by J. V. Jones
Kylock lost his grip on the lantern. It flew into the air. Melli heard it clatter against the stone. The light wavered. Kylock’s fist punched into her jaw. All the bones in her neck cracked at once. Kylock fell on top of her, tearing at her clothes.
She screamed.
He placed his hand right under her jaw and slammed her head into the back of the wall.
Pain burst into her skull. The world shot out of focus. Still she screamed.
She felt Kylock’s fingers probing under her bodice. She fought him, but her hands weren’t responding the way they should. She felt like she was drunk. He got a grip of the fabric and ripped the bodice from her.
Through eyes that saw everything as blurred, Melli became aware of a bright glow behind Kylock’s shoulder. The rushes on the floor had caught on fire.
Either sensing the heat or smoke, Kylock pulled away from her. Standing up, he kicked the thin layer of rushes with his boot, sending them to the far side of the room. The wooden bench was near Melli’s foot and so was removed from the danger. Everything else was stone. Kylock stamped at the rushes around the edge of the blaze. The flames licked at his shins. Spinning around for something to dampen them with, he stopped in his tracks.
Melli hadn’t moved. Her breasts and torso were bare. The curve of her belly was highlighted by the flames.
Kylock stared at her. He stared at her swollen stomach.
As Melli watched, she saw his expression change. The blind look of rage crystallized into madness. In that instant she felt fear so concentrated that it pushed the air from her lungs. She felt it rush through her lips like her last chance of hope.
Kylock’s gaze rose to her eyes. Behind him the fire began to dim, muffled by the stone and frustrated by the lack of fuel. The room became thick with smoke. The vacuum in Melli’s lungs was like a hunger. She needed to breathe, but was afraid of drawing in a substance more deadly than smoke. The back of her skull was bleeding. She felt the blood trickle down her neck. Her eyes were watering.
The smoke was black and speckled with soft burnt flakes. Kylock raised his hands and took a step toward her. Melli opened her lips and took in the smoke. For a second her body resisted her and she started to choke, but she fought it, breathing in more and more. The smoke was bitter at first. Hot and acrid, it burnt her lungs. But then Kylock’s hands were upon her, and what had been her poison became her savior.
The world fell away and left Melli in the dark.
By the time Skaythe dragged himself into the trees, his tunic was soaked in blood. He had taken the arrow high on his left shoulder blade, and the tip had pierced his bone. He had crawled to safety on his stomach, using his right arm to pull himself forward.
His horse was tethered to a slender ash tree and she whinnied softly as she caught his scent. “Ssh, Kali,” he murmured.
The trees still carried most of their foliage and the leaves cut out much of the moonlight. Skaythe preferred it that way. He always worked better in the dark. Grasping hold of a nearby tree trunk, he hauled himself off the ground. Pain coursed down his side. He felt physically sick and had to stop himself from vomiting by holding back his head and gulping hard. His left hand made a fist just as his right did. Good. That meant the muscles in his arm would be all right.
After a moment the nausea passed, leaving nothing but a sharp taste in his mouth. He stood up all the way and then rested against the trunk for support. Making a soft clicking noise with his tongue, he urged his horse forward. The filly came as near as her reins permitted, and Skaythe was able to take the saddlebag from her back.
More pain and nausea followed as his shoulders bore the weight of the bag. He found what he needed: ointment, sharp knife, linen bandages, and a small flask of hard liquor. He took the liquor first, drinking all but a mouthful in one go. It burned a path down his throat and then glowed like an ember in his belly. He had to work quickly now: liquor like this didn’t leave much time between dulling your senses and robbing you of your wits. The last of the liquor he poured onto half the bandage and then cleaned the area around the wound, the bottom portion of the arrow shaft, the blade of his knife, and his fingers.
He had already broken the shaft halfway down, and about a hand’s length of wood now projected from his shoulder blade. Taking the knife, he cut into the wound, opening the flesh to either side of the arrowhead. The knight had used a standard V-shaped blade. Just the sort of head you’d expect a man of honor to use. Not barbed, not razored, not beveled. Skaythe shrugged. He had pointed a barbed, serrated head the knight’s way.
Once he’d freed the flesh on each side of the V, Skaythe took the remaining shaft in his hand, willed his body to stay relaxed, and pulled the arrowhead free.
The pain was hot, white, and clawing. It shot down his arm and across to his heart. Urine splashed down his leg. Even though he had made space for the V, the edges still gouged flesh as they went. He didn’t scream. He never screamed—even as a child.
Once the head was out, Skaythe slumped back against the tree. Taking the other half of the bandage, he pressed it hard against the wound. His blood was black in the moonlight. He was weakening fast. The liquor was reaching the point where it robbed him of his wits.
As he held the cloth to his shoulder blade he cursed Tawl with all the hate of a man defeated. The knight had taken a chance—he had deliberately aimed his arrow to the left. Tawl had bet that he would jump, and then taken a further bet on which way he was likely to go. Skaythe had thought he was leaping to safety, but he had been leaping straight into the arrow’s path. If the knight had aimed his arrow straight at the heart, then he would have emerged without a scratch. But no, he had pointed his sights at thin air, and by doing so drawn blood instead.
Skaythe shook his head grimly. The blood was slow to stop.
There was one consolation to be drawn from tonight’s match, however. Tawl had been lucky, that was all. Skaythe knew all about luck, and he knew that, without exception, it always ran out in the end. A man who was lucky one day would likely be cursed the next. So when he met Tawl again, the odds would be in his favor.
And he would meet Tawl again.
Tomorrow he would find someone to stitch up the wound. After that he’d probably need to rest for a few days, to give the skin time to heal. In the short term he might lose track of the knight, but ultimately he knew where Tawl was heading, knew where he would return to, and with just one sending from Baralis, Skaythe could find him in the dark.
Sixteen
The wind was lively and smelled of fish. The morning came early and bright. The white buildings of Toolay trailed golden shadows in the sunrise, and the sea played songs for the cliffs.
They had traveled all night and were weary, but somehow the sight of the little city perched high above the ocean acted like breakfast and tonic in one. Jack knew he wasn’t the only one to feel it; Nabber’s face lit up and he muttered a long and happy sentence in which the words prospecting and at last were repeated several times. Even Tawl seemed pleased. He couldn’t smile much, though. The cut on his cheek might be stretched open by a smile.
“Goat’s milk and ale,” he said, urging his horse forward.
“Goat’s milk and ale?” Jack kicked his heels into his gelding’s flank. He wasn’t about to let Tawl get to the city first.
Tawl’s eyes twinkled brighter than the sea. “That’s what they serve a man for breakfast here.”
There was a little furtive rivalry in the air. Jack could clearly see Tawl building up for a gallop. “What do they serve the women, then?”
“I’ve seen the women here, Jack,” said Nabber. “And by the looks of them, they get just the ale.”
With that, Tawl’s horse sped ahead, leaving Nabber’s muffled cries of complaint in its wake. Jack chased after them. It felt good to be here, right now, with the sun warming his face and the wind salting his lips, riding through dust left by friends.
Friends they might be, but he was still going to beat them. Jack dug his heels d
eeper and gave Barley his reins. Tawl’s horse was more powerful, but it had to carry two. Barley found reserves of strength and was soon on their tail. Nabber kept his head low, whilst his voice bellowed like a foghorn:
“This is the last time I’ll ever get on a horse with you, Tawl!”
Jack smiled as Barley passed them. “I don’t blame you, Nabber,” he yelled. “It’s only worth riding with the best.” He didn’t risk turning to look at them. First, because he didn’t want Tawl to see him smile, and second, he was terrified. He’d never ridden this fast before. Beneath him, Barley had turned from a sweet and gentle creature to a warhorse on the charge. All Jack could do was hang on and hope for leniency.
On his way to victory, Barley demonstrated latent talents for jumping over ditches, picking paths through rocks, and delaying his swerves around trees until the last possible moment.
Finally, horse and rider made it onto the high road. Seeing carts, people, and other horses had a profound effect on Barley and, like a naughty child in front of visitors, he became a model of good behavior. He slowed his pace to a trot and even stepped to the side to let people in a hurry pass. Jack was so grateful that he’d stopped galloping that he didn’t have the heart to chide him. He merely whispered in his ear, “If you’ve any more tricks up your sleeve, save them for your next master.”
“Hey! Jack!” Tawl and Nabber drew level with him. Tawl reached over and patted Barley’s flank. “If I’d known he was that good, I would have picked him for myself.”
Jack had the distinct feeling that if it wasn’t for the newly scabbed cut on his face, Tawl would be laughing out loud by now. “Come on, then,“ he said, urging Barley forward. “We can’t keep the goats waiting.”
The city of Toolay was bustling. Merchants, farmers, barrow-boys, and fishermen crowded the narrow, winding streets. People were shouting their wares, calling greetings to acquaintances, haggling, harping, and gossiping. Jack liked the place immediately, his only reservation being that there were a lot of geese roaming the streets. Having been chased by a pack of the vicious, honking birds last spring, the only acceptable goose to him was now a roast one.
Suddenly feeling hungry, Jack was glad when Tawl picked a nearby tavern to stop at. The Lobster’s Legs was small and cozy. The tavern-keeper, a hearty red-jowled man named Blaxer, greeted them warmly, sending out a boy to look after their horses and personally warming the goat’s milk himself. His exceedingly handsome son brought them a breakfast of hot oatmeal and cold lobster, and then offered to prepare them a room.
Jack hoped Tawl would agree. They hadn’t slept at all last night, and the idea of sleeping in a comfortable, safe bed rather than on hard ground out in the open was pleasing to say the least. Tawl looked quickly at Nabber. The boy stifled a theatrical yawn.
“Very well. We’ll stay the night here and leave for Rorn in the morning.”
The tavern-keeper’s son nodded politely, poured ale into their goat’s milk, and then took his leave. His father watched all this from the corner of the room, his face bright with paternal pride.
They ate their breakfast in silence, all of them too tired, or hungry, or caught up in their own thoughts to talk. After they had finished, Tawl stood up. “You two go and get some rest. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Jack shook his head. “No. I think I’ll come with you, instead.”
Tawl gave him a hard look. “I’m just going to find someone to put a couple of stitches in my cheek.”
“That’s fine with me. After that we can see about getting an extra longbow.” Jack wasn’t going to be put off.
Tawl began walking across the room. “Come on, then,” he said as he reached the door.
Feeling like he’d just won a small victory, Jack followed him outside. The sunlight made him squint. The streets were still busy, but a little more ordered now that every market-trader’s stall was in place and everyone else had settled down to the serious business of buying. Tawl accosted the first person who walked past, asking her the name of a decent surgeon.
“Sir,” said the old lady, “for an injury such as the one on your cheek, any barber on Letting Street will suffice.” She smiled pleasantly, bid them good morning, and was off, large empty basket held out in front of her like a shield.
Jack and Tawl exchanged a smile. The people of Toolay were certainly unique.
By the time they found Letting Street it was close to midday. All together there were about half a dozen barbers vying for business along the way. Their shop fronts were open, showing displays of sharp knives, hacked-off topnotches, and gallstones in jars. “This one will do,” said Tawl, indicating one enterprising barber who had hung a carving of a huge wooden leech above his door.
“Aah, sirs! I see two men in need of a haircut.” The barber came rushing over to them as soon as they stepped through the door. He was a thin man with a red leather belt around his waist and a razor-sharp knife in his hand. He caught sight of Tawl’s cheek. “Why, sir, sit down. Sit down. That’s a four-stitcher if ever I saw one.”
Tawl sat in the proffered chair. Jack stayed where he was. He had grown accustomed to his hair the length it was, and he had no intention of letting the barber near him.
The barber had turned tutting into an art form, and as he examined Tawl’s cheek, he made several highly telling tuts in a row. “Oh, sir,” he exclaimed shaking his head. “Such a tragedy. A fine face such as yours and now . . . ” several fast tuts followed, “disaster! Do you already have a wife, sir?”
Tawl shook his head. He winced as the barber began to clean out the wound with clear alcohol.
“Then this calls for my finest work.” The barber began to unravel a large bundle of black thread. “By the time I’m finished with you, your own mother won’t be able to tell the difference. You will be able to pay the extra, won’t you, sir? Fine little stitches, eight instead of four.”
“I’ll take four,” said Tawl.
“No,” said Jack. “Give him the full eight.”
Tawl turned a frown Jack’s way. “We’ve got to purchase a longbow.”
Jack shook his head. “I’ll make do with what I’ve got.” Then to the barber. “Give him whatever it takes.” Tawl might not be interested in his appearance, but Jack wasn’t doing it for him. He was doing it for Melli.
The barber nodded judiciously. “A man of reason, I see.” He looked Jack up and down, and then tutted. “But also, if I may be so bold, one who’s badly in need of a little grooming.”
Jack edged nearer the door. “Stitch him first, then we’ll see if we’ve any money left over for grooming.”
The barber executed his most expressive tut so far. With one click of the tongue, he said, Borc save me from these barbarians! They have no sense of refinement whatsoever. He did his duty, though, picking out his finest needle and changing the thread to match. “Brandy, sir?” he asked just before he put point to flesh.
“Will it cost me extra?”
“Two silvers.”
“I’ll do without.”
The barber conveyed his surprise by simply not tutting at all. “Very well. Brace yourself.”
Jack looked away.
The barber spoke as he stitched. “So, have you men come from the north?”
“No,” said Jack.
“Pity. I was hoping you’d have some news.”
“About the siege?”
“Hmm.” The barber was silent a moment. Jack didn’t want to know what he was doing. “And about the Lady Melliandra.”
Jack spun around. “What about her?”
“Well, she’s the one who married the duke, you know. Quite a beauty by all accounts.”
Tawl’s arm shot out and he grabbed the barber’s arm. “Get to the point.”
The barber tutted, pried his arm free, and continued his stitching. “Well, her father escaped and went over to the enemy and is telling everyone that Kylock has captured her. Of course, it’s all just a rumor at the moment.”
Tawl
made as if to stand, but the barber pushed him down. “Just another minute, sir.”
“How long ago did this happen?” asked Jack.
The barber shrugged. “I don’t know. News takes a while to reach us here.” With that he finished his job, tied a knot, cut the thread, cleaned the new blood from Tawl’s face, and splashed the skin with a little ointment. “Seven days and then they come out.”
Tawl stood up. “How much?”
The barber seemed disappointed that his work hadn’t been appreciated. “Two golds.”
Jack handed him the money. “Nicely done,” he said.
The barber bowed and started to say something, but Jack didn’t catch what it was, for he and Tawl were already heading out the door.
“We travel today. Right now,” said Tawl as the door closed behind him. “We get Nabber, change the horses, and leave within the hour.”
“Leave for where?” Jack wasn’t sure if Tawl meant to continue on to Rorn or head back to Bren.
Tawl’s normally light blue eyes were as dark as the sky at midnight. “We go to Larn as planned.”
“What in Borc’s name do you think you’re doing? The girl has to be killed.”
Melli had been hearing words for some time now, but these were the first ones that her brain could be bothered to understand. She was emerging from a smoky haze. Her first instinct was to cough—to hack and spit and splutter. Her second instinct was to keep both her eyes and her mouth firmly shut. She took a deep breath and used it to calm her lungs.
“No, Baralis. The girl doesn’t have to be killed. The child does.”
“They are one and the same right now.”
Melli shuddered. She couldn’t help herself. She recognized both speakers—Kylock and Baralis—and the sound of their voices chilled her to the bone.
When Baralis spoke again his tone was lower. “Look, as long as the girl is alive, she is a blade in our side. Maybor is running around telling everyone we’ve got her, half the people in Bren would rather see her son in the palace than you, and Highwall is actually claiming to be fighting on her behalf. The girl must die.”