Fate or Fortune?
He stumbled blindly through the foliage. Branches gripped at him, ripped at his shabby cloak, snatching like grubby little thieves's fingers holding him. His foot struck a hidden root. He tottered, fell heavily to his knees. Gasping for breath, his chest burned, ached with the need for more breath. A rest. He needed a rest.
Behind him, somewhere in the distance, he heard the men calling, the men that wanted to ask him some more questions. He didn't need the fresh weals on his back to remind him that he didn't want to answer any more. He didn't need the clear puddle at his feet to show him the disfigurement of his visage, the cuts, the angry bruises puffed out like overripe plums.
With a wild glance over his shoulder, he lurched to his feet and stumbled on, pushing himself for every last scrap of energy that remained in his beaten and utterly exhausted body.
* * *
They sat at their modest table, he and his father, and his mother. His younger sister was yet to join them, but he knew she would be along. His father would lash him for arriving late at meal time, but his sister was different. His sister was sweet and naïve and silly, and she was best loved by all of them.
When the door finally burst open and she flounced herself into her seat, his father smiled tolerantly at her.
“So glad you could join us, Meryse,” he said quietly.
She had the grace to blush at least. “I'm sorry I'm late, father. I was just-”
“It's all right, my dear,” their mother replied, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “We understand.”
They all did. His sister volunteered at the mission. She helped the old priest take care of the elderly and the infirm. That was why his father didn't mind. She did God's work.
“Now that we are here, let us pray to our lord God for the bounty He has seen fit to grace us with.”
They bowed their heads but not before young, Meryse threw a quick smile of greeting to her brother, a smile he returned in kind. Another sibling might have been resentful of her, of the obvious favoritism shown her, but he simply could not find it in his heart to feel anything other than a nearly overpowering love for his beautiful young sister, and a need to protect her even if it cost him his life.
* * *
He ran into a tree, grunted, fell again to his knees. He whimpered. Behind him the voices were strong, though blessedly distant. His vision was hazy; he could just make out the thick boles that towered high overhead, the small patches of sunlight that pierced the dense canopy and stabbed at the ground.
Hauling himself up, he ran on. Every step was agony. His right leg didn't seem to work properly, almost dragging behind him like a dead weight. He prayed silently as he fled further into the forest and away from those terrible, terrible men.
* * *
After dinner, his father thanked his mother and, of course, the good God, and rose, and strode out the front door.
“Go on, now,” his mother said gently, her plump face creasing with that gentle smile he loved so much. “Don't keep your father waiting.”
He needed not be told what came next. It was a nightly ritual between him and his father, but her gentle urging was as much a nightly ritual. He would have felt amiss had she not uttered those words.
“Yes mother,” he said with a smile. “Hey Meryse, try not to fall off your chair helping mother.”
She stuck her tongue out at him.
Another part of his little family's habit.
He followed his father into the burnished copper of dusk, toward the small barn which housed their milk cow and their team of oxen. He paused at the chicken coop to scatter seeds for the hens that clucked happily before entering the barn. His father was already brushing Gemma, their cow; he began on the first ox, a huge brute who eyed him placidly while he murmured comfortingly.
“Well son?” his father said quietly. “Did you happen past the workshop earlier?
“Aye. Just after you left, I guess.”
“What do you think?”
“It's masterful work, father,” he said with a nod, his brush whispering against a flank. “And the oak seems to be of high quality.”
“The grain is better than average. Oak is never easy to cut, but it turned out quite well if I may be so immodest. Nice straight planks. I think Fenval will be impressed.”
He laughed. “Aye, and I imagine you'll have to get the saw sharpened.”
“Oh yes,” his father replied with a wry smile. “That I will. Tonight, we'll load up the wagon so that tomorrow first thing, we can take the wagon and get the first load down to Fenval. It's a little ahead of schedule but he's paying good coin for it.”
“I'll be ready, whenever you are, father.”
“I know it, lad. Your mother and I thank the good God every day that we were blessed with such good children.”
* * *
He had to stop. He had to rest. His legs were watery, his arms leaden. His head beat like a kettle drum. Just a few moments. He listened; silence. Blessed, cursed silence.
He fell against a deeply grained elm tree and slumped. Why were they doing this? What had he done? Nothing. Nothing that he knew of. He was a god God-fearing man. As was his family. His father was known throughout the district as the most devout man short of the old priest himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushed away the memory of his family. The blood. The screams of his sister as his father begged for mercy. The vacant eyes of his mother as she gaped uncomprehendingly at what was happening. The sheet of light that blinded him every time a heavy gauntlet struck him.
Deep in the forest, a shout startled him from the doze he had, all unwittingly, fallen into. He sprang to his feet, his eyes wild. His parched throat seared as his breath came in short gasps. He searched the deep shadows, tried to see past the daggers of sun, but it was all a dark blur, like a foggy graveyard at midnight. Like the underworld itself.
With visions of his family chasing after him as surely as the lethal men did, he stumbled on.
* * *
When the morning dawned clear and bright, he was already in the barn, preparing the oxen for the trip to Fenval's carpentry. It was not far—perhaps an hour each way—but he checked and rechecked to make sure everything was secure. Over-preparing, his father was fond of saying, never caused troubles.
Soon, his father walked in, and smiled broadly when he saw his son hard at work.
“Ah, there y'are lad. Mother was wondering where you were at the breakfast table.”
“Just wanted to be prepared, father. You said you wanted to go bright and early.”
“That I did, lad. That I did. Good on you. When we get back, you'll be right famished though, so I'll let you take extra time for your lunch. Fair?”
“Yes sir.”
The trip across the small town was quite ordinary. Those few who were out at that hour waved and they waved back. The road was not heavily trafficked yet so they made good time. Fenval was not only surprised to see them so soon, but elated when he saw the quality of the wood they brought him. After rousting his sons from bed, the process of unloading the cart took very little time, and with promises to be back by week's end with the rest of the requested wood, they trundled back the way they'd come.
He sat beside his father, idly watching the familiar buildings go by—Belag's general store, Krill's smithy, and Saima's seamstress shop, only slightly larger than the homes surrounding them.
“Well, then,” his father asked, his brow beetling. “What do you suppose that is?”
He looked where his father pointed, and saw a large plume of dark smoke rising into the sky, some distance ahead. His own expression confused, he eyed the ominous plume.
“That isn't old Henrik's, is it?” Their nearest neighbor was an old man who lived off the money he earned as a chandler. Candle making always required fire; Henrik had spent his entire life using fire. He was always eminently careful with it. But he was old; perhaps his mind had slipped.
“I don't know, son. P'raps it's best that we step up the pace and see if we can lend a hand.”
Yoked oxen are not known for their alacrity yet they seemed to sense his father's tension as he flicked the reins. One flicked his ear and glanced back over his broad shoulder as if questioning his master's intent. Then they broke into a heavy shambling trot.
They rode anxiously, barely feeling the jolts as the wagon rolled over the uneven dirt. Old man Henrik was a bit sour of mouth but for all that he was a good man, and a good neighbor. He hoped that Henrik had gotten out before the blaze caught. The entire town would help Henrik rebuild; there was no worry there. He just hoped that Henrik would be alive to need the help.
Rounding Aven Hewley's little cottage, they both gasped.
“By the grace of God! What has happened?” his father cried, and began desperately whipping the reins for more speed.
It was not Henrik's place that was ablaze. It was theirs.
* * *
He was nearly spent. He knew it. He tumbled along as though in a dream, crawling as much on his hands and knees as running. His run now was barely more than a weak shuffle. His neck didn't seem to want to function properly; as he moved, his head bobbed as though on a spring. He no longer whimpered. He had not the strength for anything more than short gasps which sounded more like the rales of a dying man than the life-preserving gasps of a desperate one. The world spun about him. He hazily tried to watch his footing, but the ground seemed to shimmer and undulate beneath his feet.
Behind him, still distant yet closer now, the men continued to hunt him like hounds after a fox.
* * *
As their wagon drew near, his father gasped again. Several men rounded the bonfire that mere hours ago had been their home. The men wore gleaming white cloaks. When the fire whipped wind brushed a cloak aside, it revealed a tabard: blood red cross on a midnight background.
“My lords,” his father called, jumping from his seat and running toward the troop of Soldiers of God. “Thank the good lord you're here. Please help. Where are my wife and daughter?”
“Are you Stavos, then? Stavos, the woodcutter?” growled a burly man in the front.
“Yes m'lord. Please, my wife and daught-”
“And this is your son?”
His father nodded. “Yes, of course, but-”
“Take them,” barked the large man. His troop immediately tramped forward and surrounded the father and son.
His father stood as though poleaxed. “Wh-what is the meaning of this?” he breathed.
The leader sneered at them. “You thought we wouldn't find you? You thought you were safe here? Your devout, honest neighbors have told us the truth. You are heathens. You need not try denying it.”
He spun on his heel, and marched away. The men grabbed him and his father roughly and began dragging them.
“Father?” He cried, his voice quavering and breaking. “What's going-”
“Quiet you,” the man on his left said, cuffing him hard. Bright, sharp sparks floated across his vision as his head rocked on his shoulders.
“Be still, son,” his father said quietly, but Stavos could not hide the fear in his voice. “We'll get this sorted out right quick. You'll see.”
“The man said quiet,” said one of the men holding Stavos, and his father cried out as the ringing blow took him in the side of the head.
They were led to the lumberyard behind the workshop, and the young man cried out at the sight before him. His mother was on her knees, her hands lashed behind her back. She stared vacantly at nothing. His sister Meryse was kneeling as well, most of her dress torn away. Her nose was dripping blood and she was weeping openly. His cry earned him another ringing blow.
He and his father were thrown to the ground.
“What is the meaning of this?” his father shouted.
“Silence, heretic!” the burly leader snapped at him. “I will ask the questions and you will answer. Then the large man smiled. It was a gruesome smile, full of teeth and violent promise. “Oh yes,” he said then, slyly. “You will answer.”
* * *
The voices were closer now. The forest closed in about him like a dungeon. All escape routes blocked. All hope of freedom, naught but a far away dream. Even the small stabs of sun had deserted him, leaving him in gloom, disoriented, enervated, debilitated.
He would not escape. His last best hope—his only hope—was gone. He should have been weeping. He felt it more than he knew it. But it seemed his thoughts were too disjointed, too ephemeral to even coordinate the shedding of tears. He stumbled on a short distance, the noises coming closer, no more than a few hundred paces now. Then he stopped.
The ground here was no different from anywhere else he had passed during his abject flight from the Soldiers of God: loose dirt, ferns, underbrush. But it seemed a good spot nonetheless. As good as any other. He slumped to his knees, fell forward.
It was oddly comforting to feel the cool earth against his cheek. It was as though he was coming home. He managed to smile weakly. They would find him. They would do unspeakable things to him. Then, the dirt truly would be his home.
But it no longer mattered. He did not care anymore. He lay there, his throat ablaze, his cheek cool, and he simply no longer cared. Nothing to hope for. Perhaps it would be for the best. He could not live this life alone. Not with the memory. Not as long as he would always know what they had done.
His family. His mother and father.
Oh, Meryse. Poor, poor Meryse.
O my God, he prayed silently. Why have you forsaken us? What have we done to offend you? Did we not always honor and worship you? Have we failed you? Why have you failed-
The rest of the thought was lost as he tumbled into the black abyss.
* * *
He, his father, and his almost nude sister hung by their wrists from a low beam in the workshop. The shackle cuffs cut painfully into his wrists and his shoulders ached abominably. His back burned where they had already whipped him. His face felt as though it didn't fit quite right on his skull. But his physical discomfort was far from his thoughts.
His mother screamed as the whip cracked, the tiny steel hooks at the end opening more lurid gashes that stretched from her shoulder to her waist. Her head snapped back and she seemed to be staring beyond the timbered rafters, beyond the planking of the roof and beyond, to the heavens, begging imploring. But no one listened.
“Confess, Stavos. You are a heretic!” The leader growled as he shook a blubbering Stavos.
“My lord,” he cried. “Why do you do this? We are a God-fearing family!”
The whip landed again. His mother shrieked. More blood fell to the already sticky dirt. The leader smiled that awful smile again.
“Oh, I don't doubt that. But which one?” he roared, striking Stavos hard in the face.
The whip cracked. His mother screamed.
“The only one, master,” his father shouted hoarsely. “Almighty Gaorla!”
“I don't believe you.”
The whip fell. Mother screamed.
* * *
He was suspended in an inky blackness, bereft of all sensation. Not hot, or cold. Neither happy nor sad, nor angry. No pain—he thought dimly he should feel pain. But no, nothing. He touched no ground, but did not feel that he floated. He touched no real thought but he knew he was there. He might have wondered how long he hung there, but there was no concept of time here. He tried to remember, thought it was important, for some reason, that he tried. There was nothing to remember. Nothing but that inky black. He might have frowned.
But he felt nothing.
Until-
He turned. He thought he turned. He thought he heard a voice. Hard to tell; if it was a voice, it seemed to be an unimaginable distance away. He moved in that direction.
White light. Searing, burning. Pain. Crippling, flaying, agony.
His eyes didn't seem to work right. Everything was hazy as though he looked through sheer cotton. He thought he must be on the ground, because it seemed he was looking up. That appeared to be the sun. Must be. It dug through his eyes and boiled his brain within his skull.
A shadow appeared, the shape of a head. Ah. They found him.
He let himself go. The blackness leaped forward again, enveloping him in its insensate embrace. As he fell, he heard a voice, a voice like God. Deep, rich, full of life and feeling.
“It's all right now. I have you. Sleep. Everything will be all right.”
Strange, he thought. These are not the words of torturers. And he was gone.
* * *
His father had stopped his weeping; Stavos stared vacantly at the ground, a line of red spittle stretching from his lip. He could not take his eyes from the gruesome, insane spectacle before him. His mother now lay in a heap like discarded trash off to the side, leaning against the as yet uncut oak that was to go to Fenval by the end of the week. Fenval would not be happy that he had not received his order in time. His father's reputation would suffer. His mother stared at something far, far away. Her skin was the ashen color of a gravestone. The tattered shreds of her favorite light blue dress—a present from Stavos the previous midwinter—were dripping scarlet.
“Speak the truth, heretic,” the Soldier of God snarled. “Speak or your daughter will join your evil witch wife in the underworld.”
But it seemed Stavos was no longer there. He breathed. He blinked. But he no longer even flinched when his aggressor struck him again.
Meryse sobbed, yet her voice was broken from her shrieking, and her cries came out as nothing more than hoarse grunts. Both her eyes were blackening, near swollen shut. Her jaw hung at an awkward angle, and her mouth did not seem to function properly. The rest of her tattered dress had been torn away, revealing her ravaged, brutalized body. One of the Soldiers of God, in a fit of sick inspiration had ever so carefully cut the buds from each of her breasts as she shrieked and shrieked. Her blood covered the crisscross of narrow slashes in her belly. He tried to look away from her but it was as though he was caught, as though his muscles were locked. He could not watch this, but he could not look away.
The leader searched Stavos's eyes. Then, dissatisfied, he shrugged and turned.
“Very well. If he will not tell us what we wish to know, then we have no choice but to kill his little bitch.” The leader caught the young man's eye. That smile. That abominable, ghastly smile. “We will find a fitting end for this little slut, yes?”
He strode to the large ripping saw, the one that needed resharpening, eyed the ragged teeth of the blade. It was a circular saw, the diameter of the blade nearly spanning his outstretched arms. He circled it slowly, examining it. Stavos did not blink, but his son felt ice forming along his spine and he began to mewl with new horror.
“My uncle was a woodcutter,” he said as though to himself. “I used to go to his shop when I was a boy and I watched as he cut long logs on a saw very similar to this one.”
He stooped, searched underneath the long trestle table, nodded and rose again.
“I think...” He searched the wall near the saw, found the lever that engaged the gears connected to the large waterwheel in the rapid stream outside. “Ah, yes, there it is,” he crowed triumphantly and pulled the lever.
He heard the clunk as the gears meshed, watched as the large blade began its implacable turning, the blade that could rip through solid oak and mahogany as easily as he would chew a piece of meat.
“No!” he shouted. He could not let this happen. He struggled against his shackles, the flesh on his wrists
ripping and spilling new blood upon him. “No! You bastards, let her go!”
The leader ignored the weak command. He gestured to his men who lifted a weakly struggling Meryse and placed her on the trestle table. She lay on her back as they held her arms and legs outstretched. She looked wildly down her torn body at the huge saw blade that spun with ever increasing savagery beyond the outstretched Y of her legs. Then she craned her neck and caught his eye. She begged soundlessly, her eyes pleading, tears flowing unchecked, her lips forming the same words over and over again.
Please. Please, no. Please.
The Soldiers began a stately pace dragging her steadily toward the ripping, ravenous blade. The rending of his heart was now complete. He wept, he wailed, he screamed her name. Moving as solemnly as though they performed a sacred rite, the Soldiers dragged her forward. Ever forward.
“NO!”
He could not bear to watch, yet he could not look away.
Finally, one last time, Meryse, his gentle, sweet, beloved sister, found her voice.
And he could not look away.
* * *
Voices again.
He returned to the world of burning pain. As before, the world seemed indistinct and blurry so that he could not tell if he was truly awake or if this was some demented dream. Or perhaps he was dead? Yes. That would be all right too.
His head moved ever so slightly. Beside him, no more than a pace away, stood a man clad in a mouse colored robe. The man was older than he, his hair iron gray, his features lined with creases. The old man wore a steely expression and he, still on his back, shivered at the sight of it.
“You will not take this young man,” said his apparent protector in that same rich, deep voice he seemed to remember from...from when?...before. Yes. From...before.
“You can't stop us, old man,” growled a familiar voice that made him quaver with fear. “The Soldiers of God will not be denied.” Then the voice turned oily. “Very clever, boy. My men didn't notice the trap door to the cellar. I commend you on your escape. Though I doubt your father will, since he is, at this moment, taking your punishment. But enough. Old man, step aside or my men will destroy you. You cannot live against all of us.”
The old man above him held his right hand up as though he was holding something. There seemed to be some sort of glow in the palm of his hand, a fiery light that crackled and danced. The old man smiled grimly.
“I will certainly try.”
“Kill him and get the boy,” the leader who had ordered his sister cut in half shouted.
The old man moved his right arm in a throwing motion. A flash of light blinded him and he shut them tight. Then a detonation. The ground heaved and bucked, a wall of noise rolled over him. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
He fell again into the black pit.
* * *
Gibbering, he hung helpless as he watched the blood spattered men toss the remains of his sister on top of his mother. Everything seemed disjointed, out of place, as though time had begun to jerk in fits and starts.
What have we done to deserve this? We are good people. Devoted to our good God. Why? The words formed haphazardly in his broken thoughts, but they did not find their way to his tongue.
Now the men grabbed him roughly and threw him to the ground at his father's dangling feet. At a barked command, one undid the shackles that held his wrist.
He lay in a wretched pile, shivering uncontrollably, sobbing. He finally managed to close his eyes, but wished he hadn't; the images would not go away. He vomited.
The crunch of dirt made him raise his head. Two greaves, polished to a high gloss filled his vision.
“Now, young man,” the leader spoke casually as though he was discussing the weather, “this questioning is proving quite tiring for my men. We are going to leave you alone for a few moments to think about what you have seen here. I suggest you strive very hard to convince your father to tell us what we want to hear. Otherwise you will join your lovely ladies.
“Of course, there will be a couple of men standing outside the door. As encouragement, you see, to remain here.”
The greaves turned away and a moment later, the door closed to the workshop. He lay there, sobbing, with nothing but the whir of the spinning saw blade to keep him company. His mother flayed, his sister...his sister...he could not even form the thought, though the image was clear enough. He vomited again, great wrenching heaves that made his ribs creak. When his guts were empty, he fell slack.
A new emotion began to take a hold of him, as though he had vomited not only bile, but some of the horror and sorrow as well. His heart turned to stone. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He raised his head, caught sight of his dangling, staring father. Painfully, he lifted himself to his feet and shook Stavos.
“Father,” he whispered urgently. “Father! Wake up.”
But there was no response. His father didn't even blink. He did not have time. He had to do something. This could not go on, there must be justice. And if his god had forsaken him, then he would see to it himself.
He scanned the workshop, searching for a weapon he could use. There were plenty. Axes, Adzes, saws, picks: it was a wood shop. He fingered a blade here and a point there, wondering, playing scenarios through his mind. He toyed with the idea of attacking them as soon as they entered. He would die, he knew; there were too many of them, they were much more skilled, and they were armored. But the price of his life would be a steep one.
Or would it? A coldness settled upon him. Thought suddenly came lucidly, like writing on a parchment. What if they managed to disarm him before he could cause any real damage? What if the only thing he accomplished was to hasten his and his father's brutal deaths? And besides, he thought, his eyes narrowing, the price would not be paid even if he managed to kill all of them. Soldiers of God. He was no fool. If one troop did this, then others did as well. No, the price of his life would cost those evil bastards far more than a few of their animals. And if God truly blessed them, if He truly loved them and sanctioned their actions, then He could bloody well suffer too.
He picked up a dagger, tucked it into his belt, and strode back to his father.
“Wake up!” he snapped and slapped Stavos. His father's head swung limply. His hand stung, but there was no response. He tried again, even harder. But to no avail. He glanced toward the door, knowing it would burst open at any moment and all would be lost. He turned away from his father, his heart breaking one more time.
“I'm sorry, father, but I have to go.”
He went to the back wall, followed it until he reached the cellar hatch behind the back work bench. Lifting it carefully, he winced when it squealed. The cellar was used for storing spare parts, old tools that needed mending, things that they had not cast away because Stavos had thought he could find uses for them. It was rarely used and full of useless things, but today, it might save his life.
Sparing one more glance at his father, he descended the ladder, lowering the trap door silently. At the bottom he carefully picked his way through the stacks of crates and barrels, aiming for the blade-thin slice of light on the far wall. When he reached the door that led out back, he waited, listened with breath held for any sound. If the Soldiers had guards here, he would fall back on his previous plan. But he detected nothing.
Carefully, he pushed the old door out, wincing again as this door squealed too, just enough to squeeze through.
No one. He grinned triumphantly. They would pay. He would make them.
He ran toward the dense forest only twenty paces distant. It was a slim chance. They would discover his escape soon, and he was certain they would not just give up on him. But he would bloody well give it his best shot.
Because they would pay.
With visions of his broken, bloody family and the sound of his sister's last agonized scream chasing him he disappeared into the shadows beneath the great elms and birch.
* * *
“Ah, I see you are awake.”
His one slitted eye rolled, searching, saw a small fire crackling merrily, until it fell on the old man. The old man seemed tired, his eyes lidded and his creased features sagging, but he smiled.
“How do you feel, my boy?”
He tried to speak but only managed a faint croak. Even that exhausted him to near insensibility.
“Here.”
Cold water touched his cracked lips and though it stung, he opened his mouth and greedily began sucking it in. He almost choked; for a moment, his burning throat would not function, but with a convulsive swallow, he felt the coldness spread down into his body. The flow stopped; he raised an arm and reached feebly for the waterskin.
“You're lucky I was passing through and heard—ah, ah. Not too much. It will make you ill again—heard those Soldiers of God looking for you in the forest.”
He dropped his arm and closed his eyes, disappointed. The water had been soothing; he might have preferred to vomit again if it meant more water.
“Where—where am I?” he managed to whisper.
“Near the main road that leads to your village some ten or twelve miles distant. Never fear,” the old man hurried on, placing a gentle hand on his patient's chest. “You're safe at my campsite. They will not come back.”
After a while, he began to feel strong enough to raise himself, at least a little. The old man helped him, propping his head and back on what appeared to be a travel sack. Then the old man went back to his place and sat silently observing him.
The young man stared into the fire, as though to burn away the visions that felt like violations, the memories. He lost himself in his memories, weeping silently as the old man watched, compassion etched deep in his face. As the sky began to darken to deep shades of red and ocher, the tears stopped. The avatars of his own beliefs had murdered his family and destroyed his life. As a young boy, he had dreamed, himself, of joining the Soldiers of God, as many young boys did. He had seen some once, a troop of four passing through his town, and he had gazed upon them, trailing after them, as though they were akin to gods themselves. They had done this to him. To his father and mother. To Meryse. The sorrow was still strong, but the process that had begun earlier with the anger that had welled up in him as he said good-bye to his father, began to temper it, took the first step in altering it from a debilitating weakness to a source of strength.
As the first star winked on high overhead, his expression had changed to a feral snarl.
“I will kill them,” he growled, a growl made all the more ominous by the rasping quality left over from his earlier plight. “I will kill them all.”
The old man smiled wryly at him. “Funny you should say that. I have been trying for a long time to do something quite similar. There are a great many of them however.”
His eyes met the old man's. Young, full of fire and rage, he smiled his own terrible smile. “I don't care how long it takes. I will bathe in their blood.”
The old man met his blazing glare with one as solid and impenetrable as granite. After what seemed a long time, he nodded slowly. “I think you and I might have a few things to discuss then. Perhaps we should begin with the basics. My name is Kurin. And you are?”
“I'm Mikal.”
Kurin smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Mikal. It seems fate, or mayhap fortune, has played us a similar hand. Perhaps we may find ways to help each other.”
Kurin crouched by Mikal's side and held out his hand.
When Mikal gripped it, it was like coming home.
