Fynn’s first instinct was to turn tail and flee. But a voice in his head warned that doing so could be fatal. He felt a cold sweat run-down between his shoulder blades, precisely where he was imagining a knife buried deep to the hilt, and experienced sudden weakness in his legs as the reality of the situation began to dawn on him. His hands felt like lead and the wooden sword he held offered little comfort in the face of the glinting knife.

Once again, the feelings of hopelessness and fear bubbled up uncontrollably leaving him paralyzed. In this state, he was unable to think, let alone defend himself. Somehow, though, he got his legs to slowly shuffle himself back, all the while staring transfixed at the small but menacing weapon.

Seeing the terror on the young boy’s face, the man grinned again. “You asked for it, sticking your snotty little nose where it don’t belong.”

As he said this, he hunched his shoulders and brought his arms up the way Fynn had seen drunken, rowdy men do outside taverns when they had a score to settle, similar to a boxing stance. At the same time, he began to approach, every now and then feinting a lunge which caused Fynn to flinch and almost comically jerk his sword in response every time. The man was clearly enjoying his effect on the young boy and couldn’t help the showmanship, the sickly grin was now permanently plastered on his face. As he got closer, he began to bob up and down, unpredictably swaying one way and then the other all the while including the odd feint. Suddenly he lunged with purpose, bringing the knife down in a vicious arc aimed for Fynn’s sword arm, his superior height and reach rendered the difference in weapon lengths irrelevant.

It may have been pure luck, or it might have been a reflex from the sword training but Fynn was somehow able to move his arm back in time and narrowly step out of reach, the knife passing shockingly close to his wrist.

‘Oooo, so close, not bad, not bad.’ The man cooed, as he relentlessly followed, his bizarre movement making it impossible for Fynn to predict. ‘But what about this?’

Again he lunged, wickedly fast, this time aiming high for the throat.

Fynn leaned to his right, or more accurately stumbled to his right, fortuitously managing to bring up his sword to block. He wasn’t able to stop the knife itself but was at least able to make contact with the man’s wrist which might have been enough to deflect the slash a little. Once he had regained his balance, he saw that the man, still swaying and bobbing, had stopped advancing and was instead staring at him intently. It took a moment for Fynn to realise why, but all became clear when he felt an odd wet sensation run down his neck to his chest. The pain followed a stinging sensation that almost caused him to collapse. He brought his left hand up instinctively to touch his neck and saw his fingers slick red with his own blood. His first thought was that he was as good as dead, that the knife had gone straight through his jugular and he would soon be flopping around on the floor trying to catch his last breath. But another moment assured him he was still breathing, more hyperventilating really if the truth were told, but nonetheless breathing. The knife had scored just below his left jaw and despite the pain and copious amounts of blood, he was clearly not in any immediate danger of dying. Not yet anyway.

Fynn’s mind finally started to function again as the pain and the relief at still being alive edged away the debilitating fear. He replaced it with simmering anger. How could his life end here in this miserable alleyway, this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Clutching his throat with his left hand, he feigned weakness appearing as if he were about to collapse at any moment. Knowing the man was clearly waiting to see if the injury was fatal, Fynn decided to use this time of respite to gather himself and think of a way out. First, he slowed his breathing which he realised had been contributing to his hopeless state, and instead began to concentrate on his cycling technique which he’d been practicing just minutes ago, before finding himself in this nightmare.

It may have been an odd time to reflect, but at this moment the importance of the breathing techniques he’d been learning crashed down on him. In the past, despite the soothsayer’s explanations, he had often wondered how in the heat of battle and exhaustion one was supposed to remember to keep it up. He was now left in no doubt why, despite the difficulty, it was essential if he was to survive a fight where his life depended on it. It helped retain composure, concentration, and of course an efficient oxygen supply. Above all, in his case, it was a natural prerequisite for successfully cycling chi through his body’s channels and hence his advantage.

As his breathing calmed and his thoughts became more composed, he also reflected on the fight so far. He only just realised that the man before him was a short, thin and weedy looking fellow, smaller even than most of the boys Fynn had sparred with this morning. Something else struck him, the man was a terrible fighter. His stance was full of holes that could be exploited, the odd bobbing and swaying, while off-putting, meant that he was never in full control of his balance and movements. The wild swings were also therefore inaccurate and slow. In truth, the only reason the fight had progressed the way it had so far was because he, through uncontrolled fear, had simply let it. He needed to turn the things around and take control.

Coming to a decision Fynn began to enact his plan. From his slumped, mortally wounded looking posture he suddenly looked up and beyond the waiting man, eyes wide with hope as if seeing rescuers coming to his aid from the far end of the alley. The man’s reaction was instantaneous, he stopped his dance and whipped his head round to identify the threat.

Under different circumstances, the man might have suspected a ploy, but given the obviously petrified and seriously injured boy before him, he clearly didn’t suspect the ability nor condition to do so.

Seeing nobody behind him he turned back with a curse. “You fuckin ra..”

That was as far as got before the force of Fynn’s blow smashed across his face nearly dropping him. He reeled away, off-balance, and stumbled into the nearby wall which was the only thing that kept him on his feet.

Fynn had hoped that the strike would be enough, but upon seeing the man support himself against the wall, he immediately closed the distance again, not willing to give him an opportunity to reassert control. The man turned unsteadily towards him as he approached, shook his head as if trying to gather himself, and spat out what looked to be a tooth. There was blood also coming from both his nose and left eye indicating the strength of the strike. Fynn felt no sympathy, his own wound was causing him pain and discomfort and he could still feel the blood running freely down his neck. He wondered what he must look like, the hunted turned hunter.

Fynn made his next move, raising the sword to arc as taught in the vale-step sword style. His concentration back, his anger honed, the chi flowed within him, painful as ever but feeding his limbs with unnatural power. He could feel the increased control in his movements, the sharpness in his eyes, and the sheer force in the sword as it moved. His opponent’s guard was non-existent and Fynn realised with a start that if he were to strike him again on the head then he could potentially kill the man and despite everything he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. So he took the second form and, eking out every last drop of power he had, went for the man’s unprotected torso instead. Thunk. The force of the strike was staggering, and Fynn felt the impact reverberate back up the sword into his arm. This time it was enough and the man cried out in agony as he fell, dropping his knife in the process. He half lay, half crouched on the ground, one arm held up to protect himself from further strikes, the other wrapped tightly around his ribs where the sword had struck.

“Pleath, lad. Enough. Have merthy. I’m thorry, really I am.” This was said with great difficulty, the swelling around the man’s jaw caused one side of his mouth to hang open, blood trickling out. The entire side of his face was developing a horrible bruise, an angry red line easily visible and one of his eyes had turned blood red and puffy and was beginning to close.

Fynn stood, chest heaving from the effort he had put in and the strain his body had been under, he kept his sword half-raised ready for another strike. Watching the man carefully for a trick, he used his foot to kick the knife out of reach.

The man continued to plead with Fynn for mercy and eyed the wooden sword with undisguised fear. “Do you want money, here I’ll give you my purth, juth let me be pleath.” He groaned as he moved his arm to reach for something from within the folds of his cloak.

Fynn wasn’t willing to risk it. “Don’t move,” He yelled as he raised his sword again threateningly, “leave your hands where they are.”

“Okay, okay lad, eathy now,” was the panicked reply as the man abandoned his attempt. “juth don’t hit me again, pleath. Tell you you what, I can get things for you. I got connectionth thee, powerful people I know can get you anything. You want a real thord? From the black market? You are good with a thord, I can get you a good one for almost nothing.”

He was rambling now but it got Fynn thinking. What should I do now? he wondered. Perhaps help will come soon. A sudden flash of inspiration hit him. If there was anybody who might have an interesting piece of gossip or news, it would be somebody familiar with the crime world, and this man fit the bill perfectly.

“I want,” he said slowly, deliberately cutting the man out of his rumblings.”

The man seized his chance eagerly. “Yeth lad, anything, I can get you….”

“I want you to tell me the most interesting, dangerous bit of information or gossip you know or have recently heard.”

“Wha?” the man looked utterly confused.

“You heard me.” Fynn raised his sword again menacingly.

“Wait, wait,” the man cried out. “Wait. Okay. Let me think.” His eyes darted this way and that as Fynn saw him think desperately. “The white cloaks,” he cried out eventually. “I heard that…”

“Not interested,” Fynn cut him off. “Next.”

The man grumbled, thought again, then his eyes lit up and he said. “Ooh, you’ll like thith one lad. Thadio of Carpa…”

Fynn sighed. “Tell me something I don’t know. Next.”

The man gaped. “How?...,” he shook his head muttering again and concentrated, then suddenly stilled, looking up slowly, eyes full of genuine fear.

Up to this point, Fynn had detected an underlying cunning to the man. Behind the exaggerated pleas for mercy, it was obvious that he had been partly acting, buying time, and waiting until he was in a better position to attempt something. But at this moment it was clear that whatever he’d thought of, scared him deeply.

Fynn’s eyes glinted. “Tell me.”

The man shook his head slowly. “Nay lad. Thith ith thomething that will do me no favourth thpreading. May ath well place a nooth around my neck mythelf.”

“Tell me, now,” Fynn repeated more firmly, raising his sword again.

The man didn’t flinch at all this time, all pretext gone. Instead, he looked up and down the still empty alley and then back up at Fynn. “Your funeral. Firtht promith me, on your motherth life that you didn’t hear thith from me, no matter what.”

Fynn couldn’t imagine what secret would cause a man of his ilk so much discomfort and suddenly felt like he might be about to hear something very interesting indeed. He nodded, transfixed in anticipation. “I promise.”

The man sighed. Then, after another frightened glance up and down the alleyway, whispered with shaking voice. “Rumour hath it that the Thingenheim are in Norfelk.”

“The Thingenheim?” Fynn asked loudly almost leaning forward to better hear.

“Shhhhhhhh,” the man urged with wide eyes. “Not tho loud. Fucking nitwit. Why am I even telling thith to a thtupid little thit,” he paused, sulkily looking up at the wooden sword above him, sighed, then continued. “Singenheim,” he clarified wincing in pain at the effort to pronounce it correctly. At Fynn’s blank look he continued with irritation. “Athathinth, only the motht feared, ruthleth and efficient athathinth in the entire Empire.”

It came back to Fynn suddenly. He had once, a very long time ago, heard of the Singenheim from a drunk soldier that had been regaling the locals in Tenbi-waypoint. He and all the other children there had the virtually impossible task of filtering out truth and facts from the never-ending fanciful and embellished tales they regularly heard from the incessant stream of travelers, soldiers, merchants and storytellers that revolved through Tenbi-waypoint. He remembered it because it was one story that his mother had been particularly eager to quash. Even by her standards, she’d been especially sharp while chastising him and promised him grave punishment should he ever repeat such an absurd story out loud again.

With eyes wide and bright, he whispered back. “Do you mean the Singenheim that kidnap young children all across the empire?”

“The very thame.” The man replied with a grunt. He tried to sit up but the pain in his ribs clearly caused him immense discomfort and he slumped back down with a groan. “Fuck, I think you broke thomething.”

“How do you know they are here?” Fynn pressed ignoring him. “And do you know what they are after?”

The man spat out more blood and, despite the pain it evidently caused, spoke more clearly. “Three days ago, the black market received a contract to resupply three caravels anchored off-shore, just north of Barydd. It was done that very night. The following day, the men that had manned the resupply crafts were all whispering about how strange the job was, apparently no one on the ships talked at all, no banter or laughs as sailors are wont, and they were eerily strange, something not quite right about them. One member of the resupply crew swore to anyone who’d listen that he saw the Singenheim Emblem, the blood drop, purposely hidden from sight on one of the ships. Senior members of the underworld were quick to try and quell such rumours and strongly warned the crew to stop the talk, but it was too late. By the end of that day, each and every one of those that had attended the resupply job was found dead. If you think that anybody knows why they are here, then you must have shit for brains.”

Fynn stood in silence for a moment, stunned. Is he making this up? He asked himself. “Three days ago you say, in Barydd?”

The man nodded.

Something puzzled him about the story. Three days ago, the day the black market supposedly got the contract, coincided with the day he and Sentor had left Tenbi Waypoint. And Barydd was another day’s worth of travel in the other direction, west of Tenbi waypoint. Then the murders, or assassination, in Barydd occurred, according to the story, the day before yesterday while they were in Hearst village. That left barely two days for the news to spread this far.

“How could you have heard about it so quickly?” Fynn asked suspiciously.

The man actually almost laughed in derision at Fynn's question and then looked like he suffered for it. He spat again. “Kid, you can get a package all the way from Barydd to Norfelk city within two days if you are determined enough. Especially if you take the high-pass road. Beyond that, messages can also be sent by bird which takes mere hours. Now let me be, I’ve held my end of the bargain. Get lost. Do what you will with the news, your funeral, just leave me out of it as you promised.”

“What bargain?” Fynn asked puzzled.

That was greeted with a string of curses as the man again attempted to stand up. It was at that moment that figures finally appeared at the end of the alley, coming from the direction the woman had earlier exited.

“Brownsteds guard. Stay where you are,” came a commanding shout once they were spotted.

All fight suddenly seemed to leave the injured man and he slumped back against the wall, wincing in resignation to his fate. “Thanks for nothing kid.”

Fynn suddenly felt dizzy from his blood loss, he stumbled back a few steps and sank down against the opposite wall.

The next few moments were all confusion as the guards attempted to understand what had happened. Fynn tried to explain but it wasn’t until the woman from earlier timidly showed up and explained things from her point of view that they were able to piece the whole story together. She was called Synthia and had been walking home from her market stall to quickly check up on her daughter, taking her usual short cut, when she had been assaulted. That must have been when Fynn had heard their exchange and decided to intervene.

Synthia had gone faint upon seeing Fynn drenched in blood, but was quick to recover and assist. She used a woolen shawl, that she had earlier dropped in her struggle, and wrapped it around his head and neck tightly covering the wound.

“So you beat down a fully grown man with this wooden sword?” A senior guard, who had identified himself as sergeant Grayson, asked in disbelief as he held Fynn’s sword and swung it a few times experimentally. He looked first at the small boy and then at the injuries on the man, who was now groaning in pain as he was brought to his feet. He shook his head. “Come on lad, you aren’t telling us the truth, did someone help you? How old are you anyway?”

Highlighted by the guards who were of average height standing around him, Fynn could now see just how small his previously menacing opponent actually was. However, he could still understand the sergeant’s skepticism because the man was nevertheless still much bigger and stronger than him. It was inconceivable that any ten-year-old could inflict such damage, wooden sword, or no.

Fynn was under no illusion that he would still be alive if it wasn't for the talent. Thanks to the chi, the power he was able to generate in his strikes was, if not quite at the same level as an average man, then at least very close to it. This he had discerned from his sparring sessions earlier today where his opponents were constantly amazed at his speed and power. And he had never struck as hard as he had just now when staring death in the face.

“What, ten?” gasped Synthia in response to his answer. “Oh dear, bless you my boy, you are two years younger than my daughter. I am so sorry to have put you in such danger. You must come home with me, we need to get your wound cleaned and bandaged properly. Where are your parents? We should let them know as soon as possible.” She continued in this vein drowning out both Fynn and sergeant.

The thug, now in custody, wouldn’t say a thing and miserably ignored all questions directed his way as he stared at the ground with his only working eye.

Sergeant Grayson wasn’t happy letting Fynn and, in particular, Synthia go as he wanted them to first go with him to get their testimonies recorded by an official clerk. In the end, though, he had no choice given Fynns condition and Synthia’s insistence that she needed to help him dress the wound. Therefore, out of earshot of the thug, he took down the details of where she lived and obtained a promise that she would go the next morning, failure to which, he warned, he would have to let the man go, free to attack another victim. He also enquired further about Fynn and sighed in exasperation when he heard he was apprenticed to a soothsayer, presumably realising that he couldn’t be relied on as a witness. But he did promise to send a man to the market to inform Sentor of what had occurred and where his apprentice could be found. Fynn realised he wasn’t going to have a say in the matter.

After Synthia had retrieved his books, that were thankfully still where he'd left them, she led him down a few streets and through a side door of a two-story building, behind which some steps led up to her home on the first floor. Synthia had explained as they walked that she sub-rented from a tenant who in turn had a long-term lease on the entire building which belonged to a noble. This was apparently how it was done in most cities and towns. The main tenant, himself lived on the second floor along with his family and ran a business making and selling shoes on the ground floor.

Fynn followed Synthia up the stairs, they were barely halfway up when a green-painted door at the top abruptly opened a crack and a face peered out.

“Ma,” the door swung fully open and a girl burst out throwing her arms around Synthia. “Where were you? I was getting so worried.”

Over her mother’s shoulder, she spotted Fynn and cried out. “Ma, who is that? Why is he all covered in blood?”

“Calm down Rhean, I’ll explain everything in due course. Let’s get inside first.”

Rhean led the way in but couldn’t help curiously peering back towards Fynn causing her mother to gently chastise her.

“Stop staring Rhean, that’s rude, quickly help me and get some water on the boil. Fynn dear, come in and sit on this chair, can you take your shirt off? Good, give it here, we shall get the blood washed out straight away. No, leave the shawl where it is for the moment until we are ready to clean the wound. I’ll just quickly create a salve for it first.”

She was all business and Fynn had never felt more self-conscious as he sat there shirtless and blood stained. From a small adjoining room that was clearly used for cooking, Rhean would occasionally peek at him suspiciously while trying to appear not to. He smiled at her in a friendly manner, which only caused her to look away in a huff. Though much taller and older, she nevertheless reminded him a little of Anya, they had similar brown hair and certainly had the same curiosity and attitude.

Having never seen the interior of such a home, he looked around with great interest. It was surprisingly spacious and the large square windows, with wooden shutters wide open, let in plenty of light unlike his parent's dark and gloomy hut in Tenbi-waypoint. It appeared to be more a working-space than anything else. On one side of the room, in a corner, there was an evidently much-used spinning wheel beside which sat a large wicker basket full of raw wool. In the other corner, there was a small intricate looking loom that held what looked to be a nearly completed carpet. On the far side of the room stood a large rack, from which hung a dizzying array of gorgeous woolen carpets, rugs, cloaks, shirts, and other such items. More carpets and garments were displayed on all the walls and the large table in the middle of the room was also covered with small baskets containing various coloured yarn, wooden knitting needles, and other tools of their trade. Fynn stared in wonder.

As they cleaned the wound and surrounding blood and applied an odd smelling and stinging salve, Synthia explained to Rhean what Fynn had done. The story was certainly not quite how Fynn remembered things going and painted him in a much braver and heroic light than he knew had actually been the case. It caused the young girl to exclaim out loud in shock and she gave her mother a long hug. They clearly had a strong bond and Fynn felt a pang as he thought of his own relationship with his mother. Rhean looked at Fynn differently afterward and she redoubled her efforts to help with the wound.

Synthia also told Fynn a little more about themselves. She and her daughter were originally from a small nameless village a couple of hours northwest of Brownsteds, one of many such ones that dotted the wild highlands. Her family, like most out there, were hardy folk that made a living farming sheep for their wool and meat and whose women folk spent their days turning said wool into items like those displayed on the rack. After her husband died, following a short but severe illness, she chose to leave the village to start afresh elsewhere. Now she ran her market stall in Brownsteds for five days of the week and returned to the village to collect more goods to sell on the other two. It was a great boon for her village as it cut out the middlemen who were prone to undervaluing their goods. She also had a good working relationship with the main tenant of the building she lived in, selling shoes he made in her market stall, in exchange for a small commission, and he, in turn, helped dye her yarn for next to nothing. He also bought wool from her village that he incorporated into his more expensive shoes.

All in all, she had a great set up and was even able to afford to send Rhean to apprentice as a scribe in a local guild. Fynn had seen Rhean looking at his large books with unbridled curiosity and it now made sense why. He suggested she take a look at Sentor’s book on plants and herbs, she did so with enthusiasm immediately becoming engrossed. It reminded him of Esorna Melda, the eccentric but charming archivist and scribe he’d met in Hearst village. He gladly told the two all about her and, remembering her obvious desire for company, suggested they get in touch with her should they ever be passing through Hearst. The excitement this caused Rhean was gratifying.

They had finished bandaging the wound, which Synthia had said was thankfully not very deep, and were chatting and sipping on some tea when a knock on the door signaled Sentor’s arrival. After a cursory inspection of Fynn and another retelling of what had occurred, which was perhaps even more embellished than before, the tall soothsayer then suffered the attentions of the Synthia and Rhean, who, like most people, were absolutely fascinated by him.

He surprised Fynn and, by the looks of it, Synthia too, by discussing with her in great depth about the various methods and techniques of weaving, fulling, and dying of cloth. His master's breadth of knowledge never ceased to amaze him and again, in this, he was able to provide even Synthia with new ideas which she eagerly promised to try.

They left soon after as it was getting late and they knew Jonan may be wondering where they were. Synthia had gifted Fynn a new shirt which he now proudly wore, it was slightly on the larger side but she assured him that this was preferable for his age as he would quickly grow into it. She gave him repeated hugs and made him promise to stop by if ever he was around. Just as they were leaving, Rhean walked up to Fynn and shyly offered a bundle to him.

“Thanks for saving my mother,” she said quietly, tears brimming in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. “I know this isn’t even close to what we owe you, but I'd like you to have it anyway. I made it myself.”

Fynn saw it was a small rug with a beautiful pattern intricately woven into the fabric. The gesture was so sincere and thoughtful that it humbled him to silence. He felt a lump in his throat and fought the tears that threatened to spill over, it also didn’t help that Synthia was now also silently crying as she wrapped her arms around her daughter from behind.

“You really didn't have to. Thank you,” was all he could manage before Sentor mercifully led him away.

That evening, as they ate dinner around the campfire, Fynn recounted his version of the event. It certainly wasn’t as grand as Synthia’s version and he didn’t want it to be. He purposely left out anything to do with the talent but was sure the soothsayer could fill in the gaps and also omitted his conversation with his opponent. Jonan, as ever, was sincere in his praise, and congratulated him on overcoming his fear. His master too, though more reserved said it was well done but cautioned him not to let it go to his head.

After eating, and much to Fynn’s surprise, they continued with their usual lessons. Though after thinking about it, he wasn’t sure why he had ever thought he would get the evening off. The soothsayer had earlier got him to spend an hour ‘resting’ in his tent while he and Jonan prepared the meal, which essentially had been a coded way of telling him to use recovery meditation. As usual, It had done wonders, his exhaustion had faded and the pain from the wound was significantly reduced.

They discussed the day’s sparring again, going into great depth. The soothsayer was genuinely happy to hear Fynn had implemented an original idea into the vale-step sword style, not retracting from its strengths and core fundamentals but improving on its weaknesses. He elaborated further on how it could be improved and suggested more ideas. The two boys were soon engrossed, particularly Jonan whom Fynn had never seen so focused. This must have been a valuable learning opportunity for him and having seen the benefits it had brought Fynn, he was clearly eager to partake.

Next, like the day before, Fynn was quizzed on his progress of the medicinal plant and herb book. It was quite challenging as they not only went over what he had learned that day but also had the previous day's topics thrown in the mix as well, to ensure he hadn’t forgot anything. It was abundantly clear at the end that his master wasn’t pleased but fortunately he didn’t voice it. A suitably embarrassed Fynn resolved himself to do better in future. Perhaps, he thought, he would spend a little less time sparring and more studying.

Jonan joined them having finished washing the dishes. He leaned back on a log and nonchalantly said. “Crazy what I heard about Sadia of Carpa. I wonder what that's all about.”

The soothsayer laughed at his obvious hint and made to get up. “Thanks for the reminder, Jonan. I believe I owe you a reward for winning the challenge. I’ll get it for you now.”

Jonan protested his innocence but a small smile confessed that had been his intention.

This was the precise moment Fynn had been waiting for.

“Why do you think Jonan has won, master?” he asked innocently, a sparkle to his eye

“Oh?” The soothsayer responded with a chuckle, “This had better be good Fynn.”