Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  “The Mother cannot be put down or tossed aside. Not with torch nor club, not with knife nor hangman’s rope. What is it about poor unarmed women you fear so much?”

  The man’s hand slipped inside of his cloak and pulled free his short-sword. He laid the tip of it casually at the woman’s throat. She swallowed, started to take half a step back, caught herself, angrily jutting her narrow chin.

  “You’re just a whore with airs on,” the man said. “Why would I fear you? Tell me, foolish, dead woman, does your Mother have a sword?”

  “No,” Idgen Marte whispered into his ear, suddenly standing behind him. “She has a Shadow.” His body stiffened as she slipped the point of her knife upwards into the unarmored juncture of his arm and chest. He gurgled bloody froth from his mouth and his eyes rolled into his head. She stepped back, let his body fall, and blurred into motion among the rest of the men, who were suddenly swinging torches and drawing swords, screaming alarm and yelling orders.

  With the Goddess’s cold anger flowing with her through the shadows cast by their torches, Idgen Marte made quick work of four of the remaining guards, slipping behind, beneath, and amongst them, the points of her knives sliding into groins or the edges across throats. With five of their number down, courage fled and the remainder chased after it. Idgen Marte picked one of them out and darted after him.

  Before he was ten yards away, she was beside him, tossing him to the ground with an outstretched leg. Torch and club went bouncing away. She bent over him, placing a bloodied knife against his neck.

  “Why? Why terrorize them?”

  The man babbled in fear. She pressed the knife harder, drew a thin red line of blood. “Answer me!”

  “I’m just taking orders. Please, I have a wife, and children. Please. Please.” His voice came out in a hushed whine.

  “What about their children, their husbands?”

  “Orders come down from the Baron. From the Baron! He’s coming here, that’s the rumor, coming this way, soon, chasing down the grey-bands and heretics.” He shut his eyes tightly, trying to gather himself with a shallow breath. “Please,” he hissed out once more.

  “Go. Tell the others that the Shadow of the Mother showed you mercy.” Her voice was a ragged and angry rasp. “Tell the other soldiers, the other greenhats, whichever you are, that Her folk are not to be hunted.” She swung away from him, pulling her knife away from his throat, but not without nicking his cheek first, ripping open a tiny line that would scar. “That,” she said as he clambered to his feet and clapped a hand over his cut, “is so I’ll know you if ever I see you again. Don’t let me.”

  Without a word, he hared off down the street. She turned to the bodies, cleaned her knives on a dead man’s cloak, and slid them back into place along her back.

  The defiant girl walked up to her, admiration and anger warring on her young, fine-boned features. “Why’d ya let him away?”

  Idgen Marte eyed her. The familiarity was nagging at her. “I know you,” she said, gliding past the question. “What’s your name?”

  “Shary,” the girl said. “An’ yeah, we met—you saved me, me and another girl called Filoma. Saved us from—”

  “From a pimp and his fat bruiser,” Idgen Marte finished. “I looked for you in Thornhurst.”

  “I decided it was important t’stay,” the girl said quickly. “Tell others what I saw. We started having meetings, praying together.”

  “That’s brave of you, Shary, and brave of the rest of you, but there are five greenhat bodies cooling in front of one of your homes and seven more running away. That’ll bring more of them. We don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

  “What have we to fear? We have Faith, and the Mother sent Her Shadow,” Shary began, wide-eyed. “Let them come. We’ll be armed.”

  “Even if I could defeat a whole troop of them on my own, I’ll not turn this town into a bloodbath in the Mother’s name. Take what you will from their bodies if you’ve the stomach for it, but otherwise, you need to scatter to your homes or come with me. Which will it be?” Watching Shary and two of the other women patting the corpses down, Idgen Marte was hit with a sudden twinge of conscience. Ought to leave some links for the families, she thought, but then immediately countered the thought with another. Anything left’ll just get stolen by the other greenhats anyway.

  “What it’s going to be,” Idgen Marte said, once purses were stripped, knives tugged off of belts, and a couple of stout clubs liberated. “Going to ground or coming with me?”

  “I don’t want to leave,” Shary protested. “I’m no coward. I don’t want those bastards t’win.”

  Idgen Marte sighed. “Shary, this town’s not big enough t’hide in forever. And those bastards will win if you try to fight. Even against me, if there’s enough of them, one will get smart, or lucky. I can’t stay here forever. If you come with me, I’ll be able to throw them off and I’ll defend you on the road.”

  “Some of us have family, little ones. Have we the time t’fetch them?”

  “Go now, immediately. Meet me at the south road as soon as you can. Anyone who isn’t there in a quarter turn isn’t coming.”

  Idgen Marte turned and began running. She’d always been fleet of foot, and sure of every step she took. But with the Goddess’s Gifts her speed was something more than natural. It would be a thing for song if anyone could see her move when she ran flat-out. Be the kind of thing I’d write a song about if I had a mind to write songs, she thought, before forcing her mind back to the moment. I’ve a quarter turn to think on how to get a score of people out of town. How would Allystaire do it, anyway? Kill or terrify everyone who got in his way. As she thought, she headed to the livery stable where her horse was quartered. There were no signs of greenhats or unusual activity, but that would change sooner rather than later.

  The stable was locked up tight. She began to work on jimmying the bar when she snorted in disgust. There was light enough to make shadows on either side of the door, so she simply stepped into one on this side and flowed through to the other. She had her courser saddled and ready in moments. No use in slow stealth when her mount’s hooves would sound loud on the streets no matter what she did with them, so she rode hard to her rendezvous.

  Ashmill Bridge hadn’t size or wealth enough to build proper walls and gates, but it did post guards at its entrances and take note of comings and goings. Thankfully she was the first to reach them, dropping from her her saddle a dozen paces from a three-walled guard shack.

  There was no reaction from the ramshackle building as she closed in, one knife slid carefully inside her right sleeve. She edged up against one wooden wall, edging carefully around to its open side.

  They were asleep. Of course they are. They aren’t paid enough t’stay up all night, she thought, and briefly, she considered slitting their throats. It’s what I would’ve done a year ago. Now, though? Instead, she dropped the knife from her sleeve into her hand, and rapped the pommel hard against the inside wall.

  They startled awake, reaching for spears and coming clumsily to their feet, blinking in the dim light of the coal-filled braziers they dozed near.

  “Gentlemen,” she murmured, “I hate to disturb your rest, but a sizable group of my relations are going to be coming past your gate any moment. I don’t want them counted, named, or, frankly, looked at too closely. What’ll it cost me?”

  Her honesty seemed to take them aback. One, older, with grey stubble all over his chin and cheeks, spat to the ground. “Gold link and a tumble for each of us,” he snickered.

  “You couldn’t count the number of links you’d need to make that happen. How about a pair of silver links each and I forget the insult?”

  The other one, large shoulders straining his jerkin, poorly-dyed green wool cap clinging to a mass of thick black hair, snorted. “What’s t’say we don’t just take what’s in your purse, and anythin’ e
lse we want, hrm?”

  “I tried to be polite about this,” she sighed, before she kicked him hard in the knee, causing it to buckle. Then she shifted her weight onto her back foot and snapped the toe of her boot into the point of his chin. His mouth shut with a hard click and down he went, knocking over a brazier and sending hot coals skidding into the dirt. He was profoundly unconscious when he hit the ground.

  The other greenhat had his knife only half free by the time her point was against the side of his neck. “You can still make a link out of this, provided you don’t say another freezing word. Are we clear?”

  He nodded very carefully, mindful of the knife held against his throat, and swallowed shallowly.

  “Good.” Knife still pricking his throat, she pulled free a thin circle of silver from her purse and pressed it into his palm. He took it. She lowered the knife. “When they ask you what happened, tell them it was the Shadow of the Mother—and that she could have slit your throats while you slept.”

  Before she turned to go, she gave the larger one a sharp kick in the guts as he appeared to be stirring. Seemed like he could use another bruise in the morning.

  Outside of the shack she found a gathering of folk milling around her horse.

  And distantly, in the town proper, there were torches, the clang of weapons, the shout of orders.

  She sprinted back to her horse. “How many children have we?” she hissed. Most were wide-eyed, frightened, the few men and children rubbing their weary eyes, all huddled miserably in cloaks that did little for the cold.

  “Three babes, three old enough to walk,” Shary answered. For her part she carried a rolled and tied blanket slung over one shoulder, and many of the others carried similar bundles.

  “Put the three who can walk on my horse’s saddle, carry the other three, and run south. Just hold to a straight southern course, as fast you can, stay together, and I’ll find you. Go. Now.” Idgen Marte helped hoist three nervous, sleepy children onto her courser’s saddle, and then retrieved her bow and quiver. She turned towards the guards, whose forward elements were rounding a curve out of the town proper and beginning to descend along the dirt track leading out of it.

  They hadn’t brought bows that she could see. Small grace. Thanks, Mother, even if you’d naught to do with their piss-poor decisions. Without bothering to pick a specific target, she nocked an arrow to drew, and let fly in a lazy arc that dropped into their torch-lit midst. By all means, gents, continue to present me so very many targets.

  She turned to see Shary and the other townsfolk watching her wide-eyed. “I said now. Run! I’ll catch you.”

  “We’ve no lamps or torches—”

  “Don’t fear the darkness,” Idgen Marte cut her off. “There’s light in its midst. I promise you. Go. The Mother will not abandon you. Neither will I.” She turned, and was already nocking another arrow, when she heard the sound of footsteps as the townsfolk broke into a run, of hooves as her horse began to trot.

  She blurred into the dark shadows amongst trees to one side of the road, drew back her bowstring, and loosed another arrow, taking more careful aim. The men had scattered, showing that at least one man giving orders had some sense, but her arrow found its target—one of the torchbearers. It took him high in the arm, and he dropped his brand. Dry, the grass instantly sparked into flame, and two of them were distracted with stamping it out.

  Idgen Marte spared a moment to count her arrows against the number of men, as they split into pairs and spread out even farther, covering their flanks and moving fast. These are professionals. Not just greenhats. A pair made their way cautiously towards her position. Her bowstring sang its badly pitched note once, twice, and both were down. She ran forward and snatched up the torch that fell from one’s grasping hand, ran with her unnatural speed into the road, and heaved it at the watch post. It struck once side and bounced away. The little shack didn’t catch fire, but the shower of sparks got the attention of her pursuers.

  She paused, making sure they saw her. When half dozen of them produced loaded crossbows from under their cloaks, she wrapped herself in shadows and sprinted away with every ounce of speed, natural and supernatural, at her disposal.

  They’re not even after the faithful anymore, she thought to herself as she imagined crossbowmen firing at a high angle, hoping to drop their bolts down on her. They’re after me.

  A bolt landed in the dirt far behind her, but closer than it ought to have been, and she ducked into the bare trees that lined the road. She thought again of the number of arrows she had, the number of men pursuing her. Be knife work before it’s over, unless I can make them pay too dear for getting that close.

  She judged the approach of torches through the trees, fitted an arrow to the string. The face of the man whose cheek she’d marked swam for a moment in her vision, but she banished it and loosed, not waiting to see if she’d hit.

  It looked a long, bloody night.

  * * *

  Shary led her ragged group down the cold dirt-packed track by starlight, sometimes kneeling to feel at the ground to make sure they hadn’t strayed off the track. Mostly it was straight and well-edged, but the fear nagged at her.

  She kept silent, willed the rest to do the same, and clutched onto the wooden club she’d taken off a dead greenhat with white knuckles, carrying it like a talisman, like simply holding a weapon would keep at bay the guards, the priests, the torturers she imagined hard on their heels.

  Occasionally in the night, as they walked, they’d hear a ragged scream in the distance behind them. Always a man’s scream, Shary told herself, confident she knew the difference, but her hand would get a little tighter on the club each time.

  The first few times it happened folks would rush to clap their hands around the children’s ears, and the children would start crying, only to be hushed, start to ask a question, only to have a hand clamped over their mouths.

  Shary walked in circles around the group, a tight ball of nerves and energy in the pit of her stomach, occasionally pausing to touch Gend’s arm or hand in passing. Gend, who’d been a thief and a drunk and become a laborer and a drunk, which was still an improvement. Gend who’d also met a paladin and had been one of the few who’d believed her story, just as she’d believed his. He may not have been much of a man, really, but didn’t try to put her on the street and never hit her, never hurt her, never wanted to hurt anyone. What he did want, she knew, was to stop being a drunk. He just didn’t know how.

  Finally, when one of the sounds that split the silence open was less scream and more angry yell, he stopped her with a hand on her arm, careful but firm. “Gimme the club, lass,” he murmured, and she tried to make out his face by the moon and star light, which wasn’t bright. She could just about make out the shape of his eyes and the ragged beard on his cheeks, and not much else.

  “Please,” he finally said, as he pried it from her hand. He turned to watch the road behind him, such as he could in the dark, as there was another yell and suddenly a torch visible. He yelled, “Run!”

  She froze, but soon other hands grabbed her and pulled her along. She glanced back and saw a struggle of bodies, heard the thud of weapons or fists landing against skin, heard and felt and smelled death in the air, and started stumbling forward faster, trying not to listen to the brawl behind her.

  * * *

  She was out of arrows, carrying her unstrung bow awkwardly in her left hand as some kind of ersatz club or shield, with one of her long knives in the right. The other knife was gone, bonestuck in a dead man’s ribcage. A long trail of dead men, hamstrung men, men with throats slit or groins ripped open, lay behind her. She had a shallow cut along one side and a throbbing in her left shoulder, from the blow of a spiked mace, that made her wish Allystaire was at her side.

  Not his kind of fight, she thought as she tried to get her bearings. He’d just be in my way, or have bulled amongst them and g
otten himself killed by now. She’d moved so much, and so far, blurring from one group of men to the other, sprinting to attract pursuit, she wasn’t sure where she was anymore in relation to the road or the people she’d sent hurrying along it. Brilliant plan, that, she thought, trying to ignore the pain that radiated from her shoulder.

  The sounds of a fight grabbed her ear, cursing, muted strikes landing on flesh, a ragged yell. She made for it, resettling her hand around her knife.

  Her fingers were wet and slippery and the knife’s hilt was slick.

  Two men were wrestling over a knife as a third lay on the ground, bleeding, a torch sputtering into the dry grass. She hadn’t the time to stomp on the flames. She hadn’t time to sort out which combatant was which, so she lowered her shoulder and plowed into them, biting down a howl of pain as she realized she’d led with the wounded shoulder. Both hit the ground, their surprised shouts cut short as the fall stole their wind.

  One stayed down, while the other popped back to his feet, growling. There was a short blade in his hand, and for a moment, light gleamed against the armor under his cloak.

  “You don’t have to die tonight,” she rasped, her voice made even harsher by her wounds, the night’s exertion. A part of her cringed at how it sounded. “Put down the blade and walk away.”

  “And miss my chance at collectin’ the links on your head?” He lunged at her, or tried, but she was gone, slipped behind him. She tried slipping the knife into his ribs but the point snagged on his mail, so quickly, savagely, she reversed her grip so that the knife pointed out of the bottom of her fist, and just slammed it with all the strength that remained to her where his neck and shoulder met.

  The result was bloody and drawn out, but conclusive. She worked the knife back and forth, opening a huge gash, tearing the mail open.

  The man died ugly, whimpering and clutching at the wound, forgetting the sword she’d told him to drop, kicking it about in the dirt as he thrashed.