Chapter Three: Part Two

Continued from December 11, Chapter Three: Part One

Silk grinned. It felt like finding a letter from an old friend, perhaps not for him but for someone else he knew well. He had never met the person who wrote the message. Van Vleidt had. Van Vleidt told Silk things about the lost soldier, now hunting murderers in the hills.

“All three of the brigands had the same message,” Digger said. “At first I thought they were for me. I came across him, though, and now I think he means them for someone else.”

Silk raised an eyebrow and looked cheerfully at Digger. “You met him?” Silk said. “Do tell.”

“You know, your attitude about this is far too revelatory. It brings your sanity to question. Anyway, yes, I met him. I went hunting for him. On the third day out I picked up a faint trail—hard to follow, like a panther or some such. Best I had to go on, so I followed it. Tracking that trail put me on edge, and I don’t muss easily. I already felt like someone’s eyes followed me. The feeling got worse when I found the trail—gradual like, not quite enough that I wanted to turn back. The trail led me on through that day—an eerie day, unnaturally still. I never saw any animals. When I pitched camp I couldn’t ever quite settle. I made an extra big fire that night and tried not to sleep. I should have taken someone with me.”

The story lacked humor. Silk chuckled anyway, puffing on his cigar. “What then?”

“I thought I heard something. I have no memory of any actual sound, now that I think of it. It could have been nothing but a gust of wind. Whatever it was, I took up a torch and my crossbow and went out into the dark.”

Silk was enjoying the story. The nervous quiet—the paranoid watching. It was all good fluff. He gestured to Digger, encouraging the end. “Did you find anything?” Silk asked.

Digger thought for a moment before continuing the story. He had a blank expression on his face. “Not a sound disturbed that black night. A sliver moon cast deeper shadows than no moon would have. My torch wavered. I walked through the unnatural silence, feeling oddly lost. Eyes seemed to follow me—I felt them watching. On a rise, in a clearing, I paused to look back and see if I could judge the distance to my camp. I turned once and saw no firelight except my torch. My emotions rose slightly. Again I turned, judging I may have missed it. No noise except those I made interrupted the night. And yet, without any clue, there he stood, not a yard from me, in his white face his cold eyes stared into me.”

“Hmm,” Silk said, growling the syllable. “What did you do?” 

“Raised my crossbow,” Digger said. “And dropped my torch. It sunk in the snow and went out. I shot toward the person anyway—I’m a pretty good blind shot. When my eyes adjusted to the sickle moonlight, however, I could see nobody where he had been.”

“Well, you ought to be dead,” Silk said without sympathy. He smiled, though. It was the kind of thing that got you killed in enemy territory. Sometimes, though, it couldn’t be helped.

“I thought the same thing,” Digger said. “I could see my campfire when the torch had gone out and I hurried back to it. I thought for certain that he’d come get me in the night. I’d have made a sure reckoning of myself if he did.”

“No doubt.”

“Aye, no doubt there is. Anyhow, he never came to get me.”

“Perhaps he didn’t know who you are,” Silk puffed on his cigar and looked again at the board of outlaws. He tried to guess who would be next on a hit list made of the outlaws.

“Aye, that being so, I’m unlikely to be the person he wants to come get him,” Digger said. “He knows I’m sheriff here.”

“Does he?” Silk thought he knew the next name he’d hit if he were hunting the outlaws: Krist Novoselic. Murdered six. Large reward.

“Aye. He’s obviously been sneaking into town to read this board. A few townspeople saw a black-cloaked stranger who they couldn’t explain. He’s been here.”

“Hmm,” Silk growled again. He hovered his hand over Novoselic’s poster. “I think I know who he wants to come for him.”

“The vigilante?”

“Yes,” Silk took his cigar out of his mouth and rubbed his chin. He glanced at Digger. “So you are obliged to follow me around and learn from me?”

“Aye,” Digger said. “Call it a novitiate.”

“How long do you expect this arrangement to last?”

“Till I am capable of killing you,” Digger stated.

“Well, that’s rather final.”

“It’s the way of things,” Digger said. Silk would have liked a little more expression in the young man’s voice—perhaps some gravitas or drama. He spoke thoughtfully and introspectively. At this point he nearly sighed, but didn’t quite. Not very useful cues. The voices mumbled their agreement from around his ears.

Silk rubbed his beard, looking vaguely at the down-at-the-edges eyes and round face of Novoselic. Whoever had done the original etching made him look a little slow. Silk sometimes wished for the blissful ignorance of the stupid. The context of his actions constantly wore him down. He had condemned himself to a certain course of action. He had thrown his lot in with Van Vleidt, who no one quite understood, and would be stung with the association that came with the allegiance as soon as it became public. Van Vleidt and his theories, especially his later ones, had such an unsightly reputation that public declaration in their favor made you immediate enemies. Also, Silk had declared war on Engelkind, which went on a very small list of acts he had done with only limited calculation. He still waited to see how Engelkind would react; there were any number of ways and all of them would make Silk’s life suddenly exciting. No matter what would happen, Silk had put himself into a position where he could only forge ahead. Any other course had become deadly.
Silk stretched his hand. Old scars made his joints stuff. Too many more would end his finessing powers.

“You can come along,” Silk said. “You might learn a thing or two.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“We’re going to find your vigilante.” Silk turned away from the board.

“Why?”

“I think he’s writing to me,” Silk held the note up—Come get me.

“Do you?” Digger said. Silk paused as he walked across the chessboard in the square. He turned to look at Digger. “How will you find him? I couldn’t.”

Smiling, Silk glanced at a man who’d walked into the square. He had a large rolled-up poster in his hand. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll have much trouble,” he said. The man unrolled the poster and secured it to the board. It covered many of the smaller posters. Digger glanced around to see. The poster had Silk’s face, Silk’s name, and a massive reward on it. Enemy of the state, it proclaimed.

Continued on December 15...

Chapter Three: Part One

Continued from December 9, Chapter Two: Part Four

A couple days passed, and Silk and Digger spent them resting.

With a half-eaten apple in one hand, Silk stood in front of a board covered in relics from the War: wanted posters. The War went everywhere, changed everything. It’d been one of those confusing wars—no one knew for sure what side they fought for day to day. It got confusing after only a few years. The War had lasted for forty years. When Silk had been growing up, an urchin on the far southern docks, the War was already old. Just the War. It didn’t need a name. Probably the history books would call it something, but no history books had been written about it yet.

No one ever knew what side they fought for, no one except the choice few like Engelkind and the gods. Failing in that certainty, there was a certainty about what sides fought the War. On the one side stood the gods themselves: Ythig and his pantheon, ruling from castles and leading vast armies who believed the old stories and stood by how the way things had been for all recalling. The gods defended themselves against an insurrection: a coalition of atheistic men rallying to cry that mankind had outgrown the gods. Ironically, when that coalition of rebels lost their leader, the person who replaced him was a god. A new god—a god who never appeared in any old story. People took it as a sign that they would win.

And they had won. The coalition of men, led by the new god Kunig and his warlords—Engelkind being first among them—defeated the gods and threw them from their keeps. The gods lost the War.

Silk inhaled cigar smoke around a bite of apple. The War’s outcome was so monumentally impossible. The whole of Eardbána—the only known continent in the world—took on a greyish cast. No parades or celebration marked the end of the War. Quietly, the new regime established, and the population went along with it. The new god, Kunig, assumed rule in the south, and Engelkind and his armies moved into the greatest fortress in the middle belt of Eardbána. The most pivotal warchiefs who had supported the gods took up abode in the northland of Wildhagen. Kunig declared them exiled. Ythig and the old gods disappeared. Folk presumed them also exiled, but rarely inquired because they feared Engelkind’s secret police.

 The gods had lost the War. The concept could hardly be understood. Perhaps the impossibility of it affected men—perhaps the feeling that the gods no longer watched them made more of them turn bad—perhaps fewer people chose to police each other any longer. Silk thought it was because Wildhagen had become a no-man’s land. The only real authority there was the exiled King of Wildhagen, who stayed in hiding because his power was now illegal. Whatever the reason, boards for wanted posters had more posters than ever. Engelkind offered most of the rewards. Many stated that the reward would be paid forward regardless of the criminal arriving dead or alive.

Silk blew a smoke ring at the poster-covered board. A handful of the posters were slashed through. They had the highest rewards and names Silk recognized. Brillig Oxley—Strags Curran—Gerick Cham—all of them vicious murderers, highwaymen destined for the gallows. They had been war heroes, for what side didn’t matter. Now they were wrong-minded psychos. This was the effect of the War. These men could not recover.

Digger walked up next to Silk and looked at the board with him. They stood for a moment with some town folk walking past behind them. Silk blew out a lung of smoke.

“How did you become sheriff here?” he asked.

“I go where the wind takes me,” Digger said.

“That’s sort of ridiculous.”

Digger shrugged.

“How long are you going to stay here?” Silk asked.

“Well,” Digger said, drawing out the word. “That rather depends on you, as it happens.”

“Does it?”

“Aye. As per preparing to become the Wiga, I’m obliged to learn from anyone who can beat me in a fight.”

“Is that a fact?” Silk said, scratching his cheek and raising an eyebrow.

“Aye. A tradition passed down through the ages.”

“I hate tradition,” Silk said. It was true, though he respected magic. It sounded like one of those magical contracts, like the legend about how the gods had declared that Engelkind could not be killed. A legend, most said, though the now eighty year old warlord gave the tale some credence. The gods made magical promises like that sometimes and men lived with the consequences. Some things could not be negotiated. The gods had a tricky way of declaring things that would happen no matter what.

Digger shrugged again. “Tradition means little to me one way or the other.”

“You’ve never gotten around it, though,” Silk said. Digger shook his head. Silk looked close at Digger’s calm expression. Digger’s eyes had a touch of resignation in them, as if he had tried to outwit the tradition and had failed. The look on Digger’s face made Silk think the consequences had been grave. It must be strange to live a life with a destined place in the world. Silk took joy in little, but he did find a great deal of comfort knowing that he made his own tomorrows.

Digger smiled and looked at Silk sideways. Such a child. Silk puffed on his cigar. He turned back to the board of wanted posters.

“These posters that have been slashed—the outlaw was caught?” he asked.

“For these here, I caught them,” Digger gestured at a handful in the corner. “Some of those were caught by locals or by travelers or mercenaries,” he pointed with an open hand to several others. None of them that he had pointed to so far had very high reward. “These,” he pointed at the three with the highest rewards—Oxley, Strags, and Cham. “These men turned up dead on the highway into the north.”

Silk smiled. “No one has tried collecting a reward for them?” He thought he knew the answer but he asked it anyway.

“Some have tried ,” Digger said.

“You didn’t give them the money,” Silk said, more a statement than a question. He smiled around his cigar.

“They weren’t up for hunting these brigands,” Digger said. “Anyway, whoever it was that killed them is still roaming the hills.”

“Do you know anything about him?” Silk thought he knew a little more himself about this vigilante. Van Vleidt said that Silk would find the vigilante useful. He wanted to know what Digger knew anyway.

“He’s stuffing these in the mouths of the outlaws’ corpses,” Digger took a little piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Silk, “wrapped around a rock.”

Silk took the piece of paper. Come and get me, it read in simple, straight letters.

Continued December 13...

Chapter Two: Part Four

Continued from Chapter Two: Part Three, on December 7 http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-two-part-three.html

Silk hit the ground on one shoulder and slid a few feet, smearing blood from many small abrasions on the flagstones. As he stopped, he became again aware of the crowd. They roared their approval, whistling and chanting Digger’s name. Silk panted for a second—needed to catch his breath. Before it could be said that he was down, he rolled to his knees. His head hadn’t really cleared of the shaking from the uppercut. He’d get past it.

Kneeling and breathing, he looked around at the excited crowd. Ale aplenty and spiced wine circled the people. Chunks of meat—loaves of steaming bread and pretzels. A good time was being had by all. Silk laughed.

“Are you laughing?” Digger said. He bent over, leaning on his knees, trying to catch his own breath, but had his face to Silk.

“Yes. It’s just so ridiculous.” He thought watching a fist fight for entertainment so boorish. Study, maybe--to know your enemy if you would fight one of them, perhaps. Entertainment, though, not so much. The crowd made him laugh.

Digger looked unconvinced. He didn’t see it. People often didn’t see what Silk thought funny. Ah, well.

“Are you done?” Digger asked. Silk felt his jaw to be sure it was neither cracked or sprained. He shook his head. He still had fight left in him.

“You have a second,” Silk said from his spot kneeling on the ground. “You could bet on me—make some money.”

Digger raised an eyebrow. He was not amused.

“Just a thought,” Silk said.

He rose slowly to his feet. When he had, he went at Digger again. This time, his mode of attack was simple and reactive. He watched where Digger’s hands were and guessed where they would be next. Consistently, Silk put his hands just a little bit wrong for the blocks and punches that Digger expected. It’s how he often fought in the last few minutes. It looked sloppy. It was sloppy. His head still spun from the uppercut. When he’d been pressed to a point when he ought to quit he filled his head with breathing sounds, felt only his heartbeat and heard only a cheering crowd, as if a choir of excited and drunk ghosts stood as spectators to his fight. He heard them, always. They cried out for the success of his every move. And nearer, as if over his shoulders, a half dozen voices whispered to him, telling him what to do and where the next fist would swing. The voices were only sometimes the same and only rarely familiar. He used to ignore them, except occasionally and only grudgingly. They often said things contrary to the action he wanted to take. It made him assume they were hallucinations. Though he still wondered what exactly they were, he had decided recently to try listening to them. A mentor had suggested it to him. His life had gone in interesting directions since then.

The voices whispered—jab—feint—blindside—block—kick. He embraced the suggestions. The choir of voices like ghosts—invisible but seeming above the real crowd of people around the fight—sang a violent drinking song. Silk’s attacks had gone just sideways enough that Digger couldn’t compensate. He missed a block. Silk’s attack landed haphazardly on Digger’s cheek. The Wiga’s son tried to jab back. Silk caught his fist. In three quick punches, Silk put Digger off-kilter.

Now, the voices whispered. Silk threw a back-kick into Digger’s head. He fell to the ground, down for the count.

The crowd stood quiet at first, not sure what to do now. It suited Silk, who dropped to a crouch next to Digger. Checking his heart rate and breathing, Silk determined whether Digger would be all right—just to be certain. He had often been the only person near his fights who cared to check and knew how to check of the felled fighter would survive, so he’d gotten used to doing it. A moment of appraisal later Silk had finished. Dazed but not badly, Digger would recover soon. That was good.

The voices like ghosts applauded the effort. They quieted down and dispersed to the normal hubbub he heard all day every day, without there ever actually being noise.

“Well, stuff that for a game of soldiers,”someone in the crowd of humans watching the fight said. Someone else whistled an incredulous whistle. Murmurs traveled to the back as the people who couldn’t quite see asked what happened. Even the bookies had stopped talking. The upset took them all for surprise.

Nearly full dark had arrived. Freezing snow fell on Silk’s and Digger’s bare torsos.

“Does he have apartments?” Silk asked.

“He’s staying at the Currycomb Inn,” someone said.

“My inn is nearer,” Silk said.“The Crossed Wands. Take him there.”

A small crowd obeyed, picking Digger up from the ground. Six men carried him toward the Crossed Wands Inn. Pulling his shirt and jacket on as he went, Silk followed them. He carried Digger’s things.

Not sure what else to do, the crowd dispersed, chatting about the fight. “Bit strange,” some called it.“Thought our sheriff had him at the end, didn’t you?” one said to his mate.“They say Silk uses some mischief or witchwork to win fights,” at least one person muttered, but he was quickly hushed. None wanted the Secret Police down on their heads. Engelkind’s Secret Police were allegedly everywhere, though no one knew if they had ever seen one—not for sure. The Secret Police wandered through recent urban legends, as pervasive as the Boogeyman. And as imaginary, some would say in hushed tones. Still, they explained to one another, best not to risk it. That idea always received warm agreement.

At the Crossed Wands, Silk saw to it that Digger had a room. Then he sent away for Digger’s things to be brought over from the Currycomb Inn.

“He ain’t got much there,” one man told Silk. “Travels light, does our sheriff.” Silk, weary and beginning to feel the fight, grimaced at the man. He had no patience. “Right you are, sir,” the man said. He and his companions skittered off to get Digger’s things.

Without saying another word to anyone, Silk thumped up the flight of stairs to the room he had rented for himself. He shut the door behind him and tugged off his shirt and jacket again. Exhausted, beginning to ache, he fell onto the four poster. Blissful sleep seemed eminent…. Then it felt too cold. He tried to ignore it. A draft from the chimney blew on his skin, though. It fluctuated—cold for a moment, colder for the next. The skin of his side shrank and went goosepimply at the wind’s bidding.

Without speaking, Silk rolled to the floor. He walked in his now bare feet across the well-scrubbed wood slats. Next to the fireplace he found a heap of wood and a pile of wood shavings for kindling. He could light a quick fire. So he did, using the matches on the mantel of the fireplace. Soon, the logs lying in the grate crackled and smoked.

Good and better. He stood—his back felt over-worked—and went back to bed. Falling onto the covers, he closed his eyes. He let himself sink into the downy comforter. The warmth of the fire caressed his aching sides.

But now that he had awaked again, he heard whispering. A voice spoke in the corner of the room. Though the volume and the proximity were near enough, he couldn’t make out the words it said. If he listened to it—he tried not to listen to it but found his attention drawn to it—he thought he could make out every third word or so. When he tried to remember the words he didn’t know what they were.

Though he knew what he’d see, Silk opened his eyes and looked at the corner where the voice nattered. Empty, as he knew it would be. The voice seemed aware of his presence. It turned its attention to Silk and made some salutation, then it went back to talking to itself.

More voices followed. Some in the room—others outside the room but still nearby—most of them moved. He never heard any of them with his actual ears. They more took the form of distinct imaginings that had some origin outside himself. He had no idea where. They went about their own business, if they had any business at all aside from chattering. They always, always talked. He had spent a lot of energy running from them and had never succeeded.

Their inane hubbub filled Silk’s subconscious. They had long since driven him past the edge. He heard a great deal from folk about how he came off as mad and gone astray. Theories aplenty accompanied what folk said, as many theories as towns Silk had visited. Some theories had to do with him selling his soul—others thought that he’d been to the edge of the world—many suspected he’d been tortured so that his mind had gone. The theories all had enough truth in them to be getting along. The voices did little to keep him sane. They never made any sense. Except in desperate moments—near the ends of fights, during raids, at critical moments in negotiations—at those moments the voices assumed perfect clarity.

A mentor of his had recently observed that something important might be happening there. He’d been a much wiser man than Silk. A man called Sagan Van Vleidt who had written books about asceticism and the workings of the mind. Van Vleidt had been a good friend to Silk for the last few years. He had warned Silk against attempting to quiet these voices. “They might be trying to tell you something important,” Van Vleidt had said. Then died—assassinated by Holy Assassins. Now Silk felt guilty. He had always argued with Van Vleidt, never allowing that Van Vleidt might know a thing or two.

Grimbling, Silk rolled onto his back. He tugged a cigar and a box of matches from a pocket in his jacket. When he'd lit the cigar he lay still, smoking slowly and listening to the voices.

End of chapter two. Continued on December 11...

Chapter Two: Part Three

Continued from December 5, http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-two-part-two.html

“You all want to see a good fight?” he said. Conversation quieted. The crowd concentrated, gathered closer, left space in the middle. “You heard that Silk Golinvaux had come, the Beast himself, one of the stories from the Wars. You want to see him fight?” A cheer from the crowd. “You here to see him brawl?” Another cheer. “You rare to see a good scrap?” A raucous, rolling shout with applause. Digger walked around the circle, his arms raised, his smile saintly, encouraging the noise of the crowd. Silk smiled too. He couldn’t help himself. The crowd liked Digger.

Digger looked at Silk. It was a good build-up. Silk wondered where the Wiga was. “He is a big man,” Digger said. “Have any of you seen him fight?” Some cheers and applause. “He’s dropped men twice his size—leaving them dizzy on the ground.” More applause. “According to him, he’s planning to do that again. Do you believe that?” Chuckles from the crowd—applause and cheers, a few whistles. Digger allowed a few beats then started again. “The Beast has been bragging about his next big win already. Have you all heard about this?” More laughs and applause from the crowd. It had grown thicker. If Silk had wanted to get away he’d be hard pressed to do it through the press of bodies. No gap opened in the crowd to let the Wiga through. Silk wondered why Digger felt so convinced that the Wiga would fail to appear. The crowd seemed unconcerned by it. Noticing the confidence of the crowd, as if a good fight was still to commence, Silk’s mood began turning suspicious. Something uncalculated was about to occur.

“Silk Golinvaux has been spreading around town that he can beat your sheriff in single combat. Now how’s that for a game of soldiers, then, eh?”

There arose the loudest cheers of all from the crowd. From the cheers rose a chant. At first, Silk couldn’t make out what they chanted. Then it sounded like “Wiga.” But it clarified then into “Digger.”

Digger, the Wiga’s son, smiled up at Silk. Silk stood head and shoulders taller, both shoulders wider, older and heavier, greater experience, greater prestige. The crowd cheered for Digger. They had been from the start of the introduction.

Silk had been out-maneuvered. It happened so rarely that feeling it now almost amused him.

“My father is still tangled up in the tribal wars,” Digger said so only Silk could hear.

“Then the farce will end here,” Silk said. He’d allow Digger to leave. The game had been completed.

Digger stood his ground, though. He looked curious. “You said you’d beat the sheriff of Súthende. Here I am.”

Though he knew Digger meant it seriously, Silk had trouble accepting it. He had never once heard of Digger the Wiga’s son being any great warrior. Aside from misunderstanding about the Wiga’s son being sheriff in Súthende—and he didn’t know quite how he had done that—Silk had never heard anything about Digger the Wiga’s son.

The crowd continued to cheer. Silk hardly heard it. Digger seemed to ignore it.

“You’re not ready to face me, boy,” Silk growled. He meant it. The lad ought to pick fights in his weight class or he’d get hurt early.

“Perhaps not,” Digger said with utter calm. “You’d do better to try your luck with me. You’re not ready to face my father.”

That statement rubbed Silk backward. He frowned, turned away, and took off his cloak. As he stripped off his jacket and shirt the crowd screamed their approval: the fight was on.

In a few seconds, naked to the waist in the freezing evening—the snow just starting to fall—Silk, big and curled with muscle, faced lithe Digger in the sinking evening.

The clouds broke just at the horizon. A red stained sunbeam flooded the square. In the confusing light of it, Silk threw the first punch. It missed. Not because of any flaw in its delivery. He delivered it perfectly. Digger had got out of the way, though. In the same movement, Digger threw his knuckles into Silk’s ribs. No testing—no posturing. Just a solid first hit. Bam! Most impressive. Though a punch to the ribs hardly fazed Silk. The layers of muscle protected him from blow like quick jabs from arms like Digger’s. To counter, Silk brought his elbow down toward the back of Digger’s neck. The opportunity opened itself to him. Digger anticipated. He dropped below the blow. Falling to his chest on the cold stone, he caught himself, like a push-up movement. Popping back to his feet, Digger backpedaled several feet from Silk. He got out of reach. Keeping his body straight, he began bobbing back and forth. Digger was ready to move any direction Silk startled him to move.

Silk let Digger gain his bearings. He had quick. Quick could get a fighter a long way. Silk had relied on quick in his younger days. It corrected a multitude of errors. So far, Digger had displayed a few errors. He kept his attention full front—forgot to check his blind spots. Hard to take advantage of in single combat unless Silk could come at Digger from more than one angle. Silk ran at Digger and brought his next punch down from a high angle. Digger blocked. In the middle of the motion, Silk slung his leg up to knee Digger’s side. It only scored him a glancing blow. It overbalanced Digger just a touch. Pressing the wobble, Silk slung his other hand down at the side of Digger’s neck. But, in a practiced and smooth motion, Digger slid his hand up Silk’s striking arm. Digger ducked forward. Using the strength of Silk’s swinging arm and his weight against him—Silk only had one foot on the ground--Digger finessed Silk sideways off the ground. He tossed Silk aside.

Silk rolled a few feet. Using the rolling momentum he rose to his feet and braced himself, keeping his stance wide. He appraised Digger. The little redhead stood still now, waiting to see what would happen. His body moved like a conduit of martial training. Surgical, refined, flawless. Silk felt no personality in Digger’s fighting—no soul. All he could do was ply hours of drills. They had been good drills, apparently, and so far they were enough. Digger’s fighting had no life in it; he was an example of perfect theory. There was no fighting Digger. Fighting Digger was fighting martial arts itself. It would get Digger killed someday, unless he learned to put himself in the fight. Someday Digger had to fall off the edge and claw his way back again. He’d never be great till he did.

It made Silk laugh. Digger lacked experience. That was all. Made him a devil to fight, though. Silk had gotten so used to outwitting people in fights. It entertained him, fighting someone with apparently all the tricks to anticipate all the other tricks hammered into him leaving no room for his soul.

Digger threw a bracing foot back, thinking he anticipated what Silk would do next. Silk had turned off planning. He didn’t even know what he would do next. Pell-mell and roaring, he ran at Digger with his fists raised. Silk wailed on Digger without any organization. He paid no heed to Digger’s many precise little punches. He’d have to deal with them later. They were damaging even if they were small. The little stabs of pain could be ignored for now. Silk knocked past Digger’s many blocks with brute force. When Digger attempted to turn away Silk’s frenzied punches, Silk jumped forward, shoulder-first. Digger tried to throw Silk again. Silk grabbed Digger’s hand and pulled him over. They rolled apart and regained their feet. Then, abruptly and illogically, Silk went on the defensive. He lowered his stance and put his loose fists in front of his face. Pushing forward, Silk crowded Digger. Digger tried to back away. Silk kept inside a few feet of him. He lashed out a few times with his open hand. Nothing strong. Just baiting Digger. Digger tried not to take the bait. After a few seconds he couldn’t help it. He jabbed at Silk. Silk caught Digger’s wrist, squeezing. He tugged Digger closer and punched him in the ribs. Letting go of Digger’s wrist, Silk kept inside Digger’s circle. Digger slung his fist at Silk’s cheek. Silk punched Digger’s wrist up. He ducked at Digger. With an uppercut, Silk knocked Digger in the chin. Digger attempted to dodge. His weight was off. He only managed to stumble away. Silk scored a glancing hit. At the power he put behind it a glancing hit would bruise a bit.

Digger wobbled a few steps away. He looked destabilized. When he lowered his chin again blood reddened his lips. His eyes had taken a dazed cast. With extra energy this time, Silk again drove forward to press the advantage he’d gained. Leaning forward, he drew his fist back for a large left hook. And, almost delicately, Digger rebalanced his weight forward. He put his hand back. Then, with textbook perfection, he put every piece of himself into an uppercut. The uppercut landed under Silk’s chin just as Silk’s momentum reached critical and he had started catapulting his own fist forward. With every ounce of his own weight and every foot pound of his left hook redirected back at him, Silk rose off his feet. The electric tingling from the uppercut going up and down his body. He made a long, slow feeling arc off the ground. As he went, a smile grew on his face. Crazy fight.

Continued on December 9...

Chapter Two: Part Two

Continued from December 3, http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-two-part-one.html

By then it was late morning and his big cigar had nearly burned to the stub. His walk had brought him through the brown streets, over the dusty cobbles, to Súthende’s main square. The square had two fountains, both empty of water and partly full of dead leaves and snow. Between them stretched a chessboard made of red and white flagstones, each square five feet to a side. The fight would be in the middle of the chessboard, Silk my lad. He sat on the low wall of one of the fountains, finishing his cigar and sipping the bottle of wine.


Near the other fountain the keeper of the wine shop looked around, trying to be non-descript. Silk also saw two of the bookies he’d seen that day. They exchanged nods then went to different hang-out spots—one to a café and the other sat on a templeyard wall and began whittling a piece of wood.

Flicking the last end of his cigar onto the cobblestones, Silk determined to spread the rumor wider. He wanted more coverage. Just one more will probably do.

A pub stood over-looking the square. Go there—talk to the lass behind the bar. The ground floor had no wall keeping traffic out, and people wandered in and out of the low, dim room. Silk ordered some stew and coffee at the bar from a woman with dimples, dense braids, and shrewd eyes.

“I know your face,” she said after he’d ordered his food. “I saw you fight down Southland way in the spring festival rings. You dropped a man three times your size.” Silk grinned at her. He was sure she exaggerated, but he didn’t mind. “I heard you’re bragging you’ll fight our sheriff.”

“I heard that rumor,” Silk said. He lowered his voice, forcing her to bend toward him over the counter.

“You’ll not fare well in fisticuffs with our sheriff,” she said, though she looked him up and down, thoughtfulness in her eyes. She seemed less sure of the statement because of his presence here before her. He stood taller than everyone else in the pub.

“No. I’ll do well. It’ll be the best fight you ever saw,” he said.

“You’re a bit cheeky, ain’t you?”

Silk smiled. Yes, he is a bit.

He waited for his food at a table near the front, where he could be easily seen from the street. The sky cleared as the morning turned to afternoon, though the air bit with chilly stagnation. The barmaid whispered his identity to everyone who came ordered something. Folk walked past outside with their murmurings and gesturings, confirming to each other that the rumors were true: Silk was there. It made him smile. He smiled a lot these days. The freedom of his new life choices pleased him, he supposed. New life. New direction. Yes.

When the stew came he took his time chewing through it. The crowd nearby increased and tried hard not to look at him as news spread that he was himself. He liked the sound of their inane chatter. It soothed him to have so much noise filling his ears; it kept his thoughts subdued. The stew gone, his cigar gone, Silk crossed his legs in the wooden chair where he sat and asked for a cup from the barmaid. She brought it to him.

Looking out at the square and the slowly growing crowd there, Silk finished his bottle of wine.

He had a long history with the Wiga. They’d always taken opposite sides in the war. During the War, that he and the Wiga would oppose each other was on a very short list of reliable facts of life. They opposed each other on everything. If Silk’s leaders commanded him to infiltrate some forest with an impenetrable maze of traps then the Wiga had made the maze—if Silk designed the most fool-proof plain of attack ever devised then the Wiga found the pinhole that could bring it down—if the Wiga’s reputation as a drinker had one short-coming it was Silk’s reputation being just as impressive. In all the years they had spent fighting, Silk had never met the Wiga face to face.

He liked the idea of meeting the Wiga this way. Single combat—hopefully not quite to the death. Should be a bit of a lark.

Silk sat for about an hour after the last drip of wine had dried from the bottle. The bookies had started shouting odds and things like that. The milling people had turned into a full crowd. They seemed to have an instinct that the middle few squares of the chess board in the middle of the square ought to be reserved for the fight and they avoided those flagstones. The temperature had started dropping. Dusk approached. The sky filled again with clouds. Silk smelled coming snow.

A thin, faraway-eyed youth, his fiery-red hair grown long past his shoulders, stood nearby, watching the milling crowd with the slow expression of someone used to seeing more than other people. He wore old brown leather, dirty wool dyed blue, and linen clothing—not rich clothing but well made and durable. Judging from the sheer wear in the clothes he had traveled a great deal, but judging from how clean they were he had not traveled recently. Silk called him over. Without smiling, but cordially, the youth came to Silk’s table.

“What’s your name?” Silk asked him.

“I’m called Digger,” Digger said.

“Sit with me, Master Digger,” Silk said. Digger sat at the wooden table. “I’m called Silk Golinvaux.”

“I know,” Digger said. He took a thoughtful, even tone, exerting more energy in listening.

“What are your talents, Master Digger?” Silk, with his legs, crossed one over the other, met Digger’s faraway eyes. Digger stared right back. A sort of cloud seemed to fill Digger’s eyes. Not something visible. Digger’s pupils were as dark as anyone’s. They had something about them that drew attention once time had been taken to look closely at them. Silk could not, unlike with most other men, immediately guess Digger’s thoughts. It would take some education of Digger’s tells before he could be easily read.

“I’m a fairly good fighter,” Digger said.

“Can you command a crowd?” Silk asked. “I need a herald. But I know no one in town.”

“I am a fair orator. The townspeople here respect me—they’ll listen if I talk. I can act your herald,” Digger said.

“I’ll pay you,” Silk said.

“Of course you will,” Digger said. He fell silent, neither asking how much nor asking what to say. He did smile—a small smile—a suggestion to keep talking. Digger would listen. Silk felt somewhat bemused to be invited to speak. It was almost as if Digger thought he controlled the situation. Silk saw nothing to control. He explained what he wanted anyway.

“Have you seen any of the fights at the Mayfair Bazaar in the south?” Silk asked.

“Aye,” Digger said.

“Do you think you could talk like those heralds?” Silk asked. Digger nodded. “Good. Do you have any familiarity with my history?” He had to ask. Many people knew it.

“I’ve had many a military history lesson,” Digger said. “My father followed your career.”

“Did he?”

“Aye.”

“And who is your father?” Silk asked, because it was polite. He didn’t especially care. “Would I have heard of him?”

“My father is the Wiga, him that you’re planning to fight now.”

Silk smiled. “How does that suit you?”

“Suits me fine,” Digger said. He stood. “I’ll act as your herald. You’re ready now, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Silk stood as well. He and Digger walked into the square. Folk caught sight of them and started nattering. “You have no argument if I challenge your father to a fight?”

“You care?” Digger asked.

“Not especially. Another man might have.”

“I have no reason to expect him to appear,” Digger said, his tone still flat.

“Bad blood in the family, eh?” Silk asked. He never understood bad blood in families. He didn’t have a family so he lacked context. He tried to understand. He could pretend to understand. He failed to truly grasp it.

“A bit,” Digger said. They’d reached the center of the chessboard in the middle of the square. “He left me and me mum when I had only just turned twelve. I haven’t seen hide of him since.”

“Poor dear,” Silk said without feigning much sympathy. He came to suspect as he spoke to Digger that lying to him about anything would serve little advantage.

Digger smiled back to Silk another odd smile. This time the faint expression bespoke of a complex set of emotions—resignation, resentment, mingled with small amusement and triumph. Silk felt he might have missed something. The smile seemed only partly from the mention of Digger’s father.

Digger raised his voice and—projecting rather than shouting—announced Silk to the crowd.

Continued on December 7...

Chapter Two: Part One

Continued from December 1, Chapter One: Part Four: http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-one-part-four.html

All the electric zing of the prettiest uppercut Silk had ever received tingled up and down his body, which made a long arc up, back, off his feet. He gave the Digger kid credit. This was not the easy fight that Silk had put money on to win. In fact, at the moment of the uppercut, Silk thought that he might--impossible as it sounded--lose. Fire and brimstone, what a ludicrous thought.

Still, it was a real thought that went through his head as he fell to the ground. His bare shoulder hit the cold stones of the courtyard and he skidded for a few feet before coming to stop in a smear of the red blood leaking from abrasions on his bare brown chest and face. He tried to keep the world, spinning in his dizzy head, from moving too much.

What a day.

He had arrived in Súthende early in the morning. Hardly anyone in the town walked the streets. Those that did stared at Silk as he passed. Silk attracted attention most places. He rode a palomino war stallion so he loomed over everyone, and he dressed in red leather and velvet with gold brocade so he caught the eye. Even when he walked he stood taller than many people. In this cold end of the world, where men tended to be pale-faced and tawny haired, Silk’s dark skin and black dreadlocks made him stand out even more.

Arriving at the best inn he could find in the small Súthende, Silk handed his horse’s reins to the boy at the door. Silk went inside the inn and asked for a room from the man at the bar.

“Aye, we’ve got one,”the man said, looking up at Silk’s face. Silk grinned at the man. It was a cheerful grin—disarming. The man looked put at ease. He led Silk upstairs and opened a room for him. Silk asked for some food and a bottle of wine, which the innkeeper brought and left by the door. Silk ate it quickly. Then he lit a cigar, took the bottle of wine with him, and went out into the town. He couldn’t bear to be still in the quiet room.

Súthende was a town of a few thousand. There were a couple inns and markets, and enough people for a healthy gambling population . Silk ambled down the street, saying hello to people he saw. None knew his face—not yet, anyway. He’d be famous soon. Every new town he entered he tried to become somehow famous. A comfortable level of fame greased the bearings in his shenanigans.

And news was hard on his heels that would ruin his reputation. Súthende would be the last town he could be popular. The thought of having notoriety again somehow thrilled him. He’d been feared, held in awe, and, since the War, generally respected—or feared so that men held their tongues in his presence. He was the Warlord Engelkind’s primary hit man—his name the stuff of legends and monster stories. As such, Silk Golinvaux could mention his own name and everyone fell in line, did what he said without question. His presence created order. It had been more than a decade since he had needed to fight for anything. The pseudo-calm felt nice, to a certain point. Without expecting to bash a few heads in daily his life had attained a new and unknown level of decadence and gaiety—comfort, almost. The leisure had allowed him to explore the intricacies of his position; as Engelkind’s hit man, Silk had always understood the significance of his movements inside Engelkind’s armies and larger military strikes. The title of“hit man” had been assigned arbitrarily when no one could quite figure what Silk was meant to do. He performed assassinations throughout the latter years of the war, certainly, but he also conducted armies in military actions, designed siege weapons occasionally, delivered politically touchy messages to enemies and friends alike, and aided in guerrilla strikes on enemy establishments. The guerrilla strikes perhaps fit his talents best. They demanded most of the talents he gained in the farthest south among the dark skinned pirates around the southern peninsula.

Every year he kept a personal tally of his accomplishments, always pushing for the next most impossible task. He had achieved as he went the level of freedom he always wanted: he commanded nothing and could not be commanded, but everyone knew his name. And he had accomplished every feat of cunning he could imagine. Only one great task remained to be mastered, and it required an abandonment of everything he had done before it. His culminating work: he had declared open war on Engelkind. Just himself—no other people, unless he gathered more to his cause. He was not likely to attract anyone to it. Engelkind was the big dog. Opposing Engelking got people killed.

Silk’s letter to Engelkind announcing his personal declaration would have arrived a day or two ago. News of it would spread and get this far north soon…. Or Engelkind would ignore it. Silk ran that risk. The proposition sounded ludicrous. A man declaring war on another man—not quite reasonable at first blush. And Silk had been careful to declare war on Engelkind the man, not on his institutions. In his position as warlord ruling a third of the world, the most effective armies in history at his disposal, Engelkind could very well ignore Silk’s letter. He’d deal with that if it happened. Engelkind would never ignore Silk’s actions.

And, first action, Silk waited for an agent from the north, due to arrive in Súthende soon.

Silk turned down an alley, pulling his gold-brocade-hemmed hood onto his head. At the end of the cobblestone alley several men played dice and gambled on the game against the back wall. He exhaled a drag off his cigar and sipped from the bottle of wine. Stepping lightly, so as to not startle anyone, he came to stand next to a big man near the back of the small crowd watching the dice rolls. Like any bored farmers and craftsmen would, the crowd found the game of dice enthralling. The cheered one of the men playing—booed another. Silk watched the game with the others, feigning as deep an interest as the others. He kept his cheer of a good roll quiet and his reaction to a bad one neutral. After a few more rolls he judged that he’d stood there long enough to be taken for granted by those nearest him.

Another good roll from the favored dice player. The crowd cheered. The big man next to Silk chuckled and clapped.

“Good roll, that,” Silk said.

“Aye—our lad has a supple wrist,”the man said.

“You got money on him?” Silk asked. The man, smiling, tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “Who’s your bookie?” Silk offered the man the bottle of wine. Smiling wanly and raising a suspicious eyebrow, the man took the bottle of wine and raised it to his lips anyway. “I know of a game that I think I could make a killing on.”

That got the man’s attention. He lowered the bottle and looked closer at Silk. Silk scratched his cheek and yawned, blocking most of his face from the man’s view without looking suspicious. It was enough to distract this big man, most probably.

“I hear there’s a big time fighter from the south in town bragging he can best the sheriff,” Silk said.

The big man chuckled again. “No man can best our sheriff,” he said, raising the bottle of wine to his lips. He looked thoughtful, though, considering the angles of a fight like that.

“I’m not so sure,” Silk said.“This fighter was in the Wars—part of some elite militia.”

“I was in the fucking Wars,” the big man said. He handed Silk back his wine. The big man looked curious. “No man can best our sheriff, not even some southern elite militiaman.”

“Might be the case,” Silk said.

“You just consider switching your bet,” the big man said.

“Might have to do that,” Silk said. He turned to leave. As he did he listened to the big man asking the next man along if he’d heard of this alleged sheriff versus the southern stranger fight. The second man also insisted that no one could best the sheriff, but he also expressed that the “southern shitegob” must have the stones of a horse.

Silk smiled. He meandered through town. Down that alley—more gambling is happening there. Turning down the alley he inquired about a bookie because he had heard that the Man Monster Silk Golinvaux was in town, raring to start a ruckus. After planting that seed in the imagination of a young, greedy bookie, Silk needed another bottle of wine. In the wine shop he found he let drop that he heard the other wine shop he’d seen had told him that they were going to go and set up a little shop out in town square to sell wine to the spectators already planning to show up to the big fight between the out of towner and the sheriff. Silk took some satisfaction in the sight of the shopkeeper’s boy running out of the shop, clearly on some urgent mission, a message on a piece of paper clutched in his hand.

Coninued on December 5...

Chapter One: Part Four

Continued from Chapter One: Part Three, posted on November 29: http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/11/chapter-one-part-three.html

“Is he leaving already?” Hilda warbled. They passed her as they went into the great hall. “I’ve already turned down a bed and all.”


“Yes. Mother wants him to leave now,” Trilby said shortly.

“Well, the better demons be leaving, anyhow,” Hilda muttered.

“Hold your tongue, old woman,” Trilby chided.

Rather than obey, Hilda mumbled and wandered off on her business, a broom in her hand. Twig still heard every word she said about demons and witches. He hoped she guessed wrong about him. He had no comfort to give her. It would comfort him to be away from this house and these people—for their sakes, not for his. Although he felt in perfect control of himself, the thought of what he had the power to do to them made him uneasy. If he ruled this house he would make himself leave.

He helped Trilby pull a shawl around her shoulders, then they went out the large front doors back into the chilled sunshine. When they came onto the porch, Trilby slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, in a polite gesture. She flinched at how cold his arm felt; she tried to hide it, but Twig noticed it. He dismissed it. Appreciating the warmth of her hand meant more to him just then.

Exhaling completely, he filled his lungs with her smell, and thought about it. Clean, milky, warm. She kept herself well fed and she spent a great deal of time outside. Her heartbeat calmed him. He kept its rhythm in his mind. Listening deeper, he got a read on the baby’s heartbeat.

“She has a strong heart,” Twig said. Trilby smiled.

“You can hear it?” she asked. Twig nodded. “That’s curious, isn’t it?”

“It is strange,” Twig said.

“Useful, though.”

Yes, it was useful. Twig remembered how it came in useful hearing the variations in the hearts of the Holy Assassins, telling him when they were sure or unsure or surprised, where their blood went to older injuries that he could use to his advantage. Very useful skill.

“His father has a strong heart,” Trilby said, resting a hand on her belly. “Or her father, rather. I’m glad that she has a strong heart.”

They had reached the stables. Trilby drew up the latch on the door and they went inside. The twenty horses in the thirty stalls whinnied, nervous, more wary than shocked now that they’d become a little used to Twig. Trilby frowned at the horses but made no comment. Horses had good instincts. Twig trusted horses. It took courage for Trilby to give him the benefit of a doubt.

“Mother doesn’t like my child’s father,” Trilby said, clearing her throat and guiding Twig along the line of nervous horses. “She says he’s a vagrant and a deadbeat. I think he’s charming.”

“You are not married to him,” Twig concluded. He wondered if the boy was some gypsy. The thought had a story in it of a poetically minded Trilby who enjoyed fantastical things. It met with no disapproval from him.

“He is the son of the Wiga. There was a Wiga when you went to war, was there not? Lord of Chaos, say that five times fast, eh?” She smiled. There had been a Wiga when Twig went to war. In times of legend, the gods had blessed the greatest warrior to beget a line of warriors as great as himself. There had been a Wiga ever since—only ever one. The son of the Wiga spent his life traveling, training, learning. Adventure found him, and he learned what he could from it. Whenever the Wiga died, the son inherited the title and the supernatural blessing. That’s how the story went. It showed good taste on Trilby’s part, Twig thought. “He travels too much to be married just yet,” Trilby finished.

“I see,” Twig said.

She smiled again. “You are so straight-faced, I don’t know if you disapprove.”

“I approve,” Twig said. “The Wiga has strong blood.”

She smiled more gently. “He is a faraway man—or boy—perhaps he is a man. I am not sure. He strikes me more as a poet than a fighter, always gazing at nothing and getting lost in little things. I have trouble knowing what he thinks. I don’t mind that, though.”

Twig had known a woman like that once.

They paused on their walk past the skittish horses. The stall next to them held a grey mustang, a low horse who would be capable of walking and trotting practically for days. The mustang stood quietly chewing hay, unconcerned by the skipping of the other horses in the stable.

“Well,” Trilby said, “I had rather thought this horse would never see the light of day again. No one likes him, except the grounds man, who died not long ago on his way back from the plains. Bones here carried the body back. He’s not a bad horse—solid little pony, obedient and calm, and I think he’s very bright. The lads just find him a little too quiet for comfort. They found him wandering out in ghost country a few seasons back. Curious.” She looked Twig in his calm face. “I’m sorry you feel that you have to go,” she said.

“It is best,” Twig said. He looked the mustang called Bones in its big eye. Bones looked back, chewing the hay.

“I suppose. Mother is dedicated, and you do make the animals nervous.” She gestured at the horses. “That is never a good sign.”

“No. It is a bad sign,” Twig said.

Trilby looked unhappy. She frowned and looked away from him, though she had to agree. Twig felt better that way, a very little bit. Being so near this girl’s hair, her face, her dress, her voice—so familiar, and so different… He would never be at rest here.

“Where will you go?” Trilby asked.

“I will call out an enemy.” The Holy Assassins made the first move. Twig would make the next. His quarrel was not with the Assassins themselves. The Assassins were soldiers, as he was. They followed orders, leaving the questions to be asked by men higher up the chain. He would reach higher up the chain. The Ferryman himself had earned Twig’s retribution. The Ferryman had been in charge of the Zombie Corps as well. He should not have sent his dogs after Twig. Someone had to account for that. “I have to send my enemy a message,” Twig said. “I trust that Súthende still has a board where the wanted posters hang.” Súthende: the nearest town.

“Yes,” Trilby said. “More full than ever. More people are out of favor with the aristocracy than ever were. Somehow the lords who rule us now have brought out the worst in all the lowest men. It’s dangerous to travel.”

“I do not know who rules now,” Twig said.

“Oh, no, I suppose that you wouldn’t. It’s strange to think of,” she cleared her throat again and her expression turned thoughtful. “The north is nominally ruled by the sorcerer, Considine, but he does nothing to govern. No one’s seen him since I was five. The land south of Súthende is split in two. The middle is ruled by the warlord, Engelkind. His territory borders all of Wildhagen,” she said. Wildhagen was the name of the North Country.

Engelkind had been the name of a general when Twig joined the Zombie Corps. If he ruled most of the world then the wrong side had won, like Widow Lockwood had said. Engelkind had been an enemy of the Zombie Corps. “And the whole continent is divided in only three,” Twig stated.

“Well, there’s the far west, where the desert is past the mountains. No one much cares about there,” Trilby said. “And the Savages on the east coast still keep control of the islands and things. Nobody bothers them. But Wildhagen, Engelland, and the land far south watched by the rulers in Kunigsgrad are the big countries. It’s peculiar to imagine, really, that everything is so set and regimented. I remember things being different.”

“As do I.” Twig wondered what Kunigsgrad was. He had never heard of it.

“I’m sure it’s a shock to you,” Trilby said.

“I feel no shock,” Twig said, and truthfully. All the new information merely went into his head and began filing itself as if he wrote it all down and could look at the words from behind his eyes. His mind organized itself as he learned new things. Cross-referencing with the new information into old information began happening without his making it so.

“I wish things were different,” Trilby said. “The world feels so cold.”

“Perhaps a spark could be lit under it,” Twig said.

Trilby smiled. “That’s pretty,” she said. Twig liked to see her smile. She sighed, seeming to have no hope for the future. “Let me help you pack Bones,” she said.

They got a black saddle on the mustang and some saddlebags. Trilby offered to get Twig some supplies. Every whiff of food that he had since waking had caused him revulsion and he declined. When she insisted, he accepted some tea leaves.

“And surely you will need a weapon—we have some swords that—” Trilby said. Twig cut her off, though.

“No. Please—um…” He had spoken too quickly and startled her. Concern entered her eyes. He scratched the side of his nose with a hand still clutching the end of his cloak’s sleeve to hid the bloodstain on the sleeve of the leather. “Thank you. I will be all right. You have already been kind enough to me.”

“Hmm,” Trilby said, looking away with a motherish purse to her lips. She dropped it, though. He was grateful. Soon, he had prepared to leave, with his melancholy mustang and his empty saddlebags.

Sitting on Bones, he and the mustang turned toward the road to Súthende.

The household had mostly turned out to see him off. Hilda had showed up to cheer him away. “And good riddance!” she said out loud. No one shushed her this time. The men who worked the manor lands stood nearby, stoic, quiet, just watching Twig ride away from them.

“Goodbye, Twig Lithnmark,” Trilby said. “May Lady Wendy be your comfort on the road and guide you to a safe landing.”

Twig rather hoped she would—Lady Wendy was goddess of comfortable things like mothering and food. She supposedly had good wishes for everyone. Twig hoped to be included.

He looked up at the manor. A curtain in a second story window dropped into place. Twig managed to see Widow Lockwood before the curtain hid her.

A daughter. It pleased him. She had done well.

He turned his eyes to the road.

End of Chapter One

Continued on December 3...