by J. M. Frey
The combined rage of the thunder and Pip’s voice seem to shake the woman out of her terror, and she scrambles into the cart. She immediately falls sideways onto the floor, startling Alis into another wail. The woman cuts one look toward my daughter, and then scrambles over into the corner to cover her with her own body. She is shaking, bleeding, trailing blood like a sinister snail trail along the boards of the cart, but here is the motherly instinct that Elgar Reed has forced onto every woman he writes, and for once, I am glad of it. Alis hushes under the hands of the woman, leaving Pip and I free to turn our attention to the ambush.
What follows is swift and ugly. I am uncertain what sort of survival instinct Red Caps are possessed of, but it cannot be too great. The remaining gnomes are halting their assault on us to rend the flesh from the corpses of their fallen comrades, dipping their caps in the gruesome muddy mire that their blood has made of the dirt road, tearing away chunks of meat with their iron pikes and vanishing back through the verge with them.
Bevel puts as many arrows into the horrible creatures as he is able, but soon, they have all fled back into the field, and presumably down into whatever underground cavern they originally bubbled up from. Above the tops of the wheat, I see Capplederry—Wyndam aboard—rising and pouncing on those Red Caps the creature can single out.
Kintyre and Karl come around a gap in the foliage a little behind us, both splashed to their knees in blood. Pip retches, face going a worrying yellowy-pale far too swiftly, but she manages to hold down her breakfast.
“Wyndam!” Kintyre bellows over the verge. “Come on, boy! Bring Capplederry back. We need to move on!”
The lad’s head snaps around, and he grimaces.
“Don’t make faces!” Bevel bellows. “Do as you’re asked!” He mutters something under his breath. “Stubborn lad. Doesn’t he know staying will encourage the Red Caps to return?” Then he sets aside his bow and crouches down to touch the shoulder of the woman I rescued.
She flinches hard, and peeks out from under her hair.
“You’re safe now,” Bevel says, helping her to sit up.
Pip swoops in to scoop up Alis as soon as our daughter is revealed, slumping on the floor and burying her face in Alis’s neck. Alis is still unsure whether or not she wants to continue crying, her eyes red and swollen, her chest jerking with panic. I pull Dauntless up beside the cart, leaning over the side to wrap both my girls in my arms. Tucked between her parents, Alis seems to finally understand that she is safe, and the sniffling subsides. Dauntless whickers and lips at Pip’s hair, concerned.
Capplederry leaps over the verge then, and the woman yelps, burying her face in Bevel’s chest, her trembling increasing.
“No, it’s safe.” Bevel soothes her, petting down her long, corn-silk colored hair. It is lucky that he has no blood on his hands, for I fear it would stain. “He won’t hurt us.”
Capplederry slinks close, sniffing at the woman and purring questioningly, proving his tameness, and the woman finally looks up. I quickly revise my assumptions about her, for she is no woman—she is a lass, and could not be more than fifteen. Her eyes are red-rimmed with her fearful sobs, but are a vivid violet color. Her salt-stained cheeks are flushed a delicate pink, and every movement of her slim, graceful limbs reminds me of the calculated but deceptively effortless movements of a ballerina. Her dress, once pearl-white, is stained pink and red in a spread of handprints that, if I were seeing it from further away, I might mistake for the deliberate pattern of cherry blossoms.
Oh, dear.
Let it never be said that my Writer does not like his women ornamental, especially when they are hurt or scared. If this is how beautiful the women who suffer for the sake of my brother’s adventures are, it is no wonder Kintyre Turn and Bevel Dom slept a swath through Hain. It is, instead, more a wonder that Wyndam is an only child.
“By the Writer,” I can’t help but mutter. “Honestly? This is what is happening now?”
“What?” Pip asks, looking up to watch Kintyre approach.
“A damsel in distress,” I scoff. “And just look at my brother.”
Kintyre has his chest puffed out, his seduction-face on, his best grin sparkling in the sunlight. The lass cranes her head around to watch him approach and gasps, her ample and perky bosom bouncing with each fear-induced pant in her obnoxiously tight corset. Her overdress hangs in artful, shimmering strips off her shoulders and waist, her chemise equally torn, leaving her undergarments on full and scandalous display.
“Never mind your brother,” Pip says softly. “Look at your nephew.”
Wyndam, unlike Kintyre, looks completely poleaxed. I have no trouble at all imagining that this is the first young woman he has seen in such a state of undress since he left The Salty Queen, and probably the first he wasn’t related to or grew up with. And, in the manner of fantasy tropes, none of the women of Turnshire or Turn Hall are beautiful in the way this woman is. They are dowdy, or motherly, or sweetly freckled. Wives and mothers are not beautiful here. (Though of course, I disagree and think my wife is very beautiful indeed.)
But it takes an adventure to cross paths with a truly gorgeous woman.
I am, once again, disgusted by my creator and his narrow, sexist view of feminine beauty.
Above the lass’s head, Bevel also catches sight of Kintyre’s preening approach, and his expression stiffens, his sapphire eyes narrowing into dark pools of jealous anger. Perhaps it is instinct by now, but it is very bad form for my brother to be preening at a damsel in distress at all, let alone in front of his Paired.
But when Kintyre draws up to the front of the cart, it is not the young woman toward whom he swoops, but to his trothed. His eyes, his smile, his puffing chest all point toward his Pair, and Bevel’s posture slumps with relief when Kintyre bends low and presses a fervent, passionate kiss to Bevel’s mouth.
Even after two years and a Pairing ceremony, it seems that Bevel Dom holds on to his secret fears that my brother’s affections might not run as deeply as his own. Kintyre is a great lover of female flesh, that is certainly no secret, but it seems that his love of Bevel has outbalanced even that. And it seems that Bevel sometimes requires a reminder.
“Well then,” Pip says, clearing her throat. “That’s certainly . . . pornographic.”
Dauntless paws the ground, nostrils flaring, clearly ready to get away from the mud that reeks of blood, and loosed bowels, and the faintest sweet taint of flesh just starting to rot in the spring sunshine. But Kintyre’s adoration must be catching, for I kiss my wife with more restraint but no less love than my brother is using to devour his trothed. Relief is relief. Then I dismount to nudge Capplederry away from the maiden’s side and toward the yoke when it’s clear that Wyndam has not the brainpower to hitch the cat back up to the cart.
Wyndam practically dislocates his head to keep his eyes on the maid, and eventually, simply turns all the way around on Capplederry’s back. The great cat sits and begins to wash the Red Cap blood off its muzzle with its paws and tongue, ignoring me as I hook it back up. The maiden’s eyes flow away from Kintyre and Bevel’s display. They land on Wyndam and get stuck there, and I must bite my tongue to keep back a snort. I am suddenly and amusingly reminded of the tale of young lovers from the Writer’s world named Romeo and Juliet.
I clear my throat, hoping to gain either Kintyre or Wyndam’s attention, and only succeed in drawing Pip’s. She grins at me, taking in both sets of twitterpated Turns, and jerks her head toward the road. Filled with the same impish glee as my wife, I stealthily remount Dauntless and cluck him forward. Capplederry, never liking to be left behind, immediately follows in his wake.
The cart lurches, and Bevel and Kintyre are broken apart. Bevel topples sideways on the driver’s seat, and Kintyre has to grab at Karl’s pommel to keep from being tugged out of the saddle and into the bloody mud. Wyndam lurches and grabs the back strap of Capplederry’s harness, mouthing an invective at me, but not speaking it aloud, probably for fear of Bevel tanning
him over it.
The maiden blinks, and then seems to realize where she is and what she is not wearing. She clutches a bloody pillow to her front to preserve her modesty.
“Come along, lovebirds,” I say, to no one in particular, clucking Capplederry into a faster trot.
“Piss off, Forssy,” Bevel says, scrambling to right himself on the bench.
“I’m not staying here a moment longer,” I reply. “Not even to allow you to further acquaint yourself with the back of my brother’s teeth.”
The maiden giggles and flushes, hiding her face in the pillow, clearly mortified by my lack of gallantry. Wyndam puffs himself up, looking like a miniature version of his father, and resumes staring at her like she is a warm oasis in an arctic tundra. He must have jammed his smallest finger on the hilt of his curved sword, for he rubs it absentmindedly, as if working out a kink.
“We gotta get everyone cleaned up and patched,” Pip agrees, wetting the cuff of her shirt with her tongue and using it to scrub at some of the blood the maiden had gotten on Alis’s cheek while she was shushing the babe away. “And we are not camping out by the side of the road around here to do it.”
“No, agreed. Absolutely not. What’s nearby?” Kintyre asks, getting himself back up onto the saddle with some undignified wriggling. He snatches another one of the ruined pillows off the cart and wipes the blood from Foesmiter.
Bevel stands cautiously, in case Capplederry lurches the cart again, and looks around, clearly attempting to slot the landscape into a mental map. “Ah!” he says, face lighting up. “I think we’re just north of Gwillfifeshire.”
“Oh,” Kintyre says, his own expression blossoming into a matching grin. “The Pern!”
“That was an excellent meat pie,” Bevel says. “Maybe this time I can get the Goodwoman to share the recipe?”
“And it will be good to look in on Thoma and Mandikin.”
I assume they are referring to one of the smaller adventures that Bevel did not write down—there were many—for I do not know what they are talking about. And wherever this Gwillfifeshire is, it must be a very sleepy, well-behaved sort of town, for it never came to my attention while I was Shadow Hand.
“Ah,” Bevel says, grinning, his thumbs hooked into his belt. “It’ll be just the place to stay for the night! The Pern has lovely beds.”
A collective groan of relief goes up. I had forgotten the quiet, aching pains of being so long on the road, of rocking for so many hours each day in a saddle, and of sleeping on hard ground.
That settled, and with Bevel feeling back in control now that he has our destination mapped out, Kintyre pulls Karl up beside the bench so he and Bevel can chat. The way Kintyre’s head swivels, his eyes never leaving the field beside the road, nor his hand Foesmiter’s hilt, he has clearly designated himself our watch.
He snaps once at Wyndam to keep his eyes on the other side of the road, and Wyndam mulishly obeys for about seven paces before they drift back toward the still huddling maiden. Realizing that someone must keep their eyes on Kintyre’s blind spot, I set myself to the task instead, leaving only Pip to talk to the young woman.
My wife is clever and sees what needs doing. She leaves me to my watch duty, and seems to appoint herself the one to calm and coddle the maiden. After a moment, I hear her say, “Here, hold Alis for me, will you?” Ah, the never-ending advantages of babies as distractions! “I’m going to look at your legs. Thanks. Oh, that’s good, none of this looks too deep.”
“They ran through my skirts more than my skin,” the maiden says shakily. Her voice is sweet, and high, just this side of annoying or squeaky. In contrast with Pip’s huskier, womanly voice and Canadian accent, the difference is stark.
“That’s one advantage to dresses in this setting, then,” Pip acknowledges. “What’s your name?”
“La-Lanaea,” the young woman says, and her name is like a clear bell on a spring evening.
Oh dear. It is a very good thing that Kintyre seem so sunk in Bevel, because I know exactly where this would be heading otherwise. Though, knowing now that Wyndam is very much his father’s son when it comes to a pretty face, I wonder if Kintyre’s confidence with women has passed on to the latest generation. The fact that Wyndam is still perched atop Capplederry and gawping instead of beside the maiden and soothing her hurts himself tells me it might not have.
“And where are you from, Lanaea?” Pip asks.
“Sherwilde,” she says. “Ouch! That stings!”
“Yeah, sorry, hold on, I have the numbing ointment in . . . ah, here’s the pouch.”
There is the sound of Pip applying Mother Mouth’s salve, and then, tentatively, Alis saying, “Ma ma maaa?”
“Hi, baby,” Pip says.
“Ma ma!” Alis yowls. “No, no, no, no!”
“Oh!” Lanaea says. “She’s fussy.”
“She’s still scared. Forsyth, can you . . . ?”
I fall back and accept Alis and her scarf-wrap when Pip hands her over. “Da da daaaa da daaa!” Alis complains.
“It’s all over now, sweeting,” I say. “I promise.”
“‘Issess, ‘issess,” Alis begs, and as soon as I have her secure and have urged Dauntless back to the head of the line, I obligingly kiss the palms of her hands and the top of her head, over and over again, until Alis is laughing at the tickling sensation of my four-day stubble, all fear forgotten.
By now, Bevel must be listening in, for he adds, “Why are you so far south, Mistress Lanaea? Sherwilde is near Kingskeep. Do you have an escort, or . . . ?”
There is an awkward silence as we all wait for Lanaea’s answer.
“My father sent me away,” Lanaea says. “I have family in Miliway, you see, and father was worried about . . . her.”
“He sent you alone?” Bevel presses.
“I . . . yes. I am proficient with a bow, and Irtax is a deer. She is fleet . . . was fleet—” she sobs, and Pip makes soothing sounds.
“I’ve never heard of Red Caps in Miliway,” Kintyre says. “Bevel, aren’t they usually—”
“Significantly further south, yeah,” Bevel agrees. “They usually stay around the foothills of the Cinch.”
“What did you mean, your father was worried about her?” Pip asks, which is very good, for I was wondering the same.
“Do you mean you haven’t heard?” Lanaea asks, incredulous. “There is a witch roaming Hain! Roaming the world, they say. She leaves bodies in her wake, and can summon the storm to her very hands! She is a magpie thief, and nobody knows what she will value, only that when she finds it, she will take it and leave ruin in her wake. She came to Sherwilde, and . . . she forced herself on a . . . and the dryad will be scarred for life . . .” She sobs again, and does not finish her sentence.
“A witch?” Pip asks, flatly, and for once I realize that Pip has no clue how dangerous such a powerful, angry creature can be. She has not grown up fearing the tales of witches, for no such things exist in her realm. There, those who call themselves witches are merely humans, with no magic but a goodly religious respect for nature and living creatures. Whereas I know of witches, real witches. I have feared them. But Kintyre and Bevel have actually battled one. And according to Bevel’s scrolls, it was no easy task.
I turn to gauge the reactions of everyone behind me and catch a flash of fear and guilt passing over Wyndam’s features as swiftly as a cloud over the moon.
Hm. Interesting.
The lad knows something of this witch, I would stake money on it.
Though Pip asks Lanaea a few more questions, the maiden seems reluctant to explain further, too shaken by her ordeal and too fearful of the witch to speak of her louder than a whisper. Pip helps the maiden out of her ragged, torn dress and into one of the two I had persuaded Pip to pack for our journey. Then Lanaea gorges herself on some of our cold rations and falls into a fitful sleep. Pip, I notice when I tear my eyes off the road, is scribbling on the Excel, muttering something about a witch driving out Red Caps, and stars
going out.
Kintyre’s vigil remains steady, but he and Bevel resume their conversation in hushed tones.
“We should find someone in Gwillfifeshire with soldier’s training to take her to her family here in Miliway,” Kintyre says softly. “She can’t go on her own.”
“You know, there was a time you would have offered to take her with us, or escort her home yourself, or . . . you know . . .” Bevel says, voice low, but not so low that I couldn’t catch what he was saying. The rest of what Kintyre might have offered Lanaea remains unspoken, but not unknown.
“I’m too old for that nonsense,” Kintyre says softly. “Besides, I have all that I want here, don’t I?”
Another wet sound, and I turn my attention back to the fields, duly punished for eavesdropping by having to listen to my brother kissing Bevel some more. I can now well believe that the tales of their post-battle bedsport romps are not as much an exaggeration as I first thought when reading Bevel’s scrolls. Kintyre seems to be quite amorous when his blood is up.
And while my brother is preoccupied, I ponder on the question of why, not once, not even in the heat of battle, I have never heard my nephew’s voice.
Swords
Her rage and wrath carry her far, and Solinde drifts over the mountains, lost in thought. Her cloud dissipates as her strength wanes, and Solinde must descend and rest. Deal-Makers do not need to eat, but they are liquid in more ways than they are solid, and Solinde is parched.
A small town beckons from the foothills of the Cinch Mountains, and she climbs toward it. She learns it is called Cinchside, and she accepts water from one of the goat drovers standing by the well in the center of the town square to refresh both herself and her magic.
In her heart, she feels the storm. On her finger, she feels the tug of the golden thread. Connected.
I will rest, and then I will find you, she vows. As her rage cools, her heart settles. Her mind clears, and she decides that being flung away from the battle was a fortuitous turn of fate.