CHAPTER FOUR

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Alaric

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13th of Decepter, 935 PC

The morning sun had not yet climbed the horizon when Alaric completely abandoned his attempts to sleep. One often struggles to relax with eyes watching their every move. Even if those eyes are simply looking down at you in your nightmares. He bid his nemesis foul farewell and sat up slowly, stiffly, as his back had not yet loosened up from hours of the cold seeping through his bedroll and into his joints. The cracks in the ceiling of the abandoned barn they had slept in allowed the rain to splatter in the puddles around him like a percussion of inexperienced drummer boys.

His men were sprawled out in various dry places around the barn. Shade, in a decision seemingly only he would make, was in the rickety-looking loft above them. Elgar was snoring atop a four old bales of hay he had pushed together like a mattress, his bedroll between him and crop. Wicket was passed out drunk with his blanket over his head, revealing everything from his shins down, boots still tied tight. Then there was Therrin, kind, young, Therrin. In so keeping his word to Mrs. Hallstone, the healer was resting in one of the empty stalls they had not used for their horses with Coyne laying between him and the wall, as far from the terrors of wilderness as the boy could get himself.

Well, we survived Diedro’s shift as watch. That is a good start to the day. There was no reason to suspect Diedro of any ill-intent, but such thoughts crept into Alaric’s mind often. Betrayal had once been nothing more than a word to him. Then it became a reality. One that seemed to like him enough to never go away. He decided to take the opportunity to get to know the former mercenary better. It was his opinion that the more words someone said to him, the more likely it was they’d say something that made it harder for them to go back on their word. That may come in the form of a story they never expected to tell someone outside their family, or a secret even their family didn’t know. Anything would do. Many times only they knew if they had revealed such information. He simply did his best to pull it out of them. A bond forged by the right words can often be as strong as one forged in battle. And a bond forged with this man will prove most useful someday soon.

He found Diedro sitting in the rain beneath a tree just outside the barn. His clothes were drenched through, the wide hood of his cloak beaten down so that it covered his face. His knees were bent, his arms rested on them. In one hand was Diedro’s knife, held by the tip of the blade, swinging back and forth gently. Alaric pulled his own hood over his head and stepped into the cold rain. He moved with the purpose of letting Diedro know he was there. No need to startle a man with reflexes like a cat.

The Physicalist spoke from beneath his hood as Alaric approached. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Never,” replied Alaric. He found a place at the foot of the tree opposite Diedro. Not far away, but with enough space that he could hopefully react if anything went wrong.

Diedro was still swinging his knife back and forth as Alaric sat down. It was then that he noticed the tower of pebbles stacked on the square top of a mirror that rested between the man’s legs. Presumably through the use of his magic. There seemed to be no other way. It was difficult to make out from his vantage point, but there appeared to be tally marks carved into the back of the mirror. Several. Days passed? Years spent with The Hounds of Haldar? Kills?

“Impressive.”

Diedro’s response was simply to knock the tower over with the handle of his knife. The pebbles raced the raindrops down the backside of the mirror and disappeared into the dry leaves below.

“Something bothering you?” asked Alaric. There were only a handful of times in Alaric’s life when a question seemed so inappropriate, so ill-fit for its recipient. Diedro did not give the impression that he was one to express his feelings at the simple mention of his noticeable dissatisfaction in something. But, if Alaric was to forge a bond between them, he needed to show he cared about more than just what Diedro could do for him. Even if he didn’t.

“Nothing’s wrong, but nothing’s right either,” said Diedro. If someday he is unable to kill with a blade, perhaps he can confuse Iris to death with riddles.

Alaric couldn’t decide if Diedro’s intellect made him more interesting or more threatening but either way, he could relate to the notion presented.

“I know what you mean.”

Diedro looked up. His features were hidden in the shadows beneath his hood but his skepticism was legible in his body language.

“What troubles us may not look the same to the naked eye, nor sound the same when put into words, but I can assure you the troubles of men like us all boil down to the same truth.”

“And what’s that?” asked Diedro.

“We’ve been forced to do things we wouldn’t have done if not for particularly difficult circumstances.” Alaric paused. Continued when Diedro didn’t reply. “Maybe it’s just me, but I know that everything I find myself doing nowadays is what must be done, but makes me feel as though I’ve done something terribly wrong.”

Diedro’s hood stretched subtly with the gentle nod of his head. “Sounds about right.”

Alaric waited just enough time to feel comfortable asking, “Do your current circumstances feel particularly difficult?”

“Can’t say they’re much different than before.”

Alaric didn’t like that answer.

Diedro continued. “For years I been fighting for causes I don’t care nothin’ about for a purse full of coins I don’t need. I’ve killed men, women, and children for men, women, and children that think their lives would be better off without a certain set of eyes lookin’ at them or a certain mouth talkin’ about them. I’ve helped men kill their brother, their mother, strangers, friends, whole scores of people that didn’t ever see it comin’, even a noble king that was replaced by a piece of shit. And almost every time I helped take a life, I’d look in that mirror right there.”

“And what did you see?”

“At first… myself, or at least the man I had come to know. But by the time you came around… a whole different man.”

“Didn’t like what you had become. I can understand that.”

Diedro shook his head. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what?”

“I was a better man. One that understood right and wrong. Maybe not by the standards set by war, but certainly by the ones I learned and set for myself.” He lowered his hood. Alaric’s father often said a person’s true age is shown by the sorrow in their eyes. By that standard, Diedro could have been Alaric’s grandfather. He continued. “And choosing to kill the boy's mother… that was wrong.”

Alaric hadn’t even considered that Diedro may have the feelings of a normal man. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Genuinely.

Diedro shook his head, frowning as he did. “Nah. Don’t be sorry. You’re fighting for two causes, Sampson; our greater good and your own. And what it takes to achieve those two things is real different. I understand that. As well as anyone you got in your ranks.” He grabbed his mirror and stood up. “But leave me out of your side of things. Please.” Alaric tensed when Diedro stepped toward him but relaxed when the man simply handed him the mirror. “Take it. I don’t need it anymore.”