by M. Walsh
That was until he appeared.
“Good to see you still around,” he said, sitting beside her. “Mind if I buy you another drink?”
She grimaced upon seeing him. He was a rancher with blonde hair and a rugged face. She was pretty sure his name was Sam. Or maybe it was Ben.
They’d met the night before, and although picking up some random guy for a one-night stand was not something Katrina took pride in, sometimes even she needed something other than booze and fighting. Sam (or Ben) was satisfactory enough, but she felt nothing for him and had no interest in dealing with him again.
“Get lost,” she said, her harsh, scratchy voice sounding like jagged gravel.
Sam/Ben chuckled and said, “Oh, come on. Last night was fun.”
“Leave me alone.”
“What’s your problem? You were friendlier before.” He smiled and put his arm around her. “We had a good time, didn’t we?”
Katrina clenched her fist. Her temper—what little there was—was dissipating. “Good enough,” she hissed. “But I’m not interested anymore, so piss off.”
This seemed to offend Sam/Ben. He removed his arm from her shoulder and said, “So what..? So you can screw some other guy in here? Is that how you do things?”
“Just because I decided to screw one guy one night,” she growled, “doesn’t mean I’m going to open my legs for every son of a bitch that comes knocking.”
Sam/Ben frowned. He stood there, shifting his weight, as if trying to decide whether to continue the discussion or let it go. Finally, taking his drink, he gave her a cold look and turned to leave—not before muttering under his breath one word:
“Slut.”
Her vision blurred, and she was moving before even she realized it. The black-bladed sabre was out, and suddenly Sam/Ben was clutching his bleeding face. Blood poured through his fingers, and he crumbled to the floor.
It might have ended there, but Katrina heard someone hiss, “Crazy bitch!” and grab her shoulder from behind. Without thinking, she slashed her sword and made a red, vertical line up the chest of the large man who grabbed her. His skin turned white, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap.
The tavern fell silent, and Katrina froze. She looked around at the remaining patrons, expecting one of them (or all of them) to attack. They stared at her with looks ranging from fear, awe, and disgust. It was then, seeing their faces, she came back to her senses. And she felt sick.
What am I doing?
She looked at the sabre in her hand, dripping with blood. She looked at Sam/Ben, still clutching his face on the floor. She heard his moans of pain. She saw the large man with his chest bleeding—he wasn’t moving. She saw the dozens of bodies she’d left in her wake that night on the Blind Cliffs.
Gods … what am I doing?
Without saying another word, she fled the tavern and ran. She didn’t stop until coming across a small creek deep in the woods. She collapsed by it and frantically splashed the freezing water all over herself—not realizing she was crying. All at once, panic hit her stomach and she started throwing up.
This was what she’d become. She had been a princess once. More than that, she was a defender of the innocent. She had fought to protect her people from Armand Tyrell, his armies, and the marauders he allowed to terrorize her home. Men and things that killed for pleasure or impulse.
Now I’m no better, she realized. I’m as bad as the men I fought.
She remained sitting there beside the creek for some time, unwilling to move despite the cold and snow. The truth was undeniable: she’d been getting worse since the Blind Cliffs. She once swore to never wield a sword again, and spent years wandering Graylands without knowing battle. If she got into a fight, it was to defend herself. Now she was attacking people with barely any provocation.
I can’t go on like this. I need help.
It was that night Katrina decided she needed to find her people.
* * *
The following hour was a blur. Gareth had managed to get her upright and found her a place to sit in the shade by a small pond. The old woman was consoling her, but she didn’t hear it. When she calmed down, Gareth offered to get some water.
While waiting for her to return, Katrina tried to collect her thoughts. There had been a lot of anxiety on her part over how her reunion with her people would go down, but she never expected it to be this disastrous. She’d already gotten violently drunk and arrested. Now she’d followed it up by yelling at one of the survivors and having a panic attack—more like a breakdown—in front of her.
Taking deep breaths, Katrina realized it was past the time to be closed off and shut-down from people. She’d grown too used to being Rien—the phony alias she traveled under to hide who she was—never allowing herself to open up to anyone and steeling herself from any possible vulnerability.
I can’t do that anymore, she thought. Not here, not now. I need these people.
“Feeling better?” Gareth asked, returning with a canteen full of water.
“Yes,” she said, taking a sip. “Thank you.” Gareth was about to speak, but she cut her off. “I’m sorry. This is not how I wanted this to happen. I didn’t—I didn’t mean for any of this.”
“What were you expecting?” she asked. “Why did you come?”
She poured some water over her head and sighed. “After the mess with Kader and his sorcerer, I …” She trailed off and shivered. “Something happened. I realized I needed to find you.”
“How did you find us?”
“It was slow at first,” she said. “Kader mentioned the north, but I didn’t know where to start. The winter also slowed me down.” She took another sip of water. “Finally, around Bartlett, I happened to learn of a trade deal involving the name Dóchas.” She looked at Gareth with a tired smile. “Name wouldn’t mean much to anyone, unless they were in the rebellion against Tyrell. From there, I tracked it to Lester, and here I am.”
Gareth nodded. “Princess, I—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your Princess anymore.”
She hesitated, as though unsure how to take that. “Katrina,” she said. “I must admit, I’m not entirely sure how to …” She trailed off, hesitated again, and a look of sympathy formed on her worn, tired face. “I never expected you to be like this. To be so … broken.”
She looked into Gareth’s eyes and admitted what she had long tried to ignore or deny: “I need help. I can’t … I’m falling apart. I can’t be alone anymore.” The tears returned, and she looked away. “I swear to you, I didn’t know anyone else survived. If I had … I don’t know how things would’ve been different. I’ve been hurting for so long. I’ve been … I feel like I’m sinking. I can’t keep wandering anymore. I need … I need home.”
“I understand, Prin—Katrina,” she said. “But I don’t know what—”
She felt a pain in her chest travel up into the center of her head. She looked at Gareth and cared not the slightest for the pleading desperation she knew was written across her face.
“Please,” she said. “Please let me stay with you. I’ll do anything. I’ll say anything. Please … please … don’t leave me alone anymore.”
Gareth was taken aback. She stared at her for a long time, as if incapable of responding. “Katrina … it’s not up to me. We don’t … we have no leader amongst us anymore. I can’t just allow you to live here.”
She paused again and looked out into the small pond nearby. Katrina said nothing, resisting the urge to clutch at her shirt. Finally, Gareth shook her head and sighed.
“I can vouch for you,” she said. “But I cannot guarantee the others will want you back. We … the past nine years have been hard on all of us.”
Katrina’s heart was pounding, but she tried to keep herself under control. She didn’t want to allow herself to hope for fear of rejection. But this was something at least. There was a chance.
“Can you,” she said. “Can I—can I go and talk t
o them? Can you, I don’t know, call a meeting or something, and I’ll explain myself? Please, I promise you, I don’t have to be—I don’t want to be your Princess or leader. I just … I just want to live among you. I want to be with my own people.”
Gareth sighed again. “I’ll go back and summon the others to discuss this. I think it would be best if you don’t come with me. For now. If the others see you, I don’t know—”
“That’s okay,” Katrina said, breathlessly. “I’ll wait however long it takes. All I ask for is a chance. That’s all.”
She nodded and stood up. “I’d suggest getting a room in town, but I don’t think that would go over well. So I guess—”
“I’ll wait here. It’s not a problem.”
“It might not even take that long,” she said. “But very well. I’ll return as soon as I have an answer.”
She started to make her way back, and Katrina felt something in her gut that actually terrified her: hope. Without thinking, she blurted out, “Gareth!” When she stopped to look at her, she added, “Thank you.”
5
His head still hurting, Krutch returned to his chamber in the chapel to lie down. His tiny room was sweltering, and the cot wasn’t comfortable, but he welcomed the privacy and chance to gather his thoughts—which meant he wound up falling asleep for most of the day.
He was stirred from his nap by knocking on the wooden latch in the floor. Having grown so used to being on the run from Sentry Elite, he jumped from his cot and fell to the floor. Regaining his bearings, he saw it was evening. The air had cooled, but his room remained stale and musty.
“Yeah..?” he said. “What is it?”
The latch opened, and Anne emerged with a lit candle. “Supper’s ready if you’ll have it,” she said. She descended the ladder, but paused to add, “‘Dan Dirkwood.’”
Feeling groggy, with his head still hurting, he only muttered, “Whatever,” and pulled his clothes on.
Supper was served in the chapel, which now had the scent of stew flavoring the set-in smell of dust and age. Krutch couldn’t tell what kind of stew it was, but he was willing to wager from the conditions it would be something simple and probably bland.
There was a line of people waiting to be served by Brother Lucas, who stood before a steaming pot with a ladle like some kind of sentinel on guard duty. He robotically dipped the ladle into the pot and dropped it in each individual’s bowl—his stern, tight face frozen and glaring—as if he judged each person receiving food.
Finding a bowl, Krutch joined the line. While waiting for his turn, a heavy-set Graigman stood behind him. Typically for the Graigish, he was shorter in stature—no taller than five and a half feet—with broad shoulders, thick bones, olive skin, and a flat nose. He had bushy hair, and his goateed face had a grizzled look that made him appear older than he probably was.
“Don’t know about you, son,” he said. “But I’m starving.”
Krutch murmured in response, still not fully awake and only interested in getting some food.
“Name’s Darjo,” said the Graigman. “Darjo Uthor.”
“Dan Dirkwood.”
Darjo nodded. Although Krutch kept his eyes forward, he could sense more chit-chat was coming.
Sure enough: “I just got here today.”
“Neat.”
“What brings you around these parts?”
“Just traveling,” said Krutch, reaching Lucas and handing him the bowl.
“Heading east, eh?”
He didn’t bother to answer. Upon receiving his share of stew, he gave a slight nod in thanks to Lucas—who did not return any kind of response—and left the line.
The mission’s other visitors—numbering less than ten in all—spread about the chapel. There was no designated eating table or set place for everyone to gather. Instead, everyone sat where they pleased. Some in pews, some found a private corner, a few went outside with their bowls—mostly people just scattered to eat alone and separate from everyone else.
Krutch was thinking of claiming a corner of his own, when Anne appeared behind him. “Come sit with me.”
Before he could respond, she was leading him to a narrow table beside the altar. Too tired to care, he didn’t think about it and took a seat while she sat across from him.
The stew was more of a soup—mostly broth with a few chunks of meat in it, though he couldn’t tell what kind. Squirrel, for all he knew. He supposed it didn’t matter—he was hungry. The food was indeed rather bland and flavorless, but it was also the best Krutch had in a long time.
He was halfway through eating, when he noticed Anne hadn’t touched hers. She was watching him. “Yes..?”
“So what brought you here?” she asked, twirling her spoon.
Chewing on his food, he replied, “I thought you said you found me last night?”
Her eyes shifted. “How long are you staying?”
“Didn’t you ask me that already?”
“You didn’t answer.”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said, continuing to eat. “Probably not long.”
She leaned close and whispered, “Are you going to Seba?”
“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I was thinking—”
“Sorry,” said Darjo, seemingly appearing from nowhere and sitting with them. “Someone mention Seba? I was thinking of heading there myself. What business you got that way?”
“I …” Krutch hesitated, wondering why everyone was so interested in where he was going. “I don’t know. I never said I was going to Seba.”
“You strike me as the type who’d do well there,” Darjo said, slurping up a spoonful of stew. “If you don’t mind my saying.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Say,” the Graigman continued with his mouth full. “You ever meet a fella by the name of Regis Tuco? I feel like you’d know him.”
He did not know Regis Tuco, nor did he understand what Darjo was talking about. He glanced at Anne, and she seemed equally annoyed.
She was about to speak, but went quiet as Brother Lucas pulled up another chair and sat with them. Saying nothing, he plopped his own bowl of soup on the table and ate at a slow and measured pace. Wretched, uncomfortable silence followed, and at that moment, Krutch wanted nothing more than to finish eating and return to his room.
After what felt like an eternity, Lucas said to Anne, “Telling our guests about our beliefs here, Jessica?”
Anne—or Jessica, apparently—dipped her head and focused on her soup like a child who’d been scolded.
“Tell me, Mister … Dirkwood,” the Brother said, turning to Krutch. “What brings you around here?”
“Uh,” he replied, getting tired of people asking that. “Just passing through.”
“Are you at all familiar with the Faith, Mister … Dirkwood?”
“I can’t say I am.”
“We believe in one Deity,” the Brother said. “One true god who created everything and watches over us.”
“Sounds like a hell of a guy,” he said. “This Deity anything like the older gods?”
The hint of a smirk cracked on Lucas’s tight face. “The lesser gods, you mean. Pretenders. They are beneath the true Deity. Their time has waxed and waned, but the one Deity is and always has been.”
“Bah,” Darjo barked. “What a load of horseshit! The Fallen Gods will return—stronger than ever. And they’re going to set this world right again.”
Whatever smile that threatened to come upon Brother Lucas faded. “Fantasies,” he said. “If the pretender gods ever did exist, they are long gone and never coming back. Only the superstitious and ignorant still cling to them.”
“What did you just call me?” said Darjo.
“There are many wonders to be found in this world and powers we couldn’t begin to understand,” said Lucas, eating his stew. “But what do you call a grown man who still believes Lord Gift-Giver will appear in his home during the Winter Solstice and leave presents? Or that stepping on a crack will bring
injury upon his mother?”
Darjo frowned, and for a moment, Krutch thought the Graigman might lunge across the table and attack the Brother. But he only hissed and spat on the floor. He slapped aside his bowl and stormed away from the table, grumbling something in his native language.
“No bother,” said Lucas, sighing. “One day the world will be enlightened and accept the true god.” Returning his attention to Krutch, he asked, “What do you believe in, Mister … Dirkwood?”
“Whatever, I guess,” he said. “Especially what’s in front of me.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed. You strike me as that sort of man.”
“Eren, he’s not here for a sermon,” Jessica said, keeping her eyes on the bowl in front of her.
“Brother Lucas, Jessica,” he snapped, pointing at her. “And I am simply having a conversation with Mister … Dirkwood.” Jessica frowned, but said nothing. “Are you planning to head to Seba, Mister … Dirkwood?”
It was then Krutch noticed Lucas kept making a slight pause before he’d say Dirkwood. He couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or if it was just how the Brother spoke, but he didn’t like it, and he didn’t like where this discussion was going.
“I think I’m going to head back to my room,” he said.
“Do not underestimate the Faith. It can offer a path to those seeking it.” The Brother paused and turned to Jessica, who looked like she wanted to shrivel up into nothing. “And salvation to those who deserve it.”
“Neat!” said Krutch, leaving the table. “I hope that works out for you, I really do!”
* * *
Once back in his room, Krutch lit a candle and resolved to leave the mission the following day. He’d get a night’s sleep, figure out what happened to his gun, and be on his way. He didn’t know what to make of the Brother running the place, but he got the impression it would be best to steer clear. He also wasn’t comfortable about that Graigman acting all chummy with him for no reason.
The question then was where to go? He had no supplies and no horse. The only civilization in any direction was Seba. But even after traveling through the winter, trying to get there with Arkady, now that it was within reach Krutch had to question whether the city was really where he wanted to go.
