03



“Want to play a game?”

Charis startled a little when Kastor spoke. He’d been sunk in reverie; probably contemplating his discomfort, which was why Kastor was trying to distract him. If all he had back home was a pony with a special saddle, he’d probably never done any serious riding, and after four hours on the road he was surely saddle-sore. Kastor was, a little, though he’d thought he’d got used to riding again on the way to the demon’s lair and back.

The boy glanced around, examining the winter-dead fields at either side of the road, the traffic of peasants and merchants passing them to either side. Unable to guess what in this might constitute a game, he gave Kastor a quizzical look. “What kind of game?”

“A guessing game. We have to guess things about each other. Say I ask you to guess my favorite color. You get three guesses. If you guess right, you can make me do something as forfeit. Make a silly face or something. But if you can’t guess, you have to do something silly.”

Charis said scornfully, “You made that up just now.”

“Well, yeah.”

“All right. Your favorite color is black.”

“Nope.”

“Um...” He peered carefully at Kastor, trying to discern a bit of color about him. There was none. “Red?”

“Nope. One more guess.”

“Blue.”

“Damn, you got me. That’s right. What do I have to do?”

“Make a noise like a dog.”

Kastor obediently howled at the moon, making everyone on the road turn around and stare. When he’d finished, he said, “Now you get to ask a question.”

“All right, what’s my favorite color?”

“Pink with purple spots.”

“No.”

“Chartreuse.”

“No!”

“Black.”

Charis hesitated, perhaps realizing that he could lie, but shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Make a noise like a chicken.”

“Bagawk!” He made wings with his elbows and flapped them. “Bawk! Bagawk!” This went on until Kastor stopped him.

“That’s enough chicken. Charis. Come on, before someone plucks you and roasts you.”

A giggle. “They wouldn’t.”

“I dunno, that was a pretty convincing chicken. Now, guess how old I am.”

“Grandma told me.”

“But do you remember?”

Charis opened his mouth, shut it again, blew air at his bangs. “No. I forgot.”

“So guess.”

“Forty.”

Kastor feigned horror. “You think I’m that old?”

“Twenty.”

“I’m gonna let you take that one back. I would’ve been twelve when you were born.”

“Oops. Thirty.”

“Better than forty, but no.”

“Thirty-one and three quarters!”

Kastor laughed. “Where’d that come from? No, I’m twenty-four. You have to pinch your nose shut and sing ‘My Dog Lives in a Barrel’.”

“You’re not twenty-four! That’s too young. If twenty...” Charis rolled his eyes up, counting. “You were sixteen.”

“Right. So make with the singing.”

Charis pinched his nose and sang in Kyri, “I have a dog named Potato, he --” He lost it, laughing.

“The whole thing.”

“I have a dog --” More laughter.

“I’ll sing it with you. Come on.”

So they sang together, with their noses pinched shut, and all the world staring at them. “I have a dog named Potato, he lives in a barrel, he’s afraid of spiders, oh my! He ate some cheese and got the farts and flew up to the moon --!”

When they’d finally caught their breath, with streaming eyes and aching sides, Charis said, “I didn’t think grownups knew that song.”

“What, you thought I was born this big? Bit hard on your grandma, don’t you think? I forgot whose turn it was.”

“Me too.”

“Oh well. Scissors paper rock.”

They went on like this for much of the day, and only when the sun was touching the horizon did Charis call as his forfeit that they had to stop and rest. Kastor assured him that they’d stop at the next inn they found. They’d already passed two. This close to Rilleine, the villages were barely an hour’s ride apart. Sunset was early in winter, so he’d been planning to go on as long as there was lingering light in the sky. Now that the game had lost its savor, though, Charis was sagging in the saddle.

The next village they entered was nearly a town, a crossroads with two inns and a smithy as well as the usual cluster of houses. Kastor chose the more respectable-looking inn, the one with less noise drifting out of its common room. Charis insisted on dismounting by himself, and promptly fell over. To head off the blush of shame that was spreading over the child’s face, Kastor did his best to act unconcerned, offering his hand with a casual, “Stiff? My legs are sore too.”

Grateful for the face-saving option, Charis let himself be helped up. “My knee gave out.”

“It’ll come right if you walk on it a little. Hungry?”

“Starving!”

Leaving their horses to the stablehands, they went inside. Kastor had to duck at the doorway, such was the age of the place. The beams of the ceiling were blackened with ages of soot, and claustrophobically low -- though not, fortunately, as low as the door. Kastor had to fight an urge to walk bent over. The place smelled of a million dinners, centuries of smoke, thousands of unwashed bodies. Though quieter than the inns he’d bypassed, it was still crowded, and he kept hold of Charis’s hand as they threaded their way to an unoccupied table. At least the thick, scarred furniture was clean.

By the time the tapman noticed them, Charis’s head was down on the table. The portly man gave Kastor a conspiratorial smile over the sleeping boy, and asked for his order in a stage whisper.

“Mulled cider for me,” Kastor said in a normal voice. If the conversations around them weren’t keeping Charis from sleeping, nothing would. “Tea for him. Lots of honey. What’s on in the kitchen?”

“Stew’s three pence, roast boar’s nine. Bread with both of ‘em. Extra tuppence’ll get you cheese.”

“What’s in the stew? It’s not all turnips, is it?”

The tapman looked offended. “Carrots and rice, lots of onions, marrow bone, it’s been stewing all day. I’m for a bowl myself, if there’s any left when this crowd settles.”

“Two of those, one plate of the boar, double bread, double cheese. And a knob of butter as big as my fist.” Kastor set a gold coin on the table.

The man goggled as he snatched it up. “Right away, sir!”

Kastor leaned back in his chair to survey the room as he waited. Then he realized what he was doing, and made himself relax. The place was full of road-weary farmers and peddlers -- there wasn’t going to be any trouble.

He let his eyes unfocus, feeling the warmth from the smoky hearth, the rough table under his hands, his son’s bony little knee gouging his leg. Aside from being ravenous and roadsore, he didn’t think he’d ever felt quite so right with the world. A big meal, a pipe of the tobacco that had been so cheap in Rilleine, a clean bed, and there’d be nothing to complain about between heaven and earth. He was free of the city, dissolving the bonds it had begun to weave into him. He had a full purse and a good horse. He was on the road, and he had his boy with him. He couldn’t ask for anything else.

Except, perhaps, that the reason for it be different. If he weren’t on the way to deliver Charis up to a scornful, arrogant woman who made the boy feel invisible...

No point running myself down with those kinds of thoughts. We made a deal, and I’ll stick by it. If she doesn’t fall to her knees and praise the gods that he’s returned to her, I’ll keep him by me if I have to fight every raider in the Nine Clans to do it. That decision’s made; don’t need to examine it. He smiled down at his sleeping son, enchanted even by the little drool spot that had appeared on the table, and amused at himself for it.

When the food arrived, Charis woke of his own accord. He pulled his bowl clumsily to him, spilling stew on the table, and then made the contents disappear in what seemed like two bites. Kastor congratulated himself for thinking to get extra bread and cheese. They split the slab of roast pork between them, Kastor allowing Charis to take the larger part. As he’d anticipated, the boy buttered his bread so thickly that the huge lump of butter they’d been given disappeared entirely.

“Where do you put it all?” Kastor asked him.

Charis smiled with his mouth full. “Hollow leg.”

“That sounds like Grandma Nhedra talking.”

“Yep.” He swallowed. “She says I’m in a growth spurt.”

“Not at all unlikely.” Kastor mopped up the last of his stew with what little bread he’d been able to save from the bottomless pit that was his offspring. “Tired?”

“No.”

Kastor doubted that, but if Charis felt like being awake a little longer, that was fine. It wasn’t really as late as it looked, after all. The sun set in the middle of the afternoon, this time of year. It was nearly Midwinter. He realized, as he packed a clay pipe with fragrant tobacco, that he would get Charis home in time for the festival. Which meant that he himself would be alone, with the memory of their parting fresh in his heart, on that holiday. Unless Alys didn’t make Charis feel welcome. Unless she had Kastor drawn and quartered.

“Here, let me get that for you.” Someone was holding out a burning splint.

Kastor let the someone light his pipe. He looked up, smiling, to thank the stranger; his smile faltered, and the words fled.

There was something very wrong with the young man before him. Kastor wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but it gave him shivers. The fellow looked to be about Kastor’s age, neither handsome nor ugly, rich nor poor, with brown hair in a tight queue and ears that stuck out like jug handles. Perfectly ordinary. And yet something about him was making Kastor want to grab Charis and run like hell.

He forced out the words: “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The man’s voice sounded a little dry, but that wasn’t it either. He turned away to throw the splinter back into the fire, resuming his own conversation.

Charis tugged on Kastor’s sleeve. “Da,” he whispered, “he’s weird.”

“Yeah. I can’t figure out exactly how, though.”

“Can I try that?” Charis pointed at the pipe.

“No. I’m told it’s bad for children.”

“Please?”

“No.” He added in a mutter, “Not sure I want it myself.” His stomach had turned funny since he’d noticed the jug-eared fellow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the man, who was talking with a straw-haired girl. Gradually, he began to build up points of strangeness. Despite his peasantish appearance, the man had the wry smile of a jaded sophisticate. His movements were deliberate, and when he wasn’t making some carefully constructed gesture, he was still as a statue. Though he sat right beside the fireplace, he wasn’t sweating. The woman he conversed with was flirting shamelessly, but he seemed dryly amused rather than interested.

And his eyes were dull. Not dull of expression, but not shiny. And he never blinked.

Kastor’s fingers prickled as the first trickle of fear rushed through him. He nudged Charis, and the sleepy boy allowed himself to be helped up and led away. The tapman met them by the door, looking puzzled.

“You don’t want a room, sir? It’s quite dark out.”

“Dark falls early this time of year. I’m good for a few more miles. Excellent stew, by the way.”

Charis began to understand that they were leaving, and tried to tug his hand free. “Da, I’m tired!” he whined, apparently forgetting he’d said he wasn’t just a minute ago.

“No arguing. I’m serious.” Kastor pushed outside into the night wind, which was shockingly cold after the heat inside. Once the door had banged shut behind them, he said, “You can sit up in front of me. You can sleep like that.”

“But Da...”

“You remember that weird man? The one who lit my pipe?” He remembered he was still carrying it, and tapped the coal out onto the packed dirt of the stableyard. “I think he’s a vampire.”

Charis was instantly awake. “He is?”

“I’m not sure, but the signs are there. I’m not taking any chances.”

“Why don’t you kill him, then?”

Kastor stopped midway through saddling Charis’s horse. He turned slowly to stare at his son. “Do what?”

“You kill monsters, right? You’re going to kill that demon.”

“That’s different. Demons are pure evil.”

“But he’s a monster!”

“He might not be evil. Vampires have free will, just like you and me.” He returned to his task, hurrying to get them ready to go.

“Well then, why are we running away?”

“Because I’m imagining him sneaking into our room while we’re sleeping, and ripping your throat out.”

Charis flinched, but he rallied. “So why don’t you just fight him? I bet you could beat him!”

Having led the animals out into the yard and put the mare on a lead, he picked Charis up and set him on the stallion, then mounted up behind him. He got them moving while he answered. “I can’t kill a man just because he might be nasty. I have to be sure. But the only way I could be sure would be if he attacked us, and I don’t feel like waiting around for that. I wouldn’t sleep well. Understand?”

“But they drink blood.”

“True, but they don’t all kill. I’ve read about vampires that have servants they drink from, hired servants. So they’re not even thieves, they pay for their blood. You have to admit this one was polite, lighting my pipe for me like that. He certainly wasn’t one of the crazed ones. Still, I’m not going to hang around on the offchance. We’ll take the next inn down the road. Are you cold?”

“A little.” Charis sounded as if he were too tired to sulk properly.

Kastor wrapped his cloak so it enfolded the boy, tucking it around him, so only his face was showing. “Better?”

“M-hm. Your armor is cold.”

“It’ll warm up.”

“Something’s poking me.”

Kastor made him sit forward, found the handles of his throwing knives, and took them out. He put them in his bracers instead. Not where he liked to carry them, but at least they wouldn’t gouge Charis in the back. “Did that do the trick?”

“’S good.” Charis snuggled back, and a moment later he was drooling.

Quietly, Kastor murmured his charm against ambushes. As he repeated the rhyme, he felt his senses growing keener, until the dark fields at the side of the road seemed as near as his own gloves or saddle. For all he knew, a vampire would be proof against such a simple charm, but there was no point being sloppy. The last indigo faded from the sky, until there was nothing to see by but the stars. Kastor remembered being puzzled, as a child, that others couldn’t see their way by starlight. He wondered whether Charis had inherited that ability.

Ahead, the road made a lazy turn beside a winding streambed, so choked with brush that only the smell of water betrayed its presence. Water and... something else. Kastor stared hard at the line of bracken and saplings as the road approached it. What was he sensing? An animal, probably; it was the sort of place deer would choose for a bed. Was it worth waking Charis, just on a suspicion? Was it worth riding through the fields on the other side?

No. There was no reason for the vampire, even if he were the evil sort, to follow them onto the road. An armed and mounted warrior, even with a child in tow, wasn’t worth his trouble. The inn was full of easier meat. Nevertheless, Kastor kept close watch as he passed the cover. If anything leapt out -- but nothing did. He relaxed.

So it was with chagrin as well as surprise that he reined in a few paces later when a handful of men scrambled out of the corn stubble ahead.

He stared, open-mouthed, as they blocked the road. There were four of them. “Thieves? I was set to fight the risen dead, and all I get is thieves?”

One of them showed a crossbow. “You won’t be laughing if we put a bolt through your little boy’s head. We’ll have your purse and your horses, if you please.”

Kastor stiffened. Suddenly he was fighting his bloodlust. These men were creampuffs, they were nothing, but let them threaten his child and the ruagh feaheledd began to gnaw. Only the knowlege that a charge would endanger Charis kept him still. The stallion, feeling him tense, tossed its head eagerly.

Charis stirred. “Wha--?”

Quietly, in Kyri, Kastor said, “Lie down against the horse’s neck. Stay down no matter what. Do it now.” To his relief, Charis obeyed without wasting time in questions.

“None of your muttering, there, just do as you’re told!”

Staring hard at the string of the crossbow -- which was, fortunately, in poor repair -- Kastor began the charm for a broken bowstring. Before it could take hold, though, both he and the bowman were distracted by a high, gurgling cry from the man at the left side of the road. All looked to him, just in time to see him drop, and why. Behind the slumping man stood the vampire. In the night, with his braid twisting in the wind and a banked fire in his eyes, he didn’t look at all common, jug-ears or not. He gave Kastor a courtly bow and a twisted smile.

“Shall I leave you some, sir Kyri? My thirst is sated; now I but keep order.”

His hands itched for his swords, but he imagined blood spattering Charis’s face, and his mind recoiled from the fight. “They’re all yours.”

“You are too kind.” Another slight bow.

The bowman recovered his senses and loosed his bolt at the vampire, but missed as the vampire moved snake-quick to catch the next nearest man. That one, he didn’t bite, but snapped his neck with a casual twist. The remaining two dropped their weapons and turned to run, but it didn’t save them. The vampire was too fast. In a moment, it was over.

Charis was trembling against the horse’s neck, face buried in its mane. Kastor laid a reassuring hand on his head, but his other hand was teasing a knife from beneath his bracer. He made his voice light, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired: “May I ask why you killed them, rather than delivering a lesson they might live to learn?”

“It’s simpler.” The vampire, finished clearing the road of corpses, dusted his hands. He stepped aside, leaving the way open if they wanted to leave. Courteous, apparently, but Kastor had no doubt he could catch them any time he felt like it. The vampire glanced to the bodies he’d dragged from the road, and shrugged. “It offends me to see cutthroats roaming like foxes, and the Emperor’s hounds nowhere to be found. Don’t make the mistake of thinking me a good man, sir. But I am a patriot. And so I take the blood of the Empire’s enemies.”

“I’d guess you’ve been a soldier, once upon a time.”

“When I was alive. Armies move by day, friend.” He tilted his head. “Tell me -- would you have killed them?”

“They aimed a crossbow at my son,” Kastor said tightly.

The vampire nodded, answered. “I heard them planning, after you left. You should have a care where you show your gold. I’m half minded to follow you -- if you go on like that, you’ll draw out the thieves everywhere you pass.”

“You needn’t. I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Then I wish you good even.” The vampire sketched a bow, and vanished into the brush.

Kastor nudged his horse to a walk. When they’d left that stretch of road behind, he tapped Charis’s shoulder. “You can sit up now.”

Charis twisted to look behind, then burrowed into Kastor’s cloak. “He killed them.” His voice was low; he sounded a little stunned.

There was nothing Kastor could say to make it better. “Yes.”

“All of them.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t have to.”

“No.”

“But you didn’t fight him.”

“Right.”

“Because... because I’m here. I’m in the way.”

“I suppose it was partly because I didn’t want to risk you. But he seemed the sort who would’ve been up for a duel, if it came to that. Did you hear the way he talked? Mostly, it was because it wasn’t necessary. It seems he’s set himself up to carry out the Emperor’s justice. Well, if the Emperor has a problem with that, it’s none of my business. Let the Nestrians deal with their own vigilantes.”

“Da, were you going to kill those bandits?”

He didn’t think mere village thieves could really be called bandits, but he answered the sense of the question. It was hard, but he answered. “Yes. If the vampire hadn’t done it, I very likely would have. I’m glad you didn’t have to see it.”

“I... I peeked. A little.” The boy’s voice shook at first, but grew steadier. “I saw an execution once. It gave me nightmares. But I don’t think I’ll have bad dreams about this. Those were evil men. If they were still alive, they’d rob somebody else tomorrow. Somebody who couldn’t fight back. I’m glad they’re dead.”

“Don’t be too quick to mete out judgement, Charis.”

“But you would have. Judged and executed.”

“And I wish I never had to. I hope I never have to make that choice again. I hope I never have to fight anything but monsters for the rest of my life. It does terrible things to you, killing men. There are better kinds of strength than the ability to bring death. I believe you can learn how to fight, son, but don’t be like me when you grow up, don’t be a fighter. Be something better, something that helps people. I wish to all the gods I could have.”

“Oh.” Charis yawned. “You know, since the vampire wasn’t after us, we could’ve stayed at that inn.”

Kastor sighed. The kid had apparently ignored his whole moralistic speech. Probably just as well. “I suppose so, Charis. But we’re halfway to the next one now.”

“Oh. Hm.” The boy clutched Kastor’s cloak around him, getting comfortable. “Will you sing me a song?”

“Sing?”

“Grandma sings to make me sleep.”

“Oh. All right.” He knew he didn’t have such a great singing voice, but he also knew that wasn’t the point. For a long moment the only songs he could think of were bawdy ballads, but shortly he remembered a Semnian song he’d learned in his days as a thief. It was about dying, but he didn’t think Charis would pick up on that.

Upon the highest hill, O stars come down to meet me,

Let them lift me up among them, winging high,

For today I must go far away, far away...

He sang Charis to sleep all the way to the next inn. The boy didn’t wake as Kastor carried him inside.



“But I want to name my horse.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“But you said --”

“That’s not what I said.”

The third day on the road, the novelty had worn off and Charis was being diffficult. Kastor was fighting for patience, but that had never been his strong suit.

“Da, you said not to, and I wanna!”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I just said it’s bad luck to name a horse before you know it. Your pretty mare hasn’t done anything to name her by. But then, maybe she never will.”

“Maybe she’s a boring horse.”

Kastor rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, I want to name her. Her name is Jewel. No, wait. Princess. Wait.”

“See?”

“Shut up, I’m thinking!”

“Don’t think so hard. It’ll come to you.”

“I said shut up!”

“You don’t want to be giving orders you can’t enforce, son.”

“Argh! Will you let me think!”

Sighing, Kastor gave up. Let the boy give his horse a name he’d regret later. It wouldn’t be such a tragedy.

They were well out of civilization now, up in the hilly woodlands of northern Nestria. The villages were few and far between, and the land wild. From time to time they passed a turning, where a moss-buried stone announced the way to some house or monastery. He could tell the latter by the crude shrines that clustered around the way-stone, little statues in little wooden houses, sometimes with the remains of an offering, paper prayers fluttering in the wind.

The weather had turned wet, the morning before. No doubt the cold drizzle had something to do with Charis’s bad temper. Now that the rain was beginning to freeze, the boy was spoiling for a fight. Just about anything Kastor said would serve as an excuse. Kastor knew that mood well enough; it was one of his own.

So he didn’t announce his intention to stop in the next village they found. Charis would argue against it for form’s sake, though he’d be grateful enough to be out of the wet once it happened. For now, Kastor resolved to put up with the fit of temper, and try his best not to add to it. “What’s your pony’s name?”

“Heisha.” A common girl’s name, meaning ‘pretty.’ Charis sounded ashamed as he said it. “I was a little kid. It’s a stupid name.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

Kastor sighed. He’d meant to be reassuring, not contradictory. “You know, I gave my first horse a stupid name too. I named him Lightning.”

“That’s not a stupid name!”

“I just can’t win with you, can I?”

“Do you think I’m stupid for liking it?”

“No, Charis, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Yes you do. You as much as said so.”

And so they argued for another three miles, until the whitening roofs of a little farming village came into view. Kastor reined in at the door of the house that looked most like a headman’s, dismounted without giving Charis time to voice an opinion.

“Da, what are you stopping for?”

“A hot meal, I hope.” He knocked on the door. “Hello! Couple of travellers, getting sleeted on. Hope we can buy a bit of --” He broke off as the door was opened by an elderly woman.

She looked him up and down, then suddenly jerked back, trying to slam the door. He got his foot in it first.

“Madam, please. I know I look like a rogue, but my son’s turning blue. Can’t you spare us a minute by your fire?”

She peered past him, and her look softened when she saw Charis. “Oh,” she breathed. “Poor poppet.” She stood aside. “Come in then, the pair of you. But I warn you, if you try anything funny, the village boys’ll thrash you when they get back.”

“Back?” Kastor went to the hearth, peeling off his wet cloak. The house was well-kept, he noticed, and in good repair, and there was not a single luxury to be seen. Rural industry and extreme poverty. “What, all of them? Where’d they go?”

“Oh! Did I say that? They’re not gone, no, they’re all around...” Obviously furious with herself for betraying that the village was unprotected, she busied herself with a kettle.

Charis pushed close to the fire, toasting himself. He pulled off his shoes, making a face at the state of his stockings. “Da, I’m hungry.”

“Me too. Madam, can you spare anything? I’ll pay for it.”

“We don’t have much, but...” Still nervous, she nodded, and shooed them aside so she could go about preparing a meal.

The food she gave them was humble and bland, and the only meat was a bit of stringy chicken, but there was plenty of everything else. Her nervousness subsided quite a bit when Kastor slipped her a gold coin. Her manners improved as well.

“Now,” Kastor said, “I’ve been thinking. If all the men in the village are gone -- and the more strapping girls, am I right? -- there must be some threat. I’d like to know what it is. Don’t want to be taking my boy right into it.”

“Oh, sir, don’t you worry. They’ll have finished by now, I expect.”

“With what?”

Her eyes skittered away, but it was fear, not deception. “A pair of wyr. They’ve been stealing our flocks, and killed a shepherd girl a week past, and so everyone’s gone to fight.”

Kastor straightened in alarm. “Seg na Rhuun! They’ll be slaughtered!”

“A few, maybe,” the woman said soberly. “But are we to wait to be picked off one by one, or starve when our livestock is gone? So it’s nets and pitchforks, sir -- there’s no choice.”

“Can’t you send for soldiers? I thought the Imperial Legion was supposed to handle this sort of thing. That’s what the Royal Legion does in Semnia.” Though, as he recalled, not often enough, or quickly.

“And how do we summon them? You seem a gentleman, sir, so you’re used to folks listening to you. But a few farmers...”

And besides, that, the Legion had been fairly useless in recent years, kept close in the capitol by an aging and paranoid Emperor. “There’s another choice. You could hire someone. A hunter with a bit of real experience, someone who’s taken wyr before.”

She frowned, but hope showed in her eyes. “Are you offering yourself?”

“Depends on what you can pay me.”

“Do you see wealth?” She gestured around the bare room. “All we have is what you just gave me.”

“What about, say, bed and board until this weather lets up. And good stabling for our horses. Can you afford that?”

Her face lit up. “Oh, sir!”

Charis was aglow as well. “Da, you’re really going to go kill the wyr?”

“Yes, Charis, you finally get to see me kill something. From a safe distance, you bloodthirsty little ruffian.”

“Go quickly, then,” the old woman said. “Hurry, before -- !”

But he was already on his feet, fishing a coiled bowstring from his pouch. “Shoes, Charis, if you want to come.”

“Ooooh where’d I put ‘em?” Charis scrambled to be ready.

Kastor inspected his arrows. “Would’ve liked bleeders. Madam, do you have anything bigger about the place?”

“Right away!” She hunted in a cupboard and produced an old, ill-kept hunting bow and a bundle of arrows. They were a fraction shorter than the Kyri style, with thinner shafts and larger fletching. Probably wouldn’t fly quite as straight. Still, the points were barbed, cross-bladed large-game points, and would get a wyr’s attention better than the fowling arrows Kastor carried. He slung that quiver beside his own, making sure that they wouldn’t foul his draw when he wanted his swords.

He turned to find Charis hopping in eagerness, eyes alight. He said, “Don’t you think for one minute you’re getting near this fight. You’ll stay well away, and if the beast comes at you, you’ll ride like hell back here and get indoors. Understand?”

“Yes, Da,” Charis said impatiently.

“Swear it.”

Charis lifted his hand quickly, but paused, and completed the motion with more solemnity; touched lips and heart, indicating that the promise was engraved on his soul. “Hand and hoof.”

“Good man.” He turned to the old woman. “Which way?”

She pointed; they mounted and rode.

As he followed the trampled trail the crusading peasants had left, Kastor asked himself why he was doing this. Not for the price, certainly. He hadn’t even intended to spend the night in this hamlet, just grab a quick bite and dry out a bit. To tell the truth, he’d only come up with the idea of waiting out the weather to give them something to pay him with so that his service wouldn’t be charity.

Service -- suicidal idiocy, rather.

Sure, he’d taken wyr before. Three of them, in his life. The first one had nearly killed him -- it had spit a searing stream of acid across both his legs, which might have maimed him and certainly would have scarred him for life, if his half-immortal body were capable of retaining an injury. After that he’d grown more cadgey, and never let another one get a shot at him, but he’d had time and space to hunt them properly. He’d spent days stalking them, learning their haunts. He’d come at them from downwind, he’d had a pouchful of ashes handy to staunch the acid if he got spit on, and --

“Oh hell. Charis, I need ashes.”

“Da?”

“I’ll explain later. This is your chance to gallop without me hovering, boy, so get to it! Ashes, a big bagful, and no hot coals in it. You can find me again.”

“I’ll be quick,” Charis agreed. He wheeled his mare -- with reins only, not a bad trick -- and sped back toward the village.

Only once he was gone did it occur to Kastor that he could’ve had that notion a little nearer to the fight, and got Charis well out of the way for it. Too late now. And Charis did so want to see...

Am I doing this to impress him? If so, I’m an idiot. I’ll get him hurt or worse if I go around showing off.

Well, it wasn’t a good time to be racking his heart for unworthy impulses. He was hunting dangerous game. Though for all he knew the peasants had already dealt with it.

“Ha,” he said aloud. Nets and pitchforks indeed.

The trampled mess of a trail led him deep into the wood, sometimes separating around trees but generally hanging in a clump. The terrified folk had clustered close together. Probably the best thing they could do under the circumstances; wyr weren’t stupid, and would avoid such a large group. Of course, that might keep the hunters from finding their quarry, but it was better if their hunt failed. Kastor had seen what wyr could do to the unprepared. He’d seen men and women with the flesh bubbled on their faces, with bitten wounds steaming and foaming... he’d seen what was left of a child caught out chasing a lost sheep. Wyr were dragon-kin, but there was none of the true dragon’s nobility in them. Histories told of true dragons rampaging, and those could cause great slaughter, but they generally had some aim in mind, which they made known before stooping to violence. A wyr was nothing but a beast, and a sloppy one. Like wolves, they hunted in packs and kept territory. Like cats, they sometimes killed for pleasure. Like bears, they dragged half-finished meals about with them, wedging them in bogs to season. Yet they had none of the wolf’s loyalty, the cat’s grace, or the bear’s innate gentleness.

He realized he was building himself up to hate the beast, and gave himself a bitter smile. That kind of thinking was for duels, not hunting. So one of these had killed a girl; there was no more evil in that than if she’d been killed by thin ice or a falling tree. A misfortune, but not a crime.

As he thought this, he heard a cry ahead; several cries, voices shouting. Panic and commands. The villagers had found their quarry after all.

He put heel to flank, and the stallion responded admirably. Lying low to its neck, so as not to be swept off by a branch, he couldn’t see much of what transpired ahead, but among the frightened voices he heard another sound, one that raised his hackles: a high, whistling cry. The beset wyr calling its mate.

Among the oaks and bracken, a milling horde of peasants got in each other’s way, and blocked his. As he pulled up just behind them, he saw the focus of their attention. A wyr, all right, and a big one.

The wyr bitch -- he could tell it was female, from its dun sides and its size -- seemed, if one were used to furred beasts, to be cowering. It slunk backward, out of reach of clumsily thrust farm tools. It was nearly as tall at the shoulder as his horse, but its neck was much longer, its head swaying low and forward at human waist-level. Its yellow eyes rolled across the cluster of humanity before it. It gave another fragment of its call. Then it straightened its neck.

“Get down!” Kastor bellowed.

A few -- too few -- obeyed. The rest just looked around to see who’d shouted.

The spray of acid caught them across their middles. Shouts turned to screams.

“Back!” Kastor saw the wyr’s throat pumping as it worked up to another spit, and the sight lent his voice enough strength to be heard over the screeching of the wounded. The spray had dispersed, as far as he could see; there’d be some nasty scars, but no one would die -- provided they got out of the damn way before the next blast. “Get back, damn you, get out of the way! She’s going to spit again! Run!”

It seemed an age before they heeded him, but it was really only seconds before more of the crowd was behind him than in front of him. The wyr was stretching its neck, so he didn’t wait for the rest. He spurred, trusting that a mount trained for cavalry would manage somehow. The stallion’s method surprised him: it leapt over the remaining peasants, landing foursquare right in the wyr’s face. Desperately, Kastor yanked the reins, and it wheeled and jumped again.

Half a gallon of smoking wyr-spit hit the prints of its hooves.

“Da!”

Not now, he thought frantically, as he and his horse dodged on uncertain terrain, far too close to the beast, in order to keep its attention off the peasants. It’s really not a good time, son. But he realized -- with the part of his mind that wasn’t occupied with tricky horsemanship -- that the peasants could use Charis’s help.

Without looking, he called out, “Get them well back! Pack ashes on their burns! Don’t let them come near me!”

“Yes, Da!” Charis sounded excited, but under control. Good boy. Excellent boy.

My boy. Right here where the wyr is, in reach of its venom -- oh gods, what the hell was I thinking?

“Stay back!” he hollered again, as if that might help. Then he had no breath to spare. Seeing it had only one opponent now, the wyr bitch was charging.

He could use that, he realized. Aborted a motion to draw, and fled instead. There was a chance he’d lame his mount, on this uneven ground, but it was worth the risk to draw the menace away from the others. With mixed pleasure, he saw that his gambit was working -- the wyr was following.

And gaining.

It ran like the reptile it was, low and even, all legs and no lope, but faster than the horse. And no wonder; its big, clawed feet were at no risk from rocks and branches buried under the wet leaf-mold, whereas the stallion knew full well it didn’t dare step on any. Kastor had wanted to get the wyr farther off before engaging, but he saw the moment when he’d have to turn or be caught turning, and wheeled.

The one weakness of the wyr was that it took a moment to work up a spit, and had to have its neck straight. He’d read somewhere that what they spat was actually brewed in the stomach -- their venom was, in fact, vomit. Charming thought, and he didn’t need another demonstration. As the wyr lowered its head, Kastor leaned from the saddle to shove a sword point up its nose.

Of course it didn’t go off quite as he’d hoped. The beast flinched, so his blade just scored a line up its snout, but the wyr was distracted and swallowed its spit with a pitiful honk. He didn’t wait around for it to recover. He made it keep turning, keep chasing him, and battered it about the head as best he could.

By the time he was able to blind it in one eye, though, his horse was blowing, and he was feeling a bit winded himself. One wanted a polearm, for mounted fighting. He made a mental note to add a khrodar to his already overlarge bundle of weaponry. The double-ended spear would’ve been very handy right about now. He gave the wyr a slit nostril to think about and spurred away. Once he had room, he dismounted, slapping the horse’s rump to send it clear.

The wyr’s remaining eye followed it, and the reptile gathered itself to leap. Kastor suppressed the urge to protect the horse by grabbing the monster’s attention, and used the distraction instead. Slipping up on its blind side, he trusted that its nostrils were filled with too many scents and its ears with too many sounds to pick him out. It was a dangerous gamble...

And it paid off. The wyr launched to a run, and flung itself straight onto Kastor’s sword. The impact jolted him, but he was braced, and the beast’s weight thrust the blade deep into the join between neck and chest.

It roared. He used his other sword to catch its snapping jaws, pinning its mouth shut from under its chin. He held fast, legs wide apart and head low, as it thrashed -- nearly oversetting him at first, then more weakly, until finally it sagged atop him.

He shoved it aside and yanked his blades free. He could hear shouting. What were they thinking, to be near enough to see he’d won? Idiots. He ignored them, cleaning his swords. He straightened to put them away, ready to be patient with the adulation of blockheads... and the tone of the shouts finally got through to him. Not gladness. Warning.

A flash of russet through the gray trees. The male of the pair, smaller and faster, coming to investigate its mate’s cries. It would spit less venom but more often, and its spiked tail could be a separate menace -- and Kastor was definitely not fresh enough to take it. And he was going to have to try, lest it go after everyone else, and Charis. This was very likely to be his last fight.

“Hell with that.” Shoving his fatalistic thoughts away, he took his strung bow from his shoulder. His hand remembered which quiver held the barbed points -- clever hand -- and he drew to his ear and loosed without thinking.

A knot of fletching appeared just above the beast’s foreleg, and it whirled, snapping at air.

Years of hunting for survival, when a miss meant the difference between dinner and starvation, served Kastor better than he’d hoped. Despite his pounding heart, his form was perfect; he had no need for a steady hand, since he shot as soon as he’d drawn, and each arrow appeared where he imagined it. Somewhere in the thinking part of his mind he was immensely pleased with this run of good shooting. He didn’t dare think too hard about it, though, lest he spoil it.

After the first handful of shots, the wyr finally figured out where the stings were coming from. It made to charge, but found that the arrows lodged in its joints hindered it. It bellowed in pain, sounding surprisingly like a bull. By the time it resolved to charge anyway, it had arrows in its snout and throat as well. Still it came on. Kastor reached back to find the quiver empty.

Well, and here I go, he thought, and nocked a fowling arrow. The wyr’s head bobbed as it ran; a difficult target. But no more difficult than a bird on the wing. Kastor loosed, and heard the familiar whine of a proper Kyri-made arrow speeding home.

He thought for a moment he’d missed. Then the wyr collapsed like a mound of meat. He saw the tiny point of his last arrow poking out the back of its skull. The narrower blade had gone deeper; he hadn’t seen its fletching because the shaft had gone right through the creature’s eye and was buried entirely inside its head.

Now, he heard happy shouts. Now, he heard praise and thanks. He was too weary to appreciate it. His knees felt like they were made of cheese, and would crumble apart if he didn’t get his weight off them. His horse had come back to him, some time while he was shooting, so he leaned gratefully against its side.

Someone had come up close to him, to tug his sleeve. He looked down into the face of a burly, smudge-cheeked farm girl. She was gazing at him starry-eyed. “Who are you, stranger, to have slain these beasts so easily?”

“Easily?” He gave an incredulous bark of laughter. “Please tell me there were only two.”

“Only two indeed,” snorted a broad-shouldered boy, who looked well enough despite the scorched holes in his smock and the ashy burns beneath. “Will you tell us your name, sir? And that of your young squire, who dressed our wounds.”

“Squire.” He raised an eyebrow, but his ironic look vanished as he saw Charis beaming at him from behind the crowding peasants, awestruck and near levitating from pride. Well, the conventions of Nestrian nobility didn’t quite apply, but it was close enough. “My name is Kastor. His is Charis; he’s my son.”

If Charis were smiling any wider, the top of his head would fall off.



The boy who’d addressed him turned out to be the village matron’s son, and invited them to her house, unaware that they’d already been there. When they arrived, his mother set him straight, explaining Kastor’s terms. Far from being disappointed that he was a hired hunter rather than a knight-errant, they were further awed by the modesty of his demands. They promised he could stay as long as he liked. Forever, if that could be managed.

He wondered how long it would take them to tire of his company, if he were to take them up on their offer. He told them, with feigned regret, that he could only stay until the weather was better for travel; either sun or clean snow. While he said it, he was wishing he could leave right away. If he’d been alone, he would have. All this attention was making him feel very jumpy in the stomach. But he wouldn’t drag Charis out in the slush and mud.

A feast was organized in surprisingly short order. Before full dark, the village matron’s house was full of extra tables and bustling wives, and the smell of good food brought out of hoarding. Kastor felt guilty, at first, for providing an occasion that disrupted their careful rationing. And just before Midwinter, too -- they’d have nothing left for that feast. But he pointed out to them that the wyr-skins, especially that of the red male, if quickly and properly tanned, would fetch an astonishing price in any market, and that made him feel better.

“You don’t want the hides, then?” asked the matron’s son.

“What do I want with dragging those around? Besides, you’ve lost people and animals. All I spent was a bit of sweat and an arrow.”

“More than that, sir,” purred a girl who had not been part of the hunt. She poured herself against him, to his dismay. “You risked your life for us. And for such a paltry price. Will you not take more?”

“Etha!” An older woman caught at the girl’s sleeve in horror, but Etha shook her off. The girl grabbed Kastor’s shoulders -- making a happy face at whatever muscles she imagined she felt there -- and pushed a kiss at him.

When he didn’t return it, she pulled back to see what the matter could be. She could only have found embarrassed discomfort and total lack of interest. She whirled away, offended, and would have run if her elder conscience hadn’t caught her by the sash and held her.

There were a few confused chuckles. The middle-aged woman who’d tried to stop Etha from accosting him now glared at him. “What, are you so virtuous?” she demanded. “What’s wrong with a grateful kiss or two? It’s a hero’s due.”

Kastor opened his mouth to explain, not sure what was going to come out. He didn’t want to offend these people, but neither did he want to be pawed by women. A couple of the young men might have done all right -- but then, country folk wouldn’t be so forgiving of his nature as jaded city-dwellers had been. He glanced around, and his eye caught Charis’s. The boy was making a face, disgusted by mush. Kastor siezed gratefully on the excuse that came to mind. He aimed a thumb at his son.

“I doubt his mother would agree with you, madam.”

Charis looked puzzled that he’d brought Alys into this, but fortunately refrained from correcting him. A little mollified, the flirtatious girl managed a false smile and a curtsey, and walked away toward the fire rather than charging out the door. The woman to whom he’d answered looked outright pleased.

“I shouldn’t have joked about virtue. You are that faithful! Forgive my girl; she’s not wanton, only thankful.”

“I’m sensible of it, believe me. But this is all the thanks I need.” He gestured to the food being set before him, and speared a roast potato on his knife to illustrate.

Somehow, this provoked a cheer. The company fell to eating, then, and he was able to relax a little, even begin to enjoy it. Charis, certainly, was in a very good temper, and the toast of all the village’s children, who clustered around him in open worship.



They were bedded down by the hearth that night; the place of honor, in this sort of household. Separate rooms would have been chilly. Charis fell asleep easily, but Kastor lay awake while the fire burned down, digesting the day. Reviewing the fight, dissecting it, taking what lessons he could from it. When the door creaked, sending a cold draft over him, he was instantly alert. His hand found one of his swords. He brought the other hand across, ready to draw... then recognized the creeping figure, by the light of the last embers in the hearth. He stifled a groan of annoyance.

The girl named Etha couldn’t see in the dark as well as he; she knelt beside him and began to reach -- straight for his crotch, the mannerless thing -- before she saw the shine of his open eyes. She hesitated, suddenly unsure. No doubt she’d thought through a plan before coming in, and the plan depended on him being asleep. The more fool she, because if he’d been startled out of a sound sleep he might have spitted her before he woke enough to stop himself.

For a long moment they stared at each other. What was going through her head, he didn’t know, but he was desperately searching for things to say to make her leave. Just as she drew breath to speak, with lowered lashes and hovering hand, he realized that any hint of kindness would only encourage her, and he hardened his face.

He spoke in a low, vicious hiss. “Get out. Never come near me while I’m sleeping. I’ll kill you.”

The girl gasped, rearing back.

He still had his sword in hand. He began to draw, producing a slow rasp of metal. That did the trick. The girl scrambled away like a scalded cat, leaving the door open behind her.

He got up to shut it, and as he went back to his bedroll he gave an inward sigh. What had she been thinking? He knew he was all right to look at, to those who didn’t prefer bulky muscles, but he wasn’t used to women crowding him like that.

Maybe, said a small voice within, she sensed that I’m lonely. Maybe I’m sending out a homing call.

But the one he was lonely for was gone, far beyond recalling. No one else could comfort him. No one could salve that wound, let alone heal it.

Though... didn’t I feel some small peace when Stiaan was in front of me? Even while I was angry and insulting him, didn’t it make breathing a tiny bit easier?

Unnerving thought. Maybe it was because only Stiaan, out of the whole world, knew what he’d been going through. Or -- this wasn’t the time to be picking at this knot. Later. There would be time later.

He rolled over, feeling bitterly wakeful, but he saw Charis curled up nearer the warm embers, and the tension eased. There was something else that helped; he wasn’t alone, not really. With this happier thought in mind, he slept.