17 – Violence

I was still wary when it came to sleeping, well aware that another unpleasant dream could ambush me whenever I tried to slumber. But, usually once or twice a week, I’d fall asleep with Smoke pressed up beside me.

The cat made it a lot more comfortable, after all.

Even so, some things did not leave me. I had been away from the war for months at this point, largely living in peace (despite that incident with the Snake Flower) and yet I remained a light sleeper, and on that night I snapped awake at the first sense that something was off.

I sat up on the thin bed and listened. All was silent, save for the sighs of the wind and the hoots of nocturnal birds. Smoke looked up, blearily, a thick strand of drool linking his gob to his paws.

Part of me wanted to say it was nothing, that I was simply overly sensitive from my time at war, but I knew better than to doubt by instincts by now.

I rose from the bed, adjusting my tunic in the dark, and made for the open window. From there I could see a large stretch of my acres, all the way to the fence on the northern edge of my land. And I stared unblinking into that darkness, the landscape only barely illuminated by the stray moonbeams that poked through the bank of clouds.

Again, all was silent. And then I heard it. Soft, distant, but unmistakable.

The muffled laughter of men, joined by soft footsteps and the clinking of steel. I narrowed my eyes, recalling what Ryuga had said to me. If bandits were to raid, even against a small village like this, no doubt they would prefer to come from the cover of night. And to reach Tiode, most routes involved crossing my land.

Smoke padded silently toward me, but he remained in place when I motioned toward him. “Stay,” I said, the word barely even a whisper. And the cat obeyed, with some reluctance.

I vaulted from the window, landing quietly on the grass outside, and pressed on toward the source of the sound. A grove of shrubbery was only a modest distance beyond the end of my fence, a good enough place for any aspiring bandits to come from.

I advanced, all the way to the fence, my face set in stone. If anyone was to come here, I wanted to stop them before they could do any damage to my property.

Hells, the wheat was looking good by now. I didn’t want to lose it.

They emerged from the trees, one by one, their steel glinting in the moonlight. Grinning, chuckling men in ragged leather armour and black wolf fur cloaks. One man stood apart from the rest, clutching a weighty halberd in his right hand. His face was concealed by a mask of painted black wood, shaped like the face of a leering hound.

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“Didn’t think anyone would hear us before the fun got properly started. Those are some good ears you have,” the masked man said, his voice low and rasping.

I stared at him silently, slowly clenching my right fist. I had to fight every impulse in my mind, the ones that told me to blast these bastards away in one explosive sweep. No, I was a different man now. Even against obvious bandits, I had to try and be a different man. A better man. And throwing the first punch, while pragmatic, was the kind of violence I’d crossed an ocean to avoid.

“I’ll ask you once, and only once, to turn around and leave,” I said, watching them intently.