by Sally Green
Of course March didn’t mention that he had met Holywell. They’d spotted each other from across the valley near his village ruins. Holywell had waved and approached, and March’s heart had leaped when he’d seen Holywell’s eyes were as pale and icy as his own.
Nor did March mention to the prince that he’d spent two days with Holywell, who had told him a different history of the war.
Holywell had known March’s family and told him how March’s father was killed in the first attack at the bridge at Riel; how his uncles died in the following battle at Teem, where the Abask troops were massacred as they led an attack that the Calidorians failed to support. How, after that battle, Aloysius occupied Abask and began to systematically destroy everything within it. How the Abask leaders sent a plea to Thelonius to come to their aid, but the prince, determined to protect his capital, refused. How the Abasks suffered for two long years, hiding in the mountains if they could, as Aloysius’s army destroyed their homes, crops, and animals and reduced their beautiful country to a wasteland of burned-out villages and graves filled with the bodies of starved Abask children.
March had vague memories of his father and uncles, and Holywell spoke Abask like them, swore like them, even laughed as March thought he remembered his father had. Holywell had almost died in the war—he showed March the scars on his body, saying, “The Brigantines cut me to shreds but I didn’t die. I asked them to kill me and they laughed. Despite the hardships, I healed. I worked for them, a slave to start with, all the worst jobs, but with time I realized I didn’t want to die anymore; I wanted to get my revenge.” He smiled. “And I will. The Brigantines killed my family and your family. But they were an honorable enemy and I work for them still. My real enemy is Prince Thelonius. He was sworn to protect our land. He said he was our brother. But he betrayed us. For that there is no forgiveness. For that there can only be revenge.”
Holywell had said all this in Abask and March thought it was the best speech he’d ever heard. It was the nearest thing to brotherhood that he had felt in years.
He also felt like a fool for believing the lies he’d been told. The prince was not the heroic winner of wars against all odds but a monster who’d sacrificed a whole people so that the fat merchants of Calia could continue to live in safety and he could still sit on the throne.
Holywell had shown him the truth—that no one in Calidor gave two fucks about Abask. Holywell spat on the Calidorians and their “civilized” ways and now so did March. Holywell was Abask and proud of it and so was March.
March asked, “But how can we be Abask when Abask doesn’t exist anymore?”
Holywell jabbed March in his chest. “In there is Abask. In there. In your soul, your spirit. Thelonius will destroy that too if you let him. He’ll try to civilize you and turn you into one of them. Don’t let him. Remember your father, your uncles, your brother. They were proud to be Abask, as should you be.”
Holywell encouraged March to return to his position with the prince and told him to stand patiently and wait and listen—and to keep Holywell informed of anything that might be useful to avenge the Abask people.
Now, out of the corner of his eye, March watched the prince slide from his finger the gold ring with his emblem on it, an eagle with a green emerald for an eye. Regan took the ring and put it inside his jacket, and March was certain that his days of patiently waiting and listening were nearing an end.
TASH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
TASH WAS still running. She was pushing as hard as she could. And still she could hear the demon’s breath behind her. This was all wrong. The demon was too close. Somehow she had to go faster.
A slope down to the right. It’d give her more speed.
But the pit was to the left.
The demon’s breath was louder.
Shit! Tash veered to the right down the slope under some low branches. She heard them snap behind her but could no longer hear the demon’s breath.
She’d increased the distance between them but she couldn’t keep this pace up. And she’d gone off the direct route to the pit, gone to the right of one tree and then been forced farther right by another. She needed to go left and that was up, but she had to get back to the pit.
There was a large tree ahead and to its left a large boulder. She could use them. She’d have to.
Tash ran toward the tree, driving hard at it, and at the last moment put her arms out, pushing off from the trunk, using her momentum to change direction, veering behind the boulder and up the slope. The branches were low here, perfect for her to scramble under, using her hands as well as her feet, up the slope, pushing hard. Behind her she heard the demon hiss and then a scream of frustration.
At the top of the slope she glanced behind but could only see branches, not the demon. No time to look harder. She had to keep going. It was downhill now and the ground was firmer. Tash let her stride widen out. Soon she’d be at the pit. She kept going, panting hard, nearly there, nearly there . . . and then she was in the clearing.
The pit was ahead, but she was at the wrong angle for leaping into the end of it. And where was the demon? She couldn’t hear it. She glanced behind, slowing slightly. There was no demon there.
She slowed to a walk. Panting hard. Straining to hear the demon. She turned back to look.
Nothing.
She came to a stop and looked around her for a movement in the trees, for a hint of purple or red, for anything.
Nothing.
Shits. Where was it?
She looked over to Gravell, his face mostly hidden behind a tree. He didn’t move.
She looked all around again and back the way she’d come.
No movement. No noise.
No demon.
Shits!
It wouldn’t give up the chase, would it?
This had never happened before. What should she do? She didn’t want to go back into the trees. That would be madness.
She looked over to Gravell and held out her arms as if to ask, Now what?
Gravell stepped to the side and made the same gesture.
They stared at each other for a moment, then Gravell glanced to Tash’s left and swung back to her, roaring out, “Run!”
Tash turned. The demon was coming toward her at full speed, already out of the trees. Its tall, slim, humanlike form was coming at her fast. On open ground it had the advantage. She couldn’t outrun it now.
Gravell shouted, “The pit! Get to the pit!”
The demon looked to Gravell, and that gave Tash a moment to move. Her boots dug into the hard snow, and she scrambled forward and leaped into the pit. The demon leaped too, landing at one end of the pit and sliding toward Tash, who had jolted hard on the ice in the bottom halfway along, catching her hands on the bloody wall. Her boots gripped on the ice, and she turned and hurtled forward, grabbed for the rope, and yanked it down. Her hands were tight on the rope as she began to rise. But then something wrapped round her ankle, and Tash’s hands slid down the rope until they stopped at the knotted end.
The demon was holding her foot!
Tash screamed and clung on to the rope as she kicked out frantically, hitting something, and she kicked again and again, and then she was free and flying through the air, arms and legs flailing, not a lazy yawn but a floundering cartwheel, and she grabbed on to anything she could of the tree, still tangled in rope, and clung there. And clung there. And clung there.
The demon had touched her. She’d never been touched by a demon before.
Now the demon screamed and Tash clung tighter to the tree.
Another scream and Tash looked round. Gravell was throwing his second harpoon. Tash could just see over the edge of the pit. The first harpoon had pierced the demon’s side, the second went through its stomach. Gravell held the third spear aloft. Waiting. The demon fell back against the walls of the pit and slid out of
sight.
Gravell glanced up at Tash, then he jumped into the pit.
Tash didn’t want to let go of her branch, but she forced herself to release her grip and slithered uncomfortably down the tree, hitting the ground hard and going over on her ankle, the snow cold on her foot. She only now realized that her boot was gone.
She limped over to the pit.
The demon was sprawled out in the bottom. Her spiked boot was in its hand.
Gravell was leaning over the demon, holding a glass bottle close to the demon’s mouth.
Tash jumped down into the pit and yelped as her ankle buckled again. Gravell ignored her, his attention purely on the smoke. The demon was a deep purple with ruddy red patches and a few streaks of orange. It was naked. It had a handsome face, narrow shoulders, narrow waist, long arms. No wonder it had been hard to outrun; its legs were twice the length of Tash’s. She looked at its private parts. She thought they were odd-looking, but from what she knew they were like any man’s. She’d seen Gravell’s private parts when he bathed in the lakes and streams, but she’d never been that close to Gravell and mostly what she’d seen of him was hair.
This demon, like all demons, had no hair. His skin was smooth. His eyes were half-closed, and Tash knelt to see the color of the eyes. In the demon world they’d looked purple, but now here in the moonlight they were a softer color, lilac. They were beautiful. His face was beautiful. He looked young, like a boy only a little older than her. Tash had to fight back that thought. He wasn’t a him; he was an it, a demon.
The first curl of smoke rose out of the demon’s mouth and Gravell held the bottle upside down, catching the tip of the curl. Demon smoke was their blood, but Tash thought it was also like their last breath, their spirit. The smoke left the demon’s body and rose steadily into the bottle, nothing escaping. If the first wisp went in, the rest followed, almost as if the smoke wanted to stay together. It was a dark plummy-red to start with, but then the rest was purple, like the smoke from the other demon they’d had trouble catching.
The color in the bottle was intense and darkening as still more smoke came, and somehow it fit into the bottle. Then the flow thinned, paled to lilac, and stopped. The bottle contained a swirling purple mass. Gravell took the cork from his mouth and, still holding the bottle upside down, he stoppered it. After doing that he kissed the bottle and said, “Perfect,” as he always did. Then he turned to Tash. “What the shitting shits were you doing?”
“Um . . .”
“He was almost on you. He was on you.”
“He was fast. Have you seen the length of his legs?”
“You came from the wrong direction!”
“He cut me off. I had to veer round. I told you he was fast.”
“So that’ll explain why you stopped then?”
“I thought he’d given up.”
Gravell shook his head. “Are you stupid? They don’t give up. Ever.”
“Look, I got the demon here, didn’t I? I jumped into the pit. The demon jumped in after me. You killed the demon. Sounds like it went well to me.”
Gravell swore under his breath. He stood up. “If that’s it going well . . .”
“And you’ve got the smoke.” Tash looked at the bottle and then at the dead demon. “He seems younger than normal. Maybe that’s why he acted a bit differently. Good job you bought me the spiked boots. Another pace closer and . . .”
“Another half pace and you wouldn’t have got out of his grasp.”
“You worried for me?”
“Huh. More like I was worried that two kroners on boots was wasted.”
Tash smiled and tapped her finger on the bottle. “Good smoke there. That should buy lots of boots.” She yanked her boot from the dead demon’s grasp.
“Boots is all you think about. You should be thinking of the job in hand before you think of boots. And you forgot to bring the ladder. You’re going to have to climb out.”
As she put on her boot, Tash looked at the walls of the pit, lined with blood and guts, and sighed.
“Give me a boost up then.”
Gravell bent down and made a cradle with his hands and she stepped on it, careful not to pierce his hand with her boot spikes. She needed to steady herself. The pit wall was covered with blood, but at least it was dead; who knew what nasty things were crawling in Gravell’s hair! She put one hand on the pit wall.
Gravell said, “Up you go,” as he flung Tash up and she flew over the edge of the pit, rolled to the side and onto her feet. She limped to the bushes and collected the ladder, which she dropped over the edge of the pit for Gravell. She then retrieved her pack and sat down to put some snow round her swollen ankle. Gravell came over and held out the demon smoke. “Just keep running next time.”
She took the bottle, which was warm round the top, and hot at the base. She’d use it to keep warm until Gravell got the fire going.
Gravell wandered away looking for firewood, all the time muttering and shaking his head. “You just don’t stop when a demon’s running after you. You just don’t. Who does that? Who?”
But Tash knew Gravell would calm down as he got back into his post-hunt routine. Tash would sit and Gravell would set up a fire, which on any other day was Tash’s job. Then Gravell would make the stew, which was never Tash’s job as Gravell made it the way he liked it and complained that Tash ruined it whenever she got involved. They had caught some rabbits and had some vegetables. It would be a good feast.
It was a dull night. The moon was full, but hidden by cloud. There was no color anywhere except for the bright purple smoke moving slowly in the bottle. The glow seemed much stronger than from any smoke she’d seen before.
Tash looked at her swollen ankle. It would take a few days to heal, but she’d survive. She prodded at the swelling and closed her eyes, trying to remember the touch of the demon again. He had been warm, not hot; not a hard grip but firm. The swelling was from going over on her ankle when she’d dropped out of the tree, not from the demon hurting her.
Gravell had always told Tash never to get caught by a demon, though he was rather vague on what would happen if she was, merely saying, “Well, it won’t be good, will it?”
She shivered. The night air was cold, so she held the bottle to her stomach and the warmth from it spread through her. She liked the warmth of the smoke. She’d never inhale it, of course. Gravell had taught her that much. “It ruins you, takes all your will and makes you a fool. A happy fool for a night, and that’s what people pay for, but they’re fools for all that.”
Tash set the bottle down between her feet to warm them and remembered the touch of the demon, remembered him running toward her. She’d never seen a demon run before, not properly. She’d seen demons sleep, wake, begin the chase, and she’d seen them get killed, but the most she’d seen of them running before today was a glimpse back through trees; she’d always been too busy running away from them. But the demon running toward her was . . . special. But that wasn’t the right word; she couldn’t think of the word that was right.
Gravell’s singing came through the trees. He dropped the wood for the fire. “Rabbit stew coming right up,” he said. “Well, maybe by midnight.” And he laughed and did a little jig on the spot. “We’ll stay here tonight and head to Dornan tomorrow.”
“My boots are at Dornan.”
“You’ve only just got those boots. You don’t need more boots.”
“I don’t need them but I want them. They’re the most beautiful things I ever saw. And they’re going to be mine.”
With all this smoke she could afford the best boots in the world.
It was only after she’d eaten her stew that Tash remembered her twisted ankle and went to put some more snow on it. But as she slipped off her boot she found the swelling had gone. She circled her foot. It wasn’t sore at all. She stood up and walked around. Her ankle felt strong.
Obviously she hadn’t hurt it that badly after all.
CATHERINE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
Passage of Arms is a modern form of hastilude, which has grown popular since the war with Calidor, and is used as a proof of manly honor. A knight or knights take possession of an access point, such as a bridge, and challenge other men of rank who wish to pass. If the challenge is accepted, there follows a joust or duel to assess the stronger man, though honor is preserved for both combatants. If the challenge is refused, the gentleman challenged must give up his spurs, and his honor, to be allowed to pass. Passage of Arms duels usually end at the drawing of first blood but occasionally result in serious injury or death.
Chivalry in Modern Times, Crispin Hayrood
CATHERINE HADN’T seen Ambrose since the execution of Lady Anne the day before. Fear for Ambrose had kept her awake all night. They had only looked at each other, but she knew that wouldn’t stop Boris or Noyes acting against her, or more probably against Ambrose. Mixed with her fear was the lingering shock of the execution. Catherine wanted to forget it, but it was impossible. She also remembered the signs Lady Anne had made, and the more Catherine thought about it, the more convinced she was that she couldn’t be mistaken. Lady Anne had been trying to communicate something to Catherine in her last moments of life: a kiss with her right hand and a fist with her left, then “boy,” then something else that she hadn’t managed to see, accompanied by that look to her father. Did that mean it was all to do with the king?
When Catherine was dressing she asked Sarah if she knew the meaning of the kiss-and-fist sign. Sarah, always the most logical and practical of her maids, answered, “Pairing a kiss with another sign changes the meaning, though a kiss is never normally paired with a fist. But if her hands were broken perhaps she couldn’t make the sign properly.”
“But, even so, it could only mean she was trying to say “breath’ or “air.’”
“Perhaps she meant it as two messages,” Sarah suggested.