Chapter 24

Day Ten – Midnight

The door fell shut after Breg had brought their final belongings up. While Zaber sat on the edge of one of the beds, staring at their gagged captive, Torm stowed away whatever the unreasonably tall men brought. Four bunk beds for a total of eight sleeping spots were in the room. Old blankets and mattresses were laid out, giving off a musty smell, and two big chests under a wooden window. The first thing they did was open the shutters to let in what little light the moons and stars could offer. Only to be interrupted by a confused moaning from their captive.

“What now?” asked Torm, digging out a fire steel and tinderbox to light a single half-burned candle.

“Gimme a moment,” said Zaber and shook his head out of the stare. Up on his feet, he limped over to the bundle that belonged to Buron and rummaged through it. “Take the candle and see if you can look into his eyes.”

“What are you doing? Let me help–” Torm stopped and watched Zaber down a flask of poppy tincture in one disgusted gulp. He sighed and walked over to the soldier, widening his eyes with his fingers under the flickering light. “Are you fine? Did the getaway make it worse again?” He squinted and moved his head around to get a better view. “What am I looking for?”

“If it’s bloodshot,” said Zaber and downed a second flask. He looked over at his apprentice and sat back down, right in front of their detainee. “Two knocks from Breg ain’t good for a fella.”

“Fine, yes… what?” mumbled the boy, suddenly turning his head around. “Why do we care about that?” He continued to look, but only with glimpses. “Too dark; can’t see shit.”

“Hrm,” grunted Zaber and scratched the scar along his jawline. “We gotta see. Ain’t looking too good tho.” He moved his hands around to direct Torm. “Give him a light tap. Just on the cheek.”

Doing as he was told, Torm retreated towards his mentor. The cavalryman’s head swung back and forth, very slow, without a goal. “Wherr–” he moaned. “’m I.”

“Fuck, his head is jumbled up,” gasped Zaber, and leaned forward. He waved his apprentice to come closer, to position the boy slightly behind himself. With the candle in his back, the veteran’s face looked even more sunken in and dark.

Torm built himself up to look as big as he could, crossing his arms and resting his hand on the hilt of his bauernwehr. It was the same kind of stance Zaber often took when listening to someone who was about to eat a fist or smell steel. The candle was low so that his youthful, smooth face wouldn’t be seen. At least, that was what he hoped for.

“Over here; the voice,” said Zaber louder, snapping his fingers. “What’s your name, soldier?” There was little of the usual grizzle and rasp in his voice. He sounded cold and demanding, focused even. He fell right back into the ways that Torm hadn’t seen until recently.

“Erm–” slurred the man, near-unintelligible.

The veteran gave him all the time he needed, to try again and get it right. “Erm? That your full name, soldier?” pressed Zaber after a couple of attempts.

“–in,” added the cavalryman. “Ermin.”

“Give the man water,” commanded Zaber and Torm moved again.

Now that the soldier would be able to see them act and move, the boy knew that he had to play into the charade. Torm grabbed his mentor’s canteen and put it to their captive’s mouth. Most of it missed and dripped all over him, but he drank.

“How old are you, Ermin?” continued Zaber, snapping his fingers every now and then to regain the man’s attention.

With each messy sip, Ermin’s eyes seemed to open a bit more. “Twenty…” he uttered. “’n four.” As he was nearly throwing up, Torm jumped a step away. “Wh’r you.” The soldier was still slurring, but the words weren’t muffled anymore.

“What are your colors, Ermin?” Zaber knew the man’s rank, he had earned his shield fibula that was common for privates all over Albion. But nobody in that kind of armor would have been below that.

A sudden groan escaped Ermin’s throat and his eyelids twitched. “Ma’ head–” he said and his arms wiggled under the rope that restrained him. His eyes wandered around his own body and the room, aimless and slow. “Firth lans,” he said, squinted and tried to concentrate. “First banner, ‘o The Magr–ffsss–”

“Focus, soldier,” ordered Zaber. “Keep going. You guildsblood?” Zaber leaned forward even more, resting his elbows on his knees. The sweet relief of the poppy flower made itself felt.

Returning to Zaber’s side, Torm pulled on the veteran’s worn-out gambeson. “What are you on about? Is any of that important?”

“Fall in line,” said Zaber without even looking at Torm. “I know how to handle a sold–”

“Wh’r you?” Ermin’s voice butted in. “Why ‘m I tied–”

Zaber held his hand up to signal Torm to wait. He swiped his hair back, uncomfortable with how silky it still was. “Ermin,” he said slowly. “You really need to listen. You got your polished guildarse in real trouble, got that? How many–”

“Ma’ fath’r–” Ermin stumbled over his own words, his head nearly collapsing forward. “Ma’ pa works… the stables,” slurred the soldier. “I ain’t a g’ldsboy.”

Scratching the scar along his jawline, Zaber snapped again. This time though, he did so at the boy next to him, pointing him over to the soldier. “Keep him awake.”

“Come on, Ermin,” said Torm and walked over. He grabbed their captive by the shoulders and straightened him out, leaning him against a bed pole behind him. “Don’t make this difficult.” There was an unusual grit to his voice, something he had tried to get right for years now. But this was genuine.

“Ermin, listen. I ain’t gonna kill you if you work with me,” said Zaber, provoking a sudden turn of Torm’s head, with raised eyebrows. “Just tell me how many of you there are and we’ll leave you behind unharmed.”

“You tha–” Ermin focused on his interrogator with twitching eyelids. “Zab’r?”

“’aight, that’s me,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “Answer me and you live. How many were sent to follow us?” He ignored Torm’s gaze and pressed on. There was a soft shift in his voice now. “Ermin, work with me. Please,” said Zaber, quenching the sizzling voice in the back of his head.

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“Nob’dy,” replied the soldier, nearly choking on his words. “Th’ mage ‘nd we five.”

“Don’t lie to me, Ermin.” Zaber’s voice rose and his knees twitched as if he was about to furiously stand up. “You ain’t in a good position here. Who’s that line magician?”

“I–” A long pause followed, Ermin’s head bobbing back and forth. “Can’t r’memb’r…”

“Who’s in charge, soldier?” Zaber stood up, bracing himself against the pole of the bunk bed he was sitting on. “Ermin, ain’t you wanna see your pa again?”

“Cap’n Beo–” With a fading voice, Ermin’s eyes shut and opened. The strength in his neck was fading too. Even when Torm shook him, he just repeated, “Beo–th…” but couldn’t finish. When letting go of their captive’s body, it went limp. Not even reacting to when Zaber pulled out his stiletto.

“Damned, we losing him,” said Zaber and sat down again. “Ermin!” he yelled. “How many? How many total?”

No answer. Mentor and apprentice looked at each other without a word, a dozed-off breath in the background. After stowing away his weapon and letting go of the charade, Zaber stood up and walked through the room. His legs were still wobbly, but worked well enough even without Torm’s help. The veteran grabbed Ermin at the hair and came face-to-face with him. “Ermin, the transport. How big is the escort?”

“Fuck,” gasped Torm. He clenched both his fists and punched a mattress. “Fuck!”

Zaber let go of Ermin and sat right next to him on another bed. “A dozen, maybe two,” he uttered to himself.

“And that knight,” added Torm dreadfully. “All with the kind of armor these riders had?”

While the boy took strides through the room, up and down, Zaber stared at the scar on the back of his hand while rubbing it. “And his lieutenant. Three mages, two capable ones.” The veteran grabbed his own hair and ruffled it, to get that damn feeling out of his head. He ended it with a knock of his palm against his head, trying to shut up Brenz. “We gotta scout for better intel.”

The boy turned around and knelt next to his mentor, looking him dead in the face. “Zaber?” he asked with a gloomy undertone.

“Hm?” The veteran was pulled out of his thoughts.

“Why did you tell him you won’t kill him?”

“What?” Zaber’s eyebrows narrowed and he grabbed the bed’s sheets to hold on to them.

Twitching around, Torm stood up and took a step backwards. He looked down on Zaber while a snoring was building up from their captive. “They killed Tonna. Why would we let him live? At least let Thyra–”

“Boy,” interrupted Zaber with both hands holding onto the cloth beneath. “Do you think I enjoy this?” The rasp in his voice had returned and his teeth were grinding. “You have no say in this. And you ain’t touching him, or–”

“Or what?” Torm returned the interruption, just as harshly. “Don’t boy me. You know how much I hate it.”

Stunned for a moment, the voice in his head and the juice in his veins fought each other. “Not you too,” said Zaber and grabbed his own hair, pulling on it while bumping his palm against his forehead. “What am I in your head?”

“I–” stuttered the boy, rubbing his hands against each other. “You–” He sighed. “Nothing has ever stopped you from doing the right thing. Your thing. You’ve never stopped–”

“Are you fucking with me?!” Zaber erupted onto his feet. “I hate this,” he said and punched the same spot on the mattress as his apprentice before him. “I try to be–” Zaber stopped. The words were in his head, even on his tongue, but…

“You killed when we first settled into the temple…” Torm thought about it, as he was sleeping at the time. The longer he mused over this, the more folk who were still alive came to his mind. “You were set on killing the Morells too. You mowed the prisoner’s guards down like they were nothing. And you–” The boy’s lips trembled as he choked up. “You killed my mother’s murderers. This is your thing. You do good by–”

“Boy,” said Zaber and grabbed Torm’s shoulder with his scarred hand. “I do what I need to do. Whatever stands in my way. But I ain’t enjoying this.” He looked into the young man’s eyes, tired and grim.

“Before we went down the shitter, you–” Torm forcefully smiled at his own words. “You’ve never looked so alive and happy.”

“This ain’t what I like to do,” said Zaber, and let go of Torm. He turned around to give Ermin a little kick to see if he would wake up from it or move. No response. “It’s what I’ve been made for. If sparing them would’ve been out there, I would do so. And if I need to kill each and every one of them to get Sagir back, I’ll murder my way through the whole kingdom. And this fella here, this–” he sat back down next to him. “Ermin. He’s like me. Like Asher, Breg and Buron. They tell him what to do and he does it. They couldn’t give less a shit about him if he dies or lives.” Leaning forward, the veteran closed his eyes. He leaned his face onto his palms to run them into his irritating hair again. “I know this, Breg and Buron know this… and so did Asher.”

Torm gasped again. He held a fist with his other hand, looking for something to punch, but couldn’t find anything. “I know,” he mumbled. “But Thyra–”

“No, you ain’t,” said Zaber through his own thoughts, pulling his hair back. “And that’s how I’ll keep it. You’ll be better than me; happier. This’ my only chance–”

Pacing through the room, Torm sat down next to his mentor and wrapped an arm around him. “Man, can you not say it like that?” he said with another forced smile. “I love Sagir too. We’re in this together. You, me, tall and limpy down there. I thought we went through this back in Teblen? You’re not doing this all by yourself.”

Letting go of himself, Zaber exhaled relieved. He didn’t resist the hug, even went full in. He truly loved this boy and only the Stars knew what would’ve happened if they’ve never met. Where Torm’s voice was trembling, hinting at a sob, Zaber’s face and voice stood still. “I gotta fix this. I promised. And–” he paused. “And they captured–” he paused even more. “They’ve killed Asher. On top of everything, they took Asher.”

They remained like this for a while. It may have been their longest hug ever, unable to say anything more. Torm wanted to say more, but didn’t know how to, while the mentor was looking past the apprentice’s shoulder. At the weapons that laid on the other side of the room, next to the bed he was going to sleep in. Lay in. Think in. Wait for the next morning…

“Let me tell you who I’m going to kill, though,” uttered Zaber as they separated.

“That knight?” asked Torm with a genuine smile.

“That damned knight,” replied Zaber, also smiling. “He’s gotta be behind this; ordered by the Margrave, or Baronet.” Rising again, he walked through the room towards his lange messer, picked it up, and unsheathed it to inspect how well Breg mended it. “We fell for his horseshit. He probed us and I slipped. This whole thing is about Airich’s–”

“Zaber?” Torm’s voice rose softly when Zaber struggled to find words once more. “You’re not like him.”

“I try,” replied Zaber, but the smile on his face was still there, murderous, sizzling in the back of his neck. Staring at the pale reflection of the candle’s light on the blade, he shook his head and sheathed it away with a loud ‘chink’. “I need some more of that juice.”

“Wait, you sure?” said Torm and both of them moved towards Buron’s baggage. But the same moment, the door burst open and Thyra nearly tripped over her own feet.

“I had a tavern brawl!” she said, leaning against the frame and holding her own mouth shut afterwards.