“There are ten around the house, sir. Do we need more?”
Karna shook his head. “We don’t need Mrs. Shin waking up and seeing her home surrounded. Ten will be noisy enough. The more men we keep here, the fewer the chances they’ll get near the village. Two more . . .”
---
In his heart Perrin was praying for guidance, but it felt wrong.
First, he wasn’t on his knees with his head bowed—he was walking with his bow strung and his arrow searching for a new target.
Second, he struggled with the wording. Initially he prayed to find the last two men to kill, but those seemed to be entirely the wrong words to utter in a prayer.
Then he tried asking for guidance to stop the men, but the Creator certainly knew what Perrin meant by “stop.”
He felt as if he travelled with a cloud following him, the horrible realization that so far ten men had died that night, seven by his hand. At some point the cloud would descend upon him, and he feared with what paralyzing power it might overtake him. He had to be successful before then. If there was any other way he could find and flush out the last two men without having to kill them, then maybe he could go home with a less heavy heart.
She could never know about tonight. He’d have to go home with a smile on his face and tell her cheerfully that the night training was over and she had back her husband. But he suspected he wasn’t that good an actor.
As he crept through the forest he felt a presence as if another cloud, larger and lighter, was coming to absorb the one that hung heavily over him. It was as if this cloud could cleanse his horror, allowing him to do what no one else in the village—or even the world—would dare to do.
In some way he felt his actions that night were good, even sanctioned, because he was preserving the innocent. It wasn’t his choice to be out there taking lives; he was forced into it by others who were out to destroy his family. He was expected—required—to do this. And while the deaths tonight would remain in his memory forever, their heaviness would be nothing compared to the oppressive weight that the death of his wife, daughter, and unborn child would have caused.
He didn’t choose his steps, but let his boots go in whatever direction they led him, in a northeasterly direction, past the fort to the south, and towards some end.
---
Hogal couldn’t sleep because of the cold steel next to his hip, he decided about three hours after he had lay down on the small sofa made up into a bed for him by Mahrree. Exactly how did Perrin walk around all day with something this cold, sharp, and threatening against his hip?
Hogal shifted the long knife frequently, trying to find a more comfortable position.
For a time he tried lying on his back with the long knife in his fist resting on his chest, but he couldn’t decide which way the tip should be pointing.
Up towards his face seemed most ominous, especially if he should fall asleep, awake with a sneeze, and forget what was clenched his hands.
Pointing it downwards also seemed quite dangerous, for reasons his mind chose not to entertain for long.
Facing it towards the sofa felt rude—what if he accidentally cut the cloth?
And lying with the tip towards the door, and ready for anyone who may somehow barge through it, was simply too violent for the rector to consider.
Eventually he sat up, turning the knife over and over in his hands, wondering if this one had ever been used.
It was happening tonight, the 56th Day of Raining Season. That impression had come to him forcefully that evening, and just one look told his wife what he’d be doing that night and why. She answered nothing, but retrieved his coat and gave him her scarf, along with a kiss.
Exactly what was he doing at the Shin home? What could he accomplish that one hundred soldiers and his brawny nephew couldn’t? He put the bars up on the windows and secured the doors. Maybe that was enough. Maybe he wasn’t there so much for Mahrree as he was for himself, to know that she and the next generation would survive the night.
Hogal eventually got up from the sofa and walked quietly to one of the front windows. He peered out the thick wavy glass hoping to see something, and hoping not to as well. After a few moments of his breath fogging up the glass, he noticed a dark smudge moving stealthily across the road.
He wiped the wavy glass and firmed his grip on the long knife.
The smudge paused in front of the house, looked towards it, and continued on again. Hogal noticed a glint of dim moons’ light coming from the smudge’s side. A sword. It was a soldier, patrolling the road. Another joined him, coming from a different direction.
Hogal exhaled so heavily that the entire window was nearly encased in his breath. The house was being watched, by men younger than him and with much larger pieces of sharpened metal.