The third jerked him up by the front of his robe—white once, but now stained with dust and dirt to a washed out brown—“We ain’t gonna just take one piece, you old fucker. We’re takin’ all of it, you hear me? Try to stop us, you’ll get hurt.”
“Curses are the crutch of a man crippled within his own mind, young one, and violence not a pet to be tamed but a master to any man who seeks to claim it. Do you understa—” He cut off as one of the boy’s reached out and slapped him across the face. It was an awkward, ungainly blow, clearly with no training or skill behind it, and Valden ran a hand across his mouth where a trickle of blood was starting down his lip. “There is really no need for this, young men. I will help you any way I can, only leave enough for the children, I beg.”
But the youths were not listening. One reached for the basket beside him, snatching it up so quickly that several of the pieces of bread fell out onto the street. A second began scooping them up, cursing his companion as he did, while the third continued to hold his robe, giving him a shake. “Now the money, you old bastard.”
“I don’t have any coin, young man. We followers of Raveza forego our earthly possessions so that they might not hinder or weigh us down in the quest for peace.”
“Save your bullshit for someone else, Priest,” the boy growled, pawing at his robe, “tell me where it is, where’s the money, or by the gods I’ll cut you and see if the shit you’re full of comes pourin’ out.”
Just then, something caught Valden’s attention, and he glanced up to see two strangers standing in the street a short distance away, regarding him and the young men. A heavy-set man in purple trousers and a woman with dark hair, some of which had gone to gray. She was older, then, perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, but possessing a majestic beauty that shone past the few wrinkles she had. There was something regal about her bearing, while the heavy-set man’s mouth was turned up at one corner into a small, almost imperceptible smile as if he were about to laugh at some joke only he knew. And while his body might have been heavy and awkward, there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, one shared in the eyes of the woman, and Valden realized that they were not strangers after all.
“Maeve,” he said, smiling. “Challadius.”
“Priest,” the woman said.
“Who the fuck?” one of the boys growled. “Get out of here, old woman, and take your fat man with you before you both end up getting hurt.”
“If you would like to wait at the church,” Valden offered, “I will finish my business here and meet you both there shortly.”
Challadius made a sour face, snorting, and Maeve glanced at him before rolling her eyes and looking back to him. “We just came from there, actually. We asked them where we could find you.”
“Very well,” Valden said, “then if you will only give me half an hour, no more—”
“It’s important, Valden,” Maeve interrupted. “We would not be here otherwise. He’s in trouble.”
Valden felt a surge of something go through him, some undefinable emotion. Was it panic, perhaps? Fear? Or something else? “You’re sure?”
She grunted. “Chall dreamed it.”
He glanced to the big man who still had a sour expression on his face, but he nodded to confirm the truth of it.
“Enough,” the youth holding him growled. He turned to his two companions who had finally managed to scoop up the pieces of bread. “Go and get the fat man and the bitch—might be they got some coin on them.”
Maeve’s eyes went wide at that, and Valden was moving before he realized it, his hand flashing out, the ridge of it catching the young man holding him in the throat. His attacker gasped, letting loose his hold, but Valden did not hesitate, following up with a knee to the man’s midsection and then he pivoted, sending two rapid blows into the boy’s face. The youth fell like a poleaxed ox, collapsing on the ground.
The sound of his fall alerted his companions, and the two of them turned, their eyes widening as they realized what had happened. Then they cursed and attacked. The first one charged him, swinging an unpracticed punch which was easily avoided. Valden ducked the blow, placing three rapid strikes in the youth’s stomach, then spun, his leg sweeping out of his robe and striking the youth in the back of his knees, causing him to collapse in a wheezing heap on the ground. The third growled, reaching for him, but Valden swayed to the side, avoiding his hands and placed two punches in the man’s side. His attacker groaned, bending over, his hands going to his floating ribs, and Valden spun, bringing his own fist in a fast uppercut which caught the man under the chin and sent him sprawling.
He took a moment, surveying the three men on the ground, unconscious or close enough as to make no difference. Then, he turned back to Chall and Maeve. “When did this vision occur?”
***
Chall stared at the three unconscious men, blinking. Time had changed them in many ways. He’d grown fat—there, he’d said it. Maeve had grown older—still attractive, and still looking like she’d just as soon take a knife to him as talk to him most times. Even Priest looked older, and the man had already looked damned near ancient when Chall had met him twenty years ago. But whatever else time had robbed them all of—or added to them, in Chall’s case—it had clearly stolen none of the man’s skill in
