Page 25 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“Really?”
“Not any more than you.”
“Prove it.” I cross my arms.
The soldier considers me, then, with a sigh, lifts his jacket. “This lot don’t bleed like we do.”
His shirt is torn, soaked crimson, revealing a gaping wound beneath. Blood flows freely with each breath—so much blood that he shouldn’t be alive, let alone standing. If I stared enough I think I could see the organ meat beneath.
“What happened to you?” I ask. The gore and the smell of ruined flesh turns my skin gray, and he drops his coat before I gag.
“Hun got me.” He shrugs.
“Hun?”
“The Germans,” the soldier says.
I stare at him blankly. “Why has a German shot you?”
“Christ.” He breathes out, his face softening despite the hard set of his wiry body. “Aren’t you lucky to be oblivious—follow me.”
And when he turns and walks on, God help me, I do.
“Doesn’t your… injury hurt?”
“Injury” seems like too small a word for that carnage, but he moves with speed and determination, like it’s no more than a paper cut.
“Can’t feel it,” he replies curtly, but there’s an almost familiar lack of confidence in his voice that he doesn’t entirely cover.
I give him a small smile. I don’t mean to, but he sounds a little too much like me.
“And why are you helping me?” I ask.
“Can a man not do something out of the goodness of his heart?”
“Generally? No.”
The soldier grimaces. “Fine. There’s this village nearby. Its creatures, they… don’t like me. I’ve tried everything: I’ve played them music, I slayed some monster that was living in their well. Maybe that was a mistake. They don’t have guns, so maybe I scared them. They won’t even let me spend a night at the inn.”
“You want me to sneak you in?”
“No.” The soldier sighs. “I want you to camp on the edge with me.”
“Why?”
“You’ve asked enough questions.”
“Is there a quota?”
Finally, his lips quirk into the bare ghost of a smile. “Yes, and you’ve passed it.”
On we walk, nameless and silent, but at least not alone. I don’t know who the soldier is—or evenwhat—but he keeps the creatures at bay, so he has at least one use. It’s cold comfort. I was an hour behind my sister when we started and now she must be hours ahead. A whole day, maybe. She could have reached the king and entered herself as a champion by now—could already be racing ahead to her own death in Y Lle Tywyll. This is wasting time I could use to catch up with her; but without the soldier, or Neirin, I’m completely vulnerable. The best I can do is stick by the soldier for now, though fear for Ceridwen churns in my stomach. I wonder where Neirin is and why he hasn’t come after me.
We make camp in a grove of pear trees. Lights gather in clusters on the horizon as a nearby village sleepwalks into the end of day.From afar it doesn’t look too different from my Wales. The roofs are slate, the walls are gray, chimneys billow. Distant outlines of figures move between homes and businesses. Perhaps among them there’s a girl like me, but with pointed ears and cat’s eyes, selling bat wings and toad tongues in their general store. I wonder if she’s happy there—I wonder where she dreams of going if she’s not.
The soldier plucks a pear from a tree, tosses it to me, then takes one for himself.
“Eat,” he orders.
