Prologue

Tyson was hardly a selfless man. As leader of the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company he'd showed time and again that he was willing to do nigh anything for the right amount of coin. And yet, on that night, as his comrades drank in the bar, he showed a softer side. A nobility that none of them had ever expected to see.

Witnesses reported seeing Uri's house catch fire and then the tall, red-haired Tyson rushing into the blaze through the front door. The house was clearly lost, they knew that when the main support beam broke and the thatch roof caved in. Even so, the villagers heaped buckets of water and dirt onto it to kill the flames before they lit the whole town up. The smoke loomed over the rooftops. Some even said they saw Uri's face in the smoke. They said her mouth pulled back in a painful grimace and her eyes screwed tightly shut. All reported hearing both Uri and her four-year old daughter, Mahla, screaming from within the burning house.

When they heard the screams stop, all of them were sure that Uri and Mahla were dead. They were certain Tyson would only find charred corpses in the house, assuming the smoke hadn't already choked out his lungs. Some were already saying prayers for the souls of the deceased. Others questioned how God could possibly let this happen to such a precious little girl as Mahla was. Still others hadn't given up hope yet. They waited, watched the front doors of the house.

Uri's house was one of the biggest in the town. Stories and rumors abounded about how it was that Uri had fallen into so much wealth, especially since she had neither a job nor a rich husband. She had simply moved into town one day, four years prior, shortly thereafter giving birth to her golden-haired bastard daughter. Some speculated that she was prostitute, or perhaps a successful thief, who was settling down to take care of her little girl. All in town envied that big, beautiful house, and the fact that Uri never had to work. Now they watched as the house burned down, and many of them felt horrible that they'd ever spoken ill of her.

The walls of the house began to collapse. The last few support beams snapped and the windows shattered. Then Tyson burst out the front doors again. He carried little Mahla in one arm and dragged Uri's limp body with his other. Both Tyson and Mahla coughed and gasped for clean air. The cool night wind stung their lungs as an ironically beautiful reminder that they were still alive. The wind was like ice on their skin, a welcome feeling as it cooled their sweat. Mahla's tears made lines in the soot and ashes on her face. Her throat was so sore from the smoke that she'd lost her voice.

Other villagers were upon them in seconds to take Mahla from the sell-sword's arms and carry away Uri's limp body.

The other members of Tyson's company laughed and joked when they heard the story.

“You're a regular bloody hero!”

“Just rushed in there? Right into the flames?”

“Fearless, eh? Ah hah!”

“Any o' that pretty red hair catch fire?”

All the while Tyson suffered their jests and insults in silence. He turned down their offers to buy him a beer or an ale to celebrate his selfless courage. In his head Uri caught fire, over and over. She flailed and screamed on the ground, cries that he'd thought only beasts could make. He could see her skin melting and smell the stench of her burning hair all over again. Her cries were likely to haunt him for years to come, and Mahla probably would never forget them either. As a warrior he'd seen plenty of death, killed more men than he could count, but it didn't compare to watching an innocent woman suffer like that. That night he drank not to celebrate his own heroism with the others, but to calm his nerves. He bought his own alcohol, for he felt he deserved no reward.

In the morning, before his company left the town, Tyson decided to check in on Mahla, and so he went to the temple where he'd left her to talk to the priestess there. Mahla was sitting in one of the pews as he walked in. She stared off into the distance, as if she were asleep, but with her eyes wide open. “She's such a darling girl,” Tyson thought now that he saw her with a clean face for the first time.

“Ah, you're the one who saved this little one,” said the priestess as Tyson drew near the altar.

“Yes yes. What will happen to her?”

“She has no known next of kin. If no one takes her in then the church will raise her. She'll be trained as a priestess, a monk, or even a paladin.”

“If no one takes her in?” Tyson asked, “Why wouldn't anyone take such a girl in?”

“Not their responsibility. You'd be surprised how rare it is to find people who would truly love a child not their own.”

“And if she is adopted what are the odds of it being a good family?”

The priestess sighed, “I won't lie, a lot of families adopt children just so they can have someone who's virtually a slave, someone who does constant, hard labor for them, and they're very good at hiding it. I've sometimes kept children hidden, made sure they weren't adopted, just to protect them from that.”

“Then I'll take her,” Tyson said.

“You will? You're a mercenary! You're constantly going to war! How could you possibly be a good father to this girl?”

“I went into a burning building to save her. I think I've already, at the very least, proven that I can love her even though she's not my own.”

“But still...what kind of life would this child have in your care, being constantly on the move, sleeping in camps full of crude killers for hire?”

“Watch your tongue, sister.”

“Mother,” the priestess corrected him. Nuns and inquisitors were called “sister,” priestesses were called “mother.” Clearly this man wasn't even a member of the Agalmite faith. The priestess feared what sort of heathen life the girl would lead if she were raised by such a man. “And I won't let you take her!”

In a flash Tyson had his sword drawn and the blade pressed against the priestess' throat. The priestess wanted to scream at first, but she immediately realized that he would likely slit her throat to silence her. The blade was kept sharp at the tip, sharp enough to cut leather. Tyson's face was intense, focused, with the corners of his mouth pulled down in a scowl. His nostrils curled upward, and his eyes screamed of his murderous intent. “I'm taking the girl! I will not suffer her to become a slave, not yours or anyone else's!”

“Alright! Alright!” The priestess said, holding up her hands in surrender.

Tyson sheathed his sword. His face instantly changed to a much softer, friendlier expression, “I knew you'd be reasonable.”

“If you're going to go you should take this,” the priestess said. She reached behind the altar and produced a small, gold-plated box. “It was the only thing that survived the fire. It's locked, and we couldn't find a key, but perhaps you'll have a use for it.”

“Thank you, sister,” Tyson said as he took the box.

“MOTHER!” The priestess corrected him again.

“I'm not your mother,” Tyson said. He chuckled to himself as the priestess rolled her eyes in exasperation.

Mahla said nothing when Tyson told her that he was her new father, merely nodded her head and followed him. She held his hand tightly and did not speak a word to anyone. On the road from the town to where the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company would make camp Mahla didn't even make eye contact with any member of her “new family.” She stared off into space, her eyes wide and terrified.

Later that night, in the comfort of his tent, as Mahla slept on his bedroll, sucking her thumb for the first time in two years, Tyson took to picking the lock on the gold-plated box. The box itself could, obviously, be sold, but one had to wonder what was so valuable that you had to lock it in a box plated in gold. After working on the lock for over an hour he heard the right click and the box came open. Inside were letters with broken seals, and when Tyson read the letters he laughed so hard that he woke Mahla from her deep sleep.

“You really are the one I've been looking for, girl!”