A cleaved head no longer plots.

The Northern proverb uttered by Rainald kept rolling around in Gabriel’s head, even as he climbed down the rope ladder, although he knew that he should be focusing on the task at hand. It was a statement that was both simple and yet obvious, and something he would have to keep in mind for the future. How many of those he’d encountered in the past had returned to haunt him because he held back from finishing them or erred by not finding a way to end them as they deserved? Gabriel scowled. Zabka was certainly one…

Eight Years Ago

They were arguing again.

It was the usual disagreement – his student wanted to join the fighting and he had forbade it – but there was a touch more anger in Auqui’s voice than Gabriel had recalled hearing of late. Anger and sullen defensiveness, neither of which should have surprised him, not with Auqui having entered those difficult years where he was no longer a boy but not quite a man. For his part, Gabriel was too exhausted to deal with this nonsense at the moment, not to mention hungry and cold and sore. All he wanted to do was find his blankets, curl up underneath them, and forget this day ever happened. Such a thing was not feasible, not with tonight’s planned raid against the Vasar’s lines.

Though there was no ice on the ground, winter had not yet completely lifted its icy grip from the Huallapan land, which should have given them a massive advantage over the Vasar, but thus far, they had yet to take this damnable Hive. Coordinated assaults by the crusaders were a thing of the past, with the leaders of the rebels and royalists factions both jockeying for overall command. Lives were being spent liberally – the older knights especially seemed more interested in dying heroically than actually accomplishing anything useful – and senseless attacks were ordered on an almost hourly basis. Though he’d long ago sworn off returning to old habits, Gabriel was seriously considering assassinating some of the more intransigent fools in command on both sides just so someone else could lead.

“No,” he said in response to Auqui’s latest entreaties. “You are not ready.”

“I’m better with a sword than half of these fools!” the boy retorted fiercely.

“More than half, I’d wager,” Gabriel replied with a tired smile. “But you are still reckless and too confident by a large margin.” He held up a hand to stop Auqui’s next line of reasoning. “Your leg still has not fully healed,” he pointed out, which immediately caused the boy to flush in embarrassment, “and I well remember how you gained that injury.”

“I could have handled it,” Auqui muttered sullenly.

“If Dane had not shot it,” Gabriel retorted, “that bug would have killed you.” He did not bother pointing out that Auqui was not even supposed to be in that particular skirmish, nor that the boy had ignored explicit instructions to stay out of it, mostly because his student too often only heard what he wanted to hear. Instead, he took a seat on the large rock that Rainald had declared ‘the singing rock’ … though what that meant, no one but the Northerner knew.

“This is not fair,” Auqui said. “When you were my age,” he began.

“When I was your age,” Gabriel interject calmly, “I was arguing with my father who kept telling me that I was reckless and overly confident.” He smiled softly, intent on remembering those days instead of the ones of terror and fear that came later. He was about to add more when he noticed the approach of a man he had little desire to interact with. “Your grace,” he greeted as Bishop Zabka drew closer. A lifetime of Catholic teachings drove Gabriel to his feet but he did not offer to kiss the man’s ring nor did Zabka offer it.

“Sir Gabriel,” came the calm reply. The honorific still felt uncomfortable, though even the royalists had taken to treating him as a knight, no matter that the status was bestowed upon him by Lord Wallace. “And … Auqui, is it not?” His pronunciation was wrong, but only slightly.

“It is … your grace,” Auqui replied, stumbling over the title. The boy’s Anglish was still heavily accented, but he improved daily and it was certainly better than Gabriel’s Huallapan and quite frequently, more comprehensible than Rainald’s attempts at speech. Together, Gabriel and Auqui had developed a curious pidgin tongue that used both of their native languages. Zabka’s eyes widened slightly.

“You speak Anglish well for one of your world,” he began before looking back to Gabriel. “The Church has need of translators, my son,” he said before he glanced back in the direction he just came. Gabriel followed the line of his gaze to a larger group of tents – a handful of armsmen were watching over a cluster of Huallapans while a pair of harried-looking priests visibly struggled to communicate with the former slaves. “Would your young student be so kind as to assist us in our time of need?”

“May I, Master Gabriel?” Auqui had slipped back into his native tongue and the eagerness pulsed off him like a living thing. “I want to help and this could be important!” Gabriel almost frowned – he saw through Auqui easily enough. This was an opportunity for the boy to strut around in front of his fellow Huallapans and be the focus of their awe since he was clearly a warrior and not just a fisherman. Had anyone but Zabka been involved, Gabriel would not have hesitated to give permission, but with this man …

“Go,” he ordered after a moment of consideration. “Be back before dusk,” he added as Auqui’s grin lit up his face. The boy nodded and then turned away, almost instantly falling into the arrogant strut that was Cat Crosses the Courtyard. His limp spoiled it a little, but only to Gabriel’s expert eye.

“Many thanks, sir knight,” Zabka said as they both watched Auqui attract exactly the kind of attention the boy sought. “My flock were ill prepared for this crusade so this will assist tremendously.” Gabriel said nothing, though he did offer a slightly nod. “We began poorly, I think,” the bishop said abruptly. Gabriel gave him a flat look.

“You tried to have an innocent woman murdered because you thought she was a witch,” he replied in as cold a voice as he could manage.

“For which I have sought atonement and absolution,” Zabka stated. “I have asked for the Lord’s forgiveness for my sins.” His gesture encompasses the whole of the crusader host. “Is any man or woman here without sin?” Gabriel observe none of the expected tells that would see in a man speaking a mistruth, but then, an exceptional liar would know to hide such a thing and if there was anything he’d learned in his nearly thirty years of life, it was that men of Zabka’s station were often such exceptional men.

“And yet, your grace,” Gabriel said slowly, “I find that I mistrust you.”

“An honest reply.” The bishop smiled. “And understandable to one who has known only conflict.” He glanced away. “I remember you,” Zabka said abruptly. “From Craine.” His expression darkened. “And I remember well Abbot Publius’ sins … may God have mercy on his poor, tormented soul.” He crossed himself and, automatically, Gabriel followed suit. The bishop eyed him for a moment. “We have similar goals, I think,” he began, “and I would not wish to have us as enemies.”

“Goals?” Gabriel gave him a look. “My only goal is to train my student to become the best swordsman he can be.” For a long moment, the bishop was silent.

“An interesting application of your particular talents, scion of Auditore,” he said. “We shall speak again, my son.” He made the sign of the cross before Gabriel. “Go with God,” he added before turning away.

And, exhausted by a day of bitter, harsh fighting, Gabriel let him go, not entirely registering the implications of the bishop’s use of his family name. He might have even puzzled it out if given a moment to relax but Dane’s approach distracted him.

“Come with me,” the archer ordered. “I have need of your eyes.”

“You cannot have them,” Gabriel replied. “I am rather attached to them, actually.”

“I think I know how we can get into the Hive,” Dane said in an irritated voice. He was hiding it well, but to those who knew him, there was no hiding how insulted he was over not being allowed to command due to his birth.

“Well, then,” Gabriel said as he straightened. “You have my attention now.”