No, Chall told himself that the man’s fate was his own, that he didn’t care, just as he told himself that who the boy was and why he traveled with him made no difference. The problem, though, was that while Chall had always been good at lying, he—like a chef who despises his own cooking—had never been able to swallow his own lies. He had tried, of course, had tried for years and years so that, until the dream, he had been able to entertain the fantasy that he had even succeeded. But like the light shining on the innkeeper’s flesh—and his own, for that matter—there was one truth that could not be denied. Close scrutiny often reveals ugly truths.
“Shit,” he said for the third time since waking. Then he saw the guards—four of them now—approaching, and he sighed, holding up hands which had moments before been busy trying to wrangle and conceal his dangling bits. “Hi there,” Chall said as they walked up. “I’m looking for a place to rest. Tell me, do you know if the dungeons have any spare rooms?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The guests were eating and drinking, celebrating the treaty with the Fey.
That was when the Crimson Prince walked into the dining hall.
But it was not he—not even his blood-spattered clothes—which drew the gaze of everyone present.
Instead, it was the macabre bundle he carried before him.
A bloody, severed head. But not just any head. No, this was the head of the Fey king, Yeladrian.
The same Fey king which had granted us a place to stay here, in the Known Lands.
The same Yeladrian with whom Princes Bernard and Feledias had so recently signed a treaty.
That was how the Fey Wars began. With a bloody head in a dining hall.
—Exiled Historian to the Crown Petran Quinn
His hand ached. It was a strange feeling, that ache. Perhaps he had felt it before, surely he must have, but he didn’t remember it. And as he walked, the boy trudging along silently—though not so silently as to make his misery and disapproval unclear—Cutter realized that the ache wasn’t just in his hand but all the way up his arm. An uncomfortable ache. And there was something else, too, something that wasn’t just physical, something that the old him would have mocked. It was a stirring in his chest that he hadn’t been able to define at first and that, after some consideration, he thought must be guilt. Guilt and maybe shame at what he had done to the Fey creature.
He had thought he had left the man he had once been—the man whose rage had sought blood unending—behind him. He had thought himself scoured of any such feelings as anger or hate, joy or love, but then he had seen the creature changing behind the boy, showing its true self. He had known what it had intended, what it had meant to do, and the rage had come rushing back as if it had never left. And now he realized that perhaps it had not, had only been sleeping the way a bear might in the winter, waiting for when it would be roused to wakefulness once more.
He told himself that he had saved the boy’s life—which was true—told himself, also, that he had not enjoyed doing it, had done what he’d done only out of necessity, not for any sort of perverse pleasure. On that second part, though, he was uncertain, and it was that uncertainty which plagued his footsteps as he walked, which made him feel the boy’s sullen stare on him as an uncomfortable pressure when the him from the past would have laughed such a thing away as if of no consequence.
Foolish, he knew, to start caring about what people thought of him now. He was what he was. Perhaps he had been born to it or perhaps he had molded himself into the shape he now was over the years the way a sculptor molded his clay until he got the exact shape he wanted. In the end, it didn’t matter. What did was that he was a killer, that and nothing else. A monster, in truth, and no amount of regret or shame would change that.
He told himself that it didn’t matter. The boy was alive—that was all that mattered. Alive and breathing, though considering the odds they faced, there was no way of knowing how long that would remain the case.
“Where are we going?”
This from the boy, each word colored in disapproval. “Farther,” Cutter said, not bothering to turn.
“Farther,” the boy repeated. “How much farther?”
Cutter gave him no answer, for he had none to give. He knew that each step they took into Fey lands increased their peril, knew that, by now, the creatures of the Black Woods would have found their companion dead and would be stirring to action. He did not doubt that some of them watched him and the boy already, marking their progress, scheming schemes and plotting plots. But they could not turn around, not yet, for he knew also that the men—his brother no doubt among them—were following, just as he knew that his brother’s hatred would not allow him to balk at entering the Black Woods, that he would not so easily watch his prey escape. No, he would come, he and his men, and should Cutter and the boy stop, should they turn around now, it was only a matter of time before they would be found.
So, then, he made one bad choice to avoid making another. Sometimes, it seemed to him that that was all his life had ever been, choosing one evil over another. Or, perhaps, it was that evil men who lived evil lives only found themselves confronted with evil choices. The how of it didn’t really matter, though. What did was putting as much distance as he could between the men pursuing him and the boy, of keeping the boy safe for as long as he could. It would not be forever, he knew, perhaps would not be more than a day, but he would do it for as long as he could. There was nothing else.
He would do it because she had asked him to.
Come no further, Destroyer. Kingslayer. You are not welcome here.
The words were not spoken, as such, but floated to him as if carried on the breeze, formed in the soft sway of tree branches overhead and the rustle of their leaves. It did not sound like a man but seemed as if the Woods themselves had been given a voice. The boy heard it too, evidence of which could be seen in the surprised sound he made. “Cutter?” he asked, his voice sounding soft and frightened and far younger than his years. “What was that?”
Cutter heard the rustling of undergrowth as the unseen speaker moved toward them, but even had he not, he would have felt its presence as it drew closer, so he only waited, saying nothing. The boy would have his answer soon enough and, if Cutter was any judge, he doubted it would be one he liked. Most, ignorant of the Fey and their ways, would have called what appeared out of the trees, less than a dozen feet away from where Cutter and the boy stood, a demon. They would have been wrong, of course, but he could not have blamed them for thinking so just as he could not blame the boy for his panicked gasp.
The creature was ten feet tall at the least, dwarfing Cutter the way he normally dwarfed other men and women. Its body was a deep, vertiginous green, its face an ebony darker than night itself and its eyes—which were three or four times larger than a man’s—were of a deep, vibrant green which made Cutter think of great massive forests with trees which had existed since the beginning of time. A forest in which ancient things moved and roamed. An incredible creature, terrible and beautiful at the same time, and a creature who Cutter recognized.
“Shadelaresh,” he said.
The creature shifted, its green eyes flashing a deep dark green so dark it was almost black. Its great mouth opened wide displaying teeth which looked as if they were made of bark. It yawned open, that portal, and the creature tilted its head back. A voice began to emerge, though without any movements of the creature’s mouth. And not a single voice but what sounded like dozens, all whispering together, slightly out of sync so that it made a fading sort of echo.
No one has called me that name in fifteen of your years, mortal. None since your great betrayal.
“Cutter,” the boy said, stepping up beside him, “we should go. There’s only the one and—”
Cutter put a hand on the youth’s arm. “It’s too late, lad. They’re all around us now. Only look in the trees.”
The boy did, but Cutter did not bother. He knew well what he would see there, figures shifting and mov
ing at the trunks of the trees, figures which might have been thought to be just trees themselves, if not for the intent in their green gazes. They were creatures similar to the one before him, though much smaller, much younger than this being who had lived for countless centuries and which was now regarding him with unmistakable hatred despite its alien appearance.
“What does he want?” Matt whispered.
“Not a ‘he,’ lad.”
“It’s…a woman then?”
“No, not as such. The Fey often do not have genders, not at least as we think of them.” The boy opened his mouth, clearly preparing to ask another question, dozens of them, likely, but Cutter held up a hand, silencing him, as he looked back to the creature. “What would you have me call you, then?”
The creature studied him with those deep green eyes for what might have been over a minute then it tilted its head backward and its mouth yawned open once again. I want nothing from you Kingslayer, Enemy of the Fey. Nothing except your death.
The creature started forward then in a stride several times longer than a mortal’s, and as it did the wind began to pick up. Cutter, had he been alone, might have stood and let the creature have its way, would have allowed it to do with him what he would, perhaps even thanked it, before the end. He was not alone, though. The boy was with him, the boy who was ignorant and innocent of the past and who would, if the creature was allowed to work its will, suffer for crimes he did not commit. Crimes which could be laid solely at Cutter’s feet.
“Shadelaresh, I hereby claim my boon,” Cutter said quickly. “I call on the faithfulness of the Fey.”
The creature froze, its hands working at its sides, its green eyes flashing as if some great storm raged behind them. You dare.
The words came hissing on the wind, and Cutter stood as snow drifts rushed around him, carried on the heavy gust. You who have so wronged the Fey dare demand a boon, dare question our own faithfulness. No, Destroyer. Your boon will be an end, an end in which your bones are crushed, and the great sentinels shall look on, their branches swaying with their laughter. And my promise, out of my faithfulness, is that it will be a long time coming, that eons will be dedicated to your suffering, that mortal and Fey alike will blanch when they hear of it, will whisper cautionary tales to their little ones until parent and child alike lie frightened in their beds at the very thought of such an end.
Words to inspire fear in the bravest of men, yes, but Cutter had long since stopped thinking of himself as a man. He was far less than that. A monster and that only, and monsters had little to fear. “Huh,” he grunted. “I had not thought so little of Fey promises as that. Certainly, your king, Yeladrian, when granting me the boon from saving his life, spoke in great length about the faithfulness of the Fey. I must admit I am sad to see that this is no more true than so many of the other stories of your people.”
The wind grew even more powerful then, and the boy stumbled, would have fallen, had Cutter not reached out and steadied him. Clouds began to gather in the previously clear sky, impossibly fast, great dark shapes full of menace and power. Cutter said nothing, only waited, watching the creature as the impossible storm grew worse and worse by the moment. Then, as abruptly as it had come, the storm vanished, and as the snow—kicked up by the gusts—slowly settled to the ground once more, he was left staring at the creature, feeling its hatred, its fury, radiate from it in waves.
What do you want? Have you come for your weapon? Have you come seeking the Breaker of Pacts?
“No.” The word was out of his mouth before he realized it, growled in a harsh hiss.
The creature cocked its head the slightest amount, and he could feel those great green eyes studying him. What did they see, he wondered? And how much? He did not doubt that they saw far more of him than most who looked upon him, saw more of him, he suspected, than he knew himself. Finally, the creature tilted its head back again, and another gust of wind kicked up, though this one was far different than the ones before. This one sounded as if it carried laughter on it, the laughter of thousands.
I see, the creature said.
“What?” Cutter asked, unable to help himself despite the fact that he was afraid of how it might answer. “What do you see?”
Much, Kingslayer, it said. I see much. You, Destroyer, seek to be something else, someone else. You search for it, this new self, here in these woods, as you have searched for it in that backwater village among the scattered outliers of your kind. But you did not find it there, Destroyer, and you will not find it here. For wherever you go, no matter how far you journey, you bring yourself with you. You will never be anything more than what you are—a killer. That and that only. You are the Destroyer and you will always be thus. You are who you are. You are Kingslayer. You who has made the world bleed, the sound of whose arrival is announced by the wailing of babes. You whose people called you “hero” until even they discovered the truth of what you are and exiled you.
And then, although there was no obvious change in the creature’s posture or regard, it was obvious that its attention had turned to the boy. Tell me, boy, do you know with whom you travel? Do you know the truth of who he is? Of what he is?
“I…” the boy began in a terrified voice, “I don’t…”
“Leave him out of this,” Cutter growled. “He is under my protection and is no concern of yours.”
Another great rush of wind, another chorus of whistling laughter. Protection. What protection can be found, Destroyer, in the bear’s jaw or the lion’s teeth? What safety is there in the storm? No, Destroyer, you know naught of protection. It is not how you were made. You are the Destroyer. You will not be—can never be—anything else.
“And yet he is under my protection just the same.”
And these others who have followed you into the demesne of my people? These who seek your head? Tell me, Kingslayer, is it these from whom you would protect this youth?
“It is.”
And who, I wonder, will protect him from you?
Cutter said nothing to that, for there was nothing he could say. Instead, he only waited.
The creature regarded him for some time and several minutes passed in silence. Then, finally, its great mouth yawned open once more. When first I heard of your coming, Destroyer, I meant to crush you, to rip your heart from your chest, to grind your bones to ash and feast on your flesh. Now, though, I see that you are all but dead already, that there is little life left in you and what life there is knows only pain. You have called on the Boon of the Fey to grant you safe passage through this sacred place, a boon given by the very greatest of our kind, he that you slew in traitorous combat. Very well, then. Let it never be said that the Fey are not faithful. You shall have your boon, Destroyer. But you shall have more besides.
The bushes on Cutter’s left, less than a foot away, shifted and moved, parting like a curtain to reveal a familiar sight lying in the snow-laden grass. A familiar, terrible sight, and Cutter found himself taking an involuntary step back. “No,” he whispered.
Oh yes, the creature answered, turning to regard the black-hafted axe, the black blade which seemed darker than night. Take it, Destroyer, your weapon, the same weapon with which you slew so many of my kind, carving out a place for the invasion of your people here, in our homeland. The same weapon with which you slew MY KING.
The last words came out in a great thunder that seemed to shake the very ground beneath his feet, but it was not the creature’s voice which gripped Cutter’s heart with fear. Instead, it was what lay on the ground, so close that he could kneel down and pick it up. He remembered well the feel of the axe in his hands, hands which knew the weight of it down to the ounce. “Please…” he began, trailing off, unsure of how he would finish.
Oh, you will take it, Kingslayer, the creature answered. Else, you will be rejecting the boon granted you and if you reject it in this, then you reject all of it. Were you to do that, your life and the life of the boy who travels with you would be forfeit. And I promise you th
at his death will be a long time coming, I vow that you will wake each day to view his suffering as my people carve piece after piece from his flesh. Take it, Destroyer, for without it you are like a bear without its teeth, a lion without its claws. Take it for it is a part of you—it always has been, and it always will be.
Cutter saw no choice, yet still he hesitated. He did not doubt the creature’s word, for while the Fey often made use of illusions to disarm their prey and, more than that, simply because it was in their nature and they could no more stop doing so than a tree could stop its roots growing, he knew that, in their way, they were far more honest than any mortal ever thought to be. If he did not take the axe, the boy would die. And not just die—suffer.
And he, Cutter, would be forced to watch, to endure that suffering. But the greatest of his pains would come not just from that but from the breaking of a promise he had made long ago. He had made other promises before, of course, had broken most if not all of them. And yet…
It lay there in the snow, a double-bladed head, forged of a black metal which was unfamiliar and unworkable for any human smith. It had been a gift from the Fey king, Yeladrian, before the war began. A gift of great power, a weapon, the king had told him, beyond equal. And on that, at least, Cutter had to agree, for he had wielded it in many battles, far too many to count, just as he could not count the number of souls it had reaped. The Breaker of Pacts, Shadelaresh had called it, and on that, too, Cutter had to agree. Its sharp edge—keener than any other blade and one which never needed to be sharpened—had severed many pacts, had many times broken the vows Cutter had made to himself.
A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands Page 11