“You’re his son. I’m sure he’ll see your strengths.” March thought this was probably true. Though Edyon seemed naive, he was also intelligent, charming, and patient. March had had to wait on many worse gentlemen.
Anyway, said the hard voice in his head, he’ll never meet his father, so what does it matter?
March slowed to let Edyon go ahead, so that he could avoid continuing the conversation, and that’s when he thought he felt something.
He stopped. What was that?
He took a step back.
And then another.
The something he felt was warmer.
The forest was cold and still, but here it definitely felt warmer. He looked up, wondering if the sun had broken through the clouds, but it was as overcast as ever. He was in a small, natural clearing, and he was standing at the bottom of a slight hollow in the ground. Edyon was well ahead now. March wanted to call to him, but shouting wasn’t a good thing. He looked around, trying to work out if anything else was different, and a piece of wood began to slide from the top of his pile. March tilted it to try to prevent it from falling, but his arms were tired, the wood was heavy, and it fell to the ground. March bent his knees, keeping his back straight, but as he fumbled for it another piece fell and as he swung the pile round the rest of it toppled out of his arms.
He looked up. Edyon had stopped and was watching him. March swore. He held his arms open to indicate this is ridiculous and then bent down to retrieve the wood—and felt the warmth again, but stronger now, on his face and hands. He put his palm on the ground, and was surprised to find it was as warm as skin. And it seemed like the ground had a glow to it, a red tinge to the earth and dead leaves.
He looked up at Edyon and wanted to tell him. But tell him what? And then he realized.
The red tinge. The warmth.
“Oh shit.”
March looked up at Edyon and didn’t know if he should shout or run or stay still. In the end, he moved slowly, almost tiptoeing out of the hollow, and when he was clear of it he ran to Edyon, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him along, saying, “Let’s get away from here.”
“What is it?” Edyon was going slowly and looking back.
“I don’t know, but I think it might be something to do with demons.”
Edyon picked up his pace and ran.
Holywell had stopped a short distance ahead and was looking at them.
“What’s up? Where’s the wood?”
“I think there are demons here,” March blurted.
Holywell looked around. March did too. And so did Edyon.
Everything was as still and silent as ever.
“Demons or not, we need to keep moving.” Holywell nodded to the rock face to his right. “This place is too enclosed.”
Edyon pointed to the rocks, eyes wide. “Something just moved there. Something red.”
March snatched his harpoon back from Edyon, his eyes fixed on the rocks, but he saw no movement. No sign of any demon.
Holywell muttered, “March, keep your eyes behind us. We’re going to keep going, but slow.” He was holding his harpoon back, ready to throw. “Stay alert. And stay close.”
March did as he was told, his heart racing.
They’d only gone a few paces when Edyon shouted, “There!”
March spun and Holywell was unleashing his harpoon at a figure who’d stepped out from behind a tree. The man dodged. Holywell didn’t. And suddenly there was a spear in his chest, the dripping point poking out of his back.
Edyon yelped as Holywell dropped to his knees. The weight of the spear pulled him forward and he fell onto his side. Unmoving. Dead.
March looked up to the rock face as a second spear came toward him. Then Edyon slammed into him, knocking him out of the weapon’s path. March staggered and raised his harpoon. One man was standing on the top of the rocks; the other—the one Holywell had seen—was down at his level. They both had scarlet hair and were holding long knives. The one on the rocks jumped down and they both moved forward.
March backed away. These were sheriff’s men, excellent shots with their spears and probably good fighters with their knives.
“Stay near me. Don’t let them get close,” he said to Edyon quietly.
“H-Holywell’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“What do we do?”
“I’m trying to think. They haven’t got any more spears. If we stay together, we look stronger. Hold your harpoon up.”
“Yes. I won’t run. I’ll stay with you.”
“It’s two against two. We have harpoons. Make them count.”
The men were approaching slowly. March knew his chances of hitting them with his harpoon were low, and Edyon’s were, well . . . Still he said, “You can do it, Edyon. Remember how we practiced.”
“This is crazy,” said Edyon. “I can’t throw.” And he dropped his harpoon.
“What? No!”
Edyon took a step forward, arms in the air, saying quietly to March, “You throw. I’ll talk.”
EDYON
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
EDYON KNEW that he couldn’t fight. He couldn’t hit one of these men with a harpoon even if they stood still directly in front of him. He couldn’t throw, but he could talk.
“I’m Edyon. Son of Prince Thelonius of Calidor.” He opened his jacket and pulled out his gold neck-chain. “This is proof of who I am and who my father is. If you attack me, you attack Calidor.”
The men stopped and looked uncertain. The older one said, “You’re wanted for murder, whoever your father is.”
“I’ve murdered no one. Nor has my man, March. And yet we have been attacked by you without warning.”
“You’re in forbidden territory. I don’t need to give warnings, but I’ll give you this one now: if you don’t surrender, we’ll attack again. Get your man to drop his weapon.”
“So that you can kill us like you’ve killed my other servant? I think not. Perhaps you can lower your weapons first. As a sign of goodwill.”
The older man shook his head. Thick scars traced his jaw; he didn’t look like a man to show or expect leniency. “That will not happen, sir. I’m here with the sheriff’s authority. But if you are who you say you are, and you come with us peaceably, perhaps the sheriff will look kindly on you.”
“I’m not interested in the sheriff’s kindness. We are innocent of murder.”
“Well, if we stay like this we’ll all freeze to death.”
The leader motioned to the other man and they began to move forward again.
March threw his harpoon at the younger man, but he rolled to the side and the harpoon landed in the earth behind him. March immediately snatched up Edyon’s harpoon. The older man was now running at Edyon, arms pumping, knives glinting. Edyon retreated as swiftly as he could, but the sheriff’s man was too fast and too close. March came between them, swinging his harpoon at the running man. It all happened so quickly.
The running man veered, but March sidestepped in the same direction, and the harpoon plunged into the scarred man’s side. He was still moving; March moved round with him, impaling the man farther onto the barbs, but also driving him toward Edyon, who tripped and stumbled backward. The scarred man stopped and wavered, then fell sideways, his blood spreading out and sinking into the snow.
But even as relief washed over him, Edyon heard a strange, terrible screech. He looked up and saw the younger man, armed with two knives, coming at March, who was now unarmed and backing away to Edyon’s left. But the screech came from a red figure that was running out of the trees from the right, faster than a charging bull.
The demon, for that’s what it had to be, bowled into the sheriff’s man, tossing him into the air like a child. It turned in an instant, and as the sheriff’s man fell heavily to the ground, the demon pounced on him, gripping the man’s head, twisting and wrenching until it ripped from the body with a sickening crunch. The demon tossed the head into the air, spinning scarlet drops of blood. Then it turned to March and screamed.
March stood, frozen. He had no weapon, no chance.
The demon stepped toward March. Edyon had to do something.
“No!” Edyon shouted. “No! No!”
And he ran, flapping his arms, at the demon.
The demon turned to Edyon and stood to its full height. It was huge.