Slight and Shadow (Fate's Forsaken: Book Two) (20 page)

Then she grabbed one of the poisoned knives and held it up to her face. “D’Mere is also a very accomplished alchemist. I don’t know exactly how mindrot works. The poison is useless against humans and mages, but if it’s used on a whisperer … well, the result is rather
crippling
.”

A muscle in Elena’s jaw twitched as she tried to keep her gaze steady.

“Once D’Mere discovered the formula, every weapon in Midlan was tipped with mindrot,” the Dragongirl went on, studying the tiny knife in the dim light. “Some believe that the Kingdom would’ve fallen during the Whispering War, had it not been for D’Mere’s poison.”

Elena’s throat was suddenly very tight. She had to work to keep the confusion from showing on her face. “Fascinating story,” she said, as haughtily as she could. “Now set me free.”

The Dragongirl’s eyes glowed with her smirk. Elena winced when her fingertips brushed the swollen skin above her eye — the wound that Holthan’s fist had left behind.

“There aren’t many people who’ve had the honor of drawing my blood,” the Dragongirl said, taking her hand away to prop her fingers against her busted lip. “You’ve been trained well. I don’t think I’d ever like to meet the fellow who wounded you.”

“Is someone wounded?”

A thin man poked his head into the tent behind the Dragongirl. Elena recognized his voice, and realized this must be the man called Jake.

Except for a bare patch around his spectacles, a tangled mat of hair covered Jake’s entire face. He squinted at Elena’s bruise. “I might be able to fix that …”

He bent towards her, and his stench burned her nose. “Keep your hands off me, mage!” Elena shouted, struggling against her bonds. Anger flooded her limbs. If she could reach him, she’d rip his filthy throat out.

Jake quickly pulled his hand away. “I’m — I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t realize —”

“Don’t apologize to her. You’ve done nothing wrong,” the Dragongirl said firmly, though she kept her sharp eyes on Elena. “If you raise a hand to him, I swear I’ll call down such a fire upon your arse —”

“It’s all right, Kyleigh,” Jake said. He was hunched over to fit inside the tent, and had the long fingers of his hands clenched together. He looked pointedly at the floor. “I’m going to — ah, I’m going to make sure the fire’s still lit.” And he ducked quickly out the door.

The Dragongirl — Kyleigh — watched after him for a moment before she turned back to Elena. She was too weak to fight back when Kyleigh undid her first few shirt buttons and pulled it open. She figured it was too late to hide it, anyways. She flinched as Kyleigh traced the red mark on her chest, the one that looked like a dagger’s scar.

“You
are
a whisperer, then. And your gift is war?”

Elena nodded. She suddenly felt a wave of hot tears pushing at the corners of her eyes, and had to bite her lip to keep them from spilling over.

The Countess had betrayed her. She’d sent her away with knives poisoned with the power to destroy her — and sent her to face an enemy that was well beyond her strength. There was no doubting it, no other way she could possibly explain it.

D’Mere had been trying to get her killed.

It shouldn’t have surprised her. The Countess
was
a liar, after all. Elena would’ve had to use all of her fingers and toes to count the men she’d killed — men that D’Mere had been laughing with just days before. She’d seen the Countess smile as she slipped poison into a glass, or joke as she draped an arm about a merchant’s shoulder … all the while clutching a dagger in her other hand.

Yes, the Countess was a liar. She lied to everyone — even to the King … but for some reason, Elena had never thought the Countess would lie to
her
. She’d never expected this wound, never seen it coming … and she supposed that’s why the old men called it a
dagger in the back
.

But no matter how it stung, Elena was determined not to let Kyleigh see her pain. Tears wouldn’t solve anything. No … there was a better way to settle the score.

Countess D’Mere would have to think very quickly indeed, to keep Elena’s daggers out of her chest.

“Release me,” Elena said. A new plan burned in her veins. She was already thinking about how she would do it, already planning her strokes. “I no longer have a contract to kill you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Kyleigh said with a smirk. But she did as Elena asked: loosening her bonds until she could pull herself free.

“Hand over my weapons.”

“Ask nicely,” Kyleigh countered. And since she was spinning a poisoned knife so effortlessly between her fingers, Elena thought it best to do as she was told. Though she wasn’t happy about it.

“
May
I have my weapons back?”

“Certainly — in the morning,” Kyleigh added, when she reached for them.

Elena glared at her. “I mean to leave tonight.”

“Then you must also mean to be ripped apart and eaten. The poison won’t leave your blood for several more hours,” she explained. “Until your whispering abilities come back, I’m afraid you’ll be just as human as the rest of us. So, unless you want the minceworms to gobble you up …” She jerked her chin across the tent, where she’d arranged the furs into a second bedroll.

Elena knew Kyleigh was right. There was no way she could hope to travel safely without her powers. She didn’t want to share a tent with someone she’d just been trying to murder — it made the air between them a little … uncomfortable. But the strength that usually kept her blood warm was gone, and the night was cold. So she would have to make do.

She curled up reluctantly on the other bedroll, lying on her back — so she could watch the tent’s entrance
and
keep Kyleigh in the corner of her eye. She still didn’t trust the Dragongirl. And the feeling was obviously mutual.

“I plan to keep these,” Kyleigh said, holding up the poisoned knives. “So think carefully before you try to attack me.” She turned over. After a moment, she glanced back. “And if you snore, I’ll make you share a tent with Silas.”

Elena didn’t know who Silas was, but the way Kyleigh grinned made her think that she probably didn’t want to share a tent with him.

Chapter 18

A Giant’s Thanks

One morning, Finks woke the giants with a bellow. He swooped into the barn a little earlier than usual, flinging his whip about him and shrilling that the fields were dry enough for planting — so if they wanted to keep their hides, they’d better move quickly.

Once they’d gotten a few sips of water, Hob led them straight to a shed behind Westbarn. “No pushing, no shoving, and keep your blades pointed to the ground!” he snapped.

Kael thought the mages were being nastier than usual, but for some reason, the giants seemed excited. They grunted animatedly to one another as they crowded around the shed. Soon they were packed together so tightly that Kael feared he might actually be crushed.

Hob fiddled with the shed’s lock for a moment, muttering curses to himself. When he couldn’t get the key to work, he struck it with a spell. The lock fell into his palm, he tugged the doors open — and then had to spring away quickly to keep from getting trampled.

The giants rushed inside, squeezing through the doors so forcefully that the frame groaned in protest. One giant slipped in ahead of the others and emerged a few seconds later wearing a large cloth satchel across his chest. As he pushed his way out, Kael saw that he had a vicious-looking weapon clutched in his hands

He recognized it immediately from the pictures he’d seen in the
Atlas
. It was a giant’s scythe — a weapon with a wooden shaft about the length of a spear and a curved blade at its top. There were worn, leather grips wrapped around the shaft in a couple of places, so that it could be wielded easily with two hands. The blade looked more like a sword than an actual scythe: it stuck straight up from the shaft, bent just enough to catch the backs of wheat.

Or a man’s neck.

Kael imagined that the giants used their scythes for fighting as much as anything else. They warred so often that they’d probably leapt straight from their fields and into battle, so they’d needed a weapon that could fell both foes
and
crops.

With their scythes in hand, the giants looked more alive than Kael had ever seen them. Their backs straightened, and a fierce red burned across their cheeks. The dark rings seemed to fade from under their eyes as they studied their blades for flaws.

As giant after giant emerged from the shed, they smiled at each other — as if they all had a share in the same happiness. Kael watched them grin … and quite suddenly, he felt a pang inside his chest.

He could see them, now — the shadows of the great warriors the giants had once been. He could imagine how they must’ve looked, all lined up together and prepared to defend their lands. They must’ve been a mighty, frightening force. And couldn’t help but wonder how many armies had simply fled at the sight of them.

The crowd of giants shoved Kael forward, sweeping him helplessly into the shed. He took a satchel from a high shelf and grabbed a scythe off the floor. The weighty iron blade made it an impossibly heavy weapon. He wedged the scythe against his chest and stumbled outside as quickly as he could. The blade dragged along the ground behind him, and the satchel hung almost to his knees.

He was well aware of how ridiculous he looked, but the giants’ heckling still burned him. They laughed as he walked by, elbowing their companions and pointing him out, so they’d be sure not to miss him. Their guffaws burned Kael to the tops of his ears. He was furious by the time he reached Brend.

“They’re never going to stop clucking at me, are they?” he blurted out, shooting a glare behind him.

“Probably not,” Brend said with a shrug.

“Why? I’ve pulled my weight, haven’t I? I’ve done the same work as everybody else. I’ve even done some of
their
work — I’ve saved them from a flogging! And this is the thanks I get?”

“Thanks?” Brend shook his head. “A giant never offers thanks
— he settles his debt in deeds. One day, they’ll save
your
hide from a flogging, and it’ll all be ironed out.
Thanks
are only for great debts, a debt that a giant has no other way of repaying. And even at that,” he added with a wink, “most giants would rather die than ever have to give it.”

Kael thought that was ridiculous. But before he could say as much, Declan cut in. “Tie your satchel up like mine,” he said to Kael. He’d just emerged from the crowd and was working a knot into the straps, shortening them to a more manageable length.

Kael mirrored him, tying up his satchel until it hung at his hips. Then Brend led out, and Declan and Kael followed along at his heels.

“Let me see,” Declan said, reaching for Kael’s scythe. He studied it for a moment, his brows bent down tightly. “Hmm, oh that won’t do. You’ve got a chip in your blade.” He handed the weapon back. “I’ll take you to the smith after we finish planting.”

“All right,” Kael said. For once, Declan wasn’t looking at him. In fact, he seemed to be keeping his eyes purposefully on the road. Kael thought he might’ve been acting a little odd. But before he could wonder about it, Brend called out:

“Do you smell that, lads?”

Kael had learned — after a number of unfortunate incidents — to plug up his nose anytime that question was asked. And that went doubly for whenever it was asked by Brend.

“No, no,” he said, laughing. He pointed up the road, where the smoking tower lay only a quarter of a mile in the distance. “They’re baking the bread today.” Brend inhaled so deeply that Kael could see his nostrils flare. “My, that takes me back. It reminds me of my dear, sweet mother …”

“You shouldn’t talk about your mother,” Declan said, prodding him with the butt of his scythe. “You’ll go all misty-eyed, and we’ve still got the wheat to plant today.”

“You’re right,” Brend said thickly. And Kael was shocked to see that there were, indeed, tears welling up in his eyes. “I can’t let the rememberings get the better of me. Someone’s got to make sure you clodders get my wheat planted right!”

On their way to the grain fields, they stopped by Churl’s wagon. The water barrels had been replaced with several barrels of seed. Brend filled his satchel halfway up, and then insisted on filling Declan and Kael’s.

“That ought to get the field covered — you don’t want to waste any of it. Now, come on,” he barked.

Much to Kael’s surprise, Brend was very particular about the wheat. He stood with his arms crossed in front of the field, and would only let certain giants join their team. “Get out of here, Taggart!” he hollered to one fellow who was making his way over. “I don’t want you anywhere near my grains — go plant some turnips!”

Taggart didn’t look at all hurt: he just shrugged and loped off in another direction.

“Cattleraisers,” Brend said with a grunt. “Ham-fisted bumblers if ever there were any. They haven’t got the touch for wheat. And if you start bumbling around,” he added, shaking a finger at Kael, “I’ll send you straight off to plant turnips. Don’t think I won’t.”

Kael promised to do his best not to bumble.

Once their field was full, Brend assigned each giant to a row. Then he swooped down on Kael. “Our wheat grows in batches: the winter stuff’s almost ready to be harvested, so now it’s time to plant the spring seeds,” he said, as he led Kael to a particular line on the field. “This can be your row for the day — the third from the right. Every field we move to, you’ll just stay on this same row. It helps keep us organized. Have you ever planted wheat before? No? I didn’t think so. Look here.”

Brend flipped his scythe over with one hand, so quickly that Kael flinched when the blade hissed by his ear. There were a number of rings carved around the butt of the weapon. He’d thought they were some sort of decoration at first, but the rings were spaced too oddly to be a pattern.

He watched carefully as Brend traced one of the lines with the thick tip of his finger. “This is the mark for spring wheat — it tells you how deep you ought to plant it.” He pushed the butt of the scythe into the moist earth, leaving a small hole in the mound. Then he sprinkled a pinch of seed into the hole and pushed the soil back over it with his foot. “See what I did? You don’t want to press down too hard, now — otherwise you’ll smother the little things.”

Brend made Kael plant several patches — halting his work every now and then to bark that he was doing it all wrong.

“No, no! You’re putting them too close together. You’ll crowd them out.” Then, when Kael began to space them a little further apart: “What are you trying to do — starve us? Give them that much room and we’ll have a scant less than half of what we ought to.”

When Kael finally got it right, Brend was rather pleased. He seemed happier that day than Kael had ever seen him, and he hardly stopped whistling for a moment.

“You were never this excited about plowing,” Kael remarked. Though his planting was as good as anybody else’s, the length of the scythe made it an unwieldy tool. Trying to dig a hole with it was about as comfortable as trying to eat his dinner with a spear.

Brend caught up to him quickly. “That’s because we were plowing the vegetable fields,” he said, as if it should be obvious. “It doesn’t matter how many relatives we have in common: I may be half-Gardener, but I’m all Grainer at heart!”

“Brend Grainer?” Kael said, puzzled by the sound of it. It seemed odd for the giants to take their names from the crops they grew. Though he supposed it was better than having no name at all.

They’d just finished their second field and were moving on to a third when they saw Finks waiting for them. His lips parted in an unsettling grin as they approached.

“My, my — you’re all doing so well today.” And Kael almost expected to see his tongue flick out from between his long teeth as he spoke. “But I think we could do a little better. Let’s play a game.”

Finks’s idea of a game was every bit as wicked as Kael imagined it would be. The giants walked the lines as they had before, but to make things more interesting, Finks trotted along at their backs — and swore he would mercilessly flay whichever one of them walked the slowest. “And I mean to do this properly, little beasts.” He uncoiled his whip and stretched it taut between his hands. “No spells, just the hard bite of leather against your flanks. Let the game begin!”

“Yes, let it,” Brend said. His eyes glinted as he leaned down the line to look at Declan — who nodded ever so slightly. “Pay attention, wee rat: we’re going to play a little game of our own. This one’s yours.” Brend thrust his scythe into the ground, making a low, thumping sound.

Kael had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t exactly have time to think about it. Finks hovered at his back — no doubt hoping that Kael’s shorter stride would keep him well behind the others. And it did.

“Move those scrawny legs, rat!” Finks cried.

His whip came down, and the leather slapped against Kael’s skin. The first blow shocked him: he arched his back away from it and nearly cried out. Then came the second lash, and the third. By the time the fourth blow fell, he was running back for the giants, planting as quickly as he could. But he couldn’t catch up.

He was preparing himself for a fifth blow when he heard Finks laying into some giant down the row from him. He seemed to be struggling to get a hole dug, and his fumbling gave Kael the chance he needed to escape.

His back throbbed furiously where Finks had struck him. He swore he could feel the swollen tracks the whip left behind, rising up against his shirt. His skin stung and burned all at once, like some horrible little bee had gone and dragged its barb across his shoulders. But Kael was more furious than hurt.

His pride stung the worst. It was humiliating to be beaten by someone as evil as Finks — far worse than being struck by a spell. He’d felt defenseless as the whip bit him. The pain did what words could have done, what words
should
have done. The fact that he was beaten instead of ordered back into line made him feel less than human.

It made him feel like an animal.

No wonder the giants were a bit rough around the edges. They’d been whipped for so long that the blows ought to have broken them; they shouldn’t be able to smile. They should’ve lost their pride long ago, given in to the whip — but they hadn’t.

Behind every smile was defiance. Every joke was a rebellion. If Kael had been a slave for seventeen years … well, he didn’t know if he’d still be able to laugh like the giants did. And the next time they heckled him, he didn’t think he would mind it as much.

As they continued down the field, Kael paid more attention to the giants’ game. It didn’t take him long to figure it out: the giants dropped back intentionally, in carefully planned patterns. No sooner did Finks lay into one giant than he would have to run to another, and often to opposite ends of the field. They kept him darting back and forth like a finger across fiddle strings, and each giant only had to take a couple of lashes apiece.

Kael had to admit that it was rather satisfying to hear Finks panting as he charged from line to line. His heavy breathing soon swallowed up his threats, and he could do no more than gasp curses between beatings. After the fourth time he’d sprinted completely across the field, Kael thought for sure that Finks would figure it out — but he never did. Perhaps Kael had misjudged him.