A Long Way to Go

Death In Harmony: Part Twenty-One of Twenty-Nine

Death In Harmony is the fifth in the Tales of The Lesser Evil and this is the twenty-first chapter.

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This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

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A Long Way to Go

The Past: east of Youlbridge

The fall to the ground knocked the wind out of Flin, the man landing on top of her, his knife catching in her sleeve. She felt a sharp burn across the inside of her forearm, but the feeling was fleeting, her adrenaline spiking and action overtaking any thought.

Flin had been trained by Rharsle to fight with her knife, the weapon of choice for the performer, easily hidden, swiftly retrieved, excellent in close quarters. It had been one of the earliest lessons they had shared and, at first, Flin had questioned why she needed it: surely the entertainer was sacrosanct, safe from common violence? Rharsle had laughed in response, explaining that the stories of the Merries and Mirths being safe from common violence were just that—stories—and stories made up by the performers themselves, to try and add a layer of protection, make people think they would be cursed if they harmed them. But it was an attempted blanket of safety, which did not always work.

Barely two months later, they had been set upon after leaving the inn where they had performed. There had been two men, each wearing a scarf over his face, each carrying a thick cudgel, intent on relieving them of their pay, their tips, and their savings.

One man had fled after the other had been taught the error of his ways, left bleeding on the ground, clutching a wound in his side and ignoring the slash across his face, his lung making a strange bubbling sound. The scarf had fallen, revealing the face of a man who had not only been in the crowd, but had laughed, called requests, danced, sang, and tipped as much as anyone else.

‘Now we run. The fight is not the most dangerous part Flin, it is the flight which is full of risk. We train with the knife, we injure or kill, then we run.’ Rharsle’s words were still seared into her head, the memory fresh.

‘Why run? They attacked us! We should go for help!’

‘We run because of who they are. They are local men, perhaps a butcher or a farmer, maybe a cobbler or even a town guard. We stay, we are as good as dead, hung for attacking someone who has lived here all their life, at best. I had friends who died, tortured and screaming, or stoned by an angry mob, when their only crime was to be robbed by a local man and then ask for help. Now, get the horse. We run!’

Flin knew that the thing about training, whether with a blade, a fiddle, or a drum, is that if you do it often enough, it is instinctive, muscle memory, action simply happens whether you want it or not.

She rolled out from under the man, who was now gasping, drowning, trying to pull breaths into a punctured lung through a throat bubbling with blood. She had only missed his heart because he had twisted, trying to free his own, snagged blade.

She was covered in blood, most of it not hers. The adrenaline was still fierce and she knew she had to keep moving before it wore off and she crashed. She staggered back to the other man and retrieved her arrow, pushing it and pulling through the wound in his throat. He was already dead, blood soaking away into the soil to feed new life, his sightless eyes staring in surprise at the smoky sky.

Flin rifled through his clothes and pouches, taking his purse, a green stone amulet in the shape of a stylised fish hook, a small ball of twine, and his supply of charcloth. In her experience, you could never have enough tinder or cordage. The rest of his meagre possessions and clothes, she left. She was well-supplied, ready for a long journey, and her gear was better, her clothes stronger and thicker.

The tall man had still not died when she returned to him, already beginning to experience the shaking plummet that came with the adrenaline wearing off. He had his teeth bared at her, red with his own blood, twisted into a mockery of a smile.

‘They…’ he began and started coughing, a fresh trickle of blood escaping, running down his cheek. ‘They will find you. They know we left to track you after you left the mole people. You are dead, the baby worse than dead, the things she does... They, she…’ he coughed again, and this time the blood was thicker, the flow stronger.

‘Rest. Go to sleep,’ Flin said, picking up the man’s blade, before pushing it into his neck with both her hands, and stepping back.

He did not speak again.

She wiped the steel on his clothes, even as his heels still scratched at the ground. It was a good knife, well balanced, with strong and thick steel, the pinned handle some sort of fancy striped wood she did not recognise.

Men say many things when they die and, in Flin’s experience, much of it either about their mothers, or nonsense. Yet she felt deep unease at his final words, they did not sound like a boast or threat, they felt real. She remembered what they had said about a woman, back in the tunnels, about keeping Kadan alive, having a use for him. The thought was unsettling.

She watched as he bled out, eyes glazing, heels stilling. Then she undid his belt to retrieve the sheath for the knife. This one, she would keep. She also emptied his purse, lighter than the other man’s, noticing he also carried an identical stone amulet, which she tucked away with the other in her fire kit. Hanging beside the sheath was a small sewing kit, contained within a bone tube. The knife and the tube she placed on her own waist, before standing and walking over to Kadan.

Flin paused and turned, the sewing kit had given her an idea. She returned to the corpse, he was wearing a good woollen coat, dyed a reddish purple, with fine antler buttons and leather edging. She doubted it had been made for him. There was a new hole in the chest and the top part was soaked with fresh blood, but at least the colour would not be ruined. The mountainous passes of the Templelands would be cold, and yet more wool seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Kadan would need new clothes before they made it to the lowlands on the other side: the buttons, the leather, and the wool would be perfect. She rolled it up and tied it tightly with the twine she had also taken.

A sharp stab of pain reminded her the man had caught her with his blade—her new blade. She checked her arm and poked at the wound. It had not caught any vein, but it was long and deep enough to leave a scar. Once she had returned to Kadan, her pack and medical supplies, she took out her flask and carefully poured the last of her water over some sphagnum, wiping the cut clean, squeezing the moss over the wound, before carefully binding and tying off the bandage with her teeth. It would definitely scar, but it was not her first and, she thought, it was unlikely to be her last.

Kadan was awake but silent, his eyes searching, fixed on her motions. He held out a hand and Flin picked him up, cradling him close, suddenly overwhelmed with love. They needed to find somewhere to rest, to refill her water and pause until night, but she also knew she should put some distance between them and the two corpses.

‘What do you think, Kadan? Shall we continue this way, or try and find some shelter down nearer the river?’ As usual, the baby did not reply. ‘Right. Fine. We’ll go down to the river as soon as we find a safe route, we need water anyway.’

Flin fed the baby and herself, trying to shake off the exhausted sickness of the adrenaline depletion, mixed with a lack of sleep and over-exertion. Some dried fruit and a handful of nuts helped and, as she packed up her belongings to leave, she finally allowed herself to consider that they might make it, escape from the plague, the fire, from anyone who wanted to do them harm.

The sky overhead still swirled with smoke, reminding her they had a long way to go before she would feel truly safe.

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