Sylvarian Tales: The Path Less Traveled

By the time Hazel shouldered open the tavern door, he had stopped feeling three of his fingers.

Heat struck him first.

It rolled from the stone hearth in a thick wave carrying the smells of burning oak, spilled ale, wet wool, and whatever had been simmering in the kitchen long enough for the onions to surrender entirely. After nearly a day beneath a white sky, with snow creeping over the tops of his boots and cold working patiently through every seam in his coat, the warmth almost hurt.

Hazel stood just inside the door and let it.

Behind him, evening had swallowed the road. Snow swept sideways through the brief opening before the door fell shut, catching in the unruly red hair curling damply around his ears and melting against the shoulders of his coat. His bow rested across his back. A leather strap crossed his chest, holding the two rabbits he’d taken before midday. The buck had required considerably more effort.

Most of it was already home.

The meat his family could use had been packed away before he’d come into town. His mother would make certain none of it disappeared into a pot without purpose. The bones would be boiled. The fat rendered. Sinew dried. Even the antlers had a destination, assuming Hail remembered he’d asked Hazel to save one before Hazel found another use for it.

The hide, however, would fetch a better price here than it would sitting in his shed.

Hazel adjusted the rolled hide beneath his arm and scanned the room.

He found Hail immediately.

It would have been difficult not to.

Hail occupied one of the stools at the bar with the careless sprawl of a man who had never once wondered whether he was welcome somewhere. Long dark-blond dreads hung over his shoulders and halfway down his back, several tied away from his face with a strip of leather. A pale scar crossed the back of one hand. Another disappeared beneath his sleeve. There was a fresh scrape high on his cheek that hadn’t been there the last time Hazel saw him.

Three days ago.

Hazel wasn’t going to ask.

If Hail wanted him to know, he would know already.

Malick sat beside him.

Where Hail looked as though the world took a small piece of him every few days and Hail cheerfully took one back, Malick appeared to have negotiated some private agreement exempting him from ordinary wear.

His long black hair fell loose down his back, clean despite the weather outside. His dark coat bore neither mud nor snow nor any obvious evidence that he had traveled through the same winter as everyone else. Even the hand curled around his cup was unmarked.

Malick turned slightly.

Violet eyes found Hazel through the crowd.

He lifted his cup.

Hazel nodded once.

Hail followed Malick’s attention and broke into a grin.

“There he is.”

Hazel approached the bar and dropped the rolled hide onto the counter between them.

Hail eyed it.

“You look terrible.”

Hazel pulled off one glove with his teeth. “Cold.”

“I’ve been telling him winter does that,” Malick said.

Hazel glanced at him.

Malick took another drink.

Hail pointed toward the rabbits hanging at Hazel’s side. “Good day?”

“Good enough.”

“Antler?”

“Saved it.”

Hail pressed a hand to his chest. “I knew there was kindness in you.”

“You owe me.”

The hand dropped.

Malick’s mouth twitched against his cup.

Berren appeared from the kitchen wiping both hands on his apron. He was a broad man with a beard that had been more brown than gray when Hazel first started bringing him game and was now firmly losing that battle.

His eyes went immediately to the hide.

“Thought you’d frozen.”

“Nearly.”

“Would’ve saved me money.”

Hazel unrolled the hide.

“Would’ve cost you venison.”

Berren grunted.

Negotiations began.

They didn’t take long.

Berren had bought enough from Hazel to know he wouldn’t bring him damaged goods and Hazel had sold enough to Berren to know exactly how much the tavern keeper would complain before paying what something was worth.

The rabbits went too.

Hazel could have brought them home, but there was enough meat already hanging in the shed to see the family through several days, and coin was harder to trap.

He was checking Berren’s count when he felt it.

Someone watching him.

Hazel didn’t look immediately.

A lifetime spent in woods had taught him that movement noticed too quickly often disappeared. Deer bolted. Rabbits vanished into brush. Men changed their behavior.

Women, he had discovered, occasionally did the same.

He slid the coins into his palm, counted them once, then looked toward the tables.

She didn’t look away.

That interested him.

She sat near the hearth with two other women, a half-finished drink between her hands. Brown hair fell loose over one shoulder, catching amber where the fire touched it. She was pretty, but that wasn’t what held Hazel’s attention.

It was the complete absence of embarrassment at being caught staring.

Her eyes moved over him once, deliberately, before returning to his face.

Hazel raised an eyebrow.

The corner of her mouth lifted.

Beside him, Hail went quiet.

Hazel closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.

Too late.

When he looked over, Hail had already followed the direction of his gaze.

First to the woman.

Then to the two sitting with her.

Then back to Malick.

Three women.

Three men.

Hail’s grin grew slowly.

“Iom finally shows me mercy.”

“No.”

Hail looked offended. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You were going to.”

Malick glanced toward the hearth.

One of the woman’s companions noticed him looking.

Her interest was immediate.

Malick considered her over the rim of his cup.

“He has a point.”

Hazel looked at him.

“About the mercy,” Malick said.

Hazel tucked his earnings inside his coat.

His entire body ached.

He had left home before sunrise. He had spent hours tracking the buck through fresh snow after finding its prints near the frozen creek, then another hour dressing it with hands that had gone stiff despite his gloves. The walk home had been made heavier by the animal, the walk into town longer by the promise of coin, and all Hazel wanted now was something hot in his stomach and his own bed.

Hail was already standing.

“Sit down.”

Hail clapped him once on the shoulder as he passed.

“Tomorrow you’ll thank me.”

“I won’t.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

Hail continued toward the women.

Hazel watched him go.

Malick remained beside him.

For a moment, Hazel thought there might still be one reasonable man left in the tavern.

Then the black-haired woman beside the brunette looked toward Malick again.

Malick noticed and set down his cup.

Hazel stared at him.

Malick stood.

“Pathetic.”

“Probably.”

Malick followed Hail.

Hazel looked toward the door.

It wasn’t far.

Twenty paces, perhaps.

He could collect his things, walk home, eat whatever his mother had left warming near the hearth, and be asleep before either of those idiots remembered he existed.

Then he looked toward the table.

The brunette was still watching him.

She tipped her head toward the empty chair beside her.

Hazel exhaled through his nose.

Damn Hail.

He ordered an ale.

By the time Hazel reached the table, Hail had somehow learned all three women’s names.

Naturally.

“Lysa,” Hail said, gesturing toward the blonde nearest him. “Mara.”

The black-haired woman beside Malick inclined her head.

“And Elowen.”

The brunette looked up at Hazel.

Hazel sat beside her.

“Hazel.”

“I know.”

He looked at Hail.

Hail was suddenly very interested in his drink.

Elowen laughed softly.

“I asked.”

Hazel took a swallow of ale.

That was better.

Warmth had finally reached his fingers, leaving them prickling painfully as blood returned. He flexed one hand beneath the table.

Elowen noticed.

“Long day?”

“Long hunt.”

“Successful?”

Hazel glanced toward the bar, where Berren was already carrying the rabbits toward the kitchen.

“Enough.”

She followed his gaze.

“You’re the one who supplies this place.”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ve eaten your venison, then.”

“Probably.”

“Is that all you say?”

Hazel looked at her.

“No.”

Her smile widened.

Across the table, Hail barked a laugh.

Hazel didn’t need to look at him.

“Careful,” Hail told Elowen. “That’s more words than I usually get before a second drink.”

“You talk enough for both of us.”

“Someone has to.”

Lysa laughed and touched Hail’s arm.

His attention shifted to her as easily as water finding a new course.

Hazel settled deeper into his chair.

This wasn’t what he had planned.

It wasn’t entirely unpleasant either.

The fire was warm at his back. Ale was working slowly against the ache in his shoulders. Elowen smelled faintly of cloves, and when she leaned closer to hear him over a burst of laughter from the bar, her knee brushed his beneath the table and remained there.

Hazel noticed that too.

He noticed most things.

Across from him, Malick had somehow managed to draw Mara closer while doing considerably less than Hail. Hail’s charm occupied space. He smiled broadly, laughed easily, asked questions and remembered answers. He could make a stranger feel like an old friend before the bottom of the first cup.

Malick was different.

He listened.

A quiet question here. A slight smile there. Those strange violet eyes settling fully on whoever spoke to him.

Mara had started the evening sitting beside him.

She was now leaning toward him.

Malick had barely moved.

Hazel had never understood how he did that.

Then again, there was a great deal Hazel didn’t understand about Malick.

He had learned not to waste energy on all of it.

Hail drained the last of his ale and pushed back from the table.

Lysa caught his sleeve.

“Where are you going?”

“To prevent a tragedy.”

She blinked.

“My bladder.”

Lysa shoved him away, laughing.

Hail grinned and bent to murmur something near her ear that made her shove him a second time, though this one lacked conviction.

Then he headed for the rear door.

Hazel watched him go.

“Does he flirt with every woman he meets?” Elowen asked.

“Nearly.”

“Nearly?”

“He has standards.”

From across the table Malick said, “No, he doesn’t.”

Hazel looked at him.

Malick lifted his cup.

“Fair,” Hazel said.

Elowen laughed.

Conversation moved on.

Hazel spoke when she asked him something worth answering and listened when she spoke. She had come into town with her friends to visit an aunt. She would be there another few days. She didn’t hunt. Didn’t farm. Didn’t seem bothered by the blood he’d missed near the cuff of his sleeve.

That counted in her favor.

She asked about the bow.

Hazel told her he made the string himself.

She asked whether he was good with it.

“Yes.”

No boast.

No false humility.

Just fact.

Elowen studied him for a moment.

“I believe you.”

Hazel took another drink.

A chair scraped somewhere behind him.

The fire cracked.

Someone called for another pitcher.

Outside, wind rattled faintly against the shutters.

Hazel realized Hail hadn’t returned.

His eyes moved toward the rear door.

Across the table, Malick’s gaze shifted at almost the same moment.

They looked at each other.

Neither moved.

Hail had likely found someone he knew.

Hail always found someone he knew.

Then a voice carried faintly through the wall.

Too muffled to make out.

Another answered.

Louder.

Hazel’s fingers stopped against his cup.

Elowen noticed.

“What?”

Hazel listened.

There.

Hail.

Not laughing.

Malick was already setting down his drink.

A hard thud sounded outside.

Then Hail’s voice came clearly through the door.

“Take your hand off me.”

Hazel and Malick stood at the same time.

Elowen looked between them.

“Is something wrong?”

“Probably.”

Hazel reached for his bow.

Malick pulled on his coat.

Mara frowned. “You’re leaving?”

Malick looked at her.

“This will only take a moment.”

Hazel started toward the door.

Elowen caught his wrist.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop him.

“Are you coming back?”

Hazel looked down at her hand, then at her.

“Yes.”

He meant it.

Five minutes.

Ten at most.

Hail had probably insulted someone who deserved it.

They would drag him back inside, finish their drinks, and Hazel could decide whether he had enough energy left to regret following Hail’s plan in the morning.

He opened the door.

Cold swallowed him whole.

The yard behind the tavern opened onto a narrow lane packed hard with old snow. Lanterns hung from iron hooks along the neighboring buildings, their flames struggling against the wind. Fresh flakes spun through the yellow light.

Hail stood in the middle of the lane.

Five uniformed men stood around him.

Hazel stopped.

Malick came through behind him and quietly shut the door.

Hail glanced over.

“Finally.”

Hazel surveyed the scene.

One man was already on the ground.

Hazel looked at Hail.

Hail wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“That wasn’t me.”

The man on the ground groaned.

Hazel looked back at Hail.

“Mostly.”

Malick stepped beside Hazel.

“You went to piss.”

“I got distracted.”

Hazel’s eyes moved past him.

An overturned handcart lay on its side near the road. Turnips and winter roots were scattered across the snow. A split sack had spilled dried beans into the slush.

An older man knelt beside it, gathering what he could with bare, shaking hands.

Hazel knew him.

Not well.

Tomas had a small farm north of town. Poor soil. Two daughters, both married now. A wife who had been sick the previous winter.

One of the uniformed men kicked a turnip away from Tomas’s reaching hand.

Hail’s expression changed.

There it was.

The reason.

Hazel sighed.

“What happened?”

The broadest of the uniformed men turned toward him.

A dark green cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened with the iron insignia Hazel had seen increasingly often over the last few years. Malivar’s authority had a way of arriving in villages long before Malivar himself ever would.

“This doesn’t concern you.”

Hazel looked at Hail.

Hail nodded toward Tomas.

“They’re taking his stores.”

“Levy,” the officer corrected.

Hail’s jaw tightened.

“He already paid.”

“Not all of it.”

Tomas looked up from the snow. “I paid what I had.”

The officer ignored him.

Hazel looked at the spilled food.

Enough to matter.

Not enough to make a difference to whoever eventually received it.

That irritated him more than it should have.

“Go inside,” Hazel told Hail.

Hail stared at him.

“No.”

Hazel had expected that.

The officer stepped closer.

“You his keeper?”

“No.”

“Then take your other friend and leave.”

Malick’s gaze moved lazily over the five men.

“Other friend.”

Hazel heard the amusement in his voice.

Not now.

The youngest uniform reached for Hail’s shoulder.

Hail caught his wrist before he made contact.

Everything changed at once.

The guard twisted.

Hail twisted faster.

A heartbeat later the man’s face struck the side of the overturned cart with a crack of wood and a curse.

The officer drew steel.

Hazel’s exhaustion disappeared.

“Don’t.”

The officer looked at him.

Hazel’s bow was already in his hand.

He hadn’t drawn an arrow.

He didn’t need to.

Not yet.

The officer’s gaze dropped to it.

Then back to Hazel.

“You threatening an officer of the levy?”

“No.”

Hail released the younger man.

For one hopeful second, Hazel thought that might be enough.

Then the man Hail had put on the ground earlier staggered upright and lunged.

Malick moved.

Hazel almost missed it.

One moment the guard was charging Hail from behind.

The next Malick had stepped into his path, caught the man’s arm, turned beneath it, and sent him face-first into the snow.

Cleanly.

Effortlessly.

Malick straightened his sleeve.

Hail grinned.

“Show-off.”

The youngest guard came at him.

Hail met him gladly.

After that, there was little point pretending they weren’t in a fight.

Hazel slung the bow back over his shoulder before someone forced him to use it at a distance too short to justify the risk. Hail had taught him years ago that a weapon was only useful when the space around it allowed it to be.

A fist came toward Hazel’s jaw.

He slipped it.

Caught the man’s elbow.

Drove his shoulder into the guard’s chest.

Hail appeared at his left.

“Behind.”

Hazel ducked.

Hail’s fist passed over him and connected with someone else’s face.

Hazel rose into the opening Hail had made and drove an elbow into the man’s ribs.

No discussion.

No planning.

They had done this too many times.

Not fights like this, perhaps, but training. Hundreds of hours of it. Hail correcting his footing. Hail knocking him flat for dropping his shoulder. Hail teaching him that looking at a man’s weapon was the fastest way to miss what the rest of him was doing.

Hazel knew where Hail would move before he moved.

Hail knew the same of him.

Malick was harder to predict.

He fought as though prediction wasn’t necessary.

A guard swung.

Malick wasn’t there.

Another reached for him.

Malick caught the man’s coat, used his own momentum against him, and deposited him into a snowbank with almost insulting ease.

His long black hair came loose over one shoulder.

That appeared to be the worst thing that happened to him.

Hazel took a fist across the cheek.

Pain burst beneath his eye.

Hail laughed.

Hazel hit the man harder.

“Thought you were tired.” Hail grinned.

Then steel flashed.

The amusement vanished.

The officer had raised his sword.

Not toward Hazel.

Toward Hail.

Hazel moved.

He caught Hail by the back of his coat and hauled him sideways as the blade cut through the space he’d occupied.

Hail stumbled, recovered, and drove his boot into the officer’s wrist.

The sword fell into the snow.

Silence followed.

Not complete silence.

Tomas was breathing hard.

Someone groaned.

Wind moved through the lane.

Music continued faintly inside the tavern as though six feet of timber could separate one world from another.

Hazel picked up the sword.

The officer stared at him.

Hazel turned it in his hand and offered it back hilt-first.

“Enough.”

The officer’s face reddened.

But he took it.

Good.

Hazel had no desire to discover what happened when a village hunter killed one of Malivar’s officers behind a tavern.

The officer shoved the blade into its sheath.

“This levy remains unpaid.”

Hail took a step forward.

Hazel put an arm across his chest.

Hail looked down at it.

Then at Hazel.

Hazel shook his head once.

Hail stopped.

The officer pointed toward Tomas’s overturned cart.

“Seven silver owed. Two for late payment.”

Tomas went still.

“Nine?” His voice cracked. “You said seven.”

“You resisted collection.”

“I didn’t.”

Hail laughed once, without humor.

“He didn’t. I did.”

The officer looked at him. “Then perhaps you’d like to pay it.”

Hail’s expression hardened.

Hazel looked toward Tomas.

The old man had gone back to gathering his food.

One turnip at a time.

His fingers were red from cold.

Hazel knew what nine silver meant.

He knew because a portion of it was sitting inside his own coat.

Seed when the ground thawed.

A repair to the western fence.

Flour.

Salt.

Oil.

Things that seemed small to people who had never had to count them.

He thought about the buck.

Hours following prints through snow.

The weight of the animal.

Blood freezing against his glove.

His mother’s face when he’d left again for town instead of staying home by the fire.

Nine silver was not nothing.

Tomas reached for another turnip.

The youngest guard got there first.

His boot came down.

The turnip split beneath his heel.

Hail moved.

Hazel caught him.

“Don’t.”

Hail looked at him incredulously.

Hazel released him and walked toward the cart.

He bent.

Picked up both halves of the turnip.

The guard sneered. “It’s ruined.”

Hazel brushed snow from one half with his thumb.

“Still food.”

He placed it in Tomas’s cart.

Then Hazel straightened and looked at the officer.

Hail went quiet.

The officer frowned.

Hazel reached inside his coat.

His fingers closed around the pouch Berren had just filled.

He hated how light it became.

Nine silver landed in the officer’s palm.

The man counted it.

Twice.

Hazel waited.

“Paid?”

The officer closed his fist.

“Paid.”

“Then leave.”

The youngest guard bristled.

“Watch yourself.”

He reached for Hazel.

His hand closed around Hazel’s forearm.

Hazel reacted before thinking.

He caught the man’s wrist and pulled free.

His sleeve dragged upward.

Cold metal caught lantern light.

The guard’s attention dropped.

So did Hazel’s.

The cuff encircled his forearm just above the wrist, gold against skin, narrow enough to disappear beneath his sleeve and heavy enough that Hazel never entirely forgot it was there. No clasp interrupted its surface. No hinge. Faint lines marked the metal, too worn or too strange to form anything Hazel had ever been able to name.

The guard stared.

“What is that?”

Hazel pulled his sleeve down.

“A reason not to grab me again.”

For once, Hail said nothing.

The officer barked at his men.

That ended it.

They gathered themselves with considerably less dignity than they’d arrived with and disappeared down the lane, boots grinding over snow until darkness swallowed them.

Hail watched them go.

Then looked at Hazel.

“You gave him nine silver.”

Hazel crouched beside Tomas’s cart.

“I can count.”

“That was nearly everything Berren just paid you.”

Hazel began gathering turnips.

“I know.”

Hail stood there another moment.

Then he crouched too.

Malick joined them without a word.

Together, they salvaged what they could.

Beans were lost. Too many had disappeared into dirty snow and wagon ruts. The roots fared better. Hazel found three onions beneath the cart and a bundle of something dried and wrapped in cloth that Tomas clutched to his chest when Hazel handed it back.

“Thank you,” the old man said.

Hazel nodded.

Tomas’s eyes glistened.

Hazel looked away before the man could say anything else.

Gratitude always made him uncomfortable when the alternative had been obvious.

They righted the cart.

Hail loaded the last turnip.

Malick brushed snow from his gloves.

Still no blood.

Not even a scrape.

Hail’s lip had split again.

Hazel touched his own cheek and found swelling already beginning beneath his eye.

He looked at Malick.

Malick noticed.

“What?”

Hazel looked him over.

“Nothing.”

Malick smiled faintly.

Tomas pulled his cart away.

The three men watched until he turned onto the main road.

Hail shoved his hands into his coat.

“Well.”

Hazel looked at him.

Hail’s expression shifted.

“What?”

“You went to take a piss.”

“I did.”

Hazel waited.

Hail remined silent and glanced toward the tavern.

Malick laughed under his breath.

Hazel rolled eyes and started back toward the door.

Hail followed.

“Where are you going?”

Hazel looked back at him.

“My drink.”

Hail’s grin returned.

“There he is.”

They stepped inside.

Warmth swallowed them again.

Conversation dipped as faces turned toward the door.

Hazel became aware of what they must look like.

Hail had blood on his mouth and snow tangled in his dreads.

Hazel’s cheek was beginning to ache, his coat was wet at one shoulder, and his knuckles had split.

Malick stepped between them looking exactly as he had when he’d left.

Mara’s eyes traveled over him.

“Did you even go outside?”

Malick removed his coat.

“Briefly.”

Hail stared at him.

“You threw a man into a snowbank.”

Malick handed his coat to the serving girl.

“Your point?”

Lysa rushed toward Hail, caught his chin, and turned his face toward the light.

“What happened to you?”

Hail smiled.

“You should see the other ten.”

“Ten?”

Hazel passed them.

“Five.”

Hail looked offended.

“Whose side are you on?”

Hazel reclaimed his seat.

Elowen was still there.

She looked at his swollen cheek.

Then at his knuckles.

Then toward the door.

“You said you’d come back.”

Hazel reached for the ale he’d left behind.

“I did.”

Her mouth curved.

Across the table, Malick sat beside Mara as though nothing of consequence had occurred.

Hail dropped into his chair and immediately stole Lysa’s drink because his own had gone warm.

She protested.

He drank it anyway.

For a few moments, everything settled.

The fire crackled.

Someone resumed the song that had faltered when they entered.

Berren shouted from behind the bar about blood on his floor.

Hail shouted back that none of it was his.

It was obviously his.

Hazel took a long drink.

Then another cup appeared in front of him.

He frowned.

He hadn’t ordered it.

Berren was setting cups down along the bar.

Several tables received them too.

A cheer rose from somewhere near the hearth.

Hazel followed Berren’s path back to the source.

Malick.

Of course.

Malick had a small stack of coins beside his hand.

Hail noticed Hazel looking.

“He’s buying.”

“I see that.”

Malick slid one of the coins toward Berren as the tavern keeper passed.

Hazel stared at it.

He had spent most of the day earning nine silver.

Malick was handing money away as though coin had a habit of finding its way back to him.

Come to think of it, it usually did.

Hazel looked at Malick.

Malick was listening to something Mara was saying, his expression faintly amused.

Long black hair.

Violet eyes.

Clean hands.

Expensive habits without expensive clothes.

Hazel realized, with some annoyance, that he had no idea what Malick actually did for money.

He knew Malick could fight.

Knew he disappeared occasionally.

Knew he always came back.

Knew Hail trusted him.

That had apparently been enough.

Hazel looked at Hail.

Hail was already watching him.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then Hazel glanced toward the coins.

Hail’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.

There.

He knew.

Hazel was suddenly certain of it.

Not merely about the money.

Something else.

Something Hazel had never asked about.

He tried to remember the first time he’d met Malick.

Training.

Hail had brought him.

Or Malick had arrived with Hail.

Hazel couldn’t remember which.

One day there had been two of them.

Then there had been three.

Hazel frowned.

“How’d you meet him?”

Hail’s cup stopped halfway to his mouth.

Malick looked over.

The pause was brief.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

Hazel did.

Hail took a drink.

“Long story.”

Hazel waited.

Hail lowered the cup.

Malick’s violet eyes held quiet amusement.

Neither man continued.

Hazel looked from one to the other.

There was something there.

Old.

Private.

And apparently none of his business.

Fine.

Hazel picked up the drink Malick had bought him.

Malick lifted his own.

Hazel drank.

He could ask another night.

Or never.

Outside, snow continued falling over the road, covering footprints, blood, spilled beans, and every other piece of evidence that Hail’s trip to relieve himself had somehow cost Hazel nine silver and earned him a bruised face.

Inside, the fire was warm.

His friends were alive.

Elowen’s knee found his again beneath the table.

Hazel looked at her.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I am.”

“Going home?”

He considered it.

Across from him, Hail had somehow convinced Lysa that the cut on his lip required considerably more attention than it did. Mara was whispering something to Malick that earned one of those rare, quiet smiles from him.

Hazel looked down at his drink.

Then at Elowen.

“Not yet.”

Her smile returned.

For tonight, that was enough.