“Prince,” Commander Malex said, and Cutter could hear the uncertainty in his voice, “perhaps it would be best if we—”
“No,” Feledias rasped, his voice raw with emotion. “No, we cannot, we will not, go, not when my revenge is so close.”
“But, sir,” Malex said, “there are too many, they—”
“They’re villagers, Malex!” Feledias screeched, his voice full of rage, full of madness. “Farmers with sticks and rocks! Kill them—kill them all!”
Judging by his expression, the commander clearly did not agree, but he waved to his soldiers, barking orders. The soldiers started forward slowly, obviously hesitant to face the mob that, while it may have been made up of villagers with no training in combat, still outnumbered them five to ten times.
Feledias, meanwhile, turned back to Cutter, his face twisting with rage. “No, brother,” he hissed, “you will not escape your fate, not again. This ends, now, and as I told you before, I am not the same warrior you once knew.”
Cutter sighed, hefting his axe, for there was no help for it. “Come on then, brother,” he said. “Show me.”
And then the time for talk was past. Feledias let out a growl more akin to a noise that might come from some feral beast, and he charged, his twin swords held out behind him at an angle. The first blade darted out, lightning-quick, and Cutter grunted as he leaned backward, shifting his axe to knock the questing steel away. He saw another metallic glint and tried to turn to the other side, to bring his axe around, but he was too slow, and he felt the kiss of his brother’s second sword as it traced a line of fire across his side.
He grunted, staggering, and then he was dodging and parrying, desperately trying to keep his brother’s blades at bay as they moved with the speed of two metallic serpents, striking from seemingly every direction at once. He moved as quick as he could, but he was unable to keep up with Feledias’s assault, and he grunted and hissed as he accepted one minor wound after another. It became obvious very quickly that Feledias was toying with him just as it became obvious that his brother had not been lying when he said that he had improved.
But then, Cutter thought, as he staggered away—as he was allowed to stagger away—there were few better motivations than hatred, he knew that better than anyone. After all, it had been his hatred for pretty much everyone around him, himself most of all, that had been the number one reason why he had committed the atrocities he had.
He panted, watching his brother dance from left to right easily a few feet away from him, a wide grin on his face, enjoying this moment, this moment which he had looked forward to for fifteen years.
For Cutter, it was all he could do to remain standing. The throbbing in his arm from the wound he’d taken earlier was so strong, so overpowering, that he could barely focus on anything else, not to mention the way the blood loss made him feel light-headed and dizzy.
“Ah, brother,” Feledias said, grinning, “I told you that I am not the same man you once knew, not the dog to follow at your heels hoping that you might throw me some scraps. I am my own man. I am your better.”
Cutter was barely listening though. There was no need to talk, not now, for there was only one way the thing could end. He looked away from his brother, toward the others, his companions, and the villagers who had engaged the soldiers. The soldiers might have been more skilled, but the villagers were angry—no surprise that considering what they’d gone through over the last few days—angry enough that they did not hesitate as most might have at the sight of the bare blades, did not stop to question the fact that they faced professional soldiers while they themselves were farmers with sticks and rocks for weapons.
Instead, they charged the soldiers, as if they were all too eager to come to grips with these men who, had they had their way, would have burned them and their families to death. And while the soldiers gave far better than they got, he saw that the villagers would win out, for the soldiers were quickly becoming overwhelmed by the villagers’ superior numbers and their ferocity. Not that it would make any difference for him, of course, for he would be dead long before then.
And that thought did not scare him as it might have. The truth was, Cutter was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of walking the trail of blood which it seemed he had traveled his entire life, one that led from death to more death and nothing else. Matt would be okay, that was what mattered. The others would be okay without him. They would not just be okay. They would be better. He would be better. After all, there was nothing here for him, in this world. Perhaps there never had been.
Feledias started toward him, and Cutter knew that the death he had avoided for so long had finally arrived, could see the pleasure of that knowledge reflected in his brother’s eyes. But then, Feledias froze, his face suddenly leeched of all color, and he gasped, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes looked past Cutter.
Cutter frowned. Perhaps it might have been a ruse, one meant to draw his attention, but Cutter did not think so. For one, there was no need for tricks as it was clear to both of them that Feledias could kill him anytime he wanted, but it was more than that. The shock, the pure terror in his brother’s face could not be feigned.
Cutter turned to look where his brother was staring and felt his own breath catch in his throat, felt a thrum of emotions—so many that any one was nearly impossible to define—run through him as if he’d been struck by lightning.
She was there, standing only feet away from him, as beautiful, as perfect, as he remembered. She wore the white dress she had worn on her wedding day. Cutter remembered it well, remembered staring at her, wanting her as she made her way up the aisle, past those gathered to commemorate the event, to where his brother, Feledias, waited for her.
He remembered the way she had smiled, the way his brother had smiled. It was the last time he had seen his brother happy. And he, too, had been happy for Feledias. At least, he believed so. Mostly, though, he had been jealous. He had wanted her, had thought he deserved her, he who had led the assault against the Fey, who had killed their king and sent their forces retreating back into the Black Woods.
It should have been a beautiful moment, as perfect as the world ever allowed, but even then, his lust, his desire had almost been too much to contain. Yes, he remembered it, remembered it all too well. “L-Layna?” he asked.
“No,” Feledias rasped, “no, it can’t be. You’re…you’re dead. You can’t be here.”
And yet, she was, standing and saying nothing, watching Feledias. And even now, despite the knowledge of how terrible his crimes had been, of what terrible atrocities they had led to, Cutter found himself jealous of even that much, found himself wishing that she would turn, would look at him. But she did not, only stood and stared at his brother, her husband, saying nothing.
“I-it’s impossible,” his brother said in a choked, strangled voice. “It must be some trick, has to be, but the mage…the mage is dead.”
She did move then, her hand reaching out slowly toward him. She took a step, a single, small step, and Feledias screamed. It was a terrible, heart-wrenching wail that would have sounded more at home coming from some tortured, dying animal.
Then, Feledias turned and ran, sprinting as fast as he could into the darkness. There was a shout from Commander Malex and those few soldiers who had not fallen to the villagers’ rage turned and sprinted away, following their prince. Cutter barely noticed. Instead, he was staring at her, marking the lines of her face. And, in another moment, she was gone, vanishing as if she had never been, and he was left standing alone.
There was a scuffling sound behind him, and Cutter turned to see Chall limping up. Each step seemed an effort, and there was a dark bruise around the mage’s throat, a bruise in the unmistakable shape of hands. Cutter grunted. “I thought you were dead.”
Chall winced, rubbing at his throat. “It was a near thing,” he rasped.
Cutter nodded, turning to look at the villagers. What few soldiers who had not managed to extract themselves w
ere currently being thrown to the ground and beaten to death by men and women who had likely never raised a hand in anger and who, in the right course of events, would have lived out their lives quietly and peacefully in this small, out-of-the-way village. But by coming here, he had changed all of that, ruined their lives the same way he had ruined the lives of that happy bride and groom so long ago.
“Chall!”
They both turned at the sound of rapid footsteps and, before the mage could speak, Maeve was wrapping him in a tight embrace. They stayed that way for several seconds, Maeve with her face buried in the mage’s shoulder, Chall’s expression slowly turning from shock to pleasure.
“Gods, I thought those soldiers killed you,” Maeve breathed.
“Wasn’t for lack of trying,” Chall said softly.
After a moment, Maeve seemed to remember where she was, and she pulled out of the embrace, turning to Cutter, her own face red with embarrassment. “What about you?” she asked in a voice full of compassion, for she could not have failed to see the apparition the mage’s magic had created. “Are you okay?”
Cutter forced a smile he did not feel, understanding that she meant more than just physically. “Of course,” he said. “I’m fine.”
And then he fell.
***
He dreamed of blood and pain and regret. But, mostly, he dreamed of her. Not standing as she had been when she’d wed his brother, nor beside him near the village pyre. Instead, she lay sweaty and weary from her exertions in a bed stained with her blood.
He could hear the newborn babe in the other room, squalling as any should when brought into the world. The nurse maids were gone, for she had dismissed them, and it was only him and her, her watching him with eyes that seemed to know so much, to understand so much.
“I knew you would come,” she said, her voice weak and thready.
“Yes.”
The baby let out another squall, and she turned, her eyes going to the closed door, beyond which her newborn baby boy was being seen to by the nurse maids, the concern and love known only to mothers showing on her face. “My husband will come for him, will come for me.”
“Yes.”
She sighed heavily. “It was wrong, what I did. What we did. I did it out of a fool’s jealousy, I think, tired of coming second in his eyes to you, always to you. I thought…” She shook her head, frustrated. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I love Feledias.”
“So do I.”
She frowned. “Do you? I am not so certain. I am not so certain that a man like you can love anyone, even himself. Perhaps especially himself.”
He said nothing to that, for there was nothing to say, and she let out another heavy, weary sigh. “Do you want to know his name?”
“Who?”
She gave him a small smile, and he realized he was a fool. “The boy,” he said, “you mean the boy.”
She nodded slowly. “Do not worry yourself, Bernard. You are what you are—perhaps you chose it, perhaps you did not, but it is too late now either way. Yes, the boy. Would you like to know his name?”
“If you would like to tell me.”
She gave another small smile at that. “So careful,” she said. “It is not like you. If only…” She winced in pain. “If only you—we—had been careful sooner. But never mind that. What’s done is done. His name is Matthias. I will call him Matt.”
Cutter nodded. “A good name.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“I do not.”
“Peace,” she said softly. “It means peace.”
“A good name,” he said again, because he was unsure what was expected of him.
She gave a weary laugh but sobered quickly. “He will come for him. Feledias. He will hate him because of our sins.”
“I can protect you.”
Another laugh at that. “Protect me? What do you know of protecting?” She waved a hand. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair. I am as guilty as you are. But no, Bernard. Your path is not one of peace, and even if it were, I would not leave him like that, would not complete the betrayal in that way. He deserves better from me, from both of us. No, I will stay. But I have something I would ask of you.”
“Anything.”
She stared at him then, shaking her head in what might have been disbelief. “If something should happen to me—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“But if it does…will you watch out for him?”
“Of course.”
The answer was out of him before he gave it any thought, for he was sure that, whatever she said, he would keep her safe. But he had been wrong. He had been a fool.
***
He did not want to waken, wanted to remain with her, for while the memory brought great pain, it brought pleasure too. Yet, he woke anyway and slowly opened his heavy eyelids.
“Well, well, well,” a voice said, and he turned to see the innkeeper, Netty, standing beside him. “I’ve heard devils can’t be killed, and I guess now I’ve seen the truth of it.”
“Where am I?”
She held her hands out to the side. “Our new home,” she said. “Like it?”
Cutter glanced around, blinking. At first, he saw only darkness, but then he was able to make out the ruddy glow of torches and campfires and, around them, the great shadowed silhouette of trees. “The forest,” he said.
“That’s right.”
He was about to say something more when suddenly two figures walked up, a young girl he did not recognize and a man that he did, one of those he’d fought with in the inn. He tensed, knowing that if the man chose to press the issue now, to revenge himself, there was nothing he could do in his current state to stop him.
But the man made no move forward, only standing with his hands on what must have been his daughter’s shoulders, and it was not he who spoke but the girl. “Thank you,” she said, “for saving us.”
Cutter found himself staring in surprise. He glanced at the innkeeper, Netty, who gave him a sidelong smile, then back to the girl. Her face was open, honest, and he was surprised by how much those words meant to him, though he knew that, in the end, he did not deserve them. After all, had it not been for Matt, he would not have come back. “I don’t…” He hesitated, suddenly not wanting to tell the truth, not wanting to see the smile of appreciation fade from the girl’s face. “I didn’t…”
“We’ll let you get back to it,” the man said, wincing. “But…we just wanted to say, you know, thanks. And…sorry. For the inn. Cend shouldn’t have…” He paused, taking a deep breath. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s fine,” Cutter said, finding that he meant it. After all, the men’s reaction to his presence was a far more familiar one than the thanks the girl had offered. The man offered him another nod then he and the girl turned and walked away. Cutter watched them go, then, following the young girl’s presence, he found himself thinking of Matt, the dream where he’d promised to take care of him so fresh in his mind.
He started to rise, but Netty pushed him back down with one hand, seemingly with ease. “No, no. You relax. I ain’t worked as hard as I have to keep you from goin’ through the veil just to have you die anyway.”
“But the others—”
“Are all fine,” she interrupted. “The boy is fine. I am too, in case you care,” she grunted, giving a small smile.
He sighed at that, allowing himself to relax. “And Feledias?”
“Gone into the night,” she said. “I suppose maybe we could have chased him down, but we’re simple villagers here—killing princes isn’t our business.” She met his eyes then. “Understand?”
“I do,” he said. “And…thank you. For everything.”
She grunted again. “Reckon I’d rather have my inn back, have all those dead we’ve lost back, but if thanks is all I can get I s’pose I’ll take it.”
“I’m…I’m sorry.”
She studied him carefully, as if it had been the last thing
she’d expected him to say. “I think maybe you really are. And I thank you for it. Now, that’s enough chatting—I’ve got some frightened villagers need seein’ to. I’ll go and get your friends. They wanted to hang around, but I told ‘em to all go get some rest, or I’d finish what your brother’s troops started.”
She was gone before he could say anything else, and he lay there, breathing, surprised to still be alive. Soon, the others arrived, Maeve and Chall, Priest and Matt. All of them looking battered and exhausted but all of them, thank the gods, alive.
The bruises had darkened around Chall’s throat, an ugly, black and purple mottling, but he smiled. “Done with your nap, then?”
Cutter grunted. “Just about.” He turned to Maeve, saw the woman studying the mage from behind, wondered briefly if either of them knew just how much they cared for each other. “Alright, Maeve?”
The woman started as if surprised, turning away from studying the mage with an embarrassed expression on her face. “I’m fine,” she said. “Well. Still breathing anyway.”
He nodded, looking to Priest. The man nodded at him, the simple gesture and his expression carrying a world of meaning for all the pain and suffering they had witnessed in the last two days.
“Cutter?”
He turned to look at Matt. “You’re okay?”
The youth opened his mouth as if to answer, then paused as his face twisted with emotion before clearing his throat. “I…I think so. But…the woman, the one Chall made appear…who was she?”
Cutter glanced at Chall, and the mage winced. “He’s thought of little else.”
Cutter nodded, turning back to the boy. “She was the greatest person I have ever met,” he said simply, “the kindest, wisest person this world has ever seen. And, lad, she was your mother.”
The youth’s breath caught in his throat at that, and he gave a single nod. “I…I thought maybe she was.” There was a moment of silence then as Matt visibly gathered himself, then let out a ragged sigh. “So…is that it? I mean…is it finished?”
A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands Page 34