Chapter Twelve - The Blacksmith's Boy

(Part IV)

‘Should’ve listened, stray.’

The first blow caught Cal across the cheek, whipping his head back with a crack. Light exploded around the edges of his eyes, and his vision spun. The second took him under the chin, hard as a hammer, and his legs vanished from under him. His world tumbled into a crash of scattered chairs and tables, and half-empty mugs went clattering across the floor, throwing foam into the smoky air like sea-spray.

‘Shit-’

‘Watch it, runt-’

‘By the Makers, what are you-’

The other villagers were surging to their feet, roused from their bickering, but not fast enough. Cal somehow managed to regain his feet in time to find Petr advancing on him, fists bunched and face like thunder. Behind him, Carel was clawing at his arms, trying to hold him back, but he shrugged her off, then swatted Lokk to one side as the slender innkeep’s son tried to bar his path, sending him skittering into a row of chairs. Cal’s head was spinning, and his eyes blurred.

‘I’m not done with you, you little shit.’ Petr growled, closing the ground between them with big angry strides. Cal swayed, dazed. His body was on fire. He couldn’t move. The youth’s heavy fist slammed into his gut, and he doubled over, air rushing out of his chest in a choked gasp. Someone managed to get between them then. Three someones, hauling Petr back. Cal crumpled to his knees, retching emptily onto the ale-splattered floor.

‘That’s enough, boy!’

‘Cunt had it coming-’

‘Enough, Petr! He’s ‘ad enough.’

Cal blinked up at them groggily, spittle trailing from his aching mouth. Forley and Godry had Petr by one arm, the miners by the other, struggling to hold him back. Albin hadn’t moved. He was sitting by the fire where he had been, a crooked smile on his lips. Cal squinted, eyes reeling, mouth full of bile.

‘The fuck is going on?’

The Innkeep was standing by the bar, a fresh cask under one arm, rosy cheeks suddenly hard. Petr stopped struggling, shrugging himself out of the patrons’ grasp.

‘Little cunt tried to hit me.’ he told the Innkeep with a snort. He jabbed a finger at Cal where he knelt on the floor, gasping mutely for air. Lokk appeared at his side, helping him unsteadily to his feet. The slender youth was looking a little shaken, and there was a small, red cut at his brow. ‘Had it coming!’

Cal’s breath was coming back, and the room around him was steadying. He saw Carel standing a little back from them, hair scattered messily over her wet cheeks. As he looked, she caught his eye for a moment, then looked away, face hidden in the shadows of her sandy hair. The pail of water was on its side nearby, steaming as its contents spread slowly across the sopping floor.

‘I don’t give a damn if he bedded your mother!’ the Innkeep replied. He took one look at Carel and set down the cask on the bar, stepping in close enough for the big youth to smell the pipe-smoke on his breath. ‘There’ll be no fighting, in my inn.’

Petr flinched in spite of himself, taking half a step back.

‘Boy’s right, Goran.’ Albin added, scowling. ‘Saw the whole thing. Little runt started-’

‘That’s enough!’ the Innkeep cut him short, turning an angry eye on the butcher. ‘Unless you want to tell the blacksmith whose son’s been beating his hand?’

Albin hesitated at that, and his ruddy cheeks lost a little of their colour.

‘Thought not.’ the Innkeep went on. ‘Now, get out. And take your fool son with you.’

Albin was out of his seat in an instant, all thoughts of the Blacksmith forgotten.

‘Alb, wait-’

The butcher shoved Forley aside. He stopped just a few inches from the Innkeep, glaring down at the smaller man with hard eyes. Even from where he was, Cal could smell the ale on his breath, but the Innkeep didn’t flinch. The fire stirred in the sudden quiet, and the villagers stood in a moment of perfect stillness, taut as a lute-string. Godry and Forley shared a worried look. Priss had appeared beside Carel and put an arm around her slumped shoulders. Petr was glaring at Cal, dark eyes boring holes into his forehead, but Cal didn’t even notice. His head was hanging limply over his chest, and if Lokk hadn’t been holding him, he was sure his legs would’ve buckled. His head spun, and his skin burned. Neither the butcher nor the Innkeep had moved an inch.

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‘Come on, boy.’ Albin said at last, eyes not leaving the Innkeep for a moment. ‘Let’s go.’

‘But da-’

‘I said let’s go.’

He held still for a moment longer, then took his son by the arm and led him roughly away towards the door.

‘You’ll pay double next time.’ the Innkeep called out to him as he reached the door. ‘Both of you.’

For a moment it looked as if Albin would turn back. Then he scowled, spat on the floor, and shoved his son out into the night beyond the door, slamming it shut behind them.

There was a collective sigh of relief from the remaining patrons. The Innkeep watched the door for a few moments, then began unhurriedly scooping up discarded mugs from the ale-splashed floor.

‘I think that’s enough for one evening.’ he said quietly as he worked, not looking up. Godry, Forley and the miners looked at each other.

‘Bar’s a mess, Goran. We’ll lend a hand.’ Forley offered.

‘We’ll manage.’ the Innkeep told him, still not looking up. The villagers exchanged another look, then they made for the door without a word. Priss stepped back from Carel, giving her shoulder a squeeze, and joined her husband as the door swung closed behind them. Lokk didn’t say a word. Carel still hadn’t lifted her eyes. Cal shrugged himself away from his friend’s arm, taking a step towards her.

‘Carel, I-’

The Innkeep straightened suddenly, hurling one of the mugs across the room. It smashed into the closed door, shattering across the threshold with a crash.

‘Don’t you dare, boy.’ he growled, whirling on him, soft eyes hard as steel, fidgeting hands steady. ‘You’ve had a fall tonight. Must’ve knocked your head. Only reason you aren’t catching another beating.’

Cal looked back at him groggily for a moment. His wits were returning, and the ache was spreading outwards from his jaw and cheek in throbbing waves. His shredded arms and legs were afire with shifting lines of pain, and his back ground at his ribs like a blade. Stupid. What was he thinking? Running from shadows in the dark. Brawling in front of half the village. What would the Blacksmith say? This was not their agreement. This was not their word. Blood rushed into his cheeks, hot with shame, and he lowered his eyes.

‘Go home, boy.’

‘But, I-’

‘I said go home, boy.’ The Innkeep stared back at him with cold eyes. ‘You can’t stay here.’

Cal hesitated. He looked at Lokk, but his friend would not meet his eye. He nodded slowly, straightening as best he could, and made unsteadily for the door. He looked back from the threshold, but nothing had stirred. A mess of upturned tables and chairs, scattered mugs and soaking floor boards. The three figures that stood frozen amongst it all seemed suddenly very different to Cal, their names new and unfamiliar. No one looked up as he opened the door. He hesitated, skin bloody and numb, jaw aching like winter, haggard, dazed, and spared one final glance for Carel, standing alone beside the bar, a dozen words racing on his silent tongue. Then he turned and went out alone into the dark, and the cold took him as its own.

*

It was quiet outside the Nest, and the streets were empty. The storm had moved off to blow itself out over the lowlands in the west, and only the faintest whir of it carried on the air between the little stone buildings of Rindon, the fevered mumbling of weary hills. Cal walked for a time, going nowhere in particular, dry eyes moving listlessly over the stones, picking out the familiar notches of the rock, the knowing winking of shuttered fires. The pathways were wet beneath his boots, puddled and gleaming in the silver stain of the moon. No one to be seen. Not Petr, waiting for him behind some dark corner, nor the other patrons, staggering home arm in arm. No faceless shadows leering at him from empty doorways, chasing him into the night. All was as it should be. After all, why wouldn’t it be? The thought filled him with a kind of bemused, frivolous amusement. He knew this place. Why should it not be as it always was?

After a time, he found himself at the eastern edge of the village, looking down over the little cluster of thatching and its glinting windows. It was cold, he knew, but he did not feel it. The bloody skin beneath his ragged clothes tingled numbly. Even his jaw seemed to have stopped aching. He looked down, for no reason in particular, and saw that the dirt at his feet was churned and dented as though by some falling beast, and little flecks of red blinked back at him in the moonlight. He realised that this must have been where he had fallen. Where his legs had failed and the world had spun like sand in ocean spray. Where the shadows had chased him from the hillside, swarming after him as wolves after their prey. He realised he was frowning. His back was to the trees, but he felt no fear. What was there to fear? After all, it was just a dream, and there is nothing to fear from dreams.

The trees were before him. Had they not been behind? The dark pillars stretched away up the slope, and the great black shadow of the Teeth held the horizon beyond. The murmur of the distant storm moved through the branches, shifting softly. Nothing else stirred.

He realised he was walking. The trees were all around, watching him. The earth was soft and wet beneath his feet. He looked down as he went, picking out the footprints in the loam. Something had come this way. Bootprints, scrambling, sprinting, falling. He had come this way.

So he walked, much as he had before, aiming without aim, and the trees whispered their same whispers. Words he had known since he first came here, all those years ago. Slowly, he went, until his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, to the silver luminescence of the moon. Footprints. Bootprints. Running, scrambling. Falling.

Alone.

He lingered a while, just to be sure. But there was no mistake. There had been no men in the trees. No shadows to flee from. No one else had come this way. His head ached. He could not have… there must have been…

But there was nothing. Nothing but untouched earth, smooth as fresh wax. Just a dream. And there is nothing to fear from dreams.

So he came down out of the trees, and made for home along well-worn paths, watching for shadows he knew were not there.