#agronak

“What do you want?” The question came out wearily, not as the growl she’d intended, and the boy didn’t appear cowed.

“Well, Iron Maiden, ma’am, you’re the Grand Champion now,” he said, as though she hadn’t noticed. “A celebrity. You’ll be wanting an assistant now, of course–someone to carry your bags, shine your shoes, keep away troublemakers. You needn’t pay me, or anything, it would be an honor to work for you…”

“No,” Sacha interrupted. The boy’s lower lip wobbled, and she sighed. “Look, you seem like a good kid. Stay away from me, I’m no champion.” Her eyes, humiliatingly, felt damp. She hadn’t cried when she’d been tossed in prison or seen the Emperor killed three feet in front of her, but now the tears came?

“Ma’am? Is something wrong?”

“I killed a good man today,” she said thickly. “And I didn’t do it honorably. Honestly, I killed him the day I showed him that bloody diary–the Agronak I took down today was just a shell.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “I knew something was off. His reflexes seemed slower than usual, and he barely lifted his shield–it was like he wanted you to win.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Sacha agreed. “He hired me to find information on his father, a while back, and I found out dear old Dad was a vampire. Agronak wanted the truth, so I told him, and you could say it shook him.” That was an understatement. She’d never forget how Agronak’s blunt, cheerful features had gone ashen at the contents of his father’s diary. Being half-vampire didn’t seem like such a tragedy to Sacha, but for someone who’d built his identity around some idea of lost nobility, maybe it could be.

“You gave him a noble death, ma’am,” the boy said quietly. “Mister Agronak’s old mum dropped by once, you know, and told me a bit about life in the strongholds. Apparently some of the elderly Orc folk go out into the wilderness in search of a good death in battle. Maybe the Gray Prince’s defeat isn’t what you wanted, but it’s what he wanted.”

Sacha looked up in surprise. She wouldn’t have expected a youngster with such a ridiculous hairstyle to be so wise. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Ben…ah, Benethir,” the boy stammered. “You can call me Ben, of course, or anything you want really.”

“Ben will do. How old are you? Got family in town?” Somehow she knew his second answer would be no. If there was anyone to look after the lad, he’d probably be in school, not spending all day watching idiots hack each other to pieces.

“Seventeen-ish, I think.” Ben cast her an anxious look, as though worried this would be too young for Sacha’s approval. “My parents died a few years ago, so I’ve been on my own–I mean, independent ever since.”

Annoyingly, Sacha felt her heart soften a bit. She’d been this kid, twenty-odd years ago; a scared urchin fleeing that horrendous Indoril plantation. Within a few years she’d been running scams in every backwater Deshaan village, before the Legion had finally tossed her in prison. Her strength and stubbornness had kept her alive in that pit, but a pup like this Ben wouldn’t last a month.

She’d never been one for charity or hangers-on, but perhaps it was time to make an exception.

“Right.” She stood, brushing off her trousers. “You good at hauling luggage and sweeping and that sort of thing?”

Ben’s eyes lit up. “I certainly can be, ma’am.”

“Smashing. I’ve got a house in Anvil that I frequently need to leave on missions that are none of your business, and it needs looking after while I’m away. Don’t worry, you’ll still have time to waste at the Arena, and a bit of pocket-money as well.” Sacha held out one hand, and the awed boy shook it. “Don’t make me regret this, kid.”