The Minstrel and the Shadow
“Cold, but it’s good to be among people again,” Idgen Marte murmured, as she mingled with the flow of traffic on Ashmill Bridge’s main thoroughfare. The Bridge from which the town took its name arched high in the distance, and the now derelict mill next to it.
She felt a twinge of guilt even as the words left her lips. The folk in Thornhurst were people, after all. Good to be back in a city then, she amended.
A thought flashed when she thought of the small town before her as a city. A vision of tall gleaming towers and paved boulevards wide enough for carriages to ride three abreast.
“A town, at any rate,” she muttered, banishing thoughts of cities and concentrating on the dull buildings around her, most of them made of clay brick that seemed the color of rust. Like most barony towns it seemed to have no plan; streets started and stopped and bisected each other in mystifying ways, and if it were true to form, she’d bet the locals guarded knowledge of navigating them like sages on mountaintops in some stories she knew.
But any town with more than a few buildings jammed together and more than a couple of hundred souls seemed to speak to her, draw her in. Always had. So she simply drifted along with the crowd, another sword-at-hire at odds and ends since the end of campaigning season.
She kept one eye out for signs that tended to bunches of grapes, barrels, horns, foaming mugs, or beehives, with the occasional fanciful animal.
It was one of the latter that caught her eye: a green and gold dragon coiled protectively around a barrel, more skillfully painted than most she’d seen in this part of the world. The building was a bit larger, too, with stables behind, a noisy but not raucous crowd within, and a warm, inviting light filling the windows.
She pulled up short just outside the door as the first notes of music trickled into her ears. She knew instantly the melody, knew it was being played on a ten-course lute with a higher chanterelle than any barony-born minstrel played. No quill; the player was plucking the strings bare-fingered, and he knew his business well.
Long time past, she told herself silently. Be who you are, not who you were. With a determined hand she shoved the door open and made her way in. She couldn’t help but spare a glance towards one of the fireplaces in the corner of the room, where the music came from.
She never got tired of being proved right. He was a Concordat man and trained in one of the better schools, probably the Tower. His skin was darker even than hers, that much was clear through the haze of smoke that hung in the taproom. She couldn’t make out too much of the lute in his hands, but the shell gleamed in soft bands.
She couldn’t keep a tiny grin from twisting the corner of her mouth. Let fools ask for gold inlay and pearl pegs, she thought to herself. A musician cares about the wood.
Quickly realizing that she was blocking the door, Idgen Marte stepped smartly up to the bar, a well-polished and well-attended slab of thick wood, its edge bound with hammered copper. As she was taller than most who stood or sat, and well-dressed, it wasn’t long before one of the three keepers who manned its length slid in front of her.
A silver link already palmed, she spun it out to the tips of her fingers and then set it carefully down on the bar. “Red, Innadan.”
He nodded and swept the link up, dropped it through a slot in the back wall into, doubtless, a strongbox. He returned quickly with her wine, a flagon and one well-made if plain clay cup, and set them down. “Anything else? Food?”
“Just a question,” she said softly, even as she carefully poured from flagon to cup. “The lutist—is he house? Where’d he come from?”
“He’s been in town a fair while,” the barkeep said. He was younger than her, thin and dark-bearded. “Working his way ‘round the better places. Most o’the owners’sve tried t’make him offers, though he says he don’t mean t’stay. I think he’s just anglin’ fer the top bid.”
“Good plan,” she said, then turned around, cup in hand, to watch him play. She had a sip, found it too warm, too heavy for her tongue. Allystaire’d love it, she thought. At least this means I can sip and not guzzle.
He’s better than this place deserves, she thought. Better than this country deserves, she amended, as she studied him. His hands glided across the strings, never giving an impression of effort or hurry. He had just the right aloof distance from the crowd, just the right combination of easy smile and concentration mingling on his features. The song she’d known had long since changed into something she suspected he was making up on the spot, and it had drawn nearly every eye and ear in the place. She felt it build, a run of impressive notes that called that high chanterelle into plenty of use, then resolve—as she knew it must for a drinking crowd in a small-town tavern—into a down-the-neck cascade and a final soft strum.
He straightened his back, easing his hand off the strings, and flashed a small, confident smile at the crowd. Offers to buy him drinks began singing out from the listeners, and links, mostly copper but some with the more friendly gleam of silver, began to arc into the small box open before his stool.
He sat casually flexing his hands for a moment before he adjusted his grip on the instrument. He stood and offered a brief, neat bow. Then he addressed the crowd in a resonant voice, and she shivered when she heard the rich accent of her homeland in his barony tongue.
“A brief respite, good people,” he said. “To replenish my strength, revive my voice, and reinvigorate the hands, if you would be so kind as to extend your forbearance.” He waited till the last coin made its way into his box, then snapped it closed. He reverently cased his lute, and carried it to the bar slung on one shoulder.
Idgen Marte cleared her throat as he approached, and pitched her voice to carry over the suddenly noisier room. More importantly, she spoke in the lyrical Concordat tongue.
“You’re a long way from home.”
He was a few seats down the bar, but a musician’s ears hear most everything, as she was counting on, and she thought she’d hear their native tongue if it were spoken as a whisper on a battlefield.
He turned, smiled, rose from the stool he’d taken, and came to her side. She slid off her own stool and pushed it aside with her boot to make room. He wasn’t quite her height, with skin like well-polished dark copper, a thin beard around his mouth, and hair cut so close it was practically shaved. The flickering lamp and torch light, not to mention the smoke, made his features harder to see, but Idgen Marte was reasonably sure she liked them.
“Home is the road,” he replied in the same tongue.
She stopped herself just short of answering, And its next bend will surely take me there, forced a polite smile, and said, “Must get terrible drafty in the next few months.”
She studied his reaction. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected, she could tell by the set of his eyes, but he was a performer and had a tight rein on his expressions. “Well, that’s what stops on the road are for, eh?”
She sipped her wine and nodded in agreement. When she set her cup back down, she said, “That was the best version of ‘Flames on the High Tower’ I’ve heard in a long time. Perhaps ever.”
“You’re too kind,” he demurred. “I’ve played it better before, in truth.” He extended a hand, even as the bartender was setting up some of the first of his free drinks. From what she could see, all of them were small beer, and well-watered at that. He was a professional. “Andus Carek.”
She took his hand, feeling the familiar musician’s callouses thick on the pads of his fingers. “Radys Glythe,” she lied. Why bother? The odds he’d know my name are so long they’re beyond the counting. “Where are you from, Andus Carek? I’m of Cansebour, myself.” Speaking that truth felt almost physically painful. But it’s the place I can best describe, she thought, a longing for those wide streets, gleaming towers, and clean canals seizing her heart and tugging it hard for a moment.
“The diamond of the south,” he said admiringly. “I grew up in Fen Isiel, less a diamond and more a festering boil. What brings you to the warlike and increasingly frozen north, so far from the greatest city in the world, Radys Glythe?”
“The former part. Just a sword-at-hire.”
He looked pointedly down at her hip and said, “It’s a curious sword-at-hire who doesn’t carry a sword.”
Idgen Marte nearly clamped her teeth to keep herself from spitting a curse and forced herself to keep smiling. “Just a term,” she rebutted. Got to tell that dwarfish braggart to hurry up when I get back. “In fact, I’m not at-hire either. I’ve a job through the winter, little village a couple of day’s ride south and west of here.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “Aye, a place called Thornhurst.” She tried to read his expression again but the falling dark and his tight control made it a challenge. “In fact, I’m here looking for musicians.”
He held up a hand, palm out. “Whatever it was, I didn’t do it. Never met the girl, nor the boy. Never saw the jewels. And so forth.” He grinned with his own joke, the delivery smooth and natural.
She laughed, then shook her head. “Nothing like that at all. Folk down there are aching for music. I volunteered to try and drive some in.”
The man shrugged helplessly. “Wish I could help, if only to hear my native tongue all winter. Alas, I am contracted within Ashmill Bridge.”
He lies, Idgen Marte thought, and for a moment wished she had Allystaire along. Though if he were he would’ve frozen it all up already. Scared him away or started a fight.
She responded by waving a hand, casually dismissing his protest. “Easily bought off. Plenty of links to make in Thornhurst. I’ve got their proxy. Tell me what you’re making here, we’ll beat it. I guarantee.”
“Where would Thornhurst get the silver? Thought they were farmer folk in rough times.”
She snorted. “All time is rough for farmers in this country.”
He glanced around the bar and leaned closer to her. He had a clean, masculine scent and she decided that she did indeed like his features: fine, high cheekbones and rich hazel eyes. “Listen, a friendly word from one who’s lately covered the barony. You’ll not want to be in Thornhurst long.”
“Eh? What’ve you heard?”
He shrugged. “Nothing certain. Just…too many whispers. Too many rumors. The fighting in Londray might spill out there, though, to be honest, that seems largely over now. Some rot about sorcerers and cultists. Too much stink attaching to the name. When you meet brethren on the road, you warn or are warned—nobody wants to be caught there.”
“Wait, the fighting in Londray is over? What do you mean?”
“One of the Baron’s children returned and made quick work of most of the grey-bands. Supposedly the pretender is still alive, but eh?” He drained his tea and set the cup down. “Unless he comes back to win and hold the seat, it won’t be much of a song, so what do I care?”
“What is the rise or fall of a great man but for the song to be made of it?” She smiled at that and lifted her wine, drinking to the sentiment, still minding how much she actually imbibed. “There must be some price that’ll get you down in Thornhurst. Even for a week.” She leaned forward just enough to press her leg against the inside of his. Lutist’s hands, she thought, surprising herself. A singer’s mouth. And lovely eyes.
He smiled, and there was more warmth in it than performance, she thought, but a wistful tinge to those eyes of his. “Afraid not.” He tilted his head, shifted his hips to press against her lightly. “I may not stay here all winter, but for the next week at least. And if you’d like to continue this talk, native tongues and all, I’m staying at the Sign of the Silver Fish, west of the bridge. And now,” he said, smoothly pulling away from her, “I’m back to business. Got to talk to the publican, then more music. Maybe I’ll play something from home for you.” He grabbed a small drink out of his queue and tossed it back. He disappeared through a door behind the bar with a backwards glance and a sensual smile.
She drained her wine, trying to ignore the heat she felt moving up her cheeks. She refilled her cup, intending to toss that down as well. Caution and self control kept her to another sip. Sign of the Silver Fish, she thought. May have to take a walk. That would count as developing intelligence of the wider picture in the barony, surely? He’s recently crossed it, as he says. Probably got dust from it everywhere. It would be the work of a good scout to find all of it. She let the thought die, watching the crowd. Mostly it seemed like local tradesmen, but the well-to-do sort who could drink better than swill and pay for top music.
No dirt under their nails, no more ache in their hands, she thought as she studied them, the fur-trimmed collars, the occasional flash of gold or gemmary on fingers or necks. So long as they killed no one for it, not my place to judge, she told herself.
There were a few swords in the room, worn by men dressed for traveling, and a smattering of less common weapons. She mentally inventoried her own: mainly the two long knives strapped underneath her coat, her bow and quiver with her mount at a cheap livery near the road.
Her attention was drawn to the minstrel as he made his way to his stool. He carefully set out his coin-box, then even more carefully uncased his lute and sat, making a great show of tuning and strumming it to his satisfaction. To Idgen Marte’s ear, most of the adjustment was unnecessary, but it served to quiet the crowd and draw their attention.
Once he had it, he began, with the fast and familiar “Wastrel of Arabel,” which soon had the crowd singing, or at least chanting, along. Never my favorite. If they want to sing, let ‘em learn how first, she thought, keeping her own mouth clamped shut.
From the raucous, bawdy crowd favorite to a thumping adventure, he next played “Fenren’s Final Ride,” and Idgen Marte found herself admiring not only his speed, but also his precision. Hard to be both, she admitted. Again, she considered the Sign of the Silver Fish and just whether or not it might be worth walking.
Then he took a brief pause to wet his whistle from one of his free drinks, that she was more than half sure was water, before clearing his throat to introduce his next song. “A song many of you may not have heard, from my homeland far, far south of here, from its largest and greatest city.”
Her back straightened. She quickly guessed what he meant to play, and the first chord proved her right. “The Streets of Cansebour.”
Her mind was drawn instantly back to the wide clean streets, the gleaming white stone, the towers both graceful and imposing, the light of dawn flaring purple through the stained glass windows of one particular tower, of the music heard and played there.
Of blood splashed on the stones beneath it.
She tossed a link on the bar and stood up, made for the door. She heard the small hitch in the music, in his voice, could feel his eyes on her as she left.
Once out in the night she took a deep, gulping breath of stinging winter air, and pulled her coat tighter, felt it tug against the knives on her back. She began walking the narrow, dark streets of Ashmill Bridge with the song of her home taunting her ears all the way.
She wasn’t sure how long it was that she walked, but a long stretch of night passed. She stared at the bridge and wondered if it was still worth finding the Sign of the Silver Fish, and giving Andus Carek the waking of his life. But then I’d have to explain why I left, she thought. Not if I’m too busy to talk and he’s too busy to listen.
The streets were largely deserted, but she suddenly heard staccato footsteps on the street behind her. Instinctively, she rolled her shoulders inside her coat to loosen the fit and make it easier to shed in order to draw her knives. When a side-alley approached on her right, she ducked into it, loosening a blade.
The footsteps went right on past the alley, the product of a thin figure wrapped in a thinner cloak. Idgen Marte quietly counted ten and then returned to the wider street. The figure was distant, but not out of sight.
Some sense, some tickle along the back of her neck, told Idgen Marte to follow.
She let herself blend into the shadows, which were abundant. The Goddess’s Gifts to her, primarily this—the blending, the movement through the meeting of light and dark—felt so natural, came so easy, she sometimes couldn’t remember what life had been like without them. And yet she had resisted using them flippantly, despite herself. Not that Allystaire couldn’t use a good scare now and then, she idly thought as she followed the figure that scurried through the streets.
After a few yards, though, Idgen Marte let the shadows drop away. I could follow this one in broad daylight. For all the nervous movement of the figure, looking over its shoulder, flattening against walls, she—Idgen Marte was certain it was a she—did a terrible job of keeping out of sight.
It was a simple matter then to simply stick close to the walls, duck into the occasional alley, and stay in blind spots.
The longer she followed, the poorer the town got. Ashmill Bridge was large enough to have its prosperous and its poor quarters, and looking around, Idgen Marte realized that she was in the worse half of the latter; the houses got smaller, meaner, closer together. The stench of the place tugged at her nose, but she pushed it aside and flattened herself against a wall, trying not to think of the wet now sloshing around her ankles, as the figure she followed stopped at a door and knocked carefully, speaking some hushed words. The door opened and the figure slipped inside, pulling it tightly closed behind her.
When she turned to pull the door, her face had been clearly visible, if distant. Something of it tugged at Idgen Marte’s memory. Thin, young, blonde.
Well, I’ve come this far. Idgen Marte dashed across the open space of the lane and pushed herself against the stone wall of the house the woman had disappeared into. The windows were all tightly shuttered but still the faintest hint of light leaked out.
Nobody in this part of town wastes candles or lamp oil this late. Couldn’t be more obvious if they tried.
Why do I care? Where have I seen that woman before? And do I wish to get in there? She felt herself melting into the shadows the starlight projected against the wall, started envisioning the shadow on the other side of it. She could move between the two—but would there be enough room inside the tiny hovel to contain her? Was it her business? Happenin’ in this part of town, women trying to hide? Sounds like my business.
Then she heard the unmistakable tramp of booted men moving with swift purpose, and the jingle of armor and weapon. Without a second thought, she blurred away from the small house, to the shadowed top of a wall roughly ten yards distant, crouched invisibly upon it.
Men, perhaps a dozen of them in long cloaks and scarves around their faces, half of them bearing torches and the other half clubs—and all of them armed further, she was sure—swarmed around the house. The door was forced open amidst the sound of screams, and Idgen Marte’s arms tensed as she heard the unmistakable dry thud of a club on flesh. Greenhats, she thought, have to be. But why?
Her hands went to her knives, and she started to pull them free. My business now for sure, she thought, but then one of the men started to speak, pronouncing his words with a casual assumption of mastery and power that caused her hands to go white-knuckled on her hilts. Even so, she paused to listen.
“You are in violation of several proclamations of the Baron Delondeur, all of which have been read publicly,” he began, holding a torch aloft while half a dozen women were pulled from the building. “It is past the twelfth turn since noon and you are not in your homes. You are engaging in a secret meeting for seditious purpose. You engage in a heathen faith that has been proclaimed Anathemata by the Temples of Braech and Fortune, an Anathemata that is endorsed by the Baron.”
By the time Anathemata was out of his mouth, Idgen Marte had pulled her knives free and began stalking across the street. She heard but barely registered one of the women cry out that they were only praying, while another sobbed. One, whom Idgen Marte believed was the one she’d followed, took a defiant step forward, lifting her eyes towards the man who threatened her.
“The Mother cannot be put down or tossed aside. Not with torch nor club, not with knife nor hangman’s rope. What is it about poor unarmed women you fear so much?”
The man’s hand slipped inside of his cloak and pulled free his short-sword. He laid the tip of it casually at the woman’s throat. She swallowed, started to take half a step back, caught herself, angrily jutting her narrow chin.
“You’re just a whore with airs on,” the man said. “Why would I fear you? Tell me, foolish, dead woman, does your Mother have a sword?”
“No,” Idgen Marte whispered into his ear, suddenly standing behind him. “She has a Shadow.” His body stiffened as she slipped the point of her knife upwards into the unarmored juncture of his arm and chest. He gurgled bloody froth from his mouth and his eyes rolled into his head. She stepped back, let his body fall, and blurred into motion among the rest of the men, who were suddenly swinging torches and drawing swords, screaming alarm and yelling orders.
With the Goddess’s cold anger flowing with her through the shadows cast by their torches, Idgen Marte made quick work of four of the remaining guards, slipping behind, beneath, and amongst them, the points of her knives sliding into groins or the edges across throats. With five of their number down, courage fled and the remainder chased after it. Idgen Marte picked one of them out and darted after him.
Before he was ten yards away, she was beside him, tossing him to the ground with an outstretched leg. Torch and club went bouncing away. She bent over him, placing a bloodied knife against his neck.
“Why? Why terrorize them?”
The man babbled in fear. She pressed the knife harder, drew a thin red line of blood. “Answer me!”
“I’m just taking orders. Please, I have a wife, and children. Please. Please.” His voice came out in a hushed whine.
“What about their children, their husbands?”
“Orders come down from the Baron. From the Baron! He’s coming here, that’s the rumor, coming this way, soon, chasing down the grey-bands and heretics.” He shut his eyes tightly, trying to gather himself with a shallow breath. “Please,” he hissed out once more.
“Go. Tell the others that the Shadow of the Mother showed you mercy.” Her voice was a ragged and angry rasp. “Tell the other soldiers, the other greenhats, whichever you are, that Her folk are not to be hunted.” She swung away from him, pulling her knife away from his throat, but not without nicking his cheek first, ripping open a tiny line that would scar. “That,” she said as he clambered to his feet and clapped a hand over his cut, “is so I’ll know you if ever I see you again. Don’t let me.”
Without a word, he hared off down the street. She turned to the bodies, cleaned her knives on a dead man’s cloak, and slid them back into place along her back.
The defiant girl walked up to her, admiration and anger warring on her young, fine-boned features. “Why’d ya let him away?”
Idgen Marte eyed her. The familiarity was nagging at her. “I know you,” she said, gliding past the question. “What’s your name?”
“Shary,” the girl said. “An’ yeah, we met—you saved me, me and another girl called Filoma. Saved us from—”
“From a pimp and his fat bruiser,” Idgen Marte finished. “I looked for you in Thornhurst.”
“I decided it was important t’stay,” the girl said quickly. “Tell others what I saw. We started having meetings, praying together.”
“That’s brave of you, Shary, and brave of the rest of you, but there are five greenhat bodies cooling in front of one of your homes and seven more running away. That’ll bring more of them. We don’t want to be here when they arrive.”
“What have we to fear? We have Faith, and the Mother sent Her Shadow,” Shary began, wide-eyed. “Let them come. We’ll be armed.”
“Even if I could defeat a whole troop of them on my own, I’ll not turn this town into a bloodbath in the Mother’s name. Take what you will from their bodies if you’ve the stomach for it, but otherwise, you need to scatter to your homes or come with me. Which will it be?” Watching Shary and two of the other women patting the corpses down, Idgen Marte was hit with a sudden twinge of conscience. Ought to leave some links for the families, she thought, but then immediately countered the thought with another. Anything left’ll just get stolen by the other greenhats anyway.
“What it’s going to be,” Idgen Marte said, once purses were stripped, knives tugged off of belts, and a couple of stout clubs liberated. “Going to ground or coming with me?”
“I don’t want to leave,” Shary protested. “I’m no coward. I don’t want those bastards t’win.”
Idgen Marte sighed. “Shary, this town’s not big enough t’hide in forever. And those bastards will win if you try to fight. Even against me, if there’s enough of them, one will get smart, or lucky. I can’t stay here forever. If you come with me, I’ll be able to throw them off and I’ll defend you on the road.”
“Some of us have family, little ones. Have we the time t’fetch them?”
“Go now, immediately. Meet me at the south road as soon as you can. Anyone who isn’t there in a quarter turn isn’t coming.”
Idgen Marte turned and began running. She’d always been fleet of foot, and sure of every step she took. But with the Goddess’s Gifts her speed was something more than natural. It would be a thing for song if anyone could see her move when she ran flat-out. Be the kind of thing I’d write a song about if I had a mind to write songs, she thought, before forcing her mind back to the moment. I’ve a quarter turn to think on how to get a score of people out of town. How would Allystaire do it, anyway? Kill or terrify everyone who got in his way. As she thought, she headed to the livery stable where her horse was quartered. There were no signs of greenhats or unusual activity, but that would change sooner rather than later.
The stable was locked up tight. She began to work on jimmying the bar when she snorted in disgust. There was light enough to make shadows on either side of the door, so she simply stepped into one on this side and flowed through to the other. She had her courser saddled and ready in moments. No use in slow stealth when her mount’s hooves would sound loud on the streets no matter what she did with them, so she rode hard to her rendezvous.
Ashmill Bridge hadn’t size or wealth enough to build proper walls and gates, but it did post guards at its entrances and take note of comings and goings. Thankfully she was the first to reach them, dropping from her her saddle a dozen paces from a three-walled guard shack.
There was no reaction from the ramshackle building as she closed in, one knife slid carefully inside her right sleeve. She edged up against one wooden wall, edging carefully around to its open side.
They were asleep. Of course they are. They aren’t paid enough t’stay up all night, she thought, and briefly, she considered slitting their throats. It’s what I would’ve done a year ago. Now, though? Instead, she dropped the knife from her sleeve into her hand, and rapped the pommel hard against the inside wall.
They startled awake, reaching for spears and coming clumsily to their feet, blinking in the dim light of the coal-filled braziers they dozed near.
“Gentlemen,” she murmured, “I hate to disturb your rest, but a sizable group of my relations are going to be coming past your gate any moment. I don’t want them counted, named, or, frankly, looked at too closely. What’ll it cost me?”
Her honesty seemed to take them aback. One, older, with grey stubble all over his chin and cheeks, spat to the ground. “Gold link and a tumble for each of us,” he snickered.
“You couldn’t count the number of links you’d need to make that happen. How about a pair of silver links each and I forget the insult?”
The other one, large shoulders straining his jerkin, poorly-dyed green wool cap clinging to a mass of thick black hair, snorted. “What’s t’say we don’t just take what’s in your purse, and anythin’ else we want, hrm?”
“I tried to be polite about this,” she sighed, before she kicked him hard in the knee, causing it to buckle. Then she shifted her weight onto her back foot and snapped the toe of her boot into the point of his chin. His mouth shut with a hard click and down he went, knocking over a brazier and sending hot coals skidding into the dirt. He was profoundly unconscious when he hit the ground.
The other greenhat had his knife only half free by the time her point was against the side of his neck. “You can still make a link out of this, provided you don’t say another freezing word. Are we clear?”
He nodded very carefully, mindful of the knife held against his throat, and swallowed shallowly.
“Good.” Knife still pricking his throat, she pulled free a thin circle of silver from her purse and pressed it into his palm. He took it. She lowered the knife. “When they ask you what happened, tell them it was the Shadow of the Mother—and that she could have slit your throats while you slept.”
Before she turned to go, she gave the larger one a sharp kick in the guts as he appeared to be stirring. Seemed like he could use another bruise in the morning.
Outside of the shack she found a gathering of folk milling around her horse.
And distantly, in the town proper, there were torches, the clang of weapons, the shout of orders.
She sprinted back to her horse. “How many children have we?” she hissed. Most were wide-eyed, frightened, the few men and children rubbing their weary eyes, all huddled miserably in cloaks that did little for the cold.
“Three babes, three old enough to walk,” Shary answered. For her part she carried a rolled and tied blanket slung over one shoulder, and many of the others carried similar bundles.
“Put the three who can walk on my horse’s saddle, carry the other three, and run south. Just hold to a straight southern course, as fast you can, stay together, and I’ll find you. Go. Now.” Idgen Marte helped hoist three nervous, sleepy children onto her courser’s saddle, and then retrieved her bow and quiver. She turned towards the guards, whose forward elements were rounding a curve out of the town proper and beginning to descend along the dirt track leading out of it.
They hadn’t brought bows that she could see. Small grace. Thanks, Mother, even if you’d naught to do with their piss-poor decisions. Without bothering to pick a specific target, she nocked an arrow to drew, and let fly in a lazy arc that dropped into their torch-lit midst. By all means, gents, continue to present me so very many targets.
She turned to see Shary and the other townsfolk watching her wide-eyed. “I said now. Run! I’ll catch you.”
“We’ve no lamps or torches—”
“Don’t fear the darkness,” Idgen Marte cut her off. “There’s light in its midst. I promise you. Go. The Mother will not abandon you. Neither will I.” She turned, and was already nocking another arrow, when she heard the sound of footsteps as the townsfolk broke into a run, of hooves as her horse began to trot.
She blurred into the dark shadows amongst trees to one side of the road, drew back her bowstring, and loosed another arrow, taking more careful aim. The men had scattered, showing that at least one man giving orders had some sense, but her arrow found its target—one of the torchbearers. It took him high in the arm, and he dropped his brand. Dry, the grass instantly sparked into flame, and two of them were distracted with stamping it out.
Idgen Marte spared a moment to count her arrows against the number of men, as they split into pairs and spread out even farther, covering their flanks and moving fast. These are professionals. Not just greenhats. A pair made their way cautiously towards her position. Her bowstring sang its badly pitched note once, twice, and both were down. She ran forward and snatched up the torch that fell from one’s grasping hand, ran with her unnatural speed into the road, and heaved it at the watch post. It struck once side and bounced away. The little shack didn’t catch fire, but the shower of sparks got the attention of her pursuers.
She paused, making sure they saw her. When half dozen of them produced loaded crossbows from under their cloaks, she wrapped herself in shadows and sprinted away with every ounce of speed, natural and supernatural, at her disposal.
They’re not even after the faithful anymore, she thought to herself as she imagined crossbowmen firing at a high angle, hoping to drop their bolts down on her. They’re after me.
A bolt landed in the dirt far behind her, but closer than it ought to have been, and she ducked into the bare trees that lined the road. She thought again of the number of arrows she had, the number of men pursuing her. Be knife work before it’s over, unless I can make them pay too dear for getting that close.
She judged the approach of torches through the trees, fitted an arrow to the string. The face of the man whose cheek she’d marked swam for a moment in her vision, but she banished it and loosed, not waiting to see if she’d hit.
It looked a long, bloody night.
* * *
Shary led her ragged group down the cold dirt-packed track by starlight, sometimes kneeling to feel at the ground to make sure they hadn’t strayed off the track. Mostly it was straight and well-edged, but the fear nagged at her.
She kept silent, willed the rest to do the same, and clutched onto the wooden club she’d taken off a dead greenhat with white knuckles, carrying it like a talisman, like simply holding a weapon would keep at bay the guards, the priests, the torturers she imagined hard on their heels.
Occasionally in the night, as they walked, they’d hear a ragged scream in the distance behind them. Always a man’s scream, Shary told herself, confident she knew the difference, but her hand would get a little tighter on the club each time.
The first few times it happened folks would rush to clap their hands around the children’s ears, and the children would start crying, only to be hushed, start to ask a question, only to have a hand clamped over their mouths.
Shary walked in circles around the group, a tight ball of nerves and energy in the pit of her stomach, occasionally pausing to touch Gend’s arm or hand in passing. Gend, who’d been a thief and a drunk and become a laborer and a drunk, which was still an improvement. Gend who’d also met a paladin and had been one of the few who’d believed her story, just as she’d believed his. He may not have been much of a man, really, but didn’t try to put her on the street and never hit her, never hurt her, never wanted to hurt anyone. What he did want, she knew, was to stop being a drunk. He just didn’t know how.
Finally, when one of the sounds that split the silence open was less scream and more angry yell, he stopped her with a hand on her arm, careful but firm. “Gimme the club, lass,” he murmured, and she tried to make out his face by the moon and star light, which wasn’t bright. She could just about make out the shape of his eyes and the ragged beard on his cheeks, and not much else.
“Please,” he finally said, as he pried it from her hand. He turned to watch the road behind him, such as he could in the dark, as there was another yell and suddenly a torch visible. He yelled, “Run!”
She froze, but soon other hands grabbed her and pulled her along. She glanced back and saw a struggle of bodies, heard the thud of weapons or fists landing against skin, heard and felt and smelled death in the air, and started stumbling forward faster, trying not to listen to the brawl behind her.
* * *
She was out of arrows, carrying her unstrung bow awkwardly in her left hand as some kind of ersatz club or shield, with one of her long knives in the right. The other knife was gone, bonestuck in a dead man’s ribcage. A long trail of dead men, hamstrung men, men with throats slit or groins ripped open, lay behind her. She had a shallow cut along one side and a throbbing in her left shoulder, from the blow of a spiked mace, that made her wish Allystaire was at her side.
Not his kind of fight, she thought as she tried to get her bearings. He’d just be in my way, or have bulled amongst them and gotten himself killed by now. She’d moved so much, and so far, blurring from one group of men to the other, sprinting to attract pursuit, she wasn’t sure where she was anymore in relation to the road or the people she’d sent hurrying along it. Brilliant plan, that, she thought, trying to ignore the pain that radiated from her shoulder.
The sounds of a fight grabbed her ear, cursing, muted strikes landing on flesh, a ragged yell. She made for it, resettling her hand around her knife.
Her fingers were wet and slippery and the knife’s hilt was slick.
Two men were wrestling over a knife as a third lay on the ground, bleeding, a torch sputtering into the dry grass. She hadn’t the time to stomp on the flames. She hadn’t time to sort out which combatant was which, so she lowered her shoulder and plowed into them, biting down a howl of pain as she realized she’d led with the wounded shoulder. Both hit the ground, their surprised shouts cut short as the fall stole their wind.
One stayed down, while the other popped back to his feet, growling. There was a short blade in his hand, and for a moment, light gleamed against the armor under his cloak.
“You don’t have to die tonight,” she rasped, her voice made even harsher by her wounds, the night’s exertion. A part of her cringed at how it sounded. “Put down the blade and walk away.”
“And miss my chance at collectin’ the links on your head?” He lunged at her, or tried, but she was gone, slipped behind him. She tried slipping the knife into his ribs but the point snagged on his mail, so quickly, savagely, she reversed her grip so that the knife pointed out of the bottom of her fist, and just slammed it with all the strength that remained to her where his neck and shoulder met.
The result was bloody and drawn out, but conclusive. She worked the knife back and forth, opening a huge gash, tearing the mail open.
The man died ugly, whimpering and clutching at the wound, forgetting the sword she’d told him to drop, kicking it about in the dirt as he thrashed.
She stamped out the sparks the torch had spread in the grass, picking up the brand after sheathing her knife. She held the guttering light over the bodies. One was a greenhat with the side of his head stove in, his identifying cap soaked in blood. The other was a thin man with a nasty wound on his side and bruising on his forehead and his bearded cheeks. She was about to move on when he took a ragged breath.
She dropped to a knee and let her bowstave fall out of her hand. “Easy, easy,” she murmured. She drew her knife again, used it to cut ragged strips off one of the dead greenhat’s cloaks, and began to staunch his wound with them.
“Stop, stop,” he croaked. “I’m done. I know it. Another wound like this’sun in m’back. I did time as a soldier,” he added, his voice rasping and growing fainter. “Nothin’ t’be done.”
She pressured the wound anyway, and he feebly slapped at her hands. “Not helping. Save t’others.” He coughed, his breath rattled in his throat. “I got the bastards though, didn’t I?”
“You did. What’s your name?”
“Gend,” he wheezed. “Tell Shary I died sober, eh? For her. For the Mother, I guess. Leave me here. Go.” His were words barely audible now.
“The Mother doesn’t want you dying for her, Gend,” Idgen Marte whispered. “She’d rather you live for Her, for Shary. Come on. Stand up, I’ll walk you back.”
He didn’t answer; his hands fell limply to his sides.
She slid her knife back home, collected her bowstave, and pushed painfully back to her feet. Pursuit seemed to have lost her or broken off. Or I killed enough of them.
She looked down at Gend’s cooling corpse. “I can’t carry you. And I can’t stop to bury you. But they’ll know what you did, and what you said. I promise you that.” She turned to leave, then turned back and knelt painfully to the ground. She placed a hand over his forehead and gently closed his eyelids.
Then, searching for words she expected to be difficult and remote only to find them ready to hand, she whispered, “May the Mother find you in the next world, may Her hand guard you, Her tears wipe away your burdens, Her love free you of all your pains.” She turned and started to limp away, muttering fiercely, “He died for you, Mother. He best not have died in vain.”
Even as she said the words she felt, as much as heard, some tiny ringing note in the chill of the night.
* * *
She caught up with the rest of them not even a quarter of a turn later, dragging herself down the road at as fast a walk as she could make, ignoring the pain, forcing it into a part of her mind she could ignore. Lucky Cold-damned shot anyway, she told herself.
She heard the tired plod of her horse’s steps, heard the quiet, fearful muttering of the folk, heard a calmer voice telling them to quiet down and keep walking. They were shadowy forms, indistinct in the darkness, except for one that kept moving from the back of the group to the front, every point in between, and back. Shary, she thought. Mother, I hope she’s as tough as she seems.
She called out softly, “It’s me. Idgen Marte. The Shadow. I think I’ve shaken the pursuit.” I think I murdered them all in the dark, actually, but I oughtn’t tell you that. The group stopped as soon as they heard her voice, but she could hear the sighs of relief, the quiet murmurs of thanks.
Idgen Marte called out again. “There’s a lantern and oil in the saddlebags. I think you can risk it now.”
As the others halted the horse, pulled exhausted children out of its saddle, and began rummaging in the bags, Shary came towards her with a determined stride.
“Gend? Did ya find him? He stayed back to hold the bastards off…”
Idgen Marte wiped her free hand on the back of her trousers, unsure how much good it would do. Then she touched Shary’s arm. The girl’s exposed skin was pebbled with the cold, and shook slightly. “I found him,” Idgen Marte whispered carefully.
“Then where is…”
“They found him too, Shary. The soldiers. He wanted you to know that he died for you. For the Mother. And that he did it sober.”
Even in the dark she could see the girl’s features start to scrunch up, and then saw her fight back the grief, swallowing it, clawing herself free. Idgen Marte recognized that process when she saw it; she’d done it enough herself.
“And the men that killed him?”
“Both are dead,” Idgen Marte softened her voice as she went on, but it was like a file against steel no matter what she did. “He’d fought them. Killed one, hurt the other, but he’d taken a wound himself, too big and too deep for me to staunch.”
“You killed the other?”
“I did.” She paused. “It’s no small thing, an unarmored man with a truncheon taking on armored men with swords.”
“Gend was a pretty small man,” Shary replied in a voice that wavered between bitter and sorrowful.
“Maybe he was once. Not anymore.”
“Don’t make him into some kind of hero.”
“I’m not,” Idgen Marte said, casting an eye towards the people fumbling in her saddlebags in the dark behind them.
“He was a thief and a drunk, and I’m a fool for…” She stopped, bit her lips closed.
“If he was a thief, or a drunk, he came to the Mother in the end, and he’s earned something for that.”
“We should go back, bury him, or take him with us,” Shary said, starting to brush past Idgen Marte, who tightened her hand on the girl’s arm.
“No,” she insisted. “Just because they’ve gone for now doesn’t mean they’ll stay gone. We’ve got to press on. If they come at us in numbers again, I don’t know if I can stop them. We need to make Thornhurst as fast as we can. And I need you to lead these people there. I gave him a benediction when I left him…”
“A what?”
“A blessing. A prayer. The Mother will see to his soul, Shary. I promise you.”
The lantern sparked to life. Shary turned, pulling her too-thin cloak over herself, and softly clapped her hands together. “Enough standing around,” she said, her voice hushed but urgent. “We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”
Idgen Marte followed Shary towards the crowd, seizing her horse’s bridle and leaning on the animal’s weight a bit, to help her walk. She heard some hisses of indrawn breath when she came into the light. She saw her own hand on the bridle, saw the wet stains there on her fingers, her wrist, climbing up the sleeves of her jacket to her elbows.
She let go of the bridle and retreated to the shadows outside the lantern’s light.