by Gaelen Foley
She had dragged the squire’s torso halfway to the blanket before she had to step away, whirl around, and drop to all fours, retching her guts out.
Not that she had anything to vomit. Once she had realized this task awaited, she had wisely decided to skip breakfast this morning.
She closed her eyes, so absorbed in trying to steady her stomach that she didn’t notice Thaydor until he’d stalked past her, grabbed the torso roughly by its belt, and heaved it onto the pile of body parts.
Wrynne gagged at the wet, squishy thud it made when it landed.
“Where’s his head?”
“Over there.” Wrynne had not even noticed she was crying until she looked up, pointing with a sob. She started to stand. “I’ll get it. You shouldn’t—”
“Ridiculous woman!” he exploded at her. “Go sit down before you fall down.”
She stopped crying abruptly, quivering with nausea. “I was only trying to help.”
“That’s what he said,” he growled.
Thaydor walked away, picked up the head, and stoically laid it on the pile. Wrynne buried her face in the crook of her arm and turned away, weeping. With quick, efficient motions, Thaydor wrapped the blanket around the lad’s remains, then bound the gory package with the garden twine she had brought for that purpose.
She was left alone as he picked up the macabre bundle, and, using the knotted twine as a handle, carried it off to the hole like it was no more than a sack of laundry.
Sitting on the ground, queasy and still crying a little, Wrynne pulled off her old garden gloves and threw them, then drew her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her bent legs and rested her forehead on her knees, wishing there was a way to wipe those images from her mind.
Meanwhile, Thaydor lowered the bundle into the grave. A rivulet babbled nearby, just inside the woods, and ran along the bottom of the mountain. He went over to it and washed his hands.
Remaining there for a moment, he splashed his face. Then he stood and walked back out to Wrynne, bringing her some water so she could do the same. He poured what little was left in his cupped hands when he reached her across her brow. It ran down over her eyelids and her cheeks like tears.
“I should have never let you…” he started. “I didn’t think you’d really do it!”
“I was trying to spare you for once!” she sobbed out.
“I’m a knight, Wrynne. Death is my stock in trade. How are you feeling?”
Awful. It was strange and unsettling to realize that she couldn’t heal herself anymore because of the decision she had made on this very field. “I-I’m all right.”
“Then why are you crying?” he asked softly, smoothing her hair with a cool, damp, comforting hand. “You didn’t even know him.”
Fresh tears welled up in her eyes as she met his gaze. “It could have been you.”
He pulled her into his arms when she started crying again at the horror of what the boy had gone through. Hushing her, he stroked her back and held her for a while. “I appreciate the gesture, demoiselle,” he said at length, “but don’t do me any more favors, all right?”
She pulled back and smiled ruefully at him through the last of her tears. If you only knew.
* * *
A while later, the body had been sprinkled with garden lime and the hole had been filled in. They marked the grave with the sun of Ilios, then knelt side by side next to it and prayed aloud the prayers for the dead.
They had no sooner finished reciting the solemn verses commending the squire’s soul to Elysium when they heard the rhythm of galloping hoofbeats approaching from behind.
Wrynne instantly thought of the red knight and glanced over her shoulder in dread, but Thaydor rose to his feet with a grin and gave a loud whistle. Over the rise, cantering toward them, was the most magnificent white horse Wrynne had ever seen.
“There he is! Good boy!”
Avalanche nickered to Thaydor as he swept across the field, his ivory mane and tail streaming out behind him. Barreling at them like he’d run them down, the white stallion practically bounced to a halt right in front of the tall man and began to nuzzle him.
Thaydor greeted his trusty steed with an affectionate caress on his snowy-white muzzle and a pat on the neck. “Where’ve you been, boy? Out having fun?”
Wrynne hung back, awestruck. “He’s beautiful.”
“Come,” he said, gesturing her forward. “He won’t hurt you. You said you wanted to meet him.”
The towering horse snorted but stood docile as Wrynne stepped toward him, venturing a touch on his shoulder.
“Avie,” Thaydor said, “this is Lady Wrynne.”
She smiled. “He’s so soft. Why isn’t he wearing any tack?”
“I ordered Eadric to set the horses free once this fellow did his part. Avie helped me lead the Urms away from the village. They can’t resist a chase.” He scratched the horse affectionately behind the ears. “Fast as he is, he got me a good head start. I jumped off and got into position. No point fighting on horseback when the Urms’ favorite weapon is the poleaxe, after all. Before they caught up, I sent the horses off with Eadric. If anything went wrong, I didn’t want my ol’ mate ending up as the Urms’ supper.”
She winced at the thought.
Thaydor glanced around. “I wonder what happened to Eadric’s bay. Where’s Polly, Av? Is she alive? Did someone steal her?”
In reply, the warhorse rested his chin on Thaydor’s shoulder like a giant dog. Wrynne laughed. Thaydor chuckled and gave the horse an affectionate, one-armed embrace.
“Silly old thing. You should see him in battle. You’d think it was a different horse. Vicious. His capriole can knock out four enemies at once.” He flashed a smile. “Less work for me.”
“I don’t want to talk about battle anymore, please.” The terse words escaped her rather more rudely than she had intended. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No, I’m sorry.” He sent her a regretful glance. “I’m a fool. Let’s get out of here, shall we?”
She nodded.
Life was for the living.
* * *
Their next stop was the tiny village of Buckby, less than a mile away.
“I’m going to go talk to my neighbors,” Wrynne said. Thaydor nodded, glad to see her color back to normal. Those nauseating moments in the field had left her quite ashen.
“I had Eadric hide our supply wagon in the woods beside the road down that way when we first arrived. I’ll go find it, saddle Avalanche for our trip to the North Gate, and join you in a few minutes.”
She nodded, and they went their separate ways. Avalanche followed him.
It did not take Thaydor long to find the wagon parked among the trees and hidden with some greenery. Usually Eadric’s bay, Polly, served as their draft horse, but his squire had unharnessed the mare when they had arrived, and now she was nowhere in sight.
What mattered, though, was that neither the Urmugoths nor the locals had discovered his store of supplies. The wagon’s wooden bed was loaded up with Thaydor’s other weapons and a couple of spare shields, the horses’ tack and feed, the men’s bedrolls, extra clothes, and various other supplies, such as food and water. They had a couple of holy books, as well as a small purse of gold coins.
He moved the supplies he needed out to the grassy edge of the road, then carried Avalanche’s saddle over and set it down, too. From this vantage point, he had a clear view up the road into the hamlet, where he saw Wrynne surrounded by traumatized peasants.
He paused and watched from a distance as the frightened, weeping people gathered around her. He was mightily impressed to see her calming and comforting them, as if she had not been in tears herself twenty minutes ago. It was the sort of thing his mother would have done.
While Wrynne tried to pass along the solace of the Light, Thaydor found that their weeping only made him sadder and angrier.
If she’s right and you did this to these people, Reynulf, I will make you pay.
> With an ache in his heart for what those poor country folk had been through, he turned his attention to the task of brushing and then saddling his horse. The animal’s warm, steady presence helped him recover from his own private ordeal. Returning to the site of his near-death had been a little more difficult for him than he had let on. He had hid it from Wrynne, but he felt sad and sick and rather miserable after revisiting the gory scene, and facing up to the depressing fact, once again, that this was his life.
Every battle took a little piece of his soul. A part of him mourned for every life he snuffed out, even if the enemy deserved it.
The greatest mystery to him was why he always survived. The only explanation seemed to be that Ilios must have some sort of plan for him. Glancing toward the town again, he wondered if that plan involved Wrynne. It really was remarkable, how natural it felt to be with her. As if she were already a part of him somehow.
Too bad the people around him tended to die.
No, she was better off without him.
Unless more Urmugoths get through the gate, he thought, furrowing his brow. In which case, the safest place for her was right by his side so he could protect her. Provided she did exactly what he said at all times.
And how likely is that? She’s as stubborn as I am.
Besides, if she was right and the king was after him, then he was a target. She should keep away from him for her own good.
He returned to the wagon, dug a small, leather-bound book of poetry out of his pack, and tucked it inside his gambeson. It was the only thing that ever really helped when he got into this dark, troubled mood. Then he wasted no more time and went to her aid in the overwhelming task of trying to comfort and encourage the entire ravaged community.
When she turned and saw him approaching, relief flickered in her deep gray eyes.
“Here he is, our hero,” she announced as Thaydor walked into the village, leading Avalanche by the reins.
The title made him flinch, because if only he had got here a little sooner, maybe he could have saved more of their family members. But he gave no sign the word bothered him. These days, people needed something, someone to believe in.
He knew what was expected of him.
He summoned up a reassuring smile as he greeted them, but as the mourning peasants crowded around him with tears and thanks, he soon found that both he and Wrynne had their work cut out for them here.
* * *
Wrynne had not expected Thaydor to be as good with people as he was with a sword, but she quickly learned that he was even more of a knight out of his armor than in it.
He gathered the peasants of Buckby close with comforting words. As they huddled round him, he put his big, strong arms around their shoulders as if he could hug twelve of them at once. He dried an old lady’s tears. He let the shaken men recount every detail of how the Urmugoths had ransacked the place before he had drawn them away.
While Wrynne went from cottage to cottage healing people who had been injured, Thaydor helped the men lift a roof beam of a wrecked house back into place. He let the youngsters pet Avalanche, and then, at one mother’s shy request, he knelt down and had a little talk with the children who’d been having nightmares ever since the Urmugoths had stormed into their lives on that terrifying night. Many feared they might come back.
“I promise you, I got them all. Every last one of ’em,” he told his wide-eyed audience. “Want to know how I did it?”
Wrynne leaned in the doorway of the cottage where he’d gathered the children for their official meeting, listening.
“With this. Hallowsmite.” He pulled his sword partway out of its scabbard.
The children oohed and ahhed.
“’Tis a holy blade filled with white magic and blessed by the Golden Master himself. You see? Those ugly brutes didn’t stand a chance.” He looked earnestly from face to face and cupped one little girl’s apple cheek. “You have nothing to be afraid of anymore. Those monsters are all gone now. I killed ’em dead, and next, I’m going to send for a retinue of the warrior monks to guard the gates forever. They’ll keep you safe, and so will I. You do believe me, don’t you?”
The room was quiet. The children seemed in awe of him.
“Everybody knows the Golden Knight would never tell a lie,” Wrynne spoke up serenely from her post in the doorway.
The wee ones pondered this, but they must have felt better, for they started fidgeting and bouncing around where they sat.
“Sir Thaydor, did you really kill a dragon once?” a boy of about ten piped up in the back.
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t very big.”
“What color was it?”
“Green. With horns.”
Wrynne smiled as the wee ones proceeded to interrogate the Golden Knight on his various adventures. He answered half a dozen questions good-naturedly, but he clearly did not know what he was in for. He soon learned the children’s curiosity knew no bounds. As the interview dragged on and on, he sent her a glance over his shoulder that said, Help!
She just grinned roguishly and left him to bear the burden of his fame, slipping outside again.
There was one more home she had to visit. Yasen, the desperate husband, met her outside the door to his tiny thatch-roofed cottage, waiting anxiously for her.
“It’s my wife, Britheva. I had to restrain her.” His eyes filled with tears. “She tried to take her own life after those monsters killed our little Sunnhild. Can you do something for her?”
Wrynne froze and looked at him, taking the news of the infant’s death like a knife in the heart. “Sunny’s…dead? I-I hadn’t heard.” She had delivered that babe a mere three months ago. “How? W-what did they…?”
“I didn’t see it, thank Ilios,” he whispered, trembling. “The neighbors tell me one of the creatures hurled the babe against a wall. She fell and died instantly. Her neck was broken.” He looked away. “At least she didn’t suffer.”
Wrynne closed her eyes and leaned against the house, taking a moment to steady herself.
Oh, for a minute, how she wished she were a knight and could have slain those monsters herself. What on earth was she to say to poor Bri?
Laying hold of all the faith she possessed, she took a cautious step into the one-room cottage, ready as she’d ever be to face the infant’s shattered mother.
The hollow-eyed woman, her bandaged wrists tied to her bedposts for her own safety, took one look at her and turned her face away in despair. “Get out. You’re not welcome here.”
“Oh, Britheva—”
“Get out, I said! Your god has abandoned me! I curse him! He’s a liar, and he doesn’t care…”
Wrynne went over to her anyway, made sure there was nothing on hand that she could use to harm herself, and untied her. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Britheva crumbled. Wrynne embraced her and wept with her, begging her not to hurt herself.
“But why?” the woman wailed. “Why did Ilios do this to me? To punish me? To teach me something? What kind of a lesson could there possibly be in—”
“Ilios didn’t do this! No, Bri. Listen to me. You must never think that! It was evil that did this to your child. Don’t let it destroy you, too.”
“It already has.”
“You’ve got to fight.”
“How? Who? With what? I have nothing.”
“Defy the darkness with Light. Conquer evil with love. That is the only way.” She gripped her hands, both women in tears. “All is not lost. Sunny is with Him now, safe in His care. And you still have five more children and a husband who need you. Love them with all your heart, even if it’s broken. That is how you win,” she whispered, trembling. “That is how you hold up your daughter’s precious little light. You don’t give up—ever.”
“I miss her so much.”
Wrynne held her as she worked the Comfort the Sorrowing spell to grant the woman some relief in the still-raw shock of her unspeakable loss.
She left Britheva sleeping p
eacefully when she stepped outside, but she herself was in tears once again and feeling wholly inadequate.
Thaydor was waiting outside the cottage for her, and looked taken aback when he saw her face. A few more people asked for healings for small cuts and bruises, but he waved them off.
“Lady Wrynne has had enough for one day. She’s done all she can do. She’ll be back in a few days, perhaps. Good luck to you all now. We must be going.”
* * *
Thaydor knew it was time to get her out of there, now. To him, Wrynne looked lost, drained, and utterly wrung out. These people would use her up until there was nothing left of her, and he could not allow that to happen. He had come to collect her anyway, but had not realized she had saved the most painful task for last.
Though her tears had stopped, she was pale and quiet as he lifted her up onto Avalanche’s withers and then swung up into the saddle behind her. He secured her with his arm around her waist as she settled into place, seated sideways across his lap.
The people waved goodbye as he hurried his horse out of the village at a fast walk, heading north on a green path between two fields.
They rode in silence that was only broken when Wrynne had to tell him to turn right at this path, and left at that huge old oak tree, and then cross through those woods. Other than that, they were too drained to talk. Their physical contact was enough. Indeed, if he had been wearing his armor, he would never have been so attuned to her softness.
But on that sunny afternoon, riding through the dappled woods, there was no safe casing of steel to separate their bodies. He could feel every line of her and she of him.
After a time, she laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, seeming to take as much comfort from their close embrace as he did. To be sure, the warm, supple yielding of her body was something more potent than poetry for drowning out his anguish.
He savored it, seeing no need to discuss the practicalities he’d seen to in her absence. He had convinced some of the men from Buckby to go burn the Urm bodies. It needed to be done, plus, he had a feeling it would make them feel better—some small measure of revenge to put the filthy creatures in the ground.