Chương 6: Services Rendered

Once the mutts had been dealt with, I returned to the ruined carriage to collect my spoils. The first treasure I discovered wasn't gold. It was a pair of boots. They were worn but sturdy, tucked beneath one of the carriage benches beside a spare coat and rolled-up blanket. I stared at them with more excitement than I had felt upon finding the bags of coin. Sadly, the boots were slightly too large, but the socks made them wearable, and that was enough for me.

After waking tied to a bed, surviving a pyre, leaping from a cliff, and killing four wolf-men before breakfast, comfort had become a remarkably flexible concept. The carriage held more than footwear. I found several small bags of gold, a pouch of silver coins, wrapped goods, trinkets, bolts of cloth, and a suitcase packed with clothing. A man's clothing, of course. I took it anyway, because being selective was a luxury I no longer possessed.

Once I had gathered everything I could carry, I returned to the town and traded away what I didn't need. The shopkeeper watched me for far too long, his gaze moving from my silver-white hair to my violet eyes before settling on the pink dress, which barely fit and had already survived more violence than most soldiers. I smiled at him. He stopped asking questions… a sensible man. The clothing sold for less than it was probably worth, but the payment was enough.

I bought dark trousers, a loose shirt, a coat with deep pockets, and a scarf I could pull over my face whenever people stared too openly. They still stared, of course. Most tried to hide it, but I noticed every lingering glance. They watched the way animals avoided me, how quietly I moved, and how easily the crowd seemed to part whenever I passed. I would not remain there for long. A few days at most, and then I would find somewhere larger, richer, and hopefully less dull.

By the time I rented a room at a small inn, another decision had already taken shape in my mind. From then on, I would make a habit of hunting predators. There was nothing noble about the decision. Killing a few monsters with worse manners than mine had hardly made me virtuous. The arrangement simply appealed to me. Those who preyed on others carried coin, weapons, supplies, and secrets.

More importantly, they often possessed blood worth tasting, and no reasonable person could object to me killing creatures already stained by violence. The code was questionable, but it served me well enough, and that was all the justification I required. The room I rented was plain, containing little more than a bed, a small desk, a cracked washbasin, and a narrow window overlooking the alley. Compared to Lord Vane's mirrored nightmare, it was practically a palace.

I lay down and soon discovered that sleep had no intention of finding me. Perhaps I simply no longer needed it. My eyes remained open while my body rested motionless. Hours passed, and the moon slowly crossed the window. Somewhere below, a drunk argued passionately with a locked door, while mice scratched inside the walls until they realized what lay in the bed and abruptly fell silent. I waited for exhaustion, but it never arrived.

Was I destined to remain awake forever, continuing without rest until the day I finally died? Could I even die? My healing was absurd, my strength was powerful, and my hunger, though quiet for the moment, waited inside me like a patient animal licking its teeth. Immortal… Perhaps that was what I could call myself now. The possibility settled over me with unexpected ease. After eighteen years of having my future controlled by others, an endless one finally belonged entirely to me.

I wondered how much trouble I could cause with all that time. Morning eventually came. I left town bright and early, traveling in the opposite direction from the wolf-beasts' attack. As I walked, I stretched my senses outward, listening beyond creaking wagons, rustling leaves, birdsong, and the steady pulse of passing strangers. I stretched my senses across the surrounding countryside, searching for the telltale sounds of someone in danger.

A scream rose from somewhere three-quarters of a mile north, and I was already running before it faded. This time, wolves weren't responsible. Ratkin seemed the most likely name for them. The three creatures surrounding the roadside wagon were small and hunched, with beady eyes, rounded ears, twitching whiskers, and short legs that hardly looked built for speed. Patchwork leather covered their bodies, while flintlock pistols rested in their clawed hands.

Their victims appeared to be a family: a mother, a father, and two daughters. The ratkin shoved pistols into their faces while demanding valuables from the wagon. Most of the cargo consisted of food, including sacks of grain, baskets of produce, smoked meat, and wrapped wheels of cheese. How domestic. I watched from the trees for a short while, waiting to see whether anything interesting might happen. Nothing did. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The father trembled, the mother clutched both daughters against her, and the ratkin continued shouting while the sun shone overhead as though it possessed no standards whatsoever. Eventually, I became tired of waiting and stepped onto the road.

"Good morning. How is everyone?" None of them had sensed me approaching. Disappointing… The wolves had at least recognized that danger was coming. These three didn't turn until I spoke. Two of the ratkin swung their pistols toward me.

"Stay back!" one squeaked. He actually squeaked. I nearly laughed. The pistols remained trained on my face, their smoke-darkened barrels staring back like empty eyes. Ingenious little weapons, really, built to make weak hands feel dangerous. I reached forward and grabbed both barrels. The ratkin froze. Metal groaned between my fingers as I bent each pistol inward until the barrels curved back toward the faces of the individuals holding them. I tilted my head.

"I admit I'm unfamiliar with firearms, but I believe pulling the trigger might cause a problem now." The family stared at me in stunned silence until the youngest daughter whimpered and hid closer to her mother. Right. Rescues were apparently supposed to be reassuring. I had likely missed that opportunity. There was little reason to prolong the encounter. I was curious, and curiosity had quickly become one of my more dangerous qualities. I seized the nearest ratkin by the collar and sank my teeth into his throat.

His blood flooded my mouth. It tasted better than Silas Vane but considerably worse than the wolfkin. A few swallows were enough to confirm that I wanted no more. The remaining ratkin fled as though their lives depended on it. Considering what had happened to the first, that was probably wise. A laugh escaped me as violet light gathered across my raised fingertips. The power answered more readily this time, still imperfect but eager, like a blade straining to leave its sheath.

Two small bursts flew toward the fleeing creatures. The first struck one between the shoulders, while the second caught the other in the back of the head. Both bodies folded inward beneath violent purple flashes before bursting apart. Unfortunately, pieces of them splattered across the wagon. I studied the mess before turning toward the family.

"Well, that could've been cleaner." The mother made a strangled sound. The father stared at the ruined baskets, then at the dead ratkin, and finally at his daughters.

"You…" His voice trembled.

"You destroyed half our goods." I blinked at him.

"I saved your lives."

"You ruined our goods!"

"Some of your goods," I corrected. His face reddened with a sudden rush of courage that seemed exceptionally poorly timed.

"That was our livelihood!"

"And those rats were about to take it along with your lives." I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Give me half your gold, and we can consider the matter settled." The mother stared as though I had spoken in another language.

"Half our gold?"

"Yes."

"For what?" My gaze drifted toward the corpses.

"Services rendered." The father scoffed. He actually scoffed. I stared at him until an uncomfortable silence settled over the road. Scoffing at someone still wearing the blood of your attackers seemed unwise.

"You call that saving us?" he demanded.

"You butchered them like animals, ruined our food, and terrified my daughters." The older girl was indeed crying, while the younger one hid behind her mother's skirt. Something faint tugged inside my chest. Pity, perhaps. It didn't last long.

"I'm not responsible for making a rescue pleasant."

"We owe you nothing." My smile faded. The words pressed against an old bruise, stirring the familiar lesson that gratitude was never owed for pain endured, obedience given, usefulness provided, or everything taken. My family had stripped away nearly everything, and then called the resentment ungrateful. I stepped toward the wagon. The father stiffened.

"What are you doing?" My hand closed around the side of the carriage, and the wood creaked beneath my fingers.

"I am renegotiating." Then I flipped the entire wagon. The family screamed and stumbled backward as sacks, baskets, produce, and broken goods spilled across the road. The wheels continued spinning uselessly in the air. I turned toward them slowly, the violet glow in my eyes sharpening until I saw it reflected in theirs. Fear was what I saw. At least that was honest.

"Keep your gold." No one answered, which was probably wise. I left them with their lives, an overturned wagon, and the valuable lesson that gratitude costs considerably less than a replacement wagon. They shouted after me for a while, though not for long. My speed made lingering insults wonderfully easy to escape. Whatever happened to ungrateful people was no concern of mine.

They were no different from my parents, my village, or every other smiling hypocrite who believed help was owed to them while gratitude remained optional. I had saved their lives. If they couldn't understand the value of that, then a ruined wagon seemed like a generous education. That encounter became the beginning of a pattern. Over the following weeks, I moved from village to village and road to road, following screams, smoke, and the scent of blood.

Bandits, beastkin, ratkin, goblins with too many teeth, pale things crawling from wells, and three black-veined women who tried to sell children to whatever lived beneath a chapel all met the same end. I killed them. Occasionally, one escaped, and I allowed them to carry the story because stories traveled faster than feet. At first, people screamed when I appeared. Then they begged. After I tore apart whatever had threatened them, they usually stared at me with the same foolish mixture of fear and expectation.

They seemed to believe I had intervened out of kindness, as though kindness had ever fed anyone. My terms became simple. Half their gold… Those who paid were left alone, and those who refused lost something. Whether it was a wagon, a fence, a door, or part of a roof, something always paid the price. Once, I destroyed an entire fruit cart, though even I could admit that had been unnecessarily dramatic. That was their fault. Ungrateful people had a remarkable talent for inviting unnecessary drama.

The arrangement was simple: I saved their lives, and they paid me. Somehow, even that proved too complicated for most villagers. At least the creatures I hunted offered enough variety to keep the days interesting. Wolf-beast blood was rich and warm, ratkin blood thin and bitter, and goblin blood tasted like old pennies. Whatever lurked inside the wells was barely worth drinking unless starvation became a genuine concern. For all their differences, none of them truly tested me.

Every enemy appeared dangerous until I touched them. Then they broke. It made me wonder whether I had awakened inside the starting region of some game world, surrounded by single-digit creatures after accidentally spawning as the final boss. The idea amused me more than it should have. Still, amusement was preferable to despair, and I had already accumulated enough despair to last several lifetimes. One afternoon, I encountered fish-headed men attacking a bank carriage. Yes… Fish-headed men…

Their skin was slick and gray-green, their eyes bulged from their skulls, and their mouths opened and closed as though the air had personally offended them. Four surrounded a reinforced carriage while two others attempted to pry open the rear doors with hooked blades. It appeared to be a bank carriage, reinforced with armored wheels and iron-banded doors, while several guards lay dead along the road. Whatever waited inside was valuable enough to kill for. I watched from a nearby hill with my arms folded.

The entire scene was absurd. Fish robbing a bank… Life truly enjoyed committing nonsense with confidence. I intervened, dealt with the fish-men, and requested payment from the trembling clerk hiding beneath the carriage. He refused, naturally. How in the world do heroes make a living when the ones you save won't show any gratitude? The man insisted that the gold belonged to the bank. I reminded him that his life had belonged to the fish-men only moments earlier and that I had generously returned it.

He still refused. So I flipped the carriage. I didn't rob it. I merely flipped it. There was a difference. Gold poured across the road in a bright, glorious wave. Coins bounced through the mud, rolled beneath bushes, and vanished between stones. The clerk made a sound as though someone had stepped directly on his soul. I laughed until my sides hurt and then walked away. What did it matter to me? I hadn't stolen anything.

Another tragic accident had simply occurred involving an ungrateful man and a wagon with exceptionally poor balance. Eventually, people would learn. Those who wanted to be saved would pay. Those seeking charity could pray. I was not God. I was far more expensive.