Hilda walked with purpose down the street, her well-worn cloak wrapped tight about her. With her husband and daughter away, she had locked up the Dancing Bear for a few hours while she answered the summons. Few patrons came after the morning rush. That gave her a few hours before her absence became noticeable.
Hilda felt as if everyone were staring at her as she made her way down the winding roads. She didn’t wear a hood because that would be foolishly suspicious on such a fine day. Yet, she kept her head down as she walked. She received some protection from her status as a Son, but it would be foolish to rely on it.
Son.
That name galled her. ‘Sons of the Reaper’ what a stupid name when half the membership were women. She shook her head as she approached a run-down shack, abutting the wall of the inner city.
The place was a wreck, even by the standards of the Outwalls. It more resembled a pile of boards leaning against the wall than an actual building. A crude door was carved into the wood, no different than any other in the Outwall. Its nondescript look suited its purpose. Hilda pulled a small iron key from her pocket and approached the door. She glanced around to ensure there were no guards. She needn’t have bothered. They only left the security of the walls to hunt people like her down. If a raid were coming, she would have been told hours, if not days, in advance.
She ran her fingers around the frame of the door. She always forgot where that damn opening was. Her nails ran over a rough spot. It was cold to the touch and she could feel the contours of the keyhole beneath a layer of wood. With a quick pull, she popped the lid upward and it swung open on greased hinges. She put the key into the hole beneath and twisted. The locking mechanism opened with a clank. She hid the lock once more before, putting her shoulder into the door and pushing the heavy barrier open.
Inside, she saw a man by the far wall of the building. He stared hard at her, axe in hand. He wore a mask shaped like a goat’s head. He asked her a question, “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“A bear shits where he wants,” she answered, giving him this week’s passcode.
The man relaxed and waved at something to her right. A second man in an identical mask stepped from around the iron reinforced door. “Welcome comrade,” he grunted as he heaved the heavy door closed.
The man on the far side of the room grasped the edge of a tarp on the floor. He pulled it back, revealing a deep pit which disappeared into darkness. Were Hilda to have charged in, she would have tumbled to her death. The walls around her were reinforced with thick wooden beams. It gave the building a cramped feeling that was only exacerbated by the pile of unlit torches sitting in the corner.
Hilda waited while one of the men lit a torch and handed it to her. She approached the edge and climbed down the ladder, flame in hand. Soon the room above was only a small circle of light in the distance. Her feet touched down onto hard rock and the torchlight revealed a tunnel bored straight through the granite stone around her. She had to crouch as she walked through it, passing dozens of wooden supports. The passage sloped upwards and the stone floor soon gave way to packed dirt. It felt as if she had walked a mile by the time she saw the opening into a chamber like the one she started in.
A ladder attached to the wall stretched up into darkness. There was no light or any end in sight. She sighed and pushed the flame of the torch into the dirt beneath her. The fire snuffed out, sending the tunnel into total darkness. She groped in the dark for the ladder and grasped its rungs. She stretched her arms and started pulling herself upwards. Fortunately, this climb was not so long as the previous descent had been and soon her hands ran into a wooden barrier. She knocked on it once, twice, then once again.
After waiting a moment, the trapdoor opened above her and an arm reached down into the tunnel. Hilda grasped the hand as it pulled her out of the tunnel, stumbling until she found her feet. The man who pulled her out helped to steady her. He was a giant of a man wearing the mask of a bear, yet his touch could only be described as gentle. She found herself in a large wine cellar. Rows and rows of wooden racks holding countless bottles filled the room.
The man grunted and scratched at his chin after getting a good look at her. “You’re early,” he said, “Marc ain’t here yet.” He leaned against a large boulder poised precariously next to the trapdoor. More than large enough to crush a man. It wasn’t hard to figure out what it’s purpose was.
“Well that’s too bad for him,” Hilda said brushing by the giant and walking toward the stairs. The creaky wooden steps led her into a large foyer, complete with richly upholstered furniture. A marble fireplace was lit, giving a warm glow to the golden frames of paintings hanging about the room. Half a dozen unmasked men lounged about the room, passing a pipe around and snickering like children. Hilda wrinkled her nose in distaste, but it wasn’t her place to comment on how her brother-in-law let his men spend their off-duty hours.
Their eyes seemed to float over her as she walked by. No signs of intelligence there. She walked down a long hallway, passing several rooms full of scribes. They busied themselves keeping careful records of the expenses and profits from the Son's activities. Men and women sat at long desks, stacked with expense reports from the various operational cells. Their job was to compile the information into easily digestible reports. This was where most of the women in their operation ended up. The Sons of the Reaper didn’t attract the most peaceful members of society. The temperament of the men was generally more suited toward breaking things. If she were being honest that's all most of them were good for. The clerical work often fell to the women.
Theft, extortion and trade in the various drugs smuggled turned a tidy profit. That and several very generous benefactors kept them swimming in wealth despite their humble origins. Marc had long ago made the decision to invest that money in the city smithies. One thing the Sons never lacked for was a steady supply of weapons and hands willing to use them.
Hilda emerged from the hallway into the front entry hall where better dressed guests might enter the mansion. A large staircase dominated the room and lead to the second floor. A well-groomed butler stood by the main door. Upon seeing her, the man bowed. “My lady,” he greeted, “I’m afraid you have arrived before the master of the house.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Hilda nodded at him. “I know. One of the bears told me. I’ll wait upstairs if that’s alright.”
The butler nodded and bowed to her once more. Hilda passed by him and ascended the staircase. As she walked upwards, a feeling of bitterness welled up inside her. This could be her everyday life if her husband weren’t so stubborn. They’d never have to worry about money again. Lissa could already be betrothed to the son of a wealthy merchant. There was no reason the girl ever needed to be anxious about such mundane concerns as her next meal.
Marc had offered him a position, even begged James to join him but her husband refused. He said he’d had enough of war for a lifetime. The man drove her mad some days. She couldn’t even take Marc’s money for her contribution to the cause because her husband would notice. The best she could do was take the bows her husband made and sell them to the Sons. She couldn’t even imagine his rage if he knew. The incessant secrecy weighed on her, but she couldn’t keep living the way she was. Every day was a war in and of itself and she knew she was well off by the standards of the Outwall. It wasn’t in her to be a bystander.
A long hallway extended in either direction at the top of the stairwell and Hilda followed the familiar path to Marc’s office. She decided to try the door rather than wait outside and was surprised to find it unlocked. She shrugged and walked through the door.
The inside of the office was as ostentatious as the rest of the mansion. Paintings and fine weapons hung from the walls, while plush rugs lined the floor. A grandiose desk dominated the center of the room. Hilda widened her eyes as she saw Marc sitting atop it. He was shirtless, grimacing as he dabbed a wet, brown piece of cloth against the wound he earned in the ambush last night. A bottle of whiskey sat next to him. Hilda winced as she watched him pour more of the liquid onto the rag and press it to his side.
Marc looked up as she entered, forcing the pain from his face. “Ah, good. You’re early.”
“I was told you weren’t here yet.”
Marc grunted as he held the rag to his wound. “There’s a dozen ways I can get into this house. If my own men can’t keep track of me then my enemies certainly can’t.”
Hilda walked further inside and took a seat by the desk. “Or you’ll get yourself caught in a bind and nobody will be able to help because we can’t find you.”
Marc shrugged, tossing the stained rag to the side and rising to his feet. “The cause will survive without me. I’m just the means to the bitter end,” he said, crossing the room to a small wardrobe and pulling on a fresh shirt.
Hilda rolled her eyes at his back. Men always loved to be dramatic. Then they turn around and call women fragile for a few tears. “Then why did you flee into my home and put my entire family in danger. If it’s your neck on the line, then don’t drag the people I love down with you.”
Marc turned back to her as he began to buckle his weapons belt around his waist. He looked abashed. “I’m sorry, I thought I’d lost them in the alleyways. I would never intentionally place you all in danger and I’d never leave my niece without a mother,” he said, tucking a steel axe and dagger into their places. “I need to gather our strength for tonight. One of our informants caught a Venaran messenger boy. He was delivering a letter to one of the Greencloak outposts. There’s going to be a raid at the end of this week. It seems the commander didn’t take kindly to us killing all his friends last night.” Marc grinned wolfishly.
“And the boy?” Hilda asked.
“Dead of course. What do you take my men for? Amateurs? I sure as shit don’t want them to be aware we know.”
Hilda nodded her approval. “We always know Marc.”
Marc’s grin grew wider. “They don’t know that but I’m planning to educate them. This city is not theirs and they are not welcome here.”
Hilda crossed her arms. “Is this why you called me here? So you could brag about how many Greencloaks you’re going to kill? Because if so, fuck you. Do you know how long it takes to get here?”
Marc chuckled at her as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out his wolf’s mask. “Sorry, have a lot on my mind today. Keep your head down this week and make sure Lissa stays indoors. It’s going to be a tad unpleasant outside.”
Marc grabbed a piece of parchment from his desk, dipped a nearby quill in ink and began to write. Hilda waited, tapping her foot on the wooden floor. Marc finished writing with a flourish and tucked the letter in an envelope with a few coins. “You know that little tyke who runs around with Lissa? Stupid fucking name, ugly ass boy?”
“Kid?” she asked.
Marc snapped his fingers. “That’s it. I caught him pickpocketing our glorious savior this morning. I caught the little shit and made him hand over the money. He had fourteen Harts on him. All real gold, I checked.”
Hilda raised her eyebrows in surprise. That was enough money to keep her tavern running for a solid year. “Where did he get that?”
“From a church,” Marc said, “but that’s not important. I offered him a job as a runner and you’re his point of contact.” Marc held up the envelope he’d sealed. “This letter needs to be placed directly into the hands of the castle’s resident drunken bastard.”
Hilda wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Are you really blackmailing him after he saved your life?”
“I have leverage over him and he doesn’t know who I am. I’d be a fool not to. Besides, I saved his life too,” he said.
“But he knows who I am, who my daughter is.”
Marc shook his head. “But not that you’re a Son. And he won’t put his head on the chopping block just to condemn you. The boy’s a drunken sot, not an idiot and he won’t even know you’re involved.”
“Using him like this sits uneasily with me,” Hilda said.
Marc came close to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Everything I do is to make our people great again. Our mission is larger than any one man or woman. He’s a decent kid. But if in the future, we can use him to save hundreds of lives, then we would be selfish not to. Distinguishing between right and wrong is a luxury that we no longer have. There is only what is necessary.”
He pressed the envelope into her hand. “This,” he said, “Is only an introduction. Nothing more. See that Kid delivers it.” He took her other hand and pressed a golden Hart into it. “Use this to make sure the boy looks presentable. There’s no way he can make it into the castle in his present state. And see to it that he’s put through the burner. I want to test his mettle.”
Hilda took the coin and pulled her hand away as Marc’s touch lingered. “Some people might say that what is right, is necessary.”
Marc snorted. “You sound like my brother.”
“Maybe you should learn to sound more like him yourself.”
He ignored her words. “You have your orders.” She flipped him a rude gesture and turned to leave. Hilda paused at the door as he called out to her. “I didn’t want to be like this, you know. I didn’t want to spend three years of my life eating shit and painting the hills red. I didn’t want to lose my little brother and find him broken a year later. I didn’t want to watch my home decay beyond recognition while my countrymen scrounge for food like rats in a gutter. But if I did nothing to change that, then what kind of man would I be?”
Hilda slammed the door shut behind her.