“Tracing the path his murderers had taken proved little challenge. I had spent the prior century tracking game through the woods. And the hooves of their war-chargers had torn up the forest floor like plough-shares.
“Their trail led to a tavern between realms. Outside stood the three war-chargers I’d tracked, their bridles—one of silver cord, one of copper chain, and one of leather riveted with pewter—all tied to low-hanging branches as they awaited their masters. Inside, fae from all courts gathered to exchange tales and share drink. On this particular eve I threw its door wide to find three knights amongst the throng—one in silver scale, another in copper chain, and a third in a pewter-studded gambeson. They’d discarded their suits of armour—silver, copper, pewter—in piles around the bench on which they caroused. They’d removed their helmets and wore instead leather masks wrought by Larkin’s own hands, looted from our home.” Shrike found his fingers trembled with rage just as they’d done on the very night he spoke of. “I strode to their bench and told them I intended to avenge Larkin’s murder. The silver knight smiled to hear it.
“I carved a second smile into his throat.”
A stifled gasp escaped Wren’s lips. Yet he did not speak. Nor did he move to withdraw from Shrike’s embrace. Shrike waited to hear him draw breath again before he continued his tale.
“The silver knight fell. The copper knight and pewter knight leapt to take up arms. Surprise had taken me as near to victory as it could. From thereon out I depended on skill and luck. More of the latter. In a fair fight with either I should have fallen. Yet in the tavern on that night I had some advantage. For one, all the knights had shed their armour to carouse. For another, they’d already caroused for some hours before I found them, and now they fought from deep within their cups. And thirdly, I wielded weapons of iron—and few tournaments are fought with scythes.
“None else in the tavern came to the knights’ aid, nor mine. The copper knight fell beneath Larkin’s scythe soon enough. The pewter knight stood longer. Long enough for their longsword to force the scythe from my hands. Yet as they lunged to strike me, Larkin’s dagger found its way into their heart.”
Shrike paused to hear what Wren thought of this. Wren said nothing. But nor did he withdraw from Shrike, so Shrike went on.
“Having defeated the three knights, I claimed their steeds, armour, and weaponry as my rightful spoils. None moved to prevent me, just as none had moved to interfere in the fight. I brought my spoils home to what remained of our hovel, though I could ill bear the sight of them. I slept in the burnt ruin. I awoke to find briars had grown all around me. Rings within rings of tangled thorns encircled me in a labyrinth of my own grief. And the well-spring beneath, from which we drew our water, had transformed into a scalding geyser of my howling rage. Thus this patch of forest became Blackthorn Briar. This very cottage stands over the ruin of Larkin’s hut.
“At the next Moon Market I bartered my ill-gotten gains away. If tales carried from the tavern that fateful night hadn’t already sealed my reputation amongst the folk, bringing bloodied arms and armour to the Moon Market did. For the first time folk took notice of me—not for my or Larkin’s craft, but for what havoc I could wreak. The blood has never ceased flowing. I threw myself into the Wild Hunt, seeking a channel to draw off my rage. There I met Nell, and others, who understood somewhat. All have their own reasons for joining the Hunt. Through this all heard of my talent for bloodshed. Despite my craft, my garden, and my flocks, it seems the fates have formed me for death and death alone. Perhaps my fellow fledglings sensed this in me and hence shoved me out of the nest. Ever since the night of Larkin’s murder, I’m called Butcher by all who care to know me. Save you.”
Silence fell. Shrike waited for Wren to withdraw. He wouldn’t blame him for it. Not after he knew what blood soaked Shrike’s hands.
But when Wren moved at last, it was only to turn his head to press a kiss to the inside of Shrike’s wrist and entrust his cheek to the care of Shrike’s palm. His arm twined ‘round Shrike’s collar in a hold as strong as the stout branch of an oak and as gentle as a summer breeze over-turning a leaf. Far better than Shrike deserved.
He had failed to protect Larkin.
He refused to falter in his quest to protect Wren.
~
“Butcher!”
Wren bolted upright from Shrike’s nest-bed. Morning had broken. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams streaming into the cottage. Shrike lay beside him and seemed altogether far less alarmed at the rude awakening than Wren felt.
“Nell,” Shrike muttered in reply to Wren’s confused glance. He rolled over and arose to don his tunic, hose, and boots in a remarkably lackadaisical fashion.
Knocks fell like hammer blows on the cottage door. Wren hastened to follow Shrike’s example. Waistcoat, trousers, and boots he donned easily enough, but he couldn’t reach his frock coat before Shrike went for the door, leaving him standing in bare shirtsleeves when Shrike let Nell in.
Despite being the first female to see Wren in such a state since his father had dismissed his childhood nursemaid, Nell didn’t appear appalled or astonished in the least as she looked him up and down. One hand she kept on the hilt of the arming-sword at her waist. The other gripped the strap of her quiver with her unstrung bow slung over her shoulder alongside it. “Good morrow, Lofthouse. Butcher.”
“What brings you here?” Shrike asked with more calm than Wren possessed.
“Beltane.” She shot another significant glance at Wren.
“You’ve heard, then,” said Shrike.
“Aye,” she replied. “I come to offer my bow and quiver to the Oak and Holly King. I think you may at last have encountered a predicament which a well-placed arrow might solve.”
“A tempting offer,” said Shrike, echoing Wren’s own thoughts. “But there may yet be some course for us to pursue before we come to that.”
Nell’s mouth twisted up one side in a doubtful expression. Yet all she replied was, “Very well. What would you have of me instead?”
“Find a duelling master,” said Shrike. “One willing to instruct in the art of the blade—”
“I’m not going to fight you,” Wren snapped.
Nell raised her brows and shot an enquiring glance at Shrike.
But Shrike’s solemn gaze remained fixed on Wren. “I know. But for us both to survive the coming solstice, it may prove necessary for you to defend yourself. If you cannot bear to raise your hand against me then I must find another worthy opponent to teach you.”
“Fine,” Wren conceded.
