by Stina Leicht
To lay down one’s life for the sake of one’s master—
He cut off the thought by punching the water. Damn it! Stop!
I’m not lost. I’m trapped and bound in my own beliefs! Pulling himself out of the bath, he dried off and dressed in frustration.
How does one go about discarding every single thing one has been taught? Is it even possible? Quitting the Brotherhood, that had been easy. It had been the right thing to do. But what am I, if I am not even a Retainer? What then remains?
I am nothing and no one.
He draped his waistcoat over one arm and took the stairs two at a time. He remembered his friend Caius with a pang. Caius would’ve listened to what little Severus could’ve told him and then put it all in perspective with a few insightful words and a kind laugh. Of course, Caius didn’t know the whole of what Severus—now Blackthorne—was. A very limited number of people did.
And now Ilta Korpela has been added to that list.
Has she told anyone? Will she? What happens when the rest of them find out?
I die a very unpleasant death, that’s what happens.
Visualize one’s own death—
He desperately needed to think of something else for a time. The idea of facing his empty room wasn’t appealing. Not yet. Perhaps Moss is awake?
Wet hair dripped in Blackthorne’s face, and the chill in the upper passages made him shiver. He turned the corner and was almost to the junction leading to the kitchen when he spied a group descending the passage and inwardly cursed. There was no corner in which to duck along this section. He couldn’t turn around and go back, and even if he could, getting caught where he could be drowned was a bad idea. The hallway was narrow enough—only two persons could fit side by side—to limit the number of attackers. He had to hope none of them had pistols. Lowering his head, he made to go past, but they’d already spotted him and blocked the way. There were three of them. Two were older, perhaps thirty or thirty-five. The last was Blackthorne’s age and was missing an eye. He didn’t know their names, but he knew them for friends of the Nickols brothers.
The one with the long grey beard said, “Why, look who’s here, boys.”
Blackthorne backed up a few paces. He pushed wet hair out of his eyes with one hand and reached for the hilt of his missing knife with the other. Inwardly cursing himself for leaving his room unarmed, he considered his options. None of them were good. He’d tolerated too much abuse from Hännenen and his troops in the past, he knew, and this was the result. He hadn’t been thinking ahead. Live as if already dead.
It was past time for a change.
The muscles between his shoulder blades cramped, and he prepared for the worst. I’ll have to hit them hard—hard enough to convince them to leave me alone. He didn’t like it, but he had to take a stand if he was going to be of any use to Slate.
Or, more importantly, myself. “What do you want?” Blackthorne kept his voice even.
“Nothing,” the oldest of the lot said. He had a craggy face with Acrasian features, dark greying hair, and black kainen eyes. He was wearing a dirty floral-printed waistcoat. “Except for you to leave and never come back.”
A chorus of agreement echoed down the otherwise empty passage.
“And if I don’t?” Blackthorne asked.
Floral Waistcoat said, “Then me and my boys here will have to teach you a lesson.”
Blackthorne rapidly grabbed the man with the long beard by the shoulders and kicked his legs from under him. The older man landed hard on the stone floor with an alarmed grunt. Then Blackthorne placed a boot on his neck and readied himself for another attack. The others stayed where they were while their friend gasped.
“Well?” Blackthorne asked.
The other two whirled and ran.
Blackthorne turned his attention to the attacker on the floor. “Before I let you go, I want you to understand something.”
Grey Beard fought to get free, but Blackthorne shifted a little more of his weight to his right foot, closing off the man’s air. When he stopped struggling, Blackthorne lifted his right foot enough to allow him to breathe.
“I could kill you now and not think twice about it.” Of course, that was a lie. Blackthorne would think about it a great deal—particularly after Slate threw him out, but the man on the floor didn’t know that. “However, I find myself in a generous mood this morning. Consider yourself lucky,” Blackthorne said. “Because if you ever come at me again, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Do you understand?”
Grey Beard grunted in what Blackthorne assumed was agreement. With that, he removed his boot from the man’s throat. Grey Beard scrambled to his feet and then bolted.
“You have an interesting way of making friends.”
Blackthorne whirled.
Colonel Hännenen’s second-in-command stood in the passage with a teapot in one hand and an empty tray in another. It had taken a moment for recognition to set in because Moller wasn’t in uniform. Instead, he was wearing buckskin leggings and a loose jacket over an untucked nightshirt. He was about fifty years old, short, and stocky for a kainen. He also wore a beard, which was unusual for a nonhuman. It partially covered a deep scar on his left cheek. He looked as though he hadn’t slept, which was highly likely.
“Relax,” Moller said. “It’s too swiving early in the morning for a pugilism contest.”
“Oh.” Blackthorne dropped his defensive stance.
“I’m Sebastian Moller,” Sebastian said, not offering a hand in greeting. The easy tone made it seem the reason why was merely due to the teapot and tray and not any other. “You’re Blackthorne?”
Blackthorne blinked and then nodded.
The scar on his face deepened as Sebastian smiled. “Are you headed to the kitchen?”
Blackthorne nodded a second time.
“Come on, then,” Sebastian said. “Can’t have you fighting your way to breakfast. You’ll wake the Hold.”
Accompanying Moller, Blackthorne didn’t know what to make of his intentions. Moller seemed friendly enough, but Blackthorne had yet to have an encounter with any of the Ghost’s troops that didn’t start or end badly. They arrived at the kitchen without meeting anyone else. Blackthorne opened the door for Moller since his hands were full, and he couldn’t help thinking that in addition to the appearance of courtesy, it also served the tactical function of forcing Moller to enter first.
Warmth from the kitchen’s fireplaces and the scent of baking bread flooded Blackthorne’s senses.
“Good morning, Moss,” Moller said.
Reaching inside the wall oven, Moss withdrew his hand and turned. “Salutations, Captain Moller, Mr. Blackthorne. Captain, would you like something to eat? The breakfast is not quite ready, but I do have leftover cold meat pie.”
“Yes, please,” Moller said. “Will there be enough remaining for Mr. Blackthorne?”
“Certainly, if he wants it,” Moss said. “Just enough. Shall I heat the kettle for tea? We have sassafras and peppermint.”
Moller sat down at one of the tables and gestured for Blackthorne to do the same. Without a polite excuse to leave, he sat.
Using both hands to rub the sleep from his face, Moller said, “You’ll have to pardon me. The last few nights have been long.”
Again, Blackthorne nodded.
“How bad is it?” Moss asked.
Moller asked, “I can trust you not to tell the others?”
“Of course,” Moss said.
“There were two of the monsters at the river dock last night. With the one the Colonel and the others killed in the sheep pens, that makes three in the same night. If we hadn’t known about their weaknesses, we would’ve been overrun,” Moller said. “We’ll have to double the watches.”
“Is that possible?” Moss asked.
“It means less sleep, of course,” Moller said.
Blackthorne frowned. The likelihood of his being assigned to a watch with a few of Colonel Hännenen’s troops had just become a certainty
. He’d been able to convince Slate to let him serve his turn at watch alone or with Birch, Sloan, Dylan, or Dar—all of whom, if not sympathetic, at least didn’t wish him harm. It’d been difficult to convince Slate. Now such selectiveness would be impossible.
Moss set two plates of cold meat pie onto the table. Blackthorne didn’t pick up his fork. Instead, he considered taking the plate back to his room along with a cup of tea.
“The others will have to be told eventually,” Moss said.
“I’d rather not risk spreading panic. The Council should meet on it first,” Moller said. “And I don’t know anything for certain. It’s possible the attacks will taper off again.”
“Do not count on it. The darker it gets,” Blackthorne said, “the braver the malorum will become.”
TWO
A weak afternoon sun shone through thick clouds when Blackthorne knelt in the snow to read the fresh, easy-to-follow trail a young buck had left only minutes before. He moved in careful, slow steps through ice-crusted snow to avoid frightening off what little game there was—as much good as that did with Colonel Hännenen tromping behind him.
Blackthorne sometimes wondered how Hännenen had avoided capture for as long as he had. Whose idea had it been to name him “The Ghost”? “Ghostly quiet” was not a phrase one associated with anyone who walked around in hobnail boots.
Regardless, the more time Blackthorne spent with Hännenen, the more he began to understand why the others were so loyal. Hännenen possessed a certain quality that made him a difficult person to hate. It was damned hard to resist. So much so that Blackthorne often found his fear of catching a musket ball with the back of his head slipping. Then it occurred to him that Colonel Hännenen was a kainen prince, and Eledorean royalty possessed domination magic. And didn’t Slate once tell me that charm was an aspect of their power? An involuntary shard of frozen dread pierced Blackthorne’s chest, and vigilance renewed the painful tension between his shoulder blades. Does Hännenen know about me? Has Ilta told him?
Blackthorne didn’t want to reach into his pocket for his watch. It would take too much of his attention from the trail and those who followed him. Instead, he searched the clouds but didn’t get a good enough view of the sun through the trees to estimate the time. We’ve travelled far from Grandmother Mountain.
Reindeer were normally plentiful. However, something was driving the herds farther and farther away from their normal feeding grounds. He had a good idea what that something was. The reindeer weren’t the only animals affected. He’d noticed fewer squirrels, birds, wolves, sheep, mountain lions, and even rats. It was the first time he’d seen anything like it. Or perhaps it’s the first time I’ve noticed? His experience with malorum had been restricted to urban environments, after all, and what wildlife there was within such areas tended to be less noticeable. Nonetheless, having grown used to the small, busy noises of the forest, he found the silence unnerving.
There were less than two hours of daylight remaining. In that time, they were to find the buck, kill it, and transport it back. Since it’d taken more than an hour to find any evidence of game, he didn’t have much hope of success.
“Are you certain those reindeer tracks are new?” Hännenen asked in a whisper.
Before Blackthorne could provide an answer, Captain Reini replied in equally low tones, “The signs are difficult to misinterpret. Even for an Acrasian.”
Blackthorne let the jab pass. He was learning to pick fights that were worth the energy of engaging—which, at the moment, meant none in present company. I don’t care what they think, anyway.
The twisting knot in his gut said otherwise. Ilta loves him. I like her. I must try to get along with Hännenen for her sake.
Get along? You want to swive his woman!
She’s not his property any more than you are Slates’s.
If that’s so, why did Hännenen’s man punch you in the face for having danced with her? Forget her. She’s too good for you, anyway. And did I mention dangerous?
And yet that danger seemed to only make her more attractive.
Unfortunately, since the fist fight, the unspoken antagonism between himself, Hännenen, and his troops seemed to be getting worse rather than better. Slate blamed cabin fever. Therefore, this venture had been his idea. At least Captain Reini and Colonel Hännenen were speaking Acrasian.
A behavior change of dubious improvement.
Blackthorne shivered. The clothes under his coat were plastered to his skin. The fabric was growing more and more damp, inside and out, due to the combination of sweat and melted snow. The wind came in intermittent blasts. He fervently wished he were in his apartment, next to the fire. He peered over his buttoned coat collar, turning to check on Hännenen and Reini. They seemed content to follow his lead. Unfortunately, Blackthorne couldn’t see the sun in order to judge direction. What was visible in the less dense parts of the forest was nothing but a sullen grey haze. Buried under layers of snow and ice, landmarks were difficult to recognize. In some areas, the precipitation had been so heavy that arching branches formed ice tunnels. Nothing looked as it had in the fall.
He paused, spying a depression in the nearest tree. He brushed snow off the trunk. Then he bit the tip of his glove and removed it so that he could feel the surface of the bark with his bare fingers. Northeast. We’re still heading east by north of the Hold.
Of course, what the marks he’d carved into the tree months before actually meant was: Warning: area restricted by order of the director of Wardens. East by North 1. He’d used the Brotherhood’s notation system and then provided translations to Slate, who had, in turn, passed them to the others. Marking the trees had been Slate’s idea after a winter hunting party had been lost. However, Blackthorne knew leaving such signs posed certain dangers. So, he’d compromised, opting for Warden Unit cipher without providing a literal translation. Such notices were common enough, and the director’s wishes were inviolate. Therefore, none would think to question—no one in the field would be of high enough rank. Eventually, the news of formerly unknown, private hunting grounds would reach the director’s ears. It was inevitable.
And then all will come unravelled. Until it did, such things were the least of his problems.
Small movements to his right brought him back to the present. As he did so, he glimpsed a flash of pale brown flank between the trees a little over a hundred yards away. He brought up his musket. Hännenen and Reini did the same. The reindeer stepped into the open, unaware. Spying more of the animal for the first time, Blackthorne confirmed it was probably the same reindeer. Big. No antlers. He’d learned that young bulls shed their horns in winter. The reindeer paused, sniffing the freshening breeze. They were downwind—Blackthorne had made certain of it—but he held his breath nonetheless. Reassured, the reindeer lowered its head and pawed at the snow with a hoof. When its head came up a second time, Blackthorne took aim.
A musket went off next to him. The explosion echoed huge in the unnatural quiet, temporarily deafening him. He saw the buck drop through a haze of powder smoke.
“You owe me a bottle of rum,” Hännenen said.
“That bet was for a gold eagle,” Reini said. “And we haven’t checked your shot yet. How do we even know you hit it?”
Blackthorne didn’t wait for the others. He headed for the fallen reindeer.
“It’s down, isn’t it?” Hännenen slipped his arm through the gun’s strap and followed. “And in one shot, I might add.”
“I’m waiting for confirmation,” Reini said.
“How else do you think it died? Are you suggesting that it smelled you and fainted dead away?” Hännenen asked.
“You don’t care for Tahmerian sandalwood?” Reini asked. “It was a First Winter gift from Taina.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t wearing scent on a hunt counterproductive?” Hännenen asked.
“Who said I applied it?” Viktor asked in return.
“That woman gets up early,” Hännenen sa
id.
“That isn’t all she gets up,” Reini said with a contented sigh. “She’s got quite the grip.”
“For the goddess’s sake, Viktor, must everything be about sex?” Hännenen asked.
“That reminds me,” Reini said. “I’ve been waiting until we were far enough from of the Hold, but now I can finally say it.”
“You aren’t normally this reticent. What’s the special occasion?” Hännenen asked.
“After all my badgering, you and Ilta have finally made the beast with two backs! Congratulations!” The declaration was followed up with the thump of a shoulder punch.
“Viktor, this isn’t the—”
For once, Blackthorne was glad to have his back to Hännenen. Still, the news hit him like a mule kick in the groin.
Hännenen asked, “Remind me again, why do I put up with you?”
“I’m your best friend,” Reini said. “Also, you asked me to stand for you at the binding ceremony next week.”
“And now I’ve a whole week to find someone else,” Hännenen said.
“You wouldn’t,” Reini said.
“Right now,” Hännenen said, “I’m seriously considering Westola for the role. She, at least, understands the word ‘discretion’.”
“My, you’re awfully grumpy,” Reini said. “Corporal Mustonen says it’s been two whole days since you’ve put on clothes. Isn’t it about time you two left your bed?”
“And to think I could be there now,” Hännenen said. “Instead, I’m out here, freezing my balls off with your ass.”
“Oh. I see the problem. Are you getting nervous?” Reini asked. “This will be a permanent binding, after all. It’s all right to change your mind. I understand it’s common for—”
“I’m not nervous!”