“A busted eye, a hangover, and the Butcher’s name.”
The reed pen fell out of my fingers. Finally.
“Tell me.”
“His name was Serem Vor. Born to a family of weavers out of Kwinspir. He was from the Lower Middle Fields.”
“Hreban’s domain.”
“Yes. He enlisted in the King’s Army at seventeen and was assigned to the Blir.”
The southern border of Rellas ran along the Copper Mountains, an older, drier mountain range. On the other side of it lay the Jastoro Tribe Horde, a nation of a thousand tribes united by faith in Kamagant-God, the Great Serpent. The Jastoro was a tribal theocracy, where chiefs ruled their tribes with the blessing of the tribe high priests, and every high priest fancied himself a prophet.
Serving at the southern border meant repelling a constant tide of raids as the roving tribes took turns testing Rellasian defenses. It was a small never-ending war. And if you were captured, you would be tortured and murdered. Kamagant-God liked his sacrifices well tenderized.
“Serem Vor was knighted at twenty-three for talent and wartime achievements,” Will continued. “Most of his fighting happened on the Jastoro border. The clansmen raid constantly. It’s a shit post. The way people tell it, the stuff that happens at that border will turn your hair white.”
“The Jastorons don’t see other people as people,” I told him. “To them, only those who worship the Kamagant-God are human. Everyone else is just a living corpse without a soul. One doesn’t have to feel bad about atrocities committed against a corpse.”
Religious extremists rarely had room for compassion. They were too busy making their religion into everyone else’s problem.
“That’s what I heard,” Will said. “Most people only last a few years at the border, then they get transferred. Serem Vor did twenty-two.”
“Did he upset someone important?” I guessed.
“Several people, but that wasn’t what kept him there. He was offered a transfer several times. He declined. Word is, he liked it. Fit right in and gave as good as he got. The Jastorons had a name for him. I can’t pronounce it, but they called him the blood reaper.”
Ah. So that’s how he’d honed his human-cutting skills.
“He wasn’t well liked, but it was known that if he went out to repel a raid, that clan wouldn’t come raiding for a while. The man was uncanny at tracking. He could find some tiny scrape on a rock and tell you how many of the clansmen passed and which way they went.”
“Makes sense.” That’s how he had noticed me.
“A year ago, the Blir got a new commander. He arrived with a fresh detachment of knights and two of his kardars. Serem Vor was told to take one of the kardars and her knights to the mountain border passes and give them the tour. Show them the lay of the land.”
“How did that go?”
“On the way, they ran across a Jastoron party gathering herbs, no warriors, only civilians. Serem Vor charged them, running down the women and children without provocation. The kardar ordered him to stop. Serem ignored the command and killed two kids before the kardar knocked him off his horse. Serem Vor lost his shit. The knights surrounded Serem, and he told them that they had all better fucking learn how things were done around there and decide which side they were on before they ended up on Jastoron sacrificial poles wrapped in their own guts. He was detained, brought back to the fort, and tried for failure to heed command. They stripped him of his knighthood and released him from the king’s service. He got to keep his head in light of his many years of meritorious tenure, but not much else.”
And now the Butcher’s hatred of knights made perfect sense. He had climbed the ladder from a weaver’s son to a soldier and then to a knight, who was respected and trusted. His ascent to the knighthood must’ve meant a great deal to him. It had given his life meaning. Then the King’s Army stripped him of his identity and spat him out with nothing.
“When did they throw him out?” I asked.
“Just under a year ago.”
A long time to stew in his anger.
“Here is the best part.” Will smiled. “Serem Vor had one friend during his years of service. Likatine of Praul Grast.”
“Aha.”
“He runs security for Castle Hreban in Lower Berem.”
“The Butcher’s best friend is the head of Hreban’s hometown guards?”
Will nodded.
Perfect. If we managed to get the contracts, they would be damning. But if we failed, this link would come in handy, and Will had just brought it to me on a silver platter.
