Conrad swung his blade deftly. It clashed against Arten's sword with a satisfying clang. Arten pushed himself back with a grunt, creating distance between himself and Conrad. He'd not been able to find a zweihander spare in the streets of Quenasses, and so used the ornate longwords left inside their stolen home.
"Nice hit," Arten said. "But your footing's off."
Conrad steadied his feet instinctively. "I'm trying to avoid all that flowery shite. Doesn't get me anywhere."
"So you want to be like Biter then? Grouchy and vicious?"
"No," Conrad huffed, swinging his blade once more. "I just want to stop messing around." Each blow aimed for Arten's sword. It would've been poor sportsmanship to take off a man's head in a spar, after all.
Arten ducked under the swing, spinning around to catch Conrad in the stomach with an elbow. Clutching onto the hilt of Conrad's sword, Arten halted the duel.
"I'll be honest with you mate; you're not going to stop what you do with your sword. All the spins, the flourishes, that's you. Trying to go for that instant kill isn't going to work because it's not where your head wants to go. That aside, I'd rather you didn't give up on all your fancy moves. They're quite impressive."
Conrad pulled back from Arten. He strode over to the side of the house and leant his sword against the wall.
"That little head of yours," Arten continued. "It's too clogged up, mate. It needs clearing out if you're going to be any help to Bearskull."
"I haven't decided if I will be of any help to Bearskull."
Arten squinted at Conrad. It was a questioning, judgemental look, one Arten usually saved for idiots and ingrates.
Conrad slumped against the wall next to his sword. He looked out behind Arten, at the sizeable garden behind the nobleman's house. It was nice enough. Green grass grew all around, with thick flower bushes around the sides. A single, large tree stood towards the back of the garden. It was as thick as a man, and double the height, though the trunk began to bend back towards the floor at the tree's top, as if it were about to burrow itself in the dirt once more. Most of the leaves had fallen from the tree now, and the ones that were left were brownish, ugly things. The nakedness of the tree made it look old, withered, though in the sunny seasons Conrad was sure a new life would be breathed into the thing.
Arten rested his sword and sat down next to Conrad. He looked around at the garden, at the grey clouds above, the soft earth below.
"Three days," Conrad all but whispered. "Only three days until whatever that witch is planning comes to fruition. It's all too sudden; I don't even know if I can trust her."
"You can't," Arten said. "You definitely shouldn't."
"That's not very comforting."
"I thought I could trust the men at that pub," Arten said. "Then look what happened. One question of whether the Patriarch is the Supreme power and I'm morphed into some half Pale Boy. You can't trust anyone Conrad, and you should always be prepared for them to do the worst, but that doesn't mean you can control everything everyone does."
"I don't know what you're trying to say."
"Just worry about yourself mate. You know you are going to figure this all out on your own, right? Just like me."
"Thanks," Conrad said. He smiled at Arten, but he did not believe his friend's words. Arten may put on a brave face, keep his smiles going for Conrad's benefit, but inside he was a mess too. A maelstrom of anger and despair wracked through his body and mind, and it was becoming more obvious with the passing of each day. Arten was calm, perhaps the calmest person Conrad knew. He always thought things out, always weighed the pros and cons with each decision, but that was all thrown out the window once he'd been kidnapped. The things he'd gone through, the way he'd been used, well they were bound to change a man, to make him want revenge.
Conrad was feeling something slightly similar now. He could find the hate for Drevon, for Anne Dreor and that sodding Patriarch. The higher-ups that had split apart the Eighth before sending the dregs to die. To act on that hate was a different story altogether. Conrad was almost certain he didn't have it in him, and would only be following Bearskull out of feeling he had to rather than wanting to.
Does that really matter? He asked himself. Most people do the things they do because they must.
Conrad shook his head slightly, hoping his thoughts would fall out of his head like water through a sieve. He stood up, grabbing his sword before heading inside the house.
"Stay a little longer," Arten said. "It's a nice evening."
"It's getting dark," Conrad replied. "I'd best see what our witch is up to." He would've very much liked to sit with Arten for a while, to watch the grey clouds turn black; to watch the moon take the sun's place. It would have been nice, but Conrad would've ruined it all. No joy was coming to him, it hadn't since he'd seen Arten recover. Though he'd been told he could not die, that did anything but ease his thoughts. Without the precarity of life, there seemed no point in it.
Muffled voices greeted Conrad as he entered the nobleman's house once more. Voices he didn't recognise. He tucked his sword under his arm and crept further into the house. He could see the orange glow of a fire. Must have been in the living room. Conrad pressed himself to a nearby wall and peered into the open living space.
Surrounded by a circle of wet, fresh blood, was Bearskull. Her robe covered her body in a shapeless, shadowy form and she was again wearing her skull mask. Around her were towering shadows, at least three times the height of a man. They looked unhuman, with pointed fangs for teeth and terrible black horns extending far beyond their heads. Their arms were thin, emaciated and ended in clawed hands.
"I implore you," Bearskull called in a rasping, wicked voice. "Allow me but a morsel of your strength, and I will return the favour in kind."
One of the shadows pointed at Bearskull. To Conrad's horror, the shadow broke free of the wall, and shoved its long black finger right in the witch's face.
"We are done doing you favours, sorceress," it said. "We have granted you three requests, and each time you have promised to return our favour. Tell us, when will you repay your debts?"
"Be kinder to the poor soul," said another shadow. This one's horns were stouter than the rest. "She has lost much, and serves us when no others will."
"Serves us?" hissed yet another of these creatures. This one's voice was similar to Bearskull's. "She doomed us. Sisters, are we not the ones who suffer? Winnifred only suffers as far as a mortal can. What does she know of true pain?"
Winnifred? Conrad thought. No wonder she went with Bearskull.
The hissing shadow lunged for Bearskull. With a gnarled, blackened hand like a burned tree, the shadow gripped Bearskull's head. Suddenly the witch was powerless, she fell limp in the shadow's grasp, as if she knew resistance was futile.
"Calm yourself," said a smaller shadow. This one's voice was cooler, almost soft to Conrad's ears. "What would you accomplish here? Put Winnifred down and let her breathe."
"I'm sick of her whining," said the hissing shadow. "Her entitlement. She acts as if we linger around her for her sake, to lend her our strength as if we are just a resource."
A raucous argument broke out among the shadows. Booming, hissing, and thunderous voices cut through the air. Conrad's eyes tried to follow who was speaking, his ears tried to make some sense of the noise, but it was all to no avail. With well over a dozen shadows competing for dominance, what had once seemed to be intelligent creatures now appeared as little more than howling beasts.
It was Bearskull who silenced the shadows. She put her hand to the circle of blood, threatening to break it with the slightest movement of a finger.
"You wish to send us away?" said a shadow, Conrad couldn't tell the difference between them now. "By all means, spare us from your company."
"You will listen to me now," Bearskull ordered. "Don't act as if you'd like to return to the Wood. I know how you fear oblivion."
The shadows fell silent.
"All of you," Bearskull continued. "Are dead. You all died to the Patriarch. Heads crushed, ribs caved in, and yet you act as if I'm the one who failed. Some of you love me, some of you hate me, a few barely know me and yet I am your one chance to keep the world you loved alive. So, grant me your strength in the coming days or you'll all end up banished to whatever lies beyond."
There was a long pause among the shadows. The creatures that had seemed horrifying to Conrad but a moment ago were now like children bearing the wrath of their mother.
"We will do as you say," said the softly spoken shadow. "But you are weaker now, Winnifred. You may not be able to withstand all that the Wood can offer."
"Oh please," said Bearskull. "Be done with your needless warnings and leave this place."
The shadows did as they were told, and soon the room was empty. Only Bearskull stood in the large open space. With an awkward movement of her foot, she broke the circle of blood. A sigh escaped her mouth, and she removed the bear's skull covering her face.
"You can come out now," she called. Conrad left his hiding place and stepped into the living room. Despite the roaring fire, the room was freezing cold.
"It's good that you stayed put," Bearskull continued. "You'd have died otherwise."
"I thought I couldn't die," Conrad said. He wasn't surprised that Bearskull knew he was hiding. Nothing much surprised him anymore.
"That is vaguely true, I suppose," Bearskull sighed. She turned to face Conrad, and the latter jumped at the sight of her. Blood gushed from her mouth and nose, painting most of her face a deep red. Even at the well of her eyes trickles of red were building. She looked monstrous, more the image of a witch Conrad knew than ever before.
"Pass me that rag by the chair?" she asked.
Conrad nodded and did as he was told. He paused for a moment and wondered whether he was complying with Bearskull because he wanted to, or because he had to. He put the rag down and picked it back up again. No force beyond his control, no feeling stopped him from making either move. In this moment at least, he wasn't a puppet. Or Bearskull didn't feel like pulling the strings.
Bearskull snatched the rag and wiped her face. "Are you dim or something?"
Conrad shook his head. "Just testing something out."
"What? The weight of the rag?"
"Whether it was my decision to give you the rag."
Bearskull laughed. Conrad chuckled for a moment too, realising the stupidity of what he'd just said.
"You must stop with this paranoia darling," Bearskull said, touching a cold hand to Conrad's shoulder. "It's very unbecoming." Her face began to pour with blood once more, and she touched the rag to her nose and mouth. Already she was struggling to find unbloodied parts of the rag to clean her face.
"Was it worth it?" Conrad asked.
"Hm?"
"The conversation. Seems like it did you in."
"Oh, my former sisters have done much worse than this. They don't seem to like me very much anymore. Especially with the fact that I'm alive while they're dead."
"This has happened before?"
"A few times," Bearskull admitted. "Sometimes I win over them, like you saw. Other times I'm left at their feet. I won't lie, they've grown quite horrible since they died. Can't really blame them for it though, prolonged death makes a person angry, spiteful and filled with vengeance directed at all living creatures. Even the ones who appear nice have a vendetta. They just don't show it, hoping they can draw you in with their pleasantries."
Conrad pondered all of that for a moment. He thought about asking whether he was like one of those shadows, and then decided some things were best not known at all.
He strode over to the blood circle. "Yours?"
"Perhaps," Bearskull said.
Conrad laughed. It wasn't funny. More the shock that made him laugh. "Of course. I too wonder if it's my blood staining the floor, it's so hard to notice it."
"Not your best," commented Bearskull. "What are you doing here anyway? I doubt you knew I'd be speaking to my sisters."
"I am allowed to enter this house. I live here just as you do."
Bearskull shrugged. "Fair enough. Want to play a game?"
"What sort of game?"
"Found an old board in the attic. Rank and regiment, I believe we used to call it in Uttoll. Stratagem, you might also know it as."
As if he'd been waiting for the word 'stratagem', Arten burst forth from the kitchen, a glowing smile on his face. "A true game of tactics, that. My father taught it to me when I was little."
"Ah," Conrad said. "Never been much good at strategy."
"Really? I never knew," Arten teased. "Come, play, I'll advise you. Do you know the rules?"
At this point, Arten and Bearskull were already setting up the board. It was square and wooden, and folded out to be nearly the same size as the table it sat on. At the middle of the board were three large black notches shaped like arrows, with similar white notches facing opposite, towards the back of the board were thin black lines. On the opposite side, closer to Conrad were similar white lines. In between the arrows and lines were large circles. Three of white, three of black.
"Okay," said Arten, clapping Conrad by the shoulders and pushing him into a chair. From a balled fist spilled small wooden figurines. Some looked like men with bows and arrows, others were infantrymen, and a few knights mixed in. "Here's your pieces."
Conrad began to place some archers in the white circles. Arten slapped his wrist.
"Are you mad man? You don't place until we've put the board up."
"What board?" Conrad asked.
Bearskull held a thin piece of wood in her hands and slotted it between the sides of the larger game board. "Now we can't see what the other is placing," she said. "No fun otherwise."
Arten leaned towards Conrad's face. He put his lips to Conrad's ears and whispered. "Now you can go with the traditional infantry, cavalry, archer lines, but she'll expect that from a newcomer. Archers counter cavalry, cavalry counters infantry and infantry can counter archers if close enough."
The warm breath on Conrad's ear was mostly distracting from whatever Arten was trying to say. Conrad grasped the very basics of the rules but otherwise had no idea what was going on. He didn't care much about losing though. Piece by piece, he readied his board. Infantry up front, archers in the middle and cavalry behind. Conrad tried not to care about Arten shaking his head behind him. Bearskull had banned all communication once Conrad declared he knew the rules, so poor Arten had to watch as a travesty unfolded.
The board was pulled up and Bearskull's forces were revealed. She cocked her head slightly, while Conrad sat in silence. Arten had his head in his hands.
"What does this mean?" Conrad asked, gesturing to the board. Bearskull had her cavalry up front, with archers in the backline and infantry weirdly placed in the middle.
"No…no," Arten gasped. He shook Conrad excitedly by the shoulders. "You won!"
Conrad smiled. "You're joking."
"He's not," Bearskull said defeatedly. "My archers aren't in range for your cavalry, my cavalry gets shot before it carves through your infantry then the rest of your forces sweep mine from the board. Must be my loss of blood, but you actually won."
"Another round?" Conrad said. He didn't care much about winning, but now that he'd won, things were very different. The game was incredibly simple on the surface, but as he dug deeper, he realised that there were many layers to Stratagem. Cavalry was the linchpin to any successful bout, as it made the most impact so long as it wasn't shot by archers. Conrad also found success in mixing his archers and infantry, so that there was always a way to weaken Bearskull's constant use of cavalry. Despite Arten's wishes to play, and Bearskull's wishes for some rest, Conrad stayed put in his chair, battering whatever army Bearskull would throw at him. For the first time in months, he didn't think about death, or the Patriarch, or his undying body. On this night, there was only Stratagem.
"What's that now?" Conrad said. "Five losses in a row?"
Bearskull shook her head and stood up. "You're a sad little man, Conrad without a surname."
"At least I'm not called Winnifred," Conrad said without speaking.
Bearskull glared at Conrad. Red fury flashed in her eyes. She smiled wickedly. "Goodnight, darling."
Arten took the seat Bearskull had sat at. "It's cold, this chair. Strange."
Conrad waited for Bearskull to disappear from sight. Then he leaned forwards. His face brushed the candle placed in the middle of the Stratagem board. Conrad didn't notice the flames licking his chin. "Too far you think?"
"What was?" Arten asked.
"Calling her by her real name."
Arten frowned slightly in confusion. "Thought she was called Bearskull?"
"It would take a while to explain, but I think she used to be called Winnifred."
Arten snorted. "That's how you know she really is old. Bearskull's a much better name, one I'd expect from a witch."
"That's what I was saying," agreed Conrad.
"But I do think you've wounded her slightly," Arten admitted. "It'd be like me bringing up your pa, or your ma, or your sister. Anyone in your family for that matter."
Conrad's face soured. Arten was right, even in comparison, the mention of Conrad's family was something he'd rather not hear. Partly he didn't want to hear of his family because of the memories that'd be dragged up along with them. Dull days in a village in the middle of nowhere, the smell of pig and horse shit filling the nostrils. The sound of father banging away at his forge the only thing to fill the silence.
There were worse things than that of course. Conrad could still feel at times a phantom soreness in his back, memories of the bruises left by whatever blunt object his father had in his hands. He threw things mostly. Perhaps to not feel as if he were beating his son, but that gravity was doing it for him. Conrad wasn't sure how much he blamed his father for the abuse. Most of the time he'd more than earned it; as a child Conrad loved to poke and prod his father, to annoy him to the point of explosion. Conrad hoped that by irritating his father, he could avoid following in his footsteps, for why would any father wish to teach their passion to such a horrid son.
Conrad's plan hadn't worked. Only his mother had listened to his dreams of getting out of that sodding village and living a life of adventure. The life of a knight.
There it was. Just like that, Conrad's worst memory of home surfaced. That of his mother's death. His fault for thinking of his mother at all.
He'd not seen it personally; he'd not been allowed near when she'd entered labour. He couldn't remember the body much, what she looked like or anything like that. He'd tried to push those memories away, so he could remember her smile, what she was like when she was happy, alive.
The blood was what Conrad remembered the most. How it stained the sheets, painted the walls and floor. It was as if his mother had simply burst in the room, drained of all her blood in an instant. Then there was the crying. One solitary, desperate cry of a new-born baby, confusingly clutching at its unresponsive mother's breast. Conrad had only been in the room where his mother died for a moment, but the split-second of sight he was allowed had stayed with him all this time. After seeing his mother dead, Conrad went onto do something he'd felt guilty for since.
At first, his father had kept both Conrad and his new sister very separate, and for good reason. Conrad hated the mewling babe. He hated how she kept him up at night, despised how she made him all but forgotten, and of course, he wanted her dead for what she'd done to his mother. He'd tried to end her once, even touched a knife to her soft, chubby throat. At ten though, he didn't exactly have it in him to kill an infant. He was too scared of what someone might say. None would praise him for it except himself.
Remembering his hatred, looking back on the time he nearly killed his sister made shame rise in Conrad. He hated himself for how he'd felt, and for how long he'd felt it. Only just before he left to join Drevon's military did his hatred for his sister fade. Only as he was about to move away did he stop blaming her for a blameless tragedy. He'd seen her since, and father, though only briefly. The tension tainted the air like fog whenever Conrad returned home, though he couldn't say he hated home anymore. With everything that had gone on these past weeks, home was the nicest place Conrad could think to be.
"Oi," said Arten, snapping his fingers in front of Conrad. The burst of air nearly blew out the candle. "Did you hear me?"
Conrad shook his head.
"What are we going to do with you, mate, eh? I asked if you knew what you were going to do yet."
"About what?" Conrad asked.
"Really?" Arten said, frustrated. "You have no idea what's going on, do you?"
Again, Conrad shook his head.
"Well, I won't pester you anymore," Arten said. "Goodnight mate."
Conrad caught his friend's arm. "Do you think what she's doing is right?"
"With all the Patriarch's done-"
"Just yes or no," Conrad interrupted. "If you think it's right, I'll go with Bearskull. If not, I'll stay here."
"Really putting the pressure on me here, Conrad," Arten chuckled nervously.
"Yes or no."
"Yes," Arten declared seriously. "Even if her methods are mad, even if she's as horrible as the Patriarch, we can't let things go on the way that they are. Once we've dealt with the head of the snake, we can inform the public about everything hiding under their noses."
"And you think they'll care?" Conrad said. "Most of this country is in love with war. They don't care what happens behind closed doors so long as the victories keep coming. You're overestimating people's morality."
"Well," Arten said, heading up the stairs into swallowing darkness. "You said you'd go if I told you I believed Bearskull was right, and I've done just that. No matter what you think of it, Conrad, allow me to give you one last piece of advice: this is your one chance to stand centre stage, to be at the heart of a story much like the ones I know you love. Won't you take that chance?"
Arten disappeared to his room before Conrad could answer the question. In the low light, Conrad sat for what felt like an hour, staring blankly at the Stratagem board.
He picked up a cavalry piece, a knight wielding a lance and shield. Though he and his horse were adorned with some form of livery, there was no paint to give life or colour to their wooden forms. A sad thing really. Without colour the knight seemed almost ugly. His exposed face didn't help; his expression looked halfway between a man taking a shit and crying.
Conrad smiled at the ugly, tiny knight. He couldn't help but see a little of himself in that motionless, drab game piece. He slipped the thing into his trouser pocket and sat still once more. For another half hour Conrad sat; not really thinking, not really doing anything. Just existing, as would a tree or blade of grass. Conrad was so still he might've been invisible to the naked eye. Eventually he stood from his chair and went to bed. As usual, it took him some time before he could find sleep. For the first time in a while though, Conrad did not lie awake with worry. No, tonight his mind was optimistic. Instead of fearing the morrow, he wondered what it might bring. He couldn't die after all, so perhaps it was time to start living like it.