Finale

Evening warmth yielded to cool moonlight on rippling water. Acorns plunged from above only to be swallowed with soft plunks, droplets jumped upward, caught blue light at their crest before returning to the river with a second ripple. Pattering drifted over leaves and earth, tender as soft rain.

An oak seed with exceptional aim smacked Marcel’s cheek. He smirked. Bent over, he continued sliding black steel over his whetstone.

Most avoided the Althain forest at thought of a mast. Ignorant travelers and those with rotten luck were the only passers-through. He had accepted the contract with hopes of bad luck.

He flipped his dagger to the opposite hand, pulled it to the top of the stone, and swiped downward again with two fingers of pressure.

Last time Marcel came this way, he was thirty-one. Determined to prove himself, nothing to his name, and two boys that barely reached his shoulders. But any memory about the forest had lost out against what happened in it.

“I told her, Margrave Aldrecht of Dammric, that I only sell textiles!” Volker exclaimed.

He encircled the fire with a second bottle of wine, four cups cradled in the crook of his arm. The swordwoman Marcel hired, Hilde, raised a silent hand to decline. She continued separating a damaged leather strap from the inside loop of a left splinted greave.

Volker turned to Brenner and dropped a cup on the crate next to him. Brenner looked up from the fire to shake his head, but his father was already pouring. Brenner crossed his arms and looked left, spotless steel chainmail clinked and shimmered in orange firelight.

“She clearly thought I was a man of many talents; able to procure anything!” He was so amused by his own story that he had to stop to catch his breath.

Volker laid a cup down on Marcel’s rock. Air glugged back into dark green wine bottle until ruby liquid stopped short of the brim. He repeated with the dye merchant to his left.

“And right there, to her face, I told Margrave Aldrecht of Dammric that—”

Greta’s indigo-stained fingers held the wooden cup while it filled. She watched the sketching boy by the river, before turning to Marcel as he absentmindedly worked his blade.

“Mr. Séverac,” she spoke like each word cost something. Save for the ‘v’ in his name, every letter was hard. “You travel. Good stories?”

Marcel heard a plea under the efficient request. He accepted it, raising a wet dagger to catch light from flames, smoke wafted his way as he flipped the dagger to check the opposite edge.

“Oh. Yes ma’am.” Marcel replied mid-turn toward the fire, wine cup in hand. He found two dozen eyes on him and lost a battle with a grin.

“What sort of story do we fancy this evening?” he asked.

An acorn fell in Marcel’s cup with a plop. He and his new garnish shared something: disappointment. He took a drink to that.

“A hard fight?” Brenner piped up. First time Marcel had heard his voice.

Like permission was granted, everyone spoke at once.

“How about Feldpass?” Volker suggested around his cup.

“The kid.” Karsten mumbled into his book without looking.

“Your long sword?” Lutz, the ironmonger, asked under a thick raised hand.

Marcel swallowed wine and raised both of his hands to the group. Bare palms faced them.

“Easy,” he said warmly. “I happen to have just the story in mind.”

Marcel stood. He grabbed the hem of his black undershirt. Lifted halfway up, he looked too: a few he cannot remember, a greyed puckered stiletto scar at twenty, and a burn mark from seventeen. But no one noticed those.

Eight inches of shiny tissue crossed diagonal from his navel to the side. The cut had been clean; it healed up into an angry pink.

“Five years ago now, a merchant’s wife told me of a kid called Fenn.” Marcel meandered around the fire. “Fenn left the womb with a sword. So they said.”

“He was a genius. He made me look clumsy with blades at just fourteen.” He kicked a stray twig into the flame. “I offered to train him, maybe learn something myself. And he accepted.”

A couple of merchants glanced at Aust. Marcel stopped to glance at the treeline across the road. He kneeled down with the fire between him and the group. Flames obscured everything below his nose, casting stark shadows and an orange glow on his upper face.

“Come to think of it, it was not far from this forest.” His eyes danced between them. “His last mission.”

His voice had dropped a full octave. No one noticed. Good.

“Western end of the Althain forest.” He looked pensively into the fire as he spoke. “Routine survey: simple cave, ten gold contract, safe choice. Easy, even for two kids.”

Marcel saw Karsten come to his feet, pike butt crunching seeds into earth.

“Could be a good warm up for my new apprentice, see him work.” He cleared his throat, hands met in front of him before spreading them apart to show distance. “Made it in to where torchlight was needed. No more than this far.”

A black steel dagger sailed at the end of the motion. Metal reflected orange then blue-white. Three heads turned. Leaves rustled in a bush across the road. A deep thud. A wolf’s yelp.

Merchants and drivers scrambled to their feet. They looked across the road at nothing specific. Searching. An empty cup fell to the ground, hollow sound bouncing off old bark. Leaf crunching faded with distance.

Karsten sat back down by Hilde who finally threaded her leather greave strap.

“Was that a wolf?!” Volker asked first. Brenner’s eyes tracked the back angle until they found Marcel’s left hand. He met Marcel’s eyes. Marcel winked. Brenner sat.

“And there it was,” Marcel retold.

Finale slid off his shoulder. Wrapping now untensioned, white cloth began to unfurl at the tip where it doubled back to loop on the hilt. Startled campers stared at four foot of steel rising as Marcel hefted it above his head. He jumped onto empty crate.

“Ancient. Red. Horned. Winged.”

Over six foot of man raised to his toes as he looked to the blade tip.

“Taller than I am now.” He took a deep breath in. “A great fiend!”

A driver gripped his holy symbol, merchants muttered among themselves, campers considered distance to the treeline. By the river, Aust blew on his sketchbook.

“A great sword, my size, in one hand. A whip of fire opposite.” Marcel hopped off the crate. Bent his knees. Finale held high but downward before him, held backwards, two-handed. He wrapped his hand in the loose cloth at the hilt.

“I shouted for my apprentices to flee.” He exchanged a look with Brenner. “Even today, it would kill me.”

Silence around the campfire. Rounded leaves overhead scraped against each other.

“Near here?” Volker asked with concern. He took one step forward, wine forgotten in his hand.

“Just a few miles.” Marcel whispered back. “And you know what I learned?”

His white teeth caught firelight. “That Fenn was fast. The kid was gone before I said to run.”

Relieved laughter erupted around the fire. Volker spilled his wine, drivers released held breath.

“Really, he was a genius.” Marcel said. “But I had to buy time.”

A deep groan came from Aust over by the river. He did not turn around.

Marcel twirled Finale by the cloth into an upward, one-handed grip. He slashed a few times in the air before blocking.

Greta flinched. A driver leaned back wide as he felt the gust of wind from each slash.

“But it was too powerful.”

Marcel raised the sword horizontal. He staggered as his knees buckled against something unseen. His free hand demonstrated a slash across Finale, off the edge, and across his covered scar.

“Gods…” Lutz cursed into his half-empty cup.

“Gods, indeed.” Excitement drained, replaced with a tone weary and hard. Almost hoarse. “That was it. There was no more time.”

Marcel fell, sword left his grip as he clutched his stomach. He scrambled to his original seat, dragging it behind him by the cloth.

“It pursued us out of the cave. My vision blurred. Managed to slow it down just enough.”

He turned. A soft green light shimmered from his palm as he raised his free hand.

“We barely lived.” He pulled himself heavily onto the seat and took a long draw from his acorn wine.

“The kid, Fenn?” An amused expression appeared on Marcel’s face. “Long gone. Learned later he ran the whole ten miles back to his hometown.”

Laughter tumbled from Marcel. Tension evaporated as merchants, drivers, and Brenner joined the chorus.

The group sobered with conversation: Brenner commented on the wolf, two merchants discussed how best to flee a fiend, and Greta gripped her wine as she looked at Marcel.

“And the boy? He there too?” Greta gestured towards where Aust had been.

Marcel enjoyed the wine as he dodged an unwanted garnish. Opened his mouth.

A wet dagger clattered onto Marcel’s crate.

“Yes.” Aust replied plainly. Right behind him. “I held his guts in.”

Marcel blamed the mast; should have heard him coming. The boy’s sketchbook pressed against his side, under his arm. The green hood of his coat was up but firelight lit his face.

“He collapsed.” Aust looked down at Marcel. “So I left him and got a healer.”

Marcel thought about the boy. It seemed like just yesterday he— “What happened after is a bit blurry…” Marcel hummed into his cup.

“A bit?” The boy came back sharp. “You were barely conscious. Babbled nonsense when you were.”

“Mmm.”

Aust looked at Finale, unwrapped, where it leaned near Marcel. He approached it in a single step. He sat down and grabbed the blade, hilt crunched between his legs into moist acorn tops and old leaves over moss. He began wrapping it.

“The wound festered.”

“Cannot say that I remember that.”

“Had to clean it every four hours.”

“Really?”

“Wouldn’t forget that, master.”

Marcel watched his apprentice loop cloth taut around sharp steel.

“I suppose that you are my apprentice.” Marcel admitted. He watched him. The remaining finger of cloyingly sweet wine vanished.

Marcel savored it.

Aust stood up. Swinging from his hand by the cloth strap, he held the wrapped sword in front of Marcel.

Marcel accepted it with a nod. He turned to Volker, empty cup raised.

“Volker. Good wine. Got anything stronger?”

A weary look on Volker’s face transformed into a mirthful grin.

Thunderous noise shook the oak canopy above in waves.

An unfortunate acorn passed wispy flames, landing in the glowing coals; it popped. The air shifted: heat from the fire was replaced with a thick, quiet blanket of darkness. Smoke in the nose was replaced with the musty smell of books long left out in summer rains.

Karsten circled the camp, hand held out in front of him. Cyan glowed dimly from his palm. He read his scripture, mumbling old words with practiced rhythm. A few strides. Cyan pulsed again.

Bedrolls unrolled. Hilde unlaced boots. Brenner paced by the wagon. A driver snored not far off.

Marcel kneeled, working the last clasp of his canvas bag. Beside him, Aust rummaged shoulder-deep in his leather satchel.

“Time to turn in.” Marcel announced. “We leave before dawn. Watch order: Karsten, Aust, Hilde, then me.”

Karsten closed his book. He crossed the campsite. Twigs snapped. Acorns flattened. The noise neared before stopping behind Marcel.

“The kid even armed?” Karsten asked firmly.

Hilde fumbled with her boot lace. Recovered.

Marcel’s fingers stopped on the clasp. He thought for a moment, then turned to look at the boy. Found the boy looking back. Marcel nodded once to him.

Aust turned around fully, right arm buried in the satchel. He looked up at Karsten and then back down at the arms covered by his coat. Finally he glanced back again and held.

“I have arms?” Aust said, clearly confused.

Marcel’s chest spasmed twice. Bit his tongue. Close.

Karsten’s teeth audibly slammed together.

“That’s not what I meant.” Karsten spat. He did not look at the boy. “Can he fight?”

“Gods willing, not tonight.” Marcel replied warm. His bag opened.

Karsten shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“I’m pulling a double then?”

“Your call. Long day ahead to Kehrfeld.”

Karsten gripped the leather book hand hard enough that it bent. His mouth opened.

“Watch’s called. Let’s get some sleep.” Volker spoke, muffled through a black cloth hat over his face. He lay blanketed, horizontal on a padded cot.

Karsten flinched. His eyes darted between the three of them once. Twice. They finally stopped on the boy, who had resumed his search.

Karsten let out a sharp breath. After collecting himself, he returned to where he had left off. He managed to open his book loudly. Grumbling resumed where mumbling had been earlier.

Distant coyotes yipped, either in triumph or dismay; the high-pitched sound carried over water. It bounced around thick tree trunks before landing somewhere in the spine. Cold.

Tonight, merchants waited for Karsten to finish warding.