Sunlight brazenly broke through Reed’s eyelids, as if intending to burn out his eyes; screams tore at his ears. Reed groaned at the mere thought that nothing was over yet. He coughed, tried to roll onto his side, but curled up from pain in his right shoulder. His body went numb, refusing to obey. Barely forcing his heavy eyelids apart, Reed saw an arrow in his shoulder. Apparently, he got hit. With weak fingers, he grasped the shaft and snapped it. He would deal with this later, because the fight wasn't over yet, right? Screams, moans, and weeping tore apart his already pain-gripped head, but now they were different. Reed didn't hear the sounds of battle, only of pain.

  He raised himself, squinting against the bright sunlight, and then felt someone slap him hard on the back, so hard he almost buried his nose in the dirt.

  "Oh, and I thought you croaked already!"

  Gray grabbed Reed and yanked him up. Reed’s legs didn't hold him, so Gray didn't let go.

  "Is... is it over already?" Reed asked, barely moving his lips, trying to get a look at Gray.

  "Yeah," Gray grunted. "Everything's been over for a long time."

  "Then who is screaming?" Reed grimaced, swaying.

  In response, Gray just chuckled, and Reed thought he was just imagining it all. He did hit his head.

  "You see me well?"

  Reed looked up, examining Gray's face, the outlines of which doubled, blurred, and stubbornly refused to assemble into one picture. Nevertheless, Reed clearly saw an impressive bruise spreading on his cheekbone, shimmering with all possible shades of purple and burgundy. Gray was missing several front teeth, his nose pointed to the side, and his beard was stained with black streaks of dried blood.

  "Not well, but yeah…" Reed exhaled, swaying. His stomach twisted, and then he vomited.

  Gray grabbed Reed tighter, then chuckled snidely.

  "Hell, you got smashed."

  "I broke through a wall with my back," Reed explained, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  "Then say thanks that you're even alive."

  "Thanks," Reed grumbled, freeing himself from Gray's grip. Gray let go, allowing him to sit right on the ground.

  "We have no healers, so suck it up," with these words Gray patted Reed on the shoulder, but suddenly stopped short, seeing the protruding fragment of the arrow. "You got, uh... an arrow there."

  "I saw."

  "Pull it out?"

  Reed nodded in agreement. Gray grasped the shaft fragment with his fingers and yanked, tearing it out. Reed lacked the strength even to moan, so he stayed silent while Gray bandaged his shoulder with a scrap of cloth.

  "You'll live," he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "If you want to."

  "Where are you going?" Reed squeezed this question out of himself, feeling nausea bubbling in his stomach again.

  Gray didn't answer, just chuckled again without turning back. Reed cursed, clasping his head in his hands, and began rocking from side to side, as if that could ease the pain that had been tearing his head apart from the very moment he woke up. Gray had already disappeared into the house; laughter was heard, and then a scream, but Reed couldn't make out the words. Nevertheless, there was no need to hear words to understand exactly where Gray had gone.

  A woman was screaming, and the Wasps were laughing. This was business as usual for mercenaries. No one cared what they did with the losers, as long as they delivered them alive. And the Wasps took advantage of this, taking out their pain, malice, and worthlessness on those who couldn't fight back. Reed had long understood that impunity and complete freedom of action were dangerous weapons in the hands of impoverished, weak people. Reed knew this because he was one of them himself, but even being a nonentity, he couldn't afford to participate in such things. Otherwise, he would come to hate himself even more. And how much more was possible?

  He groaned, rocking harder and harder; nausea approached and then retreated, leaving behind weakness and exhaustion. Even if he wanted to, he could not have stopped anyone from doing anything. If someone wanted to kill him, they could have. He would have had no strength to resist. Only the Wasps didn't care about him at all; they were collecting which was, in their opinion, a deserved reward.

  Fatigue covered Reed very soon, and he lost consciousness again, falling back onto some boards. This time unconsciousness claimed more of his time, because when he woke up, it was already getting dark. Opening his eyes, Reed felt the already familiar nausea. He raised himself. The dizziness returned, but now he could stand and not get lost in space. He was lucky that elves recover faster than kreyghars, who had not wrapped up the celebration even by the onset of twilight.

  Somewhere nearby a horse snorted. By one of the houses, a fire flickered with bright lights; Wasps sat around it, laughing brazenly and vilely, discussing something. At times, screams or weeping still drifted from the old houses, but not like before. Apparently, even despair has limits. Reed stood up and looked around. Gray sat by the fire, satisfied and drunk. Seeing Reed, he waved a hand at him.

  On weak legs, Reed approached anyway, examining those present.

  "So, did you sleep it off?" a drunken guffaw tore from Gray's throat, as if he had just delivered the greatest joke since the birth of the First Ones. "Here, take a sip."

  Without looking, Gray handed Reed a tin cup. Reed sniffed it, grimaced, and threw the tin aside.

  "You really do want me to die," Reed grumbled, sitting down by the fire.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," Reed waved it off, staring at the cheerfully dancing tongues of fire. He tried to distract himself from the screams by listening to the Wasps' conversations, but those conversations were all about the same thing.

  Reed sat staring at one point. Over time, everything surrounding him became insignificant, losing color and outline, as if the world had suddenly turned into a collection of paper figures acting out a bad, tasteless play. He remained sitting like that until the Wasps, drunk and tired from their own malice and the morning raid, crawled away to the houses to sleep it off.

  The prisoners were tied up in a conspicuous place, a sentry stood near them, but Reed knew not all of them were there. The Wasps took some women into the houses but didn't bring them back out. That meant that this night would be no easier than the passing day for some. Reed caught himself thinking that those who died during the raid were the happiest of all who had hidden in this village. Reed listened to the pulsation of pain that still tormented his bruised head, and didn't notice when he was left alone by the dying fire.

  ***

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  After some time, when everything went quiet, Reed found the strength to stand up again. He was tired not so much from his injuries, but from a day that simply refused to end. Obviously, the Wasps would set out only at dawn, and this meant that the torment of contemplating this place was not yet over. No one had even dragged the corpses of the fallen into the forest. They had just piled the bodies into one heap and left them. A nauseating smell already emanated from the bodies, making him want to stop breathing altogether.

  Dizziness was gradually letting up, the nausea receded, and Reed was no longer vomiting. He wanted to lie down, just not right on the damp earth like before, which would make his bones ache for several days.

  He stood up and headed to the nearest house. Snoring came from the broken windows, but Reed didn't care whom he shared a roof with. As soon as he opened the rotten, flimsy door, the smell of fresh blood, sweat, and cheap swill hit his nose. The Wasps slept right on the floor, placing their meager belongings under their heads. Their snoring shook the air like thunder, causing the pain inside Reed’s skull to stir again. Reed was about to leave when his gaze slid across the room, lingering on a doorway stained with blood. There was no door, so Reed could make out someone's bare feet in the moonlight seeping through the broken window.

  Obeying a strange, inexplicable desire to look, Reed stepped over two Wasps, lost in a drunken sleep. They were unlikely to wake up even if Reed started beating them. In the empty, dusty room beyond, pools of blood were spreading, making the stench unbearable. Clothes lay on the floor. Those were shreds of a dress, one had to assume. The feet were female, and the blood was hers too.

  A naked woman lay on her side. She was pale, covered in blood, and dirty. Violence had left wounds and bruises on her face and body. The blood on her thighs had already dried, and she apparently did not care about that at all. She hid her hands, lying with her naked chest on the floor, tucking her palms under herself, and there was blood there as well.

  Nausea rose in his throat when Reed saw she was still alive. Her eyes shone with tears, but she was not crying. Her mouth twisted in disgust, and she spat at Reed's feet. Then, she moaned quietly, turning over. Reed did not know if he needed to tell her he hadn't come to hurt her; she wouldn't have believed it anyway.

  When he stepped closer, the woman cast a vicious look at him, trying to turn away. There were only a couple of steps left between them when Reed felt he had stepped on something. That "something" crunched quietly, bending under the weight of his boot. As soon as he lowered his gaze to the floor, he immediately regretted it. Fingers peeked out from under his boot. Female fingers. She had been hiding not her palms under her own body, but stumps.

  Suppressing a retching urge, Reed turned away, intending to leave. No matter how hard he tried, he still could not understand such cruelty. The Wasps had already humiliated her, taken what they wanted, and satisfied their basest desires; so why chop off her hands? Just for fun? Reed himself was far from a saint and did not lay claim to the title of a model knight, but even with all the flaws of his personality, he couldn't understand such cruelty. Yes, Reed was cruel, but he had never been an executioner.

  Covering his mouth and nose with his hand, Reed headed for the exit. After all, he did care whom he shared a roof with. Barely had his foot touched the threshold of the room when he heard a quiet voice. The woman spoke, but so softly that Reed couldn't make out her words. He turned around, approached, and then leaned down to her, trying not to look at what had once been her hands.

  "Kill me," the woman whispered. Her gaze pierced, strangled, and forced him to feel guilt.

  "I..." Reed faltered, unable to finish.

  "Please," she exhaled, and tears streamed down her pale cheeks. She turned away so Reed wouldn't see her weakness, and in this gesture, there was something worthy, even defiant, unshakable.

  Reed placed his hand on his belt, where his daggers had once been, but felt only emptiness. He had dropped his weapons even before he lost consciousness. Silently, without looking at the woman, he stood up and headed to the room where the Wasps slept. One of them had a short sword, the other a bow. Obviously, it was easier to wield a sword, albeit less familiar, but Reed didn't want to go looking for his own blades. He moved slowly, cautiously. Drawing the sword from its sheath, he froze. Was it even worth leaving the Wasps alive?

  Upon realizing exactly what he needed the sword for, Reed slumped. He felt disgusted. He could have let many things slide, pretended it hadn't happened, but the woman in the next room was the last drop in the cup of his patience and indifference. And that vessel could no longer hold up, spilling over with the poisonous, foul-smelling moments of his inaction and apathy. The thought of inflicting senseless pain revolted him. Reed could kill a guardsman who wanted to kill him, could beat out debts, kill for money, or rob, but he had never forced anyone to suffer.

  He didn't have to think long. Everything had already been decided as soon as he saw that woman, even if he didn't realize it immediately. The sword touched the sleeping Wasp's neck, pressing into the yielding skin. Reed leaned his whole weight onto the sword; blood sprayed. The wounded man wheezed, and that was all he was capable of. His wheezing and pitiful gurgling didn't wake the second one, so Reed didn't even think about finishing him off. He would die anyway. The second bandit lost his life in the same way, in his sleep. He was so drunk he didn't even realize death had come too close.

  A grimace of disgust distorted Reed's face as he wiped the sword on the still-warm corpses. Snatching up the scabbard, he thought for a moment, and then frisked the Wasps' meager belongings in hopes of finding something useful for the road ahead. Reed had decided to return to Argain alone. Not much was found, but it was something, as Reed didn't have many things of his own. He found a palaka, a mask merging into a short cloak covering the shoulders. It was an excellent item for someone hiding from pursuit. There were a few coins, an old dagger, and a rope. Reed didn't know when the rope would come in handy, but he kept it anyway. Then, he headed into the room where the woman lay. He moved just as quietly as before, as if his steps were capable of disturbing the eternal peace of the dead.

  The woman watched him, unblinking. Seeing the sword in his hands, she sighed with relief; her eyes shone with madness and a hint of eternal suffering, but she was no longer crying. Reed crouched down, covering his mouth with his hand. He deliberately didn't look at her stumps, and this was the height of his politeness.

  "It won't hurt," he said quietly, but then he cut himself off. "Well, maybe at first. Then no more."

  "Why?" the woman asked, piercing Reed with her cold, long-dead eyes. Reed had never seen such an expression in anyone's eyes before. He was sure that this was exactly how dead people would look if any of them was capable of opening their eyes.

  "What?" he asked again, taken aback. His head was still buzzing, and he felt sick; he breathed with difficulty, fearing that the darkness would swallow him again. Then he would know for sure if the dead could lift their eyelids.

  "Why did you kill them? You're one of them." Her eyes flicked to Reed's neck, where the drawing of a wasp was frozen like a brand, inked into the skin.

  "I'm not one of them." Reed shook his head, looking away. "I needed to be here, but I didn't know it would be like this..."

  "That they chop our hands off?" The woman moaned and then smiled, baring bloody teeth. Or rather, what was left of them.

  "Why?"

  "So we cannot defend ourselves," she grimaced, either from pain or disgust. And Reed finally understood. They chopped off mages' hands so they could not perform their deadly gestures. It made sense, but it was still too much, even for him. Reed would simply have tied them up.

  When Reed placed the sword against her chest, directly opposite her heart, she looked at him again.

  "Don't let them kill my daughter." Tears streamed down her cheeks; she no longer tried to hide them. Death and sincerity always go hand in hand, two eternal companions. And it is not entirely clear which of them frightens more. If there is honesty in anything in this world, it is in death. The Pale Lady never hides her face, and before her, one need not fear tears, nor anger, nor fear itself.

  "I... I don't..." Reed faltered, not knowing how to tell her that her daughter might already be dead.

  "Please," she convulsed in sobs, choking. "Please, don't let them kill her. She's still a child..."

  Reed lowered his head, thinking frantically. Pain made it hard to think, but for every such situation, he had one answer. A lie. What was the point of speaking his guesses? It wouldn't ease the pain or bring peace, so who needed such honesty? Better to lie, for a lie sometimes saves. Besides, he had lied to the dying before, so it wouldn't be any worse this time.

  "Okay." He exhaled the short word as if spitting it out. How amazing it is, how capacious just one word can be. How bottomless it is, being capable of containing so many lies.

  "They took her to the other house, across the way."

  In response, Reed nodded, and she lifted herself up, pressing her chest against the point of the sword. She knew it was time for her to die. Reed simply obeyed her will. Clenching his fingers until they crunched, he pressed down, hearing the grating sound as the blade fought its way to her heart, scraping against the ribs. Blood gushed onto her chest, spreading in burgundy rivulets; she grasped for air, but did not scream, and Reed could not raise his eyes to her. His gaze was fixed on the sword, which seemed to be entering her body too slowly. He needed only a couple of moments to kill her, but these moments felt like an eternity.

  Reed realized the blade had reached its goal when the woman twitched for the last time and went still. Blood was leaving her body, but the movement was not for life, only for death. Reed stood up. With a sharp movement, he pulled the sword from the woman's chest and walked out, without looking at her disfigured by pain body.