Chapter Nine: Accidental Kill

A pirate emerged. Wade saw a rather thin pirate, head bowed and brows furrowed, standing at the doorway with his hands in his pockets, glancing about.

He carried no torch; the burning houses nearby cast enough light. Slung across his back was a single-shot crossbow, and at his waist hung a short sword. Unlike the double-edged, straight sword about one meter twenty in Wade's hand, this man's blade was only half a meter long.

He was not built for battle; in his crew, his role was likely that of a scout or in logistics. His weapon of choice made it clear: crossbowmen held little status in many societies, and among the Vikings it was the same. The crossbow, unlike the longbow, was seen as a coward's weapon, one that required no courage.

In some mercenary bands, crossbowmen weren't even allowed a share of the spoils. In the Duchy of the Netherlands, Philip VI had once passed a law forbidding knights to use crossbows—any who broke it would lose their title.

Wade watched this pirate, alert but not enough. Mia, after all, was a ghost who could fly. The pirate searched the area for a while but found nothing and eventually walked to the shed below.

"This isn't a damned barn dance, you filthy animals! Quiet down!"

The pirate sounded disgruntled, venting his frustration at the flock of sheep, even kicking a supporting beam.

Snow piled atop the shed tumbled down with the impact, but the sheep bleated on, heedless. He scratched his head in frustration and shouted again, "Quiet!"

Wade observed the pirate's every move, hoping to draw his attention to the silver coins inside the sheep pen.

As soon as Wade sent this thought to Mia, he saw the lead ewe begin to move.

He noticed something different this time. Previously, the sheep had merely been restless, but now it was as if something—or someone—had taken control.

Could Mia have seized the ewe's mind?

It certainly seemed so. The ewe walked over to the pouch of silver coins, pawed at it with her hooves, and sent the glittering coins spilling out.

The pirate, still yelling, suddenly froze, craning his neck to peer at the ground.

Clearly, he'd noticed the coins.

Apparently, his sudden silence drew attention from inside the warehouse: "Mitt, what's going on out there?" someone shouted.

"Nothing. Everything's fine," the pirate named Mitt replied. "I'll have these stupid sheep quiet in a moment."

Mitt held his breath.

His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard, staring straight at the coins shining temptingly before him.

He guessed that some villager must have hidden their savings in the sheep pen—maybe out of fear of the pirates, or perhaps it had been stashed there long before.

Whoever the money belonged to, now it was Mitt who had found the pouch. And the money inside—well, it was his now.

It seemed the night wasn't a total loss after all.

With his spirits lifted, he looked at the long-haired sheep with a new, gentler gaze.

He couldn't claim the sheep for himself, but the other treasures—well, that was another matter.

Finders keepers—that was a pirate's law.

Mitt's lips curled in anticipation as he hurried to climb over the railing.

He didn't consider any other possibility. Had he been more cautious, or more generous, perhaps willing to share his find, he might not have entered the sheep pen alone.

But unfortunately, he was a pirate.

Many words could be used to describe a pirate—brutal, cunning, deceitful...

But above all, greedy.

Clambering over the wooden fence on hands and knees, Mitt caught his coat on a rough splinter and tore it free with a yank.

Bitter cold whirled grass chaff into his face; the wooden door of the pen creaked.

A few unruly sheep stomped restlessly on the dry straw.

Wade was struck by a new idea: could he manufacture an accident?

A proper assassin's best means of killing was always an unobserved accident. Until every target was dead, the assassin should remain unseen.

He directed Mia to guide the lead ewe, instructing it to stand behind the pirate.

On the farm tools rack before the bag of coins, a three-pronged rake and a two-tined pitchfork swayed gently in the wind.

Mitt bent down before the scattered coins, reaching out his hand—when suddenly the lead ewe let out a high-pitched bleat and charged like a maddened bull.

The sudden sound startled Mitt, who heard the wooden rack groan. That damned sheep had knocked over the tool rack!

A moment later, the rake slid down, its iron prongs piercing Mitt's boot and pinning his foot in place.

Pain shot through his toes and he cried out, instinctively trying to pull his foot free. But for the snowy ground, he'd worn special boots made of tanned cowhide—durable and tough.

He'd wrapped leather straps around his ankles, and the boots' midsection was reinforced with cylindrical greaves, the compressed seal skin holding his right leg fast.

They were a pain to put on, and worse to take off. There was no way he could free himself quickly.

He grabbed for the pitchfork to steady himself, but the motion shifted the rack's last balance point.

The rack tilted and collapsed; the rusty pitchfork swept in a crescent arc, its tines aimed straight at his head.

Staring up at those sharp points, Mitt felt a sting between his brows. Reflexively, he raised his arms to shield his head.

But then the "frightened" lead ewe, with the whole flock behind, charged once more, slamming its head hard into his backside.

He felt a sharp jolt, screamed, and toppled into sheep dung, chipping a front tooth on the way down.

The instant his forehead struck the ground, the pitchfork, amid a shower of wood shavings, came crashing down.

After a brief resistance, the pitchfork's tip pressed against his throat. The weight alone wasn't enough to pierce his neck, though it drew a trickle of blood.

Mitt exhaled in relief, quickly replaced by a surge of fury.

Damn it, as if being bossed around by the lieutenant and Sweyn weren't bad enough—now even sheep were butting him!

His eyes flashed angrily as he tried to move the pitchfork away. But before he could regain his balance, a slow, steady force pressed at his neck—as if someone were pushing the fork's tip toward his throat.

Someone was here!

A chill ran down Mitt's spine, sweat breaking out across his back.

But it wasn't a person. It was Mia, who had left the shelter of the ewe's belly and hovered now at the tip of the pitchfork, gazing down at the hapless intruder.

Anger, sorrow, pain... A storm of emotions raged in Mia's heart. Wade sensed her agitation. These feelings erupted suddenly, remnants of her life before.

She wanted, desperately, to drive the pitchfork's tip into the throat of the man in the iron helmet.

Once, she had lived peacefully in this village. Perhaps her father had been a hunter—she seemed so familiar with the hunter's lodge. Though still a child, she must have been full of life.

But all happiness had been shattered by these invaders.

Wade did not stop Mia's vengeance. The pirates had robbed her of her life and burned her home—what reason could she have not to seek retribution?

If law and justice cannot punish the guilty, then our hands still hold the sword.

Little Mia pressed down on the pitchfork, driving it into the pirate Mitt's throat.

She struggled with the effort—she was but a wisp of a ghost, and weak. Had the pitchfork's rusted point not already pierced his skin from the earlier impact, had she not the help of gravity, she could never have killed a pirate by her own hand.

But this was fate's design. She had met Wade, and thus found her chance for vengeance.

It was only one among many pirates, but this one—she had killed herself.

Mitt felt a sharp pain at his throat, then, after a moment's resistance, the pitchfork stopped with its rusty tip pressed to his voice box.

He could not understand why the sheep had turned so violent, nor why he was being trampled by a crazed flock.

His entire body throbbed with pain. He struggled, but soon, he moved no more.

Beside the pirate, silver coins from the pouch spilled across the ground. As always, they gleamed with a hypnotic light amid the filth and blood.