Child of Flame

Alia walked up beside him. The goat had decided to cooperate and now followed meekly behind the pony, with Matto bringing up the rear. “Why are you not telling those soldiers who you are,” she asked in a low voice, her accent heavy and her words a little halting, “and demanding a full escort and the honor you deserve?”

“Since they don’t know me, they would never believe I am a prince of the realm. In truth, without a retinue, I’m not really a nobleman at all, am I? Just a landless and kinless wanderer, come to petition the king.” He hadn’t realized how bitter he was, nor did he know who he was angriest at: fate, his father, or the woman walking beside him who had abandoned him years ago. Blessing stirred on his back and cooed, babbling meaningless syllables, attuned to his tone. “Hush, sweetheart,” he murmured. Resuelto snorted.

“Look!” cried Matto. The road was wide enough that he trotted past them easily. He had a hand at his belt, where hung a knife, a leather pouch, and a small polished ram’s horn.

Up ahead where the ground dipped into a shrubby hollow, the stream looped back and crossed the road again. In the middle of the ford stood a hag, bent over a staff. Strips of shredded cloth concealed her head and shoulders. The ragged ends of her threadbare robe floated in the current, wrapping around her calves.

“A coin or crust of bread for an old woman whose husband and son fight in the east with Her Royal Highness Princess Sapientia?” she croaked.

Matto had already begun to dismount, fumbling at the pouch he wore at his belt. Perhaps he was a kindhearted lad, or perhaps he was only eager to impress Alia.

But despite its high-pitched tone, the hag’s voice was certainly not that of a woman. This was one thing in which Sanglant considered himself an expert. He reined in. A moment later, from the dense thicket that grew up from the opposite bank, he heard rustling.

The arrow hit Sanglant in the shoulder, rocking him back. The point embedded in his chain mail just as a second arrow followed the first from a shadowed thicket. He jerked sideways as Jerna uncoiled and with her aery being blew the arrow off course. It fluttered harmlessly into the branches of a tree.

Alia already had her bow free and an arrow notched. She hissed, then shot, and there came a yelp of pain from the thicket.

The hag hooked Matto’s leg and dumped the youth backward into the water. The quick motion revealed the burly shoulders of a man hidden beneath the rags. With a loud cry, the robber brought the staff down on Matto’s unprotected head and pummeled him. The boy could only cower with arms raised to fend off blows.

More arrows flew. Jerna became wind, and two arrows stopped dead in midair before Resuelto’s neck even as Sanglant spurred the gelding forward. The horse went eagerly into battle. He knew what to expect and, like his master, had been trained for this life. Leaping the brook, Sanglant struck to his left, severing the hand of the first bandit before the man could let another blow fall on Matto. Alia’s second arrow took the “hag” in the back as he turned to run.

Men screamed the alert from their hiding place, but Sanglant had already plunged forward into the thicket, crashing through the foliage into a clear hollow where a knot of men, armed variously with staves, knives, an ax, and a single bow, stood ready. Easily his sword cleaved through branch, haft, and flesh. The bowman drew for a final shot as Sanglant closed on him.

Jerna leaped forward as on a gust. The arrow rocked sideways just as the bowman let it fly. The bow, too, spun from the bandit’s grasp, and he grabbed for it frantically, caught the arrow point on his foot, and stumbled backward into a thick growth of sedge and fern.

Was that a voice, thin and weak, crying for mercy? Surely it was only the whine of a gnat. Sanglant brought his sword down, and the man fell, his skull split like a melon.

From the road he heard another shriek of pain, followed by a frantic rustling, growing ever more distant, that told of one nay, two survivors who would be running for some time.

A horn blatted weakly, nearby, and after a pause sounded again with more strength.

Blessing whimpered. Her voice brought him crashing back to himself. Amazed, he stared at the corpses: six men as ragged as paupers and as poorly armed as common laborers in want of a hire. He hadn’t realized there were so many. He hadn’t thought at all, just killed. One man still thrashed and moaned, but his wound was deep, having been cut through shoulder and lung, and blood bubbled up on his lips. After dismounting, Sanglant mercifully cut his throat.

Matto hobbled through the gap in the thicket made by Resuelto’s passage and staggered to a stop, staring. “By our Lord!” he swore. The horn dangled from its strap around one wrist.