The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  The soldier sighed and pulled me closer still, voice little more than a whisper now. “Hate’s not a good thing, lad. It eats at a man, like a maggot feeding on your soul from within. So strong was my hate that, after all the killing I did at Moss Mill, I took myself off to the Supplicant in search of guidance. ‘Will the Martyrs forgive a man who revels in so much blood?’ I asked him. You want to know what he told me? ‘The Martyrs’ example is one to aspire to, but the Seraphile’s grace is only denied to those who make no effort towards aspiration.’”

  His lips brushed my ear, brandy tinged breath hot on my skin. “And how hard do you aspire, you little shi—?”

  The years have taught me many ways to slip from a clinch, most dependent on correctly calculating the size and abilities of your opponent. This fellow had another inch in height on me and a fair deal more weight and muscle. Also, I had few illusions about his skill with a blade. But, he was a soldier, not an outlaw. Soldiers know how to fight, while outlaws know tricks.

  I had kept most of the brandy in my mouth throughout his tragic tale and now, turning my head a fraction, I squirted it directly into his eyes. However strong or capable a man might be, his body will always react with pure instinct when suffering an unexpected sting. He jerked back with a startled snarl, arm loosening about my shoulders just enough to allow me to drive my elbow into his mouth, a hard jab mashing his lips against his teeth.

  I ducked as the soldier’s head snapped back, trailing blood. Going to my knees, I rolled away as the big bastard at my back made his lunge, grabbing at my legs but failing to gain purchase as I scrambled clear. I ignored the doorway where the other two were already charging towards me, instead hopping onto a table and barrelling for the nearest window, arms raised to cover my head. Fortunately, the shutters were old and rotted, giving way at the first impact, albeit leaving a few splinters in my hands and face.

  I landed with a grunt on the hard-packed snow outside, barely feeling the shock of the suddenly icy air as I surged to my feet and sprinted away. I covered only a dozen yards before something came spinning out of the dark. It was an expertly aimed throw, slipping a quarterstaff between my pumping legs at precisely the right moment to send me into an untidy tumble. Shouting, I kicked the staff away and regained my feet, only to suffer a stunning blow to the head. Like the thrown staff, this was delivered with great accuracy to my temple with just enough force to render me senseless. I caught a glimpse of the man who had delivered it as I fell – a short, hatchet-faced fellow in Crown Company livery who hadn’t been present in the tavern. He might not be an outlaw, but this soldier knew plenty of tricks too.

  As I lay too stunned to move, I heard the crunch of multiple boots on snow, provoking a surge of fear-born strength that enabled me to stand, albeit briefly before a rope looped over my head. I gulped air as it pulled taut, jerking me off my feet and dragging me across the ground, legs flailing.

  And thus, dear reader, was I caught.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “A fighter, eh?” a voice asked before a kick drove a boot into my belly, my struggles ceasing as I doubled over. “Did my brother fight? I’d bet you never gave him the chance!” Another kick, this time to the head, sending a heaven’s worth of stars into my eyes but, sadly, not sufficiently forceful to render me unconscious or immune to pain, for there were many more kicks to come. I would have covered my head and nethers with my hands if they hadn’t been engaged in grasping at the rope about my neck.

  “All right, get him up.”

  The kicking stopped and I found myself hauled upright and dragged, sagging and bleeding, away from the tavern. Through my red-tinged, clouded eyes I could make out the shape of a large oak in the centre of the village, one with a branch hanging low enough to catch a thrown rope.

  “You should be proud, boy,” the soldier told me, grinning despite his swelling lips and reddened teeth. “Dying on the same day as your famed leader.” He drew his garnet-pommel dagger as his comrades dumped me beneath the branches, holding the blade close to my face while they gave vent to an anticipatory laugh. “Don’t worry,” he told me with a wink. “I keep it clean, so the wound won’t fester. Not that it’ll have time to. But first things first.”

  I heard a scrape of rope on wood, then the coil about my neck drew tight once more. I managed to get my fingers between the rope and the skin of my neck, meaning I didn’t choke right away, not that my tormentors wanted me to. They heaved on the rope, dragging me clear of the ground as I continued to fight the noose, jerking in the unreasoning panic unique to imminent death.

  “That’s it, lad!” one called out, to much raucous laughter “Dance for us!”

  The pounding pulse in my head soon swallowed their taunts, vision dimming once more as the rope pressed my fingers into my neck. Froth bubbled from my mouth as I bucked, feeling my eyes bulge so large I wondered they hadn’t been squeezed from my skull. But a body starved of air cannot struggle for ever and, though I willed it otherwise, my hands slackened on the rope and the flailing of my legs faded to a twitch. My vision went from red to grey, and then, quicker than expected, became utterly and completely black.

  If you are of devout leanings you may, at this juncture, be expecting a florid description of the Divine Portals, shining bright and glorious in the heavens, flanked by Seraphile guards while a chorus of Martyrs sang a welcome. Or, given the course of my life up until this event, you would be forgiven for imagining my endless screams as the Malecite dragged me into their fiery domain, claiming my wretched soul for their own. In either case, I regret to disappoint you.

  It is true that I died that night, just for a moment, for as the blackness closed in, I felt my heart stop. Despite the plethora of nonsense since penned by unworthy tale spinners who pretend to the title of scholar or chronicler, this foray into the realm of death was not the moment of my revelation. All that would come much later. No, dear reader. It pains me to tell you that, as I felt the last faltering beat of my heart fade away, I saw nothing. I felt nothing. It all just… stopped.

  “You’ve killed him, you clumsy fucks!”

  The aggrieved sputter of the soldier’s voice was loud in my ears, painful even. So too was the icy kiss of frosted ground against my cheek. More painful still, even though it was an exultant form of agony, was the great gasp of chilled air I drew into my lungs, for it heralded a good deal of retching and outpouring of bile-tinged spit.

  “See?” another voice said. “Told you he wasn’t gone yet.”

  The chill vanished from my cheek as a hand gripped my face, drawing it up. A few hard slaps and my vision swam back into focus, revealing the soldier from the tavern. His face no longer held any vestige of affable pretence. Now it was the bloodied, savage visage of a man fully consumed by vengeance.

  “Good,” he grunted, shoving me onto my back. “Hold him!” he snapped to his friends. “He’s sure to buck hard.”

  I tried to struggle again but could manage only a feeble spasm or two before a dozen hands pressed down and the soldier went about ripping my clothes away, using his dagger to slice through my jerkin and trews, exposing me from chest to groin.

  “I should warn you,” he hissed, looming close, eyes wide and hungry, “I was never much good at gutting hogs on the farm.” He reversed his grip on the dagger, lowering the point until it touched my skin, pressing hard enough to draw forth a small bead of blood. “They always squealed longest and loudest—”

  “What’s all this palaver about?”

  The voice came from beyond the enclosing circle of soldiers, not overly loud but infused with a peerless authority that sufficed to have them all abandon their hold on me and rise to their feet. The bloody-faced soldier lingered a fraction longer, features bunching in frustration before withdrawing the dagger and rising to stand at stiff-backed attention.

  “Caught ourselves another villain, Sir Althus,” he said in clipped, respectful tones. “One of Scarl’s lot, I’d swear. Also—” his baleful gaze slipped back to me for an in
stant “—the murderer of my own brother.”

  “Oh. One of those fellows we dragged out of the river back in Ambriside, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Mmm.” The circle of soldiers lowered their heads, snow crunching as they retreated. The man who appeared to stare down at me was somewhere north of thirty years in age, tall and well built with dark close-cropped hair and a short, neatly groomed beard. He wore a fine cotton and fur jerkin, one side of which featured an eagle embroidered in gold thread. His gaze was commanding but it was the eagle that captured my eye.

  This knight, this Sir Althus, stared at my face for what felt like a long time, gaze narrowed in what I might have thought to be recognition if I wasn’t certain he had never clapped eyes on me before. “What’s your proof?” he grunted, glancing at the soldier.

  “Here, my lord.” The soldier crouched, reaching down to tear the medallion from my neck, holding it up alongside his own. “You see how they match. One made for me, one for my brother. There’s only one way this wretch could’ve claimed it.”

  Sir Althus merely raised an eyebrow at that. Taking the medallion from the soldier he stepped closer and sank to his haunches at my side. Once again, his eyes lingered on my face longer than seemed normal for a noble regarding a snared outlaw. “What’s your name, boy?”

  I had to engage in a bout of coughing and swallowing before my throat consented to gasp out a response. “Gab… m’lord.”

  “Gab.” His face remained mostly impassive, but I detected a small curl to his lips that told me this was a man with a keen ear for lies. “So, tell me, Gab—” he dangled the medallion before my eyes “—how did you come by this precious family heirloom?”

  “W-won… it, m’lord. Playing… sevens.”

  “Lying little shit!”

  The soldier turned, raising his leg in order to deliver a stamp to my chest, but stopped at a hard glance from the crouching knight. “Who gambles for a Martyr medallion, my lord?” he asked instead. Lowering his boot, he held up the two trinkets once more. “Besides, these aren’t worth a single shek.”

  “I’ve seen men gamble for all manner of things when the mood takes them,” Sir Althus replied in a placid tone, his gaze still mostly focused on me. “Once saw a fellow wager his own arse for a buggering, so sure was he of his luck.” He gave a small chuckle. “Turns out he was wrong. That’s the way of things with dice: they don’t play favourites. Fall one way and they make you rich; fall another—” he raised an eyebrow at me, lips forming a faint grin that I felt to be somewhat inappropriate in the circumstances “—and you find yourself fucked.”

  “He…” the soldier faltered, clearly struggling to quell the fury that would certainly have coloured his voice had he been addressing a lesser personage. “He’s not local, my lord. Turns up here the day of Scarl’s beheading, all alone in the middle of winter. Where’s he come from if it’s not some outlaw den?”

  “That is a curious thing,” Sir Althus admitted, angling his head at me. “This is hardly fine,” he added, reaching out to finger the hem of my coat, “but not churl’s cloth either.”

  “My master’s parting gift, my lord,” I said, voice no longer hesitant but possessed of a rasp that has never fully faded in all the long years since. “Couldn’t keep me on, see? Not enough work. Been walking the roads ever since, trying to find another place. Heard there might be work for a wright in Lord Duhbos’ castle.”

  “More shit from the sewer!” the soldier hissed, teeth clenched and air steaming from his nostrils. “He’s a villain, my lord. I can smell it on him.”

  “Your nose does not constitute evidence, Kingsman.” The knight’s voice had an edge of curt dismissal to it, one that evidently instilled a good portion of fear. Every man-at-arms present immediately stood to even more rigid attention, including the grieving, bloody-faced brother. Vengeance is a potent brew, but even it couldn’t press a man to test the authority enjoyed by Sir Althus.

  “Did you do that to him?” he asked me, inclining his head at the soldier’s dripping features.

  “Panicked, milord,” I gabbled, attempting a smile that most likely resembled a many-hued gargoyle thanks to the beating I’d taken. “Don’t know my own strength sometimes…”

  “Strength is it?” he cut in rising to his feet. “We’ll see how strong you are.”

  He turned to the surrounding circle of soldiers. “The king’s edict of urgent justice extended only to those found in concert with Deckin Scarl. In accordance with Crown law this boy’s guilt will be determined by Duke Elbyn after due hearing wherein claims of outlawry can be evidenced and any plea he makes to the contrary heard. In the meantime, it is certain he has done injury to a kingsman of Crown Company and will suffer for it.”

  He made a sharp beckoning gesture and another group of soldiers came forward. Like my erstwhile executioners they were dressed in the king’s livery but had a neater appearance and, like the knight, bore a gold eagle on their tunics. The other soldiers quickly stepped aside at their approach, though not without a resentful glare or two.

  “One day in the pillory should be sufficient accounting,” Sir Althus said as the new arrivals hauled me to my feet. I was still too weak to walk so they draped my arms over their shoulders as they bore me away, pausing when the knight held up a hand.

  “You were a fool to come here,” he told me, leaning close and keeping his voice too soft for the others to hear. Had the injuries done by their attentions not begun to dull my wits now my panic had abated, my head might have jerked up in surprise at the word he spoke next. As it was, all I could manage was a sideways loll to regard his sad grimace as he said, “Alwyn.”

  While most churls can expect to spend their often truncated span of days labouring in the fields with scant interruption to the monotony of toil, townsfolk are typically afforded considerably more in the way of amusements. Bands of musicians and sundry players will tour the towns of most duchies, even in times of war, their arrival often coinciding with the principal feast days of the Martyrs. Similarly, the hawkers, tinkers and purveyors of dubious remedies that comprise the travelling fairs will find much custom amid the hovels that cluster around a castle, port or frequently trafficked bridge. However, despite these sundry distractions, I have often pondered the fact that there is no entertainment or spectacle more enjoyed by townsfolk than the opportunity to visit torment and degradation upon any poor sod so unfortunate as to find himself locked into the pillory.

  Like children with a snared fox, I mused as something soft and rotten splattered against my cheek. The chance to indulge cruelty without consequence is often irresistible, especially to those born to the daily struggle for subsistence. Thus it was not the artisans or tradespeople of the town that assembled to cast their filth at me but their servants or apprentices, also the drunks and beggars who lurked on the fringes of town life. These were by far the worst, scraping stones from the earth to add to the continual torrent of rotting vegetation or dog-chewed bones. For folk who suffered so much from the cold or the effects of lifelong drunkenness, they seemed to possess a uniform keenness of eye and strength of arm. As one stone after another rebounded from my brow, nose or chin, I found myself grateful for the foul-smelling dung and other filth with which I had already been spattered; the miasma it birthed was sure to keep away any foul humours which might otherwise cause my numerous cuts to fester.

  As was expected of such occasions, a hail of insults accompanied the cascade of projectiles. Once again it was the town dregs who had the most colourful turn of phrase. Much of it was lost to my stunned and diminished awareness but a few choice gems remain in my memory even now.

  “Pig-fucking, baby-stealing son of a whore!” screeched a woman with a nose so reddened by liquor my befuddled brain wondered if she hadn’t strapped an apple to her face.

  “Have this, you shit-eater!” grunted out a stick-thin man, his bare feet dancing on the frosted earth as he cast a broken pot at me. Fortunately, he was not so
keen of eye as his fellow wretches and the pot’s jagged edges merely scraped over the crown of my head before shattering on the thick timbers of the pillory.

  It should not be thought that this was an entirely unruly affair. The soldiers waited until the sun had fully risen before forcing me to my knees then pressing my head and wrists into the three semicircular channels carved into the heavy iron-braced beam forming the lower half of the pillory. As they locked the upper beam into place their sergeant proclaimed my punishment to the growing crowd of townsfolk, a short statement that did not neglect to mention my potential status of a member of Deckin’s band. Perhaps as a consequence, the crowd were already gathering their missiles before the sergeant’s proclamation ended.

  Furling the scroll, the sergeant took his halberd and scraped out a curving line in the icy ground, creating a barrier about twenty paces from the pillory beyond which none of my tormentors were permitted to step. It wasn’t unknown for folk to die in the pillory when the mob’s zealous pursuit of justice was permitted to get out of hand. The subsequent shower of refuse, stones and abuse wore on for most of the day with occasional lulls in which my gaggle of punishers went off to gather more missiles or revive themselves with drink. I found I dreaded these intervals more than the assaults, for they brought a return of sensation to my battered features along with a semblance of reason.

  I knew I was caught and I knew my fate. Everything I suffered now would be as nothing to what came next. I would be paraded before the duke for what I expected to be a short hearing. Though I possessed a way with words, no amount of mummery or story spinning would loosen this particular trap – not that I expected to be capable of speech come the morn. My lips were swollen and split and my neck throbbed with the ache of my near hanging. Added to that was the sense of my reason slipping away as the day’s torment wore on. Every stone thudding against my now-lolling head, every slap of filth against my skin, even the unending taunts, combined to push me back from the world. I retreated from it all like a turtle withdrawing into its shell, finding refuge in garbled memories and dreams of things that never were and never would be.