Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology

by Mark Lawrence

  She stared. “Aychus! But—”

  He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her along, back toward the river. “You’ve got terrible timing, you know that? I almost had her until you threw that bucket.”

  “I was trying to escape!”

  His limp made a distinct, uneven rustle through the grasses. “Yes, well, I’m trying to rescue you so keep your voice down. They’ll be quick on our tail. Did you happen to pick up the knife?”

  “You dragged me out of there too fast.”

  Aychus sighed, his jaw tight, eyes darting from tree to tree.

  “You didn’t either,” she added.

  He hushed her again, holding up his hand to stop her walking. He hissed a curse, grabbed her rope, and yanked her into a lopsided run. In an instant she heard why; voices behind them, shouting out directions to each other. Aychus dragged her toward the river and into its muddy, swollen flow. It caught at the remains of her nightgown, which wound wetly around her legs. The mud sucked at her boots, ripping through blisters on top of blisters. She tried to pull free of Aychus’ grip, but it was like iron on her rope. “I can’t… I can’t do this. I can’t run in the river!”

  “Water kills our trail,” he said.

  The Arrowhenge were entering the water, hooves churning up the muddy bottom, gaining on them. Erryna tried to pull her boots free and fell to one knee with a curse; was she always destined to stumble back into her enemy’s arms? Aychus pulled her up with some difficulty.

  Lyorn raced past them on the hard bank and spun his horse. It reared and Erryna had a sudden terrified vision of giant hooves crashing down on them. But Lyorn drew the horse to a prancing stop. “And you said all your friends were dead.”

  “Soon will be.” A bow creaked behind them.

  “No!” Erryna cried. “It’s not his fault. It’s mine. I tried to escape and—”

  “And we don’t kill him, why?” But Lyorn raised a hand to stop the archer.

  “Because he—he could be useful.”

  Lyorn looked down at Aychus, standing in the mud. “What use are you?”

  Aychus straightened his back. Standing behind him as she was, Erryna noticed for the first time how broad he’d become, and tall. Far taller than her, which wasn’t saying much. She’d always wanted to be tall, but never more than this moment. Long legs made quick work of running.

  “I can fight and hunt,” he said. “Sword and bow.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” Lyorn grinned and rough laughter broke out all around them. “You’re also lame.”

  “I got around well enough to kill Erryna’s guard.”

  “No!” An idea was taking shape. “It was my idea. I killed her.”

  “Stop helping,” Aychus muttered.

  “He just did what I told him to. He’s good at taking orders.”

  Aychus turned his head and glared at her.

  “He’s a strapping lad, I’ll give you that.” Lyorn narrowed his eyes. “Right, then. We’ll see what he’s made of. See what he’s ready to spend to live.”

  One of the Arrowhenge started to speak but Lyorn cut him off. “Tribes are built, not born.”

  Whatever it meant, it silenced the protest.

  “Take him back,” Lyorn said. “Hand me up the girl. I’ll have to see to her myself, I suppose.”

  Someone sloshed through the water behind Erryna and, before she could duck out of the way, he snaked an arm tight under her ribs, carried her to Lyorn’s horse, and shoved her up. Lyorn grabbed her, arm around her, and put her in front of him. Her nightgown slipped up shamefully and the saddle pressed the tender skin of her inner thighs. She tried to shift a little, but Lyorn’s arm was too firm, leaving her wedged between the saddle and his big body.

  Back at camp, Lyorn dismounted and hauled her down, his fingers rough and painful. Erryna bit back a cry of frustration at being handled like a child. He bound her to a tree and pinned her rope with the spike and mallet again. Aychus had been made to walk, hobbled at wrist and ankle, a noose around his neck that jerked tighter every time he fell behind. He bore it all with no more than a few frustrated grunts. At camp, they strapped him to a tree nearby to Erryna, ropes digging into his skin high under the chin, shoulder, ribs, hips, thighs, and ankles. He struggled but couldn’t move.

  “If he breaks, he’ll be useful,” Lyorn said to Erryna.

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  “Same as us all. Tribes are built, not born, girl.”

  She stared at him, mystified.

  He made a noise of disdain. “We mark him and see where he lands, eh?”

  One of the Arrowhenge laid something in the hot coals, stirring them up. His back blocked Erryna’s view.

  Erryna’s stomach twisted in to a tight, sick knot. “Why did you come here?” she hissed to Aychus. “You were free.”

  “For you,” he whispered. Air rasped in his chest. “My lady.”

  She blinked.

  Lyorn wasted no time. Aychus snarled but Lyorn grasped his chin and stuffed his mouth full of a wad of fabric. He strode back to the fire, pulled something out with tongs, and grasped it with a thick rag. Another warrior laid his hand on Aychus’ forehead and turned his head so one cheek pressed hard against the rough bark. Aychus made wordless noises.

  “Tell him to be still, if he answers to you, girl,” Lyorn said. “It’ll go easier on him.”

  Erryna swallowed and forced herself to look at Aychus. He tried to twist his head from the meaty hand holding it in place.

  “Aychus. Just. Please be still.”

  His wild eyes met hers. He blinked and quieted his struggle, though she could see his trembles.

  Lyorn drew in close and pressed the hot arrowhead against Aychus’ cheek, holding it in place. Aychus made muffled cries of pain and terror; gods, it sounds like the cry from that muted wretch. The smell of flesh burning turned Erryna’s stomach and she fought down her disgust. She would not throw up again. She would not falter, not when Aychus was at stake, when his eyes were locked on hers for courage. She forced herself to stare at him, even when his gaze slid away.

  At last Lyorn released him. Aychus sagged in his ropes and spat out his gag, which crumbled from his mouth in a wet, bloody mess. He must have bitten his own tongue. The arrow burned in his cheek was red as new-spilled blood.

  “Loosen the lad’s ropes. I wager he won’t try to escape for a bit.”

  Aychus let his head fall forward. His hand strained to get to his face, but it was still bound to his side. Erryna’s eyes heated and her throat tightened. She turned her face away, unable to keep watching. But a sick, twisting fury built inside her.

  #

  After spending a day tied to the tree and then given a bath in the river “to wash away the stink of nobility” as Lyorn put it, Aychus passed the day limping silently around camp, doing odd jobs as the Arrowhenge bid him. Lyorn looked pleased, Aychus kept his marred face downcast, and anger festered in Erryna like the burn on Aychus’ cheek. Surely if he was so compliant, the brand had robbed him of his soul.

  That night, Lyorn took Erryna into his tent. She slept rolled in her filthy cloak on the cold damp ground, her rope tied around his brawny arm. He was a light sleeper; he opened his eyes at her every motion. There was no escaping him.

  “Tomorrow, Bonehaven comes,” he said the next evening near nightfall. “Tonight, you bathe.”

  “There’s no bath, no soap, no—”

  Lyorn laughed. “There’s a river.” He unpinned her rope from her tree and gestured to Aychus. “You, lad. Bring her ladyship soap and a cloth to dry with.” He tossed Aychus a bulky, soft bag.

  Aychus limped behind them in silent obedience. Erryna wondered if there was some magicks at work within the mark they’d given him. She wondered if he would ever stop limping, if the war injury caused him much pain, how badly his cheek stung. She wondered if he still had his soul.

  Aychus stopped at the river’s edge with the items in his arms. Lyorn settled on a rock close to the
bank and went to work striking a fire in a two-bowl pipe.

  Erryna’s breath froze in her chest. Father’s pipe.

  Lyorn eyed Erryna when she didn’t move. “Get to it.”

  “Aren’t I to have any privacy?”

  Lyorn just looked at her.

  She turned to the river with a wince, putting her back to him, and pulled the cloak from her shoulders. It fell to the ground in a crusted heap. Then, nothing for it, she undid the lacing on the stained nightgown and let it slide down her body. The cool air made her shiver, but she was glad for whatever darkness the gods had granted in the pre-moonlit evening. She stepped from her boots and walked carefully over the slick rocks. Icy water rushed over it, chilling her feet to the ankles and then up her calves. She shivered. The water was so cold it felt as if it burned her legs.

  She thought of Aychus and his burned cheek. Her back straightened.

  “Hair, too. You stink,” Lyorn called. “Toss her the soap, lad.”

  She crossed her arm over her breasts and turned a little. Aychus tossed the soap, a misshapen bar of grey, without looking at her. It splashed upstream. She slipped going for it. The hard stones, while rubbed smooth from the river, still hurt her backside. She sat, stunned by pain lancing up her spine, freezing river rushing by. The soap floated out of reach. She snatched at it, missed. Something brushed by her back and she shrieked.

  Lyorn barked laughter. “Just a redcarne snake. They’re good for supper.” He rested her father’s pipe on his knee and wiped his eyes, bent over with the strain of mirth.

  A snake!? She rose out of the water and started back to shore. A moon was rising. So much for the gods granting privacy of darkness. Brightest, tiny Zozia’s light had spilled over the river and onto the bank.

  For the first time since Aychus had been branded, he looked right in Erryna’s eyes. Then, quick as that snake had gone by, he was on Lyorn. She didn’t even see him limp. Every strike was neat, well placed. The thud of fist against bone went right through her. But Lyorn was bigger, stronger. He roared and came back on Aychus. The two grappled and rolled.

  Erryna stared, naked in the frigid water, clutching the soap to her belly. Took a step forward and tripped. Again she went down, forward this time, battering her knees and palms. Fury consumed her. She slapped the water, cursing. She cut her hand on the sharp edge of a big, jagged rock. She wanted to throw something, scream, destroy. Hitting water wasn’t enough. She scrabbled at the rock, dislodging it from the sucking mud of the river bottom, though it wasn’t too heavy for her to lift once she pried it free. She climbed to her feet.

  Lyorn slammed Aychus to the ground and hit his face. The fragile, new burn on his cheek tore. Aychus moaned as blood splattered. Lyorn raised up enough to drag him to the water and shove his head in, twisting his head so the water flowed over his nose and mouth. Aychus’ moans turned to sputtering. His whole body struggled but he couldn’t fight it. His whole body shuddered and struggled. Lyorn threw his whole weight on the younger man with a growl.

  The rock bounced off Lyorn’s head from the impact. He collapsed on top of Aychus, who tried to lift his head. Erryna splashed closer, reached down and grasped Lyorn by her father’s baldric, slipping in the wet mud as she hauled him off Aychus. He was a limp, dead weight. She kept tugging until Lyorn was face down in the water, wishing she could hit him again, but the rock was on the bank. She twisted her fingers into his braid and shoved down as hard as she could, pressing Lyorn’s face against the rocks in the bottom, water streaming from her naked body, leaning over him, putting all her weight into it.

  She didn’t know how long it was before she felt a warm hand on her back. “Erryna.” A cough.

  She startled, stumbling back in the water. The hand steadied her.

  “We must go. Now. Before we’re expected back. Come.” Aychus sounded rough but calm. He kept his gaze steady on her face. Blood streamed down his cheek from the torn brand. His hair curled into tight gold ringlets.

  His mother had curly hair. She’d seen it on the sprawling dead woman, ringlets floating in blood.

  “Did they take your soul?” she whispered.

  “Erryna. We must go now.” He tugged on her arm.

  Her heart lurched into a painful sprint. She blinked at him and sucked air. Caught the scent of blended pipesmoke. She stumbled from the water to the bank and found it, unbroken among the reeds. Grasped it and drew in more familiar scent.

  “Boots. Go. Across the river.” Aychus shoved the lumpy bag and her boots into the water, and strode into the water to Lyorn. He rolled Lyorn over, fumbled with the buckles on the baldric and belt, and pulled the sword from the body. “Go!”

  It was easier to do as he bid rather than think. She slipped her muddy feet into her boots, clutched the bag to her chest with one hand, the pipe in the other, and splashed across the river. The air chilled her bare wet skin but she shoved off the thought and kept running, weaving between trees. She heard nothing behind her and turned to look. Aychus ghosted behind her in his limping, silent lope.

  #

  In the night, she sat against a tree, running her thumb over the smooth bowls of the pipe, every so often lifting it to catch the scent. The dress in the bag was warm, a serviceable gown. Aychus frowned at the crimson fabric, but told her he’d get her decent clothes later.

  “I also need to teach you to move quietly through the woods,” he said.

  “Your father taught me when I was a child.”

  “You must learn again.”

  Her own father, the lord, had taught her nothing. Fine. She would learn to survive on her own, then. A rough plan was already taking shape in her mind, something that terrified and thrilled her all at once.

  Aychus ripped up the bag for bandages. She’d taken her feet out of her boots to dry more fully and to ease the hurt of their rubbing. He tsked as he wrapped them. “This will help the blistering. I’m sorry we’ve no salve.”

  “You’d need it for your face worse. Will the army take you back like that?” With a wilder scar on his face? Would they even believe he was loyal anymore?

  “It doesn’t matter. The king is dead, Erryna.”

  She blinked at him.

  “It’s why the tribes are fighting, why Arrowhenge dared attack the manse. It’s why I came back. I had to warn your father and mine.”

  “But—”

  “You’re a lord’s daughter, the last of your line with a claim to the throne. Some lord would as soon kill you as let you be a problem.”

  A lord’s daughter. It’s what Lyorn had called her; the measure of her worth. And now maybe her death. Her back straightened. “And Arrowhenge? They killed my family.”

  “They killed mine, as well.”

  She lifted the pipe to her nose for a moment, then lowered it again. The damp, fresh scents of the woods smelled foreign. Her fingers closed tight around the pipe and she tucked it into a pocket in her skirts.

  Faint fieldburn smoke rode the air that first night, before the wilders came. And then her stone manse had burned. Stone, molten like iron thrown on a fire…

  “Father had started burning the fields,” she said slowly. “How do they do that, make damp ground burn?”

  He gave her a look. “Burn powder.”

  “Where does he keep the powder?”

  “In the dugout by the creek. It’ll start anything.”

  She stared at her father’s leather baldric crossing his chest. “You speak like you will stay with me. You carry my father’s sword.”

  “My family is liege to yours,” he said, “and you don’t know how to use a sword.”

  “Are you soulless?” It came out harsher than she meant.

  His hand went to his burned cheek. He dropped it. “Would you turn me away if I was?”

  She should. The soulless could be dangerous. “I’m going to kill the Arrowhenge. If you remain liege to me, you will follow. If not, I release you.” She pulled on her boots and ignored her sore feet. “I won’t turn you away unle
ss you wish to go.”

  His jaw tightened. “How? You don’t know how to fight, Erryna.”

  Not like him. Not like her father. But swords weren’t the only weapon in the world.

  Zozia was nearly gone and no other moons had dared the horizon. Night was safest, especially a godless night such as this. Fitting. The Seven Eyes had watched their families die and done nothing. They’d be too cowardly to watch them seek justice, and they couldn’t see Aychus anyway.

  #

  The night was so silent they barely dared to whisper. Fortunately, spreading powder on the ground in a thick circle around the camp didn’t make much noise. The dampness of the soil cloaked their footfalls.

  “This is madness,” Aychus hissed.

  She shook her head. At least she could make sure the Arrowhenge didn’t survive to kill anyone else. Still, her belly was in knots as she trailed the powder from the awkward bag toward the low fire flickering at the center of camp. Aychus stayed behind, as she ordered. No sense in both of them getting caught.

  Two wilders sat on the other side of the fire. The coals were crimson and hot; perfect. She’d have to run quick in and quick out to escape. No small trick in a gown. She’d fallen before, but no gods were present to trip her up this time.

  She drew a breath and ran at the campfire, trailing the powder in a thick black line from the heavy bag. The wilders leapt to their feet and came at her, shouting. She tossed the bag onto the flames, turning to run back in the same motion. She stumbled over the front of her gown but caught it up in her fist and kept on. The fire burst, hot on her back, and flashed all along the powder trail, turning shouts into panicked screams.

  The first thing the Arrowhenge would do was try to put out the fire. With luck, it would also be their last.

  She met Aychus at the river and they crossed without talking. Screams pierced the night air and all the other noises died but for birds on the wing overhead. When she glanced back, she saw the night around the camp had grown bright despite the missing moons. The woods echoed with the dying cries of the soulless.

  Redfern’s Slipper

  Stephen McQuiggan