves together and revealed a dagger. “Say-everyone-from-a-single-village. Say-they-were-all-to-die. Say-the-village-is-gone. None-are-left-to-remember-the-village’s-name. Does-the-village-still-exist?”

Thatch stared at Hands, his mouth slightly agape. Then his lips sealed. His head hardly nodded but Myers caught it. Then he began to walk away. Hands given his answer, returned the sock to Caleb’s mouth. The lone survivor from Chercet let out a muffled scream as Hands began to drag him away. Before all were gone there was one last sound. A clank of a bottle onto a table.

Grissle had already stormed off angrily and Hands kept moving on with his prize. Yet the rest looked back to see Graves had finished his drink. The gloomy man let his breath mist out into the night air and he squinted his eyes mysteriously. He had remained silent for the meeting and it seemed now he had something to say.

“This will be the death of us all.”