“Because I needed you to get up and walk,” Cutter said simply. “And you did. Sometimes, boy, hate is the only thing that keeps us moving.”
Matt was shaking now, his entire body trembling with rage, and before he knew it, he let out a scream and charged at the man. He’d been in a few fights over the years—mostly with the village boys with whom he would be best friends the next day—and he had always accounted himself well. His mother had told him, during such times when she’d nursed his hurts and scolded him for the use of violence, that it was “in his blood.” Had told him, too, that a person could fight what was in their nature, could rise above it. But while fighting might have been in his blood, while violence might have been in his blood—whatever that meant—it was in Cutter’s entire body, as if he were an avatar of violence and war.
He felt a terrible rush of glee when his first punch struck home in the man’s stomach, but it felt like hitting a tree trunk, and Cutter did not so much as move, only let out a soft groan. “That’s enough, lad,” he said, not sounding hurt in the slightest, only sounding like a man trying to calm down a wild beast.
That made Matt even more angry, and before he knew it, he’d punched the man in the face, a blow that made Cutter’s head turn at the impact. “I hate you!” Matt screamed, rearing back for a third blow.
“I said that’s—”
But he wasn’t listening to the man. He’d listened to him already, and had left his village, his mother to burn because of it. No, he was done listening now. He swung again, wanting nothing more in that moment than to feel the man’s nose break beneath his fist. But Cutter suddenly moved, and the next thing Matt knew he was hurtling through the air, upside down, to land hard on the snowy ground with such force that the wind was knocked out of him.
He lay there panting, gasping for breath and trying to understand what happened. He was still trying to work it out when Cutter’s big form loomed over him, staring down. There was a slight trickle of blood running from his mouth, one which gratified Matt to see, warming him in a way that he had not been warm in days. Perhaps his mother had been right after all; perhaps violence was in his nature, but then she had been wrong to tell him to fight it. For seeing the small trickle of blood, knowing that he had caused this man, this object of his hate, pain, was a good feeling. Maybe even a great one.
“That’s enough, lad,” Cutter said. He reached out a hand to help Matt to his feet. Matt took it, allowing himself to be hoisted up. Once he was standing, he reared back and punched Cutter in the gut again, but like the first, the blow hurt his hand while seeming to have very little effect on the big man.
Except, that was, that the big man’s eyes flashed with anger, and Matt felt a surge of panic before Cutter leaned forward and, almost casually, planted his fist in Matt’s stomach.
Pain—terrible, excruciating pain—ripped through Matt, and it felt as if the man had punched a hole right through him. The next thing he knew, he was on his hands and knees, retching the meager contents of his breakfast—another squirrel, one Cutter had managed to find—out onto the cold snow where it steamed in a gross, revolting puddle.
“I said enough,” Cutter growled, and there was such fury in his voice that Matt cowered away. He glanced up and saw the big man studying him, his cold blue eyes seeming to burn in their sockets with rage. The man said nothing, his thick chest heaving, his fists working at his sides, and though he did not speak, Matt had the feeling—the terrible, helpless feeling—that the man wanted to kill him, that it was all he could do to hold himself back.
Finally, though, the moment passed. Cutter’s breathing slowed, and his eyes turned cold once more, like chips of ice in their sockets. “I made your parents promise not to take you out of the village, boy, because it isn’t safe. Do you understand?”
Matt scooted away on his butt, suddenly frightened to be too close to the big man in case that terrible rage, the rage of which he thought he had only glimpsed a small fraction, like an iceberg’s tip seen above the water, might return. “I-it isn’t so hard a journey,” he rasped. “Troy’s father and mother have made it several times, it—”
“It’s different for you,” the big man interrupted.
“What…what does that mean?” Matt wheezed past his aching stomach. “Why?”
The big man stared at him as if considering something, then he finally gave a dismissive shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just know that it is dangerous for you to go out, boy. Dangerous for you in ways it is not dangerous for anyone else. Do you understand?”
“How can I?” Matt demanded, hurt and angry all at once. “You haven’t told me anything.”
“I’ve told you enough,” the big man said. “Now, get up. We need to cover more ground before dark. Shadelaresh has so far kept his people from accosting us, but he will not do so forever. If we linger much longer in the Wood, they will come for us, boon or no boon.”
Matt wanted to argue, wanted to scream and tell the man he hated him, that he hoped they did come just so long as he got to watch them kill Cutter first. The problem, though, was that, for one, he feared the man might grow angry again, and he was terrified to see that part of him once more, would have given much to keep from seeing it. But it wasn’t just that. It was also the fact that he feared that should he tell Cutter he hated him and that he hoped he died, the man wouldn’t care, might even agree with him.
So, instead of saying anything, he only rose. Cutter watched him for a moment, as if waiting to see if there was going to be another outburst. When none came, the big man turned and started away again. And, left with no choice—as always—Matt followed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It is said, by the followers of Raveza, Goddess of Temperance, that the road to peace is taken one step at a time. A true saying, or so I believe, but we must remember something. Yes, the road to peace is taken one step at a time.
But then, so, too, is the road to damnation.
—Ex-priest of Raveza from his prison cell.
“It appears to be a relatively fresh kill, sire. Perhaps no more than a day or two.”
“So it does, Malex,” Feledias said, staring down at the Gretchling corpse. He had seen their kind before, during the war, had even seen a few in their natural form—a form they only chose to take, perhaps only could take, once they had died. Though, it had to be said, he had never seen one in such terrible shape as this, the creature’s body so mutilated as to almost be unrecognizable. “This is his work,” he said quietly.
Malex, along with the other soldiers, shifted uneasily at that, but Feledias paid them little mind. After all, they had all spent the last day acting uneasy, had done so since they’d first entered the Black Wood, as if afraid, like children, that the monsters would come for them during the night. The Fey would do such things, of course, for he had seen it before, but they had not done so yet, though they could not have missed the passage of him and his men in their lands. To Feledias, that must mean that they approved of his quest for his brother’s head and did not wish to hinder him in the carrying out of it which was good for him—a wise choice. For he had been seeking his brother for many years now and would slaughter any who dared become an obstacle in his path. The fulfilling of his vengeance, of the vow he had taken, was close, and he would not allow anyone to hinder him.
“Where did they go?” he asked, turning to Dalen. The grizzled tracker adjusted the furs covering him, clearly uncomfortable with Feledias’s attention.
“Not so easy to tell, Highness,” he said quietly in a dry, croaking voice that sounded as if he never used it. A fact which Feledias could attest to, for he had ridden with the man often and had rarely heard him speak. “The snow covers most tracks.”
Feledias frowned. “What am I paying you for then? Perhaps, it would be better if I chose, Dalen, to forego your services. What do you think of that?”
The man blanched, as well he should, for anyone with the sense the gods had given him knew what Feledias meant by that. He
was the prince of the realm and, as such, men were not allowed to leave his service, not voluntarily at least, and he made sure, as a rule, that should he wish for them to leave, they would never work with anyone else again. Or breathe, for that matter.
“Covers most tracks, Highness,” Dalen said hurriedly, “but not all.” He knelt, studying the tracks carefully as if his life depended on it—which it did. Finally, he nodded. “They went this way, Highness,” he went on, pointing further into the forest. “Prince Bernard and the…the other.”
Feledias let out a growl, reaching out and slapping the man ringingly across the face. Dalen cried out in surprise, falling to the ground and staring up at him with wide eyes. “He is not your prince,” he growled at the man as he bled from his mouth. “Not any longer. Not since he lay with that adultering whore, not since he betrayed me. He is a traitor to the realm, a traitor to me. That and nothing more. Do you understand me, Dalen?”
“F-forgive me, sir,” he said, “I meant no offense. I-it was a mistake.”
Feledias watched him, considering reaching for the blade at his side, the fury and rage which had been his constant companions for fifteen years roiling within him like a storm. “A mistake,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Very well, Dalen. I will forgive you, this time. But know that should you ever refer to that—that traitor as a prince again, I will not be so kind, and it will be the very last mistake you make. Am I clear?”
“O-of course, sir.”
“Very well,” he said. “Now, stand up and tell me what you have learned.”
The man climbed to his feet, bowing his head. “I apologize again, Highness, I did not mean—”
“Never mind what you meant,” Feledias growled. “Speak quickly, Dalen, for I have little patience left.”
“Yes, sire. As I was saying, I scouted ahead. The two went that way”—he motioned into the forest—“but then they turned around and are now traveling south.”
“South,” Feledias said thoughtfully, running a hand across his chin. What would his brother be planning? There had been a time when Feledias would have been able to guess his intentions easily enough, for the man had been little more than a beast, akin to a bull who saw red and so whose only thought was to charge at the nearest enemy and, if one weren’t forthcoming, his nearest ally, with bloodletting on his mind.
But it had been fifteen years since he’d last seen the man, more than that, in fact, and had he still been the same person as before, he would have heard of Feledias’s hunt for him and come to finish matters the only way a brute such as he had known—violence. The fact that Feledias had not seen or heard anything of him—neither, until recently, had his many agents scattered across the realm—meant that the man had changed. At least enough to fight his baser desires, those which were no doubt even now urging him to fight, to kill. But, somehow, for some reason, he was ignoring those desires, had ignored them for the last fifteen years.
Feledias could only imagine that the man was afraid for his life, and it was this fear which kept him from facing him. Of course, he was right to be afraid, for when Feledias found him—or any of those others who had aided him, whom he had called friend—he would make an example of him, would carve the price of the man’s betrayal out of his flesh.
He forced his anger down, forced himself to think. Yes, he would exact his vengeance from the man and his companions, but he had to find him first. He was close now, closer than he had been for the last fifteen years, and he could not afford to let his anger get the better of him. He frowned, looking around them.
His brother wanted to live, cared only for his own safety, that much was obvious. He wanted to live, and he was heading south. Where would he go, though? What refuge might he seek to avoid…Feledias hissed in a breath as the answer became obvious. The Fey would not long suffer the man in their lands. After all, it had been he who had lured their king to parley under a flag of truce only to chop his head from his shoulders with that great axe he carried. He would not turn around and head north, of that much Feledias was confident. After all, there was nothing there for him to head toward. Nothing, that was, except the burned-out skeleton of the village that had dared shelter him, the corpses of its inhabitants, traitors to the crown one and all, likely still smoking. And if he tried to go past that, to travel farther north, he would only reach the Barrier Mountains, their very name originating from the fact that they could not be crossed, far too high and too cold for any man to survive the journey.
No, he was going south, that much was certain. And if he did not wish to remain in the Black Wood for long, he would be forced to abandon their relative safety soon. But he would not do so without a plan. No, he would head for the safest place he could. Feledias grinned, turning to Commander Malex. “Get everyone on their horses—we ride for Valaidra.”
Commander Malex looked perplexed. “Sire?”
“He will not tarry long in the Wood, Malex. No, my brother is like an animal on the run and seeks only safety. If he cannot disappear into the wilderness—and he cannot—then he will try to hide in plain sight, to be only another face among thousands. And as you well know, Valaidra is the only city of any size near us. We will wait for him outside the Wood and will catch our quarry when he leaves the Fey lands.”
The man bowed his head. “As you command, Highness.” Then he stepped away, motioning to the troops and growling orders. In moments, the soldiers were preparing their kits, mounting their horses.
“Not you, Dalen,” Feledias said, and the tracker turned.
“Sire?”
“You will continue to follow them, discover where they are, exactly—see them with your own eyes, do you understand?—then bring news back to me. I believe I know what my brother will do, but I could be wrong, and something as important as this cannot be left to chance, do you understand?”
“Of course, Highness, but there is a risk…should I get too close. Your brother is known for his cleverness, for being difficult to catch, and if he senses—”
“You are worried about what my brother might do to you, is that it, Dalen?” Feledias demanded.
The man paled, but said nothing, made no move to argue with him.
“Oh, but you need not be, Dalen,” Feledias said, his voice an angry simmer, “for if you do not do this thing for me, or if you should fail, then whatever fate my brother might have chosen for you will be eclipsed a thousand times by the pain and suffering I visit on not just you but your family. You have a sister living in the capital, do you not? Perhaps I will have my men pay her a visit, to take the measure, you see, of her hospitality.”
The man swallowed hard, quivering with fear or rage or both. “I will leave at once, sire.”
“I thought you might,” Feledias said dryly. “Now go. And leave your horse. The beast will give your position away.”
“As you command, Highness,” the man said, bowing his head.
Feledias watched him disappear into the wood, then he turned to the rest of his soldiers, all waiting on their mounts. He strode to his own beast and in one smooth motion leapt into the saddle. Then he turned and nodded at Commander Malex. In another moment, they were riding out of the woods, an anticipatory grin on Feledias’s face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Fearsome Five, they were called.
The number was not always correct—sometimes there were more, sometimes less, for even the world’s greatest heroes might die in battle.
And heroes they were. There were others, of course, during the Fey Wars, but none so respected, so feared, as Prince Bernard and his closest companions.
And wherever they went, men and women bowed and scraped before them.
Heroes, yes, men and women of incredible prowess in battle.
But sometimes, even heroes can become villains.
—Exiled Historian to the Crown, Petran Quinn
“Ah, but I’ve missed the smells of the city,” Chall said from beside her, taking in a long, deep breath.
Maev
e frowned over at him. She was annoyed. For one, her tailbone hurt, and she was sore in places she didn’t remember ever being sore before. She was not accustomed to riding in the back of jouncing wagons, and her body ached from a day and a half of it. She told herself she was going soft, that the last fifteen years had done her no favors, but it wasn’t only that. Even back when she had traveled with her companions, during the Fey Wars, she had never been reduced to riding in the back of wagons.
Indeed, no one in their right mind would have ever expected to find Maeve the Marvelous so humbled. No, she had ridden at the front of great companies of troops, only surpassed in her majesty and the love of the crowd by her lord. They had ridden into cities—those they had conquered and those they had saved—to the adulation, sometimes real, often feigned, of its citizens, and flowers of all colors had been thrown at the feet of their mounts. While Maeve regretted many things of her past, and while she was glad to have most of the features of those days long behind her, existing now only in memory, she could have done with some flowers just then, would have even settled for a simple pillow for her aching backside.
And she decided then that it wasn’t just her backside that hurt, but her pride, too. She hadn’t thought she’d had much of the stuff left, to be honest, had thought she’d left it behind her, if not when she’d fled like a coward in the night when the truth of her lord’s betrayal had come to light, then certainly abandoned at the altar when she’d chosen to marry Hank. But as it turned out, her pride, like so many of her sins, had followed her, refusing to give her a moment’s rest.
She thought that Chall, given his gross overweightness and the trousers which she did not think she imagined were already beginning to peel away at their tortured seams, must have surely enjoyed the trip even less than she, yet he was not complaining now. Instead, he stood beside her, just inside the city gate, smiling widely at the buildings and those who passed them like a fool, either unaware or uncaring of the laughter his—and no doubt her—appearance elicited. After all, they were both covered in dust and hay from riding in the back of a wagon, and there was a stain on Maeve’s skirt which looked—and smelled—suspiciously like animal shit. “Missed the smells, did you?” she snapped. “And what smells are those? Despair and unwashed bodies?”
A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands Page 15