Left to her own devices, Sylvia had a look around. Scanning the square, she found no trace of her basket, nor the key to the house. She doubted there was much point in going back, either way. Anything of value was most likely burned or melted, and if Afi was still inside…Sylvia turned away from both square and thought.

The southern road was soaked in blood. There was no stepping around it. Sighing, Sylvia began to walk through the puddles, avoiding at least intestines. It was bad enough to have to clean human blood off her mother’s boots. Now that she thought about it, she figured it should be no more complicated than removing pig’s blood. A generous amount of gall soap should do the trick. She wondered where she might find some.

It struck Sylvia just how cold a thought this was. She stepped around dead bodies and all she could think about was soap? She looked down at her feet, at the body parts around them. For a moment, the haze clouding her mind eased and she saw clearly, understood entirely, what she was looking at. These hands and legs and guts belonged to people, to humans, who had been alive just a few hours ago. The stench stung in her nose and her chest constricted painfully. She quickly looked back up. Perhaps soap was a better thought to occupy her mind with after all. Breathing shallowly, she made her way to the gate.

The massive wooden gate, which was supposed to keep the city safe, lay on the ground. It had already been hauled to the side to ease passage. The thick crossbar was broken in two. Sylvia strongly suspected the crude battering ram, which had been abandoned outside, had something to do with it. As she passed the walls, she could see just what the use of the wooden stakes surrounding the city was. A man hung impaled on one of the sharpened poles. Sylvia figured he must have been thrown somehow. There was a lot of blood around him, more than he could account for. Whatever had died here had been pulled away, leaving a broad streak of blood in the dirt.

Outside the city stood an entire caravan. There were large carts, loaded with all kinds of sacks and chests. There were clusters of horses, and armed men and women. Each flag, caparison, and surcoat, bore the blue crystal encircled by a crown of greenery, which identified the Fri. A few red Wolf emblems were strewn amidst the green and blue. They were stitched on sacks and painted onto pieces of armour, which had been looted from the city.

A few patrols of soldiers watched the edge of the woods with eagle eyes. Others were done for the day, washing their gear or grooming their horses. A handful were busy slaughtering animals, bleeding them out at the edge of the woods. They were washing the pigs, plucking the chickens, and salting large chunks of meat, before stuffing them into barrels. A small pile of bones was stacked at the baker’s tent, which had been erected close to the cobbled road. Coming closer, Sylvia found the smell of hot food clashing with the metallic stench of blood. It was lunch time. The odour was anything but appetising, though. It did not appear to bother the Fri much. A few dozen at a time were busy eating. Some played cards or rolled dice. A middle aged man was sitting on a small stool near some of the wagons. Across his lap lay a cane. This, Sylvia figured, must be Aimo.

Leaving the road, she stepped onto the torn up fields. When she came closer, she realised the man was busy counting sacks and crates. He pointed at each item with his outstretched middle finger, until he had a gathering of ten. Then, he scribbled in a small ledger, and looked up to repeat the procedure.

“Excuse me. Are you Aimo?”, Sylvia asked.

The man kept pointing at the individual burlap sacks lying in a heap beside him. He moved the fingers on his left hand, first curling them against his palm, and then uncurling them again, one at a time. Then, he looked down and made another mark in his notebook. Finally, he turned his head to search for the owner of the hesitant voice which had addressed him.

He had a kind face, round and wrinkled. A rich beard and thick eyebrows further emphasised how small his eyes were. When he smiled at Sylvia, he smiled with his entire face. Placing his coal pen between the pages, he closed his booklet and offered a small knobby hand in greeting. “That I am. And who may you be, Young Lady?”

“Sylvia, eh, Fri”, Sylvia answered, taking his warm hand in her own. He had a strong grip, surprisingly so.

“Sylvia. A pleasure. Am I correct in assuming you will be joining us, Young Sylvia?”

Sylvia nodded. “Thorun said I should ask…” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder and paused to think. A horse was an expensive gift, but that is what Thorun had said, right? She was pretty sure. “…I should ask for a horse”, she dared.

“Of course. Every Fri needs a steed. Let us see what we have, shall we?”, Aimo said cheerfully.

He walked around the collection of wagons, leaning onto his walking cane for every step. It was a thick and smooth stick, with a big round top for him to hold on to. It was not just the walking cane which seemed heavy. Aimo was dressed in thick wool and a long leather jacket. It all seemed too big for him. He was broad enough to fill the clothes out, especially around the stomach and thighs, but he was short and the legs of his trousers, and the arms of his shirt, were rolled up and tied into place. It all looked very clumsy, even more so than Sylvia's own tent of a tunic.

Leading Sylvia to a gathering of horses, Aimo motioned at the lot with his open palm. “Any that draws your eye?”

Sylvia walked between the animals, inspecting each one. Some were short and strong, perfect for work in the fields. Others were long and slender, quick no doubt, but hard to mount. A few of them had minor injuries, scars and newly torn flesh alike. One horse had been branded with a crescent moon. It was an otherwise beautiful steed. As Sylvia inspected the charred skin, she felt a nudge. She turned and came face to face with an inquisitive white mare.

“Ah, we have had her for a week now. She is a feisty one”, Aimo warned.

“She is just curious”, Sylvia protested. Raising her hand, she let the mare inspect her, before placing her palm on the warm forehead. Scratching lightly, she was met with another nudge. “I want her”, Sylvia determined.

Shrugging, Aimo pulled his booklet out of one of his deep pockets. Flipping pages, he noted the date and wrote Sylvia’s name. He hovered his pencil over the page. “What do you intend to call her?”, he wondered.

“I am not sure. What is unique about her?”, Sylvia asked.

Aimo looked at the mare for a long moment, humming in deep thought. “She is always awake before the rest”, he said.

“So, Rise, then”, Sylvia concluded.

Pointing the pen at her, Aimo nodded. “I like it!” Noting it down beside Sylvia's name, he closed his booklet again. “Anything else I can do for you, Young Sylvia?”

She shook her head, but then raised a hand and made a non-committal sound. “Um. I do not have any money.”

“But?”, Aimo prompted.

“I guess we will be on the road?”

Aimo nodded.

“So a tent perhaps?”, Sylvia asked.

“Ah! Yes of course! You will need a tent!” Aimo waved a hand in front of his face and shook his head. “Of course. Of course. Trousers too, I do believe. You cannot ride like that. And soap, I dare say.”

Turning back to his wagons, he climbed up on one, with surprising ease, and rummaged about a few crates. He threw down a tent and a bedroll. He also handed Sylvia a small water skin, a piece of soap, and a pair of brown trousers. “It is not much, but considering your lack of coin, I believe it fair”, he said.

“Yes. Thank you so much”, Sylvia agreed.

Gathering the two rolls and tying them to Rise’s saddle, Sylvia realised she had lost Aimo’s focus the second she had turned her back to him. He was once more sitting on his stool and counting, middle finger outstretched, and pen balanced between his thumb and index finger. Electing not to interrupt again, Sylvia took the trousers, the soap, and the water skin, and looked around for water. Finding a barrel, which the horses were drinking from, she filled her water skin. She then splashed some water onto herself and began to rub the worst of the dirt off. She washed her hands and face thoroughly, and did her best to remove any blood and other gunk from her clothes. After wringing the hem of the dirty tunic out, she pulled the trousers on and tied the water skin to Rise’s saddle.

Rise was still watching her with determined focus. Sylvia caressed the horse’s neck. “Shall we get to know each other? What do you think?”

Rise turned her head to keep an eye on Sylvia when she took a hold of the saddle. She swung herself up on the high horseback and took the reins. She alternated between steering Rise and letting the mare explore freely, to get a feel for her new four-legged companion.

Sylvia looked around while they made their first rounds together, searching the dead for any sign of Afi. The light tug on her soul was gone. She was not sure what to make of that. Was he dead or just distant? Proximity did seem to have a significant impact on the tangibility of her oath. When she went to the market, it was not nearly as strong as it was back at the house, but it had always been there, at the edge of her consciousness. Afi’s body was not in the scattering of limbs around the camp at least.

Rounding the resting soldiers, they returned to the man impaled on the spikes at the gate. Another person lay decapitated in the grass nearby. They found the head a bit further away. The thick trail of blood that Sylvia had noticed before led to a horse hanging upside down in a tree. It was a brown horse, but a far brighter hue than Afi’s. Another horse, with grey dots along the sides, was being skinned and cut into chucks by two women. Horse meat was often tough, but always delicious in a stew. Sylvia had only had it once, when their neighbours’ workhorse broke a rib and had to be put down.

Besides the two horses, there was a human corpse at the edge of the woods. This one was familiar to Sylvia. It was one of the old men working at the market, selling vegetables. He had several arrows in his back, and it looked like he had been trampled, too. Several bones were broken and his shoulder dented inward. Sylvia inhaled sharply. She may recognize the person he once was, but what lay before her now was merely a corpse. She wondered if it was possible to pinpoint what had killed a person. Was it the arrows, the trampling, or something else entirely? Surely someone must have pondered these things and written on the topic. She hoped there was a library in Fristad.

Watching the two women cut down the second horse, Sylvia wondered. When slaughtering a pig, you first stunned it with a sharp blow. It kept the animal still when you opened its throat, but it was far from perfect. No matter how careful you were, some of the pigs would wake up and thrash, spraying blood everywhere before finally coming to a twitching halt. She wondered if it was the same with humans. A lot of blood had left Rebecca’s throat, and she had not even been strung up. Sylvia did not recall her twitching.