Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

36 Traitor

    'This way,' Avétk growled, and the boy stopped in his tracks, looking paler, frightened.

    'Aren't we going to the city?'

    'The Mage said we must walk this way, Brushä.' Fathers, what a pity this youth had to die. Avétk'd thought they'd connected in the cave, talking about women and love n' all.

    Färin patted the kid's shoulder, turning him down into the woods while Avétk awaited them. 'Come on, boy. The Mage knows best.'

    A little guilt sprouted where Avétk's heart should have been. This didn't feel altogether right, killing a little boy still at the freshest moment of his youth, with such potential in him. Another curiosity was why the Mage insisted they tie him to a specific tree deeper in, about five minutes' walk from the main way. That was strange indeed. But, Avétk didn't ask questions. That would be foolish.

    As the Mage had said it, so it would be done. For all he knew, there was some sort of magic involved in all this still. Maybe the ligt had something to do with it. Right then he decided he would smash the things at the first opportunity he got.

    Five minutes passed too quickly. How were they going to go about this?

    Avétk met Färin's eyes, hoping that the lordling could tell something was coming. 'Let's take a break ey?'

    Färin nodded. The three sat at the roots of a great grey oak, and Färin broke a loaf for them to share. 'Jus takin' a piss,' Avétk mumbled, walking to the other side of the tree. All he was really doing was stalling until he could think how he would tie the child to the tree without too much of a fuss.

    Liquids from his body splashed onto the soil and he stared at nothing. There was no way to get around this; he'd just have to do things the hard way. 'Färin,' he said as he walked back round and sat with them. 'Do ya know how t' fight?'

    'Of course,' he said, rolling his shoulders, 'my father is the Lord of Skävia. It's in my damned blood.'

    Ah yes, now Avétk could place the arrogance. This man was not only a lord's son, he was the lord of the all the lords in the North's son—ruler of North Öldeim. Either way, he had the feeling that all of Thelön's kingdom was about to break open when he confronted this boy.

    Avétk nodded and took out his dagger. The boy flinched, but Avétk put the knife to the crusty loaf of hard bread, carving out a chunk for himself slowly. As he chewed, the tension built and each of them looked at the other but did not make eye contact. He'd procrastinated enough.

    With a quick sweep of his arm, he pulled Brushä into a choke hold, the dagger at his throat. 'Wait,' Brushä yelled and thrust his hands into the air, one clutching the strobing ligt. 'What the...' Färin leapt to his feet, his hands out ready to do something, but the lordling was unsure of himself. Perhaps at another time Avétk would've had a laugh at his expense, but he was not the sort for that kind of thing in moments like these.

    'Against the tree,' Avétk said, 'and make it slow kid.' Brushä complied, and Avétk kept the knife at his throat. 'Get the rope,' he said to Färin. After a moment's hesitation, Färin complied.

    'I hope you know what you're doing, warrior.'

    Avétk spat in the dirt. Bloody rich folk knew nothing about the way things worked.

    'Come hold the knife,' he said. The hilt slipped easy into Färin's soft hands, and Avétk wound the rope around the tree, looping it around Brushä's hands and feet, and pulling it as tight as it would go.