Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  “I don’t know—”

  “Don’t be stupid. You know lots. We know that you do.” The Butcher walked to the tree trunk and picked up a wooden rod that had been leaning against it, over a meter long and two centimeters in diameter. She came back to Ellen, swinging the rod back and forth so it hissed through the air. She grinned again. “Let me give your memory a prod.”

  The Butcher stepped back and then whipped the rod across, harder and faster than before. It struck Ellen’s stomach in a searing line, cutting her with white-hot agony. The material of her shirt was no protection. Ellen screamed. Whoops and cheers came from the onlookers.

  The Butcher walked around her, striking repeatedly. Ellen spun and twisted on the rope, but shielding herself would be impossible, even were her hands free. The Butcher showed no sign of picking any particular target, and let the rod land where it would, like a housekeeper, beating the dust from a carpet. One blow struck the back of Ellen’s thighs. Another hit at head height, cutting her cheek. Had her arms not taken the main force of the strike, it would have split her face wide open. No part of Ellen escaped.

  When the barrage eventually stopped, Ellen was crying, high-pitched squeals issuing from the back of her throat. Her body was on fire. Blood was trickling down her face and under her clothes. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, but not enough to drown out the excited comments from the Knives.

  “Hey, Boss. If your arm gets tired, I’ll take over.” Ellen recognized Ade Eriksen’s voice.

  The Butcher laughed and shouted back. “Thanks, but I’m doing fine so far. I can do with the exercise.” She grabbed a fistful of the black Militia shirt and swung Ellen around to face her. “Now you know I’m not playing. So let’s be hearing some answers. What are the Rangers’ plans?”

  Summoning all her will power, Ellen clamped her jaw shut.

  “Oh well, if that’s what you want. Like I said to Ade, my arm isn’t even beginning to get tired.” The rod fell again on Ellen’s side and then above her knees. A dozen more blows followed.

  “No...I’ll tell you...I’ll...” Ellen screamed between sobs. She could take no more.

  The beating ceased. “Okay. Talk.”

  The Butcher’s face was no more than twenty centimeters away. Ellen could see the wrinkling of fine lines around her eyes that ought to have denoted humor, but the coldness in the Butcher’s eyes spoke of nothing but malice.

  “The Rangers, they’ve gathered a force to come and get you.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight squadrons.”

  The lines around the Butcher’s eyes deepened. “Do you think I’m stupid? How’d they know where to find me, huh? They wouldn’t drag that many women out here on the off chance. And I’d know about it if they did. Eight squadrons is way too many women to hide. You think you can scare me, making up big numbers? There’s no way they’ve put that big a force together.” The Butcher stepped away and drew back her arm.

  “Only four squadrons.” Ellen was swamped in panic. She saw the rod raised. “Just two.” The air hissed as the rod sliced through.

  By the time that the blows again stopped, Ellen’s world contained nothing but pain and the Butcher’s face, filled with confidence and cruelty.

  “Right. We’ll try again. What are the Rangers’ plans?”

  Ellen kept her eyes locked on the Butcher’s. What did the gang leader want to hear? What would she accept as true? The cynical words of the Eastford Militia captain surfaced in Ellen’s mind. That’s why she tried to wipe out a whole squadron. So the Rangers would be too frightened to dare stand up to her again. She’s going to be so surprised when she finds out it hasn’t worked.

  “The Rangers, they’re frightened of you.”

  The lines around the Butcher’s eyes softened. “And?”

  “They won’t attack you again out here. They can’t afford to lose more women.”

  “Go on. What are they going to do?”

  “They’re waiting for you to go back to Eastford.”

  The lines deepened momentarily and then eased. “What about the Rangers stationed in Roadsend?”

  “That’s just two patrols. Their job is to try to make things awkward for you, like stopping the Susie-Louise, but they aren’t supposed to take risks. They want you to go back to Eastford.”

  “And when I go back? How are they going to catch me in Eastford? I own the town. Will the Rangers follow me in?”

  “The Militia.” The lines hardened immediately, but fear was driving Ellen’s mind at double speed. Before the Butcher could say anything, she went on. “They wanted them to do the dirty work, but the Militia are even more scared of you than the Rangers are. They’re going to use the Temple Guard.”

  “The Guards?” The Butcher looked surprised, but the wrinkling at the eyes had again faded. “Are you sure?”

  “HQ reckon you can’t bribe the Guards and they’re so sure their souls are going straight to Celaeno, they ain’t afraid of dying.”

  “Everyone went along with this?”

  “I’m just a Militia patrolwoman; they didn’t include me in the briefings.”

  “Go on, make a guess.”

  The Butcher swung the rod so it hissed. Even though it did not land, Ellen flinched. She scoured her memory, searching for something that would make the Butcher believe her. The Eastford Militia captain claimed that the town mayor was working for the Butcher. Was it true?

  “I think, somebody…the town mayor”—Ellen fought with her memory—“Mayor Richards. She tried to keep the Guards out of it. But she got overruled. Twenty-one Rangers dead. That was enough to swing the decision, and the mayor didn’t have any jurisdiction over the Rangers or the Guards. I’m not sure, but from what I heard, maybe there was something like that going on.”

  The Butcher’s expression changed to a scowl, but the lines did not return. “And maybe, I should have thought of that.”

  Unlike all her previous words, which had been delivered loudly enough for the audience to hear, the last line was spoken in an undertone. The Butcher’s gaze traveled slowly over Ellen, from head to foot, and then her self-satisfied smile reappeared. She tossed the rod aside and reached to the sheath on her belt for a long knife.

  The memory of the Rangers at the ford, with their throats slit, tried to force its way into Ellen’s head, but she hurt too much to care. However, instead of her throat, the Butcher sawed through the rope above the tree root. Ellen fell to the ground hard, causing all her injuries to explode in renewed fury.

  The Butcher turned away, again raising her voice. “Take her back to the cave. I might have more questions for her tomorrow. And I think she’s pissed herself. Dunk her in the river for a good rinse off first.” She strolled away, still talking loudly. “You see, Hal? I told you my way worked better.”

  “Yeah. But mine was more fun.” Laughter greeted Hal’s words.

  Ade again piped up. “Hey. Why don’t you give us a demonstration of your way so we can make a comparison?”

  “I’d love to. But I’m not sure I’d get the necessary cooperation.”

  Ellen’s face was pressed into the ground. Sobs racked her, filling her mouth with dirt to add to the sour tastes of blood and bile. Surely the pain ought to leave her immune to the sound of Hal’s voice. She hurt everywhere. She hurt so much she wanted to die. Ellen knew it was pathetically stupid for Hal’s words to matter to her, but they did.

  *

  Ellen was so hungry that the breakfast of stale bread and lukewarm porridge was more than welcome, and apart from filling her stomach, it gave hope that the Butcher was intending to keep her alive for a while longer. Sunlight was falling directly on the outside of the cave, and glowing through cracks in the wooden wall. The time must be an hour after sunrise. She had survived a whole day in the Butcher’s hands. In just three more, the Rangers would be there.

  Unsurprisingly, she had not slept well. Even through her clothes, the rod had drawn blood and the nighttime chill had stiffened her injuri
es. Now, her whole body was drained and sore. However, she was alive, and had sustained no damage that would not heal—except for the scars on her soul.

  The sound of the bolt being drawn back made Ellen recoil. Of course, those three days might be an unbearably long time. Had the Butcher thought of more questions? Or was it merely someone come to collect the empty porridge bowl?

  Two women entered, which was one more than necessary for the bowl. The removal of the manacle from her ankle confirmed Ellen’s fears, but she resisted the urge to fight as she was taken from the cave. It would achieve nothing, other than to let them know how scared she was.

  No audience was gathered around the tree. Ellen’s initial surge of relief was immediately swamped by the realization this could only mean she was being taken to another venue, with unknown potential for inflicting pain. The one thing she could be sure of was that nothing good would happen to her there.

  Ellen’s escort led her into the largest of the buildings, the one facing the corral. This was obviously the Butcher’s residence, and despite the rough construction, the large room was filled with surprising luxury for the wilderness. Sheepskin rugs covered most of the earthen floor and the furnishings were clearly expensive. Books, a guitar, and a flute were displayed haphazardly on an ornate dresser, but judging by the smell of stale beer, drinking was the primary form of entertainment.

  The Butcher was waiting, sitting on a bench, with her arms draped along the edge of a table that was serving her as a backrest. Three other women were present, Hal and Ade among them. Ellen tried not to look at Hal—tried not to think about her.

  Ellen was brought to a stop in front of the Butcher, and then a kick on her calf sent her crashing to her knees.

  The Butcher smiled at her. “Good morning.”

  Ellen said nothing. The Butcher nodded to one of the escort and a hefty blow landed on the side of Ellen’s head.

  The Butcher waited until Ellen had regained her balance. “When I say ‘good morning’ to you, you say ‘good morning, ma’am’ back. Shall we try again? Good morning.”

  Three days. The words pounded in Ellen’s head. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Much better.” The Butcher’s smile broadened. “You know, I don’t like Militiawomen. While you were getting naked with my cousin, you must have seen the little reminders your pals left on her back. I’ve got a matching collection. In fact, I’ve got a much bigger collection, because I was a lot more unlucky than her. I can’t begin to tell you how much I enjoyed paying some of them back yesterday. I’m tempted to do it all over again today, just for the fun of it.” She sighed, mimicking deep thought. “Alternately, I wonder if this place would be brightened up by a hunting trophy. Your head, mounted up there over the fireplace. What do you think?”

  Three days. “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “You do learn quick. I’ll say that for you. But just how amenable are you?” The Butcher laughed. “Oh look. There’s a dirty patch, there on the toe of my right boot. Lick it clean for me.”

  Ellen closed her eyes. Three days. Three days. Three days.

  Ignoring complaints from her injuries, Ellen shuffled forward on her knees, then braced her bound hands on the ground and lowered her head. No patch on the Butcher’s boots was any dirtier than another. It was a game, a test to see how far she could be pushed. Laughter rolled around the room. Ellen squeezed her eyes so tightly shut they hurt—to hold back the tears of shame, and because she could not shut her ears. She did not want to pick Hal’s laughter out from the rest.

  She extended her tongue until it made contact with shoe leather. The texture of grit and the taste of filth made Ellen’s stomach twist no worse than did the whoops and ironic cheers from the watchers. She fought back a sob. How enthusiastic an effort would the Butcher want to see? But then, before Ellen could react, the Butcher’s foot jerked sharply, back and then up, kicking her in the face. The laughter intensified. Ellen sat back, tasting blood from a split lip. Three days. Was it worth it? She stared at the ground.

  The Butcher spoke. “So, Hal. What should we do with her? Does she have any uses?”

  “She’s a good fuck. But like I said yesterday, I doubt she’d be very cooperative right now.”

  “I don’t know. Just look at how nice and clean my boot is.”

  More laughter.

  The Butcher continued. “But I’m thinking, a nice ornament above the mantelpiece there, or even by the door, so I could hang my hat on it when I come in. Come on, Hal, what do you think? Should I cut her head off?”

  “It’s up to you, Maddy.” Hal’s tone was relaxed, but Ellen sensed the undercurrents. Some sort of contest was taking place between the cousins. Ellen did not miss that Hal was the first person she had heard address the Butcher by name, rather than the deferential “Boss.”

  “She was very informative yesterday, and you never know, I might think of some more questions for her. I was right, wasn’t I, that we should bring her along for a chat. Lucky for us she didn’t shoot off when you gave her the chance.”

  “Yeah. You were right. I was wrong.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say that.” The Butcher’s tone eased. The concession was clearly what she had wanted. She clapped her hands together. “I know what. Mac was telling me the latrine needs digging out, and she hasn’t been able to get anyone to volunteer.” She reached out with her boot and tapped Ellen. “Hey, Blackshirt. You’d like to volunteer to dig out the latrine, wouldn’t you?”

  Ellen looked up. Three days. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll have someone keeping an eye on you, but I know you’re not going to get any silly ideas about running off. Because, your parents, it must be so hard when one is an invalid. It would be awful if anything happened to your birth mother, when she was walking home alone from the Docks. You do understand me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Butcher raised both hands in a dual-fisted gesture of triumph. “Great. Tell Mac we’ve got a volunteer for her.”

  *

  The cave was in utter darkness. From the homestead came the sound of shouting and laughter. The gang were clearly spending another drunken evening. On the basis of yesterday’s experience, it would continue well into the night. Further away were the intermittent bleating of sheep and the cry of a hunting bird.

  Ellen shifted around, in a pointless attempt to get comfortable. Not only was her body aching and sore, both from the beating and the day’s hard labor, but the ground was hard, lumpy, and cold, and she had not even a blanket for warmth. Her hands had been untied while she worked, but were now bound again. She had been allowed to wash thoroughly at the end of the day—a request Ellen suspected had been granted solely because she was being held in the food store rather than for any concern over her welfare. However, her clothes were still damp and the temperature was dropping.

  Ellen curled herself into a ball. The position was no more excruciating than any other, and it might conserve her body heat. If she could just get through the night, she would have made it to the halfway point. Two more days and the Rangers would arrive.

  The soft rasp of metal on metal cut beneath the distant ruckus. Someone was drawing back the bolt on the door. Ellen turned her head at the sound. Lamplight danced through cracks in the wood and then the door opened. The beams struck Ellen full in the face, dazzling after the darkness, so she could see nothing. She raised her hands to shield her eyes, desperate to know who had come, and why. The door shut with a dull rattle. Squinting against the light, Ellen was able to make out the outline of a single person, standing over her. The figure hung the lantern from a hook on the roof, illuminating both the cave and herself.

  Hal adjusted the wick, and turned to face Ellen. “I couldn’t get to see you earlier. Maddy’s been keeping an eye on me. So—how you doing?”

  Ellen struggled into a sitting position. “Guess.”

  “You should have run when I gave you the chance.”

  “Easy with hindsigh
t.”

  “That goes for everything in life. I wish I…” Hal’s face looked as if she was trying for a carefree grin, and failing. She shrugged. “Wishing is also pretty pointless.” Her voice had softened to an undertone.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Hal knelt beside Ellen and softly ran her thumb over the cut on Ellen’s cheek. “It’ll mend.”

  Ellen pulled her face away and hunched her head down, but she could not stop her thoughts seething in turmoil. Although there had been tenderness in Hal’s voice, how could she put any trust in it? Yet Ellen’s heart tempted her to pretend the previous two days had not happened, to put her head on Hal’s shoulder and take what comfort she could. Ellen was appalled at her own weakness. Tears burned her eyes. I’m not going to cry. I’m not.

  Hal was not put off. She stroked the hair back off Ellen’s face. “It’s your own fault. You should never have trusted me.”

  Ellen scrunched her eyes shut, fighting to stay in control of herself, but it was so hard. She remembered the “nice and nasty” game the Militia played with prisoners they were questioning. One officer would be stridently aggressive, threatening violence. Another would play the part of the prisoner’s friend, restraining her colleague.

  Ellen had always been surprised at how the prisoners fell for it. Surely they had to know it was all a game. But now she understood. The desperate need to have someone on your side overwhelmed all common sense. Alone, vulnerable, powerless, and frightened, how could anyone turn down an offer of friendship, even when knowing it was a sham?

  Ellen summoned her anger as a defense. She looked up, meeting Hal’s eyes. “Damn right I shouldn’t have trusted you. But you had your tricks all worked out. How did you manage to get the documents showing that you were Cassie Drennen’s niece? What’s your true name?”

  “You were behind the Town Hall summons? I did wonder.”