Chapter 30

Day Fourteen – Afternoon

Franque and his men were terrible guides, thought Thyra. Not just because they spoke a different language, but because they barely bothered to explain themselves. Thinking even deeper about it, her other companions had also been quite terrible at telling her why they did what they did. Only Buron cared about everyone knowing where to go – sometimes. But the three veterans had a way of talking to each other without words. The hand signs were easy to read and learn after a short amount of time. But when they looked at each other, nodding knowingly, the rugged woman had no choice but to follow them in blind trust. Torm didn’t look like he knew either, he simply was more adept at playing along. And his trust in Zaber was unshakable.

These brigands were so used to navigating the mountains that nobody communicated at all. Everything happened at once, nobody spoke, then they were joking and laughing again. The couple of bald and tall didn’t leave each other’s side for the whole journey. They exchanged pointed nods and gazed at prominent landmarks. Which included a thin stream through a depression. This seemed to be their target destination. It may have taken two candles or more, tracking faded trails between rocks and pastures. Wide open, yet hidden in the shadows of the peaks.

Between two summits, thousands of feet above the King’s Road, the newfound alliance came to a halt. The little creek was thin enough to jump it, springing from a close-by rock formation even further up. Between a couple boulders sat a single shabby hay barn. Folks might have had cattle graze here.

“Nous y sommes!” yelled Franque. Neither he nor his men seemed out of breath, but black muck was running down his forehead. Only Thyra was panting and drenched. Maybe Torm… a little.

“He says we’re here,” translated the boy while the band of outlaws spread through their camp. They moved some stones, revealing a couple of hidden stashes that were dug up. Franque walked towards an old fireplace. He wiped the muck off his face and dipped his fingers into the black as to refresh the jet black of his hair.

“Got these peppered throughout the mountains?” Zaber was right behind the man with the pockmarks.

“Ouais,” Franque smiled, wiping his hands on his belly. “Some here, some on the other side of the border. Haven’t you seen the primes on our heads?”

The greasy and unkempt man looked for his protege. They had led their horses on foot, and Torm was helping Thyra unpack. “Boy,” he said. “What’s a primmes?”

“Primes,” corrected Torm, slightly off dialect. “Bounty.”

“I don’t give a fuck about those,” said Zaber dryly. “Let’s get straight to it. Tell me your damned plan.”

“They were at Glonn’s,” yelled Buron over. “Enough to get by for quite some time.”

An infectious laughter rose with Franque himself, until he stood right in front of Zaber. It made Thyra nervous how much these two brutes gravitated towards each other. She couldn’t explain what or why, but the sparks between them were undeniable. The rugged woman had gotten used to how tense their leader was, but his posture was different now. Franque waved his arms through the air and came close to a push, or hug… or dance?

“Tu vois, I am a well known menace around here. Impossible to catch, because the porc noble are too béte.” The highwayman’s voice went up and down in a self-assured sing-song as he walked uphill. “You are very wise t’allier with me and my compagnons.”

“Sure,” said Zaber, smiled and shook his head. “’aight, can we get down to business now?”

“Ouais, ouais, but there is one more thing,” said Franque when they reached a height from where the whole brigands camp was in view. He turned around, making his mantle-like gambeson swoosh in the wind. “Let’s celebrate our glorieuse alliance! There is only one rule that any man has to obliger by–” The brigand’s leader pulled out his mercy knife and sat down on one of the two boulders. Throning above the depression. “No touching my beautiful sœur!” He rammed the blade into the ground between his legs. “Or I’ll have your couilles.”

Just when the sentence was finished, the man-at-arms pulled off his frog-mouthed helmet. Sweaty, back-braided, black hair was revealed, worn by a tanned woman at the end of her twenties. Her face was as acute as her brother’s, but without pockmarks. Her eyes were keen and a sharp scar split the brow above her left eye.

Torm and Thyra only now realized that she had moved the entire distance in full armor. Something that had the boy wheeze in just a hauberk and skull cap a couple of days ago. And the sewers were at best a third of the distance of today.

The three veterans’ eyebrows raised in unison. Zaber shrugged it off after the first impression. Buron and Breg looked at each other in discomfort. Though the one most fixated on the woman-at-arms was Torm.

“What’s the problem?” asked Thyra, pulling the boy’s arm. “Something wrong with her?”

Thyra also struggled to not stare at Franque’s sister. While the dented pauldrons were removed from her, the armored woman caught their gazes and returned it. Sharp, as if she was asking a provocative question. The boy and the rugged women shook their heads and turned away, continuing to unsaddle the horses.

“N–, no–” uttered Torm. “Nothing. This is, uhm–” He avoided any eye contact. “Like a mythical beast. Not only rare, but dangerously–”

“A Ghóstis,” said Thyra. “But she’s just like Queen Álaine from the Geolan Tales of–”

“Damned no, she’s not,” interrupted Torm as well. “I’ve seen a handful of women fight, and only one looked as dangerous.” The boy glimpsed at the unreasonably tall man and his bald companion who unloaded their weapons and armor. “And none wore armor like that. Or walked straight up a mountain. I expected a beast like Breg, not… this.”

Zaber and Franque built some make-shift maps from stones and drew in the dirt with sticks. Their arguments were damp and far away. Meanwhile, the brigands were talking in foreign tongues. They helped their armored companion out of her armor. As Father Sun was about to pass his reign on to his daughters, the bandits spread throughout the camp. Some dug up dirty bottles, sealed crates and small barrels, while others made a big fire.

When everything was done and their belongings spread around some stones to sit on, Thyra looked at Buron and Breg. They sat a couple of feet apart from each other and avoided all contact and only spoke very formal. “Are they alright?” asked the rugged woman and looked back and forth between the pair and Torm.

“Psht,” hissed Torm and walked closer towards the scrawny and colossal veteran. He made sure that Thyra would follow him. “Don’t say a word. What they do is a sin, a blight under the Stars. Others wouldn’t understand,” whispered the boy.

“Hum,” squeaked Thyra, frowning. She seated herself next to her companions on a boulder with a blanket on it. “Aren’t we all criminals here? Isn’t there some–” She halted. “Some honor among thieves or so?”

“Fuck that,” said Buron, his eyes glued to the strangers around them. “Nobody here has any honor.” He pulled out a piece of dry bread and chewed on it.

“Why?” asked Thyra, bending down to her belongings and pulling out a waterskin. “Our goal is a noble–”

“Honor ain’t real,” said Breg and straightened his beard after looking at Thyra. “If Zaber hadn’t agreed, we would’ve killed each other. And none would have slept worse for it.”

“Scusi.” One of the men had walked up on them and made himself heard from a distance.

Breg had stared at him for a while before his gaze was avoided, but went right back when the man spoke up. The brigand had his black hair greased back, a sly yet inviting grin on his thin-bearded face. Torm caught the iron ring that pierced the man’s ear, recognizing it… but this fella was quite older.

“I am Ludolfus, but please call me Ludi,” said the man in a high-pitched voice. He spoke fluently, but with some heavy High Galázian accent. Two thin scars ran around his mouth towards his cheek and chin. He wiped his hands on his trousers made from thick hides. The open jerkin he wore was made from the same animal. “We want to celebrate our new friendship.” His hand dangled in front of Buron and Breg to shake.

“Hrm,” grunted Buron. Looking up and down the shabbily tanned bandit, he waited for Breg to signal him an ‘alright’. The unreasonably tall man’s eyes pointed at the five-finger sword sheathed along Ludi’s lower back. There were smaller blades in his boots and belt. The bald veteran rubbed his bad knee before reaching for the hand. “I’m Buron and this is Breg. What’s you folks’ idea of a party?”

Breg’s eyes wandered around the camp, seeing hard smoked meat, biscuits and dirty bottles pop up from the ground. Three highwaymen brought forth flutes and whistles of different sizes and styles. The armored woman stripped down to a fencing doublet and puff breeches. A sash held all of it together.

“What kind of bandits are you?” asked the unreasonably tall man in disdain. His eyes were locked on the lean woman with the broad shoulders who wielded an oversized sword with ease. A bear knew that he only had to look out for a predator of his own size.

“Half of us were traveling performers,” replied Ludi and pulled out one of his knives. He threw it high above, giving it a fast spin, just to snap it out of the air without cutting himself. “Played at minor noble’s courts, stole what we could get our hands on and ran north. But like that, you run out of folk to steal from molto rapido.”

“Wow!” Thyra’s face brightened up. “Do you have acrobats among you?”

“Any of you fought for Taron of Mont Bank or Arnus the Florentine?” Buron ignored Thyra, and Breg kept watch on the hoodlums and Zaber up the hill.

“Si,” nodded Ludi, casually cleaning his fingernails with the knife from before. “Arnus il Flumio was our last master. Before that, we were paid by Colonello Taron. You’ve heard about their… particular reputazione?” A smile spread over his face and he winked at Buron.

“A–” Thyra raised her hand to gain everyone’s attention. “Acrobats? Yes or no?”

A throaty laughter rang from behind them and the bandit that Torm and Zaber had met in the woods stepped closer. “Adesco, Velino and Piavi are musicisti. My brother here–” The bandit slapped Ludi on the back. “Is a renowned sword-eater. We have a spettacolare knife throwing and juggling show!”

“This is Asti, my fratellino–” The slick bandit thought with his fingers for a moment. “Younger brother,” he corrected himself. “He breathes and eats fire. None of us is particularly acrobatico, but–” The older one glimpsed at the athletic woman with the sharp eyes. “You could ask Nancia if you want. But she and our grunts never served under Don Arnus or Taron.”

“How did you guess?” asked Asti and squeezed himself between Torm and Thyra. “Did we meet in war and forgot?” He smirked.

Torm did not budge, broadening himself next to the bandit with the frizzy hair. “They served under General Airich,” said the boy with an equally smug smile. “Zaber was his orderl–”

“You–” uttered Breg. He burst onto his feet, only stopped by Buron’s arms to not grab his friend’s ward at the neck.

“Don’t,” said the scrawny man, wrapping his arms around the pumping chest of the unreasonably tall man. Everybody could see that Breg could shrug off anybody if he wanted to. It was because of Buron’s intervention and nothing else that Torm didn’t get his face remodeled. “Boy,” grunted Buron, shaking his head at Torm. “It’s not your place to tell anybody. We say it, or it’s not to be said.”

“Dalle stelle,” gasped Ludi, backing away from the beast that was Breg. “That true? You were his little child marauders or what?”

“Yes,” replied Buron reluctantly and forced himself to smile. “Time to celebrate. We’re not fighting, Breg. Wait for the battle.” He let his friend go, running his fingers over the giant’s chest in the blink of an eye.

“Understood.” Breg nodded. “Who’s up for some arm wrestling?” His words were slow and threatening. He stared at every man around him except for his scrawny companion.

Ludi and Asti looked at each other confused, until the older one replied a, “Perfetto,” and shrugged it off. “I’ve always wanted to get my arm ripped clean off. Let’s find a graveyard for it.”

“You too,” said Breg and looked down on Torm. “Boy.”

Torm gulped and his eyes widened like that of a prey animal. His first instinct was to correct him, like he would with Zaber, and inform him of his disdain for the word. But on a deeper thought… maybe letting it slide one time was fine. “Up we go,” said the boy. “Let’s show them our strength.”

Towering over everyone, Breg straightened his beard and waited for the older brother to go ahead. The moment Torm stood up, Asti moved into his space to sit properly next to Thyra. Both her book buddy and her drinking buddy sent her inquiring gazes while they followed behind Breg. But all she did was grin at them.

“If something happens, call for us,” said Buron. “Loud.” He saw a make-shift table made from a small barrel, sighed and wiped the sweat off his neck. “And don’t join us. I gotta keep an eye on him before anyone gets too hurt to fight.”

“Trust me, testona pelata,” interjected Asti before Thyra could answer. Instead, she just nodded along with the bandit’s words, while leaning back on the rock they sat on. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”

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“So,” said Thyra after a while. “You and your brother are jugglers?”

“We are,” said Asti, laying his arm around Thyra’s shoulder. His wild black curls touched her rugged brown hair, held together by a bone barrette. “We’re also fierce warriors, fiore.” He winked.

“Fiore?” asked Thyra. A befuddled glimpse touched on Asti’s scarred hand and upper arm before she moved away. She didn’t like speaking side-by-side and wanted to look into the bandit’s face. He may have been a little younger than her. “Excuse me, I just speak High Albinian and Midlandish.” Her eyes were as curious as ever. New – friendly – folk to learn about, unlike her first impression of…

“Boh, I noticed your sophisticated way of speaking. Unlike your brutale companions.” Asti leaned towards Thyra again, but struggled to find a good angle. “It means flower.”

“Aww, how nice,” said Thyra and her mezzo brightened up. “But calling them brutal is uncalled for. They–” She halted, biting her lips. “No,” she continued. “No, you’re right. Breg and Zaber are without a doubt that. But Torm and Buron aren’t. At least, not really?” Musing over her own words, she looked around the camp to spot her… friends? Companions? Fellows? “Torm speaks very refined too; the young one. And Buron is pretty level-headed and keeps them together. Now that I think about it, none of their dialects seem to be the same,” she chattered away, turning her head back towards the bandit. “I don’t know where Zaber, or Buron are from, but Breg sometimes sounds like he’s not even from Albion. And Torm’s from Faenland. But he tries really hard to sound like Zaber, who sometimes pronounces words like my mother–”

“Your mother?” interrupted Asti, smoothening his voice. “Is she as beautiful as you are?”

“I’d like to not speak about her,” replied Thyra with a coy smile. “Now that I’m thinking about it, nobody we met on the road spoke like any of my–” She paused before she sighed with meaning. “Brothers in arms. Not even the folk back in the tavern.”

“Why no talk about your mother? Was she a bad woman?” The young bandit leaned forward again. But Thyra straightened her posture to take a deep breath, stopping him.

“Please respect my wish.” The rugged woman held both her hands in front of her, as if she pushed away that conversation. “She was wonderful and I am not in the mood to feel sad. I understand your curiosity, but let’s talk about something fun instead,” she said and crossed her arms in front of her chest. These were all signs that had worked back in the swamp, when mother and daughter set their boundaries. This is how Thyra was taught and both of them honored each other. There was always another day to talk and after two decades they knew how to trust the other one’s emotional pacing.

Asti looked utterly confused. He ran his hand over his face and grabbed some of his own hair while uttering many unfinished words. He looked somewhat frustrated and Thyra couldn’t make out any of what he was saying. Putting his thin bearded chin on one hand, he tried to collect himself.

“What flower?” asked Thyra, smiling invitingly. “And–” She stuttered a little embarrassed. “May I ask your name again? Your brother is Ludolfes, right?”

An eyebrow rose and Asti returned the smile. “Uhm–” He thought a bit. “Maybe a rosa?” he said. “My brother is Ludolfus and I am Astodeo. But please–” He put his hand on Thyra’s knee. “Call me Asti.”

“Will do,” said the rugged woman, wiggling her legs and arms, shaking off Asti’s hand. “I’ve not seen a rose yet, only in illustrations or heraldry. So, I’ll have to see how much I like them when I see a real one.”

“Girl.” The bandit shook his head in disbelief. “Just take the complimento. Roses are pretty, believe me.”

“Aww again!” Thyra folded her hands. “How very nice of you. You bunch seem more relaxed than my current companions. Do you often celebrate like this?”

Right after these words left the rugged woman’s mouth, Asti was leaning forward once again. His hands rested on her shoulders, pulling her towards himself. But his grip was resisted, as Thyra’s hands became a barrier between them. Her expression was overwhelmed and confused by his odd lip movements.

“Ho–” gasped Thyra. “Hoooh. Hold on, wha–”

“Eh, dai!” exclaimed Asti. He was about to push forward, through Thyra’s arms, but a hand pressed onto his shoulder from behind. Following the rugged woman’s gaze, he turned his head. “Who–”

“In piedi,” ordered Nancia with a bad accent, as she spoke Asti’s dialect to him. “Vai a sputare fuoco. Rapido.”

The bandit gulped audibly. “Io–” he stuttered. “Let me get some oilo,” he said and stood up. He locked eyes with Thyra, bowing his head, and stepped away without another sound. His shoulders hung defeated.

The animosities around the camp had settled and the different kinds of outlaws found common grounds. Torm opened another table for arm-wrestling and, unsurprisingly, found more opponents than Breg. The unreasonably tall man’s first and only victim was still holding his wrist. The older of the two brothers, Ludi, was showing his skills with the blades. He juggled them without effort and threw them into a wooden plank. After a pecking order of strength had been established, Breg, Buron and Torm tried to outdo the brigands at throwing knives. To the rank and file though, throwing small blades didn’t matter. Only the boy showed himself somewhat competent.

Even after Father Sun had passed, Zaber and Franque were still talking. Still somewhat in shock, Thyra let her eyes wander. All her companions, except Breg, had somewhat calmed down. The most unbelievable thing was that the greasy and unkempt man laughed with his counterpart. The rugged woman did not understand why Asti had tried that. He was so nice before, and now he looked like nothing happened – sipping on the oil and spitting it into the campfire. Breg was the only one who shared her discomfort, it seemed… and he was right back in the Arrow Inn too, Thyra thought.

“Thank you,” said Thyra after a deep breath. The muscular woman had sat down next to her, wordless. “This isn’t how I–”

“I likes you skirt,” said Nancia in broken Albinian. “You made self? Want help me pretty dress?”

“Uh–” The rugged woman hesitated, but the sweaty woman next to her had already stood up. She grabbed Thyra's hand and pulled her on her feet like she weighed nothing. The men sang a Galázian song. Asti had not looked at her once, chugging once more from the oil and pulling a stick from the bonfire. Thyra shivered for a moment, before she looked at Nancia. “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, I would love to. Got any spare ones? I had to leave a lot behind.”

“Spar?” asked the athletic woman. “Sparare?” She mimicked the aim of a crossbow and sounded more like Asti and Ludi again.

“Clothes,” said Thyra, smiled, and ran her fingers over her own kirtle and the bodice of rabbit hide and old blankets. She also wore an undergarment that covered her shoulders and upper chest better. “More? Other?” Thyra pulled on Nancia’s fencing doublet.

“Euh, oui,” replied the tall woman. “Follow.”

The women walked to the small barn. It housed Nancia’s and everyone else’s armor, spare weapons, barrels of water and clothes. Everyone was doing what they liked most – which happened to be what each of them was best at. Throwing knives, spitting fire, measuring strength, singing, drinking and being loud. Thyra had been really happy to run into genuine fun for the first time since she left the marshes. Since she left her mother behind. And this Asti arsehole had to ruin it. Kissing had been on her list, but not like this. She didn’t know anyone here enough for that. And it felt… forceful.

“Want too?” Nancia’s voice intruded on the rugged woman’s thoughts as they entered the hay barn. Scraps of fabric and hay covered the chests, crates and barrels. The only weapons and armor that was in the open was what the brigands wore before. And one chest contained neatly folded gowns and dresses in good condition – for the circumstances. “J’ai plenty.” Nancia swept away splinters, dirt and dust with her hand.

“I would love to!” Thyra’s voice skipped two octaves, as did her feet. “Mother and I made patterns from illustrations, but never had the material,” she said, rummaging through the chest and fiddling with the fabrics. “Do you have a Bliaut?”

“Un bliaud?” repeated Nancia in a softer voice. “How age are you?” She laughed and grabbed an older gown.

“Me?” Little did Thyra know that what her illustration showed wasn’t in fashion anymore. What was given to her was neither her height nor size. “I’m a Stag of twenty-four. You?”

“Je–” The athletic woman stopped, confused, and grabbed a piece more fitting for her new ally. “I am une ourse twenty nine. But meant that you act like enfant. Bliaud is for old or tout-petit.”

“Excuse–” Thyra hesitated, stuttering a polite, “I, I–” before finding her breath. “I don’t understand you.” Her speech had slowed down, as her eyes sped up. The rugged woman had spotted a long red gown with a high collar and giant trains of sleeves. A blue chemise and broad leather belt accompanied it, worn high above the hip. “That one! May I try that one?”

“La houppelande? Tres bien.” Nancia nodded. It was a wide cut by design and the dragging parts were there no matter what. Their different proportions wouldn’t matter in it. “Want brush my hair?”

“Yes,” replied Thryra explosively. “Yes, yes, yes.”

The rugged woman was about to melt as she was dressed by her new friend. She uttered ‘yes’ over and over while pressing the dress against her body. She looked down on herself, and rotated on her heels like Zaber taught her. After that, the two women sat down on blocks of hay and brushed each other out, laughed a lot and stood up again. The men outside were loud and joyous too. But the underlying belligerence was too much for what Thyra wanted, and needed, right now. Nancia was the first and only other woman that she had ever met, and she yearned for a mutual groom. Back in the marshes, Thyra and Tonna used to do each other’s hair every day. More than once often, as they both had untameable thatches. They’d also made each other’s clothes when they had to be replaced. And every couple of years, her mother brought some good materials, or even full pieces, from her travels. If this wasn’t so much fun, the rugged woman might have felt a sudden gloom. She missed her mother.

“I gotta admit,” said Thyra, still admiring her fancy dress. “Seeing you under that helmet was quite a shock. Nobody expect–”

“No need d‘expliquer,” interrupted Nancia, working herself through a difficult part of the wild woman’s hair. “I possède plenty. Armure, armes, pretty robes. La vie short. Do what love, I say. All you love.”

“And you love robbing folks?” giggled Thyra.

“No,” replied Nancia quite serious. “I love l’épée. And looking pretty.” She smiled at herself, long black hair, brushed into waves. “Et Franque, my brother bien-aimé, promised we never pauvre again comme ça.”

The suddenly unrugged woman peeked over her shoulder at Nancia. A glum yet honest smile formed. “That sounds nice,” she said. “He seems to take good care of you all.”

“Quoi?!” Nancia laughed. “I take care him! But what you? You love robbing?”

“What? No–” Thyra faltered, holding her breath. “Not at all! We are not robbers.” She flailed her hands around. “At least… not me? Zaber and the rest are–” She sighed, struggling for words. “They’re uncouth, but good folks; out to save a friend. I just–”

“No expliquer,” interrupted Nancia once more. “We femmes do what we need.” The muscular woman put the bone barrette back into Thyra’s hair. “They treat well? I can kill if you need.” She laughed to ease the situation, but provoked the opposite reaction.

“Th–, thanks,” uttered Thyra. “But I don’t think you can kill Breg or Z–”

“I do.”

The coldness with which Nancia delivered her interjection drove a chill into Thyra’s bones. For a brief moment she forgot where she was – speaking to one of them. No matter how good a time she had right now, how wonderful this distraction was. Nancia was one of them. Forged on the road, hardened by real life. And the more the sheltered young woman learned about this real life, the more she thought that her mother might have been right. From the moment she left her mother; and her mother left her.

“Venez ici! Vieni qui!” Franque’s voice rang from outside and broke through the women’s conversation. With the grit of a carnival barker, he yelled in two languages of which Thyra understood neither. But the melodic joy the highwayman carried with him was infectious nonetheless.

“What’s he saying?” whispered Thyra as she and Nancia stepped outside. Everyone’s eyes were focused on Franque, and Zaber who stood right next to him.

“Jappe about plan and who you compagnons are,” said Nancia curtly. “You are magie?”

“Uhm–” Thyra held her hands in front of her chest, staring at the ground. And a flattered smirk formed. “Sort of.”

“Marveilleuse,” proclaimed Nancia, smirking with a different undertone. “If you become monstre like the two, this plan suicidaire might work.”

Thyra skimmed around for Breg and Zaber, who looked as tense as ever. “Why are you calling them monsters? And why should I want that?”

“Monstres smell other monstres,” said Nancia, crossing her arms filled with confidence. “You not combattante. You learn or die. Les monstres survivent.”

In a moment of distrait, Thyra’s eyes were fixated on nothing. Lost in thought, back in that place. Her mother was no monster, no matter her neck or hands. Her lips trembled and she swallowed. She remembered her own desperate screams that reached nothing. Thyra saw what had happened to that line magician. And her mother had saved a child and had survived whatever was done to her. Maybe she was a monster in the past… and maybe what the books said about witches like her and Thyra are true.

“I don’t wanna…” uttered the rugged woman and shook her head afterwards. She looked up at Zaber, whose raspy voice followed that of Franque. Thyra noticed the small progress in it and smiled satisfied.

“Whatever Ratking here told his fellas–” yelled Zaber at his own companions, stepping down from their elevated position. “We got a tight plan. As y’all know, killing a line magician ain’t easy. We gotta be swift; we gotta be clever. No room for them to even sing a single verse. Franque knows the perfect spot – and we tripled our manpower,” said the greasy and unkempt man, stopping right next to Torm. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, checking on each of his troops with his eyes. “We’ll prepare with them tomorrow. One more day ‘til the battle. I gave them my word, and y’all know that I keep them. We don’t know them; they don’t know us.”

All eyes were on Zaber, whose gaze wandered between their new allies, until it stopped on Asti. The bandit was just a couple of steps away, holding a torch, oil dripping from his chin. The tense veteran’s fist shot forward, shifting into a solid stance to close the distance. Nobody knew what happened until it was too late and Asti fell flat on his face, rolling down the depression.

“I told you I would hurt you if you snitch on us,” said Zaber with a curt nod towards Breg, who stepped in front of Ludi to block his way. “And I keep all my promises.”

“No fighting!” yelled Franque. “Nessun combattimento!” He ran down and pulled on Zaber’s shoulder, bringing them face-to-face. “Maudit bâtard! Tell me something like this à l'avance!”

What happened next was the strangest thing Thyra had ever seen – but she hadn’t seen much yet. Everyone laughed and laughed and laughed. Even Asti stood up with a chuckle, wiping dirt, spit and oil off his face. Nancia, next to Thyra, chuckled as well, raising her split eyebrow. All of them were maniacs…

“See?” said Nancia. “Monstres soient des monstres.”

“No–” muttered Thyra befuddled. “I don’t see it. I have no damned idea.” She snickered nervously and ran her hand over her face.

“Let join.” Nancia smirked and winked at the woman next to her. “Show me your magia; canta for me.”