Written in Blood

By Ryan A Span

From the author of the STREET trilogy and The Impostor Prince comes a dark epic fantasy in the tradition of Mark Lawrence and Game of Thrones!

Karl Byren has fallen a long way since his youth in the King's Army. Washed up, reduced to mercenary work and alcoholism, he scrapes out a living as a 'Contractor,' a kind of hired bodyguard for whom the job is more important than his life.

When a new contract falls into his lap, at first it seems like any other... Until it becomes clear he wasn't hired for his skill as a soldier, but for what he unknowingly carries with him.

It's a dangerous trip through the heart of a civil war and into places beyond Byren's wildest imaginations. Everyone knows there's no such thing as magic -- but it's starting to get too close for comfort.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gryphonwood Press
• Release date: Dec 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519942593

Book preview

Foreword by the Author: A Quick Warning

Personally, I hardly ever read forewords in novels, but I recommend this one. It might be worth your time. And, having no idea how to put this gracefully, I'll just put it.

This story gets dark. By far the darkest I've written to date. I actually feel a little bit guilty for penning some of these scenes, but I set out to write something that pulls no punches, and that's what I did. As a courtesy to past victims I decided to include a warning.

If you have a bad reaction to depictions of sexual abuse or rape, don't read this book. If you're not bothered by awful, horrible things in your fiction, keep going. You might just enjoy the story.

1. Book of the South

What's written in blood cannot be undone.

- Contractor's First Rule

Some circumstances in life require a man to get drunk. There are three in particular; when he's bedded, when he's wedded, and when he gets paid. And the best way of getting paid is in advance.

Take me as an example. I had a bag of silver falcons sitting in my lap, and I was guzzling the local rotgut as if it were water.

Lost in the dregs of my third bottle, I came to the conclusion that I hated Newmond barleywine. Hated the taste, hated the smell, hated the lumps that floated in your cup and scraped your throat on the way down. It ate its way into the bottom of my mug while I stared, thinking. Thinking. Dangerous activity, especially when drunk.

Tonight, I thought and I drank because I'd taken a job. The falcons were my advance fee, and by God I spent as many of them as I could. Tomorrow I'd be on the road, long past any opportunity to enjoy them.

Most people would call me just another mercenary, but the polite term for my particular speciality was 'Contractor,' something akin to a hired bodyguard. It meant I took money from hopeful fortune-seekers and then tried my damnedest to keep them from getting themselves killed. What set us apart from your ordinary rent-a-sword was the lengths we were willing to go to to make sure our charges stayed alive.

In such a particular line of work, you soon learned to recognise potential clients by the look in their eyes. The woman had it when she offered me long-term employment with a bag of silver and more loot than I could carry. She leaned in, smelling of wild daisies and heather, and asked me to come meet her group before I made up my mind. She assured me I'd be impressed.

She needn't have bothered. I was on my last two coppers. Work hadn't been plentiful ‒ not because of a lack of business, but because nobody wanted to hire me anymore. My reputation wasn't as sterling as it used to be. Nowadays, most would-be clients would track me down in some taproom or other, take one look, and then run the other way.

So why did she choose me, I kept asking myself. Things being what they were, with the civil war up north, the whole Kingdom of Aran was crawling with mercenaries. She could've taken her pick from dozens, perhaps hundreds of willing, sober men.

It certainly set a man to wonder.

The woman had given me one night to settle my affairs and collect anything I wanted to take. There wasn't much of either. I hadn't made any friends in Newmond. Just passing through. Thus I ended up in a tavern so unremarkable I couldn't have described the place while sitting inside it, trying to make it so I could stop thinking for another night.

The crowd got progressively more rowdy as the evening dragged on. Plates and bottles started to fly. A brawl broke out in one corner. With my head full of wine, it offered a perfect opportunity for my number one method of recreation besides drinking.

I took my bottle and smashed it over the head of the biggest, meanest bastard I could find. The one who appeared to be winning. He went down, but only for a moment. Shaking off the impact and the blood from his bald scalp, he pushed back to his feet ‒ it was basic brawling etiquette to only hit them when they were standing up ‒ and grinned at me. I found a kindred spirit in those eyes. He fought because he enjoyed it.

He drew back one meaty fist and prepared to give me the best walloping of my life. Suddenly, his face went slack. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped over onto a table. There was a knife sticking out of his spine.

The fight stopped in an instant. This was the lowest, most horrific violation of the unwritten rules. All eyes turned to the wide-eyed, terrified stranger. He backed into a corner and pointed a second dagger at anyone who so much as breathed.

I caught a glimpse of half a face in the dim, pooling light; honey-gold eyes and skin the colour of cherrywood. He babbled out streams of high-pitched Northern in such a thick accent I couldn't begin to understand. A swollen eye and puffy lower lip told me someone had already roughed him up a bit.

The facts began to come together. He'd gotten himself caught in the brawl without understanding it, and now he was a dead man. The local reeve would hang him for murder if the other brawlers didn't tear him to shreds first.

Hanging would be the kinder option. At least it was quick.

I came forward, becoming the new target for his dagger. He screamed at me to stay back. Tears glistened in his eyes.

Holding out my hand, I took another step and said, I think you'd better let me have that, son.

He stared, head tilted, as if the gist of my words was getting through. But then he let out a wail of pure despair and lunged wildly out of the corner.

It was slow, and sloppy, and lacked even the element of surprise. I knocked his arm aside with my left and twisted it into a cruel joint lock while I freed my own knife from its oiled sheath. It slid up to the hilt into his belly.

He shuddered and gasped in my arms. I wrenched the blade up, then out with a twist and a jerk. He sank to the ground sobbing quietly, dying as I walked away.

One less refugee, I grunted. I wiped the blood on my handkerchief, returned the knife to its sheath, and headed out into the night.

Northerners. There were too bloody many of them. Everyone could see this place going right to Hell with all the refugees crowding in, and we were a hundred leagues from the front.

I thought about trying a different pub, but decided against it. Somehow the fun had gone out of the evening. I felt depressingly sober and introspective. Yes, I could've left that man for the reeve. I could've disarmed him. Could have, but didn't.

I set my feet on a course out of New Town, back to the older parts of the city.

Everything still smelled new around here, always a hint of mortar-dust and paint and fresh timber. This district had been stamped out of the ground only a couple of years ago, in record time, to house the neverending tide of war refugees. Many of those self-same refugees got pressed into service on the building work. Whoever couldn't afford entry into the city had the option of selling his children, selling his wife, or selling himself into indenture, and the good Earl of Newmond worked his slaves hard.

The really unlucky ones got drafted to go right back to the front lines to fight.

The door to my tenement building had long since rotted away and never got replaced. The sagging, woodworm-infested passage closed in around me like a coffin, and I counted the steps so I'd know where to stop. I slotted my key into the heavy mechanical lock, the one thing I'd paid for in Newmond that couldn't be eaten, drunk or ridden. The door swung open and I toppled through.

I fell asleep before my head even hit the straw.

I dreamed that night. My head was full of wild and confused images, except for one vivid scene which mimicked my meeting with her the day before.

She placed the knife on the table. Its edge shone in the candlelight, sharp as a razor. It spun like a compass needle, the point following me across the room.

Then we're agreed? she said. Her eyes, so much bigger in the dream, seemed to drink me in.

I nodded. I picked up the knife and pricked my finger. A little dot of blood welled up around the steel.

One crimson drop fell onto the parchment. I pressed it in, creating a deep impression of my finger-print. The contract was signed.

Where are we going? I asked, watching the red dot begin to dry.

The front line.

Red lips curled into a smile. I watched them in a trance. They were a perfect ruby red without the need for paint. Her cheekbones were aristocratic in their sharpness, and changed her from a desperately pretty woman into a true classical beauty. Her voice was liquid summer, distilled into soft, reverberating syllables that hammered straight down to my groin. And those eyes, like reflecting pools of emerald green. She made me wish I played an instrument so I could compose hymns to her magnificence.

Saints preserve me.

I nodded. Oh, good. As long as we're not going anywhere dangerous.

She laughed, and I fell in love.

The tap in the tenement's only washroom had broken about three years back, so I showed up at the gates in the same clothes in which I'd slept, unshaven, smelling of sick and stale liquor. The night left me richer by a few flea-bites and one dull headache. I leaned on my spear with one hand, checked my swordbelt, scratched myself, and headed for the meeting place outside of town.

The woman met me there astride a sleek little palfrey, sitting sidesaddle like a proper lady. She inclined her head, and her eyes shone, vivid as spring grass. Master Byren. You don't ride?

Infantry, Milady, I explained, and tapped the haft of my spear. She didn't seem to understand. I was an Army footman ten years, and a Sergeant of the King's Own Angian Guard for four of them. I don't ride.

She nodded, though still not satisfied. We have a saddle horse going spare...

I marched to her side, which bought me time to think of an excuse. I was no dragoon. I'd never mounted a horse in my life, but pride kept me from admitting to any shortcoming. The grey hairs in my black beard were bad enough on their own, let alone the way my bones creaked when I put weight on them. I patted her horse on the neck. Forgive me, Milady, but I'm a proud old dog. I'll walk if it's all the same to you.

She accepted the explanation, ever gracious. Are you ready then?

Always, I replied with a lopsided grin. So I was introduced to my new companions.

First, the woman owned a smoke-coloured slave girl from the Harari steppe, a hard-bodied little ball of hate in a badly fitting linen dress who stared daggers at everyone brave enough to come near her. High cheekbones and a sharp chin only amplified her thin, hawk-like lines. The irons around her neck and wrists kept her anchored to the supply wagon, but I still didn't care to shake hands.

Next I met a knight-errant and his young squire, having charged themselves with protecting the lady's honour. The pair were dressed up in their finest velvets emblazoned with the knight's coat of arms, a red raven in flight on a white field. I was no student of heraldry, but you got to know a lot of banners after so many years in the Army, and I'd never seen that emblem before. Though he kept himself clean and shaven except for a bushy black moustache, 'Sir Erroll' gave off a general air of shiftiness which suggested his title existed only on paper. It didn't help that he was built like an ox and carried himself with the confidence of a veteran campaigner.

His squire was a boy of no more than fifteen by the vague blonde fuzz on his chin. By nature he seemed short and wiry, the knight's polar opposite, but his arms were starting to show some muscle from his master's teachings. He wouldn't look me in the eye, which was odd, but I wrote it off as part of the inscrutable vagaries of highborn etiquette.

I ignored the obligatory brown-haired farmboy hovering around us. They were like locusts, one in every group, and they never lasted long. This was a particularly bad specimen: dirty, lanky, nervous and undernourished.

Last but not least, myself. Dirty leathers, scruffy black hair, unkempt beard, and perhaps the one thing worth mentioning ‒ my trademark bronze breastplate. I'd dug it out of the filthy corner where it had been ever since I rented the place, but it still looked polished as a mirror, free of scratches or grime. The previous owner believed the plate was special. Infused with a little piece of magic. Whether I shared his faith or not, good plate was hard to come by, bronze or steel, so I chopped his head off and made it my own.

Studying my new travelling companions, I tried to put my finger on the exact impulse which led me to sign my name. Money, pride, curiosity, such things were fleeting. But that woman... . She might be my reason for going. I wouldn't mind being near her for a few weeks, or months. I wouldn't mind that at all.

Together we set off down the Newmond road. The gentle sloping path was flanked by fields of wheat and barley, or fallow grass dotted with old tree stumps. Small farmsteads overlooked the fields, sometimes little more than a roof and chimney. Their hearths all poured trails of grey smoke into the sky.

Before long, I couldn't see the high walls of Newmond behind us anymore.

The first of the group to speak to me was the knight-errant, riding beside me in his maille byrnie. This time the red raven emblem was nowhere to be found. It seemed like the velvets and embroidery only got dusted off to keep up appearances. Still, he flashed me a convincingly knightly salute and smiled under his mighty moustache.

You have excellent marching form, he said, in the bombastic tones of someone who always thinks he's performing in front of an audience. My lady mentioned that you were one of the King's Own. Where did you serve?

A lot of places. It's been a long war, Sir, as I'm sure you know.

I do, Byren, I do. He stroked his moustache. I had the honour of facing the King's Own once.

I hesitated. Almost shocked enough to break my stride. You... You were on the Duke's side?

Sir Erroll nodded his head without shame or prevarication. I tried to suppress an instinctive stab of dislike, imagining him opposite me on the battlefields of my memory. I'd faced down plenty of Ducal knights on the other end of my spear, usually with their lances couched to charge, full ready to kill me and my friends if given half a chance.

I went on, Pardon the question, Sir, but if that's true, how did you make it this far south with your head still attached?

That was another battle altogether, Sir Erroll said, reminiscing. They captured me at the siege of Antoriam shortly before the city fell. I was only a light lancer, a younger son of an old house with no lands or title of my own. On my way to the prisoner camp, the big belfry at the walls collapsed like a house of burning cards. We'd bombarded it with pitch so even the rubble burned with the heat of Hell itself. He shivered. I led a rescue to dig out the trapped soldiers regardless of their crest or master. Even the King heard of it. When it came time for my judging, he spared me, and offered me a knighthood if I swore fealty.

Making you twice a turncoat, I thought to myself. Breaking even your miserable oath to the Duke, after already having betrayed your rightful king. If even two words of that story are true.

Forgive me, Byren, I'm rambling. Trust an old soldier to run his mouth, eh? Sir Erroll gave a conspiratorial wink. Begging your leave, I really must return to my lady's side.

I spared him a wave for politeness's sake. He spurred his horse back to the front of the group in a hurry.

With him gone, I glanced to my side at the chained slave girl. She marched with her heavy irons held out in front, locked to the supply cart. Really, she wasn't bad to look at in an exotic sort of way... High cheekbones, a tiny button nose, eyes the colour of roasted hazelnuts, skin like soft desert sand. She never looked up from the ground at her feet, her eyes half-closed in submission. When I heard a faint sound, though, I suddenly realised she was muttering. She didn't even notice me when I leaned in to eavesdrop. Her words were an uninterrupted flow of hate, without a single pause to swallow or draw breath. To my surprise, she wasn't speaking Harari. It was all in Southern.

"...you smug bastard I pray you get gutted in your sleep your entrails fed to the vultures and your kidneys to the jackals your heart torn out of your chest so you can watch it still beating while your life bleeds out of you drop by drop..."

Stifling a grin, I pretended not to hear.

"...and you as well you whore cunt on your stolen horse you deserve to crawl like a dog in your own shit begging for life before you die slowly while everyone laughs and laughs and toasts over your open grave..."

Yes, I could tell this trip was going to be interesting.

We reached the Fife and Drum at nightfall, lanterns swaying in the breeze underneath its rotted, run-down porch. Boarded-up windows arched out from the upper floors like bulging eyeballs in a pale, sickly face. The walls of the inn had at one point been painted white; a few stubborn flecks still clung to the worm-eaten walls to prove it, though I doubted there was a man alive old enough to remember what it used to look like.

I knew the Fife and Drum, had stayed at it a couple of times when travelling on contract, and knew it to be a flea-infested midden heap. It stood in the middle of a copse of evergreens exactly one day's travel from Newmond, serving the dribs and drabs of mercenaries heading for war and refugees trying to flee in every direction the compass had to offer.

Sir Erroll took one look at the sagging facade and said, Faro, we will set up tents.

His squire looked pained, but started to unload their horses without a word.

Not bedding down with us, Sir Erroll? I asked him. He shook his head graciously and begged leave to scout the area. In other words, prance around on his horse while his squire did all the work.

The woman dismounted when the innkeeper appeared to greet his new customers. She told him, Two of your finest rooms. The men will have one, I the other. My servant can sleep in the stables, with your permission?

The innkeep nodded. He beckoned her inside to show her the rooms, and she followed, long skirts swishing about her ankles.

I made my way into the dark, smoke-filled gloom of the common room and sat down under the old fife and marching drum mounted on the wall. Most of the patrons were locals crowded around the fireplace on the far end, playing dice over stakes of farthings and ha'pennies. Nothing to hold my interest. I shouted at the nearest barmaid to fetch me something to drink. I got a jug of the house ale, which tasted like it were brewed from stale piss. Still, any port in a storm.

The farmboy gingerly sat down at my table. He seemed afraid of everything and everyone around him. A sensible attitude, in his case. Eventually he gathered enough courage to lean closer and speak to me from across the beer-stained oak.

Did the lady say she intended us to bed in the same room? he asked, faint tremor of horror in his voice.

I snorted, Your arse is safe from me, lad, if that's what you're wondering.

I‒ I'm sorry, I didn't‒ did not mean to cause offence... He stammered some more apologies, growing paler by the second. Abruptly he swayed to his feet and finished in a thin, trembling whimper, I'll sleep in the stables.

It was a fine idea. I raised my jug to him and wished him luck. He'd need every bit to survive the night with that little Harari hellcat for company.

Once she finished delivering our list of supplies, the woman joined my table, sipping a small cup of wine which the innkeep served in person. He flashed a toadyish smile and thanked her for her patronage.

It bothered me that I had every one of these jokers figured out except her. Maybe that was why I signed the contract. I couldn't for the life of me see her angle in any of this, and she brushed off every question with incredible agility.

A good first day, wasn't it, Byren? she asked pleasantly. You're already making friends. This may be the first time Sir Erroll has had a kind word to say about someone lowborn. Not to mention young Adar, giving up his share of your room.

Is that his name? I chuckled. I think he was more terrified of me than of your... servant.

She caught my momentary hesitation and flashed an indulgent smile. Do I sense disapproval? Surely you admit a lady must have attendants, and her status is defined in the quality of her servants. Harari are hard to catch. Even harder to keep.

I try not to approve or disapprove of anything, Milady. I do the job and get paid.

The rest of our conversation was meaningless small talk, whiling away the hours until she retired to her room. I decided I'd had enough company for one day as well. Even without the woman in front of me, her voice stayed fresh in my ears, lilting out of memory.

I lifted some moonshine off the innkeep and went upstairs. Locked myself in my room for a private party, just two bottles and me. I wasn't aware of anything else until the morning.

The whole group was packed up and ready to move by the time I made it downstairs. Hard white sunlight lanced through the shutter-like canopy of pine needles. The woman was settling up our tab, Sir Erroll by her side. The squire waited silently by the doorway. Every few seconds he would throw a glance over his shoulder at the cart outside, and the girl in irons sitting atop it who cursed as she darned some piece of linen.

I never considered myself much of a mind-reader, but something about the way he looked at the girl seemed off. For a moment I wondered if there was something going on between them, as unlikely as it seemed. Another story lurking under the surface. I needed to learn the secrets of this group for the sake of my own health, in case my first impressions didn't match up.

We were underway before long. Marching north through the fringe of white pines and cedar trees into the deeper forest. The road was buried under a carpet of needles, all except two deep ruts of cart-tracks worn in by regular traffic. A trio of riders galloped past us without bothering to offer greetings. Later on we met a farmer's cart laden with food and ale, off to supply the inn with more of its stale and sour delicacies.

I'd about walked off my morning fog when we halted for lunch in a small roadside clearing. Here and there, a few clumps of grass managed to survive the choking carpet of pine-needles. I ate with Sir Erroll and the woman, served by Erroll's squire, while Adar the farmboy took care of the horses. Hardbread with salted pork, cheese and butter. Not half bad, all things considered.

The boys were only allowed to eat once we finished. The slave girl had nothing. Instead she turned her face away, stabbing sequins onto one of her lady's dresses.

Sir Erroll accosted me after the meal. Byren, could I impose upon you to mind the camp for a few minutes? There's supposed to be some lovely waterfalls in this area, but I didn't get a chance to show my lady on our way south. It'd be a terrible shame if I missed the opportunity again.

Oh, Sir Erroll, you are a romantic, the woman said coyly. But you mustn't put noble Byren out so that we may enjoy ourselves.

Erroll's chasing after her skirts made me ill. Nevertheless I forced a polite smile and bowed my head. No imposition, Milady. Please, go.

They thanked me, mounted up and rode off side by side laughing like lovebirds. I watched them go, bemused and disgusted by it all. Erroll desired her, that was obvious, but the woman... Her part in their romance seemed like a matter of course, something ritual and expected.

Perhaps it is, I thought suddenly. A knight bachelor travelling chastely with an unmarried lady would attract far more suspicion than the same couple engaged in perpetual marital foreplay. This way she could keep Erroll at arm's length whilst avoiding a spectacle for either of them. In which case, I could only admire her skill at keeping up appearances.

When I turned back to camp I caught the squire laid out on the back of the cart. He stared up into space, empty-eyed, so lost to the world he didn't even notice my approach. The slave girl sat crouched on the other side, eating something with terrible haste. Crumbs flew everywhere. She probably wasn't meant to have it, but I wasn't about to take it away from her.

A twig snapped somewhere out in the woods. Stopping to listen, I couldn't hear a single animal, not a scurrying foot, nothing that might explain the sound. The very lack of noise raised the hair on the back of my neck. After a minute of silence I shook my head and pretended to forget I'd heard anything, but my mind was cold and clear as I strolled over to my pack.

I picked up my breastplate and pushed it out in front of me like a shield, blocking the first arrow. It smashed to pieces against the polished bronze.

Ambush! I shouted at the others, who responded with blank stares. All except the squire. That boy reacted with the steadiness of a warrior beyond his years. He kicked everyone into cover behind the wagon, then began to organise a coordinated defence. Too bad it wouldn't do me any good. They were over there, and I caught in the open, cut off.

The arrow's impact still rang in my wrists as I dropped my breastplate, tore my sword from its scabbard, and ploughed headlong into the brush. My only chance against archers was to charge, to get up close and cut down anyone who refused to run.

Another arrow brushed against me, sharp steel raking across my thigh. It left a long, shallow gash which bubbled up a small stream of precious red blood. I gritted my teeth as I vaulted the fallen log where the archers hid. In a flash my sword opened the skull of a man who'd just nocked another arrow, and I turned to take the other one. Thickly caked grime covered the expression on his face, but I could see the white rims around his irises as he raised his dagger and rushed me. The mind behind those eyes had already gone mad with terror.

I was about to relieve him of his guts when I caught a faint glint of maille from under his rags. Too off-balance to pull back, I redirected a clumsy swing toward his knees, which cut deep with the satisfying jar of edge on bone. The hole it left in his trousers revealed a big chunk of meat peeling off his shin, which made him fall over backwards, screaming.

My mind raced with more and more questions as I closed to finish him off. How many more? Where's everyone else? Why are rabble like this wearing metal armour?

That moment, someone jumped me from behind and closed two massive arms around me in a bear hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I tried to bring my sword around to jab behind me, but the man caught my hand and crushed my fingers into the hilt until they felt like they'd burst like rotten tomatoes. I struggled, fuelled by survival instinct, and smashed the back of my head into his nose, forcing him to let go of my hand. Too late. The fingers wouldn't respond, the sword slipped out of my grip along with my best ‒ perhaps only ‒ hope of survival.

The bandit in front of me stumbled to his feet with dagger still in hand. The rusty point of it came at my belly, step by limping step. He meant to cut the guts out of me and leave me to die slowly, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I strained as hard as I could, legs lashing out, but the big man held me firm.

I watched the blade part the linen of my tunic. Cold metal cut into my flesh. Then, a short, sharp jerk.

Blood spattered into my eyes out of nowhere, and I felt the grip around my chest loosen. The hand holding the dagger flew into the air, without its owner attached. I looked up through the red film to see Sir Erroll's moustachioed face, wrathful as an avenging angel. It gave me my opportunity. I kicked backwards, and the arms couldn't keep hold of me. I tumbled to the ground. Behind me, the bandit ‒ a full head taller than the knight ‒ drove a massive fist into Sir Erroll's chest, knocking him into a tree. His fingers tightened around the knight's throat and Sir Erroll battered at the man's face and head with all his bull-like might, but the pressure never let up. His red cheeks began to turn purple, and his lips went grey as he choked for air.

I wiped a hand over my face and did what I had to do. I took the fallen bow from the ground, arrow still notched to the string, and ‒ fumbling with the string ‒ fired into the bandit's neck. His huge body toppled sideways through the underbrush, spasmed once, twice. Then everything went still.

Was that all of them? coughed Sir Erroll, hoarse and out of breath.

It was enough.

My eyes slowly started to clear. The woman appeared from between the trees on her palfrey, but jumped off and ran to us asking if we were alright.

She gasped, Byren, what in God's name happened? In the same breath she made little noises of concern and dabbed at my blood-stained eyelids with a handkerchief.

As you see, Milady. I was protecting the camp. I jerked my chin at the carnage around us.

Are they woodsmen? she asked, appalled at the notion of being attacked. I didn't respond right away, but knelt by the body of the first man I'd killed and tore away the rags covering him. Underneath was a cuirass of boiled leather stamped near the waist with the insignia of the King's armoury. Identical stamps showed on the man's arrows and the pommel of his dagger. The bow lying on the grass beside him, however, was a crude thing hastily-made from local timber. It made sense.

Deserters, I concluded. Routed men from the war. This one dropped his bow when he ran, then threw away his livery and turned bandit.

Sir Erroll hawked and spat on the corpse next to him. The war follows us everywhere. We'll post a guard from now on, and I recommend we don't stop before we reach Oristo tonight. He nodded at the lady and myself, and tromped off calling for his squire.

Are you well enough to walk? she asked me with surprising tenderness. Her hands examined the fresh slits on my stomach and thigh, unafraid of the blood. "This should bandage up well, but we can still turn back to the Fife and Drum for a day or two."

I can walk, Milady, I replied, picked up my sword, and slid it back in its scabbard. Please bring some water and tell Adar to give me a hand with these bodies. At the very least we can lay them together and say a prayer.

She nodded and excused herself. I bent down once more, collecting the dead man's thin purse, and rolled him over to unlace his armour. Good iron would always be worth something.

As the old saying went, If the other fellow can't hang on to it, it's yours.

We moved away from the ambush site as fast as we could, and never let the horses slow below a canter. The winding forest road let out into the open plains of western Gernland. Though I managed to keep up on foot for a while, my thigh started bleeding again and I was forced to admit defeat. Even riding on the cart, though, I kept a close watch. Deserters are like cockroaches. Spot one, and you can bet there are others around hiding and waiting.

We caught sight of Oristo as the last rays of the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon. For a few minutes more, it crowned the town and the surrounding hills in gorgeous orange fire. Even at this distance I could see the mismatched helmets and spearheads of townsmen patrolling Oristo's palisade. Only a few fires burned in the huts and farmhouses outside the walls. Sir Erroll saw it too, and his bushy eyebrows dipped into a deep frown.

I came this way not six months ago, he said. The gates were open and the palisade unmanned. Either the King has had some disastrous luck in the North or something's wrong.

Those deserters might have something to do with it, I pointed out. If three men rout and run, there'll be more behind them.

Whatever it is, we have a duty to assist. The knight's eyes burned with zealotry, clutching the pommel of his sword.

The woman smiled gently. Your gallantry does you credit, Sir Erroll, but we are tired and have a long way to go yet.

Ah... Of course, my Lady. He sighed and turned to his squire. Faro, strike a torch so they can see us.

The squire did as ordered and rode faithfully at his master's side, lighting us as we went with the flickering torch. We followed the road to the edge of town, and met no one. It wasn't until we reached the palisade gates that we received a challenge.

Name yourself, called a voice from up the wall.

The woman rode forward. Lady Silbane, accompanied by Sir Erroll Highhaven, Sergeant Byren formerly of the King's Own Angian Guard, and servants. We've come from Newmond, passing through on our way north.

The speaker hesitated, and I could make out a hissed argument between several different people. Then, Have your knight show his shield!

Sir Erroll looked offended. It was rude and untrusting for them to ask ‒ and I probably would've done the same thing. Grumbling, the knight unslung his heater shield from his saddle, stripped away the oilcloth covering and raised it to show the red raven on its face.

We know of no knight by that name or emblem, said the man on the palisade. I saw Sir Erroll go purple, his jaw tight and the muscles in his neck bunching with fury. However, after another angry discussion, the voice came again. You may pass, but surrender your weapons at the gate. Do that and we'll have no trouble.

What choice did we have? With no way of knowing the enemy's numbers, camping outside of town would be sheer idiocy.

The gates swung open and we rode through. Two unarmoured spearmen came out to take our weapons, and I handed mine over with the stiffness of a soldier forced to part from his closest companions. Sir Erroll loathed it even more than I did, but he still decided a sword and lance were less comfort right now than a warm bed and a safe place to sleep. The townsmen closed the gates behind us, then sent a young spearman to escort our party to the local tavern. I decided to get close to him.

I don't mean to offend, mate, I began, but this place feels on edge. What's the matter?

He shook his head. If I were you, stranger, I'd turn back south and ride as far as you can.

Why?

Because... Because. His face hardened even further. You wouldn't understand.

Try me.

He gave me a long look, and I couldn't help feeling some sympathy. He looked about the age I was when I joined the Army. Same brown eyes already losing their youthful shine. Another man like me in the making, Saints help him.

Something seemed to register inside him, and he sighed in utter resignation. Our preacher says the whole town is cursed. We survive mostly on trade, but there hasn't been a merchant here in weeks, just kingsmen who take everything and leave without paying a penny. And that's not the worst of it. He paused as if navigating some painful memory. People have been disappearing. We don't know where they go, they up and vanish in the night, gone, with all their belongings. All we know is they don't come back.

Running south?

Maybe, but don't let Father Osric hear you say that. He swears it's daemons, and half the people here believe him. The man's so old he can barely remember what day it is. He spat on the ground in disgust. We should've gone south to Feldland months ago, but my father won't hear of it. Not that it means bugger-all to you, stranger.

It's fine. Thanks for the tip.

In truth, even a bad conversation beat having to look at Oristo. It was a dull place built entirely of logs and mud-bricks. The best pub in the world couldn't save this town, and the Dog's Head wasn't even a good one.

The front door of the establishment had already been bolted shut, but our guide banged on it until the innkeep came staggering downstairs to open up. The woman negotiated our stay while I saw Adar off to the stables. Then I grabbed a bottle of local strongwine from behind the counter and headed upstairs. After the day's events, I deserved to quench my thirst a little.

I sat and drank and forgot everything for a few blissful hours.

I must've passed out at some point. The candles had guttered out by the time I woke to the sound of my door creaking open. It was slow and deliberate, and my fingers fumbled for the knife which had been on my belt but was now in a stockpile at the town gates. Left with no other options, I jumped the shadowy figure as it entered. Locked my arm around his throat in one smooth movement and squeezed tight. The man wriggled like a wet fish, but he couldn't escape. All I had to do was hold on long enough.

Wait, please, mercy, the figure choked out, and I suddenly recognised Adar, the little halfwit. I threw him on the floor and lit the small oil lamp in the corner. When the light touched his face, I could see bloody claw marks across his cheeks and nose, definitely not from me. I almost burst out laughing.

She got you, did she?

He gave a jerky nod, tears running down his face. I'm sorry, I was such‒ such a f-fool, he sobbed, clambering up onto the other cot, his fingertips exploring his wounds. I j-just wanted some hay to sleep in, but she‒ she invited me closer, unlaced her d-dress, showed me her... Her... He couldn't seem to utter the next word, only blush like a virgin.

I snorted a laugh. Be glad it was just your face she tore. Clean yourself up, and learn. The prettier the flower, the deadlier the poison. He nodded again, trying to stop himself from blubbering. I waved at the cot. Sleep there. Just don't make noise.

He was pathetically grateful. It took me ten minutes to get him to shut up and go to bed.

I woke from Adar's insistent hands shaking me by the shoulders. I snarled at him in half-awake fury, my hand already going for my missing knife when I heard someone bang on the door. Recognised the innkeeper's voice shouting, The lady requests your presence outside. There's a problem with her servant.

What kind of problem? I barked at the door, barely conscious and already in a mood.

Apparently she's gotten hold of a sword, the innkeep answered.

I didn't know how to respond to that. I did notice, however, the way Adar gasped and staggered backwards. His hand reached for his belt and closed on empty air. Eyes shimmering, he let out a self-pitying whimper.

In the background I could hear the innkeep tromping back down the stairs, his job as messenger fulfilled to his satisfaction. I, meanwhile, dragged myself upright and turned on Adar.

What did you do? I demanded in a dead-level voice. He looked down miserably, and I tried to think back, unable to believe that I could've failed to notice him carrying a weapon. You were supposed to hand everything over at the gate, you little piss-stain! Where did you even get a sword?!

I didn't mean to, it's my responsibility, I... I... He moaned. They never should've given it to me. I'm not good enough!

Just sit down and shut up, I snapped. Right now I've got to go clean up your mess. Then we're going to have some words.

I skipped down the stairs and out the door. The place had been brightened by cheerful morning light and washes of emerald green grass and pine needles, like heavy-handed brushstrokes on canvas. However, a strong southern breeze carried the smell of smoke and industry all the way from Newmond, and the badly-tended cesspit out back lent an unpleasant taint to air.

Slowing my pace I made my way through the crowd of excited onlookers and arrived at the stables, where Sir Erroll stood dressed in breastplate and tunic, hefting the heater shield with which he kept the crowd at bay. A little ways inside I could make out the woman's slender hourglass shape, trying to appeal to the slave girl with little success.

Ah, Byren, called the knight. Lovely morning, eh? I don't know how that desert whore got her hands on it, but by God I'll make sure she never raises a weapon again!

Don't trouble yourself, Sir Erroll, I replied, suppressing a flash of irritation, I'll take care of it.

I went on into the hay-strewn chaos of the stables without waiting for a reply.

Our cart still stood down the main aisle, next to a messy pile of straw where someone had been sleeping. Nervous horses neighed and snorted everywhere around me, tails swishing, hooves stamping the dirt.

The woman jerked suddenly and backed into me, the tip of a gleaming bronze sword inches from her throat. The slave girl strained against her chains to reach a little bit further, but the irons held. She couldn't quite make the killing blow. Beads of sweat stood out on her brow as she spat insults in at least two languages.

Idiot girl, the woman hissed. She turned in an angry whirl of skirts, and looked up at me with her lips set in a thin line. For a moment she didn't seem to recognise me. Then her smile returned and she brushed thick dark locks out of her eyes. Master Byren. I honestly don't care what you do or say to her, as long as you get that sword. This has been very embarrassing and I'd like to be away from this hateful little town as soon as possible.

I'd been given my orders. I nodded, and did my best to remain graceful when she touched my arm by way of thanks. As usual I spent too long watching her leave. Thankfully she didn't look back.

When I turned round, the sword-point still weaved trembling figure-eights in front of me, the girl's face still a murderous mask behind it. Somehow the weapon drew more of my attention than the girl. Its blade was a triangle, fat at the base, tapering to an almost needle-like point. Behind it, a slender U-shaped guard, barely wider than the strong of the blade. A grip wrapped with fresh, brand-new wire, and a pommel like a great hollow ring. Old-fashioned yet hard to place in any single time period. Fascinating.

You played a mean trick on the boy, I told her.

She snarled, Nothing but another fat Eastern pig, just like you.

Whatever opportunity you had, you've lost it. If you give up now you'll get away with a flogging. At least you'll be alive.

I didn't know what it was that made her back away, but she did, letting the sword's point fall to the ground. For the first time I noticed her arms were shaking and her legs nearly buckled from exhaustion. I could probably have stepped in and taken the weapon from her without a scratch.

A flogging. Her voice almost cracked. Is that all?

Suddenly I wasn't so sure of my case.

She made a jerky turn, then hitched up her dress to expose the bare flesh of her back. Everywhere, smoke-coloured skin had turned pink with scars, each mark of the whip outlined in a spiderweb of pain. Even revealed and vulnerable, she kept one hand on the sword, ready to turn on me if I got too close.

God, I whispered. The scars on my own back stung in sympathy. I'd seen hundreds of soldiers flogged in the Army, some halfway to death, but it had never looked so cruel as on this girl's whipcord-thin body.

She quickly hid herself back in the dirty white dress and glanced over her shoulder with eyes full of hate, hugging her elbows for comfort. "Don't talk to me about floggings, soldier."

It left me speechless. Words didn't seem adequate. Thankfully, I didn't need to say anything. I lifted my tunic and turned my back. Remembering all the things I tried so hard to forget. Every single lash that cut into me, each line of red-hot agony throbbing to the beat of the drum procession. Some nights I could still feel the broiling, razor-sharp leather bite into me, making the blood feel cool as it ran in waterfalls down my spine.

I jolted at the touch of her warm fingers, but forced myself not to pull away. She explored my scars with gentle fascination. Tried to identify how each one had struck.

I didn't know, she said into the yawning silence.

Which one of them does it?

The squire, Faro. The knight makes him do it though he cries with every stroke. She reluctantly withdrew her hands. Later he brings me herbs and stuff, whatever he can find. Never speaks to me. Can't look me in the eye.

Tugging my tunic back into place, I held out my hand to her. She nodded and pressed the sword hilt into my palm.

Will you be alright? I asked.

Mm. It barely hurts anymore.

I left her chained to the cart, both of us humbled, and clenched the sword tight. Anger tightened around my heart until I fought to keep breathing. There was no getting around the fact she was bought and paid for, and it wasn't my place to decide the fate of a slave.

The woman and Sir Erroll were at my side the moment I walked out. Polite restraint in her voice. What did you do to her?

I talked, I said hoarsely. Any punishments can wait until we leave, yes? She nodded, and although Sir Erroll looked fit to raise a protest, his better judgement kept him quiet. A bastard he might be, but he had at least some sense. Milady, if you'd do me a kindness, smooth things over with the militia while we get out of town. The sooner we get our weapons back, the better.

Leave it to me. She turned on her heels to find the nearest man in a pot helm, gone with a silky swish and a fading hint of perfume.

I found a new appreciation for her then. As blue-bloods went, this Lady could get things done. She didn't talk down to me much, didn't stand on every possible bit of ceremony, and she was even willing to take instructions if they made sense. It was unheard-of for someone born to that amount of privilege. She never stopped surprising me.

The moment Adar popped his anxious face out the door, Sir Erroll was there, furious. The knight grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and marched him out into the open for all to see.

You fool boy! He clouted the boy across the head with an iron-gauntleted hand. Look at the trouble you've caused us now! She should never have let you keep it in the first place! He barely stopped himself from striking Adar again. The boy stood half-crouched with his head in his arms, sobbing and trickling blood from his scalp. He deserved a good scolding. Still...

Sir Erroll, a word, if I may.

I stepped in, grabbed Adar and kicked him through the stable doors. A gentle reminder of what he ought to be doing. The squire, Faro, ran to join him. Going by Sir Erroll's expression, he didn't appreciate the interruption one bit, but seemed curious about what I had to say.

I raised the gleaming rose-gold sword and inspected it from top to bottom. Perhaps an inch or two shorter than a regular arming sword. Beautiful in its lack of frills, just a spiral-etched hilt wrapped in wire and a clean, unengraved blade. Polished to a mirror shine and masterfully balanced. It felt as alive in my hand as the best steels I'd ever held.

I asked, How is this thing here? Why wasn't it given up, and how did no one notice it until now?

The boy's a coward and a wastrel, he replied. My Lady might listen to foolishness and superstition, but I know he's to blame for the whole fiasco, one way or another. He hasn't earned the right to hold a weapon at all, much less one as fine as that.

Disgusted, he shook his head and walked away, leaving me to puzzle over what he meant. He'd barely answered anything.

In the background, the spear-armed militiamen dispersed the milling crowd. Their sergeant whispered with the woman about compensation. I took up a spot by the stable door, not sure what I was guarding it from, until we were ready to get on the