The Last Day of Magnus the Black

The wind at Widow's Crag cut like old steel. Magnus stood at the lip of the gorge, boots planted on wet stone, the rusted blade hanging from his fist and pointing at the ground. Far below, the Blackwood Forest lay in a dark smear, pines packed tight as spears. He had come here to finish it. His knees burned. His back ached. Silver hair stuck to his forehead. The silence of the cottage had grown louder than any battlefield he had ever known.

Jewel was gone. That was the whole of it. He had buried her years back and then spent the rest of his days waiting for the waiting to end. Today he meant to step off the edge and let the drop do what grief had not quite managed. The rusted sword felt heavier than it should. He thought of her humming in the kitchen, of the stubborn set of her brow, and he almost smiled.

Then a scream tore up from the trees.

It was sharp and terrified, a woman's voice ripped raw. Magnus froze. The sound punched through the hush like a spear through mail. He looked down the slope, cursed once under his breath, and started moving. Loose rock skidded under his boots. He half-slid, half-climbed, old joints complaining the whole way. Brambles tore at his sleeves. The scream came again, weaker now, then cut off.

He hit the forest floor hard and kept going. The air smelled of wet earth and iron. Four men in royal plate stood in a tight ring among the oaks. Their surcoats carried the prince's sunburst. At their feet a young woman lay in the leaves, barely more than a girl, blood pooling dark under her ribs. She clutched a rag-wrapped bundle against her chest and tried to curl around it even as she died.

One soldier kicked her. Another drew a dagger.

Magnus did not think. He drew.

The rusted blade came free with a dry rasp. He closed the distance in three strides. The first soldier turned too late. Magnus took him across the throat, a short ugly cut that dropped him coughing. The second raised a shield. Magnus stepped inside the rim and drove the point up under the man's chin. Steel grated on bone. The third swung wild. Magnus parried, stepped left, and opened the man's thigh to the bone. The soldier folded. The last one tried to run. Magnus caught him by the collar, yanked him back, and put the sword through the gap in his backplate. The man jerked once and went still.

It was over in heartbeats. Four bodies steamed in the cold. Magnus stood over them, breathing hard, the old fire in his arms already fading into the familiar ache. He wiped the blade on a dead man's cloak and sheathed it.

The girl was still breathing, just. He dropped to one knee beside her. Blood soaked the leaves. Her eyes found his, wide and fierce even now.

"Please," she whispered. The word came out wet. "Keep her. Don't let them..."

Her hand slipped from the bundle. She did not speak again.

Magnus pulled the rags aside. A newborn girl stared up at him, tiny nose, stubborn brow, eyes the same dark color he had loved once. Around her neck hung a carved sunstone on a leather cord. It pulsed with a faint gold light, soft as a half-moon's glow. The baby did not cry. She watched him, calm as still water.

He sat back on his heels. The gorge, the cliff, the plan to fall: all of it felt suddenly far away and foolish. He had come here to die. Instead he had found this.

He lifted the child. She was warm and impossibly light. Her small fist closed around his finger and held on. The sunstone beat against his chest like a second heart.

"Jewel," he said. The name left his mouth before he decided to speak it. It fit. It hurt. It was the only name that made any sense.

He wrapped her tighter in the rags, then in his own cloak. The soldiers' horses stamped somewhere deeper in the trees. He would take one. The rest he would leave for the crows. Night was coming on, and the woods would not stay empty. Prince Halric's men did not send four riders for nothing.

Magnus rose, the baby tucked against his shoulder. His knees popped. His back protested. He ignored both. There was work now. Real work. He looked once at the dead girl in the leaves, then toward the dark path that led out of the Blackwood.

"I'm home," he muttered to no one. "There's still work to be done."

He started walking. The infant Jewel made a small sound against his neck, not quite a cry. The sunstone kept its quiet gold pulse. Behind them the gorge wind howled over the empty crag, but Magnus did not look back.