all broke into laughter, and one of them, an oaf of a man in his forties with a missing front tooth, leaned in with his bad breath and poked Merk in the shoulder. The old Merk would have killed any man who had come half as close.
But the new Merk was determined to be a better man, to rise above violence – even if it seemed to seek him out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.
Do not resort to violence, he told himself again and again.
“What’s this monk doing?” one of them asked. “Praying?”
They all burst into laughter again.
“Your god won’t save you now, boy!” another exclaimed.
Merk opened his eyes and stared back at the cretin.
“I do not wish to harm you,” he said calmly.
Laughter rose up, louder than before, and Merk realized that staying calm, not reacting with violence, was the hardest thing he had ever done.
“Lucky for us, then!” one replied.
They laughed again, then all fell silent as their leader stepped forward and got in Merk’s face.
“But perhaps,” he said, his voice serious, so close that Merk could smell his bad breath, “we wish to harm you.”
A man came up behind Merk, wrapped a thick arm around his throat, and began squeezing. Merk gasped as he felt himself being choked, the grip tight enough to put him in pain but not to cut off all air. His immediate reflex was to reach back and kill the man. It would be easy; he knew the perfect pressure point in the forearm to make him release his grip. But he forced himself not to.
Let them pass, he told himself. The road to humility must begin somewhere.
Merk faced their leader.
“Take of mine what you wish,” Merk said, gasping. “Take it and be on your way.”
“And what if we take it and stay right here?” the leader replied.
“No one’s asking you what we can and can’t take, boy,” another said.
One of them stepped up and ransacked Merk’s waist, rummaging greedy hands through his few personal belongings left in the world. Merk forced himself to stay calm as the hands rifled through everything he owned. Finally, they extracted his well-worn silver dagger, his favorite weapon, and still Merk, as painful as it was, did not react.
Let it go, he told himself.
“What’s this?” one asked. “A dagger?”
He glared at Merk.
“What’s a fancy monk like you carrying a dagger?” one asked.
“What are you doing, boy, carving trees?” another asked.
They all laughed, and Merk gritted his teeth, wondering how much more he could take.
The man who took the dagger stopped, looked down at Merk’s wrist, and yanked back his sleeve. Merk braced himself, realizing they’d found it.
“What’s this?” the thief asked, grabbing his wrist and holding it up, examining it.
“It looks like a fox,” one said.
“What’s a monk doing with a tattoo of a fox?” another asked.
Another stepped forward, a tall, thin man with red hair, and grabbed his wrist and examined it closely. He let it go and looked up at Merk with cautious eyes.
“That’s no fox, you idiot,” he said to his men. “It’s a wolf. It’s the mark of a King’s man – a mercenary.”
Merk felt his face flush as he realized they were staring at his tattoo. He did not want to be discovered.
The thieves all remained silent, staring at it, and for the first time, Merk sensed hesitation in their faces.
“That’s the order of the killers,” one said, then looked at him. “How did you get that mark, boy?”
“Probably gave it to himself,” one answered. “Makes the road safer.”
The leader nodded to his man, who released his grip on Merk’s throat, and Merk breathed deep, relieved. But the leader then reached up and held a knife to Merk’s throat and Merk wondered if he would die here, today, in this place. He wondered if it would be punishment for all the killing he had done. He wondered if he was ready to die.
“Answer him,” their leader growled. “You give that to yourself, boy? They say you need to kill a hundred men to get that mark.”
Merk breathed, and in the long silence that followed, debated what to say. Finally, he sighed.
“A thousand,” he said.
The leader blinked back, confused.
“What?” he asked.
“A thousand men,” Merk explained. “That’s what gets you that tattoo. And it was given to me by King Tarnis himself.”
They all stared back, shocked, and a long silence fell over the wood, so quiet that Merk could hear the insects chirping. He wondered what would happen next.
One of them broke into hysterical laughter – and all the others followed. They laughed and guffawed as Merk stood there, clearly thinking it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
“That’s a good one, boy,” one said. “You’re as good a liar as you are a monk.”
The leader pushed the dagger against his throat, hard enough to begin to draw blood.
“I said, answer me,” the leader repeated. “A real answer. You want to die right now, boy?”
Merk stood there, feeling the pain, and he thought about the question – he truly thought about it. Did he want to die? It was a good question, and an even deeper question than the thief supposed. As he thought about it, really thought about, he realized that a part of him did want to die. He was tired of life, bone tired.
But as he dwelled on it, Merk ultimately realized he was not ready to die. Not now. Not today. Not when he was ready to start anew. Not when he was just beginning to enjoy life. He wanted a chance to change. He wanted a chance to serve in the Tower. To become a Watcher.
“No, actually I don’t,” Merk replied.
He finally looked his captor right in the eye, a resolve growing within him.
“And because of that,” he continued, “I’m going to give you one chance to release me, before I kill you all.”
They all looked at him in silent shock, before the leader scowled and began to break into action.
Merk felt the blade begin to slice his throat, and something within him took over. It was the professional part of him, the one he had trained his entire life, the part of him that could take no more. It meant breaking his vow – but he no longer cared.
