To Lie with Honor

Fiction - by K. D. Julicher

A flash of crimson off in the barren woods caught my eye. I stopped in my tracks. The lonely mountain road was ill-traveled at the best of times, which this wasn’t. Tiny flecks of snow swirled around my head, settling on my shoulders and soaking through my threadbare cloak. I hadn’t seen anyone all day, and didn’t expect to meet anyone until I reached the next town. The only people out in this weather were bandits and tax collectors. I wasn’t either, though I had fled the capital with a pouch not nearly full enough of other people’s money.

I waited, listening. The bitter wind whistled through the pines. Pale afternoon light filtered down, the snowflurries drifting along like motes of dust in the sunbeams. Nothing else moved. The crimson whatever-it-was lay well off the road.

The next town lay miles ahead down the cold wagon-track. If I wanted to be indoors, with a good meal and the prospect of acquiring other peoples’ money in front of me, I needed to keep moving. No good would come of curiosity.

I clambered up the bank, grabbing a pine tree trunk to pull myself up. The bark rasped my chapped hands. The ground, not as hard-packed as the road’s wagon-ruts, squelched under my boots. Mud oozed in through a hole that I thought I’d plugged this morning. I ignored it and crept as quietly as I could. The dry branches of bushes rustled as I passed. Nothing else stirred.

The crimson was a cape someone had dropped, a hundred feet off the road and five feet from the first body. I pulled up short as soon as I saw the corpse. His head faced me, a good yard from the rest of his body. He looked rather surprised. His rough-cut clothes and scarred face suggested to me that he was a bandit who’d lived a bad life and met a worse end.

The cloak was good heavy wool, well dyed with little variation in the vibrant hue. I picked it up and checked for blood, but it was clean. The clasp was still on it, a golden pin shaped like an arrow. I threw on the cloak and felt immediately warmer.

A half-dozen more corpses littered the woods nearby. They’d died recently, judging by how the blood still pooled on the ground. Thanks to the cold, there was little stench and no flies. The corpses were all armed with short swords or cudgels. They’d been beheaded or stabbed through their chests.

Bandits who had had a falling out with each other? No. Their weapons were mostly clean. I crept cautiously forward, still listening, looking everywhere. I’ve always been good at observing the details. It’s important, for a man in my profession.

One dead man caught my eye. He had a surprised expression on his face, blood on his blade, and a sword still stuck in his chest. Unlike the weapons carried by the bandits, which had hilts wrapped in leather cord, this sword had a metal handle, with a round pommel at the bottom. I hesitated, then reached out and pulled the sword out.

As soon as I touched the sword, my head rang. A could almost hear the distant sound of horns sounding, the tramping of feet. My heart filled with courage and for an instant I wasn’t a fleecer of coin and counter of cards, I was a soldier and leader of men…

I tossed the sword away from me, breathing too hard. It lay in the moldering leaves. For a moment, a line of symbols glowed blue on the blade, but they faded quickly. A runeblade. Just what I didn’t need, a magic sword pumping my head full of martial machismo and heroic notions.

That’s when I noticed the trail of blood, heading off parallel to the road. So. The owner of the runeblade had killed the bandits, but taken a bad wound, and limped off bleeding.

I should leave this well enough alone. Maybe check the bodies for coin and then head for the nearest town. Whoever had done this was still out there. Any man who could kill half a dozen bandits would make quick work of me.

The wind brought a low moan to my ears. It could be a trick, designed to lure me into a trap. I made my living taking gold from the foolish, and stayed alive mostly by being smart enough not to be around for bad things, like bandit ambushes.

Another moan.

I looked at the sword, lying there challenging me. I could still feel it urging me to noble deeds. “I’m a coward and a liar,” I told it, my words not half as cold as the wind that chapped my face. “I’m not a hero.”

It didn’t say anything, of course. It was a sword, and swords don’t talk.

I sighed, bent down, and picked up the sword, bracing myself against another flood of martial feeling, but the sword seemed muted. Maybe it understood I was already doing what it wanted.

I started off along the trail, cursing myself. All I was going to do was get myself killed. It was damned cold, and I had no business trying to help anyone.

I rounded a cedar wider than my shoulders, and there he was, lying propped up against the trunk. The middle-aged man stared up at me, gasping for breath. His hand pressed against his side. Dark blood oozed past his fingers. He glared at me. “You’re going to finish me with my own sword?” he spat. “That’s my cloak you’re wearing, you vulture.”

“I was just passing by.” I crouched down, far enough to leap back if he grabbed for the sword. “Can I, uh, do anything for that?” I asked, nodding toward his wound.

“No good.” He winced. “I’ve killed enough men to know I’m done for.” His breath came out in short gasps, making him stutter. The snow had stopped, but I felt colder than ever. The dying man’s cloak on my shoulder was uncomfortably heavy.

His eyes lit up with fierce resolve. He lunged forward suddenly, and I apparently wasn’t as safe as I’d thought, because before I could move he grabbed my tunic with both his hands. I pulled back but his grasp was strong even as he left bloody fingerprints on my collar. “You’re a traveller? Not with them?”

I must not have had my trustworthy face on. A smile would be the wrong expression, so I set my face to look, I hoped, appropriately solemn. “I can be trusted,” I said.

All my life, I’d been good at getting people to trust me. It was more than just my open face and easy manner. Oh, I had to work hard at it, listening to their worries and saying the words they want to hear. It wasn’t till I had been living on my wits for almost a year that I met a hedge-witch who told me I had more than just a silver tongue. “It’s magic, just like what I do,” she’d told me. “Keep quiet about it, have the sense not to do it in front of priests, and you’ll be fine.”

“What’s your name?” the dying man asked.

“Edward,” I said at once. No hesitation. I never lied about my name. I’d lie about where I was from and who my father was or how I made my living — especially how I made my living — but not my name. Somehow when I did, none of the rest of my fibs held up.

The man was clearly sizing me up, so I returned the favor. He was old, well past fifty. His palms showed the calluses from wielding a sword. His nose had been broken, probably years ago, and a scar split one white eyebrow. The lines on his face spoke of days spent out in sun and rain, and nights of watchfulness. Soldier. Mercenary, most likely. He wore no lord’s device on his clothing. My hand went to the golden arrow clasp at my throat. Not an arrow, I realized now. “Emptyspear,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “You know us?”

“Heard of you,” I said. Anyone who spent as much time in taverns as I did knew of the Emptyspear. The mercenary band recruited condemned men and offered them a chance at life. Or took men who already had nothing to lose, depending on your perspective. They were like something out of a fairytale, the way they swept in and out of other peoples’ stories.

The dying man stared up at me. His chest rose and fell a few times. At last he said, “What sort of man are you, Edward?”

His words rocked me and I had a wild urge to explain myself to him. At the same time I felt a push from the sword, saw myself as taller and stronger than I really was, someone who could be depended on.

I caught myself before saying anything. My mind raced. The mercenary studied me with a practiced eye, only a quick flicker of his eyes toward the sword betraying his interest there. He was trying to size me up. Now, what did he want to see?

A man who could be trusted. He had something he wanted to finish, and he was dying. If there was any chance of gold in it, I was interested. So I needed to be a good man. A trustworthy man. That was a role I knew well. Usually I played it with a heavy dash of naivety blended in. Plenty of folk leap at a chance to take advantage of a dull-witted honest man. In this case though…

I widened my eyes and injected as much surprise into my voice as I thought I could get away with. “What sort? Well, I don’t know that I’ve ever thought much about it.” I glanced to the side. “I do what I have to do but I try not to hurt anyone else.”

The sword did not approve of my prevaricating. I felt its annoyance like a sting in my palm. Not needing the distraction, I let it drop to the moldering leaves beside me.

“You keep your word?” the Emptyspear soldier asked. Again his words seemed to demand a reply, and I resisted answering. He leaned forward again and grabbed my wrist. I resisted at first, then let him pull me closer.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Can’t say I always live up to it, but I try.” I decided to try pushing my luck just a bit. The dying man was worried about something of value to him. Maybe there was more than just a purse of gold at stake. I let my mind fill in the mask I was trying to wear. A simple traveler, stopping to help a wounded man. Concerned for his well being. Trustworthy. Oh, so trustworthy. “Sir?” I said. “Surely there’s someone I can send word to…”

He coughed, bending over double. Flecks of blood spattered his hand. I helped him lean back against the tree. “My horse ran off. She’s a roan with a white face, she’ll be around.” He let out a hissing breath, his face twisting with pain. “I sensed the ambush. Stashed my saddlebags back at the road. Just before the crossroads there’s a dead tree with a lightning scar on one side. There’s a cleft in the tree partway up that’s hard to see unless you’re mounted. That’s where I hid them. Take them. Deliver the first parcel in the next town.” His grip tightened on my wrist.

His voice shot through me, making the hairs on my arms tingle. “I understand,” I said.

He set his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll do it? Your word?” His fingers dug into my shoulder, passing his urgency into me. How could he have such strength left in him? He was using almost his last breath to try to finish his task. “On the sword,” he said.

Part of me wanted to leap up and pledge myself, body and soul, to anything he asked. I was surprised at how strong the urge was. Most of me, the part that kept me alive, resisted. I had run the same sort of hustle many times and it never went well for the poor sap on the other end of things.

I brought the sword-hilt around and set it in the dying man’s hands, covering them with my own. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, licking my lips. There was a brief surge of feeling from the sword, like regret mingled with resolve.

He glared up at me through those pale blue eyes as if trying to judge my soul. Then his expression softened and he fell back. His eyes clouded, as though he were seeing all the things he left unfinished. “That’ll have to do,” he said. “Tell Lord Emptyspear.” He coughed. “Tell Einar I did my duty.”

He didn’t speak again. I waited until he was dead, and then a little longer, until my feet went numb and my need for a warm meal reasserted itself. The ground here was frozen. I couldn’t have buried him if I wanted to. I strapped on his sword and went to find the horse.

I got to the crossroads a little before dusk, and found the bags where he’d said. I wanted to open them and see what was inside but darkness was falling, the cold wind bit deeper, and I worried that there were more bandits about. I nudged the horse along the road and we made good time. Riding made a nice change from walking. I’d rarely had the money to feed and stable a horse, but there’d been times, especially in taking my leave of a town where I’d overstayed my welcome, that I’d wished for one. My new cape kept me warmer than I’d been for weeks, but my feet ached with the cold. I kept one bare hand tucked beneath my cape all the time, switching them out whenever the other grew too numb to hold the reins. Maybe I’d be able to buy a pair of gloves in town. I’d left the last place a bit more abruptly than planned, sneaking out just ahead of a pair of angry creditors, hence my lack.

The warm cloak over my shoulders, heavy sword at my belt and good horse between my legs said I hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. I’m a deceiver by trade, my meals bought with gold I earned tricking fools out of their more honest wages, and I’d never have tried spinning such a tale. I certainly would never have dared invoke the name of the Emptyspear. The mercenaries were as much legend as truth. “Let me tell you about the time with the Emptyspear” was a sure sign whatever followed would be empty boasting. I’d spent three months in a mercenary company myself, when I was very young and foolish. Nothing as illustrious as the Emptyspear and I’d known it was a mistake after my first battle — where I’d gotten knocked out a whole five minutes into the fight, come to in the middle of the night, and run off as soon as I’d filled my pockets with battlefield loot. So while I liked the way the sword sat on my hip, I tried to avoid actually touching it. I had no wish to fill my head with martial notions.

I reached the village before full dark. Chimney smoke rose over the log palisade, bearing the scent of roasting chicken and warm bread to me. I inhaled, and my stomach gurgled in appreciation. As I rode in, two men stepped out from beside the gate. “Who are you?” one challenged. They thrust spears out to block my path.

“A simple traveller,” I said.

They eyed me up and down, taking in my threadbare clothes and the fine cape. “Nobody travels these roads in winter but scoundrels and tax collectors.”

“I assure you, I am neither,” I lied, trying not to shiver. “I merely want a hot meal and somewhere to sleep out of the wind.” I thought about mentioning the bandits but decided that would only invite questions. One of the guards’s eyes narrowed as he studied me. They weren’t going to let me in. I tried to gather my usual convincing ways about me, but it was almost like I’d used up all my luck earlier with the Emptyspear man. I needed to start fresh with them. “I’m here to deliver a message,” I said.

“To who?” they asked. Their hands tightened on their spears, and my mouth got dry. If I didn’t win them over fast, I’d find myself sleeping in a ditch for sure.

I dismounted and opened the saddlebags, sticking my hand into one and feeling around. Immediately I realized I’d made a mistake. My fingers touched small leather bags that gave a very distinctive tink when I touched them. Bags of coin. I didn’t want the guards to see those. I rooted around and found a parcel of letters.

I drew them out and squinted at the names. “Um. Survivors of John, Ian the Miller’s son?”

“Our miller’s name is Adam,” the guard told me.

I flipped to the next letter. “Widow Tabitha?”

They shook their heads. “I hope you’re not trying to put something over on us,” they said.

I was, but like the best of lies, it was built on truth. As long as the Emptyspear man had meant this village, when he’d told me to deliver the first message. I looked at the next letter. “To the mother of Aedric Redbeard,” I said.

One of the guards held up a hand. “Hold,” he said. “Aedric Redbeard?

“That’s right,” I said. I tamped down the spark of excitement and pushed my luck. “You know her?”

“She’s a good woman,” the guard said. “What sort of business you got with her?”

I raised my chin and met his eyes, letting him see that I had nothing to hide but nothing to share either. “My business is between her and the Emptyspear,” I said grandly. My voice fell into tones of command without even trying. I didn’t usually play an officer, but it was just another role for me. “If you take me to her, I would be most grateful.”

The second guard still looked doubtful, but the one I’d been concentrating on nodded. He put his spear back against his shoulder. “Come inside. Aedric’s mother is cook at the pub.”

The guardsmen closed up the gate behind me as heavy flakes of snow started to fall from the dark sky. At their order, I left the horse under an underhang of the palisade, but I took the saddlebags and slung them over my shoulder. The one who knew Aedric’s mother grabbed a torch off the wall, spoke to his friend briefly, and then started off toward the center of the small town. “I had to promise to bring him a bowl of something hot,” he said. “Hope you’re good for it.”

I ignored him and got into character. My normal personas wouldn’t suit this role. All right. I was Edward, a lieutenant — no, a captain of the Emptyspear. The old man I’d met earlier must have been more than a mere lieutenant, and I was taking his place, so captain it was. That meant I was a hard mercenary, used to seeing blood spilled. I had no fear of death or man’s displeasure, but I could take joy in small things in life like a hot meal and cold beer. Confidence. That was the main thing. Confidence and the commanding aura I’d seen on the Emptyspear man even as he lay dying. I’d have to forgo my usual schemes and cons. They didn’t fit Edward of the Emptyspear at all. So be it. From the weight of the little bundles in my saddle bag, I was about to be a rich man. I didn’t need to win a handful of pennies with marked cards in order to eat.

I touched the hilt of the sword, expecting a jolt of all the right feelings, planning to channel the sword’s feelings into my stride and stance, but the sword felt reluctant. Oh, so you’ve figured out I’m a fraud? I asked it, amused, not expecting an answer.

The guard pointed to one of the larger huts. Smoke curled out of the chimney in its thatched roof. “Go ahead,” he said. I set my hand on the door, yanked, and then ducked and went inside the pub.

The inside was warm and dimly lit. A huge hearth dominated one wall of the crowded room. Two long tables were filled with people, mostly men, drinking and talking. I longed to make for the fire at once, but the guard had tromped in after me, shutting the door behind us. “Oy!” he shouted. “Where’s Meg?”

“She’s in the back cooking,” the man tending bar said. He looked at me suspiciously. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“This here’s a messenger from the Emptyspear,” the guard said loudly.

Everyone in the place looked at me. I caught myself starting to smile, and quelled that. Instead I stood up straighter. I raised a hand to my brow. “Captain Edward Farstrider, of the Empyspear,” I said. “Here to see the mother of Aedric Redbeard.”

The bartender set down the mugs he’d been filling. “I’ll fetch her.” He disappeared through a door. I made my way along the tables. My hands and feet started to thaw. I met every eye and returned curious looks with — not my usual so-trustworthy smile, that didn’t fit Captain Edward. Just a nod of my head, a bit of acknowledgement, without a hint of superiority.

“Are you really from them Emptyspear?” a half-drunk man with small burn scars on his face and hands asked, leaning back on his stool as I passed him.

“I am,” I said, pausing. “You’ll be the smith, will you? I’ve got a horse with a shoe loose, if I can bring her around tomorrow.”

His eyes widened as he stared at me. “I am,” he said. “How’d you know? And you know Aedric?”

“You understand,” I said, temporizing, “I must speak with his mother before anyone else.” I gave a half-smile of apology and continued on. I had no idea what the letter said, after all. I should have opened it up and read everything, counted every coin, before taking a step past the crossroads. I could indulge those regrets now that I was safe behind walls, out of reach of bandits.

I reached the well-worn bar and leaned against its warm wooden side. Every eye in the room was on me. It felt good. They didn’t see me, after all. Not Edward the bastard, son of a man whose name I’d never heard spoken. That Edward didn’t matter. He was only the raw material I used to make my creations, easily as elaborate as the finest marble statue. No, they saw a captain of the Emptyspear, and they liked what they saw.

The barman reappeared. “She’s coming,” he said. He plunked a clay mug brimming with ale down in front of me without my even asking. I raised it and drank, the peaty taste making my mouth tingle. It wasn’t half bad; they must have had a good harvest this year.

A middle-aged woman appeared from the back, rubbing her hands on her flour-streaked apron. Her light brown hair was streaked through with gray. The lines on her plump face suggested to me that usually she smiled. Right now, the furrows on her brow spoke of worry. She came up to me, keeping the bar between us, and gripped the bar with both hands. “I’m Meg. You have word from my son?” she asked. Her dark eyes pierced me. “I haven’t heard from him even once since he went away, and that’s been three years. How is he? Have you seen him?”

I held up one hand and reached into my bag for the letter. I brought it out with a little flourish and presented it to her.

She stared at it like it was a week-dead fish I’d just laid on the bar. “What’s that?” she asked.

“For you, madam,” I said, smiling.

Meg just kept staring, and I cursed inside, though I kept my pleasant expression fixed. Of course she couldn’t read. Chances were not three men in this whole village could. I picked the letter back up. “Shall I read it for you, Madam Meg?”

She nodded, not speaking. I glanced around. “Here, or…?”

She looked up at me. There was something in her face I couldn’t read, and I’m damned good at reading faces. Tension knit her brows. She was worried about what was in the letter. Fear for her son’s safety? No. The way she kept fidgeting… fear of what her son had done. This was a woman who’d had her son dragged back to her a hundred times as a boy for stealing apples and scaring sheep. I knew that face because I’d seen it on my own mother often enough.

Her shoulders slumped. “They’ll all know soon enough,” Meg said. The resignation in her voice matched her stance. “Go ahead.”

I pulled the dead Emptyspear man’s horsehead-handled knife from my belt. The ruby eyes in set in the hilt glared up at me as if the Emptyspear man himself was here, disapproving, as I plowed on with this charade. With a flick of my wrist, I twisted the seal from the parchment. Another flick unfurled the paper. Every eye in the room was on me. I could have heard a pin drop.

The penmanship was beautiful. Each precise stroke of black ink against the creamy parchment showed mastery of the pen. I have spent my share of time with the art of calligraphy, and for a few heartbeats I found myself lost in admiration of this script. It would be a joy to imitate. At the bottom, the name was signed in a flourish.

I caught myself and leaned forward as if to speak only to Meg, but pitched my voice for the whole room as I read the crisp script on the page.

“From Einar, Earl Emptyspear, written on the field of battle at Marthorn Pass. To Meg, the mother of Aedric Redbeard.

“Madam Meg. I am writing to you to inform you of your son’s death in battle.”

I stopped reading. Meg’s face was whiter than the flour on her apron. The bartender came over and dragged a stool to her. She sank into it, covering her face with her hands. The barman set his hand on her shoulder and met my eyes. There was no friendliness there any more. “You’d better finish what you started,” he said quietly.

I looked back down at the missive, swallowed, trying not to show my discomfort. The Emptyspear man knew what was in these letters. He would not have shrunk from this, though perhaps his delivery would have been less public. I was the Emptyspear man now, I would do this. I touched the sword’s pommel for luck and it gave me a quick burst of warm courage. “Aedric Redbeard fought bravely. He and seven others held Marthorn Pass against a hundred of our enemy and held out until reinforcements arrived, thereby saving the rest of his company and the town below.” I glanced up. Meg had looked up. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Aedric fought til the last breath in his body. He never tried to run.

“Aedric came to us as a liar, a cheat, and a thief.” I nearly stumbled over the words. The sword urged me on, relentless. Around me, I heard men murmuring. Mostly it sounded like agreement. I went back to the letter. “Aedric confessed to all of those and more. His death does not wipe out his crimes. But his courage and his blood have restored his honor. I, Earl Emptyspear, with the dispensation of the king of Theianbridge, proclaim it so. Aedric Redbeard lies with honor.

“The death-geld for Aedric is included with this letter, in the hopes that it buys his family the more comfortable life he wanted for them. He will be remembered by the Emptyspear with respect.” That was it, except for the earl’s signature, clearly the same hand that had written the rest of the letter.

No need to wonder what the Emptyspear man would have done next. I set the letter down and reached into my saddlebag. All the pouches were the same size, and unlabelled, so I brought one clinking bag out and pressed it into Meg’s trembling hands. She drew it to her and opened it. Gold coins clattered down onto the bar, sparkling in the firelight. Her eyes went wide. She picked up one of the coins and fingered it. “These are for me?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes, madam. A small token of the honor your son has earned.”

“Aedric is dead,” she said. “I never expected to see him again, no matter what the recruiter said. He wasn’t the sort to live in a town like this all his days anyway. But I never thought he’d come to a good end.” She touched the letter. “This is all true?” she asked.

“Madam,” I said, drawing myself up, “Earl Emptyspear’s word is unquestionable. I have never heard him utter a single false phrase.” Since I’d never met the man, I’d never said a truer word. The tight lines on her forehead smoothed away. She picked up the letter, folded it, and tucked it under her blouse.

I turned to the room full of men. “Aedric Redbeard died with honor!” I said. “You are all my witnesses.”

The sword approved. I could feel it without even touching the hilt. Shut up, I told it. I’d just talked myself out of a small fortune.

“And who’d have thought it of Aedric,” the innkeeper called. He held up a brimming mug. “A round on the house, so we can toast his memory.”

That broke the silence. The crowd whooped and pressed in around me. The barkeep slung beer. Meg disappeared and came back with a heaping bowl of meat and root vegetables for me, and half a loaf of warm bread. I dug in as the pub around me grew more merry. Men swapped stories of young Aedric. He’d apparently been a bad lot from boyhood, the sort to start fires and steal linens off the lines, but there was no rancor in their voice as they spoke.

A girl came in through the back door. She made her way over to me. “I’m Aedric’s sister,” she shouted over the hubbub. “Mother told me the news. Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Maybe it was the beer — I was on my third mug by now — but she made my head whirl. “Mother says there’s enough gold to repair our roof and give me a proper dowry. Thank you. And for making my brother’s name right again.”

“He did that,” I said. “I’m just the messenger.” I touched the hilt of my sword again, hoping it would sober me up. It seemed content with our actions tonight, and I filled with warm contentment.

The barkeeper said, “You can sleep here tonight by the fireplace if you wish. We haven’t the sort of fancy housing you’re likely used to.”

I drew myself up and laughed like the officer I was pretending to be would. “I sleep in the field more nights than not,” I said. “Any night I can sleep without fear of having my throat slit is a good one. I thank your town for your hospitality.”

The party swirled on around me, as I enjoyed mug after mug of good ale. Well, this might be the most expensive dinner and lodging I’d ever bought, but tomorrow I’d be on my way with a saddlebag full of gold. I’d make for Eurikon’s Gap first. There was an outlaw town there, the sort of place a man could lay low and listen to rumors. Once I was sure no one was coming after me, I’d be over the border into Durdena and living like a king. Maybe an earl. I could make the money last a long time if I was careful.

The next day got off to a slower start than I’d wanted. The blacksmith insisted on looking my horse over thoroughly and replaced two shoes, free of charge. Aedric’s sister came and perched on the water-butt, talking about her brother. For a time I thought she was interested in me, but I caught on to how she and the blacksmith’s apprentice made eyes at each other. So be it. I was only passing through, and her fortunes had just been elevated.

Then it seemed everyone in town had to stop by to see me. “A real Emptyspear captain!” was how one woman put it. I struck poses and told tales of battles. They may have thought I was being retiringly modest by rarely mentioning my own contributions. Truth told, I was re-telling every story I’d ever heard of fighting. They’ve never been my favorites and I didn’t want to get caught out in a lie, so I made sure to keep my own part small. Still, it felt good to be Captain Edward Farstrider of the Emptyspear. He had the respect of men and the admiration of women, purpose and place that had never been mine. Every time I felt my inspiration waning, I put my hand to the hilt of my runeblade, and the sword’s visions filled me with thoughts of glory, noble last stands and heroic sacrifices.

Finally, as the sun neared the height of the sky, I made my escape. I rode along contentedly, feeling the weight of the saddlebag in the horse’s stride. There was more gold here than I’d ever had in my life. Ten times more. I had a fine horse, a good cape, and a sword that I really hoped I’d never have to draw but the best thing about swords is that when you have one, all sorts of people are suddenly interested in making sure you don’t use it.

I made good time that afternoon, even through little squalls of snow that popped up. As night was falling I found myself approaching another hamlet. I pulled up on my horse and considered. I could skirt the town and sleep outdoors. Not very appealing, since three inches of snow made a poor bed. I could stash my saddlebags, taking just enough to pay for a night’s bed, and sleep well enough. Or…

Tomorrow I’d reach the road for Eurikon’s Gap and three days from now I would be living like a king in the outlaw town. Actually if I wanted to come out alive, I’d hide the gold and live like a slightly down on my luck gambler in the outlaw town, and ride from Durden with the spring thaw, but the point was, tonight was my last night in civilization. Down there in that town might well be another Meg, waiting for news of her Aedric, with a warm hearth and a good meal for the man who brought her sad yet welcome news. Even with one less sack of gold, I’d be a rich man.

Anyway two missives delivered might help the old Emptyspear man’s soul rest quietly. I could feel the sword’s presence on my hip, urging me on. It was going to be a serious hamper to my career as a small-time grifter; I’d have to lose it in a card game soon.

The gate guard helped me sort through the letters. I knew when we’d hit the right one. His brows drew together and he looked like he’d bitten something rotten. “John, Ian the Miller’s son,” he said. “Yes. His survivors live here, all right.” He bent and spat.

“Where’s the mill, my man?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Ian died years back. The mother lives over yonder.” He pointed out a shack halfway down the road. “You might find them in, they take in laundry so they might be back by the creek.”

I pulled my cloak around my shoulders. No one should be out washing clothes on a day like today. “Thank you,” I said.

I approached the house cautiously, leading my horse, conscious of the heads poking out of doors to stare at me. As I got closer, I heard raised voices. Then the door flung open and a young woman stomped out. She threw a glare, not really at me in particular. She was just venting her anger on the street, and I was in her way. Her expression turned to surprise as she saw me watching. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

“I’m looking for the family of John, son of Ian the Miller.”

An older woman emerged from the hut. “Who’s this?” she asked.

“He’s looking for John,” the younger woman said, sounding fearful.

“It’s not on us,” the old woman said at once, holding her hands in front of her, almost defensively. “The Emptyspear claimed him, and promised whatever he’d done, they’d make right.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. I took the letter and held it out to them. “I’m a messenger from the Emptyspear.”

The women looked at each other. Then the older one said, hesitantly, “If he’s done wrong there… we can’t have him back, we just can’t. We barely get by on our own, if he comes back and makes trouble, we’re done for.”

I took a deep breath. This was far harder than I’d expected. There would be no gratitude here, but I might as well finish my delivery. I touched the hilt of my sword, seeking the strength to be Edward Farstrider even as these fearful women’s eyes threatened my defenses. It didn’t push its feelings on me, but there was a deep reserve in it, like a hundred silent comrades at my back. Today, I was Emptyspear.

“I must inform you that John has been killed,” I said. “The letter contains details of how and what — “

“Dead?” the older woman asked.

The younger woman turned her face away. “I knew he’d never come home,” she said.

A small boy hurtled out of the hut. He eluded the older woman’s grasping arms and buried his face in the younger woman’s skirts. “Mama?” he said. “Who’s dead, Mama?”

“No one important, Jack,” she said, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulder and glaring at me.

Ah. The pieces fell into place. Mother, widow, and son. From the patches in their clothes and the mud-daubed walls of their hut, they were barely staying alive. I reached into my saddlebag and took out a pouch. The older woman’s eyes narrowed. She reached for it. I gave it to the younger girl. “The death-geld for your husband,” I said.

She laughed bitterly. “Not my husband,” she said. “Orina’s son, my boy’s father, but not my husband.” But her hands closed hungrily around the coinpouch.

I’d attracted a little crowd now, lurking farther up the street watching us. It was cold, and getting late. All I wanted to do was salvage my dignity and preserve my illusion. “Would you allow me to read to you about his death?” I tried to put persuasion into my voice, but I could tell it wasn’t working. Whatever magic my tongue usually held had dried up here under the women’s hard gazes.

Minda opened the pouch. Her eyes widened at the gold. “He did do something right, at the end,” she said. “With him dead, and this gold, I can get a husband, a father for my boy.”

“That’s my gold,” the older woman snapped. “He’s my son and it’s your fault he had to go away.”

“I didn’t put him up to stealing the baron’s mares!” Minda protested.

“Yes, but your father was threatening to have him run out of town if he couldn’t come up with a dowry before you whelped,” Orina said.

“And how much good did that do either of us?” Minda said. “He tried to take what wasn’t his, and killed a man. He’s lucky they didn’t hang him.”

The boy was looking up at the two women, his eyes wide. His lip trembled. “Mama?” he said. “Who are you talking about?”

“No one that matters, Jack,” Minda said, her voice near breaking, but her face hard as stone.

The boy turned to me. His huge brown eyes trembled. He must be four years old. Old enough to know that he didn’t have a father like other boys. Old enough to hear their taunts and wonder. Old enough, perhaps, to ask his mother.

That’s how old I’d been when my mother’s husband, tired of my questions, took me out to the crossroads beyond our town and pointed at the body hanging from a tree. “That’s what happened to your father,” he’d told me. “Then they cut him down and tossed him in a grave over yonder. You can look if you like but none of them are marked. It’s all a murdering rapist like that deserves.”

I remembered staring up at him, begging him to tell me it wasn’t the truth. My stepfather stared back at me. I remembered seeing myself in his eyes, and knowing just how loathsome I was. “He raped your mother and killed her parents,” my stepfather said. “She should have left you out to die when you were born, but you were such a weak thing no one expected you to live anyway. Never ask again, or I’ll take your hide off.”

The little boy, John’s son, looked up at me. I knew that pleading. I crouched and gestured to him. The boy came over. I slit the letter open. There wasn’t much light left, but enough that I could see the words. I searched inside myself for every scrap of persuasion I could muster, one hand resting on the hilt of my sword. I need the right words, I prayed, to the sword or whatever demon watches over swindlers. The sword seemed confused. This was a job for a swindler, not a warrior. So be it.

“From Einar, Earl Emptyspear, to the family of John, son of Ian the Miller at Ravensbrook. I write to inform you that John has fallen in battle at Marthorn Pass. He stood his ground with seven other men, shoulder to shoulder, holding back twenty times their number.” I let the sword’s passion into my voice. The little boy’s eyes lit up. I put the letter down, the rest of Einar’s words unread. “Jack, that’s your name, right?”

He nodded.

My skin tingled as I found the words I needed come to my tongue as easy as stacking a deck of cards, warmth flowing from the sword up my arm and into my chest. “I was at Marthorn Pass,” I lied. Or was it really a lie? The Emptyspear man had been there, I was certain, his sword with him.

“I was with the army down below. We were caught out of position.” I called up every war story I’d ever heard, trying to string together a story that would ease this boy’s pain. “The enemy had us pinned down, but we were holding our own. They’d sent a hundred men up over the pass to come around behind our lines and finish us. But your father and the others at the pass held them off while we fought on the plain. When we got to the pass, there were dead enemies everywhere. Your father was mortally wounded, but he still lived.” I put my hand over my heart. “He asked me to see that you and your mother and grandmother were taken care of. I swore I would. Because that’s what happens when you join the Emptyspear. The old sins are washed away with blood. There’s no dishonor left.” I took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. I could feel the words working on him, as though there was a physical connection between us. “Your father’s name is clean, do you understand? He died with honor. He lies with honor.” I looked up. The women were staring at me. The sword on my hip approved. I had a feeling that I confused it as much as it confused me, but for this moment, we were unified.

“He’s too young to understand,” Minda said. But her face had softened and there was a distant look in her eyes.

“No, he’s not,” I said. I stood up. “And you make damned sure he understands later. His father did wicked things. But his death made them right. You do what you want with the coin. Find a husband. Fine. But you need to understand. Joining the Emptyspear wiped out all his guilt. Do not let his son grow up under that cloud.”

She stared at me, looking amazed. “Why do you care?” she whispered.

Because I wish someone would have come and told me the same thing, when I was his age. “Because I am Emptyspear, and we look after our own,” I lied, and felt that tingling conviction again.

I guess it was only half a lie. The letters and gold told me that they did look after their own. For this moment, I was one of them, standing here for a dead man. For two dead men. I felt better than I’d ever felt in my life, telling the lies that mattered. Is that enough? I asked the sword. It didn’t answer.

The older woman drew closer. “You meant what you said?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes, madam.”

The little boy burst into tears. He buried his face in his mother’s skirts again. Minda patted his head. “There, there,” she said absently. “It’s all right. It’ll be all right.”

“Father’s never coming home,” Jack sobbed.

“No,” Orina said. “Tomorrow we’ll go see about making a death-offering for him.”

Minda let her hand, holding the money pouch, drop to her side. “Thank you,” she told me grudgingly.

I nodded and let go my sword-hilt. The sense of rightness faded from me, and I felt the cold wind bite as the watching townsfolk drifted slowly back to their homes. I looked around; there was a pub down the street. Well, it wasn’t the reception I’d had last night but I ought to be able to get a hot bite to eat. “Good night,” I told the women, and left them alone.

I slipped out of town before dawn, having passed the night on the hearth of the pub. My horse and I made good time. I reached the turn-off for the road that led through the mountains, through Eurikon’s Gap. One night of roughing it and I should be able to reach the town.

I started to turn off, then stopped. I opened the saddlebags and pulled out the letters. Six more missives, presumably for the rest of the men who had fallen at Marthorn Pass. Some of the letters had the names of towns faintly scrawled on them, the rest just bare names. I wondered who all these men were. Did anyone miss them?

I glanced up the road. The six bags of coin weighed heavily on me. I could live like a king… for a little while. I’d had money before. Never as much as this of course. It never lasted. I drank or gambled or spent it on women. Which was pleasant, of course, and I had never thought of finding anything better.

But… the look in the little boy’s eyes. The happiness on a sister’s face as she realized she could afford to marry her beau. A woman softening to the memory of a man she’d hardened her heart against.

I drew the sword and looked at the blade. The runes glowed faintly blue in the morning sun, but the sword itself was quiescent. I’d slept with it under my pillow last night. Maybe it was affecting my brain. I could hurl it into the ditch at the side of the road and be on my way. “What’s in this for me?” I challenged. It didn’t answer, and my own mind filled in the gaps. The feeling that I was part of something that made the world a better place. I was still lying, still pretending to be someone I wasn’t, but the lies I was telling made a truth I could be proud of.

The Emptyspear man had died begging me to finish this for him. For the men who had died with honor.

I sighed. “All right,” I told the sword. “Let’s go deliver a message.”

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