Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  The rise in noise caught Ellen’s attention. She looked around. Far more Rangers were at the campsite than the half squadron that had been positioned atop the canyon wall, and more were arriving by the second, coming up over the rim. They must have climbed from the homestead. Any Knives on the wall of the canyon would have been surrounded, killed, or captured.

  The battle was over for everyone. Ellen put her face in her hands and cried.

  *

  By midmorning, the cloud had crossed over and covered the sky, but no rain had yet fallen. Major Kallim had returned to the campsite, although many of the Rangers were still below, checking the homestead and making sure that none of the gang had escaped. The atmosphere was jubilant.

  Ellen sat on her own, out of contact with the world. She stared at the torn skin on her knuckles. Breaking the rules had not made her feel better, but she did not regret one iota of it. Obeying them would have made her feel worse.

  Major Kallim had been making the rounds. Now she stopped by Ellen, who started to get to her feet.

  “No, stay as you are.” Kallim dropped down and sat beside her, adopting a pose of deliberate casualness that Ellen tried not to see as condescending. “How are you doing?”

  “All right, ma’am.”

  “Good work with the gang leader. I’d have hated for her to have escaped.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Kallim smiled. “It all turned out better than I expected. I was braced for losses when we took the homestead. The layout meant we were going to be exposed to crossfire some of the time. Catching them on the hillside was far less dangerous.” Kallim paused and looked at Ellen. “I’ve been questioning the prisoners. You know they set fire to the farther away fence?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They thought we’d go charging through to investigate. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Um...I think I was supposed to pass the story on that it was part of a plan they had to escape.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Their plans came unstuck somewhere. She never...I...we...” Ellen rubbed her forehead, struggling with her memories.

  “It’s all right. As I said, it worked out well.” Kallim patted Ellen’s shoulder. “If we’d swallowed the bait of the burning fence it might have gone differently, though. With the majority of us in the offshoot canyon, we might not have seen the bandits on the hillside when they made their move. They’d have been able to take their time on the final ascent. They had the advantage in numbers and some would quite likely have gotten to the horses and escaped. You were right about the gang leader, going for offense. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and you’re no coward.”

  Ellen ducked her head, but could think of nothing appropriate to say.

  “You’ve completed your probation with the Militia?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ellen confirmed, even though she knew the question was rhetorical. Kallim was the one who had ordered her early promotion.

  “If you apply to the Rangers, I think I can guarantee you’ll be accepted.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. But I haven’t made my—”

  “No rush. There are some interesting times ahead. This whole affair has shown that we need to sort out the way the three branches of the military work together, and the procedures for reporting back to HQ. What we had works for small-scale local trouble, but we don’t want to get caught out if another organized gang go for the big time. You’ve got the experience and the talents we need. Think about it.” Again, Kallim patted Ellen’s shoulder and stood up. “The healer tells me you aren’t fit to ride.”

  “I feel fine, ma’am.”

  “No. It’s all right. Take it easy while you can. The wagon with the wounded is leaving for town in ten minutes. You’ve got a place on it.”

  “I’m not—”

  “No arguing. Ten minutes. On the wagon.” Kallim smiled broadly and walked away to join a small group of officers.

  Ellen watched her go. Her eyes moved on. Thirty meters away, at the other side of the campsite, the prisoners were assembled, sitting on the ground in a line. There were nine in total, the Butcher and Ade Eriksen among them. They would all hang; that much was certain. A trial would be held, but the outcome was not in doubt. Ellen looked at each face in turn. Hal was not there. Ellen knew that already. Her gaze returned to the Butcher.

  Some words from Chris Sanchez, spoken shortly after Ellen had first joined the Militia, rolled through her head. They had just broken up a fight in the street. Chris had said, “Angry women are hard to predict. When the rage takes over, women get stupid and they get dangerous. A lot of women just get stupid. The ones to be frightened of are the few who just get dangerous.”

  The Butcher had been trying to provoke her, taunting her about Hal, hoping she would become stupid and make a careless mistake. Ellen remembered the murderous calculating demon who had taken over her body. Whoever would have thought that she might become someone the Butcher should have been frightened of?

  Now the demon had gone. Ellen’s gaze hardened. The Butcher had deliberately been trying to anger her. Nothing said in the circumstances should be taken as truth—quite the opposite. The one thing Ellen could be sure of was that every word the Butcher had spoken was selected and twisted to cause the most hurt. Yet some facts could not be disputed.

  Hal had lied. She had set Ellen free with the Butcher’s knowledge. She had related the story of what had taken place in the cave. The Butcher had known that—betrayed, deceived, beaten, and humiliated—Ellen had been so besotted as to still willingly accept Hal as a lover.

  When, why, and how Hal had passed on the details was uncertain. Maybe she had done it laughing and boasting as the Butcher claimed. Maybe she had been obliged to give an account when spied leaving the cave. Maybe she had spun a yarn, more fiction than fact, as part of some scheme. Ellen would never know the truth.

  Yet Hal had not planted the false story of the planned escape through the sheep pasture. Ellen searched her memory. She knew no mention of it had been made, and it was inconceivable that Hal had simply forgotten.

  So far, Ellen had come up with two scenarios. Over the years ahead, assuredly she would think of more.

  Ellen’s first scenario was that Hal had used the ploy of feeding false information to get the Butcher to agree to her escape. Hal had lied about the Butcher intending to kill Ellen only to ensure that she went. For the good of the whole family Hal had not wanted the Butcher to get away and was prepared to sacrifice her own life to ensure it. She had manipulated events to ruin the Butcher’s plans, even by sending Ellen up the canyon wall to alert the Rangers to the risk. In this scenario, Hal had been telling the truth when she said, “I love you.”

  Or maybe Hal had double-crossed everyone. In the second scenario, Hal had strung both Ellen and the Butcher along. She had set up the Butcher and the rest of the gang as a lure. When the Rangers spotted the Knives, exposed on the hillside, they had been forced to change their attack plan. This was what Hal had counted on. She was hidden, waiting for a gap to appear as the Rangers adjusted to the unexpected. Even with her plans in ruins, the Butcher had been close to escape. If Hal’s plan had been on track, might she have gone one step further and slipped through the net?

  Across the campsite, Ellen stared at the Butcher. Hal lied to us both, but who did she deceive?

  Ellen stood and turned to face another corner of the campsite, where a second group of bandits were being assembled by the Rangers. A pile of bodies. As Ellen watched, she saw one more limp form carried up. Other Rangers were at work, digging a mass grave at the side.

  Was Hal lying over there? All Ellen’s logic evaporated at the thought.

  Hal was a liar, a thief, and a murderer. She had been a key member of the most vicious gang the world had seen. Ellen could not trust a word Hal had ever told her. Which scenario was the truth? In her final act, had Hal given her life for what she saw as the good of her family? Or was there truly nothing about
her that Ellen could respect?

  Ellen felt her eyes fill with tears. Despite everything, she loved Hal. She always would. But had Hal loved her? Had Hal been lying from beginning to end? Was everything she had said in the cave just part of a plot that had been interrupted by the arrival of the Rangers? Was she totally without regard for anyone else, even her own family? Had she tricked her cousin to save her own skin? Was Hal lying in the pile of bodies?

  Ellen remembered waking up in Hal’s bed, with Hal’s body warm beside her; looking at Hal’s sleeping face; Hal’s smile and the dance of her eyes. Could she bear to look at Hal’s body, cold, stiff, and broken? Or would it be better, thinking that maybe, somewhere, Hal was still walking the face of the earth, regardless of justice or the law?

  Was Hal lying in the pile of bodies?

  Ellen clamped her hand over her mouth. Supposing she discovered that Hal was not there. By her oath to uphold the law, she would be bound to report it, to tell Major Kallim that one dangerous criminal had escaped. But she did not have to look. Nobody had asked her to check for missing bandits. Tears trickled down Ellen’s face and over her fingers. Would tomorrow be easier to get through, with just the merest hint of a possibility that one day she might see Hal again?

  The Rangers carrying the body reached the pile and added the dead Knife to the rest. Ellen’s hand fell to her side. If Hal was lying there, then she did not need to know.

  Ellen turned and walked away down the hillside to the waiting wagon.

  About the Author

  Jane Fletcher is a GCLS award winning writer and has also been short-listed for the Gaylactic Spectrum and Lambda awards. She is author of two fantasy/romance series: the Lyremouth Chronicles—The Exile and The Sorcerer, The Traitor and The Chalice, and The Empress and The Acolyte and the Celaeno series—The Walls of Westernfort, Rangers at Roadsend, The Temple at Landfall, Dynasty of Rogues, and Shadow of the Knife.

  Her love of fantasy began at the age of seven when she encountered Greek mythology. This was compounded by a childhood spent clambering over every example of ancient masonry she could find (medieval castles, megalithic monuments, Roman villas). It was her resolute ambition to become an archaeologist when she grew up, so it was something of a surprise when she became a software engineer instead.

  Born in Greenwich, London, in 1956, she now lives in southwest England, where she keeps herself busy writing both computer software and fiction, although generally not at the same time.