Gregori had stood there, analyzing us all, calculating his next moves carefully. However the whole time, his gritted teeth and bloodshot eyes told me he was barely containing some deep seated emotions. None of us moved, not even Lais who was now sitting up and rubbing her back.

  The cool breeze from the open door sent the lights flickering, casting deep shadows upon the walls of the room. It momentarily obscured the face of the elf, showing nothing but the eyes of a predator, awaiting its time to strike.

  “You,” he began, “You idiots don’t know what I had to go through to get you locked up back there.”

  He balled his hands into fists, and slammed one against the wall adjacent to the door, knocking a picture frame off of a shelf above. Malkolm bit his lip, drawing blood.

  “You specifically, human. I thought you would be smart enough to just cooperate, but no you just had to break out, hurt my men and then have the gall to run away on foot. Leaving a trail mind you, all the way back here. You obviously aren’t as intelligent as I assumed, given that.”

  “Look, I-” I tried to calm him down to no avail.

  “Shut up!” He screamed, “I don't care about you or these pathetic sun loving snobs, but I will bring you back to that fool king even if I have to carry you back dead!”

  He was furious, and yet the tears flowing from his eyes told a deeper story. I saw pain in those eyes, much as I had recognized the glassy stare of Kalom as we brought him inside. His breathing was intense, almost hyperventilating with pure anger.

  “Malkolm,” I said, not looking at him.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll deal with this, you help Lais and Kalom.”

  He said nothing, but began to open the chest he carried with him, it was filled with medical supplies. Lais, as she heard this, tried her best to make herself small, given her proximity to Gregori. She probably didn’t want to give him a reason to hit her again, and so hoped he would forget her presence. That sight reminded me of that one time back in Rhodesia…

  “Stop where you are.” Gregori said, now unsheathing a sword.

  “Don't worry about the old man, I and you have business. Leave him out of this.” I replied, hand on holster.

  Gregori fixed his gaze on Malkolm, who was starting to rub alcohol on his son's wound. Kalom grunted in pain as the wet cotton ball dabbed on the open places in the cut. The dark elf sighed, and with a pained expression looked back to me, and nodded over his shoulder to the door.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Let's take this somewhere more open.”

  He turned to walk away, and sneered in disgust at Lais, if only to say the unworded ‘yes, I know you were still there’ as he walked into the open. I followed, She staggered to feet and called after me.

  “What are you doing, Nelson?” Her voice filled with concern.

  I looked back to her, smiled and thought of something to say that would help her understand, if even just a little bit.

  “Remember when I told you I used to be a mercenary?”

  “Y-yes?” she replied, somewhat confused by what I was getting at.

  “Well, I meant what I said. I used to be a mercenary. They kicked me out after many years of service. Didn’t like what I was becoming.”

  “And, what does this have to do with anything?!”

  “You’ll see.” And I turned, walked away and stood a good distance from Gregori.

  The dark elf was no longer shedding tears, and his demeanor was calmer, anticipating the start of the fight. I got a good look at his clothes, they were soaked in blood. And by the look of it, not all of it was his own. And the sword wasn’t his, it was too big for him. As we locked eyes in the pale moonlight, it was a standoff between two forces of brutal strength. At that moment I remembered the words of that bastard, Parker.

  “You used to be human …”

  It was a simple yet profound statement, and a factual one at that. I abandoned everything at one time to pursue a career that others deemed vile, but that was long ago. And though I had yet to atone for the many things I had done over those years; I knew that just one more time I had to put my skills and experiences to use. Before me stood a man who meant to take me, alive or dead, and by the look in his eyes he had settled for the latter long ago. How many people had I killed with my gun over the years? Dozens, surely. Likely nearing the one hundred mark at the end of my stint in the Arizona Savagelands, back in ‘75. But at that moment I had felt like I was back in basic in my merc days. A greenhorn staring down the barrel of a gun, blissfully unaware that could be his last moments on earth. Lais would then get to see firsthand how a mercenary fights, how I fight. In war, there is no honor. No such thing as a fair fight, survival is paramount to all else. Throw sand, kick em in the groin, shoot them if they flee; normal shit for people in my line of work. People often would view these as disgusting tactics, but each has a purpose if you look deeper. Blind them so they cannot retaliate, panic them with pain to disarm them, kill them as they run so they can't regroup later.

  “We don’t have to do this.” I said, breaking the silence.

  The wind blew through the mountainous trees, blowing Gregori’s hair from his face, and floating his cloak away from his sides revealing a small belt and dagger, just barely visible in the cloudless moonlight. The grass swished beneath your feet, as if a crowd of spectators cheering from the front row.

  “I think we do.”

  “At least tell me before we fight, what is so important to you that you would risk dying to capture me.”

  “None of your business, otherworlder. But I’ll propose to you a deal anyway, out of pure amusement. Beat me, and before you cut me down I’ll answer any question you could possibly have.”

  I nodded, “Deal. But what about a weapon, you have a sword and all I have is my gun. Not a very fair fight.”

  “I don’t know what a gun is, but make due with what you have, fool.”

  And with that the duel had begun. He was fast, much faster than I had anticipated. Within mere seconds he had charged, and managed to just graze my left arm with his blade. As I dodged his next flurry of blows, I could feel my footwork become uneasy. Every thrust, every swipe, each attempt to connect was met with me losing more and more ground. Already it had seemed like a losing battle, however finally an opening had presented itself. Upon whiffing another jab at my stomach, I planted my right fist firmly between his upper ribs, causing him to stagger. And thus began my counter attack; as he tried to catch his breath I hammered blow after blow into his chest, in hopes to weaken his resolve. But to my chagrin, he fought back, dropping his own blade so he could land a solid punch to my temple. It connected. And now I was back on the defense, this time disoriented. The wind picked up, deafening as we continued to land blow after blow upon one another, his fists were soaked crimson as his last punch sent forth a spurt of blood from my mouth. In return, I threw a right hook into his shoulder, causing him to back away and towards his sword. He took back up his blade and attempted to slash at my legs, and though he got in a few good nicks his plan was thwarted by my fast acting; as I side stepped and swiped at his feet. We both tumbled to the ground, Gregori dropped his blade again and began to crawl over to me, I unholstered my pistol and fired once at him. A miss.

  “Fuck!” I shouted, as he pinned me to the ground, and proceeded to wrestle the gun away from me. I headbutted him twice, but to no effect. He was beyond pissed at that point, the anger seemingly overpowering his pain.

  Soon me and him were punching, kneeing and clawing at each other as we tumbled to-and-fro on the grass, wetting the once green blades with deep red. As I landed a hit into his ribs again, he unsheathed his dagger, and proceeded to plunge it towards my heart. But in a desperate rush of adrenaline, I clasped my hands around his, and tried my damnedest to push him back. It felt like an eternity, the anger in his eyes, the rage, it burned brighter than before. And as we lay there, fighting for our lives, the others were watching the whole spectacle, Kalom included. They said nothing, did not intervene. I later understood why, and was happy they did not put themselves into harm's way. In that position, I could swear I saw the frightened and panicked eyes of a man I had once seen a million times in the same position. And I in a flash of recall, turned to see if the Zambezi base was still on fire. All I found was a doorway of a house with three terrified elves.

  As the seconds drew into minutes, I was nearly depleted of energy. His dagger had begun cutting into my flesh, drawing a flow of blood. But as one last resort, I decided to play dirty. I kneed him in the groin, I wasn't proud of it as a man myself, but when it’s life or death, you do what you have to. As he reeled from it, I took my chance and threw his body off mine and flung the dagger to the ground. We both lay there beside each other, he cupping his pride while I caught my breath. As soon as I regained enough of my strength, staggering to my feet I planted my right foot firmly onto the blade of the dagger. And with that, picked up my gun, and aimed it at him as he recovered.

  When he finally noticed, all the color ran from his face. He had been bested, and his life was then in the hands of myself.

  “I suppose you want your answers then,” he croaked out while panting. “So go ahead, ask away.”

  “Why does your king Eli want me?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Bullshit,” I started to squeeze the trigger.

  He said nothing in response, instead just sat there and blankly looked up at me. His eyes were underlined with deep black bags, and the dead stare told me everything I needed to know about what was going through his mind. He knew it was the end, the quest he was on, the least of his worries. Something deeper bothered him, even more than meeting death. So I relented and released the pressure I held on the trigger. Something about his gaze struck me with a tinge of empathy, it took me only a few seconds to register what it reminded me of. I recalled images from my past. A cigarette in one hand, a bottle of coffee brandy in the other; and an aging, lonely man standing in front of his bathroom mirror. The shame and humiliation at one's own failures radiating off of him like an aura. Amplified by the empty eyes of a tin soldier, who had seen and done shit that would make a normal person reel in horror. The vision of a retired mercenary, with no enemies to kill, and no wars to win. A man whose family was long dead, and his bride-to-be had never arrived at her own wedding, ending up in a casket instead. A fool whose ghosts haunted every dream, every nightmare. That is who the elf reminded me of at that moment. So I knew I couldn't do it. I understood that I may not get answers from him, I knew he may try to run and I wouldn't be able to get him back. But after seeing that longing look of regret, I decided to try something else. I decided at that moment that the man I had been for years was long gone. Though the wounds would never heal, and the evils I committed would never be forgiven, I could at least spare one victim of fate. Just that once.

  I replaced my pistol in its holster. Gregori didn’t shift his expression, though he tilted his head ever so slightly. As I walked over to him, he stiffened up. Sitting straight, awaiting some killing blow from up close, a hidden blade perhaps to end his life. The elf closed his eyes, not wanting to know when the strike came, but after a moment he realized he was still alive. No blow had landed, no burning slice of his flesh, nothing. He still felt the newly softened wind, he heard the trees rustling. He opened his eyes, and the pain he once held turned to confusion. There, instead of a shiv, instead of a fist or even a gun, was a hand extended. As he looked up at me and back at my hand, he was unsure what my angle was.

  “What are you doing?” He asked.

  “Getting you off the ground.”

  “But, I thought you were going to kill me if I didn't answer your question.”

  “I was. But I decided to take a different path.”

  He reluctantly took hold of my hand, still cautious in case it was some cruel trick. As I helped him to his feet, the others looked dumbfounded. Lais, as I saw when looking over, was staring back and forth between myself and Gregori. Her silent rage built up with every moment that passed.

  “So you wont kill me?”

  “No.”

  “Even after all I did to you and your friends, after I tried to kill you just now and even though I couldn't tell you what you wanted?”

  “Yep.” I replied, a smile creeping onto my face.

  “But why? I would never have done the same for you. If this is some sick sympathy, I don’t want it.”

  “I don’t know exactly why you're doing what Eli tells you, or for what reason; but I can tell it's not for your own sake, am I right?”

  Gregoris' eyes widened, “what do you mean?”

  “I'm saying that I want to know why you're here, the real reason.”

  He paused. Unsure how to respond, he just hung his head and hid his face from view. He said nothing for a long while, but slowly he built up the courage to voice a reply.

  “He has my sister.” He croaked. “She's a prisoner.”

  The last piece of the puzzle had snapped into place, it made sense now. He still looked down at the ground, either unwilling to look me in the eye, or for me to see the fresh tears of sorrow and pain running down his face. In that moment I felt a tinge of my own emotions boiling up. Pain on behalf of a man forced into the circumstances, anger at a king who would dare hold a woman hostage, and a befuddlement at what would happen next.

  “I see. And this was all to get her back?”

  “Yes,” he said bluntly.

  “Then let's get her back then.”

  He tore his gaze from the ground, his eyes were wet. he stood there, looking at me, my hand still extended.

  “W-what did you just say?” He asked, His eyes wide.

  “You heard me, kid. Let's go kill that prick and save your sister.”

  He didn't move, and his eyes widened even more than the initial shock.

  “Why?”

  I grinned. “Because where I come from, we have a particular saying; 'Sic Semper Tyrannis'. And I will be damned if I just let this whole fiasco go unanswered. Guy wants to play king, I think it's high time someone taught him the definition of regicide.”

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  He stood there with a blank stare, unsure how to respond. So I helped him along. I took hold of his arm and forced him to make the motions.

  “Just shake my hand.”

  I released him. And his arm swung back to his side.

  “Now it’s a contract, as the lads back home would say. I’ll let bygones be bygones in my own case. But-”

  I looked over to where the others still stood, completely dumbfounded as to what they just witnessed. And to Lais who, instead of looking angry, was at a loss for words.

  “-The others won't be as forgiving.”

  Gregori looked over to them, and then back to me. He did this a few times, before simply nodding and swallowing some blood that had accumulated in his mouth.

  “So what happens now?” He asked.

  “Now? Now I get some sleep. Pretty sure you gave me a concussion and I need to rest. Also you should get your guys together.”

  “Huh, Why?”

  “To get your sister back from Eli, you're gonna need allies. I have a plan.”

  I had just turned to walk over to the house, but he stopped me, grabbing hold of my arm. His grip was still surprisingly strong despite the exhaustion from the fight.

  “I haven't even agreed to any plan, nor did I agree to you helping me, idiot. Besides, what master plan could you have come up with in five minutes?”

  I turned back, smiling at him, my bloody teeth showing. The house's light glowed behind me, bathing me in the warm glow of flickering candles and oil lamps.

  “I’m gonna build an army, and pay his majesty a royal ass-kicking.”

  ----------------------------------------------------Nigel-----------------------------------------------------

  The marsh water was still, Its oozy smell and dark mud colored hue illuminated barely by the rays of the sunset behind the thicket. The mix of barren and lively trees cast beams onto the unmoving lily pads and muck which coated the area. Nigel sat there in a wooden reed chair, relaxing. One hand occupied with a fishing rod, line carelessly cast into the water. And the other an oaken flask with a shaved rock for a cork dangle loosely. He liked fishing, one of his only hobbies when his ‘laber-voochers’ were all gathered and his shift was at its end. Sitting back near the pond and waiting to catch his dinner for the next few days was an almost daily occurrence by his late teens; but even though those days were long behind him and he himself was an old man, he found it to be a great way to unwind and to get ‘good eats’ at the same time. His tattered dark yellow trench coat was not particularly useful to keep rain off him, but worked well enough to keep the mosquitos at bay on most days. His old leather field hat was equally as worn, though not as holey or as beaten up as the aforementioned coat. The hat lay across his face, as the poor man napped, woefully unaware of the man creeping up behind him. The newcomer got up to Nigel and shook him violently.

  “Wake up’n! The world’s rumblin’ ol’ Nig’!” He screamed.

  Nigel dropped his flask and woke up in a fearful panic. His rod hit the ground second and Nigel followed suit clinging to dirt clods as the stranger began to guffaw at the sight.

  “Save me O’Mark, don’ let’em keel meh!” The old man begged to his god in fright.

  After a few moments, Nigel's heartbeat returned to normal and he looked up at his agitator. Immediately his face became red with rage, and embarrassment at being poked fun of by a boy a quarter his age.

  “You’ll be laughin’ in the afterlife when I's done throttlin’yah, Barry!” He yelled as he scrambled to his feet.

  Nigel lunged at Barry but stumbled, falling face first into the damp grass and muck. Barry continued his raucous laughter at the sight, as Nigel got back up and took hold of the young man by the collar of his dirty flannel shirt. Immediately Barry stopped making noise. All noise. As he stared directly into the eyes of the old man, now brimming with fury.

  “Now then, yous betteh start’alkin’ and gimme a good’n as to why’yuh spooked me so rude-like.” Nigel said, his voice cold and demanding.

  “Well,” Barry started, “I didn’ wan’tah wake ya, but the preach’a man sent for yah”

  Nigel lessened his death grip on Barry's shirt, but still held onto him. The preacher man wanted him, For what reason? he thought. He had done his day's work, and was sure he filed the vouchers properly at the end. Was he in some kind of trouble?

  The Daegish town of Warmanchester was a relatively small settlement, and while it didn't warrant as much attention from the church of Mark in the big-towns to the west, it still was given its own church and preacher man. The Markies had always rubbed Nigel the wrong way somehow, but he could never figure out why it was. He, like every proper Daeg, had been brought up with the doctrines of Mark in mind. ‘Money is a sin’ the preacher and teachers would say, ‘everyone has the right to food and a roof’. Nigel thought on that often, the ‘money is a sin’ bit; weren't labor vouchers just another kind of money?” And as for roofs, what about the boys who live in the caves and in tunnels underground instead of homes, ‘cause they couldn't scrap together enough vouchers to get a bunk bed in the commonhouse? Nigel stopped drifting into his thoughts, snapping back to the task at hand; whether he was going to teach Barry a lesson, or let him off with only a slight beating.

  “I’ll be off’n a momen’to see ‘im.” he said. “But firs-”

  As he spoke, Barry kicked him in the shin, forcing old Nigel to release his hold on the young man. And as the elderly Nigel recoiled, grabbing at his leg, Barry ran off as fast as his own little legs could carry him. Due to being smaller than humans, the Daeg were fast runners, and Barry made off like his life was at stake; which it probably was given how furious Nigel would be once he recovered.

  After a few agonizing minutes, Nigel wiped the wet from his eyes as his anger subsided. He hated Barry, and as bad as his brother Leonard was, Barry was worse by a slim margin. Two of the most troublesome folk in the heartland they had turned out to be, however, Nigel was no stranger to mischief in his youth. He grumbled, limping over and collecting up his belongings, readying to head out and back to town.

  “Them young’ns better be-a hopin’ ol’Mark ain’t peerin’ down at em.” He muttered under his breath as he stored his flask into a patchwork pocket hidden in his jacket. “Ain’he’ll be mighty mad at em too I’spose.”

  He picked up his fishing rod, holding it like a walking stick. And with a few more moments of staring off into the distant marshlands, basking in its serenity; he began his trek back to Warmanchester. The journey was never long, only an hour at most on rare occasions. And he quite enjoyed the walk, getting to see all the beauty of the marshlands he called home.

  Work might have been hard, and the land unforgiving, but it was all he had known since the day he was born. his father would often tell him, in-between cobbling shoes, of the times when his father before him had lived in the fertile plains of Gorgena to the east. He still remembered those tales all the years later.

  “Bac’en I was a wee-lad, mah ol’man used to say ‘e and the boys’ad a trottin’ path bac’ome un dem Gor-gorga-gorgena lan’s. Ol’ pa’ was a daf’ drunk fo’sure but ‘e’ad a good mem’ry.”

  As he reminisced about his younger days, Nigel had lost track of time and almost didn’t realize he had set foot into the town’s borders already. Warmanchester had a gate to protect itself from swamp critters, most of which were twice the size of the average Daeg. And while it was never hard to get inside if you were a local, it was still required for those living there to present a church sanctioned entry pass anyhow.

  As he approached the gate, two barefoot Daegish warriors were stationed at either side. They looked less like soldiers and more like scavengers wearing mismatched armors and pelts. The one on the left was even, to Nigel's amazement, wearing a chainmail tunic that nearly touched the ground and was covered in mud and soot. His people were no stranger to ‘nicking stuff from unlucky travelers, or even patrolling human knights and levies; but rarely did you ever see them wearing any armor not made in their size. Nigel thought it equally humorous that both were carrying human spears, which were long and unwieldy.

  “Stop!” Said the right hand guard, raising a hand.

  Nigel did as he was told, but began rummaging in his pocket for the church pass.

  “Oi, I says stop. Not tol’yus tuh rifl’ye pockies.”

  Nigel ignored him and finally produced his paperwork, presenting it to the guard.

  “Oh woul’ya be quiet.” He snapped as the guard snatched the paper from his hand. “ Ya lot take’n this’ol guardin’ ting too real.”

  “Too real?” The other guard spoke up. “What would you be meaning by that, Nigel?”

  Nigel recognized the opposing guard as Fredrick, the half-breed. Nigel didn't ever trust Freddie, he spoke like a human, and always acted like one too. He was a sorry excuse for a Daeg. Being four and a half feet and manner wise leaning more and more towards his ill-conceived lineage, as he got up in years. Most people felt bad for Fredrick given his mother dying in childbirth. And worse still, him being a product of atrocity from a human raid many years ago. His poor ma’ couldn't bear to take her frustrations out on the boy. for she was a kind soul. Nigel had known Delldan, Fredricks mother, for many years. So whenever Freddie got uppity, he did his very best to not lay a hand on the runt, despite wanting desperately to wring the literal bastard's neck.

  “ ‘Cause I’s says it so, Freddie. now qui’cha yappin’ an’ watch fo’ lurkies.”

  Fredrick scoffed at the rebuke, but did as he was told nonetheless. The other guard softly chuckled as he handed back the pass to Nigel.

  “Don’ind him Nigie.” he said with a grin, “Theys jus’tah halfie’. Same ol’ scuffin’ they’n got ‘round the edges as all.”

  “Ain’at the truth” Nigel replied in kind.

  He shot a mischievous glance at Fredrick before nodding to the guard and walking through the open gate. The gate was normally open around that time of day, since the townsfolk were all coming home from their jobs and recreation. He would’ve preferred that they kept it open all the time, but the church had the rules as they were for good reason. As he entered the town, he smiled as he looked upon the splendor of his fellow townsfolk. To the untrained eye, the muddy ground and the hastily built wooden, and sometimes scrap metal shacks were little more than a squatters camp. But to himself, this was a comfortable oasis in a sea of many miles of uninhabitable swampland. A few children pushed past him as he gazed up at the church in the center of town, its willow steeple a deep brown, more than even the wet wooden hoop the children were rolling down the street. He chuckled a little as he saw one of the kids push over an old man with a cane on accident. His overalls and unruly long beard were caked with mud, but like most of the elders of the town he was a good sport about it; letting out a line of obscenities in between guffaws. Truly, it was seeming to be another wonderful day in paradise for Nigel, but that would really depend on what the preacher wanted with him.

  As he slowly strode up to the battered wooden doors to the church, he could hear the congregation within wailing with euphoria as the preacher told of the day's teachings. Normally, the day sermons were less exciting and took a more somber tone, however, the nightly masses would be raucous and filled with vitriolic passion. So Nigel wasn't surprised to be hearing the commotion in the slightest as he reached for the handle.

  Upon opening the door but a crack, the shouting became a deafening roar, echoing with the chants of the church's favorite insult for anything un-markish “dats kap-e-tall’n”. He almost had to cover his ears at the jarring brutality of the full house’s din. Hurriedly, he closed the door behind himself, and sat in the nearest empty pew, hoping to not be noticed, laying the fishing rod beside him. The preacher was just switching topics from the ‘lies of the pointy ears’ to the human economy. The man, taller than most Daeg, wore a well worn red cloak, patched with purple fabrics in places where the thing had been damaged over almost a century of constant use. And upon his head sat a bright red woolen tall cap, bearing the symbol of the star of Mark. This hat bore no obvious signs of wear, as it was only ever worn when in service of the church itself; making it a well kept relic especially by Daegish standards. Nigel always thought that hat looked itchy, and was glad to not be the one wearing it.

  “An’ the lord Mark says unto ‘is engels, “be’old, I has bor’fortwit’ a book‘a rules fer dey toos foller. An’ I’s call’n it dey man-i-festo” The preacher pronounced, His voice was filled with righteous zeal.

  He went on about the humans so-called “kap-e-tall” and how it preyed on the Daeg and corrupted their purity as Mark’s chosen people. How the Daeg would one day rise up and bring about the promised ‘end of history’, bringing it full circle into paradise. Nigel heard this many times before, but he had reservations about it. It is said that a great leader of the workers would usher the people to freedom, to rise up against the humans who drove them into exile so many years ago. But it had never happened in his lifetime. His father talked about it and his father before that. And likely his own children, if he ever got around to it, would be singing to the same tune. Before long, Nigel had begun to doze off, barely hearing the preacher anymore. But soon he was awoken with a start as a hand lay on his shoulder.

  He jolted, and wildly darted back and forth, stopping on the preacher before him in a now empty church.

  “Thank’e for comin’” his cold tone made it clear that Nigel was definitely not on the preacher's good side that day. “You’an’I gots lot to speak’n.”

  Nigel stayed still, muscles tensed, unsure what to do next.

  “For wha’can I do ya for?”

  The preacher nodded in the direction of the lectern near the back of the church. Understanding, Nigel got up and followed him as he led.

  The altar before them was a rectangular table, just above waist height. Covered in holy seals of wax, and paper mache stars made by local children no doubt. There, front and center was an old wooden bust of Mark, expertly whittled and carved from oak. The preacher and Nigel silently looked at it for some time without saying anything, the tension creeping ever so slowly.

  “You’re not’n trouble,” he said, finally. Much to Nigel's shock and befuddlement.

  “I’s not?” Nigel replied, puzzled.

  The preacher took off his tall hat to reveal a bald head underneath. As he placed the hat back on the bust of Mark as he did at the end of every service, he sighed.

  “I’s getten ol’. ‘Near’y one’undred an’ a quarter.”

  “Yep.” Nigel solemnly agreed.

  He knew then what this talk was about, and he was not at all pleased. It certainly wasn't the first attempt by the church to entice him into the role of preacher-man, but Nigel had always turned it down citing his own age.

  “Maxwell,” Nigel started but was cut off.

  “Don’say it. I’s reckon already why’n you won’accept the role’a preacha.”

  “Whaddya reckon?”

  “You ain’exac’ly like they oth’r Daeg. Yous don’ fully believe’n Mark.”

  Nigel took a step away from Maxwell. Consumed by sudden fear at his words. How did he know, and for how long had he known that Nigel was not exactly loyal to the doctrines of the church?

  Maxwell chuckled, “Don’cha get all ‘citable ya hear, I’s ain’ gonna tell nobody. I’s a preacha man, not a comme’saar.”

  This did not make Nigel any less frightened, but it did stop him from backing away. He wanted to run, oh how he wanted to run. But what good would it do? He would be caught most likely, and then what? The commissars and the church were not known exactly for their kindness towards heretics. The possibilities of both self imposed exile and the punishments for being arrested swamped his mind all at once. Maxwell walked up to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

  “Yous a good’n Nigel, always’as been an’ will be. You got tha’der fire in yous eyes, like ya grandpa’. An’ that is why I’s comin’ to you.”

  “Why’cha need me fo’?” Nigel's voice was trembling.

  “Yous gon’be da one.”

  “Da … one?” What the hell was this man talking about now, Nigel thought.

  Maxwell nodded, “Da chos’n one”

  Nigel brushed him off, backing away a few more steps. “Balderdash, ain’nothin more” He said.

  Maxwell stepped forward, closing the distance once again, and jabbing his finger into Nigels chest. Nigel himself just stood there trying to remain calm and not show his sheer terror under the circumstances. Why him of all people … Why did he have to get singled out like this?

  “Yous the chos’n, ‘cause the church says yous the chos’n one.”

  “But how? I aint no revolush’nary, I ain’ no warrior. I jus’ wanna fish an’ sleep in peace.”

  Maxwell smiled and stopped poking him. “Them’s the reas’ns why.”

  Nigel couldn't believe what he was hearing. Fishing?! Fishing and sleeping were the reasons he was the chosen one?! He had just about had enough of the mad preacher, he’d clearly fallen off the deep end and was out of his mind.

  “What ‘bout fishin’ an’ nappin’ makes me one’a’them chos’ns?”

  Maxwell’s smile faded, taking on a more diminished look. As the two locked eyes, it was then Nigel could see the pain in the preachers. For a second, he regretted thinking ill of the man before him. He may have been insane, but he was still a man, and it was unkind even in his own mind to be cruel.

  “No, Nigel. Yous the chos’n ‘cause you think outside’a boxes. Most Daeg in’ere town aint as learn-ed as you is. Theys dimmer than’a box’o’rocks. But you, yous think fo’ yous self. Yous ain’t in da church for prayin’ nor listenin’ to ol’ Marks tales ‘cause you like it. Ain’t that right, Nigel?”

  Nigel said nothing, but his head had drifted down, he couldn't look into the preacher's eyes anymore. He couldn't bear it. Every word Maxwell said cut like a knife through Nigels facade and his heart. Every word was another truth, every sentence a hammer hitting home.

  Maxwell continued, “Yous come’n to church ‘cause its yous duty, ‘cause you love the people ‘ere in the town. I’s seen how you act tough aroun’others, I’s seen how yous act’n when you think theys ain't lookin’, how’n you smile. So don't cha think yous gonn’ pull no wool over mah eyes!

  Maxwell's voice was raising, but he kept it calm enough that its measured increase was just enough to get his point across.

  “Nigel, Yous the chos’n one cause you was what th’ church be needin’. A Daeg what loves fishin’, a Daeg what loves nappin’. You wan’ peace, not pow’r or voochers. Deys what gon’an made you a good ol’man an’ not a nasty poly-tician.”

  Maxwell lowered his voice and got a little closer to Nigel, his words were gentler but still held a firm tone.

  “Nigel, ol’boy. It’s been not two gen’rations when them ol’tall’ns drove us outta our’omes, an’ into this ‘ere Mark forsaken swamp. It’s time to go’ome.”

  “But, why'n me? Why’n me an’ not some youngin with a heart’o’gold or a few-” Nigel was cut off again by Maxwell.

  “Yous deaf? Jus’said why. Yous the only one whos reckonin’sometin aint quite on the level ‘round ‘ere. Yous the only smart’n compared to the dullards ‘ere in the town. Listen Nigel, I ain't gonna force’ya into this role. But we’s dyin’ out ‘ere. We gots no foodstuffs, no farmin’, we live in crumblin’ shacks for Marks’ake. When’ye gets little’uns of your own, what’ll you tell em?”

  “Whatcha mean?” Nigel asked.

  “I means, what’ll you tell em ‘bout right now? Will yous look em in the eye an’ say to em that theys never gonna get ‘ome anywhere but’a swamp? That theys gotta always be fear'n tall'ns, Cirds and Ciths? We’s Daegs, not cow’rds.”

  Nigel nodded solemnly. “I’s understand yous wishes, Max. But-,” he paused, unsure what to say next. “-What if I’s not the chos’n, an’ I fail?”

  Maxwell closed his eyes, “We’s all get our destiny's event’ly Nigel, not a matt’r of if’n but of when’n. If’n this is yous destiny, you’ll do good. An’ listen to me, yous got a choice. A choice that’ll do eith’r good or bad for all Daeg every’ere. Yous eith’r live long ‘nuff to be free, or die a slave tuh fate.”

  Nigel carefully digested the words the old man spoke, his previous reluctance remaining but now tempered by the preacher's rationale. Maxwell was right about a lot of things, and while Nigel still held on to his disagreements with the church's ideas, he knew that this meant alot to his people. The Daeg were exiles, forced from fertile fields and into festering swamps. Each generation that passed would only grow with more and more hatred and dogmatic zeal. But he couldn't bear to think about what a revolution would do to his people, to himself. His grandfather was involved in the Elfhen wars long ago, and though Nigel had never met the old man before he passed, his own father would describe tales that he was told. Mud, ashes, trenches filled with the smell of black powder and charred wood, bodies of fallen comrades left to rot.

  Was this the world he was being asked to lead his own kin into? And would they even follow him, or would he fail and just fade into the background; a heretic forced into a worse exile, a man who claimed to be ‘the one’. This was the burden he was being asked to bear by Maxwell, but was it out of genuine feelings of Nigel being the one to lead them to freedom, or out of desperation? one born out of an old man wanting to see his people regain their glory before he died?

  “Maxwell?” He started to ask.

  “Ye?” Maxwell opened his eyes to look at Nigel.

  “Would’ya give me’a few days tuh t'ink it over?”

  Maxwell nodded slowly, his eyes shutting again. “Take’ya time. I’ll be’ere when yous decided.”

  With that, Maxwell turned back to the altar, as Nigel hurriedly made his way to the door, completely forgetting his fishing rod. As he walked home, Nigel's head was spinning. He was bombarded by so many questions in his mind, trying to figure out whether or not to accept the role as a revolutionary leader, or decline and go back to his old habits. Overall, the poor man needed to take his mind off things first, and he thought that a bottle of whiskey ought to help clear his head. He passed his house entirely, and made his way further down the street, and into the pub.