No. He would remain, he and his guilt, until the boy was safe. Then and only then would he allow himself to die.
A stone wall ran around the village. A small one, no more than three feet high. A wall not meant for defense but crafted to keep out wild animals, one that would have proved of little use against the forces which had come against the villagers. A quick glance showed that the stones had been toppled in several places, and even as he watched men and women were at work restacking them, carting in more to make the wall higher. Others milled about the buildings, raking through shattered belongings in search of anything salvageable, while still others pushed wooden carts laden with dead toward a great fire which raged somewhere near the village center.
He and the others followed the path to a break in the wall where, judging by the shattered wooden remnants scattered on the ground, a gate had once stood, but stood no longer. Still, there was a man stationed at the gate, his clothes, like those of the rest of the villagers, living and dead alike, were stained with blood and ash. There was a vacant, stunned look in his eyes, one which Cutter had seen often over the years, nearly always following a battle. It was the vacant, confused look of a man who had believed the world to be one thing and had discovered, in one brutal day or hour of bloodshed, as he’d listened to the screams of his friends and family as they died, that it was something very different, something far darker.
The guard was so caught up in his own thoughts, his own dark musings, that he didn’t notice Cutter and the others approach until they were within ten feet of him, then he roused himself, brandishing his weapon—not some soldier’s blade, this, but a pitchfork, the tines of which were stained with blood—and focusing his unsteady gaze on them with an effort. “The fuck do you want?” he asked in a voice that was meant to be intimidating but was belied by the tremor in his hands as he held his makeshift weapon.
Not a warrior, this, nor a killer, a man who went out searching for blood. No, this was a normal man, a farmer, perhaps, one who cared nothing for wars or battles but who cared only for tending to his crops and protecting his family. One who had not gone out in search of violence and yet, as was so often the case, violence had found him anyway.
Cutter held out his empty hands in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “We’re only travelers, friend, seeking shelter. We mean no harm.”
The man let out a laugh that sounded in danger of becoming a scream. “Shelter, that it?” he said in a voice that trembled with grief and mad humor. “Well, you ain’t picked the best day to visit Ferrimore, stranger. You and your group’d be best to turn around and go back where you come from.”
Considering that Cutter and the rest had just come from the Black Woods, he might have argued that, but there was no point. He was still thinking of what to say instead when Matt stepped forward.
“What happened here?” the youth asked, glancing at Cutter in challenge before turning back to the man.
“What happened?” the guard asked. “What happened? Well, I’ll tell you, lad. The Fey came, that’s what. The abominations came in the darkness.” His eyes glazed over with the pain of the memory. “I’ve lived here ten years gone, me and my w…” He cut off, letting out a strangled sob before choking it back. “Lived here a long time,” he went on, sniffling and running an arm across his nose. “Got some folks here fought in the war. I’d heard the stories, of course. We all had. I thought—we thought—we were ready. But…we were wrong. Gods help us, we were wrong.”
The man went silent then, his expression twisting with grief as he relived what must have been the terrible events of the night past, and Cutter glanced to the youth. “Satisfied?” he growled.
Matt said nothing, only stepping back to stand with the others. Cutter watched the grieving man, feeling more uncomfortable, more unsure than he had ever felt on the midst of a battle, locked in a struggle where his life hung in the balance of each passing moment. He did not know what that said about him, that he should be far more at ease in the midst of a life or death struggle than faced with a man’s naked grief, but likely it was nothing good.
The man continued sobbing, and Cutter continued standing there, unsure of what to do, until Priest stepped forward, putting a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. He whispered some words to the man—too low for Cutter to hear. The guard’s sobbing slowly began to quiet, and he looked up at Priest with watery eyes filled not just with grief, not now, but with something like gratitude.
Cutter found himself wondering what the man had said, was suddenly possessed of the feeling—ridiculous, probably, but there none the less—that if he only knew those words, if he only understood them, perhaps he could change, could leave the killer behind and become…something else.
But the guard did not share them. Instead, he only nodded slowly, sniffling, and finally turned back to Cutter. “As I said, Ferrimore ain’t as nice now as usual, but if you’ve really no other place to go, you can go
