His name was Brinner. He walked nervously beside Sarros, rubbing his chafed hands, shoulders hunched. “Thank you, sir,” he kept saying. Groveling.

Sarros hated groveling. “Quiet.”

“Yessir.” Brinner bobbed his head, looking uneasily about as they walked through the still-quiet camp. Gray mist filled the air, the sun a white blob behind the thick cloud bank that filled the sky. Some cook fires had been started, but few men were yet awake.

Sarros and his new ward stopped before the arms roundhouse. The old man who was the arms keeper sat on a small stool, poking a fire. Some salted fish rested on a dish beside him. The old man smiled as Sarros approached. “Morning, Actor. Would you care to join the boy and I for breakfast? A job like mine pays a little better than most, so you’ll not be finding fish this fresh anywhere else in camp.” He picked up one of the fillets and sniffed it, grimacing. “Must be less than two months old!”

“Actually, I’ve come to outfit my man,” said Sarros. He did not smile. “Axe and leather will be sufficient.”

“As you say,” said the old man. He stood up and hobbled toward the still-frightened Brinner, poking the boy—he was really not much more than that—in the chest and shoulders. “Have just the things. Hold a moment.” The arms keeper entered the roundhouse and soon returned with a hand axe and sleeveless leather jerkin. “Tell me how these work for you. We can make adjustments later if necessary.”

“Th-thank you,” stammered Brinner, and glanced to Sarros who nodded for the boy to put on the shirt. It was a good enough fit, and Brinner grinned slightly as he gave the hand axe a few practice swings. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Never could afford anything this nice before.”

The arms keeper grunted in satisfaction and turned back to his fire. “I heard about last night, Actor.”

“Oh?” asked Sarros.

“Making friends, are we?”

“Perhaps. Though not where it counts the most. Mochon seems to hold some grudge against me. I wonder that he didn’t simply kill me when he had the chance.”

“He’s a man pulled in two directions,” said the arms keeper. “On the one, the old ways of Imperial command. The respect of his men are as lifeblood. Mochon does not feel a man when that’s all his men see him as.”

Sarros nodded. “The twin ideals of faith and submission to the strong are hard to break. I know this.”

“On the other hand, Captain is one of the most cunning men in this world.” The old man peeled skin back from the flesh of one of the fish, revealing the dried out muscles underneath. “He knows his pride and reputation must needs suffer at times to achieve his goals. Do you know of Captain’s ambition?”

“No.”

“He wishes to be a king, one day.”

Sarros laughed, but the old man did not smile.

“There are days,” the arms keeper said, “when I believe he could achieve it. There is steel in his blood. When he inherited the band, it was a third its current size, diminished from what it once was. Mochon made us mercenaries again, and backed small nobles in their petty disputes. He was rewarded richly for this, but knew better than to bathe in the same river twice, and so fled east. We are bandits, for now, but Captain believes we could offer our services in alliance to one of the Great Armies—if we had something to offer them.”

Sarros nodded. “He seeks information rather than mercenary wealth on this road.”

“Yes. But now he believes he may have stumbled upon something even more valuable than a spyful of secrets.”

“Aye, an Actor.” Sarros looked over at Brinner, who was poorly pretending to not listen while inspecting his weapon. The boy was far too petty to be a part of any of this. Kings and armies, Actors and Masks… These were not the concerns of petty, foul murderers and rapists. Except I have drawn him into it, thought Sarros. What doom lies upon him with my mercy tinging his soul? “Come,” he said, and waved his thanks to the arms keeper. “Captain Mochon will want to see us.”

***

Mochon stood on top of a bluff overlooking the encampment. He wore boiled leather with a dark tunic overlaying, something quite a bit more formal than the rough garb he had worn when they had captured Sarros. He turned as Gurrum approached, the other man who would be accompanying the mission, leading Sarros and the rapist behind him.

“You’ve outfitted your man,” Mochon noted. “Good.” The four men set off toward the wilderness road, the morning sun finally cutting through the fog and painting their leather-clad shoulders cherry red.

The rapist’s mood seemed much improved. The lad had cried and begged for mercy incessantly upon his capture, practically asking for the beating he had received. Bruises still covered his arms and face, but the lad had cleaned up well. It angered Mochon that he had decided it necessary to spare the pigshit, but anything that would help break the Actor down was worth the cost.

A small hill overlooked the forest path below. Mochon remained standing while Gurrum, Sarros, and his ward sat on a smooth patch of stone. The Actor stirred after a bit. “Forgive me for asking, Captain Mochon, but what exactly are we waiting for?”

Mochon did not remove his gaze from the road. “Our scout gave word that our target will arrive some time this afternoon. At the moment we look for an Imperial accompaniment which may or may not travel ahead of them. If it does, we remain hidden as it passes, and then strike our target when it appears alone.”

“And if the Imperials are with the… target?” Sarros asked.

Mochon slowly turned. “Then we have wasted our time. Unless…” He reached underneath his leather shirt and retrieved the cloth bundle tied tightly to his undershirt. Mochon pulled back a portion of the cloth, revealing dark wood underneath. “If you promise to kill every soldier on my order, I will return your mask.” He tensed, knowing his long knife was loose in its sheath, waiting to see if a snarling tackle would come.

Sarros gave him a peculiar look, and laughed. “What is this you play at, Captain? I told you, I need the money. I’m not here to slaughter Imperials. Ask me to simply serve you, and I’ll take my property back gladly. Ask me to kill indiscriminately to serve your ego? No. Mercenary or not, I drew a line in the sand long ago.”

The leader’s glare deepened. “What difference is it why I want them dead?” he spat. “You obey me, and you will kill if I command it.”

“Do you?” Sarros asked quietly. The air seemed as thick as butter. “Is that the order you give me?” He made a motion Mochon recognized, an Imperial scout’s technique that involved shifting stance in such a way as to loosen a blade in a leather sheath without using the hands. To prepare to kill without giving away your intention.

Mochon gritted his teeth. This was going poorly. “At the moment, we have no enemy in sight.”

“There, sir!” hissed Gurrum.

Mochon immediately crouched down. They were well-hidden behind the trees in their dull clothing, he knew, but the Imperials in their bright uniforms were easy to see and to hear as they stomped along the wilderness trail, clearing the way for the travelers coming an hour behind. If the information was true. The wilderness path was not one often traveled, and so it was not commonly believed to be infested with bandits. The Imperial escort was mostly along to clear the trail ahead and ward off wild beasts who wouldn’t care if the first prey they saw were soldiers or travelers.

It would be their undoing. Mochon longed with every fiber of his being to call Sarros upon his hated enemies like a terrier into a nest of rats, to watch in glee as the Actor donned his mask and slaughtered every single damned Imperial marching along that path. Some day, he thought. Not this damned day. He put the cloth-wrapped bundle back around his waist, nodding to Sarros. “Stand down.”

The Actor rolled his eyes, and patted the hilt of his demon blade snugly into its sheath again. “Yessir.”

Within a few minutes the Imperials had passed and tension had somewhat faded. Neither Gurrum nor the rapist seemed to know what to do with the situation, but all remained silent as the day progressed.

***

Sarros wished he’d brought more than a single skin of water. Brinner hadn’t brought any, and so though it galled Sarros he shared what he had with his ward. He didn’t know why Mochon had called Brinner onto the ambush, or really why Sarros himself was there. If the leader needed force, did he want to trust two people he’d never led in a fight? Sarros glanced at Brinner. In the boy’s case, he’d likely never fought against anything capable of fighting back.

The Actor clenched his teeth as he remembered Mochon’s “offer” earlier in the morning. Mercenary work and assassination were not the same thing. Sarros had few qualms about supporting one man or another in a fair fight, but what Mochon asked him to do was a different thing altogether. If he put on his Mask and descended upon the Imperials, not a man would walk away alive. It would be like slaughtering a nursery. And those soldiers didn’t deserve it. They signed up to defend their Empire, not to fall before a bandit’s twisted cruelty.

What might he have done if ordered to kill them? His fingers had itched to grab the Mask as soon as Mochon had dangled it like a carrot before a mule. An inner voice had whispered to him to draw his sword and fill his new Captain with holes, but Sarros had wrestled that urge down. He had given Mochon his word, and would not go back on it.

Yet.

***

Mochon gripped the haft of his long axe as the sounds of horses and wagon wheels came faintly to his ears. “They’re coming,” he growled. “Gurrum, with me on this side. Sarros, take your man around to flank the far corners. Slay anyone who opposes.”

“Yessir,” were both replies. Mochon grunted as the Actor and rapist moved quickly toward the path, positioned by themselves to strike when the targets came into view. At least the Actor seemed to be obeying.

The bandit leader counted the minutes and seconds as the caravan approached. The scouts’ information had been correct. Two wagons drawn by horses. Three families. Only four men old enough to fight between them all. None of them soldiers. None of them mercenaries. Perhaps not even four swords between them.

“Now!” Mochon shouted, and held his long axe high in the air like a flag. Behind him Gurrum grunted in affirmation and started scrambling down the hill. Mochon followed, looking beyond to make sure the Actor and the lad were in fact doing their part. The bandit leader grinned. Perfect.

***

Sarros’ heart pounded. This wasn’t just a matter of holding up merchants or pressganging lone mercenaries. He saw the scared eyes of women and children through the caravan wagon’s flaps. “Only attack the men!” he hissed at Brinner.

The boy nodded fervently and adjusted his grip on the small axe held in his left hand, running alongside Sarros as they approached the wagon. He seemed to be breathing awfully hard, and his eyes were wide. He didn’t seem nervous though. Excited, maybe. That wasn’t good.

They were close now. Sarros’ demon blade flashed out of his sheath, but the Actor didn’t immediately go on the offensive. Two men jumped out of the wagon and stood between their attackers and their families. They were not soldiers, Sarros saw. Their hands were rough with farmers’ callouses, and indeed one held a shovel rather than a proper weapon. The sword held by the other was rusty and pitted. It was clearly a stranger to its owner.

Sarros waved his blade in an exaggerated salute before the men, trying to put on as impressive a show as possible. If it weren’t for the possibility some of the earlier Imperials might have retreated as a rear guard, he would have bellowed as well. Instead he spoke in a firm voice as he pointed the mirrored blade between them. “We do not seek your lives, men, only your wealth. Lay down your weapons and we will allow you to continue unharmed.”

“Our wealth is our life!” the shovel-wielding man cried. “Take it and you might as well kill us where we stand!”

“There is much labor needed in the border camps,” said Sarros. He was not sure if that was the whole truth, but it seemed likely if nothing else. “Your families will live, if you choose peace.”

Brinner had thankfully stopped slightly beside Sarros, but his breath was ragged and he kept looking back and forth between the wagons. Unease stirred in Sarros’ breast, and he knew he needed to keep himself in control of the situation. “Do not mind this one. He will not harm your people so long as—”

Sarros cursed the words as they left his lips. He had just implicitly threatened these men’s families, even if he hadn’t finished the thought, and that was a strain they could not take.

The sword-wielding farmer leaped toward Sarros, his clumsy strike immediately parried and his sword tossed from his amateur’s grip. A squeal passed his lips as a rough bur of metal tore his palm open, leaving him bloodied and disarmed. His companion swung his shovel like an axe, but Sarros cut his sword across and severed the iron head from its haft with one savage chop. The shovel head spun and almost struck Brinner, but the boy hopped back at the last moment.

In moments the two farmers were nearly defenseless. One still held his shovel haft, but it was far to short for an inexperienced fighter to use as anything more than a club. He did his best, holding one end with both hands and swinging it around him, but Brinner darted in and buried his axe in the man’s forehead.

There were screams from the other side of the caravans as Sarros saw Mochon and Gurrum approach. Though the horses stood between them (beginning to spook at the noise and the blood) Sarros saw Mochon slam a heavy fist into the head of a third man hopping down from the wagon, and breathed a sigh of relief that the Captain hadn’t simply murdered the man. For his part, Sarros threw his blade at the remaining farmer’s feet, feinting a fumble, and as the man dropped instinctively to take the weapon from his attacker, Sarros put every ounce of his strength into a kick to the farmer’s diaphragm. All the man’ air rushed out and he fell to the ground incapacitated. Sarros picked up his blade as he bounded over the wagon’s crosspiece and looked around for other opponents.

“That’s the last of them,” Mochon said. “Stand down.”

Sarros didn’t sheath his blade, but relaxed slightly. “What is it they carry, Captain?”

“Food and ore.”

Sarros nodded. “How are we going to carry it back?”

Mochon snorted. “I know what you’re implying. I have no plans to slaughter these people. We will take them to our camp, and then release them. They can travel to the border camps from there with their own wagons.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Something in the back of Sarros’ mind called to him, but he pushed it away. “The Imperials will come back for them and take our camp, if they were protecting these people. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Well, if they live.”

“What?” Sarros heard a scream, and his blood went cold. He had left Brinner behind. He spun and slashed at the canvas covering the wagon, vaulting over to land among the chaos inside. There was something different about Brinner. One of his eyes had ruptured a blood vessel, staining the sclera red. A vein pulsed from his eye across his forehead, and coarse black hairs sprouted along it. His neck seemed to be swelling and sweating and pulsing… And he had sunk his teeth into a woman’s neck. Her blood sprayed the children around her and misted Sarros’ outstretched blade.

Sarros roared as he threw himself at the abomination, impaling the already-dead woman and monstrous Brinner with his demon blade. They toppled through the opening Brinner had ripped in the side of the wagon, Sarros on top of the two. He drew himself up as they hit the ground, ripping free his blade. The thing that was Brinner screeched wetly through a mouth filled with canines and swiped at Sarros with a six-clawed hand, but Sarros lopped it off at the wrist.

“Fuck you!” Sarros hissed, and stabbed Brinner in the throat. He twisted the blade, ripped it free, and stabbed again. He did not stop until Brinner’s head was fully severed from his torso and Sarros’ own front was black and wet with monstrous blood. The Actor stood, breathing heavily, turning back to glare with a demon’s fury at the cool visage of Captain Mochon.

“Well done,” Mochon said evenly. “I had no idea our rapist was that… thing. None of the villages he graced certainly knew.”

“Fuck you,” Sarros growled. The blade in his hand rattled as his white-knuckled grip’s tenseness shook it. “Why?”

“You’re out of control,” Mochon continued. “Please calm yourself. I repeat, I had no knowledge of this. Why would I take a werwulf with me?” His eyes narrowed. “Only a fool would do something so suicidal. I am fortunate you were there to put the beast down. If only you’d done that earlier, we could have avoided this whole mess—”

“Shut up!” Sarros’ blade fell to the ground as he put both hands to his head. He could feel a migraine beginning to pound his brains to mush. It was like something bigger than himself had curled up in his skull and was beating its way out. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He shuddered, and the worst of it was over. Sarros wiped his nose, and fresh blood came away. He shivered. “Captain… Captain, Captain?”

***

Mochon’s heart thundered in his chest. He hid it as best he could, but real fear began to claw at his belly. Even without his Mask, what was this Actor capable of? While in his right mind, Mochon was confident Sarros would not turn on him, but if the Mask had pushed the Actor’s mind close to cracking… Yes, he sought to break the Actor, but he had hoped the werwulf would have been the victim of Sarros’ inevitable snap. The villagers had whispered that the killer was more than human, that he had shrugged off wounds that would have killed a normal man three times over. Sarros had moved too quickly, and had ended the rapist before he had the chance to fully transform. It had, Mochon was sure, strained his mind dangerously close to breaking. If Sarros snapped and thought Mochon the source of all his problems, the bandit leader wasn’t confident he could make it out in one piece.

But Sarros stretched taut, fingers twitching, head twisting to one side and the other, eyes rolled back in head. He gasped like a man bursting onto an ocean’s surface after being trapped under glacial ice, and fell to the ground. Mochon adjusted his grip on the long axe in his hands, preparing for the worst. Sarros lifted his head, and there was sanity in his eyes.

“Of course,” said the Actor in a hoarse voice. “Of course you’re right. Let’s go.” He returned his blade to its sheath still sticky with blood and walked absently back in the direction of the encampment.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Gurrum muttered, trying to keep one of the horses still. He seemed unfazed by the screaming, sobbing children and dead werwulf. His absolute world-weariness was exactly why Mochon had chosen him for the task. “Leavin’ us all to clean up his own mess.”

Mochon breathed out a tense breath as he inspected the caravan’s goods. The plan had worked out after all. Mochon’s tended to, in the end.