“Didn’t like that much, did you?” sneered Ubel. “Did you?” Releasing Dafina’s breast and drawing back his hips, the skinny old man in his filthy leathers began pumping his groin. He thrust at the matron’s shoulder bumping her with the erection that strained against his trousers. Cackling louder then ever he swatted the woman on the back of the head. Her hair fell into her face and she slumped forward attempting, perhaps, to sink into the earth upon which she knelt.
As the Journeyman turned his eyes from Ubel’s cruel display, the swineherd continued to guffaw. Ignoring the hateful little man he watched as the last diffuse rays of sunlight were swallowed by the purple silhouette of the Drakkenhuuls. He could not bear to watch Dafina abused further.
The crunch of boots on snow drew the Journeyman’s attention and he adjusted his gaze. Below him stood Torr, his frame bent with the effort of remaining upright, his face still set in a mask of enmity. For a long while he stared at the Journeyman, taking in the result of his handiwork.
At last the burly Huul spoke. “When I pulled the broken shard of your stick from my arm I did not lose consciousness. When I bound the wound with furs from my back and continued to pursue you through the forest I did not lose consciousness. Even when I lost your trail I remained strong and upright. I returned to my camp, to my people. I did not faint when they put the hot knife to my wound to stop the blood. But you…you seem to do nothing but fall into the arms of Somnus. I will make sure you do not fade from us when I set the pyre alight.”
For the first time since awakening in the smokery the Journeyman did not respond.
The chill wind that blew from the west stung his bare flesh, sharpening his senses despite his injuries. It did not, however, help to keep his gorge in check. He knew what lay in store for him. The thought of it made him feel very much like vomiting. The Huul saw the sour expression on his face and snorted.
“You are weak, Journeyman.”
“No,” croaked the Journeyman.
Torr snorted. “You say that you are not weak?” he asked, his tone acrimonious.
“No,” repeated the Journeyman, and shivered as another blast of cold air struck him. “I slew your brother and three of your fellows. I very nearly killed you as well. Judge me how you will, it makes no difference. They are still dead.”
“I hold you captive!” bellowed Torr. “You sit atop tar-soaked logs, tied to a stake. You would not be here if you were not weak!”
“I am, as you say, tied to a stake atop a pyre,” the Journeyman shot back. “Still, I remain the one who took your friends from you as well as your snivelling runt of a brother. If I am so weak what does that say about you. What does that say about all the rest that died by my hand?”
With an ear-splitting cry Torr lashed out with a heavily booted foot splintering one of the piled branches. “Do not attempt to defame me or dishonor my brother! You fought like a coward, hiding and skulking, never daring to face us in open battle!”
“I fought to win, Torr,” said the Journeyman. He hoped his repost would keep the Huul engaged, at least for a little while longer. The blood drunk barbarian’s preoccupation with strength, with the perceived nobility of his own actions, afforded the Journeyman precious moments of life. He would savor them, no matter how precarious his position or pointless the argument.
Torr’s fury suddenly abated. His face split into a horrible grin that showed long, yellowed teeth. “You are lost, Journeyman. Look where you are now, look what your cowardice has bought you. You could have died on your feet like a man, but now you will be roasted like one of Olis’s pigs. I will burn you, Journeyman. I will burn you, then I will cut you open and I will eat what I find inside!”
The sick feeling that had predominated ever since the Journeyman had been awakened redoubled. He fought to keep the contents of his stomach where they were. His heart beat furiously in his chest. He felt helpless, alone, and utterly terrified at the prospect of being burned alive. Were he not propped up by the bindings holding him to the stake the Journeyman did not doubt that he would be on his knees quaking with fear.
In a desperate bid to stave off the torch for a moment longer the Journeyman raised his voice yet again. “What of the red-haired woman? She was the one who hired your brother, the one who set him on me. Were it not for her your brother would be sitting next to you instead of rotting in the ground.”
“He is not rotting in the ground!” barked Torr. “While I tracked you my warriors retrieved his body. They set the town where he died ablaze. When I am finished with you I will take him back to the mountains and I will give him a sky burial. He will lay with our ancestors under the stars and his soul will hunt alongside great Urus!”
With panic continuing to roil in his chest the Journeyman had to fight to keep his voice on an even keel. “And the red-haired woman, what of her?”
“She does not matter. My brother took her coin and that is the end of it. It is you who slew him, and it is you who will burn!” The Journeyman despaired.
Torr dredged snot from his throat and gobbed it at the Journeyman’s feet. Then he turned and limped back towards his men. One of the barbarians met him halfway, lighted torch in hand. Torr accepted the proffered brand and turned back to the Journeyman. “You will die screaming,” he said.
As Torr set the blazing end of the torch into the base of the pyre the panic that had threatened to spill over and consume the Journeyman did so. He began to hyperventilate, his cracked ribs and wounded side throbbing in rhythm with each breath. The pain was sharp and cold. Turning his face towards the pale twilight he felt tears begin to streak his cheeks.
14. BLOOD IN THE SNOW
The pitch that soaked the pyre caught and orange tongues of flame billowed upwards. The Journeyman turned his face away as a sudden and immense wave of heat rolled over him. He clamped his teeth together and fought back the urge to cry out. He knew that, despite his best efforts, he would soon be screaming. Before the flames kissed his flesh the Journeyman resolved to give his tormentors not the least bit of satisfaction.
Below him the Huuls grinned and the swineherds grumbled and huddled closer together. The barbarians revelled in the gruesome spectacle they had set in motion. The swineherds and hired hands were far less enthusiastic. The fear they felt at the presence of the Huuls was writ large on their faces.
When the first of the crossbow bolts struck its target the Journeyman knitted his brows and turned his head to the side. It took several second for him to comprehend what it was he had just seen.
The metal tip of the quarrel punched through the skull of the Huul nearest Torr. As he fell, dropping like a sack of grain, the Journeyman balked. Squinting through the heat shimmer that separated him from the mob below he tried to grasp what had just transpired.
Torr turned, mouth agape, the whites of his eyes clearly visible through the curtain of fire. The Journeyman watched as the burly Huul began to shout, his cries muffled by the noise of the flames. Then all was turmoil and chaos.
Bolts, loosed from the darkness, struck both Huuls and swineherds alike. Men fell bleeding, clutching at the shafts lodged in their flesh. They writhed on the ground, their faces twisted, their cries a discordant chorus of misery. Those that took bolts to the head toppled as wordlessly as the Huul that had first been struck. When the volley abated four of the swineherds and six of the barbarians lay dead. Wounded men limped or dragged themselves from the circle of firelight while the women screamed, terrorstruck. Then, over the din of shouted orders, the roar of the fire, and the cries of the wounded, sounded a horn.
The Journeyman looked to the north, following the sound of the blast. From out of the gloom swarmed a line of armoured men. Swords and mail flashed in the light of the pyre, the brass rivets on the soldier’s shields winking like stars. These men-at-arms crashed into the milling pack of Huuls and swineherds, hacking their way through the mass of barbarians and peasants with deadly efficiency. Huuls and farmhands alike fell to the line of whirling steel. The Journeymen
saw both men and women go sprawling, their blood dashed out upon the snow.
One of the swineherds raised his arm to ward off a blow and lost his hand at the wrist. Without hesitation the soldier above him drove the point of his sword into the man’s throat. A Huul, his own sword in hand, was felled by a cut to the back of his knees. He went over backwards, the blades of his attackers carving away armor and flesh alike.
The Journeyman watched, dumbstruck, as the force below hewed and slashed its way across the open space before the pyre. He drew breath to call for help and inhaled smoke. He began to cough, despairing at the chance of rescue. Then there was a tug at his bound wrists. He craned his head around to see who it was sawing at his bonds. Through the fire and the smoke he was unable to discern who his would-be savior might be. Be it ally or antagonist, to be pulled from the flames was enough.
As he was dragged backwards off the blazing heap of branches the Journeyman caught another glimpse of the battle raging below. The soldiers, their shields now interlocked in a skirmish line, pushed forward into the awkward crowd of flailing barbarians. The Huuls, confused and outmatched, struck blindly at their attackers only to be driven back or slain. Torr, still bellowing orders and swinging his axe with his uninjured arm, attempted to form his milling forces into a defensive line of their own. Amidst the blood and the shouting, the killing and dying, his cries fell on deaf ears. The Journeyman saw those few who had rallied to his side fall as more crossbow bolts hissed into their flanks. Then the shield-wall crashed through the tangle of men, knocking the massive barbarian from his feet.
Out of the flames and into the blessed cool of the night the Journeyman was hauled by rough hands. Steam rose from his skin as he met the cold night air. Through eyes filled with tears he caught the glint of firelight on steel.
Soldiers.
Soldiers…and someone else.
He blinked, tried to clear his vision. For the briefest of instants his smarting eyes focused and he saw the begrimed face of Cinder grinning up at him.
He returned her smile.
15. DRYSDEN
It would have been a mercy if he had lost consciousness again. Alas, it was not to be. The Journeyman remained alert, racked with pain, his lungs tormented from a day spent breathing smoke and ash. Each breath was an agony. He hoped against hope that darkness would take him, but luck had already done more then its fair share to preserve his life. Now he must simply endure.
As he slumped in the snow, Cinder hovered over him, the young woman dabbing at the burns that covered his naked torso and feet with a wet cloth. The two soldiers that stood to either side of him, their tabards smeared with soot, their swords drawn, peered watchfully into the darkness. From the opposite side of the pyre the sounds of killing could still be heard.
The Journeyman’s thoughts were scattered, his mind reeling with what had just transpired. He was unable to comprehend who these men were that had come to his rescue. Why was Cinder amongst them? He had a feeling that if his wits were not so addled he might be able to see the connection. As it was, he simply sat in the snow grateful to be alive.
The Journeyman could not tell if it had been minutes or hours, but at last the noise of battle subsided. Sifting through the crackle of the pyre, the moans of the wounded could be heard along with the sound of weeping and supplications for mercy. He raised his head, his breath rasping in his throat, and looked about.
Striding out of the firelight, his mail, uniform, and sword awash in blood, came a young man. His hair was long and dark, his features handsome and angular. His mien was regal, bordering on haughty. He held his head high, the gore that crusted his cheeks and brow seeming not to perturb him in the least. To either side walked equally bespattered soldiers. They too walked with a swagger.
As the young man drew closer, the Journeyman could see that the sword he held was long, a hand and a half bastard sword, the hilt intricately wrought with silver inlay. It was the weapon of a nobleman. This seemed to fit with the way the fellow strutted. The gouts of crimson that stained his armor, however, spoke of martial prowess. This was no dandy, no pampered rich man’s son playing at soldier.
The bloodied nobleman halted just before the Journeyman. The fellow spoke softly to the two soldiers who had dragged him from the fire. Then the nobleman turned his attention to the Journeyman.
“My name is Drysden,” he said, his voice clear and steady. No mark of stress or fatigue evident in his tone. It was as if hacking his way through nearly twenty Huuls had been routine.
“Thank you,” croaked out the Journeyman, “for pulling me from the fire.”
“Do not thank me thank the girl,” said Drysden indicating Cinder. “She is the one who brought your plight to our attention. More than that, she informed us of who it was that her now former employer had invited to kill you.”
“Huuls.”
“Yes, Huuls.”
“She spoke to you?” asked the Journeyman. “Cinder?”
“In a way, yes,” replied Drysden with a nod. “It is my understanding that after she was turned away from the doors of our outpost three times she simply started screaming ‘Huuls’ over and over again. She did this until someone finally listened.”
LINUS DE BEVILLE “And all this time I thought she was mute,” the Journeyman said and turned to Cinder. The girl did not meet his eyes.
“My men have informed me that you will live, despite the harsh treatment you’ve endured,” said Drysden.
The Journeyman nodded. His eyes lingered on Cinder, but her face remained hidden behind plaits of dirty hair speckled with ash.
“I’m going to need you to make a few statements,” said Drysden, “once we’ve returned to Lyvys. Will you do this for me?”
The Journeyman rubbed at his stinging eyes and attempted to focus on the man’s face. Drysden stood, bloody sword in hand, and regarded the Journeyman in turn. He was about to respond when a thought struck him. “You’re from the Vallén,” he said. “You’re part of the detachment that has occupied the Erstewald since the flood.”
“Very good,” said Drysden.
“I’ve heard you came to kill Huuls. Others say you intend to lay claim to the Erstewald. Which one is it then? I can’t imagine you’re here out of the goodness of your hearts.”
He coughed then, regretting having spoken at such length.
“It’s true, what you say about killing Huuls,” replied Drysden mildly. “We’ve been doing it for years.”
“Why rescue me?” asked the Journeyman and coughed yet again. The cough turned into a fit and he doubled over, hacking into the snow.
Drysden waited for him to finish then said, “The girl insisted. Besides, as I said, there are a few things I would ask of you. When, that is, you are able to speak without dredging smoke from your lungs. I think there is much I can learn from you.”
The Journeyman shook his head in the affirmative.
“Get him up,” said Drysden motioning to the two men standing to either side of the Journeyman. They complied and soon he was on his feet.
As the soldiers propelled the Journeyman after the departing Drysden, Cinder scurried along beside them. Her eyes remained fixed upon the muddy and churned snow over which they trod.
Around the side of the pyre the soldiers lead the Journeyman. In its holocaust glow he could see the scattered bodies of Huuls and of swineherds. Both men and women were among the dead. It seemed few had been spared. The crumpled corpses were dark heaps set against the white of the snow. Their blood, nearly black in the firelight, reflected the dancing flames.
Kneeling in the center of this field of carnage was Torr. His arms and legs were bound, his head downcast. On every side the barbarian was flanked by soldiers. They stood vigilant, wary, with their swords pointed at the man’s vitals.
As he passed the place where Torr knelt the Huul raised his head and locked eyes with the Journeyman. Neither looked away. Their gaze was broken only by the darkness that swallowed the Journeyman as he was carried fro
m circle of firelight.
16. LYVYS
They stood side by side atop the wooden rampart, both men staring out at the town, the wall, and the forest beyond. About them the wind dipped and eddied, the moist air cold yet bearing none of the harshness of months past.
“I have been informed that you can take more than five consecutive breaths without coughing yourself half to death,” said Drysden.
“It would seem so,” replied the Journeyman.
“I’m glad,” said Drysden. “We’ve work to do and I need a man who can speak, not a consumptive.” He clapped the Journeyman on the shoulder. The blow was hard, the buffet of a comrade. The young noble smiled, showing straight, white teeth.
“What sort of work?” asked the Journeyman.
“The kind I alluded to the night I had you pulled from the pyre. Important matters of state and the like.”
The Journeyman shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that sort of thing falls outside my purview. Guild laws and all that.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” said Drysden with the same wide grin. “Do not fret. What I need from you won’t break any Guild laws or put you in a compromising position, I promise. I’ve had our barristers see to that.”
“Ah,” the Journeyman said and raised his eyebrows.
A gust of wind tugged at the borrowed cloak he held close about his shoulders. The garment wasn’t as thick as his own; the weave was loose and its nap was rough. The cloak flapped in the chill breeze that blew out of the northwest. The air smelled of rain and moist earth.
“What say you?” asked Drysden. “Care to do a favor for the man who saved your life?”
The Journeyman stood for a while atop the wooden rampart looking out over the sprawling expanse of the Erstewald. The snow and ice that had blanketed the forest was gone, the branches of the densely packed trees now tinged with green. Amongst the trunks the steady drip, drip of late winter rain could be heard. The barricade of rough hewn logs behind which the Journeyman stood was dark with moisture, the wood swollen. Overhead clouds skittered by in great clumps, nearly brushing the tops of the trees.
Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim) Page 8
