I wondered if the witches would be like Juniper—sweet and gentle, with keen hearts. Or perhaps they would be wise and impassive, like Ovie, eyes deep and mournful, their speech crawling with prayers.
By early afternoon we found ourselves tramping along a broad pasture, nearby cows grazing lazily on the last of the season’s grass. The meadow was bordered on one side by a wide, rushing river. The water misted as the river churned over rocks and formed tiny, perfect rainbows in the sunlight.
“I’ve read that rainbows bridge the world of Vorse to the realm of the gods.” Trigve nodded at the ribbon of colors spreading across the water.
“What nonsense,” Runa answered with a laugh.
“Quiet, both of you.” Ovie pointed up ahead. “Look.”
Two Boneless Mercies were crouched beside the river. One of them was blond, dimpled, apple-cheeked. She was bent over, washing her hands. The second Mercy wore her black hair braided tight to her head and was clothed only in her gray linen shift—she was cleaning her tunic in the water. She was older, thirty at least, with thin, drawn lips and a bold look to her brown eyes.
We came closer. They nodded to us, and we nodded to them.
Though Mercies had their own territories, we were not competitive. It was a sisterhood more than anything. How could we be at odds with women who’d been forced to deal in the same dark trade as ourselves? Besides, our lives were lonely, and it was pleasant to talk to other Mercies. Most travelers we met on the road, whether they were farmers or traders or fisherwomen, flinched at the sight of our Mercy-cloaks and refused to meet our gaze.
The river was deep and cold and clear, sparkling happily in the bright sun. It was flanked by rowan trees—clusters of bright orange-red berries danced on their branches each time the wind blew.
Juniper walked to one of the trees and touched the bark. She ran her fingertips over a cluster of berries, then put two fingers to her lips and tilted her chin to the sky. She made a sweeping crescent shape with her right arm and blew over her shoulder.
The blond Mercy looked at me and raised her eyebrows.
“Rowan trees are sacred,” I explained. “She asked the trees to protect this river.”
The blond Mercy regarded Juniper for a moment, then laughed, a soft chuckle under her breath. “So she’s a Sea Witch, then. How did she end up with you, dealing out death?”
I shrugged, then knelt and began to refill my leather pouch in the now-blessed river. I pressed the sack into the water and then shrank back when I saw a streak of red cutting through the flow.
I looked to the left. Blood was leeching into the river from the dark-haired Mercy’s tunic. She gave me a frown by way of an apology and pulled her garment from the water. I glanced at the dripping tunic and then back at the woman.
“He wanted a bloody death,” she said.
I nodded. Runa nodded beside me. Then Juniper. Then Ovie.
The blond Mercy stood and dried her hands on her skirt. “I expect someday a foreigner will see us by a river and mistake us for banshees. They are supposed to haunt Elsh streams, washing the bloodstained clothes of the dead.”
Trigve laughed. “I’ve read about banshees in books on Elsh folklore. They go about the countryside shrieking the names of people soon to die.”
The blond Mercy smiled, her cheeks turning pink in the sun. “Maybe I should take to shrieking whenever anyone passes by. They’ll call me Hag of the Mist and use the story to scare small children.”
Trigve laughed again, and I joined him. I liked this Mercy.
Runa, always suspicious of merry people, crossed her arms and scowled. “I’d rather be taken for an Elsh demon than a Boneless Mercy. They at least bring fear to men’s hearts.”
“We do that, too,” Juniper said, proud gray eyes meeting Runa’s.
“The Sea Witch there is named Juniper,” I said before a fight could break out between the two. “The girl with the scowl is Runa. The reader of folktales is Trigve, and the silent girl to my left is Ovie. My name is Frey.”
The blond woman held out her hand. I took it and shook firmly.
“I’m Sasha,” she said. She nodded at the dark-haired woman. “And that is Gunhild.”
Gunhild looked us over, her gaze lingering on mine. “It’s nice to see some other Mercies on the road. It’s been some time since we met any of our kind.”
In response, I pulled out my flask of Vite and passed it around. We all took sips, standing beside the river, in the shade of the protective rowans.
Gunhild tossed back a long swig of the fire liquor, and then smiled. “You’re the youngest Mercies we’ve seen in some time. Most of the ones we come across now are crones.”
I put my lips to the leather flask and sipped. Swallowed. “We’ve noticed it, too. Where are all the younger girls going?”
“We’ve heard they are fleeing to the Red Willow Marsh to follow the Cut-Queen.” Sasha took the flask and drank deeply.
The Cut-Queen.
I felt the Mercies tense around me, felt it snap through the air like lightning.
Juniper put her hand in her pocket and fiddled with her seashells.
My eyes met Sasha’s. “I hope you’re wrong.”
She shrugged and took another sip of Vite. “Ah, there he is at last.”
I followed Sasha’s gaze across the meadow. A long-legged boy ran lightly toward us, covering ground like a deer. He carried a bow in one hand and wore a wolf pelt over one shoulder and belted at the waist, like Trigve.
“My son, Aarne,” Sasha said, pride making her chest swell. “He’s twelve, but he shoots a bow better than any grown man.”
“Your son travels with you?” Ovie stood near me, one hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at her ribs. These were the first words she’d spoken since meeting the other Mercies.
“And why not?” Sasha gazed at Ovie calmly, but there was a glint in her eyes. “Times are changing. I see all you Mercies carry hatchets at your waist—I won’t ask you where you obtained these weapons.” She paused. “It used to be that Mercies would send their sons into apprenticeships after their fifth winter. I’ve decided to keep mine, and I’ll skin-fight anyone who thinks otherwise.”
I held my hands up, palms out, a gesture of peace. “I see no reason you shouldn’t keep your son with you. But what will he do when he’s grown?”
“I’m going to join the Quicks.” Aarne came to a stop in front of me and his mother, alert blue eyes and a wide smile. He was panting only slightly from his run.
“The Quicks?” This got Runa’s attention. She turned and focused on the boy. “Can I see your bow?”
He laughed and sounded just like Sasha. “I coated the bowstring in wax to make it slide easier. It allows me to shoot at a greater distance.”
He handed his bow to Runa, and she eyed it for a moment. “What feathers do you use for arrows?”
“Whatever I can find. Wild geese feathers are the best.”
“Hmm. I’ve always heard the Yellow Cave Crow has the best feathers for fletching.”
This sparked a heated discussion between the two, which I watched with interest.
Runa didn’t carry a bow of her own, but I’d long suspected she was rather good with the weapon, based on her desire to join the Quicks. If the Quicks ever took in a woman, it was usually because she was a skilled archer.
Runa and Aarne soon began a shooting contest, the mark being a circular target drawn with charcoal on the side of a fallen oak tree several dozen yards away. The boy was excellent, hitting the mark again and again.
Runa was better.
Aarne handed her arrow after arrow from his quiver, and she never missed. Even when she stepped back another dozen yards. And then another.
We were all watching, laughing, and shouting out encouragement to the pair. Even Ovie was cheering. It made my heart beat faster. Beat redder. I couldn’t remember when us Mercies had acted so … merry.
I held my breath as Runa stepped back another six paces and drew the
bow. She hit her mark, and we all shouted heltar, heltar. It was an old Vorse term meaning “hero,” but it was now used mostly as a cheer.
Runa swung her hair over her shoulder and loosed the last arrow. It sank deep into the wood, dead center.
Runa turned around, and I saw it.
Joy.
It radiated from her like heat from the summer sun. Her eyes shone with it. She smiled, and it was not cynical, but deep and real.
I knew then that Runa belonged with the Quicks. She was meant to move between the Seven Endless Forests, hunting, thinking only of the next sunrise, the next pursuit, the next arrow, the next night beside the fire.
We will join the Quicks, together. As soon as we’ve won enough gold to tempt them into taking us.
After the contest, Aarne offered his bow and quiver to Runa. “You deserve it more than me,” he said simply.
Runa put her fist to her heart and shook her head. “Thank you, Aarne. Truly. But you will need it when you join the Quicks.”
Aarne nodded and moved the bow back to his side. “Promise me you will find a bow of your own, then.”
Runa paused, and then bowed her head. “I swear it.”
* * *
We spent the rest of the day with Aarne and the two other Mercies, feasting that night on rabbit stew and fresh trout from the fast-flowing river. We finished off the last of my Vite. I wouldn’t be able to replenish my flask until I got more coin, but at least I didn’t need it for Mercy-killing. Not anymore.
We didn’t speak of the Red Willow Marsh again. We didn’t discuss where we were going or where we’d been. Aarne chattered away with Runa about the Quicks, and she told him stories she’d heard of their bravery and cunning. Trigve recounted a tale he’d read once, an obscure saga about a boy named Esca who was born with a snakelike mark in his right eye. He was only a young shepherd when he found a magical sword named Wrath and set out to change the world.
Recounting the legends of glory, of heroes, of war, of love, of monsters … it was Vorse. And it was far more pleasant than sharing stark, personal stories full of heartbreak.
Toward midnight the fire died down, and no one stopped it. Aarne had fallen asleep between his mother and Runa, and he looked as peaceful and wise as an Elver, the dying flames dancing shadows across his round cheeks.
Juniper watched him for a while, a soft look on her face, and then she glanced at Sasha. “All the death, all the Mercy-killing … Can it be good for him?”
Sasha looked down at her son. “I will not send him to live with strangers. With us, he is known and loved. This trumps everything.”
Juniper thought for a moment, and then nodded. “It does.”
A companionable silence settled on us then, and everyone began to drift off to sleep. I lay awake in the dark under the bright stars, contemplating how our group had grown by three and how right it felt.
I didn’t want to part the next morning. I didn’t want to watch Sasha, Gunhild, and Aarne turn south on their way to the next town, the next death.
I’d been a wanderer for so long now. I should have been better at saying good-bye.
Aarne shifted in his sleep, and his blond hair fell across his forehead. I wondered how long it had been since I’d spent time with a child—a healthy child, not one on the verge of death. Years, maybe. I’d had no siblings, but my village had children of all ages. I’d forgotten how they could look shrewd one moment and innocent the next, switching between both as quickly as the flickering leaves of an aspen tree. Juniper still held a remnant of this, but it was long gone on the rest of us.
I hoped Aarne would grow up wild and free. I hoped he would kiss fierce girls under the midnight sun. I hoped he would join the Quicks, and we would meet him in one of the forests some quiet winter’s eve.
I pressed my palms together and blew over my right shoulder, setting a wish out on the air in the way of the Sea Witches.
* * *
I woke to Ovie on her knees beside me, dagger drawn. “Men,” she whispered. “On horseback.”
I turned and began to shake Juniper awake. Trigve was already on his feet—he was almost as light a sleeper as Ovie. He leaned down and woke Runa.
“Get out your blades, Mercies. Quickly.” I reached for my dagger at my calf.
Gunhild’s eyes opened, then Sasha’s. They jumped up and drew their daggers. Runa kicked the embers of the fire, dashing out the last of the light, and then woke Aarne.
Ovie took my arm and pointed. Five men on horses came into view at the top of a small hill near the woods, shadows outlined against the moonlit sky. They were less than fifty yards away.
“Mercies.”
The tall man in the middle of the group waved a hand toward us, dismissive, almost lazy. His voice was commanding and deep, with a raspy edge. “Cowering together like mice in the middle of a field … How very fitting for a group of death-traders.”
Gunhild jerked, her head twisting back. “It’s Osric Scathe.”
Sasha tensed, elbows pulling into her ribs. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Gunhild turned to me. “He’s Jarl Keld’s man. Were you in Levin recently?”
I nodded.
“What did you do there?”
“Cut down a hanged girl from the crossroads and buried her.”
“Hel.”
Sasha and Gunhild dropped their small Mercy-daggers and unsheathed two mean-looking stilettos from leather straps under their cloaks.
Gunhild glanced at me over her shoulder. “Are you ready to die, Frey?”
I gave my dagger to Trigve and grabbed my ax. “I’ve no regrets about burying that girl, and I’d do it again.”
Ovie drew her ax. Runa and Juniper gripped their knives. We crouched in the darkness, waiting to see what the men would do next.
“We’re hunting a band of raven-cloaked girls.” Scathe’s voice cut across the field. He jumped down from his horse but stayed by its side. “They were seen cutting down a girl from the tree at the Levin crossroads. She was put there for a reason. Jarl Keld has decreed that someone must be punished for this crime, and I, frankly, don’t care if you particular Mercies were the ones who did it. You’re all the same to me, and you will serve the purpose.”
“Why don’t you come closer,” Gunhild said, voice soft, almost a purr, but still strong enough to carry to the men. “Let’s discuss this around the fire, like warriors.”
Scathe tilted his head to the side. “Gunhild, is that you? Might have known you were behind this. You’re a Boneless Mercy, not a warrior. And that Levin girl was a she-demon who tried to poison the owner of the Bliss House. She was lucky we didn’t burn her. She was meant to hang at that crossroads until she rotted, as a warning to others.”
Scathe began to move toward us, slowly, one foot in front of the other. “Put down your weapons, girls. Come with us quietly, and Keld’s punishment will be fair—he’ll take one of your ears, or a finger at most. Better than dying here tonight, unknown and unburned.”
“He’s lying.” Gunhild moved into a fighting stance, legs apart, weapon held low.
Sasha’s eyes met mine. “Scathe murdered our companion Embla six years ago. She performed a vengeance kill on a man after seeing him beat a stray dog to death. When Scathe found out, he slit her throat in the town square for breaking Vorse law. She was sixteen.”
Gunhild passed her blade from one hand to the other, slowly, methodically. “He means to kill us all. Count on it.”
“It’s eight against five.” Ovie moved to Gunhild’s side, hatchet held high. “We can take them.”
Sasha shook her head. “No. I will not let Aarne fight in this.”
Aarne straightened his shoulders and drew his bow. “Let me shoot. I can kill three between one heartbeat and the next.”
“No.” Sasha held up her left hand and pointed. “See that man on the far end with the broad shoulders? He is Keld’s best archer. The only reason we’re still alive is because Scathe likes to give hi
s victims an intimate death. He will try to kill us by sword, if he can—he prefers the violence of the blade.”
Scathe kept moving toward us, posture lazy and arrogant.
“That’s right, Osric,” Gunhild called out, “keep inching this way. Bring your men with you. Let’s get this started.”
Gunhild looked at Sasha, then me. “Get in the river and let it carry you west. Juniper blessed it. It will keep you safe. This is true, Sea Witch, yes?”
Juniper’s hand went into her pocket with the seashells, and she gripped them in her fist. “Yes. I hope.”
“Then I will stay here and buy you time.”
“No, Gunhild.” Sasha grabbed the Mercy’s arm, fingers clenching tight. “I won’t let you do it. There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.”
Ovie moved closer to Gunhild, until they were touching, shoulder to shoulder. “I’ll stay as well.”
“Ovie, no.”
Gunhild turned and saw the fear in my eyes. She looked back at Ovie. “Go with your friends. They need you. This thing between Scathe and me … It’s been coming for a long time. I swore vengeance on him the day he killed Embla. Let me finish it.”
Sasha shook her head. “No. I won’t leave you.”
“You will. For Aarne’s sake, if not your own.”
“Say your farewells.” Trigve’s eyes had not left Scathe’s since he’d dismounted from his Iber horse. “They will act soon. Hurry, Frey.”
Sasha tilted her head back and howled, one low, deep wail, in the way of Vorse warriors.
Scathe began to run. The men behind him kicked their horses and charged.
Aarne jumped in the river.
Juniper went next, then Runa.
Sasha took one last look at Gunhild. “I’ll meet you in Holhalla, friend.”
“Be fierce,” Ovie said to Gunhild. “Be Vorse.” She jumped.
I stood on the bank, my eyes flickering between Scathe and Gunhild. Scathe drew his sword. He had almost reached us, his men at his heels …
The Boneless Mercies Page 7
