by K.N. Lee
Mathilde wiped up the blood that had dropped on the floor from her leg. She swept up the ruined mug and threw it all away.
Except one part. The handle. It was in one piece. The end was needle sharp to the touch. That bit of pottery, Mathilde held back, pocketing it against the surprises that surrounded her.
Johan? Fritz? Mama? How will I know if they are safe?
Are we betrayed?
Every question the injured girl had left her more confused.
Walking over to the service door, Mathilde pushed open the swinging barrier just enough that she could see around the main room. Everywhere, the men ate and drank and sang. And no one gave a thought to the missing servant girl who had waited on them and then disappeared.
No one noticed her. Only fear would expose Mathilde.
And she refused to give in to that.
Closing the door, she gathered shock and surprise around her like a fur coat.
Pans.
Pans. Pots. and more pans.
Mathilde thought she would never see the end of the tower of dishes. Her hands moved. Her heart lurched in fear and hope. But she stood there, calmly holding each dish, rinsing off the food, scrubbing with the soapy water until the dishes sparkled. She only looked there, at the counter. Focusing her mind on the never-ending pile of dishes.
Besides, what could she do? A defenseless girl, determined to keep her loved ones safe. That left her nothing to fight with, but plenty to fight for...
Mathilde reasoned her way past the urgency of her triggered flight response. She knew no magic. And there was no man to save her, no vidartan priest nearby. Just her untrained brothers hiding in the storage room, clinging to the slim chance of freedom.
She could not run. She could not disappear back to the cellar. Otto and Bertha knew she was down there. I will do nothing. I cannot risk exposing the boys and Mama. She swore that vow upon the promise of Geisprom as her reddened hands scrubbed away crumbs and bacon grease.
Bertha kept the soldiers happy. Mathilde did not go back out into the main tavern. She bent to her unpleasant work with a single focus.
She waited for the night to end. So she could make a plan.
Any plan at all.
Then, Bertha came bursting through the doors. “What are they doing?” she shouted at the cook and Mathilde.
“Are you a part of this madness?” Bertha asked, panic all over her face.
Mathilde shook her head no.
Bertha barely noticed.
“If they think they can just come and take what they want, well, they have another think coming. Thieves.” Bertha armed herself with a sharp-edged spatula longer than her arm and stormed out of the kitchen.
Which had gone eerily quiet.
Mathilde snuck over with the confused cook to peer through the crack in the swinging door.
The main tavern was almost completely empty. As they looked, the last soldiers filed out the front door, straightening their uniforms, grabbing their weapons. They didn’t look at the kitchen.
Mathilde whispered, “What is happening?” Under her breath.
Only the cook was there to answer. He wasn’t that helpful. “No idea,” he grumbled, wiping the counter clear with a wet cloth. Sweat dripped down his wrinkled forehead. Each drop landed with a huge splosh.
Revolting.
“Whatever it is stole our customers.” The man looked around the kitchen at the steaming pies, and shook his balding head. “I still have hot food to serve and now, no mouths to feed. Waste of time and money, if you ask me.”
Mathilde ignored him. Whatever had upset Bertha made Mathilde’s stomach do flips. Pretending only worked when there was a chance at hiding. There was no chance of that now. Something had changed.
Whatever was happening, it likely would go badly for anyone who interfered. A swarm of raging wasps with the ferocity to attack relentlessly would have been less frightening. No mercy. As was whatever calamity raged outside the tavern’s door.
She reached the front door and opened it to the outside world. To a city unfamiliar to her, to a people she barely understood. Norwavan custom was close to Hollyoaken traditions. But not exact.
Neighbors. Not family.
There, in the middle of the street, soldiers parked a large, black wagon, dented but shiny. Sleek and lethal in its design, the car was surrounded by a dozen Hollyoaken soldiers, all with their hands on their weapons, eyes narrowed, ready to fight.
One of them saw her watching and waved with his command, “Close the door, miss. There is nothing to see here. We are just cleaning up some trash. Unity is all.” He waved her away.
She gulped and nodded. As she swung the front door closed, she heard the soldier say, “Did you see her? Skin like cream. Perfect teeth.” One of the dogs whistled in appreciation. The soldiers spoke loudly, making sure she could hear their words, “Gotta keep the beautiful ones safe from the likes of these. Nothin’ but trash and disease with this lot.”
Another soldier grunted and spat on the dirt road.
Through the front window, Mathilde could still see. Hiding behind the bulk of the wall, next to the heavy curtains that blocked sunlight, she watched.
Outside, Bertha was furious. She stood at the back of the black wagon, armed with her spatula, arms folded, face set.
From around the back of the tavern, a patrol marched: scary, proficient, deadly, the dogs of war came, carrying bags of ‘appropriated’ goods. In the middle, some of the men escorted out a huddled group of prisoners. Suspects? There had been no alarm, no explosion? No sign of unrest.
The men took a great deal of food. Bertha glared as they loaded it in the black truck.
Mathilde was puzzled. She hadn’t realized so many vidaya had escaped Hollyoaks. Or that they were here, hiding. Maybe I know some of them? Mathilde watched the dogs steal people and food. Their hard faces, blank of any emotion, or guilt—they made Mathilde fundamentally afraid.
My brothers are safe in the cellar. My family is safe. Safe. She concentrated on those thoughts, as if repeating her will made it so.
Everything is going to be alright. Everything will work out.
Johan is safe. Stay calm.
No one sees me.
In the middle of the soldiers, the huddled, captured people were escorted to the wagon. Only Bertha stopped them. The main officer stood there, in front of the tavern keeper, eyeing her spatula, respectful of her discontent.
“These are trash,” he spoke, his voice pitched to carry across the surrounding block. “Vidaya scum. They bring nothing but disease and death wherever they go. We do this service for you, our neighbors. We will cleanse this scourge to its root.”
Palms up, eyes open, the speaker reached out and gently took the spatula that Bertha held from her white-knuckled grip.
“This isn’t a war you want to fight. Y’ hear? Taverns need business. We will be here for the long haul. Friends are always better than enemies, don’t you think?”
He said something else, quite a few things, but Mathilde couldn’t hear.
Whatever he said, worked. Bertha slumped her shoulders in defeat. She stepped aside.
The path clear, the soldier from Hollyoaks pushed the captured people into the wagon. Reinforced doors clanged shut with a finality that broke her heart. Up and down the street, soldiers readied to escort the prisoners back to their camp, for “processing.”
“It’s a long way to the nearest trains. Never fear, we will get you there. Not one drop wasted. Unity is all.” Some jerk in the corner laughed.
The glee of the black-hearted killers—that was all Mathilde heard.
Slowly, the wagon backed up.
One man walked up the stairs to the tavern, holding Bertha’s arm. The older woman looked exhausted. Bravery took a great deal out of a person. Especially when in the end, she had caved. Defeat made her pale and weary.
Mathilde stepped back, away from the window as they entered.
Leading the woman to the nearest chair, the d
og sat Bertha down, like a friend. Like a gentleman. Like he wasn’t a murderer. “The supplies will be paid for when you send a full, itemized list. As for the rest, it’s for the best,” he said, placing a pile of coins on the table in front of her. “Thank you for your assistance.”
One of the coins fell off the table and rolled across the wooden planks. It spun in a long, looping circle and came to rest by Mathilde’s shoe.
The soldier’s attention followed the coin straight to where she stood in the shadows of the heavy curtains.
Bertha sobbed at the table, spilling the money. Ignoring his pity. Her tears were real, just like the price she earned as a Hollyoaken informant.
Mathilde didn’t move. Even if she wanted to, shock stopped every reaction.
The dog soldier stood for a moment, maybe two. And then he walked crisply over to where the coin had come to rest.
Leaning down, he picked it up, curious.
Money in hand, he looked around the room. Confused. That was clear on his face. Hawk-like, he looked for something, peering in the shadows. Something he did not find. Scowling, his eyes searched the room. Anger radiated from him, as vibrant as red paint on a white wall.
Mathilde stood, right in front of him. She could feel his breath as it crossed her cheek, still warm from the stew and the beer the tavern had served.
Him. Brown hair, chiseled jaw, and the blackest of uniforms with the sun blazing across the world, killing us all: HIM.
Hard. Dangerous. Lethal.
He stood there, not seeing her. Not seeing anyone.
With military precision, he turned on his heel and marched back to the crying woman. Returning the lost coin, the soldier’s words cut Mathilde’s heart into strips of meat.
“A girl. Stunning green eyes, skin like milk, flaming red hair? A little shorter than me,” the soldier gestured to his shoulder. “She is eighteen, I believe? Where is she? Do you have her?”
Bertha shrugged and sniffled. Clearly defeated, bought and paid for, the woman had no knowledge that he needed. Pitiful.
“When you hear word of her, the reward will be twice this,” the dog looked around the room and then focused specifically on Bertha’s seat. “But only if I hear news from you first. I must know immediately.” His voice was cold. Hard. Dominant. Hateful. “It is in your best interest to find and deliver her.”
Mathilde felt a thrill shake her bones. Not of excitement. Not of joy. It was something else. The grip of emotions—too powerful for human words, too great to utter using a mortal tongue.
Mathilde couldn’t stop the feeling that burbled up inside her. She had to scream, shrill and terrible. She had to howl out the wrongness of what the stranger did. What the Hollyoaken people allowed. People are not trash. Vidaya are not garbage. We aren’t.
Every instinct urged her to attack.
Instead, she bit her lip. Blood ran down her chin. She did not speak for the captured people. What could she say that would move this monster? Vidaya were nothing and no one.
Paralyzed by the truth, Mathilde finally saw the plan. It was a carefully-constructed long con, all smoke and mirrors. Traps laced with silk. Whatever Mathilde had felt at the dock was a lie. Not love.
Enemy. Murderer.
His voice was everything she remembered. Every memory that had kept Mathilde sane. Everything she had dreamed about the last few horrible days of running and hiding.
Now? She stood in the same room as the man who haunted her dreams.
Hiding from him.
4
Regrets
No one spoke until the dog soldiers were gone, marching in matched steps back to their camp at the edge of town.
It hurt to breathe. Mathilde’s heart lay smashed on the ground, shattered into dangerous shards.
Bertha blubbered. “I swear I won’t hurt you. I won’t tell a soul. I-i a-am so s-sorry… So, so terribly sorry.” As if apologizing over and over made what she did right.
Moving from the shadow of the heavy curtains, Mathilde scowled. Who the hell was Bertha? Who was this woman? Betrayer. Certainly. But why didn’t she turn me in? Why not me?
There were a few things that Mathilde did know: the dogs of war had come, ate at the tavern, and then had simply taken away vidaya from somewhere in the village.
The pile of coins told what part Bertha played. No amount of words equalled an explanation beyond the obvious.
Mathilde directed every bit of hatred and fear at the woman and her slimy pile of coins. “Blood money. That’s what you have there. Blood and ashes that will never be erased. I thought y-you were kind. I thought—you were maybe even a friend. That I could trust you.
“But it was all a sham, wasn’t it? A lie to lure in the stupid and the gullible. Well, here you go!” Mathilde shouted, throwing her arms wide.
“You got me! Turn me in. Kill me. I trusted you. I can only hope you burn in the inferno of Shaeol’s deepest cellar.”
Bertha defied her wrath, as if the slobbering spy wasn’t to blame for the dogs of war and their successful raids. As if colluding with the enemy didn’t make you my enemy, as well.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Mathilde, you have to listen. Please.” She stood up abruptly, silver coins went rattling in every direction.
Mathilde was already leaving. She marched to the service door, determined not too listen. Not to care.
What explanation could she possibly have that made any damn difference to me?
The door swung backwards, clocking the spying cook right in the temple, knocking him over. That was the only reason Mathilde stopped long enough to hear Bertha confess: “I knew your father. Enrich Shawsman.”
Mathilde paused, stunned.
“You knew my father? But-,” Mathilde tried to wrap her head around that simple fact. Papa wasn’t here? Papa was dead. And Bertha knew his name.
“Why did you know him? He never left Hollyoaks. Not once in his whole life.”
Bertha straightened up, like she grew a spine in an instant.
“Enrich,” Bertha started. “H-he was my friend in secondary school. More than a friend, really.”
Mathilde stood there, trying to understand. Trying to put together the pieces. Papa and Bertha? This woman? Suddenly, it was never more clear: Papa had a history Mathilde never guessed. And a secret life that affected Mathilde’s very uncertain present situation.
“Tell me, Bertha. Explain. All. Of. This. I have to be able to trust you. Either that, or I have to grab my family and run. Nothing makes any sense. It’s our lives you are playing with. My family.”
“Mathilde…” Bertha shook her head, gray hairs fell loose from her braids. The older woman started a thought, stopped and started again. “I am the last guide. Your father sent me a message last month. We were supposed…” she stopped, a tear in her eye, “He didn’t make it, did he?”
Mathilde shook her head, listening to her words when every instinct demand that she run away.
“When I found you at the bottom of the stairs,” Bertha continued, “Otto had already seen you. Otto the sell-sword, Otto, the man who owed too much money to the Dogs of Hollyoaks. I was able to get you away. And I tried to warn your brothers…”
Bertha stopped. She saw Mathilde’s confusion turn to fear—turn to rage.
My brothers.
Mathilde stopped listening, ceased wondering about Papa’s mysterious past. Stilled absolutely every other thought in one focused move. In two strides, she cleared the ten steps to the cellar. Less than three steps took her to the back door, behind which her mother and brothers hid. Not them.
Not my family.
Every box in the cellar was piled against it, stacked to the ceiling, covered in dust. The door was completely hidden from view. No one would ever suspect another room existed below the tavern. But she knew it was there. She had come from that concealed room. They are still here.
“They’re still safe. I know it. H--V--N wouldn’t fail us. This isn’t over.” Mathilde whispe
red, vowing, swearing by every single thing she held sacred.
Please. Please.
These boxes were camoflauge.
Mathilde dug with ferocity. She refused to be stopped. Behind her, Bertha kept wringing her hands, and blurting out words. Mathilde didn’t hear any of it.
Boxes heavy or light—it didn’t matter. They flew across the room. She didn’t care where they landed or what was damaged. Faster than she would have thought possible, Mathilde cleared the concealed door.
Yanking it open, Mathilde sprinted into the second room. It can’t be too late… Please. Please H--V--N. If you can hear me, let me hear their voices. Let me find them.
Desperate, she reached the empty cellar. Above them, the storm door rattled as wind lifted and dropped the cellar access. No one was there.
No Johan.
No Mama.
No Fritz.
Mathilde’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart ached, like someone had punched her in the ribcage.
“Mama? Johan? Fritz?” she whispered their names, devastated. “He took them?” Mathilde could not think. Reason was a stranger. “You sold my family?”
Bertha stood behind her, sniveling in her apron, all strength gone from her bones. Regret made her ugly.
Mathilde kept searching, denying the obvious.
There. In the corner, she found Johan’s pack. With the vidartan shirts. And Papa’s glasses. Everything important.
Everything except her family.
Wringing her age-splotched hands, Bertha kept talking, through the tears and apologies.
Mathilde could hear her now, explaining how this horrible situation wasn’t her fault. “The dogs took my son after his last supply run. My Tomas. And if I didn’t turn over some vidaya, they swore he would be on the next train, trash or not.”
Mathilde felt her hand clenched around the sharp edge of the broken mug handle. Rage. Fury. Vengeance. Determination. Someone else will feel this way: broken, ripped apart!
The Dog Soldier. The lying smuggler—he would pay. I don’t know how or where or hell, even when. He will pay, the conman on the docks. The traitor. The cutpurse.
Bond or no bond. A spark between our hearts won’t save him.