11. STARS
It was well past midnight when, with the fire burning low in the hearth, the Journeyman heard the rasp of the door. It opened slowly, grating on the planks that covered the floor. Peering through lids heavy with sleep he saw the dark shape of Cinder as she crept into the room, her basket of firewood slung over one arm.
“Hello Cinder,” said the Journeyman groggily.
The girl gave him a little wave.
“I’m glad to see you are well. That fat tub of shit didn’t give
you any trouble after I left did he?” Cinder closed the door, laid aside her basket, and crossed swiftly to the Journeyman gesturing him to silence as she did so. Immediately he came awake.
“What is it?” he hissed as the girl knelt beside him. Cinder shook her head and laid one grubby finger on his lips. The Journeyman took a deep breath, feeling his stitches stretch. The girl smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke and of sweat. Her breathing was heavy. In the firelight the Journeyman saw, for the first time, that underneath the layers of grime that coated her, Cinder was no mere child. The rise and fall of her breasts could be seen clearly through the rough bodice of her dress, full and taught against the constraining cloth. Yes, here was a woman; young, but a woman nonetheless.
Withdrawing her finger Cinder bent forward and briefly kissed the Journeyman. The press of her lips was urgent and vital, the taste of her sweet and welcoming. Then she was on her feet and across the hut. Her eyes fixed on the floor she snatched up the basket of wood, crossed to the hearth, stacked the fuel, and was out the door before the Journeyman could say aught.
He lay on his pallet by the fire for a long while after Cinder had gone wondering what had prompted the girl to kiss him. He assumed it had something to do with what he had said to Olis earlier in the evening. Or, perhaps the kiss was a holdover from the time the two had spent naked beneath the furs. Whatever her reasons, the though of the kiss made his head spin.
The Journeyman smiled, shook his head, then gingerly raised himself from his pallet. Now that he was awake his bladder was complaining. Painstakingly he donned his tunic, trousers, and boots. He could have used the chamber pot that had been provided for him, but his little room was beginning to feel stuffy. Besides, a piss out of doors would clear his head.
It wasn’t until he had finished, the puddle of his urine steaming in the cold night air, that the Journeyman noticed that overhead gleamed a great band of stars. They shone brightly in the chill air, their light clear and scintillating, no longer shrouded by clouds or smoke. In the still, frigid night those alien pinpoints of light looked to the Journeyman like jewels scattered across the heavens by the hand of a nascent or forgetful demi-god.
It was then, with his eyes turned towards the sky, that he was struck in the side. His wounded side. Agony blossomed like celestial fire, sweeping through him. The Journeyman toppled over, striking the frozen ground with a grunt. The pain was immeasurably intense, stifling his ability to breathe, let alone cry out.
“You’ve a mouth on you,” said a voice that sounded like an iron-shod boot grating over shale. “A filthy, cunting mouth. Gave me an idea though. On your suggestion I think I’ll pop open that wound in your side and fuck it. Fuck it to completion. How’s that sound, Herr Journeyman? Think you’ll be as mouthy after my cock and I have done with you?”
With darkness encroaching, and his vision beginning to narrow, the Journeyman saw the repugnant form of Ubel. It loomed over him, a shadow amidst shadows, blotting out the stars.
12. THE SMOKERY
Smoke filled his nostrils, his throat, his eyes. He was blind, unable to draw a full breath. Hacking and spluttering, he sucked great lungfuls of smoke. Gagging, he expelled the tainted air with a rending cough that shook his entire frame. With each gasp his bruised ribs and the wound in his side screamed. He winced, feeling blood trickle from the sutured gash. It slid down his side to soak into his trousers further darkening the already stained cloth.
As his senses began to return the Journeyman came to the realization that he was suspended by his wrists, hanging shirtless and barefoot amidst butchered sides of pork. It was an odd sort of thing to see upon waking from the blackness of forced unconsciousness. At least, he thought, it was warm here in the smokery.
Twisting himself this way and that, feeling his stitches straining against the tear in his flesh, the Journeyman attempted to wriggle from the hook over which he was slung. When the hairline fracture in his wrist sent a spike of pain down his arm, he ceased his feeble thrashing. He hung dejectedly, his hands and arms numb.
For a long while he swung listlessly back and forth feeling the strain of his own weight on his injured limbs. He saw only dim sides of pork through the fumes that surrounded him. He drew shallow breaths between clenched teeth, trying as best he could to keep from igniting another coughing fit. Eventually there came the clatter of wood and then a vertical shaft of light cut through the murk. The Journeyman squinted, his eyes unused to the brilliant glare. He could not tell who it was that stood before him. All he could discern through eyes blurry with tears was the dim shape of a man hovering in the open doorway.
“Looks like he’s awake.”
“That’s fine. Step aside; I would have words with him.” The shape disappeared from the doorway and was replaced by
another. This second individual was wide enough to block most of the light. The Journeyman’s heart sank. It was Master Olis, of that there was no doubt.
The freeholder stood just inside the door regarding the Journeyman. Looking his captive up and down, he snorted. “You’re far less flippant now that you’ve had time to hang and cure.”
The Journeyman’s head lolled. He looked at the fat pig farmer through sweat soaked strands of hair. He tried to focus. “Planning on eating me, you fat fuck?” he asked. The words had come unplanned, slipping from his lips before he knew they were gone.
Over the crackle of the fire the Journeyman could hear Master Olis’s teeth grinding. “You remain derisive even in your current circumstances? Truly you are one of the most foolish men I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing. After all I did for you...”
“You did nothing for me, you lumbering swine,” interjected the Journeyman. “It was Dafina and Cinder, not you.”
“Foolish,” spat Master Olis. “Foolish of me to allow them to nurse you. You’ve turned them against me. Cinder has run off and Dafina has become as defiant as you.”
“Good for her,” said the Journeyman weakly. He coughed, then winced. Master Olis laughed.
“But never mind that. These things do not matter, Journeyman. Soon you won’t be making any further japes. Not at my expense, nor any other’s.”
The door swung closed and the Journeyman was again plunged into darkness. He coughed, felt his side throb and tried his best to stifle the urge to do so again. He lost. Gritting his teeth against the continual agony, he hoped against hope that whatever it was Master Olis intended, it would be quick in coming. If he had to spend much more time in the smokery he was sure he would either asphyxiate or burst his stitches and bleed to death. Neither option was very appealing.
He hit the ground face first. With eyes squeezed tightly shut, the Journeyman slid for a meter or so before coming to a halt. He lay very still feeling the snow against his cheek and brow. It was cool and almost pleasant. He filled his lungs, breathing rapidly, shallowly, the crisp air heavenly after hours in the smokery.
A kick to his backside made the Journeyman start. His eyes flew open, then squeezed themselves shut against the glare of the midday sun on the snow. A peal of laughter sounded from behind him. The Journeyman paid it no mind and continued to concentrate on his breathing. He coughed, winced, coughed again.
Behind him came the sound of rapid footfalls and a scuffling of feet. To the Journeyman it seemed as though someone was doing a bit of a dance, leaping about and performing a pantomime at his expense.
“You look like a right cunt, lying there all pink and sweaty!” The Jou
rneyman knew the speaker even with his eyes screwed shut. Ubel did another jig and received more laughter.
“You look like a ham, Journeyman! Like a ripe fucking ham well cured, fit for the master’s table!”
The Journeyman said nothing and moved not at all.
“Heard what you called Master Olis. Heard you call him a pig. Who’s the little piggy now? Who’s been hung up to cure?”
“Don’t be a cunt, Ubel,” croaked the Journeyman. Again, he found that he was surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. It seemed his tongue was waging a war against him, trying its best to get him killed, or worse.
The swineherd started. The Journeyman could hear the grizzled old man go rigid. He pictured the expression on Ubel’s lined face; the sallow cheeks sucked in, the lipless mouth sunken in a frown that sent waves of wrinkles down to the waddle on his neck.
“The fuck you say?” Ubel nearly shouted. “The fuck did you just say!?”
The Journeyman heard the kick before he felt it; the swish of snow, the rustle and creak of leather trousers. Then pain blossomed red-hot in his side. He cried aloud and Ubel began to laugh.
For a time the Journeyman tried to hold himself still, tried to fight down the bonfire that raged in his side. Much to his chagrin he could not help but to writhe and whimper while Ubel continued to guffaw. When the phlegmy sound of Master Olis’s voice came drifting over the snow he was almost glad.
“Stop it,” gargled the freeholder. He cleared his throat, hawked, then spat. Ubel said nothing. “It’s not for you to injure this man.”
The Journeyman was surprised to hear such a thing. He assumed that his time spent suspended in the smokery had been the precursor to far worse torments. Torments that would be meted out by Ubel. Puzzled, he cracked one eyelid and attempted to focus on the blurry shapes that stood just beyond the place where Ubel slouched, round-shouldered.
“Get him up,” commanded Master Olis. Then again, “Get him up! Do not make me have to say it again!”
Grudgingly, Ubel acquiesced. The old botherer of pigs, with the aid of another man whose acquaintance the Journeyman had not had the pleasure of making, pulled him to his feet. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his legs under him. At this he failed as well. Ubel and the other man were forced to stand to either side of the Journeyman propping him up. The pair smelled of rancid sweat and leather, wood smoke and pig shit. The Journeyman’s head swam with the stench and the effort of staying upright.
“We have guests,” growled Master Olis. “I do not want their gift damaged further than it already is.”
The Journeyman went suddenly cold. His heart began to beat furiously in his chest. If he was being given as a gift, if his incarceration in the smokery had not been a preamble to torture, then he could think of only one explanation. His assumption was proven correct as his eyes came into focus and the scene before him was laid bare.
The men that stood about him in a semi-circle parted. They huddled together, these pig farmers and hired men, their eyes downcast, their posture slouched and sullen. Striding through their center, the clank of their weapons and armor, the musk of the furs they wore, and the swagger in their step unmistakable, came a party of nearly two dozen Huuls.
The barbarians marched imperiously into the paddock where the Journeyman stood suspended between Ubel and his companion. They looked about themselves, their expressions dour, their mien haughty and superior. These well armed and armored men, the shaved sides of their heads and necks bearing the crude runic tattoos of their faith, looked down upon the swineherds with unspoken derision. They gripped the hilts of the swords and axes thrust into their wide belts as they shoved past the farmhands. To the Journeyman it seemed as though they were prepared to cut down their hosts as readily as accept their hospitality. One of their number pushed a man to the ground as he passed. The fellow landed hard on his backside. The bearded barbarian who had sent him sprawling smiled mirthlessly.
With his heart in the pit of his stomach the Journeyman watched as the Huuls came on. They too observed the Journeyman, their gaze hard, their eyes unblinking.
When the last of them had entered the paddock Master Olis cleared his throat. In a voice that was too small and high for a man of his girth he said, “There he is Torr, just as I said. The Journeyman was found by my men and brought here. I have held him for you out of friendship.”
At this the Huuls sneered. Then they too parted and the Journeyman’s blood froze.
The Huul from whom the Journeyman had fled that cold night at the watchtower shoved his way to the forefront of the crowd. His arm was wrapped in a sling, his face covered in abrasions, his stride a wincing limp. As he drew to a halt the Journeyman tried to wrap his mind around the presence of this man, around his increasingly fluid circumstances. To him their meeting seemed long ago and far away. The time spent in the care of Cinder and Dafina had thrown a barrier between the violence and terror he had endured. It had walled off his brush with death from what had transpired afterwards. Now that night of frostbitten savagery stalked towards him anew.
The barbarian moved closer still, radiated wrathful intent. As he dragged himself forward his face contorted with the effort of keeping himself upright and his fury in check. When he was within a half meter of the Journeyman, he halted.
Why, the Journeyman wondered, hadn’t he taken this man up on his offer and attempted to finish him while he sat wounded in the snow? Now, half-naked, and utterly at the Huul’s mercy, he dearly wished he had.
“Journeyman,” said Torr, the basso rumble of his voice like grinding of granite slabs. “I am going to kill you before the sun sets today. I am going to kill you for what you have done to me. I am going to kill you for what you did to my brother.”
Puzzlement creased the Journeyman’s brow. Then, like a bolt from a thundercloud realization dawned. The Journeyman raised his head. “Your brother… That’s why you went to the trouble of tracking me all the way from Ghul. That little shit I slew at the inn, the one the red-haired woman hired, he was your kin.” “Yes,” said Torr and turned his head sideways. He spat into the snow. “That little shit was my brother.”
Again the words were out of the Journeyman’s mouth before he had a chance to contemplate the wisdom of uttering them. “He did not die well.”
Torr’s fist took the Journeyman squarely in the forehead and, much to his relief, he lost consciousness immediately.
13. THE PYRE
The Journeyman came awake spluttering. Men laughed. The Huul who had thrown the bucketful of water stepped carefully down from his perch, chortling. The Journeyman shook his head and tried to clear his vision. When he had finished blinking the water from his eyes he put back his head and groaned.
Low winter sunlight bathed him while below all was shadow. In the wan light he could see clearly that he was tied to a wooden stake that was in turn set atop a tangled pyre. Clustered about the base of the tangled mass of branches he could just make out the silhouettes of several Huuls. They grinned up at him.
Raising his head the Journeyman squinted into the glare of the setting sun. It skirted the uppermost edge of the distant Drakkenhuuls, shedding the last of its feeble light upon the sprawling farmhold. It illuminated the tops of the leafless trees and shone from the wooden shingles of the pigsties, outbuildings, and barracks. He watched as it slipped ever so slowly towards the saw-toothed back range. Below, men milled about, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. The water that had been thrown on him began to freeze. He felt it stiffen his hair and pull at his skin. He started to shiver.
When at last the sun had gone all that could be seen was the shimmer of its corona hovering above the jagged peaks. Below him no one moved, no one spoke; they simple stood and smirked. Mantled in twilight the Journeyman stood and observed the audience that had gathered for his execution by fire. Clustered about in groups of threes and fours, were the men of Master Olis’s farmhold. Several women the Journeyman had not seen before were scattered amongst them
as well. Men and women alike huddled close, shoulders slumped, cloaks drawn tight. They did not speak. Now and again one or two would sneak a glance at the Journeyman, then would turn back to his fellows. The Journeyman was surprised to see that Master Olis himself was nowhere in sight.
The Huuls stood apart form the swineherds, their band loosely knit, their demeanour unconcerned, cavalier. In the hands of most were lit torches, the flames flickering and rushing sideways in the gathering wind. Several of the barbarians chuckled, staring openly at the doomed man set atop his pile of sticks. The Journeyman counted nineteen in all, warriors to a man. They seemed almost gleeful at the prospect of seeing him burn.
“Journeyman! Oi, over here you cunt!” The Journeyman turned his head in the direction of the shout, the movement causing his vision to swim. He blinked several times and when his eyes again came into focus he let out a snarl.
Ubel, his craggy face split into an appalling grin, waved from where he stood over the slumped form of Dafina. The matron knelt in the snow and mud, her skirts filthy, her bodice torn. Her breasts were bare, the white flesh caked with grime. Her head was downcast, but even so the Journeyman could see that one side of her mouth was swollen and her left eye blackened. Blood had run freely from her nose and lips, its dried remnants still staining her skin.
“Been ‘using’ her,” called Ubel, his grin widening. “She’s right fucking good too. It’s no wonder Master Olis wouldn’t share her. She’s out of his favour now though!”
So saying Ubel bent down and pinched Dafina’s left nipple between thumb and forefinger. The matron winced. With a peel of laughter the swineherd shook his hand violently back and forth making Dafina’s breast to jounce and sway. The Journeyman saw her screw up her face, her eyes still puffy from weeping. She clamped her mouth tightly shut in an attempt to stifle a cry of pain. In her stead the Journeyman let out a bellow of rage.
Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim) Page 7
