by J. V. Jones
He was a baker’s boy, not a murderer. Everything was so different from what he was used to. It was as if his life was no longer under his control. Ever since the morning when he’d burned the loaves, he found himself doing things out of character. He had killed someone for shelter. What gave him the right to put his needs above someone else’s? There was Melli, of course: he would have killed a hundred men to give her safe haven. But if he were honest, it was more than just Melli. Four days back, when he’d forced the door of the chicken coop and found two men poised with knives drawn, he’d discovered something very hard and unemotional inside of himself: the will to survive.
It was what had driven him through the freezing plains of Halcus, and what would make him continue on no matter what he faced. Perhaps the incident with the loaves hadn’t changed him in any way, merely brought something out in him that was already there. His mother was strong. Even toward the end, when her body failed, her strength of will was breathtaking. She refused the help of the physicians and would not take anything to dull the pain that might dull her wits as well.
Only in her case it seemed as if she didn’t want to survive.
Jack’s fingers were frozen to the dead man’s collar, but it was not the cold that chilled to the bone. A fragment of memory, more tenuous than a wisp of snow, filtered down through the accumulated recollections of eight years past. A snatch of conversation, not meant for his ears:
“She’s a tough one, that’s for sure.”
“Aye, but if she won’t let them slice her she’ll be a gonna just the same.”
“Not a chance of that, friend. She won’t even take a poultice to stay the growth, let alone take a knife to cut it out.”
He hadn’t even understood it at the time, and the years had conspired to make him forget, but today, dragging a body to a place fit for the dead, he realized what it meant: his mother had wanted to die. Her will, so much more than a match for his own, had been directed toward death not survival.
The wind keened sharp and relentless. The dead man pulled at his back. He was so weary; there was too much he didn’t understand. If he looked for answers, he found heartache instead. Why had she wanted to die? Was her life in the castle so bad? Or was he just a worthless son? He missed her so much. She was the only person who was truly his, only now it seemed she’d forsaken him. Just as his father had done.
It would be so easy to give everything up, to lie down in the snow beside the dead man and keep him company in the world beyond. Jack stopped for a moment, watching the cool cheek of the horizon, as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. There was no question, really; he had to continue. Fate was at his heels and it guided his feet forward to the dance.
On Jack walked, the dead man in his wake, back doubled up with the burden.
The wind was with him, bearing him along from the coop. It blustered and howled, hamming up its part in the drama, and the snow formed a backdrop with its silent display. Jack looked back. He was now a fair distance from the little wooden shack. It wasn’t far enough. He couldn’t leave the body within sight of the coop. He owed it to the dead man.
Finally he came upon a copse of trees that were camouflaging a slight depression in the land. He drew close, breath short and ragged from the strain of dragging the body, and saw that a frozen pond formed the center of the dip. This was where he would leave his burden.
He slid down the slope and the dead man followed. The ice was as hard as stone. Jack pushed the body toward the middle of the surface and folded the dead man’s arms across his chest. He stood above him and watched as snow gathered once more upon the cold flesh. The body began to take on the look of a stone carving. The snow shone upon the flesh like silver filings: adorning, ennobling. Satisfied that he had managed to give the man at least a semblance of dignity, Jack turned and scaled the slope.
Only when he reached the top did he allow his hands the shelter of his cloak. As he emerged from the tangle of bush and tree, he spied the coop in the distance. Something dark moving from the west caught his eye. He couldn’t gain perspective for a moment and thought it was a flock of birds, or even a herd of cattle. His vision crystallized, and in that instant his heart missed a beat. The sensation was nothing like the dreamy descriptions given by love poets. It was hard, jolting, throwing his whole body out of kilter, unsettling his very core.
The dark mass was mounted men, the Halcus, and they were heading toward the chicken coop. Toward Melli.
One step forward and then Jack felt the sliver of a blade upon his throat.
“Take another step and you’re dead.”
• • •
Melli was beginning to feel worried. Jack had been gone too long. There had been something odd about him when he left, and for one horrible moment she’d had the feeling that she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Such fancies were pure foolishness, she told herself as she paced the meager length of the coop.
The past weeks had been the most strenuous in her life, taking their toll not only from her body but her mind as well. She dreaded to think what the rigors of winter had done to her face and was glad there was no mirror to confirm her suspicions. More important than that, though, was the loss of her peace of mind. Such an overused and undervalued phrase. Peace of mind was as simple as falling asleep and knowing there would be a hot drink waiting when you awoke, and as precious as seeing your worth in the eyes of the ones that you loved. It was, when one got down to the root of it, the assurance of stability. The comfort of knowing things would always be the same. Now, for her, there were no such assurances.
She unplugged the knot hole and looked out onto the blank snow, looking north and then west. She didn’t believe her eyes at first. Although she had looked to the west for the past four days with the sole intent of spotting the enemy, now that she actually saw them coming, they seemed to be an appalling trick of fate. Like a child, she had supposed that watching for them would keep them away. She did not have time to mourn the loss of yet another stolen assurance.
Judging from their distance, she had a minute or two to make ready. Melli could not allow herself to think of Jack, she must think only of herself. She was the measure of her own worth now, and the subtle and unbendable arrogance that only comes to those who are born into a world of high privilege enabled her to value herself highly.
Rummaging through her scant possessions, she found the small food knife that the old woman pig farmer had given her. It was half the size of the pig-gutting knife and not nearly as sharp. There was no sense in her challenging a whole group of men with such a weapon. She decided to conceal the knife and use it later when the odds against her lessened. That was if the odds were given a chance to lessen.
Melli wouldn’t allow herself to think like that. She would not give in to fear. She would meet the enemy with head held high. Let them know that the women of the Four Kingdoms were a force to be reckoned with, just like the men.
She hid the knife in her bodice, thinking luck was once again with her. She was still wearing the old-fashioned dress that the pig farmer had given her. Unlike her own stylish court dresses, this had an out-of-date boned corset. So stiff and dense was the area between waist and breast that the hardness of a small knife might go undetected among the bones.
The noise of the riders could now be heard and Melli grew afraid. Her hands fluttered nervously to her face and then her bodice. Her cloak! She would put on her cloak. She could barely tie the fastening, so violently were her hands shaking. Her stomach was an empty hollow and it pulled at her nerves like hunger.
The door burst open. Two men stood in the threshold and more behind them. “Where is the bastard?” demanded the first, the tallest.
Melli clasped her hands tightly together, tilted her chin, and said with all the bravado she could muster, “Which bastard?”
The man’s face momentarily registered confusion. He was quick to recover his equilibrium. “Don’t trade words with me, girl, lest you’ll speak yourself into the grave.” He dro
pped his voice an octave lower and Melli recognized the modulated tones of unquestioned authority. “Now then. Tell me where the boy is who killed one of my men.” An abrupt hand gesture brought the second man forward. He was wielding a leather-bound club.
“Why, gentlemen, I was hoping you’d be able to tell me where he is, for I’m damned if I know.” Melli could see surprise on the men’s faces. She seized her advantage and continued. “Walked out on me, he did, just this morning. Stole all my money. When you eventually find him, I’d be glad if you could give him a few extra blows just for me.”
Another man forced his way in—the place was getting decidedly crowded—and Melli recognized him as the one who had escaped from the coop four days back. Her heart sunk as he said, “Don’t believe a word of it, Captain. She cried a warning to the mad devil. She’s in league with him.”
A trace of contempt could be seen in the face of the captain as his man spoke.
“Well, girl,” he said. “What have you to say to that?”
Melli got the distinct impression he knew she was lying and was merely amusing himself at her expense. She soldiered on regardless. “What is there to say, sir? Have you never disliked a man yet pulled him from the path of a horse anyway?”
The leader grunted. “I see the women of the kingdoms are as slick-tongued as the men are thick-headed.”
“I can’t speak for the men of my country,“ said Melli. “But on behalf of the women, I thank you. It must be a nice change for you to talk to a woman who does not whine like a goat.”
The leader burst out laughing at this allusion to the complaining nature usually ascribed to the women of Halcus. He was about to speak when a voice called from behind:
“Captain! There’s tracks in the snow. Looks as if something’s been dragged away.”
“The villain robbed my supplies,” said Melli quickly. “Took a whole winter’s worth of cheeses.” She guessed Jack had done away with the body and knew that now was not a good time to mention it.
The captain ignored her comments. “How old are the tracks?”
“Fresh, I would say, sir. No more than an hour or two old.”
“Well, follow them, you blasted fool! Take an extra five men.” He turned to Melli. “I’ll wait here with this little vixen. The rest of you outside.”
• • •
Jack moved his head a fraction to look at his assailant. As he did so, he felt something press against the side of his throat. Only when a warm trickle of blood rolled down his neck did he realize he’d been cut. He was too numb from the cold to feel pain, so he had no way of telling how deep the wound was. A second knife pressed against his back.
“Don’t move, or I’ll kill you.” The voice that spoke had an edge as hard as a blade. Jack stood perfectly still. The only thing he could see of the man was the white of his breath in the cool air.
Jack watched the riders approaching the coop. There were a full score of them. The wind, which had whipped and cut all morning, beating the snow into a frenzy, seemed to take a malicious delight in suddenly calming, allowing him a clear view of the little shack. He held his breath as the riders slowed and dismounted, and then one man kicked the wooden door open. Jack felt a pressure growing within: familiar, loathsome, yet strangely compelling. The taste was in his mouth, like copper, like blood: sorcery. It had been many weeks since he’d last felt its swell. He would not give in to it. As if seconding his unspoken resolution, his attacker jabbed the knife into his back. The press of the blade against his spine halted its flow.
Although he could not see the face of the man, he sensed a tension from him, perhaps in the increasing pressure of the knife. It ocurred to Jack that although he spoke with the harsh tones of the Halcus, the man was not one of the group below and, in fact, did not want to be spotted by them.
Jack looked on as three men entered the coop. He could almost picture the scene. He had no doubt that Melli would meet the Halcus with dignity. She was, above all else, proud. But for all his confidence in her bearing, he knew it would mean nothing to hardened soldiers. They would do whatever they wanted.
At that moment the chicken coop, which was no more than a spot on Jack’s vision, formed the center of his universe. If only he knew what was happening. If only he hadn’t left. The tension became unbearable. He had to go to her. Or at least try.
He sprang forward. Free from the knife for only an instant, his attacker sprang with him. Before Jack knew it, the blade was against his body once more. Strange how the metal was warm despite the cold.
“Don’t think you can run from me.” The voice again, low and hard. “Is the girl in the shack worth losing your life over?”
Jack was just comprehending the threat behind the man’s words when the scene below changed. Six men had mounted their horses and were beginning to follow the dead man’s trail in the snow.
“Come.” The man pushed Jack before him, forcing him in the opposite direction from the approaching riders. Jack caught a glimpse of one of his blades: it was curved and blackened, combining deadliness with show.
The pressure of sorcery which had been so overwhelming only minutes before had now dissipated, leaving a sick feeling in Jack’s stomach. Strangely, he drew courage from its absence; it was better to meet his fate with his body as his sole weapon. Not entirely true. He remembered the pig-gutting knife tucked into the front of his belt. He would have a weapon after all. With stealth that would make a pickpocket proud, Jack drew his knife. He felt the lick of the blade upon his belly: the edge was still keen.
His attacker was quickening the pace. Hooves could now be heard plowing their way through the virgin snow. They emerged from the cover of the trees and two horses awaited.
“Get on the mare.” The man accompanied this order with a push of his knife. Jack turned, blade in hand, and slashed at him. He was surprised to find a large but portly red-haired man as his foe. “You waste my time, boy,” the man said, a trace of annoyance mixed with something suspiciously like amusement. “Well, come at me if you must, but make it fast. There’s men approaching.”
Jack suddenly felt rather foolish. He had no skill with the blade, and the man before him, although heavyset, seemed to have all the confidence and skill of a master. He moved his substantial weight from foot to foot with the grace of a dancer. Both short knife and curved sword drew subtle shapes of encouragement in the air. “Come, boy, don’t prolong the inevitable.”
Jack lunged forward, pig-gutting knife at what he hoped to be a threatening angle. The curved blade knocked the knife from his hand with a bone-shattering jolt. In that instant the short knife was upon his throat.
The man shook his head. “You shouldn’t have been distracted by the sword, boy. It’s the short knife that will always find you.” He turned his head, intent on listening for the advancing riders. They were close now. “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take drastic measures.” With a flip of his wrist, the curved blade jumped into the air, spun around, and then landed blade in palm. Jack watched as the short knife was drawn back. Then unexpectedly, he felt a powerful blow to the back of his head. His skull cracked loudly, and the world began to fade away. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the man saying: “Of course, you should never have been fooled by the short knife. It’s the sword that will always get you.”
• • •
“So,” said the captain, “now that we’re alone, perhaps you can tell me what a Four Kingdom’s noblewoman is doing roaming around Halcus.” He permitted his mouth the curve of smugness, while his fingers traced the line of his mustache, reworking the grease and making it gleam once more.
Melli was beginning to regret her flippant manner; all her clever words had led to this. If she hadn’t piqued his interest, she would probably be outside being gagged and bound, and judging from her previous experiences with men, that would most definitely be preferable.
The coop now seemed unbearably small. The captain, leathers creaking with every breath, filled th
e room with the force of his presence rather than the fact of his body.
“Your tongue appears to have lost its speed,” he said. “Am I to take it that you can’t put on a performance without an audience?”
Melli knew the danger in being thought a noblewoman of the enemy. She would be tortured and raped, then when there was little of her left, she would be ransomed. Every day the enemy waited on the payment would mean one less finger. Two years ago the Lady Varella had been kidnapped from her husband’s estates along the River Nestor. When she had finally been returned, she had only two fingers left. Three months later the woman had taken her life. Unable to grasp a dagger or measure poison, she had thrown herself into the bullpen and had been gored on the horns of her husband’s mightiest bull. Melli shuddered at the remembrance. She would not be returned home fingerless.
She smiled coquettishly and thrust forward her bosom. “Why, sir, you do me an honor thinking me nobly born. Though of course my grandfather’s uncle on my mother’s side was said to be nephew of a squire.” Melli judged a simpering giggle was in order and acted accordingly. “So, as you can see, I do have some claims on the blood.”
“You expect me to believe this?” The captain’s handsome face grew dangerous. “You think me foolish enough not to know when I’m in the presence of a woman of the blood? You need to work on your acting, my lady. Your voice gives everything away.” He moved toward Melli and grasped her arm. The smell of leather and sweat surrounded her. “Give me the truth now, or pay the price for your lies.”
Melli took shallow breaths. She didn’t want to draw in his scent: such a personal thing, the smell of another. “You are a clever man, sir.” Melli stretched a slow smile, giving herself time to think. “I am indeed a noblewoman . . . of sorts.” She knew she had to devalue herself, to become a less alluring prize. The Lady Varella’s husband had been a wealthy man, with an even wealthier family. “I am the daughter of Erin, Lord of Luff.” Melli picked a well-known, poverty-stricken lord as her father. Besides his poverty, Luff was famous for his promiscuity and had fathered many bastards. “I am not of his wife’s issue,” she said, bowing her head.