by Joshua Khan
“Funny, I don’t see Gabriel here. Nor any of his cronies.”
“He may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid. Gabriel’s probably sitting by a warm fire tucking into his breakfast.”
“That reminds me. If we want our own breakfast, then we’d better get a move on.”
There were two hills beyond Dead Man’s Gate. Thorn hadn’t noticed them when he’d arrived last night. “Which one do we go around?”
K’leef, panting, pointed at the western one. “Lamentation Hill.”
“I’ve never seen a place so grim.” The trees were twisted like the bones of old men. “The local picnic spot, is it?”
“It’s where they execute criminals, Thorn.”
“And what’s the other one called? Let me guess: Really Sad Hill?”
“No. That’s the City of Silence. It’s the Shadow family’s graveyard.”
Now that the mist was clearing, Thorn saw that the crest was covered with tombs and the slopes were lined with countless gravestones. “It’s bigger than Castle Gloom.”
“The Shadows have been here for thousands of years,” K’leef explained. “It’s no wonder, then, that the home of the dead is greater than that of the living.”
“Nice place, Gehenna. Massive graveyard to the left, and execution ground to the right.” Thorn peered up at a row of poles. “What’s on top of those? Birds?”
“Heads.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t shocked. Heads on spikes were a pretty common sight in some places. He counted five in all. “Whose?”
“The brigands who killed Lily’s family,” K’leef replied. “What I heard was that Lord Shadow, his wife, and his son had gone to sign a treaty with the Solars. The Black Ford Truce, they call it, and it’s the first time the two houses have had peace in a hundred years or so. Lily’s brother was going to marry one of the duke’s twelve daughters.”
“But I thought the duke and Lord Shadow hated each other.”
K’leef tapped Thorn’s forehead. “Think about it. The duke’s grandchild would one day be ruler of Gehenna. We belong to ancient families, Thorn; we take the long view.”
“Then what happened?”
“The deal was done and Lord Iblis, Lady Salome, and their son, Dante, were on the way back when they were ambushed. They were robbed and killed. The brigands even burned the bodies, hoping that no one would recognize them.”
“Where was Lady Shadow during all this?”
“Back here. The official line is that she was ill that day….” K’leef winked at him. “But I heard the true story from her maid, Mary. Lily had had a fight with her father earlier that week, so he’d grounded her.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Thorn had only met her last night, but there was a stubborn look in those gray eyes of hers. “Still, that argument saved her life, didn’t it? So how did the heads end up on them poles? I’d have thought the brigands would’ve made themselves pretty scarce after what they’d done.”
“What do you think? Tyburn found them. That man would chase you to the very gates of hell if he had to. The brigands still had Lady Salome’s jewels on them. Tyburn killed five, but one got away. The executioner’s been searching for him ever since.”
Thorn understood. His village, Stour, suffered bandits like most places, and they’d lost the occasional chicken or sheep. Men got desperate. But stealing was one thing; murder something else.
K’leef glanced back at the ragtag bunch of boys approaching. “Let’s push on. We don’t want to be last.”
They weren’t. Last was a boy named Pedder.
Old Colm, the weapons master, stomped out, dragging him along. Despite his wooden leg, Old Colm moved fast.
“I wasn’t last, sir! I wasn’t!” Pedder complained.
Old Colm shoved the boy down the steps into the courtyard. “No food and water for this one today. Maybe he’ll be quicker with an empty stomach.”
The squires lined up in the courtyard of Dead Man’s Gate. The mud was stiff with frost, and Thorn’s breath came out as a big white cloud. Thorn noticed how the others looked his way.
“What are they so interested in?” he muttered.
K’leef mimed something smacking his face. “They’ve heard what you did to Gabriel last night. Which was very excellent, by the way. Remind me to buy you a palace the next time you’re in the Sultanate of Fire.” K’leef raised his hand. “And before you ask, let me tell you that Gabriel isn’t the sort fellow to hold a petty, vindictive grudge and come after you in the middle of the night with a mob.”
“Really?”
“No, I’m lying. I’d sleep with my eyes open from now on if I were you.”
Thorn scowled. “And next time we go running, I’m just gonna leave you to drown in the mud.” The day was getting worse and worse.
Old Colm looked them up and down, shaking his head. “By the Six Princes, I’ve never seen anything so pathetic. You all couldn’t fight a cold. You’re not squires, you’re trolls. What are you?”
“Trolls, sir!” they all shouted.
“Say it like you mean it!”
“WE’RE TROLLS, SIR!”
It was a well-known fact that Old Colm hated trolls. Story was, a troll chieftain had ripped his leg off in a battle. Old Colm had grabbed it and used it to beat the troll to death.
The weapons master waved at the bundle of unstrung bows against the wall. “Now take one each.”
The boys looked at each other, uncertain.
“What are you waiting for? String them,” ordered Old Colm. He handed a large iron key to one of the older boys. “Tom, go get some more arrows from the armory. I reckon we’ll be losing plenty over the wall.”
The hay targets stood two hundred feet away, up against the wall of the Black Keep and below the watching gargoyles. In the center of each bale was the red bull’s-eye. From where Thorn stood, it was the size of his thumbnail.
The squires struggled. The bows wouldn’t bend. One sprang up, smacking the boy on his forehead. Another cried out as he cut himself on the thin bowstring.
Thorn hooked the bottom of the stave around his ankle and back of his leg. The stave ran up behind him, against his shoulder. He gripped the horn tip and bent down. The wood creaked and pressed hard against his back, desperate to spring back straight. With his right hand, Thorn flipped the bowstring loop over the tip, then relaxed. He plucked the taut bowstring. Ready.
“How did you do that?” K’leef asked him as he wrestled with his own bow.
“Use your whole body to bend it, not just your arms.”
“I get it. Thanks.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Old Colm, holding a silver crown between his finger and thumb. “See this? I’ll give it to the first boy who scores a bull’s-eye. Halloween’s eleven days away, but the fair’s already setting up on Devil’s Knoll. A lad with silver in his pocket could have a fine old time at the fair.” He winked. “Know what I mean?”
The boys laughed, but there were plenty of hungry eyes on the coin. A crown was a man’s weekly wage.
The boys lined up in four columns, each facing one of the targets. Thorn was last in line. Arrows flew. Some hit the hay, others the walls, and plenty skimmed across the courtyard floor. One boy put his through his boot, and the foot within it, and was carried off to the infirmary, howling. None hit the bull’s-eye, and Old Colm’s coin remained unclaimed in his pocket.
Thorn reached the front. He picked a good arrow, one that was straight and its fletching neat and smooth. He nocked it and hooked his thumb around the bowstring.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said Old Colm.
Thorn looked down at his thumb. “This is how my dad taught me.”
“Oh, did he? Now tell me, troll, was your pa a legendary archer? Perhaps he was taught by elves, was he? Your fingers not good enough?”
“No, sir.” Thorn blushed as the boys snickered. He rearranged his grip, holding the bowstring with his fingers, like everyone else. One above the notch, tw
o below.
“No, no, no,” said Old Colm. “That won’t do at all. Gather around, trolls. Let the new boy show us how’s it done. With his thumb. What do I know? I’ve only been teaching archery fifty years.” He folded his arms. “Come on, troll, show me. Please, teach us all how to shoot.”
Thorn’s heart beat rapidly, and he felt the gaze of the other boys. A few laughed, and they jostled one another. They liked it when a new boy got humiliated.
Old Colm nudged him. “The target’s over there.”
Thorn took a deep breath. He turned side-on to the target. He relaxed his shoulders and blocked out the giggles and noise around him.
He hooked his thumb around the bowstring, raised the bow, drew the string to his chin, and saw down the line of the arrow, the target a haze beyond.
Don’t worry about the target, Dad would say. Make the arrow do the worrying. You just send it on its way straight and true.
Thorn let the bowstring go. The arrow flew.
He heard the thunk. He didn’t need to look. The gasp from the boys told him everything.
Bull’s-eye.
Old Colm scowled. He handed Thorn another arrow. “A fluke. Do it again.”
Thorn took it.
There was someone watching from the steps that led to the main doors. Thorn saw a match flame and a glow settle within a pipe.
Tyburn. The warm red light lit his stark, hard face. The boys murmured among themselves. A few inflated their chests, and others stood straighter, all wanting to impress the executioner.
But not Thorn.
He should do what his dad had told him.
Keep your head down. Don’t attract attention. Stay out of trouble.
Thorn’s archery was what had landed his father in so much trouble. Thorn’s archery and arrogance.
I’ll miss.
That was the sensible, clever thing to do. Make his first shot seem like sheer luck. A fluke.
Miss.
Go on. Just miss.
Why was it so hard? The bull’s-eye was right there, just waiting to be hit. It seemed huge.
I…can’t miss. I don’t want to miss! Why should I?
Miss!
Thorn nocked the second arrow, drew, and loosed.
The arrow sailed high. Well over the targets. It flew upward and toward the keep wall.
It buried itself down the open throat of one of the gargoyles. It went clean in, so only the white goose-feathered fletching remained visible, jutting out between the gargoyle’s fangs.
Thorn had missed. Spectacularly.
K’leef stared at it. They all did.
“Well, I’m not going up there and getting it,” muttered one of the boys.
Old Colm grunted. “As I thought, a fluke. Now everyone, line up. Watch Harry. He’ll show you how to shoot properly.”
Tyburn puffed out a smoke ring and went back inside the keep.
While the other boys were distracted, Old Colm tossed Thorn the crown. “Here, catch. I don’t know what you’re up to, troll, but I don’t appreciate being made a fool of.”
“A fool, sir? I don’t understand. I missed.”
“Did you?” He looked up at the gargoyle. “In which case that’s the best worst shot I’ve ever seen.”
Thorn drew the brush over the horse’s coat.
Why had he made that shot?
Stupid. All it did was make everyone suspicious. Especially Tyburn.
Practice had gone on until well after sunup, and Thorn had made sure not to be too good, but it was too late. At breakfast everyone was talking about two things: the poisoning at the feast and Thorn’s shooting. As soon as breakfast was over, Thorn had escaped to the stables.
And that suited him fine. Thorn enjoyed grooming horses. Especially ones like Thunder. His coat was so black it held all the other colors. Purples and blues and even shades of green rippled within it. They’d had a cart horse back home, and Thorn had spent a summer learning to ride on it. It had been equally big, seventeen hands, but it had been slow, docile, and not too bright. Thunder was different. Despite his size he looked nimble enough to dance on a penny.
Thorn picked out another stone from the horse’s hooves. This was his sort of work. Not too complicated and no surprises. As long as you fed one end and cleaned the other, you couldn’t go far wrong.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thorn glimpsed a squire heading toward him.
Now what?
The squire stopped a healthy distance away. “That’s Thunder, isn’t it?”
“You want something?” He looked at him properly. “I met you last night, didn’t I? You brought the puppy. What was your name?”
“Wade.” The boy was dressed in a black outfit fancier than Thorn’s, but he looked nervous, and his eyes darted about like a mouse in a kitchen. “It’s just that I was over at the lesser hall, where the Solars are? I heard Gabriel talking. He isn’t happy.”
“Of course he ain’t. He probably saw himself in the mirror.”
“He was talking about revenge. For what you did to him.”
Thorn frowned. He’d hoped that K’leef had been wrong about Gabriel. No such luck.
“Mean little toad, ain’t he?” Thorn looked over at the other stable boys, all dressed in black, like him. They were pretending not to eavesdrop. “You come over to help me, Wade?”
He shook his head. “Don’t you get it? Gabriel’s going to marry Lilith Shadow. We can’t risk making an enemy of our future ruler.”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“Come on. We all know what you did to him. Every one of us would have loved to do the same. But we’re—”
“A bunch of cowards?”
“We’re not stupid,” answered Wade. “I’m sorry, but you’re on your own.”
On his own. Some things never changed.
“How long have I got?”
The barn doors swung open, and Gabriel and a dozen of his white-clad squires marched in. Some had cudgels, others daggers. Gabriel had his longsword out and wore a shiny steel breastplate. He saw Thorn and grinned.
“Not long,” said Wade.
“Think you can make a fool of me, peasant?” Gabriel snarled. “Think you can get away with what you did?”
“You mean shove your face in manure?” Thorn grinned. “Yeah, I reckon I can.”
Gabriel smiled maliciously. “I’m going to teach you a lesson about respecting your betters. I’m going to carve it into you so you never forget it.”
Wade and the other stable boys were gone. No last-minute help coming from them. Gabriel’s cronies blocked the door. The only thing nearby was a broom.
So Thorn grabbed it.
Gabriel tightened his grip on his longsword. “Pathetic.”
Thunder stamped his hoof. He whinnied and shook his head. He knew Thorn was in trouble.
“Get him!” ordered Gabriel.
Thorn grabbed hold of the horse’s mane and swung himself up, broom still in his other hand.
“Go, boy!” shouted Thorn, kicking his heels.
The horse charged.
It didn’t matter that they had clubs and knives. It didn’t matter that there were more than ten of them. What mattered was they were on foot and Thorn was on a massive, muscular warhorse trained to trample everything in his path. Seventeen hands high, he was built to carry a fully armored knight into battle. With hooves that could cave in skulls and teeth big enough to snap off hands, Thunder crossed the small gap between his pen and the stable doors in a second.
The squires dove aside. Two weren’t quick enough, and the horse glanced them with his shoulder, sending them tumbling.
Thorn couched the broom handle under his right armpit and aimed the brush at the biggest target he could see.
Gabriel.
The broom smacked dead center with a deafening clang. Gabriel flew twenty feet through the air, flipping over and over like a tin chicken, then smacked down in a fresh mound of horse dung.
“Whoa, boy!” Tho
rn tried to get control of Thunder, but the warhorse had his own ideas.
Thunder spun around, searching for more enemies, and that was too much for Thorn. He wasn’t a horseman. Fighting off squires with a broom and staying on was one job too many.
So he fell off.
Solar squires spilled out of the stables. Others got to their feet after having dived away from the charging Thunder, their white tunics filthy with mud. A couple dragged Gabriel out of the fly-infested mountain of brown stuff. His breastplate had a big broom-shaped dent in it.
“Get him!” yelled Gabriel, frothing at the mouth. “Get him!”
No way was Thorn going to win this. He dragged himself up out of the mud and ran. He dashed toward a gap between a tower and a wall. He didn’t know where he was running to, but it had to be out of the courtyard.
He ran between tottering walls and leaning towers and over crumbling walls and under half-demolished bridges. Sometimes the cries of the squires faded away to almost nothing, then suddenly they’d be at his shoulder.
Thorn ran as fast as he could, not looking back, deep into the labyrinthine paths of Castle Gloom.
He ran until his legs burned and his chest ached. He found an alcove, just a break in the wall, and stopped to catch his breath and look around.
He was totally lost. None of Castle Gloom made sense. It was a hodgepodge of buildings, all in different styles from different centuries, made of marble, granite, brick, and who knew what else. All of it ancient. Breath caught, Thorn raced on. Down an alley and around—
Disaster struck.
Thorn hit a dead end.
A wall blocked his way. It was high, more than fifty feet, and covered in stiff black ivy. The squires were closing in.
Thorn took hold of a vine. It was brittle, and he didn’t have any idea how strong it was.
This wasn’t like climbing trees back home. There he could just glance at a branch and know if it would take his weight.
Would they kill him? Back in the courtyard, with others standing there, someone might have stepped in to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. But now, in the alleyway, with no one else around? Led by a guy like Gabriel?