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The watchman was cooking fish. He had cut red-chested salmon open and spread them on tilted planks by the fire, and gray wisps of smoke were carrying the smell towards the mountain. The watchman was leaning back, thinking of not much at all, content to let his bones and his mind have a moment of rest as he breathed in the first day of the fall.
Slow wash of waves. The crackle of fire. Birdsong from the hills. Sun inching across the sky, the shadow of the watchtower creeping closer and the wind that carried the first hint of the biting cold. The watchman lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Two people were coming down the side of the mountain.
He was up before he knew what had raised him. A bucket of sand to quench the fire, the fish gathered in haste, then a dash to the foot of his tower. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. He had the thought to rush up high, cut off the water that was the only way to the top and wait for the visitors there. Perhaps they would pass him by. He was just a watchman, after all, not anyone of might and not a man of riches either. They could take the fish. Nothing much else he had to give.
They would not be satisfied with just the fish this time, though. They were after commodities far more precious. The watchman shivered. It was fall already, and even when it had been summer he did not have enough life in him to keep him warm.
He decided to wait right where he was. This was his land, his post, and no sorcerer would scare him off his duty. He did not have much to give, but he also had almost nothing to lose. No threats they could make; he was already alone.
—
The sun was sinking and the clouds were red when they arrived.
Two men wearing self-satisfied grins, not asking for permission to get close, showing entirely too little fear. “Hello there, Ren,” they said. “How polite of you to be waiting for us. How are you this fine evening?”
“I’m good, thank you kindly for asking,” he said, letting the cold he ever felt creep to his voice. “What do you want?”
“Good, oh, that is wonderful, I’m glad to hear it, but are you really? With those sickly eyes and just a single breath separating you from a beast? Waiting here to have your soul ripped from your body by anyone who decides to take interest?”
The watchman turned away. “That’s my business and not yours. Have you come to threaten me then, Scar?”
The sorcerer was visibly amused. “Oh, no. No, no, no, quite the opposite! We are here to propose a deal for you. A mutually beneficial one! Right, Joel?”
His companion’s smile was sinister, voice lower, eyes darker. “Exactly. It’s a deal you won’t refuse.”
Ren twisted back. He rarely let his anger show, but it was always there, a constant brought on by this long, miserable, fragile and lonely life, and fanned by the threat of the red haze that could be upon him if he made a single mistake. Staying calm was a courtesy, and these arrogant men making mockery of him deserved none of it. “No! I have told you this time and time again: I will not sell you a life. It’s not going to happen! There’s no deal we can make. Get out of here now, or…” His hand was on the hilt of his sword, his teeth were bared, and for all their magic and trickery, he would fight them. They had not even put on their armor. The watchman should have never taken his off.
Scar did take a step back, and Joel reached for his own sword. “You misunderstand.” Scar’s voice was softer now, very measured, playfulness gone. “We’re not asking for your soul. We wish to give you one.”
Sun was sinking. Shadows merging now. Monsters waking. Above them, the first star.
“A… soul?” Oh, it had been so long since he had even had hope. He might feel the tips of his fingers again. His memories might have color. He might live.
“Indeed.” Joel was grinning. “Let’s go up your tower and negotiate. That’s what this place is for, right?”
The watchtower of no allegiance, the neutral ground, safety for the watchman and for anyone he would invite. It had been a while since he had guests. It could be a trap, he very briefly thought, but with just a hint, a suggestion of him being whole again, his usual vigilance had disappeared. After all, he had so little to lose.
—
“So, what exactly are you suggesting? What’s the deal?”
Ren was impatient. He had offered the mountain lords fish and water, and they had taken the food, and taken seats, and began chattering of wholly inconsequential things, of constellations and crystals and of how the watchtower would look more cheerful if he decorated it with a tad more color.
Joel finished chewing down his last bite, took a sip from his cup and only then turned to look at him. “Nothing complicated. We want your loyalty, and in exchange for that, we will restore your life.”
“As simple as that?”
“Absolutely. As we said, a mutually beneficial arrangement. Just friendship and goodwill on our part. Here.” Scar reached inside his robes and took out a glass vial. Inside, something green and glistening swirled, some wondrous energy trying to find its way to freedom. “A recent acquisition. A very perky soul, full of life force and hope and invigoration. And it could be all yours, for the extremely low, low price of eternal service and gratitude.”
Ren felt himself leaning forward, towards the vial, eyes fixed on the motion of the life trapped inside. His throat was dry. What would it be like, to feel the blood rushing in his veins again, have his cheeks be red instead of pale like Scar’s lips were red, have his voice take on the melody that the mountain men could summon simply by the power of having an excess of life passing through their hands. It took a moment for him to catch on to the words being said. “Wait—service?” He blinked fast. No matter the temptation, he needed a clear head here. “You want to make me a servant?”
“No, no… well, yes, but we don’t need to call it that.” Scar let his fingers play with the flask, turned it around, shook it gently. “It’s a fair price. Although—I went too far with the “eternal”. Only until you are on your last life, of course. We are not asking for the impossible.”
“No,” Ren said. He had to blink again. His voice carried no conviction.
“No? Are you sure?”
“I…”
“Oh, whatever.” Joel stood up. “Sod it. Let’s go. It’s not like we need him. I told you, there are better uses for that soul.”
Scar hid the vial in his hand but did not leave his seat. He was looking at Ren intently, taking in his gaunt features, his lack of magic, his lack of power. “But our watchman here needs it! Joel, just look at him! You’d make it far with us, Ren. So much further than out here alone.”
Might be true. How grand a power the chaos mages of the tallest peak were was not the deciding factor here, though. The only thing, the only important thing was the warmth radiating from the vial, the low swish Ren could still hear, even if the soul was hidden, that rose and fell quite like a heartbeat. He needed it. He might lie to them and they would be on their way—Ren assumed they would not murder him in retaliation tonight—and nothing would change. Sometimes he was content with what he had. Sometimes he was able to lay on the shore, smell the faintest hint of the cooking salmon and the coming fall, and pretend it was enough.
It was not enough.
“If I would do this, which I’m not saying I’m doing yet,” he said, “how would it go down?”
The dark enchanter of the cavern grinned. “Easy. You swear an oath to us, you get the soul, and it’s done.”
“An oath. To be the servant of the mountain?”
“To faithfully serve the mountain and its lords.”
“Oh, you can come up with the exact words yourself.” Scar chuckled. “You’re a poet at heart, Ren! I’m certain you can think of a fine oath, and if we’re not satisfied with it, you can do it again!”
“And then I’d need to do anything you say? Excuse me doubting your good intentions, gentlemen, but that feels like I would be jumping out of the frying pan right into the fire.”
“You need not worry about that! You’ll like it with us. We are—we have, uh, honor?”
Joel barked a laugh. “We’re practical, is what he’s trying to say. We won’t waste an asset, and we would protect our own.”
It was a bad deal. There was no way around it. The watchman considered himself an upright man; his honesty and honor were what defined him, what kept his limbs moving even if the virtue did nothing to warm his old bones. Shackled to the mountain he would be siding with iniquity and deception. There were hardly any good places left in the world, but even so, the mountain had to be one of the worst.
It was a bad, bad deal. He would take it anyway.
Very slowly he rose from his seat. Scar looked up at him, still confident, still smiling, his geniality still all pretense. He could feel Joel’s stare that was the threat backing up their offer. The sides of the tower were open, wind blew through him, night blew through him, it stripped him of honesty and carried away what remained of the humble, decent, conscientious man he had once been.
“I,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I accept your offer.”
The sorcerer grinned. He opened his hand and on his palm rested the wondrous vial of life.
“Give us the oath then, Ren,” Joel said. “Make it good. Get on your knees.”
Eyes fixed on the green light, Ren kneeled down on the hard floor. He swore his loyalty through his lives and his flesh and the eternal, all-consuming void, from this day to the unforeseeable future until he would finally be claimed by the red disease.
When he rose, when Scar flicked open the vial and he was bathing in green and when inside him bloomed the warmth so precious he almost cried, he could not even bring himself to grieve what he had lost.
The watchman was no more.