He did not hear the sound of the Supreme Commander’s sword being drawn or the sound of his own severed head hitting the cold stone floor. He heard only the thud of a fated rock, dropped on the ashes of a distant and dying night fire many miles away.
The execution was justified by sighting cowardice, lack of initiative, and for not knowing the exact direction of travel. In truth, however, the commander was undone. To hear the monk still lived, and was indeed a mortal man, exhumed the buried demons of his past, and hatred had driven him. He felt the pain again as if his wounds were fresh. His right hand squeezed the razor sharp sword tip that hung like a jewel from a chain around his neck. He stared back into the darkness of events long past, oblivious to the blood dripping from hand to floor and joining the dark pool forming around the sentry’s headless body.
For every two eyes there is one mouth, and three full seasons would pass before a tale found its way to the ears of the commander. He listened intently to the story of a monk of great stature and a fair young woman far to the west claiming and transporting the human refuse of war’s far-flung campaign. This thieving monk from first meeting had come away the victor. He had stolen his place as aspiring novice, robbed him of his greatest victory, and now purloined the spoils of war. The commander sat, a hollow disfigured leader in a command that he had not earned by deed or merit.
He waited impatiently over the next season for more information, but none came. Here the trail would grow cold, not a whisper not a rumor, as if the earth itself had swallowed them up. The commander found this silence deafening. He knew by instinct that where this monk rested the scrolls of the lost library would be found, and that his redemption in the eyes of his emperor lay in their recovery.
Amid the rugged beauty of the highlands, forge and stable were sheltered under one thatched roof. While most of the men were raiding, the orphaned child stayed with the smith and worked as best he could for a meal and a sleeping place within the straw. Not family as most would know it, but these were all he had.
Some were kind most were not, his survival hinged on mistrust. At night the boy moved well among the men, filling cups when most were too drunk to walk or pour. He had his niche, slicing gracefully through the darkness serving wine and listening to the rambling stories of the warriors. At an early age he knew well to be useful, but not visible. He could tell by tone when to attend and when to escape, for mood in camp could change with a swallow. The boy learned well how to seize opportunity, for in the company of brigands and mercenaries mead loosened purse strings as well as tongues.
The men had fought that day, a bloody skirmish if the talk was to be believed. When coupled with a full moon, the boy knew well to be vigilant. By firelight he felt the eyes of a tattooed warrior upon him and responded cautiously to the signal for more drink. The small boy did not like the way this one looked at him or the way that he smiled when his cup had been filled. He dodged the arm reaching drunkenly through the darkness and moved with haste to serve in the comfort of others.
The night concluded without event. The boy had done his work well and was the last to find sleep, for the men now lay snoring around the fading fire. He found a private place away from the group. Standing before the small tree, he felt the soft touch of its wet leaves on his face and shivered as he released his water. Tired from his long day, he looked forward to the quiet warmth of his nest.
From the blackness the man pounced.
The cry that would have issued was silenced as all wind was crushed from his delicate body by the weight of his foe. He could smell the man. Alcohol and sweat mingled with the stench of bad intentions. A tattooed hand gripped the top of his trousers and roughly tried to pull them down. The boy knew what was upon him, what pushed his face into the night mud drowning him silently beneath the mire. He knew what rape was.
He moved past the panic of his voiceless scream searching for a solution to a situation that seemed beyond his control. No one could protect him, he was truly alone. Small hands grasped at anything that they could touch until the fingers of his right closed around a dried and broken forest branch. They were called lossoughs, and he had picked them on many mornings, for nothing was better to start the fire of an early forge than these. The familiar feel brought comfort, and comfort brought hope. There would be only one chance.
His attacker turned the struggling boy over and fumbled with the task of loosening his own belt. He pressed his filthy hand across the small mouth as he reached down inside his tunic. Here the boy struck. The thick, pointed stick found an eye. The cry of pain cut through the darkness. It was the sound that should have come from the lad but could not. With a kick of both legs, he was free and snatched the warrior’s short sword away in both his tiny hands. He did not stop.
He hacked the kneeling giant savagely. He smelt the blood and felt its warm wetness paint his face and body, and still he slashed. The rage that was his life drove him onward, unaware of when the man no longer knelt or when the man had perished. The boy was still cutting with all his might when the others broke upon the scene. It was the smith that wrapped him gently in mighty arms and whispered soothing truths, “Vincent, stop now, it is enough.”
All stood quietly in the forest, taken by the scene that they had come upon. The boy was blood soaked but unhurt, the warrior did not fare as well. His corpse was stretched upon the ground recognizable only by its heavy tattoos. The chest was open and hollow, and in the small clenched fist of his left hand, the boy held the dripping heart of his adversary.
As is common in the world of war and atrocity, nothing more was spoken of the night’s event. The smith held the boy closely as he led him towards the stable. He saw the look in the lad’s wild eyes and knew that this one now had the taste of blood. That would serve him well he thought, as would the short sword the warrior no longer needed. By midday he had finished sharpening it anew, and this small one had joined the ranks of men. The civil world of fire and straw was now behind him.
The smith was impressed with the sharpness of his own handiwork. This child is different he mused, and as he placed the freshly honed weapon into the boy’s young hands he drew him near.
“Vincent, may the force that made you guide and protect your path, and may God have mercy on your enemies.”
His first foray into the world of men was less than successful, and his first skirmish did not last long. With a child’s foolishness he thought it would be the most memorable, but in fact, he was left with almost no memory of it at all. He picked his target, a large lowlander with a wooden shield, and attacked with all the spirit of a full grown Celtic warrior. That was his only surviving recollection.
By God’s mercy a large mercenary had befriended the boy and kept a watchful eye. He was skilled enough to finish what the boy had started, fast enough to pull him from where he had fallen, and kind enough to bear the wounded boy home. Vincent had been unconscious for the two-day carry, the first and only casualty of this excursion. He was laid groaning upon the familiar straw and held down throughout the night as he thrashed violently against enemies that only he could see.
The one that had hauled him stayed with him, watching to see which way the lad would go. The soldier wondered to himself why he had worked so hard on the boy’s behalf. The smith assured him that this one was worth saving, and that he was right to intervene.
Like the worst hangover, morning light brought agony and confusion. The dull ache in Vincent’s neck contrasted with the sharp pains shooting down from his head. This sobriety was not a pleasant state, and his missing