15. Renard #2
“It should have been all,” I say bitterly. “And may every lost one haunt me ’til I draw my last breath for being unable to do more.”
“I will admit, Renard, I’m finding it very hard to summon grace and leniency for your kind.
Perhaps the seat at Valehar deserves to fall, as do all those who prop it up,” she growls.
A large swath of tiny red toadstools erupts from the dirt in a wide circle around us.
She blows out a breath that’s thick with bone-white spores, and I watch as they drift upward in the column of smoke between us.
“Perhaps,” I admit. “Though the few at the top are the most rotten of the lot. Many of my people—the good, common folk—do not deserve the hardship they’ve been enduring. I would see it ended, Lady Fae, by any means necessary.”
“We are set on this path together, Renard. We will do what we can.”
I nod, my thoughts too tangled for me to say much else.
“I’m going to the stream to wash,” I say, mainly because it gives me an excuse to be alone with my thoughts—far away from warm, oxblood eyes and hair like moonlight.
Vireth hands me her cooking utensils to wash and throws another log on the fire. By the time I’ve gathered my things, she’s laid out her bedroll next to the fire and is playing a game of pebbles with Nibblebones.
If she becomes the Blight Mother, starts to destroy the world, and you must kill her to keep her from doing so… what will happen to the corpse weasel?
It’s an odd thought that plagues me, but one that will not let go until I am bare and submerged in the frigid water of the stream. Only then does the cold steal whatever breath I have left that wasn’t stolen by my lady fae.
It’s the small hours between night and gray dawn when I first wake, and miraculously, Vireth is still asleep across from me. The fire has died down to embers and the weather remains cool, but pleasant, so I listen for a few moments to hear what might have pulled me from sleep.
A bird call—too early, too strange to be natural. Nibblebones cracks one eye—she hears it, too. In the scant light, her whiskers glitter as they twitch in the air.
Something is wrong.
My hand finds my sword before my mind has woken fully. Vireth still dozes, her soft snores regular and even against the backdrop of water. Again, the sharp trill of a singular bird call interrupts the stillness.
“Stay here,” I whisper to Nibblebones. “Keep an eye on her.”
At any other time, in any other place, I might think it silly to expect a half-spirit forest creature to guard anything, but she sits up next to Vireth’s prone form, alert and clearly taking her charge very seriously.
Creeping down along the edge of the road, I make my way toward the sound of the occasional bird call.
Thankfully, the leaf litter and moss stifle the sounds of my feet.
I crouch behind the trunk of a cedar and listen.
The stream murmurs somewhere downhill beyond the trees, hidden behind a tumble of moss-covered stones, while the wind drifts through the trees overhead.
Beneath all of that comes the unmistakable sound of human voices—five of them, if my ears still serve me half so well as they once did.
I edge forward through the undergrowth until the trees thin enough to grant me a clear view of the small camp nestled beneath a towering granite outcropping.
A fire smolders low in the center, while bedrolls and packs lie scattered around it.
Two horses stand tethered nearby, heads lowered as they munch lazily at the sparse grass poking through the stones.
Bandits, most likely, though the distinction between bandits and hungry men grows thinner with every passing month, particularly now that the curse has everyone scrambling for survival and morality has become a luxury many can no longer afford.
Settling against the rough bark of the cedar, I listen intently, intent on understanding precisely what sort of fools I am dealing with.
“I still say we should've taken them yesterday,” one of them—a young man with a ginger beard—complains.
“Aye,” agrees another.
This second man spits into the fire and watches it hiss while Ginger Beard pokes idly at the coals with a stick. These two carry themselves with the careless confidence of men who have yet to discover that confidence and competence are not remotely the same thing.
“Yeah, well. The old bastard ain't going anywhere.”
Several of them laugh at that, which I confess stings my pride more than the discussion of murdering me.
“What about the woman? She must be fae, or cursed, with antlers lookin’ like that.”
A shrug follows.
“What about her? Soon as he's dead, we've got everything.”
“If she’s alone and unprotected, she might be worth a bit of fun.”
My vision begins to go red at the edges, unfamiliar seething rage stealing away much of my better thoughts and years of experience.
My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword as I listen to them discuss Vireth with the battle thrill beginning to surge in my veins.
It would be nothing to me to kill them all for simply daring to entertain the idea.
Then again, I don’t need to add any more lives to the list of my penance, and we don’t have time to deal with five corpses today.
“The packs looked full enough,” one says.
“Food. Blankets. Coin, maybe.”
“And those swords,” another says.
“Aye. They’ll definitely be worth something.”
Ginger Beard grins and nudges the fire with his stick again, sending a small shower of sparks into the air.
“We’ll hit them at the boulder around the bend. Drustan will kill the old one before he knows what's happening.”
“Why me?” Drustan whines.
“You’ve got the axe. It’ll be quicker with an axe, probably.”
For a long moment I simply stand there listening to five strangers discuss my death, and I don’t feel fear or even outrage, but rather a profound irritation at the certainty with which they have already decided the outcome.
This must be what Vireth feels when she needles me about my entitlement. I don’t care much for the feeling.
I’m annoyed by the assumption that a gray beard and a persistent limp have somehow transformed me into an invalid, and memories surface of Arden's young soldiers with their polished, ill-fitting armor and brazenness of youth.
That day, they all learned a valuable lesson about underestimating old men.
Mayhap these fools require the same education.
With a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my bones, I step out from behind the tree and into the clearing.
“Good morrow, gentlemen.”
Silence descends so abruptly that even the horses lift their heads from grazing, while five pairs of eyes fix upon me with expressions that shift rapidly from confusion to alarm as recognition dawns.
The nearest man—Drustan, apparently, my would-be executioner—lunges for an axe lying beside his bedroll, but I’m already moving before his fingers close around the haft.
I cross the distance between us in several long strides and drive the pommel of my sword across his mouth hard enough to send him sprawling backward into the dirt with a satisfying spray of blood and profanity.
The second man, Ginger Beard’s friend, makes for a bow, which strikes me as a remarkably poor decision given our proximity, so I simply kick the fire directly into his face before he can scarce nock an arrow, and his resulting scream echoes through the trees as sparks and ash explode around him.
The remaining three finally seem to grasp the danger of their situation, though unfortunately for them, it’s rather too late.
Ginger Beard draws his sword and charges me with admirable enthusiasm and considerably less admirable technique, and whistles through the air as I duck beneath the too-wide arc. I drive my shoulder into his chest, sending him tumbling backward across the ashen remains of the firepit.
The move jars every injury I possess, sending pain through my knee and shoulder and ribs, but instead of frustration I feel something dangerously close to satisfaction.
Gods help me, I have missed this.
Since I set foot in the Verge, I’ve felt every one of my years—every ache and twinge and reminder that the body remembers my old wounds long after my mind has grown tired of them.
More than once, I’ve found myself wondering whether I have finally reached the point where my experience can no longer compensate for my age.
Yet here, with a sword in my hand and glorious necessity, something settles back into place inside my chest with such surety that I nearly laugh aloud. It’s the competence and confidence, and the comforting realization that I still know exactly who I am when violence shows its hand.
The fourth bandit rushes me with a club raised overhead, but I’m practically enjoying myself now, and I catch his wrist before the blow can land—twisting it sharply enough to produce a sickening popping sound.
I plant my foot directly in his stomach, sending him careening backward into a patch of ferns, where he disappears amidst a flurry of leaves and pained groans.
The fifth man hesitates as he takes in the scene around him and turns wide eyes on me in pure astonishment.
I chuckle—I find I cannot help it. Discouraged and panicked, he drops his weapon, taking off at a rapid clip in the opposite direction.
His companions have finally reached the same conclusion.
“Run!” Ginger Beard screeches.
The shout sends the camp into immediate chaos as men scramble for horses, packs, weapons, and whatever shreds of dignity remain available. At last, a wise choice from this group of fools.
Within moments, they crash through the wilderness as though they’re being chased by every horror lurking within the Verge, and I only barely resist the urge to pursue them if only to reinforce the lesson.