Brute

by Kim Fielding

  Which was perhaps just as well, because when the ground crumbled again, nobody but Brute was close enough to the edge to fall.

  For one single moment, he felt as if he were suspended in air, floating over the river like a cloud on a windless day. He felt as if, with only a bit of effort, he would fly—away from the cliff, away from the village. Just away. But instead he fell, the breath stolen from his lungs as he plummeted. His shoulders banged against the stones, then his lower back. Something cracked, but there was no pain. His head thudded against something hard and sharp, and his world went black.

  Chapter 2

  HE DIDN’T know whether his mother really had been a whore, but he knew she had loved his father. And his father loved her. They lived in one of the tiny stone and timber huts near the edge of the village, and his parents would sing together. They probably drank a good deal as well—Brute remembered the scent of ale and spilled wine—but they were happy. They laughed all the time. And when Brute was very, very small, so small that the entire world seemed enormous and out of his reach, they would sometimes let him sleep between them on their warm, soft bed, and they would tickle him and tell him that someday he’d amount to something wonderful. Possibly they believed that. Probably they were drunken fools.

  Then one day there was lots of shouting and screaming and crying—his mother collapsed on the floor, sobbing into her hands, and nothing he could do would console her. He saw his father one more time after that, in the village’s main square. His father had looked very pale and frightened atop the makeshift wooden structure, with his hands tied behind his back and the sheriff scowling at his side, but Brute’s father had managed a last weak smile at Brute and his mother. There was a terrible crack after that, and Brute’s father was dancing in midair.

  The men had come that afternoon and taken everything away. Their chickens and goat, their pots and dishes. They’d taken the cunningly carved set of wooden animals Brute’s father had given him during the previous Festival of the Harvest Moon, and his mother’s soft and beautiful shawl and pretty rings, and even his father’s spare pair of boots. Then they’d taken the table and chairs and chest of drawers and the small cot where Brute usually slept, and finally they’d taken the big, comfortable bed. He’d never again slept in such a wonderful bed.

  Not long afterward—maybe even that same day—Brute’s mother hugged him tight and kissed the top of his head and told him he was a good boy and she loved him. And then she drank something bitter-scented from a flask. He remembered wondering why the men hadn’t taken the flask as well. Minutes later, she collapsed to the ground, twitching and frothing at the mouth.

  His great-uncle had grudgingly taken him in, and Brute had spent his nights curled in the corner of another small hut—this one filthy—wrapped in two scratchy blankets. When the great-uncle had died, Brute moved into the stables, and that was actually an improvement of sorts. There was hay to cushion him, and the horses gave warmth and a bit of companionship. They smelled better than the great-uncle had too. Then Brute began to grow at a pace that alarmed even him. He’d often trip on his own feet or knock things over when he forgot how large his body had become. Darius hired him to quarry stones for the bridge, a project which had just begun. Brute had moved out of the stables, into the little room above the White Dragon, with the bugs and the mice and the lumpy, short bed.

  And this meant he must be dead, he concluded, because he could feel the softness of a real mattress beneath him, a pillow cradling his head, and warm, smooth sheets above him. Everything smelled clean, like a meadow after a spring rain. The afterlife, then.

  But no. Because his body was wracked with pain: a throbbing leg, a pounding head, hips that felt screwed on too tight, and a left hand that was clenched agonizingly and wouldn’t relax. There wouldn’t be such pain in the afterlife, would there?

  He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy. He almost could have laughed. Here he was, the great beast of burden, and he couldn’t manage to lift even his eyelids. The puzzle of his whereabouts was too much for his pounding head, and he gave up.

  Time twisted strangely after that. Sometimes he’d be awake, filled with pain and struggling to make sense of blurry shapes and colors, of broken bits of sound. Then it was as if reality jumped somehow, and the light would be different, or someone would be urging bitter liquid between his lips. He floated in and out of awareness, never quite able to grasp reality strongly enough to stay put, let alone to pull himself out of his fuzzy confusion.

  And then, gradually, his eyes were able to focus, and he realized he was looking up at dark ceiling beams against pale plaster. Most of his pain had receded to a thudding ache, although his hand still wouldn’t unclench. “Drink,” said a crisp, slightly familiar voice.

  Brute turned his head a little and, with some effort, refocused his eyes. Ah. Hilma Gedding, the village healer. She was an angular woman who seemed to have been born middle-aged and then apparently stopped growing older. She kept her gray hair tucked under a gray cap and wore plain gray dresses; even her eyes were gray. She was holding a tin cup in one of her overlarge hands. “Drink,” she repeated.

  Brute craned his neck a little, and she brought the cup to his mouth. It wasn’t water, as he’d hoped, but something grassy and sour tasting. He swallowed it anyway, figuring it was meant to help him get better. Hilma nodded and set the cup aside, then pulled the blankets down to his waist and settled her palms on his chest. Once when he was still small, Hilma healed him after his great-uncle had broken Brute’s arm—Brute was instructed to tell Hilma that he’d fallen from the hayloft. If she doubted his story, she never said so. As an adult, he had injured himself badly enough on two or three occasions to be willing to spare the coppers she charged. So he had some idea what to expect: a slight tingling sensation that radiated from his chest throughout his body, the pleasant warmth that accompanied it, the tuneless chanting of the healer. When she took her hands away, his pain had lessened just a little bit more.

  “Sleep now,” she said.

  “But—”

  “Sleep.”

  He didn’t know whether her command carried magical authority, but as soon as she said it, his eyes fell closed and unconsciousness washed over him like a warm wave.

  The next time he woke up, she gave him tea and then broth, and when she was done with him, he could move his legs without too much discomfort. Later, she washed his body. He was slightly embarrassed, but he was not strong enough to do anything about it. Besides, the cloth was soft and the water was warm, and the soap smelled like the lavender wands his mother used to tuck into her clean laundry.

  It might have been that same day or maybe the next when he heard voices in the adjoining room and realized that his head was finally clear enough to understand them.

  “—wagon ready tomorrow, Your Highness,” said a voice Brute recognized as the sheriff’s. Brute smiled a little to learn that the prince was alive and nearby.

  “I’d rather ride on horseback.”

  “Your leg’s not quite healed enough for that,” said Hilma. “Unless you want to stay here another week.”

  “Gods, no. I appreciate your hospitality, but I want to get home.”

  “Of course.”

  The three of them chatted a while longer about the prince’s travel arrangements, and Brute began to doze off again. But then Prince Aldfrid asked, “And what about him?”

  “He’s healing,” replied Hilma. “He’ll be walking again soon.”

  Brute smiled again because the prince had asked after him. He couldn’t remember anyone caring about his well-being since he was a child.

  “But what’ll become of him?” the prince asked, turning Brute’s grin into a frown.

  The sheriff sounded impatient. “You needn’t worry about him, Your Highness. I’m sure you have much more important—”

  “He saved my life. The rest of you just stood there, and he risked himself to rescue me. That makes him very important.” There was a paus
e and a dull thunk, as of a tankard being set on a table. “Does he have anyone to look after him?”

  “His father was—” began the sheriff.

  “Hanged. I know. Anyone else?”

  “He’s always looked after himself.”

  The sheriff’s statement was true enough, Brute knew, and yet it made his chest ache. He was good enough at taking care of himself, and he reminded himself often that he didn’t need anyone else. He could manage. He was strong.

  But the prince’s next words tore him apart: “He won’t be able to return to his job.”

  There was probably more discussion after that, but Brute couldn’t hear it over the rushing in his ears. He closed his eyes and wished himself back into the state of wooly incomprehension where he’d been spending so much time lately. But it didn’t work, and he couldn’t unknow the truth he’d been refusing to acknowledge for some time. He opened his eyes and, very slowly, pulled his arms out from under the blankets.

  His right hand was fine. It had a few pale scars—and a new wound or two—but his long, broad fingers curled and uncurled as cleverly as always, his thumb and forefinger came together perfectly.

  He looked to his left.

  It wasn’t shocking, not really. His arm, thick with muscle, and a clean white bandage, and then… nothing. Nothing horrible to see except the absence of his hand.

  He made a choking sound and tried to scramble out of bed, as if he could somehow escape his own mutilation. But his feet caught in the blankets, and his legs, unused to standing, wouldn’t hold him. He fell to the floor with a loud crash.

  Hilma and the sheriff came running in. The sheriff frowned, but the healer only shook her head, and then the two of them hauled him back onto the mattress, grunting with effort. Hilma smoothed the covers back over his naked legs and hips, but his arms remained free.

  “What…?” he began, but was unable to finish, not even when he swallowed twice.

  “It was too badly shattered. I couldn’t fix it. It had to come off or it would have rotted away.”

  “But… my hand….”

  “You’re lucky to have your life,” said the sheriff. “You washed up on that little beach north of the bridge, and it took most of Darius’s crew to bring you here.”

  Funny. Brute didn’t feel very thankful. One-handed, he had no means of livelihood. His few saved coppers wouldn’t last long, and then… well, he might as well have died in the river. Quicker that way.

  He turned his head away and closed his eyes.

  HE WAS awake the next morning when the mattress dipped beside him, but he didn’t open his eyes until a warm hand gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry,” said Prince Aldfrid. “If I’d been more careful, this wouldn’t have happened to you.”

  Brute was so surprised at the royal apology that his despair momentarily slipped away. “I’m glad you’re all right, Your Highness.”

  “I’ll be limping for a while yet, but I can live with that.” He smiled a little, and gods, he was handsome! “My head’s not as thick as yours, I think. I wouldn’t have survived if I’d fallen off the rock. Thank you.”

  “It’s… it’s an honor.” Which was true. Brute might be an ugly beast—now a crippled one at that—but he’d saved a prince’s life. His mother was right after all.

  Prince Aldfrid squeezed his shoulder again. “You’re quite a man. Look now. When you’re up to traveling, I’d like you to come to the palace.”

  “To… to Tellomer?”

  “Yes. You’re a hero, and you deserve a reward.”

  Brute tried to think of what sort of reward he would get. A medal? A parchment listing his brave deeds? A… fancy hat, maybe? All very pretty, but not of much use to a one-handed laborer.

  The prince must have sensed his thoughts because he laughed softly. “A job. A good job, with living quarters more comfortable than anywhere in this village and without that damnable foreman.”

  “But I can’t….” Brute waved his mangled arm, as if the prince might have forgotten he was maimed.

  “There’s still more to you than most men. We’ll find something for you to do, I promise you.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, which he set on the table beside the bed. “Bring that with you. It’ll get you past the guards and into the palace.”

  To Brute’s horror, his eyes filled with tears. He hadn’t cried since his mother died—not once, not even when his great-uncle beat him—and now he dug the fingernails of his remaining hand into his palm and tried to maintain his composure. “Thank you,” he rasped.

  The prince stood, a bit awkwardly, and smiled down at him. “I hope to see you soon, Brute.” Then he limped slowly out of the room.

  Brute’s recovery continued steadily after that. Hilma didn’t speak to him other than to issue terse commands, and she made him drink gallons of that awful tea, but she fed him—much better than Cecil at the White Dragon ever did—and sang her healing chants. She allowed him out of bed, first just long enough to use the chamber pot, but soon he was wobbling around the room. She produced his spare shirt and a pair of trousers that had obviously been hastily altered to fit him. The clothes he’d been wearing when he fell off the cliff must have been ruined. He learned to care for himself one-handed. Clumsily, but he managed.

  Finally, she unwrapped the bandage from his stump for the final time and nodded in satisfaction. He steeled himself for a good look, but it wasn’t as horrible as he’d imagined. The hand was gone, cut cleanly at the wrist, and the scars at the end were still pinkish and new looking. But the wound was closed, and there were no signs of infection. He just wished he didn’t feel like his hand was still attached, still balled in a tight fist.

  “You can’t… can’t grow it back?” he asked her, knowing he wouldn’t have enough coppers to pay even if she were capable.

  “I’m a healer, not a witch.”

  He nodded. “How much must I pay you for…?” He waved his good arm vaguely toward the rumpled bed.

  “The prince paid already.”

  “Oh.”

  She sniffed and tapped a foot impatiently. “Leave now. I’ve done all for you that I can.”

  He took the folded sheet of paper and tucked it carefully into his pocket. He desperately wished to know what it said, but he couldn’t read, and in any case, it was sealed by a blob of red wax bearing what he assumed was the prince’s signet.

  It was midmorning, and the village was bustling as men and women went to the market and back, or fetched water from wells. Children rushed about everywhere, playing with balls and hoops or doing their parents’ errands. Everyone stared at him, at his arm. But he kept his head up and worked to hide the remaining limp, even though his hips ached with the effort.

  Cecil was standing behind the bar when Brute entered the White Dragon. “Not running a charity house,” the landlord snarled.

  “I don’t need charity,” Brute said as he walked past the bar. Ascending the stairs was painful. He would never make it up the pathway at the bridge site, not even without a heavy stone on his back. Even more important, he couldn’t lift the stones anymore, couldn’t adjust his own harness, couldn’t tug on ropes or dig holes or do any of the other tasks Darius expected. It gave him a tiny thrill of satisfaction to know that the last burden he carried in that damned sling had been Prince Aldfrid.

  His room looked especially small and squalid after the healer’s pleasant house. And his bed…. He sighed, already missing her wonderful mattress, which had been almost long enough to fit him. His own lumpy mattress didn’t look the least bit inviting, even though he was tired after the walk across the village.

  Opening the chest at the foot of his bed proved tricky: it had latches on each side. He struggled with it for several minutes before he finally swore and gave it a mighty kick. He hurt his bare foot in the process, but at least the old wood caved beneath the pressure. He stuck his remaining hand into the wreckage and retrieved his few belongings: a razor, a short knife, and a
scented handkerchief he’d stolen three festivals earlier from a whore in Tellomer who’d smiled at him instead of grimacing. Not much for a lifetime, but most of his salary went to Cecil. After placing the other items on the table beside the letter, Brute used the knife to pry up a loose floorboard near the edge of the bed. In a small cavity underneath was a tin box that contained all the coppers he had saved. He tucked the box under his left arm and twisted off the lid with his right, then tallied the small stash—a pittance, really. He replaced the lid and set the box on the table with his other possessions.

  And then he sat on the edge of his terrible bed, looked at the table, and thought. He couldn’t imagine what sort of job the prince would find for him in Tellomer. Brute didn’t know how to do anything but use his strength. If his hips healed, maybe they could hook him up to a cart and use him like a mule, he thought sourly. Maybe he could stand in the corner and help hold up the ceiling.

  He didn’t want to be a very large and useless lump, an object of pity acquired by the prince out of a sense of obligation. But he had few other choices, unless he intended to throw himself over the cliff again and hope that this time the rocks finished what they’d begun.

  Maybe he should go just to see what the prince had in mind. Brute could simply thank him and walk away if the job proved too demeaning. The river would always be waiting. Besides, this way he’d get to see the inside of the palace. He smiled to himself. He’d be willing to bet that Darius and Cecil and most of the other Geddings had never managed that feat.

  Chapter 3

  BRUTE felt no unhappiness as he turned his back on his home village for the last time. In fact, he felt wonderfully free. It had been weighing him down like a stone all these years, and he hadn’t even realized it. He’d paid off his debt to Cecil and bought himself a secondhand cloak that was in decent shape. It had a wide pocket in which he could jam the stump of his left arm. He was still huge and ugly, and people would still stare, but he felt almost whole that way.