The alehouse reeks of smoke, stale ale, and unwashed bodies. Half the Knives are passed out in corners or slumped across broken benches. The rest nurse hangovers with greasy meat and bitter cider.
Yurik stands by the hearth, warhammer slung over one shoulder, barking orders as he tears a hunk of meat from a bone with his teeth.
Luna, William, Hamza and I sit close, whispering amongst ourselves.
“They’re splitting us up!” William whispers nervously. “What are we gonna do?”
I shrug, spooning some chicken broth into my mouth. "Just act like they do. They're not the smartest lot, I doubt they'll notice anything."
Hamza voice trembles with barely checked rage. "That girl last night...." he chokes, shaking his head. "We should’ve stopped it. I-I should’ve done something."
Luna cuts him off sharply. "Shut up about it. She'll survive."
Hamza glares at her, his fists clenching. "And if it had been you? Would you be so quick to dismiss it then?"
Luna just stares at him coldly, offering no answer.
I look to Hamza, whispering quietly. "Don't think about it. It's happening everywhere, it's just the way of the world. You couldn't have stopped it last night any more than you can stop what’s happening now a kingdom away."
Hamza turns away, his shoulders tight with anger.
"Oi, you four!" Yurik barks, jabbing a thick finger in our direction. "Get over here."
He points to William first. "You, you're runnin’ with Klem and Fask. Get what we're owed boys, I'm tired of excuses."
Next, he turns to Hamza. "You, you're on road watch with Cray and Old Joff. Keep an eye out, don't do nothin' without askin' me first."
His gaze lands on Luna. "Birn and Haddock, you two can take this runt. Find out what you can on that merchant."
Then, finally, he looks at me, grinning wide. "And you? You’re with me. Lucky sod. I like gettin’ my hands dirty, and I like knowin’ who’s got the guts to stand beside me when blood hits the snow. You don't impress me, I'll assume the rest of your gang ain't worth shite."
I trudge down a muddy path flanked by frostbitten trees, Yurik leads the way with his hammer slung across his back. Two other Knives follow close behind, boots crunching in the slush. Redwick mill looms ahead, an old timber structure, weathered by age and patched with uneven planks. Its wheel churns sluggishly in the half-frozen stream.
The miller spots us from the window. A squat man with a nervous smile, he quickly moves to his door and steps outside.
"Yurik," he greets, his voice deferential. "Didn’t expect you so soon."
Yurik grunts, not slowing. "Business don't wait for the thaw."
The miller nods quickly, wringing his hands. "Course not. Grain’s been movin'. Quiet, like you asked. Half through Redwick, half to the boys over in Black Hollow."
"Good," Yurik says flatly. "Keep it quiet. Keep it moving."
As we step into the mill, Yurik's eyes narrow slightly at the two guards lingering by the door, rough men with village garb.
"You hirin' local muscle now?"
The miller shifts uncomfortably. "Just a bit o' watch while the roads stay bad. Can't be too careful, with folk pokin' around."
The miller guides us to a long, battered table in the center of the dusty main room. A single candle burns at its center, casting weak light over sacks of grain stacked along the walls. We sit. Yurik doesn’t.
He paces slowly, his boots heavy on the creaking floorboards, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long before he speaks.
"Darin," Yurik says at last, voice low and casual. "Been a good few years now, eh? Since we pulled that trick on the grain tax in Mornstead. You remember?"
The miller chuckles weakly. "Aye...aye, I remember. Nearly lost my thumb over it."
Yurik grins without humor. "And yet thanks to me, you still count with both hands. Fortunate man."
Darin nods quickly. "Fortunate, aye. And grateful. Always been grateful."
Yurik stops pacing, facing the window.
"Funny thing, Darin. One o’ the lads saw a rider. Left your mill here two nights ago. Not one of ours. Didn’t head to Black Hollow. Headed west."
Darin shifts in his seat, eyes darting to the candle. "Just a messenger, he brought a letter from a cousin."
"Thought your family was over in Mornstead?" Yurik interrupts.
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The miller frowns. "W-Well, yes, but..."
Yurik smiles, slow and cruel. "Then why’d the rider wear the brand of Edgemoor’s reeve on his saddlebag?"
The room goes quiet.
Darin swallows, sweat prickling at his temple. "You think I...? Yurik, you know me-"
"I do," Yurik says softly, walking behind him. "That’s why I’m askin’ questions. 'Cause I want to keep knowin’ you. Instead of feedin’ your bones to the dogs downriver."
He rests a heavy hand on the miller’s shoulder, fingers squeezing hard enough to make Darin wince.
"Now," Yurik says, his voice harsh, "tell me who you talked to. And how long I got 'til he rides back with steel."
Darin lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. "It was the reeve from Edgemoor," he says quietly. "Sent a man, said there was word of trouble in Redwick. Said he’d heard I had dealings with strangers. He offered coin to confirm it. Promised protection, too. I got mouths to feed, Yurik. The winter's been hard, and your lads don’t always leave enough for the village."
Yurik says nothing, but he lets go of the man's shoulders.
Darin looks up, eyes desperate. "I never gave him names. Just said some new boys had passed through. That’s all. I swear it. I told him I’d pass on anything else if I heard it, but I haven’t. Not a word."
Yurik still doesn’t speak, turning away, shaking his head.
Darin snaps. "Dammit. Go fuck yourself, Yurik," he snarls, and jerks his head toward the door.
The guards move instantly.
The two brigands beside me barely have time to react—one cries out as a man wrenches his head back by the hair, another drives a long scythe into his chest with a sickening squelch. Blood spatters the wall, and he drops like a stone.
Four more men pour in from a back room, armed with sickles, hand axes, and broken tools turned to weapons. A young man barrels toward me, wild-eyed and reckless.
I snatch up my spear, dropping low and thrusting forward. The point punches through his belly, under the ribs. He gasps, blood spilling from his mouth. I twist once, then yank it free. He collapses at my feet.
....A damn shame.
Ahead, Yurik bellows like a beast. His hammer arcs only once and smashes through two men mid-charge. Both fly sideways into the table, crashing through it.
The miller is already bolting for the back door. Yurik charges after him without hesitation, hammer in hand.
Beside me, one of the Knives plunges a dagger beneath his foe's ribs, twisting it deep. The man gurgles and drops, clutching his side.
Two more of the miller's guards remain, axes trembling in their hands. They face us, terrified.
Just village boys the miller hired. Doubt they've ever seen combat.
"Drop your blades," I say coldly. "It’s over."
They hesitate, exchanging uncertain glances, then slowly drop their weapons, faces grim.
The brigand beside me steps forward, smiling. Before the first man can even flinch, he slashes his throat open with a single stroke.
The second, panicked, lunges for his dropped weapon, but the brigand stomps his foot down on the blade, driving a knife into the man's neck as he scrambles.
Blood spatters the floorboards.
"Good work. Idiot's never saw it coming." the brigand laughs, wiping his blade clean on the corpse’s cloak.
It really is a damn shame....
“Anyway, we should find the-"
The words barely leave his mouth before I drive my spear up into his stomach. His eyes go wide with shock, mouth opening soundlessly as blood bubbles at his lips. He looks to me, eyes clouded in confusion and fear. But I can do no more than shrug.
He collapses without a word.
I glance around the blood-soaked mill, corpses strewn across the floor.
Hmm... that's a lot of bodies.
I wonder if I could've done more to protect the villagers... I'm certain Hamza wouldn't be pleased.
But I should take my own advice. There's no point thinking about it now.
I crouch beside each body, moving quickly. The brigands carry little, just a few coppers in their pouches, a crude charm, a half-eaten strip of dried meat. I take it all regardless.
The villagers have even less. No coin, nothing worth taking, even their weapons seem to be just repurposed tools.
Hmm... nothing. Well, I should probably find Yurik. I wonder if he caught the miller...
I leave the mill and step into the cold. A clear trail leads through the snow towards the village. But I don’t make it even halfway until I spot what I'm looking for.
Ahead, Yurik stands like a statue, one hand clenched tight around Darin’s throat, lifting the miller half off the ground. Darin kicks and claws, boots scrabbling uselessly in the snow.
"You sold us out," Yurik snarls, voice rough with fury. "You opened your gate to bastards with ink and titles, forgettin’ that it’s us scum that gets you through the winter!!"
"I didn’t mean to!" Darin gasps, voice choked. "I swear, Yurik, it wasn’t meant to hurt you! I didn’t give 'em anything worth killing over!"
Yurik slams him against a tree, snow falling in clumps from the branches above. "Why would I believe a rat like you?"
"Please," Darin wheezes. "My family... I got children... please, I'll make it right, I'll-"
Yurik snarls, his grip tightening on Darin’s throat. "You fuckin' dung-faced bastard," he growls furiously. "You think ye can play both sides and come out clean? Shit-witted, back-stabbin’ goat fucker-"
He cuts off, noticing me as I approach, spear still slick with blood.
A crooked grin spreads across his face. "Well I'll be... still breathin', eh?"
He jerks his chin toward me. "What about Gorran and Ibb?"
"Dead," I say plainly. "Went down in the fight."
Yurik's grin vanishes. He turns back to Darin, eyes like flint.
"Their blood’s on your hands, you piss-hearted traitor."
He raises his hammer, then pauses, something flickering in his eye. With a grunt, Yurik hurls Darin forward into the snow at my feet.
"You do it," he growls. "Yer've done good so far. But time's come to show your loyalty. Spill blood in the name of the Bleeding Knives and yer one of us."
I raise an eyebrow, saying nothing at first, then glance down at Darin. He's on his knees, hands raised, trembling.
"Please," he stammers, voice cracking. "I got a boy your age. I did what I had to for him and his children! Please, don’t do this."
I stand there, spear still in hand, weighing the man’s words.
It's either kill him or kill Yurik.
I already have the blood of his guards on my hands. All probably more innocent than he is.
And there's Edwin's task to consider. An end to the Bleeding Knives means the end to much more death than the killing of this one man.
But does that matter to me? And… what am I willing to sacrifice to achieve it?
Yurik huffs impatiently. "What’re you waitin’ for? It’s a simple fuckin’ thing. Kill 'im."
The miller opens his mouth, voice catching on the edge of a plea, but I don’t let it form.
My spear lances forward, sharp and sure, punching through his throat. He jerks once, hands grasping at nothing, then collapses into the snow.
Sorry.
I bring the crimson spearhead close, watching the blood drip, slow and steady. My face reflects faintly in the sheen.
I'm not sure how I feel…
Even as I look at myself within the blood… nothing comes to mind.
Yurik nods. "Good. About time."
I shrug, trying to keep my face neutral. "Looked like my father," I lie, though Yurik seems satisfied.
I wonder what he'd think of my choice. I imagine he wouldn't care, given Zaenith chose him.
Yurik hefts his warhammer onto his shoulder with a grunt. "Welp," he mutters, voice gruff, "best be headin' back. Business’s done for now. After all that blood, reckon we've earned ourselves a drink or three."