LINUS DE BEVILLE Schlachtvalters, spies, or some such. Either way, it’s done and over with. No point in staring at it and thinking about them who’re no longer living. We’ve got work to do. The men and the oxen need feeding and there’s that tarpaulin that needs stitching. Eat up; we’ll be on the move before the sun’s much higher. With any luck it’ll burn away these clouds and we’ll have a dry road ahead of us.”
Cinder nodded and returned to her porridge. As she chewed she stole furtive glances at the burned out hulk. She wondered if anyone had survived the conflagration; anyone who knew the names of the people that had once lived there. She tried to remember the names of the men and women she had met in Lyvys. Most would be dead now too. And the Journeyman, what of him? She and Dafina had stood and watched the western sky as the trade city burned. Though they had been several days ride to the east they had seen the underbellies of the clouds glowing a sickly shade of yellow-orange. The flames had shone like a false sunset all that night and on into the next. She had marched for days afterwards with eyes downcast, not daring to look up from the muddy track before her. It was Dafina’s reassuring words that had finally pulled her from her fugue. “He’s got the luck of a devil. If anyone was able to get out of that hell alive it would have been him.”
Cinder had raised her head from the muck under the cart wheels and looked into the matron’s cool, steady gaze. There she saw that Dafina was not simply trying to placate her. She nodded and both women had returned to walking in silence.
“Finished?” asked Dafina. Cinder blinked and looked down at her bowl. Without realizing it she had scraped the bowl clean. Handing the dish back to Dafina she rose and smoothed her skirts. She would need to feed the oxen, then get to work hitching them to the wagons. She no longer needed the old man’s help, but accepted it anyway. It made her smile to think of the way he blushed when she caught him watching her work.
After they had set the camp to rights the small caravan would move off towards the south and east, following the highway that lead to the Capital. Soon, or so she was told, the roads would be paved and they would no longer have to contend with the cart wheels bogging down in the mud. Cinder wanted very much to see what a paved road stretching all the way to the horizon might look like. She wanted even more to see the soaring gothic spires and narrow lanes of the Capital.
Once there she would wander its alleyways and markets. She would look at the strange people and listen to the many languages they spoke. If she had money she would try every dish and pastry she could afford. Afterwards she would stand below the great cathedral and stare up into its ranks of buttresses and pointed spires. She would gaze at it for a whole day if she could, letting her eyes wander every feature. Until then there were oxen and the road, Dafina, the old man, the red-haired boy, and the memory of the Journeyman in Gray.
THE HOUES OF VYTÁS
1. HIGHWAYMEN
It was his eye the Journeyman found most unnerving. Though he was not the largest of the three, it was the man’s gaze that rooted him to the spot. One eye was milky white, the tissue around it striped with horizontal scars. The knotted lines of cicatrix ran down the man’s cheek and lips, twisting the left side of his mouth into a permanent rictus. The other eye was a pure, crystalline blue that belied the complete ruin of the man’s face. It was upon this single good eye that the Journeyman had fixated. Try as he might he could not extract himself, could not look away. It wasn’t until the man turned to his companions that he felt the spell broken.
Blinking, the Journeyman took a step back. Mud squelched beneath the heel of his boot. Around his ankles he heard the swish of the tall grass, calf-high and dripping with condensation. Overhead, clouds gravid with rain scudded by, their depending bellies brushing the tops the surrounding peaks. Before him, the three men stood with hands on hilts, their expressions expectant.
The largest of them, a massive individual with a prodigious gut and a beard to match, stood thumbing the blade of his axe. He lifted his bushy eyebrows, his dark eyes fixed on the young man before him. The Journeyman frowned.
“Could split your skull,” said the fat man. “Could hack off your feet and leave you to crawl, to bleed out on the road. Or you could give us your bag, your boots, your cloak.” The Journeyman tried to swallow, but was unsuccessful. The fat man saw his throat contract and grunted. Beside him a small, rat-faced fellow, little more than a boy, tittered. He scratched at the patchy excuse for a beard that clung to his cheeks then looked up at the fat man as if waiting for a cue. The fat man ignored him, instead keeping his attention focused on the Journeyman.
“I can’t,” said the Journeyman.
The fat man grunted again. “You can. You will.”
“I’m a Journeyman,” said the Journeyman.
“We know,” said the fat man.
The rat-faced boy snorted. “We know,” he said.
Shuffling to one side the scarred man returned his gaze to the
Journeyman. To avoid being drawn into that single, ice blue eye he darted a look to either side of the narrow track. To his left rose a steep slope dotted with thick scrub and towering pines. To his right was a precipitous drop-off. The ledge fell away at an angle, protruding rocks and clinging bits of scrub visible just over its crest. At the bottom of the ravine was a river, its course hidden by a thick belt of pines. Though mostly obscured from view, the Journeyman could hear it tumble and roar as the water plunged over boulders and smooth banks of pebbles.
“Decide,” said the fat man. “I’m on commission,” said the Journeyman. “I’ve a missive to deliver.”
“Missive?” asked the rat-faced boy, looking to the fat man.
“Letter,” replied the fat man without taking his gaze from the Journeyman.
“It’s more than a letter,” said the Journeyman.
“It’s a letter!” barked the fat man. “Call it what it is; don’t mince words like some high-born cunt!”
“Alright,” said the Journeyman, “a letter, then.”
There was a pause while all four parties stood and regarded one another. No one moved.
“I don’t want the letter,” said the fat man.
“Let me pass,” said the Journeyman. “It’s a hanging offense to waylay a Journeyman.”
“It’s a hanging offense to rape a magistrate’s daughter,” said the fat man with a grinned that showed stained and broken teeth. “Ah,” said the Journeyman and lowered his eyes. He snapped them up a second later as the rat-faced boy skittered sideways and made a feint at him. In one hand he brandished a club. The wicked looking thing was half the length of his arm and studded with nails. The fat man raised a hand, halting the scruffy little bandit’s advance.
“You’re what, twenty winters?” asked the fat man.
“Nineteen,” said the Journeyman.
“And this is what, your second run? Your third?”
“It’s my first,” said the Journeyman.
“It’s your first,” echoed the fat man. “Could be your last?”
“It’s a hanging offense to waylay a Journeyman,” said the Journeyman.
“I bloody know it!” bellowed the fat man. Above the thick growth of whiskers that covered his chin and cheeks his face had gone beet red. His teeth were bared, his hands white-knuckled on the haft of his axe. The Journeyman took another step back.
Without warning the rat-face boy darted forward a second time, raising his club. The Journeyman hoisted the staff he held in his left hand, his right going to the hilt of the dagger sheathed at the small of his back. The rat-faced boy drew up just as suddenly, his progress arrested by a sharp word from the fat man.
The scarred fellow, his bearing loose and almost cavalier, glanced at the fat man then back at the Journeyman. “He’ll know how to use them, the knife and the stick,” he said in a voice that sounded like slate breaking beneath a hob-nail boot. “Wouldn’t have sent him if he didn’t.”
Running his tongue over yellowed teeth the fat man at last let his gaze
flicker from the Journeyman. He looked to the scarred man. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Three of us, one of him.”
“It matters,” said the scarred man, “if you want to keep your guts on the inside.”
“To hell with it,” growled the fat man and turned back towards the Journeyman. Without further warning he advanced.
It would take him three long strides to reach the spot where the Journeyman stood, his feet planted, his staff raised, his hand poised on the hilt of his dagger. In that time he could advance, flee, or stand and wait. To attempt to run uphill was a foolish notion, as was sprinting back the way he had come. The trail was a quagmire studded with stones and half hidden by tall grass. He would not get a dozen paces before he was felled from behind. Likewise, jumping from the side of the cliff to the rocks below would yield an equally bitter end. This left only attack or defense and here, in the open, he was vulnerable. To stand his ground would only mean being outmaneuvered by his assailants. This left only one possibility: Attack.
He allowed the fat man two of his three intended steps. As soon as he raised his foot for the third the Journeyman struck. Stepping into the fat man’s advance he planted his staff between the bandit’s legs and darted to the side. Whipping his dagger from its sheath as he spun, the Journeyman drove it down towards the back of the fat man’s knee. As the brigand’s legs were twisted out from under him, the razor keen steel bit into the soft flesh opposite his patella. Severing muscle and tendons, the blow served to incapacitate the limb even as its owner pitched forward into the mud. He fell with a grunt that turned to a howl.
His cloak billowing around his shoulders the Journeyman continued his spin, pulling his knife free as he went. His first blow had left his staff tangled between the fat man’s legs and so he allowed it to slip from his fingers, thwacking into the mud. A moment later he dearly regretted allowing the polished length of oak to fall from his grasp.
A staccato shriek boiling from his lips, the rat-faced boy hurled himself at the Journeyman. Without method or tact the spindly youth barreled into him. His shoulder took the Journeyman in the chest, driving the wind from him and nearly knocking him to the ground. He staggered backwards, the rat-faced boy stepping with him, swinging his club wildly. The Journeyman managed to duck the first blow, but caught the second in his shoulder. Pain exploded along his left side and his feet tangled under him. He went down beside the fat man, his head striking the muddy path. Stars burst before his eyes and the world went momentarily out of focus.
His vision returned an instant before the rat-faced boy could bash in his forehead. With his club raised for the killing blow, the youth had exposed his midsection. Reflexively the Journeyman darted forwards, driving his knife to the hilt in the boy’s guts. In that instant the world held its breath. All around him the Journeyman could see flying bits of churned mud, fluttering cloth, tiny airborne droplets of water, the blossoming red flower on the boy’s tunic. He could smell the damp earth, the clean scent of rain, the stink of the men around him.
The highwayman let go of his club and took a single step backward, sliding off the Journeyman’s blade as he went. His face had gone pale, his eyes very wide. He clutched at his middle with both hands. The scream that forced itself from him cracked and turned to a whimper. As he took another step backwards tears began to stain his cheeks. His lips pulled back from his oversized front teeth and the Journeyman could see blood in his mouth. It trickled down his chin, beading in the stubble.
A fist like a quarry hammer took the Journeyman in the face. He felt his nose break and his lip split. Blood sprayed across his cheeks and chin. Shocked, dazed, he cried aloud. A second blow caught him in the throat, and shut him up.
Before he could roll to the side and away from the punishing fist, a massive shape blotted out the sky as it pressed him into the earth. The Journeyman flailed, rocking from side to side, until two huge hands battened themselves around his throat. It was no use; he was held.
The fat man began to squeeze.
His vision shrank almost instantly, turning his view of the world into a cyclopean image of the fat man’s bearded face. It was redder than before, nearly purple. The highwayman’s piggy eyes bore into his own, telling him of unbridled pain and rage. A new kind of fear blossomed in the Journeyman’s breast. It was different than the dread he had felt when first the brigands had stepped out onto the road. It was an animal panic that threatened to wipe out all semblance of rational thought. He wondered what his guildmaster would say if he knew that a trio of highwaymen had gotten the better of him on his first run.
The absurdity of this revelation snapped the world back into focus. If he allowed panic to overtake him then there would be no lectures, no kitchen duty, no endless calisthenics as punishment. He would simply be another corpse left to rot in the wilderness. If he were to survive he would have to out-think his opponents; to remain calm even in the face of his own death. It was then he realized he still held his dagger.
He drove the blade upwards into the fat man’s chin.
The sharpened length of steel bit through tongue and palate, burying itself in the highwayman’s skull. For a second that seemed to last an eternity the massive pair of hands remained locked on the Journeyman’s throat. Then, as the brigand’s eyes rolled back into his head, they relaxed.
The Journeyman sucked in air and nearly laughed with the joy of being able to breathe again. The sudden sense of elation fell away just as quickly. He was caught, trapped beneath the man he had killed, and one highwayman yet remained.
Desperately he began to wriggle out from under the corpse of the fat man. He knew he would never be able to free himself before the scarred man struck, but what choice did he have? He had not come this far only to give up and die.
Without warning the massive bulk of the fat man was lifted away and the Journeyman found himself staring up into a single, ice blue eye. For a long, tense moment the two men regarded one another. In the silence the Journeyman could hear the sound of his own breathing, the air whistling through the bloody mess of his nose. He felt thin rivulets of gore trickle down his cheeks and neck. One began to pool in his right ear. At last the ruin of the scarred man’s lips twisted up in a smile.
“Not the worst I’ve ever seen,” he said.
The Journeyman blinked in surprise.
The scarred man chuckled. “Your mistake is that you let them pull you to the ground. Once off your feet you were vulnerable. If it wasn’t for Bolivor’s rage and Igglas’ stupidity you’d be dead.”
“And what about you?” asked the Journeyman before he could stop himself. The scarred highwayman laughed again. The sound was not pretty.
“I’m not particularly bothered,” he said and leaned forward, hand outstretched.
There ensued another long pause while the Journeyman contemplated whether he should take the proffered hand. At last he came to the conclusion that if the brigand wanted to kill him he would have already done so. Extending his own hand the Journeyman allowed himself to be levered to a sitting position, then onto his feet. He tottered for a moment, his head swimming, then righted himself. The scarred man nodded in approval.
“Tough lad,” he said.
“Not particularly,” replied the Journeyman.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said the scarred man.
“It’s like you said,” the Journeyman replied with a shrug, “I let them pull me down. By rights I should be dead. So that begs the question why am I still breathing?”
Now it was the scarred man’s turn to shrug. “Bolivor and Iglas were fools.”
“They were your mates,” said the Journeyman.
“Not particularly,” said the scarred man with a grin.
The Journeyman experimented with a smile, winced, and gave up the notion.
The scarred man turned from the Journeyman and prodded the body of the rat-faced boy with the toe of his boot. The corpse gave a pained little groan and pulled itself into a fetal ball. The Journeyman’s heart
skipped a beat.
Leaning forward the scarred man said into the little fellow’s ear, “Still alive are we, Igglas?”
Igglas groaned again and his feet kicked feebly at the muddy roadbed.
“Unbelievable little cunt,” said the scarred man. “Can’t even die properly.”
Partially unfolding himself, Igglas reached out with one bloodied hand and pawed at the turf. His fingers dug shallow furrows through the muck as he pulled himself forward. The Journeyman could see the dark stain across the boy’s abdomen, the spot where he had driven his dagger home. The blood that seeped from the wound had mixed with the mud, staining the front of Igglas’ tunic black.
“Where do you think you’re going, you little shit?” asked the scarred man. He took a step forward, straddling his former confederate.
The rat-faced boy breathed out a single word, then extended his arm a second time. Hooking his fingers into the mud and grass he advanced a few more centimeters.
“What was that, then?” asked the scarred man again, leaning forward. He listened for a moment as Igglas’s lips moved. He then stood straight and laughed. “Your whore of a mother can’t help you now, boy. Bolivor can’t help you either. It’s just you and me, you cunting little sodomite.”
For a moment the Journeyman wavered on his feet. Blood dripped from his nose and chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Staring at the odd tableau he wondered exactly what it was he was seeing. But a few moments ago the man before him had been intent on robbery and possibly murder; his murder. Now he was standing over his former companion haranguing the wounded boy, laughing at his distress. Try as he might the Journeyman could not make sense of the scene.
Igglas gained another few centimeters, then lay with his face in the muck coughing up blood. It splattered across his cheeks, his chin and hung in thick strands from his lips. He looked up at the Journeyman, his eyes wide and frightened.
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