Still, the girl would not let go of his hand, but he was too tired to care about that, was too focused on catching his breath. The only consolation he could find was that, soon, he would reach Cutter. Whatever else the man might be, he would be a great comfort now, and he was looking forward to hearing the man’s growling, gravelly voice, which normally sounded so menacing, but now would be a pleasure, even if it was used to scold him for his foolishness. A man like Cutter was not scared of the dark or of trees, that much was certain. A man like Cutter wasn’t scared of anything.
Matt found himself really looking forward to that, even to the man’s disapproving growl when he saw that Matt had gone off into the darkness and had come back with a young child. But when he finally got his breath back enough to glance at his surroundings, he realized that he—they—were not where he had thought they would be. “There’s…it can’t be,” he said softly in a breathless voice. He blinked, gave his head a good shake, but nothing changed.
The bank, where he had first found the girl, was only feet away, the stream gurgling past below it. The same stream which he was sure should be at their backs. But as much as he knew it was impossible, the stream did not move, only continued to be right in front of him, exactly where it should not be. “We must have gotten…gotten turned around or…or something.”
“Or something.”
He glanced back at the little girl who was standing there, smiling at him, not looking frightened in the slightest, not now. Maybe her calm, her smile should have reassured him, but it did not. There was something about that expression he didn’t like, something sly, knowing, as if she possessed some great secret that he did not. “Come on,” he said, starting toward the underbrush once more. He thought that perhaps the girl would let go of his hand—almost hoped for it—but she did not, only held on and allowed herself to be pulled toward the bushes once more.
At least, for a little while. Then suddenly, her grip tightened on his hand with a strength he wouldn’t have credited her with, and he winced in pain, turning. “Look, there’s no time, okay? We have to go.” He started forward again, but the girl’s grip had gotten even stronger, incredibly strong, in fact, so that Matt cried out, feeling as if the bones in his hand were going to snap.
“We have come far enough,” a voice said from behind him, one that sounded nothing like a little girl’s voice at all. It was far too guttural, that voice, too deep, with a hissing quality to it he did not like, not at all. He heard something strange behind him, squishing sounds mixed with loud, cracking ones. He’d heard such a sound once before. He’d only been a child at the time and one of the older boys in the village had fallen from a tree, fallen in such a way that his leg had broken. It was like the sound of a tree limb snapping in the frost but far louder, far worse, and despite the fact that he’d only been a kid, Matt remembered it clearly.
He heard that sound now, over and over again, just as he heard the mewling hisses from behind him, hisses that seemed like sounds of pleasure and pain all at once. Matt wanted to turn, knew he should turn, but he was suddenly frozen with fear, terror which made it impossible for him to move, nearly impossible for him to think at all, and he understood in that moment why elk sometimes froze at the sight of their hunters and the bows they carried. He’d always wondered why they did that, from time to time, why they did not run and try to save themselves. Now, though, he understood.
The grip of the hand holding his tightened still further, seeming not just to tighten but to grow so that it engulfed his entire hand up to the wrist, wrapped around it in some slithering, sickening way, and he screamed as pain lanced through the bones of his hand and up his arm. Then, he heard a shockingly loud sound from behind him, branches snapping as someone—or something—crashed through the undergrowth. There was a terrible, keening wail from behind him, the sound of something striking flesh, and in another moment the pressure on his hand vanished as if it had never been.
Matt finally coaxed up the courage to turn and froze again, staring in horrified silence at the scene before him.
Cutter stood only feet away, his great chest heaving in breaths, blood inexplicably splashed across his face and arms. In one hand he held a torch which blazed bright in the darkness, dazzling Matt’s eyes. In the other, he held a tree limb, one so thick that Matt would never have been able to hold it in one hand even if he could have somehow lifted its weight, which he doubted. The end of the limb was shattered, broken off, and the blood coating it was as odd and confusing to Matt as the blood on the big man’s arms and face. At least, that was, until he followed Cutter’s gaze to his feet.
Some thing lay there in a bloody mass just where the young girl had been moments before. But it was not the young girl nor anything that resembled her. Instead, it was a creature unlike anything Matt had ever seen, a monster or demon out of nightmare. The creature’s skin was pale but that didn’t cover it—in fact, it was translucent, so that Matt could see veins running through it, thought he could actually see the blood pumping. It had very short, incredibly thin arms, like a child’s, but attached to those arms were thin but very long fingers with claws like daggers on the end of them. Even that, though, wasn’t the worst of it. It had legs, too, of a sort, long, spindly legs which were completely disproportionate to the rest of its body. But what caught Matt’s attention—what he could not look away from, even though he wanted to—was its mouth. The creature’s mouth was ten times as large as a human’s and was opened in pain to reveal several rows of teeth which were nearly as long as its claws, all of which came to a sharp point.
“W-what is it?” Matt gasped.
“Your death, if I hadn’t come along,” Cutter growled, staring down at the monster which mewled in obvious pain as its blood continued to pump out onto the snow-laden bank. “But if you’re asking for a name—their own kind call them Gretchlings, though you might have heard them called Doppels.”
Matt’s eyes went wide at that, and for a moment it seemed as if he couldn’t catch his breath. “I…I didn’t think they were real. I didn’t think—”
“No,” the man growled, looking at him and standing there, covered in blood, making an even more terrifying visage than normal. “You didn’t think. I told you, boy, to stay in the cutout, to listen to nothing. Do you remember?”
“But…but I thought she needed help. I thought…I mean…”
“That you could offer that help?” Cutter challenged, then made a growling sound that might have been considered a laugh, assuming bears could laugh. “Look at you, boy. We’re on the run from men seeking to kill us—to kill you—and you thought, what, you would go and play the hero? Gods, you’re a fool.”
Matt cowered, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to be outraged, to shout back, but the problem was that he did not feel outraged. What he felt was scared. He had never seen this side of Cutter before, this anger. He had thought it was there, of course, had seen hints of it the way a person might catch hints of their reflection in a rushing river. He had suspected it existed, but he had never actually seen it and in none of his suspicions had he ever thought the anger would be directed at him. He was scared, yes, but he was also hurt, surprised by how much the man calling him a fool pained him. He had not realized, until that moment, how much he had always craved the big man’s approval. Ever since he’d been a child, a wink or a rare, small smile from Cutter had been the greatest of treats to him and now he felt ashamed. “Yes,” he managed.
Cutter’s chest heaved as he took in a great breath and the anger, the fire of his wrath, suddenly left his gaze, and he studied Matt with his cold, gray eyes. “You have a picture of yourself, boy, of who you want to be. It’s a picture you carry around, lookin’ at from time to time, so that whenever you find yourself in a situation where you’re unsure of what to do, you ask yourself what that man in the picture might do, what he might say. Most people have a picture like that. They carry it around and study it and try to be the person they see there. To say what they would say. To do w
hat they would do. And most of the time, no one’s the worse off for it. But you forgot something today—something important. You’re not the man you see in the portrait. Do you understand? You’re not him, and you never will be. You’re not a hero—no one is. If such men ever existed, they’re long gone now. It’s time you put the picture away. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Matt said softly. “Cutter…I’m sorr—” He cut off at a whimper louder than the others from the creature, and he turned to it, his shame forgotten for the moment as he stared at the mass of blood and broken limbs, at the shattered pieces of the tree limb where Cutter had beaten the thing. “Is it…I mean…will it die?”
“If left alone?” Cutter asked. “No. It would heal—the Fey are survivors if nothing else. It would survive to eat the next fool stupid enough to be lured in by its tricks.”
“So…what do we do then?”
“The Fey are difficult to kill, but they can be killed. And the best way? Well. The best way is fire.”
“No, no please,” the thing gurgled, its broken, bloody body writhing on the ground. It’s voice was muffled, sounding mushy and unclear, but Matt could still recognize the voice of the small girl it had pretended to be as it spoke, could hear, clearly, its terror. “P-please, anything but that,” the creature begged.
Matt could not bring himself to look at it. Even though he knew, now, that the creature had intended to eat him, he could not stand that voice, that pitiful, pleading voice of a child, and he found himself feeling bad for it no matter what it had meant to do. After all, according to Cutter, the creature , like all Fey, like all men, for that matter, had only acted according to its nature, searching for food the same way a lion or a bear might. And now, it was lying broken and battered, clearly dying, yet begging for a small kindness, the way a man might. “Maybe we should—” Matt began, but it was too late.
Cutter, apparently, either saw none of the resemblances to a human the creature showed or chose to ignore them, for he did not hesitate, bringing the flaming torch down to the creature’s flesh. The creature let out a terrible, shrieking wail and began to writhe and twist, its body shifting and changing, its pale flesh morphing from one thing to the next, as the smell of burning meat filled the air. Suddenly, the face of the young girl appeared in that mound of bloody, burning flesh. “Please,” the girl begged in a hoarse voice, full of unimaginable agony, “please, don’t—”
But Cutter was deaf to its pleas, digging the torch in further even as the creature wailed and screamed in pain. The flames ate at it hungrily and soon its whole body had caught fire. Matt stumbled away, unable to look any longer, but the sound of it dying, the smell of it was bad enough. He collapsed to his knees and began to retch, heaving up what little contents his near-empty stomach had in a steaming pile onto the fresh snow.
Eventually, it was over, the screams vanishing, though Matt thought he could still hear the echoes of the agony of the creature’s last moments in the air. Then he felt more than saw Cutter move to stand beside him. “Come on,” the man said, his voice as cold and as harsh as a blizzard. “Others will have heard. They will come to investigate.”
“Y-you,” Matt began, his voice a choked whisper, “you killed it. You…murdered it.”
“Yes.”
And without another word, the big man turned and started away. Matt ran an arm across his mouth, looking after the big man’s back, willing to look anywhere so long as it wasn’t at the steaming remains of the Doppel. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind then, a thousand ideas of what he might do, where he might go, all of which revolved around leaving Cutter, of striking out on his own. But then, he had tried that, hadn’t he? And it had taken him all of five minutes before a creature out of nightmare had decided to have him for lunch, would have if not for Cutter.
In the end, he rose and followed the big man into the darkness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They called him the Charmer, and I can think of no better title.
Except maybe “bastard.” That’d suit him fine.
And you want to know what I think that bastard’s best magic trick is?
The fact that he’s still walking around breathing and no one’s stuck a knife in his back.
Someone will, though. Mark my words—it’s just a matter of time.
—Feller Chall, farmer and father to three adult daughters in interview with Exiled Historian to the Crown Petran Quinn.
Challadius, or simply the Charmer as he had once been called, woke to a hand on his shoulder shaking him roughly. He blinked, bleary-eyed, and yawned, wincing at the taste of stale ale in his mouth.
“Alright,” a voice said, “time to go.”
Challadius—or Chall, as his friends called him, which, to be fair, were few and far between these days—blinked up at the woman standing over him. At first, he had no idea where he was or how he’d come to be there, but a quick survey of his surroundings showed that he was in a tavern—or at least what passed for one in the poorest quarter of Laydia—specifically, that he had passed out at one of its tables. He seemed to vaguely remember a crowd, but now the tables around him were empty, the entire common room was empty, in fact, save for himself and the innkeeper. “Uh…hi.”
“Save your ‘hi,’” the woman said, planting her hands on her rail-thin hips, her hard face scowling and making her sharp, unfeminine features even less appealing. “It’s time for you to go. Past time. Now, are you goin’ to leave, or am I gonna have to wake one of my lads, get them to see you out?”
Chall winced, working his tongue around in a mouth which felt incredibly dry. “How about one drink? For the road?”
“How about you hit the road before you get hit?” the woman asked. Gods, but she was an unattractive specimen of the mortal species, that much was certain. It was enough to make a man swear off the fairer sex forever. Or at least until he got a few ales in him. Ale was good. It helped a man forget his past—at least for a time—and helped the present look far more appealing, softening the worst of its hard edges.
“Oh come on…” He hesitated, groping for the name, a task made more difficult by a stuffy cloudiness that the ale had left in his mind. “Shelly,” he said finally, trying his best smile which, it had to be said given his headache, wasn’t as good as it might have been.
The woman scowled. “It’s Palla. And you have something in your teeth.”
“Of course it’s Palla,” he said, pausing to dig at his teeth with a finger. “I was just…well, I was testing you, wasn’t I? A test which I am pleased to say you passed admirably.”
“You were testing me,” she said flatly. “As if I could forget my own name.”
He finished picking at his teeth and tried another smile. This one, he thought, certainly better than the first. “You’d be surprised—why, I guess it has been at least a dozen blessed times when I’ve forgotten my own.”
“Blessed indeed,” she said. “Now, there’s no drink for you here—get out.”
“Oh come now, Falla—”
“Palla,” she growled.
“Right, that’s what I said. Anyway, this is an inn, isn’t it? Why should I leave when I can rent a room, save myself a trip and you can make some coin in the process, how’d that be?”
“What coin?” she said, scowling.
He coughed, clearing his throat. “Well, admittedly, I’m a bit short up right now, but if you’ll take my stay on credit, I’m sure that soon something will turn—”
“No.”
“No?” he asked, blinking.
“You heard me. I’ve extended you as much credit as I’ve a mind to, far more than I normally do. Now, if you’ve got coin—real honest coin, for I find that spends far better than promises or excuses—then we can talk. Otherwise, it’s time for you to leave.”
Chall didn’t like the idea of walking out of the inn just then, of trying to see past the fog of his drink-addled thoughts to find the back alley he called home. In fact, given how numb and uncer
tain his legs felt even sitting as he now was, he wasn’t sure if he was capable of it. So, figuring that the third time’s a charm, he gave her one more winning smile and leaned forward. “Palla, have I ever told you that I’m a bit of a magician?”
She sighed. “I’ve heard this tale, more than once. And you’re right—I’m pretty well convinced you’ve got some magic. Otherwise, I figure you would have been knifed in some back alley by now and the world better for it.”
He clapped a hand to his heart—or meant to, but due to lack of coordination from the drink, it instead landed on his, it had to be said, ample stomach—and sat back. “Oh, but you wound me, Palla. Truly.”
“Not as much as Herb will, I have to wake him,” she said, then raised an eyebrow. “So tell me, magician, do I have to wake him?”
“Herb…” he said, trying to remember. “Ah, right. Big fella, scowls a lot? Got a chin like a battle axe?”
She flashed him a smile without humor. “That’s the one.”
“Ah,” he said, clearing his throat again. “Well, I’m sure that’s not necessary. A big man like that, I have to assume he needs his sleep. Still,” he went on, glancing around and leaning in confidentially as if preparing to tell her some great secret. “I wasn’t lying before. About being a magician.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m losing my patience. That line stopped being cute months ago, right about the time your tab started getting outrageous. Now, if you’re finished—”
“Watch,” he interrupted, holding his hands up and to the sides in a grand gesture of presentation like some performer in a traveling troupe. Which, of course, he was. Or, at least, had been, many years ago before the world had gone to shit and he right along with it. He focused, turning his mind inward to that space in him from which the magic had always come, reached for it mentally, like a hand questing out. He smiled in satisfaction as he felt it beneath his grip then frowned as it seemed to pour out of his grasp like water from a sieve. “Damn ale,” he muttered. “Just a minute more,” he said, giving her a shaky laugh, “I’ll get it, just…well, just a bit out of practice is all.”
A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands Page 9
