Casket of Souls

there was simply no sign of him, and no hope of tracking his footprints in the churned mud. The mist was turning to a downpour again and the damp was coming through his clothes.
    “Lookin’ for someone, sweetness?” a scar-faced tough called to him from the open door of one of the sturdier-looking buildings. He was dressed in the remnants of worn cavalry leathers, with a long sword at his hip and a decidedly predatory look in his eye. A fat louse crawled out from under his stringy black hair onto his left cheek. He absently pinched it between thumbnail and finger and flicked it away.
    “My father,” Seregil replied brusquely, pretending not to anticipate the man’s clear intention. “Old fellow with a patch and a limp?”
    “Ain’t seen him,” the man drawled, leaving the doorway and coming a little closer. “You’re soaked through. Come on in and I’ll get you wetter.” He grabbed Seregil by the arm, trying to drag him into the hovel.
    Seregil didn’t have time for this. Drawing his knife, he kneed the man in the balls, then took him by the hair as he fell to his knees and bent the man’s head sharply back as the would-be rapist groaned in pain. Pressing the edge of the blade to his throat just hard enough to break the skin, Seregil whispered, “I don’t need no wetting from you, you whoreson bastard.”
    “Filthy bitch!” the man hissed. A trickle of blood creptdown his neck to stain the already dirty collar of the shirt he wore under his leather vest.
    “Didn’t your ma teach you any manners?” Seregil asked, giving him a shake. “Come after me and I’ll cut your pox-ridden balls off and feed ’em to you. You hear me?”
    “Yes!”
    Knowing better than to take the man’s word for it, Seregil drew back his knife hand and punched him in the head hard enough to stun him. He fell face-first into the mud with a muffled grunt.
    “You should cut the bastard’s throat while you have the chance,” a wretched-looking young woman whispered from inside the man’s shack. Her dress was little more than a rag, and she had a freshly blackened eye and a swollen lip.
    Seregil pulled the man’s knife from his belt and tossed it at her feet. “I’d hurry, if I was you, dearie,” he told her, then turned back to his search, leaving the man to the woman’s doubtful mercy.
    The old man was long gone by now. Angry at losing his mark, he cast around a little while longer, hoping to find him trading with someone else, but there was no sign of him.
    “Bilairy’s hairy codpiece!” he muttered.
    Then suddenly he spotted him again, standing talking to someone on the muddy path between two shanties, just visible through the rain.
    There you are, old grandfather! Time we had a little chat
.
    Holding the mud-caked hem of his patched skirt up with one hand, Seregil slogged along clutching his shawl over his head with the other, as if looking for shelter. He was almost to the old man when suddenly Tall Fellow stepped out from behind a shack, sword drawn. His sodden hood hung around his face, but Seregil could make out the black kerchief masking his nose and mouth.
    “Well now, who do we have here?” the tall man asked in an amused, raspy voice.
    Seregil pulled the shawl closer around him, hoping his large kerchief hid his face well enough. “No one, sir. I was just—” Now and then the truth was the best tack to take. “I was hopin’ to talk with the old raven man.”
    “And what raven man would that be?”
    Seregil looked past Tall Fellow’s shoulder but the old man was gone.
    “Now you’ve made me lose him!” Seregil whined. “Are you one of ’em, too? Can I make a trade with you?”
    The masked man chuckled. “And if I am? What does a scrawny little thing like you have to trade?”
    Seregil tightened his hands in the folds of his shawl. “Well, nothin’ really, except maybe a tumble …”
    “Like you gave that man back there?” The man laughed darkly. “I can do without that kind of fun.”
    Damnation, the bastard had seen him take down his would-be rapist. No wonder he wasn’t falling for the helpless beggar act.
    “To the crows with you, then,” Seregil muttered. “I’ll find someone proper to trade with.”
    “Now, don’t be hasty, dearie.” The man took a step closer, and Seregil could hear the unseen smile in his voice. “How’s about a lock of hair?” He drew a sword that had seen years of use. “I can cut it for you myself.”
    “N-no,” Seregil said, taking a