Graynelore

I was quick to remount Dandy, and began to follow the line of my kin across the rising hillside. Within a few moments, there was a thick knot of Elfwych breaking cover, coming down upon us. They were flailing their swords, trying to use the slope of the hill to increase the power of their swing. It was a good notion. Though they were come at us a-foot, if they struck us head on it would make for a bloody show; and us the victims.

I knew the ploy. Fortunately, I also knew the counter. I gave cry. Instinctively, my kin broke up our loose line and we scattered ourselves. We rode across the hillside; each of us deliberately moving in a different direction. And we went slowly – enticingly slowly – we wanted our enemies to follow after us.

That they did was their mistake. It split their number and broke their momentum. Once more on a reasonably even fell we could use our hobbs to drive our victims back, push them into gullies or up against outcrops of rock (as, on another day, we might have driven our shabby herds of fell beasts). First cornering them, then the slaughter: a man who has nowhere to run cannot hide.

Did I kill then, in the thick of it, in the heat? Yes, I killed, if I would bring it to mind…twice, at least, and in quick succession. My greater sword arm held the advantage, easily found its mark where panicked men, unwisely, left themselves open to it. Aye, and I quickly rifled the bloodied carcases, took what spoils I could to fill my empty leather purse.

Not yet done, I turned Dandy about. I saw there were three figures ahead of me, backs turned, running down through a deep gulley. They were a youth – a mere boy-at-arms – an ageing man and, judging from the gait not the attire, a young fighting-woman. Another girl…For pity’s sake; was the fighting strength of the Elfwych so very much depleted? I gave a quick look for Wolfrid or his whelp, or any other friend, but found myself riding alone. Confident still, I spurred Dandy on. The Elfwych appeared to deliberately move apart when they realized they were being pursued, and I was gaining on them. The rough grass among broken stones, the deep cut of a stream at the bottom of the fall, was making it difficult for them to keep to their feet. Aided by Dandelion’s greater pace and sure-footedness, I would soon overtake them. (There was no need for me to guide her. Dandy would only have protested at the pull on the rein.)

Ahead of me, the fleeing woman turned her ankle, she pitched and fell, though I gave her scant notice until she scrabbled awkwardly to her feet again and turned to face me.

Why did I stop at her? Why dismount then? All three were easy victims. I liked women, of course. But this was another Elfwych and I was a Wishard. I felt the first unwanted physical stirring of my body. But then, violation – was that really my intent? – was such an impotent weapon upon a killing field. I might have smiled at the paradox. Violate them with your sword. Cut off their heads. Rip out their bellies. Do not try to fuck them. They will only fuck you first.

Yet, there I stood.

And there wassomething else…something far more curious: a connection between us I was at a loss to explain. What was this? A fleeting shadow, like wild bird flight, crossed my mind. For the second time that day I felt as if I was standing in two places at once. I was become an unwilling partner in some waking dream. The real world was less solid than a drift of smoke. And this Elfwych woman was my accomplice. We were conjoined and could not easily step apart. From somewhere there were questions, words were spoken, but so softly, I could not make them out; or their source…if they were not hers.

It was enough to hold my sword arm.

‘Shit!’

Kill her. Kill her and be done with it, Rogrig Wishard.

She was yelling at me now, but still I could not make out what it was she said…only understand the anger, the fervent anger showing on her twisted face, the fierce warning in her voice.

Her kin – the youth and the old man – were already well beyond my reach; above me at the top of the gulley now, only legs moving against a still blue sky, scrambling out of sight. If they were meant for a bodyguard, they did not intend to stay and make a fight of it.

I must use my sword. I must not look her in the eye…before or afterwards. One quick, clean stroke would finish it, Rogrig Stone Heart. She had led herself into the frae she must take the consequences of it.

Only, I held off. Only, I did look her in the eye.

And I will swear this to you: it was her…the dead woman. Yes. Impossibly, it was the same dead girl I had killed already. Living again, breathing again. Her eyes, her hair, her skin…they were the very same. Of course, there was a simple answer to this riddle, if only I could truly believe in it. Surely these two were close kin. This was a sister, then, or a cousin at the least? Though, my obvious inaction began to reveal my doubt.

In truth, I did not yet understand or recognize just what it was I had been privy to here. What I had witnessed – no, something more than that – what I had unwittingly become a part of. I might have guessed, and called it wychcraft – wychcraft at the hands of an Elfwych. Or else, it was some other unearthly masquerade…a trick; a faerie’s Glamour, or the work of a fell-wisp. Though, none of it was likely in a world that believed only in the certainty of a cold sword. I, a grown man, was far beyond faerie tales!

‘I saw you dead…’ I said.

‘You mean you wanted me for dead, Wishard!’ she returned with a fury.

‘I saw you…your head was broken, taken from your shoulders, played with for a bloody football!’

We had begun to sidestep each other. I was already holding my sword between us. We were circling warily about it.

‘What think you? I was in hiding,’ she said. ‘What better place to conceal myself upon a killing field, than in among the dead?’

Only, there was an obvious deceit in her voice that betrayed her.

‘I think you are an unpractised liar,’ I said. ‘And this is impossible…’

I raised my sword to make my stroke. What did she have to lie about?

‘Oh please, not now!’ she cried. ‘Not him!’

‘Eh?’

Her outburst seemed nonsense. It was not a response to anything I had said. Yet she repeated herself, with even greater venom.

‘Please! Not now!’

Then I felt the heat of the blow. My hesitation had cost me. She had struck first. She had stuck me with a short knife. My loose leather jack, sewn with its paltry strips of hammered iron, was always a poor man’s armour.

‘Shit!’

It was experience moved me then. We were at close quarters. I turned the edge of my sword and instead of using the blade, drove the pommel down hard upon her head. The contact drew blood and tore a sliver of hair and skin from her scalp, knocked her sideways. But it was a poor, glancing blow; I had meant to break her head open.

I hit her again and she collapsed already senseless.

‘Shit, shit!’

I too was bleeding. And though I should have finished it then, still I held back. I did not kill her. I…could not do it?

Stupidly – there was the noise and the threat of fighting all about me on the fells – I lowered my arm, sheathed my sword, and knelt down beside her. How might I explain this? (How might I explain any of this?) I wanted to touch her. Not a touch that would hurt her, not like that. Hurting her again would have been easy. I wanted…well, if I could make any sense of what I wanted…I wanted to prove that she was real, ordinary, human. And not some deluded man’s fetch; some foul whimsy brought up out of a night-torment.

She was wearing the common breeches and reinforced jack of a fighting-man, and yet at her throat there was a gold amulet. It was a single piece and simply fashioned, but this was enough of a conceit (or perhaps a mistake) to mark her apart…only a damned fool or someone confident, in both her rank and her sword arm, would openly wear such an obvious badge of privilege in the frae. I was a soldier-thief. She was my worst enemy. I should have stolen it from her, taken it as my prize; added it to Notyet’s growing purse. I should have loosened her breeches and stolen more…gone on my way and thought no more of it.

Her arm had fallen into the stream. The closed hand still held the knife. I took it up, threw the knife aside. I lifted her arm and laid it down, clear of the stream. I cupped my hand and, taking water, gently bathed her brow. That was all. As I did I heard the babble of the stream. I would swear this to you; it was speaking to me. Though it whispered, I could plainly hear its call. And I suddenly knew that if I would only listen to its voice then I would understand its words.

This Elfwych and this Wishard…they are the very same…

‘What?’

When I looked again I saw the stream was turning red.

‘Fucking, shit!’

I was still bleeding. I ran my fingers across the cut. The wound was long, but it was not too deep. Yet it had been a deliberate thrust. What was this Elfwych about? Trying only to injure me, to distract me rather than kill? And why would she do that?

Then she was moving again, her hand grasping at a tuft of grass, trying to pull herself upright.

I watched as she slowly dragged herself to her feet.

There was a moment of indecision. She stood almost within reach of me. What was it? Was she going to come at me again? (Even without her knife.) I lifted my sword, only to stay my hand before it ran clear of the scabbard. She turned slowly, almost invitingly, towards me – but invitingly of what?

Afterwards, a long time afterwards, I remembered there was an instant then when our eyes briefly met. What did we each see there? What was there between us?

I could so easily have felled her.

I could so easily have let her go.