This is what happens to thieves in Bell's Gate. The boy was fifteen summers at his oldest. Of course, it was hard to tell with the skin stretched tight around his face like paper. Hard to tell if he was Redguard or if his skin was just dried brown to leather in the blazing sun. The sun was just falling past its apex around then. Sigurd made a sign probably looked less dumb to his Gods and muttered a prayer, "The depravity in men's hearts is ever constant."
"Isn't that the truth." Savian muttered. They'd already started hanging men in Bell's Gate now. Men- and he looked back at the thief- and boys. Rajeed's freedom fighters were here to rescue the town from peace and a sense of moral decency. Next to the thief there was a Bosmer in a similar predicament, his sign read much the same message about highwaymen. Funny that, they said Rajeed and his men came from the very same stock. They both swayed steadily to the rhythm of creaking ropes on high on that pole. Savian scratched at the stubble on his cheek and shook his head. Bell's Gate was supposed to be far away from the wars. Far away from everything, he thought, it's why he chose to live around the place. The harsh light and heat from the sun bathed its fiery anger across the high plateau. A big stretch in all directions of dust and scrub where it looked like nothing was supposed to be. A pale path rutted and pock-marked by wagon-wheels and horse hooves, the road rolling on down like a great scar all the way to the buildings of Bell's Gate.
He snapped his horse's reins and brought the cart into town. Close to the conflict or far from it, he still needed supplies for the homestead and the fields. It'd be nice to get something for Ilia too, help lift her spirits a bit. And maybe she would get to talking more. He reined in his horse at the sight of all the crowds- beggars, refugees, no doubt a good lot of them were deserters and from the look of it, another good lot of them were Rajeed's men. He didn't remember there being so many people come to Bell's Gate in the past. Of course, last time he was here, Karling's wars were a good distance away from Bell's Gate's six little buildings. Savian heaved a great sigh and gave his horse a snap of the reins. Thankfully, the crowd parted before him and he paid no mind to the outstretched hands of the beggars. Not like he didn't have his own worries and hardships. The wars, the bandits, the drought.
He passed the tavern- The Four Lasses- and held the eyes of four armed and armored men. His hand drifted down to rest on his knife while Sigurd turned away and hunched himself almost into a ball. Savian rolled his eyes. Mean looking lot, no doubt some of Rajeed's men, probably the same ones hanged the boy and the bosmer. All of them wore the yellow coats of Rajeed's rebels. Rajeed and his freedom fighters were known to not appreciate the presence of those with lighter skin or pointier ears, or fur, or scales. They disliked the different and Savian was reminded all too much of Ulfric and his rebellion up North. Those were days he wanted to leave behind him, just one war out of many. Now, them four sour-faced bastards were a much unwanted reminder of another nipping at his damned heels. He pulled up on the reins and brought his horse to a stop in front of the general store, no sour-faced bastards hanging about here, thankfully. He let Sigurd stay with the horse and hopped down from the cart, walking over to the store. He pushed the door in and strode through like he owned the place and Vicente behind the counter sniffed and without looking up, droned, "How may I help you, friend?"
Savian slapped down a good-sized purse, "Hell, I could buy this whole store with this much, I reckon."
"'Course, Savian. Then you could deal with them yellow coats and refugees looking for handouts." He took the sack of coins and stashed it behind the counter, "Anyhow, what're you here for this time? More feed, yeah?"
Savian nodded, "Yeah. Running low these days. Drought n' all. Wheat won't sprout, so the chickens are the only thing feeding us. Drought's hitting everyone hard, bad enough for the fighting to let up, even."
"Just a little bit, at least." Vicente nodded, "Feed's out back, help yourself to it."
"Right." Savian's eyes drifted over to the far side of the room, weapon racks there; a meagre collection of knives long and short, crossbows, bolts, bows and arrows. His fingers itched and he put his hand in his pocket. He took a step closer, another, mouth getting dry and hands remembering the feeling of polished wood on a crossbow, the shaft of a hand-axe. Several more steps before he turned and grabbed up a doll. Maybe Ilia would like this one. He smiled, picturing her smiling face as he held it out to her, watched her snatch it up and hug it. He held it up, "This too."
"Alright, figure that's covered. Feel free to take it with you." Vicente smiled, though his voice remained that of a bored bank teller.
"What, is it cursed?" Savian looked at it, not feeling any evil radiating off of it.
"No, just you get a friend's deal, is all. Buy some seed, get a doll free." Vicente smiled wider.
"Business that bad, then?" Vicente rolled his eyes and Savian laughed, holding the doll up and nodding, "Thanks, Vicente. Ilia'll like this a lot."
He nodded, "Tell her I said hello. And best wishes to you, her and Hassam over there. It can be some hard living."
"You're telling me. I'll be seeing you." He left the store with his cart heavy with seed and chicken feed. The doll shared the driver's bench between him and Sigurd, the spot where Ilia would've been sitting, but he learned not to take her on trips that bored her. Ilia's mother would've sat there too. But she was long gone from the Rockjoint, and he'd learned not to get in that mood nowadays. Nothing came of it. Nothing good, leastways. He looked at the doll again and smiled, getting himself out of those thoughts and back into the ones where Ilia was happy. He passed the tavern but the Yellow-Coats weren't there. Gone inside. Or not. He looked around the crowds, their yellow robes shouldn't be that hard to spot. Nothing, and he narrowed his eyes, he didn't make it through two wars just to die in one he wasn't even fighting. By the time he had passed through the limits of town and back past the hanged folk he let go of the breath he was holding and realized he'd been gripping his knife pretty hard. He looked around for dust clouds and the like, signs of riders on his heels, found none. Breathed easy. Another day safe, another day deeper in the drought. If the bandits weren't riding on him, the drought was always there to remind him how much the Gods loved kicking him around.
"Thank the hundred-hundred Gods we weren't bothered." Sigurd smiled. He was a friend, one of the only ones and by default, one of the closest he had despite being one of those rune-tossers preaching about the Old Way. But at that moment, he would've loved to tell him to shut his mouth with all the God shit.
"Right." And thank the hundred-hundred more for Karling and his wars bothering everyone else. If there were Gods, he reckoned the world was just like how it would be if there weren't. He looked out at the desert, the big empty and the mountains beyond, just faint grey ripples. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky the color of blood. Blood and gold.
* * *
They saw the smoke before they crested the hill, and it only got worse when they did. Savian gritted his teeth, snapped the reins and sent the horse at a fast canter, the quickest it could move under all the weight. When they got past the fence Savian reeled back with the reins, stopping the horse in its tracks and leaped from the seat, leaving the doll. "Ilia! Hassam!" Savian roared, the house still smoldering. He stopped, dropped to his knees. Where better men may have at least charged on unheeding of the flames to die with their loved ones or spent their last breath protecting them, Savian left them alone. He felt Sigurd's heavy footsteps thump, thumping up to him. When he'd come up next to him, he lay a hand on his shoulder and Savian didn't do a thing about it, hardly noticed it. He'd cried easily as a child, but his eyes had since dried up quick. They'd had to, the things he'd seen and done. And he'd seen and done plenty.
Underneath the sadness, the pain, the sorrow. Underneath all that, a numbness. A calm. A certainty, sureness. He knew what he had to be, what he had to do. He spat sour spit, eight years of trying and finally becoming a good man all undone in seconds. But you don't do the things that he's done and walk away smiling. He frowned and looked up at his house, the one that he'd built. Wasn't big, wasn't luxurious, but it was
his. His and his family's. They found Hassam swinging by his neck from the tree he'd buried his wife under and his wife's headstone kicked over. That stung to see, hurt him bad. Just like the hanged men near Bell's Gate, Hassam had a sign around his neck, read
HoonDing's Mercy. He felt it was a safe bet Rajeed's people did this. Only ones who'd love to kill a man's daughter, hang his friend and burn his house down. He'd find who did this, then he'd find Rajeed, then he'd find Rajeed's family and all his friends and he'd fucking burn every record of the piece of shit so no one would remember he was a fucking thing. He marched over to his tool shed, pulled the door open so hard it banged against the wall it was set in and then fell off its rusted, rickety hinges. He grabbed up his axe in its oil cloth and his crossbow, threw the bolts over his shoulder in their bandolier, grabbed a whetstone and went outside, sitting on a stump. He spat on his whetstone and went to work resharpening his axe. He could see a path dug in through his dry field and he knew which direction to go at least.
"What are you going to do, Savian?" Sigurd asked, "Killing them won't rebuild your house, it won't fill the hole that your wife left, that Hassam and-"
"What? And what? You want me to rebuild, restart?" He snarled, "Make a new daughter, find a new wife?"
"There can still be a life for you…" Sigurd winced and looked at the ground, "Somewhere. I know you, Savian, I know how much you loved them but just think about this."
"I have. I've put a lot of fucking thought into what I'm going to do when I find the men that did this, that sent them. Eight years, Sigurd." He shook his head, pushing his hand through his hair, starting to grey at the temples, "Eight years I lived as a man of peace, and now all that's done. I don't get a second chance."
"Savian…" Sigurd stood there, working his mouth but not knowing what to say.
"You can go. You don't have to come with me, Sigurd, and that isn't anger speaking." Savian shook his head, "Maybe you can have a new life, but I reckon there's no going back for me."
"No, Savian. The life I was living with you and your family on the farm, that was my new life.
This is my life. You are my family. Maybe I can't swing no sword or shoot no bows, but I can keep you from losing yourself in this." Sigurd looked at him with some wet in his eyes but wiped it away with a sleeve, turning away and putting his back on the wall.
"Fine then." Savian said, looking out at the trail the brigands had left, "We'll ride hard, come up on their trail and hack them down."
* * *
It'd been two days of hard riding and they were fast on their trail but had still not found them. They'd found their fires, found their food waste, the stubs of their cigars and ash from their pipes. But no men. Until finally, the trail led them to a small town. Well, town was being a bit generous to the five buildings huddled along a line of dusty road. There were six horses, six men. No sign of any other in the town, except for a woman in the window that bolted out of sight when she saw Savian looking at her. "Think those are their horses?" Sigurd asked. He'd had his old priest's robes on. Why those were his only traveling clothes, he couldn't guess. And why a priest would be as deep in the drink as he was these days, he couldn't guess neither.
"Reckon so." Savian muttered, squinting down at the little town. "When I do this, you keep out of the way."
"Don't have to tell me twice." Sigurd said, frowning.
Savian found his lip had curled, he didn't blame Sigurd for being a right bloody coward, Gods knew Savian was one at some point and still was in some aspects, he just blamed Sigurd for showing it. Had to be a man sometimes, do what needed doing. He clambered down his horse, tying off the reins and grabbing his axe, knife and bow, "I swear, you're some kind of coward, Sigurd."
"Some kind of
pacifist." Sigurd said, looking at all the steel on him.
"Didn't think there was a difference." Savian muttered.
"I've been thinking," Savian looked sidelong at him, could hear the shaking in his voice, "What if, well, what if Ilia isn't with these folk? What if she's-"
"Dead?" Savian gripped his reins tighter, found his fingernails were digging mighty hard into his palm. "Then I'll fucking kill the lot of them, hunt them down to the gates of the Deadlands if I have to, either way…"
"Right." Sigurd looked sad at that, looked sadly at him and Savian's eyes shot away to the ground, feeling something at making Sigurd look like that. Felt a little wrong to be talking this way after all these years of not. "I'm keeping you from losing your way, you don't let anger into your heart without a little poison into your soul too."
"I'll leave the souls to the priests and the lamenting to the war widows." They made their way into the tavern, The Raw Deal, and found their seats at the back. It was a sparse establishment, four tables, a fireplace and nothing else. There were stairs that led up to a second level, probably where the tavernkeep slept. One of his daughters was struggling in the groping hands of a Redguard who was missing some of his teeth and what remained was thoroughly yellowed. His company didn't look much less rough, scarred, pock-marked and scowling under their beards. The one hassling the daughter stopped to stare at Savian and Sigurd. Savian said nothing, wasn't his fight to save every daughter out in the big empty, just his.
"Oy, Priest! Got a girl I'd like to marry, fancy doin' it for me?" The man's smile was filled with holes and he was pressing his tongue through one of them. He nibbled at the girl's earlobe and she recoiled, whimpering. Savian didn't make a face to tell if he was amused or disgusted either way, just looked away and found himself and Sigurd a table in the back. The tavernkeep looked like they were killing his daughter in front of him and not groping her, of course, there wasn't much difference there when its in the eyes of the father. Savian felt a little sadness for the man, some sympathy, but he drowned it in the whiskey he was poured. Sympathy and bad feelings weren't what was going to get Ilia back. He looked at the tavernkeep and his pleading eyes and found his lip curling. These men were doing that to Ilia, they'd be corpses. They weren't though. Savian growled and took a big swallow from his pewter cup, grimacing.
"I need information. Did these men have a girl with them?" Savian asked.
"They've got
my girl with them right fuckin' now!" The keep whispered harsh. Couldn't argue with facts.
"Right, but do they have
my fucking daughter with them. A girl, twelve summers, black hair, blue eyes." Savian frowned.
One of the riders banged his tankard on the table, "More ale, Keep, and we won't hurt your daughter!"
"Just fuck 'er." One said and they all chuckled at that. All except Savian and Sigurd, and a stranger in the corner. A Reachman, not paying any mind to the happenings. Didn't notice that one when he came in.
"I've got my own daughter to worry about." The keep said, scurrying over to them and filling their tankards. Savian looked to the Reachman in the corner, not seeing any possibility he'd know where his daughter was. Not seeing any possibility he'd want to talk to him either. Knew a few Reachmen in his time in Mislav's army, all of them shit stains.
"I said ale!" One of the riders raised their voice and pulled Savian's gaze from the stranger to him.
"It is ale!" The keep squeaked.
"No it ain't," the rider, a man with a big nose like the end of a club and hard, squinty eyes poured out his ale on the ground, "it's fuckin' watery piss is what it is. You trying to get more money with less ale? You know who we ride with? These are Rajeed's men, fucker!" Big-Nose got up and cocked his fist back and the keep stumbled, tripped on the leg of a chair and landed on his ass. Savian shook his head, Sigurd swallowed and looked at Savian. He shook his head, he didn't want to get involved and wouldn't, especially if a coward who wouldn't pick up a weapon to help him get his daughter back was telling him to. He frowned, took another drink of the whiskey. Big-Nose laughed and turned away from him, grasping his daughter by the neck, "Told you, didn't we? Told you we'd do something to your daughter if you didn't give us ale."
Big-Nose ripped her shirt open and took a gander at her bare chest. He made ready to lift up her skirts but Sigurd must have choked on his whiskey because he let loose a series of loud coughs. Savian grimaced, he didn't want to watch a rape but didn't want the attention of these folk either. But that was Savian's luck, the same the Gods gave him, the same the Gods loved to fuck him with. They all stopped dead and turned to him and Sigurd, "Who the fuck are you two? You got money to pay for that whiskey, eh, Ponce?"
Savian held his beady eyes and felt a fire ignite in him, took another sip of whiskey, might help douse it. Then again, there's a saying about alcohol and fire. "Not a fucking piece."
"You need to pay, even under Rajeed's hand now." Big-Nose said, beady eyes getting beadier as he narrowed them. Found he didn't much like those eyes, found he didn't much like his odds either, but he didn't like a man who'd rape a girl in front of her father even less.
"I'm looking for a girl-"
"Wait your turn, Fuck." Gaptooth leered and the rest of them chuckled.
"I'm looking for a girl, I said. Twelve summers, black hair, blue eyes. You seen her?" Savian said, nice and even.
"You ain't in the right spot to be asking questions from us. We're Rajeed's-"
"I heard it already, fucker. Been tracking some men a while, came to the head of the trail in this town." Savian said, "You'll never get to guessing where it ends."
"What?" One of them said, one of his eyes blind and grey, looking off up at the ceiling while the other looked at him, "I don't give a fu-"
"It ended right at the ends of your fucking legs." Savian spat. "I'm going to finish my drink, and when I finish it, you'd better have put that girl down and gotten your answers ready."
"And if we don't? We're five, you're one. You going to die for this bitch and her bitch father?" Blind-Eye asked, a disbelieving smile on his chapped lips.
"Seems you folk forgot what manners are, what respect is. The stuff don't cost shit, but it'll keep a man from having to hold his brains in." Savian said, even like before. There was a pregnant silence, ugly as sloads. They sat there, staring each other down, Savian looking at them even, they looking at him like it was their daughters he was raping. His hand went down to his crossbow, had it loaded already. "Well, boy? You need a learnin'?"
"Well, who the fuck-" In one swift motion, quicker than a scorpion's tail, he brought his crossbow up and squeezed the trigger. He didn't have time to aim and shooting it one-handed wasn't what it was made for, but he dug the stock in his shoulder best he could and felt the jolt. Saw Blind-Eye's head whip back, his bolt in his cheek. Before they could move to draw blades, Savian dropped the bow and stood, flipping his table and brought himself across the room in two long-legged strides. Big-Nose's face got split open by his big knife and by then, being so close to three armed men had Savian's blood pumping. His blood was rushing and things seemed to be moving slower. Before he had a thought to, he turned and pushed aside a knife, grabbing Gaptooth's wrist and leaving his big knife in Big-Nose's head. He whipped out one of Gaptooth's own knives and stuck it up under his chin and pushed him into one of his friends that had his axe out, tripping him up. He stepped up on the table and the one still sitting panicked, falling onto his back in his chair. Savian jumped down from the table and smashed his nose up into his face with his boot. The one with the axe, greasy hair plastered to his forehead finally stood. He thought he was going to die for a minute as Greasy raised his axe. Then he saw a hand wrap a fist around Greasy's forearm and a long knife chop it right off, axe clattering to the floor, hand still gripping the shaft. Greasy looked at his stump, spurting blood, and his face turned from tough and mean to scared as a girl in a single moment.
Savian worked to control his breathing, checked to see if his hands were shaking and pleasantly surprised they weren't, walked over to Big-Nose. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his knife and brought it back out with a wet crack of skull. "Kill one, they all start to panic, get slow. Get sloppy." Came the Reachman's voice, surprisingly soft. "Like…
lemmings."
"Lemmings got more fight in them than this lot." Savian growled, frowning down at Big-Nose's hacked open face and remembering a scene just like it long past and looked back at Greasy. He was getting sloppy, slow, but that's what happens when a man ages. "Thought I'd get Greasy's axe right in my face. Thought I'd die."
"Who says you won't?" Reachman said, not a trace of a smile on his scarred face.
"Figure you wouldn't waste breath doing it. Just do me like Greasy there or let him split my head." Savian stuck his chin out at Greasy, on his knees now, cradling his stump. "Best not get too worked up, blood'll flow right out of you."
"Clean it?" Sigurd asked from across the room.
"I want him to tell me why he burned my house down, took my child and killed my friend." Savian looked at Sigurd, hard eyed, "Could give two shits if he dies shivering and shitting himself with wound-rot."
"Please help." Greasy squeaked, looking at him and the Reachman with pleading eyes.
"Tell me where you came from, who you were riding with. Why'd you take my child?" Savian asked and not too nicely.
"My h-h-h-hand, please." He said.
"You don't tell me what I want to know, you don't start talking some sense, I'll chop your fucking throat out. Hand'll be the last of your problems then." Savian said, ice in his voice.
"W-w-w-w…" Greasy winced and whimpered, looking up at the sky, "Gods, please."
"Gone, and you ain't worth shit to them. I'd answer if I were you, do one good thing with your life." He spat to the side, "Piss. Stain."
"W-we were riding out of Lainlyn. Fahir, he-he says we should earn some coin for ourselves and he knows some Bretons sell people to the Dunmer." He whimpered and swore, took a breath, "You aren't the first we burned and took from. Us five broke off, said we didn't like selling slaves."
"But you're fine raping tavernkeepers' daughters in the name of Rajeed, burning houses and hanging old farmhands." Savian said, lip curling in disgust. "All for the
fucking cause, eh? For your fucking
HoonDing?"
"I'm so sorry, oh Gods, I'm sorry." Greasy whimpered. "Last we were with Fahir, he said he was taking your daughter and a few others to Hegathe to get them sold, said they were stopping over at Redfort first. Fort's on the road out of town, past an old bridge over a big gorge." Greasy held out his stump, "Please help me. I answered, sir, please."
Savian walked over to him, looked him deep in his eyes. He saw the fear, saw the desperation, saw it all plain as day in Greasy's eyes. Reminded him of a lad he knew way back. And he punched him, nose crunching under his knuckles and Greasy fell to the floor, sobbing, bloody snot running out of his nose. Savian and Sigurd, the Reachman too, left the tavern. Savian saw Sigurd looking at the ground, chewing his lip as they mounted up and made for the Redfort, leaving Greasy's wails and sobs for help and for his mother in the distance. A racket. The bleating of sheep left to die. He'd heard pleading just like that long ago, was hoping to leave it all behind with the violence. Hoping, but knowing it would all come around. Always does.
* * *
They sat around their fire, Savian and Sigurd not talking, just listening to the Reachman sing some song about an Argonian Knight, a Hero named Paints-With-Blood. The Reachman had a good voice for songs and he wondered why he wasn't a bard instead of whatever he was. But there was a certain look in his eye, a flicker of danger, that twinkle that says a man isn't all what he looks like. Savian kept one eye on him while they rode out of town and especially now that he had his big knife scraping across his whetstone to the rhythm of his song. Sigurd turned the three desert hares on its spit around, still looking forlorn about the day's events. They'd taken refuge under a cliff face, their campsite ringed by brush and gnarled short trees and rocks. The Reachman's voice echoed off around the cliff face campsite and off into the night. Savian finished cleaning under his nails and looked back up at the Reachman. If he was going to travel with the man he'd have to trust him or at least respect him, it's how fighting bands stay together, Savian knew from experience. "What do men call you? Reckon I should know the name of a man I travel with."
The Reachman stopped his song short and looked around, then looked at his knife and put it away in its sheath, "Guess you could just call me Brynn. Other folks call me Whiskey, Bonny Brynn, Brynn Tiptoe, lots more."
"Brynn, eh?" Savian nodded. He knew of a Brynn, stories of his deeds traveled far south, how he'd won a duel against a berserker, how he ate his enemies dead and alive, hunted the Sybulfrykte troll through the Jeralls, fought for nine days in the Druadach and Dragontail mountains looking for an ancient sword. Lots more.
"Aye, Brynn. Never caught your name, or his." He said, nodding to Sigurd.
"That big Nord's Sigurd, my name is Savian." He said.
"Savian…" Brynn narrowed his eyes and tapped at his chin like he was trying to work something out, "Savian. I knew of a man named Savian from Cyrodiil, fought in a few battles, fought in Mislav's Host, led men for him. Folk got names for him, for all the things he'd done."
"Different Savian." He muttered, eyes going to the ground, "Food done yet?"
"Most likely. It's a wide, wide world, after all." And Brynn smiled knowingly. Savian wanted to punch that smirk off his mouth about then but took a deep breath.
"We'll eat, sleep, wake before the sun rises and move on." Savian said, glaring at Brynn who didn't pay it much mind. Savian didn't sleep easy, too busy remembering.
* * *
Savian could feel drops of sweat tickling down to the small of his back. He'd have been bothered by it if he hadn't spent days before sowing his fields and working in the sun. He remembered first coming to Hammerfell, how much he hated the sun and the heat. Even a Colovian summer couldn't measure up to the winters in Hammerfell. He lifted his hat off his head and scratched at his head. Sweat coated his fingers after he took them away and held to his reins. For hours, the only thing around he could hear were the clopping and breathing of the horses under Brynn's singing or humming or whistling. Music seemed to emanate from him at all times, as if his mouth wasn't being used for something it'd fall off. He'd gotten used to it by now, and now Brynn's music seemed to him as unnoticeable as the wind. He put it off from his mind as he scanned the horizon, seeing nothing but the endless emptiness of dust, scrub and empty wind. Had to keep an eye out in the big empty or you might miss what kills you, as the saying goes. As if to teach by example, Savian spied a man's skeleton next to his beast of burden's. They'd long since been picked clean and they paid no mind as they passed. Brynn clucked his tongue, "Poor fucker. May he be in a better place."
"Shouldn't be hard to find." Sigurd muttered.
Savian managed a smile at that. Brynn whistled sharp and high, making him put a hand on his crossbow and look out at the sand, "What?" Brynn only squinted off at the distance before them, chewing his lip, "What, bastard?"
"Reckon I can see smoke. Can see the line of the gorge out there too." Brynn nodded. Sure enough, there was a line of black smoke big enough to smoke the Gods from their heavens, no mistaking it.
"Well, we followed the road didn't we?" At least the parts that were still there, he thought. Wars took the minds of the rulers off the roads and to more important things.
"Aye, just something to put some pep in your step, boys. Almost there." Brynn smiled.
Savian frowned and turned back around, setting his horse straight for the gorge. He couldn't see a damn thing but the column of smoke, but he guessed what they said about Brynn being one of the best scouts out there had some truth to it. He was glad to have him. Sigurd's horse caught up to his until they were shoulder to shoulder, him and Sigurd. The Nord cleared his throat, the words fighting him every inch. He could tell, "So, is it true?"
"Is what true?" Savian grumbled, but he knew what he meant. Just wanted to hear him say it, or maybe a piece of him wanted to play the fool and make like he was all innocence. Pass his misdeeds onto some mythical other-Savian, probably still out there, maybe dead and the world all the better for it. Little did the world know the truth.
"That men have names for you. That you've done things in the past-"
"We all got one, don't we, a past? Every man's past is a little black in some places, a little blue, a little red here and there. Dig too deep and get buried, the saying goes." Savian narrowed his eyes at Sigurd, "You're a friend, Sigurd. Let's stay that way."
"Right." Sigurd nodded, sorry-eyed. That hurt Savian seeing him like that and knowing he did it, but the man needed to know that knowing Savian as he is was far better than knowing him as he was. "Just curious, s'all."
"I've got a lot of enemies. Lots of men would like to see me dead. This Fahir just didn't know who he was taking from." Savian frowned.
"And just who did he take from, Savian?" Brynn's voice came, irritating as ever, "Your friend and I'd like to know. Or are you really just a
shit farmer making
shit money and that's all you been for your whole life?"
"More or less." Savian hissed at Brynn as he caught up with them. "Just leave it be."
"Aye." Brynn said. Sigurd nodded, probably more curious than when he started out. Brynn had saved his life, but he was finding out that everything else about him was just downhill from that point. They continued on in silence. That is, continued on with Brynn's song around them. Time came that the wind gusting up towards them brought the smell of burning and rotting to them, a little premonition of what was to grace their eyes soon. A little more time, a little more distance covered and a little less between them and the battle only made the smell stronger and stopped Brynn's whistling. As he looked around at the bodies strewn about and baking in the hot sun, he didn't know if he preferred the silence to Brynn's incessant songs. The carrion birds had gotten here before they did, picking at the bodies like little looters. Their harsh voices punctuated the still, sick air around them. Here and there a burned carriage, everywhere a dead man like grain spilled from a sack. Everywhere. Savian spurred his horse forward, not having the stomach to see this all. Maybe he'd grown used to the sight of a man rotting to death, oozing curdled blood and pus, didn't mean he felt at home in it.
"Shor's bones…" Sigurd said under his breath, looking out at all the carnage. If he was thinking of praying for them they'd be here until sunrise the day after next.
Brynn spat, squinting out at it all, "Karling's men. Think Mehmed's boys caught them off guard here. Held them at the bridge, butted them against the gorge. Nowhere to run." He looked out at the nothingness beyond, "Hell of a place to die in. Far from home."
Savian couldn't say he disagreed and he came to the same conclusion about what happened here. It was plain as day what Mehmed's men were thinking. A chokepoint, force them against a place of no escape, probably were following them for a while, just waiting for the supplies to dwindle, morale drop so they could cut them down tired and easy. Shit way to die, shit place to die. He frowned at the bodies, some facing out away from the gorge, what else to do but face your killer with your back against the wall? Saw some lads with arms outstretched towards the bridge, what else to think about than running and hoping you could run all the way home? He'd been on both sides of skirmishes like this and liked neither, but at least when you're attacking you know can at least hold to the solace that it's not you on the wrong end. Bad way of looking at things, and maybe some wished it were different, but a thousand wishes are dust in the face of a single fact. "Thirsty…" He heard a groan and then a cough. He looked around for the source of it and found it in a man propped up against a dead horse. A thick, tangly beard and long hair came down to his broad shoulders. He was thick with muscle, all the good that did him now. Had a sword in one weak grip and his splintered shield had enough of it intact to see the black handprint on wine red laying next to him. He had a red hand on his stomach and was taking some shallow breaths. A gut wound, he didn't envy the man.
"I know that paint on the shield, one of Rews Blackhands' men." Brynn's lip was curled, didn't hold any love for Rews, Savian guessed. "Leads a sellsword band, fought for Karling, done some real dark work in Bangkorai."
"Well, he ain't the man himself, is he? I'm helping him." Sigurd slid off his horse and pulled the stopper of his cantine off.
"Don't waste the water on folk him." Brynn growled, but it fell on deaf ears. Sigurd was already holding the cantine to the man's lips, who drank deeply.
"We'll need to clean those wounds, stitch you up." Sigurd said in a soft voice. "You'll be good after that, you'll be good."
Savian rolled his eyes and stepped down with his stirrup, walking over to the man and taking his limp hand in his own. It was cold, despite the heat of everything else around him. The man met his eye, coughed up some blood, smiled with his red teeth, "Falda." And then his eyes got distant and his head slowly came to rest on the dead horse's belly, his smile dropping. Sigurd came back, needle and thread in his hands. He gently moved the man's hand away from his wound and winced.
"Okay, okay, it's nothing. You're going to be-"
"He's dead, Sigurd." Savian muttered, his were well away from what he was seeing. He didn't want to see Sigurd's face fall, didn't want to see what his words wrought, but he needed to hear them.
"No, maybe-"
"He's gone. Nothing we can do." Savian patted the dead hand, let go and walked back over to his horse, not feeling as spry as he used to. Never did feel too spry at all, but what little there was he wasn't feeling now. "We should move on."
Sigurd's hands stayed around his needle and thread, had his cantine at his feet. He was looking down at the ground, Savian didn't want to guess at what he was feeling or thinking about now. Sigurd's eyes closed and he let go a shuddering, ragged breath. He wiped at his face with his sleeve and stood after grabbing up his cantine, "Right. Okay, well." He nodded, putting his thread and needle back in his satchel and his cantine back in its saddlebag. He wrung his hands, swallowed, even Brynn's head was hanging now, "We'll, uh, we'll get back on the trail then, yeah?" And Sigurd managed a smile but his eyes told Savian smiling was the last thing he wanted to be doing then.
"Think that'd be best." Maybe he wished Sigurd wasn't so damn naïve, so damn soft. Maybe he wished he was soft himself still, wished they lived in a world where they could afford to be. But a thousand wishes are dust in the face of a single fact. They crossed the bridge, leaving the dead behind them, just like Savian always did. Leave the dead behind and hope for better. Felt like an empty hope though, and if Sigurd's defeated frowns and sad eyes hurt him whenever he put him straight, the fake smile he had on now, eyes betraying a very opposite mood, that hurt him more than every frown before. He looked ahead, they were starting to lose the sun and in its fall the sky was painted red. The color of bad blood.
