He pulled his dirty cloak closer around him. It was cold. The summer months had harsh nights in these parts. His breath smoked in front of him mingling with the rising ashes from his fire, his main source of warmth. Though the winters were mild in this country, there was no point in denying that he was not accustomed to the cold. A mere chilled breeze made his blood run cold. If the weather was any worse, he would have to seek shelter, a luxury that one as himself could not afford.

Drawing in a cold breath, Faris faced the truth as the fire warmed his red whiskered face. He had to leave as soon as possible, but he had to stay for the time being. His job was not completed. If he left before the term of his service was over, he would forfeit all that he could earn. What would be the purpose of enduring the cold nights if he left empty-handed? The thought of it left his stomach sour, which made empty guts worse. He struggled to remember the last time he had a full belly.

A cloudy sky loomed overhead, blocking the light of the moon and countless stars. An ill omen no doubt, he thought to himself. There was a time when he thought omens were mindless superstitions of old, drooling women and disgusting beggar monks. That was in the distant past. Now he knew that superstition or not, it was wise to guard oneself when the world was kind enough to give some hint. That was more than most gave him.

Averting his eyes from the sky, he looked out over the crackling embers at the land beneath him. As far as the night would allow, he saw the silhouettes of emptiness. Trees dotted the tree, rising above the barrenness, but they paled in comparison to the rocky hills that marked this country as their territory. It was said that if one could see the countryside from an eagle's perspective, he would see a message of the gods written among the hills. On that, Faris was skeptical. What message could be so important that they would need to create such a waste of land?

Each hill had little to offer in terms of substance. The ground was too rocky to grow most crops and the hills made it impossible for anyone to harvest a proper crop. Game was scarce with migrating birds being the most frequent visitors, and they have ended their year's journey far from here. The creatures that called this land their home were wise, hiding in their holes and beneath the crevices of rocks when those that wanted their flesh appeared.

Amongst the hills sat a lone city, resting on a smaller hill. Why they chose a smaller hill made little sense to Faris. Perhaps they hoped they would remain invisible when there were better places to call home. During the day, all it took was a single glance to know that such a thought in earnest would show the lack of one's own intellect. A long dry trench ran through the hilly country, drawing passed the city. Before it was a dry ditch, it was a river, the very lifeforce of the city. Any passerby would find them. What other path would they follow other than the river?

Looking at the silhouetted city on the hill, his stomach groaned. He longed for a hot meal and, better yet, a warm bed. If he had the coin, he would eat and have a room. Perhaps he could slide out of his stinking stained pants and tattered shirt. He would toss his sorry shoes aside, freeing his aching toes from their daily prison. A maiden would wash his clothes while he soaked in a bath, allowing the scum and grime of the road to slide off his body. He would fall asleep in that tub until the sun rose. Clothing himself, he would face a new day, refreshed for the first time in he forgot how long.

Averting his eyes, he knew that was a vain wish. He did not have the coin for any of those, let alone all three. Such was the fate of a man of the road, one of many. There was a time when his pants had stoutness to them and his shirt had color, which he forgot. He wondered how much longer his shoes would hold together. The leather carried him far, but in another month at best, barefoot would be his method of travel. His feet cried at the thought of it. His long cloak, which he snatched while its previous owner bathed, was his newest garment, and it had its far share of use.

Not far away, there was a rustling down the hill. His eyes narrowed while his body snapped to his feet. In his mind, he shuffled through the various causes of such a noise, and too many of them meant misfortune for himself. His right hand slipped down his body, sliding over to his left hip. It stopped, resting the fingers around the hilt of a double-edged cutlass. Slinking back from the open flame, he pressed himself into nearby bushes. In the dark, it would be hard for anyone, even a creature of the night, to spot him right away. The road taught one many things. Chief among them was wary men who lived to see the morning. Fools were at the mercy of those that knew the teachings of the road. Faris knew what it was like to be at another's mercy. It would not happen again.

Poised with his hand on the hilt, he listened as the rustling grew louder. The singular sound shifted into two distinct noises, one of which struggled to be quieter than the other. They drew closer until they stopped somewhere beyond the fire's light. Faris stayed where he was, keeping his ears sharp. The silence hung in the air, waiting for one of the two parties to break it. Whoever the newcomers were, they would soon find themselves at the mercy of those more acquainted with the road's teachings.

"Where is he?" a voice hissed. Faris had to grin. It was surprising what one could learn from the sound of another's voice. A man, perhaps one on the heavier side. If he was skilled with a blade, he would be the one to fight first. Heavy men carried large swords. Easy to dodge for one light on his feet, but hard to defend against. Take him down fast and deal with the second one, whoever he might be, he concluded with his fingers tightening around the hilt, but he waited. Rushing into a fight led to an unseen knife shoved in the guts.

"Quiet," another wheezed. At this voice, Faris almost laughed. An older man, and lean by the sounds of him. This was too perfect. Old men were nothing to fear in a fight. They might as well not be there. This changed nothing. His plan would be the same. If he surprised them, it would be over in hummingbird speed, but he stayed hidden. Patience was a virtue that always paid its faithful followers.

The quiet held for mere moments to be broken by the first speaker. "Heh, must've ran off," he chuckled. Clomping footsteps drew closer, far louder than the earlier approaching ones.

"Wait you fool," the second roared, but it was too late. Both of them were in Faris's sights, whether they wanted it or not. The first lumbered into view, revealing himself to be a large man with long dark hair. His companion, who struggled to pull the other back to no avail, was a balding man of shrunken stature, using a thick walking stick to keep his balance.

Both men dressed in rags, worn and weary from the road. The larger man carried a huge pack that no doubt had all their valuables while the other carried the waterskin. An interesting arrangement, he mused. If either of them left the other behind, he would risk sacrificing all his belongings and having nothing of value anywhere or dying of thirst in the middle of nowhere. However, the larger man could overpower his frail friend with ease, except the elder wore a curved blade at his side. Men of the road were cunning beings, if nothing else.

They gathered around the fire with little argument, with the older man giving up trying to deter his companion. The large man dropped his pack and laid next to the fire, stretching out. His wide eyes closed at once as sleep's arms took him into its warm embrace. Furious, the second man thumped his dozing friend on the forehead with an open palm. "Wake up half-wit," he barked, looking around in fear.

"Cut it out," the first said, waving his companion away. "Let me sleep in peace. How often do you find a ready-made fire?"

"Everywhere," the elder chastised. "Because people make them. Whoever made it won't want to share it with the likes of us."

At this, the large man guffawed. "Who cares? Don't think he'll be too disagreeable with a few broken bones."

"Gah. You haven't lived long enough to know the danger in pushing a man away from a fire."

"Have you forgotten what we're trying to do? A man's fury of losing his fire is not the worst that could happen."

"There it is. Proof that you have not learned anything. Perhaps you need a reminder." To prove his point, he pulled down the front of his shirt, displaying some mark that Faris could not make out. "This is what a man gets for folly."

"You keep showing that as if it is supposed to impress me," the young man yawned. "An old man's scars show weakness, not wisdom." At this, the elder struck the youth hard with a clenched fist. He howled, leaping to his feet. "That does it. I'm tired of your pointless lectures. Perhaps you need a lesson of your own." The elder drew his sword, ready for a brawl while the younger balled his fists. Though Faris was interested in seeing how this would finish, the chill was becoming uncomfortable.

Time to join them, he decided, stepping out of his hiding place.

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At the sound of his coming, the pair forgot their anger, looking toward the newcomer. "Who goes there?" the elder shrieked, waving his sword. The younger reared up to his full height, ready to pummel anything in sight. Even in the muted glow of the fire, the fear on his face was plain. Faris made no attempt to hide himself, allowing each step to crunch the earth beneath with sound confidence.

As he strode into the firelight, he allowed his cloak to display the sheathed blade. "Evening," he greeted in a gruff tone, courtesy of the chilled air. He paid no attention to the threatening glares his unwelcome guests threw his way. Sitting down by the flames, he extended his hands toward the warmth, allowing life to return to his fingers. "Cold night. No friend like a fire."

They exchanged a look. Faris regarded them with a cold stare and the faint wisp of a grin while they remained tense, unsure if they should strike. On the road, strangers were a double-edged sword, very helpful as a friend and very dangerous as a foe. It was impossible to tell which group a stranger would fall into. Those that were not wary ended up with daggers in their guts watching their blood pool beneath them.

For a moment, nothing happened, until the elder said, "You speak true. Though no warmth is better than a woman's." His sword lowered, but his body was more tense than before. Though he gave the tone of one remembering his courtesies, his voice betrayed him.

He has a reason to remain hostile, Faris noted.

"No man can agree with that," Faris answered aloud, giving no sign that he suspected. "Do you plan to stand the rest of the night or would you like to share this fire?"

A faint smile played on the elder's lips. Limping forward, he sat down by the flames, warming his hands. The younger remained where he was, hand on his sword. "Sit down, you oaf," the elder barked. "Do not mock the gift of our gracious host." At his insistence, the younger sat down, though his body remained rigid. He eyed the elder's sword, contemplating making a grab for it if necessary.

"You must forgive his manners," the elder excused, maintaining an empty grin. "He lacks the good graces that his mother possessed."

"Many lack what their good mothers wished to impart," Faris replied with a nod. The younger dismissed everything with a grunt. Reaching for a stick, he prodded the logs, making the flames leap up. In the brightness, Faris caught a threatening look in the man's eyes. It was brief, but with a keen eye, it was impossible to miss. Besides, it was clear that he wanted Faris to see it. What he did not expect was that the sudden light glimpsed off the elder's finger. Nestled on his forefinger was a ring which looked so foreign on his wrinkled fingers.

"Not that the lad can take blame for that," the elder admitted. His voice's cadence was slow and deliberate, allowing time for another to chime in if he wanted. Faris did not. "She disappeared when he was young. Had to take him on the road with me so we could both make a living. After all, it is improper for a man to abandon his child, but I would be lying if I said that it was a good upbringing for him." He shook his head. "Perhaps we might leave the road behind. All we need is a purse dripping with coins. Heard that there was some good work up north in the royal quarries."

"Lot of good you'll be there," his son scoffed, while keeping his eyes on Faris.

At this, the old man's brow furrowed in clear frustration. "How dare you mock your father in front of our host? You forget all that I did for you." He jumped to his feet and slapped the younger one on the back of the head. The son tore his eyes away from Faris long enough to glare at his father. "While I cannot be a workhouse like you, I have my own talents that I can offer the King."

"What would that be?" Faris interrupted, growing weary of the family squabble. If there was a point to this, he wanted the pair to get to it.

"My mind," the elder answered with a widening grin. "I know a little of everything. Never forget anything, not even a face. Arithmetic, history, geography. It's always fresh in my brain. If a man with my mind cannot be useful, then what good am I?" He paused, laughing. "Where are my manners? I bore you with our tales." He sighed. "It comes from having only this bum to speak with. No doubt, you have your own stories you wish to pass to a fellow stranger."

He suppressed a frown. Not again, he thought to himself. Many men on the road were clever. They had to in order to survive, but there were some that believed that they were the cleverest. Men such as these thought that strangers were fools that could be led around as a cur with a slice of meat. Often, they lacked what they believed they possessed in abundance, only serving as a headache for those around them.

"No offense taken," he replied. "My tales consist of nothing but the lonely path of the road before me." Trying to get information out of me, he mused. Why? The ring caught his eye again. At the back of his mind, a sudden image came to his remembrance. It made his blood run cold. At once, he knew that this conversation was at an end.

"On second thought," he said. "There is one story that I could regale you with. Once there was a hungry wildcat. Deep in the woods, he had little food to eat where his ribs poked through his skin. One day, he caught the stench of a common rat. Long ago, he would not trouble himself with chasing after such a low creature, with too little meat and far more hassle than he is worth. Now, it will consume the rat or die like one."

He kept his eyes on his unwelcome guests, waiting for the change in their eyes. It would not be long. "The wildcat tracked its prey for days. Drool ran down its furry chin as it thought about how much it would enjoy dining on the rat. As time passed, he grew weaker and fearful that he would never catch its quarry. At last, he found a little gulf; at the bottom of it stood the rat."

"The wildcat stalked down to where the rat awaited, seeming to not suspect a thing. Driven out of its mind by hunger, the cat lunged for its prey. But what the cat did not know was that the rat stood in front of a spike, which he so cleverly hid with common leaves. As its own weight gored itself on the barb, the cat saw the rat's grin. The rat knew that its predator was on its heels. It planned out the predator's end. The rat led the cat along, always bringing it closer to demise."

He looked up at the pair, allowing his tone to freeze into an icy dagger. "Old man, you know the dangers of the road better than your son. Have you taught him the danger of forgetting a face?"

Careful, he answered, "Yes."

Nodding, Faris asked, "Did you teach him the danger of relying on another man's ignorance?" He leaned closer to the fire, allowing the light to cast a shadow on the top of his face. "Like you, I never forget a face, and I remember yours well.

The men exchanged a brief look. Even in the dim firelight, he could see the blood draining from their faces. They knew that they were found out, but clever men were all about playing pointless games. "Not sure what you are talking about," the elder started.

"Drop the act. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a fool who thinks he's clever," he barked. The elder recoiled, old fingers trembling in the blade's direction. "So who sent you starving kittens to chase me down?" They did not answer. Faris sighed. "A name is all I ask. Is that so much?" They kept their mouths shut. "Well, that tells me more than you'd think."

"What?" the elder exclaimed.

"If you cannot reveal the identity of your employer, he must be an important man to keep your lips sealed," Faris observed. "Besides, they must be paying you a pretty penny if they gave you a ring before you managed to track down their prize."

A silence hung in the air. They had nothing to say to him. Neither expected this outcome. Fools. Did they believe it would be this easy at such a high price? "You know I can let you go if you leave now. Both of you can head north to find work. Wouldn't recommend the royal quarries though. Doubt they'd want you."

At last, they sprung to their feet, youth grabbing a fiery stick, the elder raising his sword. It was over in an instant, faster than the pair expected. No man realizes it, but death is always at his back. It overtakes him before he notices it's there. Such as it was for these. Faris grabbed the hilt of his blade and leapt to meet them. As the cloak flew open, the dim light of the embers seemed to ignite the edges of the silver sword. Its blade was three-foot with a curved guard which was wide and silver, similar to the sabers of sailors. At the end of the hilt was a seven-edged, brilliant blue jewel, or at least a splendid imitation of one.

Faris's sword struck true. The youth was down first, who was too eager to meet his demise. He swung his stick, hitting the fire. Embers, sticks, and ash flew at Faris. Quick to pummel his foe, the youth charged forward into Faris's awaiting sword. The tip pierced deep into his breast. The youth gaped as he realized Faris's tattered cloak shielded him from his blinding attack.

As the youth dropped to the ground, his flowing blood watering the earth, his father gave a savage battle cry, leaping forward with his sword in one hand and walking stick in the other. There is a time when a man must lay down his blade. The elder needed to do so long ago. Faris's sword glinted in the firelight as the tip slashed through the elder's throat. He was too slow. Gagging on his own blood, the old man dropped where he stood. The white blade was stained red by the intermingling blood of father and son.

Faris looked down on them with a cold eye. Stooping down, he wiped his sword clean on the younger's clothes. "Don't want your vile blood rusting it," he murmured. Putting the blade away, he moved over to the elder. It would be best if it appeared that they met a bandit. He took whatever coins he could find, though there weren't many. Their clothes were nothing he needed or wanted.

The last thing he took was the ring. He glanced at the little silver band. His lip curled at the sigil. "Just as I thought," he murmured, eyeing the platinum angel. With a sigh, he stuffed it into his pocket. He kicked dirt on his fire, smothering it. He left the bodies where they were. The animals would take care of them. In the meantime, he needed a new place to sleep. Someplace far from the bodies.

As he turned away, his clock opened on his right side. In the dying embers of the fire, the silhouette of a black sword swayed. It rested at his side awaiting his touch. His hand did not touch it. There was not a day that he didn't curse the blade. Yet he could not cast it aside. It was his, and he feared the day when he would draw it.