The trees pressed close, silent and grim. Dobren had whined when Scal had said no fires, but Attemo had silenced his second. Scal had worked for Attemo before. The caravan master trusted him as much as was possible, though it was not much still.
They were no more than a day from Bastreri, the trading center of northern Fiatera. Not so close that they were safe yet. Not so close that any guards would come to their aid. Close enough to the snowy North that Scal knew the wagoneers would be feeling the cold. Such a thing did not touch him. He was thrice born of ice and snow, and these Fiateran autumns were little more than a brush of wind. They would be cold, though, the eight wagoneers and mercenaries. Cold men shot poorly, swung swords slowly. But they were alert. Cold men listened to the night crackle around them. Cold men would hear the step of a foot, the brush of a shoulder, the creak of leather.
Reports of bandits had chased them all the way from Corinn. There was a desperation that came with the cold winds, in the men who had to fight for a chance of food. A hope of shelter against the coming snows. There was a desperation, too, in men like Attemo. With winter closing in, this was the last trip his caravan would make for the year. The last chance at a purse full of coin before wintering in Bastreri. A small caravan, so they could move quickly. Few guards, so he would not have to take too much from his profit. It was a gamble, to travel so unprotected in these bandit-haunted lands. Scal had never understood gambling. Attemo said that a touch of fear was what made life worth living. Long ago, Parro Kerrus had told him, A man who risks his life without need is a waste of Patharro’s gift of breath.
The roving bandits were bravest near Bastreri. An old mercenary had warned them a few towns back, his face scarred by old fights. All the caravans would be flocking to Bastreri for the last of the trading season. Pickings would be rich, for a few men brave enough.
So Scal stood among the trees, a distance from Verris and his mercenaries with their swords. Attemo and Dobren and the other wagoneers sitting cold atop their wagons and clutching at bows with half-frozen fingers. Scal stood alone, and waited to die. It would not be such a bad thing. He had been waiting for it, since the snows had spit him out into a fourth life.
A twig snapped—danger. Easy as breathing, Scal found the red anger, the fight-song rising in his heart, pulling at him. A step forward, to the left three paces. His sword bit smoothly into a creeping bandit. A gurgle, no more. Leaves rustled behind him, a quiet wind of movement. Scal turned, sword low, cutting up and through. Warmth spattered across his face and the body fell heavily to the ground. A scream, from the wagons, as strings snapped and metal clattered, the distant sounds growing in frenzy. An arrow sank into a tree at Scal’s right. He moved forward to the camp, head low. It was dark, but the moon was high behind the trees. Enough to pick out friend from foe. His sword flashed before him, a star rising and falling in the night, bringing death where it landed. The mercenaries screamed as they fought, battle cries from men who knew the business of killing. Two of the mercenaries moving together like a storm, their staves whirling. Their sticks sent weapons flying away, knocked men from their feet, but metal-tipped sticks did not kill. It was Scal who sent the fallen men to their gods. And the red was over all, driving him forward. Hungry. Needing. The song of blood loud in his ears, and his heart.
There were, suddenly, no more foes. It ended. The same sudden way it always did. It left Scal standing with sword raised and red before his eyes, ready to face the next blow. There would not be one. He was never ready for the end of the fighting. The red glow faded too slowly. Left him feeling dizzy and lost. He could feel the others, staring. For a moment, his sword almost moved again. There were still bodies standing. Still blood flowing.
“Well done, boys,” Attemo called from the top of his wagon, and there was cheering. “Let’s get the place cleaned up and a fire started.”
“No fire,” Scal croaked through the red. It was dark, but Scal could see the doubt in Attemo’s eyes. Almost, he threw his sword into the wagoneer’s chest. It would take strength, but he could have done it. He stopped himself. Closed his eyes, hoping for the red to fade. Through his teeth, he said, “There may be more.” It had not been enough. It never was.
Silence, for a time. Feet shuffling. Leaves rustling. The moon, climbing through the sky. Attemo cleared his throat. “It’s cold enough, we’ll chance it. Ring up the wagons, we can keep the fire hidden. Verris, you and your men take shifts watching. We’ll need wood. Let’s get moving.”
There was flurry. A foolish flurry, and the anger was deep in Scal’s chest. Stalking away, sticks cracking carelessly beneath his feet. The first man he found had been crippled by a whirling stave. Finished by Scal, with the sword through his neck. It was easier, then, to remove the head. Gripping the hair, boot against shoulder, two sharp slices. He took the man’s own sword and stalked into the trees, thirty paces from the wagons, and planted the sword into the ground. With some work, the head fit over the hilt. It stared as he worked. Accusation in its eyes. Mouth open in shock. It should not have been so surprised.
There were only six others. Enough, though, to make a ring around the camp. It might be enough to give pause, to any who would think of an attack. Attemo had hired him to keep the caravan safe. To keep them all alive. It was harder to do, when Attemo would not listen. This, at least, was something that could be done. In the night, fear was a powerful thing.
With the red fading from his eyes and heart as he planted the last sword, he sank to his knees. Blood dripped slow, small spatters against the ground. A faint glow from the hidden moon, turning the blood to a mirror. He did not like what he saw there. “Forgive me,” he said softly, to the head and to the Parents. He reached up to touch his chest. His painted flamedisk hung there. He had spent all his money on it, after his first caravan, to mark himself a new man.
He had known a priest, once. A man who loved to see the irony in life.
“Parents guard you,” Scal said softly, to the head before him and the others among the trees, “and keep your souls. I am sorry. There are things a man must do, sometimes.”
Scal rose. Sheathed his sword over his shoulder. Worked his way back to the wagons. They did not look at him, Attemo and the wagoneers, Verris and his mercenaries. They would have seen the bodies without their heads. They would know. They would think it a Northern custom, an evil thing of the far snows. They would call him a demon. A beast. A monster in men’s skin. Never would they think he had done it to protect them.
A man, the priest had told him, so long ago, is never only one thing or another. A man’s heart is much more complicated than that.
It was silent in the ring of wagons, around a fire that would be seen easily, as Scal retrieved his old wooden bowl from his single pack. He filled the bowl with the stew they were cooking. It was his right. Food and passage and coin for the protection of his sword. He took his meal and walked back out of the wagons. Softly, they began to speak again.
He ate alone. Alone he sat through the night, with his sword across his knees. Eyes closed but not sleeping. Listening to the night around him. To the sound of celebration, among the wagons. The first battle on this journey, and they had all lived through it. Verris came upon him, once. Patrolling, but he smelled of wine. He turned, wordless, avoiding Scal’s eyes. Through the rest of the night, the mercenaries would stop and turn before they reached him. An incomplete circle, to avoid him.
Softly, staring out into the snow with his hands folded and his eyes sad, Parro Kerrus had told him, Even the best of men, sometimes, must do bad things.
It had been seven years since his first caravan. Freshly reborn from the ice and snow, a boy as big as a man. Looking wild as a bear. Heartless as a winter. They had hired him, hoping the sight of a Northman would keep bandits away. Mostly, it did. Always, though, there came a point. An attack, and Scal would do what he had been paid to do. Always, after, they would fear him. Hate him. Give him a pouch of coins and tell him to leave. Drive him away with their own weapons. It was never the same after the killing.
Alone he listened to the night. Mice in the brush. An owl, flying low. Somewhere in the trees, two mercenaries and the soft sounds of lovemaking. A log being thrown into the fire, sparks crackling in the cold. The night, spinning on around him. Steps. Light on the ground, creeping. Four, five. A pause. Soft voices, cursing, warding, as fear proved stronger than a desire for vengeance against the slain whose heads ringed the camp. Steps again, back the way they had come.
The only pride a man should take, the priest had said, is in knowing that he’s done a job, and done it well.
The night was long, but all things end. As the sun touched the leaves, Scal rose. Sheathed his sword over his shoulder. Worked his way back to the wagons.
Attemo did not drive him off, or ask him to leave. Simply, they all ignored him. None would meet his eyes, as he took some of the cold porridge. Attemo would not look at him as Scal took his place on the bench of Attemo’s wagon. One of the other mercenaries knew some Northern songs and would always try to get Scal to sing, but this day she stayed at the back of the caravan. They were close to Bastreri. They would be free of him, soon enough. If a man could pretend, long enough, that a thing did not exist, he might one day be proved true.
Sometimes, too, Scal remembered the words of another man. Men are the cruelest of all the beasts, that man had said, he with a bear’s head atop his own.
A fourth life, the snows had given him. He wished, sometimes, that they had kept him instead.
Birds sang, and the wind blew. Among the rolling wagons, it was silence. The priest had told him, once, It’s hard, lad, to change a man’s opinion of you. Earned or no, some men will always only see you a certain way.
Scal pulled his sword from over his shoulder. Saw Attemo flinch. Laid the sword over his legs and pulled out his whetstone. The blade was longer than Scal’s arm, so that the tip of it rested on Attemo’s thigh. The caravan master stared ahead, eyes fixed. Tight lines in his throat, sweat on his brow. Scal whistled, loudly, as he sharpened the edge of his blade.
The other man, the one whose cloak Scal wore, had said, It is a hard world, ijka. There is no place in it for soft men.
They reached the gates of Bastreri before sundown. Stopped, to wait in the long line of wagons hoping for passage into the town. Without a word, Attemo set a pouch of coin on the seat between himself and Scal. Silently Scal took it. Jumped from the wagon to the ground and walked, without looking back, into the city.
There were things he had learned, things that would always be true. Always, men would fear him. And always, men would hire him because of their fear. There would be jobs waiting in Bastreri. There was always work for a man who knew how to kill and did not fear his own death.