The stagecoach rattles and leaps as the driver steers it into every bump and pothole he can find with those withered raisins for eyes. Dismas believes the old codger is nuttier than squirrel droppings, but the Caretaker, as he had introduced himself, also happened to be the only person willing to brave the trip to the undoubtedly delightful destination everyone else simply refers to as the Hamlet. 'It has to be quite something,' Dismas thinks, 'If no one's ever bothered naming it.'
And that's exactly where he's bound for now, with a defective spring coil digging into his backside through the cushioned seat, worn threadbare with age and use, and his teeth clattering. One of his companions is a mobile armour fondling a rosary in a most unsettling manner, the other an Heiress to a disgraced family name and some ratspit village in the last forgotten corner of the world.
Which suits him just fine. He deserves to be forgotten, to fade from the memories of everyone he ever encountered, far away from the things he tainted with his touch.
The Old Road cuts a serpentine swathe through the Weald, the fucking Weald, of all places on this gods-forsaken earth. Dismas sits hunched over, with his shoulders defensively drawn up, his chin propped up in the palm of his hand as he watches the countryside pass by. He knows the stories surrounding the Weald. Of the army Emperor Harauld had lost to the malevolence of these woods when he had decided to make land on the east coast to take the kingdom by surprise. Wandering between the dense tress one could still come across the bones and swords of the men who had perished here, and their spirits were said to haunt their last resting place.
Beyond the window, the milestones flash by one after the other, worn almost beyond recognition, moss and lichen devouring the stone underneath. In the gathering twilight tendrils of mist form milky pools close to the ground, and that's when he catches sight of a flash of white. Where there was nothing a moment ago, a translucent figure stands between the trees, emitting an eerie pearly flow.
Dismas feels his veins fill with ice as it looks straight at him, then stretches one skeletal finger to point down the road, in the direction they are going.
He jerks back with a curse, kicking the knight in the process, hard enough to rip the man out of his self-inflicted coma. He turns with a heart palpitating wildly in his chest and a sickening churning in his stomach, but the specter is gone, and the woods are dark and empty.
"What is it?" the knight asks, bending forward as he tries to follow Dismas' gaze.
"I thought I saw," a ghost, "Nothing," Dismas says, dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. What he needs is a drink. "It's nothing." He can hear the knight frown.
"We should be there soon," the woman opposite them says coolly, her hands clasped in front of her, white-knuckled but steady.
He nods and doesn't reply.
oooo
The first time he saw her, she was dressed in a severe-looking black attire with a high neck that was more a suit than a skirt, the likes of which have been out of fashion for at least a century, if not more. Her knee-high silver-bucked riding boots showed signs of hard wear, the leather smooth and polished.
She had stood out in the tavern enough to draw the curious glances of both patrons and the innkeeper. The establishment was well frequented at this hour, all the tables occupied – all except for one. Drunks, barmaids and common folk alike gave a wide berth around the lone figure nursing a mug he had not lifted once.
A hood drawn deep over his face could not hide that the man was a Crusader. The eight-pointed star of the Order of Light was embroidered boldly on the chest of his crimson surcoat in a blazing gilded thread A sword in pristine condition, yet showing clear signs of use stood propped between the knights legs.
Dismas had had one look, and decided that standing next to the fireplace suited him just fine. What the holy warrior was doing this far south was anyone's guess, but he knew for sure that he wanted none of it. Religious zealots were pretty far on top of the list of things Dismas did not need in his life.
But all thoughts of the knight were soon driven from his mind, when the strange woman spoke up, addressing everybody present in a clear voice. She offered them work and good coin, but when they asked her to show some if it, her reply had been, "I do not carry it on me."
At least she had some brains, but the admittance had only dawn sneers and laughs from her audience. These people were not highborn. Promises did not mean much to them if you could not make good on them. Dismas himself was no stranger to the honeyed lies of conmen.
And he did not for one second believe she was one. There was just something about her, standing with straight-backed composure after being laughed in her face. Before he could put his finger on what it was, the old man had burst from the back, falling to his knees in front of her, clutching one of her hands in his gnarled ones. Dismas pushed off the wall and moved closer.
The noise had risen again to a clamour, and the words exchanged between them were lost to him. By the time Dismas was near, the geezer was sobbing into the back of her hand while she stood frozen in something akin to shock.
"The letter. Ah, the letter! Your venerable grandfather, milady, your ancestor, the noble sire, he – "
Dismas had suppressed the urge to throw up, lest the force of the cat knock out his front teeth, and decided to be a gentleman and help out a damsel in distress.
"Oy! Leave milady here alone, you!" He pulled the old man back by the shoulder, and off the woman, who reclaimed her hand with a look of complete dismay. Dismas did not dare to get his hopes up that it wasn't partially directed at him.
The man, who he had later learned only had a profession for a name, gifted him with a smile that perfectly showed off his missing teeth, and bowed deeply, stammering, "Good sir, kind sir..."
"Don't even start with me," Dismas cut him off.
Someone on his other side had snorted. He turned to find the Crusader had walked up to them. The other man was a good half a head taller than Dismas, and he had the bulky frame of a warhorse.
"Are these two bothering you, my lady?"
"Behold! It speaks!" Dismas said. Having kept a close eye on him, knew that the knight had not exchanged a single word with anyone since he had entered the tavern.
"Nervous talker?" the Crusader suggested in a humourless, dry voice.
"Shut up," Dismas grunted, realizing the irony of the situation too late.
The armour had laughed at him. That was about the extent of their conversation. Anybody reasonable could tell they were practically bosom buddies.
And then, pouring salt into the wound, he had to go down on one knee and ruin Dismas' one perfect moment of chivalry.
"Allow me to offer my services to you," he had said, pushing back his hood to reveal a face framed by light brown hair and a short beard that could use some grooming. But beyond that, Dismas remembers being shocked to discover that he looked young. Possibly a decade younger than Dismas' own mid-thirties.
"You shall be recompensed generously for your service," she assured, "Yet I need to warn you that the road ahead may be fraught with many dangers."
"I am not a stranger to peril, or to the bloody work of the sword."
"Yeah," Dismas cleared his throat to remind the two that he was still there. "I'll come too." Eloquent as ever, Dismas.
"Then I accept." She tore her eyes from the knight who rose to his feet." Are you a warrior too, ... Sir?"
Dismas, whose ears had picked up at the word 'recompense' was willing to forgive her the lapse. He had been many things in his life, but never worthy of that form of address. "I've been in my fair share of fights," he said, following it up with, "Best shot you'll find this side of the Channel."
The crusader's eyes narrowed. "And what, pray tell, is your profession?"
For a heartbeat Dismas was lost for an answer. Then, "I've worked freelance." Slitting throats, ambushing nobles, raiding and roving the countryside. Until...
Until.
The knight was not convinced. "What honest man goes masked?" he enquired. "Or do you have something to hide? Why else cover your face?"
"Because I'm an ugly fucker, that's why," Dismas drawled, and smiled behind his scarf.
"Please."
Their heads turned back to the person in their midst.
"I am in no position to decline help, if it is freely offered."
"Actually, I hoped to be included in said recompens-"
"Excellent! Shall I ready the coach, milady?" the Caretaker, whom they had all forgotten by now, butted in. "Soon," the woman decided. "I have ridden all day, I would eat first."
"I have a table," the knight proposed. Indeed, no one had dared to remove as much as a chair in the knight's absence.
She smiled up at the shining heap of metal. "That is very kind of you."
oooo
"Bandits! Bandits on the road!"
Dismas is ripped out of his thoughts by the Caretaker's shrill scream. His head is not the only one to snap up. In the next instant they hear the crack of the whip, and the coach lunges forward, when the horses pulling it break out into a wild gallop.
"Isn't this dangerous, in the dark?" the Heiress asks.
Her answer comes a moment later. The coach swerves wildly, turning crossways, then, almost like someone had slowed time, it begins to tip. There is a moment of confusion, before the world turns upside-down.
They're flung from their seats. Dismas notes a feeling of weightlessness before he is sent crashing into something – no, someone. A scream, followed by pain, darkness, and more pain, and why won't it stop?
Everything grinds to a halt a moment later.
Dismas draws a shaky breath, filling his lungs with the air that had been knocked out of them. He is bruised and battered, but very much alive, and just for a while it is enough. Slowly, his surroundings begin to filter through his muddled mind. They're lying in a heap on the floor. Which used to be the side of the coach. He had the good fortune to land on top of the knight. If it were the other way around, he might have been squished like a bug.
Dismas rights himself slowly. Nothing appears to be broken. Good. That's... good. He kicks open the doors of the carriage, now broken and useless, and climbs out, reaching down to help his companions. Whatever their differences, they're in this together now.
The crusader and the Heiress both sport a look of dazedness that Dismas is sure they can see on his face as well. He seems fine and while she is pale, the lines around her mouth are firm. The heiress disentangles herself from the knight's supportive grasp and goes to help the Caretaker free the draught horses from their harnesses. How the geezer survived the accident without snapping his withered old neck, Dismas cannot begin to guess. Divine intervention, most likely.
One of the horses breaks free and bolts, and the man takes off after it. Spry old bugger.
"Hey!"
No one pays the crusader any mind.
"Bloody fucking hell," the highwayman mutters, and kicks a stone, watching it disappear in the high grass of the unkempt roadside. The crusader shoots him a dirty look, but keeps his silence. Good. There's a lot more where that came from.
The knight bends down to inspect the coach, while the Heiress soothes the two remaining horses with touch and a gentle voice. They seem to be unharmed, and her own black hunter nuzzles her elbow.
"Axle's broken," the knight tells no one in particular.
"You're very perceptive," Dismas retorts. The wheel is also gone, lying several paces next to the coach. Yep, they're screwed.
"How far behind us do you think they are?" she calls over, casting an anxious look over her shoulder, where the shadows gather and close in on them.
"Not far enough." Dismas' response is grim. "Do you know how to fight, lass?"
She replies with a most unladylike roll of her eyes. "Do I look like a soldier to you?"
"I say we make our stand here," Dismas suggests. "We've got the coach to provide some cover. If they have men in front of us too, we'll be caught right between them if we try to run."
To his great surprise the crusader nods. "I agree. We will take the fight to these degenerates. They tend to be cowardly scum."
Yeah, fuck you too.
Dismas bites his tongue and pulls out his guns and begins to inspect them for any sign of damage.
oooo
The ambush, when it is sprung on them, has lost its crucial element of surprise. Up close the outlaws are a ragged, sorry bunch, nothing like well-organized gangs up north he had run with. They attack with a frenzy that surprises him though. One look at his tattered overcoat, or the crusader's emblem should be enough to tell them they have precious little to gain and a lot to lose by robbing them.
The knight grips his sword with both hands, his entire body taut, ready to leap into action. He had put himself in the front, and Dismas had not protested. When the first outlaw makes the mistake of going for him, the knight runs him through, ruthlessly kicking the still twitching man off his blade. A part of Dismas admires the grace and deadliness of the other warrior.
Then he has no more time for mooning over the guy, because a few of the bandits made it past the knight, and were now looking for an easier target. One of them spots Dismas, and goes straight for him. Dismas takes aim, and fires. The hammer of his gun clicks, and the blackpowder ignites with a hiss, followed closely by the BOOM of the discharge. The man aiming a blunderbuss at the crusader from the edge of the forest crumbles and falls. The brigand laughs, thinking Dismas missed him. He doesn't know that Dismas never misses.
Never.
The highwayman pulls the trigger again, shooting him at point-blank range. The man's head explodes in a spray of blood, brains and bone shards. Dismas grins. Double-barreled flintlock, friend. The second one always catches them by surprise. He holsters his gun, now out of bullets, and reaches for the rifled firearm. Before he can pull it though, another one of the brigands who manages to get past the knight, is sprinting at Dismas. He's got a spear that makes the highwayman's dagger look like a toothpick by comparison. Dismas curses vividly, scrambling backwards, fumbling for his firearm as the enemy closes in almost within attack range.
Then the man is gone, flung through the air like a doll as the Heiress rides her steed into him at a full gallop. Dismas' heart stops in its tracks for the fraction of a second, then picks up its beat with twice the speed. He sees the next adversary bearing down on him, and turns to face him. His trusty dagger dispatches the bandit quickly, and with no more enemies to fight, Dismas moves to help out the crusader, just as the man pivots, and then almost cuts a brigand trying to circle around him in half with one strike of longsword. The remaining outlaws flinch back and retreat a few steps as the knight bellows out his rage, completely caught up in the bloodlust.
The man is absolutely terrifying, and Dismas, although not a religious man, nevertheless thanks the Divines, that they are fighting on the same side.
He sees the crusader charge their foes with a ferocity that seems to be born of madness, and to his right the Heiress' horse rears up, another bandit going down under blows from her riding crop, and her horse's iron-clad hooves.
Dismas catches movement out of the corner of his eyes, and spins. Too slow. He can feel the cold bite of steel along his side. Muscle memory is what guides his blade across his attacker's throat, and then the ground is rushing up to meet him, – no, he is falling.
Dismas catches the fall with his hands, but the shock of the collision with the ground makes his surroundings lose focus. 'No,' he tells himself, 'You cannot pass out.' For a heartbeat he is not sure whether he can cling to consciousness.
One of the bandits, the one who is held together only by the hauberk he is wearing is crawling towards him, dragging his entrails behind him. There is no intelligence, no emotion behind his bulging eyes, but his bloody teeth are bared in the parody of a grin, and when he catches Dismas's foot, there is astonishing strength in his grip.
Where is his dagger? His hand feels the ground, but all his fingers encounter is rough stone. Where is his bloody dagger?
In mounting panic he kicks the bandit, once, twice, shattering jaw and nose, but he still won't let go, and just as Dismas is bending his knee for a third and final blow, the crusader's form appears before him.
He bends down, and drags the outlaw off Dismas by one leg, before he stomps on his back, immobilizing him and pushing his sword through the spine right at the base of the man's skull. It's as efficient as it is brutal, and Dismas can feel the sour tang of feat at the back of his throat as he looks into the absolute blackness of the knight's visor. For a moment he is not sure he will survive to draw breath again.
And then the crusader's knees bend, and he crouches next to the highwayman's shaking form, steadying him with one hand of his back.
"Are you injured?" His voice, ruined from all the shouting, rings hollow from the depths of helmet, sounding almost inhuman.
Dismas looks at his side. The patches are probably the only thing holding his old coat together, but now it has a new cut, and there is blood. His blood, warm and sticky. He manages a nod. "Is it over?"
The knight nods back. "It is. Don't move. I have medical supplies."
"Something wasn't right with these men," Dismas states, when the crusader makes it back, a small leather case tucked under one arm. He recalls the maniac, agonized grimace of the outlaw who had clawed at him, and fails to suppress a shiver. "They were more animal than human."
"They were highwaymen," the crusader replies, kneeling down. "Cutthroats and thieves, what did you expect?"
Not this.
Dismas wisely does not comment.
"Is this what you saw earlier?" the other man speaks up again, gently but firmly prying Dismas' hand from his side, where it has clamped over the wound by instinct. Dismas had not even noticed, but lets go, balling his hands into fists instead.
"What?"
The knight lights a lamp, then he lifts his visor to better inspect the wound. His eyes are brown too, Dismas notices. "You said you saw something. On the road."
"Yeah. Must have been." He knows what he saw. He's got excellent eyesight for the distance. It's just when things are too close that they tend to go fuzzy. 'Sharpest eyes and the steadiest hands in all of the Westshire,' he had been proud to boast.
"You know what you are doing there?" Dismas asks through gritted teeth as the other man pushes his shirt up, and out of the way.
"Of course," the knight scoffs. "I'm a soldier, after all."
Dismas sucks in a sharp breath as the knight pulls the wound apart.
"It glanced off your ribs," he announces. "I can see the bone."
"Please," Dismas swallows, "Don't tell me" He isn't squeamish about blood, he just doesn't like to see his own.
"You're lucky it's a shallow wound."
Dismas grunts in answer and watches as the crusader searches for something before pulling out a small flask with a stopper and some clear liquid inside.
"What's this?"
"We'll need something to clean the wound with."
"My pack," Dismas presses out.
"There's no need. I have holy water."
"I'd rather you use the alcohol. It'll prevent infection."
"The water has been blessed by Vestals," the crusader insists. "It's better than whatever you have."
Dismas acquiesces, because he senses that there is no point in arguing. The knight cleanses the wound, then pulls out a small bone needle and catgut.
"Hey." The other man pauses, his eyes meeting those of the highwayman.
"What's your name?" Dismas asks in a rush. "I- I don't usually let people stab new holes into me unless we're on a first name basis."
The crusader's mouth actually twitches in the ghost of a smile. "The name's Reynauld," he says. "Now hold still."
"Dismas," the highwayman answers, and does as he is told. He watches Reynauld work, and finds the man's calm demeanour and his sure, steady hands soothing. He wasn't lying earlier, either. He really knows what he's doing. A few minutes later, Reynauld dabs the neat row of stitches with an ointment, before he presses some clean linen to it, wrapping all of it up with a strip cut from Dismas' shirt. His good shirt.
"There," he announces. "The stitches are a little loose so you can still breathe with ease."
"Thank you."
"Will he be alright?" a female voice asks. Dismas had not seen the Heiress behind Reynauld's broad frame.
The crusader nods. "It's just a flesh wound. We will redress it when we arrive at our destination, and then he needs to take it easy for the next couple of days. It's a clean cut. Those tend to heal well."
Listening to their conversation with one ear, Dismas searches the breast pocket of his coat until he finds what he is looking for: a silver hip flask. Fuck what they may think. He unscrews the cap, and then tugs down his scarf to take a good swig.
The knight's expression is unreadable in the deep shadow of the visor of his helmet.
She at least has the decency not to hide her wince.
He's not a beauty, and he knows it, but he still has almost all his teeth, and he'd made enough gold in his lifetime to replace the ones he had lost.
Dismas holds the flask out, giving it a little inviting shake. Reynauld declines with a curt shake of his head. To the highwayman's surprise, it is the Heiress who snatches it out if his hand, tilts her head back, and takes a healthy gulp.
"Easy, there." Too late.
She bends over, coughing and spluttering, and wheezing for air.
"What in the Light's name is this infernal drink?" she presses out once the fit subsides.
"Old Port. Finest batch from Fraehaven," Dismas says proudly. Where they still made it the way it was supposed to be, with sixty percent. "Want some more?"
"No. Yes." He watches in fascination as she takes another sip, the drink barely touching her lips this time, before she shudders and hands back the flask.
"Better?"
"Much. I'm Mallory by the way," she coughs, one petite hand beating on her chest, with eyes glazy from tears.
"Dismas," the highwayman introduces himself for the second time today. "Pleasure to meet you."
She hiccups a laugh, then her lips press together in a pout that grows ever more pronounced, until just like the sun breaking from behind clouds, the smile breaks free. She chuckles, eyes closed, one hand covering her mouth. But the laughter breaks free even so, and it is amazing how a person's face can be transformed by such a simple thing as a smile.
Dismas too huffs a laugh, anything more cut off by the pain in his side, and runs a hand through his hair, feeling almost giddy with the surge of elation that comes only from having survived a fight.
"You shouldn't drink when you're bleeding," Reynauld interrupts with disapproval clear in his voice.
"Why, will not drinking make me not bleed?" Dismas asks, emboldened by the feeling of being alive.
"No, but- "
"Then I'd rather be drunk while I bleed," Dismas decides. Impeccable logic, that.
"Can you walk?" Mallory enquires.
"Are you offering to carry me?" he counters with a cocked eyebrow. "You must be a mighty lot stronger than you look."
She stretches out an arm, and he is surprised to find there is actual strength in her grip when she pulls him up, despite her stumbling forward one step.
He wavers a bit. The knight's hand clamps around his upper arm like a vice.
"I can walk," Dismas decides.
"We have two horses." Mallory points out.
"I'm not much of a rider," Dismas mutters. "And we'd better load everything we can on their backs, I'd rather not sleep out here tonight."
His words sober the situation up. Mallory nods, and she and Reynauld get to work while Dismas sits down on a crate and closes his eyes. For the longest time, he focuses only on breathing. In, out, the rush of blood in his veins, the steady beat of his heard, gradually slowing down. His side hurts, but in a strangely good way. He had been stabbed before. He is familiar that strange, terrifying numbness that only really deep wounds inflict.
This is all torn skin and muscle, and he is comforted by the knowledge of having lived through worse. When he checks again, the bandage is still mostly clean. He lets his coat cover it up again when Mallory and Reynauld appear, each leading one of the horses, now laden with their belongings.
Dismas heaves himself to his feet. They set out in silence, but the quiet has always made him uneasy.
"Mallory. What are you doing here?"
She mulls over the question for a bit before replying, "I received a letter from my grandfather. These lands belonged to him, but it seems there is something wrong with our ancestral home, and the village."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know," she says with a sideways glance. "But I guess we will find out soon."
Dismas hums an affirmative. "Chin up, lass. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than this, right?"
Please don't ask me about the timeline for this story. Crusades mainly took place from the 11th-13th century, a flintlock was invented in the 17th, and a dirk is a Scottish thrusting dagger and not a shortsword.
Aaand the winner of the Typo of the Week Award goes to...
"When the first outlaw makes the mistake of going for him, the knight runs him through ruthlessly, licking the still twitching man off his blade."
Yeah, that happened.