The creature started forward then in a stride several times longer than a mortal’s, and as it did the wind began to pick up. Cutter, had he been alone, might have stood and let the creature have its way, would have allowed it to do with him what he would, perhaps even thanked it, before the end. He was not alone, though. The boy was with him, the boy who was ignorant and innocent of the past and who would, if the creature was allowed to work its will, suffer for crimes he did not commit. Crimes which could be laid solely at Cutter’s feet.
“Shadelaresh, I hereby claim my boon,” Cutter said quickly. “I call on the faithfulness of the Fey.”
The creature froze, its hands working at its sides, its green eyes flashing as if some great storm raged behind them. You dare.
The words came hissing on the wind, and Cutter stood as snow drifts rushed around him, carried on the heavy gust. You who have so wronged the Fey dare demand a boon, dare question our own faithfulness. No, Destroyer. Your boon will be an end, an end in which your bones are crushed, and the great sentinels shall look on, their branches swaying with their laughter. And my promise, out of my faithfulness, is that it will be a long time coming, that eons will be dedicated to your suffering, that mortal and Fey alike will blanch when they hear of it, will whisper cautionary tales to their little ones until parent and child alike lie frightened in their beds at the very thought of such an end.
Words to inspire fear in the bravest of men, yes, but Cutter had long since stopped thinking of himself as a man. He was far less than that. A monster and that only, and monsters had little to fear. “Huh,” he grunted. “I had not thought so little of Fey promises as that. Certainly, your king, Yeladrian, when granting me the boon from saving his life, spoke in great length about the faithfulness of the Fey. I must admit I am sad to see that this is no more true than so many of the other stories of your people.”
The wind grew even more powerful then, and the boy stumbled, would have fallen, had Cutter not reached out and steadied him. Clouds began to gather in the previously clear sky, impossibly fast, great dark shapes full of menace and power. Cutter said nothing, only waited, watching the creature as the impossible storm grew worse and worse by the moment. Then, as abruptly as it had come, the storm vanished, and as the snow—kicked up by the gusts—slowly settled to the ground once more, he was left staring at the creature, feeling its hatred, its fury, radiate from it in waves.
What do you want? Have you come for your weapon? Have you come seeking the Breaker of Pacts?
“No.” The word was out of his mouth before he realized it, growled in a harsh hiss.
The creature cocked its head the slightest amount, and he could feel those great green eyes studying him. What did they see, he wondered? And how much? He did not doubt that they saw far more of him than most who looked upon him, saw more of him, he suspected, than he knew himself. Finally, the creature tilted its head back again, and another gust of wind kicked up, though this one was far different than the ones before. This one sounded as if it carried laughter on it, the laughter of thousands.
I see, the creature said.
“What?” Cutter asked, unable to help himself despite the fact that he was afraid of how it might answer. “What do you see?”
Much, Kingslayer, it said. I see much. You, Destroyer, seek to be something else, someone else. You search for it, this new self, here in these woods, as you have searched for it in that backwater village among the scattered outliers of your kind. But you did not find it there, Destroyer, and you will not find it here. For wherever you go, no matter how far you journey, you bring yourself with you. You will never be anything more than what you are—a killer. That and that only. You are the Destroyer and you will always be thus. You are who you are. You are Kingslayer. You who has made the world bleed, the sound of whose arrival is announced by the wailing of babes. You whose people called you “hero” until even they discovered the truth of what you are and exiled you.
And then, although there was no obvious change in the creature’s posture or regard, it was obvious that its attention had turned to the boy. Tell me, boy, do you know with whom you travel? Do you know the truth of who he is? Of what he is?
“I…” the boy began in a terrified voice, “I don’t…”
“Leave him out of this,” Cutter growled. “He is under my protection and is no concern of yours.”
Another great rush of wind, another chorus of whistling laughter. Protection. What protection can be found, Destroyer, in the bear’s jaw or the lion’s teeth? What safety is there in the storm? No, Destroyer, you know naught of protection. It is not how you were made. You are the Destroyer. You will not be—can never be—anything else.
“And yet he is under my protection just the same.”
And these others who have followed you into the demesne of my people? These who seek your head? Tell me, Kingslayer, is it these from whom you would protect this youth?
“It is.”
And who, I wonder, will protect him from you?
Cutter said nothing to that, for there was nothing he could say. Instead, he only waited.
The creature regarded him for some time and several minutes passed in silence. Then, finally, its great mouth yawned open once more. When first I heard of your coming, Destroyer,
