The gaunt man hesitated. Lowered his head, shook it slowly.

Reserved trades, he said. I was I m a blacksmith.

The veteran nodded. Thought it had to be something like that. Way you cut that iron. Look, there s no shame in it. Can t all be swinging the steel, you know, someone s got to actually make the fucking stuff. But you got to know your specialty.

He swung the cutters absently, feeling the weight in them. It made a sound through the air like a scythe. The blacksmith stared at him, and the veteran s scarred features creased in something vaguely resembling a smile. He gestured with his newly acquired weapon, up to where the trees thickened toward forest.

Go on, get moving, both of you. Head for the trees. The smile became an awful grin. Be right behind you.

They turned from the lie, the impossible promise in his ruined face, and fled.

The scarred man watched them go. Yelled curses and stumbling behind him as the first of the sword-wielding march-masters kicked their way through to the scene of the revolt. His grin faded slowly out. Amid the chaos of men scrambling to be free, tugging at their chains, and screaming for cutters, he turned to face the newcomers. Two men, both wielding swords, one with a torch upraised. The veteran felt a muscle twitch, deep under the scar tissue in his face.

You! The first march-master saw him, lifted his torch, and peered. He pointed with his sword. Get down on your fucking knees. Do it now.

The veteran closed the gap with three swift paces, ignored the sword, got inside its useful reach before the march-master could grasp what was happening. He loomed over the man.

We left them behind, he said, as if explaining something to a child.

Moth-wing blur of motion the bolt cutters, slashing in at head height.

The march-master staggered sideways, face torn open from the blow, one eye gone, socket caved in.