“My name is Etienne,” he said, “As you well know. I would not have told you if I did not wish you to call me by name. My real name.”
His reproach appeared to penetrate the haze of defiance in her eyes.
Her brows came unfurrowed, then, slowly, she unclasped her hands and there was no flame, only the pink skin of a hale and beautiful woman.
“Yes, you did,” she replied, her mouth softening from the hard lines of determination of just a moment earlier.
She turned away from him, as if to scan the valley far below, then said, “And you know why I don’t call you that...Marechal. You try to bridge the gap between us with your own name. But I tell you once again that I won’t close that distance.”
The Marechal thought he saw her shudder, yet the wind was still.
“It isn’t safe.”
He heard some memory in those few words, something that weighed heavily upon the young woman’s mind.
“As you say,” he replied, “And as I have said, I would take that risk.”
She stood straighter then, her back rigid.
“But you’re wrong to do so. Whatever magic keeps you young and heals your wounds is no match for what burns inside me.”
Then, lower, almost in a whisper, she said, “I can feel it, as I have before. It wants to burn you to the ground...”
He sighed at the resignation in her voice.
“The truth and your freedom lie in the direction of House Perene, not there where you believe accusations of murder will not follow you,” he said.
“As it is, these strange murders of men skinned alive have followed you even here, Melisse. I do not believe that the demon we encountered in Licharre was destroyed, and, above all, the one who sent it certainly was not.
“Two months of calm have gone by, but do not be fooled. You are being hunted still and not by me. Further, these murders resemble too closely something I encountered a long time ago and there is no telling what might happen when the force behind them finally chooses to end the chase.”
He did not continue on to say what he thought next. That the young woman before him was undoubtedly the prey.
“In any case, I cannot follow you. I have a task yet before me and where you say your path lies would only take me further away from it.”
My thinking is that the encounter you had in the forest the night of young Perene’s murder has somehow gone awry. It is possible, even quite likely, that the being who seduced you never intended that you survive.
Otherwise, why allow you to see that it took the guise of the slops boy? A person you could easily recognize and who, doubtless, has since been found murdered and skinned like all the rest.
All of it reminds me of something long ago. A time when monsters masqueraded in the skins of men. A base, yet effective, form of espionage. But those creatures were never so clever as to devise such a plan on their own.
I believe that something, someone, guided them in their efforts. Then, abruptly, it disappeared and took its knowledge with it, putting a sudden end to the slip skinned spies in our midst.
Disappeared, that is, until now. For whatever reason, I believe it has emerged once again to mischief and as I swore so long ago, I will stop at nothing to destroy it.
So, what you’re saying is that this really isn’t about me? All your words that you could take care of me are only a pretext for keeping me where I am of use to you, Marechal.
You desire that I stay not out of affection for me, but for your affection of the hunt. And I would be the bait.
You misunderstand, Melisse. When I was sent away to root out the goblins wearing men’s skins, I had a lover I was forced to leave behind. She meant everything to me and by the time I returned from my mission, she was gone.
In all my long years, it has ever been thus. I pass through time alone while those around me live out their lives then fall to dust. There have been women in my life, but never do they tarry at my side. Fate has always deprived me of that kind of happiness. Instead, I walk in solitude and remain faithful to the oath I swore when I learned of what happened to the last woman I ever truly loved and to whom I never had the opportunity to tell.
I shall not rest until I find the one responsible, the one who forced me away from her side.
I ask you to stay because I do care, and because I think the magic in your possession means that you could walk through time with me. That when my task is done, I would no longer see my future as a wasteland of solitude with no one to care for and no one who cares for me.
Melisse hung her head as she heard him speak.
Marechal. You could be right. I don’t know. Will I now live on as you do with the force that burns within me? It could be so. But you must understand, I am a bonfire only waiting for the spark to bring the blaze upon all who are near to me.
Even, she turned away from him, not wanting him to see the tear gathering at the corner of her eye, Even those who could matter to me. Very much.
He had not seen her face again as she walked forward to take up the trail that led down the far side of the mountain to foreign lands below.
And as always, it was to the back of a woman that the man said his silent farewell, before he, too, turned to return the way he had come. Only, as he walked his steps grew heavier, his back more hunched and he saw no more flowers nor anything else that might have been reason for smiling.
His side of the mountain was one of cold truths and hard rock, unforgiving, endless...and lonesome.
The wine glimmered in its pewter cup, tiny waves growing from its center that slipped to the edges to rebound and confound themselves, thus hiding the reason that there were any waves at all.
The man sighed and made no sign that he had heard anything as several men came through the tavern door to rejoin the one at the bar.
The wine shimmered and he simply wondered if its flavor would be less bitter for the salt.
Rubio heard the tavern door creak, then the dark figures of big men came looming into the tavern. The door nearly closed behind them, when a fourth man, small, rotund and as breathless as always, slipped inside and said in a rush, “Rubio. I brought ‘em like you wanted. Just like you said.”
The barkeeper frowned and was about to open his mouth when Butcher cut him off.
“Best find a reason to go outside now. I think the back alley is probably a lot more interesting than it used to be. For the next few minutes, anyway.”
The barkeeper’s mouth hung open for a moment, then he closed it again, before mumbling something that sounded like, “Someone had better pay for the mess is all I’m sayin’.”
Then he left without looking back.
Nenouf was still grinning in Rubio’s general direction as Butcher leaned close to him, about to say something into the man’s ear.
Before he could utter a word, one of the big men...it might have been Castang...said, “My Molly’s got oxtail simmering at the hearth. I h’aint got time for any more discussin’ when my belly’s empty.”
He shrugged his coat to one side and hefted what looked like a thick axe handle in his hands. It was missing the axe head, though. Instead, what appeared to be at least twenty heavy iron nails were driven through the business end, making of it a kind of crude morning star.
It made an odd whistling sound as he walked forward to swing it hard into the air where the rich man’s head had been just an instant before. But rather than stove the drunken man’s head in, it slammed into the table.
Nenouf watched, the smile still on his face fading as the scene played out. Castang, or maybe it was Vinsou, was pulling hard on his axe handle, but the spikes driven through it had been embedded fast in the heavy table top where the rich man had been sitting.
A man who was now lying on the floor with his own foolish grin on his face. Nenouf was sure it was only drunk’s luck, but his head had lolled to one side just as the hard wood handle had slammed down, then overbalanced, the man had tumbled from his chair to the floor.
Butcher looked like he was about to shout something to Castang when Nenouf saw the drunken man roll over like a fish out of water. As he did it, Nenouf caught a flash of two things.
One was a terrible scar that ran down one side of the man’s face in jagged lines like a bolt of lightning cast from boiled over skies. The other was the shine of bright metal in the rich man’s hands.
It has only been for an instant, but it looked like he had meant to roll in the opposite direction. Instead of trying to get away, the fool had flopped forward, toward Castang instead, and brought the table down on top of himself.
The big man standing over him was still tugging on his weapon when the table started to fall, then Nenouf heard him yelp, then say, “Ow!”
It was like watching a logger man’s tree begin to tip and fall. Castang...or Vinsou, it might have been...had flailed backward to avoid tumbling over the table collapsing before him. But as he did, he had let out a sound that was at odds with his size, the hurt sound of a little boy, as if he had been stung by a hornet.
For some reason, he could not stop his backward motion, then Castang was falling over and as he did, he reached toward his ankle with an anguished look on his face.
“Owwww! Garn! He done unhinged me foot,” the big man shrieked.
His brother looked right, then left, unsure which way to turn. Butcher’s eyes were narrowed at the improbable situation, but no orders were forthcoming.
Then, Vinsou was rushing toward his sibling lying on the floor, his own coat pulled to the side and a thick iron bar in both his hands.
Nenouf watched, his eyes wide, and as the second brother rushed forward, Nenouf shrank back behind the bar. He heard a terrible crash and popped his head up from behind the bar to see the second brother lying beside the first, his hand clapped to his throat and blood streaming through his fingers.
“Vinsou...Vinsou!” the first brother howled as he rolled from one side to the other, but even Nenouf could see the man was done for.
And over both the brothers stood that scarred man, staggering as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. In one hand, he held what looked to Nenouf like a tiny, thin sword, not even a third as long as it should have been.
The drunken fool had somehow managed to put both brothers down, while he stood there close to falling over again. His free hand was at his belt, fumbling at a full sized sword still in its scabbard upon his hip.
Only his head kept tipping down and Nenouf saw that the man could barely keep his eyes open.
In a low, calm voice, Butcher said, “Rubio. Two paces to my left. We move in slow and steady.”
Rubio nodded as he got up, his own battered blade sliding free from its sheath while Butcher settled his pair of heavy cleavers in his fists.
Nenouf knew that things were about to go to hell then and there.
But before they did, the drunken fool had something to say.
His voice was slurred and uneven, but he said, “She left me. After all that I did for her. After all that I would have done. She left.”
His feet slid apart, then he narrowly caught himself from falling down again as he managed to place one foot wide before the other and turn himself to the side.
To Nenouf, it looked as if he wanted to address the wall off to the side of him and that, maybe, he had even forgotten the two men advancing upon him, slowly, yet surely.
He’s going to get himself butchered good and proper like that, Nenouf thought. He don’t even know enough to face those boys coming straight on.
Nenouf shook his head. The man might have had the coin to pay himself a pair of pretty blades, but standing sideways like that when two hard men were coming to take him down had only one likely outcome. And a drunk’s luck only runs so far.
With an awkward jerk, the man managed at last to free his sword from the scabbard, coming within a hair’s breadth of cracking himself on the jaw with its pommel as he did. Then, he tilted back before slumping forward, the sword’s point driving into the inn’s wooden floor as he leaned on it like an old man upon a cane.
“For my own good, she said,” the man mumbled, his hair falling down over his eyes.
Rubio was grinning widely as he eased himself forward. Butcher kept his eyes narrowed, flicking his gaze from the scarred man’s hands up to the face hidden largely by unkempt hair and shadow.
“Did you see that scar, Rubio?” Butcher said.
Nenouf watched as Rubio nodded, then replied, “He seen a battle or two, this one. Veteran, maybe.”
Butcher nodded then said, “That’s right. And he took out the tendon in Castang’s heel, drunk as he is.”
“So what do we do, Butch?” Rubio asked.
“We go in at the same time...exactly the same time,” was the reply.
The drunken man’s head hung lower still, then he mumbled, “She didn’t wish to hurt me. But no one can. No one.”
Rubio froze at these words, but with a scathing look from Butcher, he kept moving.
Then the two men burst forward, their weapons raised.
Nenouf shuddered, thinking he did not want to see what was about to happen, but he was frozen in place, fascination pinning him behind the bar, unable to look away.
Rubio’s sword slashed in to strike first. Or, it should have.
But without looking up, the man’s left arm raised the smaller sword up and with a slight flick of his wrist, sent Rubio’s blade skittering to the side while Rubio followed it, his own momentum carrying him forward hard.
Butcher had rushed in at the same moment, only as Rubio struck out with his long blade to have it neatly deflected to one side, Butcher dropped down into a crouch, his cleavers slicing the air in sweeping curves that would take the drunken man’s leading leg off at the knee.
The arc of those heavy blades meant for breaking bone and cleaving flesh was interrupted before they ever got there.
As Rubio’s sword was slapped aside, he could not stop his forward motion, coming in close to the man who then took a sliding half step backward as he struck Rubio hard behind the ear with the butt of his main-gauche. Rubio’s eyes were already rolling back in his head as he fell which was probably a mercy, because he fell hard just in front of Butcher and his cleavers.
The first one took Rubio in under the jaw and came crashing out from the tip of his chin in an explosion of bone and blood. The second landed dead center in the unfortunate man’s forehead, sinking in deep.
Butcher let go of the cleaver buried in his business partner’s brains while holding on to the other as he rolled to the side before springing up to his feet, a long boning knife already in his free hand.
Castang lowed like a lost cow from the floor while his brother lay still beside him, his hand having fallen away from the gash at his throat, the blood no longer flowing.
Butcher grinned his brown toothed smile and said, “Good enough. You helped narrow the split down to one man and that suits me just fine. Only I’m not like those three and you’re drunk as hell.”
The man opposite him did not seem to notice as Butcher edged further to one side, putting himself almost at the man’s back.
Then Butcher burst forward, his boning knife weaving from right to left, while he held the cleaver high and ready to lop off a hand at the wrist if he could.
Nenouf did not notice that his own mouth was held in a perfect circle of surprise. Only one of the Butcher’s Boys was still standing and it was Butcher himself.
It should not have been possible and what was worse was that they had been done in by a drunken man.
What kind of unholy terror might he be when he’s sober, thought Nenouf, knowing full well that if he knew what was good for him, he should already be well on his way out the back door of the tavern.
But what he saw next kept him right where he was.
Butcher pounded forward just as the scarred man stumbled and pivoted at the same time. The sword that served him as a cane came with him, then it punched down again, only this time the poin
t landed directly in Castang’s thigh.
The big man lying on the floor screamed a high pitched scream and as he instinctively clapped his hands to the wound, Nenouf saw the ends of his fingers fly away at the same time the scarred man ripped the sword back up and into the air.
Blood squirted up in an arc from Castang’s leg and Nenouf knew what that meant. A half inch to one side or the other and it would have been only a flesh wound. Instead, that drunken man had somehow punched through the artery in the big man’s thigh and only red hot iron could save Castang then.
Butcher’s boning knife whistled as it cut the air, its path about to carry it to land between two of the scarred man’s ribs, probably to drive deep into his liver.
But, the man staggered back again, and Butcher’s blade only tasted fine cotton fabric as it licked cleanly through the man’s shirt.
Butcher kept going and spun round in a roundhouse circle, his cleaver cutting the air, but the scarred man had stumbled to one side as he raised his long bladed sword at last.
The cleaver struck it hard and Nenouf saw sparks flash as cold metal struck metal.
The heavy cleaver in Butcher’s hand pulled him after it as it ran along the long sword blade. Nenouf saw his eyes go wide, then the short sword flickered in the scarred man’s other hand.
Somehow he had twisted around, keeping his balance when he should have fallen. Instead, he had turned with all the fluidity of a dancer, his sidelong stance allowing him to move unhindered.
And in a shining flash, Nenouf saw the tip of that short blade pop out the far side of Butcher’s neck, then disappear again just as quickly.
The drunken man stumbled back against a chair, then sat down heavily while Butcher staggered upright from being bent over only to fall back down again, letting go at last the cleaver and the boning knife. A few seconds later there was a strange drumming sound. It was one of Butcher’s feet jittering on the floorboards then eventually it went as still as the rest of him.
Silence fell as the blood ran.
Silence remained when the blood stopped.
The Marechal Chronicles: Volume IV, The Chase: A Dark Fantasy Tale Page 2
