Chapter 5: Interlude - Before the Road Turned

  Milo watched in silence as the Branton family trudged around the bend, leaving his sight. The swaying tail of their donkey was the last he saw of them. The last he'd likely ever see of them. "One more family gone. Too few left," he muttered to himself, breath fogging before him.

  "Can you blame them?" Martin asked from Milo's side. Like Milo, the shorter sibling had his hands buried in the pockets of a rough, threadbare jacket. Winter clung on despite the calendar. Today was unreasonably chill. Yesterday had been warm. Tomorrow might rain. It was that time of year nobody could tell where the weather was going.

  Milo shook his head. "No. No, not really." His eyes turned toward the ruined husk of his childhood home, a few dozen yards or so uphill. The slope was gentle, the kind people called scenic - once. The house on the outskirts had a clear view of the road.

  It hadn't been far enough. Like all the others, the stonework - what survived of it - had black streaks smeared into it. Half the walls had crumbled; the rest sagged inward like a body trying to breathe. The barren earth around it, once lush with the small vegetable garden the family of hunters maintained, held a thin and bitter cake of black residue.

  "The Brantons left us their house," Milo commented in a dull tone. "What's left of it, anyway. Enough for the two of us, at least." He didn't feel enthused, and he knew Martin knew why. "We could stay here. Try to ride it out."

  Martin didn't answer at first. The younger, stouter brother looked at his sibling, then shook his head. "We both know it may be years before anything grows here again. The snow has melted. We still have dad's rifle."

  Milo knew his brother was right. It was the same conversation they'd had many times in the last few weeks. Milo had always talked about running off and finding adventure... but when it came time to do it, leaving home was hard.

  Even if home was rotting from the ground up, now.

  Martin spoke again, softly. "I never thought I'd be the one to say it, Milo. We need to go." He shivered, a chill breeze flowing around him while he struggled to say that. Milo knew his brother hated talking. That high-pitched voice had gotten too many teases over the years.

  Milo also knew he was right.

  "We can leave tomorrow morning," Martin murmured, a gentle verbal prod. "We have enough good water and salted meat to make the trip to Sparston."

  "No," Milo cut in, exhaling another foggy breath. "Lets get our packs. If I wait until tomorrow I'll put it off again." He looked at the sky, the sun crawling toward its zenith. Half the day already gone, but... better to start late, than never leave at all.

  "We'll leave within the hour."

  It was coming toward evening four days later when the two brothers staggered into Sparston.

  It was a three day trip for seasoned travelers and hunters. Milo and Martin, though young, had been hunting for a few years now. They hadn't accounted for the rough terrain and poor road conditions. Winter thaw wasn't when they normally traveled to Sparston. Neither had any clue that the small city did some road maintenance every spring, nor even that the packed earth road needed maintenance.

  Not to mention, the Black Tide that destroyed their home had left debris strewn along the road. Even now, six months later, some of it remained. Real cleanup had only just started.

  It had been the better part of a year since Milo had visited Sparston. The closer town of Benten was a more regular place to visit, but he knew most of the refugees from the Tide had ended up there. Sparston was larger, wealthier, and even had a train line leading out east... not that the train came by often.

  The important part was that he knew how to get around town. Or... he thought he knew. Getting in wasn't hard, they were obviously locals. The real problem was he didn't realize how expensive everything would be. Back home, most needs were met by barter. Coin was rare, kept only for trade outside the village. The pouch he and Martin shared - left on Martin for now - had seemed heavy when they set out. Not so much seeing the prices here.

  Even selling their excess venison was a challenge. Milo hadn't realized it, but even though the city looked like it was huge and sold to anyone, anonymously... that wasn't quite right. They'd sell to anyone, but buying? Nobody knew Milo or Martin. Nobody wanted a few hunks of venison from nobodies. If they'd had an entire deer, maybe it would have been different. A handful of salted cuts? No interest.

  Milo finally found a vendor who was willing to buy the meat. He'd recognized their look, known their father, and Milo had broken the news to him. He'd taken their spare cuts off of their hands for a good price - one Martin had muttered was probably more than they had been worth. Neither brother had the energy to argue about that small act of charity and pity. Pride didn't find shelter.

  It was a startling and humbling experience for both brothers. Milo knew Martin would be even more silent for a while now. He always withdrew under stress. But Milo could tell he was worried, too. They had enough money they weren't destitute, but their funds would dry up fast at these prices. Forget about finding ammunition for the rifle, for now.

  Their first night was spent in a cheap inn. Not the cheapest, and not a filthy one... just old. Old and out of the way. A night in the common room for both wasn't that bad, and the stew was decent, if bland. Their bellies full of warm stew and their heads even more full of worries, their first night in Sparston left them exhausted and demoralized.

  The next morning saw Milo, at least, in better spirits. Martin let him do the talking, as usual, giving the pair a cheerful-looking spokesman. Milo didn't fully feel the smiling demeanor he put forth, but he was more optimistic. The inns and pubs of the city had quite a few job postings, and the brothers had the advantage of being reasonably literate. Scanning the boards showed tasks that he thought they could handle, and many they couldn't. It was a brisk trade for freelancers, here.

  Except that it wasn't, for them.

  Much like with selling the meat, Milo and Martin found that with any sort of freelancing job, it was more who you knew than what you could do. A few said that they needed more people in their group, but most leaned into the fact that they were unknown. Milo had thought that they could register with a 'Freelancer Guild' or even 'Adventurer's Guild' to help with this. Turns out, the Freelancer Guild, while it existed, was more of a loose set of guidelines that kept people honest.

  Mostly.

  That first day had been exhausting. Even with all their efforts, Milo and Martin had gotten nothing. Milo had thought that some bounties on dangerous animals would be available, at least. Those usually don't need prior approval, just proof of the kill. He hadn't counted on the fact that the dangerous animals had usually learned to stay away from larger settlements.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The second day in Sparston, it was Martin who finally landed a hit to get paid. It wasn't much... spook some local hoodlums for the City Watch. It didn't pay well, but it got them at least some rep, and enough cash to pay for room and board for one more night. The fact that it came at the end of a day full of looking for work was discouraging, but at least it gave them more time.

  The real break was afterward, when the watchman paying them - who seemed incredibly bored - actually cared enough to give advice. It seemed simple in hindsight. Milo and Martin were unknown and only two people, too small to be much of an effective force. So... why not join an already established group?

  Day three saw the brothers attempting a different approach. Milo was more confident again, after this. Martin... didn't show it, but Milo could tell that his brother had more of a spring in his step than before. It was time to hit the pubs and see who needed a pair of hunters! His father's rifle prominently displayed - it was an expensive and excellent piece - Milo and Martin went on a different kind of hunt.

  It didn't go so well, either.

  "You're still a little green for us," said the man. He had a shiny breastplate, but full armor wasn't as useful in this age of firearms. His limbs had simpler leather greaves, supple and easy to move in. Also probably nicer for the summer. The group around him weren't old, but weren't all that young either, but all looked competent.

  Milo protested, "We're both good shots, and we've hunted-"

  The man's hand was up, gesturing for Milo to stop. "I'm sure you're a great shot, and have some skills. But a lot of our work is other stuff, and when we need a shot it's under the kind of pressure you haven't seen. Sorry, we can't risk it."

  Another group was a bit more rough, less polished. Milo never even spoke to them. The two brothers approached, and the largest man, the leader perhaps, stood to greet them. Before he could, a spindly youth in the back panicked and bolted, causing a commotion. The leader shook his head at Milo and went to retrieve his... son? Brother? Companion? That was strange.

  The third group they approached seemed distracted. Several of them kept eying Milo's rifle, and Martin nudged him to take note of it. Milo didn't even remember what he said. He politely excused himself and moved on, reminding himself that some of these people were little better than bandits.

  By evening, Milo and Martin were both tired. Finally, they had a break. A ragged group, this time, but they looked... tough. Five of them chattering amongst one another, eating the stew. This stew smelled better than what Milo had tasted at his own poor inn, too. Ragged though they may be, the group was clearly not poor.

  The whole crew eyed them, but it was a one-eyed man with speckles of grey in his beard that actually did the talking. He looked both up and down, lingering not just on Milo's rifle, but his hands. Then more, at Martin's stocky frame and stoic gaze.

  He nodded, "You don't look incompetent." Then his thumb jerked back toward his companions. "Thing is, we've been working together for a while. We have a rhythm, we know how we'll all react. You two will throw it off while we teach you, and we can't afford that here."

  One of the others, a sandy-haired youth who barely looked older than Milo, spoke up. "Good luck." He seemed sincere, at least. So did the others. It was the most friendly any of them had been.

  "Thanks, anyway," Milo replied with a sigh. Martin gave a nod, before turning for the door. Milo followed, rubbing the back of his neck in a frustrated tic.

  "HEY! Kid!" The one-eyed man called out. Milo halted, looking back over his shoulder to see the man scratching at his chin through his beard. "I know someone who’s always looking for new blood..." He trailed off, frowning, then added more. "Not sure it'll be all that fun for you, but you won't die early."

  The veteran cocked the eyebrow over his good eye. "Interested?"

  Milo hadn't even known this inn was in the city. He was honestly baffled at how many inns one small city could support. This one was small, true, but it looked nicer than the one he and Martin had been staying in. Nicer, but... smaller. Older, too. He wasn't even sure the place had indoor plumbing. The ratty place they had been staying had it, and Milo had gotten spoiled already.

  It was cheaper, too. A real hidden gem, even if it wasn't fancy.

  A small number of people were in the common room, but it wasn't a big room compared to others. A half-dozen tables, and a short bar, plus the fireplace with the ever-present stewpot. What surprised him was the fact that over half the tables had people at them. This must be one of those little local secrets, the kind that newcomers weren't told about until they'd proven themselves.

  That was kind of encouraging. Martin nudged him again, directing Milo's attention to the bar and reminding him why they were here. "Yeah, I got it, don't worry." He slid up to the bar and waited for the innkeeper to return from the back. He was mildly surprised to see the innkeeper was a woman. A stout but not heavy woman with curly, dark brown hair. Out in the villages, women could do whatever task they wished, but Milo knew in the cities that wasn't always the case.

  "Excuse me," he called out to the woman, who was already on her way over. "I'm looking for a uh... Turner? I heard he stayed here often. My brother and I are looking for a job."

  The innkeeper looked the two over, then shrugged, "Already? That was fast." Leaving her cryptic comment unexplained, she called over to one of the tables, "Hey GRAVES! TURNER! Got a couple more greenhorns for ya!"

  Milo looked toward the table, focusing on it for the first time. Two people... that hadn't been mentioned, just the one. The woman was young, though older than him. Early twenties, he guessed. Fair-skinned, but not pale, with a hint of freckles, but long and rather fetching blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail. Not a local, then. She had a rugged and wiry look about her, somehow. A jawline too rigid and a nose slightly too flat to be called 'lovely' but comfortably settling into the 'pretty' label. The cool gaze of brown eyes met his, but she hadn't moved.

  The man with her - Turner, Milo presumed - was lanky and young. Dark brown hair and darker eyes, he wasn't but a few years older than Milo himself. This was surprising, since he'd been told this guy was pretty experienced. Milo's eyes were briefly drawn to the thin scar along the left of his jawline. Sharp, clean. A blade cut? The young man's sword looked clean and well-maintained, buckled to his side comfortably, and he wore a loose vest over a homespun shirt.

  Milo wasn't sure what to make of this, but apparently this guy was Turner. Unless the girl was? Again, he turned his attention to her, but the blonde was just... sighing and rolling her eyes. That was a peculiar reaction.

  "MILO!"

  Martin's shout was sudden and jarring, knocking Milo out of his thoughts even as he felt the impact of Martin's shove. Martin was shorter, but had always been the stronger of the two. His shove was enough to hurl Milo into the nearby chair and table, crashing into it even while he tried to figure out why.

  That's when he saw the sleek and deadly revolver still rising. The man - Turner - had drawn it from inside his vest somewhere. The oiled cylinder caught the light as he leveled the barrel to point right at where Milo had been standing an instant before.

  "BREAKER'S BLOOD! What was that for?" Milo yelled as he rolled, letting momentum carry him behind the table, where he fumbled to draw his knife. Not much cover if Turner started shooting, but better than nothing. He glimpsed Martin doing the same, and some distant part of him noted that the other patrons were just watching. No shouting or panic.

  The man, Turner, lowered the handgun and tucked it back into the holster at his side. "Good. You pass." A mild, even tone without any anger. "Your brother shoved you away but didn't try to jump in front of it. You were surprised - sloppy - but you recovered the moment you saw danger. Neither of you were stupid enough to try to take me."

  Martin rose as the other patrons, including the innkeeper, started laughing. "This was a TEST?" Martin squeaked, his high-pitched voice even more shrill than usual. It took a lot for Martin to yell, but Milo could understand why he was doing it now.

  "You're here to learn how to be a successful freelancer, right?" Turner asked, holding out a hand to help Milo stand up. "First rule to being successful: survive. No stupid heroics."

  He grinned, as Milo clasped the hand. Rough, calloused from swordplay. Strong. "You two pass. Welcome to the team." A small pause, and then he asked, "I'm Turner. What do I call you two?"

  That had been six months ago. Milo had to admit, it had been a memorable introduction. For someone so cautious about what jobs they took, Turner could be crazy sometimes. But now he got it. The constant drills...

  Milo didn't push forward. He dove down, still clutching his spear in the rain-slicked grip.

  Survive.