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

by Jacob Peppers

  Cutter shared a look with the mage and shrugged. “Nothing.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re not the only one knows how to stop a man’s heart, Prince. And as for you,” she went on, turning to glance at the mage, “you just remember this the next time you want to run your mouth.”

  Then they were moving again, jogging at a fast clip, for all of them were well aware that if they did not arrive soon there would be no point in arriving at all. Feledias was nothing if not thorough. As they drew closer to the inn they had left less than an hour ago, the screams grew louder, the firelight—not from one house now, or two, but several throughout the village as his brother set about the task of destroying the village—brighter.

  They fell back into a familiar routine as they made their way through the streets. Priest moved up ahead of them, scouting, ensuring that their way was clear of anymore surprises. Cutter was next, followed by Chall in the middle with Matt, and Maeve last, the woman keeping an eye on their back lest someone try to surprise them from behind.

  Soon, they drew near the inn once more. The screams—and the owners of those screams—were close now, very close, just on the other side of a building. Cutter and the others waited while Priest crept forward, making use of his almost supernatural ability to move in complete silence, but it was not just that, for the moment the man stepped away from them, Cutter seemed to lose sight of him, as if he wrapped the darkness of the night around him like a cloak, concealing himself from view.

  Several tense minutes passed then as they waited for the scout to return, waited and listened to the sounds of shouting from nearby. He was just beginning to worry that the man had been caught when, suddenly, Priest appeared out of the night only feet away from Cutter and nearly elicited a shout of surprise that would have given them away. “How’s it look?” Cutter asked, but as he peered at the scout, taking in his grim expression, he realized he probably hadn’t needed to ask.

  “It’s bad,” the man said, confirming his suspicion. “They’re burning the village—what little of it isn’t already burned, anyway. They’re bringing all the villagers to the inn.”

  “Gods,” Chall muttered.

  “What?” Matt asked quietly, glancing between their grim expressions. “I don’t understand. Why would he bring the villagers to the inn?”

  They all looked at Cutter, leaving it to him, and he sighed. “Makes it easier,” he said, meeting the boy’s eyes.

  Matt frowned. “What? It makes what easier?”

  “This way,” Cutter went on, “there’s only one really important fire. He throws the villagers inside, bars the door, and lets the flames wipe out any trace of what happened here, any possible evidence that might point back to him or his troops.”

  Matt’s eyes went wide at that. “Y-you can’t be serious. H-he wouldn’t…I mean, a person wouldn’t…all those people—”

  “He would, lad,” Cutter said simply. “It’s been done before.” He did not bother telling the boy that this was almost certainly what had been done in Brighton, his home.

  “W-we have to help them,” Matt said, meeting Cutter’s eyes. “W-we can’t let him…we can’t.”

  Cutter doubted very much there was any help they could offer the citizens of Ferrimore, thought it likely that the only effect such an attempt would have would be them dying along with them, but he knew that the boy had meant what he said, knew that he would use the blade he still carried if Cutter tried to drag him away from here. But even that wasn’t the only reason he stayed. He found that, now that he was here, he was glad. True, they were almost certainly about to begin a battle that would lead, inevitably and irrevocably, to their deaths, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in such a place before.

  He had tried to keep the boy safe, tucked away, hidden away, but Maeve was right—no one who was alive was safe, not in this world. And if the boy was to die, if they all were, then Cutter could think of far worse ways than giving their lives to try to keep the villagers from suffering the worst of his brother’s rage.

  Cutter put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We won’t, lad.” He noted the look of gratitude that passed over the boy’s face at that, but he turned away, looking to Priest. “Show us.”

  The scout nodded and soon they were moving again, making slower progress now as they focused on stealth. Cutter felt a tightness across his shoulders as they moved. He had never been one given to sneaking or lurking in the shadows, and he felt a growing respect for Priest and his talents. There was an anxiousness, a tenseness that Cutter never felt in the grip of a battle, when a man had made his decisions already and had no more to make, when there were no more choices to make and the only thing that was left was the blood.

  In time, the scout led them to behind the burned-out shell of a house, the stone scorched and stained with soot. He put his back against the corner and peered around then turned back to Cutter, motioning him forward.

  Cutter crept forward, glancing around the corner.

  The scene was much as Priest had described it. Even as he watched, soldiers dragged kicking and screaming villagers toward the inn entrance, throwing them inside while others stood with swords drawn at the door lest any of those terrified villagers peering out of the entrance attempted to make a run for it.

  But while this was a terrible sight, what drew Cutter’s eye was, instead, the half a dozen soldiers standing in front of the building in a rough semi-circle and, specifically, the man at their front. Feledias. Cutter had not seen his brother in years, not since their falling out fifteen years ago, a falling out which had been his fault and his alone. His brother had aged in that time, that much could be seen in the gray streaks in his hair and beard, could be seen in the hard lines on his face.

  Yet, in his features, Cutter could see the child he had once been, the happy, carefree child who had followed his big brother everywhere, who had thought him a hero. Perhaps Feledias was a monster now, but he had not always been so, and if he was a monster, then he was one of Cutter’s making.

  An old woman knelt in front of his brother, a soldier on either side of her. Her lip was split from a recent cut, and her face was marred by a fresh bruise, but despite this, the orange ruddy glow of the torches several of the soldiers held was enough for Cutter to recognize her as Netty, the innkeeper.

  “What…what do we do?” Matt asked in a hushed whisper.

  Cutter considered that. They were outnumbered with no chance of fighting their way through the soldiers. If they tried, they would be cut down long before they ever reached the inn and the frightened villagers inside it. He glanced at the others to see if they had any ideas, but they offered nothing, only watched him, waiting for what he would say. He knew that, should he ask it of them, they would not hesitate to charge suicidally into the waiting troops. Well, perhaps Chall would hesitate, but the man would go nonetheless, of that much he was certain. Just as he was certain that, if he did, he would die, he and all the others. They would all die at his brother’s hands for a sin of which he alone was guilty. His brother hated him for that sin, with a hate so strong that it had warped him, twisted the once kind, benevolent man into a creature who sought only revenge, and who cared nothing about anyone else, would destroy anything or anyone who got in the way of him achieving his vengeance.

  Cutter deserved to die for what he had done—there was no denying that. But his companions, his friends, did not. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he grunted. “I’ve got an idea—a way out of this, a way we can save those villagers. But we have to be fast.”

  Matt was nodding quickly, and he could see hope not just on the boy’s face but on those of the others as well. Perhaps they would have been willing to charge suicidally into the soldiers, but no doubt they preferred a less painful, less final alternative.

  “There’s a back door into the inn,” he whispered, knowing they had to be fast. “I saw it earlier. Feledias will have it guarded, but not as heavily as the front. You all go, wait for my signal, then, if there a
re any soldiers left, take them out and sneak the villagers out the back.”

  “But…where will you be?” Matt asked.

  Cutter was aware of all their eyes on him, aware of Maeve’s in particular. She was clever, Maeve, cleverer than him by half and always had been. So, he took his time, choosing his words, his tone carefully. “I’ll stay here, create a distraction. When I do, you make your move.”

  “A distraction,” Maeve said, watching him carefully, her eyes seeming to see right through him.

  Cutter forced himself to nod confidently. “Yes.”

  “But, Prince,” Chall said, “perhaps it would be better if I stayed. With my magic—”

  “No,” Cutter interrupted, giving his head a shake. “If things go sideways, they’ll need your magic to rescue the villagers and make it out alive.”

  The mage clearly wanted to argue the point, but he remained silent, glancing at Maeve as if for help. The woman, though, was only watching Cutter with her eyes that seemed to see so much. “And what about you?”

  He felt their time, their chances, slipping away, but he forced back his impatience, giving as casual of a shrug as he could. “Lead the villagers to the north side of the village—there’s a forest a little over a mile away in that direction. On open ground, their horses will catch you and they’ll cut you down, but if you can make it to the trees, it will be harder for Feledias and his men to track you. You’ll have a chance.”

  “But what about you?” Maeve asked again.

  Cutter shook his head, unable to completely hide his frustration. “I’ll catch up, don’t worry about that—I don’t mean to die today. Now, hurry—there’s no more time.”

  They nodded, turning to start away but Cutter caught the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. Matt turned, looking at him with eyes as big as dinner saucers in the moonlight. “Be brave, Matt,” Cutter said. “Whatever happens, be brave. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” the boy said.

  Cutter stared at him. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, a thousand truths he wanted to tell, not least of which how he felt for the boy, how he had felt since the first time he’d held him, a squalling babe, so small and so fragile in his arms. But there was no time, so he only grunted. “Go on then,” he said, offering him the best smile he could. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Priest,” he said, as the others started working their way toward the next building, meaning to loop around to the inn’s back.

  The man turned back, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’d speak with you, for a moment.”

  Maeve shot one more suspicious glance at him before she, Chall, and the boy started away. Priest walked up to him. “Yes, Prince?”

  Cutter frowned. He had not expected his plan to work, for it to have gone so easily. Now that it had, he was having difficulty saying what he needed to. “Priest,” he said quietly, “Valden…do you think…” He paused, clearing his throat. “Do you think that the gods, seeing a man’s evil, his sins, might give up on him?”

  The man watched him carefully. Maeve was clever, it was true, but so was Valden. “You do not mean to meet us in the forest.”

  He could have lied, but he saw no point in it. He had never been good with lies. Had never been much good with the truth either, come to it. Some people wielded words the way others wielded blades. His brother had been one such, long ago, but Cutter had never possessed such a gift. So instead of lying, he shook his head. “No.”

  “You mean to sacrifice yourself.”

  It was not really a question but Cutter answered it anyway. “Yes. He will not stop, Valden. Not ever. You know that as well as I do. He will not stop until he has killed me.”

  “And so you travel to your death so that others might be saved.”

  Cutter shrugged. “I’ve been traveling to my death for a long time now, Priest. But please…you won’t tell the others?”

  The man watched him for several seconds then finally shook his head. “I will not tell them. But they will discover it soon enough when you do not arrive. They will be angry.”

  “I know. Let them be angry. Just let them live. I have done terrible things, Priest, unimaginable things, and there is no counting the number of those who have suffered for what I have done. I would have it stop. I would end it—here. There is a price for my sins, and it is one I pay gladly. Only…the reason I asked you to stay…” He trailed off, suddenly struggling to finish.

  “I will look after the boy,” Priest said softly. “As best as I am able.”

  Cutter let out a heavy, relieved sigh. “Thank you. And please…the others, too. Maeve. Chall…he will not understand.”

  The man nodded at that, and then there was nothing to be said, no more words needed. There was, now, only the doing. Cutter offered his hand to the man who took it. “It has been a pleasure, Priest.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Prince Bernard,” the man said. And with that, he turned and started away, then pausing to look back at him. “Prince?”

  “Yes?”

  “The gods never give up on us, not ever. Not, even, when we give up on ourselves. Good luck.”

  Cutter nodded. “And to you.”

  Then the man was gone, vanishing into the shadows after the others. Cutter watched him go, a small smile on his face. “Good luck,” the man had said, but Cutter did not think he needed it. It didn’t take much luck, after all, to die.

  He found, now that he was alone, that he did not fear his death. The man, Priest, was always fond of saying that the path to peace was taken one step at a time, and Cutter believed that. He believed, too, that when a man was haunted by his past crimes, his very soul stained with them, that the only path to peace was death—and that path, at least, was a short one.

  He rose from where he crouched beside the building, staring back at where his brother barked words at the bruised and battered innkeeper still kneeling on the ground. He had lied to them, Matt and Maeve and the others, but not everything he’d said had been a lie. He would create a distraction, that much was true, and what better distraction for a man whose entire life had been twisted on vengeance than the sudden appearance of the object of his rage?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  What to say of Prince Feledias?

  He was all that his brother was not.

  He was kind where his brother was cruel, warm where his brother was cold.

  He was the greatest man I have ever known.

  But that man, that prince, is dead.

  And in his place…a monster lurks.

  —Exiled Historian to the Crown Petran Quinn

  “Where is he?” Feledias shouted at the old woman kneeling in the dirt.

  The woman looked up at him, working her mouth before turning and spitting out a gobbet of blood. “Who’s that now?”

  “You know who!” he barked. “My brother—Prince Bernard. I know that he came here, that he stayed at your inn.” He paused, withdrawing the knife from the sheath at his waist, then knelt before her. “You will tell me where he has gone, old woman. One way or the other.”

  “I s’pose I’m meant to be impressed by that little sticker?” the old woman asked, eyeing the blade. After a moment, she shrugged. “I’ve seen bigger.” She cackled at that, cackled right up until his fist struck her in the face, and she let out a gasp of pain and surprise, collapsing sideways onto the ground.

  Feledias growled as the woman slowly climbed back to her knees. “You will die, peasant. I am sure that you have gathered that much, at least, and so I will not lie to you. One way or the other, you die today. But if you tell me where my brother has gone, I promise to make your death quick, painless. If you instead choose to continue to be a fool and cover for a man who has never cared for anyone or anything in his life except himself, well…” He paused, glancing at the blade in his hand. “You would be surprised just how much pain a person can suffer and still live.”

  He saw the terrible understanding in her eyes as she glanced at the blad
e, thought that, perhaps, she would finally tell him what he wanted to know, but when she looked back to him, her gaze hardened. “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s your big threat? I’m over seventy years old, Prince. Fire and salt, I have more pain than you could cause with that little toy of yours every time I take a piss.”

  Feledias’s anger, his impatience to find his brother, demanded that he attack the woman, that he carve his fury into her flesh piece by piece, but he forced himself to remain calm, to take a slow, deep breath. He smiled then. “You are a fool, but a brave one, that much I’ll grant you. Still,” he said, glancing at the open door of the inn and those villagers gathered inside, more being added all the time as his soldiers scoured the village, “I wonder, are these others quite so brave? Would you be so willing to watch them suffer and die because you chose to remain silent?”

  The older woman glanced back at the doorway, and for the first time her expression showed something that it had not yet—fear. Feledias smiled. Every person had his weakness, his pressure point. For most, it was simply themselves, fear that they—that who they were—might be altered, might be changed, and it was enough to plant in them the idea of what life would look like with one less finger, one less hand. Or, how they would feel about not living at all. That worked most of the time, but not always.

  There were some people—not many, but some—who needed some other sort of motivation, and this nearly always came in the form of their family, their friends. After all, no man or woman walked the world alone, without connection. The closest, perhaps, was his own wayward brother, Cutter, and even he had his weakness.

  Everyone did. And once you found it, getting what you wanted from them, making them little more than your puppet, was no more difficult than lifting the strings and making them dance. He had always known this, even before his brother’s betrayal, had looked at these different levers a person might pull to get what he wanted, and they had served him well in various diplomatic negotiations. He had been a puppet master then, too, but one constrained by his own morality and society’s conventions. Now, though, he entertained no such constraints. He would have his vengeance, no matter what.