The distance was not difficult.
The breeze was still, the light remained clear, and Brother Alarich stood exposed upon the path below. The orange-haired marksman rested his Vallistra against the stone and watched him through its slim sight.
Behind Alarich waited the people who had fled the settlement. Several civilians gathered around the rough cart carrying the wounded, while the child remained close to one of the adults. A hooded Levantine stood amid them and the ridge with a weapon ready.
Alarich looked upwards.
Even from that distance, the marksman knew the priest had recognised him. Alarich then moved away from the others, ignoring the courier who reached out to stop him. He continued until several open steps separated him from the civilians.
The marksman understood what he was doing.
Alarich was offering the Teutonics a single target. If the Order had truly come only for the priest and the records he had stolen, there would be no reason to fire upon those behind him. He had placed himself far enough away that a bolt passing through his body would strike no one else.
The marksman adjusted the Vallistra and settled his aim over Alarich’s chest.
“Brother Alarich,” the Komtur said. “Confirmed.”
Alarich carried no sword, crossbow, or visible blade. His robes moved slightly in the wind, and beneath them the marksman could see the shape of something tied against his body. The stolen records.
The Komtur approached closer.
“Fire.”
The marksman did not move.
He had been trained to notice everything around a target. He saw the wounded travellers upon the cart, the frightened civilians beside them, and the child looking towards the ridge. He saw the Levantine courier preparing to pull Alarich back into cover.
None of them were advancing. None of them were attacking.
A soldier saw the enemy in front of him. A commander saw the whole field. The Order saw the war itself, and the Father saw the reason for it.
The marksman had repeated those ideas for years. Now the whole field lay before him, and it did not match the order he had been given. He placed his finger against the trigger and released the bolt.
It crossed the distance in an instant. Alarich heard it pass close to his head before it struck the earth several steps beyond him. The priest did not fall.
For a moment, everyone stood calm. Then the civilians began pulling Alarich back towards them, while the Levantine courier searched the ridge for the next shot.
The Komtur looked towards the mark left in the ground.
The bolt had not passed wide because of poor aim. It had travelled exactly where the marksman intended it to go.
A Skirmisher of his reputation did not miss an exposed target at that distance, in still air, after being given time to prepare.
The Komtur turned towards him. “Reload.”
The marksman opened the Vallistra and reached for another bolt. His hands remained steady, but his movements were slower than before.
“Fire again,” the Komtur said.
The marksman placed the bolt into the weapon but did not raise it.
“Will the civilians be spared?”
“Brother Alarich carries stolen military records into enemy territory.”
“The others do not.”
“They shelter him.”
“They are wounded and unarmed.”
“One of them is a Levantine.”
“One.”
The Komtur looked down towards the path.
“The priest has joined an Assassin cell. Anyone travelling beside him has chosen the same cause.”
“The child has chosen a cause?”
The Komtur turned back towards him.
“There are no civilians among those who shelter an enemy of the Father.”
The marksman lowered the Vallistra. This time, he made no attempt to hide his refusal. The Komtur stared at him.
“Raise your weapon.”
The marksman did not.
“I gave you an order.”
“The order is false.”
The words left him before he had fully considered what they meant. Several Skirmishers turned towards him, and the Komtur stepped closer.
“You were not asked to judge it.”
The marksman looked towards Alarich and the refugees. “I can see them.”
“You see only the ground underneath this ridge.”
“I see enough.”
The Komtur raised one hand. “Take his weapon.”
A Skirmisher moved behind the marksman and reached for the Vallistra, while another seized his shoulder and attempted to pull him away from the edge. The marksman jerked free before the first soldier could secure the weapon.
The soldier caught its strap, but the marksman drove his elbow backwards and pulled the Vallistra out of his grip. The second tried to restrain his arm and was pushed aside. Nearby, a sword left its sheath.
“Hold him,” the Komtur ordered.
The marksman looked at the soldiers surrounding him. Some had trained beside him. Others had fought beside him through the invasion. None of them had expected him to resist.
He turned the Vallistra away from the path below.
For a moment, the Skirmishers believed he was aiming at them. Instead, he raised the weapon towards the supplies gathered further along the ridge.
The cache had been prepared for the pursuit. It held spare bolts, bowstrings, tools, oil, and other equipment intended for the Skirmishers and Watchmen. A lantern burned beside it, hanging from a wooden post above several sealed containers.
The Komtur followed the Vallistra's direction. “No!”
The marksman fired.
The bolt destroyed the lantern. Burning oil spread across the wood and cloth beneath it, carrying the flames towards the other containers.
The soldiers nearest to the cache turned to run. The explosion threw them from their feet.
Fire rose across the ridge as fragments of wood and metal struck the surrounding stone. Smoke spread between the marksman and the Komtur, while two Teutonic soldiers fell near the burning supplies.
One cried out as the others rushed to pull him from the flames. The second stayed motionless until another Skirmisher dragged him away by the arms. The marksman watched them.
He had aimed at the lantern, but he had known what surrounded it. He had known the fire could spread and that soldiers were standing nearby.
He had not intended to strike either man. Intention did not change what had happened.
The Komtur’s voice carried through the smoke. “Traitor!”
Below the ridge, the Levantine courier was already forcing the group to move. Alarich looked towards the flames before disappearing behind the rocks with the others.
The explosion had given them time, though it had also injured two men who had formerly trusted the marksman to stand beside them.
A Skirmisher came through the smoke with his weapon raised. The marksman struck it aside and pushed him against the stone. He could have fired upon him, but he did not.
Another soldier moved to block the path leading down from the ridge. The marksman drew a bolt and aimed at the fastening holding a section of climbing rope against the rock.
The bolt struck the metal loop and tore it free. The rope fell away, taking part of the narrow wooden platform with it and forcing the soldier to step back.
The marksman turned and ran. Behind him, the Komtur continued shouting orders.
“Close the lower path! Watchmen to the western slope! Do not let him reach the fugitives!”
The route down the ridge was narrow and had been prepared so the Skirmishers could move quickly between their positions. A former comrade followed close behind him and raised his Vallistra.
The marksman fired first. His bolt struck the other weapon’s shoulder strap. The strap tore apart, and the Vallistra fell against the stone before it could be aimed.
Another fastening secured a wooden crossing above a break in the ridge. The marksman waited until he had passed over it before firing into the peg that held it in place. The crossing shifted and fell sideways.
It did not collapse completely, but it forced the pursuing soldiers to stop and climb around it.
The marksman used every shot carefully. He struck ropes, straps, fastenings, and loose stone, avoiding flesh wherever he could.
Behind him, the fire continued to spread through the supply cache. The Skirmishers could not carry on the pursuit while their ammunition burned and their wounded remained beside the flames.
The marksman reached a lower section of the ridge and looked back. Several soldiers were pulling the injured from the fire. He recognised one of them.
The man had trained beside him during his first months among the Skirmishers. They had divided food during long patrols and argued over which of them had made the better shot during practice.
Now the man’s clothing was burned along one side. One soldier held him beneath the arms while another tried to smother the flames.
The marksman stopped. His refusal had saved Alarich and the civilians, but it had likewise done this.
For years, he believed the burden of violence could be passed to the person who gave the command. He believed obedience separated duty from murder and allowed the soldier to place responsibility in the hands of those above him.
This time, no one had ordered him to fire. No commander had chosen the lantern. No priest had directed his hand. The decision had been his, and so were the consequences.
A bolt struck the stone near his feet. The marksman turned and continued down the ridge.
As he ran, he removed the cord and metal badge that marked his office among the Skirmishers. He held them for a moment before dropping them upon the path.
He did not remove the rest of his uniform. His armour, cloak, and equipment still marked him as Teutonic, making it impossible for anyone below to mistake him for an ally.
He carried only his Vallistra, the bolts still attached to his equipment, and enough supplies to reach the valley.
The Komtur’s voice followed him down the ridge.
“You will be named before the whole Order! You will be hunted as an enemy of the Father!”
The marksman did not answer.
The route below divided between the road towards the Teutonic patrols and the broken ground leading towards Fallow Mire. For the first time, no officer stood next to him to choose between them.
He followed the refugees.
Alarich’s group had not travelled far.
The wounded cart slowed them, and the civilians were already exhausted from the journey. The Levantine courier had taken them away from the open path and into a narrow passage between the rocks.
The marksman saw them before they saw him.
He stopped at the edge of the path, but the courier turned almost immediately and raised a weapon. “Do not move.”
The civilians looked back. Several recognised the Teutonic armour and pulled the child and wounded further away. One man raised a farming tool as though it were a spear, while another moved in front of the cart.
Then the child saw his hair. The fear upon the child’s face changed into recognition.
“The one from the ridges,” the child said. The words moved through the group.
Some had heard stories of an orange-haired Teutonic marksman who struck Levantines from distances where no returning shot could reach him. Others had seen the warnings passed between Brotherhood patrols.
The marksman kept his Vallistra lowered.
“You followed us,” the courier said.
“Yes.”
“To finish what you began?”
“No.”
“Put the Vallistra down.”
The marksman hesitated. It was the only weapon he had held for years, and without it he would stand before a Levantine and a group of frightened civilians with no means to defend himself.
The courier came closer. “Put it down.”
The marksman lowered the Vallistra towards the earth. Before he released it, Alarich moved between them. The courier looked at him.
“Move.”
“He had the opportunity to kill us,” Alarich said.
“He still does.”
“He chose not to.”
“That does not make him our ally.”
“No,” Alarich answered. “It does not.”
The marksman understood that the priest was not defending his innocence. He was only stating what had happened. The courier kept the weapon raised.
“Why should I allow him near the group?”
“Because the Order will follow him as surely as it follows us,” Alarich said. “And because he knows how they will do it.”
“He may also know how to lead them here.”
The marksman answered before Alarich could.
“The northern descent is blocked. The supply cache is burning, and much of the Skirmishers’ ammunition was stored there. They will use the Watchmen to mark our direction and send ground forces towards the western route.”
The courier studied him. “How long do we have?”
“Not long enough.”
The courier lowered the weapon slightly. “Walk ahead of me.”
The marksman picked up the Vallistra but kept it pointed towards the ground. The civilians moved aside as he approached. None welcomed him, and most avoided looking directly at him. The child did not.
The marksman recognised the same fear he had once seen upon the face of the young Levantine before releasing a bolt. This time, he had no order behind which to hide.
Alarich waited until the group began moving again. He then walked beside the marksman, though neither spoke at first.
Smoke from the ridge rose above the rocks behind them. The flames had grown bright enough to be seen even as the light faded. Alarich looked towards them.
“What did you strike?”
“A lantern beside the supplies.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
The marksman did not answer immediately.
“Two soldiers.”
“Did you intend to strike them?”
“No.”
“But you knew they were near the cache.”
“Yes.”
Alarich continued walking. The marksman looked towards him.
“You want to know why I missed.”
“I did not ask.”
“You were going to.”
Alarich looked towards the path ahead. “Then tell me.”
The marksman tried to find an answer that explained the decision. He had no Creed to repeat, no commander to instruct him, and no Father to reveal the correct path.
“The command was false,” he said. “The civilians were not soldiers, and you were unarmed.”
Alarich looked at him.
“All of that was true before you loaded the bolt.”
The marksman said nothing.
“You saw the civilians before the Komtur gave the order,” Alarich continued. “You saw that I carried no weapon. The command did not become false only when you refused it.”
“I believed the Komtur knew something I did not.”
“When did you stop believing that?”
“When he said there were no civilians.”
Alarich looked back towards the people following the cart.
"They existed before he admitted they did not.”
The marksman tightened his grip around the Vallistra.
“You told me the burden belonged to those who gave the order.”
“I did.”
“You told me discipline gave violence purpose.”
“I did.”
“And now?”
Alarich took several steps before answering.
“Now I know that discipline can also give a man permission not to question what he already sees.”
The marksman looked towards him. Alarich did not appear grateful or forgiving. He only looked tired.
“I helped teach you the lie,” Alarich said. “You chose to believe it because it made obedience easier.”
The marksman looked away.
Behind them, another section of the supply cache exploded. Red light spread across the ridge, and smoke covered the Teutonic cross raised above the position.
Alarich stopped walking. “Do you intend to return?”
The marksman looked towards the burning ridge. Men he had served beside were still there. The Komtur was still there. Everything he had known remained beneath the banner of the Order.
His badge now lay upon the path behind him, and the flames could be seen from every Teutonic position in the valley. The Komtur had named him a traitor, and the Watchmen would carry that name across the campaign. There was no path back that did not end in chains or death.
“No,” the marksman said.
Alarich looked towards Castle Rust and the road ahead.
“Then you should understand what waits in front of you.”
“The Brotherhood.”
“The people you fired upon.”
The marksman looked at the civilians travelling beside them. Some had lost homes to the Order. Others may have lost relatives to Teutonic soldiers. Some may have known Levantines killed by bolts he had released.
One missed shot would not erase the others. Alarich began walking again, and the marksman followed. Behind him, the ridge burned red beneath the Teutonic cross.
Before him stood the priest he had been commanded to kill, the civilians he had been told did not exist and the road towards a Brotherhood that remembered every bolt he had loosed against it.
For the first time, no command told him where to walk.