Chapter 2

Day Two – Noon

Father Sun has just passed his most glorious moment, and Torm has spent the morning alone, as he usually does. A night like the last had made even him sleep longer, tired out, but he rose nonetheless. Out of habit. The benevolent golden globe that blessed them shined too bright to miss out. His nest was in the front—the Solar Tower—right above the entrance of the ruined temple. Close to all of Westwatch was visible from here: the streets, the houses, and the tarnished stars at night. Unlike the beloved bum who took him in five years ago, he did not want to waste precious daylight.

Zaber was still hidden away in the old sacristy that served as his chamber. The small temple had burned down two years before Torm and him had arrived in Teblen. Six years in total had the infamous quarter of Westwatch been without its own site of prayer. No Lecture, Fate-Reading, or Singing to the Stars by an Auror; no care of souls.. And no attempts of renovation nor tearing it down had been made. And from what Torm and Zaber were told, nobody had cared to investigate what had happened. Because nobody cared about Westwatch, except for its imposing namesake.

“Get up, get up, get up. I. Am. Coming,” babbled the boy as he walked through the altar room. He had no idea how long Zaber had stayed up after they’ve come back, the man rarely slept before deep at night. Shut-eye often only came to him just before sunrise.

Both Lunar Towers, that would normally be at the back of a Star Temple had collapsed, most of the roof burned to a crisp. With planks from the benches, the remnants of the truss were covered with stretches of sheets. To have some spots protected from the weather, with little success. The altar room came right after a vestibule and used to be filled with ornately carved benches, of which few survived. A firepit made from rubble. Small barrels for the rats to hide in. And lots of rubbish and clobber, dispersed around. An incomprehensible mess.

“Time to get up,” yelled Torm one last time and kicked the ailing door to Zaber’s room open. He waited in the door frame, knowing that his mentor was not the safest to be around when he woke up bad.

And woke up bad he did. Zaber jolted up. His eyes widened in shock and strangled yelp escaped the veteran’s throat. The blank steel of his lange messer flashed for a moment, Zaber’s first instinct was to put his hand on the hilt. This room was even messier, with the greasy and unkempt man’s belongings scattered everywhere. Order was only found with his weapons, lined up for quick access. Torm knew that his mentor’s state of mind was often clouded after waking up and there was a danger of getting knocked to the ground or worse. But the former mercenary recognized the face of his apprentice fast enough. They were off to a good start, Zaber didn’t even scream.

“I’m hungry,” said Torm. “And the barrel almost empty.”

It took some groaning and grumping before Zaber replied; “’aight. Get the coin, I’ll be ready…” He rubbed his eyes and knocked himself on the head, frustrated. “Soon… ish.” Chest still pumping, breath still galloping, Zaber was looking around the mess that was his room. For an iron chain with keys on it, buried under his blanket. He kept it close, usually on or under his body, so that it couldn’t be found. In the rare event when he was fast asleep. Zaber threw the keys to his apprentice and got up. Tensed up, the greasy and unkempt man had get dressed first. Pack his weapons, take a sip from his canteen. Get some fluids into his body. To feel better.

Torm, meanwhile, headed back into the altar room. Seldom did anything disappear from here without their knowledge. Many of the scoundrels and beggars around knew better than to mess with Zaber. Not even the ones he liked, which were quite a lot. As long as it was only food, neither he nor Torm cared about it being stolen from. There were more important things around their home.

The real valuables were stashed away under the stone altar. A solid block of marble, carved with the face of Father Sun. Flanked by his beautiful, yet distant, daughters. The top used to hold a gilded fire bowl for sacrifices, but everything of worth had long been stripped away. The stained glass windows, depicting the twelve Minor and five Major Constellations in ascending might, yellowed and broken.

The boy pulled open the secret hatch beneath it and let the rays of sun flow in. All of Zaber’s old armor and weapons were down here, as well as their perishables. And the chest. Torm jumped down the short ladder and had to crouch slightly. Even though he wasn’t that tall, average, but still growing. If the Stars would bless him to be his mentor’s height.

The heavy key was for the lock on the hatch. The smaller one was for the chest with the heavy iron mountings. Decorated all over, it bore the personalized crest of Airich of Belge: A green hill on white ground, with a flaming spear. The man Zaber, Asher and their other friends Buron and Breg had served under. Filled with copper groschen, silver gulden and gold thalers. Signet rings and a gauntlet made from solid gold, engraved with scripture neither Torm nor Zaber could read. Professionally manufactured maps and letters in foreign words. And many more previous belt buckles, fibulas and jewelry. Hardly any of which were touched, even after four years.

Torm didn’t find living in this pile of rubble a pleasantry, but Zaber did. And the veteran had taken good care of him, so who was Torm to tell him off. This inheritance made sure they could live the way they wanted. And Zaber wanted to live like this. Builds character, he preached, and they weren’t bothered by neighbors or proprietors. Or anybody. The boy ran his fingers through their wealth – his mentor’s wealth – and took all that wasn’t gold. Each winter kept getting colder, harsher and more jarring, but never had they spend any of the thalers. Not even on fire wood. A life so very different from what Torm used to have, before they met.

“Anything need oil down there?” Zaber stepped to the edge, and his shadow stripped away the light. “Or polish?”

“No,” said Torm, shaking his head, his eyes wandering from the coin to the pieces of metal and leather. “Nothing important, at least.” He rubbed some rust off the poleless heads of a poleaxe and a pike.

Zaber wore his regular loadout. An arming cap, the brown gambeson with short sleeves and with simple linen beneath it. A langes messer and a stiletto with a pouch and his canteen. His horseman’s boots and breeches looked like they were about to fall apart around the knees. But they had been doing that for at least the last two years.

“This is the plan for the day,” announced Zaber. “Get sausages and jerky from Olef, then head over to Trave for bread. We should stop by Dalke’s and refill the barrel… if he let’s us.”

“Fine, sounds good to me. Maybe some schnapps?” said Torm, climbing back up. “Sparring today?” The look on his face was longing, like a puppy’s, with a shrewd smile.

“’aight,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “Arm up, time to roll out.”

Still in his undergarments, it didn’t take long for Torm to slip into something more substantial. Unlike his mentor, the boy owned more than one article of clothing for each part of his body. The only default was his thick leather jerkin, because Zaber insisted on never going out unarmored. Torm pulled up the sleeves of his red tunic and put on a pre-arranged belt with a hunting knife and a bauernwehr. Everything from his boots to the chausses was dusted and scoffed as well, but not excessively. Up in his nest, next to his books, he had a brush and a razor. Even a little mirror to not look uncouthed and unpresentable to the ladies. The finishing touch – as always – was his gray felt cap, with a bronze fibula shaped like a sheep. He tilted it to the side ever so slightly.

“There we go,” said Torm and adjusted the cap once more. “Let’s hit the streets.”

“’aight.” Zaber stepped outside first.

Young and old, men and women of all sizes, clad in simple dresses and robes. They marveled at all of Westwatch’s splendor. The brisk business of the working folk had reached its height, ready for a break. To rest and dine. A small yard with trees had been in front of the temple. Most folk used it as an extension of the crossing between the two main roads through the quarters. It used to be called St. Heinmuth Street, after the namesake of the temple. But nowadays, most folk named it after the rubble that remained: Ruins Street.

“Good day,” laughed a man. He dragged an empty cart behind him and waved his straw hat at Torm. “And good morrow for you,” he added and looked at Zaber, smiling.

Zaber greeted back, with a tip to his cap. “Eger,” he said. A young woman behind the man carried a child in one arm and held another one’s hand as she sped past the cart. Zaber’s eyes sharpened when he saw her eyes roll. She shook her head at Eger’s back in disapproval. “What’s the business?” asked Zaber, provocatively staring at the woman. She averted the gaze, and the greasy and unkempt man switched back to Eger.

“Flour from the Rygen mill for Trave,” replied Eger delighted, happy to have work. “Plenty to do.” He had not noticed the woman, nor Zaber’s stare. The men nodded each other farewell, as their paths seemed to diverge already, and neither of them was slowing down.

Only when his mentor called the stranger by name did Torm remember who the fella was. A familiar face, but the boy had no idea. Maybe someone from Marghe’s place. However, who he remembered were the two girls trotting along a seamstress, right across the street. Milda and her sister Bera snuck a shy wave at him. He returned the gesture, of course.

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Most folks around here had a vague idea of who the duo was. A couple of shady characters not to mess with. The vast majority didn’t care a bunch, as long as their peace was kept. Zaber and Torm were not the only bums in Westwatch and there were more pressing matters in a commonfolk’s life.

“Defiler!” An old woman voiced her opinion by spitting in front of them.

“Good for nothing!” added her husband, and another ‘ptui’ landed in front of them. The couple went by as quick as they had entered their field of vision. To Torm, they were a nuisance, dimwits who did not know better. To Zaber they were something worse. Something he followed with one narrowed eye as long as he could. Resisting the voice.

They arrived at the northern of the two main roads through Westwatch, Magpie Lane. It was a busy one, with lots of traffic. Broad enough to handle proper coaches and peppered with shopfronts. As with all named streets and roads in Teblen, a gutter with sewage drains ran in the middle. The magistrates decreed it as the ideal way to get rid of horse droppings, with every rainfall. The most common style of in the city were half-timbers, many with stone bases. In Westwatch, these didn’t even make up half. Many planked together and in bad condition. Nonetheless, cozy. Folks began to care more about the street’s cleanliness too, after the last visit of the magistrates. Zaber and Torm had to walk towards the walls, westwards. The ominous keep that gave the quarter it’s name was the other way around. At the crossings to better neighborhoods, to the east. A looming presence that towered above all, if either Zaber or Torm cared to look behind them. But there was no time to waste on something meaningless like that. They were hungry and had food to buy.

“On the yester…” said Zaber out of nowhere, his hands resting on his girdle. Close to his weapons. “You almost fucked up.”

Young Torm’s thoughts were elsewhere, his eyes wandering around the buildings. He put a lot of effort into becoming more aware, obtain a keen eye. To match that of Zaber and Asher, who seamlessly picked up on danger or trouble. All the bustling a city of this size was filled with, the drills he got from his mentor, and an unusual freedom. The boy barely grasped his childhood anymore. Gone were the comforts and protective hands above his head. Teblen… no, Westwatch really was an ideal place to learn.

“Huh?” Torm’s reaction was delayed. He only buzzed a confirmation; “Hrmph”, with nothing else to follow. What else was there to say?

“You can’t lose yourself like that. Fighting is more than reflexes, it’s thinking ahead, having a routine,” said Zaber. “You just wanted to have a swordfight and show off.”

“But–” Torm clenched his fist. He knew what Zaber was getting at. He knew before fighting, he knew while fighting and he knew after the fight. Nothing bad happened, everything worked out fine.

Zaber sighed so loud, that it interrupted the boy. “I get it. It feels great,” he said. “But what was your plan? You were already armed and that guard was a tool. The chair was good thinking and you didn’t risk getting us in real trouble. But the longer a fight goes, the more room you leave open to mess up.”

Torm’s fist was still clenched. So hard that he had to find something else to do, or risk hurting himself. He let himself go. Enjoyed the moment. Zaber always sorted shit out without help and it was even worse when Asher wasn’t pissing off. If he hadn’t, Torm wouldn’t have had jack shit to do. Only looking after Sagir. “I screwed up, what now,” barked the boy after a while. Eyes glued to the ground, he grabbed his cap and ran his hands through his hair.

“’aight, all good. Your noggin took over soon enough,” said Zaber. A fist bumped into the Torm’s shoulder. Just when Torm put his cap back on, Zaber slapped it off-kilter. Feathered his apprentice’s short brown hair up good, and smiled.

Torm tried to duck away with a gloomy smile and combed his hair back together with his fingers. “I–”

“So…” Zaber looked down the street. “Who were the girls you waved at?” He was still smiling. A good day it seems.

“How about you mind your own damned business?” Torm boasted a smirk. “Ran into them last time you were out and about with Asher.”

“Ran into?” asked Zaber with one eyebrow raised. “Out and about?”

As they walked on, some people steered away from them. Torm shrugged innocently and gestured wide. “What can I say–” His voice pitched up. “I’m a popular young man.”

“You forgot charming,” said Zaber dryly. “Ain’t one of them a bit young? They sisters?”

“Don’t worry, Kell was with me to dampen my luck. We were out to get ourselves in trouble, to no effect. Hanged with some kids from the deep streets,” said Torm and waved his hands in disregard. “You know Kell, he’s a goodie. I only fooled around after dark with Milda, nothing more.”

“That’s the older one?”

Torm stood still for a moment and exhaled annoyed. Left behind by his mentor who just walked on without looking back. “Come on,” said the boy and caught up. “Who do you believe me to be? Not everyone can be a eunuch.”

Torm saw how Zaber tensed up again, shoulders bent like a bow. He hadn’t relaxed entirely, because he never did. But now, a wall of silence built up between them. Before it became too awkward to bear, and Torm was about to utter an apology, Zaber spoke up. “I ain’t a eunuch.” Before that, he had stared off. Into nothing. Lost. “I just–”

“Fine, fine. I know,” said Torm and put his arm around Zaber. “So… I got my namesgiving in three Constellations, we celebrating at Marghe’s? I’m old en–”

“If I ever catch you there, I’ll beat the ever-loving shit out of you.” Zaber knew he was teased and played along. To get over it. Even forced one of his half-assed smiles.

“You already said we’re going to spar later,” laughed Torm and walked on. “But for real, you could ask Asher to take me next time.”

The pair stood out among the commonfolk as unusually well armed. Most wore nothing, or their tools. A knife at best, or a walking stick. Being besteeled as they were was a trait found in members of the Sellsword Guild, or belonging to the Morell Brothers and Red Mob. The length and style of a sword, like Zaber’s, signaled to others that he had a background. That Torm wandered next to him with similar gear, but shorter, also made clear that the boy had no history of service. Nonetheless, nobody would be armed like them if they didn’t mean business. And those who meant business didn’t walk these parts of Westwatch, they were on a job or visited Red Cat Alley. To piss away they pay.

“Ain’t asking,” shrugged Zaber. “This’ up to him. Damned I know when his next out and about is.”

The boy sighed until his lungs were empty, thinking long and good about his next words. “See, we only have to–”, he halted because Zaber seemed to ignore him. “We only have to show him that I am up to it. Like, if he had seen how I dominated that guard.”

“Look, I told him. The jobs I take ain’t even hard, you are up to most of them,” said Zaber and shook his head frustrated. “This ain’t about skill.”

They had many arguments like this these days and Torm couldn’t bear it any longer. After they’d arrived in Teblen, Zaber had amazing adventures. With and without Asher. They swooped in and took Teblen by surprise. And after the pecking order had been reshuffled, Zaber simply… stopped. The better Torm got, the more docile became the man who took him in. Bashed some fodder now and then, while all the exciting events happened behind closed doors... for Asher to enrich himself. Zaber wasn’t even getting soft, Torm knew well enough how he spent the night hours instead of sleeping. Physical strain, it seems, was the only thing that put a veteran’s mind at ease.

Torm was about to open his mouth, but didn’t come far. “Wh–” A meek squeak was all he got before the topic got changed and the silence was broken.

“Can you ask Kell what they reported to the Watch?” asked Zaber urgent. “Don’t wanna be surprised by the magistrates. Again.”

“Look–” said Torm, visibly upset. “Whatever. Sure. If we caught heat over this, they won’t le me go and you’ll have to bust me out. Again.” That thought lightened the boy’s mood. Watchmen were considered a joke among the more hardened members of the community. The ones in Westwatch above all. A bunch of bullies, pampered patrician sons who wanted to avoid the real draft. Or young men who had no other option but to earn a quick coin by betraying their own.

“Don’t worry, you’re with me,” said Zaber and put his hands at his belt. “And they know that. If you ain’t back by sundown–” He could not but laugh.

“What you gonna do?” Torm’s cheeks puffed up from a big smile. “Waltz in and bust me out?”

“No.” Zaber looked at his apprentice in jest. “I’ll ask real nice.”

A loud squeal from afar informed them that Olef’s apprentices and family were at work. Seems like they got their hands on something special. No doubt something that good was in the supply of Westwatch. Chicken from the surrounding villages, or small game and fish from the Reuwh River and Lake Teblen were their bread and butter. Even with a guild symbol imprinted on his shop sign, there were richer masters around. They that got their hands on better flesh first, with an iron grip on the market. Though, having a shop without being a guildsman was impossible anyway.

After spotting the sign, a loud metallic rustling and foreign yells demanded the duo’s attention – and that of everybody else close-by. Zaber’s hand twitched towards the hilt of his blade on instinct, as did Torm’s with a delay. The younger one spotted the commotion in the crowd only by following his mentor’s gaze.

A young Yesilian man was dragged out of a tannery that worked closely with Olef. It was well known to enrich the street with a peculiar stench. Two guards, armored in gambeson and armed with cudgels, had the fella by the arms. The light setup meant that they were not on patrol and sought the foreigner out as a culprit. An even younger Yesilian girl followed them, struggling to hold her hands back from touching them. “Yalvarırım!” she yelled over and over only interrupted by a heavily accented “I beg you!” and “Ağabey!”

Everything had come to a halt, with many a passersby forming an alley for the carry-off. Many were driven by curiosity, some with glee and some in dread. Watching how the blackheaded man, with a split lip, complied motionless. The girl was ignored but tolerated, until she put her hands on one of the guards, which earned her a heavy handed reply.

“Shut up, sandwhore,” said the guard. He spat in front of her before returning to carry out his duty.

Torm’s eyes were glued to the scene, where Zaber’s narrowed again. There was no use in watching like the crows. Nothing to gain but anger and pain from their own impotence. In the end, even those two knew that they were just two single individuals, powerless in the face of… whatever this was. Zaber tapped his apprentice to move on, or else the voice might become overwhelming again.

“How long are we getting away like this?” asked Torm after a couple of steps. “I still don’t get it. Why handle you with velvet gloves. At some point, they gotta get sick of it.” He looked distraught trying to ignore the sounds in the background.

“Maybe–” Zaber scratched the scar along his jawline. “Maybe we should mess up some more guards.” He smiled at the thought.

“Maybe,” replied Torm and struggled to smile.

“I said don’t worry.” Zaber tilted his head. His unkempt, greasy brown hair, the light shimmer on his oily skin and the six day stubble were the perfect look. Perfect for someone who’d ambushed lawmen at night. Or ask for a loaf of bread and some spare coin, if the veteran wasn’t armed the way he was. “They’re pissing themselves at the mere thought of what I bring to the table.”

How could Torm not be infected with a crooked smile like that? It took a while before he learned how to read the man who took him in. But by now, everything about him was familiar. After all these years and with everything Zaber had done for him, how couldn’t he be on board? In moments like these, Torm knew why they still stuck together and would still do so tomorrow. “If you think so.” He laughed. “Let them come at us.”

Zaber had rarely spoken to Torm about his past. And when he did so, he did so with Asher, Buron and Breg present. The men who had served together for a decade. Torm could overhear them on some occasions, but Buron and Breg shunned Teblen, so it was mostly with Asher. The sordid veteran used to keep a closer eye on his apprentice and the boy had more opportunities to listen in. Before Torm’s training stuck and he could take care of himself. Before he had friends or contacts of his own among the good folk of Westwatch. The only time he wasn’t allowed to be around was when the magistrates visited every once in a while. When the Baronet of Teblen himself showed up once, and went by without any consequences. The only thing Torm knew, why Zaber was treated like a raw egg by officials, was that it had something to do with Airich of Belge. A name known throughout the Kingdom of Albion as the greatest military mind of his age.

“If Asher’s little schemes aren’t that demanding, what do you even do in them?” asked Torm, again. To break through the awkwardness. They will not get away with excluding him from valuable life lessons.

Zaber sighed. “Make sure they go well.” His voice had this grizzling undertone. “He has his own fellas for the heavy lifting. I just back them up. Or hang out with Asher at whatever part he has planned for himself.”

“Is this–” stuttered Torm. “Is he lonely and needs friend-time?” He withheld a laugh, even grabbing his mouth. “Listen, I can read and even speak a little of the western Galázian tongue–”

“I told you, I ain’t asking. His goons are all from the other side of the border anyway. Eraldis or so, I dunno,” ranted Zaber unenaged. Until he stopped in front of Olef’s butchery. Zaber cut at his own neck with a finger to signal that they should stop talking about this. For now.

“By the Kraken, why are you even helping him? He clearly doesn’t need you. And we don’t need the coin either.”

The disheveled veteran stopped on his heel and faced Torm, a dead serious glint in his eyes. The intense stare that Torm had seen many times before but had never been able to replicate. This was the moment when someone was facing the consequences of their actions. And sometimes that someone was Torm. Even bigger was the boy’s relief when Zaber’s face turned into a smirk winked at him playfully.

“Cause you ain’t letting down your friends,” said Zaber. “Any. Ever.” He added, looking at the shop’s sign. A silly rooster’s head with a knife under its wattle. “Let’s go, you said you’re hungry.”