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    Chapter 33


    Honest Work


    Daegan sat sullenly in the corner of the inn.


    He fully intended to keep to himself but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the stares of distrust and accusation that were being thrown at him from the people in the inn. The place had been cleaned up and a few people had gathered near the bar to discuss what to do next. Most importantly was to take stock of what was left, and—more importantly—who was entitled to what inheritance. More than a fair share of the men in the village had been murdered by the raiders and most of what was valuable had been taken. But that truth hadn’t meant the good people of Crossroads weren’t going to argue over what belonged to who.


    Daegan kept quiet through the discussions that were becoming more heated. He felt exposed being there alone. Tanlor and Rowan had departed earlier in the afternoon to hunt down the raiders. Daegan had been left with the strict instruction to not leave the inn. Luckily, Mendy had disclosed that there had been a hidden trap in the cellar that the raiders hadn’t managed to uncover. There had been a healthy amount of whitewhiskey casks and a few barrels of ale.


    “Folks will be needing these over the coming weeks,” Mendy had told Daegan and he didn’t doubt her. Most of the people that had come through the inn were completely downtrodden.


    The raiders took from them all that they had and then took some more. Some had been killed and many had been beaten, or worse. Daegan let the fire of the whitewhiskey sting at the back of his throat. It had a satisfying burn to it.


    One boy had come in, no older than ten, he had tear marks on his dirty cheeks. Daegan watched as Mendy and the other village folk tended to him, explained to him how his parent’s store was now his, that it would be put in the care of his cousin until he was old enough to run it himself. Later in the evening an argument broke out between that cousin and another elderly relative, the old man claiming he deserved it.


    “It’ll be five years ‘afore the boy inherits it,” the elderly man said, “I’ll be good n’dead by then, I promise you that. Let me have it, and I’ll pass it on to ‘im when I’m gone.”


    “You’ve been itching to get your hands on that store for years, I’m not gonna let you steal it from under the poor lad!”


    “Well the value of it, you said were three silver marks. If I sell my Bessy down at Ailsford, I’ll make almost as much as at. How’s about we make a—”


    “—it was five silver marks,” Daegan interjected from across the room, unable to restrain himself from correcting the man in his offensively belligerent attempts at stealing from an orphan.


    “Wha’s that, foreigner?” the old man spat.


    “The store was valued by the group at five silver marks,” he said, “you’re remembering it wrong.”


    “Rememberin’ it wrong?! I’ve lived here my entire life, you! I think I’d know how much my bloody store is worth!”


    “Well it’s not your store, is it?” Daegan replied snidely, “you’re trying to snatch it away from a boy who’s just lost his parents.”


    “Who dare you! I’ve nothing but love for that—”


    “—oh come off it,” Mendy cut him off, “we all know that’s what you were doing, Sham.” The old man gumbled something but retreated back into his seat. “You,” Mendy called over to Daegan, “you got pen and papers?”


    Surprisingly yes, he did. The night of his departure from Rubastre was a blur in his memory, he had been drinking that evening but also the traumatic experience of his most loyal bodyguard turning on him had turned his world upside down. When he’d taken stock of the things he’d packed into his saddlebags, he’d been surprised to see that in his daze of packing he’d included a handful of notebooks, some charcoal pencils, an ink pen, amongst a few other clerical supplies. He’d spent all of his adult life working as varying forms of administrator so packing these things must have been a subconscious decision.


    “I do,” he replied, “I am a cartographer after all,”


    “What’s that, a cart maker?” one of the villagers asked. “He don’t look like no carpenter, his clothes are too nice,” another added.


    “I make maps,” Daegan replied.


    “Well tonight, you’ll write up contracts,” Mendy stated, “I’ll assume a mapmaker knows how to spell?”


    “I do,” Daegan replied tightly, he knew that the comment wasn’t an attack on him personally, not like the way people often assumed him to be incompetent because he was hindered.


    “Right, over here, then” she beckoned him over the group of villagers, “while your friends are chasing the raiders, you can help us clean up this mess and make sure everything’s documented proper.”


    He could easily write up legal documents although he’d normally have given such tasks to his manservant. He had everything he needed to do it; parchment, pen and his ink stamp to seal them. The stamp had his the sigil of the Reldoni royal family but it wasn’t as though the people of this village would be able to recognise that for what it was.


    “Sure, why not,” he grinned, “just pour me another glass, will you,” he added, nodding to his empty glass. The whitewhiskey away from the city had a sharper taste and stronger burn on the throat.


    He liked it.


    ***


    Luna was almost full, that meant that the night was warm and would have been a bright one if it weren’t for the heavy cloud cover. The warmer air meant that the snow had turned to wet sleet. The rain wasn’t too heavy but enough to wash away the snow around the old brewery.


    Convenient. Tanlor thought as he crept through the dark. Tracks in the snow were easier to spot, even in the dark. The noise of the rainfall also hid his approach. His sword was sheathed, but his short dagger was drawn. It’s edge black with blood in the poor light. The raiders had posted sentries, but they were amateurs. They weren’t expecting to be caught up to only a day after fleeing from Crossroads. They likely expected a few days'' leeway before anyone had picked up the contract on them, giving them plenty of time to disappear into the hills. They certainly weren’t expecting a pair of highly trained soldiers—who also knew how to move quietly in wild country.


    The sentry that Tanlor had killed had been a young man who had been asleep by a fence that rimmed the perimeter of the abandoned building. Tanlor had stealthily crept up to him and grabbed his mouth to muffle any shouts and ran the edge of his dagger over his neck. The hot blood poured out, steaming and mixing with the slushy rainwater. Not a drop got on Tanlor’s cloak.


    The raiders had made a poor attempt at hiding their presence in the old brewery, the empty windows had been bordered up—likely long before these men arrived—but they hadn’t bothered to cover the cracks in them so the light of the campfires slipped out. The plumes of black smoke that mixed with clouds above were also a detrimental give-away. A Boreal owl hooted, four low distinct whistles. It was rare enough owl, it wouldn’t be uncommon to hear it in the woods north of Nortara but Tanlor knew that it was no owl that had made that sound. It was a big red haired man that had just taken down the other sentry. That leaves seven more. Despite knowing that he and Rowan were castle-trained swordsmen, he still didn’t like the odds of going up against seven armed opponents. The more that they could take down before the alarm was raised, the better.


    The brewery was not much more than a large wooden barn. Big barn doors at the front, with likely a few smaller entry points on the sides. Tanlor kept the shadows as he approached the building from the east side, Rowan would likely be synchronously approaching from the other side. He was past the most dangerous part.


    The clearing from the fence to the building where he would have been exposed to any rangers that might have been hiding on the roof. They’d watched the building for two change-overs of the sentries and had mutually decided that these weren’t likely the most staunch believers of standing out in the rain on guard duty.


    He pressed his back against the timber wall. And edged along it, keeping himself concealed in its shadow. The Boreal owl hooted  again, another one down. Tanlor doubted there would be more than that on guard. Even three was a startling display of precaution from the raiders.


    He could hear muffled sounds inside. Men talking, laughing. He didn’t hear any sounds of distress from the captives, but that didn’t mean they weren’t inside. Suddenly, the wall behind him lurched. Instinctively he pushed his back against it as pressure came from behind. Shit, it’s a door.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    “It’s fuckin’ stuck,” someone said on the other side.


    “Aye, you, ye’re just a weak piece of shit,” another voice followed by a much stronger push on the door. Tanlor held firm, but he could feel it pushing harder on his right side. Swiftly, he stepped left and ducked into a crouched position.


    The door burst open with a shuddering crack, it bounced against the side of the wall—just next to where Tanlor was kneeling—and swung back on its hinges.


    “There ye go, ye pansy. You need me to hold yer dick for ye while ye piss?” one of the voices taunted as a shape staggered out. “Get fucked,” the man grumbled, fumbling at his belt as he walked out away from the building.


    “Here! Close that fucking door, you’re letting all the cold in!” someone called from inside. Tanlor slowly stood and leaned forward, gently pushing the door closed. There’s worse waiting for you out here than the cold. His dagger was still drawn and he crept up behind the shadowed figure. Steam puffing out from his piss stream.


    “I’ll just be a fuckin’ second,” he shouted, turning his head to look back. Tanlor couldn’t make out much of his face in the dark but he doubted it was a pretty one. He cried out in alarm and terror, the kind that catches in your throat before any sound comes out. Unfortunately he did get a very loud scream out before Tanlor’s dagger got him in the back. As Tanlor pulled back his blade, the man spun around, his spray of piss splattering against Tanlor’s cloak. Ah gross! In anger, he kicked the man away from him, and he stumbled back falling into the wet grass.


    Orange light poured around him as the door opened. He spun about, pulling his greatsword from its sheath. It made a satisfying shing sound as he did so. He loved it when it did that. Chaos ensued inside the brewery as the remaining raiders jumped for their weapons.


    Five left.


    He liked those numbers a whole lot more. Two silhouetted figures moved out from the doorway, their steel swords glinting in the orange light. Their bulky forms in furs made them appear like bears in the poor light. He didn’t reckon they were wearing armour underneath the furs. Probably just leathers, but he couldn’t make the assumption that they didn’t have chainmail underneath, however unlikely it was. Limbs and heads it is.


    Both men hung back at first, and Tanlor shifted into an offensive stance, ready for large swinging manoeuvres with his sword. A well trained group of defenders would know to wait for their comrades and to make a coordinated attack to take down a more skillful opponent. But these men weren’t well trained, they likely weren’t trained at all. Just men who were too poor and too foul to do anything else but take from others. They were the kind of men that ended up working for crime gangs in the cities, only out here they ended up as part of outlaw bands. One of the men came at him with an axe in a clumsy, off-centered attack. Tanlor adeptly sidestepped and then with a powerful swing of his sword, he separated the man’s head from his body. The shadowing form crumpled to the ground and the head thudding as it landed heavily. Blood sprayed out in a fountain.


    The other man faltered, having watched his comrade decapitated in an instant. Tanlor knew to capitalise on that hesitation. He let out a roar and charged at the man. This type of terror tactic worked well against untrained opponents, who usually reacted in one of three ways; they either fled, were too stunned to move, or they had a surge of adrenaline that triggered them to retaliate. The latter of those was obviously the most dangerous and posed the most threat. Fleeing also gave them a chance to regroup with their companions and still pose a threat. Thankfully, this man was part of the group that were simply too startled that they stood still. It was a quick and easy kill, Tanlor’s attack cutting through him as he charged. His sword cut through the furs and leather and into the flesh beneath. The sharp edge, coupled with Tanlor’s strength grinded through the rib bones and slid out as he passed. Just three.


    Without hesitation, he stepped into the brewery. It looked like a barn on the inside too, everything of value having been long taken out, giving the place the appearance of a big empty shed. They’d made two fires in the middle of the brewery. His edir tingled in reaction to the flames, the topaz hidden beneath his shirt, eager to drink in the heat of it. It was smokey inside but weathered holes in the ceiling had prevented the space from becoming a smoke box.


    Three young women were tied and gagged at the far fire along with a young boy, also bound. two rough looking men were between him and the captives. Rowan was already on the other side of the brewery clashing with a man wielding a pair of woodcutter axes. He was the kind of ugly you’d expect to find working as a bouncer in a mining town brothel, with a big scar running along the side of his head.


    Another was surprisingly overweight—typically outlaws were chronically hungry, one of the biggest reasons they were outlaws to begin with—his brown furs were belted tightly across his belly and he hefted a blacksmith’s hammer. He had a brown beard that matched his furs and reminded Tanlor of the mammoths he’d seen as a boy with his father. The mammoth was hanging back from the fight between Rowan and the axeman. The third man had shifty eyes and was awkwardly trying to load a bolt into a crossbow


    “Put that down and we might let you live,” Tanlor advised him, “it doesn’t have to go down this way.”


    “Piss on that,” Crossbow said, “we both know this be the only way,” growling as he notched in the bolt, and set the crank.


    True, we probably wouldn’t have let him live anyway. There was too much distance between him and Crossbow to rush him so instead Tanlor pushed out his edir, pulling the heat from the fires. The sudden flush of heat over his body forced a hiss from his mouth.


    It felt like a fire was erupting inside of him although he’d only pulled a small amount of heat from them. Any rise in your body''s own temperature was considerable. It was dangerous to use topaz in a fight, your body had to be the conduit for the fire and if you pulled too much, you ran the risk of incinerating yourself. He focused on the metal handle of the crossbow, pushing out with his edir and forcing all the excess heat into it.


    Just as the man levelled the weapon at Tanlor, the rising concentrated heat burned the man''s bare hand. He yelped and flung the crossbow in dismay, pulling his burned hand close to his chest. Tanlor closed the distance between them, letting out a roar. This man was not a stander like the last one, he was a runner. He bolted away from Tanlor’s charge but there was nowhere for him to run to in the building. Tanlor drove his sword into the man’s back. He kicked against the man, pushing him off the blade and whirling about in anticipation of the fat man’s hammer. But he was nowhere to be seen. Rowan was still fighting with the axeman.


    “Really Rowan?” He called over to his brother, “thought you said a castle-trained knight was worth a score of men like this.” Rowan didn’t reply, obviously too engaged in his confrontation with the scar-faced axeman. Tanlor swiftly made his way to the discarded crossbow, still loaded and cranked. The handle had cooled already, not being able to maintain the heat without Tanlor’s focused edir. He aimed it at the axeman, and took a few side steps to avoid the potential of accidentally missing and catching Rowan with the bolt. The man wasn’t even watching for Tanlor, he knew he was outmatched against Rowan and was giving him his complete attention. Rowan was avoiding glancing over but he was aware of Tanlor’s position and jumped back as Tanlor loosed the bolt. The bolt caught the man in the neck, the force of it knocking him over on his side.


    Tanlor let out a breath. And took another glance about for the man with the hammer.


    “The fat lad with the hammer?” Rowan called over.


    “Gone.”


    “He won’t make it far. We’ll catch up to him,”


    “Think you might have overestimated your abilities, brother,” Tanlor said mockingly, nodding at the dead axeman.


    “He was surprisingly skilled,” Rowan said appraisingly, “definitely a former soldier. Maybe a deserter from one of the outposts?”


    “Stop making excuses,” Tanlor chided, “you’re just getting old.”


    “Careful now,” Rowan warned, then nodding to the bound captives, “you see to them, I’ll go after the mammoth.”


    “Ha!” Tanlor barked a laugh, “he does look like one, doesn’t he.”


    “These don’t look like local outlaws,” Rowan noted, nodding at the dead bodies, “they look like northerners.”


    “Maybe they got sick of the cold, or maybe just thought they’d find an easy village further south… which they did,” Tanlor said grimly then walked toward the captives.


    His sword was still bloody and he didn’t want to sheath it and let the blood crust in the scabbard, so he left it drawn as he approached the group. All four of them looked at him with wild-eyed terror. He wouldn’t ever be able to understand how they must feel, having been torn from their homes and dragged off by thugs. He didn’t want to know—but could easily guess—what they’d likely already suffered through. He knew how he must appear to them; his face and blond hair covered in blood, his greatsword still out and dripping with death. He didn’t look like the heroes from the stories that these folk would have grown up on. Not like Balfol in his white armour or Valar the Bravest. Not like Taran the Hunter, the courageous and kindhearted hero who saved people from raiders and ferrax and all sorts. He didn’t look like the lies that these kids knew… but he was all they had.


    He gently laid down his sword, and he put his hands in a calming gesture. The effort did little to ease the horror and panic in their eyes.


    “My name is Tanlor,” he said softly to them as he approached, “you’re safe now. We’re going to take you home to Crossroads.” Two of the girls started weeping, choking on their gags between sobs. The young boy and the older girl were deadpan, as if in a trance by the bloodshed they’d seen. The girl’s appearence reminded him of Danielle and the sight of her bound with matted hair made his stomach clench. He unbound her first and cut her gag with his dagger. She worked her jaw but said nothing, her wary eyes frozen on him. The thought of Danielle being in this position; suffering the torment of raiders, filled him with a deep and sickened anger. His hands trembled as he freed the rest of them.


    “I’m sorry,” he said to them, “I’m sorry that this happened… that we couldn’t get to you sooner.” He knew that the apology was worthless to them. He also knew that he and Rowan had come as quickly as they could have. But he had argued it… he’d fought against Rowan’s resolve to help them. It twisted inside of him, the thought that he would have abandoned them if Rowan hadn’t been here.


    The two crying girls continued on, inconsolable but the quiet girl watched him with a fierce glare. Then, she lunged for Tanlor’s greatsword. She was young, eighteen years at most and not nearly strong enough to wield the great blade but she tried. The blade wavered as she tried to hold it up.


    “Stay back,” she hissed at him, her face set in a stern and familiar way. He recognised the face.


    “You’re Mendy’s niece?” Tanlor asked her delicately. She didn’t answer but there was a crack in her expression. He still had his dagger, and he was fully confident he could easily disarm the girl if she tried to come at him, but he had zero intentions of doing that unless he needed to.


    “She’s waiting for you back at the inn,” he continued, “your mother too.”


    “They killed pa,” she breathed.


    “I know,” he replied, “I’m sorry.”


    “You’re really going to take us home?” her voice was breaking.


    “Yes,” he stressed, “my brother’s gone to get the last of the raiders. And once he’s back, we’ll get you all home.”


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