THERE IS NO JUSTICE

"I know what you are," the woman told me.

I squinted in her direction as I uneasily shifted my bow from my right hand to my left. She was standing with the setting sun at her back and that made me nervous. Because of that, I had to focus on her, and that meant I couldn't pay as much attention as I'd like to my other surroundings. I wondered if that was planned. If it was, it showed some admirable cunning.

The woman was in her late twenties or early thirties. She had long black hair, light brown skin, was just above average height, and had a slender body that was worth a second look. She was wearing a nondescript dress that was mostly covered by a light cloak - the sort of thing an ordinary Folk or Wilder woman might wear.

"So what am I?" I asked slowly.

"You're Kit the archer," she replied immediately. "Once a mercenary with the Hawkeye regiment. You were last in the service of Lord Cats-Kill, and you served honorably in the battles against Malekith. But since then you've taken up a new path. Now you serve justice."

She was part-right, but that meant she was also part-wrong. I didn't reply immediately. Instead, I just continued to examine her closely. I was borrowing a little time as I tried to collect my thoughts. It's not everyday that I run into someone who knows so much about me.

"Who are you?" I finally asked.

"I'm someone who wants justice," she told me quietly.

I think a small, grim, smile had appeared on my face. "Can you give me a little more detail?" I suggested.

She cocked her head slightly - and maybe she sighed a little.

"I'm from Salem Center," she told me.

That made me pause.

Those were words with meaning.

The Graymalkin are a secretive order among the Priestesses of the Fire Lady. Their goals are something they don't reveal. Most people haven't heard of them - except perhaps as distorted and fearful rumors. Those who actually know anything about them spend their lives praying that they will never draw the Graymalkin's attention.

'I'm from Salem Center' is a recognition phrase used by the Graymalkin and their agents. Not many people know it. Once, back when I was just another mercenary archer, I did a job for the Graymalkin. That's how I know those words.

"You still haven't told me what you want," I told her. By then, it was just after sunset. We'd wandered out of the small fishing village and were sitting amongst a seaside outcrop of water-worn boulders. The moon had risen and was painting a rippling-pale streak of light across the waters. The sound of crashing surf surrounded us. The world is filled with Blood, and every one of them has damn good hearing. If you want to have a private conversation, you have to work for it.

"There's a Blood named Bradley," she began. She wasn't looking at me. Instead, she was gazing out at the ocean.

The name meant nothing to me.

"He's a bad one," she continued. "He likes to kill Folk men and force Folk women. He just wandered into the region. Right now he's somewhere west of Provd."

I still didn't reply.

"He has no lord," the woman continued, "and he's good at staying in places without any kind of ruler. My mistresses feel that he is not our problem and have ordered me to tend to other matters. There's nobody else I can ask to deal with him."

"I can't take your word for any of this," I told her coldly.

She shrugged and finally looked away from the ocean and back towards me. "Everything I've told you is true. Investigate for yourself."

I gave her a long look before speaking again. "You present yourself as a Graymalkin. Yet you don't speak mind-to-mind."

She smiled at me. Then, beside her, a small stone lifted from the shore and slowly drifted towards me. I reached out and grabbed it. Mind-moving is the other great talent of Lady Grey. Not all of her servants are mind-speakers.

Dimly lit by the moon, a pattern of tattoo-like marks had appeared on the woman's face. They were dark lines on her forehead, cheeks, and chin that looked as if they were radiating out from the middle of her face. The marks had appeared suddenly, but then they just as quickly began to fade away.

I tried to keep my face expressionless. The woman talking to me was a Hound. That's a rare and ugly breed. Some use words like 'accursed' or 'damned'.

Of course, some might say the same about me.

"I used to kill because I was paid to do it," I told her, "but now I kill for my own reasons."

She nodded. "I understand. Make your own decision. And may the goddess guide you."

Then she got to her feet and began to pick her way through the stones. She was heading back to the village.

"What's your name?" I called after her.

"Esme," she said to me over her shoulder.

There were four of us - all Folk. It was the morning after my conversation with Esme. We were standing next to the road that led out of town, and we were considering our options.

Dale and Kevin are brothers who were born and raised as farmers - they were strong men who had a hunter's skill with a short bow. Mort had once been a sailor and marine. He was a tough man, used to wandering, who had picked up enough skill with axe, sword, and pike to make him a dangerous foe.

Mort shook his head. "This sounds bad," he said doubtfully.

"Probably because it is," I replied.

"We should check it out... and maybe pass it off to a Blood lord if we can," Dale suggested. Kevin, who tends to defer to Dale, muttered in agreement.

Mort considered that - and then he nodded.

It was settled.

We would pursue our oath.

It took us a few days, but it wasn't hard to find Bradley. There's a kind of Blood who wanders just outside the edge of Blood society. They don't swear to a lord and they keep to places filled with Folk. It's easy for that kind of Blood to live in violation of the words of the Old One. All Blood are predators, but some are without conscience. They prey on the weak, and to them we Folk are all weak.

Bradley was like that. His nature would get him killed if he made the mistake of joining a Blood pack. So he was a loner.

As I said, it's actually fairly easy to find someone like Bradley. You just follow the trail of dead, injured, and violated, watching for a lone Blood who seems oddly out-of-place, yet somehow innocuous. A Blood who never stays in one place for very long. A Blood who never visits the same place twice. Nobody seems to know him, because anyone who made that mistake ends up dead.

We found Bradley in a village twenty-or-so miles inland from the coast. It was one of those tiny and precarious Folk enclaves that have no actual lord - they just pay tribute to be left alone.

Bradley was in the local tavern, enjoying a meal. The money for his dinner came from some people he'd murdered the previous day. He'd killed a merchant, the merchant's daughter, a journeyman, and a servant-boy.

Sitting near an open window, I put my pack and bow on the table and ordered an ale. I made a point of not looking at Bradley. The senses of the Blood are eerily acute, and they often seem to know even when you've just glanced at them.

Before she died, the merchant's daughter managed to give us a description of Bradley. She even described his horse. Bradley hired on with the merchant as a bodyguard - then he turned on his employer as soon as they were isolated. That suggested Bradley had a badge, either stolen or fake, from the Guardians Guild. Otherwise, no merchant would have hired a lone and unknown Blood.

Since he was sitting down, I couldn't judge Bradley's height, but he seemed a bit wiry for a Blood. Otherwise, he had blond hair and light-colored eyes with an oddly flat quality. I would have described his facial features as blandly nondescript. He was dressed as just another Blood Ronin, with maybe a little more leather armor than most. His armor had nicks and scars that spoke of past battles, but that wasn't unusual for a Blood, or any other fighting man for that matter. My leather hauberk looked much the same.

The barmaid delivered a chipped ceramic cup that was brimming with ale to me. I shifted my bow so there would be a place on the table for my drink, but I casually left my hand near the bow. The barmaid was a youngster, only showing the first traces of womanhood. She was wearing a light dress that was maybe a bit too thin and suggestive for someone her age - I certainly hoped she wasn't turning tricks yet.

I paid for the ale and tossed in a full copper-piece tip, which made the girl smile. For just a brief moment, I glanced past her, in Bradley's direction. He was looking up from his meal and seemed to be gazing past the girl at nothing in particular. Our eyes didn't meet.

Bradley's studious lack of interest was telling. If we did nothing, the barmaid would be dead before morning, and Bradley would be miles away before anyone came to any conclusions.

"There are three guys outside," I told the barmaid as I handed her a few more coins. "They're with our horses and gear. How about bringing them a drink?"

"Yes, sir," the girl replied immediately. Then she moved across the room, grabbed a pitcher and some cups from the bar, and headed for the door.

Bradley's watched her out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn't obvious about it, and his body language was composed and non-threatening. The madness inside of him was well-concealed. I was beginning to see how he'd stayed alive for so long.

When the girl reached the door, the daylight in front of her turned her dress semi-transparent, and Bradley's eyes suddenly went predatory as they finally focused on the girl. His head turned towards her as he involuntarily tracked his prey.

Moving with smooth precision, I picked up my bow, drew an arrow from my quiver, nocked it, and put the arrow deep into Bradley's right temple.

That would have killed a Folk. It would have killed most Wilder. But Bradley was Blood, so it was just the beginning. He exploded out of his chair, his claws already out. Customers in the tavern were yelling and screaming as they scattered away. I lunged backwards and rolled out of the window that was right behind me. I landed on my feet and kept backing away.

Bradley swarmed out of the window, the arrow jutting out of both sides of his head snapping off against the window jambs. His eyes were locked on me and it was like looking into twin pits of hell.

My next arrow caught Bradley in the throat. It didn't even slow him down, but there was something odd about how he was moving. I didn't have time to categorize it.

Behind me, from across the street, Dale and Kevin fired their short bows. One arrow pierced Bradley's armor and penetrated deep into one of his shoulders. Another arrow deflected off of his thicker chest armor. I continued to retreat, nocking another arrow as I went...

It was too late, he was on me. I dodged as best I could, and dropped my bow while drawing my shortsword. I was able to deflect one set of claws, but the others grazed me, slicing through my hauberk. The flash of pain felt sickeningly hot.

Mort hit Bradley from behind, driving his sword into Bradley's lower back. Bradley gasped in pain, half-spun, and slashed at the new threat. Mort let out an agonized grunt. He'd blocked one set of claws with his shield, but his sword was tangled in Bradley's insides and he hadn't been able to stop the other attack.

I dropped to my knees and thrust upward with my shortsword. I was trying to get under Bradley's ribcage and into his heart, but his torso armor slowed my thrust. Bradley kicked me and I felt something break in my chest as I was knocked down.

Mort let go of his weapon - it was still jutting out of Bradley's back - and wrapped his arms around Bradley's chest, trying to pin Bradley's arms to his body. His blood and Bradley's were co-mingled, running down their bodies in rivulets. Some splattered over me. I could taste it.

Another arrow dug into Bradley's face. A second bounced off of Mort's shield. Mort hadn't been able to ditch it in time and now it was unfortunately providing Bradley with some cover.

Ignoring the pain, I regained my grasp on the sword in Bradley's gut. Then I stood up, using the strength of my back and legs to ram my shortsword further into Bradley. That lifted Bradley off his feet and knocked Mort off-balance. All three of us tumbled to the dusty street. Mort bounced away, blood spraying from an injury in his thigh, but took the opportunity to use his good leg to kick at the sword he'd left in Bradley's back. The blade tore loose, leaving a massive, gaping, wound in Bradley's lower torso.

Then Dale and Kevin were upon us, carrying their spears. Dale put his into Bradley's right bicep, twisted the blade, and leaned into it. Kevin went for the left, skewering Bradley's hand. We didn't really have Bradley pinned - he was too strong - but it was far better than giving him complete freedom of movement.

A long dagger appeared in my right hand. Crawling painfully forward, barely able to breath, I grabbed Bradley's hair to hold him steady, then buried the blade deep into Bradley's right eye. After that, I yanked the knife loose and jammed it into his other eye. Bradley's body began to shudder and jerk strangely.

Moving slowly and deliberately, his face pale and hands shaking, Mort somehow managed to cut Bradley's throat.

That left Bradley spasming in his death throws. Dale yelped as he was clipped by Bradley's claws, but he didn't back away. Instead, he leaned even harder into his spear, keeping Bradley pinned.

"Die, you bastard," I heard someone hiss. "Dammit, just die."

That was me. I was the one asking the gods to bring this to an end.

Maybe that was what it took. Bradley finally stopped moving.

Then I staggered to my feet. Bradley was on his back, his arrow-pierced face staring up at the sky. Mort was on his stomach next to Bradley, with one arm resting on Bradley's torso. An expanding flood of blood was turning the dust of the street into a thin layer of dark-red mud. If you ignored the blood, it was an almost peaceful scene of two men who were more than friends.

It was then I noticed that Bradley was rather short and scrawny for a Blood. And one of his legs was oddly twisted and malformed.

Dale whispered a half-curse half-prayer as he knelt next to Mort and turned him over, but there was nothing to be done. Bradley's first cut had killed Mort - the big blood vessel in one of Mort's legs had been trisected, and it was all but impossible to staunch that kind of bleeding. Mort had fought on with the will of man who knew he was already dead. And he'd probably saved my life.

There were hot tears in my eyes. Mort had been with me since the beginning, ever since we knelt before that lonely and decrepit skull altar and swore to walk this path.

"Man-eater," I heard Kevin mutter as he tentatively poked at Bradley's body with his spear. Kevin was perhaps right. Perhaps Bradley was like those limited and half-crippled beasts who preyed habitually on humans. On the other hand, I didn't really care. Bradley could burn in hell as far as I was concerned.

Around us, there was a low murmur of voices. The townsfolk were gathering into a ragged mob. They were equipped with a motley mix of militia weapons and hastily-grabbed tools. They didn't look eager for a fight, but from their point of view we'd just ambushed and murdered a man who'd been doing no wrong.

The front of my hauberk was cut open. I grabbed the edge of one rent and tore it open even further - which made my broken ribs rasp together sickeningly. That revealed the symbol that my kind wears on our chests.

In the sudden silence, I heard someone whisper my title.

The other townsfolk took it up, almost as if it was a chant.

Dale and Kevin helped me walk away. People bowed and hastily got out of our way.

My eyes met those of a blocky-looking man - probably the town blacksmith. He was carrying a sledgehammer.

I jerked my head towards Mort's body. "His name was Mort," I said. "He was born a Christian."

The big man nodded ponderously. "We'll see him buried proper," he promised.

Esme caught up to us a few weeks later. I was walking down a street in Bost when she simply appeared. The broken ribs and other injuries I'd got in the fight with Bradley were mostly healed, but I still had to be careful how I moved. Dale and Kevin were further down the block. We'd be killing someone later that night and we were casing the neighborhood.

"That was good work with Bradley," Esme said to me. "I'm sorry about your friend."

I had to bite back some harsh words. She didn't really deserve them, but Mort's death was still with me.

"How did your own affairs go?" I asked coldly. "The ones that were more important than dealing with Bradley?"

She just shrugged. "There was a band of kidnappers who dealt in low-powered psychics - children mostly. They would steal them away from their families and then torture them into being compliant and useful slaves. They would fetch a good price from the more ruthless merchant houses."

I nodded reluctantly. "That does sound important."

"The Graymalkin thought so," Esme agreed.

Then she paused and looked me in the eye. "My sisters killed the slavers. They had them walk into the sea and keep walking even as they drowned. I suppose it's possible that their remains are still walking."

"You sisters are pretty dangerous," I responded cautiously.

"They're monsters," Esme said frankly. "If they weren't useful to the Graymalkin, they would have been destroyed long ago. Every night, I light candles and pray to the Lady of Fire that our mistresses will realize their mistake and have my sisters executed. My sisters hurt me for doing that, but I won't stop."

I couldn't think of a response to that. The more I talked to Esme, the more I realized what a broken woman she was.

"What did your bosses do to the buyers?" I asked suddenly. "You know, the people who actually bought the slaves?"

Esme's lips quirked bitterly. "They were allowed to keep their miserable lives in return for giving up their slaves. I suppose that decision was... necessary and expedient. The deaths of so many important and wealthy people would have consequences all along this part of the seaboard. The high ladies of the Graymalkin don't like that kind of social instability."

I cocked my head as I silently looked at Esme.

She handed me a piece of paper. I didn't bother to look at it as I tucked the folded-over note away into my belt pouch.

There would be names on it.

"Good day, Kit," Esme told me, her tone oddly formal. "I wish you luck in your search for justice."

"What I do isn't justice," I told her.

Esme just looked at me. It occurred to me that her brown eyes had a familiar flat blankness.

They were like Bradley's.

I wondered what she saw in my eyes.

Back in the village where we had killed Bradley, the common Folk saw the emblem I wore underneath my tattered and blood-smeared armor: the stark symbol of a white skull on a black background. It is the symbol of my oath.

Then someone spoke up, quietly invoking my ancient title. Others joined in.

As we left, the villagers were chanting softly. It was both an acknowledgement of what I was and a plea asking me to leave.

"Punisher," they chanted over and over. "Punisher. Punisher. Punisher."

"Then what is it that you do?" Esme asked me.

I just smiled at her.

Esme considered me for a long moment. Then she nodded her head, turned, and walked away.