The tracks of the deserters were a chaotic scar upon the land. They had fled the Anvil not as a disciplined unit, but as a panicked herd, their boot prints scattering in a dozen directions before converging again on the path of least resistance, a worn dirt road leading north. Bedlam followed, a lone predator tracking a wounded pack.
He knew from lessons that the Anvil was located in the borders of the wildlands, an unforgiving stretch of land ruled by power and currency, with murder and exploitation rampant. The scarce villages that existed only did so because the land and its predators found them too bare bones to consume. Even still, these villages seldom lasted long enough to count generations, being rejected from the fortress Cities.
He smelled the village before he saw it: the familiar scent of woodsmoke and livestock overlaid with something acrid and wrong. The smell of recent, panicked violence. As he crested a low hill, the scene confirmed his senses. The village was a wounded thing, a handful of timber and homes huddled around a muddy track. Several roofs had collapsed, stables were splintered and open to the sky, and a profound, fearful silence hung over it all.
Before the first proper building, in a trampled patch of weeds off the road, lay the reason for the silence.
There were four of them. Teenagers. They had not been killed with a warrior's efficiency. Their deaths were messy, brutal, the work of desperate men taking what they wanted and quelling resistance with panicked force. A boy lay with his arm bent at an impossible angle, a farming scythe still clutched in his hand. Two others were nearby, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and pain.
Bedlam's gaze settled on the fourth. A girl, no older than he was. Her simple woolen dress was torn, her dark hair fanned out in the dirt. Her eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the ash-grey sky. There was nothing tactical to assess here. No lesson to be learned. It was simply a waste. A messy, inefficient, and final waste. It only served to show that the people he was pursuing for clues had passed by here.
He knelt beside her. For a long moment, he did nothing, simply observing the stillness. He remembered Simon's talk of apple pie, of a life before the Tithe. This girl had likely known such a life. A thought, unbidden and strange, surfaced in his mind: a weapon does not mourn inefficiency.
Reaching out, his gloved fingers brushed against her cold eyelids, gently closing them. It was an unfamiliar gesture, one he had never been taught, but it felt… correct. Necessary. Standing up, he took a step, ready to leave.
He stopped. No calculation justified it, but his body refused the next step.
A faint hum stirred in his skull, one of the residual voices from his Mark. It wasn't words, only a tone, soft and wavering. For a moment, he thought it was wind, but there was no wind here.
He crouched beside them again.
Then, methodically, he began to drag stones from the roadside. Not to bury, he didn't dig, but to cover. One layer at a time, precise and silent. He arranged them like sealing a wound, until no part of the bodies remained visible. The act took minutes. It felt like hours.
He stood, staring at the mound. His hands were streaked with dust, his breathing even. He knew he should have been pressing the pursuit instead of wasting time on a thankless and unnecessary task, and yet this time he had compromised.
"This is concealment," he said aloud, to no one. "Nothing else."
But even as he spoke, his mind supplied an image, Simon's face, smiling faintly as he described apple pie.
He walked on. People watched him from behind cracked doorways and shuttered windows, their faces pale with fear. They saw his dark clothing, the obsidian mask at his hip, the cold purpose in his stride. They saw the Forge, and they flinched.
The stables were in shambles, most of the stalls empty. Only three horses remained, huddled in a corner. They were a smaller breed, sturdy but lacking the size and speed prized for long journeys. It was obvious why the deserters had left them.
"H-hello?"
The voice was thin, trembling. A stooped, grey-haired man emerged from the shadows of a tack room, his hands held up in a gesture of placation. The stable master. His eyes were wide with terror.
"Take what you want," the man stammered, his gaze fixed on the knife at Bedlam's belt. "Just… just don't hurt anyone else. We have nothing left."
Bedlam said nothing. He approached the horses, his movements slow and deliberate. He ran a hand over the flank of a dun-colored mare, checking her legs, her teeth. She was sound. Underfed, but strong enough. He found a worn but serviceable saddle and bridle and began to fit them, his movements economical and practiced. The stable master watched, flinching at every small sound.
Once the mare was ready, Bedlam turned to the old man. He reached into the pouch at his belt. The stable master squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for a blow.
Instead, he heard the soft, heavy clink of coins on a wooden barrel.
He opened his eyes. Three gold coins sat there, gleaming in the dim light. It was more than all the horses in his stable were worth combined. He stared at the gold, then back at Bedlam, his expression a mask of pure, uncomprehending shock.
Bedlam took the reins of the mare and led her out into the fading light. He swung himself into the saddle with fluid grace. He did not look back at the man, nor at the shuttered houses. He urged the horse into a trot, then a canter, the rhythm of the hoofbeats a steady, driving pulse.
As the ruined village shrank behind him, he galloped north, towards the distant promise of the city, leaving behind him a shallow grave and a debt paid for a crime he did not commit.