Chapter Text
1. Light
The lettering was in bright red ink with big bold letters. Eye-catching, but not what drew Dismas’ attention. His dark eyes were reading and rereading the reward at the bottom of the page, convinced there must be some kind of error for the job it entailed.
HELP WANTED
ESCORT NEEDED TO THE HAMLET
THROUGH THE OLD ROAD - URGENT
The poster hung on the old rickety board next to the entrance of the local tavern Dismas was on his way into. There was a name and location in smaller print; whoever posted this was waiting just inside the bar, apparently. Dismas had intended to spend his meager gold on getting piss-drunk enough to pass out somewhere, but that could wait. Jobs were a dime a dozen around these parts, but they were rarely worth their pay. Not when you were an experienced highwayman who made his fortunes by helping others part with theirs. But this. This was too good to pass up.
He grabbed the poster and tore it from the bulletin board -- no way was he going to risk someone else seeing it -- then shoved the parchment in his fur-lined canvas jacket and pushed open the worn, wooden door.
Judging by the exterior of the building, inside the tavern was exactly what Dismas had been expecting. Dim, dank, and unwelcoming with seedy characters surrounding tables full of empty beer mugs. Dismas felt a roomful of eyes watching him as he let the door swing shut behind him and was comforted by the weight of his knife and gun on his hips. He looked around, eyes roaming the tables and sizing up the building. The windows were stained with smoke and grime, making them impossible to see through. Outside, Dismas could hear the wind picking up and causing the old hardwood beams to groan. The bartender was smoking a tobacco pipe and made no effort to acknowledge his presence, and soon the other probing gazes turned away as well.
Dismas snorted. You’ve seen one shithole tavern, you’ve seen ‘em all. What caught his attention was a table in the corner with a very misplaced pair of men. One was a young man, maybe early 20s if that old, hunched over a full beer and looking like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. His face was clean, blond locks full and lush, with a crisp white bowtie at his neck. His head was bowed so a cloak hid most of his face, but the cloak did nothing to obscure just how obviously out-of-place this man was amid the muck and despair.
The man next to him… was a Crusader.
“Feh.” Dismas scowled. He had no love for the holy men and their holy wars. It’s not that Dismas was above killing, not by a long shot. But using the Light as a means to an end left a bad taste in his mouth when that end was bloodshed. And so much bloodshed. The Crusades ended nearly a decade ago and all of the towns raided and pillaged by the likes of this man still hadn’t recovered. Not unlike this town, actually. That made Dismas wonder -- what is a Crusader even doing here? Other than getting in the way of this job. Shouldn’t he be off praying in an abbey somewhere?
Both men looked up at his approach, candlelight glinting off the Crusader’s helm. “Do you need something?” he asked gruffly, deep voice graveling in his armor.
Dismas ignored him and instead grabbed the parchment from his pocket, spreading it flat on the table in front of the younger man in one smooth motion. He looked from the poster up to Dismas, who then asked, “This yours?”
“It is.” His voice sounded unsure. How old even was this kid?
“I want in,” Dismas said immediately. The Old Road was a quick route through the Weald from here to the Hamlet, and if the kid was really willing to part with a few thousand gold for a simple escort then who was Dismas to not oblige him? He was already wondering where the nearest gambling hall might be after this job paid out when the Crusader cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid this job is already taken, friend,” came the gruff voice, tone far less genial than the words implied. “Move along.”
Eyebrow arched, Dismas finally turned to face the armored man. He looked him up and down, noticeably, sizing him up. He was broad and thick, and though it could have been in part due to his armor, he seemed solid and impenetrable -- especially compared to Dismas’ own lean body covered in leather and canvas. Dismas knew better, though. No one was impenetrable, and those who tried to appear that way were usually the exact opposite under all that bravado. He huffed a laugh, short and humorless. He could intimidate this man, he was sure.
“I wasn’t asking.”
The Crusader sat up straighter, shoulders squared, the holy emblem on his surcoat unfurling. “Nor was I, friend.”
Dismas smiled behind his cowl at the challenge and unsheathed his dirk. “I’m no friend,” he said, voice low. With a fluid thrust, Dismas pulled out the knife and slammed it into the wood table, through the Help Wanted poster. It had been a while since his brigand days, but he was no stranger to bar fights and felt that thrill rush through him as he leered over the Crusader, threateningly. “I’m here for the job, one way or another.”
The implication hung between them, tense and coiled, and the young dandy to the side was fidgeting nervously. “Now, sirs...”
Intimidation was always easy. Dismas just had a look about him, a don’t fuck with me look that seemed to get him far enough in life. It made threats and scare tactics all the more effortless, and usually ended with him getting his way while avoiding needless violence. Every so often, though, he was faced with a person bullheaded enough not to heed his scowling bluster which usually resulted in some bruises and a broken nose on someone’s part (sometimes his own, though he would never readily admit to that).
Now was apparently one of those times. The big man in clinking armor rose to standing, towering over the highwayman by almost a head, and his heavy armored hand plopped on top of the knife Dismas had rutted into the table. Dismas could feel the cool metal of the gauntlets through his leather gloves, but he didn’t move.
“Is this job really worth risking your life for?” came the low ringing of the Crusader’s voice. They were almost chest to chest, and Dismas could feel the tremor of his voice ringing through his armor.
He smirked, and he knew the big guy could see it from his position over him. “I’ve risked it for a lot less.”
“Cocky. Careless.” More rumbling. They stared at each other -- or rather, Dismas stared at the slits in the man’s helm and could feel the heavy stare back -- for just a few heartbeats before either of them moved. Indeed, before they both moved, simultaneously, Dismas’ lightning-quick reflexes somehow matched by this holy man’s intuition. In a mere moment, Dismas had his flintlock pressed up under the helmet, at whatever soft flesh might be exposed there at his neck. He felt the sharp pressure of something on his gut not a second later and glanced down. A knife -- his own knife -- was there pressed to his stomach against his leathers. He mentally cursed himself for sharpening his dirk this morning as it split the hardened seams of his leathers.
“You’re quick,” Dismas muttered, then spat, “For a holy man.”
He was honored with a soft chuckle, which echoed above him. “So I’ve been told. Though never from a lowly thief.”
Dismas had heard that same scorn before more times than he could count, but he was in no mood for it right now. Especially not from him. With a sneer, he pressed his pistol against the man’s neck harder.
“Crusader scum.”
“Highway filth.”
“Gentlemen!” came a voice to their side, which broke their glowering. Dismas kept the barrel of his flintlock where it was, hand steady, though he felt the knife-tip disappear from his abdomen. The young man next to them had his ripped flyer in hand and was waving it at them. “I say, I still need an escort, which won’t do me any good if you kill each other before we even leave. There’s no reason I can’t take you both on for the job. Does that sound fair?”
Reluctantly, Dismas turned back to the towering Crusader, who did the same. A moment passed in taut silence, but eventually Dismas lowered his gun from the man’s throat and holstered it with a nod. The Crusader nodded back, and the younger man at their side breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Wonderful! The more, the merrier, I always say. I’m honestly not too familiar with this area, which probably isn’t a good look seeing as how I’m the Heir and all --”
Dismas cut him off -- the ‘Heir’ or whomever he was. “When do we leave for the Hamlet?”
The Heir stopped short and looked out of one of the windows. Tried to, anyway. It had been dusk when Dismas finally happened upon this small town, so he knew it was already dark out by now. “Well… It’s getting pretty late. I’d like to start out first thing in the morning, if that’s okay with you.”
The Crusader turned towards the Heir in response and spoke, curt. “Will you be paying for our rooms, then?” He took the question right out of Dismas’ mouth.
“I…” That tense silence returned as the Heir anxiously steepled his fingers, pursing his lips thoughtfully for a moment. “I hadn’t planned on budgeting for that. I suppose I could maybe get one room, if you’d be willing to share for the night.”
Dismas heard a derisive snort within the metal helmet next to him, and he furrowed his brow in agreement. “Then we’re leaving tonight,” Dismas said.
“But!” The Heir’s eyes flicked again to the window, useless. “Wouldn’t it be safer…?”
Blessedly, the Crusader shook his heavy-looking head at the blond man. “The time of day makes no difference to brigands. Which is why you’ve hired us, isn’t it? It’s just a few hours away by carriage. The sooner we get you there, the sooner we can be done with this.”
And the sooner we get paid, Dismas thought. Maybe this tin can isn’t as empty-headed as the rest of his kind.
The Heir nodded ruefully, fingers still fidgeting. By the Light, Dismas was getting old. He was only in his 30s, but it already felt like two lifetimes and a half had passed him by. Vaguely, he wondered how old the Crusader really was, and if he was feeling the same burden talking to this pampered kid. If how fast he moved in that armor was any indication, he couldn’t have been that old. It struck him just then that he had lost track of his trusty dirk. He glanced at the table before remembering that the Crusader had held it last (against his own abdomen, no less) and stuck out his hand to him, palm up.
The Crusader must have forgotten, too, because he glanced down at Dismas’ gloved hand and grabbed it with his own, shaking it firmly. “The name’s Reynauld.” Dismas quirked a thin eyebrow at that, refusing to return the handshake.
“My knife.”
The shaking stopped, but this Reynauld prick didn’t let go. “I beg pardon?”
“My knife,” Dismas repeated, exasperated. “The one you were stabbing me with? I know you have it.”
Reynauld made a ‘tch’ sound and dug into his hauberk before pulling out the familiar knife. Dismas’ mouth hung open slightly, hidden behind his red neckerchief, as he grabbed it from him. What’s with this guy? A holy man, born of the Eternal Flame and Sacred Light and all that crap, out running around doing dirty grunt work instead of begging for forgiveness alone in a cloister somewhere, or flaying himself alive in the name of his Nameless God. And now, he was just caught red handed stealing from a thief.
Dismas shook his head in disbelief. He just couldn’t get a good read on the guy, but he didn’t need to. Not really. They would have a quick, hopefully painless carriage ride with this Heir pomp, get paid their thousands of gold, then go their separate ways and this Reynauld guy could steal from whomever he pleased, as long as it wasn’t him.
He sheathed his dirk on his hip and turned towards the door. “I’ll go get the carriage.”
~~~~
At this time of night, it was slim pickings.
Dismas knew he wouldn’t get the cream of the crop when he left the tavern. The waxing moon was high in the sky by the time he finally found someone willing to make the journey down the Old Road to the Hamlet. It was an old wagon with rickety-looking wheels and an even ricketier-looking stagecoach driver. He was withered and balding on top and wore a dusty, moth-eaten overcoat that had tarnished brass studs on the collar. When he turned at Dismas’ approach, he grinned wide with a stained-yellow Cheshire smile, large crooked teeth and cracked lips splitting his face.
“Somewhere to be tonight?” the coachman asked with a creaky voice.
“The Hamlet.”
The man bobbed his head up and down, still smiling that piss-colored smile. “Through the Old Road, I presume?” When Dismas nodded, the man broke into a cackle, face up towards the nearly-full moon, eyes bright. “The Old Road will take you to Hell!” he shouted to the moon gleefully. “And I will be your humble ferry.”
He bent in a low bow, and Dismas shifted uncomfortably. Maybe waiting until morning wasn’t such a bad idea after all, if it meant finding a stagecoach that wasn’t this… mad. The usual fare of people around these parts were a few dozen cards short of a full deck -- not that Dismas had any room to judge -- but this wagon driver reeked like a whole different breed of crazy. Otherworldly, maybe. Dangerous, almost. It made Dismas’ mental alarm bells roar, made him hesitate. His gut instinct screamed ‘run now and don’t turn back’. But the thought of having to share a room with that ‘holier-than-thou’ Crusader with his sticky fingers quickly made his decision for him. Dismas would sooner fight off some whackjob trying to steal his kidneys than share a bed with a man who sold his soul to the Light in exchange for holy murder.
“Okay. How much?” Dismas asked and pulled out his coin purse.
The stagecoach driver shook his head, mouth still stretched wide around his teeth. “No charge.”
And his bells were ringing again, loudly. Nothing was free, especially not around here. Dismas eyed the wagon, its wheels seemingly held on by wishful thinking, its horses pale and underfed and matted. Their mangy tails flicked back and forth, swatting at the flies that plagued them. In all honesty, this was barely more than a safety hazard on wheels that Dismas would have begrudged paying for, but nothing was ever offered for free. There was a catch here.
“No charge?” Dismas repeated, skeptical.
“I was already planning to head back to the Hamlet when you showed up,” he explained in his rusty voice. A quick scan of the coach showed he was telling the truth, a travel bag tied to the top, rations in the driver box. “I want to get back home before the full moon, you see.”
Dismas glanced up at the moon, wondering what this man’s obsession with it was. He’d actually prefer not to find out. “There are others in my party,” he warned.
“I have plenty of room, and the Hamlet needs all the fresh meat it can get.” The man’s smile returned to his gaunt face, and for the millionth time Dismas considered his other options. Sleeping on a dirty hardwood floor was sounding better and better compared to this. Hell, falling on his own blade was sounding better than this. He turned towards the tavern and saw Reynauld and the Heir standing outside, watching impatiently. Reynauld was there with his arms crossed, staring at him. Fine. Dismas whistled and waved them over. He trusted his instincts, but he also trusted his quick reflexes in case this lunatic tried anything.
Best to just get this over with.
~~~~~
“In this gaping abyss, you will find your redemption!”
The coachman called out to nothing above them for the umpteenth time. The wagon rocked and swayed on the bumpy path of the Old Road, rattling their bones. The Heir was clutching at his bowtie, no longer crisp and pristine under his worrying hands, while looking out the window. Reynauld was seated next to the kid, stiff as a board which Dismas was starting to realize was normal for him. He sat across from the two of them, slouched down with his back pressed against the front of the coach. Behind him, Dismas could hear the old man still crowing in hysterics.
“You couldn’t have found someone a little more… sane?” The Heir asked cautiously, as if the driver would hear him. As if he would somehow be surprised and take offense that his sanity was being called into question. The cabin shook around them as they sped down the path.
Dismas crossed his arms. “Nope.”
The Heir looked to Reynauld for confirmation, which irked Dismas more than he cared to admit. But the Crusader inclined his head and said, “Most stagecoaches avoid going through the Weald at night.”
“And, anyway,” Dismas said roughly as the young Heir wilted. “Free is a hard bargain to pass up on.”
The blond man shrugged his shoulders uselessly. “I would’ve been happy to pay for something a little…” he trailed off as the mad reinsman belted out a loud cackle, which made the horses whinny. “Quieter.”
Dismas sat up straight and uncrossed his arms at that. “Oh, but you’re stingy on getting us each a room?”
A loud bump, a hard shake. They were picking up speed now, and Dismas suddenly wished he hadn’t chosen the seat that faced backwards. The Heir picked at his hood nervously, staring out the window as the dark silhouette of the mushroom forest passed by in quick blurs. Worry lined his pale, round face reflected in the glass. “I couldn’t have afforded two extra rooms, unfortunately. I’m kind of… broke. At the moment.”
“Broke?” It was Reynauld’s turn to sit up straighter, gauntleted hands balled into fists. He turned to the kid, managing to tower over the younger man even while sitting, while Dismas leaned forward and put his hand on his holster. The Heir looked between the two, panicked and hands up as they both stared him down.
“J-Just for the moment!” he said quickly. “You see, my great uncle was the lord of the estate here. He had been unwell these past few months, and had summoned me to the Hamlet to take up his title. My uncle was quite wealthy, but unfortunately never married. He was always a little… touched in the head, you see, ha ha,” he chuckled nervously. “That left me as his sole heir.” They listened to him ramble about his family affairs a bit longer before Dismas finally cut in.
“Will you have the money or not, kid?”
“Yes!” the Heir insisted. His pristine hands were still raised defensively. “Uncle would have been thrilled to see me arrive safe with an escort, I’m sure, and his fortune knows no bounds.”
They hit another hole, hard and fast, and the whole structure groaned with the strain. The wheels felt like they were shaking from side to side and caused the three of them to lurch. The horses were wild, not slowing at all while the crazy old reinsman shouted, “There is a sickness in these aged, pitted cobblestones! Faster, my pets!”
The Heir’s face turned a shade whiter, blond locks bouncing with the shaking coach. Reynauld bowed his head and said a soft prayer to the space between them -- Light seize me and bless us all, he softly rumbled over and over -- and Dismas felt his brow furrow in disgust.
“You’re just as bad as he is, you know.”
Reynauld stopped his gentle prayer and lifted his head to Dismas, voice now rigid. “No, I don’t. Please explain.”
“You both chant away to the void, hoping to hear back,” he answered sourly, feeling some strange satisfaction at how Reynauld’s hands clenched tight at his knees. Who would’ve thought it was this easy to get under the Crusader’s skin? The man made it effortless and Dismas felt a wicked smile creep behind his cowl as he propped his feet up on the opposite seat, between the two other men and stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle. “You might as well start howling to the moon for all the good it does you.” With that, Dismas leaned his head back against the coach wall and howled loudly, hearing the deranged driver echo him outside.
He was answered with an angry grunt, his feet getting shoved roughly off the seat, and he felt self-satisfied. “You’d better pray you never need a healer,” growled Reynauld.
“Tch, I’d rather leave the praying to you, zealot,” Dismas said with a smirk. How he wished he could see the Crusader’s face. He imagined it was some scarred, aged face with paper-skin and wispy white hairs, cheeks red and jaw set in fury hidden just under his holy helmet. Before Reynauld could respond, the carriage lurched again, fishtailing side to side now, and the horses screamed.
The Heir was trying to find a handhold as the three were thrown with the force of the stagecoach losing control. “I don’t think a little prayer or two could hurt!” he squeaked out.
A horrific creak filled the cabin as they swerved to the side again, followed by a blood-chilling SNAP when the wheel dislodged beneath them. The stagecoach tilted back and the crazed driver screamed out, “There can be no bravery without madness!”
And then impact.
The carriage flew back and hit the crumbling cobblestones with a loud crash, wood splintering and horses crying out as they fell with the coach. Dismas was jerked forward and pitched into Reynauld, hard. It was like diving face-first into a brick wall and it made him yelp, but then the stagecoach tilted and started tumbling off the path. It was a whirlwind of pain and confusion, armored and leathered limbs flying as the three men were tossed like ragdolls. The windows shattered and the doors fractured in, spraying splinters and glass. Dismas had enough sense to duck behind his cowl, but he wasn’t sure what would become of their escort.
All he knew was that he had better fucking get his money if they had to walk him the rest of the way.
After a few blurred moments, the world finally stilled, discombobulated but unmoving. They were upside down, parked on the hood of the coach, glass and wood surrounding them like some shitty mosaic. Dismas’ whole body was stiff and hurt to move, but other than a few pricks of pain and a killer headache, he seemed fine. He opened his eyes slowly, head pounding, and was met with the symbol of the Light filling his vision. The Crusader. Great. At least he wasn’t laying on glass. The man wasn’t moving.
Dismas cleared his throat and wheezed out, “You still alive in there or do I get to keep your share?”
Reynauld groaned underneath him and eventually lifted his head up, looking straight at him like he just noticed he was there. “Get off of me,” he rumbled, grabbing the front of Dismas’ coat and roughly shoving him to the side. He landed with an ‘oof’ and heard the crunch of glass under his leathers.
A soft moan sounded to his left and he sat up to see that the kid was a little bloodier than he had hoped. Whoops. “You okay?”
The Heir groaned again and Dismas lifted him upright, trying to inspect him for wounds while Reynauld dug them out and looked around. The stagecoach was in ruins, the driver and the horses nowhere to be found. They were in the middle of the Old Road, still a ways away from the Hamlet. Fuck. With a sigh, he helped the kid to his feet, who had a shard of glass in his cheek and most likely a busted rib. Dismas went to remove the glass, but the Heir shied away. “Be gentle,” he pleaded.
“Sure,” said Dismas, then quickly ripped the glass out. The Heir gasped and grabbed his bleeding cheek, recoiling from the Highwayman.
“My face is ruined,” he cried out, looking at the blood trailing down his fingers.
Dismas rolled his eyes and dug out a piece of bandage from his pack, which he held out to the Heir. “That’s a boo boo, tops. Just hold this to it until the bleeding stops. I’m more worried about your rib.”
Reynauld came back to the wreckage, shaking his head. “No sign of the reinsman or the horses,” he said, confirming what Dismas already knew. They were fucked. He could only hope that the driver had gotten trampled as he fled and was bleeding out somewhere, alone in the rotting woods. “We have no choice but to walk the rest of the way.”
The Heir hiccuped pitifully as he held the cloth to his cheek, looking at the two of them. “Will it be safe?”
“No,” came Dismas’ curt reply. “That’s why we should leave now.”
The young man shivered in the night, but nodded and they collected their meager belongings. Dismas knew the kid was in no shape to fight (not that he was before the wreck, either) so it would be on him and the Crusader to fend off any animals or brigainds. Luckily, humans were the worst things they had to worry about in these abysmal woods, and Dismas was confident in dealing with those.
“Let the Holy Light be with us,” Reynauld quietly prayed, and Dismas shook his head. He retrieved their one and only torch that survived the crash and lit it, ensconcing them in it’s soft, flickering glow.
“This is the only light with us now.”