Wick (Reprise)

The Past

"When acting on revenge, it's not about making them feel what they already feel. It's about giving them an opportunity to taste their fantasies in its purest form. They will happily drink the poisoned cup, only to realize it was them who did it to themselves." - Wick's Journal Entry #69

Wick woke up and realized he was tied to the back of a khosa, a Simmerestian labor lizard used to haul cartloads of wares. The lizard was one of five pulling wagons filled with dozens of long wooden boxes. Upon closer inspection, the boxes were coffins with either a circular or star-shaped crest.

The circular ones were probably for the dead forceknights and the stars for the sorcerers. Rax, the feeble-bodied scribe, had killed them all with nothing but the flick of his fingers. Images of a wondrous and terrifying battle came back with stark clarity to Wick. Even with the perfect memory supplied by Thymesia, the whole thing still seemed like a dream.

Rax. Wick frowned. The man had finally revealed what was behind that white-bone Arach mask. He supplied Wick the answers to so many unanswered questions. The Misonians’ legacy, Etheria Hemincross, the glass hexagonal amulet, the puzzle dungeon -- all of it was given to Wick as if the man had read his mind. Rax had offered to give Wick his own legacy, the Hemincross amulet, at no cost to him.

Yet, all those answers just made a thousand more questions, as if every door opened led to twenty more unopened ones.

Scout was still passed out, arms and feet bound to the back of his own khosa, the lizard's tongue flicking the air ahead to figure out where they were going.

The sight of the green-haired boy gave Wick some comfort. Rax was right. Scout was practically a small copy of his own father, whose guild name had been Pathfinder. Both his father and the halfbreed were as brilliant as they were caring. His father's kindness had been his ultimate weakness. Wick had done his best to teach Scout how hard he really needed to be in this world if anything was to get done.

Wick personally had no use for such affection.

That reminded him of the other former orphans. With Wick's signature in blood, he had officially solidified the children both as citizens of Vandia and as members of the new guild of apprentices. His investments were safe.

Wick was alive, and he was thankful for it. That meant he could collect on his investments when they grew. He'd have to figure out a way to deal with Obadiah Graves by then.

A horse a tenth the size of the giant lizard trotted up next to Wick. On its back was a haggard-looking Nehemiah Zorba, the Autumn Sword himself. His wooden sword was tied in a simple loop on his belt.

"You're awake," he said cautiously.

Without pause, Wick replied, "And you state the obvious."

The forceknight frowned. "We are on our way to the wormhole."

Wick rolled his eyes. Of course they were on the way to the wormhole. The road was the only one near Outlast and it had only one direction. How did a man like this inherit the title of one of the Three Swords and One? He was as daft as a farm boy.

For all his ridiculous power, the Autumn Sword was at a loss when dealing with children. That was fine. Wick would rather deal with an adult who didn't treat him like a child, the way Rax did. He said, "Where is Atarax?"

Nehemiah gave a pained expression and stretched his shoulder, which was heavily bruised. "The convict was sent ahead, as per instructions of the Emperor himself. On my honor, I gave my word to the convict that you and the halfbreed were not to be given the same treatment."

"Oh, how merciful of you," Wick replied dryly. He despised the notion of honor. It was a convenience only for the strong or the stupid. In this case, it was both.

Nehemiah's jaw tightened. "You could have been sent to a high-security prison for the rest of your life, never to see the light of the sun ever again."

Was the Autumn Sword like the heroes that Lanton had been so fascinated with, the storybook kind who fought bravely against terrible monsters? If so, Wick wanted nothing to do with them.

Wick paused at Nehemiah's words. He just said that they weren't going to a high-security prison. Did that mean they were going to a low-security one? He took a moment to hold back the contempt from his voice. "Where are you taking us?"

"You and the halfbreed are known conspirators with an enemy of the nation," Nehemiah said flatly.

Wick snorted. "So was Obadiah Graves. Is he attending one of his own family's prisons? Deepest Hells, the man worked in tandem with Rax and as the face of their black market business for a decade. Or does being a noble make you immune from the law?"

"Obadiah of the noble house Graves was the one who willingly handed us the convict," Nehemiah proclaimed. "Without his support, we never would have recovered the....artifact."

Wick shook his head. Convincing the Autumn Sword to bring in Graves was a long shot. He'd have to deal with the man himself if he survived wherever they were going. Wick cleared his dry throat. "You still never answered my question. Where are you taking us?"

Nehemiah looked away, and a flicker of shame passed the shadow of his face. Ah. So the man had avoided Wick's questions on purpose. Wherever Scout and Wick were going wasn't a place meant for children.

Wick's mind raced with all the possibilities. Not prison. There weren't prisons for children in Vandia like Simmerest had. They called them correctional facilities there.

His mind landed on the only possibility. Words tinged with fear escaped his mouth. "We are being sold as slaves, jumping from master to master until we die."

Nehemiah's gaze looked ahead. He said, "Since you are unregistered to Vandia, the law states you have no rights."

Wick took the words in silently. His grip tightened around the glass amulet that he had been holding since he woke up. They were near the wormhole, maybe a half hour away. In that time, he had to make a choice.

It had been nearly a year since he heard the name. Even when his own father was on his deathbed, he called him Wick. But it wasn't just about him anymore.

His eyes trailed to Scout. Wick had invested countless hours in shaping the boy's mind. Scout was now the head of an actual guild, and that guild would bring money in for Wick, the kind of money only nobles had.

Wick thought of everything he had seen only hours earlier -- Berrma's one-sided manhandling of the group of seasoned forceknights, Rax's syncing, the Autumn Sword's strange kami armor, and even Lanton's Strength skill. These were powers he didn't have, and Wick wanted them all for himself.

But he couldn't do anything as a slave. Even if he and Scout somehow escaped, they'd be enemies of Vandia for the rest of their lives. No. It was too much an inconvenience.

Wick brooded in his decision for another few minutes. The more he thought about everything that had happened, the anger he had for Lanton had grown to pure hate. Graves may have been the one who outed Rax, but it was Lanton who forced Rax to turn himself in.

From the very start, Lanton had been a thorn in Wick's side. Wick now understood it was his own arrogance that set Lanton as nothing more than an annoyance. Revenge was still on Wick's mind. His plan to take everything away from the mayor's son was still a card that needed to be played.

Right now though, Wick needed to make a decision.

Nehemiah believed that Wick and Scout were not registered citizens of Vandia. It was an easy thing to assume. Most halfbreeds born in the country weren't registered in Vandia's yearly census due to the fact that nymphs didn't understand the concept of paperwork. The human side of the parentage rarely went out of their way to say they slept with another species since the practice was reviled by most.

After fifteen minutes, they were in sight of the massive worm. Lines of merchants and travelers piled up behind the mouth. Next to the mouth, dozens appeared in the middle of the air, falling and screaming into thick bales of hay.

Soon, he and Scout would be sentenced as slaves for the rest of their lives unless something was done about it. Wick made his decision. "You're wrong. Scout is a citizen."

Nehemiah turned on his giant horse toward Wick. "Excuse me?"

Wick spoke slowly so the dullard understood him clearly. "Scout is a registered citizen of Vandia."

The Autumn Sword snorted. "You'll have to forgive me for not believing someone who willingly tried to help an enemy of the Empire escape."

Wick was patient. He needed this man to understand. "Forgiveness is a self-indulgence. I can prove it. I know my jacket is torn, but in the left pocket holds a Guild Writ. It's been notarized by the Empire and even has the signature of both a head of an established guild and a noble, Obadiah Graves himself. Scout is a signatory and therefore, by law, he is now an established citizen of the Empire of Vandia."

His heart raced. He didn't know if it was true. But it had to be. Graves couldn't afford to let the head of the AoA not be a citizen. Rax had probably written up the paperwork to make Scout an official citizen himself. There was no way the guild writ would have been notarized by Vandia if he hadn't.

Nehemiah steered his horse next to the khosa and pulled at the wadescroll. He looked it over, his expression shifting from mild amusement to confusion then to shock.

Wick grinned.

Nehemiah said, "Scout Greenlast. That's his name?"

Wick nodded. The last name had been his idea, a combination of the city the boy had grown up in and a reminder of his oceanid heritage. "Since he is a citizen of Vandia, he is legally exempt from being a slave. That means --"

Nehemiah cut in. "I know what it means. Hold that arrogant tone of yours, boy. I may seem slow to you, but I have no patience for condescension."

Wick snorted. He didn't give a plumin's hoot if the forceknight could wring the blood from his body with only his bare hands. "And I have no patience for inconsistent arguments. You're the same man who spouted about honor while allowing Lanton to hold a blade to Scout's throat."

Nehemiah read the paper again, and it was his turn to snap back. "Oddly enough, your signature is just a single name, Wick. You need both a first and a last name to be citizen of Vandia. We aren't like those oread savages. Lineage matters."

Wick closed his eyes and breathed in steady. Wick. It was what his father had called him, short for Wicked. He made his second choice. "I signed the document under a registered guild name. Documents are still legally binding when signing with a registered name."

It was true. His father had signed away nearly all their earnings from the Sprawl every month for their guild dues with his guild name, Pathfinder. It was what kept a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs when hunting got scarce and the Sprawl got too dangerous.

Nehemiah frowned, as if he had just lost a sparring match. "And your name?"

Wick felt the edge in his voice before he heard it. "First tell me where we are going to go since we can't be slaves."

"Your name," Nehemiah pressed, his calm demeanor eroding.

Wick's grip tightened around the glass amulet in his hand. It was the star-shaped amulet that had once belonged to Rax. He had picked it up when Rax fought. Wick felt no power and received no notifications telling him he gained the Hemincross legacy. That didn't tell him much, but it gave him the slight hope that Rax was still alive. Even though Wick wanted the legacy powers himself, he needed the masked man to give him more answers.

He said, "You gave your word to Rax no harm would come to us."

Nehemiah's back straightened. He said, "I did. And it will be kept."

Wick softened his voice on purpose, filling his words with a kindness he did not feel. "Then tell me where we are going."

Nehemiah took a few breaths of silence before saying, "Since you are a child, the law states you and the halfbreed will be given ten years under indentured servitude to the Empire, or until your yearlong mandatory military service is finished. Whichever comes first."

Wick was eleven. So was Scout. Since he technically had his first skill slot open, then he'd serve in the military at sixteen rather than eighteen. Five years of indentured servitude to the Empire. "That means Scout and I are going to the same place."

"Indentured servants bound to the Empire are all sent to one place," Nehemiah confirmed. "You will be serving the warfront."

Wick blinked.

At first, the man's words didn't make sense. The warfront? Only graduates of the Skillia, officers, and mandated conscripts were sent there. He had never heard of indentured servants going to the warzone against the oreads.

Of course, the only indentured servants he had ever heard about or encountered were ones contracted with wealthy families or nobles. Those people willingly gave up years of work in exchange for pay and a home.

Wick shook his head in disbelief. "What do servants do there?"

Nehemiah frowned. "Digging trenches, setting enchantment traps. At least, that's what they did during my service."

Digging. Wick looked around on the khosa to see if his spade was there. It wasn't. He felt lesser without it in his hands. But digging? He had been digging in the Sprawl since before he could read.

Wick threw his head back and laughed. There was no joy in the laugh, and only then did he realize what Scout meant about how it sounded more like a cackle.

Nehemiah's nose wrinkled as if Wick had grown another head. "Are you okay, boy? Don't you understand what I said? You'll be going to the warfront. I'll make sure you're in an area safe from oread attacks, but it'll still be dangerous."

Wick was barely listening, still laughing at the absurdity of it. The Empire was sending him to do the one thing he was born to do. By the Crawl, from the sounds of it, he'd be laying traps instead of disarming them. Fate, if anything, was damn funny.

They were at the wormhole. Gasps and mutters rippled through the lines of people as the khosa lizards passed them. Wick ignored them. They were going to the warfront.

Nehemiah nodded to a man who wasn't in typical guard uniform. He wore the same simple tunics the men from earlier had worn, his tattoos covering his arms and neck. He was a forceknight.

"Autumn Sword." The man saluted respectfully. "To Weirmark?"

Nehemiah shook his head. "Change of plans. I need to drop these two off at Penfield."

The other forceknight looked confused. "To the warfront, sir? Has the fight turned that the Autumn Sword must attend to it?"

Nehemiah gave the man a placating gesture. "No. These two are to be conscripted as indentured servants until either ten years or their mandatory military service has passed, whichever comes first."

"Ah," replied the man, clearly not understanding. But he gestured to one of the gate guards, who burned a wadescroll. Its released skill dispersed into the mouth of the wormhole, signalling for a new location.

One of the guards jogged up, pen and ledger in hand. She saluted. "Autumn Sword, it is an honor. What are the names of the servants to be sent to Penfield?"

Nehemiah pointed to Scout, who was still passed out. "Apparently, Scout Greenlast."

"Apparently?" the guard-scribe asked cautiously.

Nehemiah ignored her. Wick could see the exhaustion take over the man.

The guard scribbled in her ledger. Her head turned to Wick. She asked, "And this one?"

Nehemiah looked to Wick. "Well? Your guild name won't do for this one, boy. You'll have to give your real name."

Wick closed his eyes. His body hurt. Scout would be with him. Even Vein was in Simmerest training to be a pilgrim.

Lanton and Graves were still out there. They would each get their due, plus interest. On top of that, he had witnessed an exchange of powers few on the continent could claim to have seen. The future looked bleak, but at least he had one. His investments with the apprentices were safe.

"Your name," Nehemiah repeated.

Wick opened his eyes and said, "Ven Praxus. My name is Ven Praxus."