A Dance of Blades

by David Dalglish

  The boy rushed by, followed by the soldier. Haern stared, paralyzed by indecision. If he acted now he’d reveal himself. Eight riders … what chance would he have? He’d be throwing his life away, and why? For all he knew, the boy belonged to the ambushers.

  The soldier quickly gained ground, for he could make longer strides. He kept his sword drawn, and Haern recognized the way he held the blade in preparation for a thrust. This was no capture. This was no attempt at ransom. He ran after the two, feeling slow and clumsy in the snow. The boy glanced behind, saw his pursuer, and then stumbled. Haern wanted to cry out but didn’t dare reveal his location. The soldier reached the boy, and his sword thrust. Blood spilled across the snow.

  Haern slammed into the soldier with his shoulder, flinging him onto his back. Before he could stand, Haern drew a sword, slapped aside a weak defense, and buried it in the soldier’s throat. The man gargled blood, quivered, and then lay still.

  “You get him?” a man shouted from the road.

  Haern ignored him and instead looked to the boy. He lay on his back, his whole body shaking. The thrust had cut deep into his arm, right to the bone. The blade had continued, piercing his chest. He still breathed, and it didn’t sound wet. The tip hadn’t gone deep enough to pierce anything vital. With proper care he might live, but at the moment he was wide-eyed with shock. He’d need time, which at the moment Haern sorely lacked. He sliced off a strip of one of his cloaks and tied it around the wounded arm, then took the boy’s hands and pressed them firmly against the wound on his chest.

  “Stay still and quiet,” Haern whispered, propping him against the nearest tree. “I’ll come back for you, I promise. No matter what you do, don’t let go.”

  He stood, drew his swords, and looked to the road. Through the forest he saw the faintest glimpse of the riders. Amid the trees and snow the horses would be useless. So long as they didn’t know he was there, he had a chance.

  He stepped gingerly across the snow, crouched low and hidden behind the trunks. The forest was quiet, and he heard their discussions with ease as they grew steadily heated.

  “Terry!” one shouted. “Where are you? Did the brat lose you somehow?”

  “Jerek, Thomas, go look for him, and hurry. I don’t want to be out in this weather any longer than I have to.”

  Haern smiled at the lucky break. He stayed to the side and watched two more men walk right past him. He started creeping after them, but they stopped halfway.

  “See that, Jerek?” asked Thomas as he pointed. “Something ain’t right.”

  They drew their swords and looked about as Haern realized what he pointed at: the footprints he’d left in the snow when chasing after the soldier and the boy.

  Damn wilderness, thought Haern. Give me a city any day.

  They followed the footprints, but they were no longer hurrying. His surprise advantage was nearly blown. He continued following, using the trees to hide in case they glanced back, but they were getting too close to where the soldier’s body lay.

  “Found them,” said Jerek. “Shit, his throat’s cut!”

  Haern gave up stealth, knowing he couldn’t muffle his running. The crunching of the snow turned them about, but he was too close, too fast. He gutted Thomas, ducked under a dying slash, and then turned to Jerek. Instead of the desperate lunge he expected, Jerek pulled back and held his sword with both hands in a defensive position. Haern felt respect for the man, as well as agitation. He didn’t need a drawn-out duel against a worthy opponent. He needed the man killed before any others arrived.

  “Ambush!” Jerek screamed. “It’s a fucking ambush!”

  “One against five,” Haern said. “Some ambush.”

  “There’s six of us,” said Jerek.

  Haern shrugged.

  “You’ll be dead soon enough.”

  He feinted, stepped to the left, and then lunged for real. Jerek bit on the feint, but not enough. He parried both blades aside, but he extended to do so. Haern closed the distance between them, slamming an elbow into the man’s chest while they shoved their weapons together. Jerek tried to separate, but Haern shifted again, positioning his right foot in the way. When Jerek stepped back he tripped, and that was all the opening Haern needed.

  “Jerek? Thomas?” asked another soldier as he approached the bloody mess. Haern watched, doing his best to keep his breathing calm. Only three had come, not five, which meant one had stayed behind to protect the older man, presumably their leader. They were only a handful of paces from where the boy lay, but they stopped at the bodies of their comrades. Two held swords, while the third held a crossbow. They looked about the area, searching. They never looked up, and that was enough.

  Haern fell upon them from his perch in a nearby tree, leaving one bleeding from a gash in the neck and another holding a crossbow with a broken string. Haern kicked him in the chest to force him back, needing the space. The last swordsman hacked at him, but Haern spun his cloaks, using them to appear farther to the right than he was. The strike hit nothing but air and cloth. Haern continued his spin, slashed his foe’s arm, reversed the spin, and buried his sword in the henchman’s stomach, just below his armor.

  Pain spiked up his arm. He struck on reflex, ending up cutting the crossbowman across the mouth. The man dropped the dagger he’d drawn and clutched his jaw as blood ran across his hands. He tried to say something, but it came out as an unintelligible sob. Haern glanced at his arm. The cut would scar, but assuming it didn’t get infected he’d be fine. Frustrated at his mistake, he leaped at the lone survivor, who turned to flee. A kick took out his knee, and he fell. Haern’s swords pierced his lungs, and then he sobbed no more.

  Cursing at the pain, Haern approached the road. He kept the blood on his blades, wanting the fear it would bring. The red contrasted with the snow, made the swords seem all the more deadly. When he stepped from between the trees, he saw both riders on the far side. The younger raised his crossbow and fired. It tore a hole in Haern’s cloaks as he flung himself to the side. He spun around a tree and emerged, but the soldier had not even begun to reload.

  “Who are you, stranger?” asked the older man. “What are you hoping for? Is it coin you want?”

  “Too many questions,” Haern said, watching the last soldier. His hand kept inching toward his hip, but for what?

  “Then answer me just one: is the boy alive?”

  “I don’t know, nor care. He was a distraction. If he lives he’ll freeze by morning.”

  Their leader seemed pleased by the answer. Haern made sure he didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, didn’t reveal the lie.

  “Good,” said the older man. “Then what is it you want now? You cannot kill us, and you cannot make off with my gold. You’d need to tether the oxen and drive it many days to town. So please, accept my offer. Leave us be, and I will allow you take as much gold as you can carry.”

  “You’d buy your safety with what I can freely take?” Haern asked.

  “Freely? Nothing is free, thief. Everything is bought with sweat and blood. Come spill it if you’d dare.”

  Haern chuckled. Whoever the man was, he reminded him of his father. Not a good comparison.

  “Leave,” he said. “I have no use…”

  He rolled behind the tree as the throwing dagger pierced the bark, hurled with frightening precision from the soldier’s hip. From behind the tree he laughed.

  “Ride off!” Haern shouted to them. “Even if you have a hundred of those daggers to throw, it won’t matter. Flee or die!”

  He listened and waited. The men muttered quietly, and when done they rode north. Haern sighed and looked to his arm. Still bleeding, and its pain was now a deep ache. It’d have to wait. He trudged off for the boy, who looked horribly pale.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t bandage these sooner,” he said as he knelt before him. He pulled the boy’s hands away and looked at the stab. “You can thank Ashhur this wasn’t an inch deeper, or you’d be like the rest of them.”

  He used
more cloth from his cloaks to tie a bandage around the boy’s chest, then turned his attention to the arm. So far the boy hadn’t spoken a word, only watched with a glazed look in his eyes. Fearing he might pass out at any moment, Haern slapped him a couple times across the face.

  “Stay with me,” he said. “I bled for you. Least you could do is survive.”

  The earlier bandage he’d applied had soaked through, so he removed it, cut another strip, and tied it. Given the depth and severity of the cut, he wondered if the whole arm would need to go, but knew someone wiser in healing arts should decide that. So long as it didn’t turn green and rot off, he figured the boy had a chance of regaining its use.

  “What’s your name?” Haern asked him as he tore the shirt off the dead soldier beside them. When the boy didn’t answer, Haern snapped his fingers in front of his eyes a few times. Still nothing. Sighing, he cut up the shirt and used it to form himself a sling.

  “Come on, what’s your name? We’re friends, blood brothers, fellow travelers in the snow. You’re not too cold to speak, are you?”

  After a few seconds the boy shook his head. Good. At least he was somewhat alert. Haern tore free the cloak of another dead soldier, wrapped it around the boy, and then lifted him into his arms. His wounded arm shrieked in protest, so he shifted a bit of the weight onto his shoulder.

  “Name,” he said. “I’d really love a name.”

  But the boy slumped and passed out. Haern sighed again. He returned to the road and surveyed the carnage, laying the boy beside the fire while he searched. It didn’t make any sense. The attackers were well armed and well equipped, and they bore the symbol of a lord. When he looked into the wagons, the exact same symbol was stamped upon the crates. The oxen’s harnesses had the same as well, a sickle raised before a mountain.

  If he’d had time he might have hidden the gold so it couldn’t be taken by the first passerby. But he didn’t. Furious at his confusion and helplessness, he used his sword to draw an eye in the dirt beside the fire, where no snow lay. Beneath it he scrawled his mark, “The Watcher.” At least he might accomplish something out of all this. Let the thieves know that even outside Veldaren they were not safe from him.

  “Well, boy,” he said, returning to the fire. “I’m sure it’s nice and warm, but we have to move. I can’t remember the last farm I passed, but it’s our only chance. Can you walk?”

  No response. Haern bandaged his own arm, tore open one of the crates, and grabbed a handful of coins. They bore a symbol he easily recognized, that of the Gemcroft family.

  “What do you have to do with the Serpents?” he wondered aloud. A shame he had no one to interrogate, no time to investigate. He pocketed the coins, hauled the boy into his arms, and started walking south.

  There was another reason he needed to hurry. The two who’d fled would certainly return, and he had a feeling it’d be with far more than their initial eight. Step after step he cursed the snow, the wind, the cold, and his clumsy mistake that had cost him a cut. All the while the boy slept in his arms. By nightfall Haern felt ready to collapse. He walked off the road, kicked aside the snow before a tree, and set the boy down. He wrapped him tighter in his cloaks and did his best to keep hope. The boy’s lips were blue, his skin a deathly white. He’d lost so much blood, right when he needed its warmth the most.

  Still standing, Haern pulled an emblem hanging by a silver chain from beneath his shirt. It was of a golden mountain, and as he held it he prayed over the boy.

  “Just keep him warm and alive, Ashhur. And don’t forget me, too. I could use the damn help.”

  He put away the emblem, sat down beside his nameless boy, and pulled him close so they could share their warmth.

  “It’ll get better,” he said, not sure if the boy could hear him or not. He was so thoroughly wrapped Haern couldn’t see his eyes. “Don’t worry about any pain. As my father once said, pain is a tool that should always be under our control. It teaches us when we err. It distracts and weakens our opponents. And for you, it’ll help you for the rest of your life. Who cares about a silly scratch from a sword when you’ve been struck to the bone, yeah?”

  He felt like a moron yammering on, but he did so anyway. At last he heard the boy snore, and he leaned his head back against the bark. His eyes looked to the clouded heavens.

  “Couldn’t you at least stop the snow?” he asked Ashhur.

  Ashhur didn’t bother to respond.

  Haern slept through the night, waking only once at the sound of hoofbeats. He curled his body tighter against the tree and kept perfectly still. From the corner of his eye he saw the light of torches. Unable to see his tracks veer off the road because of the fresh snow, the horsemen rode right on by.

  “Never mind,” Haern whispered once they were gone. “Go ahead and let it snow.”

  He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the boy’s, and slept until morning.

  Haern had little food and water, certainly not enough for two. He ate the food, deciding he needed the strength for carrying the boy. He did his best to get the child to drink, though. Other than a few quick sips, he was unsuccessful. His back ached, and his arm throbbed, but he forced the pain far away, as he’d been trained to do by his many mentors. He carried the boy, stopping every hour to rest and catch his breath. Any time he let him go, the boy collapsed to the ground.

  So much for making the brat walk, Haern thought.

  He shook his head and immediately felt guilty. Of course the boy couldn’t walk. He was sitting at the Reaper’s door. That he even had his eyes open was a miracle.

  They walked along the road, encountering no others. Evidently no one else was dumb enough to travel in such weather. The snow had stopped in the morning, and as he followed the road he observed the chaos of hoofprints. They all appeared to be headed south, with no hint of them returning. Haern knew he’d have to stay alert for their eventual trip back north. He was in no shape to fight a group of horsemen.

  Keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking. Keep going. The son of Thren Felhorn would not die unknown in the wilderness. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  Near the end of the second day he finally found a farm. He crossed the fields, every bone in his body aching. The boy hadn’t had a drink the entire day, and his skin was hot with fever. Part of Haern wondered if the cold was the only thing keeping him from burning alive. At the door to the home he stopped, hid his swords with his cloaks, and knocked.

  “I come in time of need,” he shouted, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. “Please, I have a wounded child with me.”

  The door crept open. In the yellow light of lamps he saw the glint of an old short sword. A man looked through the crack, saw him holding the boy.

  “Winter’s nearing its end,” said the man. “We have little to spare.”

  “I’ll pay,” Haern said. “Please, I’ve walked without rest for days.”

  The man glanced inside, whispered something, and then nodded.

  “Come on in,” said the farmer. “And by Ashhur’s grace, I pray you mean no trouble.”

  Haern found what appeared to be the entire family gathered in the front room, under blankets and around a stove whose heat felt glorious on Haern’s skin. He saw two girls huddled beside each other, their hair a pretty brown. The farmer had two boys, one of them of age, and they held knives as if to help their father should it come to bloodshed. His wife sat beside the fire, tending it.

  “He has a fever,” Haern said, setting the boy down beside the stove. “And he hasn’t had food or drink for days.”

  “I’ll get some water,” the wife said as she stood. She cast a worried glance at her husband, then vanished into the next room.

  “My name is Matthew Pensfield,” said the farmer, extending his hand. Haern accepted it, and was shocked at how much his own hand shook. He hadn’t eaten much, he knew, but had it really affected him so greatly?

  “Haern,” he said as he pulled his cloaks tight about him and surveyed the house.
It seemed cozy enough, and not a hint of draft. The man had done well in building it.

  “I know some of the Haerns,” said Matthew as his wife returned. He had a hard look, his square jaw covered with stubble, but he spoke plainly and seemed more at ease now that Haern showed no inclination to violence. “Good men, own several fields west of here. What’s your full name? I might have heard them speak of you.”

  “Just Haern,” he replied, nodding to the boy. “And I have no name for him. I found him wounded; why does not concern you. That room beyond there, is that your kitchen? Might we speak in private?”

  Some of the farmer’s worry returned, but he nodded anyway.

  “I reckon we can.”

  Once in the other room, Haern dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “I have a difficult request for you,” he said. “I need you to take care of that boy until he’s regained his health. I cannot stay.”

  “We don’t have enough food to…”

  He stopped as Haern drew out a handful of coins and dropped them upon the table. His eyes stretched wide. The gold shone in the dim light.

  “People will be hunting for him,” Haern said. “No matter what, you treat him like your own child. When he regains his health, he’ll tell you his name and where his family might be, assuming they’re still alive. Until then, give him up to no one.”

  “What if they threaten violence?” Matthew asked, his eyes lingering on the gold.

  “Would you give up one of your daughters?”

  The farmer shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t.”

  Haern let the cloaks fall away from his left side, exposing one of his swords.

  “I hope you understand,” he said. “I’ll return, and if I find him abused, or dead, I will repay you tenfold in blood.”

  “He’s sick and wounded. What if he dies of fever?”

  Haern smiled, and he let the coldness he felt in his bones creep into his eyes.