The marksman travelled at the rear of the group, several paces behind the cart and as far from the civilians as the narrow paths allowed.
The Levantine courier had ordered him to remain there. Whenever the road narrowed, the courier waited for him to pass alone before allowing the others to follow. His weapon stayed within reach, and he looked back often enough that the marksman understood he was being watched.
The marksman did not object. The civilians still recognised the Teutonic armour, the Vallistra, and the orange hair beneath his hood. Some watched him whenever they believed he was not looking. Others refused to turn their backs upon him at all.
The wounded travellers feared him most. One murmured that the marksman had only joined them so that he could guide the Order towards Castle Rust. The other believed the Watchmen had deliberately allowed him to escape for the same reason. The marksman heard both accusations and offered no defence.
Instead, he gave the courier what information he could. He explained how Watchmen searched from above, how they circled an area before descending, and how they marked the movement of those below for ground forces. He described the signals used by Skirmishers, the formations used during a pursuit, and the ridges upon which the Komtur would place observers.
“The Komtur will expect us to take the shortest route towards Fallow Mire.”
“Then he will place men upon the high ground overlooking it.”
“He will expect us to know that.”
“Then what does he expect us to do?”
“Turn away from the obvious route. He will leave it open and watch where we go instead.”
The courier looked towards him.
“You speak as though you are still standing beside him.”
“I stood beside him long enough to know how he thinks.”
“That does not answer whether you still serve him.”
“If I still served him, Alarich would be dead.”
The courier did not respond, but he changed their direction.
They left the clearer road and moved through ground broken by stone and shallow water. The cart struggled over the uneven earth, forcing the civilians to lift its wheels whenever they sank. The marksman helped only when ordered. Whenever he approached, those gathered around the cart moved aside.
The courier accepted his knowledge. He did not accept the man providing it.
By nightfall, the group found shelter beneath a ridge where the stone curved over the remains of an old road. The civilians gathered deeper inside while the marksman was kept near the entrance. No fire was lit. The Watchmen would have seen it.
The group ate what remained of the food Alarich had taken from the Teutonic camp. The child sat near the wounded travellers and watched the marksman through the darkness. He tried not to look back.
Alarich kept the Black Ledger beneath his robes. The marksman had seen its shape while aiming from the ridge, but he had not yet seen what was written inside. He waited until the group had settled before turning towards the priest.
“Show me the Ledger.”
“No.”
“I abandoned the Order because of what you claim it contains.”
“You abandoned the Order because you refused an order.”
“An order given because of that book.”
Alarich placed one hand over the volume beneath his robes.
“You destroyed their supplies and injured two soldiers. You may decide that burning the evidence is the easiest way to undo what followed.”
“If I wanted it destroyed, I could have fired at it while you stood below the ridge.”
“You could also have killed me.”
“I did not.”
“One missed shot does not earn you the right to hold it.”
The courier watched from nearby but did not interrupt.
“You told the civilians that the Order had already written them dead. You told the courier that the same would happen to others. If I am expected to follow you towards the Brotherhood, I will see why.”
“You are not expected to follow me.”
“Then I will see why I chose to.”
Alarich examined him for several moments before removing the Black Ledger from beneath his robes. That cover was simple black leather without a title or symbol. One corner had been damaged during the journey, and several pages were stained by rain and dirt.
He did not hand it to the marksman. Instead, he opened it across his own knees.
The first pages contained casualty totals copied from Teutonic field reports. Beside them were the numbers later entered into the official record. Teutonic losses had been reduced. Levantine deaths had increased. Missing soldiers had been declared alive when admitting their deaths would have made an assault appear too costly.
Further into the Ledger, prisoners became enemy fighters. Men brought into camp alive appeared several days later among those killed during battle. Others were recorded as having died while escaping, even when Alarich had written their wounds and restraints beside the original account.
The next pages concerned settlements. Places first described by scouts as farms, roadside villages, or communities of uncertain loyalty later became confirmed Assassin positions. Destroyed homes became fortifications, while unarmed inhabitants became collaborators.
The marksman read without speaking until he recognised the name of one settlement. His hand stopped above the page.
“I fought there.”
“When?”
“Near the beginning of the invasion.”
He remembered the ridge overlooking the settlement. He had been told that Levantine archers had taken shelter among the buildings and intended to strike the Teutonic column passing below. He remembered firing at figures moving between the houses. He could no longer remember how many.
“We were told the village held archers.”
“No archers were confirmed before the attack.”
“They fired upon us.”
“Some may have.”
“Then the report was correct.”
Alarich turned the page.
The official justification had been written after the settlement was destroyed. The first account described uncertain movement near the buildings. The later version called it a prepared Levantine position and described organised resistance that no earlier report mentioned.
“They told us the inhabitants had hidden weapons.”
“No weapons were recorded as recovered.”
“That does not mean there were none.”
“No. It means the Order wrote certainty where there was none existed.”
A list of the dead had been added beneath the report. Some were named. Others were recorded only by number.
The marksman did not know which of them had fallen beneath his bolts. He closed the Ledger.
“You wrote these reports.”
“I copied some of them.”
“You gave them permanence.”
“Yes.”
“Soldiers were sent into villages because men like you recorded them as Assassin positions.”
Alarich did not deny it.
“At first, I believed the changes protected morale. I believed the commanders understood matters that had not reached my table.”
“You believed what was easiest.”
“So did you.”
The marksman looked towards him.
“I told myself that changing a number preserved confidence in the Order. I told myself that hiding a failed assault prevented disorder. When prisoners disappeared, I accepted the account given to me because questioning it would have meant questioning the men above me.”
“You did more than accept it. You gave it the Father’s approval.”
Alarich’s expression tightened.
“You told soldiers that obedience gave violence purpose. You told me the burden belonged to those who gave the order. You made obedience sound righteous.”
“And when you took aim, did my hand touch the trigger?”
The marksman said nothing.
“Did the report load your Vallistra?”
“It told me who the enemy was.”
“And you accepted it.”
“Because you taught me to.”
“I taught you a lie. You still chose to believe it.”
Neither man spoke for some time. Several civilians were listening from deeper beneath the stone, while the courier remained near the entrance and pretended to watch the road.
Alarich rested one hand upon the closed Ledger.
“I copied false reports before I resisted them. I defended the mission after I had reason to doubt it. I warned one settlement only after others had already burned.”
“And I fired upon them.”
“Yes.”
“You want me to say the bolts belonged to me.”
“They did.”
“Then the words in the Ledger belong to you.”
Alarich lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
There was no forgiveness between them. There was only the knowledge which neither could claim to have been forced from the beginning.
Both had served willingly. Both had found comfort in obedience. Both had recognised the truth after others had already suffered for it.
The child had moved closer while they spoke. Alarich noticed first. The child stood several steps away, watching the Black Ledger. The marksman moved his Vallistra aside so that it no longer rested between them. The child pointed towards the book.
“My family is in there.”
Alarich opened it again. The child knew the names even if they could not read every word. A parent, an older relative, and two others from the settlement appeared among those listed as armed collaborators. The marksman studied the dates.
“They were called collaborators before the settlement was searched.”
“Yes.”
The child looked at the black cross still visible upon the marksman’s clothing.
“You came with them.”
“I served the Order.”
“Did you burn our homes?”
“No.”
“Did you burn other homes?”
The marksman lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You missed the priest.”
“I did.”
“That does not rebuild anything.”
“No.”
The child returned to the civilians. The marksman noticed them go. The Ledger had contained names, numbers, and places, but the child had given those words a face.
He had invested years striking targets from a distance. From a ridge, people became shapes. Villages became positions. Lines of movement became enemy advances.
The Black Ledger showed what remained when the distance was removed.
They left the shelter before dawn. The courier selected a route that curved away from the direct approach to Fallow Mire. The marksman had warned that the Komtur would expect them to avoid the obvious crossing, but there were several alternatives and little time to decide between them.
The Watchmen found them before midday. The first passed high above the trees and turned east. A second appeared soon afterwards, lower than the first, following the broken ground towards the mire.
“They have found the cart,” the marksman said.
The courier looked upwards.
“They cannot see through the trees.”
“They do not need to. The wheels leave marks in the softer ground.”
The marksman pointed towards the ridge behind them.
“The first Watchman is directing soldiers towards our previous path. The second is scanning ahead for where we leave cover.”
“Can we lose them?”
“Not while we keep the cart.”
One of the wounded travellers heard him.
“You intend to leave us?”
“No.”
“That is what you said.”
“I said the cart leaves a trail. I did not say we would abandon it.”
The courier looked towards the road ahead.
“Then find another route.”
The marksman led them towards a narrow passage where the road passed beneath a suspended load of timber and stone. The materials had been gathered for repairs that were never completed.
He waited until the cart passed beneath them before raising the Vallistra and firing into the rope holding the load.
The rope split, dropping the timber and stone across the path behind them. The fall blocked the easiest route for anyone following on foot, though the sound travelled through the valley.
“That will tell them exactly where we are,” the courier said.
“They already know.”
Further ahead, a narrow bridge crossed a channel leading into the outer waters of Fallow Mire. It was strong enough to hold the cart if the group crossed carefully, one person at a time.
The civilians went first. The marksman waited until everyone had reached the opposite side. When the first Teutonic figures appeared upon the distant path, he fired at the fastening beneath the bridge.
The peg broke. One side of the bridge dropped into the water, leaving the pursuing soldiers without a direct crossing.
The courier watched him reload.
“You could have struck the first man.”
“The bridge delays all of them.”
“It also leaves them alive to find another way.”
“That was the intention.”
The courier moved closer.
“Your intention may kill the people you claim to be protecting.”
“Killing every soldier we see will not make us safer.”
“No. But refusing to kill any of them may make you feel cleaner.”
The marksman did not answer. They reached higher ground where old metal markers hung from wooden frames. Travellers once had used them to signal across the marsh whenever mist covered the paths.
The marksman struck one with a bolt. Its note carried towards the north. He then struck another further west, causing a different sound to echo across the wet ground.
One Watchman turned towards the false signals. The second continued following the refugees. It descended low enough for the marksman to see the straps and fastenings that held the glider open. He raised the Vallistra.
“Do not miss,” the courier said.
“I will not.”
The bolt struck a fastening upon one side of the glider. The material folded unevenly, forcing the Watchman to turn away and descend upon safer ground.
The marksman had not struck the man, but he had removed him from the pursuit.
They continued towards the protected route leading to Castle Rust. As night approached, lights appeared behind them. Soldiers carried lanterns across the broken ground, using them to signal their positions while the remaining Watchmen directed them from above.
The marksman extinguished the nearest lantern with a bolt. He struck another where its light appeared through a narrow opening in the rocks. For a time, the signals stopped.
The ground became less certain as they moved further into the mire. Water collected beneath the reeds, and stone paths disappeared beneath dark mud. The courier knew the approach to Castle Rust, but the Teutonic pursuit forced them away from the safest route.
The marksman continued firing at ropes, lights, and equipment. He did not strike a person. Each time, the pursuing soldiers moved closer.
The courier finally seized his arm.
“You are choosing them over us.”
The marksman freed himself.
“I am delaying them.”
“You are sparing them.”
“They were my comrades.”
“And these people now depend upon you.”
The marksman looked towards the cart. The wounded travellers were exhausted, and the civilians struggled to drag the wheels through the wet ground. The child walked beside them without complaint.
The courier lowered his voice.
“You may refuse to take another life because you fear what it will make you. That does not make the refusal merciful when someone else dies for it.”
The marksman looked back towards the approaching lights. Until then, restraint had allowed him to believe he had separated himself from the Order. Teutonic soldiers killed because they were commanded. He would disable equipment, break crossings, and delay pursuit without striking flesh. It was a difference he wanted to preserve. The refugees did not have the safety to preserve it with him.
A shout came from the ridge above the marsh. A Teutonic soldier had reached a position overlooking the group and raised a ranged weapon towards the path below.
The courier saw him and pushed the nearest civilian aside. The marksman turned. There was no rope to cut, no lantern to extinguish, and no mechanism to break. The Teutonic aimed towards the courier. The marksman fired.
His bolt struck the soldier before the other weapon could be released. The man fell backwards from the edge of the ridge and disappeared from sight. The sound of his weapon striking the stone followed several moments later.
The marksman was motionless. He had known the distance, the position, and the movement the body would make after the bolt struck. The shot had been no more difficult than many he had taken before.
This one appeared different. No Komtur had selected the target. No report had named the man an enemy. The marksman had seen the danger, made the decision, and released the bolt.
The courier looked towards the ridge and then towards him.
“You saved my life.”
“I had no choice.”
Alarich stood close to the cart.
“You had a choice.”
“He was about to fire.”
“Yes.”
“If I had hesitated, the courier could have died.”
“Yes.”
“Then there was no choice.”
“There was always a choice.”
The marksman looked at him.
“You could have refused to fire. You could have allowed his shot to be taken. You could have chosen a dozen different actions, each bearing its own consequence.”
“Only one of them saved him.”
“Then say that.”
The marksman looked towards the place where the soldier had fallen.
“I chose to kill him because failing to act would have cost another life.”
Alarich nodded.
“That is not the same as having no choice.”
The marksman said nothing.
“You want the decision to have been forced upon you. Then the dead man becomes another burden placed upon your hands by someone else.”
“What should I have done?”
“I cannot answer that for you.”
“Then what use is this?”
“To make you admit that the answer was yours.”
The courier called for them to move.
The marksman followed, leaving the dead soldier upon the ridge behind them. He did not celebrate the shot or claim that the man deserved to die.
He accepted only that he had released the bolt and that the courier remained alive because of it.
The protected path towards Castle Rust began beyond a line of stone markers half-submerged in the mire. The courier recognised them and increased the group’s pace. The civilians were exhausted, but the draw of Brotherhood territory drew them forward.
They did not reach the walls alone. Figures appeared among the reeds ahead, while others moved into position behind them. The marksman raised the Vallistra, but the courier struck the weapon down.
“Levantines.”
The group stopped.
Guards emerged first, fanning out across the path and securing the approaches. Their weapons remained fixed upon the marksman while others moved towards the civilians and wounded travellers.
Wardens followed. One took the Vallistra from the marksman’s hands. Another forced his arms behind his back and closed Shackles around his wrists.
He did not resist. The courier spoke quickly to the officer leading them.
“The priest carries Teutonic records. The civilians came from a settlement destroyed by the Order. The wounded require treatment.”
“And him?”
The courier looked towards the marksman.
“He helped us escape.”
The marksman waited.
“I will not vouch for his loyalty. He is Teutonic. He knows their signals and routes. He also killed one of the men pursuing us.”
The officer turned towards Alarich.
“Is that true?”
“It is.”
“Is he with you?”
Alarich looked towards the Shackles.
“He was given the opportunity to kill us and chose otherwise.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No. He is not with us.”
The marksman understood the answer. He had travelled beside them, fought for them, and entered the mire with them.
That did not make him one of them.
More Levantines appeared along the path leading towards Castle Rust. Several wore the equipment of Rangers.
One stopped when he saw the orange hair.
“I remember the hair.”
The marksman looked towards him.
“You were on the eastern ridge.”
The Warden holding the Shackles tightened his grip as the Ranger approached closer.
“My unit crossed the valley below you. Three of us fell before we reached the trees.”
“I was there.”
“You fired?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
The marksman remembered the figures moving across that distant valley.
“I released five bolts. I saw four strike.”
The Ranger’s hand moved towards his weapon. The marksman stayed motionless.
He did not reduce the number. He did not claim that another Skirmisher might have fired the shots. He did not say that he had only followed orders.
The Ranger looked towards the Warden.
“Keep the Shackles on him.”
The civilians were led along the protected path, while the wounded travellers were lifted from the cart and carried by the Guards.
When the walls of Castle Rust became visible through the mist, the marksman entered beneath them as a prisoner.
Scholars received Alarich before anyone else. Archivists met the group inside the stronghold and accepted the Black Ledger only after he explained what it contained. He insisted that the copied seals, casualty totals, names, and original accounts be preserved together.
He also insisted that the marksman’s testimony be recorded. One Archivist looked towards the Shackled Teutonic.
“Why?”
“Because the Ledger records what the Order wrote. He can testify to what its soldiers were told.”
“Do you trust him?”
“No.”
“Then why preserve his words?”
“Because truth does not become worthless merely because the person speaking it is guilty.”
The marksman was taken deeper into Castle Rust beneath Warden guard. No one welcomed him. No one offered him the clothing of the Brotherhood or promised that his assistance would be rewarded. His Vallistra was carried away as captured property, and the Teutonic cross remained upon his armour as evidence of what he had been.
The shot had carried Alarich out of the Teutonic Order. It had carried the refugees towards Fallow Mire and the marksman into Shackles beneath the walls of Castle Rust.
Only then did he understand that a shot could travel far beyond the place where its bolt struck.