Chapter 19

Day Seven – Midnight

The night sky was deep, dark and starlit, infrequently visited by clouds. With only one arm, Zaber ate as much as he let Torm help him. Buron and Breg had been cleansing themselves with the makeshift soap from ash and oil before it was the boy’s turn. Tonna went to sleep inside her own bed, and the men who threatened her made themselves a camp by the firewood. A subtle snore accompanied Thyra’s melody, accentuated by a splash from the tub. Zaber didn’t understand a single word while he stared at the ceiling, in pain. There was something about a herthas and warmithu, but these thoughts were drowned out by his own misery. What had happened–not just today–about Sagir and the Yesilians… and Asher.

Whenever the song reached its end, Thyra inhaled long and good before doing it all over again. This time, though, she didn’t. “The bath will be free soon,” she said. “You’ll be next, Za–” She paused when Zaber didn’t respond. “Your name was Zaber, right?”

With a fixed stare, lost, the broken veteran closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he looked outside the window, searching for his friends in the dark. The pain forced his eyes shut again. Thinking was hard.

“’aight,” said Zaber and shook his head back into the here and now. “It is.” He saw her hands move towards him, but swatted them away and rose on his own. Or more so, he tried. “I ain’t need help.”

The young woman sighed and smiled at the time it took, her whole body slumping in frustration. “Don’t be a pighead, you can barely stand,” snickered Thyra. “You folk act like mother told me. And like the men I read about.”

“I’ll make it work.” Zaber smiled back, teeth grinding. “I’ve had wor–”

“You had worse,” swept Thyra in and tried to imitate her patient’s voice. She lacked the rasp but came close enough for Zaber to feel mocked, raising an eyebrow at her. “I can see that,” she said and poked at one of the scars, earning a murderous gaze and twitch of his hand. Her eyes widened and she flinched back for a breath. “I mean–”

“That’s exactly what you meant.” Zaber cut her off like a butcher’s knife. “Listen to your ma, you ain’t dealing with nicefolk.”

Another round of silence befell the room, only disrupted by infrequent splashes from outside. It wasn’t easy to bear for Thyra, never had anybody talked to her like this. Or looked at her like this. She stood up and grabbed the viols that had sat next to Zaber ever since he’d woken up. “Wait a bit, please,” she said and rummaged through more jars on their table. She sifted through dried flowers, and green buds that oozed with a milky sap and diluted in water. On the windowsill close to it, they had a complicated arrangement of brass kettles with some bottles and viols around it. “There.” Thyra tried to be quiet in her excitement. She opened a jar and stuck a finger inside, after which she tried the taste. “Here, oaf, drink both of these and wash it down with some honey.”

Zaber grabbed it, eyed it up and gave it a smell. “What’s that?” He also gave it a dip and lick, clenching his whole face in disgust.

“The clear one will purge your stomach. You have to poop out all that poop you drank,” said Thyra and squatted next to Zaber. “The other one is poppy juice. It’ll ease the pain and make you relax.”

“Great, I know what that is.” Not wasting another thought on it, Zaber downed both of them and pushed the honey away. His cheeks were twisting and his nose wrinkled up. “Our barber surgeon had that stuff.”

Stowing away the viols, Thyra observed how Zaber reacted to the medicine. When he returned her gaze with that intense stare, she resisted looking away, only rolling her eyes through the room. “So, this Asher–” she uttered a question that had been cooking inside her head for a while. “He’s the friend you’re saving?”

The veteran was caught off guard and snapped forward. “Who told you that name?” His voice was even more raspy than usual. “The boy?”

Her breath was taken away and angst befell Thyra. Did she insult him? Her mother hadn’t yelled at her in years, was it really necessary to talk like this all the time? This man had been withdrawn ever since he woke up and his friends had left the room. He was hurt, maybe that made him like this. Yet, there were also these ghosts. Thyra still felt sympathy for him, like for a hurt animal. Even though the wolves and bears around here were never that aggressive…

“You said it in your sleep, all the time,” said the rugged woman and folded her hands in front of her chest and gulped. “But yes, Torm told me about your noble cause.”

“Listen,” said Zaber dryly. “This ain’t your damned business. The less you know about us, the better it is for you.”

“S–, sorry,” replied Thyra without hesitation. She waited for the awkward silence to return before breaking it again. “Is it Yann? You’ve uttered a lot of names over and over before y–”

“What’s your name again?” interrupts Zaber.

“Th–, Thyra?” she asked, befuddled.

“If you ever say that name again, I’ll hurt you. Got that Thyra?” Zaber spoke slowly and it was hard to tell if he was hurt or wanted to add an extra threat. “The man we’re looking for is Sagir.”

Zaber very well understood that she just wanted to talk. He didn’t mind her, but he also didn’t want to be here in the first place. It was a waste of time, no matter if he was not in a fighting condition. If it wasn’t for that line magician, he could have rested on horseback. Ever since he woke up, he couldn’t think about anything else but Sagir… except when he looked out of the window and peaked back into the other house in Teblen. With Yarış and the other Yesilians in their own blood. His mind jumped back and forth between Sagir and Asher and it made his temples pulsate. How Yann never left him. None of these thoughts were straight except for that he had to leave this hut and fix this… with Brenz telling him exactly what to do.

“What about your friends?” Thyra’s voice ripped Zaber right back into reality. “The big and the bald fella,” she added and stretched her neck to look outside the window, trying to catch a peek.

“What about them?” answered Zaber, ever so adverse.

“They seem rough,” said Thyra, and looked back at the broken veteran. “But oddly… gentle?”

“Gentle?” Zaber raised an eyebrow and grunted a laugh. “What are you on about?”

“They really love you,” she said and smiled. “They’re also very cute when they feel alone.”

Zaber scratched the scar along his jawline and looked at his fingernails. Remnants of grime and yuck were still all over him and he had to think for a moment. “We’ve been through a lot. Together.”

“So you love them back?”

She had seen the other two veterans make camp together, how Breg’s head rested on Buron’s lap before they went to sleep under the same cover. The way they helped each other with the hard-to-reach spots while bathing. The way the bald one swept a strand of hair out of the big one’s face. Thyra wasn’t afraid of them anymore.

“What are you on about?” said Zaber, annoyed, while his body began to slip out of an upright posture. “I told you, we’ve been through a lot together. I would murder everyone and everything for them.”

Thyra shook her head, gasping in disbelief. “Why are you like that?” she asked. “These two come here and threaten us with a crossbow, and you are rambling about hurting this and murdering that.” Her eyes met Zaber’s with pity, now that his intensity was fading. “You’re the first men I’ve seen in my life and you’re not giving me a good first impression. Or more like; you behave just the way mother told me. Only your boy isn’t acting like a fool from my books.”

“You ain’t got anything to fear,” said Zaber laying back down with droopy eyes. “We just like that.” His scarred torso felt colder, so he pulled the furs up to cover himself. He didn’t like to lay open, but his body wasn’t working the way it was supposed to. Every once in a while, his eyes wandered over to the eating knife close-by. But for now, he only wanted to relieve his shoulder. “Our time marauding is over,” he blabbered out.

“Your time what?”

Zaber exhaled and closed his eyes, smirking at himself. “We ain’t pillaging anymore. No more killing and burning houses.”

Thyra smirked back, satisfied by her medicine. “I read about some wars. The Iridian Civil War, the Herkos Revolt and the Eomish Conquest.” Shifting to the side and resting her chin on her hands, Thyra wasn’t focusing much. Eager to speak to anybody other than her mother, this was her chance to hear some new stories. “They seem pointless.”

“They are,” said Zaber without even thinking. “But your books can’t tell you how great it feels to fight in one.” He rubbed his swollen shoulder with his good hand and rolled to the side, facing Thyra. “You’re right. The big oaf and the scrawny fella. And Asher. They’ve saved me.”

“I am?” Thyra’s face and voice brightened.

“I love them. And that’s why I ain’t buying that he’s dead.” Zaber looked at the scar on the back of his right hand, that mirrored Asher’s. “He’s the best.”

The pain had been pushed into the background. It wasn’t gone, but it stopped mattering. Nothing but a warm feeling of self-content was inside him. Zaber thought about their last evening together; he, the boy, Sagir and Asher. Not even the thought of the anniversary of Ceyhan’s murder stung much, it was merely a nice stay at a tavern. Playing dice, drinking, singing, and listening to his three friends telling stories of what they were up to. And remembering Ceyhan together. Yesilians didn’t believe in an immediate ascent into the Stars like Albinians, Krasnian and Galázians did. A mountain prophet foretold it to them… or something along these lines. Zaber didn’t know much about it, nor did he care. The only thing he knew was about good folk, bad folk and…

“Are you listening?” asked Thyra and waved her hand in front of Zaber’s face until he looked up again. “I’ve read about war. My mother told me about it too. It is a horrible thing, isn’t it?”

“Hm?” Zaber glimpsed at the rugged woman, befogged. “War’s the best,” he said, and smiled. “It ruins the best of men.” With eyes wandering through the room, he found every crooked carpeting job this hut was built on. “Even worse for women and children.”

Her mouth opened slightly, as Thyra couldn’t fathom that answer. This time it wasn’t tension or awkwardness that befell her, it simply didn’t make sense to her. “How can you say that?”

“You wouldn’t understand. Like the boy, it’s better to not know everything.”

“Were all of you soldiers? Baldy, the giant, Asher, Yann and you?” said Thyra. She straightened her posture again, intrigued about the nonsense. “What about Torm?”

“No,” said Zaber. “Yes,” he corrected. “Me and Y–” Pausing again, Zaber squeezed his eyes shut as if he was punched in the gut. “I… my old man used to recruit young. Very young. I’ve been soldiering for eighteen years, longer than the boy’s been alive. Until the damned son of a whore finally pegged out.” The veteran closed his eyes again, leaned back and his smile brightened even more. “I hope he’s with the Kraken now.”

Thyra’s eyes switched between befuddlement and concern. She leaned forward, curious as a cat. “Your father?”

“What?” Zaber opened his eyes again. “No. My father is a good man… I think,” he said and thought for a moment. “But everything got better when Asher, Breg and Buron joined up.”

“Are you alright?” asked Thyra. Her mother and she nipped from the poppy juice when they had cramps or were very sick. So the young woman knew what was happening to Zaber right now. She knew how it felt and how others behaved under its spell. “You sound like my mother.”

Gazing over Thyra from head to toe, Zaber lacked the focus to properly observe her. All he knew was that she looked different from the women in Teblen. Even different from village girls that weren’t as stuck up as the cityfolk. Though not like the women occupying brothel streets or certain camp followers. Beyond the women who made Zaber uncomfortable, even showing too much of a grown woman’s arms, legs or hair was considered indecent. Noble and monastic women often didn’t even show their necks to demonstrate their pure character. But these two, in their hut, dressed wild and untamed. Something Zaber hadn’t seen yet. The rogue mages they’d encountered in the past were villagers, nothing about them stood out.

“No wonder the way she looks,” said Zaber after losing his thought. He remembered Tonna’s hands and neck. “We’ve met folks like you.”

“In your army?” Thyra’s voice rose and a bright glimpse in her eyes struck at the man on the floor.

“No,” said the veteran subdued and quenched her hopes. “Folks like you ain’t standing a chance against a line magician or proper nobleman. Your ma looks like she knows that too well.”

“What do you mean?” urged Thyra, leaning forward.

Even with his mind set free from the pain, Zaber opened his mouth a couple of times without saying a word. Whenever he tried, his chest clamped up. His host’s inquisitive eyes pierced into him, but Zaber was unable to say what had never been said. Gladly, he did not have to…

“I’m done,” rang Torm’s voice hushed, as the door opened. “Fired up the tub again too. Do you need help to get in?”

“No,” reacted Zaber quickly. “I’m all juiced up, I’m ‘aight.”

The way his mentor and Thyra lay on the ground irritated Torm. When not threatened, the young woman had an easy attitude, so there was no reason to deem it special. But Zaber wasn’t like that. Only hard alcohol and the right company made him relax, something the greasy and unkempt man did not do too often. And there was no sight of liquor in the hut either.

“You fine?” asked Torm.

Thyra got to her feet and straightened her dress. “Don’t mind it, I gave him poppy tincture and a purging oil,” she said and put her hands on Zaber. “So yes, he still shouldn’t put too much stress onto his body. Please help me bring him over.” Her head moved to the side, while Zaber was already trying to get up on his own. “Can you stop it? Just because the pain is gone–”

“Come on, do as told,” said Torm and came to her aid. “You want to get moving fast–”

“Nobody tells me what to do anymore,” interrupted Zaber, but complied. He stared Torm down, challenging him with his gaze.

“Sorry,” replied Torm meekly and braced his mentor on his good shoulder.

The boy only wore trousers and a woolen undershirt taken from the bundles. Zaber was still wearing the filthy breeches from the sewers and nothing else. Tugged beneath the furs, feverish and filled with joyjuice, the incoming cold of the night did not faze him at all. Hugged around his torso and shoulder, a steaming bath awaited the broken veteran outside. With little resistance.

“There we go,” smiled Thyra when the patient was put on the edge of the tub. A cut-in-half wine barrel with brass mountings. She nodded at Torm so that Zaber wouldn’t fall over when she went down in front of him. “Down go your pants.”

Before the young woman was able to even reach for Zaber, he pushed her away with his knees. She nearly fell over, while the mentor looked at his apprentice and avoided her befuddled gaze. “No,” he said with a lowered yet threatening voice. “The boy will do that.”

“For Stars’ sake, what’s wrong with him?” asked Thyra and looked at Torm. “You can say that without kicking me.”

“Man, can you–” Torm struggled for words. “He’s just like that. Sorry, he…”

The boy and the rugged woman shrugged and nodded before switching positions. Fully undressed, Zaber’s stinking pants were thrown to the side, next to a wooden washboard. The water was quite tainted already, enduring its fourth visitor. Torm stood next to it, standing guard at his mentor’s side, while Thyra was mixing oil and ash for a proper cleanse.

“Rest,” ordered Zaber while his body sank into the warmth. “She ain’t killing me.” His feet were hanging out the other side, swollen and blue.

“Kick me again and you’ll see,” laughed Thyra.

“I am dead tired,” said Torm. He slouched down as he walked away, but stopped when a wet hand grabbed his wrist.

“Thank you, boy,” whispered Zaber deliriously. “This ain’t over. We’ll get back at them.”

Torm turned back one more time to share a smile. He was close to tears, but rubbed them away when Thyra joined his smile and looked as she was about to melt. “I would hug you,” he said, looking into the water and over to the sleeping huddle that was Breg and Buron. “But not now,” he said and walked away. “And I’m not your boy.” His chosen resting place was inside, right next to Zaber.

“Soo~?” Thyra’s voice pitched up and down as she rubbed Zaber’s broken shoulder. She let the men have their moment, but did not waste any time the moment Torm was gone.

“So?” asked Zaber confused, not even trying to look back at her. His eyes were closed and, for once, his body had lost all tenseness.

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“No dodging questions.” She scooped water over his head and face. “What did you mean?”

With empty eyes, Zaber thought about the question way too long. Until his pupils widened and an illuminated exhale followed. “Oh, your ma,” he remembered. “Isn’t it obvious? They tried to slit her throat and burn her.”

“See, you think you know everything.” She poured oil and ash over his head, smelling his hair for a moment in mocking disgust. “But you are wrong, I have to inform you. They tried to burn me; and we call them her hands of love.” Smiling on, she tilted her head ever so slightly. “What does that have to do with your army soldiering? You fought in wars, I thought.”

Zaber looked back over his shoulder and searched for burn scars on the young woman, but there were none. It was hard to misjudge the doubt in his stare for anything else. She even taunted the veteran by showing him her arms from all sides, shoulders, neck and whatever else was freely visible. Naturally, Zaber averted his gaze again, staring straight into the lucid sky. He hadn’t seen it in a long while. Without the fog of Teblen.

“You’re so odd,” said Thyra and sat next to the tub on the chopping block. “I’ve noticed Torm looking at me and how these two look at each other. I read about men, but you lot are all so different–” She stopped and also looked into the stars. Her first impression of… anything, wasn’t what she imagined. “Yet the same.”

“Listen–” Zaber’s voice rose, demanding attention. “This ain’t one of your fucking books,” he said and took another long pause to gather his scrambled thoughts with a smoother tone. “Your loving mother saved you once, do as she told. Folk like me–” He halted. “Like us, are bad. We kill, we plunder… we fight who we’re told to fight, or who looks at us funny. When we fought on behalf of a local lord once, we smashed a village revolt. One of your kind was among them, living peacefully with his family.” Each word became more raspy than the next and he clenched his fists under the water. “Do not trust us. When the old man told us, we hung him. We hung him, we hung his wife, his children and everybody else.”

Completely lost, Zaber was fixated on the Constellation of Bear; Breg’s birth star. He didn’t know how to continue after all of this poured out of him. The juice had taken away all his feelings and all the tension. With the pain dampened, his anger was as well. No sorrows, just thoughts.

“If he tells you to kill the prisoners, that’s what you do. If he tells you to burn the crops and houses, that’s what you do. If he tells you to–” Zaber’s eyes met those of Thyra and he felt the pity on his skin. “If he tells you to–” He swallowed and mustered the young woman, not averting his gaze. “You do whatever a good soldier does. Books ain’t true, fuck them and whatever fairy tales they taught you.”

Even hearing about it made Thyra cry. Not in horror, nor was she sad. The thought of all these folk. And those forced to do it, who had to live with themselves, made her pity this sad man and his companions. But most of her sympathy was for Torm, who she showed her collection of books to. He even mentioned his favorite book, ‘Little Squirt of a Squire’ to her. The heroic mission Thyra thought they were on, and the way Torm looked at Zaber, talked about him and… None of them were on the same page.

“She’s my aunt, not my mother.” Thyra broke through the silence that Zaber had imposed on them. But he did not react at all. “I was, like – maybe two? When they found out my parents were practicing the old ways. We’ve been living here ever since,” she said and smiled at the Stars. “Surviving twenty-two winters in good health.” The veteran might not feel much at the moment, but Thyra saw his emotions clear as day. It made these delirious confessions bearable. All this misery and regret, she tried to wash away with another splash of water over Zaber’s face.

He shook his head and spluttered a confused breath. “So you two haven’t seen another soul ever since?” he said and sat upright in the tub. “Where does all this junk come from?”

Far from an expert, this hut didn’t look like it was built with resin and sticks alone to Zaber. A guild artisan wasn’t involved, but he had seen worse peasant builds. The women even had proper tools and the plants in these raised beds weren’t from the swamp. And there was bread and flour, something impossible for them to homegrow under these conditions.

“Mother meets with the others for equinox and solstice,” said Thyra. “She brings what we need and some extra, as gifts from her old friends. That’s when I have the place all to myself.” Her voice pitched up in glee.

“What friends?” asked Zaber absentmindedly.

Thyra slapped her patient’s wet forehead. “Can’t say.”

“’aight, sure,” said Zaber, and blinked stunned. “Nothing we need to know.” He sunk back into the tub, reveling in the good vibes that flowed through his veins. “So you know jack shit about anything, huh? No other kids or adults, just your ma, the bugs and the books?”

The rugged woman leaned back and nodded her head appreciatively. “I like that,” she said. “Bugs and books; I have to write that into my diary. That would be a great title–”

“Damned does your life suck, you even write,” interjected Zaber and shook his head. “Why not go with your ma, you’re a grown ass woman.”

“That’s what I say!” Her face and voice brightened, but she quickly remembered that everyone was sleeping. “Not with such words, though. I prefer to call myself a bloomed flower, not an undeveloped bud,” she said, and tried to sound comically high-class. “And we both write. We also read to each other and sing. I have plenty of friends around here too, we just don’t speak in words to each other.”

Zaber smiled at the Stars. “It gets better and better. Got a little bird friend to sing magic with? You–”

“First you tell me about all these horrible things and not to trust you,” interrupted Thyra and adjusted the chopping block beneath her bottom to easier follow Zaber’s gaze. “And then you mock me for being boring? Without our medicine, you would still be drowning in pain and self-pity.”

“Point taken,” replied Zaber, defeated, and fell silent again. He tried to wiggle his toes and feet outside the tub but got hindered by the young woman. She inspected them thoroughly and kept an eye out for how the veteran reacted. Or not.

“Up,” ordered Thyra. “Torm said you dove into gutter, you have to wash your dirty parts too.”

“’aight,” said Zaber with a curt nod. He was supported by the rugged woman, partially getting wet herself. She smeared his hands with ash and oil so he could cleanse himself further, using his good arm. Zaber’s gaze did not meet Thyra’s while doing so, avoiding it at all costs.

“Baldy and the tall one have seen through my mother’s singing with ease,” said Thyra while waiting for her patient to finish. “How come? Mother always tells me how rare the singing of spells is, as do my books. One encounter can’t be enough, can it?”

“Told you,” replied Zaber. He scrubbed the parts that wouldn’t be acceptable in the presence of a woman. His own body was not what made him uncomfortable, even in Thyra’s presence. “We served under line magicians, petty and high nobility. Fella who messed me up was a mage too. Patrician I’d say, he kinda sucked.”

Even though she was repulsed by these men, everything about this situation was exciting to Thyra. “So you’ve noticed the healing song?”

“The what?” said Zaber and inspected his own armpits. His blue shoulder rose slowly, as the pain was only dampened, not gone. “I understand that your gibberish sounds different. We recognize a couple from the officers. The ones you hear the most in battle.”

“Mother wants to kick you out as fast as she can. And you’re in a hurry,” said Thyra, looking back into the window of the hut to spot her mother. “We’re singing you the Kiss of the White Sister.”

“And how’s that helping? Ain’t magic like–” Zaber paused to find the right words and finish the scrubbing. “Fleeting? Wounds only close for a couple of breaths, not very long. Just enough to not bleed out and get dragged away… if you’re worth enough.”

“Yes,” replied Thyra and nodded knowingly. “But also no. What you’ve heard is a perversion, an insult.” She helped with lowering Zaber back into the tub, making it hard to sound as educational as she would like to. “Nature wants to be preserved. It always reverts back into its ur-state. What your lords and kings do is nothing but violence forced upon the world. Our magic works the same, but we take our time and respect the boundaries of nature. We hasten what will happen anyway, so it doesn’t take a dozen or more days.”

Zaber sunk back into the lukewarm broth with a slightly open mouth, as he had to think about all of this first. “’aight,” he said as if he understood. “The fella we hung did a lot at the same time. More than a knight’s spell.” The wet veteran checked on her face, brows narrowed in concentration. “It was a full song, plenty of time to murder a fella. Didn’t matter if it was powerful or not. Officers flung one verse and that’s it. I think–” His eyes wandered back to the darkness of the forest. “I think they call it a composition when they chain verses together. And it’s like the Kraken himself comes down on a place.”

“So you have full songs?” Thyra’s voice pitched up excitedly. “Can you recite one? You don’t have to hit the right note or put your Will into it.”

“Fuck no,” said Zaber and shook his head. “I can remember one or two verses proper,” he laughs. “Airich often led compositions… later. Defeated Mur ad-Din with one. Fought the King in court when he was young… that’s how he became the King’s First Choice.” No matter what Zaber had said before about the General, thinking about his presence on the battlefield, he was in awe. As if he was a boy again.

“Isn’t the royal family said to be the strongest in all of Albion?” said Thyra, getting all of these questions out of her system. She was getting tired and the poppy juice wouldn’t last until the next morning. “And who’s Mur ad-Din?” Sitting on the chopping block, she rested her elbows on her lap and her head on her hands. Thinking about what to ask next before her mother would chase their guests out. There was no time to sleep now.

“Don’t know about that,” said the broken veteran and looked fascinated at his wiggling toes outside the tub. “But the way folk fear him, the King’s gotta be up there. Never heard the old man say a nice thing about him, though.” Absent-mindedly, Zaber checked on all the painful parts by moving them slightly. The warm water helped too, but he knew he shouldn’t overdo it, as the pain was only forced into the background. “Mur ad-Din was the most powerful Yesilian chanter. Twelve years ago, his campaign forced the three kings of Albion, Galázion and Krasnia into an alliance – the second one. Never have I seen the old man enjoy himself like back then,” said Zaber and smiled for just a moment. “Never has the King trusted him–” He stopped and stared into the darkness, as grim as before the juice.

“Go on, please,” pressed Thyra and leaned forward. “Is it true that Yesilians have multiple wives?”

“Psht!” hissed Zaber, after which the rugged woman followed his gaze between the trees. “There’s a… thing.”

A shadow of a figure was standing there, watching. Not taller than three of four feet, with a face and contour that was hard to discern. A heavy and clunky tool hung from its hand. Breathing heavily, a threatening silence broke through the damp snoring in the background.

“Nooo~” said Thyra silly. “That’s a nightskrat, he’s friendly.”

About to stand up, Zaber was pushed back without much pressure. Chills went through his skin as he saw the creature standing there. An itch went through the veteran’s fist. “Bringing his friendly murder stick with him, ain’t he?” said Zaber, eyes never leaving the nightskrat. “Or did you and your ma sing him over to do your deeds?”

Torn between greeting her friend and keeping her patient in check, Thyra turned towards the naked man. “Why say that?” she asked. “Have I mistreated you? And he’s just a nightskrat.” Getting up, the young woman walked away from Zaber, towards the shadowy figure. “Skrats are nature spirits, like a woodskrat, you know? He’s scared of the lights. We’re usually asleep at this time, so he didn’t know.”

There was no reason to wait for an answer after getting insulted like that. Thyra’s voice became quieter with each step, until she was as obscured as her monstrous friend. Watching her and the creature with narrowed brows, Zaber’s chest was pulsating and his blood was heating up. Whatever this was, he wanted to fight it. He prevented himself from jumping out of the tub. Thyra and the skrat didn’t speak a word, only gesturing at each other. Something like a hug and an exchange of hands until this little thing disappeared and the rugged woman returned.

“By the Stars,” exclaimed Thyra when she was close enough to look into Zaber’s angry face. “Calm down, he’s harmless. The woodskrats have been driven out of most places, but nightskrats are seclusive by nature.” She was visibly annoyed when she sat down again.

“I take back what I said about you,” replied Zaber, relaxing back into the tub. “That ain’t boring at all. You hang with such a wretched fella?”

“Don’t call him that, his name is Skratty. You can’t tell me you’ve never run into a Ghóstis before, they used to be everywhere,” said Thyra.

Still looking for the nightskrat, Zaber’s thoughts were scrambled. “Twice,” he said. “No–, one more. When I was little I saw a heinzelgirl.”

Exhaling once to get back into the right mood, Thyra pushed the chopping block beneath her closer to the tub. So close, her face was about to touch Zaber, which he pushed away with two fingers and a playfully irritated glance. “Tell me more, that one’s in none of my books. Not even the old translated Galázian bestiary we got,” she said delightedly.

“They’re of local fame where I come from.” Zaber closed his eyes to focus on his memory. “From what I know, heinzelmen only live around the capital of Collam, a principality north the Reuwh.” The words flowed out of him with a painful undertone. “Stubby little fellas. I was small too, but I think they’ve reached to my ma’s knees. Her name was–” Zaber halted. “Is Lonya. My father’s Brunn. Me and my brother Rodba stumbled into the heinzelgirl at night, heading over to our grandma’s cubby, to–”

“What did she look like?” whispered Thyra in awe.

Interrupted, Zaber needed a moment to gather himself again. “Who?” It took even longer than before. “The little fella? Pinkish and leafy… I think? I don’t–”

“Your grandmother. And your mother.”

Zaber blinked. “I–” he stumbled over the question. “I dunno. Fat, my grandma was fat,” he said. “My ma wasn’t. I think I got my hair and eyes from her, but I’m built like my pa. Grandma always said Rodba looks like grandpa, but I wouldn’t know that.” His eyebrows were about to melt into each other and his forehead pressed into folds. “They ain’t important. The creature was eating our hard bread. Heinzelmen do that, they steal your leftovers and drink from the udders of cattle. But they finish your unfinished handiwork in return,” said the veteran and watched his breath form in the rising cold of the night. The water was still warm enough, even though he didn’t feel much. “They were rare, but everyone liked them and tried to lure them into their homes.”

“They don’t matter?” asked Thyra, puzzled. Her mother had told her stories about their family, in great detail. “They sound lovely. What about the other two?”

The thought about his parents usually dreaded Zaber, but not today. He often thought about them deep at night, when he stared at the stars or ceiling. Most thoughts, though, were wasted on Airich. But also Asher and Breg and Buron. And Yann. And Aume, Livy, Reon, Vhal, Snappy and… Brenz. And all the names he had already forgotten. But mostly Airich and Brenz.

This night was different. It had been a long time since he felt so unhaunted. A shiver went through his bones and shoulders when he remembered that Thyra had asked another question. Her eyes were urging him. “I’ve seen a lindwyrm, once. At a distance. That’s all I can say about it.”

“Where? Flying or flightless?” asked the rugged woman and splashed her hand into the water to get Zaber going. “There’s always more to tell.”

“We were up north, marching eastwards, towards Krasnia,” continued Zaber, closing his eyes once more. “All the officers, especially the knights, got their pants wet just seeing it. Wasted all our time roaming the hills and forests to find it, instead of resting.”

“They peed their pants in fear?” giggled Thyra. “What cowards!” she said way too loud and pressed her hand on her mouth afterwards. “Winged ones are incredibly rare, they only develop them after adolescence… which can take centuries.”

Smirking at himself, Zaber’s head nearly disappeared beneath the lukewarm water. “No they didn’t piss their pants.”

“Huh?” Thyra’s eyes widened. “What else?”

Gazing at Thyra in disbelief, Zaber shook his head at himself. “Nothing, not important,” he said. “They were out to slay it.”

Thyra slumped down and curled her lips. “Damned,” she said as if this was her first curse. “What a bummer. Do you know why they do this?”

“No idea. Probably horseshit honor,” said Zaber. “Wasting their and our time, ‘cause they never had to work for real.”

“No–” said Thyra immediately. “I mean, yes,” she corrected herself. “Your boy, Torm. His favorite book’s about it. Not only that book, but he would know.”

“Not you too. Just stop it with this book-shit.” Zaber’s body jerked up and got exposed to the cold, steaming ever so slightly. “I don’t give a fuck about this,” he said and saw that Thyra was hugging her own bare arms and shoulders, while he still didn’t feel anything. “And stop calling him my boy.”

“As I said.” Thyra ignored him. “It was a rite of passage in the past. Old squires and freshly anointed knights sought out Ghóstis to prove their excellency at the high arts,” she recited a bit snobbish, only to laugh about herself when she was done.

“That explains a lot,” said Zaber cold. “Why all the fuckers are dead. And why King Theogreif claims Iridian ancestry, calling themselves the Gryphenslayers. They’re known to hunt big ones on the regular.” He stopped and squinted at the stars. “The old man was known for slaying a lindwyrm. He was born under the Dragon, so I thought he made it up for fame… And why our banner’s captain was so eager to follow that vâlvă,” said Zaber, struggling to say the creature’s name right. “Or however they say it. Back when we were fighting east, in Dașken and Movaria.”

“That’s the last one? A vâlvă?” Thyra’s pronunciation wasn’t right either.

“Yes,” nodded Zaber. “A ghastly looking wench, tall and slender. Spotted her on top of some hills, close to the Krasnian border. Thought the captain just wanted to get his dick wet when he rolled out alone.”

“Again with that saying,” noted Thyra and halted her speech to think. “But he didn’t kill her, did he? They protect villages from storms. They can shapeshift into shadows and black cats and can seduc–” Coming to a sudden stop, her expression turned disgusted. “Eww, I get it now.”

No care in the world, Zaber laughed out loud. The sleeping folk around him didn’t matter when he heard the genuine revulsion of this young woman.

“Eww, eww, eww, what is wrong with you?” she slapped him on his blue shoulder, but he didn’t react. “Can’t let a woman pull down your pants but that’s alright?” she said, laughed, and patted his shoulder apologetic.

The usually greasy and unkempt veteran didn’t talk to women that often anymore. And never like this, if he was of sound mind. The only folk he talked to like this were the ones he drank with. Folk he trusted and that trusted him, which only included one woman these days…

Losing himself in these thoughts, Zaber regretted taking the poppy juice. He did not know Thyra and it would be for the better if this wouldn’t change. But right now, feeling guilty was hard – and that felt good.

“Lost your tongue?” asked Thyra and ripped Zaber back into the present. “Did you hear any of them sing?”

“Hm?” Zaber shook his head. “Who?”

“The heinzelgirl, or the lindwyrm – did the vâlvă sing?” Hugging herself even tighter, Thyra leaned towards her patient once more.

“The ghosts?” asked Zaber and searched around confused. “I hear ghosts sing all the time. Dunno about them.”

Thyra rubbed her hands against each other and breathed warm air between them. “Ghóstis, not ghosts,” she said. “It means guest, or stranger. We learned magic from them, all of them can sing. As well as some animals.”

Looking through the treetops, Zaber’s gaze went back to the sky. Some clouds had come by, but there was still enough glow to kiss his wet skin. “That ain’t true. It is handed down by the Stars. A blessing of Celestial Right; everybody knows that.”

The young woman sighed. “No it isn’t. It’s a blessing by the Stars, but everyone who can sing can speak to nature. The nightskrat can, a lindwyrm can–” Thyra’s face was illuminated when she also gazed into the stars above them. “And so can you, the birds and the crickets. We are all blessed with magic,” she said with a tranquil smile.

For the first time between them, the silence seemed intentional. Both took in the moment and reveled in it… until Zaber broke it. “Even a peasant son?” he said and smirked with closed eyes.

“Maybe?” replied Thyra in her beautiful, sharp voice, a dramatic mezzo. “Under what Star were you born?” Her breath was visible in each word.

“Rooster,” answered Zaber. “You?”

“Stag,” said the rugged woman. “Torm said he’s a Stallion. If your old man really was a Dragon, he had to be strong. The five major Constellations ar–”

“I know,” interrupted the veteran. “We were always on campaign on the Day of the Dragon. No matter that it’s in winter. That’s when we defeated the Yesilians with his Rolling Flames composition. Rain fire and brimstone on them, he used to say.”

“He sounds like a scary man,” uttered Thyra and averted her gaze from the stars. The thought filled her with gloom.

Zaber, though, had to smile thinking about this. “He–” was what the veteran was about to say, but got interrupted.

“Enough corrupting my daughter for today,” sounded a strong, lyric contralto through the door to the hut. Tonna leaned on the frame, a pelt around her shoulders. “You gotta be freezing, fawn,” she said. “Both of you.”

“Oh–” Zaber halted and turned towards Thyra. “Fawn. You’re a Stag.”

Snorting at the obvious, Thyra and Tonna shared a mischievous smirk. The older woman put her burned hands onto her daughters shoulders and wrapped the pelt around her.

“I gave him poppy juice,” said Thyra and stood up.

“That’s why he’s still sitting in the freezing water,” replied Tonna, feeling the tub. “Good call, fawn. Now go inside, it’s time to sleep.” She inspected Zaber’s shoulder and pulled him up. “And you get your butt inside and rest down. The blabbermouth already told you, I’m gonna sing to you.”

“Sorry, I–” responded the daughter to the scolding.

“Don’t,” said her mother, to Thyra’s surprise. “Although, be less noisy next time.”