Chapter Fourteen: In Which Our Heroes Meet the Aforementioned Girl Assassins

The road was an old, well-marked track that forged ahead through scrubby woodland. It had been built by a minor king a century before the empire had pushed out this far, nearly two hundred years ago now. It had survived alternating decades of neglect and seasons of feverish rebuilding. It was a well-patched, rough and lonely track, but it was clear and easy to follow, the big flat paving stones reclining on the earth as if they had grown there over long-forgotten eons. From the point of view of the birds overhead, Marcus was an insignificant dot as he led the small bay horse, while Mulberry rode the gray, Aurelia strapped to her back like a peasant farmer’s baby. Petro had fallen behind, his contrary chestnut beast barely visible to the others, but in the bright sun that didn’t seem to matter much,

 Aurelia babbled merrily on Mulberry’s back, trying to kick her feet though they were bound in the sling. Mulberry could not help smiling. It was funny, how attached she had become to the baby. It didn’t really matter that she was being forced to watch Aurelia. Mulberry had been surprised to discover she liked babies, and watching Aurelia had become something she wanted to do, not something she was forced to do. In spite of her situation, right now, traveling under the warm late summer sun, Mulberry was happy.

Marcus walked ahead, deep in thought, the reins warm in his hand as the sun beat down. A pair of crows wheeled overhead, their black silhouettes occasionally blocking the sun, but Marcus paid them no mind. He would go to the place where they had burned Gaius’ body, and then what? He watched his feet scuff along the dusty path. He would take the ashes home and somehow tell his father that Gaius wasn’t coming home. And perhaps father would tell Gaius’ son.

Marcus was too wrapped up in his thoughts at first to realize that something was wrong. The first warning he had was a little yelp from Mulberry. Marcus turned, blinking, to see Mulberry trying to hit a man who had taken hold of her horse’s bridle. The horse, ungrateful traitor that she was, was standing there as if the man was her best friend, exactly as she had been trained to do. For Marcus, still half-befuddled by reverie, the scene failed to resolve itself into anything but confusion. Mulberry was leaning far over in the seat, hitting the man, and Aurelia started bawling, and then suddenly there was a man standing in front of Marcus, too. A tall man with a drawn sword, who was eying the horse Marcus was leading.

“Let’s get those saddle bags open, then, little soldier,” The tall man smiled, a single gilded tooth glinting in the sunlight.

Marcus ignored the tall man, focusing instead on the short, underfed fellow who had captured the other horse. Marcus hoped his voice sounded grave and strong.

“Let them go,” Marcus said, “And leave us. I will kill you if I have to.”

Mulberry almost laughed at this – she would have, if she wasn’t so frightened. Imagine Marcus killing someone! He was in the army, yes, and he dressed like a soldier, but he was clerk, and a milksop at that. She couldn’t imagine he even knew how to use the sword he carried, except perhaps to split open a melon. Somehow, though, the serious tone of Marcus’s voice was soothing. Even little Aurelia seemed calmed by the bizarre situation, as her screaming stopped.

The tall bandit seemed to think about Marcus’ statement just as Mulberry had. He smirked.

“I was in the army once too, kid. And just because you can stand in the right place in one of those pretty formations doesn’t mean you can fight one-on-one. If it were one-on-one, that is,” he adds, nodding at the comrade who by now has grabbed Mulberry’s wrist, so she could hit him with only one hand.

“I do know what I’m doing,” Marcus said solemnly, “My father was a swordsman. My older brother is – was – a swordsman. I kill you.”

The man started laughing. Marcus dropped his horse’s bridle. To Mulberry’s surprise, Marcus then drew his sword in a single, smooth motion. Before the bandit could do more than gasp, Marcus had slashed across and upwards with the short blade. Apparently the slash was effective, as the bandit gaped, open-mouthed, staring as his shirt suddenly became red with blood, the great gash caused by Marcus’ sword oozing the red liquid. The bandit reached up and touched the wound with his hand, then drew it up to his eyes, covered in blood, and Marcus used that opportunity to wrench the man’s sword away.

Marcus turned and Mulberry gasped when she saw his face. It was set in an angry mask, and the bandit holding the bridle of Mulberry’s horse turned and ran. Marcus sheathed his own sword, and handed the other up to Mulberry.

“Is – is he going to die?” Mulberry asked, leaning forward in the saddle, trying to see the bandit who was now kneeling on the ground, still bleeding.

Marcus shrugged, “I don’t know. It shouldn't be that bad a wound, unless I went deeper than I thought. He could still get an infection. Unless he makes me do something worse to him, in which case I’ll kill him outright.”

Marcus turned and glared at the man, who seemed to be shock, pale and panting slightly. Mulberry continued to stare at Marcus. Where did he learn to be so when he very nearly killed a man?!

“Come on, Mulberry” Marcus said. He tied the bay's leading rope to the saddle on the grey, “Hopefully Petro can catch up on his own.”

“But – but don’t you even care? You’re going to leave him to Marcus?!”

Marcus turned and looked at her. She had called him by name. He went and knelt by the stricken bandit, seeming to turn into his normal self again, rather than this strange forceful man who Mulberry found frightening.

“Oh, come on, you can’t die,” Marcus said in worry. “It was a , not a puncture!”

Marcus pushed on the bandit’s shoulders, avoiding the blood, forcing the man to lie down. With a frown, Marcus pulled the torn shirt open.

“Damn. That's much deeper than I thought,” he muttered. He could see not just split skin, but the flesh underneath, blood welling up. There was an odd, hard structure, glistening white amid the blood, and Marcus' gorge rose as he realised he was looking at a rib. He tried to remember the battlefield wounds he had seen. He struggled to remember what colleagues had survived, and what had made them bleed to death, or die of fever. His eyes followed the wound, down from the man's left shoulder across to the upper right of his gut. It was sickening to see the mess he had made of this man's torso, but Marcus couldn't tell if it was deadly or a mere scratch. There was a lot of blood, though. And the man was pale. Marcus turned back to the woman on the horse.

“Mulberry! Do you know anything about doctoring? Get over here and help me” he ordered gruffly. He felt guilty, a dark, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, almost like his guts were being turned inside out. He had caused this damage, this destruction of a human body carefully constructed by the gods, and by all rights, he should at least have some idea of how to fix it. He had spent enough time with Petro, something should have rubbed off.

Mulberry slipped down off of the grey, her thighs and knees unexpectedly cold as the horse's warmth wore off almost instantaneously. She caught the hem of her skirt in the stirrup as she dismounted, only for an instant, but long enough for the horse to start, causing Aurelia to finally wake up and set up a loud keening. The baby's crying seemed to disturb the bandit . He began to cry himself, a strange wailing sound, blubbering in the face of death like a frightened child.

“Please, calm yourself. I won’t hurt you,” Mulberry promised, kneeling so that the man lay between her and the worried Marcus.

“I don’t want to have actually killed him, Mulberry,” Marcus pleaded, “And where is that damned Petro? He’s a doctor's assistant, by the gods”

“I can’t make him not die, and I don’t know where Petro is!” She retorted. “Take Aurelia. She’s making me deaf,” she added, untying the cloth that held the baby on her back and letting Aurelia slide down into the dust.

Marcus picked up the baby, cradling her as Mulberry touched the man’s forehead. He was clammy, his skin already growing cold to the touch. She wondered if it was only shock, or if it was the life draining out of him with his blood.

“I – I don’t think I can do anything for him, Marcus! You know more about this sort of thing than I do,” she said, irritated.

Marcus did not respond. His face seemed to grow stern and cold, but he cradled Aurelia gently.

“I don’t know what to do,” Mulberry repeated, “Maybe we should boil some water, or – “

She trailed off, noticing that Marcus was staring at something off over her shoulder. She turned to look.

The two crows were wheeling in the sky, painting elaborate patterns against the horizon in perfect lockstep. Still in unison the birds turned to face them, and, tucking in their wings, dropped from the sky like stones. No more than six feet from the ground, both birds tumbled in the air, somersaulting as a trick-flying pigeon might. It was odd; as they completed their somersaults, the crows seemed to grow larger, their feathers disappearing.

Marcus and Mulberry watched as the creatures that were now certainly not crows landed, each with a hand resting on a bended knee - they were now a pair of young women. Both the women were dressed almost completely in black. Long, loose shirts were tucked into close-fitting belts over flowing pants that were tucked in turn into boots. Swirling cloaks hung about their shoulders. The one spot of colour was that over their hearts each girl’s shirt bore a tiny, embroidered rose, red as blood.

Both young women looked up at the same time.

“We have been watching you,” said the rounder of the two girls, her freckled face smiling as she shook her copper-coloured curls.