Thomas shrugged nonchalantly. Jim looked away, though both men knew they were each scared of the killer’s unpredictable impulses. “Gotta pass the time somehow…” Thomas muttered.

“Perfect.” Kate stood up and craned his neck, aggression seeping from every pore in his body. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Ah…” Thomas glanced at him awkwardly. Kate was wearing nothing but worn canvas trousers. “Good on ya, mate?”

Kate left without another word. After a moment of strange silence, Jim laughed nervously. “What d’ya think that was about?”

Thomas glared at him and crossed his arms. “Fuckin’ natives,” he swore. “Can’t trust ’em, not a single one.”

“Aye,” Jim mumbled half-heartedly. The binoculars hung at his chest, clanging lightly against his breastplate. Jim grabbed them and brought them up to his eyes again. There was nothing out there except for muck and rain, but—

A breath caught in Jim’s throat. Could it be…?

Immediately, Kate burst through the tin door and slammed it shut. The man was drenched from head to toe, eyes wild with an intense craze that could set any man to unease. He grabbed his bag near his straw mat and pulled two swords from its contents.

“It’s them!”

Jim couldn’t believe it: he brought the binoculars to his eyes again to double check.

Thomas was dumbfounded; the bitter man’s mouth hung agape. “It can’t be.”

“It is!” Kate grinned maliciously. “Finally!”

“But the bossman… Legs and the boy…”

“Forget them. Ha!” He clanged his blades together in excitement. “This is an easy kill anyways. You outsiders could keep my share for all I care.” He chuckled. “This is what I live for!”

“They’re so early…” Jim was glued to the binoculars. No matter how many times he blinked, his eyes confirmed what Kate said: it was them.

They were a caravan guarded by reportedly two dozen armed men, but by Jim’s count they were half fewer. Over the small crest that blocked his view, Jim could make out three horse-drawn wagons that made up the train, the front and back manned by two men apiece with two foot guards, adorned in nondescript canvas wraps and toughened leather straps around their chests and arms, two pistols and a sword at each of their belts. The middle wagon was guarded on either side by three men, and it was of particular interest as not only was it the only passenger carriage but it flew proudly a colorful banner posted atop its roof. Sewn into the fabric that flapped disgracefully with the rain was the depiction of a disintegrating phoenix below three pointed spears.

That was the sign. The banner of their mark. They had taken a job from a benefactor known to none but Mugs to attack this caravan in the Wastes. They were to ambush their men and take whatever supplies they desired as reward, along with a later exchange of gold and silver. How much? Jim had asked when they took the job. They were in a tavern, and Mugs ushered him and the boy into a private room. At its table Mugs had simply taken a heavy looking purse and emptied its contents on the table, hundreds of coins spilling out. Jim could hardly believe what he saw, and the boy’s eyes nearly popped out of his own head at the sight. “That’s the advance,” Mugs had said.

And now here they were. A day early.