Rhurc and Gragor won’t meet my eye and I can tell by how they shake when they look north, that their thoughts are haunted by visions of returning to the front. Of the fighting. Of the dying.
Lady Fliad has been silent. When she looks at me it is only with bitterness. I almost prefer that. She, at least, I owe nothing except the protection she has already received. Her resentment is easier to bear than the fear and misery that the rest of the band has been dipped in.
Iva is quiet, too. She still mothers my vassals, offering kind words and small services where she can. I find my eyes drifting to her when I am not willfully keeping them away. They turn to her as sure as flowers open to the sun. At least I have the strength not to speak to her, not to break and touch her without permission a second time, not to do worse and confess that she has carved a groove within me like the well-worn track of a cart that will never smooth over again. I will live the rest of my life hollow from her absence. If I can but keep that from her, then I will have finished my duty with honor. I have nothing else left to me.
We ride in silence but for the huffing of breath, the creak of leather tack, and the occasionalfumpof snow falling from the trees. Spring shrinks the depth of the snow hour by hour, bringing bits of sticks and bark to the surface as it disappears, revealing the hidden impurities.
That night our camp is soggy, and we dare not risk a fire. Raiders have been known to slip around the main army and pick off stragglers here. We are still off the main road, following game trails and trapper’s routes. It’s safer, but still not safe enough.
I go to sleep in a wet blanket with wet feet.
I wake to my last day.
And the first thing I do is look for her. She’s huddled in a blanket and sitting on a log. Her eyes meet mine and she gives me a smile, as if she doesn’t hold it against me that I kissed her. As if she holds no acrimony that I prevented her escape. As if there is still in her heart an undeserved warmth toward me.
I ought to say goodbye now, while I still can. But though I open my mouth, the words will not fall out. It is as if by saying them, I fear I will sever something beautiful.
Instead, I just stand there a long time and look at her while she looks at me. I don’t want to stop. It’s the only goodbye I can bear to give her.
And then Gragor circles in from morning watch and asks me a question and the moment is gone.
We ride through the morning, and I keep my eyes focused. There’s a wind today, making branches squeak and howling through any open space. It makes it hard to hear so much as a report, much less an enemy, and the constant movement of the trees surrounding us keeps me jumping at shadows.
I’m peering into the trees on full alert and I still don’t see them until they’re upon us. I whip my sword out.
“To arms!” I’m still shouting over the wind when the first enemy leaps at me – a beautiful creature with long shining silver hair and the horns of a goat. He transforms as he leaps, his sinuous dragon-scale mail and narrow face consumed as he transforms into a creature of shadow and bright fire. I fight, spurring my stallion to stop and paw the air as I sweep my sword through where he was only a moment ago, pivoting to follow his whip-fast movements, my training and experience kicking in to make it a series of quick actions and reactions, precise, intent, and accurate.
It takes me too long to bring my enemy down. Too many movements, too many lunges from my horse. By the time I’m riding over him, I’ve lost track of those behind me.
I wheel to find them spread out, fighting for their lives.
Iva has a sword. She’s brought it up awkwardly in front of her. Fliad is beside her and they’re both on the ground. The white mare screaming and thrashing with a spear in her belly. There’s no sign of the gelding.
A dark shadow dances before Iva. None of my men can get to her. Everyone in the circle around the ladies is engaged.
I plunge my stallion toward them, gripping my sword tightly and angling it for the charge. We strike as one, the horse and I. My sword slices the shadow monster through the chest. I manage to keep hold of the weapon as we wheel, but the monster is lunging toward the women now. I turn the stallion a second time but he slips on something – the mare, I think, with horror – and we go down hard. I keep hold of my sword, keep hold of my head, and find my feet beside him as he scrambles to find his. No time to check to see if he’s uninjured.
I race forward instead, sliding into defense as Iva’s first blow goes wide and she falls off balance, panting, beautiful, and far too vulnerable in her light dress and swirling skirts.
The shadow creature – the fae – gathers its body backward, preparing to aim a strike. I don’t give it time to hit. Instead, I lunge forward – and it never stops surprising me that it works. Why do they give ground when I’m only man-sized and they tower higher than trees in these shadow forms? Why does my strike maim and kill when it seems to hit nothing but shadow?
No time to ponder. I dispatch the shadow with a series of quick strikes, jab, jab, slash.
He falls, the shadow fading and he’s a she, it turns out – the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen with hair like sunlight and a face that would break your heart were it not split in two with my last strike. Shame fills me, acidic as vomit. I have killed a woman, fae though she is. My ancestors will reel as they watch this stain me.
I do not linger. Instead, I spin, assessing again. Shaking off the feeling of nausea washing over me.
I count five heads other than the ladies. Only five.
My heart is racing, slamming against my ribs.
Only five.
There are more figures in the trees. They race toward us. I grab the reins of my stallion and call, “Gragor!”
He’s still mounted. The only one who is.
I have the black in hand by the time he joins us, face white, red speckling hands and face. I don’t so much as speak. I just grab Lady Fliad by the waist and fling her onto the stallion. She screeches – a fine way to thank me – and it sounds like as much outrage as fear. Good. Fear is infectious and the stallion doesn’t need it.
