Blackthorne

by Stina Leicht

  “Will they give up and leave, you think?” Hännenen asked.

  “Normally, I’d say yes.” Turning, Blackthorne said, “But they’re normally solitary hunters. I’ve never seen them cluster in a large group like that before.”

  The spell that had overtaken the malorum ended. The remaining creatures shifted out of the steadily increasing firelight. Blackthorne counted two. Both had taken on aspects of local wildlife. The first had a raven’s beak, the second the ears and mouth of a mountain lion.

  Do we have enough wood to last the night? Will more of them come? Or will that be all? The flames would keep the malorum from scrabbling up the ledge. To insure they stayed away, he reached inside his pocket and carefully laid out a half-circle of six sterling coins. It was the last he had. Below, the malorum seemed to sense the offending metal and moved back a respectful distance.

  Reini raised his musket and aimed.

  “Don’t waste the powder,” Blackthorne said, and then went to Reini. The pack with the antivenom potion in it was resting at Reini’s elbow. “Were you bitten?”

  “You stopped it from attacking me,” Reini said.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t miss,” Blackthorne said. Continuing his search in the pack, he repeated his question. “Were you bitten?”

  Reini shook his head.

  Blackthorne found what he was looking for and held the brown vial up to the light. It wasn’t a full dose, but it was enough to keep someone from dying. Maybe. He’d have to ask one of the healers for more ingredients whenever they got back. If we get back. He rewrapped the vial and then knelt next to the fire. “How bad is the leg?”

  “Bad,” Hännenen said. “It’s going to be interesting getting Viktor and the reindeer back to the Hold tomorrow.”

  Blackthorne said, “Let’s concentrate on seeing dawn.”

  Hännenen said, “I think there’s enough wood to last. If they get too close, we’ve also got this.” He rummaged in his rucksack and produced a small cannonball the size of a man’s fist. A bit of fuse cord had been forced inside the hole in the top.

  “A bomb? How many of those do you have?” Blackthorne asked.

  “The one,” Hännenen said. “It’s another of Toby’s experiments. Had it with me because I thought to test it while we were out here. Didn’t want to risk an avalanche or drawing attention to the Hold with the noise.” He gazed up the cliff face and shrugged. “Hopefully, I won’t blow off my hand in the process.”

  “Save it,” Blackthorne said. “We may not need it. At least not now.”

  Hännenen gazed down at Blackthorne’s half-circle of coins. Blackthorne bent, retrieving one. Hännenen accepted it and almost smiled.

  “Hello? Remember me?” Reini asked. “Pain is getting pretty bad.”

  “Lucky for you, I brought whiskey,” Hännenen said, and fished a bottle out of the rucksack. “Let’s sort out that leg.”

  “Don’t take this personally, but I’d prefer to wait for a more attractive attendant,” Reini said.

  “I don’t think you have a choice,” Hännenen said. “If it’s broken, the longer we wait to set it, the more difficult it’s going to be for Ilta to fix it.”

  “Isn’t that just my luck?” Reini asked. With a wince and a hiss, he shifted until his wounded leg was more accessible.

  “Don’t worry. Ilta taught me what to do. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be better than nothing.” Hännenen stooped, carefully feeling along the injury. “Thigh looks all right. Calf is swollen, though. I won’t be able to pull the boot free,” he said. “Maybe we should cut it off?”

  “You’re not taking my leg,” Reini said.

  Hännenen said, “I meant the boot.”

  “Oh,” Reini said. Then he smiled. He was already sweating and shivering. “You would ruin a perfectly good boot just to place a splint on my leg? How do you know the boot isn’t performing that function already?”

  “He’s got a point,” Blackthorne said. He retrieved a blanket from his pack and threw it over Reini’s shoulders.

  Hännenen looked up, and for the first time, Blackthorne felt he was being addressed no differently from one of Hännenen’s troops. “I don’t suppose you have any healing skills?”

  The warm feeling vanished. Blackthorne tried not to look insulted. “I have no … magic.”

  He watched Hännenen’s expression harden in an instant. Blackthorne could almost read the thought behind his eyes. Warden. The hate was so potent that it felt like a blow to the gut.

  “Of course,” Hännenen said.

  Blackthorne went again to his rucksack. He hadn’t left the Hold for longer than a few days at a time since winter had started. Therefore, he hadn’t bothered to unpack—not completely, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have removed the item in question. He searched until his hand closed around a second small cloth-wrapped blue glass vial. “I have … I have something that may serve to dull the pain. However, I’m not certain of the dosage.”

  “What is it?” Hännenen asked with a frown.

  The second vial contained a solution Blackthorne had mixed for himself the day after he’d escaped the Reclamation Hospital. Although he hadn’t opted to use it, he’d still carried it with him. The mixture at its current potency was designed to kill without pain within a short period of time. To his knowledge, it had no known antidote. He hadn’t had the courage to swallow it, not at the time. He carried it now for new reasons. In spite of his training—or perhaps because of it—he knew better than to think he could withstand torture at the hands of the Brotherhood for long. They were far too efficient. Nonetheless, he was determined to never betray the Hold. “It’s pure bloodflower extract.”

  Hännenen gave him a blank stare. “What is that? Poison?”

  Of course it is, Blackthorne thought. Do I know of anything else? He looked away. “That is its original intent.”

  “What?” Reini asked.

  “Are you suggesting I poison Viktor because his leg is broken?” Hännenen asked.

  Blackthorne shook his head in denial. “I’m not—”

  “Why are you traveling with that on your person?” Hännenen asked. “Does Slate know?”

  “I was only suggesting … I …” Blackthorne took a deep breath. “Miss Korpela said that the potential for harm or help is in the dosage—” He regretted using her name at once. Hännenen’s expression flashed to pure hate. “Your healers use similar substances to heal. Is that not true? I was taught a different name, but—”

  “I should think the difference is in more than the naming,” Hännenen said. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask.” He found a suitable stick among the kindling and gave it to Reini. “How much of the whiskey did you get down you?”

  Reini held up the bottle to the firelight. “Enough.”

  “All right,” Hännenen said. “Bite on that stick. This is going to hurt. Bad.”

  Blackthorne said, “I can dilute the mixture. If the dose is small enough—”

  “Tell me where it hurts.” Hännenen once again began feeling along Reini’s calf.

  Reini’s curse was incomprehensible due to the mouthful of stick.

  “Viktor, be serious for once,” Hännenen said. “Can you move it?”

  A loud slap sounded. “Ouch! Stop that! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Reini jerked from Hännenen’s grasp. “You did that on purpose!”

  Hännenen stood up. “I think it’s the ankle. Or the leg bone right above it.”

  “Fantastic,” Reini said. “I’ll be walking a mile on it through the snow tomorrow.”

  Resigned, Blackthorne moved to the far side of the ledge and watched the remaining malorum test the boundaries of the firelight.

  A Retainer’s life is not his own. He was light-headed. His right wrist was hot and swollen, and his left hand clenched into a tight fist around the blue vial. He closed his eyes and something brushed against his cheek and then his nose.

  It took him a moment to register that it was snow.

  TH
REE

  Blackthorne huddled next to the fire, wrapped in a threadbare horse blanket. The pain in his wrist grew worse, but it served to clear his head. The stone beneath him was frigid enough to be uncomfortable. So, he’d grabbed his rucksack and used it for a pillow. Hännenen hunched on the opposite side of the fire. The collar of his all-weather coat was turned up, and his thick, knitted scarf hid his face and neck beneath his hat. He shivered with his gloved hands shoved in his armpits. Hännenen had bundled Reini in his own quilt, and Reini was now curled on his side in a fitful sleep—his injured leg stretched out at a stiff angle. Blackthorne had offered his horse blanket—in truth, the only blanket he had—but Hännenen had refused it. Followed closely on the heels of the earlier rebuff, the refusal had stung. However, Reini hadn’t suffered with the pain for long before Hännenen had relented and permitted Blackthorne to dose Reini with a small amount of liberally diluted bloodflower. At last, Reini had been comfortable enough to stop groaning and sleep. That, in turn, had the added benefit of making Hännenen less antagonistic.

  Normally, Blackthorne would’ve shared the watch with Hännenen and gotten some rest. They would both need their strength for the journey back, but neither could trust the other enough to do such a thing. So they sat, staring at the flames in bitter silence.

  Abruptly, Hännenen began sorting through his pack as if he’d forgotten something. He unpacked a series of small items—a vial and a jar. It couldn’t be for food or tea. They’d already eaten.

  “What are you doing?” Blackthorne asked.

  Hännenen paused, pointing to the green glass jar with the linen-wrapped cork stopper. “That is salt.” He returned his attention to his ruck sack and retrieved a fragrant leather pouch. Then came a brown vial. “This is clove oil.” Placing that on the ground next to the pouch, he unsheathed his knife. The fire whispered and crackled to itself for some time. He stared at Blackthorne with eyes that rapidly changed from light to dark. Finally, he spoke. “In the rush, Viktor and I forgot—we—I didn’t perform a purification ritual.”

  Blackthorne blinked. Dread flash-froze the blood under his skin. He attempted to hide his reaction, but it was clear Hännenen had spied it nonetheless.

  “I would do this in private. But I don’t have the option, Warden,” Hännenen said, using the blade on the back of his scarred left hand. Blood quickly welled up. He let a few drops fall into the fire. The flames savored the sacrifice with a hiss. Closing his eyes, he muttered something in Eledorean. When that was done, he daubed the cut with clove oil and a clean white cloth. “I’m doing this for Viktor and myself. I don’t give a shit if it offends you. Interfere with what I’m doing, and I’ll make you regret it.” He pressed the cloth tighter into the wound and then tied it in place using fingers and teeth.

  Blackthorne leaned away as much as he dared and attempted to control his revulsion. At the same time, he was more than a little intrigued. His mother had been a marine before she’d become a slave—a marine from Marren. It was all he knew of her past. He didn’t know what city she’d come from or even her real name. The people of Marren had been sea folk with close ties to the Waterborne Nations. That, along with vague memories of singing while she created beautiful clay pots, was all he had of her. So it was that he watched Hännenen with equal parts trepidation and fascination.

  Hännenen used the clove oil and a linen rag to clean the curved blade. When that was done, he used two kindling sticks to gather two small lumps of glowing embers at the edge of the fire. He collected a large pinch of the leather pouch’s contents and muttered a short speech in Eledorean. Then he tossed the substance onto the embers. Blackthorne recognized the scent of frankincense. He looked on as Hännenen wiped and anointed the blades and guns with the clove oil. Then, Hännenen shut his eyes and whispered a prayer in Eledorean. He passed his knife, saber, and musket through the smoke and did the same with Reini’s weapons. Each time the incense smoke dissipated, he added a little more.

  The sharp dusty scent grew strong enough to make Blackthorne sneeze. He’d never cared for the smell of frankincense. It reminded him of church, and it wasn’t a pleasant association.

  A noise from below the ledge drew Blackthorne’s attention from Hännenen. The malorum stalking the shadows were again agitated. He couldn’t see what was bothering them, due to sacrificing his night vision by staring into the fire.

  Unaware, Hännenen continued with his ritual. He gathered a cupful of snow, melted it, and sprinkled salt into the water. Then he prayed with his wounded hand covering the cup—again in Eledorean. Using the mixture, he got to his feet and sprinkled the warm, salted water on Reini’s head. Then he did the same to himself. He flicked the last of the saltwater in a tight circle around his friend.

  “If you have no wish to be included in the blessing, Warden, you’d best get against that wall,” Hännenen said, indicating the far side of the outcropping.

  Blackthorne hesitated. Aside from cutting himself, Hännenen’s ritual hadn’t been as disturbing as all that, and Blackthorne wasn’t sure he wanted to spend a very cold night away from the fire’s warmth. It would mean risking frostbite. “I’ll … stay.”

  Hännenen arched an eyebrow. His expression changed with a blink. “Suit yourself.” Muttering in Eledorean, he traced a broad circle with the salty water until it encompassed the entire ledge. He whispered in Acrasian, “Hasta, Horse Mother, grant your servant wisdom.”

  As Hännenen neared the completion of the circle, Blackthorne began to feel more and more confined and anxious. At the same time, he felt warmer and safer. Conflicting feelings dredged up memories of long days sitting in church. Magic is dangerous. Evil. Those who use it are damned.

  I certainly was never among the pure. Still, Blackthorne decided to stop watching. Taking a deep breath in order to avoid breathing in any more incense, he turned to the darkness.

  As if taking it as a challenge, Hännenen continued in Acrasian. “Great Synkkanen, Mother of Death and Life, I ask for Viktor Reini that you bless this sacrifice—theirs and ours.”

  Blackthorne’s gaze snapped back to Hännenen. Hännenen bent, gathered a handful of snow and dirt, and gently tossed it over the bodies at the bottom of the ledge.

  “Bless these dead, our former enemies. Lead them safely to their next journey, wherever that might be. We thank them for taking their part in this battle, your sacrament.” He picked up the vial of clove oil and went to Reini. Anointing him on the forehead with it, Hännenen said, “Bless we who live.” He moved back to the ledge and smudged a dab of clove oil on his own forehead. He hesitated and then spoke again. “Forgive me if I killed in anger or hate. Forgive them if they did the same. Judgement is yours, Great Mother. It is not mine.” He paused, sighed, and murmured, “Thank you for reminding me.”

  Blackthorne heard the words but hardly noticed. His mind had travelled back to Virens. All the dead. The laughter as prisoners were murdered—shot down after digging their own graves. The memory hit him doubly hard. If it weren’t for the malorum, he’d have jumped over the ledge and ran as far as he could from the sound of Hännenen’s voice. At that moment, Blackthorne felt as if he teetered on the edge of madness. He didn’t understand why. He clenched his injured hand into a fist, wrapping his fingers ever tighter around the pain.

  “Is something wrong?” Hännenen asked.

  Afraid of what he’d say, Blackthorne didn’t answer. He focused anywhere but on Hännenen’s face. That was when Blackthorne noticed what was happening below. “The malorum.” Blackthorne pointed. “Look.”

  They’d withdrawn under the trees.

  Hännenen glanced at the cup in his hand and then threw the last of its contents at the malorum. They retreated even farther. “Well, isn’t that interesting?”

  Blackthorne knew better than to believe Hännenen’s words had driven them back. If religious rituals were protection, then every Acrasian pastor, priest, and monk throughout the Regnum would’ve been employed for that task long before. “I wonde
r if it’s the salt,”

  “Can’t be the water,” Hännenen said. “If it were, they wouldn’t be wading in snow. The clove oil, perhaps?”

  Staring at the open green jar sitting next to the fire, Blackthorne suddenly liked their chances of surviving.

  FOUR

  Staggering, Blackthorne dragged the frame improvised from lashed saplings and a blanket. Reini lay unconscious on the stretcher. He’d developed a fever in the night and had been unable to walk. Therefore, Blackthorne had offered to carry him while Hännenen took the reindeer’s weight on a second impromptu frame. Hännenen had added the packs to his own burden. Blackthorne had offered up his horse blanket to the cause. At the moment, he wasn’t as certain it’d been a good idea. He alternated between feeling too cold and too hot. His hands were blistered, and his arms and shoulders ached. His wrist was swollen, and the pain was bad. He did his best to ignore it. This plan had worked well for the first half of the journey, but it was becoming more and more difficult as time wore on. His chest felt tight, making it hard to breathe.

  Weak and not a little dizzy, he pushed on. The sky was already darkening, and it was still snowing. It wouldn’t be long before the malorum ventured from their daytime sanctuaries. At least the weather would help cover their tracks—not that the traces he and Hännenen were leaving would be difficult to follow. Blackthorne hated not being able to stop and take care of the trail, but he didn’t have the strength or time.

  Blackthorne stumbled. I won’t stop. I won’t. I can’t.

  “Do you need to rest?” Hännenen asked.

  Blackthorne was overcome with a burst of rage. I’m wounded. Weak. The weak don’t deserve to survive, and he knows it. He forced an answer through clenched teeth. “There’s no time.”

  “If you drop, I can’t carry both of you, the kill, and all the ryggsacks,” Hännenen said.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Blackthorne had been allotted the lighter of the two burdens. That knowledge had offended him from the start. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to argue the point. His right arm was almost useless. “I’ll get Reini to the Hold.”