10. Desertion II: steal away

When marked for destruction, is desertion a kindness-even a virtue?

Next thing I knew, the rocking of the wagon—and the shifting of Ben's cargo—shook me awake. My head rested in a lap–the hint of chamomile on Coielle's vestment pulled me gently down to earth. Corielle's gentle fingers stroked my hair.

With the sun lighting up my eyelids, I laid and thought of my new friends, beautiful and fragile. Already they had seen battle. I hoped against Old Man Wolf's words, strained to believe that the urgan violence had not been in answer to my work for the pixies. I breathed in the joy and the warmth of their presence and blinked away the tears.

Corielle looked down at me. Ben smiled and winked, his fingertips brushing my shoulder.

"The sweet be waking for the falling sun, eh? Already we draw near Queen Medusa's wondrous city." He turned to cross the river.

Corielle touched the hand on the reins. "Go a bit further, to the bridge."

"And I'll be a bearded frog if I wanna cross swords with the constables." He scratched his chin.

Corielle laughed. "Suppose the humans hear nothing of the bandits?"

"Suren they have, but 'in every face the thirsty blade finds an urgan."

She tilted her head. "Does someone need reminding of his own blades?"

He huffed and nodded. "True enough, for all that. And easier 'twould be to bear the biting lash of wisdom, if only…" He gave her a sly smile.

She pinched his jaw. "Sorry, my love; enchantment comes hopelessly entwined with the art of wellness."

"And such an uncivil spell it be, my dear, that I would ne'er suffer any mage to remove your bane from my helm." He reached over me to kiss Corielle and guided his horse toward the bridge.

The black haired guard held up his hand. "Ahoy. Where you headed?"

"We've business in Bathispeare."

"I can see." The blond haired guard indicated the road and brought up his mace in a forward way—not low like a careful guard, but high and eager—like a drunken fool, only bone dry. "I can see that full well. What business have you with a human child?"

"Urgan bandits, day's ride behind." He tickled the top of my head. "The sweet here be sole survivor."

"Their kind." Mace man bristled. "In league with the urgans. I've told you."

"Bribed me well they did," Ben growled under his breath. Though it be only the green of their blood that I take in payment from the bandits." He hid his shudder well, so that I felt it more than saw.

The gooseflesh under his bracers traveled up my arms in warning; only the urga-bent would voice the full truth in a moment so vulnerable.

"Rest easy, gentle men." Corielle looked soft upon the two guards, and presented a silver pendant sparkling with pink light. "Sigrun here claims sanctuary under my aegis–my authority."

Mace man spat. "Eldritch gods have no voice in civilization."

Ben's hand twitched toward the khorren's hilt.

Corielle parried his hand with her off hand, and wielded the pendant like she was trying to scare the creeping unseelie.

The pink glare on the pendant cast a reddish fire-crown around her head.

The black-haired man took his compatriot by the shoulder. "Tis well, in the eyes of the divine."

"Teeth of the Forest Mother it is," snarled mace man. "Just because they smell nice does not make them worthy of trust."

"The girl is safe with this elfin noble, as much as with the officers of the brilliant temple."

"There is nobody safe in reach of the brillant temple," mace man yelled, slapping the other guard's arm with the bottom end of his weapon's grip. "If you allow this woman to pass, I will see you on report."

The leader winced. "Can you not tell her intentions?"

"She had you bespelled. The girl as well. no doubt." Mace man lowered his weapon. "If you do not detain these, I shall have you on report."

"Hold to your conscience," he said, and approached Corielle. "He is a good man, after his way."

Mace man glared at Corielle then back at his commander before stomping off,

"Should we linger? I wish you no undue trouble."

The guard's face reddened and he offered a pained smile. "Do not worry on my behalf. His choice of the Forest Mother—" He shrugged.

Corielle sighed sadly and nodded.

"Queen Medusa cannot turn the entire temple to statues of glass." Then, a look of horror and evasion. "At least, I do not suppose she should."

Corielle shrank a bit at that.

In that moment, it became clear that, if our queen so decided, she could—and one day, surely would—reduce the entire city-state to pillars of glass.

"As bad as they are." Ben coughed. "May that day be long in coming."

"From your mouth to the High King's ears." He shuddered and waved Ben away. "Now get out of here."

Ben urged the horse onward.

The road led to Balthispeare, home of Medusa. A statue of her likeness–hair writhing like the hydra-head of the original stories– stood at the top of the archway, above cowering glass statues of human and urgan form.

As the shadow of the stone arch passed over me, I shivered.

The war of the outsiders raged about me, with the queen herself threatening to intercede, like a dragon raining fiery justice on invaders from the mazes below. Twice already my beautiful friends, Ben and Corielle, had wagered their lives. Whether for me or whatever reason–I hoped to shirk that blame—would never matter. Watching them, begging them to survive, I finally understood: the terror in Mother's eyes, what could lead Mother to abandon me in my hour of need.

The memory of my deathbed–of floating out of my six-summers-old body–finally proved that little Sigrun had deserved all she needed from Mother. I had been that little, fever-burned girl and deserved more than any mother had to give. That last–coming up short–that's what had made Mother and Father flee my sick bed and run to the mountains. They had to choose war over parenthood–had to. Crazy-brave as my family was, nobody should ever be that brave.

No army of urgans, no gauntlet of swordsmen, could do any measure of the harm I could do, laying broken and besieged. No armor, no enchanted rune, no horse no matter how swift could fend off the cold and unspeakable heartbreak of watching love die.

Death comes for everybody. As warriors, that knowing sets us free. But as parents, knowing that their daughter could die–that perhaps, their Sigrun had already died? That thought, like a bedsheet of thorns, tore into Mother and Father driving them to desert.

They had that right. Given the choice, I would charge down the stairs and face Korog and Ker empty-handed. If the urgans meant to destroy life then, out of sheer, pig-headed selfishness, I would demand they destroy me first. How fervently I begged for that chance.

With that prayer denied, fearing a torture greater than my eleven-summers-old heart had ever before imagined, I planned the only thing I could: to desert my new friends.

When the arch passed overhead, and our wheels skittered over the cobblestones of Balthispeare, I squirmed and stole myself from their possession. Like a purse in a crowded alley, I fell to the street where the crowd pocketed me and smuggled me away.

In two hoofbeats, Ben called for Sigrun. In two more, Corielle cried out for me as well.

So long as the monsters of the pixie world sought to avenge themselves on me, this had to be. In order that the destruction that followed my shadow might pass over my friends, I must walk alone. Let the pigs rip my body to shreds. Let the shadow birds feast upon my soaring spirit. I could feel safe in the jaws of a dread wolf, my heart safe in Ben and Corielle's pocket. Stumbling about blinded by tears, I pulled at my collar, as if I could draw a cowl from it.

Moving my bare feet with purpose, I slunk into whatever shadows I could find, moving as far away from their open arms as I could.

***

Dust and mildew besmirched the hungry alleys of Balthispeare. The barrenness burned at my stomach, and the shadows swallowed me whole. In one deserted alley housing rats and the ratspiders that ate them, I found a broken crate where a girl might lurk.

When I could not bear to keep my head away from the cobblestones, I curled up in the box and buried my eyes in my elbows.

When I woke, rain had washed away the tears and the green blood on my feet. My soaked clothes clung to my chilled frame as the wind cut through my defenses.

Feeling vulnerable and lonely, I pulled my cleaver from my shirt, nicking myself.

A tiny red drip of me blessed the blade.

That was the edge that Myrrha buried in Ker's shoulder. Suppose that makes me blood-sister to Ker. If the things Korog did to our minds had not tangled us already. I stared at this kitchen tool.

My stomach rumbled.

The smoldering gloom that blanketed the maze of alleys had infected me beneath my ribs when at long last, I began to look at the ratspiders as food.

Black, fuzzy, and as large as Ker's right hand, a violet ratspider had been a good meal at Mack's stead, sweet and slightly intoxicating. Here, the violets had been hunted to a fading memory. These smaller reds that stalked my alley would sour my throat and claw at my gut, or so I'd been taught. For the determined survivalist, however, the smallest portions would maintain strength. I checked the alley from end to end in hopes that I might find a stubborn surviving violet. Aching for better prey, glowering in frustration from the edge of the shadows, I looked at the plaza.

"Don't hurt me!" The plump boy in his carefully stitched, sky blue peacoat carried a fat chicken leg. His eyes followed my cleaver, and his hand shook.

I simply looked at him, with a question in my eyes.

"I am sorry." He threw his chicken to me.

My heart leaped with joy as I lunged to catch the food, then I met his eyes.

"It's okay. It is permissible—" He gave me a sad look, and blushed. "You know—you can have it."

My heart fell. In his eyes, I saw the newest Sigrun, bloodsister of Ker: a monster who would take whatever she wanted. I couldn't do anything about the beast inside, but I could wrestle her to submission. I could protect those about me. My face burned and I glowered in frustration. "Hey, no! That's not right."

At my outburst, the boy shuddered and scurried off.

I chased him. "I'm not about robbing you."

He slowed down. "Really? Why do you have your kitchen ax at the ready?"

"Hungry. Hunting spiders." I held out his chicken.

He stared at my cleaver. "Why give it back?"

My stomach threatened to eat me alive. "It isn't right, robbing."

"Oh, um." He reached from as far away as he could. "Yes, that's evident." Hesitant, he gingerly accepted his treat and ran as fast as he could.

I whined as I licked my fingers. Really wouldn't hurt him. I put my cleaver under my belt. Trying to make myself look small, I walked toward my rotten wooden crate.

"Noble, what you told Oliver. Now you're dealing with Collen here." This fat street kid strutted at me, stolen leather armor flopping, useless, about his boyish frame. His club had been ripped from a table. He licked his lips as he eyed my cleaver. "And if 'robbing ain't right,' kid, you won't be needing that ax."

Did this boy learn his trade from a painted carnival? I stifled my amusement at these boys' use of language. I faced many dilemmas in life; this was not one. Sure, the little ox stood a head taller than me and weighed twice as much, but his gaze barely brushed me. Instead, he looked at keeping his chin up and puffing out his chest. His hands had scars, where he tried to train himself, but his face and shoulders remained smooth as the rich boy's: this boy had no experience with people who fight back. Even us lowly freemen don't cut up peasants. Since I had run out of table legs, I tagged his shoulder as I ran past, saying, "Oh, yes, I will!" I got out of chasing range before I looked back.

He hadn't moved yet. When he did, his stubby legs churned after me for a stone's throw, but unused muscle strained under ill-gotten fat. "Yeah, well! Take your precious ax. Better not see you round here. Thump you one for running!"

***

As my heart drummed slower to mark the end of battle, I turned my mind to my alley—to the ratspiders. Their eyes glinted with the light of the far off sun.

My mouth watered and my stomach churned. I chose one that came close, leaping and swatting wildly.

It barely moved.

It toyed with me, like with a nip-drunk kitten. Or like the little ox that wanted my cleaver. Again and again, inches from my blade, each target dodged. For the next four strikes I got closer by degrees. I struck inches away until I learned the way of the battle cleaver. Still, the ratspiders maintained their distance from the awful force of the cleaver—their slower brothers had already been harvested.

Each strike got closer, if only by a fading-ghost's measure, for the next fourteen attempts.

Alongside skill, with each attempt, desperation grew by an increasing rate until, by the twenty sixth strike the ratspiders started to pull ahead. Like the bully, I simply did not have what it took. Deciding that it's better to curl up and starve than to slam my head against the cobblestones, I knelt down and leaned against the wall.

Rats and ratspiders wandered closer in the course of a dozen march beats.

One little piebald rat grew so bold she climbed up on my toes.

No fire crown; nothing special. At least, I didn't see one. Just one fugitive burglar mouse asking after her larger sister.

I giggled at the puppy dog eyes.

A ratspider edged ever closer, it's beady eyes tasting my compatriot.

I gripped my cleaver and recalled Vog's oath–the tirade of rage tightened into hate. I modified it slightly. In the vilest tones of urgan and krolesh , I swore an oath of protection–I would destroy any threat to my ward.

I knelt and pounced on the spider, leaping from a crouch and coming down on three of the spider's legs.

I dove for my prize, enough to fuel the fire inside my ribs.

The spider scurried out of reach as the black-shelled leg bits oozed green in my grasp.

My skin crawled as the grotesque thing I had done stained my hands. I looked up at the glaring spider, so accusing the scores of eyes. My wrath betrayed me. Had I been any better—looking only to feed my own hunger as I swatted at them, needing that excuse, the hungry rage to actually strike. I dropped my head.

But guilt did not feed me, and sorry did not restore the spider's legs.

I gathered a bit of splinters and odds, counting myself lucky Myrrha wouldn't let me use flint and tinder to make fire. It took a parade-mile to scrounge enough to burn. Then I balanced the morsels, shell and all, on my cleaver and cooked them.

The sticky green substance shriveled. My stomach squirmed and kicked as I held lumps in my hand.

A deserter should be grateful to eat such things.

The angry thump of a soldier's boot trampled my fire. "Burglar varmint, you can't be starting fires. This isn't the Forest-mother's kitchen."

I dropped my meal and hid my cleaver at sight off the dark–blue-clad soldier.

"You wanna burn down the Balthispeare walls? Let in the urgan menace? Is that what you want?"

I looked at him, toe tapping. Bringing the horrors of war to Medusa's maze—the outsider's wrath following me like a plague? Is that what I was about?

"Well, go on, get out of here." He stamped closer. "Get!"

I turned and ran, dragging the weight of my guilt like a ball and chain. I could hardly move.

It didn't matter. I wasn't worth chasing.

When at last I felt safe, I made my way back. I found my meal sitting there—even the rats refused to eat it. Still better than I deserved. I took them in my mouth, chewing and swallowing the bitter, rotten meat. The shells bit into my throat.

When hunger refused to let go my dread ration, the last of my dignity abandoned me. I knelt on the cobblestone, peeling the slimy skin from my cleaver and choking it down as well. Then I sat down and pulled my knees to my chin.

Staring into the stones of the alley, I searched for the moment I went wrong. When had Sigrun shrunk from duty? When had she decided to bring destruction upon everybody? Because there had to be someone, something, to answer for this… unspeakable…. this.