“Why?”
“Likes to be sure they’re really dead, I suppose. Kick around the ashes a bit, make certain nothing stirs. Seems overboard to me, but it’s on order of King Eld, so I do as I’m told. Hang ’em up, burn ’em down.” There’s the sound of a cork being unstoppered. A throat working to swallow the contents of a flask. A steadying breath. “Folks tend to get a touch superstitious when it comes to faery executions. You’ll see, lad.”
“Right…” The young man sounds unconvinced. “When I enlisted, I didn’t think we’d be hunting halflings. I didn’t know there were any left.”
“Not many, these days. ’Specially this far up in the Midlands. The Southlanders have some…different practices. You should thank the skies you aren’t stationed at the border to theReaches. Hard to stomach, from what I’ve heard. And I ain’t heard much.”
My heart lurches. I’ve not been spared the rumors of what happens to halflings in the Southlands. Not in full. Eli gave me the briefest of glimpses at that darkness one night over a stiff dram of whiskey.
They might not kill you right away, Rhya, but the things they’ll do to you will make you wish they had…
I force my thoughts from that dark path. It leads nowhere good.
“Son, just keep your head down, your hands steady, and your questions to yourself. You’ll be fine. It’s a job like any other—no matter what the rabble around here tells you.” The older man’s voice drops lower. “Swear, some men’s breeches get stiff watching faeries squirm on the end of a rope. Different sort of bloodlust, you understand?”
“That’s foul!”
“Aye. Don’t make it any less true.” He takes another deep pull from his flask. “Long while back, when I was no more than a young buck like you, points were a bit more common in these parts. My unit stumbled across a whole family one day, hidden away in the caves beneath a waterfall. Greenish skin and hair like river grass…”
Greenish skin?
Hair like river grass?
Wherever do they think up these ridiculous stories? From children’s bedtime tales? Besides our ears, halflings are nearly indistinguishable from humankind. But then…I suppose it’s easier to justify killing a mythological monster than a living being. Something, not someone.
The soldier’s voice drops almost to a whisper. “We’d lost so many in the Avian Strait. Bloodiest battle in a hundred years.And Soren’s men just kept coming. Driving us back, over and over and over. Morale was low. Our army—we needed a win. So when those faeries fell into our path…”
A chill of foreboding sweeps through me despite the burning agony at my wrists. I close my eyes behind the blindfold, wishing I could shut my ears as easily. I don’t want to hear about the slaughter of an innocent family. I can’t bear the details of a mother, a father, and their children torn apart by battle-addled soldiers. Not with my own imminent death pressing so hard against my windpipe.
A boot scuffs against the earth, and the man coughs. “Safe to say, the things I saw that day…well, it’s the kind of scene you don’t forget. Even after ten years.”
There’s another beat of quiet. The younger man says nothing, perhaps shocked silent by the gruesome picture his companion has painted. I’m not foolish enough to think his reticence is born of sympathy for me. More likely, he’s merely doing as he’s been tasked—keeping his opinions to himself.
He’ll make a good soldier.
The quiet is broken by the thud of a hand slapping against a shoulder. “You’re pale as a ghost, son. Go get yourself a bit of venison before it’s all gone. And bring me back some, will you? I’ll keep watch over the prisoner.”
There’s the sound of retreating footsteps, then the sigh of a body settling against a tree. In the distance, the murmur of conversation—other soldiers, wolfing down their dinner around the fire. After a moment, I pick out the faint flick of a knife against a block of wood. I allow myself to wonder what my remaining guard is carving.
A sigil for whichever god he worships? A token for the wife left behind in the land he calls home? A toy for his small daughter to play with when he finally returns from conquest?
Ten years, he said. Ten years of battles. Ten years of soldiering. Ten years of bleeding and fighting and killing.
Surely there is a life outside all this. Surely this man has a family waiting for him somewhere. Will he tell them of the faery girl he slaughtered to keep them safe? Regale them with details of the monster’s mottled face and sagging tongue as she swung from the bough, a grotesque mask illuminated by torchlight?
The gallant hero who slew the beast.
Huzzah!
After the way he spoke to his young companion, I think not. He’ll take no joy in his task—but he will complete it all the same, carrying out his captain’s orders without question.
The branches creak overhead, a death knell.
I’m glad they plan to kill me at night, under the stars. It would somehow be worse to die with the sun shining down and a light breeze stirring the grass at my feet. Shadows paint a more fitting final scene for the snapping of my neck.
The last breath of Rhya Fleetwood.
Ward of the renowned Eli Fleetwood.