CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

 

Often, the man left still standing, after the dying’s done, is overcome with one feeling

And that feeling, contrary to popular belief, is not victory.

It’s loneliness.

—Unnamed soldier during Fey War

 

“What is it then, brother? Is it that you pursue misery?”

Cutter sighed as he pushed another knot of brambles and vines aside and stepped past. He might have held them for his brother, who walked behind, but he had been listening to the man complain since they’d set out through the forest, so instead he let them go and was rewarded with a squawk of indignation from Feledias.

“Shit on this damned forsaken forest,” Feledias hissed. “What’s so wrong with the road anyway? Seems to me, brother, that after all the trouble you and I went through, all the meeting with engineers and draining of the kingdom’s coffers, that it’s a damned shame to go gallivanting through the forest when there’s a perfectly good road we might walk on.”

“You know,” Cutter said as he swiped at a thick tangle of undergrowth with his axe, the always-sharp edge making quick work of it, “you and Challadius really ought to hang out more. Seems to me the two of you would get along great.”

Feledias snorted. “I’ve no interest in that fat mage friend of yours, not unless he knows a spell that might burn this whole cursed forest down.”

Cutter glanced back at Feledias. “This ‘cursed forest’ is our land, brother, fought and bled for by our people.”

“A damned shame,” his brother repeated. “Tell me, what was wrong with the road again?”

“Nothing, at least not with the road itself, though I think the assassins that are no doubt traveling it in search of us might make the journey a bit more arduous.”

Feledias hissed, batting at an errant, thorny vine that had nicked him. “Better to die by an assassin’s blade then by a thousand scratches from vines that seem dead-set on making what remains of our lives a misery.”

Cutter sighed. There didn’t really seem much point in arguing with his brother. He had been acting so for the day and a half since they’d departed the capital, and he didn’t appear ready to let up anytime soon. Anyway, Cutter knew that the forest was the least of Feledias’s worries, and that his brother had only chosen to use the forest as a focal point for his frustrations.

The truth was that, while he might not admit it, Feledias was worried for the kingdom, just as Cutter was. He didn’t know what had transpired to make Matt act so or how bad the conspiracy actually was within the capital—hopefully, by now, the others had some inkling—but he felt guilty for leaving when his people so badly needed help. It did not matter that his leaving hadn’t been by choice, did not even matter that he knew, deep down, that the people of the Known Lands were far better without him or his brother around.

The two princes of the realm, one who’d had an affair with his brother’s wife, who had started a war with the Fey, and the other who had committed untold atrocities to hunt the first down, included the burning of Brighton and the slaughter of its people.

Cutter glanced back at Feledias as the man worked his way through a particularly thick tangle of brush. The man didn’t look like a monster, just as he knew he himself did not, and the man, the brother, Cutter had known would never have done to the people of Brighton what he had. Yet, he had done it.

No, they did not look like monsters, but they were monsters just the same, and the kingdom, the world, could only be better off once they were dead. Besides, that was the thing about monsters—all men, Cutter thought, carried them inside them. Sometimes, those monsters did a fine job of hiding themselves, of remaining concealed behind friendly faces, behind the artifices of civilization, but they were there just the same, waiting for their chance to rise up and…well, do what monsters did.

And perhaps Matt was right. Perhaps Cutter really could make peace with the Fey. He didn’t think so, not really, but it was a fine thought, a fine idea that he might do something good before he died.

“Vagabonds,” Feledias spat, “that’s what we are. Vagrants. Tell me, brother, what is a prince without a kingdom?”

“A man,” Cutter answered idly as he continued hacking his way through the brush.

“A man,” his brother repeated. “Oh, but we have fallen far, brother mine, plummeted down a precipice to come to this place of unending torment.”

“Bein’ a bit melodramatic, aren’t you?” Cutter asked. “They’re just vines.”

“Just vines?” Feledias demanded. “Fire and salt, Bernard, they’re evil.”

“Maybe we have fallen down a precipice,” Cutter said, “but if we did, it’s one we chose to step into ourselves.” He paused then, turning back to his brother, meeting his eye. “The kingdom deserves better than us.”

Feledias sighed. “You’re right, of course. And if it’s our lot to die, then die we will. I’ll do it and without complaint—”

“I doubt that.”

His brother frowned. “Anyway, I know that you and I have earned our deaths a dozen times over, more, but do there have to be so many damned thorns?”

“I was wonderin’ the same,” Cutter said, raising an eyebrow. “Seems to me you’re a bit thorny yourself.”

“Did…did you just try to make a joke?”

Cutter grunted. “Maybe.”

“You have many talents, brother,” Feledias said, then paused. “Or, perhaps…just the one.” He glanced meaningfully at the axe. “Either way, humor cannot be counted among your gifts. Perhaps it would be best if you left it to others.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

They traveled on in blessed silence, for another hour until finally they emerged from the woods into a farmer’s fields. Or, at least, what once had been. Here, like in so much of the kingdom of the Known Lands, it seemed that things had fallen into disrepair. Weeds had overgrown the lot of it, choking out any plants that might once have grown there.

Cutter could see the road, off to their left, and on the other side, a house and barn. Beyond that, in the distance, the forest began again.

“Thank the gods,” Feledias breathed. “Let’s go see if we can rent a room for the night. It’s getting dark, and the gods know I’ve had enough of thorns and brambles for the day. For a lifetime, really, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Cutter frowned at the distant farmhouse. “Better if we stay in the woods. Any assassins searching for us will no doubt check the place out.”

“Better if you stay in the woods, maybe,” Feledias said, “since you seem to love them so much. But I, for one, Bernard, mean to sleep in a real bed tonight, one without any biting mosquitoes or snakes or thorns.”

“Fel,” Cutter said, “it’s not sa—” But he cut off as his brother marched toward the barn with grim purpose.

Cutter glanced around. No killers came rushing out of the woods, waving swords and shouting battle cries, but that was little comfort. After all, from what he knew of them, one of the requirements for assassins was not being seen until it was too late. Still, his brother was already halfway to the road, and it was clear that he had no intention of changing his mind, so Cutter heaved a heavy sigh and followed.

Feledias waited at the farmhouse door for him, a small, knowing smile on his face, and Cutter grunted as he came to stand beside him. “Did you knock?”

“Thought I’d wait on you,” his brother said, still grinning.

Cutter frowned and gave the door a firm knock. At first, no answer came, and he was just about to knock again when the door creaked open, revealing a man who appeared to be in his forties, though it was hard to say for sure for the man’s skin was waxy, his face lined from clear malnutrition which also showed in the too-thin hand that trembled as it grasped the door.

“Y-yes?” the stranger asked, a look on his face that made it clear he regretted opening the door.

Cutter couldn’t blame him. After all, him and his brother likely would have appeared intimidating in the best of times. After nearly two days spent trekking through the woods, their clothes and hair covered in dirt and bits of bracken, they likely looked like two bandits on the run which, unfortunately, wasn’t so far from the truth as he would have liked it.

“Forgive us for intruding, sir,” Cutter said, “but we have been traveling for some time and spotted your barn from the road. With night coming on and all, we were wondering, if you might have a place we could sleep. We’ll pay, of course.”

The other man looked at the two of them for a moment, then he smiled. The expression went a long way toward transforming his weary face. “I understand that, strangers. Not wantin’ to be out at night, I mean. Times have been tough all around, it’s a fact, what with the Fey creatures roamin’ the darkness and the taxes bein’ raised so high from the capital a man spends all day at work and finishes it poorer than when he started.”

Cutter shared a look with Feledias at that, and his brother winced. “Yes,” he said, turning back to the man. “Still, as I said, we’d be happy to pay and—”

“Pay?” the man asked, shaking his head. “No, of course not. You’re welcome to stay in that old barn for as long as you need—the gods know it ain’t much use for anything else anymore.”

Cutter nodded his head gratefully. “I appreciate it, really, but still I’d like to pay you.”

The man shook his head again. “Wouldn’t dream of takin’ it. The world the way it is, I figure the only way we can get on is by helpin’ one another. Now, please,” he said, raising his hand when Cutter started to speak again, “I’ll hear no more of it. You take the barn for as long as you need, and that’ll be the end of it, alright?”

Cutter nodded. “Alright.”

The man gave a single, solid nod of his own, clearly satisfied. “That’s fine then. Now, I was just sittin’ down to eat. Why don’t you fellas come on in, have a bite?”

Cutter glanced around, taking in the barn and the house, the man himself, all three of which looked as if they’d seen far better days. “We wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said, thinking that the man needed all the food he could get and then some. “Anyway, thank you for the—”

“There’s no intrusion at all,” the man said, offering his hand. “The name’s Alder.”

Cutter took the hand, giving it a shake, and while the man himself looked frail, weak from hunger, his grip, at least, was firm. “Thank you, Alder,” he said, “truly. You’re helping us out, and I appreciate it, but we couldn’t ask for your food. It—”

“Well, good thing you didn’t ask then, ain’t it?” the man said, grinning. “I offered is all, and I still am, though I’ll warn you it ain’t nothin’ fine. Once, my family ate well here, but those times are gone along with my family, too, and the food ain’t much. That said, you’d be doin’ me a favor. It’d be good to eat and talk proper.” He got a wistful look in his eyes then, staring off as if at some distant memory. “Seems I’ve been alone for about as long as I can remember. So.” He turned back to Cutter, a desperation showing in his eyes, if not on his face. “Will the two of you have dinner with me?”

Cutter winced inwardly, glancing at Feledias. His brother’s expression showed much of the guilt and shame he himself was feeling, but Feledias gave a covert nod. Cutter turned back to the man. “We’d be honored, Alder.”

Alder grinned again. “Might wait on that ‘til you’ve tasted what we’re havin’, if was I you.”

Bernard found himself smiling in return. There was a part of him, the part that had spent the better part of his life killing and trying not to be killed, that didn’t want to trust the man’s hospitality, his kindness, but there was something about the man, his open, trusting face, that made that nearly impossible. “Lead the way, Alder.”

The man nodded. “Well, come on then—I’ll warn you, the house ain’t much. My wife, the gods look after her, used to keep a tidy house, and I reckon she’d string me up if she was around to see what it’s fallen to.”

Cutter considered asking the man what had happened to the family he’d mentioned, but he had noticed an almost haunted look in the man’s eyes when he spoke of his wife, his family. On the other hand, he had learned over his years in exile that no misery was ever so terrible as that which a man faced alone. But by the time he’d prepared to ask about them, the man had already turned, disappearing into the house.

Cutter started through, then realizing Feledias hadn’t moved, glanced back. “Well?”

His brother was frowning. “What if he means to kill us? I don’t like it, Bernard.”

Cutter shrugged. “It was your idea, Fel.”

“And you choose now of all times to start giving a shit about my ideas?” his brother counted.

Cutter grinned. “Well, better late than never, eh?” Before his brother could say anything else Cutter turned and stepped into the house. He heard Feledias heave a heavy sigh as he stepped into what served as the main room of the home. Despite Alder’s words of caution, the place, while simple, was clearly well-kept, the surface of the wooden table and the floors clean of dust or trash.

Alder was at the far end of the room, knelt over a fire above which hung a pot, a wooden spoon in his hand as he stirred the contents, his back to Cutter. Cutter heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see his brother walking up beside him.

“Change your mind?” he asked quietly.

Feledias favored him with a frown. “Thought I’d better eat a real meal while I still can. Traveling with you, likelier than not I’ll be eating berries and bugs until we make it to the Black Wood.”

“Go on then, have a seat,” the man said, turning and gesturing to the table. Cutter turned and looked at it, noting that there were only two chairs.

Alder noted his gaze and waved a hand dismissively. “Go on, take a seat. The gods know I’ve had enough of sitting and then some, myself. Hadn’t been much else to do lately, not since the farm went to shit. Anyway, I prefer standin’.”

Cutter didn’t like it, making a man stand in his own house, but Alder was insistent, so he nodded, moving to the table and having a seat, though he scooted his chair in such a way that he could keep an eye on the man. Alder was the type of man it was nearly impossible not to trust, but then Cutter had met such men before, and more than once they’d tried to poke a few holes in him when he wasn’t paying attention.

So he watched, carefully, as the man stirred the pot. Seemed unlikely that he was hiding a crossbow in there, but then it was often the things a man thought unlikely that ended up killing him in the end.

Cutter removed his axe, setting it propped against the table leg within easy reach.

Alder suddenly turned at the sound of the axe head hitting the wood, and Cutter tensed at the abrupt gesture, sure that the man was about to attack. He didn’t, though, only stared wide-eyed at the weapon, what Shadelaresh had called the Breaker of Pacts.

“My but that’s a mighty thing, ain’t it?” the farmer asked.

Bernard winced. “I…that is—”

“Good for chopping firewood, anyway,” Feledias said, glancing at Bernard.

Alder grunted a laugh. “I imagine it is at that. Well,” he said, turning back to the pot, “I reckon it’s as edible as it’s likely to be.” He rose and began rooting through a cupboard. A moment later, he retrieved several dusty earthenware bowls and spoons. He winced as if embarrassed, wiping the dust off with his simple linen tunic. “Sorry about that. As I said, it’s been a while since I had company.”

He bent then, ladling stew into two bowls then bringing them back to the table. “Hope you like cabbage,” he said apologetically as he placed the bowls, along with the spoons, in front of Cutter and his brother.

Cutter glanced at the stew—mostly water with only a few scraps of wilted cabbage in it—and hesitated.

While his physical health might have been in question, Alder’s mind worked well enough, for he noted the hesitation, grinning. “You’re thinkin’ maybe I poisoned it?”

Cutter winced, for that was pretty much exactly what he’d been thinking. “I don’t mean to offend, it’s just—”

“Oh, no offense given,” Alder said, waving a hand dismissively. “The world bein’ what it is lately, I can’t blame a man for not taking any chances. Hold a moment.” He went to the pot over the small fire and returned a moment later with his own bowl, then ate a spoonful, making a sour face as he did. “Not poison, though I don’t reckon it’s all that far from it neither. My wife, Hilda, she used to cook a fine meal—never had much of a talent for it myself, though I like to think that’s got at least a bit to do with a shortage of ingredients.”

The cynical part of Cutter, the animal part, thought that it would have been possible for the man to have poisoned their two bowls while keeping his own safe, but then logically he knew that would have been nearly impossible. After all, he’d been watching the man the entire time, and he would have noticed had the farmer tried to pour anything into their food. Still, Cutter had never been much good with trust. But the man was watching him, as was Feledias, apparently having chosen to take his cue from him.

Cutter still hesitated, but in the end he told himself that it didn’t matter. They traveled to the Black Wood, a journey that could only end in their deaths, and if the food was poisoned—which he doubted—it could be no worse than what awaited him and his brother. He took a spoonful, ate it. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but while the stew tasted sour, he did not think it was poisoned, and the grin that came to Alder’s face made it worth it.

“I told you,” the farmer said, “not poison, but then not so far off either.” He met Cutter’s eyes. “Not an easy thing, trusting people, is it?”

“No,” Cutter agreed. “It isn’t.”

The man sighed. “A damn shame, that, but what can you do? Gotta trust someone sometimes—otherwise, what’s the point of anything? Or so Hilda used to tell me.”

“She sounds like a wise woman, your wife,” Feledias offered.

Alder grinned. “Oh she was that, that and more, a damn sight better than a man like me deserves and that’s a fact. Question is, do you reckon she’s wise enough to have a bite of that stew you’re eyein’ like it’s a snake ready to bite you?”

Feledias winced, glancing at Cutter, then, finally, his brother shrugged. “Why not?” He took a bite of the stew, tensing as he did. When nothing happened, he sighed, visibly relaxing, and Alder laughed.

Cutter hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he tasted the stew. Not the finest he’d had—bland and more water than cabbage—but after two days eating what they could scavenge in the woods it tasted good, and before he knew it, his bowl was empty.

Alder grinned. “Go on then, there’s more,” he said, gesturing to the pot. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Cutter said. He rose, walking to the pot and glancing in. The man was right—there was more, but not much. Two bowls left, he judged. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I’m just about full.”

“Oh, go on and get some,” the man said, laughing. “Don’t suffer on my account. Fact is…” He gestured at his wilted frame. “I don’t eat as much as I used to. Anyway, two bowls, and I’d spend the night camped in the privy—that I know from hard-won experience.”

Cutter winced. Not good with trusting but then not good with kindness either. “Thanks,” he managed, then he poured another bowl, keeping the portion small.

He made his way back to the table and, for a time, the three of them ate in companionable silence. As they did, Cutter realized that he was comfortable. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt truly comfortable, felt safe. Ridiculous, of course, for while the man Alder might not be an assassin, there were certainly others who would like nothing more than to see him and his brother dead. Yet, sitting there, in the small, well-kept house, the warmness of the stew filling his belly, he felt a greater peace than he could remember feeling in a very, very long time, perhaps even since before the Skaalden came and drove his people from their homeland.

After a time he finished the last bit of his stew and as Feledias began on his own round of seconds, Cutter sat back in his chair. “If you don’t mind my asking, Alder,” he said, “what happened? To your farm, I mean? That is, I saw that it’s in a bit of disrepair.”

The man grinned. “Noticed that, did you? Aye, well it’d be hard not to. As for what happened?” He shrugged. “Life, I guess. One day, a man’s got everything he could ever want or need, the next—” he snapped his fingers—“it’s gone. The most damning thing is that, most of the time, people don’t really know how good they got it until it’s taken away.” His eyes got that distant look then, and he sighed. “I did, though. I knew. Didn’t stop life from happenin’ but then, nothin’ does, does it?”

Cutter gave a sigh of his own. “No, no, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Alder shrugged. “Anyway, there’s no point for a man to spend his life thinkin’ on what he’s lost. Better, you ask me, to think about what you have, what you’ve had. Everything fades, life, stars, all of it, but some of those shine damn bright while they’re around.”

“Your wife?” Cutter asked. “She shone?”

Alder smiled again. “Like the sun itself. Anyway, I got a question of my own, if you don’t mind. I been lookin’ at that axe of yours.” He nodded his head to it. “Seems to me I might’ve seen it before. Or heard of it maybe, though I can’t think of where.”

Cutter did his best to mask his wince. He didn’t want to lie to the man, but neither did he want to tell him his true identity. If anyone came around asking questions about them, it would be better if the farmer didn’t know. Better for everyone. “Picked it up a few years back from a merchant—it’s rare, from what I’m told.”

The farmer laughed, apparently satisfied. “Sure, and rarer still the man strong enough to lift the big bastard, eh?”

They talked for some time then, of small, trivial things, the weather, food, life, and it was nice. The sun sank low as they spoke, yet still no one made a move to leave the table. Certainly, Cutter did not, for the conversation seemed to be more than just talk—in some ways, it seemed to him, to be healing. A salve for the many bruises and nicks that life left a man with, and he soaked it in, all of it, the way a man, long in the cold, might stand and glory in the feel of the sun on his skin. Feledias too, he saw, made no move to cut the conversation short, but took part in it along with them, even making a few clever jokes in a way that reminded Cutter of when they had been children, back before their world, their lives had been taken from them.

Finally, Alder yawned. “Well, I guess you two must be exhausted, and here I’ve been yappin’ my gums.”

Cutter shook his head. “It’s a pleasure, Alder.”

“Agreed,” Feledias said.

The man grinned. “Well, that’s nice of you to say. Anyhow, if you want to follow me, I’ll show you to the barn—it ain’t much, mind, but at least it’s dry.”

He rose, and Cutter and Feledias followed suit, walking after the farmer as he led them to the barn.

They climbed a ladder up to the barn’s loft, said goodnight to the farmer, and in time they’d lain down on two separate piles of hay. Ridiculous, maybe, but as Cutter lay there, satisfied, his heart full if not his stomach, that pile of hay seemed more comfortable than any bed he’d ever slept on.

“A good man, isn’t he?” Feledias asked, and by some trick of the darkness, his voice sounded like that of a child, the way he had sounded so long ago in their father’s castle.

A good man. Cutter had spent a long time in the darkness. Sometimes, it seemed that he had spent his whole life there. And how long might a man spend there, in that perpetual night, before he forgot what the light was? How long might he spend around killers, himself the worst of the lot, before he no longer even recognized a good man? “Yes,” he said finally, softly, “yes, I think he is.”

He slept then. Blame it on that rare feeling of peace, or on the blanket of warm hay on a chill night. Blame it, perhaps, on the Crimson Prince, for once, being human, that and no more, but for a moment, for only a brief instant in time as his eyes closed and he fell into warm slumber, Cutter forgot.

He forgot his fears, his worries and caution. He forgot, for that moment, what the world was.

And the world, seeing this, set out to remind him.

 

***

 

For the first time he could remember, Feledias did not dream. He was not, for once, reminded of the feeling of helpless betrayal which had overcome him as he was forced, in yet one nightly vision after another, to witness his brother departing from his new wife’s bedchamber. Nor did he dream, as he often did, of violence, of fire and blood and death, testament to the revenge he had so long sought on the brother who had so wronged him.

He did not dream of these things.

He woke to them.

The first thing he became aware of as he slowly roused awake, was the smell of something burning. Frowning, he opened his eyes and then he became aware of a second—and considerably more pressing—thing. Namely, the man standing over him, a knife in his hand. Feledias might not have seen this had the barn remained as dark as it had been when they’d lain down, but the barn was on fire, flames slithering up the walls like serpents.

“What the fu—” Feledias began, but then the assassin began to bring the blade down, and Feledias squeaked, trying to dive out of the way and knowing, even as he did, that he would be too late.

But instead of plunging into him, the knife stopped inches from his chest as if it had struck a wall, and Feledias became aware of a second figure standing beside the first. The newcomer was so covered in blood and gore that, for a moment, Feledias didn’t recognize him. Then the light of the fire shifted, revealing his brother’s face, as grim as death, his eyes dancing with wild fury.

It was the assassin’s turn to squeal then as Bernard lifted him up easily by where he held the man’s wrist and then threw him. The man hurled through the air as if launched from a catapult, striking the barn wall and, with a ripping of boards—and no doubt flesh—went sailing through it, out of sight.

Feledias stared in shock at the hole in the wall, at the fire crawling up the sides of the barn, then turned back to Cutter. “Are…are there others?” he managed.

“Not anymore,” his brother growled, his chest heaving, the terrible black axe clutched in one bloody fist as his eyes danced wildly. For a moment, Feledias was overcome with the certainty that Bernard would kill him next. He had jested, earlier that night, about the axe being good for chopping firewood. It had seemed funny enough at the time, but it did not seem funny now, not with his brother standing over him like some giant demon bent on death, the cruel weapon clutched in one tight fist.

So powerful was the image, the feeling, that he let out a grunt of fear and surprise when his brother’s free hand shot out. Feledias winced, then took the hand and a moment later he was standing on his feet. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Bernard said. “Come on.” He turned back to the ladder then, and Feledias hurried after him. “Wait, Bernard, wait, damnit, are you sure there aren’t anymore?”

His brother paused, halfway on the ladder and looked at him. “Not alive, at least.”

Feledias swallowed at that, relieved as his brother pulled his penetrating, mad gaze away and started down the ladder. Left with nothing else to do, Feledias snatched up his meager belongings and followed.

The bottom of the barn was a scene of carnage even the world’s most talented artists would have had difficulty depicting. Half a dozen men or at least what once had been men, lay scattered on the hay-strewn floor, their bodies broken and twisted as if struck down by the hand of some wrath-filled god. So terrible was the devastation, the brutality, that Feledias was forced to fight down his rising gorge.

Bernard, though, didn’t so much as glance at the corpses. “Come on,” he growled, and Feledias stumbled after him. The smoke was thick now, making his breath rasp in his throat and lungs, the fire rising all around him, and he would have become lost instantly had he not been following Bernard.

He studied his brother as he followed him, his body covered in blood as if he’d taken a bath in the stuff, the obsidian axe’s blade shining crimson. Had he really thought to kill him? Had he really believed himself capable of it? To kill him the way one might a man, with sword or bow? For in that moment his brother did not seem like a man who might be so easily slain but like the avatar of destruction itself, one that could not be killed anymore than a man might kill war itself.

Finally, they reached the barn entrance, and he stumbled out behind his brother and into the night, gasping for air and falling to his knees. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and he was forced to pat out one of his sleeves where the flames had caught. He glanced at his brother to see him standing, staring at something in the distance. Feledias followed his gaze, and it didn’t take long to see what he looked at—the house. The house that, only hours ago, they had sheltered in, where they had eaten and talked. The house that, just then, was on fire.

“Alder,” Bernard growled. “He needs help.”

“Bernard, the house, it’s too late,” Feledias began, “it—” But he didn’t finish, for his brother took off at a run toward the flaming edifice of the house. Feledias bit back a curse, climbing to his feet and shuffling after him.

He was nearly halfway there when his foot caught on something he didn’t see in the darkness. He nearly fell, just managing to gain his balance. Grunting, he looked down to see what he’d struck and suddenly felt the wind knocked out of him as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “Bernard,” he yelled or, at least, tried to, but the words came out in little more than a whisper.

He looked away to see his brother starting toward the flame-wreathed doorway as if he meant to step into the inferno. “Bernard!” he yelled, managing it this time.

His brother turned. “We have to save Alder!” he roared, thrusting his axe at the door. “He’s in there somewhere!”

“No, Bernard,” Feledias shouted back. “No, he’s not.”

Bernard paused then, turning to regard him, and by some trick of the light and shadow, his face looked demonic one moment then the most wretched picture of grief the next until, finally, it settled into the expressionless mask Feledias had grown so accustomed to over the years.

His brother said nothing else, but Feledias noted the way his shoulders slumped, noted, too, the way some of that great strength, that great power that had possessed him seemed to fade away as if it had never been. The arm holding his axe slumped to his brother’s side, and Bernard started across the yard toward where Feledias stood, not hurrying now, and being right not to, for there was no need. The time for hurry, for action, had passed.

Soon, Bernard stood beside him, both of them staring at the body at their feet. For a time, they said nothing, only stood in the shadows as sporadic orange light of the burning house and barn cast them in light one moment only to shift them to the darkness in the next.

As the light fell on them again, Feledias noted something he hadn’t before, a bundle of fabric lying beside the dead man. “What—”

“Blankets,” his brother said, his voice low, raw. “He was bringing us blankets.”

Feledias stared in shock at his brother, saying nothing, for what could a man say at such a time? What could he do when the world burned but stand there and smell it, witness it?

Alder was dead. The man had given them shelter without asking anything in return, had given them food when it was clear he didn’t have enough. He had showed them nothing but kindness, and he had died for it. He had died, was dead, and it was the two of them who had brought that death to him. “What are we, Bernard?” Feledias asked, aware of the tears streaming down his face and not caring. “What are we?”

“I am fire,” his brother said, “and all I touch turns to ash.”

Feledias frowned. “What?”

Bernard shook his head. “Nothing. What are we, Fel? You were right—we are monsters. Mostly, though, I am just tired.”

Feledias nodded slowly, unable to take his eyes off the body at his feet. “What do we do now?” he asked.

“Now?” Bernard said. “We go to the Black Wood.”

Feledias nodded again at that. “Do you think…it’s bad, Bernard? To be dead, I mean?”

His brother’s great shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Can’t be much worse than being alive.”

Bernard turned then, starting away, and as he did, Feledias saw a gash in his side about a foot long, oozing blood.

“Gods, Bernard, you’re wounded!” he said.

His brother glanced at his side. “It’s nothing.”

Feledias frowned. “I’m no healer, brother, but that doesn’t look like nothing.”

Bernard gave another shrug. “I was too slow,” he said, his eyes turning back to the dead man. “I always am.”

That was when he passed out.

Feledias rushed to his fallen brother’s side, feeling for a pulse and surprising himself by the vast sigh of relief that escaped him when he found it. Not dead then, but in a bad way.

Feledias didn’t know much of healing, but anyone who had fought in the Fey Wars and survived knew enough to make a makeshift bandage, and he proceeded to do so, tearing strips from his shirt and wrapping them around the wound, tying them as tightly as he could. When he was finished, he rose, wondering what to do.

Bernard showed no signs of waking, but he knew that it was as good as suicide to stay here much longer. True, his brother had dealt with the assassins—with a grim finality—but there would be more. They were like cock roaches in that way…in a lot of ways, really.

He cast his gaze about, searching for some solution, and his eyes alighted on the blankets lying beside Alder’s corpse, an idea forming in his mind as they did. Had their situations been reversed, Bernard might have lifted Feledias easy enough, but he was not his brother, did not possess his strength. Still, where strength lacked, resourcefulness might do.

Feledias nodded grimly to himself then set off for the distant tree-line of the woods. When he returned, he used the branches he’d procured to form a makeshift travois. He had never done such a thing before, but he had read of it in one of the books his brother used to mock him for spending so much time with—a point he intended to remind the ridiculously large bastard of when he woke. If he woke.

Feledias stepped back, nodding, satisfied at the work. The finished product might not win any prizes, but he thought it would serve. With that done, he turned back to the farmer’s corpse. “I’m sorry,” he said to the dead man, then glanced at his unconscious brother. “We both are.” He wiped a hand at the tears flowing from his eyes then. He would grieve, later. The dead, after all, would wait—they could do little else.

Just now, though, he had to focus on the living.

A finely cared for mind, he thought, was all well and good, but he couldn’t think his brother’s stupidly large form onto the stretcher, so he bent to the task, hissing and cursing. Finally, panting from exertion, he managed to drag his brother onto the travois, consoling himself with the fact that it would be easier once he got his brother’s bulk on the makeshift contraption. Which it was.

Not so easy that he didn’t consider strangling the unconscious man at least a dozen times within the first hour of pulling him…but easier.