“Why, the army, of course,” the boy said, nearly panting with his eagerness like a dog going for a bone, too caught up in the moment to realize what it took for a treat was actually a pale snake bathing in the sun, ready to bring the poison within it out into the world.
Cutter realized he should have seen this coming. The boy had been talking about being a soldier since he was old enough to swing a stick and yell “En guarde!” Not that anybody in battle ever yelled “En guarde.” It had been stupid then and it was stupid now. Cutter had learned long ago that sometimes children could get away with stupidity, but men rarely could. “Those soldiers aren’t coming to recruit, boy. They’re coming to kill and that only.”
The boy was shaking his head before he was finished. “You’re wrong, Cutter. Felmer’s dad used to serve in the military during the Fey Wars, and he says that back before we won, there were times the king got desperate, sent troops as far out as Brighton to recruit.”
“Felmer’s dad is a damned fool that couldn’t swing a sword if his life depended on it. The closest he ever came to a battlefield is the lies soldiers tell when they’re in their cups. Use your head, boy. Even if the king was recruiting—which he ain’t—what in the fuck would he worry about Brighton for? He’d make the trip for what, four boys too stupid to know they’re stupid, is that it?”
The boy winced, clearly hurt by his words, but that was alright. Cutter had seen his fair share of wounds, had taken far more than his share. They always hurt, sure, and sometimes they killed but then, sometimes, they saved.
“But Felmer’s dad said that we’re going to go to battle with the Fey again, that since we won the last war, they’ve been trying to—”
“Won?” Cutter said. “Look around yourself, boy, used your damned eyes.” He gestured widely with a gloved hand at the village of Brighton in the distance. Even the word “village” seemed too fine a thing for such a place. A few thrown-together houses, covered in snow, the inhabitants milling about on the outside looking one bad day away from starving. “Does this look like winning to you?”
But the boy wasn’t ready to give it up. Like so many of the young—like Cutter had once been himself—he believed he knew more about the world than anyone else, never mind that the only bit of it he’d ever seen, at least to remember, was this snowy, wasted landscape. “But we pushed them back, to the Black Wood, I mean. They say the Fey are too scared to come out now, and even you have to admit we haven’t seen any in years.”
Cutter shook his head slowly, remembering something a friend of his had told him once, long ago. Sometimes, she’d said, walls built of ignorance prove the strongest. Until they don’t. Of course, he hadn’t listened then, and the boy didn’t seem ready to listen now. How could you explain to a child, only a year removed from chasing his friends around the village and throwing snow balls at each other, that the Fey didn’t feel fear, not the way men did? They didn’t think like men at all, and Cutter had seen more than a few men die for making the mistake of believing they did. “Listen, lad,” he said slowly, “do you trust me?”
The boy hesitated then nodded. “Of course, Cutter, but—”
“Then listen to what I’m tellin’ you and listen closely, ‘cause neither of us has the time for me to say it twice. Those men who are comin’, they aren’t comin’ to recruit anybody. They’re coming to burn, that’s all. To burn and to kill.”
“But…why?” the boy said, his voice quiet now, losing some of his sureness, and that was good. Confidence could serve a man well, could be a shield against the world, but more often than not, it could also get him killed. “Why would they want to hurt us? We haven’t ever done anything to anybody.”
His past threatened to rise up in his mind then, but Cutter pushed it back down. He’d had a lot of practice at it, after all. It never went down completely, not all the way, but it was enough. “Doesn’t matter why, only that they’re coming, and they’ll kill anyone they find here. Now, come on. We’ve got to go.”
“Go?” the boy said, as if Cutter had just told him they needed to sprout wings and fly in the air like a bird. “Go where?”
“West.”
“You mean…toward the Black Wood? But…they say the Fey kill anyone that comes close.”
That was true enough, but Cutter didn’t feel the need to say so. “You’ll die if you stay, boy,” he said simply. “We both will.”
He could see the thoughts running through the boy’s mind, could see him thinking it over. Scared, yes, but excited too, the poor fool, excited by the prospect of venturing past the bounds of the village, of seeing the Black Wood and living to tell the tale. Of course, that last was almost always the problem, particularly when dealing with the Fey. “Okay,” the boy said finally, breathless. “Okay. But I’ve got to go get Momma, she—”
“There’s no time,” Cutter said. “Besides, boy, you and I both know your mother wasn’t gonna make it the year whether these men came or not—it’s time to go. Now.”
The boy looked at him shocked, as if seeing him for the first time, then he shook his head. “No, I won’t leave her. Look, we’ll…we’ll catch up to you, alright?”
He turned to go, putting his back to Cutter, and that made it easy enough to withdraw the pan from his traveling sack—a heavy, dented thing, scarred with use, much like Cutter himself—and hit the boy in the head with it. Cutter might have spent nearly the last twenty years of his life living in
