Chast stalked the caravan of prisoners and captors for days, getting to know their habits and routines. There were only two guards for six prisoners, but as the prisoners were never unshackled, they were more than up to the job. Chast had given the two guards the nicknames Stubby and Red. Stubby was short to an aggressive degree, his boots a child’s size, though his ale gut was of a full-grown drinker. His hair was cut in a straight line just above his eyes, and shaved all under. He waddled when he walked and was more irritable than Red, more prone to giving one the prisoners a whap with the flat side of his sword if he felt they were moving too slow or had simply given him an ill-favored look. Red was taller, but by no means tall, and was Red only by the virtue of his nose being perpetually the color of a fine, ripe tomato. It was clear at a moment’s glance that they were not the finest The Islands had to offer, and from the snatches of conversation he had overhead, Chast gathered that they had lucked into catching the rebels and could hardly believe their good fortune.

The two guards were in the habit of discussing over their campfire just how they were going to spend their time when they got home to Apart, the big island.

-Affer a haul like this here, I reckon we’ll be given leave and a bit of extra scratch to boot. Might make a right respeckable bizness owner of meself. Open a boot shop, Red said one evening, looking over a speared sausage he had just removed from over the flames.

Stubby snorted.

-Boots? I’m aiming a sight higher than that I can tell you.

-Oh?

-Thass right. Going to be an innkeep. Real nice place by the river.

-Where all the dirty sailors go I’d wager.

-Say it again.

Red, not being particularly bright, had not gathered that Stubby was enraged, and imagined he was simply being asked to repeat himself.

-Where all the dirty sailors go, I’d wager. Clean your ears out why don’t you?

Yes yes yes, Chast thought, watching from his stomach in some holly bushes not far away.

Stubby was on his feet in no time, sword drawn, hovering over his seated compatriot. Red dropped his skewed sausage to the dirt as Stubby planted his sword deep in Red’s chest. Chast had never seen a man die before, and the amount of blood was shocking. It pooled and flowed in rivulets towards the flames, covering his uneaten sausage and hissing when it splashed into the coals. The prisoners looked on with interest, their eyes wide, not entirely sure how this would play out for them.

Stubby stood stone still and dropped his sword to the ground uncleaned, unable to process what he had done in a senseless rage.

-Willem?

Willem, or Red as Chast thought of him, was not moving. The young man was dead as they come. It had all happened so quickly, and watching from the bushes, flat on his stomach, Chast failed to act. It was a perfect moment. One guard was dead and the other was incapacitated with shock, but he remained under cover, glued to the drama unfolding in front of him as surely as if it had been on a stage.

Stubby began to pace and mutter to himself, swinging the still-dripping murder weapon from his side as he went back and forth, a silhouette against the backdrop of the campfire each time he passed by. He was too far away for Chast to hear what he was saying, but by the time he had ceased pacing, Stubby’s plan was clear. The squat guard walked over to where the line of prisoners huddled together with their backs to a massive cedar tree, the trunk peeling off in strips on the forest floor around them. He stood in front of them, sizing up his scapegoats, the beginnings of a story forming in his mind.