by Frank Miller
A child took Nimue’s hand as she entered the cavern. Nimue was unnerved at first by the sackcloth the child wore over her face, except for a small tear to allow her sight through one blinking eye. Nimue could only imagine the disfigurement beneath, and what horrors must have caused it. She squeezed the child’s hand and knelt beside her. “And what’s your name?”
The child was silent.
“Oh come now, if you don’t answer, what do I call you?”
“Ghost,” she whispered, though her voice was muffled.
“Ghost, is it? I’m not sure that’s the name your mother gave you, but it will suffice for now.” Nimue took her shoulders. “You’re safe here, Ghost, do you understand? I won’t let anyone hurt you here.”
Ghost nodded. Winking at her, Nimue stood and led her through the oppressive atmosphere of the camp, and within a few moments they found Squirrel tucked in a nook in the wall. He hopped down and gave Nimue a hug, glancing sideways at Ghost.
Nimue made introductions. “Ghost, this is Squirrel, who often gets into trouble but is otherwise a lovely little fellow. Squirrel, can you show Ghost around?”
Squirrel looked up pleadingly at Nimue, who smiled at him sternly in return.
“Fine,” Squirrel sighed. “Come on, I found some dead rats this way.” Ghost was reluctant to let go of Nimue, but after a brief tug-of-war, she resigned herself to Squirrel’s care.
Squirrel dashed ahead of Ghost, who struggled to keep up, although Squirrel jabbered as though she were right next to him. “It’s gotten crowded, so I keep to the deep tunnels. This cave is huge! I must’ve crawled a mile. I found a spider as big as my fist. He tried to run straight at my face. My papa told me all the animals get quite fierce in the caves because there isn’t enough food, so they’re hungry and mean all the time.” Squirrel got down on his hands and knees, preparing to wiggle into a dangerously narrow crevice. He turned back to Ghost. “Do you want to see the rats or not?”
Ghost hesitated, then climbed down onto her hands and knees to follow Squirrel. Together they squeezed along for several feet until the caves opened up, allowing them to sit upright. All along, Squirrel kept talking: “I mean, it’s the same as around here, isn’t it? The Tusks are mean to begin with. Now that we’re down to one bowl of porridge a day, they’ll fight with anyone. I’d never met Tusks before. Have you? You’re not Tusk, are you?”
Ghost shook her head.
“So, what clan are you with?” Squirrel asked.
Ghost shrugged.
“You don’t know?” Squirrel said, incredulous.
From the way they were seated, Squirrel could see strange scars on Ghost’s right calf. Four slashes and a half moon. They looked man-made. Like a branding.
“What’re those?” Squirrel asked, pointing to her leg.
“Squirrel, are you in there?” called a familiar voice.
Squirrel sighed. “It’s Morgan. That woman gives me no rest.” As Squirrel turned his head to address her, Ghost picked up a sharp rock and raised it to strike the back of his skull. “What is it?” he shouted back.
“You were supposed to fill these water buckets while I was gone!” Morgan answered.
Squirrel began crawling back the way he’d come and Ghost missed her opportunity. She lowered the rock. “You said it could wait!” he argued.
“I never said that!”
As Squirrel wriggled back to the main cavern, Ghost pulled the sackcloth from her head to breathe easier. The flesh that had melted over her mouth and her ruined nose made breathing difficult, just as her burned left eye kept her vision weak, but Sister Iris smiled all the same. She had found the witch’s nest, and now she would kill her.
THIRTY-NINE
NIMUE, MORGAN, AND KAZE ENTERED the chamber where tribal elders weighed camp decisions. The mood was tense. The farm fires had pushed the camp to its breaking point. Cattle had been slaughtered and hundreds of barns were burning and with them any hope of food for the starving refugees. Making matters worse, the fires were spreading to the surrounding forests, the smoke driving deer and smaller game out of the Minotaur Valley, forcing the Fey hunters to travel farther and farther into Red Paladin territory.
Morgan returned from giving Squirrel his orders and stood in the back, ignoring the glares of some of the Fey Kind about the presence of Man Blood at their tribal meeting.
In the meantime, Gawain tried to find common ground with the Elders. “Staying here is no plan,” he reminded them.
Wroth of the Tusks slammed a fist upon the boulder that had become the Druids’ council table. The blow echoed through the uneven ceilings of the caves. “Gar’tuth ach! Li’amach resh oo grev nesh!”
One of Wroth’s sons—Mogwan—interpreted: “He won’t lead what’s left of his kind to slaughter on the open road.”
Cora of the Fauns stood her ground. “And what you suggest? That we sit and starve like newborns?” Cora, like Nimue, was the daughter of her clan’s Arch Druid and had become the de facto leader of her kind. She also shared her clan’s deep antipathy for Tusks.
Wroth slammed a fist on his chest. “Bech a’lach, ne’beth alam.”
“We forage. We survive,” Mogwan said.
“On our land! Stealing our food!” Cora rebuked.
Gawain pinched the bridge of his nose as the arguing between clans resumed. At issue was a Faun proposal to escape to the south by hugging close to the King’s Road and using Moon Wings and Plogs as scouts and spies to spot Red Paladin checkpoints. The only problem was, there was no guarantee that Fey refugees, having safely crossed the Minotaurs, would be met with any less violence by the Viking warlords who held the southern ports and therefore the Fey Kind hopes of exodus by sea.
Nimue found the debate difficult to follow, given the varying dialects and clan languages and the occasional English speaker.
“We’ll take our chances in the peaks,” groused Jekka, Cliff Walker elder, her sagging arms covered in tattoos.
A tall Storm Crafter who, like his kind, was hairless and unmoved by the cold, snarled in his native tongue, “Awl nos chirac nijan?”
Nimue turned to Kaze, who translated: “What of the rest of us?”
“I’ve lost fifteen of my own blood. A generation wiped away. My people have to come first. We can’t hide you all.” Jekka shrugged, weary of the struggle.
Nuryss of the Snakes spat, “Klik kata ak took!”
Kaze whispered, “He says, ‘Just like a Cliff Walker to look down on the rest of us.’ ”
Jekka bristled. “And what has your kind ever done for any of us, except sow discord? And now you want our help?”
“We agreed to stay together,” Gawain reminded everyone, but he wasn’t heard above the shouting. Fear and rage and sorrow boiled over and found fuel in tribal disputes older than the caves that sheltered them.
A piercing light and a sub-aural hum silenced them all. Every head turned to Nimue, holding the Devil’s Tooth in her fist. She walked forward and set the sword on the boulder. The other Fey Folk brooded on the sword and remained silent.
Nimue’s voice shook and her skin tingled as she felt the presence of her mother beside her. Regal. Forthright. “We’re not running, not hiding, not abandoning our own kind. Shame on the one who turns her back on her brother. Or sister. We’ve all lost mothers and brothers, sons and friends. We are all we have. We are all that stands between our kind and annihilation. Our languages, our rituals, our history, we’re the only thing that keeps Carden’s river of fire from washing them away.”
The caves were quiet but restless. Nimue knew the moment wouldn’t last.
Gawain nodded at this. “And what do you propose?”
“How far is the town of Cinder?” she asked, her voice steady.
“Ten miles south from Cinder’s Gate,” Morgan answered from the back.
Gawain shook his head, anticipating her proposal. “It’s no refuge for us. Red Paladins occupied it a fortnight ago.”
“And what gives them that r
ight?” Nimue asked.
Gawain gave her a quizzical look. “They have no right. They just take.”
With Lenore clear and beautiful in her mind, Nimue spoke. “This is our land. These are our trees. Our shadows. Our caves. Our tunnels. We know these lands and these trails. Why should we leave? Carden is the invader. His paladins are the invaders. Let us treat them like the invaders they are.”
Lenore’s voice was quiet but firm: Then teach them. Help them understand. Because one day you’ll have to help lead them. When I’m gone—
A few of the Fey Kind nodded in accord, but Gawain tempered Nimue’s argument. “Carden has thousands of fighters. We cannot take him head-on.”
She felt the Hidden act as a bellows in her stomach, coaxing the growing fire, a power not lashing out but yielding to her will, awaiting her command. The Sword of Power seemed to glow under her gaze. She spoke with Lenore’s certainty. “I agree, we cannot win a war with Carden. But we can frustrate him, thwart him, put him on the defensive, and in the meantime save as many as we can from his crosses. I say we turn the land against him. Make him fear the cliffs.” Nimue looked at the Cliff Walkers. “And the glades.” She glanced at the Snakes. “Make them fear the shadows. I’ve seen these paladins up close. They aren’t devils. They’re men. Flesh and blood. They scream and bleed like we do. So let’s make them. They’ve taken our land, so let us take it back!”
Wroth of the Tusks pounded his fist upon the boulder again, this time in approval. The Snakes stomped their feet along with the Storm Crafters. Morgan smiled, eyes shining, as gradually all the Fey Kind were slamming their fists or stomping their feet in approval. Gawain turned to Nimue, concern etched on his brow, but she felt a strange serenity. Part of it was the certainty of having the sword, and the vast power of the Hidden beyond it. But the other part was relief. There would be no more running. They would take the fight to the Red Paladins, and come fire, death, or torture, the Wolf-Blood Witch would have her blood.
“WE’RE NOT RUNNING, NOT HIDING, NOT ABANDONING OUR OWN KIND.”
FORTY
CINDER WAS A LARGER TOWN than Hawksbridge, numbering almost five thousand residents, and was tucked in a valley of low mountains at the southern end of the Minotaurs, attracting immigrants and laborers from both the port cities and the northern lands: Aquitania, Francia, and England. It was surrounded by steep and dramatic waterfalls that fed a number of streams meeting at the Boar River, which wended its way through the heart of the small city and fed the moats of the town gates and the smaller moats of the lord’s castle as well as feeding trade to the rest of southern Francia.
The smoke of the farm fires loomed over Cinder like a yellow storm cloud and curled around the merlons of the ramparts. The Red Paladins patrolling those walls held their hoods over their mouths to avoid breathing the acrid air.
It was just past dawn and the gates were already raucous with peasant workers seeking shelter, and farmers and their families begging for food, not to mention the herders with their dozens of bleating sheep and goats, horses, and cows rescued hours before from burning barns. Where normally oxcarts and trade wagons would form a line half a mile long, only a handful of sellers arrived for market day. They were hastily led inside while Red Paladins and the footmen of Lord Ector, Cinder’s chief magistrate, argued with the gathering mob, most of whom were demanding reparations for, and protection from, the spreading fires.
Into this chaos, a single hooded rider emerged from the smoke and the dense green forest about a quarter mile from the road and the gates of Cinder. The Red Paladins atop the wall took notice as the rider paused and flipped back her hood. Nimue stared at the Red Paladins on the wall. Then she threw aside her robes and drew the Sword of Power, raising it above her head, the blade flaring in the sun like a torch. See it, you bastards? Come, then. Come and take it from me.
“The witch!” one of them cried. Another quickly grabbed a longbow and fired an arrow at Nimue, who did not move as it landed in the brush a dozen yards away.
“The Wolf-Blood Witch! The sword! She carries the sword! It’s the witch! It’s her! The Devil’s Tooth!” These calls were now racing up and down the walls, and in a matter of minutes one hundred Red Paladins galloped through the gates, blasted past the bereft farmers and their livestock, and stormed across the road and into the brush. Nimue wheeled around, tempted to charge them. Stay with the plan, fool. And instead she bolted into the forest, luring them into a chase.
Anax was the commander of the Red Paladin company and a seasoned killer, with bony features and a coarse black tonsure to match his beard. He feared no witches and bemoaned the bed-wetters he led, with their superstitions and silly gossip. Anax believed in the god of steel and felt the comfort of his bastard sword banging against his leg as he rode deep into the forest.
“Spread out!” he barked, and red robes fanned out on his right and his left. The smoke and the mists cut down on visibility. The witch appeared to be weaving between the trees some two hundred yards ahead. “Watch the trees!” he ordered, assuming the witch was organizing an ambush. But Anax felt little fear of it. True, some paladins had died at the witch’s hand. But that’s what you get for putting a child in command, Anax thought with disgust. The Ghost Child. The Green Knight had sparked a tiny rebellion in some of the lower hills, a few archers here and there; some had been decent shots, but for the most part the Fey Kind were a cowardly lot that showed little will to fight, from his experience. And he had plenty of experience. Anax had personally seen twenty villages burned and had cut down more than a hundred of the monsters, some with horns coming out of their throats, others with strange, almost see-through skin, others covered in slime who lived under the mud. They died all the same and begged all the same and burned all the same. The witch would be a nice prize, he mused. The sword alone would earn him great credit with the pope, a nice assignment with the Trinity, perhaps, somewhere out of the mud and the cold.
As the trees closed in, Anax noted stick figures hanging from hundreds of branches throughout the wood. They brushed against the paladins’ shoulders as they passed. Some of the figures were wrapped in entrails, others had feathers and blood stuck to their limbs, others were smeared with animal feces. Anax heard his boys starting to mutter in frightened whispers. “Quiet!” he hissed.
Thump! Something large scampered above their heads.
“Trees!” several Red Paladins shouted. A few of the archers nocked arrows to their bows and fired into the canopy.
Anax saw nothing. The smoke was thick above their heads.
“Commander!” Anax turned to the voice, very far away. One of his own. “Commander, where are you?” another Red Paladin shouted.
“Oy, who is that?” Anax swung around to his company.
But he was alone.
Fifty Red Paladins had vanished in the smoke.
“Commander?” Another frightened Red Paladin yelled for him from somewhere deep in the trees.
“I’m here!” Anax called back. “Ride to my voice!”
Had he ridden off course? Only seconds had passed. Where was his company? He drew his sword and swiped at the totems dangling all around him. “Ride to my voice!” he called again, hurrying his pace.
“Commander Anax!” This voice came from behind him. Anax turned his horse and saw a group of red robes fifty yards away. “Stay in formation!” he yelled. “I’ll come to you!” He whickered and dug in his heels, urging his mount forward, but she fought him and reared up as a rushing sound stirred in front of him. It sounded like a diverted river, turning into a roar as hundreds of shrieking ravens flooded the wood from all sides, their heavy bodies thudding against Anax and his horse, sharp beaks drawing blood on his cheeks and arms and calves. Anax struck the ground hard, struggled to his feet, and chopped blindly, severing birds in two all around him until, finally, the swarm relented, hundreds of them perching on the skeletal branches above his head. His whinnying horse, its eyes gouged out, dashed wildly into the mists in a panic.
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br /> Then Anax heard the screams. They were all around him. Through glimpses in the fog and smoke he saw red robes hurtling upward into the trees. How?
“They’re in the ground! They’re in the ground!” came more panicked cries. Anax stumbled toward the tortured voices, though he could not place them. Begging calls for help echoed through the wood. The gurgle of men drowning.
“Sound off!” Anax commanded. He stumbled ahead and saw half of one of his men, arms flailing, the rest trapped in the ground, in quicksand, Anax assumed. He ran to the boy and grabbed his arms.
The boy had blood in his mouth. “It’s eating me!” he screamed, before succumbing to the sucking earth and vanishing away.
Anax shielded his head as branches crashed noisily above him and a Red Paladin struck the dirt like a bag of rocks. The monk’s head had been twisted front to back. Dead eyes stared up at Anax, and his own eyes darted to the treetops, where shadows bounded behind the smoke.
“Show yourselves!” Anax spit.
The dirt buckled upward around him and Anax stabbed at the mud repeatedly, falling backward and kicking away. He turned and fell into a run, chased by the panicked and agonized cries of his Red Paladin company.
Suddenly a root caught his foot, and Anax fell face-first into the dirt. He looked up at the Wolf-Blood Witch. She walked toward him. So small. Just a waif. Anax snarled and tried to swing his sword, but a tree root had wrapped around his arm at the elbow. He turned, horrified, as another root wormed out of the mud and constricted around his bicep like a snake.