James Axler – Bitter Fruit

The thing that jarred Tarragon was seeing the arrow that jutted out of Bean’s belly.

“In the blessed name of Lugh the Life-Giver,” Tarragon said hoarsely. He opened the fertility pouch at his throat, working the drawstrings until he could pour out a pinch of the seeds inside. His prayer was by rote. He couldn’t depend on himself to try anything of his own. When he finished, he blew the seeds out, ending the prayer.

“I’m afraid,” Bean said, “that Lugh will not be giving life tonight. Should he show up, I fear it will be only to take one.” Perspiration beaded his forehead. He reached out a bloody hand and clasped Tarragon’s forearm. “They’ve killed me, my friend.” He coughed, and a ragged, bloody phlegm covered his lips.

Tarragon checked on the progress of the hunters, wondering if the sound of the cough had traveled far enough to reach them. However, the lantern lights didn’t change directions, though they had come to a milling stop.

“Help me, Tarragon. I’m really frightened, and getting so chill.”

“I’m here, Bean.” Tarragon held the other boy’s hand tightly. He thought he could already feel Bean’s flesh growing colder, but it might have been his imagination.

“Don’t leave me.” The boy held on with a grip that threatened circulation.

“I won’t.” Tarragon knew he was lying, though. If the hunters came for him before Bean died, he had to leave. Cardamom and the others who’d been loyal to his father needed to know what he now knew.

In the distance the hunters had taken on movement again. A single man led them back the way they’d come, holding a lantern aloft. “They’re gone, Pepper,” someone said. “Couldn’t be. Two saplings like that, there isn’t any way they could vanish.”

“That boy Tarragon,” another man mused, “now, he’s got one seriously whacked version of the gift. What if there’s more neither his father nor him bothered to mention to us about everything he could do?”

“A bolt between his eyes,” Pepper said, “that would show you all you needed to know about him.”

“Hey,” one of the men said. A lantern stopped moving, then the owner made some adjustments to the aperture. “There’s blood here.”

In seconds a skirmish line had formed around the area where Bean’s blood had been spotted. Tarragon turned back to the younger boy. “Bean,” he in a frenzied whisper, “I’ve got to” sightless eyes stared up at the moon.

“Got one of the bastards,” Pepper said proudly. “Told you I thought I did. Now, which way is the blood going?”

Wordlessly Tarragon released his friend’s limp hand and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Sleep well, friend Bean. I shall sow for three years in your honor, and my firstborn shall be named for you.” He closed the dead boy’s eyelids and pushed himself up. Ice from the branches fell around him, stirred by his movements and the wind.

“There!” someone shouted.

For a time Tarragon ran without direction, aware he was making plenty of noise for his pursuers to hear. He was counting on his speed to work against them, though, because if he picked up the pace they’d have to run to keep up with him. When they did, they’d hopefully make noise that would mask his own.

His breath burned in his chest as he lunged between trees. A quarrel hissed through the air near his head embedded itself in the bole of an oak less than two feet’ from his face. He reversed, spinning across the frost-laden ground, then made for a thick patch of brush.

Pepper had forbidden pistols and rifles after the first barrage. They made too much noise, Tarragon knew, and the woods might have been filled with poachers encroaching on Celtic lands. Those men knew they took their lives into their own hands when they encroached in search of the tangler vines; they wouldn’t hesitate to try to kill Pepper and the whole group of seed heralds.

Tarragon’s foot caught on a dead branch as he crash through the brush into a clearing. He pushed himself up, hands sliding in the cold mud, his lower face smeared with it.

Three shadows hung before him. He recognized them between heartbeats. They were the raiders from New