Death After Death PLUS 367-369

Ch. 367 - A Squire for Hire

After the challenge was delivered, there was very little delay. Sir Derinholt put a few things on his horse, then came out of the stables with his sword drawn. While he didn’t quite have a murderous glare, his expression was certainly closer to anger than appraising, but Simon was ready for him.

He had his sword out and was dressed in battered leathers. Neither of those was any more impressive than the man who wore them, but Simon didn’t need to see the future to see the white cloak’s blows coming and parry them. At first, he thought the man was taking it easy on him, but after half a minute, and a small crowd had gathered, Simon could see the truth. He just wasn’t very good. 

No, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he was bad at swordplay, but that he was too rigid. His forms were too regular, and his attacks too conventional. That, combined with age, made him one of the easiest fights that Simon had experienced in several lives. Nearly everyone he’d fought in mountainous Charia was better than Sir Derinholt. 

Still, Simon didn’t embarrass the man. Though he made it a point to go on the offensive hard enough to put the knight on his back foot more than once. Even if he didn’t exactly put his all into it, Simon still made it dramatic and steel rang against steel as the two exchanged blows. 

“You show more promise than I would have thought,” the knight grunted. “But experience always trumps youth.”

Simon let the battle linger for another minute, then two, as he considered the possibilities. He could have ended it at any moment. The man left him many openings. The question, though, was not when to end it. Nothing felt right there. He could have tripped the knight; that would have been the kindest answer. Certainly, waiting for him to run out of steam and forfeit only seemed to be pissing the knight off. 

It took Simon too long to figure out why none of the ways to beat him felt quite right, and the answer was simple, because if he won, then he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. The flash of insight was muddy and not completely clear, but still, he believed it, and instantly, he took a dive. He let the white cloak press him back two steps, then three, then he managed to trip over a spare mucking shovel, and wind up on his ass so it looked convincing. 

Even then, Simon could probably have recovered, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he lay there on the flat of his back and dropped his sword in a gesture of surrender. Sir Derinholt didn’t press further. Rather than gloating or menacing, he basked in the applause of the other men who had gathered around to watch the fight. At first, Simon thought that was just vanity, but he quickly realized the man was all but spent, and standing there and smiling benevolently was the most he could manage without gasping for air. 

Simon got to his feet and thanked the man for the round. He was very respectful, and even acted a little disappointed, but the witch hunter took pity on him, just as he’d expected he would. 

“You did as well as any untrained man might,” the knight said. “You’re a bit old to be a squire, but you may travel with me for a time. We will see if there’s some fine steel in your soul worth training, forging into a weapon or not.”

Simon didn’t have a horse, but he had no problems walking alongside Sir Derinholt for hours, so long as the man didn’t kick his mount into a trot or a gallop. As they walked, they talked. Well, the knight talked mostly. Simon contented himself with listening as the man hinted repeatedly about how he worked for an organization that he was forbidden to speak of. 

That night around the fire, Simon even tried to broach things by asking, “I heard that witch hunters can look right through someone and see an evil doer's soul. Is that true?”

The knight agreed that it was, but beyond telling Simon he had a good soul, he offered no additional information. It was all very underwhelming. Simon kept expecting the knight to ask him about his life story, or to test him for the sight, or anything really, but it didn’t happen. This wasn’t the sort of initiation he’d planned for, but Simon still told him a little of his fabricated life story, and gave the man Enis as his name, even though the knight asked for neither. 

It’s not like I even let my time with the Magi get my hopes up, he reminded himself. His first initiation into the whitecloaks had been very cloak-and-dagger. It had required years of study and clues that led to a nonexistent holiday. Compared to that, this was nothing. 

But then, he’s not recruiting me into the order, Simon reminded himself. He’s just letting me tag along. 

After the second day, Simon started to despair at this choice. All they were doing was the same thing that he’d been doing before, wandering the roads like a knight errant, looking for trouble. The difference this time was that now Sir Derinholt saw fit to order him around for the most trivial things. 

That’s what squires are for, Simon reminded himself as he helped the man take off his armor that second evening before going to fetch water and firewood. 

For a few days more, he allowed himself to believe that this might be some sort of test of humility or aptitude, but the man never once volunteered to train Simon in fighting. He simply put him to work, and Simon quickly realized that this could become a very menial existence if he let it. 

Sometimes Sir Derinholt would tell him stories, and other times Simon would badger him into showing him a bit of swordplay, even if he didn’t really learn anything. The only real benefit of being with this man turned out to be an upgrade to their lodgings. 

Alone, Simon had slept rough most nights and ate whatever he could scavenge to save the few coins he had. When traveling with a white cloak, though, doors opened for them everywhere they went. They spent at least one night every week being hosted by some minor country lord. 

Each of these men treated the white cloak that Simon accompanied with the utmost deference. As the weeks passed and his sight began to clear up, he often saw the traces of fear in these men. Especially those with some darkness in their soul. A proper witch hunter might have investigated those stains, but Sir Derinholt seemed content with a cursory examination of local business before stuffing himself and getting drunk. 

It took a while, but Simon eventually realized there was a pattern to his new master’s movements. He traveled from point to point through the countryside to wherever his next hot meal was. 

Simon stayed deferential in these encounters, but he still tried to point things out to the man who should have been his master without ever quite revealing that he had the sight. 

“Didn’t that courtier seem strange to you?” Simon asked after one feast. “I had a bad feeling about him.” 

The knight waved off Simon’s concerns. “Leave the judging of souls to me and focus on your footwork,” the man chided him. 

Just because, Sir Derinholt wasn’t concerned about these encounters, though, didn’t mean that Simon didn’t do anything. He got into the habit of writing notes and signing them in the witch hunter's name. He would then deliver these to the nobles just before the two of them left the town, encouraging them to surreptitiously look into their men for evidence of corruption. Sometimes he would even provide some clues as to what their crimes might be, though he had to be careful there. As dense as Sir Derinholt was, Simon knew that eventually they'd make their way back to these places, and he didn't want to leave evidence of just how powerful his sight was lying around to be found.

Had the knight paid attention to anything, he would have probably noticed that too. Unfortunately, he spent most of his life on autopilot. 

The part of Brin that stretched between Schwartzenbruck and Liepzen had been very well mapped. He didn’t need to look at a mirror to see it. It was practically etched in his mind. Apparently Sir Derinholt didn’t need to see it either, because he’d memorized the whole route. When Simon asked him one day as they moved between towns, he admitted as much. 

“All tables are open to warriors who wear the white,” he claimed, coming as close as ever to admitting the existence of his order, “But not all tables are created equal. If we are to search this land for evil, then what’s the harm in being well fed while we do so?”

Brin was a big place. It was tens of thousands of square miles, and even if there were only a couple of dozen towns of any size and a bare handful of cities, there were hundreds of villages and hamlets. On the other hand, there were dozens of witch hunters at any given point running around in search of warlocks and other magical threats. They couldn’t be everywhere, but walking the same routes again and again seemed counterproductive. 

“But surely off the beaten path we’ll find more monsters and men who need—” Simon insisted, but he was quickly shut down. 

“Off the beaten path, you will find only trouble,” the knight insisted. “There’s plenty of evil in the world. Enough that it will find you without much trouble. There’s no reason to go looking for more than your share.”

The answer infuriated Simon, and he would have been happy to drop the subject, but Sir Derinholt wouldn’t let it go. “How do you think I’m still alive after so long?” he bragged, as if cowardice should be a point of pride. “Most of my friends are long dead because they bit off more than they could chew, and they were twice the man that you’ll ever be.”

Simon bore that insult in silence, but only because the washed-up knight had no idea who Simon was. No one did, and he was easily ten times the man of anyone in the Unspoken; he was probably the only man in the world who knew so much magic and used so little of it, and if he but desired it, he could make the whole world tremble.

That’s for another life, Simon told himself as he lay awake that night in his bedroll under a blanket of stars. I don’t need to be the best in every version. For now, being plain old Enis is good enough, and I’ll show Sir Derinholt exactly what he’s made of, given enough time. 

Ch. 368 - Off the Beaten Path

Things might never have changed if Sir Derinholt hadn’t run into Sir Makrenson a few weeks later at a chance encounter at an out-of-the-way crossroads inn. The Looted Lute wasn’t in any way special. It wasn’t on a major trade route, and it didn’t have any illustrious history or powerful patrons. It wasn’t even in a wealthy region. It was just a rural dive place with reasonably good ale. 

Despite the list of defects he noted in the place’s stables and roof thatching, Simon could respect that. He could even expect the cold shoulder they’d get from the locals. What he didn’t expect was to run into another member of the Unspoken in such a humble establishment. 

Simon noticed him almost immediately because of the pattern on his cloak. Still, he played dumb since he decided it made more sense for Sir Derinholt to point it out to him, rather than vice-versa, still the knight didn’t seem to notice, and for the first minute or two, the new Unspoken didn’t either.

That didn’t last long. By the time the innkeeper brought them a meal, Simon and his knight had been spotted, but the man didn’t get up and approach them. Instead, he glared at Simon as if he’d done something wrong. 

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me? Simon thought to himself, trying to ignore the man. It was a certainty that most members of the Unspoken had sight that was far superior to Sir Derinholt’s, and Simon wasn’t quite sure what would happen next. 

Is my aura bright enough? He asked himself as he ate in silence. The vortexes have calmed down at least a little…

Ultimately, the uneasy stalemate might have continued all night if Simon hadn’t asked, “Do you know that man? He’s been staring at us for a while now.”

That was enough to make Sir Derinholt turn, and when he recognized the other man, he smiled and invited him to join them. The newcomer was quickly introduced as Sir Malkin. Simon was introduced as well, but only briefly. 

“You? With a squire?” Sir Malkin asked. “I never thought I’d see the day.” Of the two, Sir Malkin was younger and more vital, but he also seemed more fervent. If Sir Derinholt was a jaded veteran, then Sir Malkin was a young zealot.

Things were all smiles at first, but the conversation quickly drifted away from him as the two caught up on their recent exploits. Sir Malkin told them both about a cult that he’d recently found and eliminated in a small mountain town. He even described something that sounded suspiciously like a Witchmark on their leader. 

In Simon’s experience, that didn’t make sense, and hinted at a larger mystery; he wanted to ask about it, but of course, he couldn’t. He was supposed to be a simple young man learning about these things, not lecturing his betters. 

So, he just listened as the conversation turned to what he and Sir Derinholt had been up to for the last few weeks and months. Their bandit slaying wasn’t much, but the knight still played it up as if it was; that told him something new about the man. He wasn’t just coasting off the goodwill of the people of the region, but he was engaging in behavior that the White Cloaks probably wouldn’t approve of in the process. 

Not a veteran passed his prime then, Simon noted, correcting his mental model. A slacker just smart enough to be embarrassed of his own behavior. 

On some level, he’d known that from the beginning. He’d certainly known that, Sir Derinholt wasn’t what he expected in an Unspoken knight, but it was interesting to see it confirmed by the contrast between the two men. One was burning for leads to seek out even more evil, and the other was just trying to get through the night without embarrassing himself. 

Simon found himself wishing he’d found Sir Malkin as his way into the order instead of Sir Derinholt. Actually focusing on hunting down evil instead of making sure they were never more than a day or two from a hot meal would have made it a lot easier for him to prove himself. 

At least, that’s what he thought until later that night. However, when the two men left Simon alone to speak in private, he crept out on the roof to listen to their conversation and changed his mind. 

“So you see what I’m talking about, it just doesn’t trouble you?” Sir Malkin asked. Simon had apparently missed the first bit of what they were discussing, but thanks to their raised voices, it was clear, even from this distance, that they were talking about him. 

“Are you accusing me of going blind?” Sir Derinholt asked, putting enough emphasis on the word that Simon was sure he was missing some context there. “The man has a queer aura, to be sure, but that can happen. There’s no darkness to him, and that’s what matters.”

“No darkness, sure,” the other knight agreed, “But half the witches we burn are able to hide their auras with their vile magic.”

You mean half the people you burn aren’t wicked at all, Simon thought, annoyed at how backwards these people were. They could have been a true force for good if they simply understood what it was they were really seeing, but their superstitions about what exactly magic was, and what it did to people, were getting in the way.

“Have you tested him at least?” Sir Malkin asked. “Does he have any gifts?”

“He’s a decent enough swordsman,” Sir Derinholt answered, “But then that’s not exactly what you mean, is it?”

The two men argued at length, then about whether Simon should be tested, without offering any specifics on how that testing would occur. Simon knew what would have to be tested, of course, at least he thought he did. They would test to see if he had the sight. They might test morality in some way, too, he supposed.

Will they try to see if I can use magic again? He asked himself. That would ruin everything. They’d done that once before, of course, but until now, he’d never considered it very likely that they might do it again. Now he worried, but as he worried, he retreated back to the room so he could feign ignorance; getting caught would make everything worse. 

There were no questions about tests that night. Simon just lay there pretending to be asleep and Sir Derinholt came back to the room and lay down on the room’s sole bed.

In the morning, they departed as planned, but strangely, Sir Malkin didn’t join them. When Simon asked about that, Sir Derinholt said, “He’s off in search of gremlins or some such. It’s a waste of resources for experienced brothers to travel together. You can cover more ground if you split up.”

“But if he knows of a monster, then surely we should—” Simon pressed, but the old knight shrugged it off. 

“A call? For gremlins? Bah,” the man interrupted. “If there was a ghoul or a necromancer or even a troll, a call would go out and we’d handle something like that in force, but you don’t need two or three Un… you don’t need that many warriors to deal with goblins or hedge witches, you hear?”

Do you need more to test me? Simon thought, even though he said nothing. That wasn’t a question he could ask because he wasn’t supposed to know about it. It just continued to exist in the back of his mind as he walked along beside the knight’s horse as they made their way down the trail. 

It wasn’t until hours later, after they’d stopped for a simple lunch and watered the horse, that Sir Derinholt brought up anything promising when he said, “You should know that my brother was concerned about you” after taking a long drink from his wine skin.

“What?” Simon asked, feigning surprise. “Why? What did I do?”

“You? Nothing as far as I can tell,” the older knight said with a shrug. “You have a strange aura about you. That’s all.”

“Aura?” Simon asked, before hastily adding, “I uhmmm, don’t know what you mean by that.”

It was a lie, but one that he made as obvious as possible. This was the conversation he wanted, but it wasn’t as if he could just embrace it. 

“I think you do,” the knight corrected him. “At least a little. You… see things sometimes, don’t you? Things that aren’t really there.”

Simon stayed quiet then, both to put on an act and also to consider a point. How deeply can Sir Derinholt see? He asked himself. He doesn’t kill very often, but he also doesn’t seem to peer too deeply into the outside world. Could he catch me in a lie?

The answer to that question changed his answer a little, and yet he still erred on the side of caution. “Sometimes, but uhmm… It’s easier when I see bad people.” He wanted to add something like I’m not sure if I’m just imagining it when I do, but that would have clearly been a lie, so he refrained. 

Sir Derinholt sat quietly in his saddle again just long enough for it to be concerning, so Simon added, “Is that a bad thing? Does that mean I might become a warlock or a—”

“It’s just the opposite, mostly,” the knight said. “To speak the words of power is to taint your soul and blind yourself to the colors of the world,” he said, quoting a proverb that Simon was very familiar with, even though he shouldn’t be. 

And yet you have the sisters of the order do that very thing, Simon accused him silently. While it wasn’t the worst thing the Unspoken did, it was certainly up there. 

“Being able to see more than most just proves your soul is clearer than other people’s,” the knight continued, “But then, you haven’t exactly proved it yet.”

“Prove? How?” Simon asked. Now he was genuinely curious, and there was no need to fake it. 

“If we were at… Well, there are relics for these things, but I don’t have them on me,” the knight answered listlessly. “So we’ll just have to improvise. Tell me what you see in the merchant caravan coming the other direction.”

“In the wagon or—” Simon started to ask, but the knight interrupted him.

“Why would I give a shite what he’s selling?” Sir Derinholt cursed. “Tell me about the people. Tell me what colors you see.”

It was Simon’s turn to stay quiet then. Even though he could see the grays and whites of the men from here, he knew that he hadn’t been able to when he’d first practiced with his sight. Distance and acuity both came from clarity, and Simon didn’t want to tip his hand too much. Instead, he waited until they were less than a hundred yards away. 

By then, he could see everything, but he only gave away a few crumbs. “The Merchant seems… dishonest, but his guard is a good man. The drover, though…” Simon trailed off. “He has blood on his hands.”

“Lots of people have blood on their hands,” Sir Derinholt answered quietly, obviously not wanting to be overheard. “Can you be more specific?” 

“I mean… he’s murdered people,” Simon said, treating the word like a curse. “Two? Three? I can’t say, but I think he enjoyed it.”

“Five actually,” the knight said, moving his horse to bar the way of the other group, “And you're right, he did enjoy it.”

Ch. 369 - Off the Beaten Path (part 2)

Sir Derinholt stopped the merchant right then and there, and when he did so, he had a look in his eyes that Simon hadn’t seen there before. The knight was past his prime, for sure, but Simon had triggered something with his words, and now there was a look of determination there, in place of the fatigue or boredom Simon usually saw. 

After a brief conversation with the merchant, Sir Derinholt announced that his man was wanted for murder. That made the drover go white even as the merchant blustered. 

“By what right do you—” the wealthy man started. Simon didn’t hear the rest of their discussion because as soon as the murderer realized this was actually happening, he fled. He didn’t make it far, though. Simon gave chase immediately, and halfway through the field, he tackled the man, beating him into submission with his fists in a fight that was brief but bloody. 

“I didn’t do it!” the man insisted. “Whatever they said I did, it wasn’t me!”

Simon might have been tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt if he couldn’t see the evil dripping off his fingertips. He was a weasley little man. The drover wasn’t quite harmless, but he seemed too cowardly to have committed any real violence. 

The realization that his victims would have had to be even weaker than the man himself made Simon’s stomach drop as he realized who fit into that category. Women, children… the flashes of the way he’d done it, too. 

He returned his captive to Sir Derinholt at swordpoint, but by the time he did so, he was so angry and disgusted at his crimes that Simon wanted nothing more than to strike him down himself. His sight was all but gone by the time they reached the road. 

By then, whatever disagreements the merchant had raised had been handled because the man was thoroughly cowed. Sir Derinholt hung the drover right there from the nearest tree and then ordered the merchant not to cut him down before sending him on his way. 

“He’ll be a good warning to those who can’t see the world the way you and I do,” the knight said before returning to his horse, as if Simon needed any sort of explanation.

Over the next couple of days, the drover was Simon’s first real test, but it was far from his last. However, no matter how many other men and women, Sir Derinholt asked him about on that trip, the only one they executed was the first one. 

Simon waited until he was good and drunk two nights later before he asked why. He spent the time in between contemplating it, but he kept waiting for the knight to volunteer the answer, and when that didn’t happen, he got impatient. 

“You seem… different, lately,” Simon said, trying to make it casual, but the annoyed look the knight gave him made it clear that he saw right through the verbal feint from the very first word. 

“Go on then,” Sir Derinholt instructed. “You tell me why you think I killed him.”

“I just wanted to know if I did something to—” Simon answered, trying to deflect. 

“Surprise me,” Sir Derinholt insisted. 

Simon thought about it for a moment, remembering the way the shadows coiled around the drover. Especially his hands. There’d been nothing in his aura that had said, ‘the man enjoys killing people,’ and yet Simon had said it anyway. Why? Why had he done that? 

Because it takes a certain sadism to strangle people to death with your hands, he decided after contemplating it. That’s why he’d said it. Because the evil had been focused enough that the patterns were clear even to his slightly foggy gaze. 

Eventually, he gave that explanation to Sir Derinholt in a stuttering, stammering way. The man listened to the whole thing and then answered by tapping his tankard to Simon’s and saying, “I’ll drink to that.”

For a moment, Simon worried that was all he was going to get, but after a few seconds, the man continued. “If you can see the sorts of things that I see, then eventually it wears on you. You spend your whole life putting down monsters, but there’s always more to be found, and it’s the ones that look like anyone else that are the worst of all.”

“Well, why don’t you just retire and…” Simon’s words trailed off as Sir Derinholt fixed him with a glare. The statement had been naive, but intentionally so. 

“One doesn’t retire from the Order,” he said with all seriousness. “If you live fighting evil, then you die fighting evil, but sometimes you just get tired when evil never runs out. That’s all.”

He looked at his tankard as if confused by the fact that it was empty. “Drinks always run out, but evil never does. Remember that. That’s one of the reasons I know that beer is a good and holy thing. Because if it wasn’t, it would never run out.”

As the evening went on, and Sir Derinholt got drunker, he confessed that the reason he didn’t think Simon would make a good holy warrior was because of his temperament. “Youh ahct like a tough guy,” he said. “Bhut deep down, you’re more like a noble or a ssscholar. You sshould persshue that instead of this. You’ll be happier.”

Simon told him how wrong that was in no uncertain terms. He told the knight that all he wanted to do was make the world a better place, but deep down, there was no denying that his happiest lives had involved the least fighting. In fact, his best lives were all marred by fighting, and there was no doubt he’d be happier if he could spend a life or two doing good with art and medicine instead of a sword, but that wasn’t what he needed right now. 

More important than his own happiness, though, was his assessment of the knight he accompanied. He’d gotten that wrong twice. First, he’d thought of Sir Derinholt as a jaded veteran well past his prime, and later he’d thought of him as a slacker who didn’t really care. While both of those were facets of him, the truth was he was a man who had cared a lot, but seen too much. 

Simon could resonate with that a lot. He’d come close to being that guy in a few lives, and could easily imagine that that’s how most heroes ended up when you had lifetime after lifetime to burn out on. In that moment, as much as he hated the idea of losing all of his memories if the Goddess ever reincarnated him, he finally understood. 

Most people will stay that same person forever, in every life if they aren’t given a fresh start, he told himself. And those that rise above it all will eventually be ground down to nothing, like Sir Derinholt. 

Is that my fate then? He wondered as he lay there sleeplessly. To be ground down to nothing? Simon hadn’t been doing anything to actively prevent that. He’d been more worried about getting his soul wounded so badly he never recovered, or getting on the wrong side of a demon and ending up in hell. What if he simply died a spiritual death of a thousand cuts instead?

That question haunted him for hours the following day. It would have done so even longer, but when they met a bloodied band of refugees on the road, all metaphysical concerns went out the window.

Simon spent the better part of the afternoon treating the men and women who were the most likely to be saved with the few supplies he could gather together. Not that there were many men to speak of. The group was half children, which spoke to the desperate nature of their flight. Even given the nice weather this time of year, people didn’t flee their homes with nothing but the clothes on their backs if they had another choice.  

Simon did some good with bandages, along with stitches done with needle and thread. He didn’t have many herbs on him, and he hadn’t made a healing icon yet this life, though even if he had one on him, he couldn’t very well have used it with Sir Derinholt around. That was unlikely to end well for him. 

Still, for cuts and burns, there was a lot that could be done to save lives, at least for a few days or a few weeks. Given enough time, infection would set in, but there were other settlements in the area; they’d be able to find other help. In moments like this, all you need to do is stop the bleeding, he told himself. 

While Simon treated the wounded, the knight performed a handful of mercy killings on those who couldn’t be saved. Those frightened the children he’d just spent so much time trying to calm, but Simon didn’t protest; he agreed with the man’s assessment. They also gave up the refugees what food and alcohol they had as the story came out. 

It had been orcs that did this. Big ugly bastards, and the fact that there were no strong young men among the wounded meant that they’d probably died fighting in the village in question. 

At sunset, Sir Derinholt informed Simon that he’d be going north to deal with them, “Before their violence can spread,” he explained. “You’re welcome to come with me if you like, but you’re under no obligation, you understand. Orcs are twice as big as goblins, but at least five times as dangerous. These aren’t bandits. I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“I’m going,” Simon answered. “I just want to know how they got this far north.”

“The world’s a big place,” the knight said, not even acknowledging his answer. “Two or three orcs survive some battle, and before you know it, there’s ten or twenty.”

Simon considered orcs more of a mountain menace, and while there were plenty of forests in this area, there weren’t any real mountains in a hundred miles. So, he thought it was a valid question, but it didn’t really matter. He’d lived through this era of history plenty of times, and if there were a giant orcish horde on the loose, he’d know about it. 

Sir Derinholt was probably right. These were just a few stragglers that got brave. 

“The townspeople said a dozen, but I doubt there are that many,” Simon countered, as the two of them started walking ot the knight’s horse. 

“Might be half, might be double,” Sir Derinholt answered as he mounted. “There’s really no way to know until we get there.”

“If you think there’s double, we should probably go for help, or wait for daylight at least,” Simon suggested, but Sir Derinholt shook his head. 

“Every night we delay, another family dies. Probably more than one,” he answered. “We kill these bastards or we die trying.”

Simon couldn’t really disagree with that, in sentiment at least. He hadn’t been planning to throw this life away, but he was a sucker for lost causes. As long as I don’t cast any spells, I can always pick up where I left off, he reminded himself as they made their way to the home of those they’d just done their best to help.