I spent the next and every day after indulging in the mindset that saw me through the Operator Training Course: train as if your life depends on it; it does. While my first training day had focused on hand-to-hand, this time we focused functional melee training with a variety of weapons. I didn’t question the decision, nor the tempo. With only two weeks before I had to leave to find Jenna, I needed to gain some minimal proficiency with local weapons.

  By the end of the first day-long session, I knew without a doubt that goal was certainly unreasonable, but I didn’t care. One part because the Unit relies on their people being unreasonable in the pursuit of victory, but also because I never intended to fight fair. Present company excluded, nobody here knew what a gun was, so if things went sideways, my intention was to change hearts and minds ballistically when doing so diplomatically was no longer possible.

  That said, I’d never been fond of carrying gear I didn’t know how to use, hence the training. As for why I’d carry a heavy piece of gear I didn’t intend on using, ultimately I had to conform to this world’s expectations. Any rando I had to deal with might think twice about messing with me because of my size but letting them think I was unarmed by not carrying a sword invited little else but trouble.

  By the start of the second week, I’d come to terms with just how much muscle memory I didn’t have when it came to sabers and the few single-edged shorter swords better suited for forest fights. Out of frustration, I asked if we could change things up for a sparring match or two. Rowan nodded to the weapons wall.

  Now, I can tell you what was going through my head when I selected my weapons. Simply put, while I’d focused on hand-to-hand when it came to seeking out martial arts to study, focus is not exclusivity. Amongst others, I’d spent a lot of time studying eskrima, which had techniques for sticks, bladed weapons, and open hands. When I picked the pair of forward-curved swords off the wall, I’d intended to use them like heavy machetes, which should’ve been reasonably close enough in theory to fit some of the eskrima techniques I was comfortable with.

  Truth be told, dual-wield is almost never a good idea, especially if you’re not a master with the weapon in question. As only a blue belt, I certainly was no master. I also didn’t care. Two days of getting my ass beat gave me plenty of frustration and I intended to burn it off. I also figured Rowan would lecture me about my choice of weapons when I came back to the floor, so when she motioned for me to attack without comment, I was a little surprised.

  I can’t really justify what followed. Not that the skill fairy fluttered down from on high and I effortlessly turned the tables, I still got my ass beat but we were far more evenly matched than I expected.

  It wasn’t until we took a break after the third match that I realized I felt far more comfortable with this loadout than a blue belt should be. More than that, I’d been improvising on the fly with techniques I most certainly never trained for.

  Noticing my unease as she handed me some water, Rowan commented, “What’s with that look? You’re doing a lot better. I’m actually having to work to beat you now. Good choice switching to those.”

  I paused after taking a sip. “That’s actually the problem. I shouldn’t be nearly this good.”

  “How so?”

  I took another drink. “I’m not an expert using these weapons.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. Though, I’d like to know where you learned one of our arts.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “The falcata art you’re using was rare among the Syr before the Fall. The only master I knew in the Harvesters was my brother. To be fair, you were a bit rough at first, but you’ve done a good job shaking off the rust. Why?”

  Chilled by her mention of Flynn, I bought time to contemplate her statement by taking a long drink. “I picked the falcata because I figured if I was going to get my ass kicked like a child, I’d at least work off some of my frustration. Two weapon fighting is a master’s game. More than that, when we started, I adapted an art that doesn’t teach using them to make it work, also something you’d need to be a master to be able to do. Here’s the thing, I have only a few years of experience with eskrima, Rowan. I know the basics, that’s it. You should still be kicking my ass handily.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she chewed on her lip for a moment. “As interesting and curious as that might be, I can’t think of a single explanation, and I doubt fretting over it is going to be helpful. Embrace it until you have a reason not to. Our timeline hasn’t changed. This just means you’ll be better prepared when you have to leave than expected.”

  Just as I opened my mouth Aine came through the nearest door. “Rowan! Tomas is back!”

  “Excuse me?” Rowan asked as she bolted to her feet.

  A figure mostly wrapped in a mottled green cloak stepped out behind Aine. He craned his head to look around Aine and broke into a wide smile. “She said, ‘Tomas is back’ rather energetically, dear.”

  “Tomas, you rat bastard, where the hell have you been?” Rowan growled and set off toward him.

  Tomas’s hair shifted, revealing quite human ears, when he canted his head and put his fists on his hips. “Dear me, is that any way to greet your favorite half elf?”

  “I’ll greet you however the hell I want,” Rowan nearly spat as she planted her feet and put her hips into a solid punch to his shoulder and then immediately hugged the now surprised man. “It’s been almost a year. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

  Tomas’s eyes narrowed when he noticed me. “Who’s your friend? He is a friend, yes?”

  Rowan chuckled as she stepped back and glanced over her shoulder. “Him? That’s Sam. And yes, he’s a friend.”

  His focus on me didn’t waver. “When did we start taking them in?”

  The unfriendly stare and how he accentuated ‘them’ left little room for imagination when it came to his opinion of humans. Great.

  “When Aoibheann asked me to train him as a Harvester. Now, no more distractions, where have you been?”

  Tomas’s eyes narrowed and when they shifted to Rowan they lit up to match the sudden smile that replaced the scowl he’d directed at me. “Well, you know how I was complaining about how I wasn’t doing enough?”

  Rowan sighed. “Quite. And every time you did, I’d remind you that the information you were gathering on our neighbors was invaluable. That’s why I’m angry, Tomas. We’ve been blind since you disappeared.”

  “Be that as it may,” Tomas admitted dismissively, “I nonetheless found a better way to contribute to our situation.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I didn’t come back alone.”

  Rowan blinked and her expression softened. “How? How many? Are any of them soldiers?”

  Tomas held up both hands, palms out. “It’s not like that. Not quite, anyway.”

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  Rowan scowled. “Then what is it like?”

  “The village you sent me to? They’d been visited by slavers who bragged in the tavern about how they sold off some elves for a lot of coin. I know, nobody here’s fond of slavers, but you know me, I saw an opportunity.”

  “What did you do, Tomas?”

  “I found out where they were operating out of. Made some friends, learned where the meat market they did business with was. Helped them to a toast of hemlock and belladonna on my way out the door. Ingratiating myself at the slaver’s market was, sadly, a good deal harder than I anticipated, and honestly, I’m just one man.”

  “Get to the point, Tomas.”

  “I picked some locks. Some people on the other side of those locks took advantage of their newfound situation. Afterward, some came with me. Children, mostly. I couldn’t just leave them behind, Rowan, but I brought back some of our people. And a human.”

  Rowan squinted. “You brought back a human?”

  “I know, right? Me of all people, but, well— we wouldn’t have made it here without him so I figured that had to count for something. Though, I can’t understand a word he says, which is mutual.”

  Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Rowan quietly asked, “Where are they now?”

  “Oh, I left them at the bottom. Told them I had to make arrangements before they could come in.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Go back to them. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Tomas nodded quickly and immediately set off with purpose.

  The moment he was out of the room, Rowan’s gaze shifted to Aine. “Get Quinne, Eidhneán, and Fiachra.”

  Aine, who had started to move the moment Rowan started listing names, lurched to a quick halt. “Fiachra? Why him?”

  Rowan’s features darkened and she snarled, “Because at least one human crossed the waystones and I didn’t get any warning. If he tries to get out of it, tell him I’m not asking and if I have to come get him myself, it’ll be at sword point.”

  Aine flinched as if she’d nearly been slapped. “Y-Yes, Captain.”

  As Aine slipped out silently, Rowan’s ire shifted focus to me, softening only moments before she spoke. “You, you and your weird knack for languages are coming with me. We need to sort out our visitors.”

  I nodded and brushed the side of a thumb against my pistol to make sure it was still there out of habit as I followed her out. Irritation radiated off Rowan all the way to the ramp, where she paused.

  After a few seconds, I quietly asked, “You okay?”

  Rowan sighed and glanced back at me. “Yeah. I just don’t understand what goes through Tomas’s head sometimes. When he’s focused on the task, he’s good, dependable, but keeping him focused on the right task can be such a pain in the ass.”

  I couldn’t help but grin a little. “How old is he? If he was human, I’d say that’s a pretty standard problem for young men, even in the Army.”

  She frowned at me. “How does your kind even survive to adulthood, Sam?”

  “Luck, mostly.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  Making the final turn, a dozen faces looked up at us expectantly from where they sat below.

  Half a step later, having recognized the signs restraints leave behind on every wrist and ankle I could see, and there were many because none of them were properly clothed, the next thing I noticed kicked me in the gut. “Jesus Christ, Rowan, that’s an infant.”

  Without slowing, she slightly jerked her head, the same motion I’d use to shut up someone behind me in the field. Copy that, Sarn’t. I slowed my pace and scanned the crowd while Rowan came to a halt much closer to them.

  A dozen faces, all with sunken eyes and emaciated bodies to go with them. All save one. Even seated, the human male simply looked huge, and while his clothing was worn and tattered like the others, he was all muscle, though he had the same overly lean look anyone in the field too long with too strict rationing got after a while. Strong, but recently malnourished for a good length of time, though not as badly as the others. Unlike the rest, his eyes didn’t hold fear or trepidation. They were a very specific sort of bored, the kind I’d seen on countless soldier’s faces when they know there’s nothing to do but wait. Definitely a threat, starved or not.

  Motion dragged my attention away from the man to a thin wisp of a young elf, one of the few adults in the group, as she stood, eyes watering with sudden tears as she stood and stumbled forward toward Rowan with outstretched arms. “Harvester! Thank the gods that remain!”

  My pistol was half out of the holster on my hip before I overrode instinct. This wasn’t Iraq. She wasn’t a suicide bomber making their move out a crowd that some inattentive idiot let get too close.

  When Rowan caught her in an awkward hug, most of the others lurched to their feet. The other two adults bore similar expressions, as did the apparent teens, but the younger ones didn’t have the same recognition in their eyes, nor the relief on their faces. Instead, if anticipation and fear had left at all, they held wary acceptance. Too young to remember Harvesters, maybe?

  My eyes drifted to the one person who hadn’t stood the same moment his settled on me. The boredom on his face broke into a relieved smile. He started to lurch to his feet and seemingly just kept standing up. How fucking tall is this guy?

  “Ha, a familiar sort of face at last. Please, brother, tell me the gods finally sent someone who speaks my tongue?” the enormous mountain of a man said in a voice far too high pitched for a someone his size.

  “Evidently I do,” I answered. Six and a half feet, maybe seven?

  Grinning ear to ear, the giant loped the distance between us with surprising quickness and offered his hand. “You and your friends are a sight for sore eyes! Speak friend, what are you called?”

  “Samuel, though Sam works, too.”

  My hand disappeared into his and I had just enough time to wonder why he sounded South African before he nearly yanked my arm off shaking my hand. “Well met, Samuel! I am called Myrddin by my friends. Formally, I am Uilleam Myrddin Wallace, Disciple of the Forge.”

  I hoped from his perspective all Myrddin saw was me blink when he rattled off his full name and not the combination of mental whiplash and instinctive smirk from the logjam in my head hearing it left me. William fucking Wallace. He even looks a bit like a party-sized young Mel Gibson, if Gibson could bench press me in full battle rattle for ten reps without breaking a sweat. “Yeah, I’m going to need to give you a nickname. Mind if I call you Millwall?”

  The giant cocked his head to the side a little. “Millwall? Why?”

  “Long story you won’t believe. Trust me, it’s just easier for me to call you Millwall. If it helps, the name is associated with a particular sort of belligerent bravery where I come from.”

  “Oh? What sort would that be?”

  Thinking on my feet, I answered, “A group of bandits broke into a tavern full of workers. One of them stepped forward even though he was unarmed, and kept the bandits back with his bare hands long enough for the others to escape and get the guards.”

  The man’s earlier grin returned full force and he chuckled. “You’d honor me, someone you just met, with such a name? May I live up to your expectations, should the Forgemaster require it.”

  “So,” I said, unsure what to say next. “What’s this about being a Disciple of the Forge?”

  Millwall’s eyes narrowed, more in confusion than suspicion. “Everyone from Cadecon knows the Forgemaster and his Disciples. How do you not?”

  I took a deep breath. “Because I’m not from Cadecon. I have an unnatural knack for languages. A gift, you might say, from a higher power.”

  “Oh, blessed by the Namer of Names? That’s a rare one. I’ve only heard of one other with that sort of blessing. I’m quite happy my captors didn’t have someone like you at their beck and call. I probably would’ve said something unwise and then they would’ve actually known how valuable I was to their grim trade.”

  I gave him another visual once-over. “Why would you be valuable enough for that to matter?”

  He chuckled deeply. “They thought I was only good as a combat thrall, a meat shield if you would. It’s true I was part of the Cadeconian army when I was younger, but I grew up with a hammer in my hands and my father’s anvil before me. Not to insult the people of these fine parts, wherever we are, but I doubt you’ll find someone better at the forge than myself.”

  I nodded. “That’s fair, I suppose. Skilled labor is always worth more than the alternative. So how did you end up with this group?”

  Millwall looked confused for a moment. “Well, how I ended up in that pen is a long story and an embarrassing one at that. I’d like a stiff drink and a decent meal before telling that one. As for how I wound up with this group, it’s rather simple: they’re mostly women and children. What sort of man turns his back on those in need? Not this one.”

  The apparent lack of prejudice in his words struck me as odd. “You’re not bothered by the fact they’re elves?”

  Millwall’s expression darkened as he squinted at me. “In my grandfather’s time, the Syr were our allies. Many things have changed since the Winnowing, but I still remember his stories. I’ll not spit on friends without good reason.”

  Unable to argue with that logic, I shrugged. “Fair warning, not many here share that sort of outlook.”

  Millwall snorted and his voice carried no small amount of bitter sarcasm. “Is it any wonder why?”

  “Humor me.”

  “They bore the brunt of the Winnowing until it broke their backs,” Millwall said, his expression darkening further. “And what thanks did they receive? Their neighbors set upon them like wolves the moment the dust settled.”

  Millwall spit on the ground and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “I know full well I’m lucky the Syr haven’t stuck me with a blade and left the corpse to rot, but what choice did I have?” He gestured to the crowd around Rowan. “I was raised me to value my honor and protect the weak. Personal convenience is not an exception. And what of you? How did you come to be here and held as friend, blessed as you are? I know just as well as you how unwelcoming the Syr are today.”