"I guess we'll tell the Hawk to throw stones."

  The road stretched out before them, a thin dirt path winding through low hills and sparse woodlands. The rough wagon creaked and groaned like an old man in pain, the horses plodding along at a pace just more than a funerary drudge. It was mid-morning, the kind of quiet, open day where time moved slow and conversation seemed to spill out of mouths dry from travel.

  Brun sat in the driver’s seat, one massive hand resting on the reins, his posture relaxed but attentive. Ulrich rode beside him on one of their own, shifting in the saddle, adjusting the way his cloak draped over his shoulders. They had been riding in silence for a while now, both men content to let the world pass by.

  Ulrich finally spoke first, breaking the lull.

  "You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t taken up the sword?"

  Brun snorted. "That’s a question for a man with regrets."

  Ulrich paused. "And you got none? A bit odd, given our work."

  "Not the kind that matter." Brun used the reins to swat at an errant cowfly. "Some men are born to plow fields. Some to fix shoes. Some need to swing steel, though more just need to feel it in their guts. It’s all the same in the end."

  Ulrich chuckled, running his tongue between his cheek and jaw. "That’s a bleak way of lookin’ at things. So no part of you ever thought about something quieter? Owning a farm? A little tavern, maybe? You’d make a fine innkeep."

  Brun considered it, rubbing his chin.

  "I’d be a shit innkeep. Can’t stomach drunk fools unless I’m drunk myself. And I’d be too damn big for the bar. What about you, though? You’d be a terrible farmer. Too much talking, not enough plowing."

  "Oh, I'd do plenty of plowing, a fine little farm wife, tucked in the Dales or out around the Green." Ulrich let the words sit on the noontime air, each man returning to his thoughts before coming back to the question.

  "May've been a merchant. Real one, I mean. Not the kind that sells stolen goods in a back alley. The kind with ledgers and fine clothes."

  "You? Keeping books? You’d get bored and start fleecing your own customers just to keep entertained."

  "Probably," Ulrich admitted with a laugh. "Still, it’s a nice thought."

  Brun let the silence settle again, considering. "I think I’d do woodworking. Always liked working with my hands. Can make a thing that lasts, y’know? Steel’s fine, but it’s always for cutting, for hurting. Wood’s different. Not like marble or clay either. Wood's alive in the hand. And if you shape it right? It'll stand long long after you're in the ground. A little legacy, a better one to have than you do cutting for a living. "

  The big man turned from his friend, watching a wild pup chase something through the fields north of the road.

  "That’s damn near poetic, Brun."

  Brun shrugged. "I’ve had a lot of quiet roads to think on."

  The wagon rattled as they rolled over a patch of uneven ground, the horses adjusting with barely a flick of their ears. The child in the back let out a small sound—not quite a groan, but enough to draw their attention.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Ulrich glanced over his shoulder. The kid was stirring. His small hands flexed against the blanket, his face scrunching as if caught in a bad dream.

  Brun clicked his tongue to calm the stock, keeping his eyes on the road. "Finally waking up." Nothing needed to be said about who would be checking in as he drove their illgotten wagon into a small clear by the roadside.

  Ulrich swung down from his saddle, landing lightly beside the wagon and stepping up onto the side. His new ward was out of the wagon near as soon as it stopped, but weak legs didn't get the kind further than fifty yards before he fell against a sapling.

  Ulrich crouched down near the child, watching as his eyes fluttered open. For a long moment, the boy just lay there, unfocused, staring at the wooden beams above him. His breathing was steady but slow, and there was something strangely measured in the way he took in his surroundings.

  Ulrich waited.

  The child turned his head, blinking up at him. His eyes were sharp—not the dull haze of someone lost in their own mind. He was awake, aware. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

  Ulrich frowned. "Hey, kid."

  Nothing.

  The boy’s lips moved again, the shape of something unspoken.

  Ulrich narrowed his eyes. "Can’t talk, can you?"

  The boy blinked but gave no answer.

  Ulrich lifted a hand, snapping his fingers once, then twice.

  The kid flinched, eyes tracking the movement.

  Not deaf. Just mute.

  Ulrich let out a slow breath. "Well, that really puts a right cock in things."

  Brun grunted from his lean on the wagon's boards. "You expected a full conversation?"

  "Would’ve been nice," Ulrich muttered.

  Brun glanced back. "You think it’s a wound or somethin’ he was born with? Had a kid growing up born under a witch's moon, mute all his life. "

  Ulrich studied the kid’s face. His lips had moved like he had meant to speak, not like someone who had never learned how. That meant it had been taken from him, perhaps through injury or sickness (enough of each to go around in a backwater like this) or something worse.

  It was then he noticed the black in the soft lip, a fine series of intricate whorls and loops that stretched to the child's gums.

  "Not natural," Ulrich said after a moment. "Looks like someone shut him up."

  Brun came over to see what Ulrich was looking at, then exhaled sharply through his nose. "A cruel thing to do to a child."

  The boy shifted again, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He was still pale, his body thinner than it should be, but there was strength in his movements. Not the feebleness of a sick child, but the deliberate caution of someone who knew how to move without drawing attention.

  That made Ulrich frown. A normal lost boy might panic, might start flailing or crying. This one was calculating.

  Ulrich leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the wagon. "Who are you, then?"

  The boy stared at him, expression unreadable.

  "You got a name?" Ulrich tried.

  Silence.

  Brun sighed. "He ain’t gonna answer. A model prisoner."

  Ulrich motioned to hush the big man, then shifted tactics. He tapped his chest. "Ulrich." Then touching his companion's great chest. "Brun." Then he pointed at the boy and waited.

  The boy hesitated, his brows drawing together slightly. For a moment, it seemed like he might try to speak—but then he just pressed his lips together and looked away.

  Ulrich sat back. "Like's he can’t or he won’t."

  "Either way, he’s ours now," Brun said.

  "That a fact?"

  "Ain’t like we’re gonna leave him."

  Ulrich stalked off to make water and calm his thoughts. He had half a mind to tell Brun that if he wanted to play father, he could have stayed in Navar, set himself up with a nice girl, and raised a dozen thick-skulled little ones with hands like mason's mauls. On the other, if Ulrich wanted a kid, he could have stayed in Navar himself. There were enough women there who would have been happy to tie him down—some for love, some for coin, some just for the challenge of it. But he hadn’t. He’d left because that wasn’t his life. Wasn’t supposed to be his life, not after all that happened.

  And yet, here they were.

  The boy looked between the two men, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he pulled the blanket tighter around himself, shoulders hunching as if he had decided something.

  He would stay. For now.

  Ulrich sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Great. Just what we needed."

  Brun stopped his laughter from the rise, adjusting his grip on the reins. "Ain’t the worst job we’ve taken."

  Ulrich scoffed. "That’s a low bar, friend."

  Brun let out a slow, content breath. "Job’s a job."

  Ulrich shook his head, settling back into the seat beside him. The road stretched on, the world quiet except for the steady rhythm of hooves and wheels on packed dirt.

  "I think it complicates the endeavor, friend." Ulrich spoke, a few more miles behind them and many to go before sleep.

  They had a long way to go.