by Ann Marston
***
It was dark when Mouse awoke. He lay huddled in the old horse blanket, the iron bar cradled in his arms. He woke slowly, not moving, and listened intently without opening his eyes.
A quiet murmur of voices came from the stable below. Mouse could not quite make out the words, but he recognized the voices of the other two stable slaves. The soft, unmistakable sounds of hay being tossed into feeder troughs and the quiet snuffles and snorts of feeding horses told him it was not long after the dinner hour. It would be at least four more hours until midnight when the Stablemaster would retire, sending the two stable slaves to their beds before him. An hour after that, Mouse thought it might be safe to leave the stable.
Every muscle of his body screamed in protest as he snuggled deeper into the blanket. Hunger gnawed at his belly and thirst raged in his throat. But he was used to that and could ignore it for a while longer. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to accomplish the revenge he needed more desperately than he needed to ease the hunger and thirst.
A sudden shout from the stable yard startled him and he froze, hardly daring to breathe. A troop of horses clattered into the stable, their iron-shod hooves loudly on the polished stones of the floor. One of the dogs growled, then yelped as a hard hand cuffed it.
“Hela, Gredad,” the Stablemaster cried. “Any sign of the lad?”
Gredad swore. “None,” he said. “We took the dogs along both banks of the river as far as the estuary. He’s gone to the sea, is what. Drowned and dead. Good riddance, is what I say.”
Mouse clutched the iron bar. His fingers tingled as the strength of his grip forced the blood out of his hands. They wouldn’t be looking for him within the Holding. He had time for his revenge.
Gredad grunted. “Lord Mendor wanted to see his balls roasted and fed to the pigs. ‘Twould barely appease young Lord Drakon, though. He wanted the lass, but unsullied. He’s mad enough to spit.”
“Let him spit,” the Stablemaster muttered. “Serve the little bastard right.”
Gredad chuckled. “You’d be well to guard your tongue, my friend,” he said. “That young whelp never forgets an insult and never lets one go without retaliation.”
“Well, I can’t say as I blame him about the lass. She was a choice morsel.”
“Oh, very choice indeed.” Gredad laughed lewdly. Mouse squeezed his eyes shut against grief stronger and sharper than the pain of his abused muscles. Nothing would ever erase the stark images of the brutal use Gredad and the house-guards made of Rossah. Nor would Mouse ever forget the appalling expression of ecstasy on Drakon’s face as he watched. Or how Drakon looked when the men were done with Rossah, and he stepped forward, his dagger drawn…. And when he was finished, he casually told the guards to throw Rossah’s body onto the dung heap behind the stables. He discarded her as if she were nothing more than rubbish.
Mouse set his teeth into his lip to bite back the moan of pain. Nothing but trash...
Lying in bed with Rossah two nights ago, Mouse had told her he would die if it might prevent her having to go to Drakon’s bed. She had placed gentle fingers over his lips, and shook her head.
“I will go as I must,” she whispered. “Nothing can prevent it, and I would not have you die for me. It’s only your love that makes all this bearable.”
“We could escape together,” Mouse said eagerly.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “We’re slaves. We could never be anything but slaves. If they caught us, they’d kill us. It would be so much better if you could only accept the fact of your slavery, Mouse. I wish you could.”
“As you have?”
“Yes. It’s real. You can’t wish away reality.”
“We could go to Isgard where nobody knows we’re slaves.”
“And how would we live?” Again, she put her fingertip to his lips. “No,” she said. “Come, kiss me again. We haven’t much longer. Don’t waste the time talking of impossible dreams.”
“I hate him,” Mouse whispered fiercely against the softness of her hair. “I hate Drakon.”
Below, the Stablemaster set the slaves to caring for the guards’ horses. Mouse fell asleep again, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.
When he awoke, there was no sound but for the quiet breathing of the horses. Carefully, he lowered himself down to the loft floor and crept to the ladder. He held the iron bar firmly tucked under his arm as he made his way down to the aisle between the box stalls. One of the horses, still awake, turned lazily to watch him as he stole past, but made no sound.
Mouse paused at the stable door, peering out into the paddock. The full moon turned the yard into a place of pale washed silver and hard black shadows. Nothing moved. He heard nothing but the soft soughing of a gentle wind in the boughs of the fruit trees. No lights showed in the windows of the main house that bulked large against the star-splashed sky.
He started across the yard toward the shelter of the laundry and ran full tilt into a man who stepped out of one of the privies next to the stables. The man grunted in pain and cried out as Mouse caromed off him to his knees in the packed dirt.
Gredad! Oh, gods, it was Gredad.
The Guard Captain recovered quickly from the winding Mouse had given him. “You!” he cried, staggering to his feet.
Even as Gredad opened his mouth to shout for the guard, Mouse swung the iron bar. It caught Gredad on the side of the head. The sound it made was like dropping an overripe melon onto a stone floor. Mouse’s belly contracted into a knot of revulsion as Gredad collapsed like an empty sack.
Mouse caught Gredad by the heels, dragged him back to the privy and shoved him inside. He dropped the bloody iron bar on top of the body and closed the door, then stood leaning against the unplaned wood, panting and listening hard. But nothing disturbed the silence. Nobody had heard Gredad’s startled exclamation.
Mouse darted across the yard to the laundry house. He needed something to cover his nakedness. Garments and bedding hung, some dry, some still damp, from lines strung across the back of the shed. Identifying articles only by touch, he found a shirt, a tunic, a pair of breeks and a thick, warm woollen cloak. There was even a pair of boots, sent for cleaning and polishing, that fit reasonably well.
Pleased, he dressed quickly. The clothing was loose in the waist and a little short in the arms and legs, but it would do. A short length of line wrapped twice around his waist served as a belt to keep the breeks from falling around his ankles.
Fumbling in the dark along the shelf next to the huge wash tubs, Mouse found a small leather bag containing flint, steel and tinder, and shoved it into his shirt. He nearly knocked over a lamp as he groped further along the shelf, but snatched it up in time to prevent spilling the oil.
He ran across the yard to the barracks, his belly quivering in excitement and rage. The muscles of his legs and back ached and burned at the exertion, but he did not stop running until he came to the wall of the barracks. Except for the two guards at the front gate, and the few who stood guard within the main house, all the guards would now be asleep in the barracks. Mouse dropped to one knee and pulled the flint and steel from his shirt.
The barracks was a long, low building, built of timber rather than stone. Within, rows of bunks lined the walls, providing little privacy for the guards, but far more comfort than afforded by the slave quarters only a short distance away. The roof was thatch, and dry after a long, hot summer.
Mouse’s hands shook so badly, he could not strike a spark from the flint. He sat back on his heels, rubbed his hands against his thighs and clenched them into fists for a moment. Coldly, deliberately, he closed his eyes and thought about Rossah lying on the dunghill, discarded like a broken ewer. He thought about how her warm, silken flesh had taught him the glory of all the ways a man and a woman fit so delightfully together. She had given him the only love he had ever known, and in return, he had eagerly and joyously given her all of his. He thought about how she had screamed and screamed and screamed at the brutal
use the guards had made of her body before Drakon released her to death.
It was enough. Calm and steady now, he struck flame to the tinder and lit the lamp. He waited with patience until the wick caught fully and burned well. Then he stepped back and tossed the lamp up into the thatch.
The thatch caught immediately. At first, only a small flame flickered in the straw and reeds, but as the oil spilled out of the lamp, the fire spread, slowly at first, then more quickly as it grew. The slight breeze fanned it as it fed on the dry thatch. Mouse heard a loud whuf, and suddenly the whole roof exploded in one huge, bright burst of flame. Seconds later, the ancient, dry timber caught, and flame engulfed the whole building.
Mouse ran back and ducked behind the laundry shed. The door of the barracks burst open and two or three half-naked guards stumbled out as the first startled shouts rose into the stillness of the night. Moments later, a man staggered out into the yard, his clothing burning like a torch. His bubbling screams rang loud even over the roar of the flames as he fell and rolled feebly in the dirt.
Mouse watched in grim satisfaction. “Burn, you louse-infested sons of whores and vermin,” he muttered. “Burn and die in agony, and may maggots feast in your charred flesh. Hellas take your black souls.”
The roar of the fire and the shrieks of the dying guards roused the house servants and the slaves. Pandemonium erupted in the yard as men began running out to see what was wrong. Lights appeared in the windows of the manse. Lord Mendor leaned out of an upper window, shouting orders at the running figures in the yard.
“Come down,” Mouse whispered fiercely, the strength of his need knotting his fists. “Come down so I can kill you. You and that slimy maggot you call a son.”
But Mendor remained at the window, shouting orders; he did not come down.
Mouse recognized the two guards from the front gates trying to organize a bucket brigade to douse the blazing barracks. Watching the disorganized confusion in the yard, it occurred to him for the first time that he had a very real chance of escaping, that there was a possibility he could steal a horse and make a break for the gates. Dressed as he was in Drakon’s clothing, there was even the likelihood that he might not be recognized. In the dark, no one might notice the red of his hair that uniquely identified him.
He saw the half-dressed Stablemaster running with a bucket from the watering trough. That was all he needed. He turned and sprinted for the stable.
The first box stall contained Lord Mendor’s blooded stallion, the one called Strongheart, and the swiftest horse in the stable. Mouse opened the door to the stall, led Strongheart out and guided him to the door of the tack room.
In a metal bracket on the tack room wall, he found a torch, the end wrapped in pitch-soaked rags, and fumbled with the flint and steel. The torch sputtered and smoked, but gave enough light so that he could find what he needed in the black interior of the tack room.
Strongheart snorted and tossed his head as Mouse slipped the bridle over his ears. He held the horse firmly, gently scratched the long, aristocratic nose as he murmured soothing words. Strongheart submitted without further fuss and stood obediently docile while Mouse finished saddling him.
Mouse grabbed the torch and turned for the door. As he led the horse out into the stable yard, Strongheart shied violently and laid his ears back at the sight and smell of the burning building. Men burned too. The stench of roasting, charred meat blowing about on the wind knotted Mouse’s belly with nausea, and unexpectedly, made his mouth water.
A sudden shout made Mouse spin around. Drakon and one of the stable slaves ran across the open ground toward the stable. Drakon shouted again, drawing the dagger from his belt, and leaped at Mouse. Mouse used the only weapon he had. He swung the torch with a strength born of anger and desperation. The flaming end slammed into the side of Drakon’s head. Drakon’s hair burst into flame and he fell while the young stable slave gaped in frozen shock. Mouse left Drakon there, screaming in pain and clawing at his head, and pulled Strongheart into the open.
He pointed the horse in the direction of the gates, which the guards had left wide open in their rush to see what the confusion was about. Seeking safety from the fire, the horse was already moving when Mouse vaulted up into the saddle and clung like a cocklebur as the horse’s stride lengthened to a full gallop.
A figure appeared out of the gloom ahead of Mouse. Heart beating wildly in his chest, Mouse leaned closer to Strongheart’s neck, determined to run down both horse and rider if he had to. But at the last moment, the stranger pulled his horse to the side of the track, allowing Mouse to pass unimpeded. Mouse had just time to get an impression of a big man wrapped in a brightly coloured cloak, astride a big, dark horse, and a glimpse of hair turned to flame red by the reflected glow of the fire behind him. As Mouse swept past, he thought he heard the echo of laughter behind him.
Mouse did not look back as Strongheart found the road and turned north toward Isgard.
II
Six days later, a cold, autumnal downpour found Mouse only a league or two from the border between Falinor and Isgard. Once he was clear of Mendor’s Landholding, he had sold the horse and saddle where they would not be recognized. The coin he got for them not only procured a much less distinctive horse, but left him enough to buy a little food. His time in the stables was not ill-spent. The horse was thin and bony, its coat unkempt and scruffy, but it had a good breadth and depth of chest which spoke of stamina and strength, if not blinding speed. He liked the look in its eye. It stood its ground, wary but calm, as Mouse ran his hands over its rough coat, then carefully opened its mouth to look at its teeth. A sound-winded and willing horse, even if not a handsome one, it was an inconspicuous mount, but he thought it would prove reliable.
The fine clothes Mouse had stolen might have made him conspicuous even on the sorrel, but the days of road dust and being slept in soon reduced them to the same scruffiness as the big gelding. Although Mouse had little doubt Mendor knew who burned the barracks and stole the horse, he hoped he would not be recognized without Strongheart.
The inn was small and cheap, an inn where men with little to spend on luxury might find shelter on a wet, stormy night against the misery of the cold rain. The sign over the door, depicting a bell and hammer, hung askew on its rusting pins, the paint cracked and faded. The tables in the common room were deeply scarred and crusted with spilled food. A thick miasma of stale drink, old cooking odours and rotting vegetation from the too-long-unchanged rushes on the dirt floor mingled with the stench of a midden far too close to the kitchen. Mouse wrinkled his nose at the smell, but the light that gleamed though the open door was welcoming, and it looked warm and reasonably dry inside.
For a copper coin, the innkeeper, who smelled nearly as bad as his common room, allowed Mouse to stable the sorrel and throw him a handful of oats and an armful of hay. Two more coppers bought him a corner near the littered hearth where he could sleep wrapped in his cloak beneath the low, soot-blackened beams of the ceiling. Another copper brought him a heel of dark bread, a wedge of cheese and a flagon of sour ale served by a ragged and dirty child of indeterminate gender. It was not much, but it was enough to ease the ache of hunger in his belly, and the ale returned the warmth the rain had stolen from his body.
He finished the sketchy meal quickly. The rain stopped while he ate, but the air blowing through the unglazed windows was still heavy with damp. The second horn of ale went down quickly. Between the ale and the heat of the fire, Mouse let himself relax. Wrapped in the unaccustomed comfort, he leaned his elbows on the table and drank more slowly.
So, he was a little drunk and hardly noticed the bounty hunter until he was well into the room. The man stood a pace or two from the door of the common room and looked around. He was not tall, but he was solidly built and powerful looking, and he wore a longsword on a silver-studded baldric at his left hip, two daggers arranged in leather sheaths at his belt. His lank black hair and black eyes marked him as a Maeduni. His presence silenced
what little conversation there had been in the common room. The Maeduni were known for their willingness to kill and the pleasure they took from it. Mouse tried to shrink down into invisibility within his cloak, berating himself for allowing himself to become a little drunk and a lot careless. The bounty hunter’s gaze came to rest on him, and he began walking across the room toward him. The Maeduni towered over Mouse as he huddled on the bench.
“You’ve had a good run, boy,” he said sourly. “Almost worth the reward Mendor will pay.” He drew the sword and held it lightly in his right hand as he stood sneering down at Mouse. “Stand up. We’re starting back to the Landholding right now.”
Despair turned to scalding anger. Mouse came off the bench like an arrow from a bowstring. Too late, the Maeduni brought up the sword to slice at the boy’s head. Mouse ducked under the arm and his shoulder sank deeply into the bounty hunter’s unprotected belly. The breath left the man’s body in an explosive grunt. The sword clattered to the earthen floor as Mouse’s weight bore the Maeduni back toward the stone hearth. The man went down heavily on the flagstones and Mouse rolled free. He bounced to his feet, spun and snatched up the fallen sword.
The Maeduni had already pulled one of the daggers and come to his knee when Mouse whirled back to face him. But even as the bounty hunter drew back to throw the dagger, Mouse lunged forward and sank the blade of the sword into the man’s belly. The bounty hunter slumped back, wild astonishment on his face, and groped for the steel buried deep in his flesh. Then his face went blank and empty, and he sagged back onto the blackened flagstones.
Mouse yanked the sword free, bent to snatch up both the dagger in the bounty hunter’s limp hand and the one still at his belt. No sound came from the small cluster of men at a table in the corner. None of them moved as Mouse straightened up. They watched him for a brief moment, then all of them deliberately turned their backs, unwilling to involve themselves in a quarrel that was none of their making. There was no sign of the innkeeper or the urchin who had served the meal and the ale. Mouse thought they might be crouched behind the serving bar. He thrust both the daggers into his belt and, still holding the sword, ran for the door. He flung it open and ran out into the muddy courtyard.
