Forge of Darkness (79 page)

But the soldiers hadn’t left yet, leaving him nothing to do, and that frightened him. She might see how lazy he was and forget what she’d said. He needed to get to those fields, somehow. Though it was probably already too late. The dung wouldn’t even be cured by the time the rains and snows came, and they had nowhere dry to store it except for one blockhouse and that was full of drying brush and sheaves of bark.

He hadn’t eaten yet today. He scanned the high grasses, switch in hand. He’d taken to hunting jump-mice, and if he caught a few he would make a small fire from twigs and grasses, roast the fur off them and finally put something in his aching belly.

Distant motion caught his eye and he looked up to see a half-dozen soldiers coming out from the village, up on the keep road. They were riding at a slow canter, unevenly. As he watched, he saw one loosen the sword in the scabbard at her side. The effort almost toppled her from the saddle and the others laughed upon seeing that, the sound drifting up to where Wreneck stood.

The Lady didn’t like visitors. There was nothing to feed them.

If he ran, he might reach the house in time, to at least warn her. Switch still in one hand, he set off at a lumbering run. He had been
clumsy
all his life, not like Orfantal, who was like a jackrabbit under the shadow of an owl or a hawk. His knees sometimes knocked together when he ran and that was painful, and the work shoes he had been given were too big, driving his toes hard forward with each stride, and at any moment one of them might fly off.

His breath ached in his chest and he could feel how hot the effort was making him, but on he ran, stumbling once when a foot struck a sunken stone in the grasses. Slowly, he realized that he would not make it in time. The horses were on the climb already.

She might well hide. Pretend to not be there, sending Jinia out to say that her mistress was away, or maybe unwell, and they would leave. She would tell them to visit on another day, maybe in a week or so. So, he was running for nothing. Jinia was smart and besides, he loved her, though she teased him all the time for being slow and stupid, when she was neither and older besides.

At nights, under his blanket, he made himself wet thinking about Jinia, like pee but not pee, wishing she didn’t tease him and wishing that he was let in the house so that he could see more of her and she wouldn’t always complain that he stank of horse shit. If he could be let in the house she might one day fall in love with him and when he was older, as old as she was, they could get married and have children and he would name one Orfantal. If it was a boy, of course.

He reached the pasture fence and slipped through it. He could see the dust from the horses at the front of the house, though he was coming up on the building from its back. They had arrived, and dismounted, and there was more laughter and then a shout, but the shout didn’t sound right.

Then he heard Jinia scream.

Wreneck ran again and came round the corner of the house. The scene before him made no sense. The door of the house was open. A little way from the steps, three of the soldiers stood around Jinia and one gripped her by her upper arm, holding her up so that only the tips of her leather-clad feet touched the ground. Another one, a woman, had her hand up the maid’s tunic. The third soldier, a man, was unbuckling his weapon belt and tugging down his trousers.

The other soldiers must have been inside the house, since there were sounds coming from there, along with crashing. The lady’s harsh voice brayed but it was answered by a barking laugh.

Wreneck rushed towards Jinia, raising the switch in his hand.

Someone collided with him from one side, throwing him off his feet. Winded, Wreneck lay on his back. Above him he saw another soldier – the woman who had loosened the sword. She was grinning. ‘Look here! Another damned Denier – you can tell by the shit on his face.’

Aching to draw breath, Wreneck rolled on to his side. He saw Jinia
looking
at him, but her eyes were dull. The woman with her hand up the maid’s tunic was making pushing motions, but her other hand was gripping her fellow soldier’s stallion, making the same motions. The third soldier, the one holding Jinia, was using his free hand to lift and twist Jinia’s breasts. Wreneck stared into his love’s eyes and saw nothing, nothing living.

Air rushed back into his lungs. He pushed on to his hands and knees, trying to get up.

‘Mother Dark isn’t good enough for you?’ the woman asked, advancing on him. She kicked him, up into his gut, hard enough to lift him from the ground. Once more the air was driven from his lungs. He curled up in the grit and dust.

Lady Drukorlat was shrieking now, and Wreneck saw one of the soldiers reappear in the doorway, dragging the old woman out by the back of the neck. He propelled her through the air over the steps and she fell hard on the cobbles. Something broke, a bone, and the Lady screamed in pain.

‘Too old to fuck, this one,’ pronounced the soldier as he came down the steps behind Nerys. ‘And the house is fucking near empty, though Pryll’s still looking. No other staff that we could see either. It’s pathetic.’

The woman standing over Wreneck had not moved. Her hands were fists and those fists rested on her hips and it seemed she was watching what was being done to Jinia. She was breathing fast and her face was red. She smelled of wine.

Jinia’s eyes had closed and her head lolled, and if not for the soldier holding her upright she would have fallen over. Wreneck was sure that she was dead. When the woman pulled her hand out from under the tunic, it was red with blood. The man she had been gripping had spilled out the pee that wasn’t pee, and he backed away, pulling free as she laughed at him.

The woman spoke above Wreneck, her voice loud and commanding. ‘Sort this up, all of you. If the captain sees or hears of this, we’ll all hang.’

The man from the steps said, ‘Only one way to sort this, sergeant.’

‘So get on with it,’ she replied. ‘Maybe nobody comes up here like they was saying, but these servants got families somewhere, I bet. Thing is, we need to clean it all up, leave no sign of anything.’

There was blood on the ground, and Lady Nerys had rolled on to one side but her leg or hip was broken and she moaned and moaned.

‘Fine, only how do we do that?’

The sergeant sighed. ‘You really have no brain, do you, Telra? Bodies into the house and burn the fucker down to the ground. We saw the smoke, didn’t get here in time to save anyone. Tragic mess. Farab, did you kill the girl?’

The woman with the blood-smeared hand and forearm shrugged. ‘Probably. In any case, she won’t be coming round any time soon.’

‘Into the house, then.’ The sergeant looked down at Wreneck. He tried meeting her stare but she wouldn’t let him. She drew her sword, pointed it at him. Wreneck tried to curl tight. She pushed the blade into him anyway.

It sliced through his left shoulder, cutting the muscle down to score along the bone, and from there the sharp but rounded tip slid into his chest. It bumped along his ribs, then down into his lower belly, driving up against his hip. When she yanked the weapon free, the pain exploded in Wreneck.

* * *

He woke up coughing. Each cough was agony. There was blood everywhere. His left arm was senseless, pinned to the floor under him by his own weight. When he pulled back, more blood spurted, then slowed to a dribble through black smears of dried blood. Smoke filled the room. He was in the house. Looking around, eyes burning, he saw flames everywhere. Jinia was lying beside him, motionless, terribly pale. He reached for her. Her skin was cool, but there was life in it.

He was clumsy, but he wasn’t weak. Long ago he used to lift Orfantal with one arm, to make the boy squirm and squeal. Jinia was heavier, though, and there was a new weakness in him that he didn’t quite understand, but he managed to angle her limp form over his uninjured shoulder. When he stood, gasping under her added weight, he was blinded by the smoke. But he thought he had seen a way through, down the main corridor. He staggered in that direction.

The heat tore at him from both sides but he wouldn’t let himself flinch, since she might fall if he did. So he bore the burns, the lashing tongues that flared in his hair and made him scream.

To the right, at the far end: smoke but no flames. He went that way.

A door hanging open. He stumbled through into a room – Sandalath’s room – he could tell by the window’s shutters. There were no furnishings left, not even wall hangings. The bed had been broken up for firewood. There was nothing to burn. Wreneck made his way to the window.

He was putting it all together. They’d left them on the upper floor. Set fire to everything they could on the ground level. He hadn’t seen the Lady’s body, but he knew it was in here somewhere. He knew also that he had no hope of finding it. He couldn’t be a hero this day. All he could do was save himself and Jinia, the maid he loved.

He set her down beneath the window, and lifted the latches and pushed the shutters back. He looked out and down. Orfantal had once jumped from this floor, from a storeroom above the kitchen, landing
catlike
on the kitchen wastes. He had stained his clothes and Wreneck had been whipped for letting him do it.

Now, with the floor under him burning the soles of his feet – right through the thin leather of the worn work shoes – he leaned out and looked down. Curing dung was stacked there, because this was the window that wasn’t opened any more, and the wall was sunward and that kept everything dry. He turned and, one-armed, picked Jinia up, pushing her limp form over the sill, feet first. He lost his grip on her and she fell before he was ready. He looked down to see that she had landed in the dung. He couldn’t tell if the fall had broken anything – not with all the blood covering her legs.

Wreneck clambered out and leapt. He went a bit too far and landed on the edge of the heap, and the impact was hard enough to throw him forward, and the stabbed side of his hip gave way under him. He landed on his good shoulder, and that hurt as much as the burns and cuts.

Standing, he limped back to Jinia and pulled her clear of the dung. He saw her eyelids flutter and then grow still again, but she was breathing and that was good – that meant that everything was all right.

Lifting her again was harder this time, since now both shoulders were full of pain, but he managed it. Staggering, he made his way towards the ruins of the burnt-down stables. Heat gusted at his back for most of the way across the cobbles. He slipped in through a gap in the stone foundation wall and here the air was cooler and free of smoke. Laying Jinia down, he sat beside her, leaning his back against the wall.

He stared at her pretty face. She had a wandering eye when she got tired but with her eyes closed he couldn’t see it. Even when he did, he thought it was cute, and this made her even prettier. The trouble now was thinking of what to do next. The people in the village would see the smoke and know that the keep was burning down. But they wouldn’t do anything about it. There wasn’t enough of them. The only people that might care was his ma, and Jinia’s lame uncle.

So, he would wait for them.

And when he got better he would make a spear, the way Orfantal showed him from what he’d learned from somewhere. Finding a shaft of stout wood, heating and trueing it and heating it some more to harden the wood, especially at the point. Once he had his spear, he would go out and hunt down the sergeant who had stabbed him, and then the three who had hurt Jinia, and then the ones in the house who had killed Lady Nerys. He would find them because he had three names. Telra, Farab and Pryll.

He stared down at his scraped knees; and the welts of red from the burns and all the body hair that was now white and fell to dust when he brushed his skin, and all the splashed blood where flies now danced.
He
could see his pain, inside his head, and it was all red, but he decided to stay away from it.

She called me a Denier, but I never denied nothing. I was never even asked anything, so I couldn’t deny anything, could I? I seen that monastery once, the one on the other side of the river, and it looked like a fortress, or a place where they send criminals. It scared me
.

He’d wanted to be a hero. Saving everyone. Saving Lady Nerys just like Orfantal would have done. Nothing ever went right in his life.

She should never have stabbed me. That hurt worse than any caning
.

One day I’ll stab her and see how she likes it
.

When he heard his ma’s thin voice wafting up, calling his name in helpless anguish, Wreneck shouted wordlessly to bring her to him, and when at last he saw her and she saw him and hurried towards him, he began bawling and could not stop.

* * *

Tutor Sagander leaned hard on the crutch. The padding did nothing to ease the ache in his shoulder, but his one remaining leg hurt even more. He had no idea there could be so much pain in one poor body, and every twinge and spasm rode bitter waves. He imagined everything inside, beneath his skin, to be black as pitch, fouled by the pain and the hatred that seemed locked in a savage embrace, like lovers wanting to devour each other. But this was not torment enough. He could still feel the leg that was no longer there, could feel its outrage, its incessant demands. It haunted him, rushing through sensations of brutal cold and searing heat, maddening itch and deep ache.