| |
Nuris knew he had to send word to the king as he stood in the tent, looking over the image of a girl he knew was not there. She had used the opportunity to run, and he was disappointed in himself for not considering that she would—and in her for running at all. He’d thought they had an understanding of sorts. But then, she hadn’t really had any option when it came to making deals.
Half the camp had burnt to the ground; they had exhausted their water supplies and would have to return to the king. The cardinal, when he returned to the camp, would be more than angry. Nuris could only hope he brought another witch with him. Although he doubted that would do him any good.
The fire had not been started by Nelda. He knew it in his bones, and it was frustrating and frightening. She had to be found—it was the reason he had come, the reason he had saved the girl, and now the reason she was lost. He looked out over the trees surrounding them, wondering if they would be able to track her. He couldn’t see far.
“Those lads are gone,” a soldier reported. He nodded, still looking into the trees. He wasn’t sure who they were, but there was something odd about them. Something familiar that he couldn’t quite grasp.
“Bring my horse,” he said, and the man made to protest. He raised his eyebrows at the young man, a soldier who should have known better than to question his superiors. Even if Nuris was outside the usual chain of command, he was a general. He was the general.
“Sir,” the man said with a bow before reluctantly heading towards the horses.
Nuris looked over the ground and then back towards the tents. This would have been the closest route out of the camp, unless they were playing with him and still hiding somewhere inside it—but he doubted that.
He stepped forward, his eyes down. The leaf litter was thick and dry. Small sticks and leaves covered the ground, crackling beneath his boots. He squatted down to study a small spot of blood that had dropped onto a leaf. The girl’s bare feet came to mind. Would she have been brave enough, or stupid enough, to run off through the forest? Had those boys dragged her away?
Nuris reached for the leaf, and the spot disappeared. He turned it over in his hand, searching for what he knew had been there to find no sign of it. He scrunched the leaf to dust in his hand and, as he stood, allowed it to fall through his fingers back to the forest floor.
“Sir,” came the call behind him.
He was tempted to send the man away; he might be better on foot. But then, he didn’t know how far ahead she was.
He took the horse’s reins without acknowledging the soldier and led the horse into the forest. He moved directly away from the camp. Although he saw no further sign of blood on the leaf litter, in many ways it looked as though no one had come this way at all. The horse remained still as he looked for a path. He patted her neck and looked back at the clear path they had made through the forest themselves.
He shouldn’t be surprised. She was a witch and had mentioned something of the power she had. Nothing over flames and fire. He knew she was not responsible in any way for the fire at the camp; her fear of the flames was palpable. The forest was working with her. She could be standing just before him, and he may never find her.
He stopped then, staring into the trees and wondering if he would ever find Nelda. Was she too hidden from him in the same way as this woman? Would the forest work with her? Could she have had something to do with saving this girl, or a connection to the boy with the unnatural sword skills?
He shook his head. There was something oddly familiar in the boy—in both of them, to some degree. They claimed to be brothers, but he wondered if that were true. He didn’t think they were her children, either one of them. He would have known that, would have felt it. He shivered despite the warm evening air. Why he understood that, he didn’t know. So long he had looked for her, so long he had ruminated on what she was and how he hadn’t known that—and now, in a moment of smelling the smoke from the flames she’d created, he understood so much more.
The horse tugged at his arm. The forest had grown dark around them. He looked about, as though brought to the present by the horse’s awareness of their surroundings. The dried leaves and brittle fallen branches crunched under their feet. There was not another sound in the forest. He couldn’t even hear the sounds of the camp.
“What is it, girl?” he whispered, leaning into the horse and gently rubbing his hand down her nose. She pushed her face against his. “Something,” he continued, his voice low.
He stepped forward, looking for signs of a campfire or the girl who had run. He closed his eyes to the dark and tried to tune his senses to the surrounding forest. There was a feeling, an oddness that surrounded him. And yet he couldn’t place what it was. He could hear the heavy breath of the horse, but thankfully she knew when to keep still. Despite the nervousness he could sense in her, she didn’t take a step.
He stepped forward, tugging carefully at the reins, but she didn’t follow. “Come on,” he breathed, but the horse appeared to be frozen to the spot. He wondered then if the magic of the forest, or of the witch he was chasing, had managed to hold the horse in place. He leaned down and ran a hand down her leg, but he couldn’t feel anything.
“Let’s try in the morning light,” he said, pulling the reins over her head and climbing up into the saddle. She moved around beneath him, shifting nervously. “We’ll head back, girl,” he murmured.
She turned without his instruction and walked slowly back through the trees. Given her nervousness, he thought she would be in more of a hurry, but she picked her way carefully as though unsure of the terrain. He hadn’t noticed any possible impediment other than the leaf litter, but it was dark beneath the canopy.
The crunch of leaves in the distance startled him, and he saw the blonde hair almost glowing in the dim light as she ran past him. Not a hint of her seeing him, she ran, and the horse without encouragement raced along after her. But something wasn’t right. She ran too fast for a girl with no shoes in the dark. But the horse was determined, and Nuris was carried towards the boundary of the camp before she disappeared between two large trees. He allowed the horse to carry him while he glanced back the way they had come, sure that he saw the same woman standing beneath a tree, her blonde tresses glowing in the dark.
Flames licked along the doorway, the screams from within like a call to the gods beyond. The cardinal rolled his shoulders, trying not to look as though he was enjoying this. He wasn’t doing this for the pleasure the screams caused—it was for the essential work of the God that he burned these treacherous creatures. And they were traitors, all of them, to the God and the Goddess. Harbouring the evil within their walls.
“The king has asked for this to stop,” a soldier said. Too close, too loud, too frustrating. If the cardinal could have struck him down, he would have.
“I am doing the God’s work,” he muttered, his focus on the door of the convent. If any of the fire witches were hiding here, they would only be able to leave this way. He had not lost one yet.
“I think we worship different gods,” the soldier muttered. The cardinal turned on him, raising his heavy golden statue of the God, which reflected the light of the fire beyond the door. Maybe this man was not what his king thought him to be. “You are killing women and children,” the soldier continued, the strength of his earlier words returning. The statue glimmered in the firelight but gave no other indication he was anything other than what he appeared to be.
The cardinal lowered it reluctantly as a group of soldiers came around the side of the building, dragging several small children and three women with them. They pushed all of them to the ground, the children snivelling and the women crying. All but one. The soldier stepped forward as though to put himself between the cardinal and the group. When the cardinal glared at the soldier, he stepped back. The cardinal smiled. This man didn’t want to be associated with witches.
“Where were they found?” he asked.
“In the garden,” one of the soldiers said, “trying to hide in the vegetables.”
“Were the vegetables growing well?”
“Nice corn,” one said.
“Witchcraft,” he sneered.
“The grace of the Goddess,” one of the women said. The one who was not ready to beg for her life. “You are not a man of the God,” she hissed, looking over his clothing.
He raised the statue, his other hand on the small pouch at his belt, and the firelight reflected off the shiny surface. The screams inside the building were dying out, and the children at his feet were still grizzling. One had moved in closer to the woman, the sister she claimed to be. But he knew that was not what she was.
Moving the statue from left to right, he took a deep breath and held it out at arm’s length. A flash of red ran over the metal that was not a reflection of the fire.
“The flames do not cause you fear,” he said, looking at her and trying not to let the grin expose his enjoyment.
“I do not fear what the Goddess has planned for me. You are not part of that plan.”
He did smile then, unable to contain it. This woman, this witch, had no idea just what power he did have. He nodded to the soldier behind her. Without hesitation, he swung his sword and her head bounced across the flagstones. The children screamed, and the women cried. Her body, as though in slow motion, tilted to the side, paused, and then fell.
“Harbouring a witch is an offence,” he said matter-of-factly.
“She was a sister. She has been with us for many years, dedicated to the work of the Goddess. She was no witch.”
“She was a witch. She is dead now—how can you prove otherwise?”
“If that were true, you would kill every woman in the kingdom in the name of saving us all from witches. You are insane,” she screamed at him, and a sword was poked through her side. She cried out, clutching at the wound, the blood running too quickly through her fingers. She dropped to her knees. “I am no witch!”
“You offend me,” he said, the soldier stupid enough to reach for him as he stepped forward. “You therefore offend the God, for I am his hand on earth.”
“Self-proclaimed. You will know the truth of it when you come to face him,” she wheezed, her hands pressing harder. But her face had paled, and she was finding it harder to remain seated. One of the children had tried to help, a small girl he realised, although they were all dressed in the same shabby clothing. All grotty as though they lived in the dirt.
“I know my worth, and I understand yours. Harbouring a witch is punishable with death.”
She shook her head.
“Kill them all,” he said, turning his back on the group and glaring again at the soldier the king had sent to rein him in. He knew his place, and it wasn’t going to be dictated to him by some young king thinking he knew best. He had kept the kingdom safe, more so than the great general who still hadn’t tracked his sister down after so many years. He hovered in place, wanting to stalk away and yet needing to hear the sounds of the deaths of those behind him.
“Cardinal! Your Grace!” came a cry, and he looked out as a soldier rode at high speed towards him. “The camp is ablaze,” the soldier continued. He remained on the horse although it couldn’t stand still, worn out but nervous of the smoke and flames.
“The witch?”
“Escaped.”
The cardinal scowled and turned back to the group. One child remained. Her dark hair might have been pretty if she had been given the opportunity to wash. A soldier stood holding her by the shoulder, his blade across her throat. “Save that one,” he said, and the blade was lowered. She looked at him with real fear. He raised the statue and shook his head with disappointment. They were still forming, still being birthed, but he would stop that.
“Bring her,” he said, stalking towards his horse. The building behind him creaked and shook, and the king’s soldier flinched as the wall came crashing down. There were no survivors. He was disappointed he would have to return to the camp again.