Lieutenant O’Donnell was no longer as naïve as he had been four years ago when he entered the Knightyard for training as a Crimson Keeper. He was no longer even as naïve as he had been three months ago when he had been tasked with delivering a message to Dean Rankin, Headsman of the King. He was no longer under the mistaken and somewhat foolish impression that all who served the king were good people. He no longer even thought that all who served the king were tasteful. In fact, he found Dean Rankin to be very distasteful indeed.

The man was intelligent enough, he supposed, and certainly a good commander and better fighter. He was unfailingly polite when the situation called for it, and always had the right amount of firmness for reprimanding men under his service. No, it wasn’t because of these things that Robert O’Donnell was disgusted by the man. It wasn’t even his predilection to violence. It was his sociopathic nature. Dean Rankin did not view other people as people but as items to be put to use. The items that were his, he of course treated with care, and made sure not to break, but those without any apparent owner… well, they were free to fiddle and play with now weren’t they.

Robert O’Donnell had seen thirteen men killed by the headsman on their journey, and not a one of them in the same way. Rankin had taken his time in tormenting each before they died, every one in new and creative ways. Even as they screamed and writhed, Rankin made extensive notes of their condition in a slim black notebook he carried with him. One or two had only been cut once and met a clean death, but not before experiencing psychological torment of some kind. Every one of the men had been a criminal bound for the gallows, true, but no man deserved to cross to the harvest by the way of the Headsman. Robert had almost interfered on several occasions, but had been stopped by a bulky old Sergeant Major named Braxton Bolindear, who wielded a well-worn battle axe.

“It’s not worth it boyo.” The grizzled veteran had said, “It won’t stop him, it’ll just get you ill will with the Headsman, not something worth having.” Most of the crimson keepers who came with Dean Rankin were his personal guard who had been with him for years. They seemed to share their master’s enjoyment of butchery. Robert and Braxton on the other hand, were merely there to serve as a guide to the retinue while on their way to a posting in Goldstern. They were to be recruiters for the crimson keepers, guardians of the king. What a farce. A fair portion of the Crimson Keepers knew their business sure enough, but the Knightyard had become more of a social club than an actual place of learning. Those who actually had potential were separated from most of the dross, the exception of course being anyone noble born, and put through a stricter regimen. Even then, they would be held back by many of their noble peers whom they could not afford to outperform due to political complications. It was a nightmare and a shambles in Robert’s opinion. He had been just lucky enough to get out before it all went to shit. Just like now.

These were Lieutenant Robert O’Donnell’s thoughts as he galloped away from the Fallen Oak Mortuary, desperate to leave before the screaming started, before Dean Rankin, that monster of a man, found whoever he was looking for. He hoped the Threshing Floor was kind to whomever it was, for the Headsman surely wouldn’t be.

***

Marci was a simple girl, through and through. She found beauty in simple things. A field of daisies, the glint of flirtatious laughter in Mother’s eyes when she was teasing Father, or a comfortable reading chair were some of her favorite things. She was a simple girl, yes, but she was not simple minded. She knew who the red-cloaked riders were, even if their presence made no sense. Why would the Crimson Keepers come for Uncle Narm? It was ludicrous! The old man had obviously been a soldier at one point or another, but she couldn’t imagine him doing anything so serious as to warrant the presence of some of the most highly trained men on the continent. A whole retinue of them no less! It was absurd. All these thoughts ran through the back of her mind, but she was shaking too intensely to notice. Something was very wrong; she could feel it. She had hobbled to the door to better see and hear what was happening. She clung to her mother’s hand, and her mother clutched Father’s shoulder. She watched as the riders pulled up in front of the office. The leader, a man in a black cloak spoke, his voice resonant and powerful, sophisticated.

“Norman O’Brien!” He called out in apparently friendly greeting, “It’s been what? Twenty years since I saw you last? I seem to recall that we have some unfinished business…” He rubbed gingerly at a shock of white in his otherwise black beard that was obviously caused by a scar. Marci was perplexed. She guessed that Norman was Narm’s real name, and now that she thought of it, she could remember countless times that her father had corrected himself on the cusp of saying that name. The name O’Brien seemed somewhat familiar, but not enough for her to place it. What was truly perplexing though, was the fact that this man, who had twenty Crimson Keepers as his retinue, claimed to have unfinished business with him. Her thoughts were interrupted by Narm’s voice, his accent reeking of Greatriver just as much as this black-cloaked man’s was. But while his accent was sophisticated, his words were not.

“You can take your unfinished business, Dean, and shove it up your arse. And if you don’t, I have half a mind to do it for you.”

***

Dean Rankin hadn’t changed much in the twenty-three years since Narm had last seen him, since he had least seen with his left eye. Since he had last called himself Norman O’Brien. Since The Wolf of Whoid Stria had last stalked the North. Dean had a beard now, which was new, since he had only twenty years when they last met. It was odd seeing this man, this individual who had been so many different people to Narm. His adopted son, his original protégé, his partner, and his betrayer. Narm searched Dean’s face and internally nodded. The face was more lined, the eyebrows bushier, his build bulkier, and his eyes older. He also had a hell of a beard. Narm hated to admit it, but that beard made Dean look good. As a boy, Dean had always possessed a weak chin and jawline, and the beard hid that. Narm’s eyes travelled back to the white streak that tracked down from Dean’s bottom lip.

The cut healed well, Narm thought idly, probably had Imogen stitch it up, the little bastard. A flash of gold from between Dean’s lips told Narm that four shattered teeth were not so easily mended. He hated to admit it, but a small part of him was glad to see Dean healthy and hale. Dean had betrayed him, tried to kill him, tried to abuse the power Narm had given him. Dean was as twisted as he ever had been, finding pain fascinating to observe and easy to cause, but Narm loved him as a son. The same way he loved Caj. Nothing could break that love, not even an attempt on his life. Not even an attempt on Imogen’s. Nothing could break it, but Narm would not hesitate to kill Dean if it meant protecting Caj, or protecting the residents of the house behind him. Narm loved Dean, but the lad was sick in the head, the type of sick that couldn’t be fixed. Such was life, and it was only just. Not right perhaps, not fair. But just, yes.

Dean’s horse rode forward, pawing the ground aggressively. Narm remained rooted to the spot, leaning on his cane. An errant breeze caused him to sway, and he realized the absurdity of his previous thoughts. He would be very unlikely indeed to kill Dean. Dean was a forty-year-old man, still in his prime, and Narm was an old man, almost to his seventh decade, who had lived a hard life. Dean might not have his level of skill, but the man certainly outclassed him in strength, and probably in speed also. He would die this day, Narm realized. He sighed as he stared at the stoic, emotionless face of Dean, his son in all but blood. He noted how the scar he had given the boy pulled his lip downwards slightly on the left, giving him an odd look. Perhaps it hadn’t been so easy to stitch after all. Narm wasn’t surprised, it had been made with the pitted metal rim of an ale mug. It was odd, that this was what Narm noticed when Dean’s sword was arcing straight for his throat. His inattention caused him to act without thinking, swaying to his right and taking three limping steps forward. Narm used the crook of his cane to hook Dean’s left foot, pulling it from the stirrup. Dean did not turn his horse to face Narm, perhaps realizing that such a delay could spell his death. Instead, he swung out behind him, flaring toward Narm’s neck, and turning in the saddle slightly to keep his eye on target. His armed escort stood silently behind him, watching and not interfering, as he had no doubt told them to. Their silence became an audible gasp as the butt of Narm’s cane slammed into the flat of Dean’s sword, pushing the blade a hair’s breadth above the old man’s head. Dean’s momentum combined with his left foot out of stirrup caused him to spin out of the saddle and fall to the ground, kicking his right foot out of his stirrup as he went. Dean hit the ground with a roll, attempting to keep his feet, but as he rose, a hard wooden cane slammed into his face. Dean was stunned for a half a second, no more, but when he opened his eyes there was a cane less than an inch above his throat. He looked up into Narm’s eyes, emotionless as always, with a question written on his face. Narm let out a deep sigh, bone weary and tired.

“I can’t kill you Dean. I love you too much… too much. Just promise to leave the people in that house alone. Please. And…” Narm touched his eyepatch briefly, wistfully. “Let me keep my other eye.”

Dean looked into Narm’s eyes for a half a heartbeat and nodded before speaking.

“I Promise.” In a flash, his sword was in Narm’s heart. Narm looked down at the offending implement, comically still for a moment. Then he smiled, a small sad smile, that turned into bloody wolfish grin. He opened his mouth and coughed as he fell to his knees.

“It’s…” he wheezed “as good a day as any… I suppose…” with that, Norman James O’Brien, the Wolf of the North, bastard son of King Thomas, and Headsman of Whoid Stria, met his end.