Only the Valiant
Genevieve would have to save herself. “Why would you stab me, my lord?” she asked.
“Why should I not?” he said. “I mean yes, you are pretty: blonde hair, green eyes, slender, what man would not want you? But peasant girls are hardly difficult to replace.”
“I was under the impression that my marriage made me more than that,” Genevieve said, trying to keep her voice steady in spite of the presence of the blade. “Have I done something to offend you?”
“I do not know, girl; have you?” he demanded, and his eyes seemed to be searching Genevieve’s for something. “There was a message sent, revealing the direction that the boy who murdered my brother went in, yet it did not reach me or anyone else until it was far too late. Do you know anything about that?”
Genevieve knew everything about that, since it had been she herself who delayed the message. It had been all she had been able to do, and yet it still hadn’t felt like enough given all that she felt for Royce. Even so, she managed to school her face to stillness, pretending innocence because that was literally the only defense she had right then.
“My lord, I don’t understand,” she said. “You said yourself that I am just a peasant girl; how could I do anything to stop a message like that?”
On instinct, she dropped to her knees, moving slowly so that there was no chance of impaling herself upon the blade.
“I have been honored by your family,” she said. “I have been chosen by your nephew, the duke. I have been made into his wife, and so raised in status. I live as I could never have hoped to before. Why would I jeopardize that? If you truly believe me to be a traitor, then strike, my lord. Strike.”
Genevieve wore her innocence like a shield, and she just hoped that it would be enough of one to turn aside the sword blow that might otherwise come. She hoped it, and she didn’t hope it, because right then maybe a thrust to the heart would have matched everything she felt given how badly things had gone with Royce. She looked up into the eyes of Altfor’s uncle, and she refused to look away, refused to give any hint of what she had done. He pulled back the sword as if he might make that fatal thrust… then lowered his blade.
“It seems, Altfor, that your wife has more steel in her than you.”
Genevieve managed to breathe again, and rose back to her feet while her husband stalked forward.
“Uncle, enough of these games. I am the duke here, and my father—”
“My brother was fool enough to pass on an estate to you, but let’s not pretend that makes you a real duke,” Alistair said. “That requires leadership, discipline, and the respect of your men. You have none of those.”
“I could order my men to drag you to a dungeon,” Altfor snapped.
“And I could order them to do the same,” Alistair retorted. “Tell me, which of us do you think they would obey? My brother’s least favorite son, or the brother who has commanded armies? The one who lost his killer, or the one who held the killing wall at Haldermark? A boy, or a man?”
Genevieve could guess the answer to that question, and she didn’t like the way it might turn out. Like it or not, she was Altfor’s wife, and if his uncle decided to get rid of him, she had no illusions about what might happen to her. Quickly, she moved across to her husband, putting a hand on his arm in what probably looked like a gesture of support, even as she tried to remind him to hold back.
“This duchy has been run into the ground,” Alistair said. “My brother made mistakes, and until they are corrected, I will see to it that things are run properly. Does any man here wish to dispute my right to do it?”
Genevieve couldn’t help noticing that his blade was still in his hand, obviously waiting for the first man to say something. Of course, that had to be Altfor.
“You expect me to swear fealty to you?” Altfor said. “You expect me to kneel before you when my father made me the duke?”
“Two things can make a duke,” Alistair snapped. “The command of the ruler, or the power to take it. Do you have either, nephew? Or will you kneel?”
Genevieve knelt before her husband did, tugging on his arm to pull him down beside her. It wasn’t that she cared about Altfor’s safety, not after all he’d done, but right then, she knew that his safety was hers.
“Very well, Uncle,” Altfor said, through obviously gritted teeth. “I will obey. It seems I have no choice.”
“No,” Lord Alistair agreed. “You don’t have.”
His eyes swept around the room, and one by one, the people there knelt. Genevieve saw courtiers do it, and servants. She even saw Moira fall to her knees, and a small, angry part of her wondered if her so-called friend would try her luck seducing Altfor’s uncle as well as Altfor.
“Better,” Lord Alistair said. “Now, I want more men out finding the boy who killed my brother. An example will be made. No games this time, just the death he deserves.”
A messenger ran in, wearing the livery of the household. Genevieve could see him looking back and forth between Altfor and Lord Alistair, obviously trying to decide to whom he should deliver his message. Finally, he made what Genevieve thought was the obvious choice, and turned to Altfor’s uncle.
“My lord, forgive me,” he said, “but there is rioting in the streets below. People are rising up throughout the former duke’s holdings. We need you.”
“To put down peasants?” Lord Alistair said, with a snort. “Very well. Gather such men as we can spare from the search, and have them meet me in the courtyard. We will show this rabble what a true duke can do!”
He marched from the room, leaning again on his sheathed longsword. Genevieve dared to breathe a sigh of relief as he went, but it was short lived. Altfor was already getting back to his feet, and his anger was palpable.
“Get out, all of you!” he yelled to the assembled courtiers. “Out, and help my uncle put down this revolt, or help in the search for the traitor, but do not be here for me to ask it again!”
They began to leave, and Genevieve started to rise to go with them, but she felt Altfor’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down.
“Not you, wife.”
As Genevieve waited, the hall emptied, leaving only her, a couple of guards, and worse, Moira watching from the corner, with a look that wasn’t even trying to pretend sympathy now.
“You,” Altfor said, “need to tell me what role you played in Royce getting away.”
“I… don’t know what you mean,” Genevieve said. “I have been here the whole time. How could I—”
“Be quiet,” Altfor snapped. “If it wouldn’t make me look like a man who can’t control you, I would beat you for thinking me that stupid. Of course you did something; no one else who cares about that traitor is anywhere near here.”
“There are whole crowds in the streets who might prove otherwise,” Genevieve said, pushing herself to her feet. She wasn’t scared of Altfor the way she was of his uncle.
No, that wasn’t true. She was scared of him, but it was a different kind of fear. With Altfor, it was a fear of sudden violence and cruelty, but appearing to submit would do nothing to deflect it.
“The crowds?” Altfor said. “You’re going to taunt me with mobs now? I thought you had learned your lesson about crossing me, but obviously not.”
Now fear did come back to Genevieve, because the look in Altfor’s eye was one that promised something far worse than violence toward her.
“You think that you’re so safe because I will not harm my wife,” Altfor said. “But I told you the things that would happen if you disobeyed me. Your beloved Royce will be found, and he will be killed, if I have anything to do with it, far more slowly than anything my uncle might have in mind.”
That part didn’t scare Genevieve, although the thought of any harm coming to Royce hurt her like a physical blow. The fact was that he was gone from Altfor’s grip; she had already seen to that. There was no way now that he or Lord Alistair would be able to catch him.
“Then there are his brothers,” Altfor said, and Genevieve’s breath caught.
“You told me you wouldn’t kill them if I married you,” she said.
“But now you are my wife, and you are a disobedient one,” Altfor countered. “Already, the three are on their way to their place of execution, there to sit in a gibbet on the killing hill and starve until they are devoured by beasts.”
“No,” Genevieve said. “You promised.”
“And you promised to be a faithful wife!” Altfor shouted back at her. “Instead, you continue to help the boy you should have put aside all thoughts for!”
“You… I didn’t do anything,” Genevieve insisted, knowing that admitting it would only make things worse. Altfor was a noble, and he couldn’t do anything to her directly, not without proof, and a trial, and more.
“Oh, you still want to play these games,” Altfor said. “Then the price for your betrayal has gone up. You have too many distractions in the outside world, so I will take them from you.”
“What… what do you mean?” Genevieve asked.
“Your sister was an amusement for a brief moment the first time you disobeyed me. Now she will die for what you have done. So will your parents, and everyone else in the hovel you called home.”
“No!” Genevieve shrieked, grabbing for the small eating knife that she wore. In that moment, all sense of restraint or need to be careful fled from her, driven out by the horror of what her husband was about to do. She would do anything to protect her sister. Anything.
Altfor was faster though, his hand closing over hers and dragging it away. He shoved her back to land heavily on the floor, standing over her. He glared down at her, and only Moira’s touch pulled him away from doing more.
“Remember that while she is your wife she is noble,” Moira whispered. “Harm her and you would be treated as a criminal.”
“Do not presume to tell me what to do,” Altfor snapped at Moira, who leaned in even closer.
“I am not telling, merely suggesting, my lord, my duke. With a wife, and in time an heir, and the law on your side, you will manage to take that all back.”
“And why does that matter to you?” Altfor asked, looking over at her.
If Moira was hurt by that, she didn’t show it. If anything, she looked triumphant as she looked over to where Genevieve lay.
“Because your brother, my husband, is gone, and I would rather continue to be the lover of a powerful man than a woman without power,” Moira said. “And you… you are the most powerful man I have met.”
“And I should want you, rather than my wife?” Altfor asked. “Why should I want my brother’s cast-offs?”
Even to Genevieve, that seemed a cruel game to play when Genevieve had already caught him with Moira.
Again though, whatever Moira felt was carefully hidden.
“Come with me,” she suggested, “and I’ll remind you of the difference while your men go about killing all those who deserve it. Your men, not your uncle’s.”
That was enough for Altfor to pull her to him, kissing her even though Genevieve and the two guards were right there. He caught hold of Moira’s arm, pulling her off in the direction of the great hall’s exit. Genevieve saw Moira glance back, and the cruelty in her smile was enough to chill Genevieve to the bone.
Right then, Genevieve didn’t care. She didn’t care that Altfor was about to betray her in a way that he obviously already had so many times before. She didn’t care that she’d nearly died at his uncle’s hands, or that both of them clearly saw her as an inconvenience.
All she cared about then was that her sister was in danger, and she had, had to find some way to help her, before it was too late. Altfor was planning to kill her, and she had no way of knowing when it would happen.
CHAPTER THREE
Royce ran through the forest, feeling the crunch of branches underfoot, clutching his sheathed sword to his side so it wouldn’t catch against any of the trees. Without the horse he’d stolen, he wasn’t moving fast enough. He needed to go faster.
He ran faster, spurred on by the thought of getting back to the people he cared about. The Red Isle had taught him to keep running, regardless of the way his heart hammered in his chest, or his legs ached. He’d survived the trap-filled run across the island, so forcing himself to run further and faster through a forest was nothing.
The speed and strength that he possessed helped. Trees flashed by on either side, branches scraping at him and Royce ignoring them. He could hear woodland creatures scurrying to get clear of this thing running through their territory, and he knew that he had to find a better way to make progress than this. If he kept making this much noise, he would attract every soldier in the dukedom.
“Let them come,” Royce whispered to himself. “I’ll kill them all.”
A part of him wanted to do that and more. He’d managed to kill the lord who’d put him and his friends in the fighting pit; he’d managed to kill those guards who had come at him… but he also knew that he couldn’t take on a whole land’s worth of enemies. The strongest, fastest, most dangerous of men couldn’t fight more than a few enemies alone, because there would simply be too many places that a blade could come from unexpectedly.
“I’ll find a way to do something,” Royce said, but he slowed anyway, moving through the forest more carefully, trying not to disturb the peace of the trees around him. He could hear the birds and the creatures there now, the sounds turning what had felt like an empty space into a landscape of sounds that seemed to fill everything.
What could he do? His first instinct when he’d run had been to keep going, out into the wild spaces where men didn’t live, and the Picti held sway. He’d thought about disappearing, simply vanishing, because what was there to hold him there?
Briefly, his mind flashed to an image of Genevieve, staring down from the stands of the fighting pit, apparently uncaring. He pushed that image aside, because he didn’t want to think about Genevieve. It hurt too much to do it, when she’d done that. Why shouldn’t he disappear into the spaces where men didn’t live?
One reason was Mark. His friend had fallen in the pit, but Royce hadn’t seen the moment of his death. A part of him wanted to believe that somehow Mark might have survived it when the games had been disrupted like that. Wouldn’t the nobles want to see another fight from him if they could get it? Wouldn’t they want to get all the entertainment that they could from his friend?
“He has to be alive,” Royce said, “he has to be.”
Even to him, it sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. Royce shook his head and kept going through the forest, trying to orient himself. He felt as though he wouldn’t be able to do anything until he got home. He would get there, and then, once he was safe again, he would be able to make a plan about what to do next. He would be able to decide whether to run, or try to find Mark, or somehow magic up an army with which to take on the duke’s men.
“And maybe I’ll pull it out of thin air,” Royce said, and kept moving. He moved with the speed of a hunted animal now, keeping low, ducking under foliage and picking his way over the leaf litter without slowing down.
He knew the forest. He knew the routes through it as well as anyone, because he’d spent more than enough time here with his brothers. They’d chased one another through it, and hunted small creatures. Now he was the one being chased, and hunted, and trying to find a way clear of it all. He was fairly sure that there was a hunting track not far from where he stood, that would lead down to a small brook, past a charcoal burner’s hut, and then down toward the village.
Royce headed for it, picking his way through the forest, and was dragged from his thoughts by a sound in the distance. It was soft, but it was there: the sound of feet moving lightly over broken ground. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t spent so much time with his brothers in these forests, or if he hadn’t learned on the Red Isle that there could be threats anywhere.
“Do I wait, or do I hide?” he asked himself. It would be easy to step out onto the track, because he could only hear a single person coming, and they didn’t even sound like a soldier. Soldiers’ steps had the crisp click of boots, the jangle of armor, and the scrape of spear hafts against the ground. These steps were different. Probably, it was just a crofter or a woodsman.
Even so, Royce hung back, crouching in the shadow of a tree, in a spot where its roots arched up to form a kind of natural enclosure that probably played host to animals when the light faded. Some of the branches nearby were low enough that Royce could pull them down in front of him to block sight there, but still be able to look out over the path. He crouched in place, staying still, his hand never straying far from his sword.
When Royce saw the single figure approaching along the track, he almost stepped out. The man there appeared to be unarmed and unarmored, wearing only loose-fitting gray silk clothing that seemed dark and shapeless. His feet were encased in slippers of equally gray hide, with wraps reaching up over his ankles. Something stopped him though, and as the man got closer, Royce could see that his skin was just as gray, marked by tattoos in purple and red that formed swirls and symbols, as though someone had used him as the only available surface to write some mad text on.
Royce wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but there was something about this man that felt dangerous in a way he couldn’t place. Suddenly he was grateful that he’d stayed where he was. He had the feeling that if he were standing on the track right then, conflict wouldn’t be far behind.
He felt his hand tighten on his sword hilt, the urge to leap out there unbidden in his mind. Royce forced his hand to relax, remembering the field of deadfalls and tripwires on the Red Isle. The boys who had rushed in without thinking there had died before Royce could even begin to lead them across safely. This had the same feel. He wasn’t afraid, exactly, but at the same time he could feel that this man was anything other than harmless.
For now, the sensible thing to do seemed to be to stay still; to not even breathe.
Even so, the man on the track stopped, cocking his head to one side as if listening to something. Royce saw the stranger crouch, frowning as he took a selection of objects from a pocket and cast them on the ground.
“You are fortunate,” the stranger said, without looking up. “I only kill those the fates send me to kill, and the runes say that we are not to fight yet, stranger.”
Royce didn’t answer as one by one, the stranger picked up his stones.
“There is a boy who needs to die because the fates decree it,” the man said. “But you should still know my name and know that eventually, fate comes for us all. I am Dust, an angarthim of the dead places. You should leave. The runes say that much death will follow in your wake. Oh, and do not head in the direction of the village that way,” he added, as if it were an afterthought. “A large body of soldiers was heading for it when I left.”
He stood and padded off, leaving Royce crouched there, breathing harder than he would have thought, given that all he had done was hide. There was something about that stranger’s presence that had seemed to almost crawl over his skin, something wrong about him in ways that Royce couldn’t begin to articulate.
If there had been more time, Royce might have kept crouching there, suspecting more danger from the man. Instead, the only things that mattered were his words. If soldiers were heading for the village, that could only mean one thing…
He started running again, faster than ever. On the right, he saw a charcoal burner’s hut, smoke behind it suggesting that the owner was at work. A horse that looked as though it was more accustomed to drawing a cart than to being ridden stood in front of it, hitched to a post. The house seemed quiet, and on another day maybe Royce might have wondered about that, or shouted for the owner to try to persuade them to let him borrow the horse.
As it was, he merely cut it free from the hitching post, leaping onto its back and heeling it forward. Almost miraculously, the creature seemed to know what was expected of it, galloping forward while Royce clung to its back, hoping that he would be in time.
***It was sunset when Royce emerged from the forest, the red of the sky closing in on the world like a bloody hand. For a moment, the glare of the setting sun was enough that Royce couldn’t see past the redness to the ground below, as the whole world appeared to be on fire.
Then he saw, and he realized that the flame red was no trick of the sunset. His village was on fire.
Parts of it burned brightly, thatched roofs turned into bonfires by the flames, so that the whole skyline seemed filled with it. More of it was blackened and smoking, soot-colored timbers standing like the skeletons of the lost buildings. One toppled over even as Royce watched, creaking and then falling, tumbling to the ground with a crash.
“No,” he murmured, dismounting and leading his stolen horse forward. “No, I can’t be too late.”
He was though. The fires that burned were old ones, holding a grip now only on the largest buildings, where there was the most to burn. The rest of his village was a thing of charcoal and acrid smoke, so long from the point where the fire caught that Royce could never have hoped to get there. The man he’d passed on the road had said that soldiers were arriving as he left, but Royce had reckoned without the distance, and the time it would take to cover it.
Finally, he couldn’t avoid it any longer, and looked down to where the bodies lay. There were so many of them: men and women, young and old, all killed indiscriminately, and clearly no mercy shown. Some of the bodies lay among the ruins, as blackened as the wood around them; others lay in the streets, with gaping wounds that told the story of how they had died. Royce saw some cut down from the front where they had tried to fight, some hacked down from behind when they had tried to run. He saw a cluster of the younger women, killed off to one side. Had they thought that this was just another raid for the nobles to take what they wanted from them all, right up to the moment when someone had cut their throats?
Pain flowed through Royce, and anger, and a hundred other things, all balled up into a knot that felt as though it might tear his heart in two. He staggered through the village, looking at death after death, barely able to believe that even the duke’s men would do something like this.
They had, though, and there was no undoing it.
“Mother!” Royce called out. “Father!”
He dared to hope, in spite of the horrors around him. Some of the village’s inhabitants must have made it to safety. Marauding soldiers were sloppy, and people could escape, couldn’t they?
Royce saw another knot of bodies on the ground, and this one looked different, because there were no sword wounds on the bodies. Instead, they looked as though they had simply… died, killed with bare hands, perhaps, but even on the Red Isle, that was reckoned a difficult thing. Royce didn’t care right then, because although these people were ones he knew, they weren’t the ones he was trying to find. They weren’t his parents.
“Mother!” Royce called out. “Father!”
He knew that soldiers might hear him if they were still there, but he didn’t care. A part of Royce even welcomed the prospect of them coming, because it meant a chance to kill them, and make them pay.
“Are you there?” Royce called out, and a figure staggered from one of the buildings, soot-caked and haggard looking. For an instant, Royce’s heart leapt, thinking that maybe his mother had heard him, but then he realized that this wasn’t her. Instead, he recognized the form of Old Lori, who had always terrified the children with her stories, and who sometimes claimed that she had the Sight.
“Your parents are dead, boy,” she said, and in that moment the world seemed to break for Royce. The whole of it froze in place, caught between one heartbeat and the next.
“They can’t be,” Royce said, shaking his head, unwilling to believe it. “They can’t be.”
“They are.” Lori moved to sit against the remains of a low wall. “As dead as I’ll be soon.”
Even as she said it, Royce saw the blood on her rough-spun gown, the hole where a sword had gone in and out.