Don't Show an Opening
“Don't leave an opening! And if you see one—strike!”
We traded the obvious truths as we cut into the bandits. Obvious, yes—but in the thick of clashing steel and lives hanging by a thread, the obvious was the hardest thing to keep. Staying cold and clear while death brushed past your cheek was never easy. Panic could open a gap. Freezing up could open one just as well.
I moved hard and fast to take a little of that weight off the others. The soldiers were well trained, though, and they carved the bandits down one by one with steady hands.
“Ghk—!”
I tore out a throat with a fistful of flesh. A kick to the ankle yanked a man's attention off-line; into that blink I ripped another throat free or drove a blow hard enough to end him. Weapons the dying left behind went straight into the next target—stand-ins for the dirk still tucked against my chest. Men died with necks severed, hearts pierced; failing that, they went down trailing long, ugly wounds. Some of them never saw the blade I threw until it punched through neck, skull, or gut.
“Is everyone all right?!”
“Yes, sir! We're fine!”
Once I'd confirmed the bandits were finished and no more enemies waited nearby, I raised my voice. The men who'd fought were painted in blood, every last one of them—and every last one wore a light smile. Probably meant to say, Don't worry about us.
“All the same, better safe than sorry. Let's check everyone over before we move.”
I went down the line, inspecting each of them carefully for wounds. Even a shallow cut could turn foul if you left it alone; better to deal with it while we still could. Fortunately, they'd been right to shout so confidently—no one was badly hurt. A few had their clothes sliced open, but most of the injuries were minor. We'd been lucky.
I pulled a jar from the supply wagon at the rear and spread its contents over the wounded. A salve blended from several herbs—surprisingly effective. They were almost painfully grateful as I cleaned my hands as best I could and applied the ointment, their simple, honest faces making it hard to believe these same men had just been killing bandits.
“All right. I'm sorry to ask this of you, but we'll bury the bodies off to one side of the forest before we go.”
“Yes, sir!”
We split into teams and stacked the corpses with methodical care. Dumping them and riding off would have been easier, but leaving them where they lay would have turned the road into a corpse path, and the thought sat wrong with me. The dirt was still soaked with the blood they'd spilled; we mopped as much of it as we could with the bandits' own clothes. Dead men's rags—using them for this hardly seemed to matter.
Stripping a corpse for the first time left me with a strange, hard-to-name feeling. Not quite revulsion. Not quite anything else.
“Bl—ah, Black, sir. What should we do with the leftover weapons?”
I rubbed my chin and thought it over. They were filthy, but still serviceable—clean them up a little and they'd be perfectly usable. Part of me wanted to toss them simply because they'd belonged to the dead. This time I chose utility. Tools don't carry sins.
“Wrap them lightly, and stack them so the edges won't damage anything. We'll put them to use.”
“Understood. You lot! Anyone not burying bodies, give us a hand!”
At the shout, several men swarmed in and got to work. They wiped the blood with the remaining clothes, wrapped the blades in cloth, and packed them neatly into a wagon with a little spare room. Scabbards would have been nice—but the bandits who'd come for a surprise attack hadn't bothered bringing any.
“Bodies are done.”
“Weapons too. They'll serve us fine for the rest of the caravan run.”
The men crowded back to report, looking for all the world like puppies waiting to be praised.
“Good work, all of you. If everything's settled, we'll rest a bit, then move out.”
I could have pushed us straight on in a rush of nerves, but I chose a break instead. Fighting and burying the dead would have drained them dry; catching our breath here was the smarter call. People work best with enough rest and sleep—that much I still believed.
“Ah—thank you, sir!”
They jumped on the chance at once, parking the wagons off to the side and settling in a loose ring around them. Watching them start trading stories and let the tension bleed from their shoulders, I thought, Thorough to the bone.
Right. Time to rest myself.
I climbed onto the long, bench-like driver's seat with Hans, who'd drifted over sometime without my noticing, and stared out at the road. Not because I couldn't mix with the others—leaning back against the cargo rail just felt damned comfortable.
“Hans, you should rest properly too. If you want, you could even stretch out in a corner of the cargo bed.”
I gestured at the soldiers sprawled on the ground and elsewhere. At a glance they looked completely loose, but more than half of them were still sitting upright, so it wasn't pure slack. I'd caught them making a light wager a little earlier; clearly that had decided who got to lie down.
“Haha, I'm fine. Just having someone worry about a coachman like me is more than enough.”
“Don't say that. Everyone here is needed.”
I gave his back a light pat, trying to lift him out of that quiet self-deprecation. In the modern world a younger man talking like that might have earned a scolding for cheek; Hans only bowed his head again and again in genuine thanks. Maybe in this world rank mattered more than age.
“Still… Red Hood. Will that terrifying mercenary really come over to our side? She's a mercenary, so if we put in a request she'll at least consider it, but…”
Hans's face was heavy with worry, his shoulders sagging. Hard to blame him. Red Hood's notoriety was written right into the name—and she was a mercenary. Offer pay and she'd weigh it; how much that pay needed to be was another question entirely, and so was whether she'd chafe against us once hired.
“Mmm… Once a decision's made, there's no undoing it. I'll do everything I can to handle it on my end.”
So I soothed him the only way I could—by promising to take as much responsibility as possible. Saying I'd succeed for certain felt wrong, so I hedged with do everything I can. It wasn't a guarantee I could make.
I sat through the awkward silence staring ahead, and after a fair stretch of time I raised my voice.
“All right—we're moving out! Everyone, get ready!”
After a night of camping, early the next morning, we were about to step into the domain of a noble loyal to the Fourth Prince. Like most territories, it was ringed by thick outer walls.
“You in charge?”
“Yes. Black, of the Altram Trading Company. We've come to sell grain.”
“Tsk. A pack of jackals, the lot of you.”
The checkpoint soldier clicked his tongue and thrust out a hand—papers. I slipped him the certificate I'd prepared along with a pouch holding a modest sum of coin. Hard times made money necessary, and it was also insurance against anyone looking for a fight. Of course, if the man had been truly loyal to the realm, the bribe would have set him off; he'd have torn our cargo apart, and anything that rubbed him wrong might have landed us in a cell.
This man was not that kind.
He was ordinary. He tucked the money deeper with a smooth, practiced motion and put on a stern face.
“Count yourself lucky nothing's out of order! Through!”
He barked it like his inspection had been ruthlessly thorough and waved us past the gate. We bobbed our heads in exaggerated gratitude and rolled on through.
“Haha. Well, now…”
Even Hans let out a dry laugh at the man's brazenness. I was half amused myself—and half unsurprised. In times like these, the urge to line a back pocket was almost natural.
“Anyway, from here on we need to move fast and dig up information. What we know about Red Hood may be outdated; we'll need to verify it here.”
The moment we found a decent open patch and stopped, I gathered everyone and spoke. Even on the road, and even standing still, plenty of eyes kept flicking our way. Dragging several wagons heavy with grain would do that.
“As you know, I didn't come here to trade. But to pass as merchants, the company sent Dex—an actual merchant—with us. I feel bad for putting my own work aside, but I'm leaving the grain deals to him.”
“Yes. I already understand that perfectly, so please don't worry.”
Dex—a lean man with a sharp gaze—nodded as if it went without saying. He'd been brought for exactly that purpose; I only said it out loud to confirm his role one more time.
“A few of you will go with Dex. The rest, scatter and pretend you're hunting good deals while you gather information. Anything on Red Hood comes first, but odds and ends are fine too. I'm counting on you.”
“Yes, sir. Leave it to us.”
They answered as one, low and solid. My ears rang a little, but their reliability pulled a smile out of me before I could stop it.
“I'll be out collecting information myself, of course. And since this is just asking around, don't put too much pressure on yourselves—treat it like picking up a bit of gossip. Start with something simple, like how the war's going these days.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Oh—before we split up: if you can, quietly look into lodgings as well. We'll need somewhere to stay.”
I added that last point before they left, along with instructions to regroup here once they were finished. Without phones or any other way to reach each other, a fixed meeting place would make everything easier.
When I'd said all I needed to say, they formed small groups and scattered. The largest cluster followed Dex—someone had to haul the wagons and unload the cargo, after all.
Finally, a moment to breathe.
I walked the streets at an easy pace, savoring the freedom that came with handing work off. I'd memorized the route in; finding my way back would be simple. The place had enough landmarks to stand out.
It was late afternoon. The sun was burning red as it sank toward the horizon—which meant evening was coming, and with it the hour when taverns unlatched their doors and threw them open. There was an old saying that information lived in taverns thick with rumor, and from what I'd seen, it held more truth than not. I might not get anything precise—but a lead, at least, felt within reach.
So my feet turned, almost of their own accord, toward whatever tavern waited somewhere ahead.