The signal came and went so suddenly that Dean almost missed it.

  It was fully dark now, and the clouds had nearly obscured the moon. The only light visible in the bandits' camp was the torches, which bobbed along the streets as those on guard duty did their patrols. There were two main buildings that the bandits had been using regularly as far as Dean could see. One, which appeared to have at one point been an aging inn, was now used as the chow hall. The other was a two-story building at the center of town, surrounded by a heavy palisade wall that had been hastily erected out of nearby trees.

  It had likely been the village hall at one point, but now it served as a defensible garrison building in which the bandits resided. It had been hours since the scout had been taken into camp, and Dean had been feeling restless. He’d tried pacing, tried tending to his gear and tools to distract himself, but in the end he felt only the tug of restless energy as he waited for the moment to strike.

  happened faster than he’d anticipated. Dean was leaning against a tree, watching the guards complete another circuit of the camp when a flare caught his eye. A single fire arrow shot from the tree line opposite of them, hurtling into the sky and disappearing into the clouds.

  “Was that what I think it was?” hissed Shae, rising to her feet. Finn turned from his position on the ledge, his eyes flashing in the low light.

  “It’s the signal. That gives us five minutes to get into position if we’re lucky. Are we ready to move out?”

  Dean pushed off the tree, striding between his friends as he came to stand on the ridge. Finn was right. Across the valley in the distant tree line, he could make out the silhouettes of soldiers crouching in the brush. The time to act was now.

  Finn’s aura flared, and his eyes glowed with essence as he stared out across the bandit camp. He lifted a finger and pointed.

  “There are two outer patrols,” he said. “One to the north and the other coming from the southeast. By my count they’ll intersect in about ninety seconds. Dean and I can take out the southernmost patrol if the two of you can handle the other.”

  Shae nodded, flipping her axe from hand to hand.

  “I think we can manage that.”

  “Silence is key. Remember, if the alarm goes up we lose not only the advantage, but the hostages.”

  Shae’s face was grim.

  “I know the stakes. Remember, those are my neighbors down there. Some of them are still alive, and I intend to see to it that we don’t lose any more.”

  Finn let out a breath, then nodded.

  “Alright,” he said. “Dean, with me.”

  The air was cool as the breeze whipped past them. It was blowing away from them at the very least, keeping their scent away from the hounds that lay near the gate. Finn moved with elven grace, slipping past the trees and shrubbery as if gliding through water. He came to a halt a few paces away, and without taking his eyes off the approaching patrol, he turned his head.

  “I recall your essence sense being strong,” he said. “Can you sense them?”

  Dean nodded beneath the depths of his cowl.

  “Vaguely. Though there are too many concentrated within the camp itself for me to properly make out their movements. I only know that there are a lot of them, and at least half are sleeping.”

  Finn nodded.

  “I have a passive skill that allows me to track my prey as an archer. I see not only where they are, but where they have been, at least up until a point. It’s transferable, but you’ll need to let me place a temporary binding on you. To pull this off, we’ll need precision. Do you object?”

  “Why would I object?”

  Finn smirked.

  “Only you would ask why a human might object to an elf casting a binding on them. I suppose I don’t give you enough credit. You aren’t as superstitious as the others.”

  Finn lifted his gloved hand, and Dean shifted closer, allowing his friend to place his fingers on either side of his temples. Finn spoke a few words in elvish, and Dean resisted the urge to shiver as tendrils of cold pricked the side of his head. A soft pressure built in his eyes, and Dean blinked several times before his vision shifted. Suddenly, the world was clearer than it had been.

  He could see the guard patrol steadily approaching them, their outline glowing with a faint blue haze. Where the three men had walked, three sets of glowing blue footprints showed in the darkness. Dean turned his head, glancing back the way they had come, and saw a set of glowing gold prints leading back the way they had come.

  “Whoa,” he breathed. “Hell of an ability. How long does it last?”

  “Long enough to get the job done.”

  The patrol was close enough now that Dean could hear the sound of their voices.

  “I’m telling you it ain’t the same, is it,” said the smallest of the three. “Taking a few hostages is one thing, but why do we need to hold half the village behind bars? We’re soldiers, not jailers.” He was skinny, with spindly legs and arms, and the short sword he carried at his waist looked as if it had seen good use. Blood was crusted on its hilt. Or was that rust?

  “We’re whatever the fuck the chief tells us to be, and if you have a problem with it, you can take it up with him yourself.”

  “Oh aye, and end up holding my own entrails? Come off it, you know how much he hates questions. I’m just sayin’, some of the lads take issue with the, uh...” The man lowered his voice, helmeted head dipping in the torch light. “Methods.”

  “On that much we agree,” said the second bandit. His voice was strangely nasally, as if he had a permanent head cold. “I’m all for looting, devils know I got my share of gold and silver from the last raid. But this is different. If the imperial army happens to catch wind of what we’re doing here –”

  “They won’t,” said the same low growling voice from before as the largest man brandished his torch. “Chief’s made sure of that. See, that’s the problem with you new recruits. You haven’t learned how he operates yet. You're still used to brute force and small-time jobs; you don’t see the bigger picture. The chief understands his game, and if there’s one thing he doesn’t suffer, it’s fools. I’d watch your tongue if I were you. Especially around Damon.”

  “Fuck Damon,” muttered the small bandit, hawking a glob of spit on the ground. But despite the bravado in his words, Dean saw the man shoot a nervous glance over his shoulder.

  Finn tapped Dean’s arm with two fingers as the bobbing torches drew ever nearer. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming in the light of the torches. They were crouched in the thick sagebrush beside the small path, not easily visible in the darkness. But if they waited too long, the light of the torches would reflect off their armor, giving their position away.

  At his friend’s questioning glance, Dean gave a single nod, and the two of them met eyes before moving. Dean’s cloak rustled gently in the breeze as he moved further down the path outside of the approaching ring of torchlight. Finn lifted a stone from the ground before him and tossed it deftly towards the trees behind. The soft thump was enough to draw the attention of one of the guards.

  “Did you hear that?” said the small one, whipping around with his hand on his sword.

  His closest companion frowned into the darkness.

  “Hear what?”

  There was nothing on the path. At least, nothing he could see. The small guard shook his head slowly.

  “I thought…”

  “Thought what?”

  The tall guard laughed, his deep voice echoing in his helmet.

  “I knew Damon made a mistake in hiring a greenhorn like you. Jumping at ghosts, biting your fingernails, thinking the big, bad imperial army is going to swoop down on you. There ain’t nobody in this valley, there ain’t no –”

  An arrow whipped from the darkness, gliding off a near-silent string. It punched through the inch-sized gap between the man’s helmet and chain collar, spearing him neatly through the throat. He stopped walking.

  “Ain’t no what?” grumbled the small man, turning towards him. “Don’t just leave us hanging.”

  His eyes fell on the arrow sticking out of his companion's neck and widened. Dean stepped from the shadows behind him, grabbing a hold of the man’s helmet and yanking backwards. At the same time he drew the knife across the bandit's throat.

  “What the –”

  A second arrow found its mark in the eye of the final man. He stumbled forward a few steps, and Finn strode swiftly forward, catching him before he could hit the ground. Dean lowered his own mark gently to the ground. The man was young, likely not more than a few years over nineteen. His sightless eyes stared up at the cloudy night, wide as if he couldn’t believe his ill luck.

  “Sorry,” said Dean softly, brushing a glove over the boy’s eyes to close them. “But you chose the wrong side.”

  “Nice work. Now we only have to hope that the others –”

  Dean’s sense warned him seconds before he spotted the guard emerging from the bushes at the side of the path. His sword was out and in his hands in moments, his essence surging to the forefront as he prepared himself to strike.

  “Take it easy,” said a familiar voice. Shae held up her hands like a thief caught mid-robbery. “Good lord, you are a lot scarier when you’re wielding that giant fuck off sword.”

  Finn lowered his own bow, which Dean realized he hadn’t even seen his friend draw.

  “Goddess, Shae, you could show a little restraint. I take it your run-in with the northern patrol was uneventful.”

  “Of course. We stowed the bodies in a nearby ditch, but I decided it was in our best interest to keep these.” She tossed a second horned helmet from hand to hand. “It helps to actually look like the patrol we’re impersonating, you know. At least at first glance.” She thrust the helmet towards Dean, who grimaced.

  “I’m not putting that thing on.”

  “Oh yes, you are. What part of infiltration do you not understand? Do you want to get close without raising the alarm, or not?”

  Dean looked helplessly towards Finn, who held up his hands.

  “Listen, I look like a ranger, it’ll never work. And Ten here gets strength and damage bonus when fighting unarmored.”

  Ten gave a thumbs up.

  “Out of the four of us, you and Shae are the only two who can pass as guards long enough to get inside the camp. Come on, just play a brute. Not far off from your whole...” He waved a hand at Dean’s armor and giant sword. “Shtick.”

  “And if the hounds catch scent of us? We might be able to fool another patrol in the dark, but we won’t get past their noses.”

  Finn and Shae were smiling at him. Dean decided he didn’t much like those looks.

  “We might have thought of that,” said Shae, pulling something from her inventory with a flourish and tossing it towards him.

  Dean caught the piece of fabric and instantly wrinkled his nose.

  “Dear gods, it smells like day-old sweat and body odor. Are these…”

  “You’re right,” said Shae, as Dean unfurled the grimy scarf with a look of abject horror. “It’s not enough to look the part. We need to smell the part. As long as we don’t get too close to the hounds, we’ll be fine. At least, long enough to do what we need to do.”

  Finn patted him on the pauldron, Dean’s glare only making his friend smile wider.

  “Thanks for taking one for the team, champ.”

  “If this goes south, I’m going to kill you,” muttered Dean. Reluctantly, he unclasped his cloak and badge, stowing them in an empty slot in his inventory. Gritting his teeth, he took the black scrap of cloak that passed for a scarf and wrapped it around his neck. It was still damp, though whether with sweat or blood, he didn’t want to know. Then he held out his hand for the helmet.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The thing was large, in barbute style with two curved cow horns rising towards the top end. One of the horns had a notch in it that looked a lot like a sword strike. Dean slid it onto his head. Instantly, the sound shifted, becoming duller and more contained. He frowned out from the eye slits, turning his head from side to side.

  “I don’t know why anyone wears these damn things. It messes with visibility and hearing. Two vital things in a fight.”

  “Having a functioning head is also vital, Dean. Just because you’re a helmetless maniac doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

  “Enough chatter,” said Finn. “Let’s get a move on. We’re running out of time before the guard changes. We’ll walk you to the front gate, but the rest is on you two. Try not to fuck it up.”

  Moments later, two odd-looking bandit guards strode from the path in the fields, their torches held high. They might have looked casual if it wasn’t for the shorter one's unusual gait.

  “Stop walking like that,” muttered Dean out of the side of his mouth.

  “I’m trying,” hissed Shae. “But the crotch of the armor keeps… sticking. Ah, there we go.” There was the rustle of cloth, as the Adventurer shifted things around. Then her strides became normal, more confident. It was a good thing, too. As they rounded the fence onto the main path, Dean’s senses became aware of the four men standing guard.

  They were stationed just beyond two wagons, their spears gleaming in the mounted torchlight. Unlike the patrols from earlier, these men were better equipped. With weapons and armor that looked like they’d been supplied for an Imperial Garrison rather than a group of bandits. It was in the way they moved, too. Their backs were straight, their grips on their spears loose but ready. One of them raised a hand to adjust his bevel, and Dean saw the flash of a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. A ladder man?

  These weren’t mere bandits, Dean realized. These were former soldiers.

  “Let me do the talking,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. His helmet made the whisper sound odd, but Shae seemed to catch his meaning.

  She seemed like she might argue, but the urgency in Dean’s gaze seemed to give her pause. She could tell something was off, and after a moment she conceded the point with a nod.

  “About damn time,” drawled the bandit on the right. “I was beginning to think you idiots got lost on patrol. Do you new recruits have no sense of urgency?”

  “Can a man not take a piss?” asked Dean, adopting the lower city accent he’d worked so hard to rid himself of during his time in the military. “I swear you lot get whinier every day.”

  Shae stiffened, flashing him a look, but the veteran ladder man only chortled, grounding the butt of his spear into the dirt.

  “At least I don’t stink like a pig sty. Not that it matters, does it, rookie? Not with you lot earning yourselves corpse duty tonight. Don’t worry, the stench of bodies and death will be much of an improvement.”

  Several of the other guards hooted, and Dean’s attention was drawn for the first time to the other guards. There were seated on a couple of barrels, a small table made of a crate, and a wooden plank sat between them. They were dealing cards, and Dean saw coins stacked there. Imperial silver coins. He peeled his eyes away from the game as he and Shae came to a halt.

  “Corpse duty?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “That’s jailer's work. Why can’t the prisoners do that?”

  The veteran’s smile disappeared, and the man stepped forward, his eyes glinting.

  “Because the prisoners are to stay under lock and key until such time as Damon sees fit to hand them over to the shaman. You don’t like that? Then you can take it up with the bloody chief yourself.” He was close now, close enough that Dean could feel his essence signature from only feet away. He did his best to mask his own aura, hoping the man wouldn’t sense it in such proximity.

  “Fine,” said Dean, exhaling loudly enough that it rasped in his helmet. “But when we’re done, there better be food left. I’m fucking starved.”

  “Aren’t we all?” The guard turned away, and Dean almost sighed in relief when the man waved to the others. The two men playing cards set down their lot, stepping forward to assist several other guards in rolling the heavy wagons out of the way.

  “What’s the point of capturing a farm town when you can’t eat any of the goods yourself. I know they say an army marches on its stomach, but...” He shook his head. “We’re not like the bloody green skins. We can’t just eat corpses when it suits us.”

  Shae let out a small noise, and Dean swore internally when the guard glanced at her. His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, he wondered if it was all going to go south. He could kill the man, certainly. In fact, he could kill all four of them if it came to it. But by that time, the alarm would be rung and their cover as good as blown.

  “Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said, cocking his head. “What’s your name?”

  “Fritz,” said Dean, doing his best to sound bored. “Poor bastard is a mute. Not very bright either, but at least he gets the job done. Put an axe in his hand, and he’ll carve up just about anything.”

  One of the guards at the card table snorted, hawking a glob of colorful spit onto the ground.

  “They let anyone in these days,” he muttered, thumbing through his deck. “It used to be about quality. Now it’s all about numbers and quotas.”

  The guard before them grunted his agreement before turning and shaking his head.

  “Do your bloody job, rookies. And if I catch you slacking off, you'd better hope it’s just the whip that Damon gives you and not the cold, hard steel of his sword.”

  And with that, the guards waved them through.

  “Well, I can see morale among bandits is at an all-time high,” muttered Shae, glancing over her shoulder. “Also a mute half-wit? That’s what you came up with on the spot?”

  “Well, you know what they say,” said Dean, adjusting the stinking cloth that passed for a scarf around his neck. “The best lies are steeped in the truth.”

  The inside of the village was more or less intact. While the outer ring of buildings and fences were little more than burned-out husks, the innermost parts of the city remained almost untouched by fire. The shops, storefronts, and main plaza stood tall, signs still flapping in the breeze. Men had taken up residence there, and everywhere. Soldiers stood talking in the streets, played dice and cards in the corner alleyways, and one even belted out the first few verses of an old sailor's song while others raised their drinks and laughed.

  Most of the revelry seemed to be spilling out from one round building set apart. As Dean watched the saloon-style doors burst open and a man carrying a barrel of beer sprinted out, the sound of shouting and laughter echoed behind him.

  “Well they really ransacked the place,” said Shae, eyeing one of the smashed storefronts and the overturned mess of the shop itself. “Then again, I suppose it’s to be expected.”

  Dean grabbed Shae’s arm, steering her wide as a brawl broke out somewhere nearby, and fists, empty beer tankards, and at one point, a wooden bar stool went flying.

  “Men,” she said, rolling her eyes beneath her helmet. “Truly the pinnacle of common sense.”

  Dean snorted, and Shae looked at him, her eyes flashing in amusement. He was about to respond when a voice rang out through the streets.

  “Oi, what are you two morons doing loitering in the street? There are bodies to pile, aren’t there? Get a move on!”

  A bandit with his helmet off was standing beneath a nearby overhang, a dirty rag clutched over his face. Judging by the expression on his face, he was even less thrilled at being saddled with corpse duty than Dean was about to be. Dean hesitated, glancing behind them to be sure they were the intended recipients of the man’s remarks.

  The bandit threw his hands into the air.

  “Yes, you daft monkey, I’m talking to you two. What did I tell you about being late, eh? Damon will have our heads if the job isn’t done. You know the drill. Load the bodies and take them to Vernon. We want these taken care of and burned before the night is over.”

  They approached cautiously, and Dean heard Shae gag when the smell became evident. There were eight bodies stacked in a row. They’d been tied with sheets and linen, but that hadn’t stopped the stench of day-old rot from setting in. Dean swallowed down bile, and with little other choice due to the eyes now on them, he stepped forward. The old bandit didn’t stick around for long. He muttered something about needing a drink and swatted at a lingering fly before tottering unevenly towards the revelry across the street.

  “He’s drunk,” Shae observed, glaring sullenly after him.

  “It’s not a job you usually do sober.”

  “You speak as if you know.”

  Dean blinked and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  “Well, it isn’t hard to guess. Look, we can’t afford to waste time, but drawing attention to ourselves would be a mistake. There are more of them awake than I’d have suspected. Some are drunk, which could work in our favor. But starting a conflict before we get to the hostages…”

  Shae grunted her agreement. She moved, shifting her axe on her back as her eyes swept the streets.

  “You stay here and do… whatever that is,” she said, gesturing. “I’ll make my way around and see if find my way into that warehouse. Maybe clock the scout.”

  “Leaving me to do all the dirty work? How thoughtful.”

  “You’ll be fine,” said Shae sweetly. “Besides, I’m smaller and draw less attention. You have a...” She waved her hand. “Presence.”

  Dean arched a brow.

  “I mean your aura. You might be able to hide it from the average bandit or halfwit, but anyone with a half-decent mana sense would feel your power from a half mile away. So, stay out of trouble while I get this done, won’t you?”

  Dean sighed and reluctantly nodded.

  “Fine. But Shae...” The Adventurer stopped, glancing over her shoulder. Dean grimaced. There was a lot he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure how to put it into words. “There’s something off here,” he said. “I can’t explain it. It’s just a hunch, but if you happen to see any sign of goblins, will you let me know?”

  Shae’s brows drew together beneath her helmet, giving her a more severe look in the torch light. Another barrel of ale was brought out from the depths of what likely had been a brewery, and several vulgar cheers went up from the surrounding bandits.

  “Goblins?” asked Shae carefully. “What do you mean?”

  Another wave of laughter and shouting went up, and Dean shook his head.

  “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “Just be careful.”

  “You too.”

  She nodded once before turning and striding into the street, disappearing into the night. Dean watched her go for a moment before turning back to his task. The cart was already half full with bodies. All he needed to do was load up the others and wheel them towards the bonfire. It was odd, he thought, for bandits to bother burning the bodies at all. If this were a raid, then why not enjoy the spoils and clear the area before a retaliatory force arrived? Their chief had to know there would be some sort of reckoning for the atrocities they’d committed.

  Dean bent down, ignoring the roiling in his stomach as he gripped the body beneath the torso and legs, using his knees to lift it. The weight made him grunt as he staggered towards the cart, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to disrespect the dead.

  Instead, he laid the wrapped body gently on top of the others. Taking a moment to rest a hand on the deceased’s head and murmur a prayer before continuing.

  He repeated this action seven times until he eventually came to the last body. It was smaller than the others, and as Dean knelt, the truth twisted his stomach. Lying beside the small wrapped body was an object. It was half covered in mud, and he might not have noticed it in the poor lighting. But as he reached out and plucked it from the mud, Dean knew with a sudden rush of grief and anger what he was looking at.

  It was a tiny wooden horse. One that had been carved likely by a father for a son or daughter. Dean’s fingers closed around it, squeezing until his knuckles cracked. Slowly, he slipped a hand beneath the child’s head and cradled it to his chest, his eyes pricking with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the covered corpse. “I’m so sorry.” The child had been young, likely no older than nine or ten, judging by the size of the wrapping. Dean knelt there for a moment, feeling grief and rage war within him. Then he closed his eyes, steadying himself with a breath.

  This was war. This was why he chose to fight all those years ago. Despite not having a combat class. Despite not being strong, or fast, or extraordinary in the way other soldiers were. He had chosen to fight, not for them. But for the ones who couldn’t fight themselves.

  “God's ball, are you still not bleeding done? I swear, you mercenaries are the laziest lot I’ve seen. There’s only one body left, get moving!”

  The drunk bandit had wandered back towards him, and judging by the scent of stale ale on the gentle breeze, he’d had more to drink. Dean slowly lowered the child’s head before he rose.

  “Are you deaf? I said pick the last one up and get it done. We don’t have all night.”

  Dean took a quick inventory of the area, his eyes pausing for a moment on the unused wrappings and twine that lay in a pile near the corner of a building. They were in an alcove here, shielded from the wind and at least in part, unwanted eyes. Good. That was all he needed to know.

  “Oi, stupid.” The man’s face was ruddy, whether a sign of the drink or of his rising temper, Dean wasn’t sure. Nor did he much care.

  “Are you listening? I told you –”

  Dean’s fist slammed into the man’s face with such force that he folded like a piece of laundry. His boots flew into the air, blood spewing from his nose as he fell backwards. Dean’s arm was around his throat from behind in moments as he pulled the man backwards into the shadows. The bandit’s startled cry was cut off when the crook of Dean’s elbow compressed his windpipe, cutting off his air.

  “Bastards like you don’t deserve a quick death,” he said in the man’s ear. “I never used to be cold, you know. Not really. But war fucking changes a man.”

  The bandit struggled, his boots kicking helplessly as he scrabbled at Dean’s armored arm. But Dean was an Adventurer, and the power that flowed in his veins made him much stronger than the average man. He reached out a free hand, snatching up a bit of hemp twine. He tore off a bit of the stinking scarf, grimacing when the piece came away easily. Then he loosened his hold on the man’s throat just enough to force the makeshift gag into his mouth. The bandit twisted violently, trying to rip himself free, but Dean overpowered him easily, slamming the gagged man to the ground.

  “Easy now,” he growled, forcing one of the man’s arms behind his back with such force the joint creaked. “If you keep fighting, I’ll break both your arms and legs.”

  The bandit hesitated, his eyes bulging with fear and anger. He tried to say something around the gag. Maybe a curse, maybe a plea, but Dean was beyond caring. He bound the man’s arms and legs so tightly that he could barely move. Then he began stripping off his armor. He stowed that armor in his inventory, glancing around to be certain nobody was watching. There were a few drunk bandits loitering in the streets, but judging by the way one of them hurled his dinner into the street, they were far too drunk to notice or care what he was doing.

  It was only when he grabbed a linen wrapping from the pile that the bandit seemed to realize his impending fate. His eyes bulged, and he tried to struggle. But his arms and legs were so tightly bound that he could barely move. Dean ignored the man’s feeble attempts to free himself, concentrating instead on wrapping him from head to toe in linen. The body let out weak, muffled complaints, but Dean studiously ignored it. At last, when his work was done, he dragged the bound bandit over to the cart and threw his body atop the pile.

  Then he set the boy’s body across his shoulders and began to push the wooden cart. The streets were half empty by now. Most bandits gave him a wide berth, and that suited Dean just fine. He was in a mood now, and he was certain that if anyone stopped him, he’d blow his cover and start spilling blood. Through sheer luck, he managed to wheel his cart into the main square, where the bonfire now blazed ahead of them. The flames were over ten feet tall, burning high with a steady supply of wooden scraps and furniture to feed the inferno. Even as Dean approached, a bandit tossed an old chair onto the pile, causing the fire to rage even higher.

  “That’s good for now,” called a man with his back to Dean. He was facing the blaze, his hands clasped behind his back. “If the flames start to wane, we’ll throw more oil on it. Remember, we need the fire to last longer, not burn hotter.”

  At the sound of the cart’s wooden wheels on the cobblestone, the bandit turned. He was middle-aged, with a receding hairline and a round beer belly that stuck out from beneath his chainmail.

  “Vernon?” asked Dean, the sound of his voice echoing from the depths of his borrowed helmet. The man nodded.

  “Aye, that’s me. I assume those bodies are for burning? Bring them here, my men and I will see to it that they are properly disposed of.”

  Dean nodded, stepping away from the cart and lowering the child’s body into his arms. One of the bandits stepped forward, but Dean glared at him, the force of the look enough to make the man step back. He ignored the looks the others gave him as he approached the fire. He stared into the blaze, letting the heat roll over him in waves. Then he murmured a prayer under his breath before he lowered the child’s body into the fire.

  “You did good work,” said Vernon as Dean approached the cart. “Though it looks like one of these corpses is still alive.” The man grinned, showing white teeth in the firelight. “It’s no problem, though. We call them wigglers. On account of all the squirming they do.”

  And he laughed. The others laughed with him, and Dean joined in, though he never really smiled beneath his helmet.

  “Wigglers,” he said softly. “Isn’t that something?”

  And then he was striding away as the men hoisted the bodies and began tossing them into the flame. Dean felt no sympathy as the muffled screaming began. He felt no sympathy as he passed the men gathered in the streets, the ones howling and laughing with their cronies in the nearby buildings, nor the guards playing cards or dice.

  As he stared at them, as he received the sneers, the greetings, the grins with missing teeth, he felt nothing but cold, hard anger. Every one of these men who had participated in the slaughter of this village would be dead before the sun rose. Every last one of them.