Chapter 37

  Day Seventeen – Evening

  Ever since Thyra met Torm, Buron, Breg and Zaber, she has wondered how one became like them. But staying awake all night after their failure, seething at her own ineptitude, and being angry at herself, made her properly feel like shit. She slept all day after calming down. Nightmares interrupted her rest though, hearing her dying mother’s last words over and over. She moaned in torment as her mother haunted her instead of them. Back in the bog, her mother’s presence had soothed her as a child. Now Nancia took that place, watching over her as she lay down in Franque’s side of the camp. She also heard Torm come over every now and then to ask about her.

  “Hello, Fiore.” A voice reached Thyra in her half-awake state. “You need to drink.”

  Thyra saw Asti through the narrow slits of her eyes. She felt worse than before sleeping, and Father Sun had already handed over his duties to his daughters. Without a word, she took the waterskin the bandit offered her as her mouth and throat were dry and sore.

  “Where’s Nancia?” she asked and nodded thankfully.

  “She’ll be right back.” Asti pointed through the camp so that the rugged woman could find Nancia. “She’s getting some pane and frutta,” he said while chewing on something.

  The athletic woman was still wearing her arming doublet with maille around the armpits. But beneath that, she had changed into a wide red-brown skirt, buttoned at her waist. Never had Thyra seen something so effortlessly beautiful, even with the dirt on it. It was way beyond what her mother and her could have made.

  “Tu es réveillé,” said Nancia delightedly. Her clothes flowed down with her, as she knelt next to Thyra, placing food in her lap.

  “What?” Thyra wasn’t fully there yet. She sat upright to spot everyone, but got distracted by Nancia handing her prunes. Torm was with Buron and Breg, feeding Zaber.

  “She’s glad you’re awake,” said Asti in his own thick accent. “It seems–”

  “Tu n'es plus nécessaire,” interrupted Nancia. Her eyes guided him away.

  “Bene.” The bandit held up his hands and walked away backwards. “Later, fiore,” he winked.

  While Thyra rubbed her eyes and face, munching on dried fruit, Nancia waited carefully until Asti was out of hearing range. “R?da veut parler soon.”

  “She wants to… speak?” asked Thyra unsure. “Again?”

  “Oui, yes,” repeated Nancia, after thinking for a bit.

  “You still want to join her?” Thyra spoke slowly and as clearly as she could.

  Talking to her new friend took some time, but worked out well enough. Both chewed on a piece of bread while thinking. The rugged woman let her gaze wander, noticing how a small crowd had gathered around her. These villagers didn’t look too different from the ones in the past; simple, yet well-made clothes. The older women all covered their heads, looking rather modest. When Thyra was gathering intel with Zaber and Torm, some women weren’t as strict. Here though, quite a few were wearing the pants of their husbands, fathers and brothers. Far from many, but Roda was not the only one. Even more were armed, and everyone’s fabrics were dyed in the color of mourning. Even the children that were flocking around Nancia and Thyra.

  “Oui, je–,” Nancia stopped. “I wish to. I parlé with mon frére. He angered.”

  Thyra’s eyes strolled around until she found Franque. “Huh,” she uttered, thinking about the easiest way to speak to Nancia. “Why?” The rugged woman mustered Nancia. Both of them looked calm right now.

  “Piavi et Rovi ont été hurt,” said the athletic woman. “Cinco is–” She fiddled around with her fingers while thinking. “About dead.”

  “No–” said Thyra fast. She grabbed her mouth to not overflow. That Cinco fella got treated by her and an older peasant man. Her singing had already stabilized him. Then the rugged woman just noticed how Nancia had freshly braided her hair. “I mean: Why join them? Revenge?”

  “No,” replied Nancia. “Mon fré… my brother’s camarades vont bien. Mais je did not choisi this life. I not want. I am monstre–” Without any shame, she pointed at Franque, Zaber, and Breg – the latter of them noticing begrudgingly. Then she looked at Roda and Thyra witnessed a flame igniting. “Or her.”

  With hanging shoulders, Thyra sighed frustrated and burrowed her fingers in her face and hair. Her messed up hair was awaiting a good combing after sleep – taming what little there was to tame. The longer she ran her fingers through her hair, the more her sigh became a groan. “Why are all of you like that?”

  Nancia squeezed out a little laugh and folded her hands around those of Thyra. “No ask.” She smiled

  “Wow,” uttered Thyra before she also laughed. “I always wonder if you really are his sister. But you are.”

  “You dubiato?” The older of the two brothers came closer, stuffing his face with a piece of dry meat. “They have the same mento e naso,” said Ludi and drew on his nose and chin with his free hand to lengthen it. “Very pointy. To stab their enemies in the faccia.” His hair was freshly greased back and his thin beard spread out onto his neck. He and Asti had a strict grooming routine that was disrupted by their failure. Their beards grew out of control already.

  “Abbiamo la bellezza di nostra madre,” said Nancia and threw a prune at Ludi. As the juggler he was, he caught it with ease and threw it into his mouth. The athletic woman then smiled at Thyra. “From mother,” she repeated and waved over her face as if she was presenting fine art.

  The bandits exchanged more words that Thyra couldn’t understand. But Ludi and Nancia sounded the same to the rugged woman’s ears, so one of them had to be fluent in the other one’s dialect.

  “Mangia and get going,” said Ludi and mimicked shoving more food into his face. “I’m heading over to Zaber, we’ve made our decisione.”

  “Will Roda come over?” Thyra stood up after taking more bread out of Nancia’s lap. She was able to see her… ‘friends?’ better than before. Not all of them, but the young woman was sure that Torm, and maybe Buron, was her friend. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to stay with Nancia and them yet. There was not enough time to think about it properly.

  “No, we’re heading over,” said Ludi. “Presente our decision to everyone, not just her.”

  Thyra fell silent and grabbed her skirt. The heavy tone of Ludi’s words assured her that she had to make a decision herself later. It was hard to believe that Franque would leave his sister behind, but he surely wasn’t the heroic type. And Zaber was on a mission; lost. If Torm would take the offer and stay behind, maybe…

  Her time to refresh and chitchat with Nancia was over too soon. Everyone was on the move. Franque was braced by Ludi, and Zaber was more carried by Breg than walking on his own.

  “Why?” asked the rugged woman when the greasy and unkempt man passed her. “I’m sure they will come over. Stay put and don’t ruin the work of my voice,” she said as she followed them.

  “Woman…” grunted Breg and changed nothing. Thyra didn’t try to stop him, and neither could she.

  “Franque’s right,” uttered Zaber in pain. “We gotta stand tall for our answer. I promise you–” He halted and grabbed his ribs before squeezing out more words. “I’ll make good on you. You’ve seen what I do for my promises.”

  “Zaber,” grunted Thyra just like Breg before. “I asked for an apology, not a promise to hurt yourself even more.” She felt Torm’s eyes, as he nodded along. A smile formed, reluctantly, as she stopped walking behind them and went next to them. “Alright, have it your way, arsehole. I’ll go back to singing right after this.”

  Today had been the first really warm day of the year, and Thyra had slept through it. The birds and bugs were becoming comfortable, as were many of the brigands and Buron. Asti and Ludi only wore their sheep’s hide vests with no shoes and their chausses rolled up. Buron and Franque went bare-chested, with the latter’s belly being just as hairy as his chest. The only one who kept it civil was Torm, getting rid of his leather jerkin and nothing else. The giant wore his gambeson drenched, and Zaber was forced to go in his linen undershirt and braies.

  If the weather kept that way, Thyra thought of getting down to her undergarments too. Back in the bog, she and her mother might have even gone all-skin in summer. When it was just her mother, the animals and Skratty. Among the civilized folk that gathered next to the wagons, this was not an option anymore. The peasants made room for the outlaws and Thyra fell on her bottom right next to Nancia. They were still followed by a couple of children, but an old man was the first who stood up to greet them.

  “Please,” he said and bowed his head. His gait was steady, unlike his hands. With sunken cheeks and no teeth nor hair, his voice was more of a whisper. “Take care of us and help little rowdy Roda.”

  A cackle went through the brigands and Buron’s eyes squinted with a smirk. “Little rowdy Roda?” He looked over to the one-eyed woman, whose face wasn’t moving. Torm restrained himself from doing the same.

  “Sit down, pa,” said Bigge and left Roda’s side to escort the elderly man back to his spot. “You voted for Roda, me, Attel and Havel to be in charge. Please don’t make us look bad before we get started.” The man that looked like an underfed ox laughed as he made sure that his father was well seated.

  Narrowing her one eye, Roda whispered something into her son’s ear. He sat right behind her and needlessly rolled to the side over his shoulder. The whisper passed to another kid, forming a chain.

  “Are you–” A young girl in a group of children had snuck up on Thyra and pulled on her skirt for attention. Nancia looked back once, but focused forward right afterwards. “Are you a witch?” whispered the wide-eyed girl.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Will you cook us into a stew?” asked a boy while slowly walking backwards.

  Thyra was taught to never admit or show what or who she was. But her mother couldn’t foresee the mess the young woman was in right now. Her heart raced while thinking of an answer. The kids were awe-struck and fearful at the same time. And Thyra didn’t want anyone to be scared of her.

  “I–” stammered the witch. Her head went back and forth between the circle of adults and the bunch of children. “I am–”

  “Foutre le camp!” Nancia snapped around and swatted at them with one hand. The kids scrammed in all directions, screaming comically loud. None of the adults reacted to it with much thought, only glimpsing at them.

  “That was harsh,” said Thyra, giggling a little at Nancia’s angry face.

  “Les enfants sont nuls,” uttered Nancia and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Even her cheeks puffed up.

  With everything that had happened so far, the woman-at-arms had not looked like that to Thyra. “What?” she asked.

  “Children,” repeated Nancia in her heavy accent. “Hate.”

  “Please, don’t let us wait any longer,” said Roda and clapped loud enough for everyone to notice. Her eye centered on Zaber and Franque, who sat on the other side of the circle. “What’s your answer? Only one of you–” Much to her displeasure, she was interrupted.

  “I could never–” said Franque as loud as always. His head was slightly tilted, so that his good ear was better aligned with Roda. All his bandits, except his sister, sat behind him.

  “I’ll start,” said Zaber and put a hand in front of Franque’s chest. His jaw muscles tensed as he ground his teeth. He inhaled deeply. “We’ll do it.”

  A gasp went through the peasants and Nancia smirked victoriously at her brother. Thyra’s eyes shifted around, befuddled. She stopped blinking and breathing for a moment.

  “We got all the knowledge and skills you need. And you have none,” continued Zaber, reaching for his chin. “But if we do this, we do it by our rules. There are a number of conditions you have to agree to before we have a deal.”

  Bigge wiped his half-bald head before leaning forward. “What are they?” he asked leery, before he was pulled towards Roda by his sleeve. They exchanged unheard words before they nodded at each other.

  “What my good-brother wanted to say is thank you.” Roda’s gaze made everyone nod and bow. The other two that were voted to be in charge also whispered with each other. The man was at the end of his thirties and as tall as he was lanky. The woman was among the oldest around, but got herself some pantaloons and free-flowing hair. She pinched Bigge from behind, forcing him to smile.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man that’s built like an ox. “We really are grateful.”

  Zaber had Buron and Torm to his left, and Breg in his back. The veterans and brigands were a collection of battle scars. “We’ve been on the other side of revolting commonfolk like you,” said Zaber. “We’ve seen how eight hundred men-at-arms crushed several thousands. Your weapons ain’t for war and you have no armor.” The greasy and unkempt man’s body moved on its own, pointing at their knives and axes. The pain held him back from patting his own body where good armor should be and a grunt stopped his speech for a while. “Your Sir Ludwald will show up with folk like us. How many able-bodied men have you?”

  “251,” said Roda without hesitation. “75 from Penram, 86 from Bromwich and an even 90 from Luphton. 131 women and 120 men.”

  “Will the women fight?” Zaber’s stare wandered through their ranks, spotting the awkward ones.

  “Yes.” Roda looked at Nancia and Thyra. One nodded with a smirk, the other smiled as awkward as some women around her. “You don’t seem to have a problem with that.”

  “Opposite even,” said Zaber. He had folded his hands and rubbed the scar on the back of his hand. “You’ll need as many feet on the battlefield as you have. How many are able-bodied?”

  “Ten too old, forty too small.”

  “If I see anyone under sixteen even close to the training grounds or battlefield, I’ll hurt that child and its parents.” Zaber’s stare intensified and the rasp returned into his voice. The pain was overshadowed by the heat in his neck. Breg behind him enhanced the statement even further with nothing but a nod and the clench of a fist.

  “That means we got 85 which are too small.” Roda’s nose wrinkled as her eye met Zaber’s stare. “You said we need as many as possible.”

  “No negotiations around that,” said Zaber and grabbed the scar on the back of his hand. “We do not train children.”

  An infectious laughter broke into the circle of peasants. “I tried,” said Franque, shrugging. “There’s no discussion with Airich’s brats.”

  A murmur rippled through the peasants. Tales of war and lies of heroism spread far and wide, and every corner of Albion knew about the legends. That name was known to everyone. Asher had known and used that plenty in the past. Gladly, Franque agreed to play the part that Zaber wasn’t able to do himself.

  “I am fifteen and I want to fight.” Roda’s son stood up in anger. He lunged into the middle, raising both fists. “They took my father. I have a right to avenge him.”

  “Boy,” grizzled Breg. “Sit. Your arse. Down.”

  “Do not speak to my son like this,” said Roda, reserved, without flinching. “Please Telf, sit.” She patted the ground beside her, inviting him to sit.

  Telf complied. “What about him?” He pointed at Torm. They had equally ridiculous facial hair. The apprentice’s was further ruined by diving onto the ground a day ago.

  “He’s seventeen,” replied Zaber, and his face distorted into a taunting smirk. “But if you can beat him, Telf, I’ll make an exception. Any kid who can do it one on one.”

  Caught off guard, Torm’s head turned towards Zaber with wide eyes. He shrugged at Telf, and smiled like an idiot.

  “Any more requirements?” asked Roda dryly. She placed a hand on Telf’s hand and pushed it into his lap, even though he sat on her blind side.

  “Trust.” The broken veteran would be equally dry, if it weren’t for his grinding teeth. Buron shifted closer towards him and lent him an arm. “Don’t obey us, trust us.”

  “Granted. It’s not like we have another choice.” said the one-eyed woman and tightened the knot of her hair. “Down to business: What made you bunch of robbers and marauders really attack that convoy full of convicts?”

  “Trésor,” said Franque and rubbed his hands together with a smirk that became rather serious. “But now it’s for venger. You infecté my s?ur with your poison, and she gets everything she demande.”

  Roda closed her eye and repeated the brigand’s words silently. “I am sorry,” she said. “I can barely understand you. I tried talking to your–” She looked at Nancia. “Wife? Sister? Its a little better with you.”

  “Can you understand them better?” Torm pointed at Ludi, Asti and the rest of Franque’s men. “He speaks their dialect too, and they’re from south of this border. Franque and Nancia are from northwest of here.”

  “I’ve only seen two before, and they all sound the same,” said Roda, shaking her head. She sought out a couple of her fellow villagers. “Three of our men have been levied, the rest have never left Elbia, let alone the fief.”

  “Rat-king here is on your side,” said Zaber and Franque took the name with pride. “His sister shares your taste for blood, or whatever. I don’t care why, but she’s a strong motherfucker.”

  Some smiled and some, on the older side, clenched their chests at Zaber’s words. Nancia’s unfazed visage turned confused for the first time and she leaned over to Thyra. “A-t-il–” She stopped. “He say I fuck my maman?”

  “I–” Thyra halted as well. “No? He… later?” She was about to snort a laughter, but kept it together when Nancia nodded.

  “Now let me propose our plan.” Zaber leaned against Buron, and he and Franque exchanged nods. “You need numbers, no matter what; every advantage you can get. Franque was after the coin on that transport, but I am after a friend that’s about to rot in prison,” said the greasy and unkempt man, scratching the scar on his jaw no matter the pain of moving his arm up. “That’s what we set out to do, and we can only join you if we succeed. If we seize the moment and attack the prison in five days – on fire festival – I promise you can take the whole damned thing. Hundreds or even thousands wait for their death inside. If even a fraction of them join you, your chances of survival will be tenfold.”

  Bigge shook his head and wiped over his head, keeping his remaining hair in place. “You tell us that we should hastily attack a fort full of criminals? Instead of preparing to fight the man who’s after us?” He turned around, mustered everyone’s reaction and shook his head even more. “We can’t read or write well, but we’re no fools.”

  “No, Bigge,” said Roda, running her fingers along her chin in thought. “No. We win or we lose. He’s right, we have no swords, no polearms, no armor. Whatever we do, we might be killed. And–” She grabbed the cleaver on her belt, just to feel its hilt. “I’d like to free more poor folk like us. Maybe murderers and thieves are exactly what we need.”

  “We do the heavy lifting,” said Zaber, slouching forward. “What made the men we crushed fail was that they tried to fight like us. We ain’t doing that; you’ll be trained to your strengths.”

  With trembling lips, Thyra couldn’t believe what she’s been listening to. She turned to Nancia. “Isn’t he insa–” The rugged woman stopped when she saw the ember in Nancia’s eyes. There was nothing but a long sigh left in her. It was hard to contain herself from jumping up and yelling at Zaber, who was about to gamble all their lives away for someone Thyra has never met. Her mind went back to the bog and for the first time, she felt regret itching her heart.

  “Thank you, a lot.” Roda rose and patted the grass off her legs. The villagers’ eyes followed her every move. “We need to talk this over. I’ll visit you right after we’re done.”

  “’aight,” nodded Zaber. “Let’s go.” The veteran’s friends stood up, with Buron bracing him and Breg putting him on his feet. The highwaymen’s leader got similar help. But when Nancia arrived, his sister took the burden with a one-armed hug and a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Thyra waved at Nancia, and sprinted after her four companions. Words flooded out of her. “Five days?” She squeezed herself between Zaber and Torm, who stepped aside with raised hands. “At Fire Festival? Have you learned nothing? You can’t sing for your life, this is crazy! These folk are desperate and you’re going to sacrifice them? That is not fair! I–”

  There was no reply until they reached their belongings and Zaber had to be bedded down. The rugged woman tried to say more, but it was too hectic and she felt ignored. After Torm sat down, she fell on her bottom right next to him. Zaber had closed his eyes and his entire body cramped together while holding his ribs.

  “Please, you can’t fight like them. You’re not like them,” uttered Thyra and rolled up the broken veteran’s tunic to take a look at his torso. “You can’t sing, you can’t spell, you’re–”

  “A peasant’s son?” said Zaber through his teeth. “I’m not,” he uttered. “I’m something else. And that’s why you’re right; I ain’t fighting like them anymore. I don’t need your lessons either, Thyra. I’ll do what I do best.”