The man’s bruised face screwed up in thought, no doubt thought made more difficult by the swords at his throat. “There was a young lad, a boy, really, seemed scared of his own shadow, you ask me. And a fat man in purple trousers, the most ridiculous set I’ve ever seen. And…and a woman.”
Feledias frowned. “Woman?”
“That’s right,” the man answered, nodding quickly. “A woman.”
“Well?” Feledias demanded. “What did she look like, fool?”
“A…an older woman, my lord,” the man said, “in her forties, perhaps. Pretty though. Handsome.”
“Maeve,” Malex said from beside him, and Feledias turned, giving the man a small smirk.
“Oh, that’s right. You and Marvelous had a bit of a tryst, didn’t you?” He watched the man carefully. “I trust, Malex, that you will not allow the past to hamper the carrying out of your duty.”
“Of course not, my lord,” the man said, “I wouldn’t think of it.”
Feledias nodded, leaning back. “Of course not.” He gave a thoughtful hum. “Maeve the Marvelous, it appears, has returned from her self-imposed exile. It seems my brother is getting the whole band back together.”
“But why?” Malex asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. “What does he intend?”
Feledias rose. “The same thing he always intends, no doubt. My brother is many things, Malex, but complicated is not one of them. He intends to fight. So come—let us accommodate him. If we ride hard, we should reach Ferrimore within the hour.”
He started away but paused when Malex spoke. “And what about…him, my lord?”
Feledias turned back, frowning at the farmer who he had nearly forgotten about in his urgent need to come to grips with his brother and the other traitors who followed him. “Ah yes, our dear peasant. Tell me, man, what do you think should be done with you?”
The man licked his lips nervously, his gaze traveling between the two soldiers above him. Fear was there, in his gaze, but as Feledias watched, something else arose within it too. Greed. “Might be…” The man hesitated, clearing his throat. “Might be…I could get a reward?”
“A reward,” Feledias said, musing over the words, rubbing at his chin in consideration. Then he gave a single nod. “Very well. And a reward you shall have, dear peasant.” The man started to smile, but the expression froze on his face as Feledias spoke on. “A traitor’s reward. For you see, whatever else he is, my brother is still a prince of the realm, and you the man who, out of greed and anger—for do not think me such a fool that I cannot guess at who has done the work on your face—have chosen to betray him.”
He glanced at the two guards standing over the man and gave them a single nod. He turned to start away, pausing again when Malex spoke.
“But, my prince,” Malex said, “are you sure? He came to help, after all. Had he not come, we would not have known—”
“I’m sure, Malex,” Feledias said. “Ferrimore has chosen to aid my brother, to give him sanctuary, and so they must be punished, will be punished. And it would be better, I think, if no witnesses remained to tell of what happened.” He met the man’s eyes. “Don’t you?”
“Sir?” Malex asked, a stricken look on his face. “Y-you mean to destroy the village?”
“Me?” Feledias asked. “Of course not. I am a prince of the realm, Commander Malex. Sworn to protect and serve the citizens of our great kingdom. I would, of course, offer no harm to my citizens. The Fey though…well. It seems that they have attacked the village once. I do not doubt that they might do so again. After all, if the Fey are known for anything, it is for their inexplicability. Now…” He paused, glancing back at the farmer once more, the man staring at him in shock as if he still had yet to fully realize what was going to happen. “Finish it. We leave—now.”
Feledias started toward where the horses were picketed, his soldiers, save the two left to deal with the farmer, following. He heard the farmer screaming behind him, begging, but there was the whistle of metal in the air, and then only silence. Feledias moved to his horse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Death is a fickle thing.
Sometimes, it comes with a roar, like the thunder of battle cries as armies meet.
Other times, it is subtle, quiet, sneaking up on a man before he is even aware of its coming.
The flash of metal in the shadows, the whistle of an arrow high overhead.
Sometimes, death comes quietly. Sometimes, it comes loudly.
There is no way, then, to know how death might come, when it does.
As death is concerned there is only one certainty, one inarguable truth—
It comes.
—Unknown author
He lay on his stomach on a hill outside Ferrimore, his bow and quiver placed beside him. The tall grass concealed him from any except the closest of inspections, though it also tickled at his skin where it touched his hands and face. But he ignored the urge to scratch that itch just as he ignored the aches in his back and knees. It might have proven difficult for some, ignoring those sensations, but then few had as much practice at it as Valden had himself. His life, after all, seemed to largely consist of such aches, such tickles of grass, and, of course, such hillsides. And now, like those other times, he told himself that it was nothing, that the ache in his back was nothing. After all, while the goddess promised that the path to peace would be taken one step at a time, she never promised that each of those steps would be pleasant, and a man grew in himself more from his pains than his pleasures anyway.
He told himself that, but with the grief of the guardsman still haunting him despite what meager efforts he’d given to assuage it, Priest was forced to wonder why it often seemed, on the path to peace, that each step was harder than the last. Some might have thought that experience would make such hillsides, such naked grief as he’d seen on the guardsman’s face and seen so often before, easier, but they would have been wrong. Instead, it felt as if they grew harder each time, but there was nothing to be done except to move forward, or, in this case, to lie still. And wait.
Likely, his waiting would amount to nothing, but he would wait just the same. Cutter was the warrior, Challadius the mage, Maeve, while she would label herself as an assassin, was often the voice of reason, of pragmatism. As for Priest, he was the scout, the man who watched their backs so that his comrades might worry about what lay ahead. And so he did it now, lying on the hillside and watching the road into Ferrimore lest the Fey or, particularly unlikely, Feledias and his men, found them here.
Yet, he did not begrudge the wait, for he knew that his being here would allow the others to get what troubled sleep they may. Not much of a gift, perhaps, just as his compassion, his attempts at sympathy for the guardsman were not much, but it was the best he could give them, and so he would.
He lay there for several hours until he grew certain that the night would pass in merciful, restful quiet after all. He said a silent prayer to the goddess in thanks and started to rise. That was when he caught sight of figures in the far distance, vague shadows in the moonlight, what some might have taken as no more than shadows or figments of their eyes produced by the distance. Priest, though, had seen such shadows before, countless times, and so he knew they were not shadows, nor figments. Knew instead that they were what they were—soldiers. Soldiers on the move, and judging by the uniformed organization of their movements, they were not the Fey returned to torment Ferrimore once more. No, this was an altogether different and, in its way, worse, torment.
“Goddess guide my path,” he whispered. He considered his best course, for the men were mounted and while his own mount was tied at the base of the hill, he could see, even from here, that the approaching soldiers rode war mounts while his own was a draft horse borrowed from the village. He would never be able to outrun them or beat them to the village should they take it in mind to give the beasts they rode their head.
Which meant that they needed to be slowed down somehow. Priest said another prayer,
this one not searching for a solution but only for forgiveness. Then he rose, lifted his bow from where it lay beside him and withdrew one arrow from his quiver before slinging it over his back. The figures were far distant, they and their horses little more than blurs. Most would have never attempted such a shot, sure of failure, but then Priest had been on this hillside—or at least a thousand like it—before, had taken such shots before, so he did not hesitate.
He drew the string of his bow back, calculating the range before raising the bow so that the arrow pointed almost straight up. He took a slow breath then breathed it out, releasing the string as he did. The arrow flew high into the air, so high that it seemed to be meant to pierce the moon itself, and at such a height, it seemed it could land anywhere. But of course it could not, for once fired, arrows had only one destination, only one result, and the result of this one was to strike one of the rider’s at the front of the column.
Perhaps the man cried out, perhaps not. At this distance, there was no way to tell for sure, but Priest saw movement, a slight shifting of the shadows which he took to be the man falling from his saddle. His skills, then, remained even after fifteen years. He did not know whether to be thankful or sad for that fact. Perhaps both.
Saying another prayer for the fallen man, that he might pass through the veil with as little pain, as little fear, as possible, Priest made his way down the hill to his horse. The beast fidgeted as he secured his bow, as if it could read his troubled mood through his touch. He took a moment to gives its muzzle a rub, offering what comfort he could, taking what comfort he could. “It’s okay, boy,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
The horse tossed its head as if to say that whatever things were, they were far from okay, and with no argument to make, Priest swung into the saddle. “Come,” he said, “we must be fast now, for there is little time.”
And with that, he turned and rode back to the village at a gallop, pushing the beast beneath him to its limit. The arrow, appearing out of nowhere and striking down one of their number, should slow the troops down, but he knew that, when no others followed, they would resume their pace soon enough. He had bought them some time that was all, and he could only hope that it would be enough.
***
He stood as the great blaze died down, as those mourners who had gathered around it began to depart, seeking the shelter and the dubious comfort of homes that would, going forward, be emptier than they had. At least of people. There was the absence, of course, an absence they would feel at their shoulders, in their beds, an absence that loomed and brought with it a very painful, very loud silence.
They departed bit by bit, in small, grieving knots, and eventually he was left alone with the dead, to breathe air which felt thick with the grief that had concentrated there minutes ago. It lingered, grief, lingered even after the cause of it was nothing but dust. It was a truth Cutter had known for a long time, one he had been taught and had, in his turn and to his shame, taught to many others.
And into that grief, that silence, a sound intruded, the sound of a galloping horse. He turned in the direction from which it came and, moments later, he saw a horse racing toward him, one upon which Priest rode, the archer’s face grim. As he brought the horse to a rearing halt and leapt from his saddle, Cutter did not have to ask the man what was wrong, what the cause of his haste, for there could only be one thing.
“How long?”
The man gave a shake of his head, obviously weary. “Not long. An hour. Maybe less. Your brother and fifty men at least.”
Cutter nodded grimly. “Go wake the others.”
Priest nodded. “What will you do?”
Cutter glanced in the direction of the village gate, the one they had come through so recently. “If I know my brother, he will send a man ahead, a scout meant to locate us, to keep an eye on us. I will go and meet him. I’ll catch up with you at the inn.”
The man hesitated, watching him for a moment. “The man who comes. You will kill him?”
Cutter rolled his shoulders to rid them of some of the soreness standing still for so long had caused. “Yes.”
The man looked as if he wanted to say something more, but in the end he only nodded. “Good luck, Prince.”
With that, he turned and started away at a run, leaving his weary mount. Cutter watched him go. Good luck, the man had said, and while Cutter was grateful for the well wishes, he did not think that luck was needed, not for this man, at least. After all, the man needed to be killed, and in that, if in nothing else, there were few better than Cutter.
He turned and started toward the gate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The greatest illusions are the ones we cast on ourselves.
Trust me—I should know. Gods help me, I should know.
—Challadius “The Charmer”
She was beautiful, the woman—and why not? After all, while the illusions he cast in his waking hours were always marred by one flaw or another, one often only he could see, the illusions his dream-mind created were far more thorough and, of course…entertaining.
The woman had a thin, toned waist, shapely thighs, and long hair that hung down into his face as she sat atop him. Beautiful, which was good. Eager, which was also good, but the best of all was that the woman did not scowl at him or make him feel like a fool with a single look, not the way Maeve did.
Beautiful enough, eager enough, that he could almost forget that she was not, strictly speaking, real. Her hands were on his chest which, by a trick of the fact that it was a dream and he its dreamer, was more muscular and less hairy than in real life. Her legs were around his waist which, by some slightly more powerful trick, was thin enough for them to fit around.
And her mouth was busy panting and saying things—all nice. Things about him, about how strong he was, how manly, nothing like those things Maeve would say to him, nothing like those sentences, those words which she’d wield nearly as effectively as the prince would his axe, cutting him down with seemingly little to no effort, likely not even being fully aware, at the time, just how deep her words wounded him.
And he would not tell her, not now, not ever. Those illusions created by Chall’s magic, those he wove with his spells like a tailor might weave a dress from idle strands of cloth, did not exist for long. But this illusion, the one regarding Maeve and his feelings for her, he had maintained for over twenty years and would continue to maintain it, not by his magic but by his will, by his fear, a terrible, gnawing fear of what she might say should she find out. Would she mock him? Would she laugh? Chall could handle a lot from a lot of people, had been called every name imaginable and, most of the time, had deserved it, but he could not handle that. It was better to maintain the illusion. Better not to know.
Perhaps that made him a coward, but that was no great surprise. He had known that about himself for a long time now, had made his peace with it. And so, he pushed all those errant thoughts aside, focusing instead on the woman on top of him. She would not mock him, not laugh, or taunt, and what pain she caused would be so intermingled with pleasure that a man could not tell where one ended and the other began. In the face of all of that, the fact that she was not real, was little more than a mild inconvenience. After all, every couple had their problems.
Suddenly one of her hands grabbed him more roughly, and he frowned. “Easy,” he said. “Take it easy.”
The woman continued to smile, continued to rock and tell him how great of a lover he was, but her grip on his chest tightened, and she gave him a rough shake. “Wake up, Chall,” she said.
Strange, for a dream to be asking him to wake up. Stranger still for the woman to speak in the familiar voice of Priest, strange and more than a little uncomfortable. “Wake up. Now.”
Then he was blinking his eyes open, and it was not the woman he was staring at anymore but the wizened features of the Priest, a grim expression on his face. Thankfully, the man was not sitting on top of him as the woman had been, but was instead standing beside the bed,
looking like bad news waiting to be heard.
Chall didn’t want to be that someone, would have gone through quite a bit to avoid it, but he sighed and slid up into the bed so that his back was propped against the wall. “Let me guess,” he grunted, rubbing an arm at eyes gummy with sleep, “we’re fucked.”
The other man frowned at the profanity, but apparently his news was important enough that he didn’t dare waste time on yet another lecture. That, of course, was a very bad sign, for the man loved his lectures more than anything, so even before he started to tell Chall just how well and truly doomed they were, he’d already risen and started pulling on his boots.
This, of course, made him notice the purple pants he was wearing—the bright color visible beneath dirt stains—and he had a thought that he really ought to take the time to visit a tailor, buy some trousers which were a touch less ridiculous. After all, he was going to make a damned ugly corpse—sooner rather than later, it seemed—and there wasn’t any need to be wearing purple trousers of all things. Chall knew he was ridiculous, odd, had largely embraced that fact…but even he had his limits.
“The others?” he asked when the man had finished an abbreviated version of what was happening, possibly short enough to fit on their tombstones.
“Here.”
Chall followed the sound of the voice to the door where Maeve stood, and despite his efforts at his dreaming, she was far more beautiful now, even harried and clearly worried, than the woman of his dreams had been. Older, yes, but not lessened by the years. Instead, she had been magnified by them, and what few wrinkles lined her face did nothing to mar her beauty, served only instead to outline it. Seeing her so recently after the dream, after his thoughts of her, Chall felt his face flush with embarrassment, feeling as if somehow she must know exactly what his thoughts had been, a small smile, what might have been a smirk on her face, that seemed to support that.
A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands Page 25
