Scabbard's Song (16 page)

them and had showed proper respect for their property before now. Outside, the wind increased in strength as nightfall followed a dull and dreary grey day. As with all high regions, it whistled and howled through the crevices and passes, creating a wuthering sound. Uthellen was not concerned by mere noise, however unsettling it might be for others. Only the presence of evil could have alerted her to danger, and she had a good nose for nefarious men. Years of being a fugitive, on the run with her witchboy son, had sharpened her instinct for such creatures or so she thought. She fell asleep after chewing a crust of dry bread which had nestled with others of its kind in a deep pocket in her habit. Uthellen was awaked by a smell in the room. But before she could find her faculties and sort through her muddled thoughts, a hairy creature was upon her, sitting astride her chest, its hands - or claws - around her throat. She struggled, trying to scream, but the hairy fingers of the beast who had her in its thrall would only allow a thin squeal to issue forth. The creature was immensely strong, yet knew its own limits to a fraction. It strangled her only until she fell into unconsciousness, not unto death. When she came round, she found the fire burning in the room. Squatting behind it was a hideous creature, a naked thing of flesh and hair resembling a man. Lit by the flames of the fire, Uthellen recognised its type. It was one of those creatures that people called a wild man. Wild man of the woods. Wild man of the mountains. Probably only half-human, these solitary quirks which had grown out of the back end of nature boles on the trunks of humanity, cankers on a branch of beings somewhere between apes and hominids were found in isolated places. They were often near-mindless eremites, too stupid to be evil for evil required some contrivance on the part of the individual - but nevertheless as bad to meet as any creature with a black heart and devious mind. Thus the reason why Uthellen had not smelled evil in the hut: the wild man was simply a dangerous beast. I kull you, growled the wild man, seeing she was awake. I eating you flersh. He licked his lips and stirred the embers with a stick, making them flare. Uthellen tried to rise but found she was bound with strips of bark. Still she did not panic, nor did she speak at first. Secretive passions were best in such perilous circumstances. The wild man then poked her with the stick, which was glowing at the tip. It burned her leg, yet still she did not cry out. Red fyrre, growled the wild man. Hurt-hurt. I no lyk fyrre. It hurt-hurt. You no lyk fyrre. I burrn lady and eating her. It laughed, revealing two rows of very even teeth, worn down to small stubs in its mouth through chewing on bones. So, she had discovered two things about her captor, even in the space of a few minutes. One, he was afraid of fire, which he knew could hurt him badly. Two, he ate human flesh. The wild man obviously lived on wayfaring souls, travellers using the paths through the mountains. Peddlers used these trails, as did wise men following stars. So long as they came in ones and twos, even threes, and not in large bands, the wild man was probably prepared to gather them in. Perhaps he snared them, or dug holes and filled them with spikes? In this case his dinner had walked through the doorway and plonked itself down by his roasting spit. That was most convenient for him. Of course the thrill of the hunt, of finding the prey in a trap, had not occurred, but here was fresh meat anyway. Groups of bandits, lost armies, he would leave alone to find their way down the fastness into green valleys again. The odd giant might cause him to lick his lips, but though he was stupid, he was not that stupid. At a pinch, a mountain goat would sustain him until the next delicious supper on two legs came panting up the narrow trail: a castaway sailor looking for the distant coast; a nun on her way from one convent to another; a caravan driver whose camel had collapsed under him through being driven too hard. There was always the next meal, ready to fall foul of his nooses and pits. When she looked around her, she realised that the hut was not made of the branches of trees, as she had at first supposed. It was fashioned from human bones. And the ceiling, and roof, comprised skulls with the hair still attached. The hair had been woven into matting, to make the thatch for the roof, leaving the heads to dangle inside. Uthellen knew that human hair continued to grow for some time after the death of its owner and therefore made for an ever-thickening thatch to keep out the rain! Auburn hair, black, blonde, greasy-grey, ginger, mousy all shades were there. They wove in and out of each other as rivers. The heads to which they were attached, eyeless but not toothless, hung down in grizzled lumps, jostling each other for room on the crowded ceiling, mouths agape, nostrils plugged with dead flies, earholes nests for spiders, beetles and their kind. The creature got up and tested her fattiness by pinching her thigh. Uthellen kicked out, viciously, catching him under the chin, sending him reeling back towards the doorway. His eyes went round with fear for a moment, as he caught the edges of the opening, preventing himself from flying through and possibly over that ledge outside which dropped to dark nothingness. Once his fear had gone he went berserk, leaping around the room like a crazy monkey, throwing stones at her. Fortunately he was too enraged for his aim to be sure and only one or two struck her back. She had rolled into the foetus position, to protect her head and chest. Finally the creature calmed down enough to advance on her and thump her once or twice, though with caution, for he was afraid of being kicked again. Then he retired, muttering, to a corner, to glare at her steadily with red eyes. Now she felt it was time to try reasoning with the wild man. Let me go. I shall send you fat ladies from time to time, up the mountain. You will never want for human flesh again. She had no compunction about lying. Her life was at stake. She would say anything to this beast if it meant escape. What she intended to do was tell the next village she came across to send a band of armed men to destroy the creature. But for the moment the important thing was to get out of his clutches. You no send, screamed the wild man, sitting on his haunches. You get be etten by me. I pop you eyeballing. I chaw you tong. I sluck you nicey warm bludy lady-liver-kidley. Hek! Hek! He then got up again and, carefully avoiding her legs, felt the lush thickness of her hair. His own long, ugly body covering was coarse and brittle by comparison. Uthellens hair was remarkable, even in a world where women were proud of their thick and luxurious locks. She was exceptionally lucky in having a beautiful, glossy head of hair that, when let free, hung down like a waterfall to her ankles. At the moment it was loosely piled on top of her head, held there by pins. The wild man took the pins out, one by one, very gently now, enthralled by the locks. What a cloak these tresses would make for his back! What a pillow for his head at night! Let me go, she tried again, and I will cut off my hair for you before I leave. You may do with it as you wish. I have no use for it. I will grow some more and even come back to provide you with further . . . He knocked her head in an annoyed way with his knuckles. You no spik. I tyke hair anyways. The wild man played with her hair for some time, then found it was long enough for him to take it to his bed, without moving her. He went to his stone resting place in the corner with the end of her locks, stroking his cheek with them, nuzzling them, wrapping them round his head like a silken scarf and giggling, only occasionally glaring daggers at the other end of them, as if daring Uthellen to pull her property out of his reach again. Once he yanked on the long tresses viciously, to see if he could make her eyes water. When he was successful, he laughed, in a guttural fashion. Then, once more wrapping the locks around his head to keeps his ears warm from the wind, he stuck his thumb in his mouth, curled up, and went to sleep. Uthellen spent an uncomfortable night by the fire. She was able to reach faggots and throw them on, and did so, for the light produced by the flames was comforting. The wild man slept all night, deeply, snoring with loud intent. Uthellens bonds cut into her hands, but she was determined to act in a kindly way to the creature when he woke, to try to evoke some sort of sympathy from him. He had surely enough man in him to make him vulnerable to emotions? This was her hope, anyway, and when he woke she asked him if he would like her to make some tea. Tea? he repeated, puzzled. What for, tea? To drink. I can collect some leaves from the bushes outside. Ive seen one or two which would make a nice herbal brew. If you would just loosen these bonds? I promise you I will not try to escape. You can still keep me tied and tethered. Just relax them for me a little. NO! he shouted at her. You no run aways. I will not run away. A nice hot cup of tea . . . Hot? he went pale at the word. You try burrrn we. You try hot-hot to myk hurt. Me kyk you hard, you myk hot in we mouth. Ah, she had forgotten about his fear of fire. It obviously went deeper than just flames. It extended to all things hot. She imagined that he was a stupid creature and was always burning himself on his fire. There were scars on his forearms which signified this. It would be better not to mention hot things in the future. She tried another tack. Shall I get you some cool water from a stream then? I can be your slave, if you wish it. My name is Uthellen. You can call me by my name if you desire to do so. It is not hard to say my name. No want say. No want it. You no get waters. You stay. The creature skipped out then, on all fours, covering the ground like a black hairy spider. She saw him go to the edge of the cliff, just a few yards beyond the doorway. He looked down, surveying the world from his high citadel, feeling no doubt that he had dominion over the earth. Then he came back again, on his knuckles, to scratch her for talking to him when he did not wish it. She was dinner, he told her. Dinner should not talk. Dinner must keep quite until it was ready to be eaten. Then you scrim! he cried, gleefully. You scrim and scrim to top of sky. Last people ate scrimmed like gull bird when we strangles him. We puts bits on styk and poke in fire. Then we lets go cold to eat. Cold meat is nicey. We likes cold meat and radishies and bitroot. So she got nowhere with him that day. He hopped around, scuttled to and fro, and disappeared mid-afternoon, only to return after dark. He had something with him: a limb of a human. She guessed he was keeping a corpse in a cool place, possibly in a pool in a cave. No doubt he found it necessary to raid this store from time to time. At the moment he wanted to keep her alive, either to fatten her up or to let her hair grow longer. She watched him eat the arm, picking at the skin between the fingers, nibbling under the nails. She withheld her revulsion. Every time he looked at her, she smiled back. Sometimes he growled or snarled in reply. Once he picked up a stick and hit her with it. Uthellen refused to be intimidated, continuing to try to strike up a friendship with her captor. My son is a great wizard, she told him. His name is IxonnoxI and he will be the next King Magus. If you let me go he will reward you with whole tribes of people, which you can keep in a corral and use as cattle. Once again it did not bother her to lie to the creature, for he himself would not know the truth if it kicked him in the teeth. If you do not let me go, my son will shrivel you to a crisp with the fire from his eyes. My son has great magic at his fingertips and can reach out to every corner of the earth. This made the creature blink a little. Thoughts clearly went through the jagged mind inside that huge thick skull. But finally he decided that since he had not already been fried by any distant sorcerer, he was unlikely to be so in the future. He spat at her and raked her with his dirty nails until she screamed at him, shrilly, crying that he would suffer for it. He stopped hurting her but did not let her go. Seeing that the threats had at least made the wild man wary of her, she continued to let them flow. She told him that if he did not let her go, the hair growing from the heads in the ceiling would engulf him and strangle him while he was asleep. He laughed at this. Then she said she herself was a witch and would call on all the dead people he had eaten to rise up within him and kill him. Uthellen told him the ghosts and souls of his victims were simply waiting for the curse of a witch to release them from hell, whence they intended to come tumbling forth and tear their murderer to pieces. It was to no avail. The wild man took no notice of such warnings, having heard them many times over. He rejected every friendly advance made towards him. She guessed he had kept others in similar confinement, who had also tried the same wiles. Clearly he was not interested in fattening her or letting her hair grow: he was simply keeping his meat fresh while he finished another carcass. Then she would replace the one in the cave. At least she was able to loosen the cord on her wrists so that it no longer dug into her flesh. It worried her that her bonds would cut off her blood and so deaden her hands, but fortunately that did not happen. After a week she knew time was running out. She formed a plan. It was not what she wanted to do, but she had to act soon. He went to sleep every night as he had done the first, with her hair wrapped around his face. The wild man liked the smell of her tresses and the feel of the fine locks on his skin. That night, once his snores rent the air, she took a burning log from the fire with her feet. Then she wriggled towards the doorway, lying across it. The human bones which made the walls of the hut were not inflammable, so touching them with a brand would not set the place on fire. Uthellen had to try to flick the brand upwards, into the ceiling, so that the hair on the roof would burst into flame. She lay on her back across the dark exit and flicked with her feet. The brand went up into the hanging skulls above, struck one of them, but failed to lodge there. It fell down upon the wild mans feet. He jumped up instantly, yelling blue murder. TIRE! screamed Uthellen at the top of her voice. TIRE! FIRE! FIRE! Not waiting to see what was happening, the creature ran towards the door in a great panic. First he wanted to get out, then he would look back and make sure the place was truly on fire. When he reached the doorway, Uthellen hunched her back, making a tump of her body. He tripped over her, went tumbling over his own feet, and