The wagon squeaked and groaned as it trundled along the forested road. Its spoked wooden wheels, fitted onto an axle of solid iron, buffered by solid metal springs, and rolling over rough, uneven dirt, ensured that every slight bump and every little dip were felt in full by passengers and cargo alike. Annoyingly bright and far too intense, the light of the late-morning sun filtered through gaps in the overhanging, sparse canopies of leafy branches. And with it, came an oppressive and sweltering heat; a heat made so much worse by a dampness heavy in the utterly still air.

Suffice to say, Morris was not having a good time.

Perched on a narrow plank at the front of the wagon, and seated hip-to-hip with a curmudgeon of a driver who seemed to swear more than he breathed, Morris – one of the King’s tax collectors – fought a tenuous battle against a throbbing headache that threatened to crack open his skull, and a grumbling stomach that threatened to eject his breakfast. It was a losing fight on both fronts, though not out of any lack of effort on his part. A thin sheen of sweat clung to Morris like a second skin. His jaw was cleaned so tightly that it felt as if his teeth would soon shatter under the force. A ghostly pallor coloured his grizzled face, tinged with a decidedly sickly shade of green.

In hindsight, Morris shouldn’t have taken so much drink the previous night. But what was a man to do in a village that had – quite literally – absolutely nothing going for it? Sure, it was sizable for a rural settlement, and with that sort of population came both wealth and a natural bustle in the air, but it was still ultimately a farming community. Not the sort of place that appealed to a city-dweller like Morris.

A sudden lurch almost threw him off the wagon. Bile rose in his throat.

“Claedo’s cock, are you driving us into every hole you see?” Morris bellowed as he righted himself. He had a hand pressed over his stomach, and the other gripping the seat with such strength that its knuckles were white. An acrid belch burned its way from his stomach to his mouth, until he could taste the revolting, sour taste on the back of his tongue. His face scrunched up, and he swallowed hard. It felt just as terrible going back down.

“Oh, shut up,” the driver grumbled. He took a hand off the reins to fix his askew hat. “This was all your idea in the first fucking place, taxman.”

Morris scowled, but didn’t reply. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. Not when the driver was absolutely right – coming down this path had been his suggestion. But it was the right thing to do. More importantly, it was the safe thing to do. If the rumours he had heard from the bard singing in the village tavern yesterday night had any credence to them, then the Sorian-Felipina highway was currently rife with road gangs lying in wait for a good target. He had no way of verifying such claims, of course, but Morris didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Not when he had the village’s monthly tax revenue sitting pretty in the wagon’s bed.

A shiver ran down Morris’ spine as he recalled stories of what the King did to tax collectors who had been too careless with His revenue. Such terrible and sordid fates were ones he would rather avoid. And so, he had directed the driver to take this quieter, more isolated path. Better to suffer some temporary discomfort than the King’s wrath, Morris reasoned.

He twisted around in his seat and looked at the precious cargo with a wary gaze. The three chests – within each enough coin to give a small family a comfortable decade – were still where he had left them: packed so tightly into the bed that not even this rough journey could shift them an inch. All the same, he regarded each of them with suspicion in his eyes, as if he expected one to suddenly sprout limbs and run away.

Beside him, the driver chuckled and shook his head. “Gods above, you’re a jumpy one,” he said, smirking as he cast a sidelong glance at Morris. “You’re worrying yourself stupid over nothing, taxman. Your chests aren’t going anywhere. They’re trussed up tighter than Amora’s divine arse, I tell you what.” Morris saw no humour in such blasphemous talk, but the driver either didn’t notice or didn’t care, as he took a moment to snigger at his own words. “Gods below, so are we, for that matter. Take a look around, taxman. We’re safe as safe can be.”

Morris grimaced. “I suppose we are,” he said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Drawing in a deep breath, he turned back around and tried to get comfortable – or as comfortable as such austere conditions would allow – in his seat. Once again, the driver had a point. They were making this trip in very good company. A full patrol of fifteen soldiers form Sorian’s garrison, to be exact. Well-trained and experienced, such troops would make short work of the riff-raff making up the typical road gang. And even if they – unlikely as it may be – should be overwhelmed, the four horses pulling the wagon were more than enough to get Morris and the coin out of trouble in a hurry. These were stout, powerful creatures, with tight muscles rippling beneath lustrous hides.

Morris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Instead of worrying about their safety, perhaps he would be better served worrying over this headache. Even through his eyelids, the scintillating sunlight didn’t just sting his eyes, but felt like it was stabbing directly into his skull. His brow throbbed with a dull pain, and his temples felt like they were close to bursting.

“Gods above,” he groaned. “Free me from this fucking torture.”

The driver guffawed. To Morris, it was like an assault on his eardrums. “You should be giving thanks to the Gods that all you’ve got is a headache, taxman.” The old man’s smug grin was evident in his tone. It vexed Morris greatly, even if he didn’t see it. “That you’re still here and not knocking on Obitius’ front door after all that ale you knocked back last night is a fucking Gods-given miracle. That village brew’s no joke, I tell you what. Nothing like the city swill you’re used to finding in Sorian. A couple good mugs of that stuff would put anyone on their arse, and you were drinking it like it was fucking water!”

Then, he nudged Morris with an elbow. In a lower voice – but still with a smirk – he added, “Though I can’t say I blame you. There’s no fucking man alive with a functioning cock who could’ve resisted a drink from a wench with a body like that. Not one, I tell you.”

“Bard,” Morris corrected, his eyes still shut. A small smile came over his face, and whatever annoyance he felt towards the driver melted away. The pleasant sight of the comely lady with whom he had shared many drinks last night was still fresh in his mind. Unfortunately, that was all he could recall of her; whatever else she – or they – did remained a mystery to him. He had the ale to thank for that, but considering the effects it was still having on him, he supposed he should be grateful for the few surviving memories he had of the bard and her songs. “She’s a bard,” Morris repeated.

“Sure she is, taxman,” the driver said with a laugh. “And I’m the King’s fucking old man!”

If Morris’ eyes were open, he would have rolled them. The lady had introduced herself as a bard, and that was what Morris chose to believe. She certainly had the voice for it. Although the lyrics to her songs were now little more than vague murmurs in his mind, her sultry tones and dulcet melodies were still as clear as when he first heard them. Neither was anything he would forget anytime soon. And so too did the sight of her dancing; of the seductive sway of her hips; of the alluring flutter of her lashes as she sang, linger in his memories. Then, as the night went on, she had come closer until she could warm his ears with whispered breaths and imprint echoes of her slender, womanly frame onto his hands. Just the mere thought of it sent shivers down Morris’ back, and forced a quavering breath past his lips.

His eyes shot open. The driver looked sideways at him with a smug, knowing smirk. “Careful, taxman. We can’t have you making a mess in your drawers while we’re this far from Sorian.” He laughed and shook his head. “See what I mean? Only a wench’s able to make a man feel Amora’s touch with just a dream.”

Morris scowled. “Keep your eyes on the damn road,” he snapped. The driver was wrong; the bard’s beauty wasn’t the reason why Morris remembered her with such fondness. Well, it wasn’t the main reason, at any rate. But saying such to the driver would likely invite even more mockery and jokes, and so Morris decided against telling him that it was thanks to that very same bard that he knew of the dangers plaguing the main highway. Even this very detour they were taking was something revealed to him by her.

If there was one good thing about that entire village, it would be that bard. It was thus a shame that Morris failed to get her name. Or learn anything about her beyond her claimed profession, for that matter.

The wagon creaked softly as it entered a gentle turn. Here, its wheels found better ground, and the bumps and dips which had tormented Morris thus far gradually faded away until they disappeared entirely. A yawn left his mouth, and he dipped his head. With his stomach somewhat settling, and even his head throbbing a little less, he felt the most comfortable he had since the start of this trip. Rustling leaves, snorting horses, and the occasional snapping of a branch or twig made for a surprisingly good lullaby. Morris shifted slightly in his seat, resting his arms over his chest, and his breathing slowed. For now, Sorian could wait.

Waiting. Cynwaer hated all this waiting.

Especially when he had to wait here, lying flat on the damp undergrowth of a forest so far from the nearest shore, and staring at an empty, secluded stretch of road. The heat, stifling and suffocating, pressed on him like a flatiron. Coupled with the moisture in the air, Cynwaer felt as if he were really being steamed alive. It did little to lift his spirits, to say the least. Sweat collected on his brow and – after soaking his coarse linens through – pooled within his clothes. Miserable didn’t even begin to describe these diabolic conditions.

But a debt owed was a debt that had to be paid, and Cynwaer would be damned if he didn’t pay it all back when he could. He might have the reputation of a ruthless corsair, but he was still a man of his word. And besides, it wasn’t as if Songbird and Renegade would ever let him forget it had he tried to talk his way out of doing them this favour. The pair always did have long memories for such things, but Cynwaer supposed he wasn’t one to talk. He was exactly the same whenever they owed him something.

In any case, Cynwaer didn’t particularly mind lending them a hand. Not when doing so usually gave him a chance to give Caesonia a hard time, like right now. There was nothing quite like taking a nice, long piss in the king’s breakfast to make Cynwaer’s day. And in a way, ambushing and taking a royal tax wagon would be more-or-less the same thing. If nothing else, returning the spoils to the villagers from whom it had been stolen made for a good, hard slap in the tyrant’s face.

But for now, Cynwaer had to wait. And wait. And wait some more.

The man – more of a boy, really – directly beside him fidgeted uncomfortably. “Come on,” he said through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. His brows were so furrowed that they seemed to merge into one. He held a musket in his hands, gripped with such force that Cynwaer wondered if he were trying to crack the thing in half. “What’s taking so long?”

Cynwaer reached over to pat him on the shoulder. “Easy, mate,” he said in a hushed voice and glanced at him from the corners of his eyes. “Keep yer ‘ead on straight an’ yersel’ calm. Should’nae be too long more ta’ go. Dae’n go dae’in anythin’ silly, aye?” The boy gulped and nodded. Cynwaer gave him another pat on the back before looking up and down the loose lines of men to his left and right.

“Same goes fae the rest o’ yers,” he called out in a quiet shout. “Songbird’s ne’er let us down before. Keep yer ‘eads right and yersel’s ready fae a fight, an’ we aw’ go ‘ame nice an ‘appy, aye?” A scattered series of murmurs and mumbled acknowledgements were all the responses he got.

A quiet sigh left Cynwaer’s lips. If only he could believe his own words. According to Songbird – and it was they who masterminded this entire scheme – the tax wagon should have appeared ages ago. They should have at least heard it by now. But there was nothing. Just the quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a bird. A not-so-small part of him wondered if it would actually come. He could think of many reasons as to why it wouldn’t.

Well, it really was just one very, very big reason. This entire hare-brained plan, from start to finish, was just gambles built upon gambles. And Cynwaer might be a gambling man, but these odds were much too long, even for him.

For Songbird’s plan to work, they would first have to convince a tax collector – likely to be on their highest guard outside of Sorian – that the Felipina-Sorian highway was unsafe. That wasn’t just a bold-faced lie, it was an audacious one that essentially demanded the collector to disbelieve their own eyes. In order to get to the village they needed to tax, they would have had to travel down that exact same highway. But even if Songbird was successful with that part of the plan, they would then have to, again, convince the collector of this isolated forest path – the one Cynwaer had been, and still was, staring at – as a viable detour. The collector would have to be a profound idiot to not feel suspicious about Songbird’s intentions.

And should the collector turn out to indeed be a profound idiot, and everything Songbird had to do went off without a hitch, there was no guarantee that the collector would actually take this exact route. There were a myriad of ways for one to reach Sorian; it wasn’t the capital for nothing. Even something as simple as a wrong turn would bring the collector away from Cynwaer and Renegade, and ruin the entire plan.

A crop of quiet grumbles stole Cynwaer’s attention away from his internal tirade. He shot a withering glare in the direction of the loudest one, but he couldn’t help but worry. These men lying in wait with him weren’t just random people plucked from the streets; they were members of his crew. Every last one of them was an experienced sailor in their own right, familiar with the rigours and stresses of sailing as an outlaw upon hostile waters. That they were beginning to feel the strain was a bad sign. Cynwaer couldn’t even imagine how Renegade and his group of hastily-trained villagers were faring on the other side of the road.

More time passed. It could have been hours, or it could have been mere minutes. There wasn’t any way of knowing. But regardless, Cynwaer could feel himself approaching his limit. His body ached to move, to get out of this terribly uncomfortable position. With each passing second, Cynwaer felt more and more inclined to grant that request. His fingers tapped a frenetic beat on the wet earth, and he chewed hard on his lip.

Right as his resolve was about to break, a whisper rippled down the line. “Taxman’s coming!”

And just like that, all thoughts of abandoning the plan disappeared from Cynwaer’s mind. He even offered a silent apology to Songbird. Clearly, he had severely underestimated their skills. He looked up and down the line once more. “Right lads,” he began and nodded to them. “All ‘o us know what we’re about, an’ all o’ us know ‘ow ta’ give a Caesonian fecker a proper tannin’. So I’ll nae bore yer wi’ a speech, an’ just remind aw’ yers why we’re out here in this shite.” He paused, and craned his neck to look at each and every one of his men. “We aw’ know what’s gae’n on in Sorian. They’re ‘avin’ one grand crack, an’ guess who ‘as ta’ foot the feckin’ bill? Aye, wee villagers like what yer and me were. If yer ask me, ‘tis nae fair ta’ pay fae a crack where yer cannae even get a mug o’ ale in return. So I say feck the king, feck Sorian, and ‘tis about feckin’ time we take frae them what’s not theirs, and gee’s it back ta’ the rightful owners.”

Someone started to cheer, but was quickly cut short by harsh, hushed words from his fellows. Instead, the rest of the crew simply nodded to their Captain. Then, they made their preparations. Firelocks clicked into position. Pouches rustled as spherical bombs were taken out and gently laid on the grass. Metal scraped against leather as bayonets and swords were pulled from their sheaths. “Remember ta’ cover yersel’s aw’ proper-like, lads,” Cynwaer called out and reluctantly pulled a heavy, green cloak over his body, leaving a gap just big enough to keep a watchful eye on the road.

In his hand, he rolled a thin rope between his thumb and index finger. It would be the trigger for Cynwaer’s main contribution to Songbird’s plan – a fiery surprise he had concocted specially for the taxman and their minions. So special was the occasion that Cynwaer decided against using his usual ingredient for one that promised to be much, much more spectacular.

“They’re here!” The quiet, urgent warning came down the line. Cynwaer pressed himself flatter against the ground and wrapped the rope around his palm. His breathing suddenly seemed much louder than usual.

Falling hooves thudded against the hard, sun-dried earth, one-by one. Cynwaer closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the sound. The languid rumble of a wagon followed the hoofbeats soon after. The taxman was travelling slowly. Walking pace, if Cynwaer were to hazard a guess. Either way, their speed was constant, and that was all Cynwaer needed to know. He risked a peek at his targets. The three soldiers leading the way were in gleaming cuirasses and majestic helmets. A carbine rested over each of their laps, but none of them seemed to be on alert. Behind them was the tax wagon. The driver didn’t seem too worried, either, and the passenger – the tax collector, Cynwaer assumed – seemed to be fast asleep.

“Rest while yer still can, fecker,” Cynwear muttered as a cruel smirk spread across his face. As the wagon passed, he pressed himself flat against the ground once more. There wasn’t a need for him to look, in any case. He simply had to time them, and by his estimate, the three leading soldiers weren’t far from where he needed them to be. “Just a wee bit more, just a wee bit more…”

Then, he pulled hard on the rope.

And nothing happened.

Panic surged through Cynwaer, and he immediately pulled on the rope again. Still nothing. Sweat dripped from his furrowed brow. His heart raced. Had he done something wrong? There wasn’t any time for him to figure it out – the wagon was still rolling along. “Come on, come on, yer wee shite,” he muttered frantically as he kept tugging on the rope. Each time, he received the same result. Nothing. Time was running out. If he couldn’t fix whatever was wrong, then Renegade would be forced to act. Either that, or they would have to let the wagon slip through their fingers.

With a guttural growl, Cynwaer pulled the rope with all his strength.

The explosion was deafening, massive, and much louder and far larger than what Cynwaer had expected, or even planned for. A hail of shrapnel slammed into the trees around him, and scythed through the air just mere inches above his head. Debris rained down on him, his ears rang, and a thick cloud of dust still hung heavy in the air. Even so, Cynwaer threw off his cloak and stood up with pistol in hand. “Dae’n just feckin’ lie there, lads! Gee’s ‘em fire!” A vague figure, quite obviously wounded and crawling on the ground, came through the dust. Cynwaer didn’t hesitate. He took aim and pulled the trigger. The resounding crack of his pistol’s report, rising high above the cacophony, was all the motivation his crew needed. With shouts and yells, they revealed themselves, stood up, and unleashed a devastating volley of musket fire.

“Keep pourin’ it in!” Cynwaer urged his crew on as he reloaded his weapon. The ringing in his ears slowly faded, replaced by the din of battle. One after another, firelocks snapped and muskets blared. Screams of terror and cries of pain erupted alongside the blasts of bombs. It was clear to anyone that the Caesonians had been taken by complete surprise, and were now deep in the throes of confusion. But Cynwaer was all too aware that their condition was only temporary. These were still trained soldiers; given time, they would surely reorganise and stiffen their resistance. That couldn't be allowed to happen.

And so, Cynwaer drew his cutlass. “Let’s feckin’ stick ‘em, lads! Follow me!”

With his crew behind him, he burst onto the road like a tidal surge breaking an embankment. His blood ran hot with anticipation and exhilaration; his head pounded with the thumping of his heart. But almost as soon as the soles of his boots touched the dirt of the road, he realised he needn’t have bothered. Not one of the surviving soldiers was willing to continue fighting. Rather, they were dropping their and raising their hands over their heads in surrender. Pleas for mercy babbled from their mouths like a waterfall. Cynwaer’s crew were as confused as he, and for a while, they did nothing.

Cynwaer drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He couldn’t lie; the disappointment was palpable. But at the same time, he supposed he should be happy that the fight ended with a victory. “Take ‘em prisoner, lads, an’ keep yer eyes on ‘em. They’re Renegade’s problem ta’ deal wi’, nae ours.” He left his crew to go about their work. Then, he turned around.

And right away, he understood why the soldiers had so easily given up the fight.

The wagon – or what remained of it – rested within a blackened crater that had once been its front half. Its occupants, and the horses that pulled it, were nowhere to be seen. Overhead, strips of red hung like sickly vines from broken branches. Blood, crimson and treacly, still dripped from some of them. The soldiers who had been flanking the wagon fared no better. By the looks of things, they had died in the initial blast. Some of their bodies even bore proof of the sheer destructive power of Cynwaer’s work. A few had their armour torn off by the explosive force. Another, laying heaped on the grass, was found with a wooden beam – part of the wagon, Cynwaer assumed – skewering him back-to-front, through his steel cuirass. Confronted with such brutal carnage, he doubted that even the stoniest hearts would be able to resist wavering.

“Gods above and below, Seahawk,” an amused voice, one lilting and ambiguous, called out to him. “When we told you to stop the wagon, we didn’t think this was what you had in mind.”

“It was’nae,” Cynwaer replied and placed his hands on his hips. “Last time I feckin’ use blastin’ powder fae anythin’, I feckin’ swear.”

He turned in the direction of the voice, and saw two others approaching him. One was…Well, he never did know what they were, and so he wasn’t about to try, now. They had a slender face and fine features which were much like a woman’s, and yet the boyishness in their cheeks and jaw were unmistakable. Their style of dress, however, was wholly feminine. The knee-length skirt, which parted at the front to reveal the tight trousers they wore underneath, and the bodice cinching their blouse tight around their waist, was exactly what Cynwaer would expect from a lady spending a day on the road. Coupled with a head of long, ashen blonde hair – tied into a messy tail – they certainly made for an attractive woman.

And they were also the one who made all of this possible. Most knew them only as Songbird, but Cynwaer also knew them as Sioridann Morcant.

“Blasting powder?” They repeated, bringing their fingers to their lips. Even their voice was hard to place as either a woman’s or a man’s. “You…Seahawk, you do know what that’s for, right?”

Cynwaer thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.

“It’s for mining.” It was the other person – a man – who spoke. Dark skinned, dark haired, and with a slight accent to his words, Renegade – or Myaatyun Kidelaut, to those who knew him better than most – was not a native of these lands. But it was also clear that he wasn’t a stranger to it. Cynwaer could hear the diction of Caesonian high society lacing his words, and the battered armour he wore over his clothes didn’t seem like anything from his native Kimoon. Not that Cynwaer knew what Kimoonese armour was like, but he just knew that Renegade’s armour was very much akin to that of a Caesonian knight. Such a combination was strange, to say the least, but Cynwaer wasn’t the sort to pry, so he never did.

“Miners use it when they face anything in which their pickaxes cannot find purchase,” Renegade continued and looked at the destruction around him. “So it’s usually used to destroy rocks like granite, ironstone, and sometimes even bedrock.”

“Well, thank feck I did’nae use it fae a feckin’ cannon,” Cynwaer said with a shake of his head. “We found barrels ‘o the stuff on a ship days back. I did’nae ‘ave a clue what ta’ dae wi’ it, and sae I figured I’d gee’s usin’ it ta’ make a mine, a try. I s’pose it worked a wee bit too well, aye?”

Renegade let out a long breath. “Yes, I suppose it did. I had hoped that we could capture the tax collector alive and have him face the people’s justice, but…” He trailed off and tilted his chin towards a collection of bloody ribbons dangling from a branch stripped of its leaves. One of them looked like it had been torn from a shirt, and the rest, like things Cynwaer would rather not know. “But I suppose he, in a way, still hangs for his many crimes against the common folk. I can take that as a small victory.”

“Aye, that ‘tis,” Cynwaer agreed. “I’ll get yer a nice taxman ta’ ‘ang next time, Renny. Dae’n worry yer ‘ead about it. Maybe even a whole feckin’ officer, aye? Those feckers always swing ta’ best, if yer ask me.”

Renegade chuckled. “I shall hold you to that, Seahawk.” Then, he gestured to Songbird. “Anyway, Si–” He caught himself just in time. “Pardon me, I mean, Songbird here has something I believe would be of some interest to you.”

Cynwaer arched his brow and looked at Songbird. “Oh, aye? ‘Tis nae gonna be another on o’ yer ideas ta’ get me ta’ dae more shite fae yer, is it?”

Songbird looked at him with an inscrutable smile on their face. “It amazes me, Seahawk, how you can say so much, and yet make yourself absolutely incomprehensible to most.”

Cynwaer fixed them with a blank stare. In a complete monotone, he said, “My sincerest apologies. Do you find this better, perchance? Or is it still far too rough for your delicate, ladylike ears?” Putting on the voice physically hurt his throat, and it wasn’t one he used often. But it was one that proved to be quite useful for someone like him, who more often than not needed to hide his identity. Or for situations like this, when he just wanted to mess around at Songbird’s expense.

A strange expression warped Songbird’s visage. “My apologies. I brought that shit upon myself, and I ask that you never, ever, do it again.” They shook their head, as if trying to shake the memory from their mind, before continuing. “Anyway, I discovered something yesternight, while I was whispering into the taxman’s ear. The two of you are welcome for that, by the way. I don’t need my feet kissed, but I wouldn’t–”

Renegade patted them on the shoulder before they could get too far. “We can discuss that later, I believe.”

Songbird looked at him with a mischievous grin. “I’ll hold the two of you to that,” they said before turning to face Cynwaer once more. “As I was saying, I didn’t just tell the taxman what we needed him to do, I asked about Sorian as well. Just to keep myself updated, you know? Well, he tells me a whole bunch of stuff that we don’t really need to know, like rumours and such. Have you heard the things they say about this…Lady Vikena, I think? It’s awfully juicy stuff–” Another pat from Renegade cut them short. “Anyway, there’s been a spate of disappearances in Sorian, and from what he tells me, most people think it’s got something to do with the slavery business. Seems like we weren’t thorough enough back then.”

Cynwaer swore beneath his breath. It wasn’t a secret that the Caesonian underworld was involved in such dark and sordid trades. Money was money, and there were plenty of outlaws who would do anything to get as much coin as they could. In Cynwaer’s eyes, they were no better than the nobles he fought, and so he hunted and destroyed them as he would any other Caesonian vessel. Years ago, he – along with Songbird and Renegade – had waged a personal war against these traders of flesh, and had forced them to submit to their demands to stop their actions. Clearly, they needed to go on the warpath once more.

“Dae’n s’pose yer know if they’re the same ones as before?” Cynwaer asked.

Songbird shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. This sort of thing makes enough money that you’ve got plenty of outlaws giving it a shot every year.” Their face fell for the barest of moments, but they recovered in just as short a time. “Anyway, it’s all just rumours from one taxman. For all I know, he was just bullshitting to make it sound like he’s got an interesting life. But it’s still something worth looking into, I think. It doesn’t feel right to say that we’re fighting for the common folk if we ignore this, wouldn’t the two of you agree?”

Renegade’s response was instant. “Yes. Even if it turns out to be nothing, it is still imperative that we carry out due diligence to be sure. And if there is indeed something so terrible going on…” He trailed off, patting the sword sheathed at his side. “Then we must extirpate those involved with great haste and violence.” He turned to Cynwaer and bowed his head slightly. “My apologies, but I must ask you a favour. Songbird and I still have unfinished business that remains beyond Sorian. If it would not prove to be much trouble, I would appreciate it greatly if you could go to the Capital first, and do some groundwork.”

Cynwaer sighed and chewed on his lip. He really wasn’t too keen on doing anything related to Sorian, but neither could he simply ignore this matter now that he has heard of it. Songbird’s words stuck with him – if he did nothing about this, and went about as if all was well, then what was the point of his mission? “Well, I s’pose a holiday in Sorian would’nae be too bad,” he said with some reluctance in his voice. “But the twos o’ yer had better not take too long, otherwise I might feckin’ firebomb the king by the time yer get there.”

Songbird chuckled. “We’ll make you a damn hero if you did that, Seahawk,” they said. “But thanks. You’re doing us a great favour. Once we’re done, we’ll make our way to Sorian as quickly as the winds and roads can take us, you have my word on that. It shouldn’t take us more than two weeks. Might even be half that, if everything goes according to plan.”

Cynwaer didn’t bother asking what that plan was, lest they drag him into that as well.

“Anyway,” Songbird said and walked past him. “We’ve got a lot of coin here, and not enough time to bring it all back if we stand around talking. Especially not since you blew the wagon to pieces. You’d better enjoy long walks in the forest, Seahawk, because you’re not getting out of this one.”

It took Cynwaer a moment to understand what Songbird meant. And when he did, he looked at them with an incredulous look on his face. Then, he turned to Renegade, who merely shrugged with a knowing smile across his face. Cynwaer drew in a deep breath, then released it as a long sigh. “Ah, feck.”

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