Knife

He couldn't recall exactly when it had started. He'd had a steak knife by the bed for some reason, probably peeling an orange or something, and he'd thrown it at the wall opposite the foot of the bed. It had stuck in the drywall, the hilt quivering for a moment; then, feeling foolish, he'd gotten it out, wiped the knife clean, and put it away. There was a mark in the wall, and every time he noticed it he meant to patch it, but it wasn't urgent. A couple of months went by.
He noticed there was a second knife mark. He couldn't remember, back in...August? September?...whether he'd thrown the knife once or twice. He could only remember the one time, and he'd remember that kind of thing, wouldn't he? There had only been the one cut in the wall, right? He could only remember one. But there were two now. The second one was smaller than the first, only about a quarter inch long, about four inches from the first one. Maybe he just hadn't noticed. He shrugged.
Two weeks later he saw a third mark. This one was horizontal, nine inches below the first one and a little to the left. It had definitely not been there before, and it was deeper than the others. Three days later, there were two more. New ones started appearing every day. They were all in a rectangle twenty six inches wide by twenty nine inches high, as if there was a picture frame on the wall and all had to be inside. They were opposite the foot of the left side of the bed, just where they'd be if someone were sitting up in bed and threw a knife.

He started waking up to find drywall dust on his hands, and in his mouth.
He bought a piece of sheet steel, thirty inches square. He drilled holes in two corners and nailed the steel sheet to the wall over the marks.

The next morning, the nails were on the floor, there were more marks on the wall, there was sand in the bed. The sand looked like ordinary beach sand, except the nearest beach was over 150 miles away. The steel was gone; he never found it. He started sleeping on the couch downstairs; the marks still appeared on the bedroom wall.

Aftermath (427 words)

The evening sky to the north was a grey pink, the low-hanging overcast lit by the fires that were consuming Copper Forge Town. The color reminded him of spilled brains, of which Copper Forge no doubt had an abundance tonight. There hadn't been enough men on the walls after the disastrous battle at Chisel Well, and the Orgok warriors had gotten inside the town. The Orgok were running through the streets right now, raping and pillaging, killing and burning. Of course he'd seen Imperial and Pretender troops do that as well, although their general tried, usually, to control them; but the Orgok also ate the dead when they could, and they regarded brains as a delicacy. He'd seen them do it.
But the Orgok and their screaming victims were in Copper Forge and he was in some tiny village he didn't know the name of, halfway up into the hills. He hoped he was beyond the range of the Usurper's patrols. Sleeping in the woods would be safer, but he was as tired as he could remember ever being. From Starcleft to Chiseled Well was a three day march but the Starcleft Regiment had done it in one. Twelves hours march, two hours sleep, twelve hours march, and then a handful of bread and a mouthful of wine as they'd maneuvered into line. And then they'd stood, exhausted but still steady enough to stand firm when the Usurper horse charged, and to throw back the barbarian archers who'd tried to skirmish against them. But then something had happened off to the right of their line--some said magic, some said treachery, but no one was in a position to really know--and then the lowland regiments had fallen back, and they'd been unsupported, and then suddenly the Usurper horse were back and it was every man for himself and devil take the hindmost. He'd cut down his pike to spear length, something that might be good enough to fend off a horseman but that he could still run with, which you couldn't do with a pike. He had his sword and a pair of pistols. But he'd eaten all his food during the night's march and the day's battle; and a bullet had punctured his wine bag. He'd never noticed that until someone had asked him about the blood; and it had been quite a shock when he'd looked down to see his whole thigh and boot drenched red, and quite a relief when he'd realized what had happened. It was a pity about the wine, though.

At the gates (216 words)

   In the dim light before dawn, a tall man trudged through the paths of the village outside the town gate. He had dark hair and a gray beard, and he wore the green leather of an Yrumgrau scout. Over his shoulder he carried two swords, and five heads hung from his belt..
   Dances Brightly saw him from her window where she waited. The country girls who came to market accepted the woodcutters and farmers and shepherds, but Dances Brightly's favors were for soldiers and merchants.  When she saw Two Swords Man, she cast the seven stones into a bowl of clear water. When she had read them, she arose and stripped naked except for her jewelry and a small blue-bladed knife, easily concealed ; then she put on a cloak and went out to see this stranger before the gate.
   Inside the gate it was darker and colder, from the loom of the walls, than it was outside, and the guards would wait a while before they unbarred.  Meanwhile the folks from the countryside, coming to market, gathered here, gossiping and joking, hawking their wares and flirting, waiting for the first glimpse of gold above the horizon and the opening of the gate. They pressed together, but they gave space and silence to Two Swords Man.