by Remi Michaud
From inside the trees, he found the forest to be less forbidding. It looked just like the wood he had played in as a child on the farm, only bigger, and after a mile or so his relief began to overshadow his fear. No evil things snatched at him, threatened him, or took him away—at least not yet. No horrible sights met his eyes and no horrible sounds assaulted his ears. As a matter of fact, the forest was winter-dead, silent save for the constant crruuk, crruuk of his steps. He spotted animal tracks: there a rabbit had hopped its way to where ever it was that rabbits went; up ahead, the feather-light padding of a winter fox had barely left a mark—probably hunting rabbit, Jurel surmised. Animals were not stupid. They knew where danger was and they knew how to avoid it. If animals walked this forest without fear, then it stood to reason that Jurel could as well. This was the train of thought he used to convince himself, and it was successful. Mostly.
Buoyed by his discovery, he walked and when midday came, he cleared snow from a log laying on the ground, and sat to eat the rations Daved had provided. There was not much. A roll, slathered in butter, a slab of turkey from the last night's feast, and an apple. No, not much at all for a man of Jurel's size, but at least he would not starve. He had not brought a water skin, but that did not bother him too much. There was plenty of fresh snow to slake his thirst.
It was perhaps that rest that saved his life.
Somewhere behind him, from the way he had come, he heard the familiar, faint sound of footfalls emanate between the spaces in the trees. His eyes snapped up, he scanned the path, following the trail of his own footsteps. The trees left little in the way of visibility but that sound, that was clear enough. Jurel wondered who was approaching. His instincts told him he did not really want to know.
Gathering himself, he resumed his walk, hoping to outdistance whoever it was. He cursed himself for a fool. Surely, it was just another traveler, he told himself, nothing to be concerned about, but a niggling doubt remained. The forest flowed past, a silent witness to his flight. Trees barred his way, trying to slow his every step and when he skirted them, they reached their wooden fingers out, snagging his coat, his hair, anything they could get a hold of. The white ground, already a treacherous foe for shouting evidence of his passage, tried to trip him, slip him up and dump him to the ground. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, in the dark recesses where anything was possible, especially all things superstitious and dangerous, children's stories taunted him with malicious, childlike glee.
I should have kept to the road. I should not have come into this cursed wood.
No matter how hard he tried, how quickly he pushed himself, the sound of footsteps behind him got closer. Close enough, in fact, that he could hear them now over his own stumbling steps and rasping breaths.
“Jurel!” a familiar, hearty voice, called out. “What's your hurry?”
Jurel staggered to a halt, shocked to recognize his pursuer. What was Merlit doing out here? An impure relief flooded him; he chided himself for his superstitious fears even if the reality did not seem much better. Jurel waited, scanning the trees, trying to catch sight of his pursuer. He wondered if he should hide. He did not believe for a heartbeat that Merlit was there for social pleasantries. When Merlit did step out from behind a tree, Jurel noticed his right hand was hidden in his coat.
“What do you want?” Jurel asked.
“Oh, nothing. I just want to talk,” Merlit responded mildly enough.
“About what?” Stupid question. Jurel knew it as soon as it was out of his mouth. He tried to cover. “What does Valik want?”
Stepping toward him, Merlit smiled. It was a greasy smile. He had seen that kind of smile before, the kind of smile that a merchant paints on his face when he's trying to sell something rotten to an unsuspecting boob.
“Valik? Nothing, really. Nothing. He just wants an apology. That's all.” He approached Jurel, still smiling, all friendly and casual.
“Fine. He has it,” Jurel said. He backed up a step. His heart was hammering in his chest; something felt...wrong.
“He'll be happy to hear that. Why don't we head back to the farm together and talk about it?”
“I don't think so, Merlit. Just tell him that I'm terribly sorry for last night and I feel that I should leave the farm for my foolish behavior.”
Merlit's eyes flashed, indecipherable yet unpleasant.
“That, I don't think he'll like,” Merlit sighed.
“I'm not going back, Merlit. You may as well go tell him that. He should be relieved.”
“No you won't be coming back. And yes he will be relieved.”
Without warning, Merlit lunged. His right hand appeared, thrusting, and Jurel caught sight of a glint of steel. He had only an eye blink's worth of time to react. He twisted away, swinging up his own arm to deflect the attack. Pain flared in his arm, searing hot and he staggered back with a yelp. Flipping the knife in his hand, Merlit swung, a wide, overhand, arc stabbing down at Jurel who dove away, rolling through the snow, scrabbling and clawing, desperate to regain some ground under his feet. He heard a tearing, felt something pull his cloak and threw himself back to the ground.
“Shenk!” Merlit cried. “I got him, Shenk! Over here!”
Oh shit. Both of them!
He rolled to his back, and looked up. Merlit was diving at him, gripping his dagger in both fists. Jurel brought his legs up and pushed with every ounce of adrenaline driven strength he had. His luck was there; his feet connected in the middle of Merlit's chest and, with a powerful heave, Merlit flew over his head to land flat on his back with a dull whump. Snow puffed around him in a splash of smoky white.
Jurel jumped up, spun. Merlit was lying on his back, struggling to catch his wind. No thought; Jurel rushed forward and kicked the dagger away from Merlit's outstretched hand. Something gripped his leg. Looking down, he saw Merlit trying to upend him. He kicked. Merlit grunted when Jurel's boot connected with his ribs but did not let go. He aimed higher and kicked again. Blood sprayed from Merlit's forehead where Jurel's foot struck home. He kicked again and Merlit's hand fell away.
Silence.
Jurel hesitated for a moment, gasping, listening, scanning the trees. Where was Shenk? He had to be close but how close? It was time to go. Shenk would find Merlit soon enough and then the chase would be a frantic one. He was a long way from town. He ran as quickly as he dared over the slippery, uneven ground, stumbling, and catching himself on branches, gritting his teeth when his toes found buried rocks and against the fire in his injured arm.
Behind him, Shenk's voice reached out in the distance. “Merlit? Merlit, where are you?”
He was close. No more than a hundred paces away. As he ran, Jurel considered venturing deeper into the woods. Merlit had not seemed concerned with those superstitious stories, and neither would Shenk, but maybe there would be places to hide.
Of course not, he concluded. No matter how good the hiding spot, there's still the bloody snow...
It was an unintentional double-entendre. He did not notice that he left two trails as he ran: footsteps, and the red that dripped from his fingertips.
He ran. More than ever, the trees reached for him. Knots and gnarls stared at him, glared at him for disturbing their peace and those woody fingers scratched and scraped his exposed face.
Pain erupted in his foot and, without warning, the ground flew up to meet him. He threw out his arms, trying to stop the world from smashing him in the face and bit back a scream when he landed with a jolt. His arm roared with a bonfire heat. A glance back through pain-squinted eyes showed the root that had tripped him. Scrambling up, he limped willing his sore foot to stop its angry protests.
Shut up. Shut up and just bloody keep me standing.
“Jurel! You bastard!”
Jurel jumped in mid-stride, shocked, and he fought to keep from kissing the ground again. So Shenk finally found Merlit's prone figure. He did not care.
He ran, chest heaving, arm burning, feet screaming. He had no idea how long he ran
for but by the golden light filtering through the dense canopy overhead, like rain finding its way through a leaky thatch roof, pooling on the snow in copper puddles, he knew it must be at least mid afternoon. Fear gripped him. He had to be close to town. He had to be. Stumbling again, he fell to his knees. Before he could raise himself, he heard a muffled crack as a branch buried in the snow gave under Shenk's weight like a bone under flesh gives way to a hammer.
He was close. Jurel's mind raced. What was he to do? The race seemed well and truly lost. Should he continue his mad dash? Should he hide? Should he stand and confront? Indecision halted him, his mind emptied, erased, and the hesitation decided him.
Shenk appeared from the trees, spotted Jurel and grinned. It was the kind of grin Jurel would expect from a wolf when it sees a fat, juicy rabbit after an enforced fast. Suppressing a shudder, Jurel stared at him. Like a rabbit. Shenk held a long wicked dagger in his hand, a fat thing with a slight curve. One of those leaking shafts of sunlight dripped from the ugly blade like a cruel omen.
“There you are, you coward,” Shenk grated, narrowing his eyes to slits.
“Shenk, please-”
“Shut up.”
Shenk stalked him, crouched down in a fighter's stance, making his way in an oblique arc toward Jurel who stood, completely motionless, watching Shenk's approach. Like a rabbit.
He tried again. “Look Shenk, I don't want any trouble-”
Shenk barked a laugh, “Right. Tell that to Valik and Merlit. You did quite a job on Merlit, by the way. I doubt he's even awake yet.”
“It wasn't my fault,” Jurel cried. “I was just trying to go away. To leave all of you alone and force all of you to leave me alone. I didn't want to hurt anyone.”
“It's never your fault is it?” Shenk sneered. “Well, this time I think we've all had about enough of you and your 'it's not my fault' routine.”
A memory, distant yet clear for its newness rose: Boy, you think that everyone you meet'll want to be your friend?
Fumbling at his belt, he gripped the hilt of his sword and yanked, nearly dropping it when the tip caught on the scabbard. He held it out with all the skill he could muster, trying to remember everything Daved had taught him. It was not much but maybe, just maybe...
“Go away, Shenk. I mean it.” He tried for menacing, but the quaver in his voice belied him and Shenk laughed.
“What're you gonna do, kid, eh? You're not going to use that and we both know it.”
He took a step forward confidently, laughing, and entered Jurel's striking range, as if to prove his point. Or maybe he dared Jurel to try. Dismayed, Jurel stepped back. Something about Shenk bothered Jurel, tickled his mind. The way he moved, the grace of his actions, caused Jurel's instincts to rattle and worry. The ground was uneven, lumpy; there were roots, and broken tree limbs, potholes hidden by snow, and patches of ice to slip him up.
Without warning, Shenk lunged, uncoiling like a viper. His expression was viciously gleeful as he extended his arm, slicing at Jurel. For the second time that day, Jurel's arm caught fire and he screamed, dropping his sword. Staggering, he gripped his injured wrist and stared, horrified, at Shenk, who was skipping lightly back.
Jurel's instincts had been right. Almost as a flash of inspiration, he understood what had caused his anxiety. This was no ordinary farmhand. Shenk was graceful, and skilled; he knew exactly how to wield his dagger.
Shenk laughed when he saw the realization dawn on Jurel.
“You thought I was just some peasant, did you?” His glare was triumphant. “Oh no. I just got sick of army life and decided to take a bit of a leave of absence. 'Course, I didn't bother telling anyone, but that don't matter. I imagine they've given up searching for me by now.”
Another lightning quick slice, and Jurel felt the dagger sink through his overcoat as if it were smoke, and slide along his ribs, almost like a kiss, producing a razor's edge of pain. Another yelp. Another stumble.
His mind cried, clamored, pounded at his skull. No, no, no! With fear turning to terror, the ringing began again in Jurel's ears. He wanted to shake his head. He wanted to clamp his hands to his ears and order the noise to go away. He wanted to scream; maybe yelling would cover the noise. He could barely breath. His lungs felt constricted and he gasped, shallow breaths rattling in and out, in and out.
Shenk moved again, barely visible to Jurel, and pain exploded in his cheek. The humming in his ears took on a jangling quality. Shenk continued to toy with him. Playing games as a cat plays with a mouse before ending its miserable existence. Stunned anger started to peek through the stark terror. He touched his fingers to his cheek, and they came away wet and red. With a grin, Shenk regarded him.
“You like that, eh?” he crowed. “I confess,” he continued, almost mildly, conversationally, “that after seeing what you did to Valik and Merlit, I expected more. I'm growing tired of this little game. I think I'll end this now. If I hurry, I can be back in time to diddle your precious Erin.” He smiled, a predatory thing, with glittering eyes.
Jurel could not seem to focus his thoughts. Try as he might, he could not break through the buzzing confusion.
Defend yourself! The thought rose in his mind, bubbling up from the depths, breaking to the surface like miasmal swamp gas, bursting into his thoughts, wet and rancorous. A fleeting image, skittered into the confusion and back out before he could identify it. He thought he saw Daved's face again, on Gram's body, but he could not be sure.
“She'll like it when I do her. I bet she cries from the pure joy of knowing a real man for a change. Especially when I-”
Sound stopped. Time slowed.
Erin.
Defend yourself!
Jurel's eyes focused on Shenk's approaching bulk, taking in his rictus grin, and bulging eyes. He watched Shenk take a step forward, his arm uncoil and rise toward Jurel's throat. It seemed that Shenk was underwater, his actions deliberate and ponderous.
He wondered at that. Shenk was most assuredly moving as he had, a viper striking, but Jurel was able to watch this attack, taking his time to see each muscle tense individually, stretch and turn to cord over his collar in his neck, saw Shenk's teeth as his lips drew back, saw the stark glitter of murder in his eyes. As through an infinitely long tube, he heard the crunch of snow as Shenk's foot settled, and the snap of the twig underneath. A sense of life suffused Jurel, revitalizing him and strengthening him. The world about him focused into brilliant contrast: the gnarls and whorls of each tree's mud brown bark tracing designs like primitive road maps, all heading north and south in roundabout, meandering routes; a leaf from a maple tree, disturbed by Shenk's lunge drifting on the snow, each vein that radiated from its stem like a tiny brown lightning bolt on a muddy yellow parchment easily discerned; he smelled mud and musk, the soft scent of hibernating trees, and frozen earth, intertwined with the sharp reek of Shenk's sweat and malice.
The blade was halfway between them when Jurel acted. Distractedly, Jurel raised his hand. He did not consciously think of what he did. He was too distracted by the sights of the forest suddenly so alive in his senses. His hand wrapped around the blade, stopping the cold steel in mid-thrust. His gaze returned to Shenk's expression and he almost laughed when he saw his would-be killer's face change. Grim determination gave way to shock; his eyes bulged, his mouth dropped open in an O of incredulity.
Jurel yanked, plucking the dagger from the stunned man's grip and in a fluid motion, he flipped the blade, spun it in the air until with a smack he felt the coarse leather hilt drop comfortably into his unscathed palm. His mind registered the fact that his palm should be torn and bloody, radiating waves of pain where he had caught the knife. It did not matter. It was not. That mattered only slightly more in that moment. But he could worry about it after. There was some business to attend to first. Shenk stumbled back, dazzled.
Instinctively, Jurel surged forward, closing the distance between him and his hunter with inhuman speed—still casual, still slow, in Jurel's view—and sank
Shenk's blade into the pit of his belly. It was like cutting raw beef. He felt the grate of bone, and knew he had struck Shenk's backbone. With a twist, he pulled the blade back out amidst a gout of blood that spilled over his hand, and watched as Shenk staggered, watched his legs give way, and watched as Shenk slumped to a sitting position in the snow.
“How was that, Shenk? Entertaining enough for you?” Jurel growled.
Shenk raised his eyes and stared at Jurel.
“How-?” He toppled like a felled tree to lay in the rapidly expanding semi-circle of blood (like a rose) marring the snow. “Your eyes. What's wrong with your bloody eyes?” he whispered even as his own eyes dimmed, went glassy, stilled.
Confusion filled Jurel. Then dismay. The world dimmed, reeled and spun, a spume of over-bright colors, the ground canting crazily under his feet and he lost his balance. In an imitation of Shenk, he sank to the ground and stared in horror at the dead man in front of him.
What have I done?
He had killed a man. Bloody damn, he had enjoyed it.
What have I done?
He lifted his hand, the one that still held Shenk's dagger and hissed, revolted by the bloody line dripping from the blade onto his already crusting fingers. He hurled the cursed thing as hard as he could and heard it strike a tree, saw it bounce and skitter, throwing broken shards of light and drops of Shenk's blood, before it disappeared in the snow. He stared at his hand, the one that should have been pouring blood from a ruinous gash. There was blood, some of it from the deep, burning wounds in his arm, but most of it was Shenk's. He could not ignore it. It cried out to him, tormented him, burned him. Without thought, he buried his hand in the snow, trying with a frightening desperation, a powerful obsession, to scrub the evidence of his bestial violence away. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his hand was red, raw from the cold and abraded from the unmerciful scraping, yet he could not quite get the last vestiges of his sin off him.
