by Anthony Ryan
“You’ve killed before,” Gerthe said. “So have I, for that matter. It’s the fate of those of us who choose not to die in the gutter we were born to. Don’t weep for nobles, Alwyn. They’ll never weep for you.”
She snuggled closer, resuming her enticements with impatient insistence until she reached down and gave a soft groan of satisfaction. “That’s better. Now then.”
She had begun to straddle me when I heard a sudden, harsh shout from beyond the shuttered window. The burgeoning gathering of outlaws had produced a growing murmur of conversation throughout the night, interspersed by the occasional song or burst of raucous laughter. But this was different, a shout born of pained surprise rather than banter. Gerthe ignored it, lowering herself with a groan, then stopping at my lack of response. “For fuck’s sake, Alwyn—”
“Quiet!” I said, straining to hear as another shout came from outside. At first, I assumed it to be some of Shilva’s people engaged in a brawl, as villains are like to do when the nights grow long or boring. But there was an additional harshness to this cry, a piercing quality that told of real, perhaps mortal injury. More troubling still was the faint but discernible ring of steel meeting steel. I felt Gerthe stiffen at the next sound, a hard, dry snap we both recognised. Crossbow.
“Shit!” She was off me in a trice, gathering her clothes as I hurried to do the same. I pulled on my trews and shirt before dragging on my boots, scraping nails across my flesh in my haste as the tumult outside grew into the unmistakable, chaotic chorus of many folk engaged in combat.
“Wait!” I hissed as Gerthe, far more practised than I at dressing quickly, made for the door. I finished lacing my boots and pulled on my jerkin before donning the belt that held my knives, drawing the longest of the two. I saw Gerthe had armed herself with the small but wickedly sharp crescent blade she kept in case of trouble.
“Discord or the sheriff, d’you think?” she asked, wincing at the ongoing cacophony, which was counterpointed by a plethora of hard snaps.
“Too many crossbows for discord,” I said, reaching for her hand and leading her out onto the landing. “Forget about fighting, run for the trees. If we get separated, make for the Glade.”
We descended the stairs at a run, drawing up short at the sight of the bodies lying across the inn’s doorway. They lay atop one another, a woman who appeared to be one of Shilva’s people from her tattooed arms, lying under the twitching form of a man. He had been hacked across the face and it took me a moment to recognise Baker under the gore. His sundered lips moved as he tried to speak, but his eyes held the emptiness unique to fast-approaching death.
Fresh shouts and the thunder of hooves drew my gaze from the dying archer to the gloom beyond the doorway. The fleet forms of several running men flitted across the dark rectangle followed swiftly by the larger bulk of a horse at full gallop. It was only a brief glimpse but I saw the gleam of firelight on armour that told of a knight rather than a sheriff’s man who typically wore hardened leather. The implications were obvious. It was possible that a passing sheriff’s patrol could have blundered into Deckin’s makeshift army, but no knight would ever come to Moss Mill except on very specific business.
“The back way,” I said, turning and dragging Gerthe through the empty but disordered inn, shoving aside upset tables and skidding on spilled ale. The back entrance was thankfully free of more corpses, but not so the street beyond. Several bodies littered the ground, blood dark on the frosted ruts of the dirt road. Only half were outlaws, the rest villagers cut down without distinction. My eyes tracked over each until they fixed on a bulky corpse I recognised. Even in death, Izzie had contrived to keep hold of her satchel, the contents spilled out to lie in untidy piles among her pooling blood. More troubling were the two smaller bodies lying nearby. Gerthe letting out a sob as we drew nearer.
Death tends to rob faces of beauty, but Elga’s pale, oval features remained pretty as they stared sightlessly up at the sky. Uffel’s body lay on top of her. From the ragged tears to his clothing and unnatural twist to their limbs, I concluded he had thrown himself across her in a vain effort to protect her from the trampling hooves of a charging horse.
Tearing my gaze away, I darted a glance to either side before tugging on Gerthe’s hand, moving across the road at a sprint. We rounded a cottage and, hearing the snort and jingle of galloping horses, clambered over a wall into a sty. Crouching, we listened to the horses speeding by and the ongoing discordance of combat and murder. Soon the protesting squeals of the pigs forced us to move on. A few more moments of frantic dodging from one hiding place to another brought us to a narrow gap between a shed and a cottage. Only twenty yards away lay the welcoming haven of the forest.
The treeline was lit by a flickering glow from the village that told of many dwellings set ablaze. The chorus of screams at our back also indicated a battle rapidly turning into a massacre, one I had no desire to witness.
“Come on,” I whispered, taking a firmer hold of Gerthe’s hand and starting for the trees. I only covered a few steps before her grip abruptly slackened and she let out a sharp gasp. Normally, well-honed instinct would have compelled me to let go and keep running, but it’s a hard thing to abandon a woman you’ve just spent several hours fucking.
Stumbling to a halt, I turned, feeling a blossoming of relief at finding Gerthe still upright. However, the lifeless slump of her shoulders and lolling head told a different tale. It took me a second to notice the feathers of a fletching protruding from the centre of her chest. The crossbow bolt had pinned her to the wooden wall of the shed behind. Why I hadn’t heard the bowstring’s snap would forever remain a mystery, but the years since have taught me that the senses miss a great deal in the midst of carnage.
The rattle of a windlass drew my sight from the limp rag doll of Gerthe’s corpse to a man a dozen yards away. He was clad in old, poorly kept mail, the red-brown rust of which contrasted with his freshly polished breastplate. His face, beardless and sweaty despite the chill, was a pale thing beneath his ill-fitting helm. Our eyes met as he continued to turn the windlass of his crossbow and I saw how bright and fearful they were, eyes that told of a youth scarcely older than I. A youth who, despite his fear, had already killed at least once this night. He had also, I saw upon shifting my gaze, succeeded in drawing the string of his crossbow halfway to the lock.
Gerthe’s hand slipped from mine and I began my charge, raising a cloud of snow in my wake, feral rage emerging from my throat in a guttural snarl. A more experienced fellow would have dropped the crossbow and drawn a dagger. But this soldier, I saw as I closed on him, was just a scared boy with even fewer years than I’d initially thought. To his credit he did manage to get the bowstring into the lock before I reached him, but the bolt he drew from the quiver went spinning away as I ducked low then surged up, driving my knife into the flesh below his chin. I leapt, wrapping my arm around him to bear him down, keeping the knife in place then pushing it deeper as we fell, the impact providing the final ounce of pressure to drive the blade into his brain.
He jerked beneath me, coughing a spatter of blood into my face before lying still. Heaving myself off him, I quickly cast around for any more soldiers and, finding none, took hold of the dead boy’s legs and dragged him to the shed. I wasn’t familiar with the various straps and fastenings required to remove and then don a breastplate so it took several feverish minutes of fumbling before I encased my chest in the heavy contraption. The helm was easier and, I fancied, fit me rather better than its owner. Not knowing how much time I had, I left the dead boy’s other accoutrements, apart from a purse holding a paltry eight sheks and his quiver and crossbow which I scooped up from the snow upon emerging from my refuge.
Don’t run, I told myself, adopting what I hoped to be a soldierly bearing as I sauntered through the snow, describing a deliberately wayward course towards the dark wall of the forest. There were others about now, halberdiers clad in red and gold livery I had last seen at the old duke’s execution: kingsmen.
They prowled the fringes of the village, pausing now and again to spear any prone unfortunate they noticed twitching.
This end of Moss Mill featured a slight rise as it neared the woods, offering a vantage point for the centre of the village. Much of it was shrouded in smoke from the blazing houses. Apart from a few outlying buildings, every dwelling in the place was now aflame, making for a garish spectacle of shifting shadows playing over scenes of varying horror.
I saw one of Shilva’s tribe stumbling about, flailing with an axe at a surrounding circle of armoured tormentors. A great, shaggy-haired fellow of impressive stature, he shouted challenges in the Fjord Geld dialect with every ineffectual swing of his axe, shouts that turned to screams when one of the soldiers darted forward to drive the point of his halberd into his leg. Laughter joined with screams as the others closed in, halberds and billhooks rising and falling.
“Don’t stand and gawp, idiot boy!”
My gaze snapped to the sight of a stocky halberdier running through the snow close by. I experienced a spasm of grateful relief for the dead crossbowman’s final cough, for the blood must have obscured my features enough for his comrade to mistake me in the dark.
“Drop that fucker!” he shouted, pointing towards something near the trees.
Following the line of his arm I made out a running shape against the swaying shadows of the woods, a long-legged figure moving at an impressively fast pace. There were few among the band who possessed such height and I had seen him run often enough to recognise Hostler’s fleeing form.
I will not claim any hesitancy as regards my next action. I will not, dear reader, insult your insight by pretending anguish or reluctance, for I sense you know the manner of my soul at this turn of our story. However, I should like it known that I felt no pleasure in taking a bolt from my quiver and setting it to the stock. Nor did I relish raising and sighting the weapon, the gleaming line of the bolt’s barbed head tracking across the snow until it met Hostler’s fleeing shadow. For all his faults, his tiresome beliefs and endless sermons, he had been one of us and it pained me to loose that bolt. Not, of course, as much as it pained him.
I was not particularly skilled or experienced with a crossbow, but Erchel and I had played around with a stolen one often enough to know the basics. Also, I find the proximity of certain death will always sharpen one’s skills if one can master one’s fear enough to quell shaking hands.
The bolt described a shallow arc through the air, catching Hostler in the shoulder and spinning him to the ground, much to my new comrade’s satisfaction. “A good eye, for once. Come on.” His hand thumped my shoulder as he sped past. “I’ll let you have halves on whatever loot he’s got.”
I followed his track through the snow at a slower pace, head turning continually to check on the proximity of the other soldiers. Fortunately, the closest were more than a hundred paces off by the time I reached Hostler.
“Still some fight in you, eh?” the halberdier noted cheerfully, dodging a kick from one of Hostler’s long legs. He stared up at us, face riven with fury and pain, the reddened bolt-head protruding from his shoulder and one arm dangling limp and useless. He clutched a knife in the other and tried repeatedly to rise, lunging at the soldier before his pain caused him to collapse.
“Martyrs, I implore you,” I heard him gasp, “grant me the strength to smite the faithless.”
“A devout outlaw!” the soldier exclaimed in surprised delight. “Sorry, friend.” He sidestepped another lunge and slammed the butt of his halberd into the side of Hostler’s head. “The Martyrs aren’t here this night. It’s just us come to deal out rightful justice.”
The humour abruptly slipped from his face and he delivered another blow, this time to Hostler’s hunched back, hard enough to crack a rib from the sound of it. “And you can’t claim it’s not deserved now, can you?” His features bunched into a grin of malicious enjoyment and he brought the halberd’s haft down again, birthing another dull crack of breaking bone.
“Here,” he said, handing his halberd to me and drawing the falchion from the scabbard on his belt. “Save us the trouble of dragging his carcass back.” He planted a booted foot on Hostler’s back, forcing him flat, then hefted the falchion in a two-handed grip. “Any last prayers, friend, now’s the time.”
He turned to me with a conspiratorial wink, clearly intending to hack Hostler’s head from his shoulders the instant he began to speak. However, the soldier’s features took on a puzzled blankness when a fresh burst of flame from the village cast enough light to reveal my face in full.
“Did they capture Deckin Scarl yet?” I asked. The soldier blinked and I saw comprehension flood in. He managed to half turn towards me, but not swift enough to avoid my thrust as I drove the halberd’s spiked blade into his face. I took pride in that thrust, one heave sufficing to send the steel point through bone and cartilage, deep enough to sever the spine. The soldier sagged on the end of the weapon, his weight dragging it from my grip while my eyes darted about to ensure none of his comrades had witnessed his demise.
“Ingrate,” said a thin, pain-wracked voice.
Hostler lay slumped on his back, crimson-hued breath pluming from his mouth, the snow beneath turning dark with the blood leaking from his wound. Despite his pains he regarded me with a disconcertingly steady gaze. Matching his stare, I thought of offering an explanation, even an apology, but knew they would be insults gabbled to a dying man. Instead I bent to retrieve the soldier’s falchion before crouching at Hostler’s side.
“Did they take him?” I asked. “Deckin.”
He groaned out a sigh and nodded, his words emerging in halting, pain-filled grunts. “Took down the pickets… first, silently… Didn’t know what… was happening until the crossbows started up… Then they were… everywhere. Too many to fight…”
He sagged, eyes losing focus until I reached out to shake him. “Deckin,” I insisted.
“He fought… killed a few… then, the tall knight… the champion… he came.”
I darted another look at the village, searching the drifting smoke and glowing haze for a tall, armoured figure. “Bauldry,” I breathed. “He’s here?”
“With his knights… and a good deal more. He beat Deckin down… with a staff. Didn’t even bother… drawing his sword. Then had his men… rope him up. Everyone else…” Hostler sagged again, eyes dimming further.
“Justan?” I shook him. “Lorine?”
“Didn’t see. I ran…” I saw a glimmer of shame in his fading gaze. I felt the strength go out of him, his head lolling onto the snow. “I shamed the Martyrs… in my fear…” His hands flapped, but weakly, like injured birds trying to take flight. “I beseech thee… holy Martyrs… blessed Seraphile in thy grace… see my contrition and accept my soul… Do not deny me the portal…”
He continued to babble out his prayers, hands flapping with increased animation and voice gaining volume. I had seen this before, those close to death finding a last well of strength before it claimed them. He might rant on for another minute or two, drawing attention in the process. There was also the chance that, should I leave him alive, a soldier might wring from him the knowledge that not all of Deckin Scarl’s band had died this night.
“Hush,” I said, putting a hand on Hostler’s forehead, holding him in place. “The Martyrs, the Seraphile, they’ll know what’s in your heart.”
I think it was the smile I offered that betrayed my intention, for when had I ever smiled at him except in scorn? Hostler’s features hardened into the expression I had seen most often – cold, disappointed judgement. “Ingrate,” he said, softly but with careful precision.
I put the edge of the falchion’s blade to his neck, the smile slipping from my lips. “Yes,” I said.
CHAPTER NINE
I threw the crossbow away upon reaching the woods, quickly followed by the breastplate and the helm. I had miles to flee before dawn and couldn’t do so carrying such a weight. I did keep the falchion. The weapon had a plea
sing heft to it and, judging by the ease with which it had opened Hostler’s neck, a keen edge I might well be glad of later. I strapped the soldier’s belt across my chest so the falchion rested on my back, leaving my legs unencumbered, and began to run. The snow started to fall soon after, heavy enough to penetrate the trees and blanket the ground. It made for hard going but did provide some comfort in knowing my tracks would soon be covered and any pursuit slowed. Even so I ran with my ears straining for the distant yelp of hounds. My footsteps might be gone but not the scent of a sweaty, bloodstained youth.
I had learned at an early age that the key to evading a pursuit is to surrender to your fears. When death seems a certainty the body will respond with all manner of ingrained instincts, lending strength and speed normally beyond the reach of mere mortals. I made no effort to maintain a steady pace, allowing my panic to force me to a sprint, recent scenes of slaughter playing undimmed in my mind. The feel of Gerthe’s suddenly limp hand in mine, the tall axeman’s torment, Hostler’s final, blood-choked gasp as the falchion’s edge bit deep. Added to this were the horrors I hadn’t witnessed but knew to have taken place amid that blazing ruin of a village. Successive years would do much to educate me on the truth of what occurred during the Moss Mill Massacre, as history would record it, and they would prove worse even than the fevered conjurings of my terrorised brain.
In time I would learn that the Thessil brothers had been cornered in a barn and fought it out bravely for a time. When the barn was set alight they charged out fighting, clothes and hair burning. Rubin died quickly but Danick had been captured and forced to watch while the soldiers inflicted a great many indignities on his brother’s corpse. Stories vary but most agree Danick met his end when they hanged him from the mill’s sails using Rubin’s intestines as a rope.
Shilva Sahken was not among the many victims that night. Most of her savage tribe, however, were not so fortunate, nor were the villagers of Moss Mill. Those not felled in the initial bout of slaughter were either cut down attempting to flee or herded into a fenced pasture. Come the morn a sheriff read out the ducal proclamation naming them as squatters on noble lands and thereby subject to indentured service.
