Blessed are those who serve the people, who protect the weak, who guard truth, who lay down their lives for the fellowship of all. In my eyes, they are the genuine servants in life, and may they ever be the masters in death—the Book of Compassion, The Sacral Compendium.

The sharp stench of a fresh pile of shit hit Maro’s nostrils. He stopped fiddling with the saddle’s girth strap and glanced at the ground behind his horse. There, a soft mound lay undisturbed.

Maro shook his head and grunted. “Ain’t you a bastard?” He nudged the steed, moving him away from the defecation, and readjusted the stallion. Now, his horse stood parallel with the road instead of perpendicular. Luckily, the gentle breeze blew the scent away from him.

A rancorous laugh drew Maro’s attention, and he lifted his head up from his fiddling. Three drunken soldiers stood half a dozen paces away on the saloon’s walkway. The faded and peeling white paint behind them and the rough weathered boards of the sidewalk stood as testament to the shambles of Tepress. The soldiers caroused with whiskey bottles in hand, their uniforms stained from labor and drink. Maro could almost smell the spirits on their breath from here.

Glad I gave up drinking. They’re fools.

Revulsion shot through him at their behavior; their cheer turned his stomach.

What latest atrocity are they celebrating? The fire from a week ago?

A few buildings were set ablaze, charring the people inside, but that didn’t matter to the army, not when they got their quarry. With the wind just right, he could still catch a scent of the burned remains. Barbarity was permitted, if it brought profit or good public relations. While serving, he’d seen leaders order them to steal cattle. Meat fed them, and they sold the rest.

I’ve seen a lot of shit, too much for a lifetime.

One soldier kept his musket slung on his shoulder, retaining positive control of the weapon.

I’ll take small miracles where they come.

He had to. Big miracles never manifested. Not divine intervention, nor the grace to make it to the privy on time in the dead of night. That all boiled down to luck.

The other two soldiers had long given up discipline and leaned their muskets against the side of the saloon where they procured the booze.

With a shake of his head, Maro went back to tightening the girth strap around the belly of his coal-black stallion. It wasn’t his business, not anymore. He used to be one of them, a soldier, a man with a mission, justified by a cause, empowered by an officer’s fervor. Had they been his men, he’d have them digging latrines until their backs broke. But now, as of this morning, he was a free man, a drifter and vagabond, a rudderless vessel in a sea of uncertainty.

He snorted to himself. A man? No, I’m a boy no longer wet behind the ears, and not a good one at that!

But he’d killed too many people to be a boy anymore. The army quashed all his innocence. Perhaps now, just a world-weary youth riding on the cusp between adolescence and adulthood. He knew that for a lie. The years hadn’t been kind, but he’d lived them all the same. No, he was a man, but his stupidity for believing in people, and lack of awareness when they duped him for their vile purposes, made him juvenile.

His eyes lifted upward in silent apology to the Everlasting Autarch, if one existed. That’d been a mistake, glancing up. Despite the overcast sky, the light wreaked havoc on his eyes, but sensitivity always plagued those with the boon of fire. Eyes closed, he lowered his head until his eyes stopped burning.

Damn it.

He’d have to buy a wide brim hat before he set out for the day. The army took his when he resigned.

At least they let me keep my skivvies.

Maro peered down the street. Above the rooftops of houses and stores, all shingled in earthy tones of browns, tans, and grays. Beyond, he could see the sharp peak of one of the religious temples jutting skyward. Though too far to make out which, the cursory glimpse of the dark color and harsh angles, The House of Retribution and Morality came to mind. Then again, he never paid attention to any holy house not his own.

If I went in, the gods would strike me down. There’s retribution for you.

He averted his gaze, ashamed, and a touch of heat inflamed his cheeks. Some dark things marred the soul for an eternity, no matter what great deeds a man does afterward, or how much he repents—it’d never wash the stains away. Walking into the Houses of the gods didn’t sit well with his encumbered spirit, and he’d probably never do so again.

He hadn’t given up on religion, just the hope of redemption.

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Those thoughts weren’t productive now. Other worries occupied his immediate fate. His knotted stomach tightened as he pondered his ambiguous future.

Where will I go? What will I do now that I handed in my musket and medals for the coat of citizenry?

“Excuse me, my fine fellow,” a voice said from behind him, small and timid. Maro blinked a few times as the words tumbled in his head.

Ain’t no way he’s talking to me, not after what I’ve done. Of course, not every shit stain walking the street’s gonna know that.

“Sir?”

Maro felt a gentle tug on the back of his thin, tan coat. More surprised than annoyed, Maro faced the stranger. He was shorter than Maro by a head, but the tall hat sitting over his pate almost made them equal. Where Maro stood like a scarecrow, thin and gangly in proportion, this man’s stocky build espoused a round belly of hearty eating. His soft, line-less face came as a stark contrast to Maro’s haggard visage, prematurely aged for his ripe twenty-three years.

Maro’s dark eyes drifted over the stranger, noting the quality of his blue shirt, gray waistcoat, and matching trousers. His black leather shoes shined with the luster of recent conditioning, and the fresh manure the man stood in would make his servant embittered by further care.

The man smiled through his thick, graying mustache, and he removed his spectacles with a flourish, jabbing toward Maro as he spoke. “My fine fellow, my name is Avardi. If you don’t mind, I spoke to Lieutenant Townsend earlier, and he mentioned you. I’ve got to admit, you look quite the capable sort. Would you be interested in some work?”

“You’re standing in shit,” Maro grumbled. His low and grating voice came as a side effect from years spent screaming at fresh recruits joining their battalion. He spun back to his saddle as the man exclaimed and jumped out of the droppings.

“Eh,” said the man with disgust. It took him a moment to recover himself, and Maro imagined him trying to fling the excrement from the sole of his shoes. The ex-soldier patted his belt line, feeling for the hunting knife he always carried, but didn’t find it. He dug through the saddle bag nearest him, searching as the man spoke.

“As I was saying, I spoke with your old lieutenant, and he’s right, you seem to be the capable sort. I’d be much obliged to hire you.” Coming up empty-handed, Maro glanced back at the man.

“What sort of work? You know I ain’t in the army anymore, right?”

Touching his mount—which Maro called Bastard—on the rump to not spook him, Maro circled behind the beast to the other side and the hanging saddlebag. He opened the top and began perusing.

“Yes, and it’s all fine. A simple job. Pays twenty-five crowns. I need you to escort young Maribel to her next of kin.”

Maro frowned and glanced up. “Maribel?”

A young, tiny girl, no more than six, stepped out from behind her rich counterpart. She had dark brown hair—almost black—that hung straight and fine, with large, vibrant blue eyes. Maro gazed at the girl. She wasn’t like him, sporting the warm olive skin tones of the Cosam ethnicity, nor the ashen hues of the Rennim, the pasty Miums, nor the darker complected Sional. In fact, he couldn’t tell where she hailed from. His scrutiny made her clutch the doll in her left arm with a stranglehold.

The mixed heritage Ocabu?

He noted her golden brown tones, like caramelized sugar.

“No.”

“But, sir—”

Maro shook his head and plunged back into the pack. “Not only no, but hell no. Not even the Everlasting Autarch could force me.”

The rich man made a holy gesture in the air, no doubt indigenous to his House. “Sir, you blaspheme!”

Maro found the cold handle of his blade and tugged, working it from the confines. Once out, he pulled the knife free of the sheath, inspecting the steel. Again, without thinking, Maro gazed skyward and regretted it a second time that day. He lowered his gaze, clamping his eyes shut as the stinging subsided.

“He hasn’t struck me down yet,” Maro said, referring to the master-god. His eyes tracked over to Maribel. “I never professed to be a holy man, and I don’t babysit snot-riddled toddlers. Besides,” he gestured to his face, “is this something that poor child needs to see every day? It’ll give her nightmares.”

Avardi’s lips moved, peeked back at the young girl, and then took a step toward Maro. “I think she’ll take a few nightmares to get to her kin alive. And she’s not a toddler! She’s ten!”

Maro inspected Maribel again. “Scrawny thing.” His scrutiny shifted to the rich man. “Do you know anything about children?”

Avardi shook his head.

“She’d be better off with a wet nurse.” Maro sighed, returning the steel to its sheath. “Where’s the girl’s parents?”

Avardi lowered his voice. “Dead. Caught in the fire five days ago.”

Maro grunted, knowing what Avardi meant. While Maro hadn’t been involved in that incident, it was one more barbarity he couldn’t stomach, and the catalyst for why he resigned. Somehow, somewhere, someone got a wild hair up their ass about the town sheltering rebels, a loose assembly of country bumpkins standing up to the town magistrate—utter nonsense, of course, but that’s what they’d been reduced to since the Frontier War officially ended.

His eyes drifted to Maribel, an orphan thanks to the orders of officers appointed over him. Maro turned his attention back to Avardi. “Where’s her kin?”

“Over in Red Creek.”

“Gods’s wrath! Red Creek? Are you mad? You want me to go cross-country and through the wilderness with a little tyke—”

“Sir, there’s no need to be inflammatory or use such language in front of the child!”

Maro ground his teeth, then shook his head. “No, sorry. You’ve got the wrong man. I don’t do children. Perhaps if she were older, knew how to cook and watch over a campsite …” Maro shook his head. “The trail ain’t no place for a girl.”

“There’s no place for her here anymore.”

Maro eyed the man, his gaze darting over him, resting on the bulge of the man’s gut, then said what bubbled up inside him. “You could take her in by the looks of it. At least that scrawny thing would eat well.”

Avardi bristled, his face flushing a shade of red, but saying nothing, he spun on his heel, grabbed Maribel by the arm, and stormed off. He more or less dragged her like an unruly dog by the leash. Maro noted the man stepped in the shit again, but he just didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“What’s all that about?” someone called behind Maro.

He turned and regarded the soldiers watching the tail end of the exchange. Maro didn’t bother to reply. Grabbing Bastard’s reins, he ambled down the road in the opposite direction.