weight of guilt.
Father …
She went back to sleep and had no more dreams.
*
In the morning, they arose and readied themselves for the journey. The farmer let Khale take one of his horses. Milanda felt bad for the man and his family. They looked terrified for their lives, but Khale had listened to Milanda. No lives had been lost or taken here. They would go on and leave these people in peace.
She saw the boy coming at her from around the side of the barn.
He clutched a small axe in his sweaty hand, and his face was drawn but his eyes shone, determined. As he ran through the thin grass, he made slightly less noise than the wind of an oncoming storm. Her legs became stone, and she could not move.
She did not know what to do.
The eyes of the family were calm.
Milanda watched Khale’s sword come unslung, and then he was turning with the blade flowing outwards like a part of his arm. She heard the screams of the mother and sisters. She saw the look of horror on the farmer’s face.
This boy should have been sitting at the table last night. It had been his bowl of broth that was abandoned. He might have slain her in the night, if Khale had not sat on guard.
Milanda felt a sickness gathering in her gut as the scene before her came to an end. Khale’s blow bit deep into skull, crushing bone and driving its splinters into soft brain. The boy stumbled and fell, empty-eyed, dead before he hit the ground. The spasms his body gave out were those of nerves hardening into paralysis. There was the smell of piss and faeces as his frail body emptied itself one last time.
The mother’s cries split the damp morning air.
Khale did not move as the mother, then father, then sisters came rushing to their fallen kin. They cradled him in their arms with the gentleness given to a newborn—and newborn he was, to the realm of the dead. Milanda looked at the corpse and the family. She was shaking and felt like she could not stop shaking.
“You knew he was there,” she said to Khale. “You knew he was going to come at me. You didn’t need to kill him.”
“Life kills, not I,” Khale said. “He made his choice. They all did. They would have seen us dead in the night and buried our bodies where none could find them. A boy should not try to be a man before his time, if he wants to live to be a man. His father should have known that, taught him better.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“No, I didn’t, but I did,” Khale said. “Never forget who I am, girl. Most killers are made, I was born this way.”
Chapter Sixteen
Khale and Milanda travelled on towards Traitors’ Gap. The going was much easier on horseback. The farmer’s family had not protested as Khale took some small provisions for themselves and the steed. As they passed through the decayed ruins of villages, where the eyes of starved skulls watched them from the dirt, Milanda found herself glad of the dry, salted meat and water-bags though she hated the way it had all been taken.
Hunger made the horse’s feed smell good, at times.
The wild grass wore away to withered land. Everything seemed layered in coatings of red and yellow grit that danced in the wind’s fingers.
They pressed on. Khale told her there were people out here who filed their teeth, so they would not need to cut the meat they caught. And that the meat they caught was that of travellers and lost wanderers. Out here, there were none of the few laws that governed the Small Kingdoms. This stretch of barren land was a boundary between the Small Kingdoms and what lay beyond the mountains. If all of the barons, lords, and kings knew there were worse things waiting out there, they never said so, but still they left this nameless strip of desolation unmolested.
The old legends held that the mountains were ancient pillars, keeping the skies of the world from falling down on its peoples’ heads. And the same legends said that beyond the heights and weather-carved wynds of the mountains
Father …
She went back to sleep and had no more dreams.
*
In the morning, they arose and readied themselves for the journey. The farmer let Khale take one of his horses. Milanda felt bad for the man and his family. They looked terrified for their lives, but Khale had listened to Milanda. No lives had been lost or taken here. They would go on and leave these people in peace.
She saw the boy coming at her from around the side of the barn.
He clutched a small axe in his sweaty hand, and his face was drawn but his eyes shone, determined. As he ran through the thin grass, he made slightly less noise than the wind of an oncoming storm. Her legs became stone, and she could not move.
She did not know what to do.
The eyes of the family were calm.
Milanda watched Khale’s sword come unslung, and then he was turning with the blade flowing outwards like a part of his arm. She heard the screams of the mother and sisters. She saw the look of horror on the farmer’s face.
This boy should have been sitting at the table last night. It had been his bowl of broth that was abandoned. He might have slain her in the night, if Khale had not sat on guard.
Milanda felt a sickness gathering in her gut as the scene before her came to an end. Khale’s blow bit deep into skull, crushing bone and driving its splinters into soft brain. The boy stumbled and fell, empty-eyed, dead before he hit the ground. The spasms his body gave out were those of nerves hardening into paralysis. There was the smell of piss and faeces as his frail body emptied itself one last time.
The mother’s cries split the damp morning air.
Khale did not move as the mother, then father, then sisters came rushing to their fallen kin. They cradled him in their arms with the gentleness given to a newborn—and newborn he was, to the realm of the dead. Milanda looked at the corpse and the family. She was shaking and felt like she could not stop shaking.
“You knew he was there,” she said to Khale. “You knew he was going to come at me. You didn’t need to kill him.”
“Life kills, not I,” Khale said. “He made his choice. They all did. They would have seen us dead in the night and buried our bodies where none could find them. A boy should not try to be a man before his time, if he wants to live to be a man. His father should have known that, taught him better.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“No, I didn’t, but I did,” Khale said. “Never forget who I am, girl. Most killers are made, I was born this way.”
Chapter Sixteen
Khale and Milanda travelled on towards Traitors’ Gap. The going was much easier on horseback. The farmer’s family had not protested as Khale took some small provisions for themselves and the steed. As they passed through the decayed ruins of villages, where the eyes of starved skulls watched them from the dirt, Milanda found herself glad of the dry, salted meat and water-bags though she hated the way it had all been taken.
Hunger made the horse’s feed smell good, at times.
The wild grass wore away to withered land. Everything seemed layered in coatings of red and yellow grit that danced in the wind’s fingers.
They pressed on. Khale told her there were people out here who filed their teeth, so they would not need to cut the meat they caught. And that the meat they caught was that of travellers and lost wanderers. Out here, there were none of the few laws that governed the Small Kingdoms. This stretch of barren land was a boundary between the Small Kingdoms and what lay beyond the mountains. If all of the barons, lords, and kings knew there were worse things waiting out there, they never said so, but still they left this nameless strip of desolation unmolested.
The old legends held that the mountains were ancient pillars, keeping the skies of the world from falling down on its peoples’ heads. And the same legends said that beyond the heights and weather-carved wynds of the mountains
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