"I am the…" I couldn't finish the mantra as bile rose up in my throat.
I was retching my breakfast onto the forest floor when Hardt and Tamura found me. I had killed before, I knew that, and I had seen people killed in horrible ways. But this was the first time I had killed someone with my own two hands, and the first time I was truly confronted with the body. He was no soldier fighting in a war, trying to kill my emperor. He was no criminal living out punishment for crimes worse than my own. He was just a man, trying to make living in his forest, trying to survive. And I killed him. Took him away from his world, his forest, his family. I murdered him. I never even knew the man's name. I've known so very few of their names over the years, I only knew that he was a grey-haired woodsman, and that he would still be alive if not for me. One more skull paving the road behind me.
My Kinemancy Source lay on the forest floor, coated in bile and half-digested strips of pheasant meat. The instrument of my slaughter. I snatched it up and frantically wiped it clean, as though that would somehow mask the crime I had just committed. I think, to this day, that remains the only time my body has ever given up a Source without the aid of Spiceweed.
"You didn't have to kill them." Hardt's first words after catching up to me. It was not very consoling.
It was you or them.
I felt the need to defend my actions. "They would have killed us or turned us in. Even if they had let us go, they would probably have told the authorities. The overseer is still hunting us, Hardt. We can't afford to let him catch us." Who was I trying to convince?
Hardt was silent for a moment. He was probably considering my words. Though, knowing him as I do, I think he was looking for an excuse to agree with me. Hardt has made a habit of excusing even my most heinous actions.
"Three lives for three. An even trade," Tamura said with a grin as he knelt down by the woodsman and started looting the body. I noticed he was already wearing a new coat and our sack of belongings looked significantly fuller than it had that morning.
"You don't just trade lives," Hardt argued. "This isn't a game."
"Belmoroes Treatise on War disagrees." Tamura started wrestling with the woodsman's boots. "Any fight is a trade. The combat is merely the act of haggling for how many lives are lost. Here." He held out the first boot to Hardt who just stared on in disgust.
I have since read Belmoroes Treatise on War. I have a copy in my library, though I must admit it is in fairly poor condition and I have dog-eared quite a few pages. Tamura quoted it many times in the years that followed and eventually I decided it might be worth leafing through the sections. Belmoroes had some strange insights into the art of war, and also some truly disturbing ones. I remember one quote that was of particular relevance to Hardt that day: Never pass up a good pair of boots.
"Do you see that?" I asked, pointing east. A gap in the trees showed us the edge of the forest and beyond it I saw green fields, a couple of fairly expansive hills, and a barn. Beyond that barn lay the first I had seen of civilisation since the fall of Orran. A village. For just a moment, I felt my spirits soar. Then I realised it was probably the home of the three men I had just murdered.
Ssserakis woke me that night with nightmares of being chased by an unknown terror. I ran through forests and fields, cities and battlefields, snow-covered mountains and mines sunk deep below them. I never caught sight of the thing that chased me, but I knew it was there, dogging my every step just beyond my vision. And I knew what would happen if it caught me. I think I hated those dreams most of all. More than the memories of the things I had done, more than visions of monsters not of this world. The terror of being chased by an ambiguous foe, knowing that it would never stop and I could never lose it. Knowing that if I stopped running, even for a moment, it would catch me. Those dreams scared me most of all.
I woke shaking, either from the fear or the cold. The fire was low, but still crackling away. Tamura watched me with curious eyes as he chewed on something. He wasn't the only one watching me. The old woodsman was there too. He stood just out of the firelight, before it gave way to the darkness completely. His eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused but watching me. I got no more sleep that night.
Chapter 7
We left the bodies where they lay in the Forest of Ten. We had neither time nor shovels to bury them and Hardt claimed we couldn't risk a pyre. I, for one, was glad. I didn't want to revisit the sight of my handiwork. Tamura did a good job of looting the corpses and both he and Hardt claimed a new pair of boots each, mostly fitting, and both trousers and coats. I, on the other hand, claimed only an ill-fitting shirt, far too big for me. None of the three men was carrying much else save for weapons and a few copper coins.
There was some debate the next morning as to what we should do. Standing at the edge of the forest, staring out towards the village, I found myself aching for a chance to visit it. To see people again, those not trying to kill me. I hoped they had an inn. I was still naive in so many ways. I had never visited a tavern, but I had read about them in the bards' tales at the academy. Those stories always had adventurers visiting small villages, weary and dirty from weeks on the road or exploring dungeons. There was also music and merriment in the taverns and plenty of beer. I had yet to try my hand at getting drunk, and now that I was free from the Pit, the need to give it a go seemed pressing. I imagined we would saunter in and strike up a conversation with the musician, telling them a tall tale about our trip through the Djinn city; something heroic that the bard would turn into song. I also imagined a hot bath and a hearty meal, a real bed to sleep in. It's funny how I took those things for granted during my years at the academy, yet after six months in squalor they seemed the greatest luxury I could conjure.
Hardt argued that the men we had killed were most likely from the village and we were wearing their clothes. The last thing we wanted was to be recognised. I argued that when a man as big as Hardt walks into a place, people rarely look at his clothes. Tamura argued that Even a storm blows in gusts. I must admit I still don't understand that riddle and judging by Hardt's growl, neither did he. Eventually our need for provisions won out. The forest might be able to provide for three people indefinitely, but it looked as though we would soon be walking over hills and through fields and there would be far fewer chances to catch any prey. We needed food and skins to hold water. And I needed a pair of boots. As soon as the others had a pair, my feet started to ache with every step.
The moons hung low in the sky, visible even through the light of the day. Lursa, appeared the larger of the two, a pale red disc that almost seemed to be eating the blue of Lokar. Soon the two moons would appear as one, Lokar hidden behind Lursa, and then the tides would be highest. Then Lokar would start his assent, spinning so Lursa disappeared behind his bulk. The celestial dance of our moons as they twirled about and ground themselves together. It was always most dangerous when Lursa was in power over her consort, the chance of moon showers are so much greater. The tutors at the academy once explained exactly why, but I have never had much of a head for their astronomy. Strangely, in the lands that were once Orran, we used to think of a person as lucky if they were struck by a moon shower. The rocks that fall from our moons are valuable, rich in an ore that can be found nowhere else, the only metal that can accept a bond with a Source. If a falling rock from a moon shower strikes a person, then it is considered their property. Unfortunately, that person rarely survives, but their family will suddenly find themselves in possession of a rock they can sell for a great deal of money. I admit, it is an odd form of luck. Still, people gather around areas they believe will receive the showers, hoping they get lucky. Hoping that one final act of random chance will see their family fed for the rest of their lives. I imagine most people would rather keep their family member around than lose them and find themselves rich. I know I, for one, would never give up any of my friends no matter the number of coins offered.