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

by Jacob Peppers

  “We’re in a bit of a hurry,” she went on, “you know, impending death and all, but are you sure you don’t want to take a moment,”—she paused, staring meaningfully at his pants—“maybe change your trousers?”

  Chall didn’t have any trousers to change into, would have done so long ago if he had, his travel bag, such as it was, consisting of mostly empty bottles of liquor, and a ratty blanket most homeless people would have thrown out long ago. He could have told her as much but, of course, Chall never told the truth when he could lie instead, particularly to Maeve, so he smiled—difficult considering what Priest had just told him. “Why would I do that while these are perfectly fine?”

  She grunted. “Not the word I’d use.”

  Chall glanced between the two of them. “Cutter?”

  “Keeping an eye out,” Priest said.

  Chall grunted. Which meant likely someone—whoever the first of Feledias’s troops was—was getting ready to have a real shit day. “And has anyone woken the lad up yet?”

  “I thought maybe you’d like to do that,” Priest said.

  Chall frowned, glancing at Maeve who only shrugged before looking back at Priest. “Why?”

  The man gave him that small, knowing smile, the one that always gave Chall the urge to punch him in the face, an urge he would have long since given into if he wasn’t quite so much of a chicken shit. “Why not?” Priest asked.

  Well, there wasn’t time to sit and argue about it, not unless they meant to race to see who died first, so he grunted. “Whatever.” Then he turned and started for the door.

  ***

  Maeve watched the mage walk out of the door and head toward Matt’s room. He did a good job hiding it, of trying to perpetrate the lie that he was fine—few, after all, had more practice at lying than that false bastard—yet she knew him well enough to know he was scared. And why not? He, much like her, had spent the last fifteen years of his life trying to avoid a fate pretty much exactly like this one. Had, in many ways, given up his life to save it, and Maeve knew that feeling well. Knew the feeling of never being able to get a completely restful sleep, for the worry was always there, in the back of your mind, the worry that today would be the day, tonight the night, when the fate she had feared for so many years would finally find her.

  All that sacrifice just to stay alive, a sacrifice that she was beginning to think wasn’t worth it, for what had it bought her but nights spent waking in cold sweats, days spent looking over her shoulder sure that this time, Feledias and his men would be there? Chall had sacrificed just as much to live, and while he loved to pretend at selfishness—likely even believed his own lies in that regard—he had been willing to give all of that up the moment he’d seen that their prince was in trouble. Not a selfish man then and not a coward, no matter what he acted like.

  She watched until the man—looking thoroughly uncomfortable—stopped in front of the lad’s door.

  Maeve decided to leave him to it, turning back to Priest. “Why?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Why send him? Do you think that, what, seeing Chall will make the boy worry less?”

  Priest gave her a small smile as he started toward the door. “I didn’t do it for him—I did it for Chall. He will be brave, confident, for the boy. He will be it because he has to. Now, we had better go—our prince will be waiting.

  With that, he walked past her, pausing only briefly to put a gentle, comforting hand on her shoulder, offering her a nod of his head before continuing on.

  ***

  Matt woke with a gasp as water splashed into his face, sputtering in a panicked moment feeling as if he were drowning. Then that moment, that fear, subsided, and he blinked up to see the heavy-set man called Chall standing over him. “Hey,” he managed, running an arm across his dripping face, “what did you do that for?”

  The man shrugged. “You been walkin’ a while, lad. Might be no one else is ready to tell you, but you could do with a bath. We all could. But there’s no time for one, not now, probably not for a while, so I’m thinking this is probably as close as you’re going to get.” He set the now-empty glass down. “Well. Best be getting up and putting your boots on. We’re set to leave.”

  “Leave?” Matt asked, confused and still struggling to shake off the heavy sleep that had come over him the second he’d laid his head down. “But…when?”

  The other man raised an eyebrow. “When you get your boots on.”

  “But…but it’s still night,” he said, glancing at the window where darkness could be seen outside. “I mean…isn’t it?”

  “So it is,” Chall agreed. “Unfortunately, revenge-mad princes have a tendency of not taking others’ feelings into consideration as much as they might.”

  Matt blinked, still struggling to catch up with what the man was telling him. “Revenge-mad princes?”

  “That’s right. Princes like the one approaching Ferrimore right now, along with fifty or so of his troops. The same one that, the way it’s looking, will be here knocking on the door before you put your damned boots on.”

  That was enough to get him moving, to wipe the remaining cobwebs of sleep away, and Matt jumped to his feet, finding his boots and tugging them on. “W-what do we do?”

  Chall winced. “We go and find Pri—Cutter. He’ll know what to do. He always does. Now, come on, lad. We’re running out of time.”

  Matt felt terror gripping him, terror and a sense of hopelessness. He had left his home, had watched from a distance as it and everyone he loved was burned to the ground. He had traveled through the Black Woods, a place he’d heard horror stories of for as long as he could remember and, somehow, had come out the other side alive only to find that their pursuers had found them almost immediately. He was tired, exhausted, and he was scared, so he did the only thing he could do—when the other man hurried out of the room and down toward the common area of the inn, he followed him.

  The wounded were still there, still being overseen by the innkeeper who, the night before, had terrified Matt, but who now he paid little mind as he was already about as terrified as he was likely to get. But terrified or not, he could not help but notice that there were far fewer wounded—and caretakers—than there had been. He would like to believe that was because many of those the caretakers had been tending to had gotten well enough to leave on their own. Certainly, the Matt from a week ago would have believed exactly that. But then that Matt had not seen his village burned, his friends and family killed. That Matt had not nearly been devoured by a creature out of nightmare, or hunted for days by men who wanted to kill him for reasons he still did not understand.

  He wanted to believe that those wounded had gotten better, but he did not. Instead, he thought it more likely that those poor souls had succumbed to their wounds despite the healers’ efforts. A dark thought, perhaps, but one that seemed to be substantiated by the grim expressions on the faces of those remaining caretakers—who looked little better than those they tended—and by the innkeeper herself who moved among them like a troupe manager backstage, always there when she was needed to direct, assist or console the wounded and those who cared for them.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Chall staring at him, something like compassion in his face. “Come, lad,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing we can do for them.”

  “B-but…you’re a mage, aren’t you?” Matt asked hopefully. “Can’t you…I don’t know, cast a spell or something?”

  The heavy-set man winced. “My magic, I’m afraid, is not the useful kind. Now, come on. The others are waiting for us.”

  And indeed, they were, for a quick look showed the man, Priest, they’d called him, and Maeve standing by the door. They both looked tense, ready, but if they felt any of the overwhelming terror that was currently gripping Matt then they hid it well.

  The mage started toward them. Matt hesitated, looking back once more at those wounded, wishing he could help them somehow. In the end, though, he moved toward the others who were currently eng
aged in a hushed conversation.

  “—haven’t seen him, yet,” Maeve said.

  “He said he would meet us,” Priest replied, “and so he will be here.”

  Chall grunted. “I don’t like this, not at all. Feledias is almost here and—”

  Maeve glanced over, seemed to notice Matt for the first time, and made a shushing noise, cutting the mage off. “Did you get some good sleep, Matt?” she asked, obviously making an attempt to force cheer into her voice.

  “I-I guess,” he said, glancing between them. “If they’re almost here, the men hunting me, I mean, then what do we do?”

  “First,” Chall whispered, glancing behind him, “you speak quieter, boy. There’s no need to go making a scene. And after that…”

  “We wait,” Maeve said. “For Cutter.”

  No sooner had she finished speaking than the door opened and standing in the dark doorway as if his name had called him, was Cutter, the man Matt had known since he was a child and who he was recently realizing he had not known at all, not really. His hulking form filled the doorway, and he was forced to duck under the lintel as he stepped inside. Cutter noted his companions immediately and moved toward them.

  As he approached, Matt couldn’t help but notice fresh spatters of blood staining the man’s front and his hands, noted, too, that the big man’s knuckles were raw and scraped.

  “We were wondering when you’d decide to show up,” Chall said.

  Maeve looked the man up and down. “Trouble?”

  Cutter grunted in assent. “Feledias isn’t on his way to the village anymore, he—”

  “But that’s great,” Matt interrupted, feeling a heady sense of relief. “If he isn’t—”

  “No, lad,” Chall interrupted, watching Cutter’s face, the grim expression on it. “He isn’t on his way—he’s here alrea—”

  The door burst open again, and they all spun to see the guardsman from the gate. The man was panting and coated in sweat, and, Matt was surprised to see, grinning. The innkeeper hurried forward. “What is it, Rolph? What’s happened?”

  “It’s High Prince Feledias, Netty!” the guardsman exclaimed through panting breaths, a wide grin on his face.

  “The High Prince?” the woman asked, frowning. “What about him?”

  “He’s here, Netty,” the guard said.

  “Here?” the woman asked, clearly surprised, and Matt couldn’t blame her. After all, he had lived in Brighton, a village about the size of Ferrimore, for his entire life, and they had never once had the prince visit. Except, of course, for when he did come and burned the village to the ground.

  “Yes, here,” the man said, “in Ferrimore. Or, at least, just outside of it. Guardsman Pender was speaking to them when I left, thought I’d come ahead and give you warning, so you could get the place ready or…” He shrugged, taking a deep breath. “Or whatever.”

  “But why?” Netty asked with a frown, apparently not as ready to celebrate as the guardsman. “Why would he come here?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, ain’t it?” the guardsman asked. “He must have heard of our troubles with the Fey, that’s all. Must have heard of it and come to help us. He’s come to help, Netty!”

  There were shouts of excitement from wounded and caretaker alike at that, and the guardsman, grinning, moved off toward them, speaking on as those who could gathered around him.

  The innkeeper, though, remained, and when she turned to look at Cutter, she was not smiling. She moved toward them, her frown deepening with each step. “Two princes in as many days,” she said, watching Cutter as if searching for something. “Ferrimore’s never been so popular.”

  She watched the big man silently, perhaps waiting for Cutter to respond, but he said nothing, only letting the silence speak for him.

  The innkeeper grunted, giving a single nod as if she’d just had some suspicion confirmed. “And you lot, it’s not just bad timin’, you all leavin’ in the middle of the night just as your brother’s arrivin’ at our gates. Is it?”

  “No,” Cutter said. “It isn’t.”

  The woman nodded again. “Heard some tale about you two brothers bein’ at odds, though can’t say I know the specifics, can’t say I’ve ever felt the lack of not knowin’ either. We got our own life here in Ferrimore, with plenty enough to worry about on our own without gettin’ involved with princes and their squabbles. Or, at least we had our own life.” She frowned at him. “Didn’t we?”

  Again, Cutter said nothing, and the woman sighed. “Your brother, Prince Feledias. He hasn’t come to help, has he?”

  Cutter shook his head. “No.”

  “He’s come for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And as for us? Us lowly non-royal peasants? What sort of greeting might we expect from this royal brother of yours?”

  Instead of answering, Cutter turned to the others, meeting Maeve’s eyes in particular. “Best get them moving, Maeve. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

  “Sounds great,” the woman said dryly. “Only, where exactly might we be moving to?”

  “Let’s start with ‘away.’ We’ll head west, toward the capital. I’ll meet you in just a moment.”

  “Come on, lad,” Maeve said gently, putting a hand on Matt’s shoulder, “better be on our way.”

  Matt hesitated, looking at the innkeeper, the woman watching Cutter with hard eyes. There was something, some terrible knowledge looming in his mind like some great monolithic figure in the mist, indistinct yet threatening and full of some unnatural menace. It was a knowledge, a truth, that he thought he could see in the innkeeper’s gaze as well. Yet that knowledge, that truth was too obscured by the fog of his own fear, his own desire to run and get as far away as possible from those hunting him for him to understand it.

  Swallowing, he turned and allowed himself to be led out of the inn.

  ***

  Cutter watched Maeve and the others leave then turned back to the innkeeper, the woman staring at him with undisguised anger.

  “Gettin’ the boy to leave. Clever,” the woman said dryly. “Don’t want any folks hanging around watchin’ when you commit murder.”

  “I have offered none of your people harm.”

  “Thing is, Prince, that ain’t exactly true, is it? Cend would certainly disagree, and I think his bruised face and bruised pride are just about the least of our worries right now, considerin’ your brother is knockin’ on our door.”

  There was nothing to be said, no way to make it better, for he knew what would happen now, they both did. What must happen. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Her face worked for a moment, a flurry of emotions chasing their way across her features. Then, finally, she scowled. “Damn your sorry,” she said. “These are good people here. People that don’t deserve what they’re gettin’.”

  No one ever did, but Cutter didn’t think now was the time to say that, so instead he nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” she asked, watching him closely. “Are you really? Seems to me you’re just as heartless as the stories say. A beast, they call you, and I think they call it right. But what do you think, Prince?”

  Once more he said nothing, for he did not have the words to make it right, to make it okay, even if such words existed. And even if they did, even if he did have them, there was no time to speak them, not now. He turned to go, and she reached out, snatching his arm.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, you monster,” she growled, nearly shouting it, and he turned back to see her glaring at him, to see that many of the caretakers seeing to the wounded had paused in their labors and their excited whispering to look over, their good moods clearly giving way to confusion at their de facto leader’s anger.

  He looked past her, and she snarled, turning and following his gaze. “Everything’s alright,” she said, forcing a false joviality into her tone, “this big fella here just turned down my proposition for a drink, that’s all. Why don’t you all mind your business, maybe get read
y.” She turned back to glance at Cutter as she finished. “Got us a prince visitin’,” she said loudly. “Reckon we’ll want to look our best.”

  They all grinned, wounded and caretaker alike, and soon they were ensconced in hurried, whispered conversation again, excited as they had a right to be, about a visit from their royal prince. They had no way of knowing, save some rumors which, while they reached far, might not have reached so far as this out of the way village, that their princes were not worthy of their love or their excitement.

  “They love you,” Cutter said, wondering how such a thing might feel, to engender anything in those you met besides hate or fear and knowing that he would never know.

  “Helps that I don’t get them all butchered by a revenge-mad prince,” she said.

  He wanted to say sorry again, to tell her that he had not intended this, but he had said it already, and his feelings would do nothing to save them from the dark fate visiting their village. So he nodded instead, deciding to leave it there. Not a good place to leave it, perhaps, but then when you had just single-handedly spelled the death of an entire village, there wasn’t a good way. Another weight, then, to add to that already accumulated on his back, a weight of regret and shame that he had carried with him for as long as he could remember, dragging it behind him.

  He turned, heading toward the door.

  “He’ll find out, you know,” the woman said.

  He paused, glancing back at the innkeeper.

  “The boy,” she said. “He’ll find out who you are. What you are.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “He’s finding out already.” And with that, he turned and walked into the darkness, leaving his victims—still living, still breathing and walking around, but not for long—behind him.

  ***

  They were waiting for him outside, Maeve and Chall and Priest watching him with the knowledge of what was coming in their eyes. After all, there had been other villages in the past, other massacres, some which they had fled, others which they had perpetrated. They knew this, for they, like he, still bore the scars of those slaughters, carried them as constant, daily reminders of how fragile human life could really be. It was as if everything—society, the idea of civilization and being civilized, every human construct—was made of glass. It was not a matter of if it would shatter, for its shattering was as inevitable as death. And when it did, it would reveal that “civilization” was no more than a fantasy, a thin transparent veil that the beast that was humanity draped across itself, imagining—incorrectly—that it covered its shameful nakedness.