This was the seediest tavern in the seediest section of Brosse, and likely so in all of the Veld Lands, or even across the whole of the known Realm. It was a rundown place frequented by many who would live in the shadows of society. The ale flowed freely and nightly fights were the chief form of entertainment. The management had but three rules enforced by a number of burly bar wardens: surrender all blades at the door; hands off the barmaids; and pay your tab, with extra emphasis on the last one.

Destiny was an infrequent visitor.

A defiant man with gray-streaked brown hair and a prominent scar on his left cheek flew out of the doorway and tumbled across the dusty pathway. With gritted teeth, Waithe scrambled up to his feet, stirring a small cloud of reddish dirt. As he staggered in a partial stupor, he flexed his ample arm muscles and drew his hands up in tight fists. Middle fingers extended from each hand in disrespect toward those who had forcefully thrown him out.

Waithe's ejection came not from the ample amount of ale that he consumed, although that contributed to the chain of events, nor from the proposition he made to the shapely dark-haired woman who put her ample cleavage on display. It came not even from the indignant tall man who claimed the woman as his own. He easily bested the younger man in a spirited brawl. The ejection was ultimately the result of six of the tall man's companions who took it upon themselves to join the fight. It did not help that they all were rival mercenaries.

The six men surrounded Waithe in a ragged circle, each casting menacing narrowed eyes, some already bruised. The tall man leaned against the open tavern doorway, wiped the blood from his nose, and smirked. With a casual gesture, the six men converged on their victim. The older man blocked and countered many blows with fighting skills learned over the years, but there were too many of them, and soon he fell again to the dusty ground. With another gesture from the tall man the pummeling stopped. Waithe, now battered, staggered again to his feet and spat a bloody gob of saliva toward the feet of the tall man.

"Waithe, you old fool." The tall man walked nearer with a crooked smile across his thin face, displaying a missing front tooth. "You should know better than to take us on."

"I took only you on, Thorne. Be you not man enough to face me without your mangy dogs?"

One of the six henchmen blew out an audible angry breath and launched himself. Waithe stepped to the side while blocking the wild swing, then landed a hard right cross to the side of  the man's face. With assistance from an extended leg, the henchman's momentum carried him forward face down onto the ground with a thud.

Multiple blows from the other five rained down on Waithe again until Thorne called them off. Waithe wavered on his feet, barely able to stand. Thorne brandished a shiny long knife, likely retrieved from a shelf near the tavern door where he had deposited it earlier.

"Well, it be high time I rid myself of you. For far too long have you..."

Waithe rolled his eyes. "By the Spirits, Thorne, get on with it! Spare me your inane drivel."

Thorne narrowed his eyes and pulled his lips tight at the insult. Waithe firmed his jaw and prepared himself for the fight. His eyes bore down on his opponent, ignoring the dancing sunlight reflected by the mirrored blade. Whether victory or defeat, he had nothing to lose. The deadly Taint had already taken hold of him, and it would eventually take his sanity before ending his life. Compared to that, death by the blade was preferable.

The blade thrust forward. Waithe merely stepped back, realizing the first strike a feint intended to draw him in. The blade flashed again and Waithe took another step back. He glared at his opponent as he waited for an opportunity to counter-attack. Two dirty hands on his back shoved him, forcing the issue, and Waithe stumbled forward. The sharp blade slashed twice, cutting open his shirt and leaving crimson slices across his chest. He fell to a knee, clutching at his wounds. Death seemed inevitable now.

The tall man flashed a sneering smile and raised the blade for the killing blow, but a hooded figure stepped between the fighters, raising a hand to Thorne.

"Hold. This fight ends." It was a feminine voice, spoken calm, but at the same time with authority.

Thorne spat his words. "Stand aside woman, or you may share his fate."

With her back to Waithe, the woman pulled down her brown hood, revealing sandy blonde hair tucked beneath her cloak. Thorne's eyes grew wide and he slowly pulled back the knife. With a grunt and a begrudging hand motion for his men to follow, he walked away, stopping but once to look back.

Waithe tried to rise, but fell back down to a knee, breathing hard. Blood from his chest wounds dripped on to the dusty road. How did this woman so easily convince Thorne to back away? As she turned and knelt before him, he understood. It was not the young attractive face nor the kind dark blue eyes, but the mark on the left side of her neck. The simple crossing script, a bit like an inverted fish, signified that she was of the Order.

The Order of Medice commanded respect from nearly every man and woman in the Realm, even the likes of Thorne and his men. Those of the Order, almost exclusively women, had the ability to channel the Life Spirits and were particularly skilled in the healing arts. To harm one of the Order was to invite deadly retribution. Even those that spoke ill of them risked scorn.

The young woman helped Waithe to his feet and led him to a worn wooden bench near the tavern door.

One of the bar wardens, a mountain of a bald man, strode out of the tavern and approached Waithe. "You have not paid your tab."

Waithe tilted his head. "I fought for my life and only now do you come out for money?"

The large man shrugged. "Rules be rules. Your tab must be paid."

The young woman spoke up. "How much is due?"

"Three silver marks."

"Your ale is that expensive?"

The large man pointed at Waithe and shrugged again. "He drinks much."

She nodded, reached in her leather satchel to pull out three coins, and deposited them in the man's hand. With a small bow, he retreated into the tavern.

The young woman turned back to Waithe and pulled out a white cloth from her satchel. She poured on it a few drops of a green liquid from a small glass vial. He winced as she dabbed the bloody slashes across his chest with the cloth, but soon the pain lifted.

She smiled at him. "There. That should be better. I dare not call the Spirits here. Let us get you to a room where I will tend to your other injuries and you may clear your head of all that ale."

He looked up into eyes that seemed to show nothing but compassion. "I be grateful, my Lady. But why help me?"

"I am in need of your services, sir. These are dangerous times, even for one of the Order. I require a protector."

"You should know, my Lady, before making such a request, that the Taint has its hold on me. I might not be of much use to you for long."

She nodded. "Aye. I sensed its foul presence. It is difficult, but I can remove that burden from you." She paused as he pondered her words, not quite sure if they were to be believed. "What is your name, sir?"

"It be Waithe Rand, my Lady." He bowed slightly, then grunted from the pain it caused. "But how be it you sought me out without knowing my name?"

She tilted her head. "Phy led me to you."

Waithe raised his eyebrows. "Phy?"

"Indeed, sir. The Life Spirit of plants. I trust her, although, she is sometimes quite mischievous." She looked up at him. "I offer a mercenaries pay and healing in exchange for your protection. How would you answer?"

He grinned. "I could hardly refuse such an offer, my Lady. I accept. But please tell me your name."

"Ceres."

"And your purpose that requires my protection?"

"I seek to rid the Realm of the Taint."

Waithe replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, be that all, my Lady Ceres? And here I thought it might be something difficult."