Chapter 1
Day One – Night
A die was cast.
Laughter, blaring, and the scent of sweat and sweet alcohol pierced the night's silence at Old Dalke’s alehouse, ‘The Stein’. Only the most hardened drunkards and good-for-nothings were still present, and the fireplace and candles ran awfully low. Zaber and his friends were on their tenth or so round of Dozen-A-Death, a game of dice brought back from the first Yesilian War about a hundred years ago. A pile of copper groschen, broken into halves and quarters and some full pieces, lay in the middle of the table, scattered around an oil lamp.
“Status, Torm?” asked Zaber, the young man on the other side of a small, square table. Each of them had a stoneware mug painted with images of saints in front of them. Zaber stretched his neck to peek over at the dirty parchment his apprentice was reading from.
“You’re in the lead with eighteen and Sagir is one point behind you,” said Torm, running his finger over the notes he took with a piece of coal. “I’m at fifteen and Asher is last with a meager nine.”
A creak in the background and the sound of good boots trampling over the ground made Zaber and Sagir twitch in different ways. One’s gaze darkened, and the other’s averted. The taproom was rustic, though only half as dirty as one might expect in such an establishment in Westwatch. Filled with a couple of scattered men, all sitting alone and Old Dalke with his half-bald head and limping eye seated behind the counter alone. Waiting to close up shop, a trusty broom behind him, the geezer sighed annoyed.
There was only one group of customers bundled together, until now. Zaber in his same old, worn-out brown gambeson and breeches. A thick belt with a canteen and attachments for arms that rested together with the other’s weapons back at the front door cabinet. The owner did not allow anyone in with blank steel on them, no matter if one was licensed or not.
“Last turn of this round, you move first,” said Asher with no visible reaction to what was happening behind him and Zaber. Still, he showed three fingers below the table for his friend to see and nod. “The quicker you get this over, the sooner I can catch up.” He smiled and knocked on the table. By far the most well-dressed man in the room, Asher wore a practical but fine, green waistcoat with loose arms. A nice bycocket hat rested next to his drink, and he wore a shiny silver ring. It had a magpie signet on it, completing Asher’s strange look in a place like this.
“’aight, let’s go.” Zaber’s voice rose up, but his ears were still shifted backwards. He grabbed the wooden, six-sided die, the leather cup, and began to shake.
“Ever noticed how Asher got worse since we got the shaker?” Torm smirked and winked at Asher, who was about ten years his senior, just as his mentor Zaber.
Torm and Sagir sat with their faces towards the door and their backs to Old Dalke. The adolescent boy was the only one whose fun did not get disrupted by the rumblings and murmur of the new arrivals, filling the cabinet with more steel. It was the anniversary of Sagir’s older brother, so his friends thought the foreign young man deserved a visit to a proper drinking hall. Sitting next to each other, there was barely a year between Torm and Sagir. And yet, they were a world apart.
The folk at ‘The Stein’ had been giving strange eyes to Sagir when there were still more attentive and less drunk fellas around. But Old Dalke could be convinced to let him be. For a little extra coin. Asher and Zaber were cherished regulars, after all.
The man of the hour relaxed again once the die started rolling again, and Zaber got one low roll after another. Sagir was agitated by it, seeing his chance of winning rise. “Five total, damned I be,” joked Zaber aloud under the hoots and hollers of his younger companions. “There you go, show us your skills.” He shoved the shaker and die in front of Asher.
“Don’t you think I missed that,” said Asher, stroking his goatee that had the same colors as his dark, slicked-back hair. He also was about a decade older than Torm and Sagir, at which he stared so very intensely. “This shaker thing is only because you are a bunch of sore losers. The real fun lies not in fate.” Asher threw the die into the air and caught it inside the leather cup. Flipped it around between his fingers to ‘whomp’ it onto the table. “It’s about not getting caught. Whoever is best at it–” He flicked against the shaker and revealed a sequence of high rolls, only for the last one to be low. To make sure and not overthrow on the magic dozen. Higher than that, and all was null. “Gets to strip his friends naked,” he finished the sentence after quite some time and returned a wink.
“Damned, not even a ten can save you from losing this. Zaber is still higher, and–” Torm noted down the new score. He rubbed coal off his fingers. On his withered, once nice, leather jerkin. A fair-looking boy, Torm was about to come of age. Hazy blue eyes that got him around with the girls of Westwatch and in the neighboring quarters that worked close by. A round face with full cheeks and great hair.
“Shut up and roll,” interrupted Asher and knocked on the table with calloused knuckles. Right next to the shaker, demanding.
“Quick, quick,” Sagir snapped with all of his fingers. “I can feel how the Stars are blessing me with good Fate. Get your shitty turn over with so I can harvest my luck.” When he got excited, he ceased to have an inside-voice.
Each round was concluded with the losing players throwing the margin between their total and the leading player in the middle of the table. For the winner to claim. Neither Torm nor Zaber were set on taking the pot, but they knew that Sagir wouldn’t enjoy being treated poorly, so they played it straight.
Torm held the shaker next to his ear and listened to the click-clack of the die as he swirled it around. Left ear first. Then adjusted the pacing at his right ear, looking comically concentrated. “Psht, I can feel it…”, hissed Torm at Sagir. It was hard to keep a straight face. “I’m about to… bam!” he shouted and the table trembled. Six eyes followed by four. “There we go! Now… to pass or go for it?”
Asher leaned forward and stared at his oldest friend’s ward. “Average roll on a sixer is three and a half.” With a tingle of wealth, a soft leather pouch got placed right next to the die. “I dare you. Double my share if you man up.”
“Tsk. Nobody rolls halves,” scoffed Zaber and rubbed through his greasy and unkempt hair before scratching the scar along his scrubby jawline. He did not want to ruin their fun, but his attention had shifted from the moment. A familiar tingle and clomps from behind had captured Zaber. This evening had been great so far; he would be damned if anyone would be pissing all over it. His friend deserved a break, and Zaber owed Sagir’s older brother to assure that.
“Bet. Making your arse pay double is worth it,” said Torm and started his spiel again… and rocked another six. “Fuck.”
A roaring from Sagir and a reserved laughter from Asher became the melody of mockery for Torm. His mentor shook his head, sighing amused. The boy was too easy to provoke, and Zaber knew that lack of experience wasn’t something he could simply drill out of him. These were lessons that could only be learned from harsh reality. One had to fail a lot before winning became even an option. And to keep winning, one had to go through a lot of pain. But as long as they stuck together, Torm could learn to lose without it posing much of a threat to him. A luxury not available to everyone.
“Fff–” Torm was furious and punched the table, making everyone’s drink spill a little. He grabbed his own and raised it in anger. “By the Stars, to me, prost!” Zaber and Asher replied with their own “Prost!”, but looked down and closed their eyes where Torm had looked up, and Sagir said “Şerefe!”
It was Sagir’s turn next, and he switched the mug for the shaker. He threw the die inside as if he was adding an ingredient to a cauldron and started to chant in his native tongue. Less like a game and more like the brewing of a spell. Torm rolled his eyes, but Asher and Zaber just looked at each other. They had heard many a Yesilian chants in the past, fast and efficient, like their own officers. It was a nice song that Sagir sang them, but all knew well that this had nothing to do with what their nobility was capable of. This was not real magic.
“Büyü!” Sagir finished the show and paragraphed long rolls across the table, accompanied by words he knew were nonsense to his friends. “See Sagir the irresistible perform the sorcery of his homeland,” he said, and the die started to speak in quick succession. With meager outcomes totaling six.
“I won!” he yelled. “By the Stars, I won!”
After letting him have his moment, Torm's hand landed on Sagir's shoulder, to gain the attention of his grinning friend. “I hate to break it to you, but–” he said with played up reluctance.
“That’s a tie.” Asher stole his thunder. “You and Zaber are at twenty-three. I’m at nineteen. Big shot over here is at fifteen,” he said and earned a defeated side-eye from the ought-to-be winner. Unrelated, there was a bump into Asher’s knee from Zaber. Sagir had fallen silent and his posture became meek and subservient, looking straight at the ground between his legs.
The two former soldiers, Zaber and Asher, looked at each other. Reassuring that they felt the same presence in their backs. Zaber shut his eyes and exhaled frustrated, while Asher laid his hands on the table to push himself up from the chair. A good chunk apart from the table.
“That’s enough,” said an authoritative voice right behind them. Three watchmen had built themselves up, one standing front and center. Their kettle helmets had been left behind, as were their padded coifs. The unkind winter had finally come to an end and it wasn’t appropriate to cover under a roof. Even if there was no obligation for them to leave their weapons behind, their halberds were too clunky. Thus, they left them at the same cabinet where Old Dalke forced everyone to store their steel. Not the swords and maces at their hips, though. “There are customers who want some peace and quiet.” The man had earned some extra copper on his shield-shaped fibula, marking him as a corporal. The other two were some simple rank and files. Their last patrol had likely just ended. It was time for an after-work beer before returning to their post.
“My, my, what an unpleasant circumstance,” said Asher and took the stage. Neither he nor Zaber hesitated to stand up and face the three guards, tall and assertive, on equal footing.
Torm was about to follow up. He had seen the men coming up too late and acted too slow, where his mentor and Asher acted out a well oiled routine. When Zaber gave him a sign to keep an eye on Sagir, he stayed down but put his hands at the table, to act fast if needed.
“Gentlemen, as far as I see it, we did nothing wrong here,” Asher continued, his hands held out for everyone to see. The scar at Zaber’s chin and the back of his hand began to itch. As did Asher’s on the opposite hand and the thin one on his cheek. “Mind explaining what we’re accused of? Last time I checked, being loud is not a crime and none of your damned business,” he said and pointed back at the disgruntled innkeeper. “If Old Dalke here has no problem with it.”
“Shut your trap, peppersack,” replied the corporal and Zaber’s eyes wandered past them to the cabinet, where all their own weaponry laid rest. Nothing above a knife’s shape were tolerated here. But he and Asher brought blades of full lengths and could show old permits, from back in the day. “The Yesilian does not belong here. We might be in Westwatch, but you hav’to behave your arses,” said the guard and looked past the two former soldiers. “I’m sure not all of you are animals, so show me you’re civilized men.”
Zaber’s brows narrowed and the knuckles of his fist cracked subtly at that emphasis. He stared at the patrol leader in front of him, his physique at full display. Built up, with him and Asher being ever so slightly taller than the average man, like the ones confronting them. With every word, their stances shifted closer and closer, narrowing the gap between them. It was their instinct to not back down, second nature.
With a gasp and raised fist, Asher gave in first. He looked left and right, behind and in front of him. Checking on his belongings, the two young friends still at the table, and lastly, his gaze landed on Zaber. “Gentlemen. Zaber,” he stressed. “It is late and I have coin to make in the morrow. I have neither the time nor inclination for… whatever this is.” He threw the coins he owed to the game on the table and packed up. Chugged down the rest of his ale in one go, relishing. No words were spoken, Sagir still trying to sink into the floor and Torm following Asher’s movement in case he might act on an impulse. It was Zaber who kept all three of them in place with nothing but the intensity of his stare. Until his old friend moved out without attempting to slip past the watchmen. Or go around. Asher bumped into the shoulder of one of them and left them dumbfounded.
“’aight, no problem,” said Zaber in a biting tone. “I’ll handle this. See you around.” There was no sign of him breaking gaze.
“Oh, I am sure you’ll handle this.” Asher turned around one more time, but did not stop walking. Pacing backwards through the taproom, he said; “Have fun.” He smirked at his comrade before taking up his fine sheathed blade from the cabinet. The way he left, one might think Asher owned the entire establishment.
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Most men, and all were men, in ‘The Stein’ had been too drunk to be bothered by some rowdy games. Even if a someone was, they knew better than to get their faces rearranged by him or his friends. The taproom wasn’t lively, nor was it large. At the far end of Westwatch, Old Dalke’s services were known for being cheap and indiscriminate. A small timbered house with a room to rent above. Dark, stinky and cozy.
“We are three freemen,” said Zaber and moved nose to nose with the corporal. “Who invited their friend to spend an eve with. No law was violated by us, not the King’s nor the Margrave’s.”
Without knowing, it was easy to think Zaber a second or third rate mercenary, escort or bodyguard. All leather scuffed, that shitty gambeson, still functional but way past its heyday. Torm’s thick jerkin was only slightly better, but more of what a hunter under noble pay would wear. Solely Asher had not aligned with the picture that Sagir’s cheap clothes and the other two presented. The rest fit in well with what a resident of Westwatch looked like. Folks here were servants to even other common folk, peons and foreigners. Hands for hire, if not owned through indenture or worse. One who looked for something done cheap in in the City of Teblen came to Westwatch, with its namesake to keep everyone in check.
“He–”, the corporal swallowed. “He may be allowed to stay in the company of freemen to vouch for him.” He stumbled over his speech. “B–, but the curfew has already passed. As soon as he steps outside, we got ourselves a crime,” he said with newfound confidence at the last word.
The alehouse froze. Everyone with even one proper sense intact, and not out of commission, held their breath. One of the lower ranked watchmen leaned forward and reached for the corporal. “That’s…”
“I damned know who that is!” Their leader shrugged him off as his voice exploded. “Don’t you tell me–”
A sudden yell pierced through the silence. “Zab’r! Ya’r scaring away ‘de drunkard!” said Old Dalke. “As if ‘de murker wasn’t enuff to bring, hav’ ya bloody battles outside!” His half-stubby finger pointed at an unclear position through the room, rheumatic tremors getting the better of him.
Much to the dismay of the aging innkeeper, Zaber had been completely lost in the moment. Old Dalke was no friend, but he was one of them. The owner’s word were not able to reach Zaber, drown out the voice, his eyes were glued to the men in front of him. That corporal was out for trouble, a real hot shot. One of those who did not knew when to shut up. Not native to Westwatch, as everybody here knew that there were three things to not mess with. The Red Mob, the Morell Brothers and…
“Listen to the man, Zaber,” said Torm with a rougish little laugh. “We are not allowed to leave The Stein until sunrise, or else we’ll commit a serious crime. Upright freemen like us would never do that, wouldn’t we?”
“Very funny, lad,” hissed the corporal.
“The boy ain’t your lad,” said Zaber and their foreheads were about to touch.
“And not a boy,” said Torm and stood up to position himself as a shield in front of Sagir.
The young Yesilian man’s eyes had moved up, twitching between his friends and perpetrators. He just wanted a carefree day in a real place. He was not unthankful to hang out with his own kin. In their shacks or his friend’s shelter. But being able to sit and drink – even though he shouldn’t – like a normal fella. Was that too much to ask for?
“You heard the boy,” said Zaber. He took a half-step backwards and eyed the chair next to him. “Are you going to arrest us now, or are we all going to have a good time?”
Where the privates had already broken eye contact, frantically glimpsing through the room and each other, their superior was still full of himself. Maybe this was his day. They were three and Zaber was alone, unarmed and had to look out for that savage and kid. And did he hear about this Zaber? Rumors like that were impossible anyway. He was a commoner like them, no single man could be that dangerous. He had no gang, no followers, only some criminal friends here and there. Damned he be, his closest thing to an ally were whores. It was an insult to the Margrave of Tunow-Aine’s capital city to have a wild card like this bum roam free.
Zaber on the other hand had already lost sight of the situation. He knew very well that his fool’s freedom in Teblen had limits, but in a situation like this, something deeper inside him was triggered. Nobles or patricians might have been taboo. Hurting them, he would never get away with. But a common soldier, a watchman nonetheless. As long as they didn’t overdo it…
“I–, I must ask you to follow us to the Watch. The Yesilian and you t–” The corporal stuttered, again, after he had gathered all his courage. Just to be interrupted.
A sidestep to build up power and one thing leads to another. Namely; a straight right that landed on a chin. A metallic ‘clank’ from the maille of the corporal’s hauberk set the taproom on fire. In an instant, the guard fell flat on the floor, which was the sign Torm had waited for.
The privates were shocked at first, but they were as well trained as a volunteer could wish for. Hands on hilts, their arming swords were about to be drawn. Though, Zaber's other hand had already reached behind him and grabbed the chair he had been sitting on. He swung the chair at one of the remaining watchman in one swift motion. Torm jump-sprinted across the table and lunged at the other one, kicking him in the chest. At the same time, wood connected and broke with a loud ‘crack’.
The moment of surprise was over and both of their opponents stumbled backwards in pain. Wearing good maille was a sign of their parents' wealth and indicative of their desire for their sons to survive – and it paid off. Zaber did not expect too much of them, they likely only enlisted to evade being drafted into a real regiment or for their fathers’ reputation. However, at the moment they had the advantage in equipment, so Zaber retreated and charged right at Old Dalke, sitting behind his counter.
“Zab’r no!” yelled the old timer with thrown up hands.
As Zaber ran by, he saw Sagir slip under the table. Good. The greasy and unkempt customer stormed right at the innkeeper. Phased over the counter and grabbed the sturdy wooden broom that Old Dalke kept there to get rid of the drunkards after midnight. One guard was already coming after him. Torm had circled around the other private to face them one at a time. The boy had his head in the game and if Zaber’s switch hadn’t already been flipped, the mentor might have smiled.
“You are in big trou–” the private screamed as he charged, sword raised and holding his belt.
Broom in hand, Zaber’s other hand flicked forward a pitcher from the counter and propelled it right into the assailant’s face. Stunned again and wide open, Zaber grabbed the sturdy stick with both hands and catapulted over the counter. The watchman was kneeling down when his face crashed into the wooden floor, smashed on the skull. Getting jumped on like this without a helmet would bring down the biggest oxen of a fella. And the private was far off from being that. His body went limp, not even his feet wiggling, a smidge of blood trickling from the ear. Standing right next to it, Zaber checked the broken end of the broom and tossed it to the side.
Meanwhile, Torm was about to fight himself past his opponent, towards the weapon’s cabinet. Anybody who had not succumbed to alcohol had fled in a confused panic. One even ran out of the alehouse, neither paying nor shutting the door behind him – as if he saw a ghost. The boy had armed himself with a chair, thrusting, rotating and blocking relentlessly as the watchman flailed his sword at him. The guard was breathing heavily, as chipping away at the sturdy wood was not what he was trained for. Dueling wasn’t emphasized in their two year enlistments. Trying to not get hit in the face by one of the four legs took all the parrying he had learned.
“You’re not going to help him?” asked Sagir under the table, after he got startled by Zaber’s footsteps.
“Not necessary. Got himself a weapon, keeps his distance–” said Zaber and squatted down. “It’s already over, you can get out.”
“You know…” Sagir looked around and caught Old Dalke’s wrathful gaze. “I prefer it down here. I prefer not to–”
“I know,” interrupted Zaber and braced himself on one fist, right next to Sagir. “Not when you’re with me.” He smiled in a way that offset his companion. Wouldn’t it be great if Zaber could teach Sagir and Torm alike? To help himself at times like this. But even without the extra privileges Zaber enjoyed, if Sagir would dare to touch any of them… No, this was the only thing the veteran was good for these days. The only thing that fulfilled him. Be there for his friends when they needed him, in the only way he knew how.
The watchman engaged with Torm was wheezing and getting kicked in the chest hadn’t been a good start either. The boy kept up the pressure on his better armed and armored adversary. When the private aimed at the fingers that held the chair, a mocking “Eh, don’t!”, sprung forth. Torm was fully enjoying himself by now, in a less subtle way than his mentor. If the guard’s blade had been longer, like that of a knight or warranted officer, this wouldn’t be safe. But Torm knew that the rank and files sucked at swordplay.
A strong final push widened the gap between the watchman and the cocky youngster, allowing Torm to break away. They had moved close enough to the weapon storage. Torm threw the chair at close-distance to shock and awe his opponent. To dash past him. Get his hands at his bauernwehr, a shorter version of Zaber’s langes messer that rested next to it. He wasn’t allowed to wear a longer sword like Zaber and Asher.
Torm, with a bright smile due to the blade in his hand, was pursued by the last guard. Neither of them knew that the other guard had been felled, lost in the their own dance. Under heavy panting, the private shifted into a fighting stance.
A slugfest of blocks and parries broke out, in which Torm outplayed his opponent like a Lecture on a holiday. A damned braggart is what the boy was and Zaber wasn’t fond of it at all. Steel clanged on steel until Torm's reflexes became the dominant force. A last riposte turned into a thrust. It was a blessing by the Stars that the boy got his head back into the game at the last moment. He narrowly missed the neck, his blade pressing between the riveted chains and into the soft padding beneath.
His opponent was only three or four years older than Torm at best. Both were young and inexperienced, and both were shocked. Frozen.
“D–, did you just…?” uttered the private.
“I–”, Torm halted. “No!” he cried out and wrapped his hand around the young soldier’s wrist. One push and twist later, the shocked young guard let go of his weapon, in pain. There was no way they would get away with murder, not with them, not with the Watch. A swift strike with the hilt brought the overwhelmed watchman down for good. Torm had held his breath until now.
“G’t lost! Fuck’n, damn’d, sons ‘f whor’s!” Old Dalke screamed off the top of his lungs until his voice cracked. “P’ss off! G’t out! ‘n take ‘de damn’d blackhead with ya’!”
He was right. It was time for Zaber, Torm and Sagir to scram. The veteran gathered their coin, but left half of it on the table for Old Dalke. For the mess. There was no sense of urgency, but now that the fight was over, the tension that usually resided in Zaber’s body returned. He bowed his head at the innkeeper, helped Sagir find the courage to get up on his feet and walked towards his apprentice. Torm had already grabbed all their weapons and handed them over.
It took an awfully long moment to put them on and Sagir was twitching and fiddling impatiently. He felt the eyes piercing through his skin. Skin that looked different from theirs. The scar on his short trimmed forehead shined especially curved at a moment like this.
“Can you hurry?” Sagir looked at the puddle of blood in front of the counter that Old Dalke had not yet seen. “I swear, he’s going to tell on me.”
“He ain’t,” said Zaber and put his lange messer next to a stiletto. “He’s one of us. He wouldn’t get Asher or me in trouble.”
“Ya’ fuck’n owe me. If ‘dey shut me damn’d wat’rhole down, I’ll find ya’,” were Old Dalke’s words of goodbye.
After a last acknowledging turn to face the old man, Zaber pushed the door open, allowing Torm and Sagir to escape into the night. In a city like Teblen, the stars were hard to spot behind that thin veil of gray smog. Torm was still filled with thrill and Sagir’s eyes shifted through the streets. Zaber’s eyes, though, were only looking into the darkest corners. And then he looked upwards at the pale red and white moonlight of the Night Sisters. All of them pulled out their headpieces and covered up. None of them wanted to disrespect the Stars.
“Let’s–” Sagir halted, trembling. “Let’s take the back alleys,” he said.
“We’ll escort you back to Yesil Street.” Zaber put a hand on his friends shoulder.
Teblen wasn’t a dangerous city, as it was the residence of one of the many princes sworn and bound to the High King of Albion. But it was a city, thereof had problems that the majority of peasants did not have to deal with. For someone like Sagir, this counted double and triple. Especially at a time where he wasn’t even allowed to be outside. No place was really safe for him or his folk. The least Zaber could do with his dubious reputation was to keep an eye out for him. At least that was what he promised Sagir’s brother.
“Crazy night, huh?” Torm broke the long, uncomfortable silence between them.
“You tell me,” scoffed Sagir. “Why must this happen–” His eyes wandered down. “Again…”
“What?” Zaber smiled. “You winning?” He pulled out a handful of groschen and held them in front of his friend, amused.
“So I did win? No tie, no bullshit?” Sagir forced a gloomy smile.
All of them had one more good laugh. Zaber looked up at the sky for guidance, the constellation of Bear shimmering through the veil. It had been a great evening. A really good time.