《Stranger Arcana // Grim Fortuna》


 SA 1.0 - The Hollow Man

    "Do you see it now?" His smile stretched soulless from ear to ear. "It could never have been any other way. Fate, if you¡ª"


    "Shut up." Her words hung heavy, slowed and slurred. "Just for a moment. Let me die in peace."This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    He knelt, crooked form creaking. "If you will, is what I was going to say." He touched her cheek with an ash-white hand. "Do you disagree?"


    "Maybe." Her gaze unfocused. "I... could have..."


    "Nothing," he whispered.


    She died.

 SA 1.1 - Dinner Under Red-Tinged Leaves

    The monk scraped the last bits of grain out of his lacquered bowl and replaced the dish inside his shirt. He sighed, leaning against a mossy boulder, looking up through the crisscrossed leaves to the autumn sky above. ¡°Can¡¯t believe it¡¯ll be winter soon.¡±


    Sarros nodded, poking their small fire with a stick. ¡°Not for another few months, thank the stars.¡±


    ¡°Seems I was running from the spring floods just last week,¡± said the monk. He rummaged in his open-fronted shirt and pulled out a small ceramic flask. ¡°How about a little something to commemorate all the time we¡¯ve been traveling?¡±


    Raising an eyebrow, Sarros took the flask, uncorked the top, and sniffed it. ¡°Elderberry brande? I didn¡¯t think you monks were allowed to drink.¡±


    ¡°Well, elderberry¡¯s sacred. I reckon that evens things out a bit.¡±


    ¡°If you say so.¡± Sarros took a swig of the heady liquid and passed it back to the aged man who had accompanied him through the wilderness for the last month. ¡°It really has been nice traveling with you. It¡¯s a shame our paths don¡¯t carry us in the same direction any longer.¡±


    ¡°As the potbellied god wills,¡± sighed the monk. He scratched himself in a rather undignified manner. ¡°I thank him that I have had the opportunity to travel on the same path as you for even this short time.¡± He grinned. ¡°Even if you are a heathen.¡±


    Sarros returned the smile. ¡°Which is worse, a heathen Actor, or a monk of the potbellied god who drinks and whores and scratches himself in public?¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The monk gestured around. ¡°Public, my friend? Who is there to witness my depravity but the birds and the trees?¡± He glared in mock severity. ¡°And a soulless mercenary?¡±


    ¡°True,¡± said Sarros, but there was no humor in his voice. He glanced at the traveling pack he had set against a nearby tree.


    ¡°Please forgive me,¡± said the monk in a normal tone. ¡°I did not mean to offend you, my friend. I couldn¡¯t ask for a more pleasant traveling companion. If you choose to wear that thing, I am no man to judge.¡±


    ¡°It''s no great deal.¡± Sarros looked away from the pack. ¡°I mean no offense either. Would that all monks of the blue temple were as liberal as yourself. It''d make my life more tolerable, for certain.¡±


    ¡°Bah.¡± The monk waved as though fending off a putrid smell. ¡°Were that the case we¡¯d never get a thing done. The orphans would go unclothed, and the souls of you heathens would go unwashed, and the potbellied god would starve until his name was a falsehood.¡± He tilted his head, mouth twisted into a wry grin. ¡°You wouldn''t want to make a liar out of my god, would you?¡±


    Sarros stood, stretching. ¡°If your god calls me a soulless monster, would that he were lying.¡± The young Actor took up his traveling staff and his pack, and gave one last smile to his companion. ¡°May the stars bless you, holy man. Whatever that means coming from one such as I.¡±


    ¡°May it be so,¡± said the monk gravely. ¡°If you ever catch the bastard who killed your sister, come and settle down at the blue temple. I''ll personally make as poor a monk of you as I myself am. We can go from town to town drinking and whoring until the day we die.¡±


    ¡°Heh.¡± Sarros sighed, looking up through the tree branches. The crisp, acid smell of falling leaves filled his lungs, mixing in his mouth with the aftertaste of the rich elderberry brande. The tastes and scents of dead, fermented beauty. ¡°Not a bad life. Maybe I''ll take you up on it, after all this.¡±


    He didn''t look back, but continued down the remnant of the path that would carry him toward the edge of the wilderness.


    He followed the trail of the man with the hollow eyes.


    An hour before dark Sarros¡¯ path was blocked by a half dozen men with wickedly heavy blades.

 SA 1.2 - Confinement

    "Let''s see what''s in that pack."


    "Nothing worth taking," said Sarros. He didn''t relinquish the pack, but tightened his grip on the ash walking stick he''d carried with him for years.


    "Forgive me if I don''t believe you," said the man Sarros supposed to be the leader. He waved a hand, and two of his men shuffled to surround the much smaller traveler.


    Sarros gritted his teeth. He was not frail, but only a fool would fight six men at once. He could fight one with his staff, and if Sarros had a sword he felt confident he could even fight two. Anything more than that was idiocy. He darted towards the smaller of the two bandits flanking him, swung his staff at the burly man''s ankle, and shoved his assailant to the ground as he passed.


    He wasn''t quick enough. Something thudded into the back of Sarros'' head, and he saw the ground rise to meet him. "Fuck," he groaned, and tried in vain to resist the rope being roughly knotted around his arms and legs.


    ***


    Mochon, leader of the men who occupied the small encampment at the edge of the Eastern Border, picked his teeth with a knife. The prisoner sat with his back against a pole, hands tied behind him. The young man looked Ulritten, the pale skin of his chest and arms traced with scars that described a life of violence. His shoulder-length black hair was matted with blood on the back of his head, and the narcotic herbs they had forced down his throat kept him in the clutches of unconsciousness.


    "Is a bad idea, cap''n. Leaving him alive."


    Mochon turned calmly. He prided himself on his civilization, knowing that a lesser man would have struck his second in command for speaking in such a manner. "Do you think so, Turis?"


    Short, wart-nosed Turis had served under Mochon years back when they were both soldiers in the Imperial Army. When Mochon deserted to seek his fortune elsewhere, Turis was the only man to follow him. "What if he gets free, sir?" Turis glanced down at the table before his leader.


    "He won''t." Mochon touched the Mask again. It looked like silver, but its weight and texture were like pine wood. A stylized pair of horns curled down each side, and in place of eye holes was an etched blindfold. It disconcerted Mochon. "We''re lucky we surprised him. If he''d had the opportunity to retrieve his Mask, I doubt any of us would have made it out alive."


    Turis shivered, and took a step further away from the prisoner. "Thank the stars."


    "Indeed." Mochon wrapped the Mask back up in its woolen cloth and rose from his seat, towering even more above Turis as he did so. Battle-worn Mochon did not look like an educated and noble man, even he knew, but that was what made the bandit leader so dangerous. "Hide it in the secret place." He looked at the unconscious prisoner. "The stars only know what tricks he has up his sleeve."


    "Yes sir." Turis saluted, as he always insisted, and scooped up the profane Mask. The ex-soldier flinched as he touched it, as though some malevolent force had reached him even through the thick cloth wrapped around the thing. He scurried away, leaving his leader alone in the prisoner tent.


    The newcomer happened to be the bandits'' only prisoner at the moment. They had kept a merchant''s son for ransom a few week''s before, but the father had not paid for his youngest son, who had turned out to be a drunkard and a disappointment to the family name, and so Mochon had killed the boy himself. It wasn''t proud work, but if word got out that Mochon''s crew was merciful they would never get another ransom. The unconscious prisoner now sat in a dried pool of the merchant''s son''s blood. Maybe the evidence of his predecessor''s fate would loosen his tongue a bit when he woke.


    Mochon left the tent, nodding to the spear-wielding bandit who guarded the entrance. "Send word when he wakes. I''ll want to speak with him."


    "Yessir." The guard did not salute, but nodded deferentially as Mochon passed. It was as the leader preferred. The fewer reminders of his old life, the better.


    ***


    Sarros tasted iron. He must have bitten his lip when¡ªOh, right. The Actor grimaced, spitting the remnants of narcotic herbs from his dry mouth. The blood in his mouth was that of one of the bandits. Sarros had bitten him when the bandit pried his mouth open to force the drugs into his mouth. The Actor groaned as quietly as he could, assessing his situation.


    Light shone into the tent in a thin bar through the wind-shaken flap that served as a door. The only furniture in the tent was a low wooden table and chair about eight feet away. Upon it lay Sarros¡¯s traveling pouch. Against his better judgment, Sarros growled. They must have stolen the Mask. ¡°Hey!¡± he tried to shout. His throat and mouth felt hairy, and his voice had trouble escaping his throat. The Actor tried to express enough saliva to lubricate his throat. ¡°I¡¯m awake!¡± No one answered. The tent flap whipped in a particularly strong breeze and Sarros glimpsed a worn leather boot. There was clearly a guard, but either he couldn¡¯t hear Sarros or was purposefully ignoring his prisoner.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Groaning, Sarros slumped back down. He winced as something hard contacted the wound on the back of his head. Sarros twisted around and saw the thick wooden pole holding up the tent, the column to which the mercenary Actor was secured. He poked at the ropes which bound his hands behind the pole, but they were too tight for him to move them much.


    ¡°Oh!¡± The guard had peeled back the tent flap. He must have heard Sarros after all. ¡°Fetch Captain,¡± he yelled to someone outside, and then returned outside.


    ¡°Get over here!¡± called Sarros. ¡°I¡¯ve got questions!¡± His call was ignored, and so the Actor lay back again, waiting for the leader. He began to process the events of his capture. What were bandits doing on such a minor wilderness road? The Imperial highway was almost a half-day¡¯s travel southward. Sarros had chosen his path specifically because it was so disused. Why would bandits ignore a major throughway but ambush a road where they might not even catch a single traveler on a given day?


    Of course, they had caught even careful Sarros, so who was he to judge?


    The leader of the bandits stormed into the tent, carrying a smoking torch. He loomed above Sarros, and the Actor had a feeling it wasn¡¯t just because he was in a forced seated position against the tent pole. The bandit leader was thick-armed, broad shouldered, and mean-looking. A dip of a scar marred the bridge of his nose, and the man¡¯s beard and hair were nicely trimmed. Underneath all that, however, Sarros felt there was an air of something else. Something refined, almost noble. His gaze was the cool stare of a sheriff or an officer, someone who was used to institutionalized power and bore it as a duty as well as a weapon.


    It reminded Sarros of his short stint in the Imperial army, and that soured his mood even further. ¡°Thanks for the warm welcome,¡± he said, and smiled wryly.


    ¡°If you had not struggled, we could have made your accommodations more comfortable,¡± said the bandit leader. His words carried the accent of one of the northern cities, something Sarros hadn¡¯t noticed in their exchange on the road. ¡°You did strike my man first, if you recall.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m having a bit of trouble recalling anything, frankly.¡±


    ¡°Please.¡± The leader set the torch into a hole bored into the table and approached his prisoner. He grabbed a handful of Sarros¡¯ hair and pulled the Actor¡¯s head forward. It wasn¡¯t a cruel gesture, but sure and practical, like a farmer holding a lamb¡¯s head tightly while he checked its teeth. ¡°Your wound is not serious. I think that we were forced to sedate you speaks to that.¡±


    ¡°Normally I¡¯d have to pay good money for shit that good,¡± said Sarros. ¡°If you throw in a loaf of the stuff when you let me go, I think we can call it even.¡±


    The leader released Sarros, knelt down, and peered into his face. ¡°Let¡¯s dispense with all that.¡±


    ¡°All right. Why am I still alive? Do I look like a rich nobleman to you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a mercenary, clearly.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± Sarros grinned. ¡°You gonna offer me the chance to join you and your boys? I might take you up on it, actually. Work¡¯s been scare as of late.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. If I thought I could trust you.¡±


    ¡°And, pray tell, why not?¡±


    ¡°We found your Mask.¡±


    Sarros dropped the pretension of good humor. ¡°Then you know how stupid it is to keep me away from it.¡±


    ¡°On the contrary.¡± The leader stood, looming large once more. ¡°I have more education than most of the peasants and citizens in the country. That isn¡¯t derision, only fact. I know if the union between an Actor and his Mask is not fully consummated, he must touch it to assume its persona.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you. What¡¯d you do with it?¡±


    The leader spread his arms. ¡°Please don¡¯t take offense. It¡¯s safe. I have no intention of harming it. If we kill you, it will be buried alongside your corpse. I¡¯m not a savage.¡±


    ¡°What a relief.¡± Sarros slumped back down. He hadn¡¯t realized his body had become so tense. ¡°All you did was beat me, drug me, and keep me prisoner. At least you¡¯re not a savage.¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean.¡± The leader sighed. ¡°Where is the war, mercenary?¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡±


    ¡°Why else would you be traveling that road? You carry nothing of value, and only a few days¡¯ rations. I assume you were headed to the frontier settlements, but after that, you leave the Empire. I can only infer there is a war brewing in the barbarian lands.¡±


    ¡°No, I¡­¡± Sarros stopped. The leader was staring at him with eyes like a panther¡¯s. ¡°If there¡¯s a war, it¡¯s news to me. I¡¯m looking for someone. Revenge.¡± He inclined his head. ¡°Why were you waiting for me?¡±


    ¡°If you truly don¡¯t know, then we weren¡¯t waiting for you. But I doubt that.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    The leader scratched his beard. ¡°Quite a few Imperial platoons have passed in the last few months. It must be common knowledge.¡±


    Sarros laughed. ¡°Were you expecting to ambush a platoon?¡±


    ¡°Maybe a spy.¡± The leader smiled coldly. ¡°I hear they are adept at memorizing their messages so they can pass for travelers or monks or refugees.¡± He leaned closer. ¡°Or lone mercenaries. There¡¯s a pretty penny to be made off selling information in times of war.¡±


    ¡°Torture me all you like, but I have nothing to tell you.¡± Sarros tried to keep his half-mocking tone, but he could hear his voice shaking as he spoke. Of course they wouldn¡¯t believe him. They might not until he was already dead. ¡°I swear, I know nothing of the war. I¡¯m no spy.¡±


    A tense moment passed. The bandit leader remained silent, letting Sarros count his own thudding heartbeats and try not to breathe too heavily in his fear.


    The leader drew a wicked knife, and despite himself Sarros flinched. He growled as the blade approached his face, determined to go out fighting, but the leader pushed his prisoner¡¯s head aside and bent around the tent pole, sawing at the ropes binding Sarros¡¯ hands. He hauled the Actor up by the front of his shirt and held him steady as the room seemed to spin around Sarros¡¯ head.


    ¡°Wh-what?¡± The Actor put a hand against the tent pole, pushing away the bandit leader. What was happening?


    ¡°I believe you, mercenary. Your eyes have things I wish I didn¡¯t have to see in someone so young, but deceit is not one of them.¡± He gestured to the table. ¡°With the exception of that abominable Mask¡ªwhich I will keep safe until I am certain I can trust you¡ªall your belongings have been untouched.¡± The leader picked up his torch and opened the tent flap again, making Sarros squint at the bright sunlight. ¡°My name is Mochon. You will call me Captain. What¡¯s yours?¡±


    ¡°Sarros.¡± The mercenary¡¯s wry smile returned as he massaged his scraped wrists. ¡°And you can call me Lieutenant.¡±


    Mochon glanced at Sarros¡¯ right arm, hidden beneath a hemp shirt, and touched the scar on his exposed right arm where the Imperial tattoo had once sat. ¡°We may not be Imperial any more, Sarros, but I¡¯m still in charge around here. Take care you remember that.¡± He left Sarros alone to gather his things.

 SA 1.3 - Weapon Broken in Anothers Hand

    The encampment was larger than Sarros had expected. Dozens of oilskin tents and even a few log-and-mud roundhouses spread across the small valley out of sight of the wilderness road. Sarros estimated at least two hundred bandits, considerably more than he had expected. Suddenly the prospect of defeating an Imperial platoon¡ªusually comprised of fifty or fewer men¡ªdidn¡¯t seem so ridiculous. The smells of unwashed men were covered by the scents of the fall air and by cookfire smoke, reminding Sarros of the last time he¡¯d eaten with the men in his squad. Four years had passed since then.


    Sarros pushed the thought from his mind as he realized his ash walking stick had not been left with his traveling pack. He cursed, turning and calling to the man who had guarded his tent. ¡°Where¡¯s the stick I had with me?¡±


    ¡°Uh.¡± The guard looked around. ¡°I dunno. I didn¡¯t do anything with your stuff. You could check weapons, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s that?¡±


    The guard pointed to the smallest of the roundhouses, about a hundred yards away. Sarros nodded to him and set off for the building. Some bandits looked up curiously as Sarros passed, but most paid no attention to the newcomer. The Actor tensed as he passed necessarily close to one of the men he recognized from the ambush, but the man must have been given word from Captain Mochon, because he only narrowed his eyes as Sarros passed.


    Pine logs and dried mud comprised the weapons roundhouse, a construction Sarros had heard used commonly by the barbarians who lived beyond the boundaries of the Empire. The old man who sat in a chair before the roundhouse¡¯s entrance looked like a barbarian himself. The man was well-built despite his age, and his skin was almost as pale as Sarros¡¯. The old man¡¯s head was clean shaven, but a thick white beard spilled down his burly chest. The man looked up as Sarros approached. ¡°You¡¯ll be the newcomer, then?¡±


    ¡°Word travels fast here,¡± Sarros noted. He glanced at the thick knife and block of wood in the old man¡¯s hands. Judging by the details of the grimacing face emerging from the wood, this elder still had the dexterity of a young pickpocket. ¡°Beautiful work. What is the creature?¡±


    ¡°I was told you¡¯d be coming,¡± the old man said. He proffered the half-carved wood to the Actor. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯ll appreciate. It¡¯s an effigy of the Devil.¡±


    Sarros¡¯ eyes narrowed. ¡°Oh?¡±


    The old man smiled. He was missing most of his teeth. ¡°I heard about the Mask they took from you, Actor. The ram¡¯s horns could mean only one of the Two-and-Twenty.¡± He stretched out a leathery palm. ¡°I¡¯m a man of the old ways, Actor. While I see the¡­ practicality¡­ of keeping you and the Mask separated, I still recognize it as a travesty.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, I suppose.¡± Sarros gave back the carving.


    ¡°I should have this effigy done by tonight. Maybe it will give you a measure of comfort.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re too kind,¡± Sarros said flatly. Despite the old man¡¯s words, he felt patronized. ¡°Do you oversee weapons, or just sit there carving holy symbols for all the thieves and murderers?¡±Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡°Look at the lord on his horse,¡± sneered the old man. ¡°You¡¯re one of us now, and don¡¯t forget it. Yes, I¡¯m to the weapons as Cook is to the stew. I see no blade at your side. Do you need one?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d prefer my staff back, to tell the truth.¡± Sarros glanced at a nearby fire. ¡°We¡¯ve been through a lot together.¡±


    ¡°No one sent it my way, I¡¯m sorry to say. We don¡¯t have much in the way of staffs, either. Mochon¡¯s crew is more of an axes-and-blades lot.¡±


    Sarros shrugged. ¡°Then give me a sword. Short and broad, if you can.¡±


    The old man laughed. ¡°Another deserter, eh? That¡¯ll tickle Captain right good.¡± He stood, wincing as his knees audibly popped, and pulled open the roundhouse door. ¡°Wait a moment, Actor.¡± He returned a bit more than a moment later with something wrapped in cloth. ¡°No Imperial blades, but there¡¯s this.¡± The weapons overseer pulled back the wrapping.


    Sunlight gleamed off the blade¡¯s scarred surface. The steel of the blade was broad indeed, even more than that of the Imperial weapon Sarros had requested. Its grid and crossguard were fashioned of a polished dark wood, and a heavy lead knob served as a counterweight. The blade itself was clearly part of a much larger weapon, but it had been snapped in two at some point, leaving about two feet of beautiful metal which culminated in a ragged, angled tip. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a weapon like this before,¡± he breathed. ¡°It¡¯s beautiful.¡±


    ¡°Was a demon¡¯s,¡± said the old man.


    Sarros looked up sharply. ¡°Do you mock me?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not your enemy, lad.¡± The old man settled back into his chair, weapon still held carefully in his arms. ¡°No one wants it. They¡¯re afraid it will steal their souls.¡± He grinned crookedly. The old man seemed to do that a lot. ¡°I reckon you¡¯ll not care much about that.¡±


    ¡°I get the joke.¡± Actors were commonly believed to have sold their souls to the Masks they wore in exchange for power. It wasn¡¯t literally true, but still hit too close to home. ¡°Thank you. I will care for it well.¡± He bent down and took the broken demon blade, hefting it and letting the sun play off its lines. The lead weight had clearly been added after the breakage, part of some preparation to balance it for combat. It was heavier than the Imperial swords he was used to, but Sarros felt he could still wield it singlehandedly.


    The old man nodded approvingly. ¡°I was afraid that blade would never see use again,¡± he said. ¡°Did Captain assign you a tent yet?¡±


    Sarros lowered the blade. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Come back when he does. I¡¯ll assemble a sword kit and try to find a sheath wide enough for that thing.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± The Actor wrapped his new weapon in its cloth, pausing as he saw the weapons overseer return to his wood carving. ¡°What do you believe, old man? Will the gods return some day and banish the demons?¡±


    ¡°I told you I¡¯m of the old ways.¡±


    ¡°Then you think we could go back to the way things were in the stories?¡±


    The old man set down his knife. ¡°Which part? Unicorns? Dragons? Knights in shining armor?¡±


    Sarros looked across the encampment. ¡°Good men.¡± The people who walked to and fro looked like honest men, from a distance. The muscles, dirt, hair and stench could just as easily belong to a farmer after a long day¡¯s work. The thick wedges of shining metal they carried could have just as easily been plows as swords. How many of these were bandits because they loved to kill, and how many were simple men forced beyond the point of no return by outside forces? ¡°Some days I think unicorns are not so scarce as truly good men.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± said the old man softly, and Sarros turned to see water in his eyes. ¡°Not so scarce at all.¡± He blew shavings off his lap. ¡°Perhaps things could return to the way they used to be,¡± the overseer said. ¡°Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But some day.¡± He waved at Sarros as though shooing away a fly. ¡°Go on,¡± he said. ¡°I can¡¯t work with eyes on me. I¡¯ll have the effigy done by the time you return for the sword kit.¡±


    Sarros left, cloth-wrapped blade on shoulder, and decided the old man hadn¡¯t been patronizing him after all. He almost wished the overseer had. Sarros wasn¡¯t sure he was ready to meet an earnest man.

 SA 1.4 - And the Leaves Also Fall

    ¡°Captain¡¯s out,¡± said Cook. He looked at the newcomer warily, wishing Captain had just killed the monster and been done with it. Honest men like Mochon¡¯s crew didn¡¯t need to treat with any Actors. Next they¡¯d be recruiting demons! Maybe the talk around the fires was true. Despite Captain himself killing the merchant¡¯s boy three weeks back, the men whispered that Captain was getting soft. He hadn¡¯t let them attack any of the platoons which had passed recently, despite Mochon¡¯s crew outnumbering them all at least two to one.


    Cook knew more than the average man about the prowess of even a low-ranking Imperial soldier, let alone a band of fifty or more seasoned campaigners, but that Captain hadn¡¯t so much as considered an assault worried Cook. If nothing was raided, no one got paid. When no one got paid, no food was bought from the frontier settlements a few days¡¯ travel away. When no food was brought in, Cook had to rely on his stock of oats and beans for every meal, and the men got to sulking.


    When the men got to sulking, upstarts began to mutter that maybe they¡¯d be better off as captain. That never ended well.


    In short, the Ulritten-looking newcomer being still alive meant some drunken, hungry, penniless bandit might tonight lose his head in a poorly-conceived attempt at a coup. It might even be one of the few of Mochon¡¯s crew that Cook didn¡¯t actively despise, and that was a fast-dwindling group as it was.


    ¡°When will he return?¡± asked the newcomer.


    Cook grunted as he dissected a handful of dandelions for their blossoms and roots. They had sprung from his carefully-cultivated collection of seeds, a secret which allowed him to grow the flowers for as long as snow stayed off the ground. ¡°Don¡¯t know. Before dark, unless they catch someone else.¡± Cook turned pointedly away, signaling an end to their conversation.


    The young man sighed and wandered away, that ridiculous sword resting on his shoulder. Nothing good could come of all this treatment with Actors and demons, Cook decided. Nothing good at all.


    ***


    Night fell, and Sarros couldn¡¯t avoid interacting with the bandits any longer. He had wandered near the outskirts of the encampment for the few hours between his release and sunset, observing the general state of the crew. He didn¡¯t miss the hunched soldier with the wart on his nose who followed him at a distance, doing his best to look casual as he kept an eye on the Actor. Sarros made no effort to lose his tail, but stayed close to the encampment so as not to raise alarm.


    It seemed Mochon¡¯s crew had occupied the valley for almost three months. Sarros was surprised the Empire hadn¡¯t yet eradicated the band. To his knowledge, bandits and the darker sort of mercenary bands tended to find themselves swiftly crushed under the heel of the Empire¡¯s peacekeeper forces if they stayed in one place too long. Perhaps the band was just particularly lucky, or maybe Mochon was as cunning a tactician as he seemed to believe himself.


    Either way, Sarros hoped to be free of the band as soon as he could. He suspected the Mask stolen from him wasn¡¯t kept in something as obvious as one of the log houses. Mochon seemed too clever for that. Until Sarros knew where his stolen property lay, he would suffer the presence of the bandits.


    Sarros approached one of the campfires which had been started at sunset. Men seemed to be carrying bowls of a thick paste which they dumped into pots of water above the fire. Sarros knew this was a barbarian practice in war camps, where the cook would slow-cook a vat of protein and aromatics to be used as a starter for a thin soup. The barbarians would add their grain to the pot as well, but most of Mochon¡¯s crew looked to be roasting their grain like proper denizens of Imperial lands.


    A half-dozen glares greeted Sarros as he approached. It amazed the Actor that at least two hundred men all seemed to know who he was after less than a day. Of course, there weren¡¯t likely many men with Ulritten blood in the crew. Ulritte was almost on the other side of the Empire, after all. In addition, if the old man¡¯s story about the demon blade had been true, angry gossip had likely spread that the ex-prisoner had insulted all of their courage by taking up the blade they were too frightened to wield. Not, they would say hurriedly, that it was a matter of courage. No, they were simply too wise to deal with the property of demons.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Well, all the better for Sarros, then. He walked past the fires and deeper into the encampment. Thin torches bound to poles illuminated the main path, and Sarros followed their light back to the weapons roundhouse. The old man wasn¡¯t there, but a boy perhaps sixteen years old sat in his chair, smoking a reed pipe. Its bowl glowed cherry red when he inhaled, illuminating a face covered in a patchy precursor to a man¡¯s beard.


    The boy scrambled to his feet as Sarros approached. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you.¡± He seemed surprised. ¡°Dad said you¡¯d come back, but I thought you¡¯d run away.¡± The sullen look of someone who¡¯s lost a bet crossed the boy¡¯s face. ¡°Dad¡¯s getting our dinner. He said to give these to you if you came back.¡±


    Sarros waited while the boy entered the weapons roundhouse and returned with a sword belt, leather sheath, and an oilskin bundle about the size of two fists. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said. ¡°Your father, you said?¡±


    ¡°He took me in,¡± said the boy. ¡°I was left behind in my village when everyone ran away, when I was little.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    The boy looked away. ¡°Dad¡¯s a good man,¡± he said quietly. ¡°He was the older brother of the captain we had two¡­ Uh, captains ago. He stays because this is how he¡¯s lived for most of his life. I stay because of him.¡±


    Sarros opened the bundle. The Devil effigy sat on top of a standard array of sword care supplies. Its surface had been smoothed and waxed, and a thin leather cord looped through a notch cut into the effigy¡¯s back. Sarros sighed and tucked the bundle underneath his arm, freeing his hands to knot the talisman around his neck. ¡°So when he dies, will you leave?¡±


    A sharp breath accompanied the boy¡¯s flinch. ¡°I don¡¯t like to think about it, but yeah. He¡¯s all I¡¯ve got here.¡±


    ¡°Happens to everyone, sooner or later.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± The boy kicked at one of the logs half-buried in the ground. ¡°Look, he¡¯s real sick. Probably going to die in the next month.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Sarros raised an eyebrow. ¡°He looked pretty healthy earlier. Seemed energetic enough.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s¡­ Blood in his piss, and his teeth have been falling out.¡±


    Sarros winced. That gap-toothed smile hadn¡¯t just been the fruits of a long life gnawing on tough bones and gritty bread after all. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°No one does.¡± The boy shrugged. ¡°Like you say, though, happens to everyone.¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡± Sarros looked down at the Devil effigy. ¡°He wants me to take you when I go. That¡¯s why he did all this for me.¡±


    ¡°Was it that obvious?¡± The boy laughed nervously, breaking away from Sarros¡¯ gaze again. He seemed to have a hard time maintaining eye contact. ¡°He thought¡­ With you being an Actor and all¡ª¡±


    Sarros¡¯ temper flared. He wanted to yell that the old man was an idiot if he believed the stories about Actors being the harbingers of the old ways returning, that those beliefs were just as ignorant as the superstitious beliefs that Actors sell their souls to demons. Sarros wanted to say these things, but he bit his tongue. This wasn¡¯t about him. ¡°I don¡¯t know when I¡¯ll be leaving,¡± he said instead. ¡°Your Captain took my mask. I¡¯m not leaving without it. Do you have any idea where it might be?¡±


    The boy shook his head. ¡°The Turis might know, but I don¡¯t.¡± He pointed past Sarros to the edge of the firelight, where the wart-nosed bandit who had stalked Sarros all day squawked and scampered into the dark.


    ¡°Ha,¡± said Sarros. ¡°I doubt that sniveling weasel will let me close enough to ask. He¡¯s Mochon¡¯s spy?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Dad says Captain came from the army, and Turis was one of his men.¡±


    ¡°So he¡¯ll go back to Mochon and tell him about our conversation.¡±


    ¡°I guess. I don¡¯t think Captain cares, though. Anyone can guard the weapons. Dad just does it because his knees are too bad for anything else.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± Sarros sighed and fastened his new belt and sheath onto his waist. The demon blade slid into its sheath smoothly, and the familiar weight of steel on his hip brought back memories to Sarros¡¯ mind he wished he could forget. Still, it was good to be armed again. ¡°Thank you again,¡± said the Actor. ¡°And tell your father I thank him, as well.¡± He touched the horned effigy hung around his neck. ¡°What¡¯s your name, by the by?¡±


    ¡°Tommo.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m Sarros. Tell your father I¡¯ll visit again, Tommo.¡± Sarros turned and set off for the cook fires. Every man around them might hate him, but he needed to get some food in his stomach before he died of starvation.

 SA 1.5 - Rite of Brotherhood

    ¡°He¡¯s over here,¡± a voice called from behind Sarros. The Actor turned. He¡¯d managed to find a group of men who fairly tolerated his presence enough to let him eat unmolested, and had spent the last half hour staring into their cook fire, swallowing watery soup and gnawing at black bread as tough as wood. Now, however, someone wanted Sarros. With any luck it would be Captain Mochon, finally returned from his blasted mission.


    It wasn¡¯t. The man approaching the firelight had dark skin, hair knotted into dreadlocks, and an outraged expression on his face. He also, to the Actor¡¯s anger, seemed to be supporting a hurt ankle with Sarros¡¯ treasured walking stick.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m here!¡± Sarros scrambled to his feet and put a hand on the demon blade¡¯s hilt. ¡°How kind of you to seek me out just to return my staff.¡±


    ¡°Bah!¡± the bandit spat on the ground and looked over his shoulder. Four men followed a close distance behind, glowers visible in the dim firelight which just barely reached them. ¡°He has the gall to accuse me, when he attacked me cowardly and unprovoked!¡±


    The men sharing Sarros¡¯ fire began to murmur, but the Actor ignored them. ¡°Enough of that,¡± he said. ¡°You had me surrounded. I tried to get away, and, well, I got what came to me.¡± He rubbed the back of his head. ¡°Mochon let me join up, though. I¡¯m one of you now.¡±


    ¡°You think so, do you?¡± The wounded man laughed and pointed a finger at Sarros¡¯ chest. ¡°Captain doesn¡¯t remember how things used to be, like mah dad taught me. Once upon a while a man had to prove himself to join up with men of the road. Nowadays Captain just says you¡¯re in, and so you are.¡± The bandit gestured widely with his free arm. ¡°What do you all think about that, boys? Should we initiate the demon in our own way?¡±


    Sarros felt sweat slide down the back of his neck, and it wasn¡¯t just from the intense heat of the fire. All the men in earshot were approaching slowly, muttering, whispering. Sarros had heard the gossip as he wandered the encampment, and he was no fool to begin with. Mochon¡¯s machinations were leading the simple men of the crew to think him soft. Obviously Sarros¡¯ presence by the cook fire instead of in a shallow grave was further proof to this effect. If the almost dozen bandits who were growing ever closer decided to make a rush, Sarros had no delusions as to how many more bowls of disgusting soup he would get to enjoy in his lifetime. He needed to act quickly.


    The Actor took a long step towards the bandit who possessed his staff, making the movement look like a stumble. He ended up on one knee before the bandit (with just enough freedom of movement to avoid a heavy shot to the groin or face, if need be) and raised both hands as though to ward off an incoming blow. ¡°Please don¡¯t hurt me!¡± he said, and allowed a bit of his unease to ferment into a fearful sob. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to show you up in front of everyone!¡±


    ¡°You did nothing of the sort!¡± the bandit bellowed. He struck Sarros on the shoulder, but the former Imperial rolled with it, letting his groans make up for the pain he didn¡¯t actually feel. ¡°Coward!¡± continued the dreadlocked man. He seemed emboldened by his victim¡¯s submission. ¡°I have half a mind to thrash you right here.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Sarros sniffed a fake sniffle, and covered it with an even faker cough. ¡°Sir, I was a top wrestler in the Army. If you think it would even things out between us, we could have a tussle right here.¡±


    The bandit seemed taken aback, but his comrades urged him on from behind. ¡°Get ¡®im, Yurhi!¡± said one. ¡°He¡¯s nothin¡¯ but a twig!¡±


    It was true Sarros¡¯ build was slighter than the bandit¡¯s, and that he stood a good inch or two shorter, but Sarros also spoke the truth when he mentioned his training as an Imperial wrestler. Imperial wrestling, of course, was more a matter of elbows and knees and crushing joints, and less the lumbering, thundering impact of one drunken farmer¡¯s shoulder against another¡¯s gut which was a common sight in taverns and village fairs.


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± The bandit didn¡¯t seem to know the difference. ¡°All right, you and me.¡± He suddenly sneered, as if a clever idea had come to his mind. ¡°Think of this as your initiation, demon.¡±


    Sarros was ready for a right hook, but not the left-handed sledgehammer of a fist that clouted him from out of nowhere. The ash walking stick clattered to the ground in time with the Actor¡¯s half-fall, half-roll. The groans of pain which came from his lips were no longer fake. Sarros hadn¡¯t thought his strike to the bandit named Yurhi¡¯s ankle had been powerful enough to cause a lasting injury. The man had apparently been using his ¡®injury¡¯ to garner sympathy from the others. ¡°You¡¯re almost as good an actor as myself!¡± Sarros called as he staggered to his feet. There likely wasn¡¯t any lasting brain injury (he hoped), but everything was a little hard to see for the moment. ¡°Not much of a puncher though!¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The bandit bellowed and rushed Sarros with both arms spread wide, dirty fingernails ready to rake at the Actor¡¯s back should he find himself crushed to the man¡¯s filth-encrusted chest.


    With a grunt Sarros sidestepped at the last moment, kicking Yurhi in the back of the knee as he passed, bracing himself on the much greater weight and spinning almost forty-five degrees to slam a hand-braced elbow into the bandit¡¯s ribcage.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± Yurhi wheezed. It wasn¡¯t much of a shout. He staggered forward another step, clutching a hand to his side and turning somewhat slowly to face his would-be victim.


    Sarros had largely recovered from his initial wound at this point, and stepped forward with both hands raised in fists before him. He ducked below a too-slow punch and darted in, delivering a sharp knee to the bandit¡¯s diaphragm.


    It was another ruse. Yurhi breathed out as Sarros¡¯ knee connected with his abdomen, ignoring the normally devastating attack, grabbing the Actor by his shoulders and thrusting his dreadlocked head down toward Sarros¡¯ unprotected face. He hurled the Actor from him a moment later, howling in agony and clawing at his mashed nose, blood streaming down his jaw and hissing as it spun off into the nearby fire. Sarros had ducked his head down at the last moment, placing his forehead where his nose had been only a moment before.


    ¡°All¡­ Right,¡± Sarros said, out of breath. He hadn¡¯t fought in a long while. Not really fought. The physical exertion wasn¡¯t the exhausting part¡ªthat was tiring, to be sure, despite taking place over only a few seconds. The strain of knowing one false move could mean a lifelong injury or worse was the truly exhausting part. It had taken everything Sarros had to avoid those steel-cord muscles. His strikes had been like the stings of a shrike wasp: Painful, ugly, scarring, but not really debilitating unless they had a chance to pile up. Sarros was confident the fight was nearly over, but that just meant the difficult part had arrived. He approached the slowly-retreating Yurhi and did his best to magnify the exhaustion he actually felt, making each plodding step and ragged breath look a hundred times worse. Despite the most worst of the damage existing on Yurhi¡¯s person, Sarros needed to make everyone forget and believe him to have received the worst of it all along. ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ Get you¡­¡± he wheezed.


    Sure enough, when he got close enough, Yurhi swung with that same, regular left hook. Sarros raised a hand just a purposeful half-second too late, the heavy haymaker brushing past the Actor¡¯s guard and cracking him on the jaw. Sarros let himself fall to the ground, wincing and wishing he¡¯d blocked just a bit more of the strike. He¡¯d have a solid welt come morning. Then the Actor hauled himself back up and waveringly returned his fists to their guard position. ¡°That¡­ The best you got?¡±


    Yurhi, confidence largely regained, laughed and stepped in to slug Sarros in the gut.


    This time the Actor did try to block, but he underestimated how much strength the bandit had left, and found himself knocked to the ground again. All right, he thought. Enough playing. He hauled himself up, parried a punch, and with every pound of force he could muster drove a thunderous uppercut into Yurhi¡¯s stubble-covered chin.


    The bandit groaned as he staggered back, consciousness faded from his eyes. He crashed down to the ground, and Sarros was quick to to his side as the men around began to shout angrily. This was the tricky part. Yurhi would regain consciousness within a minute or two, but that might be too late if the rest of the men decided to rip this upstart limb from limb straight away. So, Sarros slapped Yurhi¡¯s face frantically until the bandit began to blink and squint at the firelight. Sarros lost no time in throwing the bandit¡¯s arm around his shoulder and hauling Yurhi to his feet. ¡°Fucking good fight!¡± The Actor shouted, making sure everyone could hear him. ¡°No one in the Army gave me half so good a tussle as that, stars as my witness!¡± He looked around with what he hoped was fire in his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing I had my stick when I did, last time. He¡¯d have got me no questions asked if it was man to man from the beginning.¡±


    Yurhi pushed away from Sarros, snorting a wad of coagulated blood onto the ground. ¡°¡­Yeah, you were pretty quick though,¡± he said. ¡°I doubt anyone else¡¯s so good with that staff, to get me on the first try.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± the Actor said bashfully, ¡°I¡¯m all right. You almost had me there, though. If I hadn¡¯t gotten lucky with that uppercut¡­ Well, three time¡¯s the charm, as they say. You already had me twice.¡±


    The bandit clapped Sarros on the shoulder, almost harder than he¡¯d hit with any of his left hooks. ¡°I guess he¡¯s in, boys. Let no one say the demon won¡¯t fight man to man!¡±


    Sarros finally relaxed as one of the men cheered, and while the others didn¡¯t seem completely placated, they eventually began to talk among themselves again. The looks of hostility, while not eradicated, were at least greatly reduced. Yurhi even told Sarros he was welcome to share the fire of himself and his fellows any time he wanted, and returned the Actor¡¯s walking stick. Sarros grinned and accepted both gratefully, happy to have finally made a semblance of a friend among the rougher of the bandits. He never, of course, let the fact slip from his mind that Yurhi had lain in ambush with a half dozen others to capture, ransom, and maybe torture and murder travelers who happened on his path.


    These thoughts and darker ones lurked in Sarros¡¯ mind as he glanced toward the edge of the campfire and saw the nonplussed gaze of Captain Mochon staring back at him. Wart-nosed Turis stood beside him, an oily grin plastered across his face.

 SA 1.6 - Mirroring Ill-Will

    Mochon watched the fight play out between Yurhi and the Actor Sarros. It was Mochon¡¯s well-placed and subtle comments which had pushed the men to this point. He had spread the story in casual conversation how the prisoner had disabled Yurhi with a single strike, and how Mochon had easily spared his life and allowed him fellowship in their ranks.


    He did not actively feed the fires of discontent which busied themselves decrying their captain as soft, but he would deal with that soon enough. For now, Mochon wanted to see what Sarros would do with his back against the wall.


    Mochon¡¯s division of the Army employed a handful of Actors during his career. A couple joined voluntarily, while others were conscripted upon their discovery by the Empire. Regardless of their method of entry, each and every Actor was broken down and tortured until they lost their sense of self, separating from their Masks while at the same time being nothing without them. The Actors were chained in the dark until their service was needed, at which point their Masks were returned and the monsters were pointed in the enemy¡¯s general direction.


    There was never so much slaughter as when an Actor graced the battlefield.


    From the young man¡¯s composure, Mochon doubted Sarros was actually one of those Imperially-controlled Actors, but he needed to be sure. Without his mask, an Imperial Actor might forge a semblance of a persona to deal with day to day life but crack under extreme strain and be reduced to a sobbing, quivering shell of a man.


    This didn¡¯t seem to be the case with Sarros. His feints and subterfuge during the short brawl were not lost to Mochon¡¯s keen eye, techniques mixing standard Imperial hand-to-hand wrestling and some other, more fluid style involving momentum manipulation and the usage of tumbling to avoid serious wounds. Mochon wondered if the latter style was some Ulritten martial art. In any event, Sarros couldn¡¯t have been an Actor long, if his Mask was not yet bound to him and the mercenary still possessed enough of a sense of self to discredit the possibility of having been one of the Empire¡¯s ¡°special tools.¡± That suited Mochon just fine. The bandit leader¡¯s task might be simpler than he¡¯d hoped.


    Mochon allowed a few minutes to pass before he injected himself into the scene, giving everyone involved time to cool their excitement. ¡°Good fight,¡± he said as he approached the cook fire around which Sarros, Yurhi, and a few others sat. Sniveling Turis lagged behind his officer, leering at the Ulritten boy as he approached.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Sarros. ¡°It was a lucky thing¡ª¡±Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Of course,¡± interjected Mochon sharply. He hated subtle little games when he was the one in charge. They only served to let the weak or stupid believe they were more powerful or influential than they had the strength to be. ¡°You¡¯ve proved yourself a capable fighter. You will join in tomorrow¡¯s¡­ hunt.¡± The bandit leader felt as though he should smile coldly as he said this, but that would be unnecessarily theatrical. Instead he glanced down at the Actor¡¯s sheathed blade, changing the conversation before Sarros had a chance to respond. ¡°I see you found a weapon which suits you.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir.¡± Sarros drew the demon blade and deftly spun it by the handle, pressing its flat against the soft underside of his arm and proffering the weapon¡¯s hilt to Mochon. It was an Imperial dress salute, and the sardonic grin on the Ulritten mercenary¡¯s face betrayed how much he knew it would annoy a deserter like Mochon.


    A fool and a bastard, Mochon seethed as he took the glade with a gracious smile. As if he isn¡¯t a deserter too. The bandit leader stepped back into a solid stance, swinging the demon blade one-handed in graceful chopping strokes. The air seemed to part in deference to the blade¡¯s preternatural edge, and Mochon marveled that a sheath of mere leather could contain the weapon¡¯s deadly sharpness. He remembered the night his men had thrown the demon to the ground with grapple hooks and wide-headed hammers, how the blade had shattered even as the creature¡¯s face had been crushed under Mochon¡¯s own maul. The bandit leader was not a superstitious man, but he knew the importance of spirituality to a community as small and insular as his crew.


    A few whispers started a rumor that the blade was cursed by the demon who had wielded it, and that anyone who touched it would suffer a terrible fate. Had any of the crew been steel-willed enough to claim the sword in self-assured bravery, Mochon would have let them wield it unchallenged. Instead, the first man to lay claim to the blade did so as the fulfillment of a drunken bet, and that man mysteriously died the following night. He fell on the blade and impaled himself through the spine, and the curse of the demon sword was codified. That it was wart-nosed Turis who set the events into motion never happened to come to light.


    Sarros wielding the demon blade with his quiet calm impressed Mochon. He wondered if it would make the job to come harder or easier, but nonetheless it was impressive. Mochon returned the weapon to its owner, nodded in dismissal, and turned to leave.


    ¡°Was the day of worth?¡± called one of the men in a barbarian accent.


    Mochon turned and flashed the hearty smile of a bandit king. ¡°Certainly was, boys! Celebrate, for we send for supplies in the morning!¡± The men cheered as their leader disappeared into the dark of the night, toward the roundhouse which was his lair. That Sarros¡¯ mouth and eyes had tightened at Mochon¡¯s announcement did not go unnoticed. We¡¯ll see tomorrow, he thought. If you know what¡¯s good for you, boy, you¡¯ll lose that self-righteous attitude soon enough. You¡¯re no better a man than me.


    He had never been assigned a tent after all, so Sarros shared one with Yurhi and four other bandits. For the last time that night. Sarros was reminded of the life he had in the Army. He closed his eyes and fell to sleep surrounded by the contented snores of murderers and thieves.

 SA 1.7 - Raising the Dead

    ¡°Get up.¡±


    Sarros groaned and blinked in the torchlight. "Hey, captain. What do you need?"


    Mochon ignored him. "We''ll start early this morning. Come." He turned and walked toward the prisoner tent.


    Sarros staggered to his feet, dragging his belt and sword behind him, fastening it to his waist as he walked. He¡¯d had to sleep in his traveling clothes again. The mercenary had hoped to obtain new clothes and get his current set washed at the settlement at the edge of the Empire, but of course that hadn''t happened. He''d need to look into getting supplies when they sent men into the settlement, he decided.


    "Why are we going this way?" he asked with a yawn. "Any chance we can get breakfast and tea before we go?"


    Mochon seemed angry, and Sarros had no idea why. Maybe the captain had slept on the wrong side of the rock-hard ground. He only grunted in response to the Actor¡¯s question.


    Sarros noted there was a guard in front of the prisoner tent as they approached. "You get another prisoner last night?" He tried to keep his words casual, but the Actor had a feeling he knew what was coming next.


    "Go on."


    "Yessir." Sarros stepped in, and Mochon followed. As the captain entered, his torchlight illuminated the face and form of a well-bruised young man who sat with his back to the supporting mast. His mouth was gagged, and his hair was matted with blood. Sarros did not react, but waited patiently for Mochon to speak. He knew the leader would be waiting and watching, and wanted to keep the situation as cool as he could.


    The leader nodded as he saw Sarros declined to speak. "We took this man on the same road as you," he said. "Except he was heading the other way." Mochon walked up and dug the toe of his boot into the young man''s thigh. The prisoner grunted, but gave no other response.


    "And?" Sarros asked. "What does this have to do with me? I don''t know if him, if that''s what you''re implying."


    "Of course not," Mochon said. "We¡¯ve heard about him in local rumors. He''s not from the settlement proper, as it happens. A wandering farmhand for the last few years. Earned an... honest living working in the fields. Except he was never up to any good, was he?"


    "Was he?" Sarros asked.


    "No." Mochon knelt down, drew a knife from his boot, and with one hand cut away part of the prisoner''s shirt. Underneath was a long-healed scar or brand in a pattern that suggested a sword, horns, and the letter "R".


    "He''s a rapist," Sarros said.


    "And a murderer, but they never got him for that," Mochon said. A serial murderer, what¡¯s more, by his own confession.¡±


    "And why do you tell me this?"


    "You''re the new man, so I thought it''d be proper for you to see we have an important role in the land," said Mochon. "We keep the peace in lieu of the Empire in these parts. No Imperials around to hunt down murderers and rapists, so we capture them and put them to death when we can." He smiled with all his teeth. "And they hurt no one again. The villages appreciate us, and we don¡¯t harm the locals, so we stay here with no complaints to the Empire."


    "I see." Sarros nodded slowly. "Good job, then. Well done." He hoped that was it. It never was, of course.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "You''re one of us, so I thought I''d give you the duty of carrying out justice." Mochon leaned in conspiratorially. "We Imperials are good at that. It''s almost our duty to see these things through, eh?"


    Sarros turned away. "Your breath smells like rum... Captain. And anyway, as you said yesterday, neither of us are Imperial any longer." He tensed.


    "Aye," Mochon replied quietly, "But you remember I also told you I''m in charge." He gestured to Sarros'' hip. "Why don¡¯t you put that gift I so generously provided to work. Show me you''re a man of justice."


    Sarros slowly drew his demon blade, and looked down at the prisoner. The young man didn¡¯t seem to be conscious of anything currently happening. He appeared unaware that two terrible men discussed his fate not five feet away. Sarros looked at the gleaming blade in his hand, and sighed. "The justice is mine to dispense, Captain? That¡¯s your order?"


    Mochon nodded. "If you don''t have the stones to execute him, if you''re too merciful to kill a man in cold blood, you may also pardon him. He will, no doubt, rape and kill again, and that will be on your head."


    "I see." Sarros knelt down so he was at eye level with the prisoner. He raised his heavy blade so its edge caressed the man''s neck. Mochon could be lying about the prisoner''s crimes. It might be an even larger trap than it seemed.


    The young man raised his head and looked into Sarros'' face, and as the drugs in his system began to clear, gleaming hints of his soul shone forth. Sarros narrowed his eyes as he saw terrible things in the prisoner''s gaze, and his knuckles paled as the Actor squeezed his blade''s grip as tightly as if he held the rapist''s neck in his hand.


    "I..." Sarros swallowed the spit he was almost about to hurl in the prisoner''s face. "I give you invitation. Join this band, under my protection and your parole. Earn your keep as honestly as I can expect anyone in this world."


    "Please¡­ don¡¯t kill me," the prisoner moaned. Slobber dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. "He said... you¡¯d kill me."


    Sarros slapped him across the face. ''"Answer me! Do you understand? I give you an opportunity!"


    "Whatever you say... please don''t kill me." The prisoner''s head dropped again.


    Sarros growled, reached behind the man, and cut his bindings away. The prisoner fell face first into the ground, and the Actor did not stop him. Instead he turned to Mochon, blade still in hand. "I have dispensed justice, Captain. He is my man now."


    The leader remained still, staring at the tableau before him. "I do not appreciate mockery," he hissed, and turned to leave. "See me in two hours with your... man. We will set out for the day''s work."


    Sarros felt he had handled it as best as his conscience would allow, but that wasn¡¯t saying much. He looked down at the rapist and murderer he had acquitted, the criminal who would have been deserving of a quick and clean death at the very least.


    Don¡¯t be angry I won¡¯t fall cleanly under your heel, Sarros thought. I only follow your example. Perhaps next time you should be the one to think twice before giving mercy to a monster like me. Next to that, this man is an innocent.

 SA 1.8 - Egregy

    His name was Brinner. He walked nervously beside Sarros, rubbing his chafed hands, shoulders hunched. ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± he kept saying. Groveling.


    Sarros hated groveling. ¡°Quiet.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Brinner bobbed his head, looking uneasily about as they walked through the still-quiet camp. Gray mist filled the air, the sun a white blob behind the thick cloud bank that filled the sky. Some cook fires had been started, but few men were yet awake.


    Sarros and his new ward stopped before the arms roundhouse. The old man who was the arms keeper sat on a small stool, poking a fire. Some salted fish rested on a dish beside him. The old man smiled as Sarros approached. ¡°Morning, Actor. Would you care to join the boy and I for breakfast? A job like mine pays a little better than most, so you¡¯ll not be finding fish this fresh anywhere else in camp.¡± He picked up one of the fillets and sniffed it, grimacing. ¡°Must be less than two months old!¡±


    ¡°Actually, I¡¯ve come to outfit my man,¡± said Sarros. He did not smile. ¡°Axe and leather will be sufficient.¡±


    ¡°As you say,¡± said the old man. He stood up and hobbled toward the still-frightened Brinner, poking the boy¡ªhe was really not much more than that¡ªin the chest and shoulders. ¡°Have just the things. Hold a moment.¡± The arms keeper entered the roundhouse and soon returned with a hand axe and sleeveless leather jerkin. ¡°Tell me how these work for you. We can make adjustments later if necessary.¡±


    ¡°Th-thank you,¡± stammered Brinner, and glanced to Sarros who nodded for the boy to put on the shirt. It was a good enough fit, and Brinner grinned slightly as he gave the hand axe a few practice swings. ¡°Good,¡± he said. ¡°Very good. Never could afford anything this nice before.¡±


    The arms keeper grunted in satisfaction and turned back to his fire. ¡°I heard about last night, Actor.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± asked Sarros.


    ¡°Making friends, are we?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. Though not where it counts the most. Mochon seems to hold some grudge against me. I wonder that he didn¡¯t simply kill me when he had the chance.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a man pulled in two directions,¡± said the arms keeper. ¡°On the one, the old ways of Imperial command. The respect of his men are as lifeblood. Mochon does not feel a man when that¡¯s all his men see him as.¡±


    Sarros nodded. ¡°The twin ideals of faith and submission to the strong are hard to break. I know this.¡±


    ¡°On the other hand, Captain is one of the most cunning men in this world.¡± The old man peeled skin back from the flesh of one of the fish, revealing the dried out muscles underneath. ¡°He knows his pride and reputation must needs suffer at times to achieve his goals. Do you know of Captain¡¯s ambition?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°He wishes to be a king, one day.¡±


    Sarros laughed, but the old man did not smile.


    ¡°There are days,¡± the arms keeper said, ¡°when I believe he could achieve it. There is steel in his blood. When he inherited the band, it was a third its current size, diminished from what it once was. Mochon made us mercenaries again, and backed small nobles in their petty disputes. He was rewarded richly for this, but knew better than to bathe in the same river twice, and so fled east. We are bandits, for now, but Captain believes we could offer our services in alliance to one of the Great Armies¡ªif we had something to offer them.¡±


    Sarros nodded. ¡°He seeks information rather than mercenary wealth on this road.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But now he believes he may have stumbled upon something even more valuable than a spyful of secrets.¡±


    ¡°Aye, an Actor.¡± Sarros looked over at Brinner, who was poorly pretending to not listen while inspecting his weapon. The boy was far too petty to be a part of any of this. Kings and armies, Actors and Masks¡­ These were not the concerns of petty, foul murderers and rapists. Except I have drawn him into it, thought Sarros. What doom lies upon him with my mercy tinging his soul? ¡°Come,¡± he said, and waved his thanks to the arms keeper. ¡°Captain Mochon will want to see us.¡±


    ***


    Mochon stood on top of a bluff overlooking the encampment. He wore boiled leather with a dark tunic overlaying, something quite a bit more formal than the rough garb he had worn when they had captured Sarros. He turned as Gurrum approached, the other man who would be accompanying the mission, leading Sarros and the rapist behind him.


    ¡°You¡¯ve outfitted your man,¡± Mochon noted. ¡°Good.¡± The four men set off toward the wilderness road, the morning sun finally cutting through the fog and painting their leather-clad shoulders cherry red.


    The rapist¡¯s mood seemed much improved. The lad had cried and begged for mercy incessantly upon his capture, practically asking for the beating he had received. Bruises still covered his arms and face, but the lad had cleaned up well. It angered Mochon that he had decided it necessary to spare the pigshit, but anything that would help break the Actor down was worth the cost.


    A small hill overlooked the forest path below. Mochon remained standing while Gurrum, Sarros, and his ward sat on a smooth patch of stone. The Actor stirred after a bit. ¡°Forgive me for asking, Captain Mochon, but what exactly are we waiting for?¡±


    Mochon did not remove his gaze from the road. ¡°Our scout gave word that our target will arrive some time this afternoon. At the moment we look for an Imperial accompaniment which may or may not travel ahead of them. If it does, we remain hidden as it passes, and then strike our target when it appears alone.¡±


    ¡°And if the Imperials are with the¡­ target?¡± Sarros asked.


    Mochon slowly turned. ¡°Then we have wasted our time. Unless¡­¡± He reached underneath his leather shirt and retrieved the cloth bundle tied tightly to his undershirt. Mochon pulled back a portion of the cloth, revealing dark wood underneath. ¡°If you promise to kill every soldier on my order, I will return your mask.¡± He tensed, knowing his long knife was loose in its sheath, waiting to see if a snarling tackle would come.


    Sarros gave him a peculiar look, and laughed. ¡°What is this you play at, Captain? I told you, I need the money. I¡¯m not here to slaughter Imperials. Ask me to simply serve you, and I¡¯ll take my property back gladly. Ask me to kill indiscriminately to serve your ego? No. Mercenary or not, I drew a line in the sand long ago.¡±


    The leader¡¯s glare deepened. ¡°What difference is it why I want them dead?¡± he spat. ¡°You obey me, and you will kill if I command it.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± Sarros asked quietly. The air seemed as thick as butter. ¡°Is that the order you give me?¡± He made a motion Mochon recognized, an Imperial scout¡¯s technique that involved shifting stance in such a way as to loosen a blade in a leather sheath without using the hands. To prepare to kill without giving away your intention.


    Mochon gritted his teeth. This was going poorly. ¡°At the moment, we have no enemy in sight.¡±


    ¡°There, sir!¡± hissed Gurrum.


    Mochon immediately crouched down. They were well-hidden behind the trees in their dull clothing, he knew, but the Imperials in their bright uniforms were easy to see and to hear as they stomped along the wilderness trail, clearing the way for the travelers coming an hour behind. If the information was true. The wilderness path was not one often traveled, and so it was not commonly believed to be infested with bandits. The Imperial escort was mostly along to clear the trail ahead and ward off wild beasts who wouldn¡¯t care if the first prey they saw were soldiers or travelers.


    It would be their undoing. Mochon longed with every fiber of his being to call Sarros upon his hated enemies like a terrier into a nest of rats, to watch in glee as the Actor donned his mask and slaughtered every single damned Imperial marching along that path. Some day, he thought. Not this damned day. He put the cloth-wrapped bundle back around his waist, nodding to Sarros. ¡°Stand down.¡±


    The Actor rolled his eyes, and patted the hilt of his demon blade snugly into its sheath again. ¡°Yessir.¡±


    Within a few minutes the Imperials had passed and tension had somewhat faded. Neither Gurrum nor the rapist seemed to know what to do with the situation, but all remained silent as the day progressed.


    ***


    Sarros wished he¡¯d brought more than a single skin of water. Brinner hadn¡¯t brought any, and so though it galled Sarros he shared what he had with his ward. He didn¡¯t know why Mochon had called Brinner onto the ambush, or really why Sarros himself was there. If the leader needed force, did he want to trust two people he¡¯d never led in a fight? Sarros glanced at Brinner. In the boy¡¯s case, he¡¯d likely never fought against anything capable of fighting back.


    The Actor clenched his teeth as he remembered Mochon¡¯s ¡°offer¡± earlier in the morning. Mercenary work and assassination were not the same thing. Sarros had few qualms about supporting one man or another in a fair fight, but what Mochon asked him to do was a different thing altogether. If he put on his Mask and descended upon the Imperials, not a man would walk away alive. It would be like slaughtering a nursery. And those soldiers didn¡¯t deserve it. They signed up to defend their Empire, not to fall before a bandit¡¯s twisted cruelty.


    What might he have done if ordered to kill them? His fingers had itched to grab the Mask as soon as Mochon had dangled it like a carrot before a mule. An inner voice had whispered to him to draw his sword and fill his new Captain with holes, but Sarros had wrestled that urge down. He had given Mochon his word, and would not go back on it.


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    Yet.


    ***


    Mochon gripped the haft of his long axe as the sounds of horses and wagon wheels came faintly to his ears. ¡°They¡¯re coming,¡± he growled. ¡°Gurrum, with me on this side. Sarros, take your man around to flank the far corners. Slay anyone who opposes.¡±


    ¡°Yessir,¡± were both replies. Mochon grunted as the Actor and rapist moved quickly toward the path, positioned by themselves to strike when the targets came into view. At least the Actor seemed to be obeying.


    The bandit leader counted the minutes and seconds as the caravan approached. The scouts¡¯ information had been correct. Two wagons drawn by horses. Three families. Only four men old enough to fight between them all. None of them soldiers. None of them mercenaries. Perhaps not even four swords between them.


    ¡°Now!¡± Mochon shouted, and held his long axe high in the air like a flag. Behind him Gurrum grunted in affirmation and started scrambling down the hill. Mochon followed, looking beyond to make sure the Actor and the lad were in fact doing their part. The bandit leader grinned. Perfect.


    ***


    Sarros¡¯ heart pounded. This wasn¡¯t just a matter of holding up merchants or pressganging lone mercenaries. He saw the scared eyes of women and children through the caravan wagon¡¯s flaps. ¡°Only attack the men!¡± he hissed at Brinner.


    The boy nodded fervently and adjusted his grip on the small axe held in his left hand, running alongside Sarros as they approached the wagon. He seemed to be breathing awfully hard, and his eyes were wide. He didn¡¯t seem nervous though. Excited, maybe. That wasn¡¯t good.


    They were close now. Sarros¡¯ demon blade flashed out of his sheath, but the Actor didn¡¯t immediately go on the offensive. Two men jumped out of the wagon and stood between their attackers and their families. They were not soldiers, Sarros saw. Their hands were rough with farmers¡¯ callouses, and indeed one held a shovel rather than a proper weapon. The sword held by the other was rusty and pitted. It was clearly a stranger to its owner.


    Sarros waved his blade in an exaggerated salute before the men, trying to put on as impressive a show as possible. If it weren¡¯t for the possibility some of the earlier Imperials might have retreated as a rear guard, he would have bellowed as well. Instead he spoke in a firm voice as he pointed the mirrored blade between them. ¡°We do not seek your lives, men, only your wealth. Lay down your weapons and we will allow you to continue unharmed.¡±


    ¡°Our wealth is our life!¡± the shovel-wielding man cried. ¡°Take it and you might as well kill us where we stand!¡±


    ¡°There is much labor needed in the border camps,¡± said Sarros. He was not sure if that was the whole truth, but it seemed likely if nothing else. ¡°Your families will live, if you choose peace.¡±


    Brinner had thankfully stopped slightly beside Sarros, but his breath was ragged and he kept looking back and forth between the wagons. Unease stirred in Sarros¡¯ breast, and he knew he needed to keep himself in control of the situation. ¡°Do not mind this one. He will not harm your people so long as¡ª¡±


    Sarros cursed the words as they left his lips. He had just implicitly threatened these men¡¯s families, even if he hadn¡¯t finished the thought, and that was a strain they could not take.


    The sword-wielding farmer leaped toward Sarros, his clumsy strike immediately parried and his sword tossed from his amateur¡¯s grip. A squeal passed his lips as a rough bur of metal tore his palm open, leaving him bloodied and disarmed. His companion swung his shovel like an axe, but Sarros cut his sword across and severed the iron head from its haft with one savage chop. The shovel head spun and almost struck Brinner, but the boy hopped back at the last moment.


    In moments the two farmers were nearly defenseless. One still held his shovel haft, but it was far to short for an inexperienced fighter to use as anything more than a club. He did his best, holding one end with both hands and swinging it around him, but Brinner darted in and buried his axe in the man¡¯s forehead.


    There were screams from the other side of the caravans as Sarros saw Mochon and Gurrum approach. Though the horses stood between them (beginning to spook at the noise and the blood) Sarros saw Mochon slam a heavy fist into the head of a third man hopping down from the wagon, and breathed a sigh of relief that the Captain hadn¡¯t simply murdered the man. For his part, Sarros threw his blade at the remaining farmer¡¯s feet, feinting a fumble, and as the man dropped instinctively to take the weapon from his attacker, Sarros put every ounce of his strength into a kick to the farmer¡¯s diaphragm. All the man¡¯ air rushed out and he fell to the ground incapacitated. Sarros picked up his blade as he bounded over the wagon¡¯s crosspiece and looked around for other opponents.


    ¡°That¡¯s the last of them,¡± Mochon said. ¡°Stand down.¡±


    Sarros didn¡¯t sheath his blade, but relaxed slightly. ¡°What is it they carry, Captain?¡±


    ¡°Food and ore.¡±


    Sarros nodded. ¡°How are we going to carry it back?¡±


    Mochon snorted. ¡°I know what you¡¯re implying. I have no plans to slaughter these people. We will take them to our camp, and then release them. They can travel to the border camps from there with their own wagons.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡± Something in the back of Sarros¡¯ mind called to him, but he pushed it away. ¡°The Imperials will come back for them and take our camp, if they were protecting these people. What aren¡¯t you telling me?¡±


    ¡°Well, if they live.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Sarros heard a scream, and his blood went cold. He had left Brinner behind. He spun and slashed at the canvas covering the wagon, vaulting over to land among the chaos inside. There was something different about Brinner. One of his eyes had ruptured a blood vessel, staining the sclera red. A vein pulsed from his eye across his forehead, and coarse black hairs sprouted along it. His neck seemed to be swelling and sweating and pulsing¡­ And he had sunk his teeth into a woman¡¯s neck. Her blood sprayed the children around her and misted Sarros¡¯ outstretched blade.


    Sarros roared as he threw himself at the abomination, impaling the already-dead woman and monstrous Brinner with his demon blade. They toppled through the opening Brinner had ripped in the side of the wagon, Sarros on top of the two. He drew himself up as they hit the ground, ripping free his blade. The thing that was Brinner screeched wetly through a mouth filled with canines and swiped at Sarros with a six-clawed hand, but Sarros lopped it off at the wrist.


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± Sarros hissed, and stabbed Brinner in the throat. He twisted the blade, ripped it free, and stabbed again. He did not stop until Brinner¡¯s head was fully severed from his torso and Sarros¡¯ own front was black and wet with monstrous blood. The Actor stood, breathing heavily, turning back to glare with a demon¡¯s fury at the cool visage of Captain Mochon.


    ¡°Well done,¡± Mochon said evenly. ¡°I had no idea our rapist was that¡­ thing. None of the villages he graced certainly knew.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± Sarros growled. The blade in his hand rattled as his white-knuckled grip¡¯s tenseness shook it. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re out of control,¡± Mochon continued. ¡°Please calm yourself. I repeat, I had no knowledge of this. Why would I take a werwulf with me?¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°Only a fool would do something so suicidal. I am fortunate you were there to put the beast down. If only you¡¯d done that earlier, we could have avoided this whole mess¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shut up!¡± Sarros¡¯ blade fell to the ground as he put both hands to his head. He could feel a migraine beginning to pound his brains to mush. It was like something bigger than himself had curled up in his skull and was beating its way out. ¡°Shut up, shut up, shut up!¡± He shuddered, and the worst of it was over. Sarros wiped his nose, and fresh blood came away. He shivered. ¡°Captain¡­ Captain, Captain?¡±


    ***


    Mochon¡¯s heart thundered in his chest. He hid it as best he could, but real fear began to claw at his belly. Even without his Mask, what was this Actor capable of? While in his right mind, Mochon was confident Sarros would not turn on him, but if the Mask had pushed the Actor¡¯s mind close to cracking¡­ Yes, he sought to break the Actor, but he had hoped the werwulf would have been the victim of Sarros¡¯ inevitable snap. The villagers had whispered that the killer was more than human, that he had shrugged off wounds that would have killed a normal man three times over. Sarros had moved too quickly, and had ended the rapist before he had the chance to fully transform. It had, Mochon was sure, strained his mind dangerously close to breaking. If Sarros snapped and thought Mochon the source of all his problems, the bandit leader wasn¡¯t confident he could make it out in one piece.


    But Sarros stretched taut, fingers twitching, head twisting to one side and the other, eyes rolled back in head. He gasped like a man bursting onto an ocean¡¯s surface after being trapped under glacial ice, and fell to the ground. Mochon adjusted his grip on the long axe in his hands, preparing for the worst. Sarros lifted his head, and there was sanity in his eyes.


    ¡°Of course,¡± said the Actor in a hoarse voice. ¡°Of course you¡¯re right. Let¡¯s go.¡± He returned his blade to its sheath still sticky with blood and walked absently back in the direction of the encampment.


    ¡°Fuckin¡¯ bastard,¡± Gurrum muttered, trying to keep one of the horses still. He seemed unfazed by the screaming, sobbing children and dead werwulf. His absolute world-weariness was exactly why Mochon had chosen him for the task. ¡°Leavin¡¯ us all to clean up his own mess.¡±


    Mochon breathed out a tense breath as he inspected the caravan¡¯s goods. The plan had worked out after all. Mochon¡¯s tended to, in the end.

 SA 1.9 - Cast Me Tower, Page, and Fool

    His hands shook and his head spun and his blood was cold in his veins. Something like a headache pounded nails into his skull, but anything like physical pain was absent from his body. He felt torn in two. The strain of holding everything back had almost broken him. It might have, at that. A finger twitched, its movement unwanted. It moved toward his belt. He clutched at the offending hand with his other, digging his nails into the skin of his wrist, seeing the blood well up in the raw grooves, feeling no pain.


    The moment passed, as the others had. This sensation came upon Sarros about every fifteen minutes since the incident with Brinner. His body experienced an odd alternation: Numb defeat, and a dullness of the soul that nonetheless coursed psychological agony through his being. In the former moments, Sarros did not trust himself. He could not give in when the muscles and tendons of the flesh he wore like a cloak moved of their own volition. In the latter moments¡­ Well.


    Sarros unbuckled the blade at his side and tried to tug it free. The sun had cemented steel to blood to leather, and it would not come undone. He took the knife from his boot and simply cut away the sheath, revealing the black-crusted metal beneath. No one interfered as Sarros almost limped his way to the stream a half mile away, knelt, and slowly washed the demon blade clean. When he had finished, Sarros could see his own face in the metal, distorted by the droplets of water which still remained on the steel. His was a harrowed visage. ¡°This should be a victory,¡± he whispered to his twin. ¡°Why does it hurt so much? Do I take on all the pain I would have prevented when I do this thing?¡± If that were the case, would it not be worth it? Could he allow some affected martyrdom to drive him forward? Could he think of himself as a kind of hero, simply because he hadn¡¯t slaughtered the innocent as he had been ordered?


    The reflection began to waver, and Sarros forced his hand open as the shaking overtook him again, his sword splashing into the stream and lying there like a sleeping carp. Sarros fell back, clutching his hand to his chest, looking up at the sky through the tree branches, grinding his teeth and resisting the urge to scream.


    When it was over, Sarros spat blood onto the grass beside the stream. He had bitten his tongue. It hadn¡¯t hurt. He reached carefully into the stream and retrieved his weapon, swinging it to shake free the water which still clung to it. ¡°You¡¯re still more broken than me,¡± Sarros said to the blade. ¡°I am still who I am.¡± For the moment. Sarros wondered if it would be worth it to simply leave behind the Mask Mochon had stolen from him. Let the past catch up to the bandit who would be king. Allow Sarros to be done with it, allow him to live in the blue temple as a terrible but content monk.


    That could never happen. Sarros clenched his fist again, this time welcoming the pain of his own inflicted wounds. ¡°Fucking Masks. Fucking demons.¡± He began the slow walk back to camp. ¡°And fuck me, while I¡¯m at it.¡±


    ***


    Everyone was packing up when Sarros returned to camp. Tents were being taken down, fires being stomped out, people running this way and that. The wagons with their supplies had been appropriated, and the still-shocked passengers stood in the middle of the camp, huddled together and looking about themselves in fear.


    ¡°What is going on?¡± Sarros asked one of the bandits closest to him.


    ¡°Captain¡¯s havin¡¯ us move out!¡± he said. ¡°Imperials¡¯ll be back soon, he said, and we need to be long gone.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Mochon had to have known what would happen when he took the caravan under Imperial protection. Why hadn¡¯t he ordered the camp to begin packing up even as he took Sarros and the others on the raid? He thought he could make me slaughter them all. That was the answer, of course. Had Sarros taken the Mask back and murdered the Imperials where they stood, the encampment would be in no immediate danger. Now, however, the whole of Mochon¡¯s Crew stood to be roughly executed for the crimes of banditry and murder. Mochon had wagered the lives of all his men against the possibility of gaining Sarros as a human weapon. Ruthless, yes, and it might have worked under different circumstances. Sarros wondered how effective of a captain Mochon had been in the Army.


    The trembling numbness came again, and Sarros gasped as the demon blade fell from his hands. Nearby bandits gave the Actor odd looks, but no one stopped to help him. Eventually it passed, and Sarros reclaimed his blade, breathing heavily and sweating. The fits were getting worse. Might they eventually overcome him? How long would it take? Was this whole mission all for naught, in the end?


    Well, he thought, no sense dwelling on what I cannot change. Sarros had fallen to his knees, but he picked himself back up and wiped a grass-stain off his blade. He began a painful walk to the weapons overseer¡¯s roundhouse, needing a new sheath to replace the one mangled by blood and knife.


    ***


    Tommo looked up in surprise to see the Actor approaching again. Sarros seemed far older than he had just the previous day. His face was gouged with lines and rough with stubble, his hair hung in thin, greasy strands about his face, and his back seemed hunched to accompany the half limp he had developed. ¡°Two and twenty,¡± Tommo said. ¡°Sir, what happened?¡±


    ¡°I need a new sheath,¡± Sarros said in a voice like gravel. ¡°Was a bastard and sheathed my blade without cleaning it.¡±


    ¡°Yessir. Where¡¯s your man? Did he fare well in his first mission? He didn¡¯t seem like much of a fighter, I¡¯ll be honest.¡±


    ¡°Gone.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Tommo paused. ¡°Let me fetch you a new sheath. Dad still has the leather patterns. I can¡¯t rivet them quickly, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Gut-thread¡¯s good enough, just do it quickly.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Tommo rose and entered the roundhouse. There was murmuring inside, and the old man who was Tommo¡¯s adopted father took the boy¡¯s place outside.


    ¡°Actor, what is wrong? What did Captain do?¡±


    Sarros leaned against the roundhouse, watching men scurry in the distance. ¡°He laid a twofold trap for me. Offered the Mask he stole in exchange for being his bloodhound. Wanted me to kill an entire Imperial troop to prove my loyalty.¡±


    ¡°And you wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°No. I know not why Mochon deserted the Army, but I had no ill-will when I did so. I am proud of the Empire, and were it possible I would return even as a lowly recruit after all this is over.¡± He looked away. ¡°Though I deserve the death that awaits deserters, in the end. I would not sully my spirit further by slaughtering men who serve in the same way my heart longs to.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± said the old man. ¡°Yes, Captain must hate you thoroughly. I do not know either his reasons for desertion, but that oily Turis who sneaks in the shadows served under him, and talks occasionally of a great injustice done to his Captain while in the army.¡± He turned as Tommo walked out of the roundhouse with a new leather sheath in his hands. ¡°Feh, not your best work, boy. These stitches are uneven, and cast me Tower and Page if there¡¯s more than a gram of wax on here.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Father, but he wanted it as quick as he could.¡±


    The weapons overseer turned sharply. ¡°Yes. I assume this plays into the second fold of the trap, Actor? One doesn¡¯t ruin a good sheath by not killing.¡±


    Sarros took the sheath gratefully and buried his blade in the safety of the dull leather. ¡°Thank you, Tommo. It will suffice.¡± He turned back to the weapons overseer. ¡°That¡­ thing I brought earlier was a werwulf.¡±


    The old man paled, carving knife almost slipping from his fingers. ¡°Fuck,¡± he whispered. ¡°I won¡¯t insult Captain¡¯s intelligence by wondering if he knew. He¡¯s mad.¡±


    ¡°A desperate gambit,¡± said Sarros. ¡°Had it¡­ paid off it might even have been worth the cost.¡± He fingered the Devil effigy hanging around his neck. It had been splattered with the werwulf¡¯s blood, but Sarros hadn¡¯t thought to clean it off. ¡°The things I might have done in his name¡­ No matter, it will never happen now. Innocent lives were sacrificed to the altar of my potential.¡±


    ¡°You fault a murderous brigand for his ways, having joined him?¡±


    ¡°Ah, but we both know better than that,¡± said Sarros. ¡°Even I could see in our first conversation he was a ruthless man, but not one who loved violence for its sake. You know this. The men know it. They call Mochon soft, but I might have served him for it. I knew not what he treasured above all else, though.¡± Sarros gritted his teeth. ¡°He sought to drive me to desperation, to throw myself upon him and accept his offer if it would end the killing. He still claims Brinner¡¯s status was unknown to him, that only a fool would stoop to such desperation.¡±


    The trembles came, and he dropped the sheathed blade, and for a few moments the old man and his son watched uncomfortably as Sarros spasmed against the impulses of his own body. It passed. Sarros looked up again, still clutching a bloodied wrist in the other hand. ¡°Aye, a fool,¡± he growled. ¡°A desperate fool. You should go now, both of you. Whatever lives you have led under this man, break away while you can.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps we will,¡± the old man said wearily. ¡°Here, now, with the settlements so close. Perhaps it was god-sent.¡±


    ¡°A god,¡± Sarros said, ¡°or something else, perhaps. Goodbye, grandfather. Goodbye, Tommo. May you both find peace, and never meet a damned Actor so long as you both shall live.¡± He turned and stalked away.


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    ***


    ¡°Mochon!¡± Sarros roared, sheathed blade in hand. Men milled in a loose knot around the nerve center of the camp that was Mochon¡¯s table. He commanded men this way and that, and Turis stood beside him.


    ¡°Captain!¡± Mochon spat. ¡°You call me Captain, boy.¡± He glared at the Actor, and stood to his feet. ¡°You will respect your place. I am not yet cooled against your earlier insolence. I would advise you to busy yourself assisting in the move, seeing as how you are the one who got us into this predicament.¡±


    Sarros glanced around the clearing. About forty men moved crates and loaded pack animals, but were now watching the confrontation unfold. Mochon stood at a table of oak erected in the clearing, sheafs of parchment held down by stones on its surface. Turis stood close beside his Captain. Mochon was about fifty feet away, and the closest knot of bandits about forty to the right. Sarros edged closer to this group, and specifically the youngest and lankiest bandit of the bunch. ¡°You call upon me to slaughter good, fighting men for your amusement, and when I refuse to dishonor them with a sorcerous death you blame me?¡±


    A dozen or so of the men in the clearing began to mutter. Good. Sarros¡¯ twisting of the even was sure to appeal to the warrior spirit of anyone with ties to the far South, and there seemed to be more of these in the crowd than Sarros had hoped for.


    Mochon seemed to recognize what was happening. ¡°I asked no such thing!¡± He shouted, silencing the murmurs. ¡°I called for him to attack the Imperial scum, the same as I¡¯d command any of you! The coward refused to turn on his brothers and we had no choice but to hang back.¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°Mayhap we could have taken them, were I not afraid of the prospect of a dagger in the side.¡±


    ¡°Horseshit,¡± said Sarros, and edged even closer to the young bandit who didn¡¯t seem sure if he should be holding his blade with one hand or two. ¡°If there were truly so few, we wouldn¡¯t be running like dogs. You wanted me to take the Mask and slaughter them like lambs before a wolf.¡± Sarros smiled. ¡°You did tell them about the werfwulf, did you not?¡±


    ¡°How was I supposed to know¡ª¡±


    ¡°Your Captain turned a werwulf upon honest men! He knew what he did! He would use such tools as demons and werwulfs if he thinks it will serve him! When he has enough, will he not use you all as food rather than soldiers? When he commands an army that is paid in blood rather than gold, why would he keep you all around?¡±


    Shouting and curses rang out in the crowd. Not at Mochon, of course. No one would believe a stranger¡¯s wild accusations over the reputation of their leader. They wouldn¡¯t necessarily disbelieve him, but the important thing was that tempers were stirred, and that Mochon¡¯s reputation was called into question.


    The bandit leader clenched his fist and slammed on the table before him. ¡°Silence! I will have silence.¡± The majority of the commotion died down, but the spark was still there. It would remain for a good while. ¡°Sarros, what is the meaning of all this? Help your fellows to pack, and we will forget all this happened. Later, you and I can discuss this like civilized¡ª¡±


    ¡°Imperials?¡± Sarros interjected, finishing his path of movement. He was very close to the young bandit now. ¡°Like we both were? Do your men know it? Do they question your hatred for them? A hatred I do not share, as it happens. I left the Army to hunt the demon who killed my sister.¡± His voice was cold now, and more quiet. The murmurs had died down, and his voice carried well across the clearing. ¡°Imperials are good men, most of them. I¡¯d fight alongside my brothers any day than deserting scum like you.¡±


    A shout of righteous anger from the young bandit. He swung his naked, half-rusted blade, but Sarros was ready. His still-sheathed demon blade moved to block, and then Sarros smashed the boy¡¯s jaw with the heavy pommel of his sword. The bandit fell to the ground as Sarros screamed a war-shout, swinging wide at the alarmed bandits, most of whom were carrying supplies rather than weapons, clearing around himself an area as large as the one around Mochon. Now they stood almost mirrored, almost equals in the eyes of a crowd. ¡°My Captain,¡± said Sarros, slowly drawing his demon blade, allowing the unnaturally glossy metal to gleam in the midday light. ¡°You are unfit to command these good men. I will throw you down here, and take your place, and lead them as they deserve.¡± He would have continued in this manner, but Mochon kicked over the table and rushed at Sarros with long axe in hand.


    ***


    Mochon¡¯s heart pounded as Sarros manipulated the crowd, drawing just enough doubt into their minds that most of the bandits didn¡¯t immediately jump the Actor as soon as he insulted their Captain, and then clearing space for the newcomer to dodge and block as needed. He could see the inevitably-approaching carnage, and felt powerless to stop it. He should get up, should kill that brat before he could do any more damage¡ª


    ¡°You are unfit to command these good men. I will throw you down here, and take your place, and lead them as they deserve.¡±


    When Turis gasped quietly at his side, Mochon knew he needed to act. He reached to grip the lip of the heavy table with both hands, straining against it and flipping it, sending adrenaline surging through his body at the effort and forcing a break in Sarros¡¯ pathetic speech. Mochon grabbed the long axe at his side and charged, not shouting, not screaming, not waving madly about with his weapon. He needed to end the fight quickly. He had seen Sarros execute the werwulf. He had seen Sarros beat down Yurhi. He had seen Sarros nearly escape that day on the road.


    This time, the Actor fought Mochon, and Mochon was stronger and more cunning yet than the other three combined. The bandit leader shifted his grip on the long axe, allowing momentum to carry the axe head further, letting the haft slip through his fingers, increasing his reach by entire feet in a moment. It closed the gap between Sarros and himself as he passed close, but Mochon¡¯s singular, brutal swing was met with a sword blade digging into the oak just below the iron head.


    ¡°Fool!¡± Mochon laughed, more for the benefit of the men watching than anything. ¡°Your blade won¡¯t cut this wood.¡± He sidestepped in the opposite direction of Sarros, and their weapons tugged free. Mochon had hoped the intense vibration caused by the impact would have loosened Sarros¡¯ grip¡ªit would have disarmed a lesser man¡ªbut the notch in his axe haft seemed the majority of the damage from the exchange.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t need to,¡± said Sarros. ¡°I am a warrior, not a coward like you.¡± He darted in, jagged blade-tip pointed at Mochon¡¯s heart. It was an obvious feint¡ªImperial sword techniques rarely employed thrusts from such a distance¡ªand Mochon stepped away and countered with a short underhanded swing. They disengaged.


    ¡°Yet you ran when we first met.¡± He swung at hip-height but adjusted to a neck-level stroke at almost the last moment. The momentum would have carried Sarros¡¯ block into his own flesh, so the Actor leaped away, and then stepped close for an overhand strike that Mochon blocked by holding his axe like a quarterstaff. It was a risky maneuver, but the haft held and Mochon kicked the wide-open Sarros savagely in the diaphragm.


    ***


    Sarros fell to the ground, cursing himself. To maintain the overhead strike when it had become clear Mochon would block it was risky. He had trusted in the uncanny edge of the demon steel that was rumored to even cut through stone at opportune moments, but it had backfired, and now the Actor was completely at Mochon¡¯s mercy. He tried to struggle to his feet and regulate his breathing, but wind hadn¡¯t even begun to return to his body when Mochon stalked up and kicked the demon blade out of Sarros¡¯ limp hand.


    ¡°Feel familiar?¡± Mochon growled, and stomped on Sarros¡¯ sword wrist.


    The Actor dry heaved from the combined pain, his vision blurring for a moment.


    ¡°Our first encounter ended with you lying on the ground, in my power, and so will this, our last.¡± Mochon raised a massive boot to stave in Sarros¡¯ ribcage, but the Actor managed to roll out of the way with what felt like the last of his strength, and the bandit leader laughed bitterly. ¡°Stop. This is pathetic. You were a wondrous swordsman, Sarros. You gave me a better fight than I have had in years. I only wish we could have remained allies.¡±


    Sarros drew himself up with his one good arm, feeling sick in his stomach and head. He reached out instinctively to steady himself on the nearest bandit but the man drew back, almost making Sarros fall again. No, he could stand¡­ He could breathe¡­


    The pain began to fade, and Sarros¡¯ blood ran cold. No. Not now. His fingers began to twitch. ¡°We could never have been allies,¡± he said with a voice as shaken as that of a boy forced to give his dog a mercy killing. ¡°You¡­ committed¡­ the unforgivable sin.¡± Each heartbeat should have been agony, but numbness overcame him like the sweetest drug mankind could distill. You brought this upon yourself, he thought, and did not stay his twitching hand.


    ¡°What?¡± laughed Mochon. ¡°Stealing your Mask? I overestimated you, in the end. Fairy stories be damned. Without that toy you are nothing.¡±


    The fallen figure drew himself up crookedly, hand passing gently before his face, caressing the skin like a mother lifting the caul from her newborn¡¯s eyes. ¡°You misunderstand me,¡± hissed the Leper King. ¡°Your sin was stealing my sister¡¯s Mask.¡±

 SA 1.10 - I Am Me

    Mochon¡¯s heart nearly stopped as Sarros¡¯ Mask appeared under the Ulritten mercenary¡¯s fingertips. It was most certainly not the Mask Mochon had stolen. That one had a grim elegance to it, something that wouldn¡¯t have looked out of place on the face of some pagan priest. This new Mask was a wretched, piebald travesty.


    It looked to be made of a flimsy wood scored with ragged patchwork cuts, painted in a red checker pattern with a layer of peeling, yellowed varnish over all. A leering smile was carved into the area covering the mouth, arrow-like teeth gouged into a gaping grin. As with the Devil mask, there were no eye holes, only a smooth, sloping forehead scored repeatedly as with a dull, thick-edged knife.


    Nothing in his life had put as much terror into Mochon¡¯s heart as the sight of Sarros¡¯ Mask. ¡°To me!¡± he roared. ¡°Death to the traitor! Half my wealth and a new horse to the man who lands the killing blow!¡±


    The shouts of the bandits eagerly snatching up improvised weapons did not quite cover the throaty chuckle coming from the thing that was once Sarros.


    ***


    The Leper King twisted his neck as an owl might, squirming in pleasure at the popping sensation of his vertebrae shifting. It had been too long. Far, far too long. Human sweat and stink burned his nostrils, and the pain was pleasant. He looked at the closest approaching bandit, and chuckled. It wasn¡¯t a laugh born of arrogance or derision, but of lighthearted happiness. Had Sarros thought he could fight all these men at once?


    That was something only a Fool would consider.


    One bandit shouted as he swung his sword at the Leper King¡¯s neck. The Masked creature turned his palm toward the blade¡¯s edge, and the steel snapped in two as it touched skin. The Leper King took a carefree step behind his attacker as the man¡¯s momentum carried him past, fingers trailing along the bandit¡¯s ribcage. Fabric and skin and flesh split like the skin of an overripe fruit under the Leper King¡¯s touch, and the bandit fell to the ground in writhing agony.


    An older bandit who had not seen the close exchange raised a crate almost to eye level and heaved it at the Leper King¡¯s forehead. The Masked creature struck the crate to the ground with a single swipe of his palm, splinters flying and tent-pegs falling. He followed this up by tapping the older bandit¡¯s wrist, splitting apart the arteries and veins under the skin, causing a great purple bruise to well up under the surface of the arm. The bandit¡¯s face went pale and he staggered back, mouthing a prayer against demons, pushed away by two more men who were just behind.


    Quite a few bandits had their go at the rich bounty offered by their leader before the crowd began to thin. Their target turned away swords and clubs and pots and knives without seeming to sustain any damage to his person, and caused barely visible but horrific injuries in return. Not one of them had ever seen an Actor in battle before. None would have attacked if they had.


    Of course, the leper king was not actually fighting. He punished those who assaulted him in the same way a farmer might kick his dog for getting at the chickens: A rebuff without anger to teach something far stupider than himself that no, that behavior was not acceptable. Sure enough, every bandit who received discipline from the Leper King fell down or fled, and did not continue in such a pointless exercise as attacking the Masked creature.


    He nearly skipped as he walked through the throng, approaching Sarros¡¯ fallen demon blade where it lay. The Leper King stooped and picked up the weapon, running a finger down its edge, smiling fondly at the trickle of blood which erupted from flesh split to the bone. ¡°See here,¡± he said, showing his finger to the nearest terrified bandit. The flesh wiggled like an injured maggot as it knitted itself back together. ¡°You crowd of fucking idiots. There was a perfectly good bad-sword right here, and you lot tried to stick me with pots and crates.¡± He swung the blade with one hand, far more quickly than Sarros could have, with a theatric sweep that Sarros never would have risked. The edge stopped a hair¡¯s breadth from the bandit¡¯s neck, and the Leper King chuckled as the bandit yelped and stiffened. The Leper King dropped the blade¡¯s edge and put a hand on the shoulder of his joke¡¯s victim. ¡°Now, you never got at me, so I have no reason to kill you. Good man, hanging back. Cowards live to run another day, as it¡¯s said.¡± His voice rang hollowly from underneath the Mask.


    ¡°Th-thank you,¡± the man gasped, looking equal parts relieved and ashamed.


    The Leper King cocked his head. ¡°On the other hand, neither did you step in to help your comrade when he was beset by a pack of vicious brutes.¡± The Masked creature¡¯s eyes and mouth were hidden, but his voice dripped with sudden, cold anger.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± mumbled the bandit, pulling away. He stepped back, but with a terrible sucking sound his arm pulled from his shoulder and remained in the Leper King¡¯s hand.


    ¡°There you go again,¡± murmured the Leper King as the last few strands of connective tissue rotted and dripped away. He tossed away the detached arm as his victim screamed on the ground. The pain would soon fade, actually, and the skin was already closing up over the wound. Shock would probably kill the bandit, though. ¡°You people never just stand still and talk. That¡¯s all I ever want, really.¡± He pointed the demon blade at Mochon. ¡°Even the other me wanted that. If you had let me take over like I suggested, we wouldn¡¯t be in this mess.¡± He aped Sarros¡¯ earlier wide gesture. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt my brothers, only those who betray me.¡± A spasm coursed through the Leper King¡¯s body, and he dropped his arms as though terribly weary. ¡°Ooh, it tickles when I try to come back out. I should be patient, it¡¯s only been a few moments!¡± His voice¡¯s volume rose gradually though this, ending in a fervent, tipped-head scream to the heavens. ¡°Moooochon! Gah, what a terrible name. Doesn¡¯t fit you at all. You know, I was thinking when you were talking with the other me, ¡®Mochon? Isn¡¯t that what they call sweet bean buns in Itios?¡¯


    ¡°I told myself that, but I didn¡¯t think it was as funny then, and I didn¡¯t say anything to you about it. Probably wise, given the situation.¡± He began digging at his arm with the demon blade¡¯s tip, flicking tiny bits of flesh away, wriggling in joy at the sensation of regeneration. ¡°Well, come on. Haven¡¯t got all day. Give up the seat. Throne, I¡¯d say, but you¡¯re not quite that high and mighty yet. Put me where I belong, in charge, or I¡¯ll chop you up into little pieces and feed you to¡­¡± He paused, transfixed by a small beetle crawling on his boot. ¡°I don¡¯t really know what. Someone apt, I suppose.¡±


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ***


    No, Mochon thought as his men screamed and fell at the Masked man¡¯s jovial touch. No, no, no. Could he run? Was there anywhere he could hide? Sarros had mentioned he hunted his sister¡¯s killer. If Mochon fled as far as he could to the west, would Sarros ignore him in search of the greater prize? I stole his sister¡¯s Mask, he thought. Damnation runs in the family. He had, in a way, desecrated the dead. No, there could be no fleeing for Mochon. His grip tightened on the long axe, and he cursed having not taken the demon blade for himself. It had reminded him far too much of the Imperial straight swords, and he liked as much weight and reach as he could get when it came to the brutal art of killing. It had barely been sufficient to throw down Sarros. It would be wholly incapable of stopping this monster.


    He gritted his teeth as Emrett¡¯s arm pulled from its socket, noticing how the wound immediately closed, denying the man a warrior¡¯s death in battle. Mochon snorted. Funny how Imperial thoughts like that remained in his mind, even when Mochon was thoroughly aware of the idiocy of such an idea as a good death.


    ¡°Moooochon!¡± the Masked man was keening, his head twisted about, his tendons straining in his neck. The bandit leader tensed, wondering if his time had come, but the Actor was back to babbling again. His movements seemed purposeful and lithe, even in this state. Every Actor Mochon had ever seen was a trembling, unstable mess after all the torture. Sarros¡ªor whoever¡ªwas a controlled animal packed with speed and power. When he pounced, there would be no running.


    Mochon cleared his throat, cutting off speech about how Sarros was going to chop the bandit leader up and feed him to someone. ¡°Hail!¡± he called. The creature froze, pivoting on the balls of its feet to face the bandit leader. ¡°I apologize,¡± said Mochon, a half-dozen alternative plans racing through his mind, and none of them seeming better than his current course. If only he¡¯d had more time to plan. ¡°I was caught up in the moment when I asked my men to attack you. You are not injured, I see, and you have reprimanded those who attacked you. To see my own men, my brothers injured wounds my very heart.¡± He filled his voice with heavy gravel, the closest he could approximate sorrow at such short notice. ¡°It is as though you have punished me as well, a hundred times over.¡±


    ¡°Eh?¡± The Masked man tapped a rhythm on his leg with the demon blade. ¡°Well, as you say. And what are you getting at, Sweet Bean Bun?¡±


    ¡°Everything I did to Sarros was to call you forth. You know as much as I that he did not wish you to see the light of day.¡±


    ¡°Of course. I would be a Fool if I wanted myself awake.¡± He giggled. ¡°And I am, and I am!¡±


    A stream of sweat dripped into Mochon¡¯s left eye, stinging terribly, but he did not so much as blink it away. ¡°I wish only to be your ally, now, or at least to part on good terms. See here!¡± He withdrew the Devil Mask from its place under his coat, and placed it carefully on the ground. ¡°I offer his sister¡¯s Mask, which I wrongfully stole, as a gesture of good will between us. What say you?¡±


    The Masked man began to walk slowly toward him, the bandits clearing a wide path so as to be out of his way. The man who had been Sarros stopped a foot away, the wood of his Mask terrifyingly close to Mochon¡¯s sweat-streaked face. ¡°Hello,¡± he said softly. In that flat tone, he sounded almost like Sarros. ¡°My name is the Leper King. My name is Sarros. I am an Aspect of the Fool of the Astral Court. I am a mercenary seeking vengeance. I may be the last of my kind. My people still live in the East.¡± His voice grew softer as he leaned in, and Mochon resisted with every atom of his being the urge to slam his axe-head into the Actor¡¯s jaw. ¡°I am me,¡± the Leper King said. ¡°And also myself. When you wronged the man named Sarros, my father, my brother, my patron, my slave, my lover, my jailer, my hatred and love, you grew an enmity between us that can never be rectified.¡± He lashed out then with his hands, the demon blade falling to the earth, and Mochon reacted with the last bit of hope left in his body.


    Dropping the long axe, Mochon clutched the demon blade by its sharp double edge, the steel sliding cleanly through the flesh of his hands to become lodged in the bone. There was no pain for a split second, and in that time Mochon reached with his other hand, snatched the demon blade¡¯s grip, tore it from his own hand, and drew it across the Leper King¡¯s stomach at an upward angle. Steam filled the air briefly as Sarros¡¯ body¡¯s entrails spilled out, a wretched stink making Mochon retch. The demon blade fell from his loose, spasming fingers, and the Leper King stepped on the blade so it could not be retrieved.


    He had his hands on Mochon¡¯s throat by then, but didn¡¯t seem to be choking the man. ¡°Clever, desperate, ambitious bastard of a man,¡± the Leper King breathed. ¡°It strikes me you might be king after all. I am a Fool to do so, but I will leave you with your life if you promise to take good care of it and to feed it and to take it for walks.¡± He moved his hand in a touch that was almost a caress across Mochon¡¯s eye, smoothing the flesh around the socket like it was putty, encasing the socket in an ugly lump that left the bandit leader half-blind. The Leper King¡¯s other hand slid uninhibited through Mochon¡¯s clothing, skin, fat, meat, and bone, his cold fingers wrapping around Mochon¡¯s rapidly-beating heart. ¡°I could squeeze,¡± he whispered. ¡°Just know that I could. Feel it. Let the knowledge feed your nightmares until the day you die.


    ¡°Fear the day I have no more enemies and come to take whatever you have away.¡± His grip tightened a fraction, and Mochon gasped, but the Leper King only laughed and withdrew his hand, the wound closing itself back up as he did. ¡°Your body I have marred. Your mind I have planted with a weed which can never be truly eradicated. Your spirit¡­¡± The Leper King laughed and began to push his innards back into his stomach. The edges of the wound seemed to glow like red-hot metal, and closed only very slowly. ¡°Well, you¡¯ve done quite a good job poisoning that yourself.¡± He ripped up a part of his coat and tied it around his stomach, and retrieved the Devil Mask.


    Blade in one hand, Mask in the other, Sarros and the Leper King left Mochon¡¯s crew behind.


    The bandits who had survived the encounter (a half dozen had already bled to death from arterial wounds, and two more would soon die from horrific internal bleeding) did what they could for Mochon, who had fallen unconscious. Without anyone to guide them, packing was slow and aimless, and when the Imperial retinue who had accompanied the merchants arrived, they found their targets exactly where they had expected.


    <hr>


    End of Part One

 GF 1.0 - Hex

    His blood ran in thin streams from the thousand shallow cuts that covered his body. The rivulets diverted of their own accord as they touched the brick floor, swirling and spreading into an intricate hexagram filled with fractal lines. ¡°I do not concede,¡± he said with a voice that echoed against the subterranean walls. Despite the surely fatal blood loss, the man stood tall in the midst of his murderers.


    ¡°You would go so far to spite us?¡± their leader hissed behind his featureless Mask. ¡°You would die a demon and go to the end that is promised our kind rather than face judgment as a human?¡±


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    The bleeding man smiled with what little fortitude he had remaining. ¡°I left that behind a long time ago. I know what awaits me.¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll never find her. That¡¯s all the comfort I need.¡±


    He died, and his blood scarred the stone deeply, and none of his assailants could touch the Mask that lay at the hexagram¡¯s center. It vexed them greatly.

 GF 1.1 - Sam Rose

    She stood, voiceless, watching the sixteen men surround the fallen corpse. She wanted to cry out, to run and call a policeman, to do something, but when she moved a lithe hand clasped her over the mouth and around the shoulders.


    ¡°Watch and listen,¡± a muffled voice in her ear whispered, rough and decadent. ¡°Let it sear you. Let it tear you. Let it stretch your spirit to breaking, but bring yourself back from the edge.¡± She could not breath as the arms squeezed around her torso and face. Her ribs creaked painfully, and her head was pulled back. She was frozen as the sixteen turned of one accord in her direction, and she saw that not a one possessed a face. She pulled away as the hidden figure let her free, and turned, and ran, and sobbed.


    ***


    Sam Rose spasmed as she woke, gasping, soaked in sweat and late for work. She put a hand to her chest as she breathed deeply, feeling her heart pounding in response to the helpless terror that was now blessedly fading from her mind. Just a dream. That dream, yeah, but nothing to worry about right now. As Sam showered and dressed and gnawed on a half-thawed toaster waffle, she thought back to Ms. York, her counselor in high school. ¡°You won¡¯t have me any more soon,¡± she¡¯d said in that patronizing way, both knobby hands clasping one of Sam¡¯s across the table. ¡°Make sure to see someone. You don¡¯t need to live with this.¡± She hadn¡¯t, of course. Bad dreams don¡¯t mean anything.


    Well, of course they meant something, but it wasn¡¯t anything Sam needed to dwell on. She hopped onto her bike outside the apartment, wrapping her blue-and-red checkered scarf about her neck and mouth to keep away the autumn morning chill, and began the fifteen minute ride to work. Not as if I¡¯m the only fucking girl to ever lose her father, she thought as she walked her bike across an intersection. How am I supposed to do all this moving on stuff if I can¡¯t get over something that happened thirteen fucking years ago?


    Far later than she should have, Sam locked her bike in the rack outside her workplace, the board game store Two and Twenty. She looked up at its stylized sign portraying a cartoon skeleton fanning out a deck of cards, a letter or numeral on each card spelling out the store¡¯s odd name. The new coat of paint last month really did wonders, making the sign¡¯s tiny details really pop, even if you could only see the filigree and shading up close. Not exactly useful for a storefront on the streets of bustling Manchester, but then the sign was much older than the storefront itself. According to Mr. Norrid, the owner, the sign originally belonged to an old Austrian pub before Grandpa Norrid brought it over with him in the thirties when his family emigrated to the States.


    Mr. Norrid¡¯s Austrian glare made Sam wilt as she stepped through the door, pulling off her scarf and peacoat, excuses wilting in her throat. ¡°S-sorry,¡± she said, glancing at the half-dozen customers Mr. Norrid was tending to by himself. ¡°The power outage kicked my clock. I didn¡¯t have any batteries in it, so¡­¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± The store owner stood six-foot-four in dress that on anyone smaller could have been called hipster. His checkered shirt and calf-length lederhosen were bridged (despite the built-in suspenders) by a thick leather belt that held an assortment small tools and, incongruently, a smartphone holster. His feet and calves were covered by woolen socks and leather shoes. Even in the blouse and skirt (Mr. Norris insisted his employees present themselves well) that were more formal than anything she wore at school, Sam always felt underdressed next to the beefy Austrian. ¡°Make sure,¡± he said, ¡°you take care of that tonight. It would be most convenient if this weren¡¯t to happen again.¡±


    ¡°Yessir!¡± she said, scurrying behind the counter and scanning the needle whereupon all the store¡¯s receipts were skewered. ¡°Okay day today, huh?¡±


    ¡°Mmhm. The new Catan set is doing well. I have ordered another six copies, and three base copies.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± Sam hated dealing with the distributors. There always seemed to be some miscommunication when she was the one on the phone, and then they ended up with an unsellable case of Minions Fluxx or the demo copy of the newest game ended up going to the wrong address. Mocha was a lot better at that stuff, which suited Sam just fine. ¡°Oh, is Mocha late, too?¡±


    ¡°Out sick,¡± said Mr. Norrid. ¡°Bad fish last night.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t look sick, Mr. Norrid.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t get sick.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± The man did seem to have some almost supernatural resistance to everything ranging from the common cold to hangovers on New Years Day. That incredible gene, it seemed, had not been passed down to his daughter Mocha.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Sam, ¡°she¡¯s got a better excuse than me. I can stay to close up tonight, you go on home.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I will.¡±


    Sam gave a strained smile as her boss left, the little bell over the door ringing as he did so. Mr. Norrid always seemed so calm and formal. She was surprised people actually bought stuff from such an emotionless guy. Aggressive Mocha and (in her mind, at least) bubbly Sam were far better faces for the store! Well, at least having cute girls didn¡¯t hurt the store¡¯s image.


    The current glut of customers left without buying anything, and Sam wished them a good day. Once alone, however, her composure dropped. She had really been hoping for someone else to talk with, someone to provide a voice to drown out that of the sultry whisperer she still heard in her ear.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Let it sear you. Let it tear you. Let it stretch your spirit to breaking, but bring yourself back from the edge.


    She grabbed the broom from the corner. The vacuum was working again, yeah, but Sam needed something to do. Something to grip. Something she could swing, if it came to that.


    ***


    Early afternoon was pretty busy, but it dwindled down as the day dragged on. By the time seven rolled around, Sam decided to close an hour early. ¡°Not as if we¡¯re gonna be missing out on much,¡± she grumbled as she turned the thermostat to 50F and snapped off all the lights. Of course, she had to close out the register, too. That was usually Mocha¡¯s job. She was the one who was good with numbers. Sam made a couple rough guesses and decided she¡¯d take it up with Mr. Norrid in the morning.


    Sam yawned as she looked over the counter, through the dark store, at the city lights in the distance¡­ and at the tall, hooded figure standing there, pressed almost completely against the glass. Sam froze, deposit bag in hand, mouth still half-open. In the dark of the store, she couldn¡¯t make out any details of the figure¡¯s face. ¡°We¡¯re closed!¡± she shouted. ¡°Sorry! Had to¡­ close early. Stuff happening. Come back at nine. Tomorrow. Won¡¯t be open tonight.¡± Her voice trailed off as the figure pulled away from the window, turned, and walked out of sight. Sam shivered, falling back against one of the fragrant cedar beams supporting the structure of the century-old building. ¡°Fucking creep,¡± she mumbled. Probably a crackhead.


    Sam briefly wished she¡¯d taken that gun glass with Mocha last year, but they terrified her. ¡°That¡¯s the point!¡± Mocha had said. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be scared of them! That¡¯s how you get yourself killed, Sam Rose!¡± Mocha always had that habit of calling Sam by her full name when she was annoyed, as though she was Sam¡¯s mom or something.


    Didn¡¯t really matter now. Sam didn¡¯t take the class, and regardless of how it might have helped her unease, she was still afraid of guns, and anyways didn¡¯t carry one. The closest thing to a weapon in the store was a tiny, loose box cutter that their product distributer had tossed in with an order last year. Better than nothing, Sam thought. She¡¯d already changed back into jeans for the ride home, so she slipped the box cutter into her side pocket. Clutching the store¡¯s deposit bag tightly to herself underneath her peacoat, Sam locked the front door, gave one last look around in case the crackhead was still around (he wasn¡¯t), and began the ride to the bank.


    ***


    She sat on her bed, kitchen knife clutched tightly in a white-knuckled hand, phone ready to call the cops. They wouldn¡¯t come fast enough if she needed them, of course, but she just needed to have the possibility at hand. Her breaths were shallow and fast. She was alone. For now. She wouldn¡¯t be, any minute, but for now she was. Mocha wouldn¡¯t answer, and the lights were out in the Norrids¡¯ apartment. There was no one. She was alone.


    The crackhead¡ªor crackheads¡ªhad come back. He had watched from an out-of-the-way corner as Sam dropped off the deposit. With the money safe, she felt a bit better, and had quickly raced away on her bike, but there he was again two blocks away when she stopped to cross the street. Well, it couldn¡¯t have been him, but Sam had sworn it was. The same dirty, ratty sneakers, stained, shadowed hoodie, torn jeans, tall, crooked shape. And he¡¯d been there again when she passed under the bridge.


    And finally across the street, standing right under the street light, as Sam frantically unlocked and scurried inside her dingy apartment on twenty-first street. Sam bolted the door, stuck a chair under the knob, snatched the biggest knife from the kitchen, and fled to her bedroom. Thank God the bedroom didn¡¯t have any windows. It occurred to Sam she probably should have taken the whole knife block with her, but the thought of going back out there where that pervert could look right at her through the window made her breath catch, as though someone had a hand on her mouth and a constricting arm around her chest.


    Let it sear you.


    There was a knock, frantic and sharp, and Sam shrieked.


    Let it tear you.


    She grabbed at her phone, but it was inexplicably dead. No, no no no.


    Let it stretch your spirit to breaking.


    A splintering crash made Sam press herself against the corner furthest from the door. The knife shook. Footsteps approached. The walls seemed to shimmer, the light to dim.


    Bring yourself back from the edge.


    The doorknob rattled, and something snapped inside Sam¡¯s mind. She screamed and rushed at the opening door, stabbing at chest-height the dark figure who entered the room, waves of red miasma pulsing around the edges of its silhouette, the light of the naked bulb overhead shying away like a cornered, threatened child.


    Sam¡¯s knife sunk inches into the figure¡¯s chest, and hot blood sprayed Sam in the face. Something wheezed or gasped inside the figure¡¯s shadow, and then a pair of arms as strong as bands of steel grasped Sam¡¯s wrists and forced them apart. The figure pushed Sam back slowly but steadily as she screeched and kicked and thrashed, but Sam finally found herself pinned against the wall, arms spread wide, her kitchen knife protruding from the figure¡¯s chest.


    A grim Mask fashioned in the form of a blindfolded young woman leered into her face. ¡°Sam Rose,¡± came a weary, wet, familiar voice. ¡°I need you to calm the fuck down.¡±