34. Bane
Chapter 34
Bane
I stayed between my wife and the tree of limbs as we passed through the village, one arm around her shoulder to stop her quaking shivers, but she didn’t stop trembling. She kept her hand cradled to her chest, the hunting knife clutched in the other, her expression a strange rictus of terror, pain, and shock.
It had been a mistake to bring her, and yet she was right. There was no room for ignorance for one living in the Rift—not while Hakkon lived. I had been the fool to think I could keep her safely coddled away in Ravenscry, wrapped warmly in the bliss of innocence, while still expecting— hoping —that she would come to care for the people on her own.
She had to see it to care. To see the cost of making a mistake, as I had.
Caging her in safety and ignorance would only separate her from the people, and as much as I hated to see her own fear, it was better to see it now. Better to see it as an observer, rather than a victim.
When I went hunting, she would rule in my place. She would have to be the one to overrule and order strong men into doing things they hated, for their own sake. She would have to tell the Gilams of the Rift to open the mines, to cut down the trees, to build their defenses, even as they insisted they feared the ghosts more than the wolf in the wood.
So. Now she had seen it. Now she understood the price of failing to enforce our rule.
And now I wanted her far away from it all. Enough was enough.
I took her hands and led her through the cracked gap in the wall, out into the frosty field where the legions had set up camp. Wyn’s tent was near the road, where the horses had been tethered. None of them were grazing; they stamped and tossed their heads, the whites of their eyes showing when the breeze carried the scent of blood to their noses.
“Come along now,” I growled softly, unable to summon any more anger. I had left her alone; did I not know my own wife? Of course she had gone to look.
Wyn’s tent was bright red canvas, as all bloodwitch tents in the war had been. They were the first thing one looked for when seeking a healer, too often the last thing one saw.
I pulled back the door flap and herded Cirri inside. It was much warmer, heated by a brazier of coals, a cauldron of water already set to boil. Wyn was grimly unpacking a box of bandages, but she moved almost lethargically: she already knew there would be no need.
“Brought me another body to examine, did you?” she asked acerbically, but she cut herself off when she looked up. “Ah, you’re not Miro. What’s happened here?”
Cirri stared at her, purple slices of shock-flesh under her eyes, and I put a hand on her shoulder, gently forcing her to sit in one of the camp-chairs.
“There was a survivor in the forest.” I stroked the top of her head, and Cirri looked down at the knife she still clutched. “It didn’t end well.”
He couldn’t see me , she said. He could only hear me. He thought I was one of them.
“Missing his eyes,” I said softly to Wyn as she knelt in front of my wife, taking her cut hand. “He couldn’t see her… trying to speak. Cut his own throat.”
My advisor’s pale eyes flicked to Cirri’s face, understanding. “Sheer bad luck, that’s all. It’s a clean enough cut, no compounds that I see…” She took the knife, tilting the blade to examine it in the light, and puffed out her cheeks. “There’s not even wolfsbane on it. Ancestors, Bane, you’d think some of them want to be massacred.”
I shook my head, not entirely disagreeing, but with the tree of limbs being pulled apart behind the walls, the distant cracks as the legions chopped down the poles, I couldn’t summon the heat of outrage.
Wyn returned the knife to Cirri, and fetched an opaque white bottle and cloth. She knelt again, and the tent flap was pulled open, spilling cold light over them.
“We’ve got another one for you to look at.” Miro’s cheeks were flushed with cold, his breath steaming. “What happened here?”
“None of your business,” Wyn said briskly, shoving the bottle and cloth into my hands and dusting hers off. “Show me.”
“Are there anomalies?” I asked quietly.
Wyn paused at the flap of the door, brows furrowing. “None that I’ve seen yet. It’s unusual. Let me have a look. I’m still sorting my thoughts on this.”
My stomach dropped, but as Wyn ducked out, I took a breath and turned to the task at hand. She would tell me when she had a theory, and rushing her accomplished nothing but ensuring she’d be in a towering mood when she returned.
I sat in front of my wife, sinking slowly onto my knees, and uncorked the bottle, soaking the cloth with the sharp-smelling liquid within. Cirri let me take her hand, wincing a little when I pressed it to the cut.
“I know we seem callous, but this has been a decade of fighting against deeply-ingrained beliefs. The Rift-kin aren’t stupid. Far from it, actually. But they have strong ties to Foria. It’s easier to hate and fear an enemy so unlike you it seems like another species altogether, rather than the enemy composed of the people you know just across the mountain border.”
I soaked a new corner of cloth, replacing it over the wound. It was already beginning to knit itself closed.
“It’s not that they don’t understand the danger. It’s just… centuries of Fae tyranny left a thick scar and deep fears, and meanwhile, they married the Forian shepherds and farmers across the border. All of those wargs… they were once those same people. I think they believe, in a strange way, that maybe family ties will break the spell.”
Cirri shook her head, slipping her hand from the cloth. The wound was a knotted red scar now. Nothing could break the spell of those… things.
“No. Once you commit to the ritual, there’s no going back. But to me, things are simple. The wargs are the enemy. To the Rift-kin, they’re cousins, fathers-in-law, old friends, all of them taken in by a cult. I believe there was a time Hakkon told his people to leave them alone, but once we allied with your people, that truce ended.”
How could they not see what they are? Cirri’s eyes were red-rimmed. There’s nothing human left in them.
I took her hand again, applying another layer. “Sometimes we see what we want to see. We want to see that our old friends are salvageable, even twisted beyond recognition. We want to see that little spark of hope where there is only darkness.”
She waited patiently until I removed the cloth to examine the mark, now less of an angry red and more a healthy pink of new skin.
Why did the Forians use wargs at all? Do they not turn on their own people? She chewed her lower lip nervously. That thing in the woods. It was… hunger. That’s all it was.
“Why does a man use any weapon?” I asked, my voice low. “Because he thinks it will help him win. And for a time, the wargs were helping King Radomil win. He would send in his troops, use cannons to take down defenses, and then the wargs would spill in through the cracks. Then we came above and joined you, and he saw the writing on the wall. By the time we pushed the last of the wargs out of Veladar, King Radomil saw that he had no control at all over them or their priests. When we forged the peace treaty between our people, he declared them outlaws, and Hakkon stole troops from under his nose and brought them into his fold. These wargs…” I gestured to the walls of the tent, what lay beyond. “They operate without the king’s blessing. I’m sure he knows, of course. But I think Radomil finds it far preferable that they prey on us, rather than the Forians.”
They would do this to their own people? Cirri looked nauseous.
“The worshippers of Wargyr don’t see themselves as Forians first. They see themselves as wargs first. If they couldn’t hunt us, they would certainly hunt the Forians. So long as we’re here to provide a distraction, Radomil won’t lift a finger to drive them out. Short-sighted on his part,” I said with a snort of contempt. “Hakkon will turn on him one day.”
Why us, though? Cirri frowned at me, flexing her hand. Would it not be easier to hunt on their own territory? Their own king has denied them; do they not want revenge?
“I have only educated guesses. King Radomil wanted the Rift and the Rivers, foremost; perhaps Hakkon hopes to take them and earn a pardon. I’ve also heard that the Rift was where the first worship of Wargyr began, and they believe it is their rightful territory. Or perhaps there is some small shred of loyalty to the country that offered them work as soldiers. If there’s truth to any of my theories, I haven’t proved it yet.”
I touched her hand, flattening it. The wound was now a silvered scar. “Your hand is healed, my lady. A scar to remind you that the forest is no place to walk alone.”
She shuddered. Believe me, I’ve taken the lesson to heart. I never want to see one again.
“I’m sorry to say that you will.” I kissed her palm. “I only hope I can keep you far from it.”
Cirri shook her head, still frowning at the fresh mark. Bane.
“Yes?”
She closed her eyes, knuckles whitening around the hilt of the knife for a moment. It was my fault. That he died. I couldn’t stay, but I couldn’t go for help. He thought I was one of them.
“As Wyn said, it was pure bad luck.” I rested a hand on her leg, feeling the stone-hard muscles, still trembling a little, beneath my palm.
Cirri opened her eyes again, tears glimmering there. Was there anything else I could have done? Or am I a liability? I can’t speak, I’m no warrior, I’m useless. I couldn’t save him, and if that warg was alive, I wouldn’t have been able to save myself. What if someone is relying on me? Am I to simply lead them to death? How can I be the Lady of anything if I can’t even call out to save one life?
“Stop.” I took her hands, forcing her into silence. “Don’t call yourself useless. You’re not a liability. Bad luck happens to us all. Ancestors only know how many men I’ve lost to it. I just lost… an entire village. Because of my misjudgement.”
I closed my eyes, wishing I’d pushed against them harder, crushed their beliefs underfoot. This misfortune wasn’t bad luck, simply bad leadership.
But I was used to swallowing down guilt, compartmentalizing the terrible things I’d done.
“We get nowhere when we wallow in ill fortune and blame,” I finally said. “We learn for next time. This was my mistake, and I take responsibility for it. Now all I can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Cirri’s lips were pressed flat, her eyes still puffy with unshed tears, but she nodded slowly.
I didn’t get a chance to dig deeper, to uproot her feelings of inadequacy and burn them down. The tent flap opened, sending Wyn, Visca, and Miro in on a swirl of cold air.
Visca dropped into one of the other camp chairs with a soft groan, her arms full with a bundled cloak. Wyn immediately went to stir the cauldron, brows creased as she thought, and Miro looked surprisingly refreshed despite the chill and the grisly work.
“Got something here,” Visca said, patting the bundle in her lap. It moved, something inside making a tiny squeak.
Cirri was blinking tears away furiously, her face turned to the side, but even she looked at the bundle with curiosity.
“Found it in the back of a barn. The rest were… y’know. But this one got lucky.” She peeled back the cloak, revealing a tiny, furry face, with big black eyes and a black nose against icy gray and white fur. “They were breeding Forian dogs. Quite literally.”
“A laika,” I said, frowning at the pup. “Used to be common around here decades ago.”
“Right.” Visca scratched the top of its head. “I wish I could say this felt like the main reason they chose Tristone, but I don’t think that’s it. But Hakkon clearly took exception. I think I’ll give it to the houndmaster in the keep, we could use another hunting dog.”
Miro’s mouth twisted. “Keep a Forian dog as a pet?”
“Might as well. Can’t bring myself to throw the poor lad back out in the snow, much as I dislike having anything of Forian make around. Look, he’s got a round little belly.”
My commander pulled the rest of the pup out, tickling what was indeed a very round belly. She handed it to Cirri, who cradled the little animal, stroking its back.
“What happened?” she asked, squinting at my wife’s hand.
Cirri’s face tightened, and I kept it simple. “Found a man in the woods. He killed himself. There was a warg body left.”
Visca clicked her teeth. “Out in the woods, eh? Against orders?”
I’m never going there again , Cirri signed sharply, clutching the pup tighter, and I translated for her.
“That’s my girl. The sooner you leave things alone, the sooner you live to a ripe old age and die peacefully in your sleep.” Visca stood up, dusting off her legs. “Right, back to it, then. Come on, Miro. They’re not going to bury themselves.”
Miro gave the pup a last look and followed her out, and Wyn exhaled, dropping the ladle in the cauldron.
“Well, now that we’re free of inquisitive ears—” She scowled at the tent flap, and I knew she meant Miro, not her wife. “Yes, I found anomalies.”
I exhaled slowly, fighting the churn of anger and sadness in my gut. “Where?”
“The barn was the ritual site. Visca’s going to set fire to it whole. Sloughed skin, nails and teeth… better to torch the lot.”
“How many?” I kept a hand on Cirri’s back as she tensed, though she still petted the pup in a mechanical way.
Wyn sat on the camp chair, smoothing her hair back, picking at a thread in her sleeve. “At least seven.”
“Gods.” I closed my eyes. Seven newborn wargs, born of a ritual of pain and suffering.
My people’s pain and suffering.
“They ate that poor thing’s littermates.” Wyn scowled at the pup. “Ate everyone else. This wasn’t random madness, it was a well-planned feast.”
Cirri handed me the pup so quickly I hadn’t even realized she’d already stood up before it was in my hands. She dashed outside, and I heard her being sick on the other side of the canvas wall.
“A moment, please.” I handed the sole survivor to Wyn and went after my wife.
She was wiping her mouth, half-crouched in the snow, her face sickly white. I’m sorry , she signed, and I held her up, took her in my arms.
“Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought you.” I stroked her from crown to spine, slow and soothing. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”
In the distance, there was a thump, a whoosh, and flames leapt above the treetops. A column of black smoke billowed into the air. The barn, the ritual site, soon to be so many smoldering embers.
Cirri looked up at me, her jaw set. What is this ritual?
“I don’t—”
Describe it. Now, please.
“Come back inside.” I managed to lead her back into the tent, out of sight of the burning barn, and resettled her on the chair. Wyn had set the pup in a supplies basket, and offered Cirri a beaten tin cup of tea.
“It’ll settle your stomach,” she said. “Drink up. Not one of us hasn’t turned our guts inside out after finding something like this. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Wyn’s no-nonsense nature seemed to help more than my apologies. Cirri drank, but she gave me an iron-hard stare over the rim of the cup.
“The ritual, then.” I swiveled an ear at a distant shout from Visca, but she was calling for more fuel. “Well.”
“It’s terrible,” Wyn said, scowling grimly as she prepared another cup.
“First, understand that none of us have seen it happen with the wargs.”
Cirri nodded, still drinking. The pup had ambled out of the basket, all wagging tail and bright eyes, and she scooped it into her lap one-handed.
“It… requires death, obviously.” I shifted uncomfortably, the heat of shame and guilt rising in me. The ritual… it was the last thing I wanted to speak of, something far too close to my own past. “A bad death. As much suffering as can be inflicted at once. Blood shed with hatred, tears shed in pain.”
Some of the empty shock had faded from her eyes, and she listened carefully.
“Those are requirements. Without the two, there can be no rebirth. The murder must be committed in a frenzy of rage, with no clear thought. I’ve heard the candidates starve themselves for weeks beforehand, so they’re hungry when the time comes.”
Cirri licked her lips, closed her eyes, and took a deep swallow of tea. She nodded for me to continue when she opened her eyes again.
“Then they must eat. When the blood and tears have been shed, they feed, and if Wargyr has deemed their offering of rage appropriate, they shed their own human skins.”
I knew her thinking look, that distant stare with her brow lightly furrowed.
“Is there something familiar in that?” Please, let her say no… but she had the book in her possession. It was only a matter of time before she translated enough runes to read about the fine details of my kind.
Cirri tilted her head, still petting the pup, and finally shook her head. Nothing definite , she said, her hands halting. But… perhaps something. I’ll dig deeper in the translations.
“See?” I forced myself to smile and squeezed her hand, warmed from the mug. Better by far than the icy, limp feeling she’d had earlier. “You can’t call yourself useless.”
She didn’t smile; she was still staring through the crack left by the door flap, still thinking. But is it going to help? she asked. What does it matter how they’re born, if we can’t stop them?
There was a question there was no answer to.
“It’ll help,” I told her firmly, and then the door opened. Visca poked her head in, soot added to the smears of blood on her face.
“We could use you, Bane,” she said grimly.
I nodded, and touched my wife one last time. Then left her here, on the outskirts of a defeated battlefield, to go bury the misery I’d caused.