"The catacombs," Linesi suggests.
Reynauld shakes his head. "Too dangerous," he replies. "Ghouls."
"Warrens then," Barristan puts forward his own proposal.
They are sitting in the common room of the barracks, planning the expedition that Dismas has stubbornly insisted on being a part of. Not that he has much say in the matter as the others debate routes and destinations while the highwayman sits with his arms crossed, closely watching his companions as they argue back and forth.
The other ones who do not participate are Audrey, who is seemingly oblivious to the entire matter with her entire attention on cleaning her nails with one of her daggers, and Boudica, the warrior-woman of the western plains, who silently follows the conversation with an expression of disapproval.
"I'd rather not fight the swine," the crusader tells the man-at-arms after a moment of hesitation.
"Cove?" Alhazred suggests and Reynauld shakes his head.
Amani is next to speak up. "Weald?" she asks.
"No."
"Rey – " This time it's Margaret.
"Not the Weald." There is a catch in the crusader's voice that puts a definitive end to that option and also sends a stab of guilt, sharp as a knife, straight through Dismas' chest. Judging by the looks around him, he is not the only one.
"Alright." Linesi backs off but doesn't relent as she regards Reynauld with a steady gaze. "What then?"
The knight spends a long time in thought, contemplating the floor at their feet. When he speaks, the decision seems to weigh heavily on him, and he picks his words with great care.
"We shall see if the swine have dared to approach the Old Mill. It has been many weeks since anyone ventured out into those parts and they may have grown bold. We ought to remind them to fear us again and drive them back underground. Then we can renew our barricades of the tunnels."
There is a murmur, but overall, the decision is well-received and the gathering begins to disperse. Margaret looks relieved that the discussion is over, and Barristan smiles through his snow-white moustache and claps his calloused hands.
"Well, that's that, then."
"Pigs?" Dismas says belligerently, a sneer curling his lip and a scowl on his face. "We're goin' up against pigs?"
"Half-pigs, technically," Linesi corrects without a trace of rancour.
"What's the other half?" Dismas wants to know with a sinking feeling.
They are to set out early. Dismas is up and ready by the time that day approaches clad in a blazing morning gown that sets on fire the surrounding forests, turning yellow to gold and brown to copper and the abbey's belfry into a spire of flame as if t'were a sign from the Light itself.
Summer has stolen away like a thief in the night, and autumn has taken over its place. As Dismas walks through the sleepy Hamlet to their meeting place in the town's square, the rising sun slowly burns away the wispy strands of mist in the fields. But in the dells and the deep shadows between the trees it lingers, pooling reminiscent of liquid silver; solid-looking yet ethereal, and still as deep water.
He finds Linesi sitting at the feet of the Ancestor's statue with her crossbow across her knees. Next to her, Amani is leaning on her spear. Of Reynauld there is no sign other than a pile of his gear. By the time the crusader returns from the direction of the general goods store with a satchel in his arms, Dismas has half the contents of his backpack strewn around him. Not used to waiting, and without the patience to do so calmly like Amani and Lin, he has begun to unpack and re-pack his bag for the umpteenth time, still not sure if there is something he has forgotten.
Of course everything he has taken out refuses to go back inside, which has him swearing viciously at some cooking gear, to the great amusement of the girls. Even Reynauld finds it in him to smile, and Dismas' face flares up with a strange mixture of embarrassment and something that falls short of gratification. He huffs in annoyance, shoves the renitent pot deeper with no small amount of force, and straightens.
When he does so, he can see that a few people have gathered to see them off. Barristan is here, and everything he says about teamwork and the importance of staying together goes right over Dismas' head, even though the highwayman is nodding to at least give the impression that he is listening.
Jubert sneaks him a silver pocket flask that is heavy with the weight of being full to the brim – undoubtedly with some liquid courage.
Darell offers a clap on the back, and Jenny a hug, and Alhazred and Josephine both give Dismas encouraging smiles and a wave.
Audrey is the last to approach although she has been the first to arrive, he has seen her slinking around the statue. "Well, sweetcheeks, don't you go dying on us again, hear?" she says, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth. "Here." She hands him a dagger.
Dismas blinks at her in confusion. It's a very nice looking dagger, but a strange gift to receive without further explanation.
"It's yours," Audrey says, insistently nudging the hilt in Dismas' direction until he takes it. "I took it – for safekeeping." She winks.
"You mean you pilfered it off my corpse," Dismas says, and Audrey clasps a hand over her heart, her mouth forming a perfect 'o'.
"Darling, I'd never."
Dismas cocks a brow, and Audrey grows visibly flustered.
"But that's between you and me, yes?" she throws in hastily, and her smile is just a little askew as her eyes dart to the side. "No need to tell Rey."
"Sure," Dismas agrees, a grin slowly stretching across his lips. Not that he would rat her out, but he doesn't mind her sweating it a bit.
Then there is nothing more to do for Dismas other than to shoulder his pack. They would have taken their leave then and there, if not for a cry that makes several heads turn. Morphew arrives, breathing heavily and waving his arms at them to halt. He must have run all the way from the mansion, if the sweaty streaks across his face are an indication.
"What – is the meaning of this!?" the Heir manages to force out between gasps for air. Dismas can smell the wine on his breath even a couple of yards away and against the wind.
"An expedition into the Warrens," Linesi explains and earns a glower, though the effect is spoiled somewhat by the Heir standing bent at the middle and holding his side. Then, Morphew's eyes slide right past Amani to regard Reynauld with the same scorn. Last, his gaze lingers on Dismas.
"I forbid it!"
Reynauld turns on his heel and, not heeding the Heir's order, takes point with a measured yet deliberate step. Morphew looks after the crusader with his mouth open. An angry red vein throbs at his temple. "Do you hear? Reynauld? Reynauld!"
Dismas hurries to follow after the knight, and behind him Amani and Linesi waste no time to do the same. Over the sound of his frantically beating heart, Dismas can still hear the shrill echoes of Morphew's voice, a long time after they have left the main square behind them.
Only the moss-covered waystone that Dismas has regarded on his first day out of the sanatorium takes his thoughts off the Heir. Back then, he had told himself he would find out what lies beyond, and now that the moment is nigh, he curses his own foolish pig-headedness, along with Reynauld's uncharacteristic lack of resolve to hold him back. Dismas had been ready to leap into the argument, guns blazing, but not to be met with no resistance.
He had wanted to prove himself an adventurer, not to become one. Yet here he is, with his own pack of provisions weighing heavily on his shoulders, with two loaded pistols in their respective holsters and with a dirk at his belt.
Doubt gnaws at his insides as he studies the unassuming piece of rock and the hard-packed dirt path that winds through the dense forest like a serpent. It marks the border of the known world to him. Beyond it lie lands that he has spend years roaming, yet recalls nothing of. Dismas tries to make sense of the feelings swirling inside him, more potent than any cocktail of booze.
Beneath the thrill of nerves there is a sour tang of fear, but also a sense of rightness. He wants to follow the road until it leads him past the last bend, yet at the same time he has no desire to arrive at their destination.
A hand lands on his shoulder and rests there, light and offering support at the same time. When he makes no move, the push is what it takes for him to get going. Dismas looks over his shoulder. Lin smiles at him knowingly. He pulls up the collar of his jacket and thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and trudges after Reynauld and Amani.
The crusader has taken point in their little procession. In the cold morning light of the wan sun, he appears to have a pale halo around him. Reynauld's pack is lighter than theirs, but he is already carrying half his body weight in armour. If they are attacked, he will put himself between them and the enemy, a living shield to his companions.
Amani, who walks second, can hold attackers at bay with her spear while Lin and Dismas fan out to flanking positions. Dismas can tell they are trying to protect him as best as possible and he is touched and annoyed by it in equal measure. The formation is one they practiced before, staging one battle after the other in the training fields until Dismas and Lin were out of bullets and bolts, respectively.
The arbalest collected hers, teasing the highwayman who would have to cast new bullets. He told her to fuck off, like he's gonna let some glorified stick-slinger get smart with him. Lin laughed and Margaret, who had been supervising Dismas' shooting training, took the highwayman's side. The argument that followed lasted well into the afternoon.
By comparison, their trek through the Old Forest is a quiet, sober affair. At first the woods appear to close in and the heady smell of wet earth and rotting leaves grows thick around them. But rather than to follow the ever-winding road that disappears between the trees, Reynauld steers left towards a beaten path, now slightly overgrown. It soon leads them towards the forest's edge and then to a road broad enough for a cart to pass through. If ever a cart braved the broken cobblestones and potholes, however, it must have been quite a long time ago.
Dismas breathes easier once they step out from under the oppressive canopy of the ancient trees. He can feel a light breeze ruffle his hair, turns, and realizes that they have taken a shortcut, sparing themselves maybe an hour's walk. Still, he is glad to leave the humid, misty twilight of the Old Forest behind. Their new road follows along the forest's edge, but to their left there is a wide expanse of heathlands. Every now and then the shrubs and grasses reveal low stone walls, none higher than Dismas' hip.
"This was farmland, once," Linesi says, and Dismas can detect a hint of sadness in her voice. "But when the Hamlet was besieged by creatures of the Dark, the farmers abandoned it. Those that were lucky, made it to town."
"Why ain't they come back now that it's safe?" Dismas asks, an uneasy feeling passing through him as he spies the remains of a shed amongst the tall grasses. It is barely more than a wall and some broken beams, lying scattered like the body of a fallen warrior.
"Perhaps, one day they will," Linesi replies. "But it has been years since the earth has yielded any crop, and their fear sits deep."
They do not speak of the fall of the Hamlet anymore, but they see all the more evidence of its violent past. By midday the group passes a stark area which nests in a circle of burned, dead trees. Only the charred foundations remain of the buildings that have once formed a small settlement. The whole place has an unwholesome feel about it, and Dismas imagines that an acrid stench like smoke and ash still hangs in the air.
Even though they might find some shelter from the wind between the broken pieces of wall, they do not linger. Pressing on, they only halt to eat a cold meal of bread, cheese and nuts some two miles further down the road. The rest is a short one and before long they are on the move again. By the time the shadows lengthen and the light begins to fade, Dismas has begun to long for an end to the marching.
Fortunately, they come across a suitable spot to spend the night not long after. It's a little ways off the road, nestled between two low mounds. A brook bubbles nearby, trickling between the stones of the rocky bed at the bottom of the smaller hillock. A little higher up, they pitch their night camp in the cover given to them by some trees and a sloe thicket. There, sheltered from wind and unfriendly eyes, they dare to light a fire.
Chores are quickly divided between the four of them, but then they are mostly taken care of in silence. Dismas immediately misses the Hamlet's cheerful hubbub, the many voices spilling from Jubert's tavern, or even the sound of Margaret and Linesi bickering. It's not until they settle down with nothing more to do but to wait for the food to be ready that conversation sparks again.
On a tripod over the fire hangs a pot and in it water and some of their supplies boil into a thick and tasty barley soup. Dismas makes sure that his bedroll has a nice bedding of dry leaves under it, then lays aside his coat and rolls up his sleeves, content with the warmth radiating from the fire. He rubs his sore, cramping feet while the smell rising from the pot makes his stomach rumble and his mouth water.
He is far from the only one to occasionally inhale deeply and sigh. His companions have already made themselves as comfortable as possible. Linesi has the first watch and she has lied down to rest some before she has to take it up. Amani sits with her arms wrapped around her knees and Dismas can see the glow of the fire reflected in her dark eyes.
Reynauld has doffed his armour and he carefully wraps the metal plate in a waxed cloth of linen. Dismas watches in disbelief as the crusader then shakes out a woolen blanket and with a shudder disappears in it up to the very tip of his nose.
"How can ya be cold?" Dismas asks with a shake of his head. The night is crisp, sure but the chill of the cold morning hours in not yet in the air, and the frost of winter is a long time off.
"I'm always cold," Reynauld mutters, resigned to his fate and without a hint of pride.
Dismas doesn't think he has ever seen a picture that embodies wretchedness as perfectly as watching the crusader huddle into his blanket does. "Ya Southerners," the highwayman huffs with a disbelieving shake of his head, then gets to his feet.
Reynauld's head snaps up in surprise when Dismas lays his coat across the knight's shoulders. It still holds a faint memory of the warmth of Dismas' body and the crusader gratefully pulls it tighter around himself. Dismas is pleased to see that his shivering becomes less.
"There, now ya can stop lookin' so damned miserable," he says, satisfied.
"This is much better," Reynauld sighs, "thank you."
Dismas nods. He could move away again, but an impulse compels him to sit down next to the crusader instead. He tells himself it's only so that he doesn't start sweating from having to look at Reynauld. But the truth is that watching Reynauld get warmed up also warms something in his chest. Just as he settles down with his legs crossed underneath him to contemplate the feeling, Amani announces that the food is ready.
Linesi yawns and sits up eagerly, and Dismas holds out both his and Reynauld's bowl to be filled. They eat in companionable silence, broken only by the sound of them blowing on their spoons to cool the hot soup. Dismas has eaten his fill after a bowl and a half. Reynauld polishes off four, yet there is plenty for all of them.
A drowsy silence settles over their camp afterwards. Reynauld's eyes are closed; he looks half-asleep sitting up but he stirs when Dismas speaks to him.
"Why don't ya keep the cloak?"
"Are you sure?" Reynauld wants to know, opening his eyes.
"Yeah," Dismas confirms, picking a yellowed stalk of grass that he twists between his fingers as he regards the crusader. "Just answer me this: why don't ya get a proper coat yerself?"
"I did," Reynauld protests, "But I cannot wear it over armour."
Dismas frowns, but then actually consider the knight's words and finds them to be true. For Reynauld ho have freedom of movement, the thing would have to be huge – and that in turn would make it too bulky and heavy to fit into a backpack. "Huh." Dismas rubs chin. "So what d'ya do in winter?"
"Stay indoors," Reynauld replies resolutely and Dismas is not the only one to chuckle.
"We do not venture far in winter," Linesi explains. "The Weald is just a frozen hellhole, and what lives in the Cove usually leaves to return with the summer tides. But we keep up with the expeditions into the Warrens and the Catacombs. It's usually much warmer underground."
"I'd rather be out here, thank ye," Dismas comments. With a breeze stirring the boughs and the light of sun by day and moon by night. Thinking about stone corridors endlessly stretching into the dark makes an invisible vice tighten around his chest. Thankfully, Dismas is not left to panic at the nightmarish vision.
Unawares of his thoughts, the corner of Reynauld's mouth twitches. "This much has remained the same, then." He looks at Dismas with such fondness, that the highwayman cannot hold his gaze for long. Flushing with sudden heat, Dismas looks away and bites the end of the grass that he is still holding.
It is never a small thing to be known thusly, but for someone whom he cannot remember to leave him feeling like that – now that verges on impertinence.
"I wonder…" Reynauld trails off and pats himself down as if looking for something. From one of the breast pockets Reynauld pulls out Dismas' rosary. He regards it curiously and then, with much care, he rolls it up and puts it away again.
It is in another pocket that he finds what he is looking for; a round object that reflects the light of the campfire. When Reynauld shows it to Dismas, there is a copper coin lying small in the palm of his large hand. It's shiny from touch but otherwise quite plain and it's not even worth enough to buy a pint of ale at the tavern. Dismas does not understand why Reynauld would keep such a thing. Then, he remembers that it is his pocket that the knight has found the trinket in.
"What's that?" Dismas asks with a skeptical look that doesn't entirely mask his curiosity. He leans closer to have a better look, and bumps into the crusader's side.
"Your lucky coin," Reynaud answers with a perfectly straight face and Dismas thinks he is being mocked before realizing that the knight is serious.
"Oi, give it here!" Dismas snatches the coin away from Reynauld. The crusader grins, brief and fleeting, but genuine.
The coin is warm and smooth as Dismas' fist closes around it. He fights down the smile in favour of frowning at the crusader with one finger raised in warning. "'Tis serious business."
"So I was told," Reynauld replies stoically, but evidently still amused. "But I thought you'd passed it on."
"I still got mine," Linesi joins the conversation, and pulls out a coin identical to Dismas' that she shows them briefly before putting it away again. She gives the pocket it's disappeared into a loving pat.
Dismas considers the innocuous coin, turning it this way and that between his fingers. "Think it still has some luck in it?" he asks no one in particular, then makes to hand the coin back to Reynauld.
The crusader, however, makes no move to take it. "Don't you want to keep it?"
Dismas imagines he can make out a hint of worry in Reynauld's voice, which strikes him as odd.
"Yes. That's why I'm givin' it to ya so ya can put it back," he says and Reynauld relents. Their hands touch briefly. Reynauld's fingers are still cold and Dismas has to resist the urge to clasp the knight's hands in his. "And with a little luck, ya won't be frozen come mornin'," Dismas jokes, but it seems Reynauld mistakes his words, for he makes an attempt to disentangle himself from his nest of coat and blanket.
Dismas snorts, then waves him off. "Told ya, yer welcome to keep it for th' night," he says, meaning the coat. Then, "Perhaps I'll get myself a new one," he muses.
"You had a splendid coat that Morphew gave to you," Reynauld points out suddenly.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Dismas notices how Linesi looks up sharply. She and Amani exchange a look, but when the shieldbreaker gives a miniscule shake of her head, the arbalest bites her lip and only stirs the fire.
Unawares of the exchange, Reynauld continues, "T'was made of calf leather, soft and supple, and with polished silver buckles and a silver collar of fine rabbit fur."
Dismas isn't sure why Reynauld would remember that thing in particular, why he would tell him now or what Lin's strange reaction means. Still, the coat sounds like something Dismas would enjoy very much. Carefully, and bracing for the disappointment of hearing that it is no more, he asks, "What happened to it?"
Reynauld's voice is but a hoarse whisper when he replies, "We buried you in it."
Dismas shudders, and the goosebumps that crawl over his skin have nothing to do with the temperature. Reynauld runs his fingers over the patchy, stained leather. "And all I had to remind me of you was this ratty old thing."
"Hey!" Dismas protests weakly, "I like the coat."
Reynauld buries his smile in the matted fur of the collar. "Me too."
The night passes quietly, though their rest is tempered with watchfulness and Dismas' sleep is plagued by half-remembered dreams. The air is cold, and the moon is still bright in the sky when the others stir and begin to rise. They break their fast on yesterday's leftovers and some hardtack softened with molten herb butter and make quick work of tearing down the camp and getting ready for today's leg of journey.
A short while later, Dismas fishes his lucky coin out of his breast pocket and runs it through his fingers. If Reynauld said the coin is lucky, then it probably is. The crusader should know. After all, Dismas had been the one to tell him so. He pockets it again and despite its diminutive size it feels heavy and solid in his breast pocket. He doesn't tarry, but sets off along his companions, falling into stride beside Amani.
The mill comes into sight late in the afternoon. The light is already a deep gold, but Dismas now understands why they kept the pace they had. Tonight, it seems, they would sleep with a roof over their heads. The mill, much like the Hamlet and all its surrounding lands, has seen better days, but it still stands sturdy and tall.
Linesi and Amani scout around the building while Reynauld and Dismas check out the inside. It is empty, and the floor is covered in a thick layer of dirt and dust. In the solidified mud, they find dozens of prints made by small cloven hooves. Above them, they can barely make out the open upper levels in the gloom.
A couple of minutes later, the women return to confirm what they already know. "They have broken through," Amani says. "We may not be alone tonight."
Dismas wonders what they will do now, for already the shadows are lengthening. But his companions seem to have thought of that already. Reynauld gives Linesi a boost up, so that she can get a hold of the wooden planks above them. Amani then hands the arbalest her spear. Linesi probes with it for a while, until it catches on something. She gives a pull, and with the dry drag of wood on wood, a ladder appears above them. They waste no time in lowering it and carrying all their belongings to safety. Up here the mill smells musty, of mouse droppings and disuse.
Dismas doesn't have to ask to know that there will be no fire tonight.
They lie down, one next to the other, and there is comfort in the close proximity of his companions. For as darkness falls and all the sounds around them appear magnified manyfold, Dismas can make out grunts and squeals in the distance. They seem to be coming from the wood at first, but before long, the noise is all around them. Down on the ground, there is a rustle and a sniffing noise, followed by the clatter of hooves trotting on wood.
"Try to get some rest," Reynauld whispers next to him.
Dismas is painfully aware of the arm's length of distance between them, more so than he is of their closeness. Despite his best attempts, rest is a long time in coming. It isn't until dawn that the sounds of the swinefolk die down, and then it seems that he closes his eyes but for a moment before he is roused again.
They leave their gear where they slept, and make sure the ladder can be reached only by Amani's spear before they chance a look around. Of their nightly visitors there is no trace but the tracks they left behind, criss-crossing the older hoofmarks.
"We should have brought one of the hounds," Reynauld says to himself, surveying the open space around the mill.
"Yet we will have to do without," Amani's calm voice replies.
"Then let's not waste any time," Lin interjects, "Let's see if we can find the tunnel entrance."
While they search, Amani does her best to educate Dismas some more on their enemy.
The swine, so she tells him, do not dwell in the woods, or the open fields. They only roam those by night, preferring the dank dark of the Warrens to dwell in instead. Inside those slime and filth-covered tunnels they had dug their own small kingdom, one that used to be ruled by the largest and foulest specimen of all.
Yet in the tunnels other dangers can be encountered as well, ones that had been woken or created by the Ancestor's foul magic. Amani does not elaborate on those. Their goal isn't to throw themselves into combat against anything they might find, but to seal up the exit. With winter at hand, the lack of food will decimate more swine than they ever could.
"They're not smart," Linesi joins the lesson. "But they're no dumb beasts either."
"And they're vicious," Amani adds. "The swine use what scrap the can find as weapons. Cleavers, meat hooks and maces clobbered together from rusty metal. Such is the limit of their craftsmanship, but these tools are cruel and deadly and while the pigs will often flee open conflict, be wary of pursuing them! For they will try to lead you into traps or ambushes. And do not underestimate them. Their numbers are greater than ours and when cornered, swine can fight as fiercely as a wild boar."
Dismas' hope that they will be spared an encounter sinks when they find a promising path, one that has evidently been trodden back and forth many times. It doesn't lead deep into the forest, never straying far from its edge, but along its length they pass many patches where the earth is soft and there are clear signs that something has dug through the mud.
Nothing accosts them as they search, but there is a rustle nearby and something small darts between the trunks of the trees, disappearing from their sight almost before they are it was ever there.
"What was that?" Amani asks sharply, leveling her spear.
"A watcher," Reynauld replies grimly. His hand is on the grip of his sword, although he has not drawn it yet. Around them the wood is almost eerily quiet.
Dismas squints his eyes. Amongst the dried leaves everything blends into brown and grey, but after a moment his gaze focuses on a distant rock. In its shadow he can make out a cowering shape that is almost indistinguishable from its surroundings.
"There," he says, pointing.
The others look in the direction almost as one.
"It will warn the others," Amani says.
"Can you hit it?" Reynauld asks Linesi, who shields her eyes with her hand, but then shakes her head.
"I can try, but that will be one bolt wasted."
Dismas doesn't even offer to try. He knows that his gun is of no use at such a distance and the crack of a shot would equal a warning cry.
"Then let us advance swiftly," Reynauld decides and strides ahead once more, "And give them no more time to prepare."
As they approach, Dismas can see the small shape cower and hesitate for a moment before it disappears from view. It strikes him then that they are indeed heading towards bloody conflict. His hands fly to the butt of his pistol and the haft of his dirk amost as if to make sure they are still in their holsters. He feels no more ready for battle than he did on the day he set out on this venture and it is all too soon for his liking that they find themselves standing amidst crumbling stonework. The forest floor around the ruins is soaked through and hollows have turned into puddles.
Their source is quickly revealed as they continue to follow the hoof prints. Suddenly, as if somebody had cloven off the end with a great knife, an aqueduct rises before them. It is made from huge blocks of grayish stone, so overgrown with moss, ivy and brambles, that from afar it could not be distinguished from the surrounding trees. Where it originates and why it leads here, into nowhere, remains a mystery.
Water drips off its end, a steady trickle that soaks the earth and turns the nearby forest into a mire where only weeds thrive. They give the groves of nettles and hemlock a wide berth and, for a while, Amani walks first, probing the ground with her spear.
The companions follow the aqueduct deeper into the forest, until they come to a side-arm that branches off. Dismas looks up when they pass beneath one of its great arches, fragile-looking, yet many times the height of a grown man. Before them they can make out more ruins, so ancient in appearance that the surrounding trees seem young by comparison.
Finally, they come to a square basin, set deeply in the earth. Along its side, mud-slicked stairs lead downwards.
"A water cistern," Reynauld remarks. "Ready the torches."
Dismas leans over the brim, chancing a glimpse down into the cistern. At its bottom, some eighteen feet below, there is a pool of brown water, stagnant and foul. The water's surface glints with an oily sheen and even up here, it reeks. He wishes he had a scarf to wrap around his mouth and nose, but he will have to do without.
In the meantime, Linesi has lit one of their torches, but it falls to Dismas to carry it. Reynauld is the first to descend. The cistern has at least three levels, and possibly more that are under water but they do not go down as far as the pool.
Along one side they find an opening; a black yawning mouth that breathes cold, fetid air their way. In the embrace of the clammy stone, Reynauld pauses and waits for their eyes to adjust to the new, low level of light. Whether out of caution or experience, or both, Dismas cannot tell. At first, all he can make out is the steady sound of water dripping, but after a short while his surroundings become clearer.
They stand in a corridor, low but broad and thankfully not very long. Soon, it widens into a chamber. Unlike his companions, Dismas does not look around, doesn't comment on his surroundings or speculate on where the tunnels might lead. He focuses on breathing, slow and steady, and tries his best to ignore the racing of his heart. The highwayman jumps a bit when Reynauld speaks, his voice magnified by the stones, and echoing menacingly.
"I remember this place." The crusader is regarding a doorway that has a rune written next to it.
"We marked this spot with an III," Linesi says, coming to stand beside Reynauld. "This must have been one of the earlier expeditions."
Loath to continue contemplating the walls around him and desperate for any kind of distraction, Dismas too walks up to them. He lifts high the torch. In its light, the white paint gives off the impression of glowing with a light of its own.
"We can cross-reference the number with our maps later," Reynauld agrees.
They move past the arched doorway and find themselves in a much smaller chamber. In its midst, one of the supporting pillars has broken and upon it is erected a strange thing of metal and wood, a twisted, cage of sorts that looks as if someone had smashed together planks and rusty scrap and crowned the pillar with his handiwork.
"What's that?" Dismas asks as they encircle the pedestal. He steps carefully, for the bones of many small animals lie strewn at its base. From up close, he can see that visceral runes have been drawn all over it in some kind of reddish paint. Blood, Dismas realizes. And some of it fresh enough to not yet have turned brown.
"It's a totem. An altar to dark, evil things," Amani says with disgust.
Linesi takes a step closer to the pillar, studying it closely. "They must have erected it to counteract our wards."
"Let us tear it down," Reynauld suggests. "But take care; do not cut yourselves on those nails!"
He regards the thing for a second longer, then with a powerful kick, he breaks several mouldy planks of wood. They work together to make short work of the thing, smashing into pieces. The bone offerings are scattered and crushed underfoot and the pile of splinters they set on fire. It catches with the crack of dry wood.
The flames of the fire are reflected in Reynauld's eyes and Dismas can hear him mutter, "Arde in igne sancto."
Destroying the altar uncovers the defiled ward underneath. It is but a simple crystal vessel, unadorned save for a symbol of the Light.
"This is old." Linesi sounds disappointed.
Reynauld pulls a small flask from a pouch at his belt and uncorks it. Speaking in the same language as before, he pours some of its content over the crystal and column. The highwayman watches in fascination as the red begins to run as if the holy water was melting it away. What doesn't drip off, the crusader wipes away with his tabard, unmindful of soiling the cloth.
It isn't until a familiar phrase catches Dismas' attention that he recognizes Reynauld's words for what they are: a prayer. He still doesn't understand most of it – but thanks to Junia's tutelage he knows this passage by heart.
When the highwayman's rough voice joins the crusader's, Reynauld casts a surprised look at Dismas. The knight stumbles on the next stanza of his recitation, but doesn't falter. He continues to lead the prayer, and Dismas speaks along with him, his fingers feeling for the cool, smooth beads of the rosary. Inside the crystal, a soothing light sparks to life.
In the dark, Dismas can feel Reynauld's hand grasp his own. The crusader's grip is cold and rough from his iron-plated gauntlets, but Dismas returns it with enough strength for Reynauld to feel it. What first may have been mistaken for a trick of the mind, blooms into a glow as the prayer continues and by the time they lapse into silence, it outshines their torch.
"The old wards still work," Linesi marvels in a hushed whisper, and looks from Reynauld to Dismas in awe. "And to think we knew so little, back then."
"Sancta lux praevalet per omnia," Reynauld says.
As if in answer, a piercing squeal tears through the corridor.
Reynauld lets go of Dismas' hand and draws his sword with the faintest whisper of his blade against the leather of its sheath. Linsesi hefts her crossbow higher, and Dismas' heartbeat surges into his throat.
The noises grow louder until the tunnel is filled with the resounding echo of a cacophony of grunts and squeals, and the sound of hooves on stone. At the edge of their torches light, shadows stir and come to life, a boiling, jostling horde.
Without further warning, a large, brawny swine in coarse dark brown fur charges at them. It wields a notched blade, aiming a wicked slice at Reynauld. The crusader meets his adversary without flinching.
Behind the first attacker, the entire corridor is swarming with swine whose screams are overpowered only by their stench. Next to Dismas, Linesi's crossbow fires with a crack like a branch breaking in a storm. A figure slumps to the ground, the fallen body soon to be trampled into the mud by the rout.
Up front, Amani has one of the smaller pigs pinned, effectively preventing others from rushing past the boar who still has Reynauld engaged. Judging by the bleeding gashes that cover its arms and torso, the crusader was the first to draw blood.
With a start Dismas realizes that he has been following the fight when he should have participated. Cursing himself for being a useless lug, he draws his pistol. Their enemies are so many. Before his eyes they swarm, shift, and bear against their defence like the sea.
Dismas picks a target, a sickly looking, twisted thing, hideous to behold, and he fires.
Pigs. They are just wicked beasts, he tells himself. Fangs, claws and meat, and meat bleeds. No different from slaughtering one of the farm animals back in the Hamlet.
It will be many long hours, however, before his ears stop hurting from the shrill squeals.
After the battle he sticks his finger in his ear, rubbing just to convince himself that he is not, in fact, completely deaf or bleeding out of his ears. Still he can hear a high ringing, hours after they have withdrawn from the Warrens.
Twice more they venture into the ruins of the ancient cistern, and twice they are beset by the swine. Each time they also stop to pray at the ward until its glow illuminates the underground chamber like a miniature sun.
They push on after that, for the pigs will no longer come anywhere near the chamber, forcing the companions to fight them in dark and twisting tunnels. They come at them out of the dark, jumping them from around sudden corners and pouring out of cracks in the walls.
Dismas buzzes with more than just holy prayer; he has been steadily sipping from his hip flask. He can feel the burn in his belly, and taste blood on his lips. There is a sting in his left shoulder whenever he lifts his arm to fire. When Amani had fended off a blow, her shield raised high, it has sent the spiked ball of a flail his way. It hit his shoulder, but with the force of the blow broken, instead of ending up crippled he is but bruised and sore.
He doesn't know how Reynauld can bear it, standing face to face with their foes, but in the front rank, the crusader is a steadfast form, backlit by the flame of their torch and tireless in his zealous assault upon the forces of the Dark. His armor is dented and his tabard ruined, but by the end of the third assault he has led them to victory, and the four of them send the swine back into the shadows from whence they crept.
With the butchery over and the swine withdrawing into the depths of the Warrens, they work to find a suitable spot to close off the tunnels, finally deciding on a narrow hallway close to the exit, where one tunnel leads into another. The ceiling has dropped low here, supported on sagging beams and air whistles through crags in the stone. Amani and Reynauld stand guard while Linesi pulls a satchel out of her pack. She unwraps no less than three layers of oiled leather before several smaller packages are revealed.
"Courtesy of Para and Al," Lin says with a wide grin, briefly glancing up. She then places the packages in the crevices and rolls out the strings attached to them, tying them together at the end. Dismas steps closer to have a look.
"Careful with the fire," Amani cautions when the torch flickers overhead and Dismas lifts it higher.
Linesi doesn't use the torch, but a splint of wood to set fire to the knot she has made. The fuses catch with a hissing sound, and are quickly eaten up as a small flames travel their length. The arbalest shrugs into her backpack, grabs her crossbow and sets off at a run, Amani following close on her heels.
Reynauld hooks his arm around Dismas' neck and shoves him towards the exit.
"Move!"
Only then does Dismas realize that he has been tarrying, mesmerized by the burning fuse like a moth by the flame. He turns and hightails it out of the tunnel fast enough that even Reynauld with his long legs has trouble keeping up.
All aches are forgotten as Dismas sprints up the last set of stairs, and out of the cistern. Linesi and Amani call out, urging him on and Dismas stumbles into their open, beckoning arms. A moment later, Reynauld careens into him, almost knocking them all to the ground. The crusader flings out an arm to steady himself, and nearly drags Dismas down with him before, and with no small amount of flailing, the two find their footing again.
They do not hear the explosion so much as they feel it. A tremor passes over the earth first, and following it a sensation like a punch to the chest and ever so faint, a dull boom. For a long moment afterwards, all is silent.
"I do not expect them to tunnel out of that one so quickly!" Amani laughs.
The explosion must have shaken loose something, because where it was dry before, the side-arm of the aqueduct now carries water, and it cascades into the pool with a splash.
Reynauld bares his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. "Let them all drown in their filth."
Linesi drags her forearm over her sweaty brow, and huffs a sigh of relief that slowly turns into a wide grin. "Well done, everybody," she praises and Amani lifts her arm, the tip of her sear pointing towards the sky as she lets out a victorious "whoop!"
Dismas rocks back and forth on his heels, and settles for enjoying the heavy, solid feel of Reynauld's arm across his shoulders.
This is the first night up in the rafters of the mill in which the only sounds they can hear are those that belong in a forest: the creak of trees swaying with the wind, the hoot of owls, the scream of a fox. Not a single squeal disturbs their rest.
As soon as dawn gifts them with enough light to see by, they head back towards the Hamlet. Dismas doesn't utter a single word of complaint about the march, and even the pain in his feet and knees seems to diminish with every mile that the distance between them and the Hamlet is lessened.
Everybody's mind is on coming home to a warm hearth and a bed. Too late does Dismas recognize the crack of a pistol shot. He is so surprised that he stops in his tracks. Next to him, Linesi falls, screaming.
Dark shapes pour out of the deep shadows between the ruins of the burned settlement they had passed once before on their way towards the Warrens. This close to the Hamlet, the ambush catches them completely unawares. Reynauld barely gets to draw his sword before the brigands are upon them. A blunderbuss goes off, and Dismas sees the crusader stagger as he takes the brunt of the blow. In the following commotion, he loses sight of the knight.
A masked brigand bears down upon him. The man is clad in browns and dark greens, and he wields a short sword that shows clear signs of use. The edge is marred by flecks of rust but no less deadly for it. Dismas fumbles for his pistol. He fires – and misses.
The man laughs.
Amani's spear strikes with the speed and deadly precision of a desert snake. It buries itself deep in the thigh of the bandit, sending him to the ground with a wail. The desert warrior pays for the moment of distraction; another brigand seizes the chance and she can only narrowly avert his blow. His sword rasps over her shield with the tortured scream of metal on metal.
The quiet silence of the woods is torn by screams and the clash of arms.
Dismas reloads his flintlock with numb, shaking fingers. He curses freely and at length when he almost spills the powder because he keeps glancing up. Reynauld has regained his balance, and Amani moves with the grace of a dancer as she dodges blows and stabs at her enemies. But there are too many, and he is too slow…
Slow, stupid, useless…
The ramrod doesn't break or get stuck. It is a small mercy. Set to half-cock, prime the pan, close the frizzen, full cock –
Dismas wrenches his arm up and fires another shot.
In the fray, another attacker falls, but he cannot tell whether it was him who hit his mark this time. Ahead and to his right, he can hear Amani shout out. A massive man wielding a whip, or is it a flail, has caught her spear. Even as Dismas watches, he yanks the weapon out of Amani's hand, leaving her with naught but her shield.
Dismas has not drawn his dirk in the Warrens, but he does so now. The leather wrapping of his hilt soaks up his sweat as he runs up to the fat brigand from behind and, without pausing, without thinking about what it is he is about to do, jabs his dirk between the man's ribs, right under his armpit, where his torso isn't covered by armour. Bloody froth pours from the brigand's mouth, he groans and grunts as Dismas stabs him again and again, teeth bared like a dog about to leap for the throat of its prey. The dirk becomes slippery in his grasp and the tall fucker thrashes – one of his elbows catches Dismas across the face.
He reels and collides with something – nay, someone. A speck of green, a filthy beard – another bandit. This one is armed with two daggers, both which are now aimed at Dismas.
Dismas throws himself left. The bandit lunges to the right. Dismas' blade cuts across his assailant's throat, then catches on something and is wrenched out of his hand. For a heartbeat he freezes, captivated by the spray of blood, so much of it –
Another shot is fired and Dismas cowers as dust and splinters blow into his face, stinging his eyes. He is blind and howling, from the shock rather than pain but he can't see, he can't –
"Dismas!"
Dismas hear Reynauld shout his name, and blinks through tears and grit to see the crusader swing his sword wide. Unlike the careful, measured blows he had dealt out against the swine, he now does as much damage as possible, heedless of any danger to himself. An overhead strike cleaves his opponent from shoulder to hip; the backswing guts a brigand that has just dodged Amani's attack.
She has regained her spear, but is facing three opponents and has to back up or be overwhelmed.
Dismas turns over the dead bandit, grasping for his dirk. No time to reload. He tugs on it, and it is stuck fast, and he yanks again, trying at the same time to keep an eye on his surroundings. The highwayman's heart misses out in its next beat when he sees a bandit's axe fly straight towards Reynauld's chest, but the crusader just bears right through. He lets the blow glance off his plate and smashes the pommel of his sword into the man's face, then crashes shoulder-first into another bandit that has been trying to circle around Amani.
Dismas renews his effort. "C'mon, ya piece o'shite!" The blade frees with a wet noise and has barely straightened when a shield hits him with enough force to send him sprawling. The highwayman's back collides with the ground and the air is knocked out of his lungs, but a glint of metal catches his eye, a bright reflection of sun's last light.
Well concealed between the ruined walls of the erstwhile settlement, a man is readying a musket, just like the one Margaret loves to use.
His attacker has overreached, and the man's feet get tangled up in Dismas' legs, and for a moment it seems like he might fall too. He stumbles on a couple of steps, goes down on one knee.
Dismas draws his second flintlock even as the bandit rights himself again.
The musketeer finishes reloading and lifts his firearm, bracing it against his shoulder.
Much closer, the bandit turns, his mace raised high overhead.
Panicked and unable to get up in time, Dismas draws his left leg up. He props up his shaking arm on his knee. The gun steadies in his hand. Then, he fires.
The musketeer drops dead, his shot going wide.
Out of the corners of his eyes, Dismas can make out the shadow of the man looming over him, and the mace that comes crashing down towards his face.
A dead man on borrowed time, Light, have mercy-
There is a twang and the bandit's head disintegrates in a spray of blood and bone.
Linesi is sitting up and although it has to pain her greatly, she is already cranking up her crossbow for the next shot.
Dismas rolls to his hands and knees. He doesn't get to right himself, just lunges at the next attacker like a mad beast, tackling him down to the ground around the knees and stabbing where he can reach.
And suddenly Reynauld is there.
The crusader kicks the fallen man in the head – there is a crunch, and the brigand lies still, staring up at Dismas with his broken, disfigured face and bloody eyes.
Amani strikes another blow and the few remaining bandits still able to do so flee into the woods, routed.
Linesi's crossbow goes off one last time.
As abruptly as the fight has begun, it is over.
Amani runs over to them as the arbalest collapses back to the ground, and Dismas – Dismas loses the contents of his stomach, right where he is, on all fours, at the crusader's feet.
In the aftermath, Reynauld dresses their wounds with sure, steady hands. Dismas has suffered no worse than scuffs and bruises and a shallow graze that he doesn't even remember receiving. Salve and ointment is sufficient for his and Amani's injuries.
Reynauld spends a long time preying over Linesi's pallid, shaking form. By the time he finishes, the arbalest is a white as her usually dark skin allows, but with the help of the crusader and the shieldbreaker, she manages to limp away from the site of the battle.
Reynauld insists that they set off towards the Hamlet at once.
"Light knows what else lurks in the shadows," Amani says and rests a hand on the knight's shoulder. "Let them rest. We can go no further tonight." The desert warrior is radiating a calm confidence that manages to break through Reynauld's iron resolve.
In the end, he gives in.
They make camp with only the bare minimum of shelter, and no fire.
Dismas wraps himself in his bedroll, tense and shivering from something other than cold. Opposite him, Lin sleeps fitfully, covered in all their spare cloaks and garments to keep her warm through the loss of blood. Reynauld keeps vigil, walking the perimeter of their camp. Every now and then they can hear him pass by, out of sight yet easily recognizable by the slow, heavy tread of his boots.
The stars are sharp pinpricks in the sky, but there is no rest for the highwayman. What had he been thinking, partaking in this madness?
In his chest, Dismas' heart hammers away and his breath comes fast and labored despite him lying still. He feels that he may die, here and now, his heart giving up between one beat and the other as scenes of their final battle play out behind his eyelids.
He can still hear Lin's agonized scream and the wet gurgle of the man whose throat he has slit. He recalls the bandit's bulging, hungry eyes and the fear within them, sees blood-flecked lips pull back in agony as the man breathes his last, his face turning slack and blue.
Dismas now knows the feeling of plunging his dirk into soft, yielding flesh and how slippery the weapon's hilt becomes when rivulets of hot blood run over his hands. What he hasn't managed to wash off has dried by now, lining his palms with more than dirt now, crusting underneath his nails.
It pulls on his skin as it dries in flakes of rust, and he can smell – Light help him, he can smell the innards of the men Reynauld has eviscerated and his stomach cramps anew. Bile rises in his throat, bitter and caustic. Dismas gags.
"You did well today," Amani says and Dismas hates her for her composure and himself even more for the irrational flare of anger when her shield and spear have served them well in the past days.
Tis' a bad time to find that he has no stomach for bloodshed. Old Dismas used to be a cold-blooded killer, the new one feels queasy at the memory of a body. He does not remember having killed anybody, yet today he has taken the lives of other humans, and he doesn't feel an ounce of pride for having done so.
"I'm fuckin' useless," he spits, and does not look Amani in the face. "Like a broken dirk."
"Just because you're not whole does not mean you are less than the others," Amani tells him gently. "Have you ever heard of restoration?" she asks, although it is evident that the desert warrior is not expecting him to answer. When, unsurprisingly, she is only met with sullen silence, she continues.
"A thing cannot be truly beautiful until it is broken." It sounds like a quote. "I was a beautiful thing," Amani recounts with a sigh. In the darkness, Dismas cannot make out her face. He only has her voice to guide him, and Amani's rings with longing and pain.
"Flawless as the sea of dunes. Graceful as the desert winds. Captivating as a shimmering mirage. I was to be admired, and brought to the Vizier's court to dance and entertain a tyrant. I flung myself out of the carriage, and down a canyon, facing death in the hopes of finding the will to live." Amani pauses. "Sometimes, we make the wrong choices because we must. I may be less, but I am whole now and free, like the Sirocco."
Dismas bites his cheek. "Seems a bit late fer me."
Amani shrugs. "All dance begins but with a single step," she tells him and leaves the highwayman to the misery of his thoughts and waking nightmares.
Her words do not fall on deaf ears, however. They strike something in Dismas and he realizes it is time to move on. He has been a fool to think of this place, this squalid Hamlet with its poisoned earth and blighted woods and the twisted creatures that lurk within, as his home.
Dismas contemplates about going away, and speaks freely of the desire to do so, heedless of who might overhear. Reynauld is the first to approach him.
"Dismas. Word has reached me that you consider leaving." Disbelief clouds the crusader's voice.
Dismas shrugs and makes to move past him.
"Why?"
Dismas shrugs again and kicks a pebble to watch it skitter across the dirt. Anything but to look at the crusader. "Have you looked 'round ya? This place is a shithole."
Reynauld plants his feet. "I disagree."
"What's here for me, then, eh?" Dismas needles the other man. "Other than a grave with me name already on it? Or for you?"
Reynauld doesn't hesitate in answering. "Redemption."
Dismas snorts. "Redemption fer what, Reynauld!?"
Reynauld is not moved by his outburst. "The sins we have committed."
Dismas probes his front teeth with his tongue. His tone takes on a dark tone as he spits, "Speak fer yerself."
"You killed– "
"Yeah," Dismas says, though by his tone alone Reynauld will be able to tell that he is not at all agreeing. "But that ain't my grief." The only people he actually remembers killing are the poor sods unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with them. And why? Because he insisted to come along, to play at being a hero.
He has nothing to complain about. He's only gotten what he had asked for, a taste of adventure.
The hero dies in vain; a sound trade for a touch of fame.
The rest of the rhyme is forgotten, but the scrap feels like a moment of clarity, like waking from a long fever-dream. Or mayhap 'tis but the first onset of insanity.
Reynauld continues as if there had been no interruption. "You may not remember the Hamlet, but it – and the people here – remember you".
"Fondly, no doubt," Dismas replies with a giggle that has nothing in common with amusement. He recalls his visit to the bakery, and the posters that lined its walls.
"Some more so than others," Reynauld says with his signature mix of honesty and staggering lack of tact. "You have friends here, Dismas."
"He had friends." He is in a sour, destructive mood.
"Fine," Reynauld snaps back, his patience finally worn out. Not a saint after all. "Leave. When you find a map and learn the name of a city and the direction in which it lies. Brave the Weald, forsake the roof you have over your head, and your friends – when your pockets are emptied of the gold they put there, say; where then will you go?"
The argument with Reynauld leaves Dismas in a mood even fouler than before. He decides a stiff drink is what he needs and it's with a purposeful stride that he makes for the tavern. He door swings open from a forceful push as Dismas shoulders his way in, stomping towards the bar. Immediately, Mallilie trots to stand in his way.
"Go away, you stupid mutt," Dismas growls, "Shoo!"
Mallilie whines and licks his hand until with a sigh, Dismas relents and scratches her behind the ears until he wolfhound is panting happily.
A few other damned souls sit slumped over the bar, holding onto their tankards with the same reverence others reserve for places of worship. They have had a solid head-start in getting piss-drunk and Dismas has no intention of joining them. He doesn't want company, he wants to chase that delectable, thoughtless buzz like a hunter that stalks a deer.
Thus, Audrey finds him alone, sitting at the corner table with his booted feet resting on a spare stool and with dark ale swirling in his mug, and still darker thoughts in his mind.
"Here you are." The blonde sounds relieved and gives no impression of being at all put off by Dismas' only greeting being a scowl.
When he doesn't move to make way for her, Audrey slips in the seat beside him. Dismas has already lost to the dog, he isn't going to cave before Audrey too, but she seems to be naturally resistant to his glower.
"A bird sang to me that you spoke of leaving," Audrey says, straight to the point, as always. "You… would not seriously be considering that, would you?" There seems to be a nervous tremble in her voice.
Dismas sets his jaw, then lifts his mug and keeps drinking, and doesn't answer.
"I guess you could collect your gold and leave," Audrey says, not at all fazed by the lack of answer. She must have practice in this kind of one-sided conversation. "But darling, do reconsider your decision. You have friends here."
"That's what Reynauld said," Dismas sneers. It is as if all of the Hamlet has come together to work against him.
"Damn," Audrey pulls a face like she had bitten into a rotten apple. "I hate to agree with the crusader."
The comment makes a lopsided grin ghost over Dismas' face, despite his best attempt to fight it down. Then, something Audrey has said makes him perk up. "Wait. What's that 'bout the gold?"
"You lied to me!" Dismas shouts, stabbing an accusing finger right at Reynauld's face the moment the crusader steps into the room. Reynauld is too surprised to answer straight away and Dismas pushes his advantage. "Yer speech about how I got a roof o'er me head, and all that shite? Ya forgot ta mention I got a share o' the dungeon's treasure!"
"Dismas – ," To give him credit, Reynauld recovers fast. He makes a motion, as if to step forward, or maybe grab the other man, but then stops. He closes his eyes.
"I did not want you to leave," Reynaud admits softly but with no hint of remorse. It is that which infuriates Dismas more than the admission to his omission.
"It's my decision," Dismas growls, hands balling into fists.
It is Reynauld's turn to round on him. "The decision of a man who had to be told his own name! The decision of someone who cannot recall the name of the country he is in, or the city he wants to seek out, let alone the direction in which it lies!" With every word, Reynauld's voice rises in volume until he too is shouting.
Dismas at least has the satisfaction of having finally thrown the knight off-balance, of seeing that . "I didn't say it was a smart fucking decision," Dismas hisses.
Whereas Reynauld's anger burns hot, his own is ice cold.
"You wanted to run." Reynauld's tone is accusatory.
"Ya'll find that runnin' becomes me." Wasn't this how he had ended up here, in first place?
"You don't know the dangers of the road," Reynauld insists.
"That'd be what?" Dismas wants Reynauld to say it; to spell it out, but when the crusader doesn't, he continues. "Highwayman scum? What's one more blackguard out there? Don't treat me like I'm some feckin' imbecile."
"I'm not," Reynauld grits out, then shakes his head. "You are not, despite all too often behaving to the contrary."
Dismas snarls.
"But you are drunk, not to mention stubborn, and rash, and – " Reynauld doesn't get to finish.
"You don't know me," Dismas coldly cuts him off.
"You don't know yourself," Reynauld snaps back.
"I know who I am!" Dismas shouts loud enough for his voice to echo off the stone walls of their room. A little quieter, he continues, "I just don't know who I was."
Reynauld closes in on him, and Dismas braces for a punch. He has seen what Reynauld can do in battle. If his temper gets away from him, Dismas will be but a red smear on the wall, but he will suffer the crusader's temper and his violence, if only it means not backing down. Nay, he will do more than that: he will match it.
Dismas' back hits the stone wall as Reynauld grabs him by the lapel of his coat. It bunches up around the highwayman's shoulders as he is half-lifted off his feet.
"Then tell me who you are," Reynauld implores, desperation clear in his voice, "because it seems I do not know you anymore."
Dismas pushes him away and to his surprise, Reynauld lets go. Where he had the power to pin the highwayman before, he now barely has enough strength left to hold himself up.
"I'm a lame horse," Dismas spits, clinging to the last shreds of the anger he had spent all day cultivating. Who knew fury could be so exhausting. Or perhaps it's the drink. He's had too much of it; or rather, not nearly enough. Dismas wants to kick something, but he'd probably break his toes, like he had his hand.
"If you want to see someone useless in battle, you need look no further than Pierre," Reynauld says, still close though he no longer makes a move to get a hold of the highwayman.
Dismas snorts, it being the only answer Reynauld gets. At least he ranks above the damned fool in competence. Reynauld takes his silence as an invitation to go on.
"We have plenty of warriors who can kill. And with the word out that there's glory and gold to be made, we have more coming in, every other week. We don't need another man with a knife and a pistol, Dismas." Reynauld pauses, as if to see whether his words have any effect on the highwayman, but when Dismas still doesn't react, he continues,
"And you're far from useless. You handled yourself skillfully against the swine and fought well even during the ambush. You may not have liked the battle, but you did not hesitate. You would be a good fighter, if you regained some experience."
"I was shakin' so hard my aim was off, I threw up afterwards, and I couldn't sleep fer two days straight," Dismas bitterly reminds him. He finds that he doesn't have the strength to push Reynauld away again when the crusader takes a careful half-step closer.
"One gets used to the bloodshed," Reynauld says with more sadness than anger now, and in his words lies a heavy implication. Dismas can take that road. He can become a killer again.
From what he knows, it had done old Dismas a fat load of good. He'd been an accomplished duelist and a one-of-a-kind marksman. A lone wolf roaming the highways, making weaker men his prey. A murderer.
He'd also drunk himself unconscious every other night because he couldn't face his past sober, he fucked away his guilt and kept on killing, because that's apparently the only thing he knew how to do right. It sounds like a pathetic excuse of a life. Dismas does not want to be that man, yet he feels in his bones that he could be. It scares him, in a way that not even the Eldritch monsters had.
Dismas has to unclench his jaw to be able to speak again. The words fall curt. "Dunno if I want to."
The possibility is like a trap door opening under his feet, threatening to swallow him whole. He is afraid of falling, so Dismas sits down heavily.
A moment later, Reynauld sinks down onto the floor next to him. The crusader's hand lands on Dismas' forearm, just shy of his hand. Reynauld's touch is light, but it bears the weight of a fire brand. "Then don't. If you feel that it is not right."
"An' what am I gonna do?" Once he runs out of gold and his friends out of favourable memories of a man who is no longer there. He isn't sure he's got the guts to head out adventuring again, and he cannot spend the rest of his life doing day-jobs in the Hamlet once his allowance is spent. "I ain't gonna live on Morphew's feckin' charity." The frustration is mounting in Dismas. He doesn't even know what they are arguing about anymore.
"I would never suggest that you do," Reynauld says. "But don't leave us. Don't leave– . Just. I beg you."
"Beggin' doesn't become you."
Dismas can hear the click of Reynauld's throat when he swallows. "Yet I would do so, on my knees, the Light be my witness."
A white-hot jolt of pain races through Dismas' neck when the back of his head hits the wall behind him. Instead of hardening his resolve, the argument has sapped Dismas of his last strength. A fight seemed like just what he needed to work up his courage to leave. Failing that, it ought to at least have broken all ties, set him free of this place and its people. But even with the damned crusader he has found understanding, and in place of anger, compassion. Watching Reynauld get upset in turn makes him feel like a piece of shit and he cannot even blame the drink for the sick feeling roiling in his gut. It is unfair.
Dismas knows exactly where Reynauld's anger came from. Anger is so muxh easier than fear.
One thing has not changed; Dismas is still an idiot.
"So what now?" he asks tonelessly.
A long time passes in which both men watch the flames of the fire dance. When he speaks, Reynauld is the first to break the silence.
"Try candlemaking." There is a spark in the knight's eyes, and a slight curl around his lips. A private joke, then. He does not share the punch line with Dismas, who finds himself at a loss for words.
It is a jest, surely.
Try candlemaking.
That pompous arse.
Try candlemaking.
Smug bastard of a crusader.
Try candlemaking, feh!
Just to spite Reynauld, Dismas does.