by Richard Ford
The High Abbot laughed and Kaira suddenly heard a squeal. He laughed again, then said something more loudly. This time his words had harsh tones, the aggressive tones of admonition … or punishment.
Then the girl screamed.
That was enough. Kaira had done her duty, stood guard at the behest of the Matron Mother and acted with honour. She could keep her peace no longer.
Kaira left her shield and spear against the wall lest she do something with them she might regret, then threw open the door and stepped inside, brow furrowed as though she were about to meet an enemy on the field rather than a bullying, perverted old fool.
The High Abbot looked around suddenly. In one hand he had the girl by her robe as though trying to pull it from her shoulder, in the other he grasped her upper arm, squeezing it tight. The girl’s face was visible now, her cowl thrown back. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen summers.
‘Enough!’ said Kaira, coming to stand beside the Abbot, staring at him, as though goading him into a fight. He merely smiled.
‘Come now,’ he said, releasing the girl, who quickly adjusted the robe at her shoulder and pulled her hood back over her face. ‘We were only having some fun.’
‘That’s not what it looks like to me.’ Kaira turned to the young priestess. ‘What’s your name, girl?’
‘Claudya,’ she said, her voice tiny, mouse-like.
‘I suggest you go back to your sisters.’
Claudya needed no further urging, walking from the room with quick, staccato steps.
The High Abbot was still smiling.
‘Come now, that was just a misunderstanding.’ He walked to a table where the carafe sat on its bronze tray, and poured two goblets of wine. ‘A silly girl, heady with the bloom of youth. Giving off those signals — you know the ones? But of course you do. I can see you are a woman of experience.’ He picked up the goblets, offering one to Kaira. When all he got in return was a contemptuous stare he put it back down with a shrug.
‘Look.’ He moved closer, too close, until he was standing right next to her, looking up towards her face as she towered over his diminutive frame. ‘There’s a hierarchy here. I happen to be at its peak … and I can help those that are, shall we say, beneath me.’ He reached out with a podgy hand and ran a finger down Kaira’s bare forearm. She felt her skin crawling as if with a line of maggots beneath his touch. ‘If we all just get along, there’s benefit in it for everyone.’ His finger moved up to her shoulder, then, to her horror, began to trace a line towards her breast. ‘There’s no reason we can’t be friends, is there? Because, trust me when I say: you wouldn’t want me as an enemy.’
Something snapped inside her, like a bowstring pulled taut until it could be pulled no more. Kaira took hold of the High Abbot’s finger before it could move any further. His mouth opened, eyes widening in shock as she bent it back. She knew she should have stopped there — she had done enough to teach him a lesson — but she didn’t. Later she would see it as a culmination of things that had brought her to this — the girls he had abused, Samina’s constant griping, her need to fight at the front, to feel worthy — all this had caused her to carry on, to move beyond the point of no return.
The High Abbot screamed as Kaira snapped his finger back, breaking the bone. Simultaneously, her free hand shot up as though with a will of its own, slamming into his nose, flattening it to his face in a spray of snot and blood.
He collapsed to the ground, knocking the bronze tray from the table and shattering the carafe on the floor in an explosion of red wine. Above the noise of smashing glass rose his high-pitched scream. He screamed as though his guts were hanging out, calling bloody murder, calling for help, for guards, for Arlor to protect him.
And Kaira merely looked down at him, that pitiful mess of a man. Though she knew that the consequences of her lack of control, her moment of madness, would be grave, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
TEN
After the Temple of Autumn had been built, all pagan burials had been forbidden within the walls of Steelhaven. Worship of the Old Gods had previously been common throughout the Free States, and so to appease those who still followed the ancient pantheon King Murlock had granted them Dancer’s Hill, and the consecrated ground that surrounded it, to carry out their various rites of birth, death, marriage and seasonal sacrifice. From the massive oak tree at the crest of the hill, it had been the practice to set criminals swinging, to dance their last twitching dance, before being buried in the ground that surrounded it. But since King Murlock had started executing ne’er-do-wells within the city walls, Dancer’s Hill had become redundant — no reason not to grant it to those who still worshipped the Old Gods.
Nobul stood now, under the shadow of that big old tree, just him and the grey-bearded druid. He wasn’t watching proceedings though; his attention was held by the branches rocking in the breeze. He listened to them creaking, thinking about the ropes that used to swing off them and the hanged beneath, bodies all swollen and purple, just dangling there. It was a gruesome thing to recall, but better than thinking of the alternative — his boy Markus lying there in the dirt, waiting to be covered over and left in the dark for the worms.
Nobul didn’t put much store by the gods, didn’t really care for being told what to do in general, especially by priests, but this wasn’t for him. It’s what Rona would have wanted. If there was an afterlife, and Nobul wasn’t convinced there was, then Rona would want Markus buried the same way she had been, so they could be together. Even though Nobul didn’t think it would make much difference, didn’t think there was anything waiting after you were put in the ground, he did it anyway.
The druid had been going on for longer than Nobul would have liked, but he didn’t complain. He was talking in a language Nobul barely understood, every now and then saying a name of one of the Old Gods Nobul recognised, but they were all irrelevant really. The only god that would be making an appearance now was the Lord of Crows. He’d come up through the ground, or so the old tales told, and he’d grant you a boon. You’d get one last request before he took you, get to finish one last task or say goodbye to your kin or have one last moment under the sun.
In the end everyone had to face the Lord of Crows.
Nobul found himself grinning at that. If the Lord of Crows came for him he’d want one last request all right — he’d want to find the bastard that did this, find the bastard and be let loose on him.
Stray shot they said it was — couldn’t be helped. The Greencoats couldn’t be held responsible as they were trying to catch some killer in the night. For that reason Nobul wasn’t eligible for ‘monetary redress’ as they’d called it. Not that he wanted money, even though it would have come in damned handy. No, he just wanted justice. But there was no justice in Steelhaven, not unless you had money and friends and power to begin with. The rest just had to lump it.
He glanced over at the druid and saw him looking, hands clenched in front of his green robe. The old man just stared, finished talking to the trees and the earth and the Lord of Crows. That was that, Nobul reckoned. He pointed to the short shovel he’d dug the grave with and the druid nodded. With a sigh he picked it up and began to fill in the hole, covering his son’s hemp-wrapped body with dirt.
When he finished he didn’t pause, didn’t stand around to say any words of his own. He just headed straight back towards the Stone Gate. On his way, he was sure he caught sight of someone watching from the side of the road, some child maybe a little older than Markus was … had been. But by the time he looked closer they were gone.
The house would be empty — a shell full of memories Nobul was none too keen to remember, so he went straight to the forge. He shut the door to block out the world, looking around at the embers in the fire, the anvil standing cold and silent, the little table he did his crafting on.
Nobul stood at that table and looked down; looked down at the mess that only he could make a sense of. He picked up a half-finished pommel, feelin
g the weight of it in his hand, running his thumb over the rough finish.
Some men whittled, hacking away for hours at pieces of wood, scraping bits off, sanding them down, smoothing them into small animals to give to their children. Nobul whittled with iron and steel, carved gilding into pommels, hammered rivets into hilts, wrapped handles in the finest leather, and even set gems into the steel when asked. He was a craftsman: he made things of beauty from the basest materials, but he suddenly realised he had never made anything for his son. Even the scum off the streets made toys for their children to play with, but not Nobul Jacks — he had always been too busy for such things, always too preoccupied with his work. All he had given Markus were harsh words and anger. The last thing he had ever given him was a slap to the face. He reckoned he had to be some sweet kind of bastard for that.
Nobul gripped the pommel tight, gritting his teeth, biting back the pain, biting back the tears. He turned, ready to fling the worthless hunk of metal across the room, when he saw the door was open. Two men walked in, burly, hard looking men. Men Nobul recognised.
The first was bald, the smile on his face friendly, as if he was expected. The second was taller, grimmer than the first … a right evil-looking bastard.
Nobul gently placed the pommel back on his table as the second man closed the door behind him.
‘Hello, Nobul, my old mate.’
Nobul didn’t answer, merely stood and looked at them.
The bald man looked to his friend and shrugged. The other one made no move in reply, merely staring at Nobul as though he wanted to do him harm. Nobul just stared at the ground. He didn’t care any more, didn’t have the energy to face them down. They could have what they wanted, take anything he had — it didn’t really matter any more.
‘I know this is an unexpected visit, and you’ve already paid this month, but you know how things are. That premium we were talking about before … it seems our boss wants it now.’
Nobul merely nodded. He glanced around the forge, trying to think if he had any coin here or if he’d left it back at the house. Then he remembered he’d spent the last of what he had to pay the druid for the ceremony. There was nothing left.
‘I don’t have it,’ he said. There was no emotion in his voice; he wasn’t scared, not of these two. They could do what they had to.
Baldy nodded. ‘That’s a problem then.’ He glanced to his companion again. Still no reaction. ‘But, you know, we can probably come to some arrangement.’ He strolled slowly to a barrel with bars of untempered steel poking out, picking one out and feeling its weight in his hand. ‘We’re not unreasonable men. It’s not like we’re going to damage you … not yet anyway. How are you going to earn any coin if you’re all beaten up to a fucking pulp?’ The last words were screamed at the top of his voice as he slammed the steel down on the anvil. The echo rang through the forge.
Nobul just nodded.
‘You’ve got until tomorrow,’ the thug said, casually throwing the steel back into its barrel. ‘Fifty coppers or five silvers. Makes no difference to us. You know … now that we’re friends and all.’ He turned, signalling to his companion, who seemed to have to drag his eyes away from Nobul before heading towards the door.
‘Oh, and by the way.’ Baldy turned, smiling, all self-satisfied as if he’d just won a hand at cards. ‘Sorry about the boy.’
There was silence, a moment that seemed to linger as Nobul slowly acknowledged the glib statement.
Looking up, he fixed the man with a glare, feeling his fists clench involuntarily. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Your boy. Nasty business that. But I suppose you’ve got one less mouth to feed now. Should be no problem making the monthly payment, eh?’
Baldy turned, smiling conspiratorially at the second thug. This time his companion cracked a smile in return.
A joke. A fucking joke about Markus. His son, who was lying dead in the dirt, dead and couldn’t speak up for himself. Wouldn’t ever speak again.
‘Wait,’ Nobul said, before they could open the door. The two men stopped, turning expectantly, Baldy cocking an ear as if he were waiting for something to be said in reply — as if he wanted Nobul to start trading insults, to rise to the provocation and give him an excuse to dish out a beating.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know your name,’ Nobul said. ‘Since we’re friends now and we’ll be seeing more of one another. I should know your name, shouldn’t I?’
Baldy smirked, glancing at his companion, then back at Nobul. ‘My name? You can call me “Sir”. How’s that for starters?’
‘Call you what?’
‘Sir. You fucking deaf?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
Baldy’s grin spread across his face, then he swaggered closer, so close that Nobul could have reached out and touched him. He leaned in, giving a hard stare. Nobul had seen that stare a hundred times in the mercenary companies and in the levy regiment. Seen officers give it to subordinates, seen big men give it to small. Now it seemed he was the one on the end of it.
‘I said, you can call-’
Nobul’s hand snapped forward, twisted in a claw shape as he grabbed hold of Baldy’s face like an eagle would grasp a rabbit in its talons.
‘Fucking cunt!’ he screamed, digging in his thumb, ploughing it into Baldy’s socket and beneath his eyeball to gouge out the eye with a faint popping sound.
Baldy fell, yelping like a dog with its balls slashed, but Nobul was already moving on. The second thug was coming forward, an evil grin on his face like he’d been expecting this, like he wanted it. The man was big but lumbering. Muscular but under a thick layer of fat.
Not hard like iron. Not tempered like steel.
Nobul grabbed the man’s head before he could take two steps, slamming it down onto his waiting knee, while spitting a grunt of rage through gritted teeth. He felt the head hit his knee and a biting pain ran up his thigh. Sharp pain. Good pain. As he dragged the man’s head back up he felt him going limp, floppy in his hands. But Nobul wasn’t finished yet, dragging him back towards the anvil and slamming his head down again, this time on the hard metal block. His skull rang out, not melodically like hammer on steel, but dull like an axe on a wooden stump. Again he slammed it, this time seeing blood spreading over the block. Then one last time before letting him drop. He lay there not moving as Baldy screamed in the background. Could have been unconscious … could have been dead, hard to tell. Nobul raised a foot and slammed it down on the man’s throat. It gave way beneath his boot, and blood and spit burst from the open mouth. Nobul stared down at the head, now lolling from those big shoulders. If he had still been alive after having his head slammed into an anvil, he was definitely dead now.
‘My fucking eye! Bastard! Bastard!’
Nobul turned to see Baldy still writhing on the floor. His hand was clasped to his face and the eyeball was poking out between his fingers on a meaty stalk.
‘Shush now, son,’ Nobul said, taking up his hammer. ‘This’ll be over soon.’
He stood over the screaming man, raised the hammer and went to work …
When it was over, when he had cleaned up the shit and gore, Nobul pushed his barrow through the dusk-darkened streets, his arms straining under the weight as it went over the cobbles. Usually he would be carrying a batch of weapons or armour in it, covered over with a sheet of canvas, taking it straight to the market stallholder where he’d get a good price or, if he’d been given a commission, straight to the wholesaler where he’d get a better price. It was doubtful he’d get anything for the two dead pieces of shit he had in his barrow right now.
He wasn’t worried about being discovered. The Greencoats in this part of town knew who Nobul was, had seen him on more than one occasion carting his wares through the streets. They might think it a bit curious he was pushing his barrow at nightfall, but even if they asked him to stop and took a look inside, Nobul didn’t care. Let them have a peek under the canvas, let them see the bodies he was
carrying, let them reel backwards in horror, pressing those stupid fucking whistles to their mouths, raising their crossbows, ordering him to get on the ground while they clapped him in irons.
Let them.
But they didn’t.
He reached the Storway where it ran past the Trades Quarter, and pushed his barrow down to the little towpath. There were three canal boats moored nearby, ready to take the long journey upriver to Silverwall. Nobul paused for a second, standing stock still, barrow still held upright, waiting to see if anyone would come. Nobody did.
It took him only moments to ease the two corpses gently into the river. They floated there, bobbing on the waves like apples in a barrel, before the current caught them and dragged them off. He watched as they slowly sank below the surface on their way out to the Midral Sea. The tide might wash them up later, but it would be far away from here.
Without giving them a second thought, he made his way home.
When Nobul got back to the forge he paused just long enough to fill up the barrow with wood from his shed. He’d always kept a well-stocked woodshed — a forge was useless without one. Once inside he filled the fire pit, watching as the old embers worked at lighting the wood. Then he went to his table and pulled out the long chest that lay underneath. It was made of plain hardwood bound with iron, four foot long and a foot wide, made even heavier by what he kept inside. He paused with his hand on the top, wondering whether to open it up and take a look. There was no real need for that, he knew what was inside. No need to drag up more old memories.
After he leaned the chest next to the door he took his spade and began shovelling burning wood into each corner of the forge, then stacked kindling on top of that. It didn’t take long before there were several fires burning, filling the forge with smoke, burning up to the rafters above and setting light to the walls.
