by Kaleb Schad
Everything happened in slow motion, as if he had to beg by messenger any time he wanted his legs to move. The first Fletcher could sense the poison in him. It danced from leg to leg, just out of reach, its head swiveling left, then right, waiting.
The other came at him. He used the hsing-li to unearth a gnarled shrub of thorns and pink flowers and wrapped it around the creature’s head. It screamed and swatted at the brush, shredding it quickly, but it was too late. Anaz had found the strength to drive his sword through its chest.
The first Fletcher clamped its jaws into his side. He felt the teeth slide off of his lower ribs, into the meat around his belly. It was impossible to keep from crying out. His legs wanted to yield. It would be so easy. As the hsing-li wills it, he thought.
And then he saw her, laying there, her brown hair wrapped around her face in bloody strands and he couldn’t tell if she was Reyn or Isabell. Did it matter?
The Fletcher chewed as if it would take a mouthful from Anaz’s belly and swallow it.
He couldn’t swing his blade, the creature too close and tight on him, but he was able to flick the tip of his sword into the creature’s knee, slicing the inside of it. The creature dropped, pulling him down with it. It didn’t let go, but he had enough space now to thread his sword between its throat and his leg. He sawed at the monster’s neck. The bite released and blood burbled out from his side as the creature fell. Dead.
He scanned the field. Nothing moved.
He stumbled toward Isabell, but collapsed. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He knew they were there, but they were like hinged tumors more than limbs. He crawled to Isabell and laid his head on her chest.
He could hear it. A beat. Breath. She was breathing.
Just lay here a moment. Just lay here. His head rose and fell with her shallow breaths and he thought maybe it would be okay to stay that way until the end.
37
“Back away,” Alysha said.
Malic’s face darkened and he worked his jaw like he was chewing.
Alysha pushed the blade a hair harder.
Malic hissed and pulled away his hips.
Alysha cherished not feeling his crotch against her, that regained protective bubble of air.
He smiled and stepped back. He adjusted his trousers, then raised his hands. “Hey,” he said, a forced chuckle in his voice, “don’t get bent out of shape. No reason to get upset.”
“Back up.” She lifted the knife, keeping it pointed at his chest and waited until Malic was two steps away before she started following him to the end of the bar.
“I weren’t gonna’ do nothin’, you know. It was just a little fun.”
Malic reached the end of the bar and stepped aside so Alysha could pass. She kept her back pressed to the wooden rail, keeping as much space between her and Malic as she could. Her legs shook. She tried to keep her breath steady. Was it going to work? He was going to— She had to keep from thinking that word. She was going to make it. He didn’t. Don’t think that word.
“I think you’re overreacting here. You’re just real pretty, that’s all. A man’s body, it just kind of does what it wants sometimes. Don’t mean nothing by it.” He never let his smile slip. He casually tossed his hair back, ran his hand through it, just as relaxed as can be. “Look, let’s just pretend it never happened. Your husband, you’ll see someday. He can’t protect you, isn’t protecting you. You’re only here because he’s not. He’s left you. Probably he’s out there fucking some mountain lady. Maybe run off north and said to hell with the wife and kids and horses bullshit. You’re gonna’ see and I just want you to know, when you do, when it all comes crashing down and you’re scared and don’t know where to run…”
Alysha walked backwards to the door, shooting quick glances over her shoulder to keep from bumping into the tables. She never let the knife drop an inch.
He looked her dead in the eyes and licked his lips. “I’ll be right here. Waiting for you.”
Daveon jabbed his sword at the creature’s face but it slid off the carapace. The Fletcher pushed forward, snapping its jaws, a sliding metal on metal sound, but its head hit the edge of the wagon, keeping it from reaching Daveon.
The girl wriggled under an impossibly small wedge between the wagon and ground to the right of them.
“No,” Daveon shouted, his voice pitching somewhere between that of his wife’s and a hummingbird’s. “Don’t go out—”
The creature leapt to its feet and scrambled around the side of the wagon. Daveon screamed, something unintelligible, an animal fear made by human voice. He dropped to his belly and slithered out from under the wagon.
The creature’s scream sent Syla and Red into a frenzied gallop, unable to choose a direction not blocked by burning barn or terrifying fiend. In the end, they decided to run towards the creature, one to either side. The lead rope twisted between them, drew tight as they ran.
The girl was only ten paces away.
He wouldn’t let her die. He couldn’t. He wanted to run, to throw himself onto Syla’s back and run. But run to what? If he thought living with the lie of Lindisfarne was hard, what would living with this girl’s death be like?
“Hey!” Daveon screamed at the creature. “Hey! Here!” He waved his arms and the sword over his head.
The Fletcher looked at him, then started jogging towards him, a cocky sway in its stride, its tail almost wagging in excitement. All he could do was stare, horrified as the monster closed. A sick taste in his mouth.
Rayen would have run to meet it. I’m not Rayen. I’m going to die here. Will it hurt? Of course it will, you twit. Better question, will it be fast? Would that be more mercy than I deserve?
The horses. They barrelled down on the Fletcher just as it reached Daveon. They were going to clip its back. He shrieked, slammed shut his eyes, dropped to his knees and thrust his sword out just as the lead rope snapped into the Fletcher. It flung forward screeching. The sword sank into the Fletcher’s chest and a jetty of black ichor spewed forward, spraying across Daveon’s face, neck. It took all of Daveon’s strength not to drop his sword. The creature slithered down the blade, a wet grinding crawl, then stopped.
Its tongue looped lifeless across Daveon’s wrist.
He dropped his sword and frantically scrambled backwards. The creature fell onto its face. Lay still.
He looked at the girl. She was standing by a spruce tree, her hands covering her face, her eyes peeking between fingers. He ran to her and pulled her into a hug and he coughed as he tried to fight back his own tears.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”
I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.
She had peed herself, but he didn’t care. He held her and shushed her and he looked at the dead Fletcher and he knew. He needed to go home. How could he have left his family behind when these things were out here? Were they still alive? Was it too late?
He picked up the girl and carried her to his horses. Syla and Red had twisted themselves around a meat pole and were standing next to each other rearing their heads trying to break free. Daveon made soothing noises at the horses, patting the air with his hands. He untied the lead rope from Syla.
The horses untangled, he lifted the girl onto Syla. He’d ride out to the pasture and get the two horses and then they’d sprint as fast as the tired animals would carry them. He’d stop long enough to move the gear to the stallions, the fresher animals, and let Red and Syla rest, but that would be it. Not a second longer. A second, after all, might be all the difference he had.
He didn’t know if he could breathe. The Wretched were truly coming. They were here already. What if they were at his home? What if Alysha and his two boys were running right now?
He’d have to stop in Fisher Pass. If the Wretched had already reached the Sket ranch, that meant the wall would be right behind them. They never ranged too far out ahead of it. Fletchers here put the wall only a couple of days, maybe a week, behind. At most. He’d have to tell everyon
e in Fisher Pass how much closer the wall was than anyone had thought. They needed to run. Now.
He put a foot into the stirrup to pull himself up, looked back at the dead Fletcher, his sword still standing like a flag from its back, and stopped.
He’d killed it. An honest-to-Airim Fletcher.
Seemed a shame to leave it there. It hadn’t been terribly heroic—true, his horses had done most of the work—but he’d still killed it after all.
That has to be worth something, right?
One foot, then the other. That was all she could do, the entire walk home from the Sunflower Stop. She still held the knife. Its bone handle had become a part of her hand, a part of her soul. The only protection she could trust.
Left foot. Right.
You’re only here because he’s not.
She couldn’t stop smelling his breath. She ground a palm into the breast he’d touched, trying to claw the feeling out of it. She wanted to cut it away from her with the knife.
You cringe…
Have you…
Near…
When she saw the light coming from the window in her house, when she thought of her boys inside, alone the entire night, she started to run. Nikolai would be asleep. She would wake him. She would tell him she was sorry and she would hug him and she would wake Elnis and hug him and they would sit there on the floor like that holding each other and they would…
She stopped running and her lungs heaved and blood swelled her skull making her want to pass out. She looked down at the knife in her hand. She dropped it. She couldn’t go to them. Not like this. Not yet.
There was something she hadn’t done yet.
She sat down there on the side of the road and she wept.
38
Domino walked sure-footed and swift, a constant clopping.
Anaz’d spent the first three hours of the ride trying to mend Isabell’s and his own cuts through the hsing-li, but the poison battled him at every turn. And something else. Something inside of the poison, angry and tenacious. Slippery. He purged the toxin from himself and then from her. But this other thing, it was only in him, not Isabell. He chased it, this invasion, but it would slip away, through him, into recesses he couldn’t find.
Isabell rocked against his chest. She hadn’t woken. Would she ever? Was this his fault? Fault. There was a word not of the hsing-li. To be at fault meant you had control and had chosen not to act rightly. But was there a right way to act? If he’d acted in the first place, Isabell would not be dying now. The people of Fisher Pass would not be trapped in their village waiting to die.
His head fell forward then snapped back up. He forced his eyes open. His pants were damp with blood. The sun was rising. They had ridden the night through. Domino had never stopped, simply doing what she knew she must to help.
To help. Was that of the hsing-li?
Yes, it is. Whether it was the fever or the blood loss or the still burning wounds from the Wretched that did it, Anaz’s decision became clear. He needed to help. He needed to save Isabell’s life and get her back to Fisher Pass and then he needed to get every last person out of that village before these creatures reached them. It was one thing to struggle against mortals. That was something he would still not do. He wouldn’t break that oath to Reyn’s memory, but these things were not mortal. They were not of the hsing-li. He could not let them take any more innocent lives.
Please live, he prayed over Isabell.
Domino heard the soldiers before Anaz did. Her head bobbed and she began trotting.
“Halt!” Someone shouted.
Anaz drew his sword. Hoped he had his sword. He couldn’t feel his fingers. His eyes closed.
When he opened them, six men on horseback approached from the woods in all directions, two behind, two in front, one to each side. Anaz tried to hold his head up, but it lolled from shoulder to shoulder.
A Fletcher. One of the men mounted in front of him was a Fletcher. Bones sticking out of its back and teeth flaring wildly.
Anaz kicked his heels into Domino to charge and he tried to draw the hsing-li, but it was no use. The horse didn’t move.
He blinked and the Fletcher became man again. A hallucination. A man in plate armor, black, with gold pauldrons and scarlet epaulettes dangling from the metal armor. He recognized the sigil on the men’s shields. House Blackhand.
“Release the Lady Isabell,” the man in front demanded. He hadn’t drawn his sword yet. He was heavy, middle aged, with blue eyes and a broad nose reddened with years of wind or wine. “If you have harmed her, you will die upon that horse.” Anaz heard a bow being drawn to his left. They had the angle. They would be able to hit him without hitting Isabell and Anaz wouldn’t be able to find cover fast enough.
He dropped his sword.
“Save her,” he croaked. “Poisoned. Fletchers. Coming.”
His head bobbed forward, then up again. Were there four men in front of him now? No, still two.
One of the soldiers from behind grabbed Domino’s reins in one hand and Isabell in the other, while the second soldier wrapped an arm around Anaz’s neck and dragged him from the saddle. He coughed when he hit the ground, rolled onto his hands and knees.
“Fletchers coming. The wall,” Anaz said. They had to listen. He had to find the strength to convince them. “Save…” He dropped onto his belly and lay there gasping. The hsing-li slipped away from him.
“Did he say Fletchers?” the soldier holding Isabell asked.
“Shut up, Ven,” another soldier said.
The leader of the group leaned forward in his saddle and looked down at Anaz. “In Lord Baron Blackhand’s name, I arrest thee for the kidnapping and grievous injury to his Lordship’s person.”
BITTER REMNANTS
BOOK THREE
39
Anaz was too exhausted to feel much of anything when he saw the walls of Fisher Pass rise. Certainly not relief. It was late morning, the sun already hot and overhead. They had pushed hard covering in one night what had taken Isabell and Anaz a day and he could feel the horses’ fatigue matching his own.
He’d spent the ride nestled inside the hsing-li battling back the Wretched’s poison. He felt sure he’d won that battle, but whatever had ridden in along with the poison was still infecting him. It was tricky, slippery like a worm, dividing and spreading every time he cornered it.
Isabell was pale and held to Domino’s saddle horn with both hands, but she was awake. She’d woken from the poison an hour before the sun rose, to Anaz’s great relief. She was the reason Anaz was even in a saddle at all. They’d tied him and forced him to run or be dragged for most of the night. Now he was mounted behind one of the knights thanks to her orders.
A boy, ten, eleven summers younger than Anaz with gold hair and wearing a scarlet tunic with a stag’s head on the chest stood at the gate holding a spear. He gawked at Anaz and Isabell, at the crusted violence in their clothes. He dropped his spear, fumbled trying to pick it up.
“A guard at the gate?” Isabell said.
“Your father’s orders,” Nattic said.
“So he has raised the hue and cry,” Anaz said.
Nattic glared at him.
“Sir Nattic?” Isabell asked. “Did he raise the hue and cry?" Hope and doubt like oil and water in her voice.
“For as he’s concerned, ain’t nothing to raise the hue and cry over,” Nattic said.
“I’ve been telling you all night,” Anaz said. “Your village will be swallowed by this wall. You must run.”
“One guard at the gate won’t stop the wall, Sir Nattic,” Isabell said.
“Reinstating a little discipline in the village, my lady. Nothing more. Keeping track of who is coming and who is going. Discouraging the going, truth be told.”
Isabell looked at Anaz. The baron would never raise the hue and cry. They would testify, but it wouldn’t matter.
One by one, townsfolk crept onto the street as the procession rode through. They passed the Sunflower Stop,
the innkeeper and the half-orc leaning against the gate. The half-orc arched back and launched a glob of spit into the road in front of Anaz.
He spotted Sunell standing near a mector of Airim, outside the chapel. The mector put a hand to his throat when he saw Isabell, saw the blood and torn britches, the claw marks on her arms and neck. Sunell ran to follow them and soon dozens of others joined.
“My lady,” she called.
“Sunell,” Isabell cried back. “I’ve seen it.”
“What happened?”
“The wall, Sunell—”
“My lady,” Nattic said, “hold yourself.”
“It’s so much closer—”
Nattic seized Domino’s reins and spurred their horses into a trot. The soldiers urged their mounts to keep pace. He could feel Sunell and the others running after them.
“Tell them,” Anaz called back to her. He didn’t want the youngling to get wrapped up in something dangerous, but he had a bad feeling about what might happen once they reached the baron. “The creatures. They are coming. Tell—”
The soldier in front of Anaz spun in his saddle and drove his armored elbow into Anaz’s mouth. He gasped, choked on sudden blood from biting his tongue. He coughed and watched red spatter across the soldier’s fancy green cloak. He smiled.
Hearing the villagers chasing them helped dull the pain, too. Already the simple words of “wall” and “coming” were spreading backwards behind them like a ship’s wake. If Anaz could achieve nothing else, at least that was starting.
Before they’d even crossed under the gatehouse the baron was waiting in the bailey. Anaz couldn’t tell what was hotter, the sun’s glare or the baron’s. He closed his eyes and reconnected with the hsing-li. This was going to hurt.
You don’t have to take it. Even now they don’t notice the ropes loosening around your wrists. Don’t realize how close the guard’s sword is, how easy it all would be. But his only choice would be to kill them if he meant to escape. And that meant breaking his oath. Meant no choice at all.