"As you can see," Marten said, gesturing proudly to the four heavily armed men lounging near his wagons, "I've taken every precaution this time. These are premium guards, not your typical sword-for-hire rabble. This one here," he pointed to a moustached man whose muscles appeared to have developed their own supplementary muscles, "once wrestled a bear."

  "Was the bear armed?" Reyn asked. The question seemed reasonable to her; without weapons, the match hardly seemed fair to either participant.

  Marten blinked at her. "No, that's not how bear wrestling typically works..."

  "Then it's not that impressive, is it?" Reyn said, adjusting Good Deeds across her back. The greatsword's familiar weight was reassuring in this chaotic Western marketplace. "Bears rely on claws and weight. Without weapons, you're just wrestling an angry fur blanket with teeth."

  She heard Rast make that strangled sound beside her, the one that meant Westerners found her observations amusing again. She still didn't understand why stating facts was considered humorous, but she didn't care to ask. Making other people smile was a feat of its own.

  "Well, regardless," Marten continued with that merchant smile that never seemed to reach his eyes, "I appreciate your interest, but I simply don't need additional protection. My business partner personally recommended these men. Their references are impeccable."

  The disappointment hit Reyn like a physical weight in her chest. Three good deeds in each kingdom; that was what the Elders required. How was she supposed to complete her pilgrimage if even merchants declined her free offering of help?

  "I understand," she said, using the formal Western phrase Rast had taught her. "May your travels be safe and profitable."

  As they walked away from the loading area, Reyn felt Rast's eyes on her face. She'd noticed he was rather adept at reading her expressions, which was both convenient and slightly unsettling.

  "You look like someone just told you the practice targets have all been replaced with kittens," he said.

  "I need to perform deeds, Rast," she replied, hearing the frustration in her own voice. "Proper pilgrimage deeds. How am I supposed to become a Guardian if merchants won't even let me guard them for free?"

  Rast's expression shifted into a calculating look. Reyn thought she was beginning to recognize his various expressions, though Westerners remained much harder to read than her own people.

  "Actually," he said slowly, "I might have an alternative idea."

  "Does it involve deeds?" Reyn asked immediately.

  "Potentially heroic ones."

  Now he had her attention. "Tell me."

  Rast guided her toward a quieter corner of the market square and lowered his voice. "The Crimson Hand follows patterns. They hit the northern road most often, especially at Falcon's Gorge. It's maybe half a day's journey from here. If Marten's caravan passes through there..."

  "We could wait for them and help when the Hand attacks," Reyn finished, feeling her spirits lift. "That's brilliant."

  "Or completely stupid," Rast added. "The two look remarkably similar, I've found. Just ask my former colleague."

  Reyn didn't catch what he implied, but the plan still sounded promising. "Do you think they'll definitely attack this caravan?"

  Rast shrugged. "Four guards sounds impressive to a normal merchant, but the Crimson Hand works in larger groups. And Marten's carrying luxury goods from the coast. High value, easy to transport. Exactly what bandits would prefer."

  Reyn's hand moved unconsciously to the blue bandana around her neck. This felt like real pilgrimage business. "What would we need to do?"

  "Just to be absolutely clear," Rast said, "we're talking about deliberately putting ourselves in the path of the most dangerous criminal gang in the region, without pay, hoping they'll attack a caravan that just told us they don't want our help."

  "Exactly," Reyn said, unable to suppress a grin. "It sounds perfect."

  "Bormecians," Rast said and sighed, "have a strange definition of 'perfect.'"

  ---

  Falcon's Gorge earned its name honestly; it swooped down like a hunting bird, forcing the road into a narrow passage between weathered stone walls. The local name for it, according to Rast, was "bandit heaven," which seemed both accurate and ominous.

  They arrived before midday and quickly found concealed positions with clear views of the road.

  "Marten's caravan won't get here until late afternoon," Rast explained as they settled in. "The Hand usually strikes when the sun's low enough to blind westbound travelers."

  "Smart," Reyn said. "Evil, but it makes sense tactically."

  The waiting proved more difficult than the journey itself. Bormecian training emphasized immediate action followed by complete rest; this vigilant inactivity felt wrong to her. By the third hour, she'd repositioned herself seventeen times and mentally catalogued forty-six defensive advantages of their surroundings.

  "Do you ever just... sit still?" Rast asked, watching her examine yet another potentially useful rock.

  "Sitting is for meals and planning," Reyn replied. "This is neither."

  "Could be eating," Rast said, producing dried meat from his pack. "Not good eating, but it counts."

  Reyn accepted the food and looked at him. "How did you become a brigand, Rast? You seem too... thoughtful for random violence."

  Rast chewed slowly before answering. "Wasn't really a choice, more like a series of bad options. My father was a fletcher; taught me to shoot. When he died, I had the skills but not the patience for the trade. Turns out people pay better for someone who can shoot arrows than make them."

  "You worked as a guard?"

  "At first. Then hunting. Then... less respectable work." He shrugged. "Eventually met Andres, who convinced me that robbery paid better than honest work. He wasn't wrong, just morally lacking and, as it turned out, fatally poor at judgment."

  Reyn nodded.

  "In Bormecia," she said, "your path would have been clearer. Your skills would have been recognized and directed toward serving the community."

  "Sounds restrictive."

  "Purposeful," Reyn said. "Freedom without purpose is just wandering. Besides, everyone has a say in their purpose."

  "Says the woman wandering foreign lands looking for arbitrary good deeds."

  "There's nothing arbitrary about it," Reyn said, with enough seriousness that Rast looked immediately apologetic. "Each deed builds toward something greater. Like your arrows; individually small, but aimed toward a single purpose, they become significant."

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  Rast seemed to have no response to that, so they fell into comfortable silence as the afternoon stretched on and shadows lengthened.

  By early evening, there was still no sign of Marten's caravan.

  "Something's wrong," Rast finally said, standing to stretch. "They should have passed through by now."

  Reyn had reached the same conclusion an hour earlier but had assumed Rast's local knowledge was better than hers, so she'd kept quiet. "Maybe they were delayed?"

  "Possible," Rast agreed, though his expression suggested doubt. "Or they took the eastern route."

  "There's another way?"

  "Longer road, circles east of here and follows the coast. Adds almost a day to the journey, but it's wider, better maintained." He hesitated. "And heavily patrolled by city guards since those Temple medicines were stolen. Marten might have decided the extra time was worth the security."

  Reyn stood, stretching to her full height. "So we've been waiting to rescue someone who isn't coming."

  "Looks that way."

  "What now?"

  Rast considered. "We could continue north, but if they took the eastern route, we'll miss them entirely. Better to head back toward Westkeep and try to pick up their trail."

  Reyn nodded. "Back to Westkeep, then. At least we'll reach the inn before dark."

  ---

  They had covered perhaps half the distance back when Reyn suddenly stopped, her head tilting like a hunting dog catching a scent.

  "What is it?" Rast asked.

  "The birds," she whispered. "Listen."

  Rast paused, and Reyn could see the moment he understood. The usual evening chorus had gone completely silent ahead of them. He reached for his bow instinctively.

  They proceeded more cautiously, and within minutes Reyn could see why the birds had fled. The remains of Marten's caravan lay scattered across the road and surrounding fields; splintered wood, torn canvas, luxury goods trampled into mud.

  But they weren't alone. Hunched over what had once been one of the guards was a creature Reyn recognized from some bestiary she'd seen during her training to become a Barbarian. It looked like a vulture but was easily the size of a pony, with an unnaturally long neck and iridescent feathers that caught the dying light like oil on water. Its wings ended in curved talons instead of proper feathers, and it had three heads on separate necks, each equipped with a cruelly hooked beak.

  "Tricarrion," Rast whispered, his face pale. "Scavenger. They tend to appear after a battle to clean up."

  "Useful creatures, then. Dangerous?" Reyn asked while studying the carrion, though Rast's white knuckles on his bow already answered her question.

  "Very. They mimic wounded voices to lure in rescuers. Then they..." He didn't finish.

  As if hearing him, one of the heads lifted from its meal and produced a sound that made the hair on Reyn's arms rise; a perfect human voice crying, "Help me! Please, someone help me!"

  The creature hadn't noticed them yet, but if there were actual survivors in the wreckage, they wouldn't remain so for long.

  "Well," Reyn said quietly, reaching for Good Deeds, "looks like our good deed found us." The greatsword slid free with barely a whisper, its polished blade catching the fading light.

  "We should attack from different directions," Rast suggested, already nocking an arrow. "I'll circle left, try to distract it. You..."

  "I'll introduce it to a Bormecian greeting," Reyn said with a sly smile.

  Rast vanished into the surrounding brush with impressive stealth, leaving Reyn to study her approach. The Tricarrion stood between her and the main wreckage, where survivors might be trapped. A direct approach was her only option. Which, to be fair, suited Reyn quite well.

  She felt the familiar tension at the base of her skull; the precursor to Rage. This time she welcomed some of it, allowing it to flow through her like water filling a channel. Her senses sharpened, the world slowed to a manageable pace, and strength flooded her limbs. She could feel the anger and bloodlust focusing her senses on the Tricarrion.

  There was still plenty left to pull from, but she decided to maintain control to ensure no one would be hurt through proximity.

  Reyn stepped onto the road, abandoning stealth entirely. The Tricarrion's center head swiveled toward her, beady eyes widening as it tilted its head in interest. The other two heads continued feeding, apparently deciding one human wasn't worth interrupting their meal.

  They were about to reconsider that assessment.

  Rast's first arrow came whistling from the left, striking where the central neck joined the body. The Tricarrion screeched from all three heads simultaneously; a discordant sound that set Reyn's teeth on edge. Now all three heads were alert, the outer two scanning for the archer while the center one focused on her.

  "Come on then," she said, her voice steady despite the Rage building within her. "Let's see what you can do."

  The Tricarrion spread its wings and charged with surprising speed for something its size and build. The central neck extended, beak aimed at her face while the other two heads wove and bobbed, seeking openings.

  Reyn waited until the last possible moment before pivoting, bringing Good Deeds around in a sweeping arc that would have decapitated a lesser creature. The Tricarrion was faster than it looked, though, managing to pull back just enough that her blade only sliced through its central crest, sending iridescent feathers scattering like jewels in the sun.

  A second arrow struck its flank, drawing another screech and momentarily distracting it. Reyn pressed her advantage, stepping inside the reach of those deadly beaks and driving the pommel of her sword up hard under the rightmost head. The satisfying crack of the breaking beak was followed by a keening wail as the head reeled back.

  The other two heads lunged in unison, forcing her to leap backward. One beak caught her sleeve, tearing through the leather with alarming ease.

  "Reyn! Above you!" Rast's warning came just in time.

  Reyn looked up to see a second Tricarrion descending from the sky, its three heads already reaching for her with eager beaks.

  Of course they hunt in pairs, Reyn thought. That information would have been useful earlier.

  She rolled aside as talons raked the ground where she'd been standing, then sprang back to her feet in time to parry a strike from the first Tricarrion. The impact sent vibrations up her arms, but the Rage flowing through her muscles absorbed the shock. She felt it build within her, forcing her to hold it back.

  "Too many heads," she called to Rast. "We need to reduce the numbers!"

  Another arrow flew true, this one punching directly through one of the second Tricarrion's eyes. The head thrashed wildly in pain, colliding with its neighbor in a confusion of blood and feathers.

  Reyn seized the moment, attacking the first Tricarrion with a feint left followed by a devastating upward stroke that caught the central neck just below the head. Good Deeds sliced through cleanly, sending the head tumbling in a spray of dark blood.

  The Tricarrion staggered, thrown off balance by the sudden weight reduction. Its remaining heads screeched in confusion; a mistake that gave Reyn the opening she needed. She spun, using momentum to add force to her next strike, which nearly severed the damaged right head. It dangled uselessly, no longer a threat.

  The second Tricarrion, seeing its hunting partner reduced to one functioning head, seemed to reconsider this particular meal. It backed away, wings spread in threat display, but Reyn could see the calculation in its remaining good eyes.

  "No," she said firmly, as if addressing a misbehaving child. "You don't get to leave."

  With fluid grace that belied her size, she leaped forward, driving Good Deeds directly into the creature's chest. The Tricarrion collapsed, twitching, as she wrenched her blade free in a spray of viscous fluid that colored the grass red.

  The first Tricarrion, now down to a single functioning head, made a desperate lunge at her exposed back. Reyn heard it coming but knew she wouldn't turn in time.

  She didn't need to. Three arrows in rapid succession thudded into the creature's remaining neck, the last punching through its throat. The Tricarrion's charge became an ungainly stumble, and it collapsed at her feet, convulsing its last.

  Reyn stood still for a moment, letting the Rage gradually subside with deep controlled breaths. It left her feeling hollow but alert, senses still heightened as she scanned for additional threats.

  "That," said Rast, emerging from cover with his bow ready, "was both impressive and terrifying."

  "You're not bad with that bow yourself," Reyn acknowledged, using a torn piece of cloth to clean Good Deeds' blade. "I've never fought a Tricarrion before. Unpleasant creatures."

  "They're rather common scavengers," Rast said, looking troubled. "Must have followed the Crimson Hand, knowing there'd be... leftovers."

  Reyn grimaced. "Let's check for survivors. Those things weren't here by accident."

  They continued their careful survey, stepping around the Tricarrion corpses. A weak groan soon drew their attention to an overturned wagon section. Reyn lifted the heavy wooden panel as easily as a dinner plate, revealing Marten pinned beneath. The merchant was alive but badly injured, his fine clothes soaked with blood and mud.

  "Looks like you needed more guards after all," Rast said, immediately wincing at his own words as he knelt to examine the man's wounds.

  Marten's eyes fluttered open, recognition slowly dawning. "The Bormecian," he mumbled. "And the archer. I heard fighting..."

  "Don't try to talk," Reyn said, already tearing strips from her cloak to bind his worst wounds. "We'll get you help."

  "No point," Marten coughed. "They took everything. Those premium guards... useless."

  "What happened?" Rast asked gently. "Crimson Hand?"

  "Betrayed," Marten whispered. "Two of my own guards... they turned on the others. Had signals ready. It was all planned."

  Reyn and Rast exchanged glances over the wounded merchant.

  "The guards your business partner recommended?" Rast pressed.

  Marten nodded weakly. "Should have hired you instead."

  "Yes, well," Rast said, "hindsight and foresight rarely attend the same meetings. Can you tell us anything about the attackers? Anything distinctive?"

  "Red hands painted on their armor. So many of them. More organized than bandits should be." Marten's eyes began to close. "Never seen bandits like that... like an army."

  "He needs a healer," Reyn said, her practical nature taking over. "Should have needed one hours ago."

  Rast looked around at the devastation. "This is worse than their usual work. More violent. More thorough."

  "The Temple of Healing," Reyn said, looking around as if it would appear right beside them. "Marta mentioned it was near Westkeep."

  "That's still almost two hours on foot," Rast pointed out. "And he's in no condition to walk."

  Reyn's response was to carefully slide her arms under the wounded merchant and lift him as if he weighed no more than a sleeping child. "Then I'll have to carry him."

  "Two hours?" Rast looked skeptical.

  "Of course," Reyn said, adjusting Marten's weight comfortably. "My people believe strength without purpose is wasted. This seems like a suitable purpose."

  She glanced down at the blue bandana around her neck and, with a small nod of decision, used her chin to pull it up over the lower half of her face. Rast recognized the gesture; it meant the Bormecian was now conducting official pilgrimage business.

  "You'll be fine," Reyn assured the unconscious Marten. "And when you're healed, you can tell us everything about those guards. Especially who recommended them."

  As they set off toward Westkeep, Reyn carrying the merchant while her enormous greatsword remained strapped across her back, she cast a final glance at the dead Tricarrions. In Bormecia, defeating significant beasts was part of the pilgrimage requirements. She wasn't sure if these qualified as particularly legendary, but they had been dealt with efficiently.

  She decided she would add a Tricarrion feather to her braids anyway. Every Bormecian journey was told through the braids when returning home. Besides, the iridescent shimmer would complement her auburn hair nicely.

  The Crimson Hand was clearly not just another disorganized group of brigands like Rast and his unfortunate former companion. They were more dangerous. Organized. Something that would require careful thought and probably considerable violence to address properly.

  For the first time since arriving in the Western kingdoms, Reyn felt like she was exactly where she belonged.