For a larger man, this Bartholomew fellow couldn't half move quick. His face red and his breaths little more than wheezes, he still pushed on at a pace Conrad could barely keep up with. Against blustering winds and relentless rain, the fat old man marched. He might've looked heroic, were he not so visibly fatigued. With every step he sucked in a great mouthful of air and then blasted it back against the wind. Droplets of sweat and rain ran down his ruddy forehead, and his grand beard now looked like a drowned cat clinging to his chest.
If anything, Conrad was glad this Bartholomew was breathing through his mouth and not his nose. Whether it be from his short stay in the Low Wood, or the current state of his body, Conrad noticed he'd developed an odour. A stench, more accurately. At first, he misjudged it might have been old, huffing Bartholomew, for who wouldn't expect a man of his age, stature, and reckless speed to at least conjure a bit of a smell?
After a short moment of dreaded realisation, Conrad concluded it was he who smelled like he'd just taken a bath in a barrel of powder. Chemical and pungent, it was unlike anything the foot soldier had smelled before; he only hoped it wasn't strong enough for others to smell.
"Nearly there now," bellowed old Bartholomew. As Conrad weaved his way through crowds of people rushing their way out of the rain, the man in front barrelled through the streets like a bull. Any who dared cross his path were shouldered swiftly to one side. He hadn't even told Conrad for where they were going, or for what purpose. Conrad didn't need the answer to the former. Even as the rain tried to hide it, he could still make out Quenasses' Bastille; huge, messy thing that it was.
"Would you mind," Conrad said. He panted between the words, but did not feel fatigued. It seemed more of a natural, instinctual reaction. "Telling me why you dragged me out into this? I've only arrived this morning, I've not even sat down since I returned to Quenasses."
In truth, Conrad may not have sat down in Quenasses, though his journey back to the city wasn't exactly a tough one. With Bearskull's guidance and magic, he was mostly carried from the Low Wood by thick vines and a few beasts the witch had persuaded to help Conrad escape. From there, he spent a few days walking at a leisurely pace, informed by Bearskull that it didn't matter when he reached the city again, and should he need help he'd find it. The rests were plenty, and the hag had left him with plenty of water and some strange vegetables that proved extremely tasteful.
"Countess said she wanted to see you," Bartholomew huffed. "Personal order, lad. I'm sure you'll get your rest soon enough so stop whining, aren't you a soldier?"
Actually, Conrad thought. I'm not sure anymore.
He didn't like the sound of the Countess' involvement. There were more than a few Countesses of the Drevonish Court, yet there would be no other that would want to see him except the Countess of Uttoll, the woman Bearskull wanted dead. What if Countess Dreor already knew that? What if it was all some grand scheme?
Conrad felt his heart beating in his chest. It would've been a relieving thing, to know at least there was something definitively alive within him. Except, his heart was beating heavily out of the fear of what awaited him in the Bastille.
They stopped in the centre of the Bastille's courtyard, just before two wide open doors which were letting a flood of people in and a trickle out. Bartholomew was talking to someone. Amber hair, a handsome face. Conrad recognised this man; he'd seen him just after the siege of Quenasses.
"Ah," said the handsome man, offering his hand. "So you're our survivor, eh? Robert Wisser."
Conrad recognised that name, though he'd never known the face behind it. Wisser was the Countess' husband, though by all accounts they were married in name only, and Robert saw as many women as he dared. Besides the rumours of his marital life, Wisser was an exceptional duellist, his swordsmanship was surpassed by none in all of Drevon.
"Conrad," Conrad stated. He shook the hand that was offered to him.
"Woah," Robert chuckled, pulling his hand away swiftly. "Quite a grip there, any harder and you'll break my sword hand."
"Sorry," Conrad said. "Sorry, I didn't mean to."
Wisser placed a firm hand on Conrad's shoulder. "Not to worry. You're nervous, everyone is around Anne. Trust me though, there's no need. All she'll want is a recount of the events at Low Wood. We're trying to get to the bottom of this ambush, how it happened, you see?"
Conrad nodded.
"Brilliant," Wisser chuckled, stepping out into the rain. "Just remember, Lady Courtesy, not Ma'am."
"Alright," Conrad said at a volume too quiet to be heard.
Bartholomew stared at Wisser as he walked away. His eyes were like that of a fish's; big, bulging, and watery. They ogled Robert Wisser's slender back as it weaved between a crowd of knights.
Old Bartholomew seemed to admire this man deeply. Conrad couldn't blame him. That smile, the charm, it was enough to make man and woman alike swoon. Conrad never found himself to be a man easily charmed, though, he could see through the falsities more times than not. He didn't trust people naturally, especially those with silver tongues. Even if genuine, Conrad didn't take compliments, he didn't listen to anything like that unless he believed someone to be speaking fact.
Wisser was pretty though, that much he could not deny, nor resist.
"Where to?" Conrad asked. Wisser had disappeared a moment ago, yet Bartholomew stared still.
"Er," Bartholomew grumbled, "Down the corridor to your right. My left, there's a set of stairs. They curve all around like a… like…"
"A spiral."
"Yes, they curl like a spiral, follow them all the way up to the top, don't turn off anywhere. Then wait outside the doors."
"You're not coming with?" Conrad asked. "Don't I need to be introduced? To ensure I'm not an assassin."
"Heh," Bartholomew chuckled. "Already been up those stairs once today lad, then rushed you here. I don't think my heart could take much more walking. Also, don't be making jokes like that, the assassin one, you never know who's listening around here."
"Thank you," Conrad said, nodding at his guide.
"Oh," Bartholomew huffed, slumping down on a nearby bench. "Don't thank me yet, not until you've survived her."
Conrad gave another nod of thanks before beginning his grand climb. So far into his journey, he felt no fatigue. Unlike Bartholomew, who was nothing but a wheezing pile of cloth and flesh, Conrad's body felt as fresh as it ever did. He hoped that it was a sign of his youth rather than a sign of something else, something Bearskull had put in him.
After a few minutes of nothing but painted walls and spiralling stone Conrad knew why Bartholomew did not want to share in this path. The climb itself was simple, the circling wasn't. Conrad felt sick, resorting to staring down at the floor so he wouldn't decorate the walls with something other than art. Even though Arten believed some cultures considered anything art, Conrad was almost certain vomit wasn't considered anything but vomit by all cultures.
He halted a moment to laugh at that thought. Conrad pressed his hand against a naked stone slab, only for it to feel warm to his touch. Strange. He flipped his hand over, placing the back of his palm against the stone.
Still warm.
Conrad touched his fingers to his forehead. He gasped slightly as what felt like long, stubby icicles tapped his forehead. The cold wasn't just in Bearskull's chamber.
"So," Conrad whispered, rubbing his hands together in a desperate attempt for warmth. "This is what dead fingers feel like."
A woman, tall and noble, strode past Conrad on the staircase. She overtook him quickly and darted into a nearby corridor. All the while she looked at him with judgemental, slightly scared eyes. Conrad continued the rest of his journey in silence.
It was as odd as Bartholomew had made it sound. At the top of the grand staircase, there was nothing except a pair of dark oak doors. Unlike the rest of the stairs, where a web of corridors and entryways spanned from every direction, there was only one option if Conrad wished to continue forwards.
Atop the stairs, there was a small, level space, with a narrow window overlooking most of Quenasses. The view was unlike anything Conrad had ever seen. He stared out with wonder at the Black Coast, the waves battling against the shore.
"You are allowed to knock, you know," said a voice behind Conrad. It was droll, nasally, and caught him by such surprise that he nearly fell out of the window.
"Lady Courtesy," Conrad blurted. He spun around, fluttering about before remembering to bow. He wasn't sure if he had to bow. Better to be safe than sorry.
"Aren't you formal?" Countess Dreor leaned casually against a half open door. A wry smile curled on the left side of her face. "Come on in, I've just a few questions for you."
Conrad followed awkwardly behind the Countess. He thought it strange how short she was. She couldn't have been much over five feet, yet she carried herself as the Patriarch would; walking with her arms out slightly, her shoulders broad.
The Countess spun on her heel suddenly. Conrad just stopped before crashing into her.
"Drink?" she asked.
Conrad didn't say anything. Nervousness held his lips tight.
"I won't charge," Countess Dreor chuckled.
Conrad still didn't say anything. The Countess dropped her smile. It might have been a better look for her, in all honesty. While she was smiling, the pointedness of her face faded. The sharpness of her cheekbones and jaw were masked by the attempt of a nicety.
"Well," she continued. "Please sit."
Conrad sat. The Countess remained standing.
"What is your name soldier?"
"Conrad, Lady Courtesy."
"Conrad…"
"Just Conrad. Don't think there's anything else to it."
"Right. Tell me Conrad, could you give me a short account of what happened at Low Wood?" Though phrased like a question, it was clear Dreor was not asking, but demanding.
"Well, on the orders of the Patriarch-"
"May we be humbled by his glory," interjected the Countess.
"Yes," Conrad said. "May we be humbled. We marched northwards, to begin expansion further. On our fifth day, we were ambushed. With superior numbers and surprise on their side, the enemy had us routed quickly. Options were slim, either be pushed into the Wood or filled with arrows. I chose the former, though I took an arrow or two before I fell."
"You say you fell?"
"Slipped, more like. Formations were a mess. It was a scramble at best, Lady Courtesy. Their cavalry ran around our flanks, cutting down the runners and penning us in. I was pushed to a steep edge and fell into the Low Wood."
"Must have been quite a fall, one large enough to prevent you from returning."
"I'm sorry?" Conrad didn't understand.
"Don't be. Instead, tell me why you return here alone, seemingly unharmed, a week after the battle itself?"
Shit, Conrad thought. She knows. She must know.
"I don't know," Conrad said, deciding it was better to speak quickly, so his answers didn't seem prepared.
Fuck. Brilliant, now if she didn't know anything, she's at least suspicious.
Dreor raised a pale brow, her hair so light you could practically see through it. "You don't know what?"
"How I survived," Conrad answered quickly again.
"Well, I'm sure it was very stressful, but I need you to remember details. Take a drink. It might calm you."
The Countess pushed a silver goblet towards Conrad.
"No thank you," Conrad said. He didn't remember seeing the Countess or one of the guards behind her pour anything into that goblet. It had been prepared. Conrad didn't like that.
"All I know," he continued. "Is that my fall was broken. By branches, leaves, I'm not sure, to be honest I closed my eyes when I fell. I thought that was it."
"But you survived."
"I woke up. I didn't know where I was, or what happened to me. I made my own way out, traversing around that horrid place until I found a path."
"Then that path led here? Rather lucky."
Conrad's leg began to jostle, bobbing up and down. "I suppose it is. Lucky I'm alive at all, really."
"Yes," said the Countess. Conrad was almost certain she didn't listen to what he had said last. She wasn't even looking at him. Her face pointed upwards, though Conrad saw her nose twitch. It was a slight movement, but she had clearly smelled something, that something being Conrad. He though about apologising for the smell, though then that would be admittance that the odour was him. She would know for certain then.
"Could I ask you one more question, Conrad?"
Conrad would have given anything for no more questions. "Of course, Lady Courtesy."
"Did you know magic stinks?"
Conrad didn't have a quick response for that question. He couldn't help but react in such a way that caused a smug grin to show on the face of the Countess.
"No," she said. "I didn't think you would. You don't seem like a magician. Too… bland."
"I don't know what you mean," Conrad said.
"I don't care. You can stop looking like you're going to shit yourself. I won't kill you. Bad for optics. For whatever reason you stink, I don't care either. Know only this, Conrad, my eyes are on you now. They are everywhere, and watch everything. Take a single step against me, and you'll find death quicker than a plague-ridden rat. Understand?"
Conrad nodded.
"Goodness you are good," chuckled the Countess. "Your little nods, the silence. You're practically a dog, aren't you? Well, that's all we need here. All I ask is that you remain an obedient, silent, dog."
A thumping at the door. Loud, brutish, it demanded an immediate audience. Both Conrad and the Countess jumped a little at the suddenness of it.
"Who is this?" Dreor asked.
The door swung open. Conrad could have cheered, were he not worried the Countess might kill him for it.
"Apologies for the rude intrusion, Lady Courtesy," Biter said, wiping a sweating brow with his forearm. He was breathing heavily through his mouth.
"I'm clearly in a meeting," said Dreor. "Would you mind waiting?"
"Well, uh, I would."
"You what?"
"Captain Tim Newbury, Lady Courtesy. Of the Sixth regiment. You signed off on my promotion."
"And what if I did?"
"Then you'd know I was in the Pups, prior to that position, same as this lad. I would very much like to take him in under my command, if possible."
"Well…"
"Immediately," Biter interrupted.
Dreor glared at Biter. The whole room waited a moment; to see if the bald man might burst into flames.
"Please," Biter pleaded. "I'll wait outside if you're still speaking to him, but I ask only that when he's returned to service, you send him along with a friendly face."
The Countess smiled. "How could I refuse such a touching gesture? I believe I'm quite done with you, Conrad. If I'm not, well, I know where I'll find you."
The door closed behind them with a resounding thud. Conrad opened his mouth to speak but a quick gesture silenced him. Biter simply pointed downwards before descending the stairs.
He looked older. It might not have been ten days since they last saw each other, but Biter looked perhaps five years older than Conrad remembered. The skin around his jowls had loosened further. His eyes had dark, baggy rings and his forehead looked as if it had earned a few more wrinkles. It was always hard to tell with Biter's forehead though, the man frowned as much as he breathed.
They walked in silence. At first, Conrad had been relieved to see his friend. Now though, he wasn't sure what to think. There was a similar air about Biter to that of the Countess. Authority. All Conrad could do was hope it hadn't changed his friend.
The rain was heavy by the time they left the Bastille. Weighty drops fell hard on the paved streets, pelting any who dared still walk in the open air. It seemed even the weather was fighting against the invaders. Conrad didn't mind; the cool rain washed away the sweat from his forehead, he felt somewhat cleaner having water run over him, considering he hadn't bathed in over two weeks. He was also glad for the rain as it drowned out the silence.
Overhead, Conrad eyed an oddity in the rain. It was a crow, nothing odd by itself, except for the fact it was not looking for any sort of shelter. It stood in the rain, watching Conrad with its dark, soulless eyes.
"Well," Biter said, turning to face Conrad. He had a dark look on his face. Serious, almost angry. "Who said you could come back here then?"
"Eh?" Conrad said.
"Oh," Biter cackled, a huge smile across his face. "Look at your fucking face. I'd pay to have a painting of that."
The bald man pulled Conrad in for a strong, if a little damp, embrace.
"Look at you," Biter continued. "All alive! I'm glad, mate, I am. Thought we'd lost you, then I heard you were back, and of course the she-beast wanted to see you right away, bloody bitch can't even let a man have a pint and a sit down."
Conrad pulled away from the hug. He didn't want anyone else smelling him. "Suppose that's the perk of being a captain, eh. You know where everyone is, can ask a Countess for a favour."
"Oh, Captain or not mate I would've got you out of that. But yeah, you're not half right. You climb one rung of the ladder, and the difference it makes." Biter whistled. "You wouldn't believe it."
"I'm sure I wouldn't," Conrad said. His eyes returned to the crow. It was still standing there, observing. He couldn't help but remember the Countess' promise.
"Argh," Biter gave an affectionate slap to the side of Conrad's arm. "What are we doing out here? This fucking rain. Tell you what, they've let my lads into the old guard barracks. There'd be a bed and hot meal waiting for you if you want it."
"Yeah, go on."
Biter's smile faded. "Got some catching up to do, I suppose. I know you're not in the best state, but I might need your help too."
Conrad watched the crow caw at him before fluttering away. It did not fly towards the Bastille, but instead over the city walls, out into the wilderness.
He nodded at Biter. "Anything, mate."
"How is it?" Biter asked, nodding at the second bowl Conrad had emptied.
"Good, yeah," Conrad lied. In all honesty, the food was mediocre at best. Vegetables that had seen better days; stringy, salted meat and bread that had more than a few mouldy spots. Still, Conrad ate as much as he could. There were some things he did not feel. Warmth, pain, though he hadn't tested the second one. Hunger, however, he most definitely felt. Thirst too. Biter offered a rusted mug and Conrad grabbed it impatiently. He gulped down the warm, brackish water as if it were the sweetest nectar in the world. Every drop was drained from the mug before it clattered on the table, alongside the empty bowls.
Biter cleared his throat. In the dim candlelight, he looked menacing. His eyes green like a cat's, his face frowning and serious. Standing over Conrad as he sat on a stiff bed, the old, bald soldier had lost all his usual, playful demeanour.
"It's Arten," Biter said.
"Ah," Conrad said, shuffling on the bed, trying to find any sort of comfort. "I wondered why he wasn't here for the welcome back."
Biter paused for a moment. His eyes distanced, he seemed to lose focus in the flickering flame of the candle.
"Mate?" Conrad said. "He's not died, has he?"
"Idiot," Biter muttered. "That pissing idiot. I told him to stop with all that shit he spouts. Told him the wrong ears would hear soon enough. Didn't listen though, did he?"
"He got nicked?"
"Yeah. Lad I know in the Third told me they grabbed him right in the street, for all to see. Patriarch's lads. Bald ones, scars on their foreheads."
"Pale Boys."
"Aye," Biter said. "Mean bastards dragged him under the Bastille."
"Surely they'd take him back home?" said Conrad. "They've got the facilities there to beat him till he can't think, turn his mind into mush and then make that mush whatever they want."
"Don't need anything special to do that, just a quiet space for it it."
"But-"
"Trust me mate, a Captain knows things."
Biter stooped down, getting awkwardly close to Conrad.
"What are you doing?" Conrad asked.
"Oh yeah, should've said mind out. There's uh, something under your bed I need."
He pulled out a large, rolled up sheet of paper. It was unveiled to be what looked like the floor plans of a castle, including designs for turrets, gates, and the thickness of the walls. Conrad noticed the familiarity. It was a map of the Bastille.
Biter's eyes quickly moved from the larger diagrams and locked onto something else. A huge labyrinth underneath the Bastille, weaving its way into the earth, too far from any unknowing eyes to find it.
"I don't need to explain what we're going to do here," Biter said. "Do I?"
"No," Conrad muttered, turning the paper over and over, trying to examine any faults in the design of the Bastille. "But are you certain he's here? I'm not about to risk treason because of your stupidity."
"Treason?" Biter said surprisedly. "You're sure this is treason?"
"Yeah mate. You so much as sneeze in the Patriarch's direction and you're done for treason. This is a bit more than that."
"Fuck it," Biter chuckled. "Treason it is then. Only if we're found out."
"Knowing you it's more of a when we're found out." Conrad rolled the plans back up before handing them to Biter. "But yeah, I'm in."
"Wow, really? Thought I'd have to a bit of convincing at least. You know, mention the time in Uttoll when Arten dragged you out of something like this."
"There's a difference between a whorehouse and a castle, mate," Conrad protested. "I will admit though it was a scary time. Who knew they were allowed to bring knives into brothels nowadays?"
"I did," Biter said. "And I was willing to let you go, anyway."
"No," Conrad said. "You weren't."
"Yes, I was. The joke was fucking horrible mate.
"How so?"
"You made fun of their skin, in front of them. I'd say you'd earned your death."
"Ah," Conrad protested, wagging a finger at Biter. "The joke was fine. Just a poor audience."
"We're getting off topic," Biter said. "Arten. When are you gonna be ready? I've got our route all planned out, paid off some lads to look the other way when needed."
"Fucked if I know, mate. Whenever. Tonight, if need be."
"You sure? Can't lie to you. You look like shit."
"I'm fine," Conrad asserted. He did feel fine. Strangely, unexpectedly fine. Though, he could guess he didn't look it. Unable to see his face, he had all the information he needed from looking at his hands. They looked practically frozen, near purple in colour. Most of the life had drained from them. Still, he'd looked worse when first he had awoken. He only hoped that his colour, and some normality, would return soon.
"Not tonight," Biter said. "But tomorrow, that would do. You got armour? A blade."
Conrad gestured to his unarmed, unarmoured state. He'd left those things with Bearskull. The armour was broken, and the hag had said he made a more believable survivor without a sword.
"Yeah, stupid question. Let me go get you some stuff."
Biter hurried away. In the distance, Conrad could hear the chattering of Biter's boys. They weren't a full regiment yet, but from the sound of the echoing laughter, the shouts, and the bumps against the wall from wrestling, it seemed they were on their way to being a close bunch of lads.
A shame, Conrad thought. None of them get it, but they're soon about to learn.
Biter introduced Conrad to the new and improved Sixth regiment as he'd been brought in. It was a grim thing, but Conrad couldn't help picturing what those cheery, laddish faces would look like as they died. Or worse, how sad those faces would be when they saw a man they'd built as a brother cut down like a dog. 'A tragedy of war,' some called it. To Conrad, those people were idiots. Death was a fact of war, simple as. It was stupid to think that none of that death would ever be close to you, to think only the enemy died.
Some considered it natural human behaviour to think this, to hope for the best. Conrad had removed that behaviour from himself some while ago. A dead mother often numbs a boy to ideas of death. For Conrad, it hardened him, made him unlikeable to most, as he never bothered to make an attachment with them. Biter and Arten were different stories. Only just.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Something was rapping on the window, across the room from Conrad.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He looked for the source of the tapping to find a familiar creature shoving its beak into the glass. Closer now, Conrad got a better look at the crow. It was an entirely normal bird, if a little large, except for the two shining red beads that were its eyes. Monstrous little things, they uneased Conrad.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
After every symphony of tapping the bird cocked its head at Conrad. This time its patience seemed to be lagging. It nodded directly at the latch to open the window.
"No," Conrad whispered, realising that this bird was a bit too clever. "Fuck off."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"No," he repeated.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Fine!" he exclaimed, walking over to the window and swinging it wide open.
"Took you long enough," said the Crow. It had a familiar voice, warbling and animalistic.
A dark, shadowy mist covered the crow as it flew about the room. The mist grew increasingly until it appeared that it would fill the space. It blinded Conrad, filling his nose with an earthy scent and his mouth with something thicker than air, but not as thick as smoke.
Bearskull, accompanied by the amorphous cloak covering their body, floated a few inches above the floor.
"Hello Conrad," they said.
"Greetings," Conrad said. "Mind telling me why you're here? Anyone sees you, we're both dead."
"I wouldn't think that's a problem for you," Bearskull replied. "Isn't this a quaint space?"
"The point, witch. Get to it please."
"I didn't think every solider got their own room. Thought you usually all shared a tent or something. Gods, the unspoken things that must happen there. Men far away from home, the rules, their wives. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall for all those lonely nights."
Conrad sighed and tried to waft some of the mist out of the window.
"I believe you've met the Countess?" Bearskull asked. There was no need for the question. It was clear she already knew.
"Yes," Conrad confirmed.
"How much of a bitch was she?"
"I didn't kill her."
"No, I think it's a bit early for that, don't you? There are plenty of things to do, plans to put in place. You killing Dreor now, well as funny as it might be to see the look on her face… no, no. We can't just leave a vacuum."
Conrad remembered something the Countess had said. Something that had nearly got him killed.
"You never told me magic smells," he said.
"Didn't I? I thought it was just one of those things people knew. Like don't meet a Fellander unarmed, or don't eat wild berries?"
"That would've been the case," Conrad argued. "A hundred years ago. Times have changed."
"I know. Sorry about that."
"Don't be sorry. Just tell me what you came here for."
"Well," Bearskul said. They finally looked at Conrad now. They'd otherwise been too concerned with the room around them. The dull walls, the creaky floor, Bearskull inspected them like fine works of art. "The Countess, wonderful woman that she is, made a threat. Something to scare you, I hope to tell you something to ease you. I want to remind you of the importance of our goal, but also that it is our goal. I am here to help."
They placed a hand on Conrad's shoulder.
"And I'm always watching. If you need."
With that, the darkness collected itself within the cloak. Bearskull's form seemed to double in size, looming over Conrad with their beady red eyes. Strangely enough, Conrad couldn't smell Bearskull in the way he could smell himself. Given their alleged status as a magician, he'd thought they might at least smell a bit like magic.
The eyes stared at Conrad for a moment as Bearskull hovered towards the window. Behind those eyes, behind the mask, Conrad knew there was a smile. It made him deeply uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as her promise to always be watching him.
Bearskull's eyes did not leave Conrad until they had left the room, stuffing the large form through the open portal in a whirl of wind. Conrad slammed the window shut behind Bearskull, hoping he might finally get some peace. It had only been, what, three days since they last spoke to each other? After over a week of preparation, training, getting Conrad ready to return to the world of the living and they just couldn't resist coming to check up on him.
Another knock at the door. Conrad was losing patience. The Patriarch, the Countess, this pissing magician. Arten, Biter, the rest of the Eighth. There were too many things for Conrad to be dealing with, too many problems clouding his mind.
"Alright mate?" Biter said, closing the door behind him. "You're looking miffed." In his hands, he held a zweihander. It was shiny, a new thing. Must have been fresh off the forge, the way it looked.
"Just tired," Conrad said.
"Alright."
Actually, he thought. If not Biter, who can I tell?
"Can I ask you something?" Conrad asked.
"So long as it's got nothing to do with women," Biter said. "You're too old for that talk." He pulled up a chair and sat down with a sigh. With the heel of his palm he rubbed some life into his eyes. He was tired, about as tired as Conrad should've been. Biter would never show it though, never complain.
"No," Conrad chuckled. "No, I, uh. You ever met a magician?"
"Nah, mate. Don't think they're real, to be honest. Just something made up to scare fuckers on a battlefield, all that magic."
"Well," Conrad said, slightly puzzled. "It is a fact. They are real."
"You think what you want."
"I know, mate. One of them met me. In the Woods."
Biter raised what was left of an eyebrow.
Shit, thought Conrad. How much can I tell him? Maybe leave out the dying bit.
"Took me in for a bit," Conrad continued. "Until I was well enough to walk back."
"Sounds nice of them."
"Yeah, except now I think they want me to kill the-"
Biter's stinking gloved palm wrapped tightly around Conrad's mouth before another word could escape from it.
"No," Biter ordered. "No, no, no. I don't even want to hear those next words. You fucking boys, never hearing yourselves. We've already got to go get Arten because of his mouth. I won't do the same for you both. Whisper, dickhead."
Conrad muffled a few words, only to earn a punch in the ribs from Biter.
"No words. Just nod if you understand."
Conrad nodded fervently.
"Alright," Biter said, shoving Conrad back. "Get some sleep now."
"Who are you, my father?"
"Did your father ever hit you?"
"On occasion," Conrad admitted. It was almost as if he'd forgotten about his father, about home.
"Smart man. No other way to deal with one like you."
"What does that mean?"
Biter turned from the question. His short, broad frame eclipsing the candlelight as he bent over. With a lick of his thumb, he extinguished the small, defenceless light.
"Goodnight, Conrad," he said.
Conrad felt around in the dark, fumbling for his bed. After a couple of stubbed toes and muffled curses, his hands grasped the end table, knocking over most of its contents, before he finally slumped onto the firm cot. He didn't undress; he dared not stand up in the dark again. It might help to keep his same, stinking clothes too. If he kept a scent of bodily odour about him, he might mask the smell of magic.
He closed his eyes. They refused to open again, not until he woke in the morning. In his sleep, Conrad did not dream. He was aware though. He understood the darkness around him; the endless depth of it, the oppressive feeling of it. It was a strange sensation, being both awake and asleep, and Conrad deeply hoped it would only be for this one night.