THE LEADER OF THE BRIGANDS—the one who’d shot Dern with the bow—was named Bralen; the one with the bandage on his head was Quat; the one with the missing fingers Marl; and the last was named Tarly. Their camp was in a clearing a half-mile east of the road. They had several horses tethered to the trees at the edge of the clearing and a wagon they’d stolen from a farmer they killed several days before. The wagon had a cask of ale in it from which the brigands started drinking as soon as they returned. Bralen offered Dern a horn of the brew he gladly accepted. They’d pulled the arrow from his leg for him, and he’d wrapped the wound with a piece of cloth torn from his cloak, but it still throbbed horribly.

The brigands were a boisterous lot that bragged and cursed, and more so the more they drank. Bralen had shot a pheasant earlier in the day and as the dark envelope of night closed in around them they gathered around their cook fire to eat and drink more. The fowl was good, as was the ale, but Dern only sipped at the ale. Let them drink all they want and I’ll slip away when they’re passed out snoring.

The tales they told were cruel. The farmer whose wagon they stole had met an easy death—an arrow through the eye—but others—merchants with money, especially, and those of noble birth—were tortured, raped if they were women. Dern pretended to be impressed, and even amused them with a few stories of how he’d stolen from rich merchants in the big cities. They particularly enjoyed the story of how Dern had gotten covered in shit while crawling through Lord Labat’s privy shaft.

Eventually the talk turned to the slain knight. Marl told how Bralen shot him in the chest with an arrow and they all attacked. There’d been seven of them. The knight killed two and almost brained Quat. The dog killed another and took Marl’s fingers before Bralen could get another arrow into him and two into his horse.

“I thought his horse would go down, or at least panic and throw him,” Bralen marveled, “But it was a well-trained horse. It took one in the chest, another in the rump and my quiver was empty. I had to call the retreat.”

Dern had not seen an arrow in the horse’s chest, but figured the horse must have chewed the shaft off. A chest wound would explain why it had died in the night.

It was silent, Dern realized, and all the brigands were staring at him. They want to know how I managed to kill him when seven of them failed. Dern took a swig from his horn and looked into the fire.

“His horse was dead when I came across him on the road. When he saw me coming he demanded I give him my horse. The one I’d stolen. He called me an idiot serf boy. I could see he’d been bleeding from the arrows in him and his face was all white so I wasn’t scared of him. I told him to ride that ugly dog of his if he was in such a hurry. That made him mad and he tried hitting me with his sword, but I blocked it with my axe, and that’s when the dog rushed in. My horse spooked and all I could do was hold on. She was jumping up and around in circles. It did the job. She stepped on the dog until it quit moving and knocked the knight onto his arse. He tried scrambling after his sword, but he wasn’t moving too fast with those arrows in him. I jumped off the horse and hit him in the back of the head before he ever got there.”

“The first man you ever killed?” Marl asked.

Dern nodded.

“How’d it feel?”

“Better than him lopping off my head,” Dern said, looking up from the fire and smiling. “A lot better than Bralen’s damned arrow in my leg, that’s for sure.”

They all laughed at that and the conversation thankfully moved on to other, less recent stories. They believed me, Dern marveled as he sat watching them drink like it were a race. Even Bralen, who’d had his eye on him the whole time was drinking much and laughing. Eventually, they began to nod off beside the fire one by one. Bralen and Tarley kept talking for a long time of plans for the morrow, but Tarley fell asleep mid-sentence and Dern was left the only one awake besides Bralen.

Bralen finished off the rest of his ale and turned to stare at him. Dern cursed himself for not having pretended to fall asleep. It would have been an easy matter, but it was too late now.

“What do you think of my lot?” Bralen asked, his speech noticeably slurred.

“A bit rough, but they’re likeable enough.”

Bralen snorted. “I don’t believe that. Even I don’t like them. They’re the worst bunch of murderous, raping fools I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet.”

“Then why do you stay with them?”

“Because. Because they don’t pretend to be what they’re not. I respect them more than the tax collector who smiles and says he’s helping the realm while stealing your livelihood. Or the fish merchant who feels he’s done a great service when he buys the sailor’s catch for a copper shilling and sells it for a gold crown.”

Dern didn’t know what to say.

“I used to be like you,” Bralen went on. “Stealing, but feeling ashamed, hoping that some day I could live an honorable life.”

“I don’t want an honorable life,” Dern told him.

“Of course you do. I hope you find it some day. I couldn’t. Not in this world. We’re all the same, I say. All thieves and murderers. The only difference is to what extent, but really, what difference is that? A thief is a thief, a murderer a murderer, no matter what he kills or who he steals. So I do whatever I feel like. Today I’m with this lot raping and killing. Tomorrow I might decide to spend all my coin on whores or go kill a priest to see if the gods will strike me down.”

“I might do the same.”

“No, you mightn’t. You don’t even like lying. I can see it in your eyes.”

“What?”

“You didn’t really kill that knight, did you?” Bralen asked him.

“No.”  Dern didn’t know why he was telling the truth.

“Brave. Stealing his weapons when you didn’t kill him in battle. There’ll be a curse upon you.”

“I didn’t steal them.”

“No?”

“No. I’m returning them to the King.”

“What for?”

“Because he was a knight of the Golden Order. Named by King Udolf to uphold Zolon’s Justice”

Bralen laughed. “Who told you of the Golden Order?”

“My friend. Garamund. He used to be a squire on King’s Hill, before he broke his leg.”

“Your friend is an old fool. There’s nothing left of the Golden Order. Zolon’s Justice is a forgotten child’s story. Today’s justice is gold. Steal from a rich man and you’ll find a noose around your neck, but steal from a poor man and no one cares. Pay a poor man a copper shilling for a month’s labor and no one cares. What knights still exist are nothing more than mercenaries—sell-swords—hired by rich merchants or nobles to keep their peasants in order.”

“I’m still going to King’s Hill.”

“No. You aren’t. The sword and shield are mine. Give me your hands.”

“What?”

Bralen stood up. He held a length of rope in his hands. “We can’t have you running off in the night. I’ll have to bind your arms and legs.”

Dern looked up at him, could see that he was swaying on his feet, drunk. “Alright,” Dern said. He put his hands onto the ground, as if to push himself up, but when he stood he pulled the dagger from his belt and thrust it into Bralen’s stomach. Bralen stared at him in shock. He groaned, so Dern stabbed him in the throat.

Justice.

The other brigands were still snoring loudly. It would be an easy matter to lead his horse to the road, saddle up in the moonlight, and be away; he’d snuck his way past more vigilant guards, but he couldn’t bring himself to just leave them there. They killed the knight. The poor farmer. How many others? How many women have they raped and murdered?

Dern limped to the wagon and took up the knight’s sword. He could see nothing but blackness in the trees around the camp, but he knew Dog was out there waiting. He’s waiting for my command… Dern whistled quietly, and the dog padded up to him, eyes glowing red in the firelight.

…just like Garamund said.

It didn’t seem right to kill them in their sleep, so Dern yelled before he attacked. Tarley was the first to gain his feet. Dern dashed his head to bits with a single stroke. Marl never stood up; Dog took off a few more of his fingers before getting hold of his scalp and shaking his head until his neck broke. Quat stumbled up with his sword in hand and took a wild swing, which Dern easily sidestepped. The effort sent Quat tumbling into the fire. He screamed and flailed around, but was too drunk to regain his feet. Dern and Dog watched as he burned to death in the fire.