Denor knew what awaited him. According to the laws of the Andronians, a thief who encroached on the property of his kin—whether it be to steal an expensive weapon or a shabby trinket—was to have his right hand cut off before the entire village and then be exiled forever. The punishment may have seemed harsh, but when your people worshipped a god of luck and trickery, they expected you not to disgrace yourself by getting caught. If you’re going to resort to thievery, you should at least do it with some style and skill and be absolutely certain that Tamet blessed you.

A failed theft from one's fellow Andronian and cowardice on the battlefield were two crimes never forgiven among the harsh mountain people. They could go to other planets, get rich there through robbery and plunder, and no one would say a bad word upon their return. But stealing an old blaster or a credit chit from your neighbour? That was as low as hitting your own father or showing your back to the enemy on the battlefield and insisting that Tamet would protect you.

After a few men had attempted the latter and were permanently disabused of their false notions, Denor’s people tended not to rely on divine intervention in the face of blind stupidity.

Speaking of blind stupidity, back to Denor. The boy was locked in an empty cell on the outskirts of the village. He was to be contained there until the old and authoritative men, after ‘consulting’ (which, as with all governing bodies, meant drinking a lot), decided his fate.

There was no way to escape, as two well-armed warriors guarded both the door and the only window, which was indeed in possession of an automatic shutter. Not that he had anywhere to escape to, he bitterly reminded himself. Two guards was traditional, but overkill considering that Denor was regularly bested by goats and rabbits.

He lay on the floor of the unadorned room, curled up in a ball of self-pitying misery, wrapping his arms around his knees. Everything around was as empty as his head. No benches, no mattress, not even a shabby blanket to spread under himself. The barely-heated dilapidated walls were purposefully sporadic in the warmth they generated, as if on the verge of complete failure. Again and again, Denor replayed in his head the inevitable moment of his near future, when a sharp swing of a stern sword would ignite a bolt of energy up its blade and proceed to sever his right arm above the elbow. His living, warm arm, so strong and precise, trembling on his wrist from the jolts of cheerful blood... Or at least that’s what our protagonist thought his arm was, when in truth sporting a stump might improve his overall effectiveness, if not his understanding of anatomy.

It must be painful, getting your arm cut off, Denor reasoned, proving that the punishment was an effective deterrent if even he understood it. Then his father would make sure the wound was cauterised by the strike, bandage his stump so that he would not die from blood loss should it not be quite as cauterised as previously thought, and send him off into the wastes to play with the Gurruks and other foul creatures. It was unlikely he would say even a kind word to him as a farewell, which wasn’t that surprising a revelation as Ledo rarely had a kind word to say to him at the best of times. All this because of Litarn. Damn him three times! May the black hunting dogs of the Tenrim invaders tear him into forty pieces, may he be pierced right through by ten blaster bolts from the arrogant Trunians! May he… no, that was about the height of Denor’s imagination.

In addition to his impotent hatred of Litarn, Denor was shaken by cruel resentment towards Podrig. Couldn’t he have screamed longer? Was it really so difficult to scream and struggle when lying on a mattress?

If Denor could have known why the boy had stopped screaming prematurely, it would have been much easier for him. Litarn, as soon as he looked at the screaming child, had immediately guessed the pretence. He had poured a few drops of a sedative into Podrig's open throat, and the boy had immediately calmed down, closed his eyes, and settled. Never trust a man who keeps a sedative on him at all times. Delighted and grateful, the boy’s parents would probably have handed him both a transparent stone the size of an apple and a brand-new robe too, with gold sequins and the phrase ‘world’s best healer’ on the back of it. These latter thoughts were Denor’s, not the narrators, which is probably quite obvious at this point.

“If only I could catch that traitor,” Denor muttered to himself. “I’ll teach him a lesson! I’ll make him pay! My hand will grow tired from wringing his scrawny neck! I’ll kill him so hard he’ll wish that he were dead!”

He would learn to wield a blaster with his left hand just as well as his right. He would defeat his enemies without hesitation and without fatigue. He would become a famous warrior, a terror to the Temrit and Trunians alike. His fame would run ahead of him like a foolish, enthusiastic little dog after a foolish, enthusiastic boy. He would return to his homeland, silent and powerful and stoic as befits a great hero, and Hevath would welcome him, introducing him to the circle of the most worthy and respected warriors. And Litarn... Oh, if only the old sorcerer hadn’t died a natural death by then! If only he could wait for his revenge!

Denor's sweet and implausible daydreams of elderly abuse were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. He stood up and looked at the victim who had been forced into speaking with him. Gella’s gray eyes lit up briefly in sympathy towards him, clearly a fan of tragic cases.

“What do you want?” Denor muttered with no small amount of petulance, wondering if the girl had come to gloat.

“I brought you some rations,” the girl said, pushing a small container and something wrapped in foil towards him. “Old Hevath told me to do… Denor?”

“mmgmmfmmmm” Denor replied between mouthfuls of the rations.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “The men have been conferring since the morning, but they still haven’t decided what punishment should be given to you. He also told me that absolutely nobody has spat in them.”

Denor looked down at the slightly moist rations, then with a shrug, continued devouring them.

Gella’s face, with its pointed chin and pale lips, was sad and slightly reminiscent of the face of his own deceased mother, if the images were anything to go by. A psychologist would probably have a field day with this observation from our young hero. Smoothly combed back dark hair emphasized the pallor of her forehead and cheeks. She blinked frequently, as she always did when she was sad or worried. The flutter of heavy eyelashes hanging over her eyes reminded the boy of the brown fringe of a night butterfly’s wings. Another creature who had successfully evaded his hunting.

Denor would have observed all this, if he had torn his eyes away from the food.

It was just a terrible shame that she was so exceptionally irritating.

Denor took a sip from the flask until he stopped choking, and grimaced as if the water were acid.

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“And what do they need to talk about for so long?” he replied, coming up for air. “They probably can’t agree on which of them will cut off my hand. Everyone will be sticking their own hands in the air and shouting ‘Me! I will do it!’”

“Not at all,” Gella shook her head. “That’s not what they’re arguing about. Hevath is persuading them not to cut off your hand and not to expel you from the village. You know how everyone respects old Hevath. Usually everyone does as he suggests, even when he’s drunk. If only to stop him from incessantly rambling at them.”

“You’ll need to speak up, I’m eating,” Denor replied between mouthfuls.

“They won’t cut off your hand if Hevath convinces them!”

This gave him pause. “If he tells them not to cut off my hand, they might not cut off my hand?” Denor asked, following the plot as skilfully as a mountain goat with two broken ankles.

“When he told me to bring you rations, he quietly whispered to me: tell him not to lose heart. I will try to save his hand for future glorious deeds!”

Hope flared up in the boy’s heart, there were a lot of deeds a teenage boy could accomplish with his dominant hand. The hope went out a moment later, only in part because he had finished the rations.

“He won’t be able to persuade them!” he objected, staring wistfully at the empty packet. “Old Litarn is respected no less, and he will try to ensure that I am punished to the fullest and thrown out.”

“Still, don’t despair!” Gella pleaded sympathetically, but didn’t offer any counter-argument.

She suddenly bent his head towards her and touched the blonde curls on the top of his head with her lips. Denor, muttering something inarticulate, broke free and crawled away. The warm touch of the girl’s hands did absolutely nothing for him, and he didn’t understand why not.

It was no secret to anyone that Charan and Gella had agreed to marry as soon as Charan tested himself in a real battle. And Charan had experienced it. He had passed the test, as befitted a man, but instead of a wedding feast, a feast of grave worms awaited him, though apparently the worms would have to go hungry a good bit longer now.

“Listen, Gella,” the boy said quietly, overcome by a rush of trust and having nothing better to do now that the food was gone. “Do you swear not to tell anyone what I tell you now?”

“I swear by Tamet,” the girl answered, her face grave.

“Choran didn’t die. He’s alive.”

Gella raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean ‘Charan’?”

The boy frowned in response. “I think I know the name of your future husband and my best friend.”

“It’s Charan…” Gella insisted.

“We’ll see about that!” Denor muttered, as stubbornly incorrect as an aurox that insisted it was a goat.

Gella’s eyes widened in complete disbelief as the thought finally registered at the speed of a wavering voter. “But I... saw it myself. And everyone saw... And weren’t you the one who dug his grave, Denor? I mean, eventually, after all those failed attempts...”

The boy, moving closer to her, quickly and in as few words as possible, recounted the incredible events of the past few days. Fortunately they weren’t repeated in excruciating detail by the narration in order to pad out the word count.

“I was searching for these sparks in Litarn’s hut when he appeared and shouted that I was a thief. Now you see why Litarn will insist on having my hand cut off and have me driven into exile. He fears me and will do anything to be rid of me.”

For some reason, Gella believed him instantly. Perhaps she so desperately wanted Charan to be alive that she absorbed every detail, even the most unbelievable ones about a giant talking ant, without question.

“Oh, Denor! I never liked that old man! It always seemed to me that instead of eyes, he has hooks, tearing off my clothes, even my skin... Although he always speaks to me so sweetly, so affectionately... We must tell everyone quickly! The men will capture him and force him to return the sparks. And Charan will be back!”

Denor smiled bitterly. “Even if Hevath, who doesn’t look much like a total fool...” he began, but suddenly the hut’s door swung open, and one of the guards burst in, berating Gella.

“Don’t you know that you can’t talk to thieves? Do you want to get infected and become dishonest too? Get out of here!”

“Steady on now Kanas!” laughed the second guard, who had followed the first and had the tone recognised everywhere of someone who had mentally checked out from his job. “Can’t you see? She wants to hug him one last time while he still has both hands!”

“Still, she should leave!” Kanas replied, a man of singular mind and unwavering purpose. “She’s not allowed to talk to thieves!”

“Is this girl bothering you, boy?” the second guard asked.

Kana rounded on him. “You’re not allowed to talk to thieves! Do you want to get infected and…”

“Shut up Kanas!” the guard snapped.

Gella glared boldly at the guards. “I’ll listen to old Hevath, not you, you uncouth louts!” she retorted, standing her ground with her hands on her hips in the defiant manner of someone who has never been punched in the jaw. “He told me to stay until the prisoner had eaten everything I brought him, so he couldn’t starve himself to death before his punishment! He told me to talk to him so he’d spill the beans about what he was trying to steal from Litarn! Now get out of here!”

The guards, taken aback by her unexpected audacity, wisely decided not to incur Hevath’s wrath and, grumbling, closed the door.

“Tamet was with me,” Gella whispered to Denor as soon as the footsteps outside faded away. “I wasn’t sent here to investigate your reasons. You need to escape!”

“I thought you just wanted to give me food, do you have any more of those rations?” Denor asked hopefully.

“Hevath might not convince everyone to spare your hand. Even if he does, you’ll still be punished, just in a different way.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” Denor exclaimed. “The first thing I did when they threw me in here was search the whole room. Everything’s sealed or guarded!”

“But I’ll help you!” Gella suggested warmly. “You’ll escape, and we’ll meet at the cemetery, and you’ll lead me to Charan.”

“You? Help me?” the boy frowned, failing to realise that she had been helping already. “How will you do that?”

"Oh, it's very simple!" Gella said, realising that she was trying to explain something to Denor but giving it her best shot all the same. "I'll leave and send one of the guards to the hut where the men are arguing…”

“Uh-huh,” Denor said, still searching for rations behind her back.

“I’ll tell him Hevath has an urgent task for him.”

“Okay.”

“As soon as he's gone, I’ll distract the other one. He's not very bright; that’s clear as day. While I keep him busy, you’ll slip out behind my back.”

“Slip out, got it,” Denor replied, his eyes glazing over.

“If he notices you, I’ll grab his arms, throw myself at his feet—I'll come up with something... By then, you’ll have made your escape!"

Denor's eyes lit up and his heart thudded faster. “So I grab his arms, because he’s not very bright, and you’ll escape. Got it.”

Gella proceeded to explain her plan several more times. After a while she gave up and hoped for the best. "Well then, I had best get started."

"Wait!" Denor grabbed her shoulder, proving that he had a lot to learn about women. A new thought had emerged like a lost continent in the barren ocean of his mind and wiped out all his excitement.

“Denor, please stop grabbing me.”

"No, Gella, they would cut your hand off if you got caught," Denor said firmly, and proceeded to expand on his thought in a stumbling fashion that was just about understandable.

"But I will run away too!" Gella exclaimed passionately. "I’m swift and nimble, I’ll escape them!"

"No, and no," the boy doggedly replied. “You can talk to Hevath if he’ll listen to you, but it’s unlikely anything will come of it. You don’t need to meet with Charan now. It won’t make you happy at all, trust me.”

"It will make me happy!" Gella protested. “You can’t just tell me he’s alive and then say I can’t meet him!”

“If you get me some more rations then we can meet with him.”

Gella blinked. “Okay?”

Denor grinned. “Still got it!”

"I will see my beloved again, and it will make me very happy, Denor!" Gella cried, a note of pleading creeping into her tone, as if she couldn’t believe this was happening.

The wings of the analogous night butterfly fluttered rapidly. Thanks to these waves, the tears stayed in the corners of her eyes instead of rolling down her cheeks.

“Okay, I’m bored now. We’ll do that plan thing soon, then more rations.” Without looking at her, and without waiting for the door to slam shut behind her, Denor curled up on the floor again, immediately going to sleep.

To say that there were teething problems with the whole ‘becoming the invincible heroic protagonist’ thing was a major understatement.