The first thing Will tasted was blood. It canât be true, he thought.
His eyes flew open to a dawn sky the color of tarnished steel. Frosty breath feathered from his lips. A pace away, Garretâs body lay where it had fallen, sword still planted to the hilt, eyes fixed forever on the son who was not a son.
Hope that the prior nightâs horror had been a dream withered in an instant.
Willâs stomach knotted. He tried to riseâpain flared in his left shoulder, bright as lightning. His breath hissed out. A fletched shaft jutted from the muscle just below the collarbone: one of his own arrows, broken off when Garret fell on him. Last nightâs brawl had left souvenirs.
Move, he told himself.
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He stamped out the last of the coals, scattered ash, then dragged the corpse to a fallen pine beyond the clearing. Every tug wrung fresh agony from his shoulder; sweat chilled on his spine despite the cold.
Chud, still tethered, was a silent witness, stamped nervously each time Will crossed its line of sight. The horseâs reproach stung worse than daylight.
Will heaped leaves and loose dirt over the bodyâno burial, only camouflageâand turned to practical salvage: Garretâs boots (drier, thicker), the wool trousers that would hold against winter wind, and the undrained water skin.
Next he set his palm on the swordâs hilt. A single tear spilled down his cheekâgrief and relief tangled together before he could name either.
With one hard wrench he freed the blade. A faint suck of clotted blood followed. Chud shied, stamping. Will barely wiped steel on damp grass and sheathed it in the cracked leather scabbard that had lain beside the fire.
A buzzing filled his ears. For a moment he swayed, thinking he might faint and join the dead in the dirt. He clenched his jaw, forced air into lungs.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He faced the arrow next. Two glowing embers lurked at the heart of the dead fire. Will fished one out with a stick, coaxed it bright, then bit down on leather strap as he yanked the shaft free. Blood sheeted. He tore and removed his shirt then he clamped the hot ember to flesh; the hiss drowned his scream. When the ember died, he wrapped the wound tight with his torn shirt.
It wasnât enough, but it would have to do.
The campsite looked emptier already, but the stink of death still clung. He slung the satchel, quiver, and both bowsâBramâs yew and his old ashwoodâover the one healthy shoulder; the sword belt around his waist. Then he turned his back on the clearing.
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The slope led him, swaying, to the little silver pond. Here, at least, he could wash and thinkâthough âthinkâ felt like a fragile word now.
The pond lay still as glass, unwarmed by morning light. Reeds lined the far bank; the old logging ruts he and Garret had tramped yesterday showed faintly in mud. No ripples disturbed the surface. Here, at least, the world had not yet noticed a murder.
Will unbuckled the belt, set sword and bows aside, and peeled away bloody clothes. Bruises bloomed purple across his face, ribs and thighs; dried blood lacquered arms and chest. He looked feralâhardly human. A shaky laugh escaped him, half sob.
He knelt at the edge, scooped water over face and hair until red washed away in swirling streaks. Then, teeth chattering, he waded waist-deep and quickly ducked under.
Cold bit like ice. He scrubbed grime from skin, fingers gingerly cleaning the crust around the cauterised wound. Pain radiated, but the water soothed raw flesh.
That was when the tug came.
Instant darkness enveloped him. In the same heartbeat something invisible caught both ankles and yanked.
Panic shot through every nerve. He kicked, but the grip only tightened, spinning him until the weak sunlight overhead shrank to a blur. Deeper, fasterâthe pond should not have been this deep. Pressure rang in his ears the further under water he sank.
Shapes gathered in the gloom: strands of gold drifting like river grass, weaving into the unmistakable form of a woman. Bare, radiant, unreal. Her eyes glowed silver-pale as moonlit ice.
She closed the distance without moving, golden hair curling round him. A single finger pressed to his chest; terror melted into a heavy calm not his own. She leaned in and brushed her mouth against his.
Warmth spread where their skin metâstrange, soothing, irresistible. His limbs slackened, heartbeat slowing to a hush. Golden hair billowed, filled his visionâand then everything went black.