Page 7 of Wicked Things

I had little to say to that, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. No sense in dragging other innocent people into this whatever-it-was and causing their deaths too.

Sullenly, I yanked my arm away. “I hate you, you know.”

He actually smiled at that, though it barely touched his eyes. “Why do you think I care about that?”

“You probably don’t, but I wanted you to know.”

“I see. Well, I’ll try to bear up under the strain.”

“And you can put this on my tombstone. Here lies Braden Wanderer, killed by treacherous Faeries. He cursed them with his last breath.”

“What makes you think you’d have a tombstone?”

“I don’t,” I said with a shrug. “It’s something to say to keep myself from screaming. Did I mention how much I truly hate you?”

“A time or two. And yet, I still don’t care.”

“I-I’ll come back and haunt you for revenge, you know. Like you said that twice-dead man did.”

“Twice-dead Pierre? I never said he haunted me, and besides, he was a demon. Is that what you’re claiming to be now?”

“I could be. You never know. I’m not saying I am exactly. But it would be wise to let me go, just in case.”

“Or perhaps I should kill you and have done with it. I’ll keep both options in mind.”

We were coming to the city gates, and I started to slow down, pulling back a little, without even realizing what I was doing. He did though, and he took my arm again in a hard grip.

“Stop acting like a child and dragging your feet. And remember what I said about causing others to die along with you.”

As we neared the fortified entrance to the city—Jorvik had been sacked by invaders too many times over the centuries for officials not to be at least a little worried about it—the Faeries abruptly turned to make their way toward a building about three hundred feet away from the city gate. I would have asked where we were going, if I’d had any expectation I’d be answered, but I didn’t, so I shuffled along where I was being taken.

We arrived at a stable for their horses. It was surprisingly clean and well cared for, and there were about twenty horses inside, all black, and all beautiful, tall, noble-looking Fresian horses, with leg feathering and the typical long manes and tails, but several of the ones closest to me rolled their eyes toward me and made a snorting sound out of their noses. It was typical of horses and their attitudes toward me. I found that most of them didn’t like me and tried to fling me off if I rode them. I’d finally found an old horse who seemed to more or less accept me, though I suspected he was too worn out from a life of hard work to care overly much. He was still with Leofric’s horses though.

Most of the horses that day were munching on hay and had blankets slung over their backs for warmth. Fresh water was available in troughs inside their stalls. Considering how stiff I was from sleeping on the cold floor all night, I thought these horses had probably received better treatment than I had. The soldiers all began to find their bridles and saddles and began getting them ready to leave.

“Do you ride?” the Faery lord asked me, saddling up his big, black Fresian and throwing a fur over the saddle for warmth and comfort. The beautiful horse was standing quietly, uncomplaining about it all and seemingly much better tempered than his Lord.

I nodded, a bit sullenly. The horse glanced back at me, giving me a baleful look and shied away a few steps, as I reconsidered my opinion of him. The Lord looked at me oddly before patting his horse, murmuring to it and then going over to speak to the stableman, who brought out a small horse, though still a nice one, I thought. He was a Rouncey, and an older horse, like I was used to. He didn’t stand nearly as tall as the Fresians, nor was he nearly as beautiful. I could relate to that, so I went over and spoke to him, gently scratching the side of his face and putting my forehead to his to tell him I was glad to meet him. Though he rolled his eyes at me a little, and he snorted a few times as if to get my scent out of his nose, he calmed down as I spoke to him. I was whispering to him, but I looked up and saw the Lord staring at me with a puzzled look on his face, like he was trying to figure out what I was doing.

“What? I’m saying hello to my new horse.”

He merely shook his head like there was no accounting for anything I might do and went back to check on his men, while the stableman brought me a saddle and bridle for my new horse.

“What’s his name?” I asked, as the stableman started to walk away.

He gave me an odd look and shrugged. “He hasn’t got a name. He’s black. Call him ‘Blackie’ or ‘Moor’ if you like.”

In those times, a horse’s name, if it had one, typically described its appearance or its color. Maybe even its job, rather than having any kind of fanciful or human sounding name. “Moor” was a term sometimes used for a horse with a black or dark coat in those days.

“I think we can do better than that,” I told the horse softly once the man had walked away. “I’ll call you ‘Crow,’ because they’re smart and wily creatures. I bet you are too. I used to live near some of them as a boy, and I made friends with one of them.”

He looked at me as if he might understand me, or perhaps he was puzzled because he wasn’t used to anyone ever taking the time to talk to him at all. He still wasn’t sure if he liked me, but he looked as if he were willing to take a chance, and that was good enough for me.

“Get on your horse, Braden. We need to go before you’re missed.”

“The joke’s on you then, because there’s no one to miss me here.”

It wasn’t strictly true. I suppose that Leofric and his wife might eventually wonder where I was, unless Leofric had met with some terrible accident. Then his wife’s mind would be so occupied with her own tragedy that she wouldn’t think of me for a long time, if ever, and be glad I wasn’t around and underfoot.