‘Besides, had I been with the others, you would have found me, and nothing and no one would have stood in your way to getting to me. You five are a force to be reckoned with, I know that. That said, even with one eye, you are still the greatest archer the realms have ever known, my elder. You best even me, you know the bow so well. You would have sought my face among thousands, even the ten who are…’ he looked up, calculating, ‘about now knocking your fort’s doors. You would have stuck me with a dart long before the fighting started. No, I was hoping you would have had to battle your way out, giving me the time to get away. But here you are.’ Valean spoke in resignation. He knew his fate.
On the opposite side of the bed to the chair, a bow rested against the wall, a filled dun-leather quiver by its side. Mackell moved to it, picked up the bow, chose a random arrow, and nocked it. He turned, aiming the point at Valean’s right eye.
Seeing his own bow pulled back with an arrow pointed at his skull, a fire rekindled in Valean’s eyes. It was the ultimate insult to any warrior to be killed by his own weapon. ‘Mackell, think what you are doing. Whatever you say, we are still br… We are still siblings.’
‘You stopped being that the moment you killed our parents. You had your reasons, and I forgave you that.’
‘You forgave me?’
‘I let you live. The moment you let loose your arrow that killed Kannarra, you became my prey.’
‘Fine, but not like this. Let us dance.’
Mackell pulled back the bow string, then let loose.
The instant Valean saw what was coming, he flinched aside, not quick enough, but enough to alter where the arrow struck. Instead of going directly through his eye, it struck him in the corner, slicing a feather’s notch out of the bridge of his nose. Mackell saw it all in slow motion. The right eye got shoved aside, leaving the socket. In some cases, not all, whether human or beast, the shock of a projectile cutting through the brain makes the eyes pop out. That is not, he decided, what caused Valean’s right eye to come out—the arrow itself did that—it was what caused his left one to leap from its den, however. It happened instantly, the eye coming out quick as Jack from his box, then drooped and hung on sinuous threads. Valean’s head snapped back, and his body kicked out.
Gurrin and Karrick let him fall to the floor. He watched Valean die, convulsing and twisting and coughing up blood.
They found their mounts tethered where they’d left them. Seated in his saddle, Mackell spurred his steed on, facing southwest. Deep in thought, he halted his horse, the others stopping around him.
‘Mackell?’ Bethod asked. ‘You change your mind, wanna go back and break some bones to save our king?’
‘No. Even when it’s his own daughter to avenge, he wouldn’t come out. He is the coward people whisper him to be. I saw it in his eyes.’
‘Then what is it? Whatever it is, you know we have your back.’
He didn’t need the others to show their acquiescence, he knew it to be true.
‘Valean may have fired the killer shot, but King Thorrin would have given the order. I want his life, too.’
‘Then we go. Even if we have to fight our way in, we’ll have him.’
Mackell had a better idea. He heeled his horse’s flanks. The others followed.
Mackell watched ahead, attentive to every shadow cast by the few fires that burned throughout the camp.
A new moon had aided in their secret return to Massern Keep. Its walls looked unscathed, judging by the dim light flickering off its surface from the nearest campfire. King Thorrin was renowned in his use of fire in all his battles, and come morning the walls would be swathed in scorch marks. And now the army lie in wait. This was no ordinary siege, however. They would not be waiting long before striking a new volley of attack. They would harry those inside all night long, Mackell knew.
There looked to be 3000 three-man coned tents, all ocean-green (the colour of Thorin’s ancestry), arrayed in a dome. In the centre stood a square nine-man tent, of which would hold only one, Thorrin. A fire burned outside its elaborate entrance to warm the occupant. He hoped the ruler would show face soon, yet would wait until dawn if he had to.
Behind, Mackell heard the faintest of muffled voices, and the four around him scuttled off in different directions.
Focus unhindered, the point of the arrow nocked in Valean’s bow was locked on the flame outside Thorrin’s tent, half pulled back.
A flap moved inside the tent’s entrance, and the king of Lorne Castle emerged. He strolled to the fire, hands in front, seeking warmth, and stood. Men saw his appearance and gathered, forming a circle around the fire. The ruler looked to be talking to those who’d joined him. Good. It meant his intended target would stay in one place, making this an easy enough procedure.
Mackell could feel a breeze on his left ear. Wetting his lips, he turned his head that way and could judge the strength of the wind. He had no idea of the accuracy of these strange arrows for he’d never fired one before. He had been studying its weight since leaving Valean’s body, and with its heavy centre, knew it would mean a higher flight path than what he was used to. He only hoped he’d judge it well for he had one chance alone. One shot, for should an arrow come down and miss, his quarry would know he was under attack and flee into the shadows, which were mere steps from his current position. One shot.
He aimed high, pulled back the bowstring, wet his lips once more, and double-checked the wind’s speed, re-adjusted his aim, and let loose.
The arrow left the string with great ease and made no sound in flight. Unable to see its path, Mackell reached down and fumbled for another arrow lying by his side. It in hand, he nocked and took aim. As he watched the fire, he saw the arrow enter the light of the burning wood, coming straight down. To his elation and astonishment, it struck the enemy king in his chest, the descent not as straight as he’d first thought. With the shaft buried deep in Thorrin’s torso he went down on his back. Before the man went down, Mackell had noted a dark stain growing from the wound, discolouring his blue satin shirt.
With his remaining eye, Mackell could see very clearly the man on the floor writhe. Not dead. He aimed again, looking closely at the king’s nose jutting above his brows beyond, and loosed.
Men surrounded their fallen and lifted his head slightly off the ground.
Damn.
Yet it was to Mackell’s advantage. The arrow entered the light and dug deep into Thorrin’s forehead, jolting his body once, before his mouth dropped open as he expelled his last breath.
Mackell lifted from his sitting position, thought about dropping the bow, and shouldered it instead.
He found the others farther down the slope, surrounding two men lying face up on the ground, one with throat slit, the other a bulging bruise to his temple ready to burst: the mark of Gurrin’s war-hammer which now rested on Gurrin’s shoulder.
With no words needed, the five descended the hillock heading north. They, unlike most, preferred the cold.
‘What about Kannarra?’ Gurrin asked. ‘I mean, don’t you want to see her put to the ground?’
Mackell faced his friend as they walked. ‘I have her in here,’ he pointed to his heart, ‘and up here,’ he gestured to his head, ‘and there she will always be. I have no desire to see her final resting place, and no need to visit it.’
Mackell and Gurrin were the only singles among the group. The others had wives and small children. They met them two miles north, a place they’d agreed upon before setting for Lorne Castle, and with greetings out of the way, they ushered their two horses, each drawing a single cart, and moved slowly into the cooling night. The echoed explosions of fiery fultons blasting the stone of their former homes’ walls, diminished with each step they trod.
Hard Lessons
Michael R. Miller
A short story from the world of The Dragon’s Blade
Orders came before dawn for the retreat, yet no reason was given. First light broke when they were already upon the road south.
Scythe stole an apprehensive glance back at the great fort of the Nest, already fading into the semi-distance. He’d felt safe behind those thick walls, unreachable atop its tall towers. Out on the Crucidal Road, he felt dangerously exposed, even with a legion of dragons and thousands of human troops around him. His lingering stare earned him a shove from the hunter behind.
“Can’t slow down, son,” the man gasped. “Gotta keep up the pace.”
Scythe faced forwards and quickened his step until he was back in sync with the others. Already, he was breathing heavily and a throb in his abdomen warned of a stitch in the making. He probably shouldn’t have wolfed down that breakfast.
Yet half a day later, he was glad he’d eaten something. The dragons hadn’t slowed down and showed no signs of doing so. Scythe could still make them out ahead of the human column, the light shining off their golden armour. They looked so magnificent, though the reflections made it hard to stare for long. He shifted his gaze downwards, watching his feet move to the tuneless beat, focusing on drawing his next breath; his next one; the next one.
“It’s too hot,” he whispered through parched lips, as though his word alone could drive away the baking sun. Someone handed him a water skin and he nearly choked in his eagerness. The skin was pulled from his grasp even as he tried to take a second gulp. He walked on.
“Won’t they slow down?” he asked to no one in particular.
No one answered.
Scythe blinked, stumbled, and staggered sideways. Another strong hand kept him on his feet, and he struggled on for a while more, though how long he could not say. Everything was bleary. The world had turned to an orange haze, the dragons now nothing but a glittering blur at the edge of sight.
He stumbled again, this time falling forwards. The road rushed to meet him. His cheek met blistering stones and a puff of dust rose to sting at his eyes. At least he wasn’t moving now. It may even have been pleasant had everything not also been fading to blackness.
Scythe slowly opened his eyes. For a second, he thought no time had passed. The light was still orange and flickering, then he realised there was a neat little fire with dark figures moving around it.
Was I out for the whole march? What must they think of me?
He sat up too quickly, winced, and clutched his throbbing head.
“Here,” a voice said. A woman’s, that much he could tell. A second later and a heavy pouch landed in his lap, the contents sloshing inside. “Get as much of that down you as you can.”
“Am I ill?” Scythe asked.
The woman hissed a laugh. “Just drink. Take it in sips, mind. Don’t need you retching everywhere.”
Scythe fumbled with the skin for a moment before managing to take a mouthful. Nothing had tasted so sweet and wonderful in all his life.
About halfway through the skin, he felt more human. His vision refocused, and the woman came into sharper relief before him. She wore the yellow-brown leather armour of a huntress from the Golden Crescent, with hair so short it barely covered her ears. She seemed olde,r too, more hardened and experienced. Perhaps a captain? But no, a captain wouldn’t be looking after him.
“Are you a healer?”
“No,” she said, unhelpfully. “Keep drinking that.”
Scythe did. The silence grew awkward, at least to him, though the huntress didn’t mind. She trimmed the ruffled fletching on her arrows, cutting with a well-practised rapidity, and blew the cuttings away.
“You’re very good at that,” Scythe said.
She raised an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason. Just that, even after basic training, a lot of hunters still don’t get it right. My dad’s a fletcher, you see.”
She blew away another sliver of cut feather. “Is he indeed? Good job that. Wish my parents had been exempt.”
“I’m sorry,” Scythe said.
“Long time ago, kid.” She eyed him again. “Have you finished drinking that?”
Scythe took another gulp, larger than intended, and half-choked. The huntress tutted and returned to her arrows.
Emerging from his episode, Scythe spluttered, “Who are you? If you helped me, I’ve not even said thank you yet. That was wrong. So, thank you. My name is Scythe, by the way.”
“No need for names.”
“Why?”
“Just adds attachment. Best not to be out here.”
“But what should I call you?”
“You don’t have to call me anything,” she said. She placed her final arrow into her quiver, laid it down beside her bow, turned to face him fully, and stretched out a hand meaningfully towards the water skin. Scythe noticed something as he placed it in her hand.
“Your finger—”
“Is missing, yes,” she said. Despite the missing forefinger, her grip on the water skin was surprisingly strong. She took it from Scythe, threw back her head, and drained the last of it. “What, not going to say sorry for that as well?”
“I don’t know who to say sorry to.”
She smirked. “How about some food?”
“Please,” Scythe said, his stomach groaning in anticipation. The huntress threw an apprehensive glance around, then rummaged in something under her travelling cloak. Seconds later, she emerged and tossed a chunk of hard bread and even harder cheese his way.
“Eat quickly, too,” she said.
Scythe chewed the bread and cheese into a bland ash which took some effort to swallow. Army rations were one thing he’d probably never enjoy about it all.
“Are you sure you’re not a healer,” he asked between mouthfuls.
“As certain as I have four fingers.”
“It’s just, why are you helping me then?”
She wrinkled her nose, not quite meeting his eye. “Those less injured get to look after the injured. Anyway, now you’re up you can go find your squad.”
“What, right now?”
“Better now than when we’re scrambling to march again.”
“We won’t do the same tomorrow, surely?”
She laughed again. “You haven’t been out here long, have you?”
Scythe shook his head. “Ship dropped us close to the Nest. That was two weeks ago.”
“Two whole weeks.” She whistled sarcastically. “Bloody veteran you are.”
Scythe jumped to his feet. He didn’t have to sit and be belittled. “I’ve gone through the training, just like every other hunter. I’m just as capable as you.” He brandished the remainder of his cheese at her like a knife, small chunks flying off of the end.
“Sit down, you idiot.”
Scythe ignored her and crossed the few short steps to her piled equipment, including the travelling cloak. “Why are you hiding this anyway, unless you’re hoarding food? That’s against regulations.”
The look she gave him might have cracked stone, made all the more chilling from the dancing light of the fire. Scythe realised he’d gone too far and began to back away. He’d just have to go find his squad after all and—
He hit something solid as he turned. Staggering backwards, Scythe found that that something was a man. A regular soldier, judging by the mail shirt, with tree trunk legs, a wild beard and a cruel smile. An equally unsavoury fellow stood beside him like a menacing twin.
“Bit o’ food about here is there?” one of them said.
“Got some there in his hand,” the other said, lunging for Scythe.
Scythe just managed to sidestep the man, but his back was now painfully close to the fire. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck and brow, and not entirely from the heat of the flames. The men were closing in on him.
“Stop,” Scythe said meekly. He tried to resist but his assailant forced his hands behind his back with ease and plucked the cheese from his weak fingers.
“Lovely that,” the man said, smacking his lips. “Right, Griz, find this dolt’s stash.”
“That’s enough,” the huntress said. She was on her feet, her bow in hand.
The se
cond man, Griz, hesitated. “Didn’t see you was there.”
“And now you have,” she said. She pulled an arrow, notched, and drew it faster than Scythe ever could, even with his hand still whole. “Try some other fire.”
A tense second passed, and then Scythe’s captor released him.
“C’mon,” the man said to his companion. “The bitch has a new pup.”
The pair left and the huntress kept her arrow trained on their backs until they were at a safe distance. Scythe rubbed his smarting wrists from where the brute had held him, avoiding the huntress’s eye. He faced the ground instead, so embarrassed he’d quite like to pass out again.
Before he could react, the woman had grabbed his arm and was hauling him back to where he’d been sitting. “No wandering off tonight,” she said, shoving him down. Scythe hit the ground with a jolt and let loose a gasp of pain. She shook her head at him as she sat back down. “Since when did hunter training forgo common sense for rule stickling.”
“I just…I just…” but he trailed off, thinking it best he just keep his mouth shut this time.
She grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to face her. “Hunters are trained to survive. Out here, it’s the same thing, only different rules. Your squad mates will die quicker than you get to know them. The demons don’t feel fear like wolves or bears or other creatures you might have faced back home. The dragons will leave you behind if you don’t keep up. And half the humans on your side are the thieves, the rapists, and the murderers. Not many friends out here, kid. You just survive, okay?” She let him go and turned away, her chest rising and falling heavily.
“I’m sorry,” Scythe said.
“It’s alright. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be new out here.”
Scythe peered off for a moment, looking to the dark world beyond their fire in the direction the two men had walked off in. He’d met plenty of soldiers before now; in the capital, on the ship, at the Nest. None had been like them.
“Murderers and rapists are sent to the eastern front?”
“Harsher sentence than a cell, that’s for sure,” the huntress said.
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