But it did not come.
Instead there was uproar and commotion as the other men, emboldened by drink, kicked the door in and surged into the farmhouse.
Callie screamed as they grabbed her and threw her onto the table, casting lantern, goblet and knife aside. Lughor jumped up and could only watch in horror as the men forced Callie down and held her, as she squirmed and thrashed around and spat. Her eyes caught his, just for a second that stretched to eternity. Help me, her eyes implored, help me!
What could he do? He was outnumbered by two hundred to one.
He stooped to snatch up the lantern but before he could dash it against the wall and start a fire as a distraction, calloused hands seized his arms and prised the lamp from his fingers. As the lamp swung wildly, shadows grew and shrank on the walls and ceiling: evil, contorted beasts all around the girl on the table. A hand seized Lughor by the jaw to force him to watch as the men prepared to commit repeated violations of the helpless girl. Lughor, sobbing, screwed his eyes shut but grimy fingers grappled at his eyelids.
“Watch!” barked a voice, hot against his ear. “Or you’ll be next.”
Lughor tried to put up a struggle. He sank his teeth into the hand at his chin but this only earned him a few seconds of respite. The hand punched him in the breastbone before pressing a knife to his cheek. Tiny beads of blood bubbled up but Lughor didn’t feel a thing; he continued to struggle but more pairs of hands seized his arms, throat and shoulders. He tried to kick out but this only got his legs and feet pinioned too. He dug deep within himself and with a surge of power and a roar of fury, he threw off most of his captors. He lunged toward the table - perhaps he could distract them enough so that Callie could get away - perhaps -
A crash as something - a bottle - smashed on the top of his head, and then, just before he lost consciousness, pain. Hot, searing pain as the point of the knife was driven into and through his eyeball.
***
He awoke to a scene of utter carnage. His entire dragoon had been shredded - there was no better word for it - and scattered around the farmhouse kitchen. Lughor tried to stand but dizzying pain in his head knocked him onto his backside and into a puddle of two of his cronies. He reached a tentative hand to his face and yelped like a puppy underfoot when his fingers found the wet and sticky opening where his eye used to be; it was still raw and seeping.
Holding his breath, Lughor used the table - now an overenthusiastic butcher’s block - to help him get to his feet, his legs trembling and his knees buckling. The agony in his eye socket almost made him swoon but he gritted his teeth and waited for the flash of pain to subside.
Callie!
He tried to scan, with his one remaining eye, the bloody devastation of his annihilated dragoon for signs of her, a scrap of her skirt, a hank of her hair... There was nothing - none that he could see anyway. That was something, wasn’t it?
It was morning and already the room was abuzz with flies, feasting on their breakfast banquet, one last hurrah before winter claimed them. Lughor felt sick. He hobbled around the table, making a slow and shaky path to the door.
Where was Callie?
Had she by some miracle escaped the bloodshed?
The dragoon looked like it had been clawed apart - by a dragon. Ha! The wordplay gave rise to a bitter laugh, which he spat out onto the doorstep.
There are no dragons.
No dragoon neither.
So I guess I am down one eye and out of a job.
Out in the fresh, bright air he found he was able to stand tall. He took clean sheets from the washing-line and tore them into strips and, having bathed the wound with water from the well, wrapped his head to keep dust, flies and everything else from the gaping socket.
I have survived!
He was glad of it but something had hardened in his heart. What he had seen men do and what had been done to those men erased something of the soft-hearted, sweet-natured youth he had been.
He walked away from the farm, slowly but with increasing steadiness. It was tricky at first seeing with only one eye and he had to make adjustments to compensate - a lesson he learned quickly after a low-hanging bough twatted him in the face when it proved to be closer than he had thought. He swung his sword in retaliation and lopped off the offending branch. I’ll not be twatted again, he vowed.
Before he knew it was happening, his footsteps took him in the direction of Trysp. He considered taking the other fork in the road, to Herran’s Polp, but decided a furlough in the village of his birth would do him good. It would be a chance to regroup (all by himself) and recover, and to see his old dad again before figuring out how he would live the rest of his life.
***
The village of Trysp lay at the foot of a hill and indeed all over the hill, for its buildings clung to the road that wound around the mound in a leisurely spiral until it reached the shrine to Tryspian Trysp at the top. The shrine itself was long gone; a cairn of uneven stones marked the spot where once it had stood, but villagers often made their way to the summit - on a clear day you could see for miles in every direction.
Lughor’s father inhabited the modest dwelling at the higher end of the road. His was the job of keeping the grass around the cairn neatly trimmed and the stones themselves free of moss, bird shit and other blemishes. The position did not pay much but the housing came with it and the workplace was far from unpleasant - weather conditions depending, that is.
Lughor climbed the spiralling path, his missing right eye hidden from the old friends, neighbours and acquaintances who greeted him as he passed. He waved back but did not stop to answer their questions. He had no desire to explain his unexpected return two dozen times before he reached the only person he wished to tell. Inevitably, he was called after: a range of comments including, “The army’s made a man of you”, “Where is the young stripling who left here two years ago?” and “Chucked you out, have they? I knew it was only a matter of time”.
They could be a charming bunch, the natives of Trysp.
He met his father coming down from the summit, carrying a heavy pair of shears and the smell of freshly cut grass. How old he looks! How stooped and slow!
He reached for the implement. “Let me take that.”
Lug failed to recognise his own son at first and held the shears close to him, fearing some kind of gardening robbery. His eyes widened as he took in the tower of thews and muscle in his path and his jaw dropped. “My stars! Looks like someone has put meat on the beanpole at last!”
“Hello, Dad.”
Lug’s delight turned to concern. He reached a hand to his son’s bandaged face but Lughor recoiled.
“It’s nothing.”
“Dressing needs changing,” said his father. “And you need feeding.”
He tottered toward the cottage, expecting his son to follow. Lughor watched the way his father, once so strong and mighty, dragged his feet, his shoulders almost hunched higher than his head. When had he become so small? So feeble?
Or is it I who has changed?
The cottage seemed to have shrunk too. Lughor ducked but still managed to catch his forehead on the lintel, sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull and stars of all colours dancing before his last remaining eye.
“You’ll take some time to get the hang of it,” Lug gestured at his son’s bandage. “How did it happen?”
He filled a bowl with water and fetched cloths from a drawer. He pointed at a three-legged stool where the sunlight was pouring in through the window. Lughor lowered himself onto the precarious perch.
“There was a girl.”
“Ah...”
“Not like that. Some men. My friends - or so I thought them - They tried to force me to watch while they-” He winced at the memory and at his father’s unwinding of the bandage. Lug tried to maintain an impassive expre
ssion but Lughor read shock in the old man’s eyes. “It’s nasty, isn’t it?”
“It’s gone,” said Lug. He dipped the corner of a towel in the water. “This might sting...” He dabbed around the wound; Lughor tried not to flinch. He smelled herbs in the water and remembered how his father used to tend his grazed knees and elbows, for Lughor had been the clumsiest of beanpoles.
“So, this girl, then?” Lug prompted when the job was done and the wound was dressed with fresh bandages. “Can I expect a wedding? A grandson? It’s about time there was a Lughorhor in this world.”
“No, Dad,” said Lughor flatly. “She’s gone. Just like my eye.”
“Dead, son?”
“I know not. And not knowing grieves me so.”
“And the men?”
Lughor shook his head; the clean bandage felt tight. “All dead, all... obliterated.”
“You?”
“That’s just it, Dad. I don’t know that either. I was hit on the head and then the knife - my eye - and I woke up and it was the morning - the next morning, I think - and my dragoon was in pieces and puddles all around me and the girl was gone.”
“Sounds to me like you were lucky.”
“Lucky!”
“To get out of there alive. What will you do?”
Lughor made a helpless gesture. “I might stay around here for a while, if that’s all right, until I think of something else.”
“Your bed’s still where it was.” Lug tidied away the bowl and the bloodied towels. “I’ve a pottage on the go and fresh bread.”
But when he looked back for his son’s acceptance, Lug saw that Lughor was fast asleep.
With concern etched on his features, Lug lifted the latch and let himself out of the house. There was someone he needed to consult about his son’s predicament; he had a feeling an infusion of herbs in water would not be enough.
***
Lughor awoke to voices: his father’s and a woman’s - a reedy cackle that could only belong to one person. He got up and joined them in the kitchen.
“Hello, Preelagh,” he nodded to the ragtag agglomeration of skirts, shawls and beads. Preelagh the wise woman peered at him from over the beaker of peppermint tea Lug had provided.
“Someone has grown,” she diagnosed. “Is there pain?” she gestured vaguely at his bandages.
“Some.” Lughor admitted. “More of a dull ache, really.”
“It will take time. And regular cleaning.”
“Yes.”
“Herbs will be left. And strict instructions.”
“Yes. Thank you, Preelagh.”
“As for the other...” She got to her feet and handed the beaker back to Lug.
“What other?” Lughor put himself between the wise woman and the way out.
“It’s nothing!” cried Lug. “Son, let our guest pass. I’m sorry, Preelagh; I’m sure you understand the boy has been through hell.”
Preelagh fixed her penetrating eyes on Lughor’s. He began to sweat under her scrutiny. “There is a good heart,” she said. “Somewhere beneath all that muscle. Perhaps all will be well.”
“All what?”
“Son-”
“No, I want to know what’s going on. I heard you whispering, the two of you. If there is something I should know...”
Preelagh’s face was all patience and condescension. “All men carry a beast within. For most it gives but little trouble.”
“But for me?”
“Perhaps all will be well,” Preelagh’s mouth wrinkled in a pout, an expression of sadness. She reached up to pat the young man’s cheek. “A good heart.”
Dumbfounded, Lughor stood aside. The old woman shuffled out; Lug went after her. When he came back, he found Lughor exactly where he had left him.
“I’m a beast?” Lughor gaped.
“Oh, take no notice. Preelagh speaks in riddles. Always has.”
“It sounded pretty straightforward to me.” Lughor sat at the table, more than a little stunned. “I’m a beast!”
“Do you want some tea?”
Lughor’s eyes flashed. He thumped the table, cracking it. Both men stared at what he had done. “Dad! I’m sorry! I’ll mend it.”
“That’s quite a temper you’ve got there, son. And you haven’t answered my question.”
Lughor looked at his father in amazement. They laughed. “Yes, yes, thank you. Some tea would be nice.”
***
During the weeks that followed, the pain in Lughor’s eye socket dwindled until he was barely aware of it. Sometimes he would wake in the night with the pain - the memory of the pain, for it was almost the same thing - and he would scream until the visions of that night in Callie’s farmhouse faded, and he would wave his father back to bed and lie awake until morning.
By day he used his strength and the knowledge of engineering he had learned in the army to fix things around the cottage. A new fence went up in half a day. The roof was rethatched in an afternoon, and Lug’s shears had never been so sharp and clean.
At other times, Lug would help him train with his sword and other weapons, and he learned how to cope with just one eye.
“You must keep your blind side averted from your foe,” his father advised.
“And if I am surrounded?”
“Then you must keep moving, keep turning. Do not stand still for a second.”
Lughor marvelled at his old man. “When did you become such an expert at one-eyed combat?”
“Since my son needed me to be.”
Before bedtime, Lug changed the dressing. Every night he pulled a face as if to say the wound was not as bad as it looked the night before.
Weeks stretched into months and the first of the winter’s snow fell in fat flakes like feathers from a busted pillow. No one would be visiting the cairn of Tryspian Trysp once the bad weather set in. Lug oiled his shears and wrapped them in sackcloth to await the spring.
“You’ll stay until then?” he ventured to ask, for Lughor had taken to looking out across the plains that surrounded the village’s tor.
“Until I decide what to do,” was Lughor’s answer. Lug supposed it would have to suffice for the time being. He offered to put the kettle on.
It had been a restful time but now Lughor was growing restless. There were not enough chores to keep him busy. He took to clearing the paths of their neighbours and then to keeping the road itself snow-free - an endless task given the almost continuous fall of flakes.
“That looks like hard work, friend.”
Lughor paused in his spadework to look at the man who had spoken: a filthy, bedraggled vagabond with a pitiable look.
“It looks like it because it is,” said Lughor and resumed his labours. He was aware that the man had not moved on.
“Can you spare a little something?” the man clasped his dirty hands together in supplication. “I would be willing to work for it.”
Lughor stopped and looked the fellow up and down. The vagrant did not look as though he had strength enough to stand up for much longer, let alone to wield a shovel. “I reckon you could do with feeding up first.”
He pointed toward the top of the tor. “Follow the road around and up. The last house you’ll come to is my father’s. Tell him I sent you and he’ll give you a bellyful of the finest pottage in Trysp.”
The vagabond’s eyes widened and wept in gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, friend! You have a good heart. What name do you go by?”
“I am Lughor, son of Lug.”
“It is my great good fortune to meet you, Lughor, son of Lug. I am Strakely. And I shall be back down to assist you in a trice. Why, I can almost smell that delicious pottage from here!”
Laughing, Strakely hurried around a bend. Driven by hunger and the promise
of a hearty meal, Lughor supposed. He resumed his shovelling and a couple of hours went by. Strakely did not return.
Knowing Dad, he’s probably kept him talking. And eating. And he’s fixed him a bath into the bargain. It’s my Dad who has the best heart around here.
He straightened, pressing his hands into the small of his back. It was time to call it a day. He glanced at the darkening sky as though to warn it he would be back to clear away the night’s drifts in the morning, and trudged up to the cottage.
It was when he saw the front door was open that it occurred to him something was wrong. Lug would never leave the door open on such a cold evening. Lughor’s throat constricted with fear. He stepped over the threshold with his heart pounding, holding his shovel like a broadsword, ready to strike.
The fire was crackling in the hearth. The smell of pottage filled the house - no wonder for it was spilled everywhere, up the walls and ceiling. Every drawer, every cupboard, was open, the contents yanked out like - like entrails. Strakely had ransacked the place good and proper; Dad would never stand for that - where was he?
“Dad?”
The reed mat squelched beneath Lughor’s boot. A trail of blood led him to his father’s body. Lug’s own shears were protruding from his chest, the blades Lughor had sharpened clear through the old man’s good heart. Dad would never stand again.
Lughor whimpered and dropped to his knees, calling to his father again and again. He blamed himself. What was he thinking, letting a stranger into the house? Of course the filthy vagabond would take all that he could. And Lug, being proud and forgetting how frail age had rendered him, would have stood his ground.
A floorboard creaked. Lughor’s instincts took over. In one fluid movement, he stood, turned and swung the shovel. Snakely’s head flew across the room and the vagabond’s body - smelling of soap and wearing Lughor’s clothes - toppled to the floor.
The next thing Lughor knew, he was walking away from Trysp. Every muscle and joint of his body ached from overuse, but it was not the clearing of snow that had given rise to his physical exhaustion. The murder of his father changed him forever. If this is how men respond to the good heart he carried, let them taste the beast he also carried instead. He would shun society, if this is where being sociable led. He would take what he needed and dole out what was necessary to those who stood in his way. Preelagh was wrong: all would not be well unless he let the beast have its way.
Navarin, Thunder and Shade Page 17