A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands

by Jacob Peppers

  But then she was out of time. Cutter let out a growl that sounded like it came from some wild, furious animal, and he moved with the devastating speed she had seen him display on multiple occasions, his hand coming up and striking the man, Cend, in his wrist. While his speed was shocking, his strength now, as it had been fifteen years ago, seemed almost superhuman, and as his hand struck the man’s wrist there was a loud, ear-splitting crack. The tavern tough screamed as his wrist bent at an unnatural angle, and the knife went hurtling through the air, nearly impaling one of the men and women who had moments before been busy at healing but who had now all turned to watch the proceedings.

  When he’d struck the man’s wrist, the knife had scored Cutter on his hand, and Maeve saw that it was bleeding freely. Cutter, her prince, did not notice though, paying it no more attention than he did anyone else in the room—including the boy. There were only the three in front of him, the three who had dared to harm the boy, only the objects of his wrath.

  The big man’s cries of pain suddenly cut off as Cutter lunged forward with his entire body, bringing his forehead into the man’s face and making of his nose and mouth a bloody, smashed ruin. The big man fell away, and then one of his companions was reaching into his tunic, likely trying to retrieve a knife or blade with which he might defend himself.

  He never got the chance. Cutter was on him in an instant, sinking his bloody fist into the man’s stomach. The unfortunate man’s air exploded out of him in a whoosh, and he doubled over as if he were trying to kiss his shoes. Then Cutter growled and brought his elbow down on the back of the man’s head, and he collapsed at his feet in a limp heap. The third man let out a shocked whimper and turned to run but he, like his comrades, was far too slow.

  He’d only made it two steps away when Cutter was on him, grabbing a fistful of his hair. The man cried out, trying to break free, both of his hands pawing at Cutter’s wrist. It made no difference. Cutter took his time, walking toward the nearest table and dragging his hapless victim behind him. Then he paused, lifting the man up, and the man, seeing what he intended, renewed his struggles, screaming and crying for help.

  Maeve wanted to help him. After all, these men were just hurting, that was all. They had suffered greatly in the past night, and in the middle of winter, with so many of their fellow villagers dead and unable to contribute to the community as was so necessary in a small village, they would be hard pressed even to survive the coming days. She did not wish to make their lives any harder, wanted Cutter to stop, to let it go, but she, like the rest of those standing in the common room of the inn, was frozen into shocked silence as she stared at the swift, brutal violence of the fight. But then, it wasn’t really a fight, no more than the guillotine fought the man lying beneath it, and in due course things proceeded in the only way they could. The one being executed never won, never could win, and this, then, was like that.

  Cutter flexed, his thick, muscled arms suddenly writhing with veins as he raised the man’s head up and then pivoted, bringing it down into the table with bone-shattering force. The man’s panicked whimpers quickly went silent, and he fell backward, straight as a board, to collapse on the common room floor.

  Silence followed then save for Cutter’s rasping breaths as everyone watched this man, this beast which had been let loose amongst them, which had snuck inside wearing the mask of a man. They were afraid, all of them, afraid that this man, this beast who seemed possessed of so much fury might find that fury undiminished in the wake of what he had perpetrated on his attackers and would seek to vent it elsewhere.

  Maeve did not blame them, for they were right to be afraid. She, too, felt the icy tendrils of fear spreading through her just as she had so many years ago, and she knew that more than once the man’s anger had done exactly what the people gathered in the common room feared—had driven him on past the original target of his ire.

  She stood there, hoping that it would stop, that this would be the end of it, but she saw him studying the men lying on their backs and knew that this time, he did not mean to stop. This time, they would not be so lucky. If he was to be stopped, something or someone would have to stop him. She had seen it done a few times before, a few when the unlucky man or woman who had dared interpose themselves between him and the objects of his wrath survived the attempt, but usually the man raged on until his own exhaustion brought him down.

  She considered waiting on that, for they had journeyed far, slept little, and that, coupled with the fact that he had just fought three men, ought to mean that he must feeling at least some of the exhaustion that she herself felt. True, the man often struck her not as a man at all but some revenant who traveled through the world, never slowing, caring for nothing, stopping for nothing but only adhering to some unexplainable directive, some grim purpose which would see him traveling onward through the world, leaving a path of blood and the dead behind him long after she and those others he knew were dead and gone.

  Still, when he made no move toward the men, she had a brief hope that he might let it go after all, that he might be finished. The three men would wake up—most likely, at least—with terrible headaches and some bruises and pains to remind them of how close they had come to death. Miserable, hurting, but alive. Or so she believed.

  That was when he reached for his axe.

  ***

  His chest heaved not with exertion—or at least not mostly that—but with anger. The man lay beneath him. He did not know his name, and he did not care, knew only that he was his enemy, knew only that the beast was loose, and that it was far from satisfied. He reached for the axe hanging on his back, his hand tightening around the handle, preparing to draw it loose, preparing to end the threat the man represented.

  That was when he felt a hand on his wrist, and he spun, thinking that one of the man’s companions had risen, meaning to resume the fight. He growled, his free hand knotting into a fist. But it was not one of the men standing before him. It was a woman, one that, even in his anger, he recognized.

  “No,” she said. “It’s enough, Bernard. You’ve done enough.”

  That name. He had not heard it in a long time—in years, in fact—and the hearing of it pulled him back to himself. He blinked groggily, feeling as if he were waking from a dream. He glanced around him, saw the terrified faces watching him, all of them cringing away as if he might attack them at any moment. He saw, too, the three men lying on the ground. Unconscious? Dead? He turned back to Maeve who was still studying him, trying to decide, perhaps, if he were done, if the beast had chosen, of its own will, to slip back into its fitful slumber for the time being.

  How many times had they stood thus, with her watching him, afraid of him and right to be? Bodies lying around them? Too many times, that was sure. Had he really believed he could change? Had he believed he had changed, or had it been only some fancy, some gentle lie he had told himself like a bedtime story, one meant to soothe a child to his rest? “They hurt the lad,” he said, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded.

  “He’s fine,” she said.

  He grunted, glancing past her to where the boy still lay where he had fallen, his face pale with fear and shock. Cutter let the axe handle go, flexed his hand where he had gripped it so tightly that it ached, then he started toward the boy. “You alright, lad?”

  Matt scooted away from him, his eyes wide, and Cutter frowned. “You’re okay, boy. They’re not going to hurt—”

  “You were going to kill those men,” the boy said, his voice thick with emotion and accusation, and Cutter realized it was not the men he feared. It was him.

  He froze, making no more move to the boy and finally he nodded. “Yes.”

  “But…why?”

  Cutter stood there, wondering how many times he had asked himself that same question, wondering, too, how many times he had come up empty without an answer to give.

  In the silence, Maeve walked forward, offering the boy her hand, and he did not shy away, taking it and allowing himself to be pul
led to his feet. She glanced at Cutter, a world of meaning in her gaze, then looked back to the boy. “Come on, Matt,” she said. “How about you help an old lady to her room, eh? I think we could both use the rest.”

  The boy seemed stunned as she led him up the stairs, watching Cutter worriedly, as if at any moment he might attack him. Cutter wanted to tell him that he would never do that, that out of the many crimes he had committed, the many atrocities, that was one even he would not do. He wanted to tell the boy he was sorry, to somehow make him understand, but he could not find the words, and in another moment they were disappearing up the stairs, Chall following behind, and Cutter was left standing alone in the common room.

  “One night.”

  He turned to see the innkeeper, Netty, standing beside him. “One night,” she repeated. “And then you’re gone, do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  She studied him for several seconds then grunted. “Cend and the others are fools, but normally harmless enough ones. They don’t deserve to die.”

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t expect they do.”

  She nodded. “Alright then,” she said, then turned back to those others in the room, those men and women who, minutes ago, had been busy tending to the wounded but who were, as one, watching him. “Well?” she demanded. “Did a miracle happen and all those wounds healed themselves and somehow I missed it?”

  That got them back to work, but Cutter couldn’t help but notice the sidelong, fearful glances they kept shooting his way. How often had he suffered such looks before? Suffered, yes, but deserved them nonetheless. Suddenly, the air felt thick, claustrophobic, and he turned and walked—fled—out of the inn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  How can one explain, to those so young, the cruelty of war?

  How can one prepare them, with their hopeful eyes, their excitement at being soldiers, for the inevitable losses and pain that wait for them?

  You cannot, that’s all, and there is no reason to try.

  After all, they will learn the truth soon enough.

  —General Malex regarding new recruits during the Fey Wars

  Maeve unlocked the door, motioning the boy in. He shambled inside and sat on the bed, a dazed expression on his face, one that she understood. She glanced back at the mage standing in the hallway, still wearing the ridiculous purple trousers. She’d thought those trousers were funny when she’d first seen them, but they did not seem so funny now. But then, nothing did. The mage looked anxious, and he fidgeted nervously as if unsure of what he should be doing.

  He glanced past her at the boy then met her eyes again. “Should I…I mean…”

  Maeve sighed. “Go and get some rest, Chall,” she said softly. “I’ll talk to him.”

  He winced, obviously feeling guilty but just as obviously relieved. “Okay…goodnight, Mae.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She watched the mage walk down the hall to the other room, where he would find his bed and, if he were lucky, get some rest. It was what she wanted as well, some rest, some sleep, the only thing that might put some distance between herself and their circumstances, which would allow her, at least for a few hours, to dream that she was someone else, anyone else. But there were some, like Cutter, whose seemingly only purpose in life was destruction and others whose job it was to pick up what remained when the destruction was finished, to try to piece something back together from the debris they left in their wake. She had never thought herself a good candidate for such a job, but it was a role she was familiar with nonetheless.

  The boy still sat on the bed, his eyes unfocused, as she stepped into the room. He didn’t look up until she closed the door behind her, a bit louder than she needed to, truth be told. “How we doing, lad?” she asked, moving to sit beside him, feeling, in that moment, very old and very tired.

  “He…he was going to kill them, Maeve.” He turned, meeting her eyes, and she could see tears gathering there. “Wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “He was going to kill them.”

  “But…why?”

  Maeve had asked herself that question often following one of her prince’s killing sprees and now, like then, she had no answer. She doubted, in truth, if even Cutter knew. Still, the youth was watching her, needing something from her, some answer, some way to understand, so she sighed, thinking. “Prince Ber…that is, Cutter, is not like you and me. He’s…well, he’s not like anyone, really.”

  “But you follow him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Another question without an answer, or at least, if it had one, it was one she herself had not been able to discover in the twenty or so years that she had known the man. She glanced at the boy. “Why do you?”

  The boy opened his mouth to answer then hesitated, frowning.

  She gave him a small smile. “Yes. Cutter’s like that. He’s not like a man, really. He’s more like…a storm, maybe. A storm that just sort of sweeps you up and carries you along with it. Terrifying, sure, something to be avoided, if you want to live in peace, a storm full of lightning and rage and no knowing, at any time, where it might strike. And yet…”

  “You’re carried along anyway,” he finished.

  Whatever else the boy was, he was no fool, that much was certain. “That’s right,” she said. “Like a leaf in the wind.”

  The boy nodded, not satisfied probably but likely understanding that it was the best answer he was going to get. “Those men,” he said, “they called him Prince Bernard. The Crimson Prince.”

  “Yes.”

  “So he is? Our prince, I mean? My father and mother didn’t talk much about them, the royals, but some of my friends, their parents told them stories about him. He was…he was a hero, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh yes,” Maeve said. “He was, he is a hero. It’s because of him—his brother too, understand, but mostly him—that we won the war against the Fey and found a place to stay here.” Of course, it was also because of Cutter that they had ever been forced into a war with the strange denizens of this land in the first place, for it had been he and he alone who had broken the peace treaty by slaying the Fey king, but she didn’t think now was the time to mention that.

  “A hero,” the boy said slowly, musing over it. “But scary.”

  She grunted. There wasn’t any arguing that, even if she’d meant to, and she did not. After all, she had traveled with the man for years, was as close to him as anyone could claim to be, but knowing him, traveling with him for years, had done nothing to make him less terrifying to her. For as it turned out, being close to the monster, knowing the exact length and sharpness of its claws, having seen its bite, offered no comfort. “Scary,” she nodded. “I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”

  “Still,” the boy said, something flashing in his eyes that she thought dangerously close to admiration and out of all the things she’d seen in the last couple of days since Chall had arrived at her home, she thought that the scariest yet. “I’ve never seen anybody fight like that…I never knew people could fight like that.”

  “Yes,” she said grudgingly. “He is a great warrior, it’s true. I have seen many warriors in my time and none—not even his brother who is known for his skill with the sword—can compare.” A great warrior, yes, perhaps from the outside looking in, but she had never thought of him as such, and she doubted Cutter thought of himself in that way. A great killer, sure, one born to it as much as anyone ever had been, that could not be denied.

  “Do you think…” He hesitated, then turned to meet her eyes. “Do you think he would teach me?”

  Those words rocked her to her core. She had been expecting them, of course, but she had hoped…“Would you want him to?” she asked. “Would you want to be like him?”

  The lad hesitated, thinking it through, and that was something. For a moment, Maeve allowed herself to hope, then he frowned, his face going hard. “Men came to my village. They killed everyone in it, my friends…m
y mom. If I could fight, maybe I would have been able to stop them. I wish I could have. I wish I could have killed them. All of them.”

  Maeve watched him, feeling very old, feeling very sad. “Will you take a bit of advice from an old woman, Matt?”

  He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either, so she grunted. “Bloodshed only leads to more bloodshed and killing only leads to more killing. You see, killing, hurting, it’s a habit a man or a woman gets into. One that is very, very hard to break.”

  His expression softened for a moment, and she began to think that maybe he had heard her, then his face hardened again, and he scooted away from her. “What do you know?” he demanded. “You’re not the one who ran away while your mother and all your friends were killed. They killed them, Maeve.”

  Maeve frowned. “What do I know?” she demanded, feeling some anger of her own, feeling, in that moment, closer to the woman she had once been than she had in many, many years. “Do not talk to me of loss, boy,” she hissed. “I have lived far longer than you, have lost more than you could imagine. You have lost, boy, but do not think for a second that your losses are greater than those of others. You, after all, weren’t alive during the Skaalden invasion. You were not forced to watch your home, your entire kingdom destroyed. You lost your mother, your friends? I lost my husband. My daughter. My home. And you would lecture me about loss?”

  The boy recoiled, clearly frightened, and Maeve felt a heavy wave of guilt sweep over her as she realized that she had screamed that last. It was true, of course; she had lost, had suffered much. Had lost a man who had meant the world to her, the only love of her life and doubted very much if there’d be another. Had lost her young daughter, a child born out of the love that she, in her youth, and her husband had felt for one another. But that did not give her the right to treat the boy so. He was only frightened, that was all, frightened and wounded from recent loss, and here she was lashing out at him while her own losses had long since scabbed over. Not healed, for such losses never healed in truth, but they were scars she’d at least had years to examine, to come to terms with.