Chapter Twenty-Five - The Boy from the Hills

Clouds gathered, and the sun blurred. The Old Man looked back at him over the ruined stones, tall and silver and old as the hills. They were beside the ruined tower. Just as they had been. Had they ever left?

‘The Chosen are gone, too.’ the boy was saying, staring up at the broken tower.

‘You have not been listening, boy.’ the Old Man told him, eyes flashing gold.

‘But they’re not here, not anymore.’ the boy protested.

‘Time comes for all things.’ the Old Man said. ‘Even if blood endures.’

‘Then who still watches the way east?’ the boy asked, frowning.

‘Others.’ the Old Man replied. ‘Others who do what they must.’

‘Greycloaks.’ The boy frowned, looking up at the ruined tower. ‘Cursed Ones.’

‘It is a heavy burden, still. To remain.’ the Old Man told him. ‘For that, they are scorned. But even the wretched can still play their part.’

‘They are evil. Cursed.’ the boy insisted, looking up at him. ‘Everyone says so.’

‘Men will say many things. But words are liars, and truth is the greatest liar of all.’ the Old Man told him. ‘You are quick to judge boy. But you are young, yet. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do, to be who we need to be.’

The boy didn’t reply. The stormcatcher whispered, half-covered in vines, and the ruined tower gleamed beside it. The stones sang, and the clouds boiled over the mountains, frothing like black waves. The boy stared at them, and they stared back, and shadow filled the sky.

Only a storm can break the dark.

‘Will you remember, boy?’ The Old Man asked him, and his golden eyes filled with fire.

*

Cal woke in the dark, gasping.

Pain spasmed through his body, and his back arched violently against the sharp ground, choking on his breath. Something stabbed at his chest, sharp as razors, and his head felt like it would explode. His skin was on fire. He sucked in a broken breath, wincing, and his lips cracked, thick with tar.

‘Stay still.’ the Old Man told him, looming out of the dark, gold eyes gleaming.

‘W... What?’ Cal forced out, blinking.

‘Stay still. You’ll make it worse.’

It was Lokk’s head leaning over him, half in shadow. Cal clamped his eyes shut, and waited for the pain to subside, gritting his teeth. Slowly, agonisingly, if fell away, and his breath began to return in shallow, painful wheezes. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he swallowed bile, grimacing, then opened his eyes again.

‘What happened?’ he murmured.

‘Got the shit kicked out of us.’ Petr snorted. Cal looked up at him, sitting against the wall nearby. His heavy jaw was red with blood, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and his hands were bloody and broken. ‘That’s what happened.’

Cal closed his eyes again. He was climbing. Reaching. He had been so close. He set his jaw, and his eyes watered.

Masks.

‘How long was I out?’

‘A day.’ Lokk told him quietly. He sat back against the wall as he spoke, and the shadows around his face shifted. Cal might have gasped, had he had the breath for it. One side of his head, from the corner of his eye to the edge of his sandy hair, was blistered silver and red, boiled like new leather.

‘That bad, is it?’

Cal hesitated, swallowing.

‘Always were too pretty anyway.’

Lokk smiled, wincing. ‘Serves me right for fighting them with my face.’

‘Better that than cowering and praying.’ Petr growled. Forley said nothing. He was slumped in the same spot as before, back against the wall, head lowered. Lokk frowned.

‘How are your ribs?’

‘Broken.’ Cal replied, wincing. Lokk shook his head.

‘Never seen anything like that. Thought you were dead for sure.’

‘Not yet.’ Cal murmured, testing his ribs gingerly with his fingers. Two, maybe three. Didn’t need setting. That was the only good he could think of. The line around his belly and back, where the chain had been, was stuck to his shirt wetly, burning like an open wound.

‘Don’t suppose they left the chain?’

Petr snorted. ‘Didn’t leave much of anything once they got you down. Barely said a fucking word neither.’

‘I saw them.’ Cal said quietly after a moment. ‘The masks.’

The word hung on the air, and the clouded sky threw long shadows across the smooth stone of the walls. No one said anything. No one looked at each other. Forley’s mouth began to move, but his prayers made no sound.

‘Guess we’re fucked then.’ Petr said at last, not looking up. ‘Fucking blood magic. Bad way to go.’

Lokk’s burned face was back in shadow, staring at his feet, and his voice was barely a whisper;

‘Black Brothers, in the dark,

Black Brothers, spells to cast,

Lighting fire, without spark,

All in shadow, all in masks.’

Silence again, once the rhyme was ended. They’d all heard it. Sung it. Around a warm fire. In a warm house. With hot food to eat and a warm bed to lay their heads in. They’d laughed at it as children, and older, scoffed, instead. The Black Hand. Snatching children in the night, carving blood magic into their skin like parchment. No one felt like laughing, anymore. Not now.

‘Suppose we’ll make it into one of Godry’s stories, after all.’ Cal said, wincing as his broken ribs jabbed at his skin.

‘We aren’t dead yet.’ Lokk told him, staring up at the little circle of sky above them. It seemed suddenly very small indeed. ‘They’re out there, looking for us. I know they are. They’ll find us.’

‘Don’t be a fool.’ Petr told him, scowling. ‘No one’s coming for us. Even if they did, ain’t no one in these fucking hills worth shit in a fight, anyways.’

He was wrong, and Cal knew it. But he was right about one thing; no one was coming for them. The one man who knew how to hold a sword probably didn’t care enough to look. Cal had seen to that. He sagged back against the wall, broken ribs creaking. Seemed a long time ago he was thinking about the villagers finding them. Thinking about help coming from down west, King’s Men riding in all shining and tall. The Blacksmith, even. Hope’s a dangerous thing. It’ll keep you going long after the pain is too bad to bear. But there was no point in hoping. Not anymore. There was no one coming for them. No one but the Brothers, and their knives. All hope had got him was more broken than he’d been to start with.

‘I wonder if they’ll feed us, before.’ Lokk murmured.

Cal’s stomach groaned, and he realised for the first time it had been nearly three days since he’d had anything but dirty water.

‘Doubt it.’ Petr replied darkly. ‘Waste of food.’

‘If we do get out of here, I’ll never complain about inn work again.’ Lokk went on quietly. ‘Swear it. Long as I live.’

Petr snorted, spitting onto the broken stones.

‘I’ll get out of these fucking hills, go somewhere where the sun shines and the food isn’t all gristle and roots.’

Lokk frowned. ‘What about your ma? Your da?’

‘My ma’ll be fine. As for him...’ Petr scowled. ‘He can fucking rot, for all I care. I’ll put a beating on him, before I go. Pay him back for a few of mine.’

Lokk didn’t reply. He stared at Petr for a long moment, frowning, then looked down at Cal.

‘What about you?’

‘What?’

‘What will you do?’ Lokk asked. ‘If we get out.’

Cal frowned. There it was again. Hope. What would he do? Go west, like he’d planned? He thought he’d been ready. He thought he’d known enough. The Blacksmith loomed over him, words like hammers on his chest. Maybe he had been right, after all. If he couldn’t make it ten miles, what hope did he have of getting to the lowlands? For a moment, he was sitting again with the Old Man beside his cave, imagining ancient towers and white cities on the horizon. They seemed further away than ever.

‘I’ll settle for getting out at all.’

Lokk snorted, burnt skin twisting, and looked over at Forley.

‘You, Forley?’

Forley didn’t look up. His mouth was still moving soundlessly. Prayers for no one to hear.

‘Keep your gods, coward.’ Petr growled. ‘They aren’t here.’

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The goatherd flinched as though he’d been struck, hunching in around himself, and his mouth fell closed. The silence crept back in around the tower, cold and heavy as the mountains. Dark clouds were gathering in the narrow circle of sky overhead, and there was a chill on the air, biting to the bone. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Even Forley, curled against the wall, was silent, and if he was praying, he made no sound of it.

‘I was really looking forward to seeing them, you know.’

Cal looked up. Lokk was staring up at the sky, the burned half of his face hidden in the dark.

‘What?’

‘The cities. The crowds. The music. All of it.’

Cal didn’t reply. Lokk sighed.

‘I suppose it’ll be all the same to them.’ he said quietly. ‘Da and Carel, I mean. Dead up here, or a thousand leagues away in some tavern, drinking my days away. I’d still be gone. Just some selfish prick who left them, same as she did.’

Even Petr didn’t have a reply to that. Cal looked at his friend, handsome face burned half to ruin, and the cold in his gut filled him with ice. This was his fault. He shouldn’t have been here. Shouldn’t have told the one man who could do anything about it to go rot. Shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t have done a lot of things. He thought of the day he had left, roaming blind into the trees. How he had known he was leaving. Leaving it all behind. The Blacksmith, the Old Man, the Nest. Lokk. His friend didn’t know that he’d been about to leave without him. The way he’d always known he would. His gut twisted, and his broken body filled with cold. He knew he wouldn’t understand.

‘Lokk, that night at the inn… Carel, I…’

‘I know. I know.’ his friend said softly, quieting him. ‘You were trying to help.’

Cal watched him in the dark, and didn’t reply.

‘Always have been too clever for your own good.’ Lokk went on. ‘We all knew, you know. That you wouldn’t be here, forever. Da and Carel, too. I would have gone with you. But I know you had your own plans. Probably would’ve just slowed you down.’

Cal stared at him, blinking.

‘We’ll go. When we get out of here.’ he said quietly. ‘Together.’

Lokk smiled wearily, nodding, and the night drew on, quiet and whispering with wind. The clouds thickened, and gloom drew in thick as fog around the ruined tower, heavy on the air. Cal’s ribs stabbed at his lungs. His skin was torn half to ribbons, and the battered meat around his waist was leaking fresh blood into his shirt. His head ached, and his vision faded through fog, spinning. He was in the Old Man’s cave, still, listening to stories by the light of a murmuring fire. Shadows swirling like clouds. The Blacksmith was watching him through the gloom, dark eyes gleaming, scar flashing behind his coal-black beard.

He blinked, and the walls of the old stormtower coalesced around him again, peeling through the clinging dark. The Old Man was dead, buried in fresh dirt, and the Blacksmith had no reason to come for the boy that had left him. Cal frowned. Why were they even still here? If the Brothers had come for the old man, they’d got what they were after, and the hills had no more boys left to take. Nothing but cold and stone.

‘Maybe the Greycloaks will come for us.’ Lokk murmured suddenly, still looking up at the narrow sliver of sky.

‘Why would you want that?’ Petr snorted.

‘They’re still Black Hand hunters.’ Lokk replied, not looking at him. ‘What’s left of them.’

‘If they hadn’t left all their shiny towers, we wouldn’t even be here.’ Petr shot back.

Lokk didn’t reply. He was still staring up at the clouded semicircle of the sky above, half-smooth skin gleaming.

‘I saw one of them, once. When da took me down to the Larfen, one summer. Was just a boy, but I remember watching him. On his way to that Last House of theirs, he was. Caught a throwing knife, blindfolded. Plucked it out of the air like it weren’t moving at all.’

‘Some fucking good that’d do us.’ Petr scowled, holding his broken hands gingerly. ‘Reckon the Cursed Ones’ll come down out of their pile of stones in the mountains to rescue us with cheap tricks? If they’re still there at all, there aren’t enough of them left to take a shit, let alone put a load of Brothers in the dirt.’

Lokk had no reply for that. Cal blinked. The Old Man looked back at him in the dark, eyes gleaming gold. None of it made sense. His knowing had splintered like ice under heavy feet, broken beyond repair. He shouldn’t be here. His body was broken. His mind was no longer his own. There was nothing left to be done.

So he lay there, in that ruined tower. Beaten. Broken. Waiting to die. After a while, there came a distant rumble overhead, and the clouds opened, spilling waves of frigid rain down into the tower’s throat. It coated the walls, running in narrow rivulets over the black stone, turning them mirror-sharp in the gloom. Little puddles started to build around the shattered stone floor, twinkling like bells. Cal watched the dim light flickering over the water, coating his fevered brow, and a few moments later he was soaked to the skin. He didn't even shiver. He had nothing left in him. So he just lay there, wordlessly, freezing, and, at last, hope left him.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited, listening to the sound of the rain. The words on the wind. He barely heard the door as it opened. Barely felt the rough hands taking hold of his shoulders. Was he awake? Or was he dreaming? Dimly, as if through deep water, he knew that Petr was shouting.

‘Get your hands off me, freak!’

Masks loomed up out of the dark, black faces, frozen and leering. They took Forley first, struggling meekly against their hands as they dragged him out into the rain. Lokk tried to tear himself free, and caught a gloved hand across his cheek, sending him reeling into the stones. Petr roared and flung one of the Brothers back against the wall, then sagged at the waist, groaning, as another crashed a knee into his gut. The wind howled over the top of the tower, and the rain hissed. Cal felt himself lifted off his feet. His ribs stabbed at his gut, his lungs, and his head ached. He couldn’t fight them. Not anymore. Lokk was murmuring as they dragged him upright again, and Petr groaned.

‘Please… Please…’

‘I said don’t touch me, cunts!’

But black masks filled the air, and black hands reached out to take them. Lokk followed Forley, feet dragging limply through the dirt. Petr writhed against a dozen arms, snarling, growling, biting, but he went next, forced helplessly out into the night. His size didn't mean shit. Not now. Cal came last. Empty. Floating over the stones. Frozen faces staring down at him. His vision blurred. His head ached. Through the doorway, into the dark. Rain, thick as waves, filling his blind eyes, hissing in black air. Wind bit at his skin, but he had no strength left to be cold. The ruins of the stormtower crept up out of the dirt all around, melted candles of black stone, spires tall as men, bony fingers worn smooth by rain. Masks swirled in the blur, Brothers in black robes, clawing fingers, dragging them on into the gloom. They were everywhere. All around. A circle of black faces, firelight licking about its edges, twisting, bleeding into the gale.

‘…Maker watch over us. Protect us…’

The hand left his shoulders, and hard stones rose up to meet him, stabbing like blades.

‘Please… Please…’

Lokk was beside him, burnt face gleaming wet and raw in the flickering light. Forley too, bent low over the shale. Pleading.

‘…keep us safe from harm…’

‘Get off me!’

Petr groaned, forced to his knees beside them. The rain whipped about their heads, screeching in the wind. Cal blinked at it, eyes streaming water onto his cheeks. His body burned. His head ached. The masks drew back, surrounding them. A ring of torches. A ring of masks. Silent as stone.

‘The fuck do you want!’

Wind roared. Rain swirled. Torches whispered. The Brothers watched them, unmoving. No one answered. Cal squinted into the blinding glow, blinking. No one moved to take them. Beyond the ring of masks, he glimpsed the ruined stormcatcher in the dirt, gleam-grey and wet with water.

Black Brothers, in the dark.

‘Speak!’

No one did. The ring of torchlight sputtered, flickering. Shadows twisting through the rain. Cal blinked. One of the Brothers had stepped out of the circle. Black robes floating closer. Its mask was different from the others, somehow. Smoother. Older. Cal felt something cold take hold of his gut.

‘Where is he?’

Ice stabbed at his aching mind. The voice was barely a whisper, hissing, but he heard it clear as day. He stared up at the mask, and the mask stared back, unmoving. A Stranger. A Stranger asking questions. Forley prostrated himself in the stones, wailing.

‘…Protect us… Keep us…’

‘Where is he?’ the voice asked again. The sound of it crept into his blood, chilling him to the bone. It slithered through his thoughts, licking at them with an icy tongue. Cal couldn’t move. He couldn’t breath. Bile rose in his throat, and the firelight blurred.

‘Who?’

It was Lokk who finally spoke, ruined face twisted in terrified revulsion. The wind had fallen away, and the rain hissed endlessly on the black stones.

‘Where is he?’

Cal flinched, gut knotting like rope.

‘Who the fuck are you talking about?’ Petr snarled. He tried to force his way to his feet, but a Brother stepped in behind him and struck him over the back of his head, sending him sprawling back into the stones. Forley sobbed, choking wordlessly.

‘Where is he?’

The Stranger stared back at them, empty eyes boring them into the dirt. Cal’s breath stuck in his throat, tight as a cork.

‘Please… we don’t… we don’t know what…’ Lokk stammered, desperately trying to drag his eyes away. Cal was in a cave, gold eyes gleaming at him over hot flames. Who else could it be? But he was dead. Buried. Brothers spilled out of the torchlight behind them, and black hands took hold of them once more.

‘Get off me, freaks!’

Petr struggled, broad shoulders flailing, but it was no good. Lokk was staring at the dirt, eyes wide with fear.

‘Please… we don’t underst…’

The Brothers dragged Forley back up to his knees. Face pale as snow, eyes screwed shut, words screeching from torn lips.

‘… Protect us… Keep us… Save us...’

Cal couldn’t move. Hard hands held him, digging at his broken skin. He blinked into the torchlight. There was no altar. No chanting. No blood magic. He was so cold. His head ached. Gold eyes watched him, but the Old Man said nothing.

‘Where is he?’

Ice, in his blood. Petr howled, writhing, and strong hands held him down.

‘We don’t know who you’re fucking talking about!

The Stranger stared back at them, empty eyes heavy as the sky. Torches blurred, and the moon clawed at black clouds, lacing silver over the stones.

‘We want the old man.’

Cal screwed shut his eyes. No. The Old Man watched him, and the Blacksmith was at his shoulder, black eyes flashing gold.

‘What old man?’ Lokk asked, struggling against the hands at his shoulders. Petr roared, flailing wildly. Forley squealed, stammering desperately.

‘… Keep us… Save us…’

‘What old man?’ Lokk asked again, voice shrill.

Cal opened his eyes. The Stranger stared back at him, filling his blood with cold. Torchlight flickered, spinning like clouds. Steel whispered behind him, and something sharp pressed into the skin between his shoulders.

‘Stop, please, we…’ Lokk shouted, flinching. Silver gleamed in the dark, catching fire in the torchlight. ‘Can’t you see… We can’t help you!’

Forley screamed, writhing.

‘…Save us…’

‘Get that fucking blade away from me!’ Petr bellowed.

‘We want the old man.’ the Stranger answered. Cal’s skin crawled, and blood slid like cold tallow into his gut. His head was ready to burst. The Old Man watched him in the torchlight, frozen face twisting. The Blacksmith’s scar flashed. Cal felt the blade bite into his skin, and something warm trickled down his slashed back.

‘Keep us! Protect us! Save us!’

‘What the fuck do you-’

‘Please… Please…’

Rain swirled. Wind whispered. Torches flashed.

‘Where is he?’

Whispering, sliding in the dark. Empty eyes watching. Steel slid through the rain, and Lokk groaned beside him as the blade cut through his sodden shirt. Cal’s head screamed, splitting.

‘He’s dead!’

The words dragged out of him like blades, bursting from his aching skull. Lokk was looking at him, frowning.

‘What… Cal, I don’t…’

The Stranger was moving. Gliding over the stones. Closer. Cal couldn’t look at it. Cold crept into his flesh, murmuring.

‘Where is he?’

He could feel it leaning over him, black eyes clawing at his skin. Invisible hands held him, and his breath caught in his throat.

‘What did you do?’ Petr roared, writhing violently. ‘What the fuck did you do?’

‘Cal… I don’t understand… I-’

‘Protect us! Save us!’ Forley shrieked.

‘He’s dead.’ Cal murmured numbly. The darkness was stripped away around him. He was sitting beside a grave, fresh dirt piled amongst the stones. There was water trickling softly somewhere nearby, and the pines were whispering. A word for goodbye. He blinked, and tears filled his eyes.

The Stranger stared down at him.

‘Darkness calls.’ it whispered, and the world slowed.

‘Darkness answers.’ the Brothers replied.

Steel flashed, and Forley fell dead in the stones, a bloody hole between his shoulders.

‘No! You bastards!’ Petr screamed, clawing like an animal at the hands on his shoulders, Brothers looming in around him. The big youth groaned as the first blade bit, coughing blood. Then another, and another. Steel scraped wet over bone. Again, and again, until his sightless eyes slipped sideways, and he sagged empty into the shale.

‘No!’ Cal choked, struggling vainly. ‘He’s dead!’

‘Cal…’

‘I told you, he’s dead! What do you want from me?’

‘Cal…’

Lokk was staring at him, half-handsome, twisted face frozen like bubbled wax. He was smiling. Lokk was always smiling.

‘No! You can’t!’ Cal screamed. He writhed madly. The rain filled his eyes, and the torches set fire to the sky. His arms burned, his ribs groaned and cracked, his head ached. ‘Let him go! I told you what you wanted!’

‘Please… Please…’ Lokk murmured, looking back at him. ‘Cal…’

Then a blade slipped out of the dark, opening his throat. Lokk clutched at it, gulping, choking, blood streaming through his pale fingers, ruined face convulsing in the torchlight, silver with fire. He clawed at the air, reaching for Cal, for anything, but took nothing but rain. His eyes were wide, frozen in terror. Staring at him. Then the hands left his shoulders, and he toppled forwards into the broken stones, unmoving.

‘Where is he?’

Ice crawled through his veins, but Cal no longer felt it. He stared at his friend, and no one looked back.

He’s dead.

Hands bore him up. He screamed, thrashing, clawing. His ears rung, his broken body burned, and his head ached. The world reeled, spun. Torchlight swirled around him, and black masks leered madly in the dark, laughing with the wind. His heart thumped in his ears. Fire in his blood. Up. Up and away, shadows clutching at his eyes. The hands left him, tumbling him into the black, and the door slammed shut behind. He pounded on it. He pounded on it until his arms ached and his hands bled. Then he shouted. He cursed them in every tongue he knew. He cursed the Brothers, he cursed the Stranger, he cursed the rain and the moon and every god whose name he knew. He shouted until his throat cracked and caved in around his tongue, till his lungs ran like fire.

Then, at last, he slumped empty into the stones. Breathless. Broken. Numb. There he wept, alone in the dark, as the rain fell down around him, chilling him to the bone.