Cutter nodded beside her. “You see it now, don’t you?” he said. “The claw marks? The insides torn open, some of them missing? You asked me what I knew, Maeve. Now, I’ll tell you. Swords don’t leave those sorts of marks and soldiers don’t kill that way.”
Maeve’s breath caught in her throat and she stood, stunned, trying to understand. Cutter walked on, but she was barely aware of it. Instead, she stared at those corpses littering the field, seeing them with new eyes, making out, too, their weapons—pitchforks and shovels mostly, and several burned out brands that could only have been torches as well—lying near them. Cutter, damn him, was right. Swords did not make those sorts of wounds and soldiers cared nothing for digging through the entrails of their victims. But the Fey did.
She turned to look at Cutter’s wide back as he continued down the path. The Fey had been here, that was the truth he knew. The Fey who had been content to spend the last several years in the Black Woods, had chosen now, of all times, to renew their hostilities with the world of men. A time which had just so happened to coincide with Cutter’s entrance into and subsequent departure from the Black Woods. Coincidence? She wanted to believe that it was, but as much as she might wish to, she could not convince herself of that.
After all, it was well known that the Fey held no love for Cutter, the prince who, along with his brother, they had invited into their homes, with whom they had made peace only to have that peace shattered when Cutter had killed their king, tearing his head from his body with that great axe of his. She did not know what had transpired in the Wood with Cutter and the boy, did not know why they had been allowed to pass through the Fey’s domain without assault, but she did know, without knowing the how or why of it, that whatever fate Cutter and the boy had avoided at the hands of the Fey had been transferred to Ferrimore and its citizens instead.
She thought that she should feel surprised at this realization, perhaps even shocked. But what she felt, more than anything, was weary. After all, wherever Cutter, wherever her prince walked, death followed. It had always been thus, and while many things changed, some, unfortunately, did not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Revenge is bloody, thirsty work, the results of which no one, including—perhaps especially—he who seeks it, cares to contemplate.
—Unknown Poet
Cutter could feel Maeve’s eyes on his back, could feel her disapproval like a weight on his shoulders. He did not doubt that she had come to some conclusions about why the Fey would have attacked Ferrimore and, as clever as he knew her to be, he did not doubt that they were the right ones. Which meant that her disapproval, her anger at him, was also right, and just as he could say nothing to address the boy’s sadness or Chall’s worry, neither could he say anything that might satisfy her anger. So instead he said nothing at all, only continued forward.
Shadelaresh had granted him his boon as he’d asked, for the Fey—as a general rule and despite the many illusions upon which their kind relied—never broke their oath. He was not even sure if they entirely understood the concept of such a thing, though now, he did not doubt that after their dealings with men, they were beginning to. And so, Shadelaresh, despite his fury at Cutter, fury engendered by the slaying of his king, had kept to the promise of that same king, resisting the no doubt powerful urge to do harm to Cutter and the boy with him.
Ferrimore, though, had been given no such boon to protect them and so it seemed that Shadelaresh had chosen to vent his rage upon the unfortunate villagers, men and women who’d had no part in Cutter’s past crimes. And had the Fey spirit somehow known that Cutter’s journeying would bring him this way, despite the fact that he himself, at the time of their meeting, had meant to go to Valaidra instead? Cutter thought that probably he had.
He did not know how the Fey had known that he would come here, to this place, for the Fey and their ways were largely inscrutable, but clearly they had, and they had left the shattered remnants of this village to serve as testimony for Cutter’s crimes.
How many? he thought.
How many had died because of his sins over the years? Far more than had ever been cut down by his axe, that much was sure, and that number was already one which weighed heavily upon him. He felt the urge to despair then, to quit, to toss down his axe and walk into the Black Woods, never looking back, only forward, searching for the death which had searched for him for so long. He thought, too, about the knife sheathed at his waist, about the game he had so often played with himself over the years. It was sharp, that knife, for he always kept it so, and he knew that it would be quick. Sure. The easiest thing in the world. The hardest thing in the world.
Yet he knew that he would not seek his death in the Black Woods just as he would not seek it at the end of his knife. In part this was because he knew that the dead feel no pain, and he deserved to feel far more, deserved to be crushed beneath his own guilt, to be ground beneath it into ash. More than that, though, there was the boy. Chall and Maeve and Valden—the man they had long since taken to calling Priest—would do their best to protect him, of course, should Cutter choose the coward’s way out, yet it would likely not be enough. Cutter might not have been good for much. Certainly he was not a shoulder to cry on, and he never knew the right thing to say. Killing, though, was something at which he had always excelled. And if the lad had any hope of being safe, then he thought it likely that there would be more killing that needed doing. Probably a lot more.
No. He would remain, he and his guilt, until the boy was safe. Then and only then would he allow himself to die.
A stone wall ran around the village. A small one, no more than three feet high. A wall not meant for defense but crafted to keep out wild animals, one that would have proved of little use against the forces which had come against the villagers. A quick glance showed that the stones had been toppled in several places, and even as he watched men and women were at work restacking them, carting in more to make the wall higher. Others milled about the buildings, raking through shattered belongings in search of anything salvageable, while still others pushed wooden carts laden with dead toward a great fire which raged somewhere near the village center.
He and the others followed the path to a break in the wall where, judging by the shattered wooden remnants scattered on the ground, a gate had once stood, but stood no longer. Still, there was a man stationed at the gate, his clothes, like those of the rest of the villagers, living and dead alike, were stained with blood and ash. There was a vacant, stunned look in his eyes, one which Cutter had seen often over the years, nearly always following a battle. It was the vacant, confused look of a man who had believed the world to be one thing and had discovered, in one brutal day or hour of bloodshed, as he’d listened to the screams of his friends and family as they died, that it was something very different, something far darker.
The guard was so caught up in his own thoughts, his own dark musings, that he didn’t notice Cutter and the others approach until they were within ten feet of him, then he roused himself, brandishing his weapon—not some soldier’s blade, this, but a pitchfork, the tines of which were stained with blood—and focusing his unsteady gaze on them with an effort. “The fuck do you want?” he asked in a voice that was meant to be intimidating but was belied by the tremor in his hands as he held his makeshift weapon.
Not a warrior, this, nor a killer, a man who went out searching for blood. No, this was a normal man, a farmer, perhaps, one who cared nothing for wars or battles but who cared only for tending to his crops and protecting his family. One who had not gone out in search of violence and yet, as was so often the case, violence had found him anyway.
Cutter held out his empty hands in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “We’re only travelers, friend, seeking shelter. We mean no harm.”
The man let out a laugh that sounded in danger of becoming a scream. “Shelter, that it?” he said in a voice that trembled with grief and mad humor. “Well, you ain’t picked the best day to visit Ferrimore, strang
er. You and your group’d be best to turn around and go back where you come from.”
Considering that Cutter and the rest had just come from the Black Woods, he might have argued that, but there was no point. He was still thinking of what to say instead when Matt stepped forward.
“What happened here?” the youth asked, glancing at Cutter in challenge before turning back to the man.
“What happened?” the guard asked. “What happened? Well, I’ll tell you, lad. The Fey came, that’s what. The abominations came in the darkness.” His eyes glazed over with the pain of the memory. “I’ve lived here ten years gone, me and my w…” He cut off, letting out a strangled sob before choking it back. “Lived here a long time,” he went on, sniffling and running an arm across his nose. “Got some folks here fought in the war. I’d heard the stories, of course. We all had. I thought—we thought—we were ready. But…we were wrong. Gods help us, we were wrong.”
The man went silent then, his expression twisting with grief as he relived what must have been the terrible events of the night past, and Cutter glanced to the youth. “Satisfied?” he growled.
Matt said nothing, only stepping back to stand with the others. Cutter watched the grieving man, feeling more uncomfortable, more unsure than he had ever felt on the midst of a battle, locked in a struggle where his life hung in the balance of each passing moment. He did not know what that said about him, that he should be far more at ease in the midst of a life or death struggle than faced with a man’s naked grief, but likely it was nothing good.
The man continued sobbing, and Cutter continued standing there, unsure of what to do, until Priest stepped forward, putting a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. He whispered some words to the man—too low for Cutter to hear. The guard’s sobbing slowly began to quiet, and he looked up at Priest with watery eyes filled not just with grief, not now, but with something like gratitude.
Cutter found himself wondering what the man had said, was suddenly possessed of the feeling—ridiculous, probably, but there none the less—that if he only knew those words, if he only understood them, perhaps he could change, could leave the killer behind and become…something else.
But the guard did not share them. Instead, he only nodded slowly, sniffling, and finally turned back to Cutter. “As I said, Ferrimore ain’t as nice now as usual, but if you’ve really no other place to go, you can go to the inn. Berden, the innkeeper, died in the night, but I think his wife Netty’s there now. Might be she could find you a place to stay.” He let out another sobbing laugh. “The gods know there’s far more beds than there are folks to use ‘em now.”
Cutter nodded. “Where’s the inn?”
“Can’t miss it,” the guard said, swallowing. “It’s the only buildin’ still has a roof.”
“Thanks.” He hesitated for a moment, thinking he should say something, but the words would not come, so he only nodded again. He glanced at the others, saw Maeve studying him in a way he didn’t like, then motioned them into the village.
They all started forward save Valden who remained with his hand on the guard’s shoulder.
“Priest?” Cutter asked.
Priest met his eyes, gave him a small smile. “I will remain here, for a time. I will catch up with you all soon.”
Cutter glanced between the man and the guard who had hung his head and was now sobbing quietly, then he grunted. “Very well,” he said, then he turned and led the others deeper into the village.
Cutter and the others walked through the hollowed-out corpse of Ferrimore, past men and women who looked as stunned and lost as the guard at the gate. A great fire burned at the village’s center, and even as he passed, men and women pushed wooden carts carrying their dead toward the blaze where others waited to haul one body after the other into the flames while the families and friends of those who had died looked on and wept.
Cutter was not surprised to see such a burial by flame. Others who had not fought the Fey, might have thought it disrespectful, but those who had met the creatures knew that the only things they truly feared were salt and fire. So then, the heaving of the bodies into the flame was a promise, one he had seen made several times throughout the war. A promise that those bodies cast into the blaze would never again be ravaged by the Fey but would remain ever beyond their reach.
He and the others paused for a moment, watching the grisly spectacle, then he grunted. “Come on—we need to find the inn. We all need rest.”
“Are you truly so cold?” Maeve demanded.
Cutter met her eyes, then looked over to see the boy and Chall, both watching him, waiting for what he would say. He said nothing though, only turned and started deeper into the village. The guard had been right about this much—it was not a difficult thing to pick out the inn. It was the largest building in the village and the only one with a roof. Wounded lay on the ground outside on sheets splattered with crimson stains, some moaning, others blessedly unconscious, as men and women who looked nearly as bad as their charges tended to them as best as they were able.
Cutter had seen the aftermath of a battle—or, in this case, a slaughter—before, had been on either end of it too many times to count. He had seen, had inflicted and suffered, a variety of wounds, and so he was faced with a cold truth. Out of the six wounded being ministered to on the ground in front of the inn, only one would live for sure, with another having a chance—albeit a small one—to pull through. But he did not bother saying as much to those men and women tending them, men and women who, judging by their quiet looks of panic, would have been more at home tending to their livestock than their fellow villagers.
Six wounded. Not so many considering that several hundred men and women called the small village home. But then, another thing Cutter had learned about the Fey from hard, bitter experience was that the Creatures of the Wood never left many.
Cutter stared at those wounded, those dying men and women, and hesitated, frowning. No matter what Maeve thought of him—thoughts for which he, of all people, could not blame her—he was not immune to the pain and suffering of others, and he wished that he could help, that he could offer some healing or, if not that, than at least some hope, vain or not. The problem, though, was that Cutter knew only how to hurt, to kill, and knew nothing of how to save. As for hope, for most of those lying there now, the only hope was that the world beyond the Veil would be kinder than this one, a hope Cutter felt was destined to be shattered, for he had sent many men and creatures on that journey himself, and none, to his recollection, had smiled as they went.
“We should help them,” Chall said softly, and Cutter turned to see the heavy-set mage staring at the wounded and those struggling to at the very least make them comfortable. A tear was gliding its way down his cheek.
“Do you know anything of healing?” Cutter asked him.
The mage winced. “No. No, I don’t.” He glanced with hope at Maeve, and the woman gave a sad shake of her head.
“Neither do I,” Cutter growled, “so stop your fucking crying. That, at least, you can do for them.”
The mage recoiled as if he’d been slapped, but he nodded, running an arm across his eyes. Cutter gave him a moment to gather himself, then he gave a nod of his own and led them toward the entrance of the inn.
The healers and the wounded paid them little attention as they made their way past, the latter too busy dying and the former too busy trying desperately—and vainly—to stop the inevitable to notice them. Closer to them, their cries of anguish, their desperate pleas, struck him almost like a physical blow, and the smell of blood and death filled his nostrils. Cutter felt something rouse within him. Fury. Rage. A beast which had slumbered for fifteen years. A fitful, uneasy slumber, but a slumber nonetheless, one which the sight of the ruined village, the ruined bodies, threatened to wake it from. And if it woke, that beast which he had carried around with him since, it seemed, his birth, Cutter knew that it would not easily be put down once more.
He took a slow, deep breath to ste
ady himself, forcing his eyes away from the wounded to those with him. They all wore their misery plain on their face, but he saw more than just that. They were not just sad for those who had suffered—they were exhausted. And none more so than Matt. The boy looked done in, looked little better, in truth, than those poor souls writhing on their bloody sheets, as if he might collapse at any moment. And while Cutter did not like seeing such pain on those strangers, seeing it on the boy wounded him, touched him in a way nothing else could. The lad was exhausted, had little left to give—and Cutter understood, for a trip through the Black Woods, at the best of times, felt as if it stripped away pieces of a man’s soul, and their circumstances had been far from the best. The boy needed rest, real rest, a quiet place to lay his head without the dark shadows of the Black Wood’s trees looming over him, without the specter of his own village’s destruction or Ferrimore’s slaughter in his mind.
Unfortunately, Cutter could not give him that, no matter how much he might wish to, but he could, at least, make sure the boy had a chance to rest, however fitful that rest might be, however plagued by dreams of blood and death. “Come on,” he growled. “Let’s go find this innkeeper.”
Another angry look from Maeve, and an expression on the boy’s face that was a mixture of hurt and anger, but that was alright. Let him be hurt, let him be angry, just let him be alive. Cutter turned and led them into the inn.
The common room of the inn had been turned into a makeshift healer’s tent. Tables which, in happier times, would have held the ales of men and women. In such a small village, those who would have normally set at the tables would have all known each other. Perhaps they would have laughed and drank as they told interesting stories and more interesting lies about the week’s events. Now, though, no one laughed, and the tables did not hold ales. Cutter was surprised to see that they held more wounded, these also tended to by people who, judging by the quiet desperation on their faces, had no idea what they were doing.
A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands Page 20