The old knight’s eyes sparked with that strange shine again as they sat themselves on Syn before darting away in a ritual he had been repeating ever since she had come to. Syn remembered of times where she had read of knights in storybook, with a gallant display of honor and righteousness, but again reality seemed to betray her expectations by denting his armor and tearing his tabard, aging his visage and greying his hair.

The woman was scantly any better; feverish eyes darting from her to the Tyran, back to the archer and then resting on the cloth she was stitching together as if it made her small and unnoticeable.

The coals hissed idly with the venison’s fat dripping down, steady as the creeping frost coiling around them come from between tired trees and naked shrubs, come from the mountains and the fields and forest.

Her head lolled sideways and thumped against the Tyran’s leathern armor, had his warm cloak brush her cheek with a woolen prickling. She was sat on his lap as they had found she couldn’t sit by herself without tipping over.

His hard arm moved and nudged her head up, guiding a spoon of warm mush towards her cracked lips. She barely managed to swallow down half as the rest trailed down her chin to tap onto her worn furs.

Through the blur of exhaustion, she caught Bald exchanging a glance with the knight, then nodding and turning to the Tyran, eyes spelling determination and caution. He shifted on the soil cleared of snow and the handle of his knife poked from between the folds of his battered coat, just short from his squirming hand, clenching and unclenching.

“Now, though I said you’re right welcome at our fire –” and he stared hard at the medallion, dangling from the Tyran’s neck and gleaming with a dull sheen. “But you have to explain…”

“What my friend is trying to say,” the knight smiled jubilantly, “is that an exchange of names and courtesies, things such as those, could lessen the tension now chocking this friendly gathering.” And his smile grew wider still, stretching an old scar along his cheek – white and arcing. “Is that a fair request from the likes of us, Master Tyran?”

Syn felt the Tyran’s muscles tense and twitch underneath his armor, had her frame shift somewhat. Now his hand was close to a mean looking blade, too. Her tired eyes fleeted across the savage metal, howling with mute delight at the prospect of violence. She felt bile rushing forth before suppressing it with a gurgle and a sputter.

The tyran patted her back gently as she choked her food down again, grasping a handful of his furs.

“My name is Art; a Tyran, as you already know.” She looked up from between his furs at the tyran’s face. No, at Art’s face. She hadn’t expected a man tempered by violence to keep one at all, and she found it oddly pleasant to know it. “And this…” He looked down at her and their eyes met. Brown eyes, like mud, but hard-set inside sunken sockets, the left bigger than the other for a scar that split one of his brows.

“I’m Syn.” Her voice weak as the uncertain buzz of a fly. The knight’s smile now cracked to show a set of worn teeth.

“Well, Syn, nice of you to join us. You’re right welcome at our fire.” But her lashes had already sunken into slumber, and the Seven knew she needed it. Though there was no telling when her dreams would rip her awake. “Ah.” The man breathed, then sighed and sagged back against the fallen tree, wrapped himself tight in skins and hides. “And just as I was going to introduce myself.” He murmured, eyes staring vacantly at the sky - cast over by iron clouds. Art straightened himself and angled to the hunter – the man who had felt the eager breath of Silver barely an hour past.

“I’ve yet to thank you for the thornwart.” Art raised the wooden bowl with some stubborn brown and red muck still clinging to the dark grains. “I had been searching, along the North road, but finding proved difficult.” He tried smiling, but it only seemed to distress the man more.

“No, I hardly deserve your thanks, Master Tyran.” He raised his palms and cringed. “My wife, Senma, is who picked the growth, knowing it could come in handy.” Art nodded at the skittish woman sitting next to the hunter, close, choosing to remain silent.

“Now we’ve got all things such as these covered,” grinned the knight. “They call me Sir Yorik of Vesmire, winner of duels, challenger of beasts, claimer of prizes, seer of many.” The creases round his steel eyes spread, showing a face used to laughter.

“You travel in diverse company, Sir Yorik.” Art pointed out, nodding at the tanned hunter and his darker spouse. Yorik thumbed his chest proudly with a metallic clang, then gestured at the others.

“Indeed! A knight of my status has seen many things, been to many places. A knight such as myself finds it coming naturally to gather company along the roads and travels.” He waved his metal-clad hand to the Bald one; scalp riddled with angry white and burning red scars, blotched and stretching as the patches of a cow. “This fellow I’ve picked up years back, when I passed through Herbly, when such a place still existed, that is.” Art flinched at the name of the place, but the others didn’t notice. Or ignored it. Or took note.

“Name’s Jubail.” The man grunted in a broken voice, frowning though he had no eyebrows. And that was all introduction from him. Can’t say I mind it. Doesn’t seem like a man that likes talking. Doesn’t seem like the kind of man I wanna hear talk, too.

But the knight either didn’t see or care about the exchange of hard looks and simply went on, caught in his own booming voice.

“And these two birds I caught along the road from Orsen, just a moon ago or so.” He rubbed along his rough blond beard, thinking, then shrugged and had his plated shoulders groan. “been a huge help, really. Lass’s knowing of herbs has helped out plenty before, you see.” And he nodded at Syn, sleeping with a gentle heaving of the chest. “Your girlie isn’t the first to enjoy her expertise.” He then winked at the dark girl, still close to her companion.

“I’m Roag, of Acrea.” He said in a rich voice, chipped slightly by an odd accent, then lightly pushed the woman forward. “come on, be polite.” He whispered, and she looked at Art with round eyes. “Senma.” She uttered barely louder than the crackling of their fire, flames still licking the meat hung above.

“From over the Nameless Sands! Can you believe it?” The knight droned and shook his head, helm swiveling along. “Can hardly imagine that to have been an easy journey.” Art eyed the girl again; her sharp face used to hard weather, quick eyes flitting about, nervously shifting along the soil.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Aye.” Art mumbled. One must be harder than bedrock to make it across there; the Black Desert. Perhaps she is more than she seems.

“You too, Master Tyran, must have seen quite the journey, ey?” The knight beamed before a gurgling voice sounded.

“Where’d ye get the girl, anyway?” Jubail rumbled, hands dangling along his knees. Of course.

“Hey, now.” The knight raised his palms to beg for Son Peace. “I’m sure there’s a suitable explanation…”

“There’d better be.” Spat Jubail. “Tyran can’t have no children, even backstreet scum knows that. So, where’d you get her?”

Art’s eyebrows knit together to form a dark expression; dark as the wings of Grandmother Destruction.

“Blackshire.” He said, speaking the truth. One of those rare cases where the truth does just as well. Better even, perhaps. “There was a Northman raid, town went up in flames, as is their way. Syn’s brother was killed, and I took her with.” Jubail snorted, crossing his arms.

“And why’d ya do it? Out ‘o the kindness of yer heart?” He snorted again and spat phlegm on the frozen duff. “Not a Fuckin’ chance.” Yorik grimaced, but otherwise held his silence; silent as Father Earth and just as unmoving.

“And what if that’s just how it is?” Art growled. “And even if it aint…” And he brandished his teeth, slick with drool. “What are you going to do ‘bout it?” His shoulders trembled, still aching from his past fight, but ignored it.

Jubail worked his mouth and the knight leaned left, freeing his scabbard from the log, the hunter pulled Senma closer and eased his knife free. Then the bush ripped open.

“Hoy!” The jagged man said while branches grabbed at his clothing, greasy hair plastered to his face. “How’s it…”

He stopped in his tracks to greet the heavy silence wreathing throughout before frowning himself.

“Now,” he started “I know yer all hungry, but.” And he trudged to the fire with heavy steps, strolling right in-between Art and the rest. “that don’t mean you’ve got to fight over the first piece, does it?”

He poked the meat with a dirty finger before quickly pulling it away. “Ah! Hot!” and he put the finger in his mouth with a pained expression. “Can never trust those you love, huh?” he said, staring at the sweating flesh. He’s a loon.

Art blew out his cheeks, knowing full and well he’d regret it. But so is life; full of past regrets. All you can really do is make the best of what you’re left with.

“I took her because I’m tired.” Art sighed heavily, shoulders sagging, curled fingers leaving the solid knife. “Tired ‘o running, of ignoring, of regretting.” He looked down on the frail girl. Looked at her hair, long as the reign of Daughter War, black as the soot kicking up from the flames.

He shrugged again, getting real comfortable at doing it, and looked Jubail straight in his eyes. “I took Syn because leaving her would’ve been harder.” And that was that.

The bald, and scarred man seemed to think that over for a spell, then had a shrug of his own and a sight, too, as he might just as well. “Then I can’t hold that against ya.” He finally said, allowing room for Sister night to steal the forest from Brother Day.

--

Syn’s eyes fluttered open, dazed by a deep, dreamless sleep. Took her a moment to adapt to the darkness, warping between the trees and briars, clawing at their warm fire.

“You shouldn’t feel bad about it, Art.” She heard the knight say.

“I scant feel much. You won’t find me weeping all too soon over a couple of harsh words.” The knight showed a sorry smile.

“Even so… The hate for Tyran is strong in most; fear for the unknown, for the strong, for one’s neighbor.” He shook his head solemnly. “He was different before, before the scars, before the war.”

There was a pause before the silence was broken.

“He fought in a war?” The dark man asked, wide eyes shining in the fire’s glow.

“Indeed, Son. Or do you suppose he got those scars from being mighty careless with a razor?”

“No, of course not.” The man responded sheepishly.

“No, of course not.” The knight puffed at his pipe and blew out a great plume of smoke, eyes following its coiling trail before setting on Art. “Ever heard of The Blight?”

She felt Art twitch. “Aye. I’ve heard of him.”

“Suppose everyone has, by now; Anyone who’s fought in any given war back then.” The knight hummed, tapping on the shaft; had ash leak out. Then he looked at Syn. “You ever heard of him, missy?”

Now all eyes were on her.

“your awake.” Art mumbled. “Slept well?”

“Yes.” She whispered, quiet as a flower’s growing.

“Good.” He answered simply.

“You see,” the knight followed, talking over them. “This Blight is no ordinary Tyran, such as Master Art over here.” And he poked his pipe at him.

“The Blight doesn’t use a blade or other like weapon for his fighting. Don’t ask me how, but he figured a way to mix magic in his cunning. A most vile magic, leaving the opponent no chance for things such as those, or even these. No moment to fight back, or even to flee. He’d simply draw close, and that’s the end of it. People just drop down, squirming and drooling foam, horribly pale except for those sickening rashes looking like burns…”

“Aye.” Art said, scratching at his own scar, ugly as Mother Sea’s wrath, running from his scalp to his neck.

“Then…” The hunter fumbled, gripping his arrow half-past fletching. “How do you win? How is it possible to fight someone you can’t touch?” The woman huddled closer, warding against the cold, or the fear, or both.

“You don’t.” Yorik hacked. “You make sure to look for the signs and run while you can. While you still can.”

“Signs?” Syn breathed, light as a leaf’s falling; curiosity drawn by the all familiar rhythm of a story.

“Yes, the three signs to tell of his dawning.” The Knight explained.

“Three signs.” Art repeated.

“As every story likes.” Syn remarked, wriggling some comfort in Art’s lap.

“Indeed.” The knight droned. “Three gifts, three curses, three heroes… Things tend to come in sums of three.” He had another breath of his gogh before passing it to Art.

“Fire,” he said, “fire is a great sign to look for in a battle.”

“Daughter War likes her flames…” Art muttered while blowing a cloud of grey.

“Indeed, so she does. Always enough flames to go about…”

“So, what do you look for in them?” Roag sounded very much frightened, as if knowing it sooner would be the difference between life and death. Getting real drawn into the story.

“You see, Son: She Who Makes The Open Hand A Fist likes her fires red or orange,” and he raised his iron finger, mirroring the light. “At the first sign they turn blue.”

“Blue?” Asked Roag, eyebrows raising.

“Aye.” Said Art. “Blue as azure.”

“When they change, there’s still time. The reason why they know the flames warp their dress is because those who bore witness were able to flee in time.” He looked at the sundering fire, watched the air shimmer for the surging heat. “Then comes the second omen.”

“What is it?” Syn whispered, eyes wide and glowing, watched the knight frown at the reaching tongues of flame.

“The air will wreath though there is no wind.” He explained, eyes glazed. “You’ll feel it against your skin, prickling, tickling. When the second sign shows, you will know; Just doesn’t feel right.”

“Foul.” Art hissed.

“Vile.” The knight growled.

The hunter was cowering something fierce, and so was the woman, before the terror that a story can breathe. Syn knew it well, the sensation of being drawn in fully; enveloped whole. But it didn’t happen now. She remained rooted in the sobering roots of her empty reality.

“The third sign quickly follows the second, and by then it’s too late for most.” The knight said, and Art wrinkled his nose in a half-snarl. “A strange smell to burn your nose and sting your eyes.”

“A foul smell?” The hunter asked breathlessly.

“No.” Said the knight, grasping at the night as if searching, seeking far and deep buried between crumbling memories. “It’s an odd smell, one you don’t expect on the battlefield…”

“A spice.” Jubail rumbled in his torn voice while leaving the frozen pine and entering the waving light. “Something I smelled once or twice in some noble’s kitchen, never quite knew what it was though.” He shrugged and glanced at the bony woman, but she shook her head.

“Never met him.” She hummed, ever so slight.

“And after the third sign?” Asked Roag in a shaky voice, and Jubail looked upon him with dewy eyes, trembling in deep sockets, haunted by livid flashes and dark shadows.

“You lose everything.”