Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  “What are their supplies like?”

  “The cave looked well stocked. The river will give them water, and there’s no shortage of mutton to eat.”

  “So we can’t starve them out. Not that we’d intended to.” Kallim looked around the fire. “Does anyone have any other questions?”

  “Do they store weapons in this cave?” A sharp-eyed captain asked the question.

  “Not that I saw. Mainly food.” And the cloaks Hal wrapped me in, the last time I slept in her arms.

  “These barricades here. What are they?” one of the lieutenants asked, pointing to the map.

  “They’re just fences. To keep the stolen sheep from straying.” I fixed the upper one, while Ade taunted me about loving Hal.

  “No defensive use?”

  “Not unless you’re a sheep.”

  The audience chuckled.

  “Can the river be forded?” someone else asked.

  “Certainly, in some spots.” Ellen touched the map. “That’s where I crossed, earlier tonight.” And that’s where I stood and kissed Hal for the last time.

  “So the gang might try to cross over and outflank us?”

  “That bank is fairly densely overgrown.” Ellen shrugged. “But I made my way through it”—even though I was crying too hard to see—“and the bushes would provide cover for archers.”

  “Yes. We need to watch out for that. Anything else?” When no one spoke, Kallim nodded to Ellen. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” She turned to the assembled Rangers. “All right. Dawn. The 14th are currently here.” With a stick she pointed to the top of the sheep pasture. “I want the 27th squadron to go out and reinforce them. Take up position on the flanks of the canyon, wherever possible.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “19th.”

  “Ma’am,” another captain answered.

  “The 2nd are here.” Kallim’s stick touched the map, upstream of the homestead. “I want you to cover this side of the river, around to here. Watch out for them trying to break out up the hill. In particular I want you to hold the points here and here. Get your best archers onto it and tell them to be on the lookout for bandits crossing the river.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That should hold them in. Everyone else. We’re going to join with the 23rd in the main assault. I’ll be leading you.” She drew a line in the earth. “Up along here. This building that Patrolwoman Mittal identified as the hay store will be our first target. I doubt they’ll be holding it in force, but it commands good lines of sight and once we’ve got control of it, if they put up any sort of defense in other buildings, we’ll make a stack on the outside and burn them out. Captain Drewer.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “The only exception. I’d like half your squadron up here. Patrolwoman Mittal has demonstrated that scaling the canyon wall is quite possible. We don’t want anyone sneaking away. Put your lieutenant in charge.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kallim nodded. “Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Right. The assault starts at dawn. Dismissed.”

  The Rangers drifted away. Ellen stayed in place, staring at the map, trying to align the scratched marks in the earth with her memories. It was not a case of the conflict between imagination and reality. Reality was not always the truth. The world held depths that the mere facts could never reach.

  “Patrolwoman Mittal?”

  Ellen looked up. Major Kallim was staring at her with a concerned expression. “Ma’am?”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m...okay.”

  “I’ve had a report from the healer about your physical condition.” Kallim stepped closer. Her voice dropped. “I know what they did to you, and I can make a good guess at why, at least for some of it. It’s the healer’s opinion that you were subjected to deliberate, sadistic torture. They wanted you to tell them about our plans, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. But...” Ellen closed her eyes as memories rushed into her head.

  “It’s all right; you don’t have to say anything now. But clearly, you didn’t tell them, and give them the chance to escape before we got here. When we eliminate the gang, it will be because of your courage. I’ll be making a full report to that effect when I return to HQ.”

  Ellen opened her eyes. “No. I wasn’t really...I mean I didn’t...it...”

  “Don’t put yourself down.” Kallim patted her arm. “Get back to the healer. You’ve more than done your share.” She smiled. “But if you want, you ought to be able to get a good view of events tomorrow from the top of the hill.” She gave a formal salute and walked away.

  Ellen stared at the sky. The eastern horizon held the first shadowing of gray. Dawn was approaching—the last dawn that Hal would ever see.

  And I can have a good view to watch her die.

  Chapter Eighteen—Shades of Gray

  The campfire was burning low. Red embers flared amid gray ash when the breeze stirred across the hilltop. The open tract of fern and grass ran for several kilometers, gently dropping away toward the west. Overhead, the sky was pale blue, speckled with just the faintest remnants of stars, except where banks of cloud were rolling in from the south. It might rain later that day. Ellen considered the clouds, trying to come to terms with the concept of the future in a world without Hal, and then turned her eyes back to the dying campfire.

  The blackened wood still radiated a little heat, welcome in the dawn chill. Ellen adjusted the heavy leather jacket that someone had placed around her shoulders, although in truth, the cold bothered her no more than the prospect of rain. She sat, hugging her knees and staring at the fire, trying not to think, and most certainly not to remember.

  Ellen was the only one still at the campsite. The Rangers had left immediately after the briefing to take up position. The healer had also gone, to be on hand when the fighting started, because it was a certainty that her skills would be needed. A few dozen horses were tethered in the middle of a nearby patch of grass. If Ellen turned around, she could pick out some of the Rangers who were guarding the route up the side of the canyon, although the majority had moved to spots over the rim, out of sight. Mostly she chose not to turn around.

  And then, faintly in the still air, came the sound of distant shouting from the floor of the canyon. Ellen closed her eyes. It had started.

  Nothing about the flow of events could be deduced from the shouts. This was fine by Ellen; she did not want to know. However, ignorance was no defense. Tears filled her eyes. Ellen pressed the heel of her hand into her mouth and bit, trying to stifle her sobs. Less than a kilometer from where she sat, a battle was going on. Hal would be fighting for her life and she would lose, might already have lost, might be lying dead.

  The minutes rolled by and the shouting got louder. Ellen pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block it out. It did not work. The yells and screams seared their way into her soul. Her ears were playing games with her, taunting her. How could the sound of fighting be so close, so real?

  Ellen dropped her hands and twisted around. Some way off, a thick plume of smoke climbed into the morning sky from the floor of the canyon. Were the Rangers burning the homestead this soon? Then Ellen noticed that the Rangers stationed on the hilltop had gone. Why had they moved? Was it just to get a better view?

  More shouts and screams rang out, and now that Ellen had removed her hands from her ears, she knew it was not some trick of her nerves. The outcry was from just over the rim of the canyon. Ellen leapt to her feet. The added height gave her enough angle to see the tops of a few Rangers—archers, shooting at unseen targets below them on the hillside.

  Ellen jogged forward a few meters so that more figures came into view. At first she saw Rangers, swords drawn and then Knives. Two of the gang were scrambling up the hill, until they were intercepted. The archers continued shooting down the hillside.

  Ellen had not been keeping track of time, yet she was sure that a scant quarter hour had pa
ssed since the first shouts. The Butcher’s gang could not have climbed the canyon wall so quickly. They must have set out before dawn, probably during the hours of complete darkness after Hardie had set, and hid themselves amid the bushes.

  Of course the Butcher would not have sat and waited passively for the Rangers to attack. The hope must be to break through the thin line of Rangers and get to the horses, before the main body of troops could surround them. A bold plan, but it would not work. Ellen could see the Rangers were getting the better of the fighting. Already both visible Knives had fallen. The Rangers were fresh and had the advantage of the high ground, whereas the attackers needed to finish off the steep climb, just to stand level with them. Furthermore, even though the Rangers might be outnumbered, time was on their side. All they had to do was hold out for a few minutes and reinforcements would arrive from below, catching the gang front and rear, exposed on the steep hillside.

  One of the horses whickered, shuffling its feet. Ellen glanced its way, momentarily distracted. As she turned back, her eyes glimpsed a figure, low to the ground, creeping silently through the dover ferns. Most of the woman was under cover, but what little could be seen was not encased in a green and gray uniform, which left only one alternative. Not that there was much doubt. A Ranger would not be skulking away from the fight.

  While the rest of the Knives were occupying the Rangers, one of their number had succeeded in slipping through the net. For an instant, Ellen’s heart leapt, but the figure was too stocky to be Hal. Ellen grabbed a half-burned log to use as a club and charged forward, shouting.

  At Ellen’s challenge, the woman sprung up and sprinted for the closest horse. However, Ellen was nearer and got there first, blocking the way. She skidded to a stop and turned to face the woman—the Butcher.

  Outrage swept over Ellen. The so-called leader was a coward, using her followers and family as decoys to be killed while she saved her own skin. She was buying her life with Hal’s. Ellen’s hand tightened on the log.

  The Butcher planted her feet on the ground, two meters from Ellen. Her eyes darted left and right as she clearly weighed up her options. Her expression was angry and frustrated, but then, unexpectedly, the tension left her in a visible wave. The Butcher’s body relaxed and her face changed to show its normal, vindictive smile.

  “Oh good. I was hoping to meet you.” The Butcher drew a sword from the scabbard hanging by her side. “Or should I say, I was hoping to gut you? Can’t even pass on a simple message, can you?”

  Ellen slipped the jacket off her shoulders and grasped the collar in her left hand, letting the rest hang loose. “What message was that?”

  “What Hal told you last night.”

  The Butcher sidestepped sharply to the right. Ellen countered, keeping between her and the horses. “Hal didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Another shit-stupid Militiawoman. Were you too busy hoping she’d get your pants off for a quick fuck to listen to what she said?”

  “How do you know what she said? How—”

  The Butcher’s sword flashed forward. Ellen swung the jacket across, catching the Butcher’s arm and deflecting her thrust, and then struck out with the log, jabbing at the Butcher’s face and forcing a retreat.

  The Butcher took a long step back, regaining both her balance and her sneering belligerence. “I know what she said, because I told her to say it.”

  Ellen felt her arms drop slightly as confusion set in—but of course, that was exactly what the Butcher wanted. She clenched her jaw. Ignore her.

  The Butcher went on. “Don’t you remember? Hal told you we were going to break out through the sheep pasture. We were going to set fire to the fence so the smoke would conceal what we were doing. Then we were going to rush the squadron on the other side of the fence and escape through the woods.”

  “What did—”

  The instant Ellen started to speak the Butcher leapt, slashing out with her sword. Again Ellen parried—just, but this time she was the one forced to step back.

  “But you didn’t pass the message on to the Rangers, did you?”

  Don’t talk to her.

  “The Rangers ought to have gone charging into the pasture at the first sign of smoke, to try and catch us. But they didn’t. They’re all around by the homestead. They’ve spotted us on the hillside, and now they’re picking off my girls, one by one, and it’s all your stupid frigging fault.”

  She’s trying to provoke you, to make you drop your guard. Ellen told herself. Don’t get drawn in. Yet the temptation was too strong. “You knew Hal was going to let me escape?”

  “Goddess, you’re slow. Of course I fucking knew. It was my plan. Why did you think she did it?” The Butcher sniggered. “Talk about a gullible moron.”

  Ellen’s heart had been hammering in her chest. Now it thundered to a new high, constricting her throat. Ellen’s arms weakened as memories of Hal in the moonlight swept over her. Don’t listen to her. She’s lying.

  The Butcher must have seen the taunts hit home. Her posture became even more cavalier, her expression derisive. “Did you honestly think”—The sword flicked up. Ellen flinched.—“that my cousin”—The blade sliced left and back, drawing Ellen’s eyes.—“would fall for a damned Blackshirt”—The Butcher feigned a jab. Ellen brought the jacket across, but overreacted, leaving her side exposed.—“and a shit stupid one at that?” The sword darted in, coming straight for Ellen’s heart.

  Ellen leapt back. The last thrust had missed her by centimeters. Her lungs were refusing to work. “Hal is...”

  “Hal is your darling?” The Butcher’s sarcastic laugh turned Ellen’s guts to ice. “You can’t get enough of her, can you? You were even happy for her to fuck you when you were in the cave, chained to the wall. Or did that just add an extra thrill to it?”

  “How do you know about...” Don’t talk to her. Don’t get drawn in.

  “How do I know? Because Hal told me all about it. What did you think we were laughing about while we watched you shoveling horseshit? I tell you, I nearly pissed myself.”

  The blood pounded in Ellen’s ears. White-hot fury erupted, sweeping over her, taking control of her hands, her legs. Ellen surged forward, swinging at the Butcher’s head with the log. The Butcher ducked and then drove the sword point up for Ellen’s throat.

  The rage wiped all conscious thought from Ellen’s head, yet still a cold, calm part of her mind watched the events in detachment, judging the solidity of the log in her hand, the speed of the sword, the ground under their feet, the drag of the jacket through the air, the shift in the Butcher’s balance.

  Acting of its own volition, Ellen’s left arm shot out, snaring the Butcher’s sword in the folds of the leather jacket. Her right hand swung in a smooth arc. The geometric precision of the motion was interrupted only as the log made contact with the Butcher’s head. The wood cracked with the force of the impact. Ellen dropped the splintered remains, but continued her forward momentum. Her fist pounded into the Butcher’s gut, sending the stunned woman crashing to the ground.

  Ellen dropped on her fallen opponent, pinning the Butcher to the ground, and punched with all the force of her anger. The Butcher had dropped her sword as she fell, but now she fumbled at her waist, drawing a knife from its sheath. Ellen shifted position so she sat astride the Butcher’s chest, her knees grinding into the Butcher’s arms, trapping them. Again Ellen brought her fist down in a crushing backhand swing. The Butcher grunted and tried to squirm away, but the ascendancy was with Ellen.

  By the fifth punch, the knife had slipped from the Butcher’s limp fingers; by the tenth, she was no longer struggling, but Ellen did not stop. She remembered the Butcher with the rod in her hand, smiling at each scream wrung from her lips. She remembered the Butcher, holding out a boot to be licked. She remembered the Butcher, lying about Hal. Ellen’s fists were going to knock down all the memories, until they no longer hurt.

  The Butcher was whimpering at each punch. The sound spurred Ellen on, a sava
ge balm for the rage in her heart, repayment for all the pain. At some point, she was aware of several footsteps running toward her but they halted a few meters away. Whoever it was did not try to intervene and Ellen dismissed them from her mind. Only when the Butcher had fallen silent, barely conscious, did Ellen stop her assault.

  She looked up. Three Rangers stood a short way off, watching her. One made a small gesture, clearly indicating that they were happy to wait until Ellen had finished. At last, the fury started to fade. Ellen scrabbled unsteadily off the unresisting body and stood. She took a deep breath and stared down at the Butcher, helpless at her feet.

  Somewhere in the rule book it said that prisoners should not be treated with more violence than was necessary to ensure their capture. Once they were restrained, they should not be subjected to any form of brutality. The Militia were the servants of the law, not the dispensers of it. Ellen considered the rules, then pulled back her leg and kicked the Butcher three times, using all the force she could muster. The shock of each kick reverberated up Ellen’s leg.

  At last, she stepped away and signaled to the waiting Rangers, half shrug, half nod. They moved in, hauling the Butcher to her feet. All were grinning. One winked at Ellen, then caught hold of the Butcher’s hair and pulled her head up as if critically appraising the damage Ellen had inflicted to the Butcher’s face.

  She spoke in mocking tones. “You know, you shouldn’t have resisted arrest like that. We saw you do it.”

  Another laughed. “But you know what they say about payback.”

  One of the Rangers collected the dropped sword, while the others tied the Butcher’s arms behind her. The prisoner was barely semiconscious. Her legs were under her but incapable of taking her weight. The Rangers dragged her away.

  For the first time, Ellen became aware that her knuckles were raw and her forearms ached. She held out the backs of her hands for inspection, but the focus of her eyes moved on. The patch of ground at Ellen’s feet was splattered with flecks of the Butcher’s blood. A glint of metal peeked from underneath a tussock of trampled grass. Ellen bent and picked up the Butcher’s knife. Her last knife.