by Ryan Kirk
The farmer had always been quick to indulge his son’s curiosity, indulging any pastime and interest with genuine encouragement. He never lied to his son, and let him ask whatever was on his mind. But in the city they had not made much progress through the streets as the boy stopped every two steps to ask questions of anyone who would listen, and several of the questions had bordered on inappropriate. It marked the first time the farmer had asked his son to hold his questions for a while so they could conduct their business. The boy had, true to character, asked why, and the father hadn’t been able to decide whether to be frustrated or laugh in submission to his son’s undying curiosity. Fortunately, the son heeded the father, and he asked only the burning questions until they left the city outskirts. Almost as soon as they passed the final houses, he started rattling off question after question.
The farmer forced his attention to the present. The camp was in motion, preparing shelter for the evening. Since the matter had been decided, it only took the group a short time to build up the fire and collect more wood from the caravan’s stores. Watches were decided for each of the soldiers, and both the merchant and farmer agreed to stand a watch.
In time they all fell asleep in a ring around the fire, sheltered by wagons and beasts. The watches went by without incident, and before long the darkness gave way to the gentle but insistent push of the rising sun. As was their custom, the farmer's family was up to greet the daylight. At home there was always much work to be done, and daylight was the most precious of resources. The soldiers woke next, accustomed to the routine of the garrison, while the merchants and the elders were last to rouse themselves.
The dawning of the new day raised the spirits of everyone in the party. Doubts of survival were laid to rest as a strengthening sunlight broke through the clouds. All the men had maintained a stoic exterior throughout the night, but each of them, at least once, had wondered if the snow and wind would overpower the fire and their ability to stay warm.
Hopes gave way to a creeping unease as it was discovered that the blacksmith had left camp. The soldier who had been on watch last said the blacksmith had woken up early, just before the breaking of the sun, and left to find the way. The farmer and merchant set aside their differences and agreed that even if that was the case, he should have returned by the time the camp was up and ready.
The news sparked another round of discussion between the traders. The elders believed the blacksmith had found his way home and decided the comfort of hearth and home were more important than the well-being of the travelers. The events of the past few days had convinced them that the man was a poor choice for a guide. The village must be nearby and the blacksmith must have assumed the rest could find their way easily.
Another possibility was the blacksmith himself had gotten lost. The elders were quick to point out that if the blacksmith had not made it home this was the other most logical explanation. Although the elders didn’t know the blacksmith’s fate, they were certain whatever occurred was due to the ineptitude of the blacksmith. It was a consensus the merchant quickly agreed with.
The final option, voiced by the farmer but dreaded by all, was that the blacksmith had been attacked by bandits. The elders and merchant were quick to dismiss this idea, to the hearty agreement of the soldiers. No bandits would venture out in this weather. Any problems were certainly of the blacksmith's own making.
The farmer did not argue, but saw the eyes of the elders dart back and forth. The farmer reflected that fear was always based in the unknown, and there was enough unknown to cause anyone to fear. He sympathized. The farmer had known the blacksmith for many cycles, and although he was not known for his competence in metalwork, the farmer did have to admit that no one knew the land better. It seemed much more likely to the farmer that the blacksmith had come to harm, either accidental or intentional. He held out hope he was wrong, but felt in his heart he wasn’t.
After the options were debated, the elders decided that the farmer, knowing the land the best of those left, would be the one to take them home. The farmer objected, claiming he did not know the area they were in, and to depart would be even more dangerous than staying. However, the elders were insistent, and they wanted to be home. The farmer had no choice but to accept the position of guide.
The farmer shared his concerns softly with his wife, who said little. The farmer always appreciated that detail about her. His wife did not complain about the burdens of daily life, or even those that transcended the day-to-day. Instead of complaining and evaluating, she acted. Often listening to her husband's observations and internal debate, she would silence him with a quick gesture and ask, "So what are you going to do?"
She would not let him over-think too much, and whatever his answer was, she set about to putting it in motion. The same was true today. Staying or going, if there were bandits, there wouldn’t be any safety. There was no complaint or overt fear in her eyes. She instinctively brushed her right hand over the belt that held her winter garb together. Cleverly hidden behind it was a small, exceptionally sharp dagger. The farmer knew she had no training, but was certain she would not hesitate to use it well if the situation required.
The party, now eleven, moved forward as best as the farmer could determine. He knew which way they had been heading last night and figured his best bet would be to follow in the same direction. He was optimistic that soon they would be in lands he would recognize.
For a moment the farmer allowed himself to hope. The sun, although low, was shining brightly, reflecting off the snow, creating a bright, clear day. The fresh snow crunched underneath their feet, and for a while everything seemed perfectly right with the world.
The farmer’s feeling of contentment passed like the sun behind a storm cloud as he came over a rise. On the other side stood eight men with dark, ragged cloaks, standing in the intended path of the party as if they didn’t possess a care in the world. Although the bandits were outnumbered, the farmer knew the trading party had no chance. They only had two swords to the bandit’s eight. He turned around, and his last act in life was to attempt to tell his wife to run. The cloaks moved with incredible speed through the snow, and cold steel was through his heart before he could finish his yell.
There was a moment of complete shock when nobody in the caravan moved. It happened too suddenly for them to process. But within moments the scene erupted into mass, uncontrollable panic. The two soldiers, green as fresh spring grass, stood tall against the assault, but were cut down before even drawing blood. The rest of the group attempted to scatter to no avail, as they were rapidly rounded up by the dark cloaks who corralled them into a small circle. They encountered no resistance besides the guards. None in the caravan were warriors and shock had stolen any rationality they possessed. Resistance was the quickest path to death, and it is always better to lose one's money than one's life. There was hope among the group that the bandits would not want further blood on their hands.
The bandits had no such thoughts. They had already committed murder, and murder was always punishable by death in the Southern Kingdom. They knew they were safer with no survivors. It took them only moments to seize possession of all the travelers’ goods, so next they took the merchant’s wife. Although older than the farmer's wife, her skin was not cracked and hardened from cycles toiling in the sun. She was soft, and even after two brutal days on the road, retained some semblance of the sensuality that had drawn the merchant's eye many cycles ago.
It was too much for the woman, and she began to cry, fight, and scream. She could bear to lose her money, but not this. They grabbed her, treating her no better than an animal. She knew her future and refused to accept it. She was queen of their little village in all but title, and she believed herself noble. This happened to peasants. She pointed at the farmer’s wife and yelled at her captors to take her instead. She yelled and kicked until one bandit struck her with enough force to daze her. As she recovered her senses her eyes pleaded desperately for her husband to take some action
to stop what was about to happen, but he couldn’t see.
The merchant kept his head down, trying to shut out the sights and sounds surrounding him. His wife saw the ultimate cowardice of her husband, and she lost all tension in her body as though dead. Her eyes flickered from pleading and desperation to fury and finally to resignation. Twenty cycles together and the merchant would not even raise his head to comfort his wife, much less risk his life.
But their son would. One of the militia soldiers had fallen only a couple of paces away from the boy, and the bandits were more focused on the merchant's wife than on their prisoners. Over the past days, the soldiers thought there could be no end of the boy's dreams of becoming a great warrior. His head was full of the stories of the nightblades in the Great War, and he saw himself as the second coming of those legendary warriors. The militiamen had allowed him to take part in their morning exercises, and went so far as to pretend he was a great swordsman, a natural talent. They saw it as a kindness, and the boy knew it as fate. Today he saw his chance, saw himself rising as a hero to the village, saving the elders and his father and mother from the bandits. He had heard the stories of swordsmen defeating groups of twenty to thirty men, so he thought nothing of only eight.
The boy rushed to the fallen sword. He swung it up and made his first cut before the bandits realized their danger. By then it was too late, and to the boy's credit, his cut was true. He almost severed a bandit's neck, getting his new sword stuck in between the bones of the spine. The three bandits who had taken the wife held her still to watch while the remaining four bandits drew their swords and cautiously circled the boy. Every one of the villagers was speechless. In the village, the child was well-known as a spoiled brat, mocked by the elders and his own parents for his foolish dream. Sons of merchants did not become warriors. But his last day proved them all wrong—although none would remember it. The boy’s bravery far surpassed his father’s. He did not back down and defended himself well, though the outcome was never in question. It took several strikes from different swords before the boy finally fell, bleeding from several cuts that should have been immediately fatal.
The merchant seemed not to notice what had transpired, so frightened that he was unable to even lift his head. His wife couldn’t tear her eyes away from her son’s battle. She had felt him too spoiled, but was proud to have been wrong. She took one last glance at her husband and knew there was nothing left for her in this world. She was eager to join her son in the Great Cycle. She stopped struggling against her captors, and in the moment they relaxed their grip, she broke free, grabbed one of their daggers and ran it roughly across her own neck.
The rapid chain of events left everyone, including the bandits, in a state of surprise. They had lost one of their friends and a defenseless woman in the space of a few heartbeats. Their leader, a man larger and stronger than the others, calmed them, directing them to get the prisoners in a tighter circle. Order reasserted itself, and the leader took stock of the situation. They had their loot, but the boys were still eager for more. It had been a long, hard winter, and with the spring their libidos and blood lust were as high as he had ever seen them. And they had just lost their prize. There was still one woman, and although she wasn’t as pretty, the boys wouldn’t care. They were safe enough out here in the middle of nowhere. He motioned to the farmer’s wife, and the bandits grabbed her without hesitation. She didn’t have the soft skin of the merchant’s wife, but she was a woman, and that was enough.
Her son, so curious and so brave, rushed towards his mother in an incoherent attempt to do something, anything. He was picked up easily by one of the bandits and restrained without problem. None of the men, none of the elders, no one so much as raised their voice to protest the crime which happened next. They still believed that silence was their greatest defense. The boy was made to watch as the bandits took his mother on the cold ground. They didn’t know about her knife, but other men held her arms still while another was between her legs. They were taking no chances. When all willing were satiated, the bandits pulled the mother over to the boy by her hair.
Unable to move her legs, she tried to stand but had to be thrown through the snow the last remaining paces to her son. She did not say anything, couldn’t say anything, but she somehow held on to the last shred of her dignity and pride, the piece that no violence could take away. Her eyes did not burn with hatred, nor did they reflect the calmness of resignation. If the boy didn’t know any better, he’d say that his mother’s eyes were smiling. Later in life he would see that same look, and he would realize it was hope. Hope that despite everything, he would have a better life. He would never forget her final moments.
One of the bandits casually stuck his sword down through her, pulling it out slowly. He laughed as he watched her life blood flow out of her as though he’d just heard a joke that was kind of funny. With a quick flick of his wrist, he snapped the blood on his sword onto the boy. He chuckled, but left the boy alone. The boy watched the life leave his mother’s eyes. But even in his shock, the boy’s mind was working, and he cataloged his mother’s killer as the leader.
The rest of the work happened quickly. The bandits were seasoned and went around slicing the throats of the rest of the party with a ruthless lack of concern. It was quick work, done without hatred or malice. It was business, no different than slaughtering cows. The farmer’s boy understood the truth the other villagers did not. The bandits had killed already. To leave witnesses increased the odds of capture and prosecution. Robbery was one matter; murder another, with much stricter penalties. Killing the rest was just good practice: safety first.
The boy was held tightly by one of the bandits, unable to move against the much stronger grip. Forced into the role of a spectator, the boy could not help but bring his power of observation to bear on the unbearable scene taking place before his eyes. Of the elders, the oldest was resigned to his fate. In a last show of bravery, he bared his neck and stared his killer in the eyes. He died without a sound. The other two elders whimpered and tried to scamper away, but were easily caught and killed before they could get more than a few paces.
The merchant was the most interesting to the boy. He, whose hope for life had made him a coward, found his strength in the face of certain death. With no other option he raged, attempting to defeat his captors. But with no weapon and no training in defense he was beaten and mocked by the bandits before he was finally silenced for good. They held the man in disdain, the man who wouldn’t fight for what was his.
After all was done, it was only the boy left. The bandit the boy had identified as the leader walked up to him. “Well, boy, this is business.” His voice held a trace of an apology, a tone the boy found strange considering the circumstances.
The boy looked his murderer in the eyes. He would show no fear to this man.
The leader, despite his cruelty, was observant. “The boy is brave. Do you wish to join us? We could use someone to keep camp for us. We can train you how to fight.”
The boy’s mind was racing, thinking of the answers and the consequences. Looking from the corpses strewn around him to the leader, he spoke with a soft voice. There was no defiance, none of the hatred the bandit leader had observed before. “No.”
The bandit leader studied the boy. He was not trying to stare him down or offer foolish intimidation or threats. He was only a couple of cycles old, but he knew the cost of his answer, and was unwavering. For a young boy, he seemed much older than he was. The risk of taking on a personality that strong was not worth the potential benefits of trying to convert him.
Turning to the boy, he spoke again. “It was well said, son. I respect that.” He looked up to the man holding the boy. “Kill him.”
The boy did not close his eyes. He had seen the cowardice of many in the group and swore that he would represent his family with honor. There was a soft rush of air past his head, and the boy waited for the transition to the Great Cycle. But there was no pain. After a moment of confusion the boy d
iscerned that the grip which had been holding him in place was loosening. He glanced up and saw a throwing knife lodged deep into his captor’s throat. His captor, suitably surprised, dropped to his knees unable to breathe.
A man appeared out of nowhere. He was of average height and wore clothes of white that blended in with the snow in the background. He spoke, and his voice, while deep, still seemed soft to the boy. “That’s enough.”
The bandits all turned to face the stranger. Disbelief was etched on the leader’s face, mirrored by the boy’s. There were still six bandits left. It was suicidal to go against those odds. No one fought six men and lived to tell the story. It was great for the storytellers, but the young boy wasn’t fooled by stories like the merchant’s son had been. It didn’t happen in the real world. But the stranger was calm, as if he’d stopped by on a morning walk to say hello to a neighbor. His sword was sheathed, and his hands were open and relaxed at his sides.
The leader spoke with confusion and a trace of nervousness in his voice, “Who are you?”
“Shigeru. I’ve been tracking your group since the last farmstead you raided. I was asked by the girl you barely left alive to kill you.”
The bandit nodded. “Should have killed that bitch quickly. What is your family name? A man of your confidence must come from one of the Great Houses.”
“I have none.”
The boy saw the tension in the leader’s shoulders dissipate. No last name meant an outcast, a bandit or rogue with no formal training. The stranger standing in front of him may be an excellent throw with a knife, but would be dead within minutes. With a nod of his head the five remaining bandits rushed at the stranger, swords drawn. The boy watched with open eyes, unable to turn away. Something about the stranger’s attitude drew all of his attention.
