Chapter 3: Child of Misfortune

Awakened from his mid-morning daydream Martin thought he heard the sound of screaming in the distance. He was still kneeling in the putrid muck, and the flies were beginning to swarm him and nip at his ears, gathering to feed off of the undead slaughter. He must have been in his head for more than an hour judging by the sun glaring through the grey overcast. He stayed still trying to see if he could hear the sound again or if it was just his imagination. Martin closed his eyes, He stopped breathing, stopped thinking, his heart began to slow down dramatically. He heard the flies buzz around him and the leaves rushing by but he couldn't hear any screams. Martin began standing up, sore from the battle that had taken place. Just as he began stretching out his back, he heard the screams of a woman and the shouting of men past a knoll that led to the main road. He had stayed off the main roads as much as possible to avoid any unwanted attention. He preferred to deal with Hellspawn every day than with the insanities of the everyday people.

Martin began moving cautiously in the direction of the cries, sword, and shield still in hand. The Closer he got the louder the mournful moans of suffering became. Laying against the side of the small hill he saw five well-armed men pillaging a largely covered horse-drawn wagon. The guards were wearing dark green tabards with rough stitching of a three-headed pigeon carrying an ax and dead fox. He knew this coat of arms was from the Foxcatcher clan, one of the many outpost mercenary groups in the service of the church. The church needed more help guarding outposts and villages and could not spare any troops from the war. So they hired gangsters, thugs, and radicals cheaper than they could honest men. Each of them was ably equipped with a small dagger, sword, and mini buckler shield. Under there Tabards was well-kept linen gambesons and a leather coif placed tightly on their heads. Martin didn't want to charge Five well-armed soldiers, it would only get him killed or wounded which would most likely lead to death from infection. Leaning into the hill he sat for a minute and watched them carefully. He heard shuffling from the wagon and a sixth man come out of the covered cart, tightening his belt around his trousers and putting his tabard back on. Another man went into the wagon and the screaming started again. Martin knew what was happening and it needed to end. He was apathetic about fighting that many armed men, but his conscience ate at him, compelling him to act. Luckily they didn't seem to have any Bowman with them, and he did have the element of surprise. He would have to be quick and kill them before they took the woman in the cart hostage, he certainly didn't feel like dealing with a hostage situation.

Martin readied himself and visualized his position. There were six men and an innocent. Three of the men were at the back of the cart digging through the ransacked goods, one on the far side of the cart taking a piss, one inside the cart; and one in the middle of the road keeping a lookout, he was the closest to Martin and the furthest from the group. Martin knew that that man would be the first to die. Martin searched for a solid rock, nothing too big but certainly something with some weight. He found a perfect palm size stone, aimed, and threw it at a tree past the man on the other side of the road. The guard was startled and stared at the direction the thud from the rock came from and walked over to investigate. Martin quickly snuck up on the unsuspecting guard like a phantom and drove his sword through his back. He thrust into him with such force he nearly lifted the guard off of his feet, shredding the cloth armor and severing his spine. The man tried to scream and alert the others but only spat up blood and died, sliding off Martin's blade to the ground. Martin began sneaking up to the man on the far side of the cart taking a piss. Martin wanted to get rid all of the men outside of the cart before he attempted anything else. He edged up to him planning to repeat the same quiet backstabbing action as before. His feet felt light and he went foot over foot, heel to toe as he snuck up on the unexpecting guard. His nerves were steady. The guard was whistling as he began to shake off his cock from his long release.

Martin clumsily stepped on a stick breaking it and alerting the man who jerked his head in Martins direction. Martin pounced like an enraged dog and slashed at the man who stumbled down evading the cut from Martin's sword. He took a few quick half steps forward and stabbed the man threw the genitals causing him to scream in painful agony. He withdrew his sword and jabbed the tip of his blade through the castrated guard's mouth causing his eyes to roll back and gurgle blood until he faded into oblivion. The scuffle alerted the three guards from the back of the cart. They circled around the back side of the wagon and saw Martin standing over their murdered comrade whose face was bloody and torn, pantsless, and with his manhood gutted.

Martin charged all three of them like a seething bull, his spirit was hotter than a wildfire and he was in no mood for mercy. Martin threw his shield hand horizontally at the one in the center, having the ridge of his shield crash through the thuggish guard's teeth, shattering them and sending them flying in all directions like unwanted dice. When he struck the center guard he thrust his sword at the man to his right. The guard whose teeth were in shambles fell to the ground covering his mouth and writhed in an understandable panic. Martin's sword thrust was deflected easily by the man to the right who countered with a downward blow and slashed martins upper right arm causing him to wince in pain. Martin pushed the man to his left with his shield and deflected another attack from the guard to his right, and retaliated with a violent diagonal cross cut, hacking across the man's face and cleaving through his skull. Using the momentum from his slash he twisted around and drove the pommel of his sword into the left guard’s face letting out a wicked crack and most likely breaking his orbital bone. Martin back stepped to open up for an attack and drove his sword into the left guard's throat, killing him. The old warrior stood over the toothless guard who was squirming in pain on the ground and stabbed him through the chest, making sure not to leave anyone alive. He heard shouting and rustling from inside the wagon. Out came a guard hiding behind a tanned naked woman who was bruised and bloody from the guards' merciless beatings. The woman was the sixth woman he had seen naked and by this point, her bare body had no carnal appeal. She looked southern from her tan, makes sense why these guards raided her cart he thought, people aren't accepting of southerners around here.

“Let her go and live,” Martin said holding his shield up to protect his face. Martins instinctual desire to save the innocent was strong, he wanted to save a life today and not have to take another, he was unfortunately close to fatigue.

“Fuck you prick! You move an inch and the smelly bitch dies!” The Guard had a knife to the woman's throat and his hand around her hair, pulling it tightly. Martin could see that this guard was especially ugly with patchy lice covered black beard and few teeth in his mouth, he pitied the woman for what she had to endure. The guard broke eye contact with Martin and saw his scummy companions lying lifeless in the mud. Their tattered bodies behind Martin filled the thug with a stirring dread so strong he began to bite his bottom lip till it bled. He was pulling the woman by her hair back toward the front of the cart, trying to escape Martins demonic gaze. The woman screamed continuously until the man punched her in the back of the head, compelling her to stay quiet, she closed her eyes tightly and whimpered in fear. Martins stance was low and guarded, he slowly approached as they went around the corner.

“Not a fucking inch!!!” The guard screamed in horror. Martin furrowed his brow trying to assess the situation, he felt stuck as he could see no way to get at the Mercenary before he took the woman's life, the exact situation he wanted to avoid. The thug mounted the brindled gelding at the front of the cart, pulling the woman up with him. The gelding let out a bone-chilling Winnie from the excitement, it's elaborately pierced ears pinning back on his head. The thug had her in the front of the saddle with the knife to her neck. Her muffled pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as they rode off down the road and out of sight.

Martin sighed, he was profoundly disappointed with himself and hung his head as low as he could. He was experiencing a painful amount of shame that ate at the withering amount of pride he had left. It was disheartening that he let them get away, that he couldn't save the day like he used to, if only he was ten years younger. Martin was so used to feeling stuck in a desert of guilt that he didn't care anymore, the flood of apathy that quickly washed over him quenched his ceaseless self-loathing time and time again. The old man sheathed his weapons and began rummaging through the goods near the back of the cart. The first and only barrel he opened was salted pork stuffed tightly into the wooden cask. Martin greedily licked his lips, the only food he had eaten for weeks was hardtack and some moldy jerky. He, fortunately, had a sugar cone he'd been saving for a special occasion, even though a day you wake up is as good as any to be considered special. He was certainly going to take whatever he could find, it wasn't stealing if they were already dead. Besides, Martin liked salted pork, it wasn’t like it was going to be missed. Martin heard a thunk inside the cart, so he opened the back flap. He peered inside the cart but there was nothing except a few crates, hanging vegetables, and a disgusting amount of semen and blood upon the floor. He huffed it off and took the cleanest tunic from the dead guards that were strewn across the ground. He noticed an insignia on the uniform and thought he might have been someone important. Didn't matter now that he was dead. So he tore the piece of cloth to make a makeshift bag out of it. He began pulling slabs of pork from the barrel and placing them inside. His stomach growled and swirled with wretched hunger. As he was filling the tunic with hunks of meat when he heard another thunk from inside the cart. He knew for sure he had heard something and went inside to investigate, this time stepping into the cart. The wagon rocked and creaked with every move he made inside. He prodded at bags and opened boxes until he pried off a lid to discover a young frightened girl clutching a small doll. The man gazed on her with pity. She was wearing thin clothes that resembled rags. The little girl was obviously frightened and was cowering from him.

“Are you hurt?” He asked in a soft voice.

The girl didn't answer, she just sat, coiled up like a snake.

“Let me help you up, it's safe.” He said reaching into the crate to pull her out. The girl grabbed his hand and bit deeply into it. She bit him so hard she cut through his hide glove and drew blood.

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“Ugh, Fuck! Fine, stay here you little brat!” Martins hand bled and was pulsing with pain. He stormed out of the cart and took his travel sack and the makeshift bag of salted pork and headed northwest down the road. Walking not too far from the cart he stopped, the flood of apathy that came upon him soon dried up, creating a drought of guilt once more. He placed his bitten hand on the burnt sigil on his chest and felt a sense of duty. He may not have been able to save the woman from earlier but he could save a small child from the tortures of the world. If he didn't help her she could be taken and sold to brothels, mauled by beasts, or just starve and wither away. Martin couldn't allow himself to be so hard-hearted. The noble warrior began walking back toward the cart and shuffled through his traveling pack and pulled out his only sugar cone. Approaching the cart he opened the entrance flap and saw the little girl out of the box.

“ Hi, are…” Martin couldn't finish his sentence, the Girl hissed and threw a tomato at him, pegging the old man directly in the face. The tomato sliding off his rugged mug leaving an acidic streak of red juice.

“You are a little brat aren't you! I should have let those men rape you too, at least it would have settled you down! Look, if you'd calm down I'm just trying to help you!” He said aggressively, agitated at her hostility. After a few moments of quiet contemplating, Martin stuck his hand through the curtain holding the fairly large sugar cone in his palm. Only his arm was inside the cart hoping to encourage her to come closer by hiding his weathered face.

“Do you want it? It's yours if you want it…” Martin said deceivingly.

The old warrior waited till he felt a small shift in the cart and the barely audible breathing of the little girl. He sensed her near him and snatched her by her arm as she was reaching for the sweet. He pulled her malnourished body out of the cart surprising her and pinning the girl against the road. She struggled and tried to bite him but he held her tight by the shoulders, trapping her on the ground.

“Listen to me!” Martin shouted at her.

The little girls fighting spirit never faded as she began to scream and kick uncontrollably. Without warning Martin slapped her unflinchingly across the face, shutting her up and bringing her eyes and his to finally meet each other. She couldn't scream from the shock of being struck. She was captivated on his single green eye, even if it was dulled by years of failure.

“I don't want to have to do that again.” The old man said.

“My names Stre… Martin, my name's Martin Helmwood. I came across your cart as I was traveling northwest along the road. I am not with the men that attacked your wagon, nor am I going to hurt you. I mean well, I promise.” Martin said with stern sincerity.

The little girl grimaced at him and spat in his eye.

“Liar, You're with them!!!” She said after spitting in Martin's eye Causing him to swear and strike her again, leaving a large hand print on the side of her face and a droplet of blood to roll down her lip.

“Listen you disgusting little shit! I am slowly losing the little patience I have for you! If you do anything else to piss me off I'll leave you to the wolves!” He said screaming at her.

“Now, Are you alone, is there anyone else except the woman who was with you, is there anyone I can leave you with?” Martin said, becoming irritated very quickly.

The girls face began to twist into something sympathetic, she became sad and started to whimper.

“Momma..? Where's momma? I want my momma.” She asked frantically with tears in her eyes.

“Sorry kid your mother was taken... Now, is there anyone I can leave you with?” Martin cold-bloodedly asked wanting to get rid of this moral baggage.

The little girl cried harder than she had before, but this time she didn't kick or scream, she just laid there and cried till the dirt around her head was wet with tears.

“Listen... it's going to be dark soon and we need to get moving, I don't have time for your immaturity. Your mother is possibly dead, the faster you get over it the faster the pain will go away. So, if you want to live than shut your mouth and follow me, or else suffer your fate.”

Martins patience completely depleted, stood up, and began to walk down the road. The little girl sat up and stared around at the frightening dead bodies lying everywhere. It was their eyes, they were hollow and void of life, she felt so alone but there was no one to commiserate with except the birds and the dead.

Martin walked a full mile down the road before looking back. To his surprise she was following him about twenty feet behind, clutching her stuffed doll close to her chest. She stared at him intently with a wary disposition. He eventually stopped to let her catch up, but she stopped as well. Every hundred feet he would stop to check if she was still there, and sure enough, she was. They repeated this process five times before Martin gave up. He didn't care much for her now anyway. He was too absorbed in finding a safe place to camp for the night.

They eventually stepped off the road and walked for another mile between the trees and scrub brush. Martin finally decided to stop at the bank of a sizeable brook and took shelter under an overhang made from a large willow trees roots that jutted out from the small sandy hillside. He sat down and checked if the girl was still following. He noticed she was down the bank some thirty feet, hiding behind a tree and staring at him. The little girl watched the strange man take the pork from the bag and rinse the excess salt from the meat in the flowing stream. He then placed the slab of pork on a clean cloth, being careful not to coat it in the sand. Martin stood up and collected dry driftwood up on the bank. Sitting back down he took out a knife from his traveler's sack and unsheathed it. Using the knife he made a measly pile of wood shavings that he collected and fluffed into a small nest. Out of his satchel, he took a blocky looking piece of stone and struck it with the back of his knife till it spewed sparks across the tinder. The sparks slowly grew into embers and the man put his hands around the pile and lightly blew till it burst into a holdable flame. Martin hesitated but eventually cradled the small bed of flame, picking it up and placing it on the little stack of twigs he set up beforehand. He gingerly began to feed it small pieces of kindling, satisfying the fire's appetite. The flame swelled to an appropriate size that kept him warm and would be large enough to cook his meal without giving away his position. He Fashioned a makeshift spit out of three sticks and skewered the pork shoulder on the middle rod and placed it over the blaze. The heavenly aroma wafting through the air made the young girls mouth water and her stomach twist, her hunger was so intense she couldn't help herself but to slowly inch toward the fragrance. She wound up standing on the other end of the fire. She watched the man begin to carve a hunk of meat from the relatively burnt shoulder of pork. She stared at him, begging like a dog. She watched him take bite after bite till there wasn’t much left.

Martin looked at the young girl.

“Are you hungry?” He asked. The little girl nodded frantically.

“I’ll give you the rest of the food if you answer three questions for me, AND, if you promise to behave.” Martin sternly demanded.

She nodded.

“I said promise me.” Martin barked.

“I promise.” The little girl said slowly. Martin handed her the knife.

“Take what you want from the roast, but don’t eat so much that you can’t talk,” Martin said while poking the fire with a stick, adding more wood, and sending some ash up into the dark starless night.

“So, what’s your name and how old are you young lady?” Martin asked.

“Thofia…twelf” The starved girl said with a face full of pork.

“Careful or else you might choke! Now, let’s try that again without your mouth full.” Martin said with concern, fearing he would have saved the girl for nothing.

“Zofia. And I’m twelve and a half years old.” The little girl said after swallowing the mouthful of roasted pork.

“That’s a nice name... Well, Zofia, do you have any relatives? Anyone in the local cities by any chance?” Martin questioning her.

“Yes, I have an aunt in Awolon, but she's mean, meaner than you.” The Little girl nodded and took another bite of food.

A cold chill went down his spine, he hadn’t stepped foot in Morn Awolon since he was excommunicated. Martin didn’t want to travel into that city, he didn’t know what types of guilt and sorrows that would reemerge. Most terrifying of all he didn’t want to rekindle any hopes of his selfish crusade. Martin just began to have regular dreams again, he had stopped having nightmares of fire, of betrayal, of the shadowy figure dressed in black. He didn’t want to undo all the damage that he had tried to run away from by becoming a hermit.

“Is there any ones else? Anyone in Morn Uther or Morn Gwenavara by any chance?

She just shook her head.

The man sighed. It couldn’t be helped, he had no other choice, he had to save this girl. He would just drop her off and make for the cold embrace of the wilderness again. Martin began taking off his armor and placing it neatly on the ground near him like he had the past thousands of nights. He took off the poncho, the cuirass, the leather jerkin. Zofia watched him with curiosity. He took off his long sleeve padded shirt and folded it neatly on the ground and pulled his long underwear down to his waist. Zofia gazed on his tight musculature, he was old but still had a semblance of strength left in his torso. She noticed all the scars across his arms and back. Zofia saw the deformed skin from burns that trailed down his neck and across the tops of both of his shoulders, those scars looked the most painful. She was intrigued, yet, puzzled by this one-eyed man.

“Are you a Knight?” She asked blinking in curious wonderment.

“No.” Martin gruffly said reaching into his satchel, pulling out a spool of thread and a needle.

“Are you a bandit?”

“No...” Martin said again but slightly more agitated. He held the end of the string in his mouth as he Began to stitch up the sword wound from earlier on his right arm.

“Are you a Demon, I heard that some Demons can take the form of things and trick little girls into the woods and…” she began talking until Martin shot her a glare of warning.

Martin finished the stitching with little trouble, having done it countless times. The old man buttoned up his long johns and put the needle and thread away. Exhausted he laid back against the small sandy cliff side and watched the little girl pull a sugar cone from the inside of her doll. She stared at the fire and licked the cone until it was completely gone. The sweetness was more satisfying than she could have imagined. He had to give it to the kid, she had spirit. He certainly appreciated her moxie, perhaps she would survive this world and not be crushed by the weight. Martin was warm and comfortable with the heat from the fire soothing him in a way he hadn’t felt in a while. It had been months since he had a reason to build a fire, this was a luxury he couldn’t afford to have every night. He stayed awake until the girl slumped into the sand and fell asleep. He watched her twitch and begin to shake from the cold night air. Martin stood up and covered her with his Poncho, it might have stunk like a cow but it would keep her warm. He laid back down and closed his eyes, the fire conjuring up memories of distant nights.