All in Red

She had noticed me—I knew that—but she acted as if she hadn't. I sat down next to her, much too close; she didn't move away and ignored me.

“Do you think as the days are passing by it'll get warmer soon? Winter’s chill just won't let go of my bones.”

The witch didn’t answer.

“Fion?”

“That's not...” she began, looking at me with annoyance, then startled by her own reaction, she immediately hid those emotions behind a mask of indifference and looked away once again.

“I think I'll help them. The villagers.”

“Whatever makes you happy. I won’t. Not without pay.”

“You hate my people, don't you?”

“Your people?”

“Ingeones.”

“They don’t call that themselves. Their tribes are as divided as ours were before the conquest.”

“Tribes?”

“Earldoms, marches, shires, burghs and wards, call it whatever you want.”

“Maybe that will change.”

“Not from within. The next conquest is only a matter of time. They are what they are. It always goes the same.”

We sat there in silence for a few moments. My arm brushed against her. This woman felt so cold.

“I'm afraid of the night.”

“Of the dark?”

“Of Nightmares. So I'm going for a walk. Maybe that will exhaust me enough to find sleep without them catching on. Will you sing me a song after, like you once did? To keep them away a little longer.”

She looked at me for a moment and then just scoffed.

I returned to the others, who had gathered around a table.

“…us the story, boy. What are they to each other?” I heard Gilgand ask.

“I'm going to take a walk. I’ll sleep outside in the carriage. We’ll talk tomorrow about the bandits.”

And before they could say anything, I had already walked away again. But, of course, with Carver in tow.

By now, it seemed that only the moons and stars shone in the night sky. And so did Swarehurst's torches and fires down here around us.

“How good are you with fire runes?” I asked the boy.

“Not very. I have all the necessary pigments, but no suitable stone. What are you up to, Ino?”

“Finish up a few scrolls. Baduith had some paper in the carriage. It may not be as effective, but it will do. I’ll be back soon. Trust me. And take my coat.”

“How many?”

“Four. No. Five.”

Carver nodded, I handed him my vibrant over-garment and we parted ways after the guards let us back out through the gate.

A trail led northward from the road, we had traveled earlier, into a rather sparse forest. And it wasn't long before a camp came into view.

I moved forward quietly, step by step, getting closer and closer.

There they were—the first two sentries—torches in hand. They were talking to each other and paying no attention to their surroundings.

It was easy to get past them. Three other men were sitting around a fire in the camp, keeping watch. The others seemed to be asleep already.

There didn't seem to be more than two dozen.

No yelling, no fights, no beer or wine. These weren’t mere bandits, but they certainly weren’t seasoned soldiers either.

So what was driving them? Fear. Yes, only fear would make a bunch like that behave so meekly.

Fear was measurable. All it would take to break their resolve was to surpass the fear that drove them with causing something even more frightening.

On my way back, when I was a little way away from the two outer sentries, I stood up straight, watched them, and rustled awkwardly so they would notice me.

I made my run for the road, but did so slowly. One of them yelled something, and they both chased after me.

A large, old tree loomed before me. I fell to the ground—just pretending, of course.

The two men had caught up to me, charged at me—using only their fists—and apparently hadn't noticed my armor yet, and then it was already too late.

I immediately thrust my sword into one of them. He fell to the ground the moment I twisted it and pulled it back out.

His companion stepped back and reached for his weapon—a rather decent-sized hatchet.

As I stood up, I spun around and, using that momentum, lashed out at him.

The bandit tried to defend himself with his hatchet and torch. But he was completely thrown off balance, and my attack made him drop both and sent him to the ground.

It seemed I had completely slashed his right hand, which he was holding with his left. Blood gushed out, and he groaned.

“We can just leave it at this little wound. Or you'll end up like your friend over there. Nod if you understand, and don't you dare scream. Keep your voice down,” I hissed at him in a low voice.

He nodded. Of course he did.

“Who are you?”

“Odogild. I’m…”

“Not your name. Your band!”

“Golden Dozen.”

So it wasn't a coincidence after all.

“What are you doing out here? Why this village?”

“No idea. Orders from the boss.”

“Who?”

“Derwin.”

“Are those at the camp all of you that remain?”

“I think so.”

“There should be more than that. I heard there were about a hundred of you.”

“Most did split off after Bermur’s death. And all the others that were killed by the swordsman in red.”

“The swordsman in red?”

“That’s what they call him. A very young man from the continent. He's going around Strandburgh, killing people left and right. And the Mareeve just lets him.”

In the forest, I noticed the glow of torches and the sound of footsteps drawing nearer.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?!”

My knife quickly slit his throat, and I made my escape.

These fools had lost two more men. An attack on the village was a lost cause. But they probably weren't after that anyway.

Back at Swarehurst, I saw Carver crouching in front of the carriage. A torch was stuck in the ground next to him.

“Are you done?”

“Almost. Is everything alright?”

“Sure.”

I held out my sword to the boy. He took it and placed it among his tools, which were scattered around him.

“Did anyone else come and go while I was away?”

“The scarred hag.”

“Where…”

“Do you like her?”

“I do.”

“Will you marry her?”

I had a good laugh. For the first time in quite a while.

“What is so funny about that?”

“She certainly wouldn't marry me. And besides, I'm already a husband and a father.”

“Really? You don't look like a father.”

“Where did she go?”

The boy pointed to the south—downstream of Swarehurst.

"Be careful. The bandits might pay us a visit."

"Did you pay them a visit?"

"I did."

"I'll be on the lookout."

I watched him for a little while longer as he worked, completely absorbed in what he was doing.

“Do you want to return back home one day, Carver?”

The boy looked up at me.

“Without a doubt!”

“Good.”

I put back on my coat, took a blanket out of the carriage and followed the river until I came to a meadow. In the starlight, it was beautiful and inviting—and surely it would be just as lovely in the sunshine—a good place for the women from the village to do the laundry.

But Fion was sitting there on the shore, too. She looked over at me, so sad and indifferent, kicking the surface of the water.

Once again, I approached her, sat next to her. Once again, I was much too close, almost leaning against her, but she didn't back away.

“Do you think you can get to me with that?”

“Warming you? Where's your coat?”

Once again the witch scoffed at me. Gently, I wrapped a blanket around us.

“Why did you take care of me and nurse me back to health in Strandburgh?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why are you lying?”

“You just looked like an innocent little boy. Does that satisfy you?”

I chuckled.

“Somewhat. Will you sing me that song?”

“It’s not fitting for this moment.”

“Wasn’t it about death?”

“Yes.”

“Please.”

She began to hum, didn’t really sing. No words. How lovely. Until the end of the night.