Page 26 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
I shake my head despite my growing hunger pangs. “My dad always said we shouldn’t eat their food.”
He bites a pear. “This is a forest. No one owns the forest.”
“You’re sure?”
“You’re not making it to the king on an empty stomach.”
I shrug in reluctant agreement. “Why camp so close to the village if they don’t like you?”
“The creatures that live in the towns are ordinary. Just like back home, the further you get from civilization, the stranger the things you find in the dark become. You must have realized by now that we can’t see half of what’s going on here.”
I swallow but my mouth remains dry. “We only see them if they want us to.”
“Some of the less… clever ones can’t quite hide themselves. Still, they’re smart enough not to go near the towns, so it’s safer to sleep close by,” he says, then pauses. “And… I like the lights.”
I eat two pears and gather kindling without straying far. I return to our makeshift camp, build a fire. He murmurs his thanks and we huddle on opposite sides of it. The soldier sits too close to the flames but never stops shivering. Shadows dance across his face. One half looks impossibly young, the other old and battle-weary.
He lies down after a while, arms pillowing his head. His longcoat pulls up, revealing the mottled mess of his torso and the knife holstered at his side.
“You have a knife?” I ask, trying not to sound too curious.
He grunts in response. “It’s not pure iron, if that’s where this is going.”
It was. I shrug and make fast work of another pear.
“Can I hold it?” I say around a mouthful.
The soldier ignores me for a moment, then pushes himself up on tired arms and passes the knife to me. It’s a crude weapon, fast-made and ready to kill.
“It’s heavy.”
He pulls up his knees, braces his arms across them. “It should be.”
“Why?” My eyes track to his, but he only gives me his profile.
“You know why.”
Truthfully, I don’t. I probably will later but here, now, I’ve only ever thrown punches and bitten arms to defend myself or my sister.
“How do you use it?” I slice the blade purposefully through the air.
“It’s a bayonet; it can be attached to a rifle,” the soldier explains stiffly. “If the gun fails, you run ’em through.”
“Sharp bit goes in enemy.”
He gives a bitter laugh. The dried crust of red on the blade catches the firelight. This doesn’t feel like a curiosity any more. I set it aside on the grass and neither of us reaches for the hilt.
“I never wanted to fight in the first place,” he says. “When they started losing the war, they sent anyone who could stand.”
“Who’s they?” I ask.
“Kitchener.” He shrugs. “The recruiter. Their king, our king. Every able lad from Llanadwen signed up or got called.”
He’s from Llanadwen. My heart sinks at the realization. He could be related to someone I know, but I can’t bring myself to ask.
“King?” I question.
He meets my eyes, exhaustion evident in his gaze. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he answers anyway.
