Faenella, Eganene
The snow beneath their feet was inches thick. The heavy flakes dashed about their faces, swirled about by the chill winds, indecisive as to where they should land. Carl crept through the empty street leading several of the townsmen from Sally’s. The houses blocked little of the shrieking wind, the frozen air sweeping in from all directions.
The forest was a dark wall to their right. There, the tree boughs moaned and cracked, already heavy with powder, the limbs swinging wildly in the growing storm. The men followed him at a distance, all except the young Hunter, Guyan. The boy walked close to his side, alert.
He seemed well suited for the weather, his deerskin leathers and thick-soled boots protecting him from the worst of the wet and cold. Carl couldn’t say the same for the others. Their clothes were serviceable, but without oiled hide, the material would grow heavy and wet. Soon enough their body temperature would plummet and they would need to get inside.
Sally’s girls had done their best to supply his men, but there wasn’t much to be bought. Market day would have provided them an opportunity, but there wouldn’t be one this week or the next. With the helstorm, they would have to make do with what they had.
The boy glanced at him, but Carl didn’t take the bait, concentrating on moving silently. They had eaten lunch together in Sally’s kitchen and the kid had introduced himself eagerly. Guyan. He hadn’t offered a last name and Carl hadn’t asked. The boy worked for Jamison and was a cousin to Mae from the Inn. Unfortunately, that meant he was well acquainted with some of the more interesting stories the Bounty Master and the barmaid enjoyed telling about him.
Carl felt his cheeks burn red in the darkness. It was strange to be known like that by someone he had spoken with only once. Usually the young hunters wanted to tell him all about their adventures, going on and on about their conquests, but not this one. Guyan didn’t say a word as far as his own life was concerned.
Carl couldn’t help but feel a measure of respect. It was a certain type of man who didn’t feel the need to talk about himself. But that wasn’t the entire reason he let the boy stay close. He had met him before, just as he was departing Faenella for Charlie’s house. He had been the Hunter with the grandpanther fur.
That whole night seemed surreal, a set of moments and choices leading him to his friends’ deaths. It seemed serendipitous that he had spoken to the Hunter just hours before his friends were killed, and that they walked, now, in the cold together, hunting the men who had hunted them.
Carl’s words that night had inspired Guyan to join his cause. The Hunter had been disturbed by the Smith’s death, by the tales of murder and what was happening to the women. He’d made his way straight to the Inn. His fur fetched a good price from a visiting merchant and he went to Sally’s eager to join Carl’s men.
Since then, the Hunter had stuck to Carl’s side like sap, his voice a constant whisper. Carl glanced at him now, squinting in the dark. Dark hair and wide, blue eyes, the boy’s jaw worked feverishly, chewing at his questions.
“How many do you think there will be?”
Carl grunted, moving slowly. His eyes lingered on each of the shuttered windows, checking for the yellow burn of a candle or the glint of an eye. “I wish I knew. Malachi said he saw a few men come into town as the snows started falling, but they split up. He couldn’t track them all at once.”
“So how do we know where to go?”
“We’ll start with the Marlins,” Carl answered. “Their oldest boy came in earlier. He was angry. Told one of the girls that his parents had some unwanted houseguests.”
“Gods be true,” the boy breathed, the white puff of air exploding in front of his face. “Can’t imagine that would be pleasant.”
“No,” Carl agreed. “Poor folks didn’t have much of a choice though. The men just came in and made themselves at home. Their kid was lucky to get kicked out. No telling what might have happened otherwise.”
Guyan nodded, his expression serious.
“As for the rest, we will have to find them on our own. I think there are about fifteen cottages this side of town.”
“What about the west side?”
“Malachi and the others will take care of that. And they’ll see to the Inn.”
Carl wondered how Richard was doing. He hoped Malachi had him in hand. The mourning brother was a loose cannon. Malachi had offered to take him, and Carl had conceded. He wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision.
“Won’t they need us?”
“No,” Carl sighed, scanning the tree line. “They have rest of the men with them, double our numbers, if not more. I’m not sure who has come in since we left. So they have the bigger job. We need to concentrate on our area. Don’t worry, we’ll have enough homes to check.”
The boy peered at the closest house, his mind working. “I think there are twelve on this side.”
“Give or take. I thought it was closer to fifteen, but can’t say I ever had reason to count.”
Concern flickered across his features. “You think we’ll have enough time? What if…”
“We’ll have all the time we need,” Carl said, watching the flakes streak past his face. In the darkness, it was hard to see their color. White, grey, black, it was all the same now. “No one is going anywhere tonight or tomorrow. Don’t worry, kid, they’ll wait for us.”
Carl turned his back on him. Even if they had all the time in the world, he didn’t want to spend it jawing in the middle of a blizzard. They walked in silence for a bit, their footprints marking the ground and disappearing, the cavity filled instantly with fresh snow. The wind cried, a squalling infant that would not be soothed. It masked the crunching noise from their boots and the conversation of the men behind him. Or maybe that was just Carl’s hearing.
Still, as far as he was concerned, they were alone. The town was silent. The good people were long ago asleep. Carl could feel the boy at his side, even if it was difficult to see him, a ghost who shadowed his every move. He moved well though, his motions sure and fluid.
It made Carl think of Veri, of her little steps trailing him in the woods. Tonight, he’d left her with Sally’s youngest daughters. They were about her age and willing to get her clean and settled. He was glad for the help. He knew nothing about children.
Heck, he had thought she would be eager to change out of the ragged nightdress. Instead, the stubborn child wanted nothing to do with it. She had parroted the right words whenever he stopped in, promising to wash, promising to go soon, but when he left she still hadn’t managed to get in the tub.
Hopefully, Sally’s girls could talk some sense into her. For a child who didn’t speak much, she had some serious skill at coming up with excuses. He couldn’t take her with him if she couldn’t listen, but that was a problem from another day.
“Carl?” Guyan asked, stopping, his body bent low against the wind. He let the gusts take him gently, rocking on his heels with each mighty blow.
“What?” Carl answered, hearing the edge in his tone.
The boy’s voice was pitched just over the keening wind. “Are we really going to kill them?”
Carl stepped closer to the wall and crouched. The white fog from the chimney billowed around them, erasing the path back and making it difficult to see the kid’s face. He held up his hand, indicating that the others should wait. After a moment, they saw him and sheltered against the closest wood piles.
“You know what we’re about.”
Hot air seeped between the boards of the house and the snow stuck to his beard began to melt. Carl shivered and regarded Hunter, seeing the soft beard on his chin and the smooth skin of his face.
The kid looked down, his eyes on his boots, “I’ve never killed anyone before. Not a person.” He shook his head, his dark hair flying.“I’ve only ever hunted. Jamison never had me doing any Bounty work.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Carl replied, putting weight into his words. “Keep in mind who we’re after and what they did. You knew Smitty, didn’t you? Remember his wife’s face. Remember Ian and little Simon. They were good people, Guyan.”
“Yes,” the boy said softly, “I knew them.”
Carl gritted his teeth, anger slipping into his veins. “They were my friends,” he added.
“They deserved more than a nasty death in the mud.” He didn’t want to think about them, about how many friends he’d lost. Charlie face swam up from the darkness and his breathing grew shallow, his nostrils flaring.
Now wasn’t the time to mourn, he thought. His tears wouldn’t bring them back. Not them and not Smitty.
“I know, but…” Guyan coughed, waving the smoke out of his face. The wind pulled the sooty air this way and that, covering them with snow and ash and then blowing it away so that they breathed only the clean, fresh air once again.
“We are not killing people, Guyan. These are Dogs.” Roughly, he drew the hood of his parka closed, capturing his hair. “I told you what they’ve done. What they are doing. Don’t feel sorry for them.”
The kid didn’t look up.
Carl felt his jaw clench. “Don’t give them that. They don’t deserve these thoughts of yours. Think on it. These monsters are trapping and killing women and children, sending them south. The guards we are after tonight came from that place. They came for Jamison and me. They came from the Facility.”
Something flickered in the kid’s eyes. “He’s fine, right?”
Carl didn’t try to answer that one. Instead, he said, “I told you about the girl we saw there, right? About the screaming.”
Guyan nodded, once. “Yeah, I know. I was just…no, you’re right.” The boy swallowed and took a breath. “Sorry. I can do this.”
Carl grabbed his shoulder tightly. “Yes, you can. Now, get the Marlin boy. His house is just up there.”
“Which one?”
“There. On the left,” Carl said pointing. The cottage was indistinguishable from the other homes along the street, but the Marlin boy had given good directions. No lights shown in the windows or in the houses around it. Carl imagined everyone was asleep, bundled beneath every blanket they owned, waiting out the storm.
“Go on,” Carl urged. “Go get him. We’ll have him go in first and warn his parents off.”
Surprisingly, they had no trouble getting the homeowners out. The guards had taken the old couple’s bed and left them to sleep on their son’s pallet in the kitchen. The boy unlocked the front door. He poked his head inside, looked around and then disappeared. Moments later he was herding his parents through the doorway, naked relief upon his face.
Carl understood. They were farmers, simple folk who were unaccustomed to dealing with men such as these.
The old couple passed clutching each other, their white heads tipped close together, their skinny arms and legs visible beneath the material of their clothes. Carl swallowed the lump of rage at back of his throat. There was no telling what the guards would have done in the morning. They didn’t need a reason to harm anyone. What they did was done for sport, for cruelty, a display of power for those who needed none.
“They drank the rest of father’s ale,” the boy whispered as he passed. Snow had collected on his dark hair, making him seem closer in age to his parents. One of the townsmen handed the father a lantern. Carl watched them hurry up the street. The three of them left together, their arms wrapped protectively around each other’s shoulders.
He turned and stepped into the house, lifting his sword from its scabbard. The room was empty, the hearth fire the only source of light. As fast as he could, he surveyed the room. Nothing, no one. It only took him a moment.
Loud snoring ripped the silence, and Carl breathed out gently. The guards were sound asleep and none the wiser. The Marlins were safely away and would wait at Sally’s until the night’s business was done. The son had even taken pains to get them a space of their own to sleep in.
Guyan’s eyebrows rose with an unspoken question. Carl nodded. From inside the doorway, the boy waved the townsmen inside. They weren’t quiet, but the snoring didn’t stop. Glad for the good fortune, Carl thanked Tod, sending up a quick prayer and feeling only a bit hypocritical.
“Ready?” he whispered.
They nodded as one.
His impulse was to do it himself, but he needed more than just the guards’ death. With a deep breath, he used his sword to point towards the bedroom door. He had enough killing and the men needed to wet their steel. Talk was one thing. Blood was another.
These were humble folk, unused to death and slaughter. It was important they show their commitment now, before things grew more complicated, before lines were greyed and boundaries were muddied. The Bounty Master’s wisdom, he thought with a twist of sadness. It was all talk until there was blood on the blade.
The townsmen didn’t speak, but moved resolutely towards the bedroom. Carl couldn’t see their faces, not in the darkness. The swords in their hands glinted wickedly, red light from the fire reflecting along the metal.
They were Smitty’s work, he knew, and this was a fitting use for the steel. The men had salvaged them from the wreckage of his forge. Now, they would have the opportunity to use them.
Ten seconds, less? Either way it was done quickly. A shout divided the silence like an axe cleaving flesh. He exchanged a glance with his young shadow and went to investigate, the boy trailing him.
The bedroom was crowded. Carl’s frame blocked the wan light from the hearth. Guyan took a lantern from the side table and used his flint to light it. The wick flared, exposing the townsmen’s faces, their narrowed eyes squinting against the orange glare.
Both guards were dead. One man’s neck was open and the other had holes in his chest. It wasn’t neat work, but Carl hadn’t expected it to be.
The townsmen were good men. What did they know of killing? Of taking life efficiently or cleanly? It was usually he who brought them their meat, the kill dressed and cleaned. Who’s fault was it they knew so little?
He could see a dark circle welling beneath the bodies and hurried forward, pulling the Dogs onto the floor. He could hear Melody’s voice in his head, chiding, her green eyes narrowed, annoyed with him for letting the blood leak onto the mattress. The guards fell heavily, slamming down with a graceless weight that only the dead possessed.
Guyan twitched with the impact, the light from the lantern dancing against the wall.
Carl realized it was very quiet in the small house. The men stood with their jaws clenched, waiting for him. Pride shown in their eyes and release. They had done what needed to be done. They had done what they had come to do and were ready to do it again. He could feel their eyes on him, expectant. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.
How could he tell them this was only the beginning? How could he take this moment to show them all the rest they must do, that he needed them for so much more and that many of them would never return? He didn’t have words for that. Words to explain the truth.
“We’re going to move them outside?” Guyan asked, breaking the silence.
One of the townsmen cleared his throat, the sharp staccato firing through the room. Carl looked up, seeing the dark, hooded eyes that appraised him.
He was their leader. It was his decision, his responsibility.
Fine, he thought. He would have been surprised if one of them men had offered more. Simple folk, he reminded himself, good folk that wanted to help. He waved them out. “Well done, all of you. Go on outside and take a look around. I want to make sure no one heard.”
“Course,” one of them replied.
“But come back in a few minutes,” he qualified. “We need to get rid of these bodies.”
Guyan, though, didn’t make a move to leave. He stood against the wall, the lantern in his hand. The light covered the floor and painted his face a sickly yellow.
Carl breathed deeply, glad the space was free. “Grab the sheets,” he told the boy, “and spread them out in the other room.”
“Right,” the Hunter murmured, putting his lantern down, his lips drawn. Carl watched him strip the bed, a little surprised that he didn’t shy away from the blood. The boy pulled the blanket into the hearth room and came back.
“You take the arms,” Carl directed and together they lifted the dead men through the doorway and onto the blanket. It felt strange to be gripping lifeless limbs. The bodies resisted the motion, wanting only to droop towards the waiting earth.
Once the guards were laid out, he checked their pockets. He left the money he found on the Marlin’s hearth. Perhaps it would pay for new blankets and fresh straw, or maybe more beer. Either decision would sit well with him. The old folks deserved the coin, no matter what they spent it on.
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“Roll them,” he told Guyan. The Dogs disappeared into the sheet.
When the townsmen returned, he helped them carry the heavy blankets, following Guyan’s thin frame outside. They followed the youth out of town, along one of the hunting paths. His swinging lantern was their only light in the swirling, snow-laced darkness. To Carl, the path was familiar and empty, the animals hidden away safely, sheltering.
No one spoke, the townsmen preferring to follow silently, each man alone with his thoughts. It was good to be out of town, even for a moment. The white darkness was eerie and beautiful. He needed time to think. Too much had happened in the past few days, too much and too quickly.
His mind was filled with questions, sharp slices of memory that cut him over and over when he stopped long enough to think on them. It was cyclical, the pattern running round and round inside his head. The answerless questions sounding off one after another.
How many months had it been? How many days and weeks since he’d made the choice? When was it? When was the time?
He couldn’t help thinking of them. Charlie. Melody. Smitty and his family. The faces paraded through the darkness, the sweeping light of Guyan’s lamp making their shadows float amongst the trees. It was as though the wraiths of his dead friends were flying along beside him, part of the funeral procession.
Which decision was it? He wondered. Which moment?
Somehow it was his fault. There had been a chance to do something, a different choice he could have made that would have saved his friends. He glared into the darkness trying to see. The other men did not look at his face.
The young Hunter continued on, seeming to know that Carl wanted to go further. The boy did not turn back or wait for instructions. He just walked, one foot after the other, his boots crunching through the fresh snow. His lantern swung back and forth in a slow rhythm. The wind whined about them, the sound colliding with the mountain range to the west and screeching back towards them like haunted widowers who could not be consoled.
Further and further they walked. Carl wanted to leave the bodies far enough away that the wolves wouldn’t be drawn close to town. He had worked too hard clearing the area of predators just to lure them back. No one dared suggest another course, although he could see the guarded looks the townsmen traded. He knew what they wanted, how eager they were to get back to town and tonight’s business, but it would only be a little longer.
The pale light from the lantern slid over him, over them, so that no one could see much besides the falling white snow. Another ten minutes. They were warm when he finally called it. There wasn’t any discussion, they just dropped the bodies. No one said any words or proposed a cairn. These weren’t men they had come to bury. This was garbage they needed to get rid of.
Winter had its own ideas, though, and it only took moments for the snow to cover the dead men. If it hadn’t been for the blood seeping through the white mounds, they would have disappeared completely. Carl wouldn’t have minded; he hoped all the Dogs would vanish as easily.
Now, though, came the hard part. Malachi had agreed with Richard’s plan to go door to door through Faenella, checking for Family. They had met briefly at Sally’s, and Carl had barely a chance to put together his thoughts before the whole thing was decided.
He had too many unanswered questions, many of them the same as Guyan’s. There was no way to know how many Dogs were hidden in the cottages. What if they were surprised or outnumbered? His men weren’t fighters. How many men could he hold off and for how long?
In the end, Carl’s men would die.
The Family were trained killers. Without the element of surprise, the townsmen didn’t have a chance. He glanced at the swords on their hips, at the strange way they walked.
They were not soldiers. They had no training, no skill. Locked doors could be kicked in. And then what? How would his men know the difference between a guard in his nightclothes and a homeowner protecting his wife?
His list of concerns was long and unanswered.
Still, it wasn’t as if he was did this unwillingly. His friends had a few solid points in their favor. He had agreed to the plan with his own voice.
This was the best chance they had to kill the guards in town and reduce the number of men they needed to fight. Not taking the opportunity would cost them more in the long run. That was enough for him. If he needed to think of it as a numbers game, he would. He didn’t want any more of his friends to die.
Once they were out of the forest, Carl divided the men into groups, keeping the Hunter at his side. The boy had yet to prove himself. Carl wanted him close until he did. Jamison would have approved, he thought, wondering again why the old man hadn’t arrived yet. Even with his abilities, surviving a helstrom in the open forest wasn’t likely.
Carl looked at each man’s face, the set of their chins and the cold glint in their eyes. It would have been better if the old man were there. He would have known what to do, known if Richard’s plan was the correct one or if they had chosen badly.
But enough, he thought. The course was set and only the gods knew the right of it.
“Announce yourselves when you enter,” Carl warned the men. “You know these people. You don’t want your friends mistaking you for an enemy.
Don’t hesitate, though. You see a Dog. You kill him. He won’t wait for you decide. He’ll put a sword in your guts.”
The men fanned out, creeping through the street, their arms across their faces to block the worst of the wind. Carl freed his blade and checked on the young Hunter. “Are you ready?”
He nodded.
Carl felt a moment of sympathy. Killing someone should never be easy, but the first time was always the hardest. Carl wondered which death had erased that feeling from his heart.
He reached for his canteen, but remembered he hadn’t brought it with him. When they were done with this mess, he planned on taking full advantage of whatever whisky Sally might have hidden in her basement. The spiked tea was good, but he was in the mood for something stronger. Anyway, in a few hours there would be enough snow on the ground to lock him inside her establishment for days.
Guyan opened the door of the lantern and let the storm snuff the wick. Approaching the house, their steps were carefully and deliberate, their arms out to block the storm. Carl squinted and pressed on.
Guyan followed at his side, his jaw set. His short sword was in his hand, a layer of snow building on the top of the blade. Just outside the door, they waited, making sure no one moved in the darkness. The walk out into the forest had warmed him a bit, but he could already feel his body temperature dropping.
Satisfied that they were unobserved and no one inside the house knew they were coming, Carl twisted the doorknob. Finding it locked, he stood tall and kicked at the frame. The sharp crack penetrated his muffled hearing. He didn’t flinch, but mounted the step and entered the house, his eyes flicking this way and that, trying to see everything at once.
In the empty kitchen, he heard only the storm and the Hunter’s harsh breathing. The hearth was wide and fire burned a warm orange. An empty rocking chair sat before it, a knit blanket neatly folded on its back. The air smelled of cooking and pine. One day, Carl thought inanely, he would want to live in a house like this.
“Hello,” he called out. “We mean you no harm!”
Guyan stepped up beside him, a grim expression on his face. His mouth was open and he was sucking air.
Carl felt a flash of anger. He needed to pull himself together; this was no place for a boy. But Carl knew what he was seeing—the rough spun carpet covering the plank floor, the hand-hewn table in the kitchen. The people who owned this house were poor, unpretentious folk.
A man screamed into the silence. The bedroom door slamming open as he flew from the darkness, a short sword in his hand.
“Ho, now!” Carl called out. “We mean you no harm!”
The man never slowed. Perhaps he didn’t hear him. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Guyan stepped in and met the man’s blade, the clang of steel loud in the small room. “Stop!” he yelled, his sword turning away the blade aimed for his heart. “Stop! We mean you no harm.”
The man swung again, taking out the rocking chair, pieces of wood splintering through the air. He was not much older than Carl, his underclothes stained yellow with sweat. He looked familiar.
Guyan checked another hit, backing up towards the hearth. The boy’s face was set with concern. He knew this man wasn’t Family.
Quickly, Carl closed the distance between them, raising his sword above his head. When he was right behind the man, he swung, using the pommel to connect with the man’s skull. The guy dropped instantly, like a sack of wheat falling to the floor. He never knew Carl was in the room.
“He lived here,” Guyan panted. “I didn’t want to hurt him!”
“Course not,” Carl agreed, doubling back to check the bedroom. “You did right.”
“He wouldn’t listen to me!”
Carl ignored him and entered the bedroom. It was a small room. A washbasin sat on the table to the left, a chamber pot filling the space beneath it. To the right, a thin mattress covered the floor. He almost missed the woman.
She was huddled in the corner, her face a mask of fear. Carl didn’t know if she was even breathing. “Calm, lady,” he said, stopping. “We mean you no harm.”
He took a step back and sheathed his sword. Her eyes followed him, but she said nothing.
“We’re going to leave now. Your man is sleeping. He will have a headache when he wakes. Please tell him we were looking for some men. Bad men. Killers. You know Smitty’s family? We were looking for the people who killed them. The men who killed their boys. We didn’t intend him harm.”
She nodded, her eyes large and glassy.
“My apologies, again,” he said and backed out of the room.
Out in the snow, Guyan tried to closed the door to the cottage and then looked at him accusingly. “That was wrong. We shouldn’t have hurt him. He isn’t Family.”
“No,” Carl said shaking his head. “But he wasn’t listening. If I hadn’t hit him, he might have run you through. Come on, we need to keep moving.” He glanced down the abandoned street, surprised that no one had come to investigate the noise. The nearest house was only fifteen feet away.
“But what if…”
Carl grabbed his jacket, pulling him out into the street. Behind them, the door blew open, the winter wind driving into the house. He hoped the woman was smart enough to move some furniture in front of it. He didn’t think the husband was likely to wake-up tonight.
“Come on!” he growled. “They’ll be fine. We need to keep moving.”
The boy frowned, but followed. The door to the next house was locked. Carl kicked it in. With a sharp crack it hit the wall and rebounded, hitting him in the shoulder as he stepped over the threshold. He hardly noticed, his eyes were on the people against the back wall.
Two men, both with swords in their hands stood in front of the family. At their feet, a man, woman and two children cowered. The woman’s dress was torn, her hair in disarray. She had gathered her children close, her arms protecting them. Their faces were hidden in her lap, but Carl could hear them weeping.
The husband’s hands were bound and his face was a mask of fury. He looked at Carl as he burst the door, hope and surprise changing his expression.
“What are you…” one of the guards began, turning. But Carl had sword in his hand, and he crossed the kitchen at a run, his blood boiling. The man spun aside, trying to get his weapon up in time, but the woman kicked at his legs, tripping him.
He fell heavily at her feet, his eyes wide and panicked. Carl didn’t hesitate, but rammed his sword through the man’s chest. As he pulled his blade away, a sharp crash resonated above his head. He flinched and dropped to the ground, rolling away.
When he looked up, Guyan was standing in front of him. The boy’s sword flicked out, catching and deflecting another hit. The other Dog stumbled back, trying to regain his balance.
“Kill him!” Carl yelled, scrambling to his feet. He saw the woman shoving her children into the backroom and felt a tug of admiration. Smart woman, he thought. She wasn’t going to wait and cower.
“Now!” he shouted.
The boy swung again, his blade crashing into the guard’s sword with an ear splitting ring.
“Kill him!” Carl yelled again.
The boy stabbed at the man’s unprotected middle.
Screaming, the guard fell to the floor, his sword forgotten. Clutching his stomach, he rolled along the wooden floor, a puddle of dark liquid smearing the wood behind him. Carl kicked the man’s sword away and then looked to the boy. “Finish it, now.”
Guyan’s face was white, all the color drained. He met Carl’s gaze and his eyes darted away. Carl saw him swallow, saw him glance at the man at his feet, watched him take a few steps away.
The husband was on his feet, and the woman had a knife in her hand. She was sawing at the rope that bound his hands, her long dark hair swaying behind her as she worked.
“Guyan,” Carl said, watching the man bleed out. “You need to finish this.”
The boy shook his head, “I…I…I…”
“Now, Guyan.”
The Hunter’s sword was still clutched in his hand, but the point lay against the floor. Blood spattered his leathers and his face. He looked ready to run.
“See that woman,” Carl said, pointing with his sword. “You see what they did to her. To her family?”
The husband’s hands were free now, and the couple stood together beside the guard Carl had killed. The man had his arm around the woman, but the knife was still in her hand and her knuckles were white.
Carl shook his head at her. “Look at her, boy. You saved her life. Hers and her husband’s and her children’s.”
Guyan raised his head, his hair flopping to the side.
“Kill him,” the woman whispered, her voice raw. “Kill him. Or let the Dog die slowly. He deserves as much.”
The boy swallowed and gripped his sword. He looked at Carl.
“Through the neck. Through his heart. Either way is quick.”
It was morning when they returned to Sally’s. The storm was blowing in earnest. Dark clouds filled the sky, although a low light managed to filter through. They had discovered another six Dogs hiding in the homes on their side of Faenella, and he was eager to hear from Richard and Malachi. His guess was that the majority of Facility guards had rented rooms at the Inn.
Guyan pulled off his boots in the entryway and disappeared down the hall without a word. Carl figured he was going to bathe. He would follow along soon enough. Not that he wanted to press the boy. He knew well enough that silence was sometimes necessary, but he had enough blood on him to merit a cleaning.
His next impulse was to check on Veri, but he didn’t want her to see him like this. He pulled off his leathers and walked into the kitchen in his long underwear.
“Glad to see you’re so comfortable here,” Caetlyn said when he entered. She was at the fire, her dark hair in a bun and flour covering her arms up to the elbow. “Looks like you were successful.”
“Breakfast?” he asked, hopefully.
She pointed at the small table in the corner. “You will want to wash up a bit first. And you have some mess on your face.”
Carl inspected his hands. She was right. He took a rag from the drawer and filled the basin with water. The heat in the kitchen had warmed it nicely, and it felt good. Next, he cleaned his hands, scrubbing at his nails with the horsehair brush. When he was done, the water was red and so were his hands. The fresh skin was irritated and pink.
He dumped the water out back, trying to shut the door quickly. Still, the wind swept into the room with a great rush, the snow sliding across the floor.
“Goodness,” Caetlyn muttered, her voice sour.
He turned and saw the flour had blown clear across the kitchen, mixing with the snow and dusting everything with a fine white powder.
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
She laughed, her dark hair appearing grey. “No matter, but grab the broom. We will need to get it all cleaned up before Sally sees. Otherwise, we’ll both be in a good amount of trouble.”
She put the two loaves of bread dough on the tray in the fire and poured some more water into the basin. While she wiped down the countertops, he did his best to sweep the melting snow and flour into a pile. Unfortunately, it turned into a mess and soon they were both on their hands and knees trying to clean the floor.
“Thanks for helping me with this,” Caetlyn said beside him. “Sally would have been furious if she found out I wasted the flour.”
“None needed,” he replied, enjoying the heat of the kitchen and shape of Caetlyn’s behind. “It is my fault, anyhow.”
She looked up and caught his expression. “Well. I appreciate the help.” She sat back and gave him a knowing look. “You know you really need that bath.”
“I was going to take one, anyway.”
“I can help, if you want,” she suggested, a small smile twitching the corner of her lips.
“What?” he managed, dropping the rag he was holding. He picked it up quickly, his face flushing.
“I can cut hair and give you a shave,” she clarified, her eyes bright. “For helping me, you know.”
Carl stood up. “I don’t need a shave or a hair cut.”
“You don’t?” she asked. He couldn’t help notice that she had the longest eyelashes.
“Well, I…”
She moved closer and he saw she had a smudge of flour across her cheek. Gently, she reached up and touched his face, trailing her fingers over his beard, under his chin and down his neck.
“Why don’t you let me trim this for you? I like to do it, and you would be so handsome,” she murmured.
Carl forgot to speak.
“And I can trim your hair for you, too,” she added. “I’ll even put it back in a nice braid.” She pulled gently at his hair.
Since his mind couldn’t make his mouth speak, he nodded instead.
“Good,” she chirped. “Why don’t you go ahead down and bathe? I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
Carl grinned stupidly, making his feet move towards the door.
“Oh, wait,” she exclaimed. “You have that little child in your room. Poor dear is probably sleeping still. Once you are done getting cleaned up, why don’t you come upstairs to my room. It’s the second on the right. I can see to you there.”
He left her and hurried towards the basement, eager to get clean. It was dark inside the building with the windows all boarded, so they had lit the candles along the hallway. The little flames flickered and danced as he went past.
The nearest flame guttered out.
Carl whirled, reaching for his sword. With a sinking feeling, he realized he left it in the entryway with his boots and leathers. He was wearing nothing but his underthings and he was covered in flour.
The men swept in, one after another, their faces covered with cloths and their hoods drawn up. A few held swords in their hands, the metal glinting wetly in the firelight.
“Carl!” one of them shouted.
He recognized Malachi’s voice. The men closed the door cutting off the frozen wind, and as one, bent down to pull off their boots and strip themselves of their soaking leathers. Whether or not it was a conscious thought, everyone knew the rules at Sally’s.
Inside, they all began talking at once, the low growl of excited voices crescendoing quickly. Carl’s townsmen heard the noise and bubbled out of their rooms, eager to hear what had happened and tell their friends what they had done. Men slapped each other’s backs and hugged one another. They were giddy with excitement and happy to be alive.
Malachi grabbed him by the elbow and led him into the foyer. “You were successful?”
“We found eight in all,” Carl confirmed, overwhelmed by the noise. His ears were still bothering him and the sound reverberated oddly in his head. Sally’s girls were all awake now and the children had come out to see what the commotion was. People were everywhere, filling up the space, talking loudly. Carl’s skin began to crawl.
“I need to bathe, Malachi. Can we talk later?”
“No, wait,” his friend said. “I’ll come with you. Too many people in here.”
They left quickly and no one noticed. In the darkness of the basement, Carl breathed easier. The steps smelled like pine and bath salts. Below them, two hearths burned. Sally’s establishment had four in all and the warm air swirled up towards him.
The young boy on duty looked at them hopefully as they entered, his face smudged with coal dust. Carl didn’t pity him. He had a warm job, a warm bed and warm food on the table. Most importantly, his mother had been smart enough to put him to work. He would grow up healthy and strong. Twelve, thirteen, his wiry arms were muscular, by fifteen or sixteen, he would be a man grown.
“Fill the tubs,” Carl told him, opening the door into the back room. The boy’s face fell and he turned back to the hearth, swinging several iron buckets into the flames. Sally’s establishment had one of the best baths he had ever been in. She told him once that cleanliness was the most important part of her job. He hadn’t been sure what that meant, but bathing in hot water was a luxury he took advantage of whenever he visited.
Guyan was already in one of the tubs, Carl saw, although the boy’s back faced them. The tub itself was a few feet high and more spacious than the baths at the Inn. They were also unique. The outside was wooden, but the interior was formed of some kind of ceramic. One of the girls Sally had taken in had known the craft and built them for her. To hear Sally tell it, the baths out West were all made this way. He would have to ask Kassam next time he saw him.
“So?” Malachi asked, sitting down on one of the benches. He obviously wanted to wait until the boy brought hot, fresh water.
Carl sat down beside him and pulled off his socks. The wooden floor was cold and wet beneath his feet, the boards slippery and strange.
“It all went well,” Carl confirmed. The room was smoky, and there were only a few candles lit on the wall. “Eights Dogs in all. No one injured or killed.” He looked at Guyan but the boy was ignoring them, his eyes closed and his expression neutral.
His dark friend’s teeth flashed. “Us, too, although I lost count. We found a few in the houses, but the majority were asleep at the Inn. The inn keep helped them along with a good measure of brandy. Most of them died in their sleep.”
He glanced towards Guyan, but Carl waved him off. He didn’t want to talk to him, not yet.
Malachi seemed to sense his mood. “Anyway, the men you sent with me did a decent job. They followed orders well. Most of them could hold a sword and stick something with it.”
“Still,” he continued, his expression turning serious, “the house searches could have gone better.”
“What happened? Was it Richard?” he asked, wishing he wouldn’t get an answer.
“Not Richard. One of the boys killed a man. It was a homeowner. I couldn’t get there in time. And it wasn’t the boy’s fault. I know what you’re going to say Carl, but you have to think about it. The kid was just doing his best.”
Carl realized he was holding his breath and let it out in one long exhale. He met his friend’s eyes and saw they were as careworn as his own. He was glad it hadn’t been Richard, but a life was a life.
“It would have been better if it hadn’t happened,” Malachi said softly.
Carl had been afraid of this. “Anyone we know?”
Malachi shook his head, his white-tipped braids dancing. “Not me. I’m sure that the men knew him, though. They didn’t seem too upset.”
“But it was an accident?” Carl asked, concerned. “No one…”
“No,” Malachi confirmed. “I was there. It was a mistake. The man wouldn’t stand down, wouldn’t stop trying to spit our boy. There was nothing the lad could have done.”
The door opened, flashing light into the darker room and Sally’s boy entered carrying two steaming pots of water. He poured them into the tubs and went back for more. Once he returned a second time, Carl and Malachi climbed in, not wanting to wait. He would be back with more hot water eventually, but right now the gently steaming baths looked like heaven.
As soon as he was in, Carl pulled his head under and disappeared. Water filled his ears, the sharp pain on his side reminding him that he was still injured. Down beneath the surface, it was quiet and still. He let the moment stretch out, holding his breath until he could stand it no longer and then rushed to the surface in a great fit of bubbles. He pulled in another breath and then grabbed the bar of soap that hung from a rope beside him.
Ignoring the other men, he scrubbed himself clean, once, twice and then again, until he smelled like salt and the water was slick and oily. He knew it was good he couldn’t see the color of the water; he wouldn’t have liked what he saw.
He looked up and met his friend’s eye. Malachi nodded towards the empty tub beside them. Guyan was gone. “Everything all right, there?”
Carl took a moment to respond. “I think so. First death.”
“He’s a Hunter,” Malachi answered, confused.
Carl sighed, sucking the hot air into his lungs. “Yes, but not a killer. The boy never hunted anything except animals. He might need a little time. He did a man’s work tonight.”
“Ah,” Malachi said. “You’ll keep an eye on him?”
Carl nodded, “Don’t think I’ll have to. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“No,” his friend agreed. “That we are not.”