A Dance of Blades

11

E velyn washed her hands in the bowl and wiped them on a nearby cloth. Feeling like a morbid butcher, she tossed her bloody apron aside. Matthew stood beside her, looking down at the boy.

“Will he live?” he asked.

“I believe so,” she told her husband. “I sewed him up quick enough. Lost more blood tending to the Kender’s boy when he hit his head on their fence.”

“He was also older,” Matthew said. Evelyn nodded but said nothing. The silence stretched as they both looked upon the sleeping boy, his skin pale and slick with sweat. She hoped that meant his fever was finally breaking, but it easily could be because of the amputation. The human body did strange things when in pain, and Evelyn didn’t want to imagine what the boy had felt when she took the saw to his shoulder. He’d been feverish and unable to talk, so maybe he hadn’t felt much.

“Strange not knowing his name,” Matthew said.

“We could give him one.”

“Not much point. If he wakes, he’ll tell us it himself.”

“ When he wakes.”

Her husband gave her a look, then nodded. It was the closest she ever got to an apology with him.

“Right. When he wakes. Give me a moment to take care of this.”

The boy’s arm lay wrapped in rags on the floor by the bed. Matthew scooped it up and carried it outside. Though he didn’t tell her, she knew the hogs penned out back were about to get an interesting addition to their diet. They’d kept the children out of the house while she cut, though her oldest, Trevor, had insisted he watch. Just shy of fourteen, he might have been able to stomach it, but truth be told, she couldn’t afford the distraction should he have cried out or lost control of his stomach.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said when Matthew returned. “We might as well name him. Both him and that Haern were injured, and I have no doubt they’re hiding from someone. I’d hate for one of us to let slip his real name before we can get him home.”

“I reckon you’re right. Any ideas?”

“Always wanted to have a boy named something fancy. How about Tristan?”

“Too fancy. No one would believe us when we say he’s ours. How about John?”

She frowned. “He’ll only have this name for a week or two at most, and you want something so plain as John?”

He blinked at her. “My father’s name is John.”

“Your father was a very plain man himself.”

He took an angry step toward her, grabbed her wrists, and then, laughing, pulled her against him. Her own laughter faded as he held her tight, and she wrapped her arms about him.

“You going to be all right?” he asked.

“Just blood and dead flesh,” she said. “Not as if he was squealing like a hog.”

“It’s just you and me right now. You know that, right? We can open the stitches, say he bled out when we took the arm. Wouldn’t be a lie…”

She pulled away.

“We gave our word,” she said, as if that should explain everything. “I don’t know what’s going on, but what I do know is anyone out to kill a boy that young ain’t on the side of right. That stranger paid us a fortune for this. We can buy more land from the Potters, those acres they can’t till worth a damn, but we could do it. We can hire help, extra salt and meat for next winter, lumber for the house…I won’t better our life on the blood of a dead child, and I expect you to feel the same.”

His cheeks flushed red. When he went to speak, he shut his mouth again and waited another moment to get his composure back.

“True enough,” he said. “Hard as it is to get the kids to avoid a lying tongue. Won’t do no good to go lying ourselves. I’m scared, Evelyn. We’re just farmers. I don’t like going up to Tyneham to trade our wares to the miners, let alone all the way south to Veldaren where the real crooks are. Whoever’s after this boy…”

“Tristan.”

He laughed. “Fine. Whoever’s after Tristan probably has money, soldiers…Who’ll take care of Debbie, or Anna, or little Mark should something happen to us? Or, Ashhur forbid, what if something happen to them? ”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.

“Stop worrying. We’ll deal with each problem as it comes, and Ashhur will keep us safe. Now let Tristan here sleep.”

“Tristan,” Matthew muttered as they passed through the curtain into the other room. “You really wanted to name one of our children Tristan?”

*

Tristan woke them a few hours past midnight. Evelyn was the first at his side. The boy was moaning, and his legs and arm twitched every few moments. She touched his forehead. It was like touching fire.

“Get water in the tub,” she told Trevor, “mix in some snow, too. If you can stand to keep your hand in it for long, it ain’t cold enough.”

“Yes ma’am,” Trevor said, his eyes lingering on Tristan as he put on his coat and boots. They had a small tub inside their home (a luxury if I ever saw one, Liza, her crone of a neighbor, had once told her). They had to bring the water in by buckets, and that would take time. Until then, she tore off the boy’s blankets and clothes, stripping him naked upon the bed.

“He going to be all right?” asked Anna as she poked her head through the curtain. She was twelve, old enough to help her mother when she acted the healer.

“Wake your father,” Evelyn said, ignoring her question. “And make sure Mark and Julie stay in bed. Probably already scared, and I don’t want them scared worse.”

Anna nodded, and her head vanished behind the curtain. Evelyn lifted Tristan in her arms, and it was like picking up a burning log. When she brushed through the curtain into their living room, she found Matthew putting on layers.

“Trevor said you needed water in the tub. The fever gotten that bad?”

She nodded.

“I told you he hadn’t had enough to drink,” he said. “Can’t sweat off a fever if you ain’t got nothing to sweat.”

“I know,” she said. “Now’s not the time.”

She caught her younger children looking at her, and she turned her back to them and hurried to the tub. The door to the house slammed shut, whether from Matthew leaving or Trevor coming in, she didn’t know. In the tub she found a single bucketful of water, barely enough to wet the surface. She put him in anyway and held him down as his body flailed against the cold.

“Anna!” she cried. Her daughter hurried in after. “Help me hold him down. His shivers are going to get worse. Don’t feel bad about the chill, either. He’ll burn to death before he catches cold.”

She shifted so that Anna might hold his arm, then pressed down on the boy’s knees. Trevor came in with another bucket of water, and he looked lost about what to do with it.

“Just dump it on him,” Evelyn said, trying to be patient. “It’s only water!”

Trevor hesitated, but the look in his mother’s eyes got him going. He upended the bucket, cold water from the well. Tristan’s moan turned to a full-fledged wail. Rather than stay, Trevor hurried out. Evelyn leaned more of her weight on her arms as Tristan’s struggling grew. Beside her, Anna quietly cried.

“Start praying,” she whispered. “It’ll help you, but don’t you dare let go of that arm.”

Matthew came in with a larger bucket, and he poured it in by the boy’s feet. The water was halfway up his body, and Evelyn told him one more should be enough.

“Still need the snow?” he asked.

“This water will be warm soon enough.”

“All right.”

When they came back, she put the bucket of snow beside her, saving it for when the chill left the tub. Tristan was still shivering, and he cried when he had the energy, and moaned when he did not. After twenty minutes she dumped in the half-melted bucket of snow, sending Tristan’s shivers back to full strength. Ten more minutes and she lifted him out, wrapped him in a towel, and brought him back to his bed. Matthew was there not long after, a small cup of milk in one hand, a slender funnel in the other. Evelyn recognized it sure enough. They used it to feed their animals various herbs and tonics should they catch ill.

“He needs to drink,” Matthew said. “Hold open his jaw, and don’t let him move. I have no intention of drowning him.”

Once the milk was gone, they wrapped him tighter in blankets and waited.

“Go rest,” she told her husband. “You have enough work in the morning, and it won’t be no good for you to do it on a half night’s sleep. Get the kids back to bed as well. I’ll keep vigil on him.”

Matthew squeezed her shoulder and then left. Once he was gone she gently stroked Tristan’s forehead with her fingers. He looked like a drowned rat, but his fever had finally dropped. He’d fallen back asleep, too, for which she was thankful. She’d mixed a bit of Hogroot in the milk, and she prayed it’d break his fever completely while he slept. A quick inspection showed the stitches on his shoulder to be clean. No infection, thank Ashhur. There wasn’t anywhere higher left to cut, other than his neck just to end the suffering.

On her knees, her weight leaning against the bed, she waited out the night. Just before dawn, his fever broke, and for the first time since Haern had brought him there, he opened his eyes.

“I’m thirsty,” he said, his voice croaking.

Evelyn smiled and clutched his hand.

“Fresh milk,” she said, “coming right up.”

*

M atthew was breaking the thin seal of ice atop their pond when he saw the men ride to his front door. There were two of them, their chainmail dirty from the road. Even from this distance, he could tell they were armed.

“Who are they?” Trevor asked beside him. He squinted against the light reflecting off the snow. “Do you know them?”

“No, I don’t,” Matthew said. “Remember, if anyone asks, Tristan’s your brother, and he caught infection from a spider bite. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And just in case, get your knife, but don’t you dare let them see you holding it. This is serious, Trevor.”

The lad’s eyes widened. He went to ask a question, thought better of it, and then just nodded.

Matthew led them back to the house. Evelyn had answered, and after a moment, invited them in. He trusted her to keep her wits about her, probably more than himself. His other children were in there, though, and once outside the public eye, he wondered just what type of men they might be.

Should have made them wait outside until I got back, he thought. Damn it, Evelyn. Sometimes you ought to act the proper wife.

Just before reaching the house, he stopped and ducked into the barn. He heard his son gasp as he yanked their pitchfork off the wall.

“Won’t do much against their armor,” he said, inspecting its four teeth. “But they ain’t wearing helmets, so that’s something.”

He set it beside the door, then opened it and stepped inside. The two men sat beside the fire, their cloaks stretched out to dry at their feet. They both had swords, still sheathed, thank Ashhur. The rest of his children kept a safe distance away, again something to be thankful for. The strangers held small wooden bowls of a broth Evelyn had prepared for breakfast. His stomach grumbled involuntarily. He hadn’t eaten yet himself. He wondered how much of his own portion sat in the strangers’ bowls.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, taking off his gloves. “I see my wife has helped you feel right at home, which is proper. It’s cold work riding in winter.”

“She’s a lovely host,” one of them said. He was a plain looking man, dark-haired, flat nose. Only the scar running from his eye to his ear made him seem dangerous. He wore no tabard, but his accent was distinctly of the north, most likely Tyneham or one of the smaller mining villages.

“That she is,” he said. “On your way to Felwood, or beyond? I must say, I didn’t catch which direction you came from while out at my pond.”

“Riding north,” said the other. He was uglier, with brown hair in desperate need of a cut. “Our horses need a rest, and we must admit, the thought of a warm building was too much for us to resist when we saw your farm.”

“A fire warms eight as well as six,” he said. Evelyn gave him a glare, and he realized his mistake. He had seven in his family if he counted Tristan.

“Been times we had to cram twelve of us in here,” he continued, hoping to make them forget the comment. “Neighbors had their house burn down, lost one of their sons, too. Makes for a rough winter with no roof, so we brought ‘em in until spring.”

“It must have been tough,” said the first, looking around the small home.

“Forgive me, I’ve yet to introduce myself. My name’s Matthew Pensfield. You’ve met my wife, Evelyn. This here’s my oldest, Trevor. Little Mark’s over there, hiding in the corner. And these’re my two daughters, Anna and Julie.”

The girls smiled and tilted their heads in proper respect. The soldiers tipped their heads back, and each of them had a leer that sent fire up and down Matthew’s spine. He hesitated, trying to decide what to do about Tristan. He didn’t know what was the right course of action. The boy had been asleep when he last went outside. His wife took the decision away from him, and as much as it scared him, he trusted her.

“You must forgive us for not introducing you to Tristan. He’s sick with a fever in bed. Just had to amputate an arm, the poor dear.”

“That’s a shame,” said the dark-haired one. “My name’s Gert, and this here’s Ben. Like I said, we’re riding the road, maybe to Felwood, maybe all the way to Tyneham.”

“Only wanderers and thieves ride the road without knowing how far they wish to go,” Matthew said. “I hope you’re neither.”

Gert laughed.

“Nah. We’re looking for someone, actually. A lost boy, five years in age. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”

Matthew shook his head. He’d played cards only a few times when trading in the bigger towns. He’d never been good figuring the odds of things, but he’d always done all right because of one thing going for him: he had one of the best card faces of anyone he knew. Only Evelyn could read what was going on behind his eyes.

“I haven’t, and I doubt I would, either. A boy that young running around in the snow? He’d be lucky to last a single night. How long’s he been missing? I hope I cause no offense, but a coyote pack’s probably gotten him, or at least, what was left of him.”

“There’s the thing,” said Ben. “He might not be alone. Had another man with him, wore gray and carried two swords. He’s a kidnapper, and we’re trying to capture him before he can think of asking for ransom.”

“Kidnapped?” asked Evelyn. “From who?”

Gert sipped some of his broth. “That’s something I’d rather we keep to ourselves. Either you seen the boy and that bastard, or you haven’t. Don’t matter none where either’s come from.”

As they talked, Trevor slipped back into his room. When he came back, Matthew saw the bulge in his pocket that was a knife. Matthew walked to the door and put his weight against it. His shortsword leaned beside its hinges, sheathed. Whenever he needed it before, it’d always been at the door. So far if either of the two newcomers had seen it, they hadn’t said anything.

“Well, I ain’t seen a boy wandering around here, nor some man in gray. We’ve been shuttered inside for most of the past few days, the storm and all. If they went this way, they probably rode right on by.”

“Not sure they’re riding,” said Gert. “Think they’re walking, honestly. Not too many out right now, and we managed to find what might have been his tracks.”

“That so?”

“Led this way, actually,” said Ben. “You sure you ain’t seen nothing?”

Matthew paused, trying to think of a lie. Again his wife beat him to it, bless her heart.

“We turned them away,” she said. “They came wanting shelter, but they were bleeding, and he was armed. Looked like a thief, he did. We didn’t want any trouble, and we don’t want any now. He said he was on his way to Veldaren, if he’s to be trusted.”

The two men looked to one another, as if communicating silently.

“A hard woman that could refuse a wounded man asking for succor,” Ben said.

Matthew watched his wife give them an iron glare, one he’d been on the receiving end more times than he preferred.

“Life out here’s cold and cruel, gentlemen. We do what we can for our family. Maybe things are different where you come from, but here, that’s the way things are.”

“I understand,” Ben said. “We’re just getting paid to ask these questions. Your broth’s delicious, by the way. Feel it warming me all the way to my toes.”

Matthew started to relax, but only a little. The men seemed too confident, too sure of themselves. They were no strangers to those swords at their hips, either. The sooner they left, the better. When they finished, they stood and flung their cloaks over their shoulders.

“Our horses are probably itching to continue,” Gert said. “Or at least, get out of the wind.”

As they stepped toward the door, they stopped, and Gert turned toward the curtain where Evelyn had said Tristan slept.

“You know, I’ve been fighting and killing for a long while. If there’s anything I’ve seen before, it’s a chopped limb. Mind if I take a look? I can make sure you stitched it up right, well as cut it proper. There’s more art to keeping people alive than making ‘em dead, after all.”

Evelyn hesitated, and Matthew knew if she were unsure, then he was in over his head.

“If you wish,” he said, putting on his gloves. “I should get back outside. Only wanted to come visit with my guests, be polite. You two men have a good day.”

“Want me to come with?” asked Trevor.

“No,” Matthew said, harsher than he meant. “No, you ain’t much use outside. Stay with your ma.”

He got the idea, and his hand brushed the knife hidden in his pants. Matthew winced and hoped neither of the soldiers saw. He pulled the door open and stepped outside. When he shut it, he leaned his back against it, closed his eyes, and listened. Never one with an active imagination, he struggled to picture the most likely thing they’d do. They were searching for the boy, obviously. They’d step into the curtain, one inside to look, the other hanging back, watching them, waiting to see if anyone did anything stupid.

His hand closed around the pitchfork’s handle.

Something stupid like this.

Matthew kicked the door inward. It seemed like his entire vision narrowed down, just a thin window to see one of the soldiers staring back at him from the curtain, the one named Ben. His eyes widened for just a moment. His hand reached for his sword as if he were lagging in time. Matthew thrust the pitchfork for the soldier’s exposed throat. Ben’s sword couldn’t clear his scabbard in time, so instead he ducked and turned away from the thrust, a purely instinctual move. It only made matters worse. When two of the teeth pressed against the side of his face, Matthew shoved with every hard-worked muscle in his body. The tips were thick, but with such force behind them, they still punched through flesh and tore into bone.

Ben rolled his head downward, trying to pull free. When he did, blood spewed across the floor. He screamed. It might have been a word, a curse, but Matthew didn’t know, didn’t understand. Ben’s jaw hung off-kilter, his right cheek shredded and the bone connecting it shattered. The look in his eyes reminded Matthew of the one time he’d encountered a rabid coyote attacking his animals. His sword free, Ben charged, not waiting for Gert. Matthew took a step back, braced his legs, and shoved the pitchfork in the way. The teeth hit his chainmail, and amid the screams of his family he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. They didn’t punch through the armor, but they still bruised his flesh and pushed inward strong enough to break more bones.

Matthew twisted the handle to the side, bringing Ben to his knees, still stuck on the pitchfork’s teeth. Dimly he heard his wife cry out, the words not registering any meaning, only her tone. Gert rushed through the curtain, his sword swinging. Abandoning the clumsy weapon, Matthew lunged for the door. He landed on his knees, grabbed his shortsword, and spun. Gert bore down on him, swinging with both hands. Their blades connected, and panic flooded him when saw a tiny chip break off at the contact. His sword was weaker, the metal cheaper. It wouldn’t be long before it broke.

“Leave him alone!” he heard Evelyn shout, finally piercing through the haze. Gritting his teeth, he groaned as Gert pressed down with all his weight. He spared only a moment’s glance to see Ben fling the pitchfork to the dirt and turn toward his wife. He had to help her, but he was pinned and badly positioned.

“Trevor!” he screamed. Where was his boy? Why wasn’t he helping? Now wasn’t the time for fear, damn it! He angled his sword to block another chop, realized it was a feint, and smacked aside the thrust aimed for his belly. “Don’t you be a coward, boy, treat ‘em like damn hogs!”

Evelyn hurried across the room, grabbing the poker from the fire. She held it clumsily, a pathetic weapon compared to the gleaming sword Ben wielded in his blood soaked hand. Then he couldn’t spare the glimpse, for Gert had dropped to one knee, hoping to lessen the distance between them so he might lock Matthew’s sword out of position. Matthew struggled against it, but slowly his sword wavered, then hit the floor beside him. Gert’s elbows pressed against his chest, his knee atop one of his legs.

“Don’t worry ’bout your wife,” Gert said, his beady eyes inches away. “I’ll take good care of her. Your daughters, too.”

It was the absolute worst thing Gert could have said.

Matthew let go of his sword, one hand grabbing Gert’s wrist, the other ramming his eyes and mouth with his fingers. The soldier howled and tried to pull away, but Matthew dug his fingers in deeper and held on, feeling softness give way, cartilage crunch in his grip. Gert tore his wrist free, aimed the blade, and stabbed. Matthew rolled, knocking his attack off balance. The sword struck the floor. With every bit of strength in his right arm, Matthew slammed Gert’s head against the wall. He heard a wet crack, like the sound of a breaking pumpkin.

The abrupt end was startling. He heard his children crying, but saw no motion. He stood, shaking the gore from his hand. Evelyn huddled beside the fire, the poker at her feet, Trevor in her arms. He still held his blood-soaked knife. Nearby lay Ben, bled out from the cuts on his face and the deep stab wound at the small of his back.

“Everyone all right?” he asked. Evelyn met his eyes, then nodded. “Thank Ashhur.”

He gave his wife a hug, making sure he didn’t stain her dress with his right hand. The rest of his children stayed sitting, and he could tell they were traumatized by the violence. He went to each of them, hugging them and whispering that all would be well. At last he grabbed the dead bodies and dragged them outside by their feet.

Once they were out of sight, he came back inside and plopped into a chair beside the fire. His upper body started shaking, and he closed his eyes to try and hold back a sudden bout of nausea.

“We’ll bury the armor until we can sell it in the spring,” he told Evelyn, talking in hopes of stopping the violence replaying over and over in his head. “Same with their swords. We’ll unbridle the horses and send them on their way, hopefully far, far away. As for…you know…we’ll give ‘em to the hogs.”

His wife made a soft cry. He shuddered but forced himself not to dwell on it. They’d do what they must, no different than ever before. Opening his eyes, he looked to the curtain, wondering if that blasted boy still slept, or if he were in there cowering in terror.

“Not worth the coin,” he said, just before leaning to one side and vomiting.