A Dance of Blades

5

H aern kept his cloaks wrapped tight about him as he trudged along the road. He felt foolish not preparing for such weather. His feet were numb from the cold, and he’d have givenanything for a thick coat. He’d dressed for stealth when he should have dressed like a bear.

He lacked tools to build a fire, especially given how heavy the snow came down. Movement kept him warm, so that’s what he did. It’d been two days since he saw houses in the distance, farms both large and small. Before that, he’d stayed a night in the comforts of Felwood Castle, stocking up on food and, like a fool, refusing to steal anything warmer to wear. That was before the snow, before he realized just how pathetic he was compared to nature’s forces. His hood pulled low, he stared at the white ground and kept his feet moving. Night was approaching, and he pondered what he’d do. Surely he could find a tree for shelter, and should probably start looking. But he didn’t want to just yet. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him feared the moment he stopped moving he would curl up, fall asleep, and never wake again.

The first time he heard the noise he thought it a hallucination. Then it struck again, and many times after. It was the sound of steel hitting steel, coupled with the neighs of horses. He felt some of his drowsiness leave him. He’d headed north in hopes of discovering the source of the Serpents’ gold. Could they be raiding the caravans?

He urged himself on, and despite the snow that blew in his face, he forced himself to stare straight ahead. The snow was thick, and it seemed as if a white fog had enclosed the land so many yards away from where he stood. When he saw the first rider, it was if he had emerged from another world. Haern dove for the cover of trees, then glanced back to see if he’d been spotted. He hadn’t. The rider turned back and charged into the unseen combat.

Not willing to risk such foolishness again, Haern weaved through the trees, making sure to stay close to the road. If the weather remained foul, it might be days before he found the path. He was no woodsman. The city streets were his home. Out among the trees, in the snow, he felt like a bumbling idiot.

The sound of combat faded. After a few moments of silence, he heard someone yelling. His numb ears at first refused to make words out of the noise. As he followed the sound, he started to understand.

“Where is the child?” he heard a man ask. “I don’t want him to witness your execution.”

Haern surveyed the area from his position amid the trees. Two wagons were pulled close together, the oxen tethered behind them. Eight men on horses mingled about, all with swords or crossbows. The speaker seemed older than the rest, and he wore no armor, just a thick coat of bear skin that Haern felt ready to kill for. All around them lay bodies, their warm blood melting the snow beneath them.

It didn’t make sense. All of the horsed ambushers wore the same insignia, a sickle held before a mountain. This wasn’t the Serpent Guild. They didn’t wear green cloaks. What then? Should he interfere?

Meanwhile the older man continued talking, evidently with someone inside a wagon given how muffled his voice sounded.

“Mark!” cried the older man. “Come out and face this with honor.”

And then it seemed Mark obeyed, stepping from the back of the wagon. He looked young, his armor dark and expensive. The riders circled about him as the older man smiled.

“Hiding during a battle,” he said. “Such shameful behavior.”

“Perhaps,” Mark said. He lunged at the nearest rider. He never got close enough to swing. Two crossbow bolts pierced his back, and he stumbled, his weapon falling from his hand. Haern winced. At least the man died bravely, even if he hadn’t accomplished…

But then he saw the child leap out the wagon’s front and bolt for the forest. Haern’s eyes flared wide. The kid was heading straight for him.

“Get him!” the riders shouted. One took off, dismounted at the forest’s edge, and then rushed on, his sword drawn. Haern flung his back against a tree. Should he interfere? Would they kill him, or merely keep him captive? Was this for ransom? Too much he didn’t know. Too much!

The boy rushed by, followed by the soldier. Haern stared, paralyzed by indecision. If he acted now, he’d reveal himself. Eight riders…what chance would he have? He’d be throwing his life away, and why? For all he knew, the boy belonged to the ambushers.

The soldier quickly gained ground, for he could make longer strides in the snow. He kept his sword drawn, and Haern recognized the way he held the blade in preparation for a thrust. This was no capture. This was no ransom. He ran, feeling slow and clumsy in the snow. The boy glanced behind, saw his pursuer, and then stumbled. Haern wanted to cry out but didn’t dare reveal his location. The soldier thrust. Blood spilled across the snow.

Haern slammed into the soldier with his shoulder, flinging him back. Before he could stand, he drew a sword, slapped aside a weak defense, and buried it in the soldier’s throat. The man gargled blood, quivered, and then lay still.

“You get him?” a man shouted from the road.

Haern ignored him and instead looked to the boy. He lay on his back, his whole body shaking. The thrust had cut deep into his arm, right to the bone. The blade had continued on, piercing his chest. He still breathed, and it didn’t sound wet. The tip hadn’t gone deep enough to pierce a lung. With proper care he might live, but at the moment he was wide-eyed with shock. He’d need time, which at the moment Haern sorely lacked. He sliced off a strip of his cloak and tied it around the boy’s arm, then took the boy’s hands and pressed them firmly against the wound on his chest.

“Stay still and quiet,” Haern whispered, propping him against the nearest tree. “I’ll come back for you, I promise. No matter what you do, don’t let go.”

He stood, drew his swords and looked to the road. Through the snow and trees he saw the thinnest glimpse of the riders. Amid the forest, the horses would be useless. There, he had his advantage, and he’d need every single one. So long as they didn’t know he was there, he had a chance.

He stepped gingerly across the snow, crouched low and hidden behind the trunks. The forest was quiet, and he heard their discussions with ease as they grew steadily heated.

“Terrance!” one shouted. “Where are you? Did the brat lose you somehow?”

“Jerek, Thomas, go look for him, and hurry. I don’t want to be out in this weather any longer than I have to.”

Haern smiled at the lucky break. He stayed to the side and watched two more men walk right past him. He started creeping after them, but they stopped halfway.

“See that, Jerek?” asked Thomas as he pointed. “Something ain’t right.”

They drew their swords and looked about as Haern realized what he pointed at: the footprints he’d left in the snow when chasing after the soldier and the boy.

Damn wilderness, thought Haern. Give me a city any day.

They followed the footprints, but they were no longer hurrying. His surprise advantage was nearly blown. He continued following, using the trees to hide in case they glanced back, but they were getting too close to where the soldier’s body lay.

“Found them!” said Jerek. “Shit, his throat’s cut.”

Haern gave up stealth, knowing he couldn’t muffle his running. The crunching of the snow turned them about, but he was too close, too fast. He gutted Thomas, ducked under a dying slash, and then turned to Jerek. Instead of the desperate lunge he expected, Jerek pulled back and held his sword with both hands in a defensive position. Haern felt respect for the man, as well as agitation. He didn’t need a drawn out duel against a worthy opponent. He needed the man killed before any others arrived.

“Ambush!” Jerek screamed. “It’s a fucking ambush!”

“One against five,” Haern said. “Some ambush.”

“There’s six of us, wretch.”

“You’ll be dead soon enough.”

He feinted, stepped to the left, and then lunged for real. Jerek bit on the feint, but not enough. He parried both blades aside, but he extended to do so. Haern closed the distance between them, slamming an elbow into the man’s chest while they both shoved their weapons together. Jerek tried to separate, but Haern shifted again, positioning his right foot in the way. When Jerek stepped back, he tripped, and that was all the opening Haern needed.

“Jerek? Thomas?” asked another soldier as he approached the bloody mess. Haern watched from his perch, doing his best to keep his breathing calm. Only three had come, not five, which meant one had stayed behind to protect the older man, presumably their leader. They were only a handful of paces from where the boy lay, but they stopped at the bodies of their comrades. Two held swords, while the third held a crossbow. They looked, and it took them only a second to realize Haern had climbed the tree, but that second was enough.

He fell upon them, leaving one bleeding from a gash in the neck and another holding a crossbow with a broken string. Haern kicked him in the chest to force him back, needing the space. The last swordsman hacked at him, but Haern spun his cloak, using it to appear further to the right than he was. The strike hit nothing but air and cloth. Haern continued his spin, slashing his arm, reversing the spin, and burying his sword into the henchman’s stomach, just below his armor.

Pain spiked up his arm. He struck on reflex, which ended up cutting the crossbowman across the mouth. The man dropped the dagger he’d drawn and clutched his jaw as blood ran across his hands. The man tried to say something, but it came out as an unintelligible sob. Haern glanced at his arm. The cut would scar, but assuming it didn’t get infected, he’d be fine. Frustrated at his mistake, he leapt at the lone survivor, who turned to flee. A kick took out his knee, and he fell. Haern’s swords pierced his lungs, and then he sobbed no more.

Cursing at the pain, Haern approached the road. He kept the blood on his blades, wanting the fear it would bring. When he stepped from between the trees, he saw both riders on the far side. The younger raised his crossbow and fired. It tore a hole in his cloak as he flung himself to the side. He spun around a tree and emerged, but the soldier had not even begun to reload.

“Who are you, stranger?” asked the older man. “What are you hoping for? Is it coin you want?”

“Too many questions,” Haern said, watching the other fighter. His hand kept inching toward his hip, but for what?

“Then answer me just one: is the boy alive?”

“I don’t know, or care. He was a distraction. If he lives, he’ll freeze by morning.”

Their leader seemed pleased by the answer. Haern made sure he didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, didn’t reveal the lie.

“Good,” said the older man. “Then what is it you want now? You cannot kill us, and you cannot make off with my gold. You’d need to tether the oxen and drive it many days to town. So please, accept my offer. Take your gold, as much as you can carry, and I will allow you to leave.”

“You’d buy your safety with what I could freely take?” Haern asked.

“Freely? Nothing is free, thief. Everything is bought with sweat and blood. Come spill it if you’d dare.”

Haern chuckled. Whoever the man was, he reminded him of his father. Not a good comparison.

“Leave,” he said. “I have no use…”

He rolled behind the tree as the throwing dagger pierced the bark, hurled with frightening precision from the soldier’s hip. From behind it, he laughed.

“Ride off or die!” he shouted to them. “Even if you have a hundred of those daggers to throw, it won’t matter. Flee or die!”

He listened and waited. The men muttered quietly, and when done, they rode north. Haern sighed and looked to his arm. Still bleeding, and its pain was now a deep ache. It’d have to wait. He trudged off for the boy, who looked horribly pale.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bandage these sooner,” he said as he knelt before him. He pulled the boy’s hands away and looked at the stab. “You can thank Ashhur this wasn’t an inch deeper, or you’d be like the rest of them.”

He used more cloth from his cloak to tie a bandage around his waist, then turned his attention to the arm. So far the boy hadn’t spoken a word, only watched with a glazed look in his eyes. Fearing he might pass out any moment, Haern slapped him a couple times across the face.

“Stay with me,” he said. “I bled for you. Least you could do is survive.”

The earlier bandage he’d applied had soaked through, so he removed it, cut another strip, and retied it. Part of him thought he should just cut the whole arm off, but he’d let someone wiser in healing arts decide that. So long as it didn’t turn green and rot off, the boy had a chance of regaining its use.

“What’s your name?” he asked him as he tore the shirt off the dead soldier beside them. When the boy didn’t answer, Haern snapped his fingers in front of his eyes a few times. Still nothing. Sighing, he cut up the shirt and used it to form a sling.

“Come on, what’s your name? We’re friends now, the best of pals. You’re not cold, are you?”

After a few seconds, the boy shook his head. Good. At least he was somewhat alert. He tore free the cloak of another dead soldier, wrapped it around the boy, and then lifted him into his arms. His wounded arm shrieked in protest, so he shifted a bit of the weight onto his shoulder.

“Name,” he said. “I’d really love a name.”

But the boy slumped and passed out. Haern sighed again. He returned to the road and surveyed the carnage, laying the boy beside the fire while he searched. It didn’t make any sense. The men were well armed and equipped, and they bore the symbol of a lord. When he looked into the wagons, he saw the crates, and they bore the exact same symbol. The oxen’s harnesses had the same as well, a sickle raised before a mountain.

If he’d had time, he might have scattered the gold about, or hidden it. But he didn’t. Furious at his confusion and helplessness, he used his sword to draw an eye into the dirt beside the fire, where no snow lay. Beneath it he scrawled his mark, ‘The Watcher’. At least he might accomplish something out of all this. Let the thieves know that even outside Veldaren they were not safe from him.

“Well, boy,” he said, returning to the fire. “I’m sure it’s nice and warm, but we have to move. I can’t remember the last farm I passed, but it’s our only chance. Can you walk?”

No response. Haern bandaged his own arm, tore open one of the crates, and grabbed a handful of coins. They bore a symbol he easily recognized, that of the Gemcroft family.

“What do you have to do with the Serpents?” he wondered aloud. No matter. He pocketed them, hauled the boy into his arms, and started walking south.

There was another reason he needed space. The two who’d fled would certainly return, and he had a feeling it’d be with far more than eight men. Step after step, he cursed the snow, the wind, the cold, and his clumsy mistake that had cost him a cut. All the while, the boy slept in his arms.

*

B y nightfall, Haern felt ready to collapse. He walked off the road, kicked aside the snow before a tree, and set the boy down. He wrapped him tighter in his cloaks and did his best to keep hope. The boy’s lips were blue, his skin a deathly white. He’d lost so much blood, right when he needed its warmth the most.

Still standing, Haern pulled an emblem hanging by a silver chain from beneath his shirt. It was of a golden mountain, and as he held it, he prayed over the boy.

“Just keep him warm and alive, Ashhur. And don’t forget me, too. I could use the damn help.”

He put away the emblem, sat down beside his nameless boy, and pulled him close so they could share their warmth.

“It’ll get better,” he said, not sure if the boy could hear him or not. He was so thoroughly wrapped Haern couldn’t see his eyes. “Don’t worry about any pain. As my father once said, pain is a tool that should always be under our control. It teaches us when we err. It distracts and weakens our opponents. And for you, it’ll help you for the rest of your life. Who cares about a silly scratch from a sword when you’ve been struck to the bone, yeah?”

He felt like a moron yammering on, but he did so anyway. At last he heard the boy snore, and he leaned his head back against the bark. His eyes looked to the clouded heavens.

“Couldn’t you at least stop the snow?” he asked Ashhur.

Ashhur didn’t bother to respond.

*

H aern slept through the night, waking only once at the sound of hoofbeats. He curled his body tighter against the tree and kept perfectly still. From the corner of his eye he saw the light of torches. Unable to see his tracks veer off the road because of the fresh snow, the horsemen rode right on by.

“Never mind,” Haern whispered once they were gone. “Go ahead and let it snow.”

He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the boy’s, and slept until morning.

*

H aern had little food and water, certainly not enough for two. He ate the food, deciding he needed the strength for carrying the boy. He did his best to get the child to drink, though. Other than a few quick sips, he was unsuccessful. His back ached, and his arm throbbed, but he forced the pain far away, as he’d been trained to do by his many mentors. He carried the boy, stopping every hour to rest and catch his breath. Any time he let him go, the boy collapsed to the ground.

So much for making the brat walk, Haern thought.

He shook his head and immediately felt guilty. Of course the boy couldn’t walk. He was sitting at the reaper’s door. That he had his eyes open was a miracle.

They walked along the road, encountering no other travelers. Evidently no one else was dumb enough to make their way north in such weather. The snow had stopped in the morning, and as he followed the road, he observed the chaos of hoofprints. None crossed over or appeared to be heading back. Either they would continue on to Veldaren, or at some point turn around and meet them. Haern stayed alert just in case. He was in no shape to fight a group of horsemen.

Keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking. Keep going. The son of Thren Felhorn would not die unknown in the wilderness. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Near the end of the third day, he finally found a farm. He crossed the fields, every bone in his body aching. The boy hadn’t had a drink the entire day, and his skin was hot with fever. Part of him wondered if the cold was the only thing keeping him from burning alive. At the door to the home, he stopped, hid his swords with his cloak, and knocked.

“I come in time of need,” he shouted, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. “Please, I have a wounded child with me.”

The door crept open. In the yellow light of lamps he saw the glint of an old shortsword. A man looked through the crack, saw him holding the boy.

“Winter’s nearing its end,” said the man. “We have little to spare.”

“I’ll pay,” Haern said. “Please, I’ve walked without rest for days.”

The man glanced inside, whispered something, and then nodded.

“Come on in,” said the farmer. “And by Ashhur’s grace, I pray you mean no trouble.”

Haern found what appeared to be the entire family gathered in the front room, under blankets and around a stove whose heat felt glorious on Haern’s skin. He saw two girls huddled beside each other, their hair a pretty brown. The farmer had two boys, one of them of age, and they held knives as if to help their father should it come to bloodshed. His wife sat beside the fire, tending it.

“He has a fever,” Haern said, setting the boy down beside the stove. “And he hasn’t had food or drink for days.”

“I’ll get some water,” the wife said as she stood. She cast a worried glance at her husband, then vanished into the next room.

“My name is Matthew Pensfield,” said the farmer, extending his hand. Haern accepted it, and was shocked at how much his own hand shook. He hadn’t eaten much, he knew, but had it really affected him so greatly?

“Haern,” he said as he pulled his cloaks tight about him and surveyed the house. It seemed cozy enough, and not a hint of draft. The man had done well in building it.

“I know some of the Haerns,” said Matthew as his wife returned. He had a hard look, his square jaw covered with stubble, but he spoke plain and seemed more at ease now that Haern showed no inclination to violence. “Good men, own several fields west of here. What’s your full name? I might have heard them speak of you.”

“Just Haern,” he replied, nodding to the boy. “And I have no name for him. I found him wounded; why does not concern you. That room beyond there, is that your kitchen? Might we speak in private?”

Some of the farmer’s worry returned, but he nodded anyway.

“I reckon we can.”

Once in the other room, Haern dropped his voice to a whisper.

“I have a difficult request for you,” he said. “I need you to take care of that boy until he’s regained his health. I cannot stay.”

“We don’t have enough food to…”

He stopped as Haern drew out a handful of coins and dropped them upon the table. His eyes stretched wide. The gold shone in the dim light.

“People will be hunting for him,” Haern said. “No matter what, you treat him like your own child. When he regains his health, he’ll tell you his name and where his family might be, assuming they’re still alive. Until then, give him up to no one.

“What if they threaten violence?” Matthew asked, his eyes lingering on the gold.

“Would you give up one of your daughters?”

The farmer shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Haern let his cloak fall away from his left side, exposing one of his swords.

“I hope you understand,” he said. “I’ll return, and if I find him abused, or dead, I will repay you tenfold in blood.”

“He’s sick and wounded. What if he dies of fever?”

Haern smiled, and he let the coldness he felt in his bones creep into his eyes.

“How well do you trust your children, your wife, to tell the truth? I will know one way or the other what happened to him. Do not give me cause to wonder.”

Matthew swallowed. “I understand. This land is harsh, and we’ve taken in children before. Once he heals up, and the weather breaks, I’ll take him where he needs to go. If he doesn’t know, well, there’s always a need for more hands on a farm.”

Haern slapped him on the shoulder, nearly laughed at his terrified jump.

“Good man,” he said. “Now how about a warm meal?”

He ate some soup while he watched the wife tend to the boy. She put a wet cloth across his forehead, dressed his wounds far better than he had, and then used a spoon to slowly get him to drink. Haern was impressed. Seemed these Pensfields knew how to take care of themselves. Whoever the boy was, he could do far worse for a temporary home.

The soup did wonders for his mood. Its warmth seeped deep into his chest and then spread to the rest of his limbs. Combined with the heat of the wood stove, he felt warmed within and without. He could feel his muscles tightening from lack of motion after so much exertion, and he did his best to stretch in the cramped quarters.

“You can spend the night here if you wish,” Matthew said as the day neared its end. “I’d be a sad man to banish a guest just as the sun sets.”

“Thank you,” Haern said. He shifted further away from the fire so the children could take a turn. He wrapped his blankets around his body and closed his eyes. For the first time in his entire life, he found himself in a true home, with a real family. The children bickered, but there was a harmless familiarity to it. He thought of his own childhood, never spent with someone his own age, only the parade of tutors and mentors, training him to read, to write, to move, to kill. Had he ever curled up on the floor beside a fire, surrounded by a family that would never wish him harm? Had he ever been inside a house that felt at peace? Had he ever…

He slept, and his dreams were dull, calm, and he did not remember them when he woke.