from his pack to get it going, then stood.
“We need far more wood than that,” he said, still holding his sword. “But I’ve got time. First, Arthur’s orders. Come here, Dirk.”
While the boy’s body bled out on the grass, Oric went to the forest and broke off several thick branches. He dragged them back to his camp, grunting as he did. He used his boot to break the branches into pieces, and one by one he tossed them upon the fire. Once it was roaring, he picked up the body. It felt stiff and cold. He hoped it’d burn. Without a bit of ceremony he tossed it into the fire. The ragged clothing caught first, then the hair, and finally flesh. The burning meat smelled sweet, but he always hated the scent of burning hair.
Deciding he could go without the warmth, he unpacked his bedroll and slept upwind so he wouldn’t be bothered by the smell. Come morning, he gathered up the bones into a sack and returned to Veldaren.
10
H e had a soft bed underneath him, which confused Haern to no end. A bed? When was the last time he’d slept in a bed? Three years ago? Four? Wait, what about at that farm? No, that’d been on the floor, right? When he opened his eyes, it didn’t help much. He saw a low ceiling, poorly plastered. A glance around took in the rest of his surroundings. The room was tiny, barely any space to walk between his bed and the door. Opposite him was a single closet, stacked full of a strange assortment of clothing and weaponry. He recognized his own weapons in the pile, and he tried to go for them.
The pain in his stomach convinced him it wasn’t a good idea. He lay back down and pressed a hand against his abdomen. His fingers touched bandages, sticky with blood. Pieces of the attack at the caravan came back to him. He’d been stabbed in the stomach, that he remembered, as well as…
“What is going on?” he muttered as he inspected his arm. He remembered the cut there, and it’d been bad, if not to the bone. It was bandaged as well, but the pain was only a dull ache. He pried back some of the cloth and saw an angry scar, lacking any stitching to help it close. It didn’t seem possible. For that much healing, he’d have to have been out for weeks. The same went for the arrow wound on his shoulder. Either that, or a priest had come and healed him.
Or a priestess…
Haern remembered those last fleeting images, images no longer certain to be hallucinations. Could it be? After all these years, had Delysia exited the safety of Ashhur’s temple? A part of him felt excited to meet her, but for the most part he felt terror. His hair was still a mess, his face unevenly shaven. His clothes fit the part of the beggar. She’d been his first glimpse of light in a world of darkness, something clean and pure. He felt like living dirt, scabbed over with his blood and the blood of those he’d killed. It seemed so wrong for her to find him like this, assuming she even remembered him, or recognized him through the filth.
He tried once more to sit up, and now prepared for the pain, he managed a better job of it. Using his hand to support his weight against the wall, he leaned into the closet and grabbed his swords. He knew it made no sense for anyone to try to kill him there, not after bandaging him up and healing him, but he felt naked without their weight at his hips. Sweat dripped down his neck as he caught his breath. He offered a quick prayer to Ashhur for strength and then pulled the door open.
A very surprised Senke stood there, holding a slice of buttered bread, his free hand still reaching for the door handle that had swung away from him at the last moment.
“Going somewhere?” Senke asked.
It was too much. Haern staggered back and half sat, half fell onto his bed. He stared, his mouth hanging open.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Senke said, seeming amused by the whole scenario.
“I think I have.”
Senke laughed, and that familiar laugh helped melt his doubts. The man had shaved his head and grown out his beard, but underneath the disguise he had the same smile, same laugh, same guarded amusement in his eyes.
“Only a handful have recognized me, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re one of them. Always were the observant one, weren’t you, Aaron?”
Aaron…
A flood of memories tore through him, of days practicing with Senke, of walking at the side of his father, and of those few fleeting moments with Robert Haern before executing him at his father’s command and then cleaning up the blood. Aaron…he hadn’t gone by that name since that day. He’d adopted a new name, a new person to be.
“Haern,” he said. “Aaron died a long time ago.”
Senke handed over the bread and leaned against the door, chuckling again.
“That you did, and I was one of many who thought so, though I forgot your little oddity about the name. Everyone heard how you died in the fire. I barely got out myself, though I lost most my hair in the process. Helped disguise myself though, and I’m kind of attached to the look now.”
Haern looked at the bread as if he didn’t know what it was for. At last he dropped it, stood, and flung his arms around Senke. He didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. He felt thirteen again, bewildered, torn, and suddenly given a link to a past that actually had moments of good. It seemed Senke understood, for he patted Haern on the back and then gently pulled free.
“Don’t get all sentimental,” he said, winking. “Otherwise I might start thinking you aren’t really Thren’s son. Now have a seat. Del says you’ve got another day or two before you’ll be in top shape, and I don’t want you tearing those wounds open. You’ve grown up, god damn, boy. Taller than me now. How about you tell me what you’ve been doing these past five years?”
Thinking over his life, Haern felt embarrassed to say. He’d never once discussed it with anyone, only acted out his vengeance. Still, strange looking or not, there was Senke, the closest to a friend he’d ever had. The time melted away. He told it all, of his escape from the fire and living on the streets, always keeping his hair messed and unevenly cut, his skin a blanket of dirt and scabs. He stole food to live, and lived to kill those of the thief guilds. He felt keen shame admitting that, though he wasn’t sure why. In his heart he felt justified.
“How’d you end up at our caravan?” Senke asked as his story neared its end.
“Investigating the Serpent Guild and their newfound gold. Was on my way back when I stumbled upon your attack.”
“I must admit, Aaron, I thought it was actually Thren who’d come to our aid. The way you just charged in, then danced and weaved, it seemed so familiar…”
“I said it’s Haern now.”
Senke lifted his hands to show he meant no offense.
“Forgive me, just habit. Why so strict?”
Haern felt a chill coming on, and he wrapped his blankets tight about him.
“Because that’s not who I am anymore. I refuse everything of my father, including his name. I won’t be what he wants me to be.”
“Wanted,” Senke said. “He thinks you’re dead now. And instead of being your father’s pet killer, you instead spend every night killing. A neat trick, that.”
“Don’t you dare judge me!”
“No judging, just stating the obvious. Well, guess it’s my turn. Not nearly as interesting. I fled the city for the first few years. Always wanted out, think I told you that, but Thren wasn’t one to take such requests too well. That fire seemed as good an opportunity as any to make a new life. Spent some time down in Woodhaven, cutting lumber. After awhile, got bored, took some odd jobs more favorable to a dagger than an ax. All the sudden, I had a slow but steady stream of mercenary work. About a year ago I came back to Veldaren, going by the name of Stern and hoping for a bit more lucrative employment. Before you start thinking it, I wasn’t exactly falling into that same old trap. I chose my contracts carefully, and while I wasn’t always working for the nicest of people, I wasn’t killing innocents or torching the homes of the poor, either.
“Anyway, eventually met with my current employer. Even joined up with him as a permanent member of his
