Chương 349: Return to the Badlands

Ch. 349 - Return to the Badlands He hadn't intended to stop for any length of time until he reached Crowvar, but after he used up what little alcohol that first day sterilizing his wounds more than anesthetizing them, he was forced to take a break. He briefly considered using his vampiric dagger to kill one of the horses he'd taken from the bandits, but decided against that. Killing a bad man was tolerable, but a good horse? Well, that was just stupid. They'd sell for a good price in Darndell.

Still, if he wasn't going to do things the easy way, it forced his hand. No matter how much Zen or stoicism he tried to pile on, eventually every bump in the road twisted his guts like a knife. So, he stopped at the first good deadfall he found where firewood would be abundant, and then got himself comfortable and tried not to move around too much until the wound had sealed shut, which took hours and hours. Even after that, though, Simon tried not to be too hard on his body.

How did I ever get by without healing magic? He asked himself as he tried to keep a philosophical point of view about this setback.

"Well, at least there aren't too many critters to speak of out here," Simon told himself as he tried to find something nice to say about the area. If he went just a little further south, he'd be in centaur country, and he didn't feel like a fight with those assholes just now. Not only did his bow work still need some practice, but there was no way he could outrun them, anchored as he was to a wagon. He wouldn't starve, though, not even if he had to stay rooted to this spot for a week.

He had plenty of beans and flour for fry bread. He'd be okay. It shouldn't take more than a day or two to be back in decent shape, he told himself as he settled down by his small fire and pressed the icon to his bloody wound. As talismans went, it wasn't a very powerful one, but it would do the job. It was only a minor setback, too. Three days and fifty or sixty pounds of firewood later, he was most of the way back to healed, and he bore a fresh pink scar.

In the grand scheme of things, that was a pretty good deal, but it still felt like a compromise.

"The Unspoken haven't even figured out healing magic without casting or using words of nullification without speaking," he said to remind himself that he was well ahead of the curve.

"Best not tell them about that last one or they'll be branding everyone they see with the mark of nullification, too." Simon shivered at that thought and was unable to get it out of his head the rest of the day. Even as he rode on south, toward Crowvar, it kept coming back. At first, he just imagined them putting on witches, and then himself, but eventually, he could see a world where they put it on everyone just to be safe, like magic was some kind of original sin.

It was a strange dystopia, where babies were branded before they were old enough to talk, so they wouldn't be corrupted. Simon decided then and there that if he ever thought up something half so crazy as a solution, he'd walk to Ionia and throw himself in the volcano. It was the only rational choice. Aside from his disturbing imagination, though, Simon experienced no further troubles on the way to his least favorite town.

Looking at a distance, he couldn't help but think that if he and Freya had gone in literally any other direction, their lives would have been so much better. There was nothing he could do about that now, though. Well, I could figure out how the other me is traveling back in time and then do the same thing, he told himself. It was a terrible idea, but he could see the appeal. He didn't dwell on that, though.

First he sold the spare horses he'd had tethered to his wagon for most of the the last week, and then, after paying for a room at the inn with some of the proceeds and leaving his own horse and wagon to the stableboy, he took a walk outside the decaying city walls of the town and toward the cemetery so that he could visit his wife's grave. It wasn't there, of course.

It was just an empty plot that someone else would occupy eventually, but he visited it every time he went through, just the same, and allowed some of the regret that had built up to escape from the lockbox he kept at the bottom of his soul. This time, he was surprised to find that there wasn't much left. It was just another mistake deep in his past, and after an hour of reflection, he returned to Crowvar, noting that the walls were in no shape to handle the orcs that would be coming in a decade or so.

He made a note to try to find a way to drop a few hints about that to those who lived here today and tomorrow. While no one would believe him if he told them that dread day was coming outright, perhaps he could plant a seed to make it a priority for a day in the future. He was still thinking about that when he returned to the inn to find that a messenger had delivered something for him.

"For me? Are you sure?" Simon asked the owner when the man offered him the small sealed missive.

"I only just got here."

"The Baron is informed whenever anyone of interest comes through the gates," the jolly man said with a smile.

"Apparently, you are of interest." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Simon shrugged at that, not sure what to say as he opened the letter. If it was the baron, then he already knew what it would contain. He was being invited to dinner. Simon was surprised by the invitation, but he supposed he shouldn't have been. Crowvar was off the beaten path, and every previous visit he'd made to the place showed how hungry they were for news.

Still, this time Simon didn't accept the offer. The food was probably better at the Baron's home, but there was a better than even chance he'd end up killing the boy, and he wanted to avoid that if he could. His soul would be cleaner for it, and though he didn't feel guilty about the bandits he'd killed, he realized that their deaths had probably already set him back on his current journey by months.

One must not muddy the waters of their soul if they wish to see clearly, Simon reminded himself with one of the Oracle's proverbs, as he tried to put the young man out of his mind. Still, not even that decision spared him. Less than an hour after he'd finished his simple meal in the common room of the Inn and was working on a new beer with an entirely different conversational partner, Varten himself appeared. Simon sighed at that, wondering why the universe worked the way it did.

Once upon a time, he might have blamed the Goddess for this, but now he knew enough about connections and the vagaries of destiny to know that certain things were connected, and for better or worse, he was probably connected to this awful young man across every life where they both lived now. As Varten came in, he took in the room, and for a moment, Simon thought that he'd come here to fight the merchant who had refused to dine at his father's table.

His eyes slid right off Simon, though, and instead his face lit up when he saw someone he was looking for, and he moved to join them instead. See, he chastised himself. Not everything is about you. In this case, it wasn't, and Simon was pleasantly surprised by that. Instead of fighting the man, or even watching him with curiosity, Simon tuned him out and continued the conversation he was having with the man next to him at the bar about the current state of the grain trade.

As the evening went on, Simon had spent the whole night telling himself that he wouldn't kill Varten. He'd meant it too, enough that he'd largely tuned out the spoiled noble as he sat and drank with his friends by the fire in the inn's crowded common room. Instead, he reminded himself of the good times he'd spent here with Freya as a cute newly wedded couple before they'd had their own cottage.

All that changed, though, when the Raithwaite heir tried to convince the barmaid, who clearly wasn't interested in him, to go home with him.

"Common," he slurred drunkenly.

"I'll pay double. You knoww ihmmm good for it." The busty woman was looking for new ways to tell him no without completely alienating someone so powerful, but Simon was less interested in that than the fact that everyone around Varten studiously ignored what was happening. It's their fault he's going to die, he told himself as he downed the last of his beer, slammed his tankard on the ground, and rose. If someone would just shame him or stop him, that would be enough…

No one did, though, which was why Simon didn't walk up to his room where he'd planned to sleep until morning. Instead, he walked over to where the lordling was pulling insistently on the woman's arm. Varten didn't even notice his approach before Simon's blade was out. Then, he only had the barest time to regard it before he was missing a hand. There was a scream then. For a moment, Simon thought it was from the woman, but it was just Varten letting out a high-pitched squeal.

"I… My hand!" he cried.

"You cut off my fucking hand!"

"I did," Simon agreed, "Now, apologize to the woman and we can leave it at that." He didn't threaten the young man with his sword. He didn't even look at him or his bloody stump. Instead, he looked to his friends, trying to decide if they were the sort to be brave or not. When all of them stayed sitting, Simon started to lean toward them. I suppose that makes sense, he reasoned. If you aren't going to interfere in the former case, then why would you interfere in the latter?

"Apologize?" the lordling sneered.

"To a whore? When my father hears what you've done, he'll—" Varten never got the chance to finish his statement. Even as he waved his bloody limb at Simon, he plunged his weapon between the boy's ribs and into his heart. He hadn't wanted today to go like this, but here he was. Maybe there is a fate, he wondered. Maybe it's his destiny to die, like this, every time.

Simon reflected on that, and as the bar emptied and people sought to escape the violent scene before they could be blamed for it, Simon contemplated that part. It was an iffy declaration to make, but if he believed it, then he was choosing to believe that it was his destiny to kill Varten over and over again. Simon wasn't sure he cared for that conclusion, but he mulled it over as one of the nobles' friends got to his feet and put his hand on his hilt.

He opened up his mouth and seemed to be working up the courage to speak before Simon interrupted.

"Varten was a wretch, and you can tell his father I said so. He deserved what he got, but no one else has to die for his mistakes." Simon looked at the fop then, who slowly took his hand off his own hilt and backed away. Simon got no thanks or gratitude as he looked around, but then, he didn't expect any; on some level, he was just as in the wrong as Varten, at least to these people. The young noble had only forced himself on a girl, but Simon was a murderer.

He mulled over how he felt about that, and how he might have handled the same situation as he went back out to the stables to retrieve his horse. Sleeping here was no longer a good idea, and it was for the best if he was on his way.