Dershik grit his teeth and held in a scream as he brought the rock down on the man’s head, feeling the bones give way under the force. He lifted the rock again. Blood and something else dripped from it and he bashed the man’s head in again. The bones of Fil’s face buckled and folded into something unrecognizable. Dershik let the stone drop from his hand and he fell back. His stomach heaved and he vomited on the floor, adrenaline and disgust emptying his stomach. He couldn’t believe he had done it. But he had. His father had struck down a peasant for speaking out against him and what had Fil done?
Dershik wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He hated himself. What he had done? He was worse than his father. His father had at least had a reason for striking the farmer down years ago and the man probably survived. Fil…he couldn’t look at him but he forced himself. His plan was unfolding and he had to follow it through.
First he exchanged their boots and belts. The fabric would probably burn but he wasn’t sure if the metal would and Dershik’s boots always had buckles, his belt pressed with the house standard. He cringed as he put on Fil’s boots, old things which didn’t fit and were wet and warm inside. Dershik pulled his rings off and put them on Fil’s fingers, removing the chain Jerila had given him on their wedding day and fastened it around Fil’s neck. As he did, the misshapen eyes of the man seemed to stare at him and blood pooled on the floor, crawling toward him. Dershik took a step back and forced himself to look at the man who was taking his place, who would take the seeds out of his father’s soil. Who would help Ceric and Jerila be together. He retrieved the lamp oil.
He poured the lamp oil all over the body, putting a few handfuls of straw on the face so something would burn there. Hay was stacked on one side of the body so anyone at the keep wouldn’t see the light and come inspect too soon, before the body had properly burned. How long did it take a body to burn? He had heard about barns burning and homes burning. Animals escaping but screaming in pain as chunks of their flesh sloughed off, gnarled, blackened bodies unidentifiable. At least Fil was dead. He had killed him. Dershik poured the last of the lamp oil on hay stacked against a wall and picked up the lamp, catching a handful of hay on fire. It licked at his hand and he threw it on the body, smacking his hand against his leg to make sure his own skin wasn’t on fire.
The small tongues of fire took to the lamp oil and became hungry mouths, catching the clothes and floor on fire. Fil’s face burned, the hair catching first and Dershik watched, partially to make sure the body was burning and partially out of a morbid fascination. Dershik took apart another bale of hay, tipping it into the flames to fuel its burn. Smoke started to fill the barn, black and thick. Dershik coughed, looking around to find the door. He panicked as he spun around, trying to orient himself in the smoke but then remembered the barrel hiding the lamp light had been across from the door and he ran toward it.
Dershik fled from the barn toward the riding trail, the stream, and then the tree. The moon was a sliver tonight, like a bowl in the sky and the smoke from the barn barely showed against the dark night. The walls of the barn hid most of the light, giving him time to escape. Dershik ran, the boots ill fitting and his heart racing but still he found his way.
The hollow of the tree held his now meager belongings. He changed his boots and wondered what he to do with the dead man’s, deciding to carry them for a spell and leave them in the forest somewhere. He changed his shirt and rolled it up, throwing it in his pack before he slung it over his shoulder, making sure his lucky dagger was in its hilt before he looked back at the keep and the barn.
The barn was aflame now and he heard bells in the keep. The fire had been seen. Everyone was awake now, he was sure, required to safely abandon whatever they were doing in order to combat the fire. They would wet the grass around the barn, remove debris and try to keep the fire contained to the stables. The fire would just have to consume itself and they would try to mitigate the damage. It was far enough away from the keep to not put the main building in jeopardy.
Dershik took one last look, wondering where the people he loved were during all this. Ceric was in Whitfield. Cira was probably leading a prayer with Kiyla, for mercy. His father was probably trying to run the count, trying to account for everyone in the household. Dershik would be missing. Fil would be as well. He had to get gone. Taking one last look at the flames, he turned and ran down the path, not able to keep a triumphant grin from breaking across his smoke stained face. He had done it. He was free from the life of Dershik, son of Darix Cartaskin. He was Derk now. Despite the dark, he ran, the light from the Goddess enough for him to safely maneuver away from this life and into the next.
CHAPTER 5
A Contract of Devotion
“Then, she turns to me and says I owe her five blueies!” Derk set his tankard down on the bar top with a thump, the foam leaping out of cup and spilling onto the wooden surface. “If I’d known she was still filling her purse, I’da left her on the street corner, I would’ve.” He shook his head and took in a deep breath, trying to ignore the laughter coming from the woman sitting beside him. Its volume and intensity hinted she wouldn’t be done laughing soon and Derk felt a hand come down on his shoulder as she steadied herself on her stool. If it wasn’t such a pleasant sound, he could have stayed angrier longer, but Celeel had an annoying way of putting people in good spirits just by being in their presence. He took a gulp of his beer, waiting for her to finish laughing, running a hand over his stubbled cheek. He needed a shave sooner than later. Did he still have his razor?
“I say, for someone who swims with fish, you come up for air quite often,” she said, wrapping her fingers around her cup, still giggling at his story. She drank the same thing as Derk, just a smaller serving. Celeel wasn’t a bad looking woman. She was more pretty than beautiful. Her long, brown curly hair framed her heart shaped face and hung down to her waist. Her hazel eyes glittered merrily when she was in good spirits, which was most of the time. The terrible scar on her leg didn’t put him off either.
What made Derk stick by Old Gam wasn’t her looks, which were fair, but her wits. She was smart and funny and conversed with him, even argued. They met at a dance where she had stolen his purse. He stole it back and threatened to call the the brown cloaks after pretending to find it missing. She primly replied it was in his possession and therefore there was nothing he could accuse her of as he had no proof. He introduced himself to her as Derk and she had hesitated before introducing herself as Celeel, but more often called Old Gam. She added with a smirk, if he was lucky, he’d find out why. She could turn a phrase and knew a hundred sayings he never heard before, most of which he didn’t understand. He caught the meaning of this one though. Derk glared at her, eyes glinting with annoyance. She was unfazed and took a drink before speaking to him again.
“You’re telling me you can’t recognize a girl at work still? All women are gilded in your eyes, aren’t they?” The woman laughed again, the pleasant sound almost drowned out by some ruckus at one of the tables at the bar. Derk pulled a face meant to look insulted but only made her laugh at him more, causing him sit up straighter on his stool.
“I don’t see anything wrong with thinking highly of anyone-”
“Whose got a pair above instead of below?” Celeel laughed again. “Who knew fappers could be so genteel?” She looked at him over the edge of her mug as she drank, and he saw the smile in her eyes. Laughing at him. As well she should. Still, an accusation had been made and he had to address it.
“I’m no fapper, Gam, and what’s wrong with keeping my boots clean and combing my hair? And offering a lady a compliment?” He didn’t like being called self-centered, or made fun of for having manners. Derk didn’t feel like he was more selfish than many of those he had come across in his few moons on the streets. He still ran the same games, slept in the same doorways they did, pulled in about the same amount of coin. He shared when he had made a few grips more than normal.
For the most part Derk had taken to this
life quickly. It didn’t give people time to adjust. It swallowed people up and they either came out on the other end intact or as shit. Some of the people seemed to wear their ignorance as a kind of badge, an excuse for why they did the things they did, and he thought it was rubbish. Celeel was like him. They stole not for survival, though they did take things to pay for food and other necessities. They felt themselves when sneaking about, sizing up a quarry and coming back with a little more than they had gone in with. It came naturally and they had embraced it. He peered over her shoulder, taking survey of the commotion at the table which would probably come to blows sooner than later. Derk fixed his eyes back on Old Gam when he had decided they were safe for now. “Besides, you’ve missed the point of my story entirely. I thought women were supposed to be sensitive to people’s hurts.”
“You ain’t hurt, just sore that woman would have charged you for a throw.”
“That’s not it! I told you, I thought she was beautiful, one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen and I told her so-”
“Am I to sit here, having you basically insult me?”
“You’ll sit there as long as I buy you drinks, Gam, and listen, for the love of tits.” Derk huffed, taking a gulp of his drink. “I talked with this girl for almost half a watch, I said all manners of kind things to her, things I thought true. I’d seen her sing at Half Masts and thought she was a wonderful singer. And all she wants to do is sell her body for coin? With a voice like that? It ain’t right!”
“Listen to you, saying ‘ain’t.’ Ain’t he clever?” Old Gam cackled
“Don’t start with this, don’t, or the drinks will stop.” Derk threatened with a raise of his eyebrows, hoping to evoke a bit of concern from his friend. Instead she smirked and cocked her head, looking him over.
“I’ve never met one like you,” she said, laughing again, nursing her beer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, signaling to the tender she’d be needing another drink soon. “Saying brass ain’t right. Maybe she likes having multiple callers and likes making money off of it. The demand’s there.”
“Multi-” The word stuck in his throat and he took a gulp of beer to clear it, raising the tankard up as he spoke for emphasis. “Maybe she does, but maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she can’t find no other work. And asides, people, men, women, should have one partner at a time. One to one is proper.”
“Proper?” The barkeep set another mug of beer in front of Celeel, turning his attention back to other patrons, ignoring the fact she was choking on her last gulp of beer and her chuckles. “Proper? Where’ve you picked up this notion? It’s so…even the Goddess takes on as she pleases. What an old-fashioned fellow you are!”
“I don’t know,” he said, tilting his glass to look down into it, noting the noise had grown louder and the banter more violent than jovial.
He supposed he had picked it up from his father. For all his faults, or maybe included among them, he was faithful to his partners. Darix Cartaskin could never be accused of sharing a bed with anyone other than his wives. Even after Derk’s mother had died, he spurned female callers and only took Gela into his bed once the vows had been spoken. Other men, other Barons had their ‘sometimes’ women but his father never did. His father…Derk drained his tankard and set it on the bar, leaning toward Celeel with half-open eyes, smiling slightly. “I’m just a poor, old-fashioned man, aren’t I? Endearing, isn’t it?”
“Are you poor, now? How are you affording these drinks?” she asked, finishing hers quickly and asking the bartender for another with a hand signal. “Now you can find someone you love, you don’t have to pay, your ‘one to one’ and do things…properly.”
“Or improperly, as the case may be,” he said, leaning in a bit closer to her. She was still pretty, he thought to himself. The time they spent in the bar together, no other woman had caught his eye but Old Gam, Celeel. The way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, her ready smile and how she spoke both plainly and jesting at the same time…was she drunk? He was surprised to see she leaned in as much as he was, a curl falling past her ear. Was she biting the inside of her lip? Was she in fact drunk? Derk leaned in closer, the blood pounding in his ears as her mouth came close to him. They’d kissed before, more than kissed. It didn’t mean his heart didn’t beat faster when she drew closer to him.
“Improperly, you say…?” Her breath was warm and she smelled the way women always did to him, warm and inviting. He breathed in Gam’s distinct scent of honey which seemed very fitting. Derk placed a hand on her knee, giving it a gentle squeeze as he leaned in closer. He actually had something to say, quite good and clever. He brushed the curl off her face, tucking it behind her ear and let his hand linger on her cheek, which was soft and warm. He would have told her what he had in mind and kissed her, but instead he shoved her back forcefully.
Out of nowhere a large man came hurtling toward them. He slammed violently into the bar, gasping as wood and bone collided. Derk fell backwards off his stool, his head missing a table corner by a mere finger’s width. The man who was pushed into the bar roared. He picked up the nearest object, their half-filled glasses. With a scream he charged his attacker, cracking both mugs over the man’s skull. Derk winced as the ceramic shattered. Bright red blood bubbled up over the man’s eye but he somehow shook off the blow. He unleashed a punch sending the other man spinning away like a drunken dancer.
“Hems!” Derk swore, ducking under a table as three more men joined in the fight. Apparently, it was to be four against one, with the fellow who was bleeding fighting by himself. He searched around for Gam, only able to see sets of legs and skirts rushing for the exit. A scream from the corner drew Derk’s attention away from a possible escape. He dived under another table to shield himself from the action so he could see where the scream came from.
A young woman with gloves on her hands stood in the corner. The right sleeve of her dress was torn so her shoulder was exposed. She twisted her hands together, her mouth moving but no audible words slipping from her lips. Her strange green eyes sparkled with fear, and she looked around the bar as if to ask for help.
“You can cheat me out of my money! You can insult me,” the young man with the bleeding scalp shouted. He broke off the leg of a chair with one yank, brandishing it skillfully. A well executed strike sent it across his attacker’s face. The crack of bone and wood ran through the populated bar. “You can call me an idiot and boss me around!” He jabbed the stunned man in the stomach hard with the end of the chair leg. The man gasped and grunted before falling backwards, allowed to topple to the ground by the other two would-be attackers. “But if you ever, EVER lay a hand upon my sister again…I WILL RIP YOUR BLOODY TWIXT OFF!” The young man’s face turned red as he shouted and the young woman with the gloved hands yelled in protest, her face ashen with fear.
Well, it wasn’t right, Derk thought as he reached for his lucky dagger. Three now, against one, and all the one was doing was protecting his sister. The scrape of metal against metal was the sound of a shortsword being unsheathed. The young man traded the chair leg for a more dangerous weapon. He brandished this now, in an attempt to keep his attackers at bay. His face was a mess of rage and blood. Derk slashed his dagger across the back of one man’s ankles. The blade sliced through meat and grated against bone. The man howled in pain, falling backward onto the floor. Curses bubbled from his lips as blood seeped through his fingers.
The screams redirected the attention of another attacker, a lanky man with a scar running under his nose like a mustache. Hard, dark eyes glared at the thief. The man dove down to pull him out from under the table. Derk crawled quickly backwards, hopping onto and over the table, sinking his dagger into the backside of the scarred man. The table jumped as the man shot up in pain, hitting his head on the underside. He still managed to get out from under it quicker than Derk had hoped, and Derk thought to make for the door. Most everyone else in the bar had apparently already done so. An arm reached up from under a table to grab their
drink. At least there would be a witness.
The man with a scar for a mustache grabbed Derk by the shoulder, turning him toward him. A punch across the jaw spun Derk around as if in slow motion. He found it strange the only thought rattling in his head was the hope Old Gam was not watching. Another blow set Derk’s head spinning in the opposite direction, quicker this time, the screams now not from the girl in the corner but the other patrons of the bar. The smells of hay and food and beer all faded as pain became the only thing registering.
His assailant swung and somehow Derk dodged the blow, being sure to sink the dagger deep into the man’s gut, his hand pushing until it was up to its hilt in the man’s insides. The man’s face contorted with pain, his top lip curling up strangely because of his scar. Derk twisted the dagger before he pulled it out, the man sagging to the floor. The young man with the sword was fighting off two opponents at a time and had made good work of them. Derk thought to hasten the end of the fight by bringing a chair across the back of the closest one. A smack with the broad side of the young man’s sword sent the last man to the floor. By then the only people standing in the bar were Derk, the young man whose head was bleeding, and the young woman with the torn sleeve.
“Many thanks,” said the man, wiping off his short sword with a cloth on his belt but keeping the blade unsheathed; his dark eyes scanned over the fallen foes, his knuckles white on the hilt of the blade. “It would’ve taken me much longer to get rid of those three without you.” He reached out a large, muscular hand and Derk took it in his own, feeling weak for the first time in his life. “I’m Asa and the woman over yonder,” he said, pointing to the girl in the corner who rushed over, picking over bodies and turned furniture, hugging the large man in front of him. “This is Devra, my sister. We both thank you for helping us.” His accent made Derk cock his head. This was apparently a country crow trying to pass as a city crow. Asa’s dark hair and beard were trimmed to a more urban style, but his tunic and belt were dead giveaways. The sword and scabbard was nice enough though. The young woman was dressed eccentrically, colorful skirts and shawls draped over her frame. A little garish, but it suited her well, especially with her bright eyes. Her gloves were fingerless and embroidered.
The Valley of Ten Crescents Series (Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 22
