Just as the final wagon was loaded to capacity, a voice he had known for half his life called out to him.
"Bana?"
The sound was so familiar, so utterly loathsome, that it sliced like a blade through the scars of memories he had only just begun to heal.
Lena. The woman who had abandoned him when his business failed and he was at his most destitute—the woman who had snatched his last few copper pennies before running off.
It was a pathetic realization. He had once considered this woman the love of his life; now, he could only curse his past self for such blindness.
Bana turned slowly, his expression a mask of calm. A reasonably attractive woman stood a short distance away, draped in a lavish gown and glittering with jewelry. But the expensive fabric could not hide the thickening of her waist, and the heavy layers of powder failed to mask the weary lines of exhaustion at the corners of her eyes.
Lena's eyes lit up. Her gaze scanned greedily over the wagons brimming with goods and the sharp, disciplined guards standing by Bana's side. She hurried toward him.
"It really is you! Bana! My dear husband..."
She had heard rumors of a "foolish, laughing merchant" who had come to buy up all the discarded scrap today and had come to mock the spectacle. She hadn't expected it to be her ex-husband—nor had she expected him to have so many wagons and retainers.
"You're... doing well for yourself?" she asked, pitching her voice into a soft, melodic simmer. Her hand reached out instinctively, as if to stroke his face.
Bana looked at her. What flashed through his mind wasn't a flicker of old warmth, but the memory of returning to an empty home after his ruin—the absolute, soul-crushing despair of her betrayal that had nearly extinguished his will to live.
Bana took a sharp step back, recoiling from her touch as if from a block of ice.
This greedy woman's sudden change in attitude was transparent. She saw that he had rebuilt his fortune and was surrounded by subordinates, and now she wanted her place by his side again.
"What do you want?" Bana's voice was as cold as a mountain stream. There was no trace of the man she once knew.
The smile on Lena's face faltered for a fraction of a second before shifting back into something sultry. "Oh, darling! My Bana! I know I did you wrong before, but look at me... things haven't exactly been easy for me either."
She shot a sideways glance toward a bloated, impatient knight waiting nearby.
"If you're willing, we can start over. You have so many men now, so many wagons..." Her words were thick with suggestion.
Exactly as I thought. Bana felt a wave of cold amusement. Seeing him successful, she had come crawling back. He felt the last shred of his regard for her wither into ash.
"My life," Bana said, emphasizing every syllable, "is something you are no longer worthy of."
Without another look, he turned to his guards and barked an order. "We move! Now!"
The shock on Lena's face curdled instantly into fury, and then into a venomous, pure-distilled spite.
She watched Bana's retreating back, her eyes fixed on the bulging coin purse at his hip. A wicked, murderous thought took shape in her mind.
She turned and sprinted toward the bloated knight—her current lover, Ser Guy—and threw herself into his arms, hips swaying.
"My love," she whimpered into the fat knight's chest, squeezing out a few rehearsed tears. "That man... he refused to discuss the trade with you. And he insulted me!"
"He said that following you makes me no better than a common bitch!"
"What!" Ser Guy's face turned the color of a bruised plum. His anger wasn't born of a sense of chivalry for the woman; it was the realization that the merchant had refused to do business with him. He had fully intended to extort a heavy sum from the man.
"He said more," Lena added, pouring oil onto the fire. "He said he knew exactly what you were planning! That you just wanted to squeeze him for gold!"
"He said he's carrying a fortune in Golden Dragons! But he won't give you a single copper. He said your very title isn't worth a penny!"
"He claimed he only does business with hereditary lords!"
Then I'll just have to take it. Greed and fury ignited in Ser Guy's eyes. A cold, ugly smile touched his lips.
"Gather the men!" he hissed to his squire. "Follow me! I'll show this merchant what happens when you insult Ser Guy and his woman!"
Bana's caravan moved slowly through the narrow forest trails. Suddenly, an old veteran scout on a pack mare came galloping back from the front.
The veteran's face was grim as he glanced over his shoulder. "Something's wrong! Ever since we cleared the city gates, a dozen men have been shadowing us from the distance, Lord Bana!"
"Fast! Increase the pace!" Bana's heart sank. This wasn't a tax dispute; it was a robbery.
They only had four veterans assigned by Solomon and a dozen commoner laborers who had never held a sword. The pursuers were clearly numerous and well-armed.
To make matters worse, the wagons—loaded with heavy, broken steel—were dragging them into the mud, making escape nearly impossible.
"My lord!" one of the helpers shouted frantically. "Dump the cargo! If we move light, we might still make the main road!"
"No!" Bana's reply was iron.
He stared down the jarring, uneven path, his mind locked on one thought: This is the first task Lord Solomon gave me. Even if he lost his life, he would not lose this iron. Besides, it was too late to run. To prevent word of the slaughter from getting out, the attackers wouldn't leave a single witness alive.
The forest path grew tighter, more treacherous. The wagon wheels bogged down in the mud twice more.
Finally, in a narrow clearing hemmed in by dense trees, the thud of galloping hooves closed in. They were caught.
Seven or eight soldiers, swords drawn, surrounded them in a tight circle. Ser Guy sat astride his destrier, looking down at them with a sneer of pure malice.
"Run all you want, you fools," he said, pointing his riding crop at Bana. "Now, hand over the gold and the cargo. I might consider letting you keep your heads on your shoulders."
Ser Guy paused, glancing at the wagons of rusted scrap. They were barely worth the effort.
"Actually, forget the scrap! Just give me the gold!"
Bana and his men backed against the wagons. The four veterans gripped their weapons, eyes darting as they calculated the odds of a desperate charge. The commoner helpers were white-faced with despair, their hands too shaky to even draw their daggers.
Bana unsheathed his own sword. He had rarely trained, but in this moment, he was prepared to die fighting.
I failed the Lord's task, he thought. I can only repay him with my life. I only hope he doesn't think I ran off with the gold.
At that moment, a light, casual whistle drifted out from the nearby trees.
A man stepped leisurely from behind a trunk. He wore practical, worn leather armor with a longsword hanging at his hip. He was lean, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a scruffy patch of stubble. A cynical, mocking smile played at the corner of his mouth.
Behind him, several other sellswords stepped out, their unsheathed blades resting casually on their shoulders.
"You! Who the hell are you?" Ser Guy demanded, mentally gauging whether he could kill everyone here and still keep the secret.
The man studied the two groups with genuine interest, as if watching a particularly amusing play at a tavern.
After days of being hunted by armies, sleeping in the dirt, and starving, he was finally looking for a reason to let off some steam.
He tapped the scabbard of his sword against his boot and smiled. "You don't need to know my name, Ser."
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension with ease.
"Tch. Looks like you two have run into a bit of a disagreement."
"Well, you know how the world works. Both sides—start bidding. My sword goes to whoever's got the deepest pockets."