The Scorched Soul

The chief of the village looked across at the table, crossing his arms firmly across his tattooed chest. The blue, red and black of the tattoos glistened in the fire light, forming the shapes of bear paws, wolf pads, and teeth that crawled their way up his side and wrapped around his broad, barrel-like chest. Over his back hung the thick pelt of a snow leopard, limply staring into the ceiling. Icehowl - the same name as the chieftain who had slain the beast. On either side spear-wielding warriors flanked him. Shields made of fur and leather were wrapped tightly around their arms, each almost as tall as they were. Their spears were each carved intricately, one with the shape of the mountain inside the blade, and the other with the sun.

The figure across from them was very different. The small table between them had a map of the mountain ranges - flush with annotations - and a smaller piece of paper. A form that had been written at length, and was being perused by the chief who looked over it tiredly, frowning at the words. His thick, blocky forehead creased as he struggled to understand the content, and his eyes turned up slowly to regard the man sitting opposite him.

Allan was not from the village, and he didn’t make any attempt to hide it. Instead of the tribe’s skins and furs he wore colourful clothes from a more civilized world. His wide-brimmed hat sat comfortably over the long, blonde hair that was curled tightly into thick strands, and beaded to retain the shape. His clothes consisted of mixtures of wool, linen, sheepskin and silk. A scarf was wrapped around his neck to stave off the cold, and the clothing he wore hung loosely in layers. A thick bag hung over his shoulder and rested by his side, and a silver brooch in the shape of a shield, inscribed with the letter ‘C’. He met the chief’s eyes with his own, cool blue gaze, raising an inquisitive eyebrow in the silence that hung in the air.

“Is there a problem, Icehowl?” he checked. The chief grunted, pushing the form back across.

“Why do I have to sign this?” the large man demanded. “Your payment is there.” He gestured at the bag of gold, ivory, and small, precious stones that was wrapped in a sack and held by the young woman at Allan’s back. Rosie’s hands tightened on the bag as it was referenced. She was dressed similarly to Allan - finer clothing than the tribe could afford, with a long skirt and a headwrap that bundled her auburn locks away. Emerald-green eyes watched the tribesmen from within the shadows, and her steady breaths fogged up slowly. Unlike Allan, she didn’t bear the brooch, nor the calm demeanour.

“That?” Allan asked, snapping the attention back to himself and away from his protege. “That’s just something in case people start asking questions. In case people start going back on their arrangements.”

“What do you mean?” Icehowl demanded, rising to his feet slowly. “You would insult me by challenging my honour? In my own village? In my own tent?”

“It’s not an insult, chief. Settle down,” Allan implored, bringing his hands up to gesture to the vacant seat. Icehowl didn’t move, and the chief’s eyes returned to the papers at his table.

“What is this for?”

“We call it a waiver of liability, chief,” Allan explained. “Now, I’ve been here four days. in those four days, I’ve killed five people, broken into two homes, and been involved in the kidnapping of a child. These are all matters that can be very… messy.”

“You helped save our village,” Icehowl frowned. “You saved the lives of our hunters!”

“Oh, yes, and killed your yeti,” Allan added, looking over at the severed yeti head that sat in the corner. The beast’s wild, fanged mouth and manic eyes stared blindly throughout the room. “There’s that too.” Rosie nodded silently, her hands shifting and causing the items within the sack to shift a little.

“I don’t understand why we need to sign this,” he repeated impatiently. Allan chuckled a little, then sighed as he squeezed his nose with his fingers.

“Distinguished member of the community...” he began, inhaling slowly as he recited from memory the words on the page, “... By signing the above agreement, you are waiving the right to pursue reparations on behalf of yourself, your town, or its people, regarding the recent actions of the Champion’s Guild, and its representatives.” He gestured to himself and Rosie. “That’s us.”

“I understand this,” Icehowl warned with a hot exhale.

“This includes, but is not limited to, the pursuit of reparations for disenfranchised businessmen - in your case, chief, hunters, - seeking payment for damages incurred to property, association of blame regarding the deaths of citizens involved - or otherwise - during the time of the aforementioned representatives’ stay…” He took in a slow breath, waiting for Icehowl’s response, but the chief seemed to be growing gradually less patient with the situation. The clearing of Rosie’s throat distracted Allen’s attention, and he leaned back in his seat and tilted his head just barely, presenting an ear in her direction.

“You should probably ease up on the attitude,” she advised in a barely-audible whisper. The corner of his mouth turned up a little and he gave the tiniest of nods, leaning forwards again.

“If you’re as honourable as you say, great chief, then you have no reason not to sign,” Allen clarified, broadcasting a wide smile. “This is so that the Guild is absolved of any… any less-appreciated responses to our actions. It’s so that, if there’s another yeti, we’re able to come out here again without having to wonder whether it’s in our best interests as well as yours.”

“Another yeti?” Icehowl asked with a scowl. “You said you killed it.”

“I don't suppose there could possibly be more yetis?” Allen asked, giving a small huff. The chief seemed to not think so, and Allen pushed his hand against his temple for a moment. “Fine. A wendigo. A snowback. Anything that your hunters might not be able to handle, but that we can.” The chief seemed to consider the offer carefully, but his eyes didn’t leave the pair of them and it was only with a great, exasperated sigh that he picked up his pen and scrawled a childlike signature at the base of the form. Allen breathed a silent sigh of relief, allowing his head to drop back as he listened to the sound of a wax seal being stamped into the corner of the paper.

“There,” Icehowl grunted. “Take your papers and go.”

“Thank you, great chief,” Allen said, taking the papers from the table with the accompaniment of a bow. “You have lost none of your magnificence in this,” he reassured quickly. His put the papers into a leather envelope, and tucked that into his bag carefully. “Your hunters will thank you for this, chief. And their wives. And the hunters and wives of those who will come after.”

“My magnificence is of the opinion that you should leave before I have reason to reconsider,” Icehowl warned, rising to his feet once more and stepping away from the table. He approached the fire pit, staring into the flickering flames with a distant look in his eyes. The two guards regarded Allen without distraction, ignoring their chief as he wandered away slowly. Allen’s attention fixated on the old warrior, sensing the pain that washed over him. The yeti head that stared back at the chief was no consolation. Allen felt the urge to speak, but gathered his thoughts and bowed slowly.

“May the gods favour your hunts,” he offered, then turned to leave without another word. As he passed Rosie he looked at her meaningfully, then stepped through the entrance and emerged into the frigid air outside. Rosie lingered a moment, then pulled herself to her feet and took in a sharp breath as she mimicked Allen’s bow.

“I’m sorry that we couldn’t find your son, great chief,” she apologized quietly, following Allen out and into the cold. Allen was waiting for her on the other side, bundling his head in the scarf that had been wrapped around his neck. He pulled it tight, covering his mouth and nose, and from inside his jacket he retrieved a large, wooly hat that he pulled over his head.

“Ready to get back to the sunshine, sunshine?” he asked, moving over to intercept Rosie as she emerged. She cast a frown in his direction, and as he began to wind her scarf around her face she attempted to fight him off.

“Stop it, Allen! I can do it myself! I’m not twelve!” she protested.

“I’m well aware you’re not twelve, Rosie,” he sighed, patting her on the head as he finished tightening the scarf and tucking it in behind her neck. She didn’t seem to share the sentiment, pulling away from him with a huff.

“You didn’t pass on your condolences for his son’s death,” she chastised, leveling a fixed frown at him. “You getting too good for manners in your old age? They cost nothing, you know?”

“I was always more of a ‘respect your elders’ sort of child,” he mused, looking to Rosie with a smug smile. She was not amused.

“Not the way Leonard tells it,” she countered, barging against him as she started moving down the path away from the chieftain’s tent and towards the sleds.

“Leonard?”

“Leonard McAllister?”

“Sir McAllister?” Allen checked. “Lord McAllister?”

“He likes to be called Leonard,” she asserted.

“I think you should avoid doing so, all the same,” he suggested. Leonard? Sir McAllister had never invited him to call him Leonard. In fact, Allen had almost been under the impression that ‘Sir’ was his first name. He’d never given it much thought, and as Rosie began to put distance between them he rushed to catch up. “Are you listening to me?”

“We should focus on what we’re doing,” she advised, refusing to answer him otherwise.

“Focus on answering my question,” he retorted, but she didn’t answer and instead kept moving on without a word. His eyes drifted away from her, catching on the tribesmen outside their buildings on either side of the makeshift road leading down the incline. They huddled together, wrapped in animal skins and sharpening their weapons while they cleaned and prepared the meats from their hunts. They lifted their eyes to regard the pair as they passed, watching silently from beneath their hoods. Allen gave them a friendly wave and a smile, and tried his best to stay positive when they weren’t returned.

“What are you doing?” Rosie asked with a look over her shoulder reminiscent of someone embarrassed by their father. “Just stop waving. Everyone’s looking at us like you’re crazy.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be friendly and polite, Rosie,” he tutted, turning to wave to the tribesmen on the other side. “Manners cost nothing.”

“Oh, look at you,” Rosie pouted, casting a narrow sideways glance at him. “I bet you feel so smart getting that little quip out, don’t you?”

“Moderately smart, yes,” Allen agreed, patting her on the head again and ruffling her slightly. She pulled away furiously, taking several steps away from him, and when she turned her hair was a mess all across her face.

“Stop it!” she demanded, looking ready to throw the sack she was holding at him. “You’re messing up my hair!’

“Your hair is fine,” Allen dismissed, continuing to walk in the direction of the stables where the sleds were being kept. The feeling of something heavy being forced into his hands caught him by surprised, and he huffed as the sack was pushed against him and Rosie began to uncurl the scarf to address her appearance. “I said your hair is fine!’

“Excuse me if I don’t take advice from someone with rat tails hanging from beneath his hat,” she frowned, stopping in place to address the errant curls and strands.

“Can you not walk and do that?”

“Can you not wait five seconds?” she huffed, quickly pulling everything into a loose bun and beginning to re-wind the scarf around her. “I swear, sometimes it’s like dealing with a child!”

“I know how you feel,” he commented, watching her as she walked past. He just barely avoided the kick to the shins, and passed over the sack without a challenge.

“You’d better watch yourself. I know where you sleep,” she warned him, a finger coming out to point dangerously in his direction. She pushed at his chest briefly, her eyes fixed on his. For a moment he did feel a sense of fear, but it passed and he stepped back slowly.

“I know where you sleep, too,” he retorted.

“But I’m not afraid of you,” she reminded him, and he supposed there wasn’t anything he could say without lying. He walked with her silently, continuing to smile and wave all the way down the incline to the sleds, and when he turned to look back he caught sight of the chief watching from atop his small hill. The white of the snow stretched in every direction, disappearing off into the numerous colossal mountains that surrounded the tribe. The serene peaks on every side was idyllic, but not something that Rosie ever paused to notice. Allen drew in a slow breath and gave a final wave to the chief, not sure what he was expecting, and not disappointed when the man turned with a shrug of a shoulder and returned inside his tent.

He joined his protege a minute later as she waited by the sleds. Just one member of the tribe was as far out as they were, and he looked at the two of them as Allen arrived.

“Going back?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah,” Allen sighed. “I’ll miss this place.”

“Good. Glad you’re going,” the man continued. “Don’t need you here.”

“You needed us enough for us to arrive in the first place,” Rosie frowned, turning the crease in her forehead upon the man instead of Allen. “Clearly you weren’t doing much helping to kill the yeti, sitting around here looking after the animals.”

“Tribe was doing fine without you,” he asserted. “Only reason you came was for the payment. Now you have your money, you can leave us be.”

“If it weren’t for us, you and your entire backwards-” Rosie got no further before Allen’s hand was smothering her through the scarf, and she fought with him briefly as he spoke over her and held her back.

“We had the stag,” he identified, referring to the only animal of its kind that solemnly paced about in the barren, snowy field. Its antlers hung with icicles and it snorted hot, thick gouts of steam. The stablemaster nodded and slowly stepped away from them, approaching the creature and making a series of sharp whistling sounds, followed by clicks. The stag looked up suddenly, regarding the man analytically, and slowly began to approach with its head held high and loftily.

“Stop trying to smother me!” Rosie demanded, working her mouth free enough to mumble the words from beneath his hand. A second later she convinced him, biting down on a finger. It didn’t hurt through the glove and her scarf, but it was warning enough. “Stupid backwards people!” she spat, but either the man nearby didn’t hear her, or he didn’t care.

“You’re in quite the mood, aren’t you?” he sighed, withdrawing his hand and stepping away from her to a relatively-safe distance. “We’re almost gone. Why can’t you just play nice until we go?”

“Because I don’t care about these people, Allen, that’s why,” she frowned.

“Why?” he asked curiously. “Because they don’t celebrate you with parades and accolades, naming their children after you and having them kiss their babies?” She scoffed at the notion, but she didn’t say anything and looked away instead. He waited for a moment, managing to refrain from gasping in surprise and giving her a shocked look. He needed to be… professional. He groaned inwardly at the word, but that was it. She needed him to guide her, and he would. He’d give her the same excellent upbringing he’d had when he’d started out at the Guild… somehow.

“Listen,” he said, trying to sound formal and wise, “there are going to be situations where you don’t get heralded as a great hero to the people. Half the time, the people aren’t even going to know what you did. Sometimes, in order to do the right thing, the people are going to despise you. You just have to… roll with it.”

“Roll with it?” she scowled. “I’ll roll my fist across their soft little faces if they-”

“Easy, easy!” he said quickly, bringing his hands up to try to stop her from going much further. “All right, you can tell me all about it once we’re on the sled. Until then, just… I don’t know… save it. Brood, if you must.” She looked at him silently for a moment, then slowly put the bag down by her foot and crossed her arms, seeming to be restraining herself both physically and verbally as they watched the stablemaster gather the stag over to where they were and begin attaching it to the sled they’d arrived in. The oak vehicle was simple, and just barely big enough for the two of them. A thick blanket was piled up in the seat - wool and fur, but the cheap, uncomfortable kinds of both. The sort for keeping you warm, Allen figured. Not the sort for keeping you happy.

“What’s he doing?” Rosie asked in frustration as she watched him hassle with the stag and try to get it set up with the sled. “Has he handled anything like this before?”

“Probably not, no,” Allen guessed. “They use wolves here.”

“Then he’s incompetent,” she supposed. “There’s not any other alternative. There’s no way harnessing a stag is harder than a wolf that can bite you.”

“Are you hoping he’s going to hear you and come over and fist-fight you or something?”

“I wish he would,” Rosie said eagerly. “I’d hit him so hard he’d wish I used a hammer.”

“You scare me, Rosie,” Allen admitted honestly. “You’re the sort of person that either ends up as captain of the city guard, or the head of a crime syndicate.”

“Why not both?” she asked immediately, and he looked at her for a moment before a shudder worked its way up his back.

“Stop,” he said quietly. “You’re being creepy.”

“There’s nothing creepy about that, Allen,” she said, hiding a smile. “Good business.”

“Not for the people.”

“Business, not charity,” she clarified. The stablemaster turned and began to slowly return towards them, and she leaned down to pick up the bag once more. “Looks like we’re off at last,” she announced, beginning to walk back and waiting until they were close enough that the man could hear her. “It’s about time.”

“Next time you can do it yourself,” he spat back.

“There won’t be a next time,” Rosie announced with a haughty laugh. “The only way I’m coming back here is if I’m going to get buried, and if someone even tries to bury me here I’m going to come back as a wraith and murder every single lousy one of them.”

“Point taken,” Allen murmured, following behind her and tipping his hat at the stablemaster as he passed. “I hope fortune finds you in your hunts,” he offered.

“I hope so too,” the man agreed. “The sooner we’re rid of you two, the quicker we can get back to normal.”