Chapter 12: Blood in the Wilds
The smell of woodsmoke and tanned leather clung to them as they rode, a permanent souvenir of the last wild camp. Oren’s pony, a shaggy-haired fell breed, trotted alongside Kerr’s heavier chestnut hunter, its panniers bulging with more than just supplies. Wrapped in soft doeskin were his treasures: a Dalish longbow of supple heartwood, a Chasind hand-axe with a blade of blackened steel, and from the Ash Warriors, a hunting knife whose bone handle was carved with the visage of a howling wolf. Each was a story. Each was a hard-won proof of belonging.
Every skill the boy picked up filled Kerr with a pride he wasn’t afraid to show, which motivated Oren even more. He’d watch, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading as Oren perfectly jointed a rabbit, his small hands sure and quick, not a shred of meat wasted. “Your father couldn’t have done it cleaner,” Kerr would say, and the boy would beam, wiping his brow with a bloody forearm. The boy became skilled with hatchet and daggers and hunting knives, tools of utility and survival, their lessons pragmatic and immediate. In the evenings, by the fire, Kerr still taught him the traditional art of fencing. To rely on his quickness and the sharpness of his blade. The fluid dances of parry and thrust seemed almost frivolous next to the brutal efficiency of skinning, but Kerr insisted. “This,” he’d say, tapping Oren’s practice sword, “is for the other world. The one with stone halls and heralds. You need both.”
Oren was enthusiastic and busy, and by the end of the day he slept like a rock, but he always woke up excited and eager. The Dalish, Chasind, and Ash warriors adored him and welcomed him among them. He was gifted an item from each of them. He’d earned them, not through his name, but through quiet effort and bright curiosity. Kerr felt it too—a strange, swelling contentment. This was duty, but it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like building something.
The forest path began to widen, the gnarled oaks of the wilds giving way to more familiar pine. Civilization, or its fringes, loomed. The air lost some of its deep, damp chill. They were maybe a day’s ride from the first Highever patrol marker.
Cain, padding silently ahead, let out a low growl that was more vibration than sound. Kerr’s hand went up, and Oren reined his pony in instantly. From a thicket of bramble and windfall at the roadside, figures emerged. Three men, their clothes more rag than garment, faces smudged with dirt and false misery. They held out empty hands, palms up.
“Milords,” the foremost whined, his voice a reedy complaint. “A copper for the starving? A crust?”
Kerr’s eyes didn’t linger on their faces but on their feet. The boots, though scuffed, were sound. The way they stood, not slumped in exhaustion but balanced, ready. His horse shifted beneath him.
“We’ve spare traveler’s bread,” Kerr said, his voice neutral, loud enough to carry. He didn’t reach for his coin purse. “You’re welcome to it. Then be on your way.”
“Bread?” another sneered, the beggar’s act cracking. “Think we’re dogs?”
As they left the final camp of their expedition they were approached by beggars, or rather bandits masquerading as beggars. Oren stayed behind Kerr, his small hand drifting to the new knife at his belt. Kerr could feel the boy’s tension, a wire pulled tight.
“I encourage you,” Kerr said, the warmth bleeding from his tone, leaving something cold and flat, “not to pick this fight. Take the bread and the grace of leaving with your lives.”
The leader’s eyes, sharp and greedy, flicked from Kerr’s well-made armor to the laden packs on Oren’s pony. He saw a giant of a man and a boy. He did the math and found it favorable. His hand twitched toward the frayed edge of his cloak.
When he saw one reach for his weapon, he clicked his tongue for Cain.
The mabari was a brown blur. A roar, not a bark. The sound of splintering bone was louder than the bandit’s scream. Cain seized the man’s arm, breaking it, the man collapsing, shrieking.
The leader yanked a short spear from the brambles. Kerr didn’t draw his sword. He kicked his horse forward, and in the same motion, wrenched the weapon from the man’s grasp with a brutal twist, reversed it, and drove the spear through their leader. It was ugly, efficient, and final. The man gasped, looking down at the shaft in his belly with profound confusion.
The third bandit, the one hanging back, had a crossbow. It was already half-lifted, shaking. Oren’s movement was pure, untrained instinct. The smooth pull of the Dalish bow, the release he’d practiced a thousand times on straw targets and tree trunks. The thwip was almost gentle.
The bolt meant for Kerr’s back never flew. The bandit dropped, the fletching of Oren’s arrow protruding from his eye socket.
Silence, except for the gurgling moans of the first man and the heavy panting of Cain.
Kerr swung down from his saddle. “Oren.”
The boy was frozen atop his pony, the bow still held at the extension of his shot. His face was white, his eyes enormous pools of horror fixed on the man he’d killed. He began to tremble violently.
“Oren.” Kerr was beside him in two strides, pulling the bow from stiff fingers. He lifted the boy down from the saddle. Oren’s legs buckled. Kerr caught him, going to one knee in the dirt, pulling him into a tight embrace. The boy smelled of sweat and fear. “Look at me. Breathe.”
A choked sob hit Kerr’s chest. “I… I k-killed…”
“It’s alright. Look at me.” Kerr’s voice was low, a rumble meant only for him. “They’re safe because of you. You did the right thing. You saved my life.”
“He was… his eye…”
“I know. I know.” Kerr held him tighter, one big hand cradling the back of Oren’s head. This is not a lesson he wanted Oren to learn so young. But they would have killed him. Stone-cold, they’d have put a bolt in his back for a few coins and a pony. “Listen to me. In that moment, you must always act first. You hesitate, you die. You understand? You acted. You protected your kin. That is the weight of it. That is the cost.”
Oren was quiet then, his crying subsiding into harsh, shaky breaths against Kerr’s shoulder. The adrenaline was draining, leaving a hollow, sick shock in its wake.
Kerr stood, lifting Oren with him. He didn’t set the boy back on his pony. Instead, he mounted his own horse and pulled Oren up in front of him, settling him against his chest, wrapping his cloak around him. He took the reins of Oren’s pony, clicked to Cain, and turned them back onto the road.
Oren was quiet and Kerr held him while they rode atop his horse, leading Oren’s pony with Cain following. Silent. The only sounds were the hoofbeats, the jingle of tack, and the wind moving through the pines. Oren’s small hands clutched the fabric of Kerr’s tunic. He didn’t look back.
Kerr rested his chin on top of the boy’s head. The proud treasures in the panniers seemed to mock them now. The sky ahead was deepening into twilight, a bruised purple bleeding into the last strips of orange. The road home stretched out, longer and darker than it had seemed just an hour before.