Three

Santos cursed his own altruism in silence.

The boy didn't appear to possess a single useful skill, and he ate as if he had a hollow leg. He couldn't afford to slow down to accommodate the brat, but the angry intelligence in the lad's eyes had prompted him to make an offer he wished he could rescind. A knight of the road needed no help, and one such he purported to be, just another mercenary bound for Glassfield, the staging ground for the border war.

 It would mean both their lives if his facade slipped at the wrong time, even for an instant. By the hanged man, sometimes Santos swore he owned more heart than sense. Though the boy rode through the rain gamely enough, he'd falter soon, and they could not pause. Perhaps the lad would die on the road then, shivering with fever, instead of starving with the guttersnipes who plagued the docks in Butterbridge. Or perhaps Isa would try to rob Santos in the night, and then he'd break the rat's scrawny neck.

So be it.

He squinted through his helm, seeing the child hunched in his harlequin's cloak, all patchwork and rags. The wind must be cutting through Isa like a knife, but he hadn't spoken a word since they mounted outside the Cup and Casque three hours past. In a deluge like this, even good imperial roads turned into a quagmire, and it was a wonder neither horse had lost its footing. The speed qualified as foolhardy but Santos had no choice.

"Are you bearing up, boy?" A clap of thunder, mixed with thundering hooves, nearly drowned out the words. "I think you exaggerated when you said you can ride."

Pelted with rain, the boy shifted in the saddle, his face delicate and ethereal in the dark. If he'd stayed on the docks, somebody would've noticed and sold him to some abbess who'd rent his pretty ass by the hour. Dirt couldn't conceal such fine bones forever.

"And I think you lied when you said you need a boy to look after your gear." Isa spoke without a hint of urchin cant, cool outrage in his tone.

Lightning split the heavens in a yellow slash, accentuating the tension building parallel in his own gut. If the boy knew, he had to die. There was simply too much at stake; too many other lives hung on this secret.

"Why do you say that?"

Isa adjusted his hood with a thin hand and then curled the reins around his wrist. Perhaps some lord's by-blow, he might even carry fey blood by the look of his eyes. "The stirrups were adjusted to a man's height and the tack is wrong for a pack animal. You never had a boy to care for your gear. Did you buy this beast for me?"

 Bright little bastard. I'll need to be on my guard with this one. That unexpected acuity might come in handy, however. People wouldn't expect it from a squire and that could offer them an advantage.

He took a breath before he replied. "In fact, I did."

"Why? Where are you taking me?" Santos identified the fear bubbling beneath the flat tone. "For what purpose?"

"You seemed too clever for me to let you die and too unlucky to survive on your own. I spoke truly when I said we're bound for Glassfield. If the gods are unkind, we'll see battle on the border before we're through."

"Then I shall die there instead," Isa said bitterly. "For the gods are always unkind."

"You've an advantage, then, because most men don't learn that lesson so early. But you know not to expect aid from the divine hand of providence, don't you?"

Eyes livid, the boy turned away, slouched deeper into his rags, not that they offered any respite from the driving rain. Santo suffered less, though the damp seeped in through the joints in his armor and soaked the padding beneath. He'd love a hot bath but he couldn't relax his guard to that extent at a common inn. As they rounded a bend, his horse screamed and slowed, sliding toward the wet underbrush.

Struggling with the black, Santos didn't see what had spooked the animal at first. Then they stepped out of the shadows, murky and misshapen. Summoned from shadow and death, two Umbrae stood with four hired killers, and all six looked as if they intended to separate Santos's body from his soul. He didn't waste time asking what they wanted, nor could he afford to check on the boy, whom he hoped had sense enough to hide. Indecision would end them both.

As the stallion stumbled, he leapt down, careful to keep the horse between him and his pursuers. He slid his weapon from its loop on his back in a smooth motion. Even in darkest night with rain running along the haft, the head seethed with ice blue hellfire. Feet planted in battle stance, Santos curled his fingers twice in a come-on gesture and then wrapped both hands about the haft of his axe.

He didn't need to know why they wanted to kill him before he severed four heads from their necks and sent the other two back to hell.

The Umbrae moved like the wind, howling darkness and hunger that would suck the life out of him and use it to fuel their own. But they'd find no purchase through his armor. The ruffians moved to encircle him, but it wouldn't help.

He spun, whirling his axe through the first shade's core, and the others leapt back lest he cleave them in half on the backswing. The specter howled, black smoke boiling out of the wound. Yes, this is no ordinary woodchopper. I can hurt you. And I shall.

His axe twirled as he executed the styles: Pillager, Hoarfrost, Wyrm's Bite, Ymir's Strength, Arctic Shield, and Havoc. Long ago he'd practiced battling enemies in groups, because his trainer knew Santos would spend his life fighting long odds. So he did now, offering no openings as he countered with fist and boot. One thug took a kick to the temple and crumpled, so Santos left him. He'd cut their throats after they all stopped moving.

When he dispersed the first shade, blue light beamed toward the heavens, streaked the driving drain. The combined might of his ancestors erupted in an earsplitting roar. "Gragnok!" The word echoed up and down the road, and two more men fell to their knees in the mud, stunned.

The last one dropped as the boy tumbled behind him, rolled to a crouch, and cut his hamstring in a practiced motion. Certes he'd adopted something other than a simple street rat, but he couldn't spare a moment to wonder. For the other shade turned and sought Isa as an easier target, so Santos spun Hatebreaker and let fly.

"Down!" he bellowed at the boy, who showed some sense by diving to his belly.

The axe tumbled end over end and passed cleanly through the Umbra. Rage and pain colored its shriek as it spun back to face Santos. Who had tossed away his weapon.

He couldn't banish a shade with his bare hands, but—

He didn't need to. Isa raised his hands, and a pillar of white light shone from the torc encircling his throat. The Umbra screamed and sizzled, smoldering away in puffs of oily black smoke until nothing remained but the blackened ground where it once stood. Where in the nine Hells would a street rat get something like that? Moaning from beaten thugs prevented him from speaking straightaway.

With silent dispatch, Santos reclaimed Hatebreaker from the mud and set about severing heads. You just don't leave enemies alive on your back trail. He thought the boy might protest or cry the necessity, but instead, the child produced his eating knife and neatly cut two of their throats himself. Isa wiped the blade on the last man's shirt and then hid it again within his enveloping rags.

"If we didn't need to move, I'd be asking you some hard questions," he growled. "As it stands, they'll keep until we reach Glassfield. Mount up."

Isa complied and swung onto his horse. Mud covered the lad, head to toe. Probably for the best, he decided. If the mercs in Glassfield got a good look at that pretty face, Santos would be forced to fight from one end of the tavern to the next and he couldn't afford to draw as much attention as he had in Butterbridge.

Rain drummed down as the horses thundered toward their destination. The boy spoke just before they saw the lights of town. "What did that word mean? Gragnok?"

Santos studied the lad through the slits in his helm, trying to decide why he wanted to know. "My father's name," he answered at last. "I am Santos, son of Gragnok, who bore Hatebreaker before me. Our line marches unbroken through time, down to me."

Though he did not speak the thought aloud, he greatly feared he would be the last. The secret he bore did not lend itself to home and hearth. He did not see himself surviving the border war, let alone managing to produce a son. Thus the legacy died with him and he could not decide whether it would be for good or ill. Sometimes Hatebreaker felt like a burden as much as a gift.

"The axe is enchanted, isn't it? I've never seen anyone fight like you." Wonder colored Isa's voice.

Just what I need, a rotten case of hero worship.

 "Just like your necklace," he said deliberately. "Care to tell me where you got it?"

The boy's face turned mulish. "Maybe it's a family heirloom. Maybe it was all I managed to save from the fire that orphaned me."  

He shrugged. "And maybe you're the long lost heir to the Broken Throne."

"If I am, I'm ordering you beheaded first thing."

At that Santos almost reined his horse in. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to laugh or cuff the kid off his horse. "Whatever happened to gratitude? I've saved your worthless life more than once."

"If it's so worthless why did you bother?" Hells below, the lad could boil oil with the fury in his eyes. "I got myself into a wicked muddle, no mistake, and it was my fault. But in saving me, you also dragged me away from Butterbridge, the only home I've ever known. You've taken away any semblance of free will, I have no choice but to ride through the dark in the rain to gods know what. I have nothing now but your will. I am an indentured servant, my liege, so perhaps you can cease wondering about my gratitude. Those who clean and curry your horses may serve but we do not have to like it."

Before he could formulate a reply, the lights of town came into view. Glassfield, home to mercenaries and mages in equal measure, boasted fey lamps that lined the streets and could be seen for half a league. He didn't know how they'd trapped the will o' wisps that powered the lamps, but kids once enjoyed breaking them and letting the tiny monsters wreak some havoc in town before being captured. Last time he visited, he'd noticed that the mages had protected the glass, preventing youthful pranks for good.

"If you do not wish to acknowledge your debt," he said, pausing on the hilly overlook above the city, "or to repay it, then take your horse and return to Butterbridge. I cannot make you a man of honor in place of an angry child."

It might be for the best if the boy did just that. Isa was right about one thing. Things would only get worse, and Santos would feel better if he didn't lead the lad to his death.

"You cannot make me less with your disdain," Isa spat. "Bearing a magical axe does not make you a man of honor either. I shall judge you on your actions, and I must remain at your side to pay the balance."

Offered a free horse and freedom from indenture, yet he chose to stay, Santos mused. No, no ordinary street rat indeed.

"So be it. Let us face what awaits us then."  He kicked his horse into motion again. "Those were not my enemies, Isa. They bore no heraldry I recognize. So mark me, I will hear what you've stolen that makes them hunt you so. And if I'm displeased by your account, perhaps I'll give you to them myself."

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