It was late afternoon by the time Roge emerged to walk on the road leading to Bewic. He’d purposefully walked through neighboring fields and behind other farms. He told himself it was shortening his way, but he really did not want to run into Enell on her way back from the market. A few times, people from the fields called out to him. He waved back but kept walking. Dogs barked, and two even chased him until he was far enough away from their turf.

The road was mostly deserted at this time of day, most people already back on their farms. He walked on, knowing the general direction of the city. It was warm, and he expected he could walk a fair distance past sunset. Eventually, he grew tired. He found a copse of trees by the road, drank water from a nearby stream, and went to sleep.

He woke when the birds started singing about the morning’s glory and, after a quick breakfast, set out. He saw a cart coming toward him. A man and a woman were sitting in front, the woman driving the cart.

As they approached, he called out, “Hello! Is that the way to Bewic?”

“Are you joining the duke’s army?” asked the man as the woman stopped the cart.

“Don’t you get any ideas, Richye Koerwe,” said the woman, thumping him on the thigh.

The man ignored her, his whole body leaning towards Roge.

“Not the army. Just going to Bewic,” Roge said.

The man deflated, his eyes losing their luster. “Yes, that’s the way. Why not join the army?”

“Are you recruiting for his lordship now, Richye Koerwe?” she said, then to Roge, “Don’t you listen to him. Nothing good will come of that army.”

“I don’t know how to fight,” Roge said. “Who is the duke fighting?”

“His own stupidity,” the woman said and flicked the reins. “Ha!” she told the horse, and the cart started moving.

“Riches… glory…,” Roge heard the man mumble as the cart drove away.

“So many young gone to death and glory, and all the old will starve on the farms,” Roge heard the woman say.

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A few days later, he was walking along the river bank, a forest on the other side of him. A light summer’s rain had fallen that morning, cleaning the air of the dust that was blowing in the wind. The smell of clean air and wet earth filled his nostrils, alien to someone who grew up on the mountain. He was enjoying the walk, looking at the river’s water flowing by as the road curved around the forest.

As he turned the bend, he saw two men sitting by one of the trees. One was dozing, while the other was cleaning his nails with a knife, looking his way. They were both wearing the typical farmer’s garb, rough pants, and homespun shirts. As he came by, the man with the knife gave the other a shove with his elbow and then stood up.

“Hello, friend,” said the man, his blue eyes scanning Roge from top to bottom.

“Hello,” said Roge.

“Are you off to join the duke’s army, then?” asked the man.

“No,” said Roge, deciding to keep walking.

The man walked towards the road, angling to intercept Roge. The other one, now also up, stayed where he was.

“Where you off to, then?”

Roge ignored the man, continuing to walk.

The man, now standing in the middle of the road, knife in his hand, said, “Just that, there’s a toll.”

“A toll?” asked Roge, stopping. That was not what he expected to hear.

“A toll. Maintaining the roads costs money, you know. Washing them, too.”

“The rain ain’t free,” said the other man, a scar running the length of his arm.

“Why don’t you join the army, get rich?” asked Roge.

“If we joined the army, who will maintain the roads?” said the blue-eyed man. “Worse roads mean more bandits, more bandits mean less people joining the army. No, my friend. We do our part to help the duke with his war.”

The scarred man now had his knife out as well. “Too many bandits,” he said, playing with his knife.

“And what is this toll?” asked Roge. He did not have a weapon ready and did not want to fight these men.

“It depends. A different toll for every person,” said Blue-eyes.

“We accommodate,” said Scarred-arm.

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“Right, accommodate. Put your pack on the ground and step back,” said Blue-eyes.

“Accommodate how?” asked Roge.

“For instance,” said Scarred-arm, knife held at the ready, “if you had guards, you needn’t pay the toll.”

Not sure what he could do, Roge put his pack on the ground. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he said, “I’m on the business of revenge. Don’t give me another target.” He stepped back from the pack.

“Revenge is a heavy thing to carry,” said Blue-eyes. “It’s a good thing you put the pack down. The two together could break your back and give you a knife in the gut.”

They waved Roge back, then Scarred-arm swept in and grabbed the pack. They started walking into the woods.

“Hey, I need my pack!” Roge yelled.

“Thank you for your contribution to the future orphans and widows fund!” Blue-eyes yelled back. “That’s mighty generous of you!”

With that, they were swallowed by the trees.

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Roge sat down, head in his hands. He was a few days out on his trip to Bewic and already out of everything. His food, spare clothes, knives, and axe were all in that pack. He looked down and saw a piece of wood. Picking it up, he thought to whittle it into shape, to give his fingers something to do, but he didn’t even have a knife to do that with.

He thought of the small wooden dallen Edmur Eyser had given him and remembered that it, too, was in the pack. That, more than anything, made up his mind. He could have gone back to the farm and begged Enell’s forgiveness. He could have found somewhere else to live his life. He could even have gone back to the monastery. The duke had probably stopped his search by now. But the two assholes had stolen the one thing in that pack that had any real value to him, any tie to his family.

Getting up, he looked in the direction the two had gone off to. They were no longer in earshot, but Roge remembered where they disappeared into the woods. There was a path there. The two must have taken it.

The wood was not too thick in this area, and Roge could walk alongside the path. Deciding to stay off it, he paralleled it, looking ahead to see if he could spot them. Half an hour later, he saw a smaller trail leading off. He almost missed it, but it was on the side of the path that he was walking, the vegetation trampled in an obvious pattern.

Taking a gamble, he took the trail and quietly walked down it. Ten minutes later he could hear voices through the trees.

He stepped off the trail, circling around quietly until he saw a small clearing. The two men were sitting by blackened campfire remains, packs strewn all around them. They were tossing things out of his pack. The familiar smell of death came from the camp, though he didn’t see where the bodies were.

“Some money,” said Blue-eyes, as he pulled out the monastery’s meager cash reserve.

“I want some ale,” said Scarred-arm.

“It’s good enough for that. Here, I have a present for you,”—Blue-eyes pulled out one of Roge’s shirts and handed it over.

“I like my shirt. It’s comfortable, suits me.”

“It is you. It stinks. The marks can smell us before they see us. That’s why you have to stand way out by the trees. Try it on.”

Scarred-arm grumbled but took the shirt.

They tossed the rest of his bag on the floor, ate some of this food. He saw them find the dallen, play with it, then toss it in the firepit. Eventually, once the sun went down, they prepared to go to sleep.

Roge, crouched behind a bush that grew at the base of a tree, was getting tired as well. He was happy for the dark, which made it harder for them to see him.

Blue-eyes got up, walking over to where Roge was hiding. Dropping his pants, he took out his cock and let out a stream, merrily whistling. The piss went into the bush, splashing on the leaves and the ground, droplets hitting roge as they ricocheted.

Roge held his breath and waited for the man to finish.

The night was warm enough that they did not bother with a fire, both going to sleep by the firepit.

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Roge didn’t have any weapons. Scouting about quietly, he found a large rock. He hefted it, feeling its weight. He could hold it comfortably in his hand and use it to attack. He could not find another without making a ruckus.

He waited for an hour until snores came from both men. The trail into the clearing was free of debris and discarded items. Roge got up and quietly walked toward the first man.

Kneeling by him, he tried to find one of the weapons but could not see well enough in the dark. Lifting the rock in his hand, he brought it down on the man’s skull as hard as he could. The sound was muffled, the man making a strangled sound, legs kicking. Roge brought the rock up again and once more slammed it down on the man’s head as hard as he could.

The rock hit the man, caving the skull in, then glanced off and hit the ground, making a sound. The man stilled, but the other woke with a start.

“What? Symas, what is it?” came the tired query.

Roge froze. He wasn’t sure what to do. Moving his hand slowly down the man’s body, he tried to find a knife. Some light was coming down through the clearing, but not enough to see where the man had put his things.

“Symas?” came the query again. “Did you swallow your tongue again?”

Roge was getting desperate. He hoped the man would just turn around and go to sleep. His mind went back to what had worked at the monastery when attacking the two guards, and he grunted, hoping that sleepy man would mistake that for Symas dismissing any concerns.

The other man sat up. He was looking through his things, not saying anything now. Roge moved his hand to where the rock had fallen, questing for it in the dark. Finding it, he held it in his hand as the other man came up from his bedroll and towards Roge and the dead Symas.

The man approached, something glinting in his hand. Roge lunged at him, swinging the rock at his head.

The man stuck with his hand, and Roge felt something cutting into his left arm. The man’s head made a sickening sound as the rock connected. The man moved back, a muffled sound coming from him.

Roge stood up, left arm dangling at his side. He had trouble lifting it and needed to finish this fight quickly. Advancing on the man, stone held in readiness, he tried to ignore the pain.

The man was standing up now, too. He was not stable on his feet, the rock having at least disoriented him. The dark made it hard to assess how much damage was done.

Roge came closer, and the man took a step back, holding the knife in front of him. Another step, and the man retreated again, knife guarding the way.

“Wha oo oo ant?” the man tried to say, the voice slurring.

“My family,” Roge said, taking another step forward.

The man stepped back while raising his free hand to check his face. Disoriented, he stumbled on one of the blankets, falling into the firepit. Flailing his hands, he lost his grip on the knife.

Roge didn’t waste the opportunity. Jumping on the man, he straddled him as the man tried to understand what was happening.

The man used his hands to block Roge’s attack.

Roge leaned in, letting the man spend his efforts on his torso and useless arm while bringing the stone in from the side and bashing the man’s skull in. It was over in two quick hits.

Falling to the side, he looked up at the night sky shining serenely at him through the clearing.