Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A dozen men passed through the fine grey mist drifting over the now bare fields of barley, advancing with a grim purpose. Some had thrown nothing but patchwork cloaks over their shoulders, others were donning rusty chainmail and gambesons worn all too thin at places. For a company of mercenaries, their weapons weren’t in much better shape either, for they carried chipped axes and cudgels.

And then there was Udo with his lone ash bow, strung with sheep gut.

A few wore dented helms, the rest were bareheaded. 

Most of them couldn’t have even placed themselves on a map, in case they would've been given one to look at. All they knew was that they were somewhere deep in Moravian hinterlands. Ištván, on the other hand, could have told them that on parchment and ink at least, these hills remained under the protection of Prokop of Luxembourg, but in name only. Not so far away, in the lands controlled by the likes of Stibor of Stiboricz, coin flowed freely into the hands of men bold enough to test such foolish claims with steel.

Tensions thrummed beneath the silence surrounding them from all sides. They had been waiting for hours for just the right moment to strike, and now that it had come, they were pulling against their leash like bloodhounds, growing more and more eager to bare their teeth by each moment passing by.

One of the men went as far as to curse the weather under his breath.

“Keep your damn mouth shut,” the man next to the mouthy one snapped, “or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Better watch your own, you piss-soaked cur.”

“Quiet, both of you”, a third man cut in, “before I split your dumb fucking skulls myself.”

Not far ahead, they could spot a scatter of cottages; the humble sort with thatched roofs, along with a few fenced plots, all defenseless in the middle of the fields near the forest’s edge. Within a stone's throw from the cottages there was some kind of a chapel, too, though so modest it could have passed for a mere toolshed in the dark. 

But unlike the others, Ištván was more intrigued by what he couldn't see: there were no walls, no watch, and not a soul to be seen. The makings of a perfect target, if Ištván had ever seen one. 

Slowly, he raised his hand. The men coming after him halted at once, waiting for him to give the order and unleash them upon their unsuspecting prey. For a moment there, he kept them in suspense, taking his sweet time to scan the rooftops and count doors for the one last time. 

Even then, all he saw ahead was the lulling stillness of yet another hamlet in the hinterlands about to see its last sunrise. 

Soon enough, he would lose count of how many nameless hovels such as this one they had plundered over the past months. Each one had been poorer than the last, yielding little more than brass buttons and blisters, despite all their efforts.

This nameless blot, barely worth the ink to mark it on the scrap of parchment that had been passed off as map, would be no different.

Left to his own devices, Ištván doubted he would have spared such a remote swamphole a second glance. In this sort of places poverty and famine were the only things good in supply, and those sure as fuck weren’t worth the effort. 

But it wasn’t the meagre spoils for he kept chasing after such miserable marks, no. It was because Lord Stibor paid him to harass these borderlands, bleed them try, and make that fool Prokop regret ever laying claim to land he couldn’t hold. 

And as long as coin kept flowing his way, Ištván wouldn’t lose his sleep over a bunch of peasants nor their plight. All he was after was Lord Stibor’s favour, and that he was going to earn, no matter the cost. And no matter that the approval of King Sigismund’s favourite was meant to be little more than a stepping stone for him; an invitation to much more influential councils and cabinets that remained beyond his reach for now. 

As for now, the mere prospect of it was quite enough to keep him going, and that was why he wasn’t too bothered by the scarcity of silver to steal. 

As for the stench of mud, and horseshit, and burning flesh that stuck with their clothes and never quite came off, along with everything else his men never seemed to grow tired complaining about, those were the least of his troubles. That sort of thing came with the trade. 

He lowered his hand. “No survivors.”

There was no hesitation in his words, and why would there be? He had no use for captives no one would pay to see freed. These were mere peasants, poor as church rats, with no kin to demand ransom from. Their liege lord didn’t seem to give a damn about them, so why should he? 

Somewhere ahead, a dog barked. Another answered from the far side of the hamlet. Then came the thud of hooves churning the ground, sharp and skittish. 

The animals always sensed such things first.

First door was kicked in. A lantern crashed to the ground, only for fire to catch the eaves and climb up fast, despite the rain already thickening into a storm. Screams tore through the square. Dogs howled behind fences, only to soon fall silent one by one. Oleg’s doing, no doubt. 

All around them, smoke was thickening into a pitch-black blur. Ištván strode through the chaos ensuing, his blade drawn, wind lashing strands of dark curls across his face. 

Somewhere to his left, a roof gave way with a crash, and soon after, a bulky man burst out of what was left of the door, his feet bare and face streaked with soot. He lunged blindly, if admittedly bravely, clutching at what looked like a butcher’s knife. “Die, you whoreson!” 

The butcher’s blade slashed. Clumsy, Ištván thought to himself, but still way too close for his liking. He knocked it aside as he took a step forward, driving his own sword through the man’s stomach with a single strike.

A raspy gasp escaped the man as he dropped the knife to press the wound with both hands. And then, as though out of nowhere, there was a woman. She caught him under her arm in an attempt to half-carry, half-drag him toward what Ištván could only assume be the chapel, for there was nothing else of note in that direction, unless—a fenébe. 

“Udo!” Ištván called out over his shoulder. “If they reach the woods and the town beyond, we all hang. Take them down.”

Udo drew his bow and released the arrow. It pierced the woman’s shoulder. Ištván heard her shriek, even saw her staggering for a few steps, but even it turned out the stubborn bitch still had some fight left in her. She kept dragging the man—her husband, most likely—toward the chapel. 

Ištván swore under his breath.

Udo didn’t need to be told twice. His second arrow was already cocked. It struck low, in the back of her thigh. This time, she collapsed with a cry.

Had mercy not long since bled out of Ištván, he might even have pitied them. Fools and simpletons they were, deluded enough to think their god, let alone that rotting husk of a chapel, would shelter them from their fate. 

He would deal with them soon enough.

Back in the square, screams were dulled to dying groans, marking the slaughter nearing its end. The men were already gathering spoils, for they knew from experience what would fetch at least a little coin and what would rot long before crossing paths with a fence. Chickens were stuffed into sacks. Salt pork and root vegetables would be brought back to camp, along with any honey or mead they could possibly find. 

Some were already helping themselves to the treats of the local tavern. 

As the youngest of the lot, Mikuláš had been tasked with corpse duty. He was rolling the dead over to check them for hidden pouches and prying rings from their stiffening fingers. Such a wiry, sharp-faced bastard he was, Ištván thought in passing, old enough to shave, for sure, but certainly not wise enough to keep his mouth shut when he should have. Perpetually sour, especially when drunk, yet eager to prove himself. Perhaps a little too eager for Ištván's tastes.

Ištván only meant to stay around long enough to make sure looting ran smooth. “Jakub,” he called.

His second-in-command strode over. “Aye, Chief?”

Ištván tilted his head toward the men. “Keep them on the move,” he said. “See that they only take what’s worth the weight. No grain, unless it’s dry.”

He knew Jakub wouldn’t ask where he was going. He would sleep better if he didn't know.

Ištván knew he could have given the task to someone else, if he wished to. Udo would have done it, although not without grumbling under his breath. And Mikuláš would have downright leapt at any chance to prove he was man enough.

Ištván, on the other hand, knew that setting wrong sort of lads on wrong tasks didn’t make men out of boys. Instead, it gave them piss-wet dreams and that stupid, wide-eyed stare that couldn’t even be beaten out of them. It either turned them weepy or mean as a kicked cur, and neither was worth of the bread it took to keep them going. 

Besides, now that the killing part was done, Ištván would rather have his men think of campfires, wine, and whores. There was no point in fouling the air with even more bloodshed.

Ištván, however, didn’t particularly mind it himself.

So, without any further soul-searching, he turned his back to what had a mere hour ago still been a market square.

The so-called chapel hunched like a lame dog at the edge of the forest. Its steeple was sunk, and the roof bowed in under dead leaves and rot. Ištván followed the trail of fresh blood without too much haste. Time alone would have done the task for him, if it already hadn’t, but he'd never been one to leave loose ends.

He found the man first, or his dead body, with one hand outstretched toward salvation that never came, almost as if pointing the way for him. A breath of laugh escaped him, for he wasn’t oblivious to the irony of the sight. If there had ever been any kind of God under that sorry excuse for a roof, he would have barred his doors from the likes of him long ago, and for a damn good reason.

Mud squelched under his boots as he stepped over the body as if it was nothing. 

The woman had made it a little farther. 

She had slumped against the chapel doors. Her skirts were soaked through and clinging to her skin. Udo’s first arrow still jutted from her shoulder, though it was the wound in her thigh that had done the damage. Ištván had not expected to find her still breathing, but judging by the sound of it, that wouldn’t be the case for long, even without him meddling.

A wet rasp escaped her throat as Ištván crouched beside her. Her fingers twitched against the wooden threshold, as though she still meant to claw her way through to what she might once have considered safe haven, and perhaps still did.

“Save your prayers,” he said, though not unkindly. He laid a gloved hand against her cheek to steady her jaw. “He won’t help you. Never helped me, either.”

Only then did he draw his dagger.

Swift and sure, the blade slid in between her ribs. To his relief, there was no screaming nor struggle. It was a clean death, just as he preferred it.

In most cases, anyway, for there were those who deserved to die like dogs.

Not this woman, perhaps, but others.

He took his time to clean his dagger and before getting back to his feet, but didn’t turn back just yet, for there was another reason why he had chosen to come himself and not send somebody else to do his dirty work for him.

Despite the body blocking the entrance, he nudged the doors wider and slipped in. As soon as he got inside, he took a look around, only to let out a half-amused scoff at the miserable sight before him.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen poverty before. On the contrary, he'd seen plenty of it, but even by borderland standards, this place was spare as fuck.

He had come looking for valuables, not God's grace, but there would be no relics worth stealing in a place like this. Not a single chalice of silver to be found, no saints’ bones inlaid with gold.

But still, perhaps a little something to make this little detour worth his while...

A sculpture of Saint Margaret looked down upon him from behind the modest altar. The patron saint of peasants and the dying, Ištván recalled. An irrelevant detail, but certainly worth another mirthless breath of laugh.

His gaze swept over the shadows, only to catch on the offering box to his right, its lid sitting slightly askew. He wedged his dagger under the lip and gave it a practiced twist. The latch gave with a quiet pop.

Inside, he found a scatter of pfennigs and a lone heller, and beneath a votive card, a waxed linen pouch.

He took the pouch and weighed it in his hand, only to sigh at its unfortunate, yet entirely expected, lightness. Upon untying it, he found a silver ring inside, smooth and unmarked. He turned it between his gloved fingers, looking it against the faint light from the window above, then let it drop into the kidney pouch on his belt; the one meant for things not to be shared with others.

He had always kept the best finds for himself—small things, easy enough to hide—for there was no point in letting the men fight over trinkets they would only squander on dice and drink.

Or at least that was what he would've said, had somebody dared to accuse him of foul play.

Lastly, he swept the pfennigs and the lone heller into his palm; that sweet, sweet jingle of coin soothing him more than any prayer ever had.

But as soon as silence fell again, he could immediately tell something was off. Almost as if he wasn’t alone, after all.

He was sure he had heard something. Not an odd groan of the rafters above nor some church rat scurrying about, but something more peculiar... and most certainly human.

Instinctively, his hand slipped back to the hilt of his dagger as he listened.

First, nothing.

And then that same, faint scrape again, like a cloth dragging over stone.

Much like a hunter stalking an elusive prey, he moved forward, keeping to the shadows. He studied his surroundings with great care as he tried to pin down the source of the odd noise. It wasn’t coming from the door, nor under the pews. That much he could already say for certain.

Only after ruling out everything else, his gaze fixed on the lone altar. 

Ah, but of course. It had to come from there, for there were simply no other options left.

He moved closer, making sure his boots made no sound on the worn stones. As soon as he got close enough, he reached out and, in one swift motion, swept the altar cloth aside.

There was a boy hiding beneath, his knees drawn to his chest.

Ištván crouched to study the boy closer. He would have expected tear tracks and trembling from a child caught in the middle of slaughter, but much to his surprise, and slight dismay, there was none to be seen. The boy simply stared at him, wearing a peculiar, wide-eyed look that somehow seemed more curious than afraid.

A short breath escaped Ištván. Not quite a laugh, but more like a sneering exhale, half surprise and half something darker. This kind of calm unsettled him more than tears ever could. Still, he couldn’t brush off the hint of grim amusement he felt as he looked down on the boy, for there was something he recognised.

What a wretch, he thought, not unlike he’d once been himself. 

“Get up, boy,” he said at last, letting the words hang for a moment, like a bait left in the open. Then, slowly, he lifted his free hand—the one not on the dagger, now tucked behind his back—and curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture meant to coax, not command. “Don't be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Not that he had ruled it out, either. That would depend entirely on what the boy would do next.

The boy blinked, his eyes darting toward the doors almost as if he was weighing his odds, but he didn’t lift a limb.

“Now, now. I asked quite nicely, didn’t I?” Ištván lilted. “Such courtesy is in short supply out here, and I’d hate my good manners going to waste.”

For a moment there, Ištván thought he might have been wrong about the boy’s unnerving calm, and that the whelp had gone numb from fear and shock after all, but then, at last, he moved.

One spindly limb at a time, he crept out from beneath the altar, until he stood barefoot in the first light of dawn filtering through the windows.

Now that Ištván could look at the boy proper, all he saw was bone and elbows and angles too sharp; hollow cheeks and limbs no thicker than sticks. His rags were scorched, his lip split, and knuckles swollen with the kind of swelling that could only come from too many brawls and not enough wins. This one had been scrapping, and often.

Was he a halfwit, one of those too dull to fear when they should, or simply too sharp, but in all the wrong places? The kind that didn’t break when beaten, only bent, and bent strange?

Ištván couldn’t tell, but the way the boy didn’t flinch, or cry, or beg, or even try to pull some foolish stunt caught his undivided attention. The boy simply stood there, still as a crow on a fence, watching him.

He’d seen that look before. Even worn it, once.

Not in a chapel in some backwater hamlet, though, but somewhere far less forgiving. 

It fascinated him a great deal, that stillness. The way the boy held his ground, as though he had already made his peace with the harsh truth of things and understood that no one was coming for him, and if pain was due, it was better met with clenched teeth than tears. 

And yet…

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Ištván said, not bothering to conceal his amusement. “So, your legs seem to work just fine, after all. Got a name to go with them, hm?”

The boy said nothing. 

“Speak up, boy,” Ištván said with a sneer. “I already had the decency to not gut you on the spot. Seems only fair you give me something in return.”

Slowly, the boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ištván watched him scratching his forearm, as if the question had itched him just the same.

“Erik,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. 

Ištván let the name settle on his tongue. “Erik,” he echoed after the boy. “A fine name. You might want to hold on to it, while it’s still yours to keep.”

Without another word he turned his back to the boy and stepped back through the chapel doors, into the smoke-laced morning chill. The sky was pale with dawn now, weak light seeping through clouds, heavy mist and smoke, revealing the remains of what had still been a village before the night fell.

He knew he should have simply slit the boy’s throat the moment he found him. That would have been the smarter thing to do, for once, and perhaps even a small mercy. No names, no questions—just another corpse sprawled among many. 

But he hadn’t, and now the boy had a name, and a voice, and eyes too old for his face. 

In his wake, Erik followed close, not unlike a stray dog lingering where it wasn’t welcome but hadn’t yet been kicked away. 

It seemed the worst of the storm had already passed. The corpses remained where Ištván had left them. 

“Your kin?” he asked, even though he wouldn't have had to, as he cast a sidelong glance at the boy.

The man lay sprawled in the mud, face down where he had fallen, and the woman still lay slumped by the chapel doors. Udo’s arrow had snapped half under the weight of her body.

They must have wanted to shield their son, Ištván reckoned, to hide him in the chapel and perhaps even plead for his sake, but in the end, their meagre efforts hadn’t helped either them or the boy.

It was a usual story, all too common in these parts, and one Ištván himself knew all too well. 

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Erik staring at his dead parents. Not with horror, nor even grief, but with that same flat, unnerving calm as before.

Weeping, Ištván could have handled. This was worse. He couldn’t even tell whether he pitied the boy or simply knew too well where he was coming from.

And that, he recognised, was about to become a slight problem.

“Word of advice, if you’ve the ears for it,” Ištván said. It wasn’t like he had much more to offer—nothing that would change the boy’s odds, anyway, grim as they were. “The world’s a cruel place for a lone lad. If a chance ever comes, best leap at it and throw your lot in with someone strong. Wolves always go for the stragglers first, and I don’t reckon you’re in much of a shape to fend for yourself.

He had been there, once, cursing his own parents for their failure to keep the curved blades at bay; for letting the crescent banners fly over their fields uncontested, until it was too late. And yet, he had scraped his way through worse than this boy could possibly imagine, seizing a fleeting opening when it presented itself, and eventually crawled his way out.

If this Erik had even a shred of luck, perhaps he might do the same.

He gave the boy no further look nor farewell. Instead, he pulled his hood back on and headed back to the muddy path toward the ruin, where smoke still hung low and the last sacks of loot were being hauled off to the cart.

But after a dozen paces or so, he caught a faint crunch of ash and dead leaves behind him.

He halted, and so did the sound.

Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, there was the boy, trailing after him as though it was the most natural thing he could think of.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked. His words came out flat; not particularly harsh, but endlessly tired. He was too worn to feign patience whatsoever, and he had already given the boy more time than he ought to have.

“You said follow the strong,” Erik said, matching his tone. “You’re strong.”

For a moment there, Ištván couldn’t do much else but to stare at the boy, almost in disbelief, but with a faint, bitter tug at the corner of his mouth. His words had been nothing but a passing remark; a scrap of truth tossed out like a bone, and the boy had snatched them clean from the air and sunk his teeth in as though they were supposed to mean something.

“I don’t recall saying it meant me,” he said.

If anything, he reckoned he was the wolf in that tale, and certainly not the kind that offered shelter to stray pups.

“You didn’t say it didn’t."

A rough sort of laugh escaped Ištván’s dry throat. Damned if the boy didn’t have nerve; the sort that didn’t ask for permission or accept when he was told no. The sort that kept a man alive.

“Bold little bastard,” he rasped. Not that he hadn’t thought himself brave, once, but that had been before he learned what certain kinds of men did to boys with nimble hands and nowhere to run.

“Very well. If you truly are hellbent on following me, have at it, then," he went on. "But make no mistake, whatever you might have endured here, be it hunger, or cold, or beatings, that was the easy part. From here on, it'll only get worse. Throw your lot in with me, and you earn your keep or you go hungry. Fall behind, and you’re left behind. Do you understand this?”

Erik gave a single, unflinching nod.

“Do you, now?” Ištván said, putting heavy emphasis on each word. He caught the boy’s chin in his gloved hand and tilted it up, rougher than necessary, to force their eyes to meet. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” Erik said.

Erik's conviction gave Ištván a pause. He’d been dealing with liars his whole life, even made quite an art of it himself, and yet he couldn’t point anything that was false about Erik’s stance. There was no hesitation, not even the slightest hint of doubt in his stare. All those usual tells even grown men often gave away were inconspicuously absent.

Either the boy didn’t quite grasp what he was agreeing to, he reckoned, or he grasped it far too well.

“I make no promises,” Ištván said, “but if you keep up, and you’re still breathing after a fortnight or so, you might even learn something.”

It wasn’t like the boy had better chances elsewhere. Left to his own devices, he would die sooner rather than later. He still might, Ištván reminded himself—but sometimes, a chance was jusr enough.

Ištván turned toward the ruins amidst the blackened fields. What was left of the storm was only a fine drizzle, barely enough to choke the fires, leaving behind nothing but low heaps of sodden timber and ash.

“Come,” he said. “We’ve got a long ride ahead.”

By the time they reached the others, the looting was already done and dealt with. What had not burned had been taken, and what could not be taken was left to rot.

Ištván cast a sidelong glance at Erik.

The boy was staring at the wreckage, his eyes hollow and arms locked tight at his sides, as though he couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing and how it had come to be. Perhaps he didn’t. Ištván had seen that look before, worn by those whose world had come apart. Some understood only later, and then they would scream their lungs out. Perhaps this boy would soon do the same.

Or perhaps not.

The men were already gathering around the cart, now loaded with sacks of grain, tools, cloth, and whatever else was considered worth the weight. Chickens crammed into their netted sacks of flax and twine clucked miserably. Judging by the looks of it, Jakub had had enough of Mikuláš lashing the load down too slow to his liking.

Ištván wasn’t oblivious to the tensions rising as he approached his men with Erik trailing in his wake. A few heads were turning. Not all at once, though, for they knew better than to gawk at him outright. Still, he caught the sideway glances as he passed. No one dared to ask, but the question was right there, clear on every tongue.  

He could hardly blame them. In their trade, most strays of Erik’s age were put out of their misery and left dead in a ditch, or worse. None were given second chances.

“Looks like we’re done here,” he said. “We ride before some local lordling comes sniffing after smoke.”

A few men straightened at once. Some others lingered just long enough to make a point of it. No one argued.

“Mikuláš,” Ištván snapped. “Bring me my horse.”

Mikuláš muttered something under his breath but obeyed, throwing a glare sour enough to curdle milk at Erik as he went. A moment later he returned with the reins in his hand. Ištván took them without a word.

Then he turned to Erik, who stood silent beside him, the rags he was wearing all but soaked through, eyeing the horse with unease.

“Tsk. Don’t tell me this’ll be your first time in the saddle.”

Erik didn’t answer.

“Thought so.”

Ištván hooked an arm around Erik’s waist and lifted him up like a sack of grain. Erik was light, he noticed, too light for his years, all bone beneath wet cloth. The boy didn’t resist, but the moment he hit the saddle, his whole frame went stiff. Knees high, hands clutching on the horn for there was nothing else to grasp on, he clenched his jaw almost as though he was expecting the ground fall out from under him and the horse alike.

Ištván swung up behind him, settling himself into the saddle with the ease of habit. The stallion twitched under them as a faint protest against the odd weight.   

He gathered the reins in one hand, the other setting around the boy’s waist to steady him, as he cast a glance over his men. “We take the north trail,” he called out, “and avoid the main road.”

At least most of his men already had enough experience under their belts to know what kind of trouble to expect without needing it hammered into their skulls. The line began to move toward north without another word.

Before long, the drizzle thinned once more into a fine sort of mist—not that it was any less cold, rain or no rain. It was the kind of chill that settled in the hollows of the bones, crept through seams and stitching, making every hour in the saddle feel twice as long.

Ištván could tell Erik was trying his damnedest to not lean against him. The boy was way too tense to relax, let alone to try and get any rest, even though Ištván had told him to. But a boy, even a tough one, was still a mere boy, and by the time they crossed the shallow brook near the old charcoal pits, marking the halfway of the journey, Ištván felt him slumping backward, tucking his head just beneath Ištván’s chin.

He could also feel the trembles running through Erik now and then. The boy’s tunic clung damp to his back, and his limbs were way too lean to hold warmth. If he still had some fight left in him, it was already giving over to sleep. Not true rest, that much Ištván could tell, but that dreamless dark born out of cold and exhaustion; the kind that didn’t soothe, only held the boy gently in its teeth through the long journey back.

On a whim of sorts, Ištván drew the edge of his own cloak over the boy. Not much warmth in another piece of soaked-through wool, he imagined, but perhaps it still might at least take the worst out of the wind. The boy already stank worse than a wet dog, so wrapping him up in even more wet cloth couldn’t make it much worse.

It was then that he heard hoofbeats from his left, as Jakub eased his mare up alongside him. He kept the reins loose in one hand, while the other was resting on the saddle horn. Ištván didn’t look over. He didn’t have to. He could already tell the battle-worn bastard had something on his chest, for they had ridden too many roads together for him to mistake that look for anything else.

They went back a long way, for Jakub had been there from the beginning, long before Ištván had considered himself someone worth following. All the way back in Thrace, Jakub had been the one handing him a waterskin before even knowing his name.

A lot of water had run through the Danube since then, and enough blood with it to stain the river red.

“Never seen you bring one back before,” Jakub said after a while. “Plenty left orphaned by our line of work. Never seemed to trouble you till now.”

Ištván always let him speak. He owed him that much, he supposed. Still, he wasn’t in the mood for riddles, not when he could already tell where the questions would land.

“If you’ve something to say,” he said, “then say it.”

Somehow, he already knew it wouldn’t be praise.

For a moment there, the only sound was the brittle rasp of fallen leaves beneath the hooves of their horses.

“We both ride with ghosts, you and I,” Jakub said at last, rubbing his grizzly beard of ginger and grey as he spoke. He wasn’t looking at Ištván but the road ahead. “But the past is in the past. Best not pass its weight where it doesn’t belong, eh?”

Ištván scoffed. “You’ve always had the talent for saying less than you mean to, my old friend,” he said. “Am I to take it that you don’t approve me bringing the boy along?”

“It’s not my place to weigh your decisions."

Ištván snorted, cold and without humour. “Ha—indeed,” he said, “but when has that ever stopped you before?”

“That was back when I still thought you heeded my counsel,” Jakub said. There was no judgment in his tone, not in particular, just a plain truth laid bare. “Mind the lad, Ištván. He’s too young for this life. Lads like him aren’t built for a mercenary’s lot. You know what the men like ours are like. They’ll test him, and not with just fists.”

Ištván glanced down at the boy slumped against his chest. “He’ll learn and adapt,” he said, “and if he doesn’t, the matter will sort itself sooner rather than later.”

Jakub let out a breath that was half a sigh, half a curse. “Christ almighty… You’ve become one hard bastard, you know that?” he muttered. “All I’m saying is, mind the lad, and mind yourself. This path’s broken sturdier boys than him.”

Ištván didn’t give his answer at once. Jakub was poking an old wound, one he knew he shouldn’t have, yet Ištván had no doubt he was doing it on purpose.

“I’m in your debt,” Ištván said at last, finally casting Jakub a sidelong glance. “That comes with certain privileges. You might not want to mistake that for more than it is.”

“Aye,” Jakub grumbled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Not after all these years under my damn belt.”

Satisfied enough with what he was hearing, Ištván flicked the reins to spur his stallion forward. There wasn’t too much light left, and he fully intended to reach the camp before nightfall.

The camp was no stronghold, nor a fortified redoubt with gates and palisade walls, nor even a hidden glade valued for its sightlines. It was a mere clearing in the woods, tucked near a stream choked with dying reeds. Whatever shelter they had managed to scrape together the past months came from rotting canvas and stretched hide, pulled taut over warped stakes or lashed to bowed branches.

A few tents stood around a dying fire. A handful of men had stayed behind; those too wounded or feverish to be of any use. One sat sharpening a knife on a flat stone, pausing only to spit into the fire. Another dozed beneath a moth-eaten cloak, his leg stretched toward the fire, bandaged with something that might once have resembled fresh linen.

Judging by the looks of it, one of them had tried roasting something—hare, perhaps—then abandoned it, leaving the charred remains to hiss over the coals. A pair of lean hounds lay beneath a sagging canvas. Autumn rains had turned the ground between the tents into an ankle-deep mire.

No one as much as looked up upon their approach. This wasn’t a place where riders were greeted, only counted, and this time, the count held. No dead of their own left in the mud to keep crows fed, which was rare enough.

This time around, it wasn’t those who were missing that drew the attention of those who had stayed behind. It was the one who wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.

Ištván swung a leg over and dropped from the saddle. Then, he reached up and hauled Erik down by the waist, steadying the boy before his bare feet squelched into the mud.

The boy didn’t speak, only swayed there for a moment, his arms wound tight around himself.

Beside them, Jakub dismounted as well, already barking orders to the others, same as ever.

“Get your useless arses up and help with the cart,” he yelled. “One of you lazy bastards, see to those chickens. Mikuláš, you clean the Chief’s blade before the rust sets in.”

Mikuláš, already loitering toward the cart, straightened and shot a sour glance in Erik’s direction.

“What about him?” he sneered, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “He’s got hands. Let the brat to do the scrubbin’, for fuck’s sake.”

Jakub didn’t bother turning around to face him. “You heard me,” he said, calmly. “And you'd best hope the Chief didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, alright, alright, I get it. Useless little shit, that one,” Mikuláš mumbled under his breath as he went on his way to find a whetstone and a scrap of relatively clean linen. He lowered his voice, content to let the noises all around drown the rest. “Looks like the Chief’s found himself a new bedwarmer. Shame the brat’s not even old enough to shave.”

Someone was finally stoking the dying fire, its warmth attracting those who were done with their duties to its vicinity. A few remained unloading the cart, sorting the loot by weight and worth. Some were already turning in for the night.

One of the greener lads kept cracking jokes about the fight without realising it hadn’t been a fight but a slaughter; not that he was anyway near seasoned enough to tell the difference. It was Jakub, who finally cuffed him hard enough to shut him up.

Ištván handed the reins to Oleg, who gave a curt nod and led the stallion away, patting his neck in a soothing rhythm as he went. Mikuláš came for the sword, but Ištván swatted him away, his attention already fixed on the boy.

“Come, Erik.”

Much to his satisfaction, Erik followed without needing to be told twice. He asked no idle whats or whys or wheres.

Not that Ištván would have had any patience to entertain him with answers. 

He led the boy through the camp, lost in his own thoughts. Soon enough, he reckoned, the roads would flood, then frost over and turn into solid ice. Not long after, Lord Stibor’s envoy would send for him and summon him to some roadside tavern here in the arse-end of the region, where ale was all watered down and no one of note ever passed through.

Ištván had dealt enough with their kind to know what to expect. A lockbox would be brought before him, containing just enough silver to keep a dozen men from starting a mutiny, and not a coin more, along with orders to lie low, ride no banners, and let the winter to do the legwork for a while.

He would go through the contents, split what needed splitting, and set aside what little he could keep for himself. The rest would go to Jakub to portion out, as usual.

But the day would come when he would no longer be the one squinting at the orders by campfire, with dirt and dry blood beneath his fingernails. Instead, he would be the one giving them, seated in the warmth of his own chambers, the hearth tended by servants, while a scribe inked his will to a piece of parchment sent out to those who, much like he did now, strived to become the stronger dog.

If only that day would be tomorrow, or at least the day after that, but no.

Ištván didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that more than one pair of eyes was tracking them through the dark. He grabbed Erik by the back of his neck and shoved him into his tent, not doubting a moment that there wouldn’t be questions, spat in secrecy, never straight to his face.

As the tent flap fell shut behind them, it was pitch-black inside. Ištván crouched by the central pole and found the lantern hook by feel. Flint struck steel, sparks flared, and a mere moment later, the wick caught, casting a wavering light across his domain, sparse and ascetic as it was.

It wasn’t much, but it was his.  

A narrow cot stood to one side, set apart from the rest of the tent by a curtain of rough linen hung from a length of twine stretched between two poles. The furs were worn thin, matted from constant use. Beside his bed, there was an iron-banded chest, secured with a heavy lock for which only he had the key.

The brazier long gone cold stood next to a rough-hewn table that was meant for writing letters and scouring maps, and for cups filled to the brim, when there was drink to be had. Not that there had been much reason for celebration lately.

His tent smelled as any might, but beneath the ordinary odours of leather, sweat, and damp wool, there was the scent of marigold mixed with tallow. It came from the salve he sometimes used to soothe the old burns across his palms, where the skin refused to forget.

It wasn’t the kind of detail many would notice, but Erik seemed to catch it. Perhaps he even liked it, for his shoulders seemed to ease, if only slightly. The scent seemed to calm him, and for a fleeting moment, he looked if not particularly comfortable, then something close to it.

Ištván had meant to have the boy to start earning his keep by lighting the brazier, striking flint until his fingers blistered, and then sit by the coals and keep watch. A thankless chore it was, fit for any camp brat pulled off the roadside and thrown into a mercenary’s lot.

But now that he looked at the boy, he felt an odd twist deep under his breastbone. It wasn't quite pity, he thought to himself, but a bitter recognition.

Nothing good ever came out of softness. That, he knew better than most. And yet, instead of barking the order, he reached for his pouch and drew out a small bundle of what remained of his travel rations: a hunk of crusty bread and a strip of dried meat, meant to keep hunger at bay through longer rides.

He thrust what was left of it toward Erik. “Eat,” he said, curtly. “Can’t have you keeling over before you’ve lifted a finger to earn your keep.”

Erik took the bundle without a word of thanks. Ištván watched him dropping into a crouch and tearing into the food like a starving cub, barely pausing to breathe while wolfing it down, devouring the scraps as though he’d never seen such a banquet in his life.

Ištván knew hunger like that didn’t come from missing a supper or two. It came from habit; from growing up never quite certain when, and if, the next meal would come. He turned away and crouched by the brazier, reaching for the flint once more.

He had already decided to send Erik to sleep with the rest of the men; to crawl somewhere in between the stinking and the snoring, like any newcomer would. The words, though, caught at the back of his throat, and by the time he found his wits again, he’d already pulled a spare blanket roll from under his cot and tossed it in the boy’s way.

“Floor’s yours,” he rasped. “Make use of it.”

Just for one night, he thought, if that would be enough to spoil the brat rotten, perhaps he wouldn’t have been worth keeping around to begin with.

Erik dropped down where he sat, the last of his strength spent, and went out like a snuffed candle—no prayer, no thanks. The boy fell asleep in a mere moment, like he was all too used to snatch what little comfort he might, before the world noticed and took it back.

He reminded Ištván of something that had once been. Or someone.

Ištván unbuckled his belt, not paying much heed to the dirt and dried blood covering it, and hung his sword on the makeshift rack by the entrance. His dagger, though, he kept close, as he always did. He slipped it free from its sheath and laid it near to his cot, where his hand would fall on it without thinking, if the need arose.

The brigandine came off next, its rivered plates clinking faintly as he shrugged it off. Beneath the first layer of armour, his black aketon clung to his undershirt, damp with sweat. He sat on the edge of his cot and pulled one boot off first, then the other, too exhausted to even bother to mind the mud.

He had no helmet to hang, for he rarely wore one. Helmets, in his way of thinking, were for the knightly sort; the ones who believed in honour, and chivalry, and fighting fair. All quaint ideas, no doubt—and best buried with the fools who died clutching at them.

His gloves came off last. Supple black leather, they were, finely stitched and always kept clean. He peeled them off slowly, flexing his sore fingers as he set them aside where they wouldn’t crease, and then rubbed idly at the old burns on his palms. Out of habit, this time, more than actual pain.

Only then did he lower himself onto his cot, already all too aware that sleep wouldn’t come easy for him that night.

Bracing himself on one elbow, he leaned back and glanced at Erik, or rather the filthy mop of hair that was all that was visible beneath the blanket. The boy hadn’t as much as made a sound after he’d settled into his place. That kind of sleep came only to the young or utterly spent, Ištván knew, and Erik was both.

Ištván, however, had long since mastered the art of sleeping with one eye open, or so to say, but tonight, even the lightest kind of sleep eluded him. He kept laying there, the weight of the last few days on the road pushing in, still being quite not enough to knock him out just yet.

It wasn’t Erik alone that kept him awake. Not just Erik, anyway, but everything that was long since buried and left unspoken, taking shape in that half-starved whelp with the privilege of being ah-so-blissfully unaware of the storm he’d had no business to stir in the first place.

Looking at Erik now was like looking into a mirror held up to the part of himself Ištván had long thought he’d torn apart, killed in cold blood and left to rot.

He found himself almost envying the boy, who was sprawled out and senseless, long beyond the reach of any kind of conscious thought. Meanwhile, his own mind kept wandering against his will, peeking into places it shouldn’t have, pacing between past and present miseries. It kept dragging him all the way back to those polished marble floors, rising steam, and the oppressive aromas of rosewater and musk that, even now, felt like they were choking the very breath from his lungs.

He gritted his teeth and rolled back onto his back, forcibly tearing his gaze off the boy. He had sworn he’d never go soft again, not after figuring out what biting back could earn a man.

He found himself wondering whether there was a way to salvage something from this odd detour he’d taken. There might be, he reckoned, if the boy would turn out as willing to learn as he’d been to live. At least the first lesson seemed to have stuck well enough, for siding with the strong was indeed the first step toward survival.

And if Erik would be up to take the next step and learn to take what would never be offered to the likes of him for free, Ištván thought, better he learned it from him than someone who would only break him beyond mending.

Sleep didn’t come easy for him that night, but it came, eventually. And when it did, it brought him dreams he wouldn’t remember in the morning.

The next time Ištván’s eyes flew open, it was almost as though the pale morning light cut straight through the canvas and stabbed right into his skull. His head throbbed like hell, and he doubted he had a single joint or muscle in his body that didn’t ache.

The brazier had gone cold again.

He grunted as he rolled to his side and propped himself on one elbow, squinting against the brightness. From the outside, he heard the usual noises of boots slogging through the muck and muttered curses as the men fumbled with straps and buckles they should have fixed the night before. Somewhere too close to his liking, those damn hounds were whining again, craving for scraps they weren’t likely to get.

He ought to have Oleg to put them out before the first snow. They wouldn’t last the winter, anyway.

Other than that, nothing seemed to be out of place. It was simply another of those slower sorts of mornings before the roads froze over and food began running thin.

He looked down where he expected to find the boy—that Erik—but he was nowhere to be seen. The blanket was still there, folded with care uncommon for lads his age, but the boy himself had vanished.

Foolish little thing, Ištván thought, for he knew that if he’d taken into his head to bolt, the cold would swiftly finish what Ištván himself hadn’t.

Perhaps a crust of bread, or a strip of meat, or even a blanket for the night weren’t too great of investments to mourn, but the thought he’d already wasted on teaching the whelp a thing or two...?

Now, that irked him more than it ought to have.

Regardless, he rose and reached for his cloak that was still damp at the hem, swinging it over his shoulders before ducking through the flap and stepping into the light. He pulled on his gloves as he went, his fingers settling into the creases worn to fit him.

The firepit spat and crackled under what little kindling the men had bothered to gather, nowhere near to chase the cold from one’s bones. Some were already helping themselves to the barrel of wine they had looted from that sorry excuse of a village tavern the night before.

A few heads turned as Ištván walked past, his hair tousled and jaw unshaven. He wore that look men who had barely slept often did when they weren’t in the mood for idle talk or jests. The men knew better than to say what they might’ve been tempted to and kept it to themselves.

Without a word, Ištván filled his cup too, rubbing at his temples as the wine sloshed in. Wine was fair game at any hour, although this swill barely earned the name, for it was thin as water and sour as a tanner’s vat. Still, he hoped it would at least take the edge off of his headache.

He drained half the cup in one swig and let his gaze wander around the camp, out of habit more than genuine interest, and that was when he spotted the boy.

Erik came into his view, trudging across the mire with an armful of firewood stacked tight against his chest. Even a blind man would’ve seen that the bundle was too much for him, yet he looked hellbent on not letting a single stick drop. When he reached the firepit, he crouched and laid the wood down with more care than any of the man could ever have arsed themselves with.

Afterwards, he simply turned and headed back for more, not so much as glancing around to see if anyone had noticed his efforts.

Ištván had, though. He watched the boy go in silence and emptied the rest of his cup down his throat. So, they boy hadn’t run for the hills, after all, but was already making himself useful. Less could be said for half of the grown men in his band most days. Not bad, for a half-starved stray in scorched rags.

By the firepit, Jakub gave the pot of thin mash of barley, carrot ends and what salted scrap he’d managed to scrounge from the stores a stir, knocking the wooden spoon against the edges. A few men hunched on the felled trunks around the fire, eagerly awaiting with empty bowls in their hands, trading odd complaints about the lack of meat and how the pathetic little tavern they had sacked served better fare than the slop Jakub was cooking up.

“Better a half-full belly now than an empty one later,” he grumbled, though mostly to himself. “You’d think winter was a fucking feast, the way you lot carry on.” Then he turned to Ištván and went on, “The lad may be thin as a reed, but he’s got grit. Gotta give him that.”

“So it would seem.”

By the time Erik made his way back to the clearing, most bowls were already filled, some even emptied already. The boy joined the line without a word, shivering in his sorry rags. He didn’t fidget but waited his turn as though he knew better than to ask more that was given—perhaps, he indeed did know.

Ištván took a seat by fire, his cup resting empty against his knee. He had lived this life for too long to not know how things would play out. There was a pecking order to set, and Erik was about to learn it the hard way.

When Erik’s turn came, Jakub scraped up what little remained and tipped it into a bowl—his own, for Erik didn’t have one. It wasn’t much more than a ladleful of barley-flavoured water and some sorry shred of a turnip.

“Bottom of the barrel, lad,” Jakub said, not unkindly. “Best see it eaten before it goes cold.”

Ištván watched from the sidelines as the boy gave a small nod and stepped back, clutching the bowl in his both hands as though it might vanish if he didn’t, and made for the gap between two tents at the far edge of the camp.

A good spot, Ištván noted, and a smart move, from a lad who seemed to know when to keep his head down. That sort of caution couldn’t have come from nowhere.

If only it would’ve been anywhere near good enough.

He tilted his head to see Mikuláš lounging on a mossy stump just off Erik’s path, knife in his hand, dragging the whetstone along the blade with slow, idle strokes. His long legs were stretched out in front of, and even from distance, Ištván could see him tracking Erik’s approach, his mouth settling into that crooked smirk; the kind that didn’t bode well for pups too green to watch their steps.

The moment Erik passed, Mikuláš moved his foot. Not too suddenly, or blatantly, but just enough.

The boy stumbled, his bowl tipping from his hands as he fell over. The thin broth was gone in mere seconds, swallowed by mud and dead leaves. A rough breath of laugh cracked from the throat of one of the men. Another answered with a mocking whistle.

“What’s the matter, pup?” Mikuláš called out. “That was bit of a waste, don’t you think?”

More men joined the laughter. One muttered something about camp brats having to learn their place, while another grunted in agreement.

Ištván, however, said nothing, and he didn’t intervene, either.

Instead, he was keen to see what the boy would do next. Erik hadn’t moved from where he’d fallen, almost as though he was considering clawing some of the slop back into his bowl, along with a healthy dose of mud and withering undergrowth.

The boy was caught in that narrow space between shame and spite, Ištván reckoned, a useless place to linger, unless meant to turn it into something of use.

Jakub leaned in and said, “Got some bread left in my kit. Dry as dust, but better than nothing. I’ll go fetch it.”

Ištván didn’t look over, as his gaze was still fixed on Erik.

“No, you won’t.”

“He’s a growing lad,” Jakub grumbled. “Not a dog to be starved into shape.”

“I said no,” Ištván said, curtly. “He’s a growing lad I mean to keep alive. There’s a lesson in this.”

Jakub grunted in disapproval. “There’s teaching a lesson,” he said, “and then there’s letting a lad go hungry for some cunt’s piss-poor idea of a jest.”

“Today, he trips and falls and goes hungry,” Ištván explained. Jakub’s short-sightedness didn’t particularly surprise him. “Tomorrow, he learns to watch his footing, and the day after that, he knows how to make sure no longer needs to. If he’s a smart lad, that is.”

Jakub sighed but said nothing more.

It wasn’t until later that Ištván went to look for Erik, who had gone missing after breakfast. He didn’t ask around, let alone raise his voice to call him over, for he had no intention of braying after the boy like some fretful wetnurse.

Besides, he already had a fair idea where to look.

Past the horses and the outermost tents, there was a stream beneath alders and beeches.  

There, he found Erik perched on a stone at the water’s edge, his knees drawn up high, resting his jaw against them. Pale sunlight kept catching on the boy’s fair hair. A small pile of pebbles lay at his side. One by one, he picked them up and threw them into the slow current.

Ištván made sure not to tread too softly, making no effort to muffle the crunch of dead leaves beneath his boots, for he had no intention to startle the boy. Instead, he came to a halt a few paces behind him.

“Sun like that don’t last long this time of year,” he said.

Sooner or later, the boy would have to learn to fight for his place in it.

Erik didn’t as much as glance over his shoulder. He simply sat there, watching the ripples fade where his last pebble had fallen into the water.

Only then he said, without looking over, “I know.”

There was no sulk, not even a flicker of bitterness, only the flat acknowledgment.

It was getting late. The wind picked up again, as if to remind them both that what little summery warmth might still have remained would soon be stripped way. Ištván’s gaze drifted over to the soot-stained tunic Erik was wearing, its hem frayed beyond mending, and his bare feet, mud-caked all the way up to his knees.

“A smart lad picks one misery at a time,” he said. “You’re collecting a whole set. Get on your feet. Let’s find you something that doesn’t stink of smoke and self-pity—oh, and burn those filthy rags of yours while we’re at it.”

He turned to head back to the camp. The boy followed, trailing after him, quiet but close. He decided to take a shortcut to where they stashed their loot near the makeshift combat ring, and before long he could hear a clash of steel meeting steel, followed by a burst of laughter and a string of heavy curses hurled in quick succession.

The combat ring was little more than a patch of trampled dirt encircled with a rope lashed between a few crooked stakes. A couple younger lads were having at it, lunging and feinting and then lunging again, their boots kicking up dust and muck as they went on. One of the combatants was flailing an axe, the other had a bludgeon only faintly resembling a proper mace.

Strong arms, sloppy footwork, Ištván noted, though neither showed enough promise to warrant correction.   

A few others loitered at the edges of the ring, barking crude encouragements and even cruder insults. A battered helm was passed from hand to hand to collect the wagers. That was considered sport for the older fellows, who rarely bothered to hone, let alone show off their skills, unless cheap ale and boredom got the upper hand on them.

As they walked past the ring, Ištván noticed Erik’s pace faltering, and for the first time since the chapel, there seemed to be something in his eyes beyond that unsettling calm or simple caution. A flicker of curiosity, perhaps, and sheer awe.

Ištván knew that look for the sort that came before foolish questions, only to soon be followed by bloodied noses and broken teeth. That was what ought to happen when stupid boys mistook brashness and bravado for skill. Let the lad start thinking clumsy swings like that were worth imitating, he thought, and he would end up dead in a ditch before learning a damn thing.

He clicked his tongue low in his throat. “Keep walking.”

Erik obeyed, but not before stealing one last look over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on the sparring men until they fell out of sight. Only then did he turn his attention onward, trailing after Ištván as they crossed the camp.

As they approached the loot cart, Ištván was pleased to see everything in decent order. Jakub had seen to it, as always, and had the more valuable goods sorted and stashed away. The rest was left for bartering or, in case of cheaper cloth, to be stripped down for bandages, always in short supply as they were.  

He stepped up to the cart and began sorting through the leftovers himself. Not that there was too much to choose from; mostly castoffs and spoils too worn to fetch any real coin. A faded tunic there, a patched cloak there, way too large for the lad, anyway. He kept searching the pile with practiced hands, pulling items aside one by one, judging each by weight and strength of seams.

He certainly wasn’t looking for anything fine, for something warm and sturdy enough would do. After a while, his eyes caught a woollen overtunic that looked if not decent, then at least serviceable, even though the sleeves were slightly frayed and the collar stained with sweat. It would hang a bit loose on the boy, but better loose than too tight.

A pair of hose followed soon after, coarse but mostly intact, and a pair of ankle boots, scuffed and mismatched in colour, but dry inside and solid in the sole. Good for the winter to come, he thought as he tossed his findings onto the lid of the cart—if the boy would live through it, he would need a new pair by then, anyway.

He thrusted the bundle into Erik’s arms. “Try these.”

Erik got right on it and took the clothes, though he stilled as his eyes caught on a crooked line of thread below the collar. A clumsy repair, Ištván noticed as he looked more closely, stitched with more care than skill; the sort of mending done by a mother’s hand. The boy stared at it for a heartbeat too long, but that was enough to draw Ištván’s attention.

“Not fancy enough for you, hm?”

Erik didn’t say anything at first. He ran his thumb over the jagged stitching before looking up at Ištván, and with his voice quiet but certain, he said, “I think I know who this belonged to.”

Ištván cocked a brow. “A friend of yours?”

Erik shook his head. “No,” he said, almost bristling, as he pulled the old tunic off. “He’s—he was—a real cunt.”

Ištván let out a short breath, something between a scoff and almost genuine laugh. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “You need it more than he does now, don’t you think?”

Spite often held more warmth than the thickest wool, Ištván mused, but only so long as it was honed into action and pointed in the right direction. In a young boy such as Erik, it could just as well be rendered useless if left to find its own mark.

He watched as Erik adjusted the tunic before moving on to the boots. The boy moved with that same quiet, yet determined resolve he’d shown from the start, but now, Ištván was beginning to see something even more interesting beneath it—something that didn’t only catch his attention but truly held it.

Fascinated him, even, though he wouldn’t have gone as far as admitting it aloud.

It didn’t look like mere defiance, and not common pride, either. Those always cracked under pressure, and he had no use for brittle things.

But promise... That, he could work with. That, he could shape to his liking. And Ištván, almost despite himself, was curious to see what might become of this boy, with the right hands on the reins.