Two faces flashed through his mind, a man shocked in betrayal, a woman masked in lies.
His third blow, a hard, right hook, sent Ust falling to the ground. Ust landed on his back. Blood spilled from a broken nose down to chapped lips. He tightened his grip on his backsword’s hilt. The toe of Ōbhin’s boot slammed into Ust’s hand.
The crack echoed down the road.
The blade tumbled from the bandit leader. His mouth opened in a pain-filled shout. Ōbhin felt awakened from his shadowed stupor. He had just existed since leaving Guirreu. Since leaving her behind. Black strangled his heart, but the grip of compassion had pried back those dark fingers enough to let him feel the pulse of life again.
To remember it.
“You Black-cursed roach!” Ust snarled, voice nasally. “I’ll gut you and—”
A wild shout, raw and ragged, burst from Ōbhin’s throat as he slammed his boot into Ust’s guts. Air exploded from his lungs. Ōbhin lifted his foot up and crashed it down into the middle of Ust’s stomach again. The fleshy impact brought a curling smile at the corner of Ōbhin’s lips. He reveled in this moment. He’d eaten so much dirt from Ust. The bloodfire was just the most recent life Ōbhin had spilled in his apathetic haze.
“Dirt-skinned bastard!” hissed Hook, the only bandit to rush to Ust’s defense.
Stone’s face paled. The huge man took a step back. Whiner Creg grinned, wiping at his runny nose. Handsome Baill’s split lip peeled back. Others trembled, looking wild-eyed as Hook charged in, raising his rusted namesake.
Ōbhin seized the slashing appendage in a black-gloved hand. Leather creaked as he twisted. A buckle snapped. Hook gasped as Ōbhin wrenched the rusty implement from the stump of the sniveling boot-lapper’s arm, a broken strap dangling from the stiff cuff. He slammed the hook into its owner’s face, cutting open the older man’s brow with the sharp tip. Hook reeled back and tripped over Ust wheezing on the dirt. Hook fell hard. Ōbhin threw the rusted metal into the bush and stared at the other bandits.
“Someone . . . cut off . . . his damned . . . head . . .” panted Ust, struggling to rise.
Ōbhin kicked him in the temple.
“Double . . . pay . . .” groaned Ust, a knot swelling.
Whiner Creg laughed louder and rushed forward. The skinny man crossed the distance with a confident strut, hand reaching for his blade.
Ōbhin rested his gloved hand on the pommel of his tulwar, staring at the bandit.
“Bugger this,” Creg muttered, halting. “He killed that bloodfire. You handle him, Ust.”
“You still think it’s a good idea to put one of us down?” Ōbhin asked, staring down at the wheezing Ust, blood flowing down his cheek and matting his side whiskers.
“Pus-filled, dirt-stained cockroach!” Ust spat bloody phlegm at Ōbhin. It landed before his boot.
Ōbhin slid his hand down to grip the handle. “Well, Ust? You’re wounded. I could put you down. You don’t want to go through life with a bent nose.”
Whiner Creg cackled.
“You all should wear skirts and have dolls tucked under your arms!” Ust snarled, sitting up. “Cowards all. He’s one man.”
“You don’t pay that much,” said Handsome Baill.
“Keep the bastard alive,” snarled Ust as he rose, an acrid stink rising from him. “He can pound your arse in the dark for all I care.” He wiped blood from his nose and looked at his men. “What are all you useless runts doing? You can change the piss from your britches when we camp. Move!”
“Only one of us pissed his britches,” Whiner Creg said.
Ust glowered at him.
Ōbhin relaxed as the others turned and headed down the dirt road while pale-faced Stone helped Hook stand. Ust marched ahead, his shoulders tight. Embarrassment stiffened every muscle. He stamped forward, splashing through a puddle, kicking up mud. A weight fell from Ōbhin. He was done with Ust and his bandits.
He wished he’d shaken off the shadows and left long ago. It was just easier staying. Following orders. He didn’t have to think. Only wallow.
Avena nodded beside him, satisfaction painted across her exposed face. She glanced at him. “You know he’s not my father.”
Ōbhin frowned. “Dualayn? But you call him that.”
She looked away. “We should go.”
Before he could ask another question, she scrambled back up onto the wagon, using the wheel as a ladder. As she climbed in, her skirt rode up, flashing the petticoats she wore and the dark-brown stockings cladding her calves. She shoved her skirts down as she righted, her cheeks flaring pink.
He shook his head. Shows her face, but flashing some leg makes her blush?
Ōbhin feared he’d never understand these pale people. Lothonians, Onderians, and Roidaneses were all mad. Worse than the Tethyrian immigrants he was always mistaken for.
Grunting, he climbed back into the wagon and followed the bandits, sniggers and laughs echoing behind Ust’s back. Ōbhin couldn’t help the smile. It felt good to finally knock the blustering fool on his backside.
Chapter Five
A growing tension mounted in Avena as the wagon trundled down the farm lane. Near an hour ago, they’d left the Upfing Forest for the cultivated farmland of the Colonization, lands conquered from Ondere. They’d turned off onto the first side road, passing fields where tanned men and boys trudged through the fields, bare feet caked in dirt, the spring planting growing.
They neared where this boss waited.
It started as a tightening in the pit of her stomach, a distraction from monitoring her patient. She knelt in the back, making sure the one-way water valve allowed him to breathe. He hovered on the edge of death. Air wheezed. Sweat coated his face. A pallid sheen clad his cheeks. The first signs of infection nibbled at his wounds, red lines creeping up the veins from his severed
