The encampment was larger than Sarros had expected. Dozens of oilskin tents and even a few log-and-mud roundhouses spread across the small valley out of sight of the wilderness road. Sarros estimated at least two hundred bandits, considerably more than he had expected. Suddenly the prospect of defeating an Imperial platoon—usually comprised of fifty or fewer men—didn’t seem so ridiculous. The smells of unwashed men were covered by the scents of the fall air and by cookfire smoke, reminding Sarros of the last time he’d eaten with the men in his squad. Four years had passed since then.

Sarros pushed the thought from his mind as he realized his ash walking stick had not been left with his traveling pack. He cursed, turning and calling to the man who had guarded his tent. “Where’s the stick I had with me?”

“Uh.” The guard looked around. “I dunno. I didn’t do anything with your stuff. You could check weapons, I guess.”

“Where’s that?”

The guard pointed to the smallest of the roundhouses, about a hundred yards away. Sarros nodded to him and set off for the building. Some bandits looked up curiously as Sarros passed, but most paid no attention to the newcomer. The Actor tensed as he passed necessarily close to one of the men he recognized from the ambush, but the man must have been given word from Captain Mochon, because he only narrowed his eyes as Sarros passed.

Pine logs and dried mud comprised the weapons roundhouse, a construction Sarros had heard used commonly by the barbarians who lived beyond the boundaries of the Empire. The old man who sat in a chair before the roundhouse’s entrance looked like a barbarian himself. The man was well-built despite his age, and his skin was almost as pale as Sarros’. The old man’s head was clean shaven, but a thick white beard spilled down his burly chest. The man looked up as Sarros approached. “You’ll be the newcomer, then?”

“Word travels fast here,” Sarros noted. He glanced at the thick knife and block of wood in the old man’s hands. Judging by the details of the grimacing face emerging from the wood, this elder still had the dexterity of a young pickpocket. “Beautiful work. What is the creature?”

“I was told you’d be coming,” the old man said. He proffered the half-carved wood to the Actor. “Perhaps you’ll appreciate. It’s an effigy of the Devil.”

Sarros’ eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

The old man smiled. He was missing most of his teeth. “I heard about the Mask they took from you, Actor. The ram’s horns could mean only one of the Two-and-Twenty.” He stretched out a leathery palm. “I’m a man of the old ways, Actor. While I see the… practicality… of keeping you and the Mask separated, I still recognize it as a travesty.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” Sarros gave back the carving.

“I should have this effigy done by tonight. Maybe it will give you a measure of comfort.”

“You’re too kind,” Sarros said flatly. Despite the old man’s words, he felt patronized. “Do you oversee weapons, or just sit there carving holy symbols for all the thieves and murderers?”

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“Look at the lord on his horse,” sneered the old man. “You’re one of us now, and don’t forget it. Yes, I’m to the weapons as Cook is to the stew. I see no blade at your side. Do you need one?”

“I’d prefer my staff back, to tell the truth.” Sarros glanced at a nearby fire. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

“No one sent it my way, I’m sorry to say. We don’t have much in the way of staffs, either. Mochon’s crew is more of an axes-and-blades lot.”

Sarros shrugged. “Then give me a sword. Short and broad, if you can.”

The old man laughed. “Another deserter, eh? That’ll tickle Captain right good.” He stood, wincing as his knees audibly popped, and pulled open the roundhouse door. “Wait a moment, Actor.” He returned a bit more than a moment later with something wrapped in cloth. “No Imperial blades, but there’s this.” The weapons overseer pulled back the wrapping.

Sunlight gleamed off the blade’s scarred surface. The steel of the blade was broad indeed, even more than that of the Imperial weapon Sarros had requested. Its grid and crossguard were fashioned of a polished dark wood, and a heavy lead knob served as a counterweight. The blade itself was clearly part of a much larger weapon, but it had been snapped in two at some point, leaving about two feet of beautiful metal which culminated in a ragged, angled tip. “I’ve never seen a weapon like this before,” he breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Was a demon’s,” said the old man.

Sarros looked up sharply. “Do you mock me?”

“I’m not your enemy, lad.” The old man settled back into his chair, weapon still held carefully in his arms. “No one wants it. They’re afraid it will steal their souls.” He grinned crookedly. The old man seemed to do that a lot. “I reckon you’ll not care much about that.”

“I get the joke.” Actors were commonly believed to have sold their souls to the Masks they wore in exchange for power. It wasn’t literally true, but still hit too close to home. “Thank you. I will care for it well.” He bent down and took the broken demon blade, hefting it and letting the sun play off its lines. The lead weight had clearly been added after the breakage, part of some preparation to balance it for combat. It was heavier than the Imperial swords he was used to, but Sarros felt he could still wield it singlehandedly.

The old man nodded approvingly. “I was afraid that blade would never see use again,” he said. “Did Captain assign you a tent yet?”

Sarros lowered the blade. “No.”

“Come back when he does. I’ll assemble a sword kit and try to find a sheath wide enough for that thing.”

“Thank you.” The Actor wrapped his new weapon in its cloth, pausing as he saw the weapons overseer return to his wood carving. “What do you believe, old man? Will the gods return some day and banish the demons?”

“I told you I’m of the old ways.”

“Then you think we could go back to the way things were in the stories?”

The old man set down his knife. “Which part? Unicorns? Dragons? Knights in shining armor?”

Sarros looked across the encampment. “Good men.” The people who walked to and fro looked like honest men, from a distance. The muscles, dirt, hair and stench could just as easily belong to a farmer after a long day’s work. The thick wedges of shining metal they carried could have just as easily been plows as swords. How many of these were bandits because they loved to kill, and how many were simple men forced beyond the point of no return by outside forces? “Some days I think unicorns are not so scarce as truly good men.”

“Aye,” said the old man softly, and Sarros turned to see water in his eyes. “Not so scarce at all.” He blew shavings off his lap. “Perhaps things could return to the way they used to be,” the overseer said. “Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But some day.” He waved at Sarros as though shooing away a fly. “Go on,” he said. “I can’t work with eyes on me. I’ll have the effigy done by the time you return for the sword kit.”

Sarros left, cloth-wrapped blade on shoulder, and decided the old man hadn’t been patronizing him after all. He almost wished the overseer had. Sarros wasn’t sure he was ready to meet an earnest man.