Brute

by Kim Fielding

  THE roosters began to crow well before the sun rose, and soon morning noises echoed in the courtyard. Gods, he was sore. He stood—carefully—and stretched, hoping to work out a few kinks from his frame. He prodded gently at the bruises from the rope, then scratched at the dark thatch of hair on his chest. Unbidden, his hand traveled south to grasp his cock, which was as uselessly perky as it always was in the morning. It was the only optimistic part of him, and sometimes he wondered when it would give up too.

  Once a year, during the Festival of the Harvest Moon—when even Darius was forced to give his men the day off—Brute gathered most of his hoarded coppers into a cloth purse and made the three-hour trek to the royal city of Tellomer. With head held high, he endured the stares and jeers that were always worse than in his home village, where at least the residents were used to him. The dingy little corner with the molly houses and brothels was mostly deserted on the afternoon of the festival, when people spent time with their families and only the most desperate of men and women would be selling themselves. Brute always went to the darkest, most dismal house, the one that didn’t even bother with a sign or a name, where the scowling keeper charged him double the usual rates and the whores squabbled over who would be forced to take him.

  Brute would stand in the filthy little entry hall and pretend to retain the shreds of his dignity.

  Finally, some poor boy would be appointed, often the oldest and the most well-used, and he’d gesture impatiently for Brute to follow him into a tiny back room. Brute always wished that he could caress soft skin, could linger over tender spots. But if he tried that, the boy—the man really; these whores were often older than Brute—would grimace with distaste. So in the end, neither of them would even undress. Brute would loosen his trousers and the boy would loosen his, there would be a perfunctory application of lips and wet tongue to Brute’s cock, and then the boy would turn around and present his backside for Brute’s use.

  Every year as Brute walked home, he’d promise himself that he wouldn’t return to that house in Tellomer, but when the next festival came around, he always did. It was the only time anyone ever touched him, and, as meaningless as those touches were, he suspected that he’d shrivel up and die without them. Or worse yet, that he’d lose his humanity altogether and become the monster everyone assumed he was.

  The festival was months away, and he had no time this morning for the only other touch he experienced—his own right hand. He gave his cock a warning glare before pulling on his breechclout, trousers, and the now-dry shirt that still needed mending.

  His morning routine varied little. He used the outhouse that was in one corner of the courtyard, washed and roughly shaved at the trough, then entered the tavern, where Cecil wordlessly handed him a bowl of lumpy porridge and gristly meat. Sometimes Brute was fortunate—if Cecil was in a good mood and the hens were laying well, he would receive an egg or two. This was not one of those mornings. He ate his breakfast and grabbed the metal bucket that had been left on the counter. The bucket contained his lunch, which was generous in portion but no more tasty than the White Dragon’s other fare.

  As Brute neared the river, his long strides overtook a few of the other men on their way to work. They seemed a little nervous, and he remembered, belatedly, that the prince would be inspecting the bridge today. The only noblemen Brute had ever seen had been passing through the village on fine horses. He was uncertain how to behave in the royal presence. He supposed that his best bet was to keep his head down and his feet moving, to act the stupid beast.

  The prince had not yet arrived at the worksite, and Darius had worked himself into a minor frenzy. Several members of his family were standing impatiently at the bottom of the hill—the sheriff and his wife, the priest and three of his acolytes, the former sheriff and other elder members of the Gedding clan, and a half dozen of the village’s wealthier merchants. Aside from the priest and acolytes, who wore white robes, everyone was dressed in bright finery. The hems of the women’s skirts were dragging in the dirt.

  “Stop goggling!” Darius shouted at nobody in particular. “You’re paid to work, not to stand about like fucking fools.” Some of the women laughed, and the workers ran to their places. Osred and Osric began to chisel at a hunk of stone, shaping it into a rough cube. Their task was nearly complete. Within a week or so they would have produced enough of the stones to construct the bridge’s foundations. Other men scurried up the slope to assemble the bridge components that were waiting for them. Brute found the rope and canvas harness that he’d discarded the previous afternoon and tied it around his shoulders and back. It hurt a little, but at least the straps were too wide to dig very deeply into the narrow bruises.

  Osric and Osred hoisted a stone into the harness, and Brute began his first uphill trek of the day.

  It was midmorning when the prince and his retinue arrived. Brute was on his way down the hill at the time and heard the clop-clop of their horses before he actually saw them. He was relieved they had finally shown up, because the waiting crowd was getting very restless and Darius was growing ever more ferocious with his tongue. The foreman had picked up one of the switches used to hurry the cart horses along, and it was clear that he wished he could use it on his men.

  Brute didn’t pause in his work when the prince arrived. He simply waited for the next block of stone to be lifted onto his back and listened as the crowd shouted greetings to their royal visitor. Brute was already on his way up the hill again before the prince had dismounted.

  But when Brute descended once more, the prince was still standing there, chatting loudly with the sheriff about transportation costs. Brute snuck a look at him while waiting for Osric and Osred. Prince Aldfrid was a tall man in his midthirties. He was handsome, with a thick mane of yellow hair and a small, pointed beard. But if it weren’t for the deferential way the other people stood around him, Brute never would have guessed that the man was the son of the king. He wore plain traveling clothes—no doubt well made, but free of decoration or frivolity. They contrasted markedly with the costumes of the villagers, making the locals seem gaudy and maybe even a little silly.

  Brute had just allowed himself a small smile at this notion when Prince Aldfrid turned his head and caught sight of him. “What is that?” the prince asked in a booming voice.

  Darius frowned. “Nobody. Just one of the workers.”

  Prince Aldfrid laughed. “He looks more like several of the workers.” As the Geddings and their lot looked on askance, the prince strode over until he was standing a few feet in front of Brute, looking him up—and up—and down again.

  Brute didn’t know what to do. Was he supposed to bow? Should he say something? He felt twice as huge as usual, and three times as ugly. He ended up just standing there like a dimwitted statue.

  “Who are you?” the prince asked, his head cocked slightly.

  “I-I-I’m—”

  “Brute,” Darius finished for him. “He’s nobody important, Your Highness. He carries things. Now, if you’d care to speak with one of our masons—”

  “I’d like to speak with Brute,” the prince interrupted. “I’m assuming he is capable of human speech.” His words were teasing, but Brute saw only good humor in the pale blue eyes, not cruelty.

  “I can talk. Your Highness.” Brute hoped that was the proper way to address him.

  “Speaking and carrying things. A man of many talents indeed. And on hot days you can provide shade for all the mere mortals around you.”

  Prince Aldfrid was smiling, and Brute couldn’t help but grin back. “And shelter when it storms, Your Highness.”

  He had a nice laugh, Brute thought. Loud, as if he was used to having an audience, but it seemed genuine. And it was by no means a jeer. He laughed at Brute’s small joke the way friends laughed together in the tavern, the way Osred laughed when Osric did his imitation of Darius. He even clapped Brute familiarly on the arm. “Have you ever given thought to joining the Royal Guard?” he asked.

  “
The Royal Guard?”

  “We’d hardly need to train you. Just stick a battle-axe in your hands and post you by the palace entrance. Nobody nefarious would even think about trying to get by you.”

  Brute had a brief image of himself, resplendent in uniform and shield, proudly guarding his prince. He would probably even have boots, black ones that shone. “I, um—”

  “He’s just a beast of burden, Your Highness,” Darius interrupted. “Doesn’t have the brains for anything else. Besides, he’s not the type you’d want guarding anything. His father was hung as a thief, and his mother was a poxy whore. It’s why he turned out looking like that.”

  “She wasn’t,” Brute said in a near whisper.

  The prince rolled his eyes at Darius before turning back to Brute. “We’ll speak some more when my tour is finished, all right?” He didn’t look disgusted at what the foreman had said.

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Brute murmured. Prince Aldfrid touched his arm again before allowing himself to be led away.

  The brightly dressed crowd followed the prince and his men up the path, chattering loudly the whole way like a flock of excited chickens. Brute stood as a large stone was placed in his back sling. He could almost forget the complaints of his muscles and the lingering ache in his chest, so long as he pictured the friendly way the prince had spoken to him, the kindness in the prince’s eyes. Prince Aldfrid saw him as a wonder, as a potential asset, not as a freak. Brute smiled and hummed as he began to climb the hill.

  The bridge didn’t seem like such an engineering marvel to him, but then, what did he know? It certainly seemed to capture the prince’s attention for a long time. Brute made a half dozen trips up and down the hill as Prince Aldfrid inspected the supports, which were nearly complete. Soon the construction of the wooden deck would begin, but Brute would not be part of that enterprise. Instead, he and the rest of the crew would turn the narrow pathway into a proper road, and when the bridge was complete, they would construct the road on the other side of the river. According to gossip in the White Dragon, once the project was finished, travel time between coastal Tellomer and the inland city of Harfaire would be reduced by nearly a day. Not only that, but many more travelers would pass through the little village. The Geddings family was doubtless already counting the money they would earn.

  As he completed his seventh trip up the hill, Brute saw that the prince had abandoned the bridge itself and now stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing out over the river. He looked very regal, Brute thought. He looked like a man who could handily conquer the world.

  The villagers stood a short distance away, talking to the men who’d accompanied the prince—the royal financiers, perhaps. The men had the shrewd-eyed look of people who counted coins for a living. Brute had a vague idea that the crown had funded most of the costs of the construction, and he wondered how the Geddings had convinced the king to have the bridge built here, instead of at one of the villages downriver, closer to Tellomer.

  Maybe Prince Aldfrid didn’t care about financial matters. He seemed to be ignoring the conversation, anyway, taking a few steps farther from his companions until his toes hung over the edge of the cliff.

  And then the soil crumbled.

  Thinking about that morning much later, Brute concluded that the ground had been softened by the rains, and that the runaway timber had weakened the edges even more. Probably somebody should have thought of those things while the prince was standing there. Darius should have warned him to stand back a little more. But Darius didn’t, and the earth gave way. Prince Aldfrid shouted with alarm and disappeared from sight.

  For what seemed like hours, the Geddings and the prince’s men and the workers and Brute all just stood there, mouths hanging open in shock. And then somehow, Brute was the first to move. His long legs covered the ground very quickly, and although other people were closer when the prince fell, Brute reached the edge before they did. Heedless of whether the ground would hold his weight, he peered over the edge.

  Prince Aldfrid had fallen about forty feet and was sprawled facedown and motionless on a small outcropping of rock, one of his legs twisted at an unnatural angle. The rock was small enough that one of his arms hung over the edge. If the prince rolled only a few inches to the side, he would fall again, probably landing on the sharp rocks in the river below.

  Brute mumbled a few words to the gods—he didn’t know any real prayers—and clambered over the side of the cliff.

  He’d been an ordinary-sized child until he was nine or ten, maybe even a bit on the small side. He’d still been ugly, however, still the orphaned son of a thief, and the other boys had hounded him mercilessly. He’d taken more than a few beatings, just because the other children knew nobody would protect him. He spent most of his days running errands and mucking out the stables where his great-uncle worked, but when he had a little free time, he would escape to the river, climb up some rocks, and hide in a small cave. Sometimes he even spent the night in the cave, when the weather was warm and his great-uncle had been drinking enough to start reaching for his cane. The great-uncle had died just about when Brute began his freakish growth spurt, so Brute had stopped climbing the rocks and visiting the cave and had begun earning his keep for real.

  He was much taller now and many times heavier. But his hands and bare feet remembered how to grip into the smallest cracks and fissures, and he was much, much stronger, so his arms could easily hold his weight when he couldn’t find a foothold. He made his way down the bluff, only glancing up once to see the alarmed faces staring down at him.

  It took very little time to reach the small outcropping, but he had to be careful not to jostle the prince, not to send them both tumbling over the edge. He knelt beside the prone body and was enormously relieved when the prince shifted a bit and moaned.

  “He’s alive!” Brute called to the people above. And then, more quietly, he said, “Don’t move, Your Highness. Please don’t move.”

  Prince Aldfrid moaned again and rolled his head a little. His eyes fluttered open. “Brute?” he rasped.

  Brute was strangely pleased that the prince had remembered him. “You’ve fallen, sir. I’ll… I’ll help you back up.”

  The prince moved, just a little, and groaned as Brute grabbed his shoulders. “Don’t!” Brute said. “You’re… really close to the edge.”

  “I’m… oh. I think my leg’s broken.”

  Only then did Brute notice that dark blood was staining the rock beneath them. A lot of dark blood. “Uh, Your Highness?”

  “For the gods’ sake, stop calling me that, at least until you’re done rescuing me.”

  “Um, okay.” Brute glanced up again, but none of the bystanders were offering any assistance. “If we can get you into my back sling, do you think you can hold on while I get us back up?”

  “I’ll damned well try.”

  The prince’s voice sounded a little stronger, which gave Brute more hope. He shifted the prince very cautiously, still eliciting a choked cry from the stricken man as the injured leg was moved. “Such a damned fool,” the prince mumbled.

  “Sorry!”

  “Not you! Me.”

  Brute really couldn’t argue with that—the prince should have been more careful. So without saying anything, he continued to maneuver Aldfrid as gently as possible, all the while very aware of the closeness of the precipice. The prince assisted as best as he could, and soon he was seated in the back sling, his arms wrapped around Brute’s neck.

  “Don’t strangle me,” Brute warned.

  “That would be counterproductive.”

  Climbing up was a lot more difficult than climbing down. The prince’s weight on Brute’s back not only added to the strain on his arms but also altered his center of gravity. Prince Aldfrid’s rasping, hot breath on the back of his neck would have been a terrible distraction if Brute wasn’t so worried about losing his grip, sending both of them to their deaths.

  As they reached the halfway mark, Darius belatedly decid
ed to shout directions. “Grab that rock over there! No, not that one, idiot! Watch where you’re putting your feet!”

  Brute ignored him until the prince mumbled, “What an ass.” Under other circumstances, Brute would have laughed in response. But the prince’s voice was thready and his grip was weakening. If he lost consciousness, he’d fall, most likely dragging Brute with him.

  “Almost there,” Brute lied. His arms and shoulders burned, his back was one huge cramp, and his legs felt like Cecil’s over-boiled noodles. The bruises he’d acquired the day before were like sharp blades digging between his ribs. If he survived the climb, he was going to have to take the afternoon off again, and Darius had damned well better pay him for the full day this time.

  He was perhaps fifteen feet from the top when his left hand slipped. His body began to slide down the rock, Prince Aldfrid groaned in pain, and the audience gasped. For an endless moment Brute was positive he was going to fall. But his right hand gripped its hold just a little more tightly and his feet jammed deeply into a crack, and his left hand was able to regain contact with the cliff.

  Brute let out a long breath and kept on climbing, foot by agonizing foot.

  He couldn’t feel his fingers and toes anymore. He couldn’t see anything but gray stone in front of his nose, and all he heard was the prince’s ragged breathing. He tasted salty sweat on his lips and longed for a tankard of cool ale. “Almost there,” he repeated, but this time it was the truth. And just moments later, when he’d risen another arm’s length, hands reached down and grasped him. Brute scrabbled against the rock with his feet as he and the prince were hauled up and over the edge.

  He lay there with his face in the trampled grass, his lower legs still hanging over the edge. It seemed to him that the prince continued to try to hang on, even as the bystanders pulled him off Brute’s back. The sudden removal of the extra weight wasn’t as much of a relief as he had expected. He wanted to know how badly injured the prince was, but was too weak to make his throat work to say the words. Likely nobody would have answered him anyway: all the Geddings and workers and members of the prince’s retinue seemed to be jabbering away at once, all of them nearly hysterical over the prince’s plight. None of them were paying attention to Brute.