Side Story: The Mercenary and the Witch

Creeeak.

The warped door of an abandoned barn swung inward.

Falair stepped through it. In those days, before he became known as Beynon, he had worn a scratched breastplate and carried a rough sword at his hip. One look at him would have been enough to mark him as a mercenary—or a bandit.

There was no one left to be alarmed by his appearance.

The barn stood empty and silent, as did the village around it. War had come to the territory, and the villagers had fled with whatever possessions they could carry.

For Falair, a mercenary who had been wandering the battlefields, that was convenient. An abandoned settlement offered shelter without the trouble of persuading its owners to take him in.

Food was another matter. All he had found was bread that had begun to grow mold, but after coming away from his latest work empty-handed, even that was welcome.

“Hmm…”

He stroked the stubble on his chin and examined the barn.

Several of the partitions that had once held livestock were broken. In one corner, however, a generous heap of straw remained.

That was promising.

He made his way over and began sorting through it.

After pushing aside the dung hardened by the winter cold, Falair selected clean handfuls of straw and pulled them over himself.

It wasn't an innkeeper's feather mattress. Still, it would be warm enough.

There were better houses nearby, but houses attracted looters. He could wake to find a gang standing over him—or never wake at all.

A barn was beneath most thieves' notice.

“Never take life lightly…”

Falair murmured one of the three commandments he had composed for himself and gave a dry smile.

He had to be on the road again early in the morning. There was no point wasting the night.

He closed his eyes.

Then he heard footsteps.

Someone's outside.

Voices came with them. Several people were speaking loudly enough to carry through the door.

Three… No. Four.

Falair slid one hand toward the dagger at his back. If the visitors were enemies who had followed him, there might be no avoiding a fight.

Bang!

The barn door flew open.

Three burly men came inside, dragging a woman by her wrists. A lantern in one man's hand lit their faces and the woman's struggling figure.

“Let me go! Let go of me, you bastards!”

The captive was a witch, judging by her clothing.

One of the men wore a priest's robes, but the sacred stole around his neck was backward. Falair doubted any real priest would make such a mistake. More likely the man had stolen the garments from someone dead.

“Kill me, then! Damn you, kill me!”

The witch fought the hands restraining her. The men only laughed and discussed whose turn would come first.

Falair understood their intentions. They meant to rape her.

Wonderful…

He suppressed a sigh.

Even if he kept out of sight now, those men were bound to notice him once they were finished. They would have every reason to kill the witness.

“Stop! No—get off me!”

The woman screamed as they tore at her clothes. She struggled, but she couldn't break free.

Falair sighed again and rose from the straw.

The three men turned.

“…Huh? Who are you?”

The one in the stolen robes addressed him.

Falair continued brushing straw off his clothes.

“I asked you a question.”

At last Falair looked up.

The woman's skirt had been torn and her outer robe dragged away. She was weeping, her eyes fixed on him.

The sight made leaving difficult, however much he wished to avoid trouble.

“Are you blind?” Falair said. “Can't you see I'm a mercenary?”

The man in the priest's robes ground his teeth. His eyes flicked to the sword at Falair's waist, and his tone softened.

“Ah. Sorry we disturbed your sleep, mercenary. Nothing here concerns you. If you'd be so kind as to step outside, we have… business to attend to.”

“No.”

“…Why not?”

“Because that witch is my client. If you rape her and she kills herself afterward, I'll never collect my fee.”

It was a blatant lie.

But it served its purpose.

The man who had been preparing to attack Falair gave up the pretense of politeness. He drew a heavy club from his belt. His companions raised wooden shields and weapons of their own.

Falair smiled.

“Good. That's more like it.”

In wartime, men often understood steel better than words.

He snatched out his dagger and threw it.

The three men jerked up their shields.

But the dagger wasn't aimed at any of them.

Crash!

It struck the lantern. Glass shattered, and darkness swallowed the barn.

Falair's eyes were accustomed to the night; he could still make out the shapes before him. The others, blinded by the sudden loss of light, hesitated.

He drew his sword and closed the distance before they could recover.

With a sharp rising cut, Falair opened the throat of the man in front.

Blood spilled as the man fell.

Falair turned past the collapsing body and drove his next slash into the second attacker. The blade tore through his side, spilling his entrails as he screamed and fell.

“Fuck! Damn it!”

The man in the stolen priest's robes was the only one left standing.

He swung his mace wildly. Threatening people and robbing them had apparently taught him little about fighting an armed opponent.

Falair slipped aside, seized a discarded shield and hurled it.

Thud!

The shield struck the man's head. He staggered.

Falair stepped into the opening and swung once more.

The man's head fell to the floor.

“Ah—!”

The witch cried out. Falair paid the sound little attention. He wiped his sword clean and returned it to its sheath.

When he turned to her, she had drawn her damaged clothing around herself. Tears welled in her eyes.

He understood why she looked frightened, though the sight of it left him faintly exasperated.

“Don't be afraid. I'm not interested in you.”

He crouched beside the dead men, searched their pockets and collected a few silver coins.

The witch gave a small, shuddering hiccup.

“Why… why did you save me?”

“If I hadn't intervened, those bastards would have killed me once they noticed I was here. Don't misunderstand. I didn't do it for you.”

“But… I'm a witch.”

“What of it? Are you going to run to the Church and denounce me as a heretic for helping one?”

She had no answer.

Falair walked toward the open door.

There was no chance he would sleep among three corpses, and if those men had companions, they might come looking for revenge. Better to leave while he could.

“W-wait!”

The witch hurried after him, then stopped, gathering her courage.

“My name is Dremes. What's yours?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I… I want to thank you properly! To repay you for this.”

Falair regarded her for a moment.

“Heavenly Hawk Mercenaries. If you want to find me, ask there.”

He gave her the mercenary company's name, but not his own, and left the barn.

Dremes watched his retreating back for a long time.

“Heavenly Hawk…”

She repeated the name softly, as though afraid of forgetting it.

---

“…And that's more or less how it happened.”

Havid listened as Beynon finished his story and rubbed his cheek, smiling to himself.

Now he understood why Dremes continued to visit Beynon even though the two seemed to quarrel whenever they met.

Dremes, sitting beside the former mercenary, had gone a little red in the face. That only confirmed Havid's suspicion.

“Why did you suddenly insist on hearing that old story?” Beynon grumbled.

He had been summoned to the drawing room on the pretext of urgent business, only to find that Havid wanted to talk about the past.

Worse, Havid had invited Dremes as well.

Beynon would ordinarily have refused such an awkward gathering. Unfortunately, he had lost a wager to Havid recently, and the winner was entitled to a wish.

“Hmm.”

Havid lifted his teacup, making no attempt to conceal his smile.

It was plain to him that the two cared for one another. Dremes seemed to have fallen for Beynon the day they met, while Beynon's affection had grown over the years.

Yet neither dared speak first. Each appeared convinced the other would reject them.

Sometimes a third party had to help.

Havid set down his cup.

“You both know how peaceful the Empire has become. If this old man may give one piece of advice, there's never been a better time to hold a wedding.”

Beynon frowned. Dremes lowered her head.

After drumming his fingers on the table and thinking for a moment, Beynon sighed.

“I understand what you're getting at, Grandfather. But it's rude to keep talking about marriage to a woman who has no intention of marrying. So—”

“Who?”

Dremes turned on Beynon.

“Who has no intention of marrying?”

“…What?”

“It's you who doesn't want me! Witches can't have children, and you've been avoiding me because of it! Don't make it sound as though I'm the one who doesn't want you!”

Beynon stared at her.

“What the hell are you talking about? You'll keep your youth, while I'll grow old. I thought you wouldn't want to spend your life with an old man like me. Am I wrong?”

“You are!”

“…I am?”

Dremes let out a long breath.

Beynon seemed to understand her meaning at last. He looked away and cleared his throat.

The air in the drawing room had turned wonderfully awkward.

Havid found himself enjoying it.

“Ah. I seem to have remembered something I must attend to.”

He rose, leaving the two to stare at each other.

Perhaps, now that they had finally admitted what they felt, a wedding really would follow before long.

I'll have to prepare to officiate.

The thought brought a smile to Havid's face.

He walked out slowly, listening to the flustered argument continuing behind him and hoping for good news.