The air was crisp and still, as a gray mantle of clouds blanketed the sky. A light mist obscured the waking treeline, from which a series of ethereal, flute-like bird songs escaped. The loud, resonant drumming of a woodpecker followed suit, echoing across the tranquil morning forest.
A squirrel jumped onto the old dirt trail, its surface dug up from rain and cart wheels, with the odd rock jutting out like a tooth.
Pawing pebble after pebble, the squirrel pushed leaves aside before landing on a prized acorn. Its ears perked up for a moment before it hurriedly skittered toward the nearest tree.
Leaves rustled softly underfoot as Hellion and Azazel walked the old trail toward the logging camp. They traveled in silence until they crested a hill, revealing, in the not-so-great distance, the deserters' abode nestled in a small clearing carved out of the woods.
Hellion saw them moving about between the logging cabins; a few had gathered around a small fire, perhaps preparing breakfast. Almost all of them carried muskets or had one within arm's reach.
Azazel was lost in the beauty of the morning when Hellion grabbed his arm, pulling him off the road and into the forest. They kneeled behind some pine trees to take stock of the situation.
"Hmm. I see several of them, but not the whole lot," she said quietly, scanning the camp from end to end. "They've probably sent a few out as scouts."
Azazel traced his master's gaze. The soft pitter-patter of raindrops on leather trickled down the brim of her hat as a light drizzle began to fall.
"Should we take care of them first?" he asked in a hushed tone.
"Normally, yes, but in this case, we just need all of them in one place." She scratched her chin, her expression thoughtful. "I might regret not bringing both guns."
"Wasn't the plan not to use any guns?" he reminded candidly.
She clicked her mouth and shot him an annoyed look. "Just...! This is the plan..."
* * *
The young boy cocked his head and squinted down the sights of his musket, tongue sticking out.
"Whadda ya say? Can I shoot it from 'ere?"
His older comrade lazily eyed what looked like a wasp nest hanging from a tree branch not far from where he sat—laid back comfortably against a tree near the dirt trail.
"Oh, I'd say you're a stupid twat for even tryin', if I thought you could even come close."
The faint rustling of leaves caught his attention. He turned, spying a silhouette moving along the road.
"Oi! Clean the wax out 'tween yer ears! There's someone comin'!"
He grabbed his musket and signaled his friend to follow. They jumped from a mossy rise down onto the woodland trail, stepping confidently in front of the traveler.
"Well, well. Where you off to, pretty lady? Strollin' in these woods alone can be dangerous for the likes o' you!" said the older deserter with cocky bravado.
"Yeah, who knows what you can run into in the forest," added the younger.
"Thank God for you boys then," Hellion replied with a smile. "As to where I'm off to—a little bird told me you liked its woods so much you decided to stay. In the logging camp down the trail, specifically."
Both of them eyed each other with surprised concern. She spread her arms out in a friendly manner.
"I've come to talk."
Her motion unintentionally revealed the silvery sheen of her charcoal-gray flintlock handle. The older boy jumped back, raising his musket.
"Oi! She's got a pistol!"
His companion startled and pointed his musket at her as well.
"Hands up! Don't fackin' move!"
"Alright! Alright, relax!" She raised her hands. "You can have it! I just came to talk—I have an offer which you and your friends might want to hear. That's why I'm here."
The older deserter motioned his younger comrade to take her pistol. The lad timidly walked over to Hellion, took the gun out of her holster, and trotted back to his mate, marveling at the beautifully crafted weapon along the way.
"Corr! Blimey! 'Ave you ever seen such a gun?" He traced the metal wolf's teeth with a finger.
"Gimmie that!" The older boy snatched the gun from his friend in a swift motion. He measured the weight and feel of it in his hand.
"Dog's bollocks! It looks proper royal, it does!"
Hellion sat off to the side with her hands raised, mystified, while the two delinquents ogled and fawned over the exquisite weapon. Exasperated, she let down her hands and loudly cleared her throat.
The senior deserter jolted back to attention, quickly stowing the gun in his belt.
"Right. Now run 'n tell the lads we have a guest comin' over."
* * *
Under armed escort, Hellion proceeded through the old logging camp—a ramshackle collection of abandoned wooden shelters.
She passed several small cabins—one with the remains of an improvised smithy, another with neat stacks of firewood at the entrance that hinted at a former kitchen, and a larger one, which might have been stables once, before its roof had collapsed.
They led her to the heart of the camp, where the deserters gathered around a roaring fire. Some stood chatting; others lounged on makeshift benches or large stones, unbothered by the light drizzle, their muskets leaning casually against a tall pile of mossy logs bound with frayed ropes.
The camp livened up as Hellion approached, eyes turning to her with a mix of curiosity and animosity.
Across from the fire, a familiar face sat on a stump—the young ruffian from before. Their eyes met, surprise flickering between them before the deserter's expression darkened with satisfaction.
"Now what do we have 'ere? The cheeky cunt from the store. Where's the mutt?" he said, standing up, slicing at a moldy apple with his bayonet.
Hellion looked around. All of the deserters were seemingly accounted for. Shifting her weight uneasily, she forced a smile.
"That was a bit uncalled for. You were robbing the store, after all…"
He shrugged, frowning in disagreement as he stepped closer. "Aye, we woulda taken some stuff. Stuff we fackin' needed," he said with a grin. "And if it weren't for you and that mangy blighter," he spread his arms, "we'd be feasting right now!"
The crowd erupted in boos, and he continued, biting into the apple.
"Now, instead, we're hungry for a fight!" The deserters cheered.
Hellion raised her hands in a calming manner. "Right, that was... an unfortunate misunderstanding. I may have acted a bit rashly, which is why I've come with an offer—as a form of apology."
The lad narrowed his eyes and chewed noisily, pieces of apple escaping his mouth. "Did that fackin' drunken lout send ya? Or the rest of the whingin' cowards from the village?"
"Err, yes and no? Look, it really doesn't matter…" she tried to reason, her voice tinged with unease.
"Fackin' right it don't matter!" he scoffed, crunching the apple. "They hung you out to dry, just like they did with us, an' now you're here without yer mutt or yer fancy pistols."
Hellion glanced nervously at her flintlock, resting in another's belt. The ruffian stepped forward, his knife glinting in the firelight.
"An' I ain't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Don't worry, love—I'll just give ya a little cut to remember me by."
She stepped back, a finger pointing upward. "Uhh, before you do something regretful... I just have one request!" She extended her hand upward, as if reaching to grab the sky, and stood still. The deserters eyed each other, confused.
The ornate flintlock began to rouse and shake in the lad's belt. He stared at it, mouth agape. Then it suddenly broke free and flew up and toward Hellion. She jerked upward and snatched it out of the air, fingers closing around the flintlock in a single, fluid motion.
For a brief moment—one not seen in a millennia—the forest regained its primal silence as everyone stood dumbfounded, rooted in utter shock.
The guard to the girl's right was the only one to react, catching a blur approaching him in the corner of his eye. He turned toward it in a panic—just as Azazel came hurtling out of nowhere, slamming a kick into his chest. The force sent him flying across the fire, crashing into a bench of his comrades, scattering them backward.
Hellion seized the initiative and shouldered the other guard, sending him to the ground with a dull thud.
The young ruffian lunged wildly at Azazel with his knife. Azazel sidestepped, dodging the attack, and grabbed his wrist. Pulling his hand down, Azazel kneed him in the stomach, eliciting an audible "Hurk!" The boy felt a tug on the back of his collar as the demon threw him like a ragdoll at a contingent of his friends, who were scrambling toward their weapons.
Hellion twirled the gun around her finger. It settled in her palm with a satisfied hum, the barrel hissing as raindrops evaporated on contact.
With two metallic bangs, the wolf's head spat at the pile of logs, cutting the ropes. They broke with a loud snap, sending the heavy logs tumbling down, burying the muskets and sending some of the deserters plummeting to the ground in dismay.
She spun the pistol again and aimed it at a couple of lads reaching for their guns.
"Don't!" she barked.
The deserters froze in place.
One boy saw an opportunity and dove to grab a musket on the ground, but he only caught dirt as the weapon flew on its own away from his reach and straight into Azazel's outstretched hand.
Hellion looked around and let things settle a bit before speaking. "Can we calm down now? Does anyone have a pressing need to reach for a gun?"
There were only moans in response.
She holstered her flintlock with a flourish, keeping a grip on its handle. "Right. Let's take it from the top, shall we? We're just here to make you an offer. We're not here to hurt you or—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
The camp was in disarray. Some boys were clutching their sides in a whimper; others had visible scratches on their arms or faces. One of the delinquents was picking splinters out of his leg. Large logs were strewn everywhere, and Erich was looking at her, furious, bent over in pain as one of his friends was helping him up.
"Well, I mean... that wasn't…" she stammered. "Look, here's the offer."
She reached in her coat pocket and pulled out a full coin purse, raising it high so all could see. "There's a hundred thaler here!" She placed it on a stump, pointing at it.
"That's more than you lot earned in a month on soldier's pay," she expressed, surprising the crowd with her familiarity. "And there's forty more thalers you can earn…" She paused, letting it sink in, "by just coming with me to the village and surrendering your arms."
The deserters stared at the coin purse, a glimmer of interest flickering in their eyes. But Erich's sneer cut through the moment, his voice rising above their murmurs.
"Shite!" spat the young ruffian, shoving his helper aside. "Empty promises again!"
Hellion sighed. "There is coin for you on the proverbial table already!" she exclaimed, gesturing toward the purse. Then she turned to the others. "I know things are hard for you, but you don't need to suffer out your lives hiding out in the woods like brigands!" she implored.
"But... we're deserters," stated one languidly. "We don't have a choice..."
"And so we come neatly to the second part of my offer!" she said in a jaunty manner. "You do have a choice—a mercenary company called The Devil's Own. Signing up with them means twice the standard pay, better treatment, and you'll never, ever have to skip a meal again!" She beamed. "And I can help you with that!"
The lads threw skeptical looks at each other.
"You can help us join up? How?" one asked.
Erich pointed at her, shuffling forward, and barked angrily. "Bollocks! That's that drunken sod talkin'! I recognize his 'andiwork! Useless twaddle to send us to die on the lines again! You can shove yer offer back where it came from! In that fackin' pig's arse!"
The words pricked Hellion, but noticing she still held the others' attention, she tried to continue in an upbeat way.
"I can help you because they know me. Well—since I grew up with them, it's more fair to say that they raised me. So when I say you can have a chance at a new life with them—I mean it with all my heart."
She exchanged glances with Azazel, who smiled warmly.
"Don't listen to her!" shouted her adversary, pleading desperately, trying to regain his standing in the eyes of his comrades. "All we've ever heard are empty promises while they shepherd us to the next battlefield! An' the choice she talks about? What choice is that?" He spun around with arms wide. "Go put on another uniform so you can die for someone else, that's what!"
"And what's your brilliant solution?" she interjected loudly. "They stay here wallowing in mud and misery 'til they get hunted down like rabbits? Far worse people than us will come for you—and they won't be making offers. Least of all polite suggestions. And it's going to be even worse if the army gets a hold of you first! You're living on borrowed time!"
The boy hissed through his teeth. "We're livin' on our terms! An' the only choice that matters is the one you and that boozed-up, puss-filled sore keep tryin' to take from us! So fack off an' tell the 'Sergeant'..." he rolled the nickname with poison on his tongue, "he can go die in a cesspit, where he belongs."
Hellion clenched her jaw. Hearing him berate his own father struck a chord, much to her surprise.
"You know... he's one of the only two people in that village that stood up for you," she said coldly. "And for the life of me, I can't see why."
Her eyes narrowed.
"If I had a son like you, I wouldn't bother. A father deserves better." Her tone was biting, patience worn thin.
Erich froze. His eyes widened, his face awash with a spectrum of hurt, sadness, confusion—and inescapable fury. He looked down, trembling, drowning in his emotions as her words lingered in the air.
"You shut your fackin' mouth, you stupid bitch! You don't know shite!" The words hissed through gritted teeth, his clenched fist trembling with barely contained rage. "He's the bloody reason for all of this! Him!" he erupted, howling, voice cracking under the weight of his fury. "He's the one who sent me an' my brother to serve in the army! Always on about his precious army!"
The anger distorted his gaunt, handsome features, twisting them into something primal. In that moment, he looked more beast than man. "An' thank fackin' God he did—so we wouldn't 'ave to put up with his abuse anymore!"
Hellion gawked at him, taken aback.
Tears welled in his eyes as he continued shouting. "That piece o'shit ain't a father! He missed the bloody mark!" he spat, his eyes wild. "But he didn't miss gettin' sloshed every night while our mother laid sick on her deathbed!" he spluttered, gasping from the strain.
The girl sat petrified, speechless. He locked eyes with her, an expression of utter, mad contempt on his face.
"You wanna talk about choice?!" he said, grabbing the handle of the flintlock in his jacket. "Well, I fackin' choose freedom!"
Hellion startled and instinctively grasped her own weapon. They stared each other down as everyone stepped back in horror at what was unfolding.
Azazel tensed and clenched his fists, his mind racing. His eyes darted between his master, the young ruffian, and the rest of his entourage, who were also eyeing their weapons.
A deep, troubling silence settled across the camp. Only the hissing and crackling of firewood could be heard as the last vestiges of the fire were snuffed out by the intensifying rain.
"Don't do this..." she said softly, almost in a whisper. "Erich, please…"
Hearing his name aloud, he gave her a sudden look of deep longing and regret. But it vanished as quickly as it came, washed away in the rain, leaving only focused, cold determination.
A twitch.
Her eyes widened.
Breathe out.
A step forward.
Unholster.
Aim.
Fire.