Chapter 36

Day Seventeen – Morning

The red and white Moon Sisters were close to the Twin-Crescent that night, and the starlit sky was clearly visible. Franque’s gait was unsteady and his head filled with pain from his left ear. His and Zaber’s conversation on the previous evening was tainted by one of the brigands still being in critical condition. They had gained nothing from this alliance and felt that saving that savage was the reason for their failure. It had forced restraint on them. No matter how much taste for vengeance Franque had, he would not join an even crazier plan. The only thing they agreed on was to rest with these peasants and let them get their belongings. Allowing Thyra’s magic to help them heal.

Thyra had sung the Kiss of the White Sister under half the moon’s influence for the entire night. She was tired and ready for sleep. Nancia had joined her for half the night, as she felt Thyra needed someone at her side among these strangers. She also wanted to witness magic and had no serious injuries. The blood on her arm had not been her own. A bunch of children had tried to come close, and many of their hosts listened in curiosity. Whispers of witchcraft wandered through the camp.

Breg kept watch over his friend and beloved for quite a while. He dozed off a couple of times, but never for too long. For the first time, magic captivated him; seeing how Buron got visibly better, and Zaber’s burned face peeling as if days had passed. The unreasonably tall man had never been a deep sleeper. He often woke up from unnatural noises around them – or ghosts. But Zaber was just lying there, staring at the stars. The few times he moved, pain painted his face.

None of the four friends, Zaber, Asher, Buron and Breg, had been doing too well. Not after all the things they had seen and done. Not after what the adults around had done. Each of them had their own way of soothing the ghosts. Buron drank, Breg dealt in pain and exhaustion, and Asher was simply too much of a bastard to care. They often joked about him sleeping the best, even though all of them knew that he had cold sweats. But Zaber, by far, was the worst among them.

Torm had also noticed how trapped his mentor was in his own head, but did not have the strength or will to keep him company. Too used was he to this sleep cycle. Deep down, he feared waking him up every time he tried. The lingering danger of Zaber or himself getting hurt. The young man understood what the veterans were going through. He was visited by his parents’ ghosts and their murderers for a while. But they had moved on, finding peace among the Stars. Torm had found peace. And he wished he knew what he did right that Zaber couldn’t do.

Deep down, the young man knew what the difference was. When he was haunted, there was someone waiting for him when he woke up. Someone to talk to about his parents and how hurt he was. This night was similar to those nights five years ago. Torm dreamed of death and being alone again, rolling around and murmuring words that his mentor heard but couldn’t acknowledge.

Chickens were roaming freely. A rooster, like Zaber’s birthstar, filled the camp with life. Dry bread, water, and cabbage broth from the previous evening were prepared. Strictly rationed, favoring the children.

“I’m done for,” yawned Thyra and stopped singing. Her voice gave in a couple of times and wasn’t full in volume anymore. “I need to sleep. Their scouts returned a while ago, I’ll check on our belongings and get a piece of bread before I pass out.” She stood up, unsteady on her legs and rubbing her face. “How are you all?”

“Much better,” uttered Buron, leaning on Breg. “You’re worth your weight in gold.” He smiled, ignored the calls for breakfast and rolled over to get some more rest.

“I–” Nancia opened her eyes, her thick black braids tangled up. She still wore the doublet with maille woven into the armpits. Patting the grass off her pantaloons, she rose to help Thyra keep her balance. The athletic woman struggled to find any Albinian words, intuitively saying a couple of words in her native tongue first. “I go brother. Tell later,” she said slowly. Franque was easy to find, as his snore overshadowed anybody else.

“Torm?” asked Thyra, looking down at the men. “Zaber?”

“What?” Torm was barely awake, with unusual bags under his eyes for the young man. “Me? I feel–” He rotated his feet and felt his face. “Great. A bit stiff in the left ankle, but no pain. Face is–” Torm grunted. “Rough.”

“Zaber?” Thyra tipped her toes. “Zaber?” She gave his feet a little kick. “I see your open eyes.”

“Your face looks better,” said Torm, stretching his limbs and joints. “Come on, can’t you at least try to close your eyes?”

With her limited understanding of what folk – foremost men – were like, Thyra lost her patience. Her first impression of Zaber had been good, charitable, with a chivalrous goal. But the chivalrous ones were on the other side, and far from good. Not even her knowledge of medicine could help this man, only prayer could. At a lack for words, she just wandered away. If he wasn’t speaking anymore, the pain was too much and he needed something to loosen his tongue.

“Torm’s right,” said Breg, nodding at the young man. “Get some shuteye. You’re not in fighting shape.“

“The shattered ribs will take until the next full red,” said Buron. “Last time her song cut the time in half.”

“Last one was full white, the sisters are always opposite. Her song’s to the White Sister, so from now on it’ll only get less effective.” Torm adjusted the blanket and stood up, looking at their hosts who handed out food. “Please, man, we can’t ride tomorrow. If you want to break into that mine, we–”

“How about y’all go fuck yourselves.” Zaber’s voice was raspy and quiet. His arm twitched, going for his face. There was no reaching it, only a clenched fist with white knuckles. Every other position than the one he was in raised the pain. “Sagir doesn’t have a dozen days or more. He doesn’t even have five or less days. Every breath he takes in that mine, the poison will take from him.”

“Damned,” said Breg and walked over to Zaber, standing wide-legged over him. He leaned down and looked him in the eyes. When he straightened his beard as usual, he grabbed it with fists in front of his friend’s face. “You can be glad you’re already broken.”

“Try me, bitch,” replied Zaber and matched the gaze. The length of it made Torm avoid the situation, walking away just a little further. But when both of them smiled, a load the size of a boulder dropped from his mind.

“Whatever the plan is, this’ the last time,” said Breg and stepped aside. “If we come close to losing again, I’ll take Buron and you off the battlefield; by force.” He followed Torm, about to get something to eat for them. “I ain’t losing another friend.”

“We ain’t failing,” said Zaber. “I thought this over; a lot. I know what the spell’s words are now.”

“Please rest, you’re talking nonsense.” The apprentice returned to his mentor’s side and fixed the woolen blanket that Breg offset with his feet. “Thyra said it, you cannot learn magic that fast. You can’t even breathe right now.”

“I know. I don’t need her teachings anymore,” said the greasy and unkempt man. The heat in his mind and on his neck rose up as an unsettling smirk formed. “Next time I sing these words, that bastard will burn.”

“You gotta be–” The young man’s mouth stood wide open, brows raised high.

“Let him be,” interrupted Buron, lying on his side and watching delightedly. “That’s the kind of idiocy we love. Don’t fight it, just enjoy. Breg and I’ll handle him.”

Torm sighed, remembering why he wanted to live with the man instead of going back to Hohendam. There was no lying to himself… whatever plan this bum had, they would do it. He would follow him anywhere.

Before any of them could go ahead, find rest or food, an angry voice shouted through the entire camp. The volume and pitch made the three veterans move on their own, as well as some of Franque’s men. The chanting rhythm of Thyra’s mezzo punished Zaber, as he nearly jolted up. A loud grunt kept him down though.

“You cheating, lying son of a–” Filled with vigor and rage, a young woman stomped her way towards her companions. Thyra fell to her knees, right next to the broken veteran, and held an empty flask next to his face, poking his cheeks. “What is this?! What. Is. This?!”

Nobody tried to hold her back, not even Torm. When he saw her hands, trembling in front of Zaber’s chest, he had a hunch what this was about. And he bit his lip in anger too.

There was no time to answer before the witch shoved another glass into the greasy and unkempt man’s face. This one still had the brown-red tincture in it. “I tell you what this is,” she yelled. “The last one! There were half a dozen left; and this is the LAST one!”

“By the Stars, girl, calm down,” said Breg and put his arm between her and Zaber. Buron and Torm looked back and forth between the unreasonably tall man and Thyra. Not only was her height different, but their body shapes could not have been more different.

“What?” The rugged woman’s lips opened and closed in befuddlement. “What did you just call me? I’m a grown wom–”

“It was us,” interjected Buron and got onto his feet as quickly as his knee let him. “We gave it to him.” He placed a hand on Breg’s shoulder to soothe him away from his instincts.

“I thought we were friends! How could you do this to me?!” Her pitch went up, without breaking, as tears ran over her cheeks. “Me and my mother made these! We told you to stop!”

“Thyra… listen–” Torm followed Buron’s example and jumped to Zaber’s side to keep him from getting up. He saw his mentor’s teeth grinding, urging to do what he always did. When pressed, he went on the offensive. “He was in pain. We are friends!” He pushed Zaber down on his back. Hard. Not to keep him from doing something stupid, but because he wasn’t let in on it. “But they are–” He glanced at Buron and Breg.

“Did you know about this?” She shoved the flask into Torm’s face. “Did all of you have a good laugh behind my back?!”

“No–” stuttered Torm, looking back and forth between the three veterans. “Nobody told me either. But I know them. Please, they’re–”

“Arseholes!” shouted Thyra. “Damned, starforsaken, arseholes! They think they’re better than me because they’re bloody murderers who killed together and I’m just a little girl from the woods. They don’t respect anybody who’s not like them, and they are bad and know it.”

Crying on, she stood up. Torm tried to grab her as she walked away, but Thyra pushed her elbow into his torso. About to topple over, he felt Zaber’s hand on his leg. His mentor shook his head, ordering him with his eyes to not follow her. The three men watched her as she headed straight for Nancia and Franque's men. Thyra’s cheeks were red when she turned around one last time.

“You better think of a good apology,” she said and held the last flask of poppy juice up before stowing it away. “You need me to make this work. You owe me as much as Sagir!” Thyra showed her back, but turned around once more in one rotation. “My mother died for you arseholes! She told you to stop, and you spit on her grave! She’s dead!”

Awkward moments became full breaths. If they hadn’t been the talk of the camp before, they surely were now. Zaber and Buron closed their eyes in a futile attempt to get more rest.

Only Breg seemed unimpressed and walked away with a wave. “I ain’t gone for long. Food first, then the horses.”

Torm was about to follow, but was stopped by a “wait,” from Zaber. The young man turned around, waiting for his mentor’s eyes to open.

“I–” Zaber looked into the sky. His brows were narrowed, and he was so tense that the muscles on his chin were pressed out.

“Hm?” Torm came closer and squatted next to Zaber. “You what?”

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The greasy and unkempt man sighed. “Can you scratch my chin?” he grunted. “It’s driving me crazy.”

Torm sighed as well, shaking his head as he waited for more. “Sure.”

Next to the unreasonably tall man, Torm didn’t feel too well. He felt drawn towards Thyra and Nancia, also standing in line for a warm bowl of soup. When he was about to head over to them, a heavy hand on his shoulder held him back.

“You’re one of us now,” said Breg.

Buron waited until he was alone with Zaber. He rolled around on his blanket and looked at his friend, leaning onto his hand. “She’s right,” said the bald man. “She doesn’t understand why, but she’s right.”

“I know,” grumbled Zaber. “If only Asher was here.”

“Yeah, we’re really missing Ash here.” Buron nodded. “I love you two, so much, but we three alone…”

“I saw his blood,” said the broken veteran, closing his eyes. “He’s haunting me because I got him killed.”

“He haunts you because he loves you too.” Buron smiled, even though he knew that Zaber didn’t see him. “We’re all going to haunt you. You are very hauntable.” The scrawny veteran rolled on his back and put his hands under his head as a pillow.

Turning his head as much as he could without pain, Zaber glimpsed at his friend. “Thanks,” he said curtly. “We’ll all be united in The Kraken one day. Rejoining Airich and all the other bastards.”

“Don’t make me worry, you’re not drunk enough to be so honest,” laughed Buron bittersweet. “Breg and I talked this out already. He wanted to ditch the witch and shitbrat. One last stand, finally ending all of this.”

“Still have that promise to keep,” replied Zaber and looked back into the sky. “After that, you two can live in peace together.”

“Not yet.” Buron also closed his eyes. “Told you, talked him out of it.”

Not enough time passed for the ghosts to settle into Zaber’s dreams before his eyes sprung open again. He didn’t know where or when he was – how much he had slept or not. His body went up on its own, and the pain brought him back into reality. The voices around him were unfamiliar, except for one.

“Peasant son?” Franque’s scratchy voice and dirty accent rang from the side. Two of his men braced him, as his legs were still shaky.

With heavy breath, the dirty and unkempt man looked up, holding his ribs. He tried to lower himself, but that was just as bad as when he rose. “What is it, paysan?” he replied, butchering that word.

“Le cyclope wants to talk,” said the highwayman. “You too occupé with dying?”

Buron had woken up and reached for Zaber to brace him too. “Let’s wait until I can give you some willow bark first,” said the bald man.

He ground his teeth at first. But the infectious laughter of Franque, seeing him like this, made Zaber smirk. “’aight,” he said. “Buron?”

“I’ll keep you in staring position,” said the bald veteran. “Don’t overdo it.”

“’aight,” repeated Zaber. “I’m doing gorr–” A sharp exhale of pain interrupted himself. “Good.”

Franque and his men spoke a couple of Galázian words while trying to get him next to Zaber. He looked drunk, while toppling to the side. The brigands’ leader was a loud man, but he was even louder now.

“You need to parler into my good ear!” He saw Roda walking towards them and waved her over. She didn’t bring her son, but Bigge, and another man and woman around their ages accompanied her. All of them were armed and wore the colors of mourning.

Roda sat down in front of them and put a jug of beer with wooden cups in front of them. She mustered them from head to toe, their injuries, the weapons next to them, and the kind of scars they had. Bigge handed her a bowl with three boiled eggs, of which she cracked one and held the rest in front of Franque and Zaber.

“Want an egg?”

“How généreux,” said Franque and missed a mug. Ludi stepped up to fill it with beer and hand it over. “What do you want from us cripples?”

“Ne sois pas un connard,” rang a female voice from behind. Nancia, Thyra, Torm and Breg brought water, bread and cabbage soup. The woman-at-arms and the unreasonably tall man waited right behind Roda’s followers.

“Whatever she said,” said Zaber, pushing through the pressure in his torso. “But he’s right. No need to butter us up, get right to the point.”

“Very well,” scoffed Roda. She pulled out her cleaver and laid it next to the beer, provoking a twitch in Breg. “You folks are the bandits and outlaws. I’m here in all honesty. No need for mistrust.” She peeled the shell off her egg and bit off half. “Some of the men from our villages told me your armor is worth a lot.”

“Are you buying?” asked Torm, sitting down next to Zaber and aiding Buron. He remembered what Zaber said when they last spoke to peasants, and didn’t wanna let him down. “Or robbing us?”

“I bet we’re losing if this was a robbery,” replied Roda. “And that’s why I’m here. We’re the same; on the run from the heels on our throats. I want to ask you to give us what we lack.”

“Quoi?” asked Franque extra loud while throwing the whole egg into his mouth. He chewed while speaking. “For the right prix, we can lead you south the montagnes.” Laughing as loud and infectious as always, he leaned forward – and would have fallen on his face if not for his men. “But our noblesse are just as foutu as yours.”

“No.” Roda wasted no time. Her posture was upright and her eye was sharp – her bony stature melted away under her demeanor. “We are sick of running. We want you to join us; make us strong. Give us the ability to fight back.”

“Don’t be a fool, woman,” said Zaber soberly. Buron had asked with his eyes if he wanted that egg or beer, but was refused. “Take it from me: A peasant is no soldier. Take the mountain rat’s offer and find a new liege on the other side.”

The one-eyed woman closed in on the broken veteran and pressed a mug into his hand. Their stares met and recognized each other. “We’ve made peace with the Stars. There’s no going back,” she said. “Please, help us.”

Everyone was caught up in the intensity of the moment. Breg and Buron exchanged eyes, shaking their heads. The woman was no threat. Torm, Thyra and many of the gathering peasants swallowed in anticipation, where Nancia pricked up her ears and crossed her arms.

“You don’t want our help,” uttered Zaber under pain. “When your Sir Who-Cares finds the men he’s looking for – men like us – the rumors will lead him to you. Your boy said you’ve tried to recruit others. You’ve already messed up.” He closed his eyes for a pause, leaning back to relieve his ribs. “They’ll all tell on you sooner or later. Not for lack of comradery, but out of fear. They’ve always done so.”

Thyra remembered that tone. She bit her lip, while looking at Torm who had never heard Zaber speak that soft. The folk around them waited for Roda to respond, but she waited for the broken veteran to continue. Only Franque acted indifferent, stretching and yawning.

“He ain’t hiring good folk,” said Zaber. “They’ll burn and rape you. Beat, drown or cut off your limbs. Hanging will be viewed as mercy. The men your liege will find ain’t human no more.”

Breg and Buron looked at the ground, exchanging glances with each other and Zaber. Many averted their gazes, except Roda and the bandits.

The one-eyed woman grabbed the former mercenary’s hand, like that of a child. “Are you done trying to scare me?” she asked. Several folk around them giggled, and Thyra snorted a short laugh that made Nancia’s slashed eyebrow go up. “Zaber was it? I see that you’re trying to do me a favor, but you’re not telling me anything new. We know what little humanity Sir Ludwald has.” She let go of his hand and her eye wandered through her fellow peasants. “We’re asking you for the strength that made you fight these knights and survive. Hurt them even,” she said and stood up. “If you want to fight them again, you’ll need an army. And an army is what I want us to be.”

“Y’all are peasants,” replied Zaber raspy. “And you are a fool.”

“And so were all of you once, weren’t you?” Roda picked up her cleaver and stowed it back into her belt. “We’re–”

“Not me,” interjected Torm, smiling awkwardly. Zaber sighed and Buron smiled, with some of the peasants joining in.

Roda looked at him stone-faced, until she nodded the young man’s comment off. “We’re all commoners. My fellow men and I are tired of working fields we don’t own. Herding cattle that’ll be taken away on a whim. Paying for walls that keep us outside.” She squatted back in front of Franque, staring at them as she showed them her one green eye. “The terror you’ve described isn’t new to us. We live it every day, only broken by our bonds. What I want you to do is to teach us how to keep our new freedom. What I want you to teach us is how to murder Sir Ludwald, like I murdered his son.”

More and more peasants had arrived around the outlaws. Old and young folk alike, girls and boys, husbands and wives. None of them gave the impression that they were hearing these words for the first time. Nevertheless, all of them were still enthralled by them.

“You made your peace with the Stars, you said?” Zaber looked through their ranks where one group stood out to him. “That’s not your decision to make for your children.”

“You’re right,” replied Roda and rose. “But there’s no going back. Ludwald won’t forgive us for what I did, and we voted on the matter.”

“Je–” Nancia stepped next to Roda but halted. “I will t’entraîner.” Her square jaw had been tense to a breaking point while listening to the hardships Zaber and Roda spoke of. Following them wasn’t easy, but she got what this was about. And it reminded her of past times her brother promised her would never return.

“Quoi?” Franque’s head snapped forward.

He wasn’t impressed with what Roda had to say, but his sister made his blood boil in an instant. While he flooded her with foreign words only the bandits understood, his face went from anger to confusion, back to anger. Lastly, he spat on the ground. Nancia wasn’t shy of speaking as fast as her brother, aggressive and somewhat spiteful. At the end, while Franque was still speaking, she turned around. It was so fast that her flowing skirt, beneath the arming doublet, pushed everyone close to her to the side.

“Arrêt, arrêt!” ordered Franque to his men. He also looked at Breg, close-by to Nancia. “Stop her!”

Roda walked away from the outlaws. She turned her head around, seeking eye contact with the brigands’ and veterans’ leaders. “Talk and think about it. We’ll need to move tomorrow; I’ll come eat supper with you,” she said. Bigge and the other two that initially came with her went ahead. “Please don’t let us wait. We can deal with disappointment, but don’t play us for fools.”

The peasants that stayed behind looked left and right. They glanced at each other and waited for something to happen. But more and more snuck away, feeling Breg’s, Franque’s and Zaber’s aggressive eyes on them. The brigands stayed behind as well, as nobody felt in a position to stop Nancia. Only Thyra made a move after her and Roda, but stopped for one more moment.

“I’m still angry at all of you,” she uttered. “You shou–” Grabbing her chest, she bit her own lip. “See you at supper.”

“Man,” sighed Torm and lowered Zaber, together with Buron. “You messed up so hard this time.”

“Shut it, shitbrat.” Breg stood next to him and patted him on the back. “We gotta unload our junk.”

Buron giggled into the beer mug that he took off Zaber, emptying it in one go. He caught the unreasonably tall man off guard, and made Torm’s face go pale.

“Unruly pute.” Franque spat in front of him. Remnants of his beer were all over his scarred, unshaven face.

“You gotta admit,” said Torm, while Breg walked away under the scrawny veteran’s smirk. Zaber shifted his head slightly, now that he was able to rest again. “That was some real Hanging Forest Hoodlums speech.”

“What?” uttered Zaber, already closing his eyes. He got angry at himself that he even asked.

“Quoi?” Franque looked at Zaber.

“You know, from the boo–” The young man was stopped by a giant hand dragging him away.

“How did you make it this far?” asked the unreasonably tall man. “If you explain this to me, you ain’t making it further.”