Chapter 25

Day Ten – Morning

A cold night was ended by the warm spring sun, bringing forth a melancholic mist in the early morning. Four men and a woman stepped out of the Arrow Inn, all paid and ready to saddle up.

“Are you really fine with leaving that bastard behind?” asked Torm after the door fell shut. Zaber had left their captive enough coin so that Glonn wouldn’t let him die when he found him upstairs.

“Why bastard?” Thyra yawned, trying to get her hair under control without a comb. “I thought his father worked the stables,” said the rugged woman, frustrated at the mess on her head.

“I–” Torm halted, blinked, then rubbed the gunk out of his eyes. “I insulted him. You know… for killing–”

“Right, don’t worry.” Thyra forestalled Torm’s thoughts and smiled at Buron and Breg. The three veterans didn’t speak while they walked towards the small stables between the road and the inn. “I will be sad for a while, but I’m alright. Astonishing enough, Zaber’s explanation made sense to me,” she said. “And as King Bercier in the Mailin King said: I don’t aim for the rivers when an ocean lies ahead of me.”

Torm was about to halt and look at her in overplayed befuddlement, but his companions didn’t wait. “What?” said the boy, catching up.

“It’s a story from Galázion’s western horn and the isles. A mythical king who defied the Kraken and set out for a magical island,” said Thyra nasally.

“Wow,” replied Torm, blinking several times. “I finally get what you fellas feel like when I–”

“Listen up, ladies,” interrupted Zaber when they set foot into the stables. He and Buron were limping ever so slightly. Zaber’s stubble had grown unevenly and he had deep dark rings around his eyes. “Huh–” He felt his increasingly oily hair when he stepped in front of everyone. “This ain’t working as well with a girl around,” said Zaber, looking at Thyra.

“Was–… Is–” Thyra stuttered and shook her head confused. “Is that supposed to be bad?”

“No? I–” Zaber scratched the scar along his jaw. “Anyway. Ermin wasn’t that helpful, so we’re still at a disadvantage.”

“We face two knights and a line magician.” Breg butted in, straightening his hair and beard that were as messy as the rugged woman’s. Nobody among the companions looked well rested, though the reasons were very different. “No matter the plan, we’re fighting an uphill battle.”

“’aight,” nodded Zaber. “we need more intel. Buron, pick a nag for Thyra. She’ll be riding with me and the boy. You two take the right side of the road, we the left side,” ordered Zaber, making Buron move with a quick salute and squinty smile. “I’m sure the transport is ahead of us, but we gotta make sure. They ain’t fast with the cages, so we need to make the best of our mobility advantage. Torm ain’t a good rider and we’re loaded with heavy shit too,” said Zaber and looked at his apprentice and then at the young woman next to him. “Last chance; you in or out? I’ll give you some coin, water and a blade. There’s no shame in running.”

Thyra hesitated and her eyes touched the ground for a brief moment. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Have you slept at all? How are your feet?” She asked with a smile. “If you take my medicine without my permission again, I’ll pinch your ear off.”

“Bit of a bite left, nothing that hinders me from riding,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “Tomorrow I’ll be busting heads again,” he added and Torm’s face cheered up. “And you need to up your threats if you want to impress me. We’ll have a nice long talk on horseback later.”

The unreasonably tall man saddled their horses while his bald companion inspected the three animals he assumed belonged to Erhand’s gang. He looked at their hooves, ran his hand through their manes, pinched their skin for fat and muscles and inspected their joints and heads. When he pulled their mouths open and grabbed their tongues to keep them open and his hands safe from being bitten, a shiver went through Thyra.

“Welcome to the party,” said Buron, slapping the back of a black drayhorse with white feet. While Breg picked a saddle from within the stable to dress the animal up, the scrawny veteran turned towards Thyra. “New recruits will be hazed,” he laughed with a squint.

“Haz–what?” asked the young woman while the reins were pressed into her hands. “I’m too tired for this, can you just talk normal?” Her hands twitched back and forth as she tried to pet the horse’s nose while it nibbled at her.

“Forget it,” interjected Zaber and rubbed the horse at the neck, making it groan and lean into it. “These are pretty thin,” he said, looking at Buron. “What’s a good rendezvous point ahead of us?”

“Oh, there is a beautiful, drowsy mill ruin about forty furlongs along the King’s Road,” said Buron and swung himself up the stirrups of his pinto. They made sure to get out before anyone else was up and Breg had packed most of their horses already. “Can’t miss it, right up a hill at a crossing. Very popular with folk like us.”

“Don’t forget to bring flowers,” grizzled Breg’s voice. He mounted the dark beast he had picked, towering even higher than before.

“Daisies are your favorite, ain’t they?” asked Zaber in all seriousness. “Y’all know the routine, do what we do best,” ordered the recovering veteran, as he and Breg stared each other down. “Now get your arses out of here, we’ll meet at that romantic hideout before sundown. If we get good intel, we can up the pace.”

Packed with armor, weapons and bundled up their belongings, Buron and Breg glimpsed at each other. “You heard the man,” said Buron, winking at his giant companion and out they were.

“You take my dapple,” said Zaber and took away the reins of Thyra, pointing at the gray and white spotted horse he rode the day before. “This one’s not properly trained for riding, you two ain’t right for it.”

A brief explanation of how to control her animal with her thighs, heels and the reins followed. Thyra learned what the bit and bridle were supposed to do and what words a well trained horse understood. For now, one gait was all she needed, but Zaber would teach her more along the road. The young woman had only seen crude depictions of these animals before, or beautiful prose about them. But the power beneath her felt frightening and frustrating at once. Most of the movement was controlled by Zaber though. He never once let go of the horse, always keeping one hand close to intervene. Thyra and Torm were fascinated by how this rude and at times inept man was able to make a beast like this calm down. He scratched it at the right spots, or cuddled it the right way.

“I think she’s getting the hang of it,” said Torm after a while, after they’d traveled a couple hundred yards down the road. He rode half a horse’s length behind them, watching closely. The boy was able to keep his chestnut colored horse under control, but it sometimes did whatever it felt like. Zaber had to re-explain some older lessons to him, or give it the right command.

“’aight,” nodded Zaber, leaning to the side on the drayhorse. He had to try a couple of times to find the commands it was trained for. Simple clicks with his tongue turned out to be the most effective, which meant it was used to a cart and crop. “You good?”

“Ye–, yes,” answered Thyra, barely able to keep the horse from going too fast or slow. “I’ll call him Bercier, smart and strong.” She smiled, while bumping up and down.

“It’s a she,” said Torm, popping up right next to her on the opposite side to Zaber. “Mine’s too. I think I’ll call her Scony,” he smiled and petted its mane.

“What a nice name! What does it mean?” Thyra tried to look to the side, but her eyes were glued to her hands and the road.

“His first girl,” said Zaber dryly. “Let’s see if we can get you to trot and canter by the end of the day.”

“Really? That’s kinda mean.” The rugged woman looked to the side, bewildered. Zaber grabbed her reins to keep her horse from sprinting. “What’s yours?” she asked Zaber, not waiting for Torm’s reaction.

“Horse,” said Zaber.

“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Thyra with Torm snorting a laugh behind her. “Play along, how about–”

“’aight,” interrupted Zaber. “The nag’s Airich. Happy?”

Looking at each other, bewildered, Torm and Thyra fell silent for a while. Without speaking, both were musing if Zaber had chugged from the poppy juice without asking again. But as tense as he was, twitching eyes at every moving shadow behind the trees, shrubs and mounds…

“Why?” asked both companions at the same time, varying in pitch and tone. Each wanted to let the other one speak first, resulting in a mess of, “I–”, “You–”, and unfinished questions about the man behind the name that Zaber hated so much.

“Every horse I had died,” said Zaber, his gaze fixed ahead. “First one broke a leg; had to put it down and ate it later.” He let go of Thyra’s reins to scratch the scar along his jaw. “Naming it after him will at least make it funny when it bites the dust.” A small lipped smirk built up in the veteran’s face.

Torm remembered when they lived with the horse Zaber inherited. An old but beautiful beast of which his mentor took more care than any other creature. Never had the boy seen Zaber as disheartened as after its death. He even held a funeral outside of Teblen. Now that he was older and thinking about it, Torm frowned. All the fights and plans to murder the Morells, after their arrival, happened right after Patina died.

“Way to kill the mood,” said Torm and forced a smile. “Where we heading now?”

“Just follow my lead, I’ll explain later,” yawned Zaber and rubbed his nose and eyes. His lids and head felt heavy with the thoughts that kept him up. “We gotta settle something else first,” he said. “Thyra?”

“What?” The young woman looked to the side, holding onto the reins uptight. “Are you alright? You seem–” She paused, which Torm took as his cue to jump in.

“You look horrible, man,” said the boy. “Not the worst, but far from–”

“Got it,” nodded Zaber. “Y’all are concerned, thanks for that.” And they weren’t wrong. He still felt as if the gutter was crawling through his veins. No matter that the juice made him relax and sleepy, his head didn’t shut the fuck up. With how much he failed his promise to Ceyhan, the ghosts were laughing at him constantly it seemed. When he wasn’t thinking about the poppy juice, Zaber was planning and scheming… which made him think about Asher. An out of control spiral, with a seething voice commenting on everything at the back of his neck. “I want you to teach me how to sing,” ordered the veteran.

“Oooh,” exhaled Thyra, not too surprised. “No, I can’t. This takes years, and you don’t even know the old tongue, nor do you–”

“Wait, this is your great plan? I thought you–” said Torm.

Everyone was talking over each other now, so Zaber spoke louder and more demanding. “I only want to learn two spells,” he said. “I heard them a hundred or more times and I tried over and over. But it just ain’t–” The veteran paused, grumbling and grinding his teeth. “The ones inscribed into the sword. Both sides are different, one sets it on fire, the other is a burst of flames.”

“You mean new magic? I don’t know any of these,” replied Thyra, and looked backwards. She nearly toppled off the horse, but got stabilized by Torm’s hand. She tried to get a glimpse at the bundle behind Zaber. “I might understand how enchantments work, but we didn’t have any. Arcanium isn’t used in most old traditions. The knowledge of it only spread through the Iridian Empire.”

Airich’s sword was hidden away among gear that sat on Zaber’s horse’s rear end. Bundled together into bags that hung from the sides and one right on top. Each of the companions had a knapsack as well, bound behind their backs and across their chests. They traveled lightly, with not much spare clothing, as their weapons, armor and provisions took up enough space. Zaber wore his old attire again, gambeson, breeches and boots. As he’d lost his own armor, Ermin’s was good enough as a substitute.

“We’ll figure it out,” said the veteran. “You said all magic got the same rules. If I tell you the words, you can work out the–” He paused to remember Thyra’s words. “Pitch, or harmony? Or whatever. You gotta know at least some fire songs, ain’t you?”

“I want to learn too.” Torm swept in before Thyra could say something. “They have three mages. Teach both of us and we have three too.”

With the feeling of a knot in her neck and chest, the rugged woman choked on her words. Until recently, she was the student. The thought of teaching what her mother taught her felt like a bunch of pebbles in her guts. She didn’t even know all the songs from their books yet, which is why her mother threw one old songbook into her bundle. Now she was expected to make these men able to fight the monstrous magic she only knew from stories? Her mouth opened and closed more than once, and her mind went blank.

“Boy, you can learn as much magic as you want after we’ve freed Sagir,” said Zaber, clenching a fist around the reins and scratching the scar on his jaw again. “And kill that Beotold.” The rasp in his voice dampened. “And this sword is mine, not yours.”

“F–, fine,” stuttered Torm and bit his lip. He had been scolded before, disciplined even. His mentor treated him harsh in training, but never like that. “You fine with teaching me when this is over?” The apprentice looked at the young woman to his side. “Thyra?” he asked when he saw her watered eyes. “Thyra? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” swallowed Thyra her sorrows before actual tears ran down her face. A shiver went down her spine and she faced the broken veteran. Life wasn’t easy anymore, and this uneasy man owed her, yet he made the demands. “I’ll teach you if you teach me,” she said. “Swordplay, riding, and–” Thyra paused, pressed her thighs together and held the reins high. “You want to kill the knights? I’ll make you sing fire, but the other mage belongs to me.”

“Deal,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “The spells were like–” He wanted to get right to the point, but needed to think long and hard. “In volocro igni; making the sword steel burn or so. Seen it work on armor too. The other one is–” Closing his eyes, his lips moved in a silent recital of his memories. “Ignam vocu. This is the more important one. A blast of fire.”

“Like that Captain’s thunder?” asked Torm, running his hand through his hair and rubbing his head. “What was he singing? Maybe there’s a pattern.”

Zaber grunted affirmatively. “Good thinking, a lot of the officers sounded the same.”

The shape and sounds of a cart, ahead on the road, became apparent soon enough. The veteran shut the conversation down with a hand sign, and pointed ahead into the waning morning mist. A man in his prime led a sagging ox, dressed in red chausses, sturdy blue linen and a gugel to keep his head covered. An axe made for labor and a hiking pole stood out to Zaber.

“Hooo.” Zaber slowed his horse down and took control of Thyra’s once again. “Here’s the story: We’re all siblings from Teblen and the prison transport got your betrothed. He got sentenced for raping you, but you lied and now you’re out to withdraw your accusation. I’ll do the talking, you and–”

“No, that’s a horrible story!” shivered Thyra at the thought, with her mezzo voice rising. “I don’t want to play that part.”

“Fine,” sighed Zaber with rolling eyes. “He beat you, but you want to forgive him.”

“What? That’s just as bad,” said Thyra, and tried to pull the reins out of Zaber’s hands. “I don’t want to be a victim or liar.”

With an aimless gaze into the woods, the veteran rubbed the scar on the back of his hand. He placed the same hand on his chin and pulled his head sidewards, bringing forth a terrible crack from his neck. “Girl,” he said. “You ain’t in these woods anymore. This world is plenty different.” He pulled out a prepared cloak and kerchief from the makeshift saddlebags of his horse. “We gotta make this believable. Make you believable. Peasant’s ain’t as judgmental as the cityfolk, but you can’t run around like in your bog anymore. Swing your legs around the saddle, sideways.” Zaber demonstrated the motion and how it ought to look, making Torm twitch, scared that he might fall. “And it’s even more important that you cover your hair, chest and shoulders, or nobody is going to talk to you. Only folk you don’t want to talk to will come at you.”

“Why ride like that?” asked Thyra, astounded by the quick display of acrobatics. She lifted a leg above her horse’s head, like Zaber did, but entangled her skirt with the reins, the animal and the saddle. Only when Torm lent her a hand did she make it. “This is uncomfortable. How do I even use my thighs like you told me to now?”

“You don’t,” said Torm with a smirk. “You’ll look mighty strange, no matter what. A woman, dressed like you, on her own nag.”

“Help her with this too, Torm.” The mentor threw his apprentice the cloak and the kerchief to the rugged woman. “We gotta get her her own clothes when we’re done,” he added. “This is my winter and night cloak. You’ll look somewhat shady in it, but at least not indecent.”

“Hear me out,” replied Thyra, staring into the sky, musing. “My beloved is on that transport, still–” Her eyes brightened as she folded the cloth around her head, hiding her unruly hair. “He’s on there for murder; innocent! We have proven it, the real culprit has been found. Or turned himself in, or whatever,” she continued, getting the cloak buttoned around her neck and shoulders.

“’aight, if that works for you, we’ll go with it,” nodded Zaber. He gesticulated at his apprentice with the cloak, instructing him from afar. “Torm’s still your brother. You ain’t traveling alone with two strangers.”

“Pull the cloak up,” said Torm, straightening the fabrics on Thyra’s shoulders. “Showing neck or hair will make their pants pop. Proper and stuck-up folk might not talk to us if they think you’re a dirty wench.” He tried to make it work, but her proportions and Zaber’s were too different to make it look natural. Seeing the young woman’s frustration rise, Torm yielded his hands from her.

“Wow,” exclaimed Thyra, baffled. “This is so stupid. I thought mother was exaggerating.”

“Let’s go,” said Zaber and clicked his tongue, giving the draft horse a gentle tap. “I’ll talk, you two play your roles. Give away as little as possible.” He grabbed the reins of his horse and the one next to him, waiting for a sign that his companions understood.

“What’s my lover’s name?” Thyra nodded, seriously, and straightened her back in a way that proper ladies were depicted in her books. It did not work too well.

“Kell,” said Torm and nodded too. “He’s a silly little man. Good-hearted but–” he paused to seek for the right words. “Opposite of Zaber.”

While Thyra and Torm had a good chuckle, Zaber inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. Clearing his head, even he smirked about it. The three of them made their way up to the shadowy figure ahead in the mist. The hooves of their horses announced them and the man turned around to greet them with an open face.

“Blessed be you, my–” said Zaber, but was cut off before his and the peasant’s eyes met.

“I have nothing worth robbing. Just a–” grumbled the man, then stopped and inspected each of them, with heavy emphasis on Thyra. “Oh damned,” he said. “I thought you were someone else. I’m deeply sorry.”

“Who did you think we were?” asked Thyra, slowing her horse down under guidance from Zaber.

The ox-driver took a look up and down the road, making sure that nobody else was coming, or hiding. “Wretched fella by the name of Erhand. You ain’t from here?”

“Oh, we met,” said Zaber after a moment of awkward silence. He stared at Torm and pointed at the peasant in front of them with angry nods.

“Sorry–” coughed the boy. “My sister, here–” He waved over to Thyra, introducing her, accompanied by a shy smile from the young woman. “And I had an unfortunate encounter with Erhand and his two thugs. Our guide took care of them in a nearby inn, w–”

“Wait up!” exclaimed the peasant, excitedly. He stopped walking, and the ox-cart he steered. “That’s his nag. You killed that son of a whore?”

“Not killed,” said Zaber, showing no emotions. “Took it as compensation. Knocked his arse out.” Spitting on the road, the veteran walked his horse next to their new friend. “We need directions, you good to ask?”

“Damned I am!” The man spit in his hand and reached for Zaber to shake it. “Thank you so much, I’m Gorde. Fuck him and his Kraken-forsaken cousin.”

The mere memory of the last night put a stupid smile on Thyra’s face that was so contagious that Torm snorted a laugh too. His mentor gave his two companions a glimpse that made them shut up in an instant. “We looking for a fancy-schmancy caravan. Prison transport, high profile; seen it?”

“Huh,” the man thought. “Heard about it on the yester, but didn’t see it myself. Why you asking?”

“Nothing special.” Zaber shook his head curtly. “We gotta catch up to it. What and where did you hear about it?”

When the peasant’s face changed even the slightest in a suspicious way, Torm jumped in. “My sister and I have to make a plea of innocence for her fiancé. Or he’ll be taken from us forever.”

Thyra added a weak moan and grabbed her heart. “My beloved.”

“Her beloved,” repeated Torm with his best puppy-eyes.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Zaber sighed and closed his eyes frustrated.

“Woah,” whispered the peasant. “What an adventure you’re on. Good you two got yourself some good muscle.” He looked into the foggy horizon, slightly off the road. “My village, Woadan, is down the next turning. Folk there might have heard more, lots of them are on the road to prepare the fields for sowing.”

“What are you transporting?” asked Thyra out of nowhere, attracting Zaber’s angry eyes again. The boy tried to interrupt her, mimicking her to stop, but it was already too late.

“Oh, me? We got ourselves a second beast of burden,” said the peasant and pointed at the cart’s load bed. “Asked our liege if his blacksmith can make us a second plough.” He slapped the side of the oxen, laughing delightfully. “This old fella’s gonna get laid soon. Breed us some new cattle between sowing and harvest, after we lost the mules over winter.”

“Please excuse my sister’s nosiness,” said Torm before Thyra could go on. “This is her first time outside of Teblen.”

“’precciated if my questions ain’t drowned out by her jabbering,” said Zaber, adding extra rasp to his voice and staring down his companions. “I’m paid by the day and I ain’t cheap.”

“Sure, sure. What was it again?” asked the peasant. “Heard it from the blacksmith’s apprentice, who heard it from a servant in our liege’s manor. Said it was a big one, ‘spenny armor and all.” The man rubbed his thumb and fingers together to hint at the value. “Our liege regrets not hosting them fancy city knights.”

“Thank you, that’s all,” said Zaber, nodded and spat in his hand for another shake. Grabbing his and Thyra’s reins, he spurred both horses to speed up a bit – as much as they could with the saddlebags. The young woman was stunned by how fast they left, while Torm nodded and tipped his tilted felt cap.

“Why–” The cloaked woman tried to not fall off her horse, now that she had to sit in a stupid way. Another thought crossed her mind when she clung to the saddle. “Wouldn’t it be better to travel with him to the village? Gain his trust?”

“We got everything we need,” said Torm, looking at Zaber for confirmation.

“I ain’t giving a damn about his trust,” said Zaber, his gaze glued to the front. “If he’d refuse to cooperate, I would’ve unsaddled.”

Turning around to see how far away the peasant was, Thyra crossed her legs over the horse again, forcing Zaber to let loose of the reins. “Is that really necessary? You’ve let that soldier live, why–”

“I ain’t killing him. It’s your part to hold me back, be the voices of reason to my crazy,” explained Zaber slowly, clenching the fist which just lost Thyra’s reins. “Y’all need to get into your roles. You ask too many dumb questions; and Torm, you need to stop reacting and take the initiative.”

The boy and young woman fell silent, looking at each other and the rapidly moving road beneath them. Torm’s grip tightened and his lips moved along while he prepared some good lines.

“I’ve never talked to anybody other than my mother before,” said Thyra, and ripped her kerchief off, to relieve her wild hair from the itching.

“Don’t worry, I just need to get my head into it,” said the boy, looking forward in a similar steely way to his mentor. “This isn’t our usual spiel either. We’ll adapt and learn.”

“There’s no time for that,” grunted Zaber, looking at the scar on the back of his hand. “Me and Asher did this kind of work together – back in the day. He’s the smoothtalker, I’m the muscle. I know what I want and how to get it…” Breathing more heavily, he heard Brenz tell him how to deal with this louder than ever before. “I need someone to play off from, and–” He paused and stared Torm down. “You know this ain’t my thing. I can’t just fight myself through this part alone.”

“So Buron’s the smooth-talker and Breg’s his muscle?” asked Thyra, squeezing her head between the Zaber’s stare and Torm’s distraught face.

“By both Sisters!” shouted Torm, before playfully calming down to a neutral tone. “I can’t picture that… well, I can imagine Breg’s part.”

Pushing the intrusive thoughts to the side with all his might, Zaber shrugged. “They do it differently. Asher and I just worked,” he said, smiling. “That’s why he refused to let you in on his schemes.”

“No,” said Torm without hesitation. “It’s because he didn’t respect me.” He and his mentor spoke through Thyra, ignoring her completely. The men lost their smiles again and only the clip-clopping of hooves could be heard for a while. “And neither does Breg, nor Buron. I’m not even sure if you really respect me.”

“Listen,” ordered Zaber. His eyebrows narrowed so much that they became one. “When this is over, no matter the outcome–” He halted and looked deep into the boy’s eyes. “You will be one of us. Truly, one of us.”

Torm saw the gloom in Zaber’s brown eyes. The hazy blue of his own, though, brightened upon hearing that. An infectious smile spread through Thyra towards Zaber. For a brief moment, the veteran and his apprentice felt like back in Teblen. Both nodded and turned their heads ahead.

“Uhm, boys?” uttered Thyra, attracting both men’s infuriated attention.

“Don’t call me boy,” they said in unison.

The rugged woman couldn’t withhold a roaring laughter. Her mezzo broke entirely, shattering the moment between these knuckleheads. “Alright, alright! Ladies? I think there’s the turning,” she squeezed out between the laughter.

“Well played,” said Zaber, nodding with a half-smile. “Good eyes too.”

Reminded that her posture needed to align with folk’s expectations, Thyra tried to look genteel again. The village had the heraldry of their liege’s house, two red roosters on blue ground, separated by an arrow. As it was the law of the land, numerals were engraved on the wooden sign. To keep track of the serfs that weren’t allowed to leave without permission. Fifty-seven men, eighty-seven women and twelve children. The count had been adjusted several times, meaning that these changes were too new to warrant a new plate. Where Zaber and Torm ignored the carved tally, their newest companion took a closer look.

“Why so many women and so few children?” uttered Thyra to herself.

“You’ve been living in the marshes,” replied Torm and pointed the first villagers he saw out to Zaber. “Last winter was cold as fuck.”

Slowing down the horses, Zaber scratched the scar along his jawline when they approached a group of older women. “Summer’s been unusually dry too,” he said absentmindedly. His eyes fixated on a couple of children with botchy-build wooden swords. The older women of the village sorted through big bags of spelt, separating the bad seeds.

The residents of Woadan looked at the trio that rode into their home. Chatter and murmur sprang forth and intensified the closer the horses got. Zaber unsaddled in a fluid swing, but his face distorted when he landed… the last remnants of his injuries. He grabbed Thyra’s reins and led her, with Torm keeping pace on his own. The village’s women wore simple dresses, mostly colorless. With simple headscarfs and an occasional coif, all tied beneath their chins.

“Good day, be Father Sun with you,” greeted Zaber and lowered his head. “We met one of your men on the road. He said you may help us with some directions.”

“And who are you?” asked one of the women, blocking their way further into the village.

“Excuse us.” Torm bowed his head too. “Me and my sister are on the lookout for an armed caravan; headed by some noblemen. There was a man with an ox-cart who promised us the aid of his fellow men.”

“Did he?” said the elderly woman, putting a hand on Zaber’s chest, pushing him away from the rest her group. “Was there a new plough with him?” The veteran stared at her hand, but did not move at all, laying a hand on the hilt of his stiletto. “Tell your dog to stay put. My husband was levied once, I recognize a good-for-nothing when I see one.”

“I assure you, he’s on a tight leash,” smirked Torm and swung down his horse. Putting his shoulder close to Thyra’s legs and feet, he offered her a hand to slide down too.

“If he lays hand on anybody in our village, our liege will not be pleased,” said the elderly woman, individual strands of hair peeking out under a headscarf. Most of the women’s plain clothes were soiled, with grease and stains on their aprons. “State your business, we got plenty work.”

Satisfied with Torm’s performance, Zaber knew what he had to do. “Miss–” He grabbed the hand that tried to push him away. “If you ever touch me again, your liege will only learn of my deeds when he finds his fief empty,” he rasped, making her retreat.

“Brother, didn’t we have enough troubles with the sellsword–” said Thyra, revolted and shuddering, while pulling the cloak against her shoulders. “In the inn?” She looked disgusted at Zaber, who ignored her entirely.

“Airich, what did I tell you after your bout with that Erhand fella?!” shouted Torm, after which Zaber’s mouth twitched, brows narrowed.

Being called that name made Zaber react in all honesty. A grim gaze towards his supposed employers followed, but he stepped away obediently. Scratching the scar along his jawline, the mentor never felt so proud of his apprentice.

“He killed Erhand?” asked the elderly woman and grabbed her heart. All the women behind her stopped working and gathered around the trio, repeating various questions about the bandit’s demise.

“Put him in his place,” said Zaber. “He ain’t walking for a while.”

“What about his son?” urged another peasant woman.

“And his damned cousin?” added another.

“Nose and teeth broken,” replied Zaber, nodding as if it was nothing.

“Alna? Alna!” yelled the elderly woman and looked for one of her peers. The youngest among the old women stepped forth. “Please, go visit Windy and tell her,” she ordered, a weeping sneaking into her tone.

Torm and Zaber looked at each other confused, but shrugged it off. Only Thyra’s mouth stood open, remembering what the bandits were talking about last night. “Is she alright?” she asked, letting go of the oversized cloak.

“No,” answered the elderly woman. “No, she’s not.” Her voice had softened. She looked after the messenger running towards one of their simple stone and block houses with thatched roofs. Most buildings were built in one big circle around a bountiful center. “What do you want from that caravan? It was the talk of the town when we spotted it. Handsome fellas in full suits of steel,” said the woman and turned back towards Thyra. “Had to keep the children away from it because of the two cages filled with poor souls.”

The village was surrounded by blossoming trees. A tiny stream ran through the foliage. The region around Lake Teblen was known for its many creeks and ponds.

Torm was dumbfounded by the sudden switch in attitude. “Uh–”

“My fiance is one of them.” Thyra tucked herself in. “He’s innocent, the real culprit has been found. If we can’t catch up soon, I might never see him again.” She sobbed throughout, ever since she remembered Erhand’s words.

“Oh my–” The peasant woman clutched her apron and a murmur went through the rest of the village. “Good that you got yourself a handy brute. It’s not only Erhand and his family who terrorize the roads. Last winter has driven many men to desperate means.”

“How long ago did you spot them?” asked Zaber, his gaze wandering through every corner of the village. “Anything about the men they carried?”

“There were some women, likely whores,” replied the elderly woman in disdain. “Everyone looked very dirty and disgusting. One was a savage – a foul beast.”

“Anything about the guards?” added Torm, who looked at the children with their wooden swords. They had gathered to look at Zaber, his weapons and his scars. It was obvious that his mentor tried to ignore them. “Did they look trustworthy?”

“Why the guards?” asked another woman who kept the children away. “They were all upstanding men of our Margrave… I assume. Nice horses, polished metal, with all their teeth.”

“A savage?” Thyra looked confused, wiping away the remnants of tears. “What does that mean?”

“Ain’t you a city girl?” scoffed the elderly woman. “A heathen. One that keeps your hands smooth. But–” She mustered Thyra from head to toe, grabbing her hands and turning her palms up. “You a working gal like us. What about you, boy? You look neither like him, nor her. What does your daddy do?”

Torm’s face turned dark and he waved at Zaber. “Airich,” he demanded his mentor’s attention. “I don’t want that peasant to touch my sister.”

The veteran did as he was told. He put his hands on the older woman’s shoulder and pulled her back. She didn’t resist, but her face looked like he was crushing her bones. “Heh!”

“A blackhead, that is who she means,” explained Torm to Thyra. “And my father’s business is none of yours.”

“Please, good woman,” stressed Zaber, not letting go of her. A lot of the women around them struggled with their impulse to help, but feared the tired and worn-out looking veteran. “My boss wants to know more about the guards.”

“Oww, don’t good woman me!” She shook Zaber’s hand off and moved away from him. “You nearly ripped my arm off! If you’ve got something to prove, look for another bandit, not a frail old thing like me.”

“Listen,” rasped Zaber and placed both his hands on his belt, close to his weapons. “I’m not just their guard. Her lover sits in that cage with a savage, and that’s my fault. I need to surrender myself to them,” he said, desperately. “I need to fix this. This is my last chance.”

“Oh,” another murmur went through the village. “We don’t know much more, but–” the elderly woman halted. “But if you go to Gerheim, one village over the King’s Road, they can tell you more. About eight miles, that’s where the transport made camp.”

“’aight, thanks,” said Zaber and turned back towards the road. He shook his shoulders, scratched his scars and put his foot on the stirrup of his horse.

Torm nodded at Zaber and held his hands to give Thyra a leg-up onto the horse. “You have our deepest gratitude. Excuse the turmoil we made, but we travel in a matter of urgency.”

“Wait!” The rugged woman held up her hand and grabbed her reins before Zaber could. “Is that her?” she asked the peasant women. A very young woman in hastily thrown-on clothes walked towards them, aided by the one who was sent away earlier. Parts of her undergarments were still peeking out and her bonnet was about to fall off from the pace.

“Who?” The elderly woman looked around surprised. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s her.” Walking away, she opened her arm and met the other village women halfway.

Zaber grumbled and avoided looking at the young woman. His shoulders tensed up, and his eyes wandered aimlessly. That village girl seemed at best Torm’s age, probably younger. Her eyes were red and dried out, everything about her was a mess. If Zaber knew their lie would’ve turned out like this, he wouldn’t have done it. This girl, Alta, walked straight up to him and reached for his hand. The veteran’s instinct was to retract it, but for the first time in two weeks, his heart spoke to him instead of the ghosts. So he let it happen, even if he couldn’t look at Alta.

“Excuse him, our guide is…” Thyra teared up again. “He is difficult.”

There were no tears left in Alta, but their remnants were all over her face. She looked up, pleading with Zaber. “Please,” she uttered. “Sir Rodhin has done nothing–” Quivering all over, she felt Zaber grab her hand back. “He’ll come back. Please, stop him… please… kill him.”

Running his hand through his face, over the stubble, up his nose and eyes, and nearly swiping off his arming cap, Zaber dismounted. His moves were quick and impulsive, scaring the women around him. He pulled up the collar of his worn-out brown gambeson, and rubbed his neck. He felt hot, seething, impossible to bear. Torm was about to dismount as well, seeing how his mentor stomped towards him. But then Zaber grabbed something from the bundles on Torm’s horse. He knew exactly what he was looking for, pulling out a bollock dagger, small enough to hide it anywhere. Even more startled, the women of this village built a defensive circle and held up their tools. Though none of them knew how to do it the right way.

“Here,” said Zaber, raspier than Torm had ever heard him before. He walked right in front of Alta and pressed the dagger into her hands. “This is yours now. It belongs to nobody else and anybody who tries to take it from you is your enemy.” He unsheathed the weapon, showed her the edge and stowed it back. “Useless piece of shit, your damned liege–” grunted the veteran. “Hide it. Wait for him to get close–” He stopped and stared deep into Alta’s eyes, waiting for a nod. “Aim for the neck, belly, or groin.”

Turning around, Zaber lost no time. He swung himself up the draft horse, clicked his tongue twice and rolled out. Without as much as looking, he ripped Thyra’s reins out of her hands, dragging her horse with him. Torm had only enough time to tip his felt cap once and follow.

Driving the draft horse harder than before, Zaber left Woadan behind. None of the trio spoke for a long while, until they reached the King’s Road again. Thyra smiled at Zaber. She didn’t have to sit like a damsel anymore, so she rolled up her skirt a bit and switched.

Torm looked over to Zaber more than once, deep in thought. “So–” he uttered. “Gerheim next?”

“It’s on Buron’s and Breg’s side. They’ll get the results we need,” said Zaber with a face struck by darkness. It radiated into his companions as well, oppressing the mood. The veteran’s skin itched and his mouth was dry.

“That was sorta sweet,” said Thyra, brightening up. “Mind speaking your heart? There are more ways to deal with problems than vi–”

“Time for your first lesson,” interrupted Zaber. He loosened the grip of his reins and clicked his tongue. “We got all the intel we need, time to speed up.”

“Are you alright?” Thyra felt out of depth. Not getting an answer right after something happened wasn’t too bad. Her mother sometimes needed a night to clear her head. But the young woman got the impression that Zaber wasn’t going to give her an answer – ever.

“Stand up on the stirrups and raise your arse,” was Zaber’s reply. “Shorten the reins up to your horse’s neck, and lean forward.” The beast beneath him changed gait and charged ahead. The broken veteran knew that a gallop wasn’t a lesson for day one. But he knew that he needed wind in his face, the rumblings of hooves, and his companions needed to keep up with it. “Both of you! Arses up!”

Sighing loudly, with hanging shoulders, Torm looked at Thyra while his mentor was moving away fast. “He’s not,” said the boy. “And he won’t talk about it. I dunno why he’s so chatty lately in the first place.” He did as he was told, rising above the saddle and keeping a tight grip on the reins. It wasn’t his plan to leave Thyra behind though, doing it step-by-step for her to see.

“I–” The rugged woman ripped the kerchief from her head and watched her own movements closely. “I wanted to compliment him, that was a really nice thing to do,” she said as the horse beneath her bumped her up and down.

“Don’t,” interrupted Torm, trying to bring them up to speed. “Take it as it is. His best lessons are when he’s frustrated and can’t beat someone up.”

It was hard to speak while riding like this. “W–, Why–” Thyra’s voice was shaken. “Why do you just accept this? My medicine won’t do it for much longer either, he needs to stop now.”

“Wait, let me show you–” The boy changed his own posture and pulled Thyra up at her clothes. “Lean forward,” he said and pointed forward. “Like him.”

Gaining traction, the two of them dashed behind Zaber. The first half of their way towards the mill Buron spoke of took some time. Now that they had gathered all of what they needed, a lot more paces were traveled. The road was mostly surrounded by spruce wood that only got thicker further down. It wasn’t an easy task for an inexperienced rider to keep up with the former mercenary. But he never left their field of vision on this straight pathway to the east. Every day had been a little warmer than the last, the fog that it produced made this one rather chilly. Soon enough the fog made room for rain, and they passed two more voyagers before the silhouette of a broken tower-like figure became visible at the horizon.

“Arses down!” yelled Zaber, drenched, with haggard strands of his hair peeking out under his wet arming cap. “Lean back, pull the reins up evenly. Don’t make it move left or right.”

Both his companions did as they were told. Thyra let herself fall into the saddle, now that she could rest her legs. Torm felt barely better, but didn’t want to show it. He clenched his bottom to keep up the act.

“Dismount,” ordered Zaber, swinging down his saddle mid-ride. “Hooo.” Grabbing the reins of the draft horse, he walked next to it in a fluid motion as both of them slowed down. When his horse stopped, he turned around and caught Thyra’s reins. She was about to charge right up the hill and into the trees. Torm struggled too, but wasn’t about to crash. Only topple into the spruce in front of him. “Mill’s up the hill. Not much sun through the rain, so let’s rest, eat and get as many singing lessons out of it as we can.”

“Do you have a–” Thyra puffed heavily. The muscles in her thighs and butt burned like the Phoenix or Dragon. She imagined riding to be way easier from her books. “A blade? Do you have a blade for me?”

The same kind of pain wasn’t as harsh for Torm, as he was used to standing in unnatural stances. But never for that long… “I’ve been thinking,” he said while leading his horse up the hill. “Do we have a buckler for her?”

“We do,” replied Zaber with a curt nod, racing them up the trail up the hill. “Do you need your hands to do spells?”

“No, not really,” said Thyra, gasping and bracing herself on her knees whenever there was a chance to. “I sometimes fold them together for concentration. You know, to pray to the Stars. But I don’t need that.”

“Hum?” Zaber looked confused. “All our line magicians used their hands; and some of the lower knights too. Even with steel in their hands, like–” He halted to think. “As if they were guiding some of the spells.”

The mill was surrounded by overgrown shrubs and moss. The wooden remnants of the stone ruin were charred. Nature around the building had recovered so much that the fire had to be ages ago. A door had rotted away, giving nothing to knock on after they fastened their animals beneath the trees. Zaber chose a spot with plenty grass to feed on and urged everyone to unpack quickly.

A dim flickering showed the trio that they had company. Zaber announced them with a loud cough and it turned out to be a wise choice. This wasn’t his first journey with his friends. A delightful small campfire. With bedrolls and their belongings spread out to dry in the middle of the room. The floor of a second storage kept the rain out, even without a proper roof above them. Two skinned and gutted rats on spikes were grilled, with two hectically casual men found themselves caught. Breg buckled his belt shut while Buron wiped his mouth clean.

“Calm down, there ain’t no ladies to offend here,” smiled Zaber at his friends. He threw his belongings into a corner and himself onto one of the bedrolls next to the fire, warming his hands.

“Wha–” exhaled Thyra at the half-naked sight. It wasn’t a new sight, but she wasn’t prepared to see the bare-chested men so soon again. “Well,” gasped Thyra one more time and sat down as well. “Sure, why not. You’ve been naked around me before.” She sought out Torm’s gaze, who stood in the mill’s door frame with a disgusted face.

“Got a problem, boy?” asked the unreasonably tall man and stood up to his full height and strength.

“N–, no,” replied Torm promptly.

“We didn’t know how long you would take with the squeakers,” said Buron, placing himself next to Zaber. He took a big sip from his waterskin, rinsing his mouth. “Put the helmets up to catch some water overnight. Caught three rats, but I guess you’re going to eat hardtack and jerky too?” Buron attracted Breg’s gaze with it, taunting him with his eyes.

“’aight,” nodded Zaber, took off his arming cap and opened the buckles of his gamebeson. “Rest and eat; day’s not over,” he said towards Torm and Thyra.

“I’ll get the helmets,” sighed Torm and got rid of his drenched clothes.

The cloak kept Thyra’s body dry, but her hair had become wet strings of brown knots that she was wringing out. Her skirt was drenched too, and sprinkled with mud.

“Strip as much as you feel comfortable,” said Buron, offering her a piked rat. “If you need to change, there’s a cellar beneath us.”