The Drowned Woods (13)

“You sweet on the lass?” asked the Blaidd, amused. He shrugged. “Who am I to deny a man a chance to fight?”

Fane licked his lip again, and the taste of fresh copper filled his mouth. “Leave the ring now,” he said. “Let this end here.”

The Blaidd let out a bellow of a laugh. “This will end here.” He reached for Fane’s shirt, trying to seize hold of him.

There was no choice.

There were no heroes.

There was only Fane.

For the first time since entering the fights, Fane threw a blow and let it land.

His knuckles barely grazed the Blaidd’s cheek—a whisper of scratchy beard across his skin—but it was enough for the magic to take hold.

It was like cracking a joint: There was the sensation of pressure being released, almost a relief, and then the world seemed to fall away. There was no fighting ring, no crowds, no bets, no shouting, no hum of iron against his skin. There was only muscle and bone, blood and sinew.

The Blaidd tried to hit him again, but Fane ducked beneath the strike easily, seized hold of the other man’s arm, and yanked him closer. It had the twofold effect of knocking the Blaidd off balance and getting close enough to drive three blows into the man’s injured ribs. He felt the bones give way, and there was a bellow of pain so loud it made Fane’s ears ring.

The pain made the Blaidd angry, made him reckless. He hunched around his injured side, preparing to fight back.

This was the difference between them all.

Blodeuyn liked to fight. The Blaidd liked to kill.

But Fane was death itself.

And the power had hold of him now.

Fane gave himself over to it. He was little more than a puppet on strings, his body an instrument for a will not his own. He felt the blows land—but he felt them from a distance, from some place that was not himself. For a few moments, he closed his eyes. He did not have to observe the breaking of bones nor the taste of sweat across his lips nor the slickness against his fingers. He tried to ignore the sensations, tried to summon up other memories: the scent of damp oak leaves and the pleasant smoke of a wood fire, the taste of forest berries and the touch of smooth fingers pushing his dirty hair away from his forehead. And the whispered bargain that had forever changed him.

Seven years of service for seven human lives.

He had taken two lives—this would be his third.

When Fane opened his eyes, the match was done.

And so was the Blaidd.

The big man lay in a heap on the ground—and he drew no breath.

Fane’s whole body ached. His nose was bleeding, although he couldn’t remember the Blaidd hitting him. Fane’s knuckles were split and his lungs overfull. He exhaled hard, trying to steady himself. This was the part he hated most. He hated returning to himself after the curse had taken hold. It was like returning to a town that had been ransacked: He had to take stock of the damage, of how much of himself was taken and what could be repaired.

Fane rose to his full height and realized for the first time that the building was utterly quiet. There was no shouting, no jeering, no cries of encouragement, and no clink of coin. Fane walked to the bookmaker. She cringed away from him, as far as she could go on her stool. Her eyes were downcast and she wouldn’t look at him as he reached down and picked up both Blodeuyn’s and the Blaidd’s wagers. It added up to a fair amount. Fane took it all, strode back to Blodeuyn, and dropped his winnings beside her. “For your miller cousin,” he said quietly.

Blodeuyn looked up at him. She held herself rigid—from pain, and likely, fear. She feared him. That hurt more than Fane expected, but he couldn’t hold it against her.

The crowds parted before him like fields before a strong breeze. Fane walked through them, eyes ahead and shoulders straight.

“Other-touched,” someone whispered.

“Not right,” came another soft voice.

“Not human.”

“Killed the Blaidd like it was nothing—”

“—not right—”

The whispers built and built, a crescendo rising through the building. Fane quickened his step. It wouldn’t do for any of the Blaidd’s friends to realize how exhausted he was, how vulnerable. His magic would not protect him against a knife in the back.

He stepped out into the night.

At this late hour, the streets were quiet. Fog caught and held the moonlight, casting the city into hues of silver. There were a few people leaving and arriving at the fights—mostly those with unsteady gaits and hoods drawn up to hide their faces. Three people sat across the street on fallen ale barrels, sharing a pipe.

A soft shuffling sound made Fane look down sharply. There was someone waiting for him. Well, perhaps someone was too strong a word. The dog had four short legs and when he was standing, the tips of his pointed ears barely brushed Fane’s knee. He’d been sleeping in the shadow of an empty rain barrel, his chin tucked against his paws.

Upon seeing Fane, the corgi stood and began wagging his tail in glee. “You better not have stolen anyone’s boots while I wasn’t around to stop you,” Fane murmured, leaning down to rub the dog’s ears. Trefor merely licked his hand in answer.

One of the smoking men glanced at the dog and gave Fane a dark look. “What are you playing at?” he snapped. “You want to bring the wrath of the otherfolk down on our heads? Why’d you bring one of their spies into town?”