Stepsister(27)

“And if I don’t, I’ll starve. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in weeks. I’m a soldier in the king’s army and I’m hungry,” the man said righteously.

“What kind of soldier leaves his barracks to steal chickens?”

“Are you calling me a liar, girl?” the man asked, taking a menacing step towards her.

“And a deserter,” said Isabelle, holding her ground.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “And if I am, what of it? We are led to battle like lambs to the slaughter. Volkmar knows the king’s every move before the king himself knows it. The others can die if they wish. Not me.”

“You can take a few eggs if you’re hungry,” Isabelle said, adamant. “Put the sack down.”

The man laughed. He nodded at the pitchfork behind him. “Or what? Or you’ll come after me with that rusty tool you’ve been eyeing? Have you even held a tool before today?” He took another step towards her and with a leer said, “How’d you like to hold mine?”

“Go. Now. Or you’ll be sorry,” Isabelle said, ignoring his ugly joke.

“I’m taking four chickens. That’s how it will be,” he said.

Fury flared in Isabelle. Her mother and sister were not going to go hungry so this thief could gorge himself. But what could she do? He was standing directly in front of the pitchfork now, blocking her access to it.

I need a weapon, she thought, looking around desperately. A rake, a shovel, anything.

Remembering her clasp knife, she dropped the egg basket she was still holding and plunged her hand into her pocket. A pain, sharp and startling, nipped at her fingers. She gave a small cry, but the deserter, who’d gone back into the coop, didn’t hear her.

She pulled her hand out of her pocket and saw that her pointer and index fingers were sliced across the tips and bleeding. Stretching her pocket wide, she peered inside it, thinking that the knife must have come open, but no. An object, white, slender, and smeared with her blood, jutted up at her. She realized it was the jawbone Tanaquill had given her. She pulled it out of her pocket and saw that its tiny teeth were what had cut her. With a screech, the angled portion of the jaw suddenly straightened in her hand, making her gasp. The end that had hinged to the animal’s skull fattened into a hilt. The other end lengthened into a blade, its edge serrated with the razor-like teeth.

To her astonishment, Isabelle found that she was holding a sword, one that was finely balanced and lethal. As she was marveling at the weapon, the man reemerged from the chicken coop. Immediately, she advanced on him. “You’re going to put my hens down and leave. That’s how it’s going to be,” she said.

He looked up, laughing, but his laughter died when he saw the fearsome sword in her hand. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

But Isabelle was in no mood for questions. She struck at him, and the blade bit, opening a gash in his arm. He yelped and dropped the sack.

“That was for Bertrand,” Isabelle said. Her blood was no longer running cold. She felt like she had fire in her veins.

The man pressed his palm to the wound. When he pulled it away, it was crimson. He raised his eyes to Isabelle’s. “You’re going to pay for that,” he snarled.

“Isabelle? What’s going on? Is that … is that Bertrand? What happened to him?”

“Stay back, Tavi,” Isabelle warned. Her sister had picked the wrong moment to appear.

“Get out of here. Go,” she said to the man, keeping her sword trained on him. When he didn’t move, she charged at him again. He stepped back just in time. Slowly, he raised his hands. “All right,” he said. “You win.”

He’s leaving, Isabelle thought. Thank goodness.

Which was exactly what he wanted her to think.

Isabelle had been so outraged to discover a man raiding the coop, she hadn’t noticed the satchel in the grass a few feet away or the sword lying next to it. The man lunged for his sword, pulled it free of its scabbard, and turned to face her, his weapon drawn.

Fear sluiced down Isabelle’s spine like cold rain through a gutter. Her nerve almost gave way. He had been a soldier in the king’s army, trained in the use of a sword. She had dueled with Felix. As a child. With a mop handle.

“I’m going to slice you to bits. When I’m finished with you, the vultures will carry you off, piece by piece. What do you say to that, you stupid little bitch?”

Isabelle swallowed hard. Deep inside her, the wolf, asleep under her heart for so long, opened his eyes.

She hefted her sword and stared the man down. “I say, en garde.”





Thirty-One


There are those who believe that fear is an enemy, one that must be avoided at all costs.

They run at its first stirrings. They seek shelter from the storm inside the house only to get crushed when the roof falls in.

Fear is the most misunderstood of creatures. It only wants the best for you. It will help you if you let it. Isabelle understood this. She listened to her fear and let it guide her.

He’s faster than you! it shouted as the chicken thief rushed her. So she retreated under low-hanging tree branches, that scratched his face and poked his eyes, slowing him.

He’s stronger than you! her fear howled. So she led him over the tree’s knobby roots, and made him trip.