Chapter Twelve - The Blacksmith's Boy

(Part III)

Clouds. Black, moving, twisting like rope. His head ached. His blood was hot as flame. Fire flashed in the clouds, and the old stormtower gleamed. The Old Man stared back at him from the gloom, eyes carving at his skin. You could have warned me. He taunted him. Smoke bled around his shoulders, and his skin melted away. Cal tried to look away, but it was too late. The fire was on him, and the sky filled his eyes with black water, smothering his breath.

*

He gasped, pain searing down his spine, and choked on his own breath, spluttering.

‘Get him up.’

‘I’ve got him.’

Lokk’s voice. Cal felt a hand curling underneath one of his arms, lifting his aching jaw off the floorboards. Pain shot down his back again, and he cried out, eyes spinning. Then there was another hand beneath him, and he was lifted groaning away from the floor. They lowered him carefully into a chair, and he fell against it, skin stinging, panting through gritted teeth.

‘What happened to him?’

‘Had a wolf at ‘im, by the looks of it!’

‘Don’t be a fool! No wolves in these woods.’

‘Believe in magic, but not in wolves?’

Cal groaned again.

‘Shut it, all of you!’

Cal blinked again, and the Innkeep’s rosy cheeks coalesced into the air before his eyes, looking down at him worriedly. Lokk was at his shoulder, wide-eyed, his mop of lank hair hanging loosely over his forehead. Someone had put the door to, and it was suddenly very quiet. Cal took a breath.

‘What happened, boy?’ the Innkeep asked him. Beyond his shoulders, Cal could see the faces of a half-dozen patrons, blinking back at him with wide eyes. All except Old Godry, who looked mildly irritated. Outside, the storm wailed helplessly against the thatching, and thunder rumbled against the hills, more distant, now. Cal held his breath, craning his ears. But the footsteps were gone. He swallowed.

‘There were…’ he hesitated, glancing towards the door. ‘I… fell.’

‘Down half the Teeth by the looks of it!’ Lokk pointed at his arms. ‘What were you doing out in this?’

Cal blinked, looking down. His arms were crisscrossed with dozens of bloody cuts, and his shirt was hanging off him in strings. He frowned, shrugging, and then winced as fire raced over his skin, and fell back against the chair, gasping.

‘Thought… Thought I had time to get back.’

‘Damned fool.’ Carel told him, appearing beside her father. She had a pail of steaming water under one arm, and a bundle of rags in the other. ‘Got to clean those before they rot.’

‘I’m fi-’

‘That’s enough talking.’ the Innkeep told him. ‘Or you’ll be paying for the cloth.’

Cal thought better of arguing.

‘Saw a fair few mugs go over.’ the Innkeep turned towards the rest of the room, smiling reassuringly. ‘I’ll fetch a new barrel. This one’s on the house.’

A few grumbles of approval from the assembled regulars. They were all watching him. He could feel their eyes on him, prying, poking. Sensible boys know better than to go wandering in a storm. They’d always thought the Blacksmith’s stray was cracked. Same as his master. Godry seemed to have let his irritation go at the promise of free ale, but Cal spotted the butcher’s brute of a son, Petr, sneering back at him over the rim of his mug. He lowered his eyes. They thought him mad. Maybe they were right. Behind his eyes, the shadows were still chasing him through endless trees, clawing at his heels. But the door stayed closed, and there was no sound beyond it but the storm. Maybe he was losing his mind.

‘Quite the show, that was.’ Lokk grinned as his father went off to find the barrel. Carel rolled her eyes, pulling up another chair and setting about dampening the cloth. ‘Barely seen you in weeks, then you show up all bloody an’ panting like a wolf that’s got in with the chickens? You always knew how to make an entrance.’

Cal grunted. He didn’t feel like explaining himself. Wasn’t sure he could, even if he did.

‘Scared off the new folk, too.’ Lokk nodded towards an empty table in the far corner of the room, scattered with discarded mugs.

Cal blinked. ‘What?’

‘Had some of Solen’s new hands in tonight.’ Lokk told him offhandedly, scratching his chin. ‘Quiet lot. Must have given them quite the fright. Saw themselves out sharpish.’

‘What did… hnngg.’ Cal clamped his teeth together with a groan as Carel pressed one of the rags against his bloody forearm.

‘Stay still.’ she told him, wiping the cloth slowly across his skin. It felt like someone was stripping his flesh with a wood plane. Cal clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to yelp. Lokk lounged idly against the bar beside him, sweeping his loose hair back from his forehead untidily.

‘Interrupted Godry, too.’ his friend went on, clearly unperturbed by his suffering. ‘Old goat hates being interrupted.’

Cal grunted again. The little clump of patrons seemed to have lost interest in him, now, turning back to their mugs as the Innkeep moved deftly through the tables, a little cask under his arm. Petr and his father were sitting glowering at no one in particular. Forley and his young wife Priss looked taken aback, and not the least bit shaken, by the unexpected turn of events the evening had taken, but the dour-faced miners beside them (whose names Cal did not know) seemed to have paid Cal’s entrance no heed at all. Old Godry was sitting patiently, firelight knotting over his scarred cheeks, waiting for his cue. Soon their mugs were full again, and the foolishness of the Blacksmith’s stray was quite forgotten. The Innkeep set the empty cask down somewhere behind the bar, and went off to find another barrel. Cal gritted his teeth as Carel went on with her work, eyes watering, and watched the villagers blur indifferently by the fire.

‘You weren’t finished, Godry.’ Albin, the butcher began, taking a long swig from his mug. ‘’bout to tell us how the wizard farted out his storm to save the savages.’

Cal saw Forley roll his eyes. ‘You know damned well where we were! Tell us about Arolf!’

Albin scowled, opening his mouth to retort, but Godry regained his composure in time to step in.

‘Aerolf, Forley.’ he corrected patiently.

‘Aerolf, then.’ the young shepherd agreed, rolling his eyes. ‘What happened next?’

‘Well, like I was saying, old King Talor’s already met his end, but them Northmen weren’t done yet. That beast Aerolf most of all.’ Godry began, lowering his voice and eyeing his audience conspiratorially. ‘He had a score to settle, see. This weren’t the kind of man to let a woman run from him, you understand.’

‘Serves him right.’ Albin grumbled. ‘Couldn’t keep her in his bed, even with a sword on her.’

The two miners snorted in agreement, and Petr just kept scowling. Cal flinched as Carel drew her rag over a particularly deep cut. He caught her eye reproachfully, and she smiled slyly.

‘Oops.’

She was very close, he realised, and he could feel the heat of her against his cut-thread skin. Another night, he might even have enjoyed it.

‘So there they was, dead King and all. Could of had the throne for hisself, right then.’ the old miner continued gravely. ‘But he was more animal than man. Mad as a beast, they say, big as a bear, covered head to toe in blood, cut up like an old buck. And this beast had a taste for blood.’

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The little circle of villagers leaned a little closer in their seats, eyeing Godry eagerly. Cal realised he was listening along with them.

‘So off he goes, bloody magic blade in hand.’ Godry held out his hand like a blade, scowling at them over the fire. ‘He finds that place where old King Talor locked up his pretty young daughter. And what’d’you think he does when he finds it?’

‘Kills her.’ Forley whispered.

‘That’s right, boy.’ Godry nodded, dropping his arm. ‘Heard it said he clawed the tower door open with his bare hands. Dragged her out into that garden, butchered her right there in the grass, threw her off that big rock of theirs like an old ham. This weren’t a man you run from. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.’

‘How’d they kill him, then?’ Albin asked, frowning.

‘Well, see now. Northmen ain’t the only one with monsters.’ Godry said craftily, raising one patchwork brow. ‘Dekar’s a sharp one. He’d realised what was afoot, by now. Rallied the King’s Men, drove the scum back out of the King’s hall. Weren’t a man amongst them left standing, save the ones in the garden. But for Aerolf and them, he saved his best killer.’

‘The Bloodless.’ Forley murmured.

‘The Bloodless.’ Godry agreed. ‘Biggest woman you’ve ever seen. Big as a wagon, skin like blue snow. They say there’s nought but ice in them veins, and if you cut her, she don’t bleed.’

‘And I’ve got rocks for balls.’ Albin snorted.

‘Might as well, for all the good they do you.’ Godry snapped back at him. ‘But the Bloodless finds the traitor. Right there in that garden, all covered in the Princess’s blood. Cuts Aerolf down, throws him from the walls after her, him and his magic sword. Almost killed that Stonesplitter dog, too, whilst she were at it. Weren’t no easy thing though; gets her head cut open like a peach for its trouble. Should’ve died, right there. Would’ve, if not for those… other types Dekar had took up with.’

‘‘Least the traitor was dead.’

‘Aye, that he was. That Heartspire’s taller than a mountain. Say there weren’t nothing left of him but mulch, once he got to the bottom. Him and the princess both.’

‘Makers have mercy.’ Forley murmured, making the sign of the Nine over his breast. Even Albin took another mouthful of ale.

‘Weren’t no mercy. A beast don’t deserve none.’ Godry said soberly, following Forley and drawing a circle over his chest. ‘If he couldn’t ‘ave her, no one could.’

Cal barely heard them. He felt drained, as though the cuts had bled the weight from his bones. He floated just above his chair in a haze, and the roomed blurred and swayed as if through shallow water. Carel went about her work quietly, carefully, and the pain of it washed over him in raw waves, until the pail of water at her feet was stained an ugly pink.

‘Dekar had a plan though!’ Forley whispered excitedly, his reverence forgotten. ‘Tell ‘em, Godry!’

‘That he did, Forley.’ Godry smiled, his scarred face contorting grotesquely. ‘See, that Dekar’s sharp as a carving knife. Took up Taylor’s magic sword, led the King’s Men himself. But that weren’t all. Had some of his men kept back, from down West. Big men. Hard men. Came on the Northmen camp in the dead of night. Surrounded ‘em.’

‘Weren’t just any men, I hears it.’ Albin grumbled.

‘Here we go!’ Forley snorted.

‘Said it yourself, Godry. Dekar took up with them religious types.’ Albin shot back, frowning indignantly. ‘Everyone knows it.’

‘Religious? Masks don’t keep the Makers.’ Forley spat. ‘Ain’t nothing but bandits dressed up like monks.’

Cal blinked.

‘Brothers ain’t got no Gods save the Darkness.’ Priss murmured quietly. ‘You say Nine, I say eight.’

‘All the same.’ Albin was saying, folding his arms over his mug. ‘Brothers are useful, and good old Dekar didn’t sniff at them like you do.’

‘That’s enough, Alb.’ Godry interrupted. ‘He’s still our King, even all the way out here.’

Cal opened his mouth, straightening in his seat, but Carel pushed him back down again tutting.

‘Sit still.’

‘But-’

‘Hardly our King anymore, anyways.’ Albin spat. ‘Not like it used to be. Valia’s for the lowlanders.’

‘You sounds like a Northman.’ Forley scowled.

‘Or one of the Elahi.’ Priss added. Albin bristled, and Godry jumped in just in time.

‘Doesn’t matter. All Dekar’s hard men never got to the Northmen camp.’ The grizzled old smelter went on. ‘Seems old Isandur weren’t done yet.

Cal gritted his teeth. His head ached, and his mouth tasted like smoke.

Albin spat at his feet, sneering. ‘Isandur my arse.’

‘Let him be, Alb.’ Forley told him.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the butcher and his son fixed Forley with their most angry of looks. Then Godry cleared his throat noisily, and Petr shoved himself to his feet and stalked off towards the bar, snatching up their empty mugs as he went.

‘But Isandur is a crafty one, and no mistake. Showed up just in time, as always. What he wanted from it, no man can say. Them Chosen are scheming sorts, what ones is left. Us mortals couldn’t guess what they’s thinkin’.’ He paused, nodding knowingly. ‘Storm-tamers, they call ‘em. He spoke the words, and the sky opened. Biggest storm you’ve ever seen. Caught Dekar’s men as they came. Scattered ‘em like wheat in a gale.’

Petr aimed a crooked smile at Carel as he passed, and she lowered her eyes. Cal barely noticed. He no longer heard Godry. The room around him seemed very far away. Was he awake? Or was he dreaming?

‘Northerners took the chance. Fled faster than the wind what chased them. Them that were still on the rock, them what murdered and killed our King?’ Godry went on, shaking his head sadly. ‘Them he called the wind itself for, and carried them away before Dekar could get at them. Aerolf’s brother, among them. King of the North, he goes by now. Couple of other Northmen, too. Stonesplitter cut almost in half by the Bloodless’ blade.’

Albin spat on the floor, and the miners scowled. No right-minded Valian liked this part, magic or not. Cal ground his teeth.

‘That Chosen bastard let the King get his throat slit, then shows up to save his killers.’ Albin cursed.

‘Makers know why. Not been seen since.’ Godry agreed. ‘Back they went, anyway, back to the rest of the savages as they fled like dogs. Storm was so heavy, river banks burst behind them, flooded half the valley.’

Cal’s heart was pounding in his ears, and his skull was ringing. Outside, the wind whined over the thatching, howling at the broken clouds.

‘Don’t matter how many men Dekar had. Or how many Brothers. Ain’t no one swimming in mail.’

Cal forced his eyes shut. Black Ones. A storm. Falling.

‘Cal?’

He opened his eyes, blinking into the firelight, and found Carel looking down at him worriedly.

‘Does it hurt?’ She was asking softly.

‘What… no, I’m fine.’ he told her, blinking again. ‘I need to…’

‘Stay here.’ She told him, lifting up the bloody pail. ‘I need more cloth.’

She turned on her heel and disappeared. Cal’s head spun.

‘… already scared off the new folk with all these tall stories.’ Albin was saying. ‘Storm’s just a storm. Forge boy knows.’

Cal blinked, lurching unsteadily to his feet. Asking questions, the Innkeep had said. His vision blurred unsteadily, and the room stared back at him, wobbling like a top.

‘Cal, you need to sit down.’ Lokk told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Cal blinked. His eyes stopped spinning, and the ache in his head had vanished. The wind had moved on overhead, and the air was thick with smoke and heat. The little group of patrons were eyeing him curiously. All save the butcher.

‘Listen to him boy, before you hurt yourself.’ Albin sneered back at him.

‘Come on, Cal. Ignore him.’ Lokk murmured in his ear.

Cal swallowed, meeting the swarthy butcher’s eye for a moment. Then he let himself be steered backward, slumping into his seat like an empty sack.

‘Must have lost more blood than I thought.’ Lokk told him, pulling up a chair beside him and tutting. ‘Want to pick a fight with Albin as well as that storm?’

‘What?’ Cal mumbled, blinking. The butcher had gone back to his drink, and the other villagers had gone with him, grumbling amongst themselves about the practicalities of storm-tamers and treacherous, magical old men. He took a breath. ‘I wasn’t. I-’

‘Sure looked like you were. You know Alb. Just his way. Didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘Lokk, when did the new folk leave?’

‘What? Oh… I told you. Right after you turned up. Spooked ‘em good, you did, all bloody like a fresh ham…’

‘Where did they go?’

‘How should I know? Had my hands full peeling you off the floor. Why d’you care, anyway?’

‘Lokk, I need to…’

‘Oh, no you don’t! You aren’t going anywhere. Need to rest.’ his friend told him, pinning him to his chair by his shoulders. ‘Look like you fell down half the Teeth face first.’

‘I…’ Cal began, lowering his voice. His head was clearing, and the room was no longer spinning like a leaf. Beside the fire, the other patrons were still bickering emptily. The storm had passed, and the ache of it was clearing from his battered skull. ‘I didn’t just fall. Something was chasing me.’

‘What are you talking about? You crack your head, too?’

‘Lokk, listen. There were…’

‘Let go!’

They both looked up at the sudden commotion from beside the bar. Carel had just made it out from behind it with a fresh pail of steaming water before Petr had cornered her, bulky shoulders blocking the way forward like a stubborn bullock. He had one meaty hand curled around Carel’s wrist, and she had her eyes fixed on the floor. Cal was on his feet before Lokk could say anything.

‘Let go of her.’

The big youth let go of Carel’s wrist, and the pail fell abruptly back to her side, spilling steaming water across the floor. She looked at it distantly, frowning.

‘Or what, you little shit?’ the butcher’s son grumbled throatily, turning slowly around to facing Cal, glaring down at him with rheumy-eyes. His words had the imprecise edge of drink to them, and his breath smelled of sour ale. ‘Gonna throw yourself down a fucking hill at me?’

‘Just leave her be, Petr.’ Lokk added from Cal’s shoulder.

‘Mind your own business.’ the big youth snorted, still glaring at Cal darkly. ‘Sit down before you hurt yourself, stray.’

He began to turn back to Carel. Lokk put a hand on Cal’s shoulder, and Cal ignored him.

‘Leave her be.’ he said again.

‘Or what?’ Petr snarled back, lurching around again, wiping spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘Going to bleed on me?’

‘It’s fine, Cal. No harm done.’ Carel said quietly from beside the bar, eyes still on the ground. ‘Sit down, let me finish with your cuts.’

‘You heard her. Be a good little foundling and sit down like she says.’

Cal swallowed. Petr was nearly a head taller than he was, and his arms were thick, corded with miner’s work. But there would be no avoiding it now, and he didn’t have the patience to let it be, that night. The big youth was drunk, and spoiling for a fight. Cal glanced back over his shoulder, but the other patrons were bickering loudly beside the fire, oblivious, or indifferent, or both. The Innkeep was still in the back somewhere, tapping a new barrel. Strike first. Strike last. Cal shifted his feet slightly, readying himself. His head had cleared, and his pain was far away. The moment of calm was on him. A blink in time. The room faded away, vibrating with stillness. There was only his breath. In, and out. He waited.

‘Nothing to say? Suppose a dead whore can’t teach her cunt son any manners.’

Cal moved quickly, uncoiling like a bowstring. He burst forward off his hind leg, bunching his fist towards Petr’s slab of a jaw. The butcher’s son had no chance to react. How could he? Cal moved with the ease of a seasoned brawler, hard limbs whipping like clubs. Lokk’s arm slipped from his shoulder. He was already halfway across the distance between them before Petr could even blink.

His boot splashed, skidded, slid. The water. Cal blinked, lost balance, and slid wildly into Petr’s chest. His head thudded into the other boy, and he staggered back, confused, dazed. Petr blinked down at him, cogs turning slowly in his ale-slowed mind. Then a broad grin spread across the big youth’s jaw.

‘Should’ve listened, stray.’