He lay there panting, gasping for breath and trying to understand what happened. He was still trying to work it out when Cutter’s big form loomed over him, staring down. There was a slight trickle of blood running from his mouth, one which gratified Matt to see, warming him in a way that he had not been warm in days. Perhaps his mother had been right after all; perhaps violence was in his nature, but then she had been wrong to tell him to fight it. For seeing the small trickle of blood, knowing that he had caused this man, this object of his hate, pain, was a good feeling. Maybe even a great one.
“That’s enough, lad,” Cutter said. He reached out a hand to help Matt to his feet. Matt took it, allowing himself to be hoisted up. Once he was standing, he reared back and punched Cutter in the gut again, but like the first, the blow hurt his hand while seeming to have very little effect on the big man.
Except, that was, that the big man’s eyes flashed with anger, and Matt felt a surge of panic before Cutter leaned forward and, almost casually, planted his fist in Matt’s stomach.
Pain—terrible, excruciating pain—ripped through Matt, and it felt as if the man had punched a hole right through him. The next thing he knew, he was on his hands and knees, retching the meager contents of his breakfast—another squirrel, one Cutter had managed to find—out onto the cold snow where it steamed in a gross, revolting puddle.
“I said enough,” Cutter growled, and there was such fury in his voice that Matt cowered away. He glanced up and saw the big man studying him, his cold blue eyes seeming to burn in their sockets with rage. The man said nothing, his thick chest heaving, his fists working at his sides, and though he did not speak, Matt had the feeling—the terrible, helpless feeling—that the man wanted to kill him, that it was all he could do to hold himself back.
Finally, though, the moment passed. Cutter’s breathing slowed, and his eyes turned cold once more, like chips of ice in their sockets. “I made your parents promise not to take you out of the village, boy, because it isn’t safe. Do you understand?”
Matt scooted away on his butt, suddenly frightened to be too close to the big man in case that terrible rage, the rage of which he thought he had only glimpsed a small fraction, like an iceberg’s tip seen above the water, might return. “I-it isn’t so hard a journey,” he rasped. “Troy’s father and mother have made it several times, it—”
“It’s different for you,” the big man interrupted.
“What…what does that mean?” Matt wheezed past his aching stomach. “Why?”
The big man stared at him as if considering something, then he finally gave a dismissive shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just know that it is dangerous for you to go out, boy. Dangerous for you in ways it is not dangerous for anyone else. Do you understand?”
“How can I?” Matt demanded, hurt and angry all at once. “You haven’t told me anything.”
“I’ve told you enough,” the big man said. “Now, get up. We need to cover more ground before dark. Shadelaresh has so far kept his people from accosting us, but he will not do so forever. If we linger much longer in the Wood, they will come for us, boon or no boon.”
Matt wanted to argue, wanted to scream and tell the man he hated him, that he hoped they did come just so long as he got to watch them kill Cutter first. The problem, though, was that, for one, he feared the man might grow angry again, and he was terrified to see that part of him once more, would have given much to keep from seeing it. But it wasn’t just that. It was also the fact that he feared that should he tell Cutter he hated him and that he hoped he died, the man wouldn’t care, might even agree with him.
So, instead of saying anything, he only rose. Cutter watched him for a moment, as if waiting to see if there was going to be another outburst. When none came, the big man turned and started away again. And, left with no choice—as always—Matt followed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It is said, by the followers of Raveza, Goddess of Temperance, that the road to peace is taken one step at a time. A true saying, or so I believe, but we must remember something. Yes, the road to peace is taken one step at a time.
But then, so, too, is the road to damnation.
—Ex-priest of Raveza from his prison cell.
“It appears to be a relatively fresh kill, sire. Perhaps no more than a day or two.”
“So it does, Malex,” Feledias said, staring down at the Gretchling corpse. He had seen their kind before, during the war, had even seen a few in their natural form—a form they only chose to take, perhaps only could take, once they had died. Though, it had to be said, he had never seen one in such terrible shape as this, the creature’s body so mutilated as to almost be unrecognizable. “This is his work,” he said quietly.
Malex, along with the other soldiers, shifted uneasily at that, but Feledias paid them little mind. After all, they had all spent the last day acting uneasy, had done so since they’d first entered the Black Wood, as if afraid, like children, that the monsters would come for them during the night. The Fey would do such things, of course, for he had seen it before, but they had not done so yet, though they could not have missed the passage of him and his men in their lands. To Feledias, that must mean that they approved of his quest for his brother’s head and did not wish
