Sorrel put her arms around her. ‘What will you tell him, lass?’
‘I’ll write him a no—You mean I can come with you?’ She held her breath.
‘Well, I don’t seem to be able to get rid of you, do I?’
The girl’s scream of thanks startled Kythay the donkey. The animal reared and pulled hard on his tied reins, hurting himself. Alyssa was startled herself.
She approached the wide-eyed animal murmuring a nonsensical stream of sounds. Reaching out, she gently stroked his forehead and down to his velvety nose. The wild look faded from his eyes and he stopped pacing and stamping the ground. In the time it took to pick up an apple Kythay had returned to his ponderous munching as though nothing had happened.
Sorrel’s eyebrows were arched. ‘That was impressive. You have a way with simple beings, then?’
‘Always have…that’s why I was good with Tor.’ She whispered the last to herself before turning on her heel.
‘Pardon me?’ Sorrel’s hearing was still razor sharp.
‘Oh nothing. So, will you wait whilst I pack? There’s hardly anything anyway.’
‘Only bring what you are prepared to carry,’ the old girl called.
She stared after Alyssa for a moment or two, then deliberately faced away from the cottage, focused and cast her simple message.
The girl is mine.
She felt his sigh of satisfaction before the measured reply came back.
This has been a fortunate day
, Merkhud replied.
Tor had been chewing on dust for hours when he finally eased his sore buttocks off Bess, the mare his parents had suggested he buy with some of the money from Merkhud’s rich purse. He was almost limping as they drew level with the ornately carved stone pillars which stood sentry to Hatten. Tor spat more dust before leading the mare into the bustling streets. Finding an inn was the main task.
Merkhud had insisted that he bed down in reputable establishments, as had his parents who had given him a list of suitable lodgings. This promise he meant to keep, but when he arrived at The Pig and Whistle a fire had wrecked its chances of a busy season this year and, as a result, the second and third inns on his list were brimming with guests when he finally found them.
Although he was exhausted Tor knew his
priority was to care for the horse. After such a long ride she needed fresh hay, sweet water and a well-earned bag of oats. In fact he was convinced Bess was giving him an accusatory look as they passed a welcoming stable.
‘How about a rub down at Hatten’s premium inn for horses?’ he asked the willing mare as he stroked the white blaze on her forehead.
Tor paid the stableboy and then tossed him another coin. He found himself in a gregarious mood, relishing the thought of a bath to ease his aches, a hearty meal for his grumbling stomach and an ale or two to help forget Alyssa’s lovely face.
‘Here’s an extra half regal for you—make sure she’s really comfortable tonight, eh?’ he said to the stableboy.
Introducing himself as Bart, the lad assured Tor the horse was in the best possible hands.
Tor was already walking away when he heard a scuffle and raised voices. He turned back to see a burly man clutching the thin arm of a young woman, who was struggling and cursing at him. Passers-by were laughing. It took only a moment before the bristly faced man was pushing his bulk and his charge in front of Tor.
‘Stop!’ The voice Tor realised, with some surprise, was his own.
‘Mind your own business, you stupid youth. She’s mine.’ The big man’s breath was enough to force Tor backwards a step. He barely ducked the well-aimed cuff.
‘Yours! You brute, Goron—I wouldn’t be yours for all the gold in Largoth. Now let me go, you devil’s turd.’
The young woman emphasised her demand by kicking the hapless Goron between his legs. This raised another chorus of laughter from the gathering crowd. Poor Goron found himself on his knees in agony.
Even Tor had to smile. ‘I think this young lady would prefer it if you allowed her to take her leave,’ he whispered to the man.
He could not resist adding some clarity to this suggestion by releasing a spike of balled air squarely into the man’s stomach. Onlookers saw only that Goron winced, buckled again and let go of the scrawny girl’s arm. She bounded off, swift as a hare, turning just once to grin at Tor before disappearing into the mayhem of the busy streets.
The crowd dispersed as quickly as it had gathered. Friends helped Goron to his feet and assisted him to limp to an alehouse, where Tor guessed he could soothe his wounded pride as much as his wounded groin.
Tor picked up his saddlebag and wandered back towards the town square. He was being led by his nose to a popular stall where a woman was selling skewers of roasted meat. He joined the queue.
There was obviously some event taking place in the main square for he could hear loud bursts of hooting and laughter. Tor imagined there must be a play of some sort being performed. Finally it was his
turn. The woman looked up at him, a sour expression on her face. ‘How many?’
‘Two, please.’ He dug into his pocket for a couple of royals. It would not do to rummage through his pouch of coins; that would be asking for trouble.
The woman dipped the skewers with their still sizzling chunks of meat into a sticky, dark sauce, and he exchanged his coins for the dripping, succulent food.
Turning, he pulled the first chunk off with his teeth. As he walked towards the square, he was too busy rolling the hot meat around his mouth to notice what the noise was about. The simple food was delicious enough to bring a smile to his face as he wiped the juices from his chin.
It was the first heartfelt smile to crease his face in days. Since finding Alyssa’s home deserted, then her father drunk in the village square, yelling obscenities and shaking a crushed note in his fist, Tor had felt lost. Alyssa had gone. Disappeared with some herbal woman to who knows where…or why. Her message had been brief, loving towards her father but made no mention of Tor. Surely she could not still be angry? He had told her he would contact her. He had made the detour to her village to ask the question he had wanted to ask at Minstead Green. He had hoped to persuade her to come with him. She would have said yes, he knew it. Why would she just leave?
He shook his head clear of Alyssa for the umpteenth time but he could not shake the pain of loss.
Tor arrived at the rear of the crowd in the square. The shouting he had heard he now realised was jeering. This was a mob and they were taunting something. He skirted the throng, two dozen people thick in some places, to get a better look. The second skewer of meat was forgotten for the time being.
Pushing through the people proved difficult so he walked back to one of the square’s permanent shops. A man’s voice announced something but it was lost in the moment whilst people shooshed one another. Tor levered himself up onto a small ledge. What he saw shocked him.
Kneeling in the middle of the square was a dazed man who appeared to be mumbling to himself. He was severely deformed, with a face that would scare children, and cause polite people to look away and the less polite to stare. He was crippled too, Tor assumed, from the twisted appearance of one leg. Adding to the poor wretch’s woes, his dealers in punishment had nailed his right ear to a post and his hands and feet were tightly bound. Tor could see that the angry red welts around his wrists were bleeding in places.
The jeering mob was taking delight in pelting him with rotten fruit and one canny vendor had even taken to selling fish heads for a drack apiece. Men, presumably his captors, kicked him. The victim could do nothing to help himself yet he made no sound. Wittingly or unwittingly, the cripple gave his audience no satisfaction and this infuriated his torturers.
Tor wondered what crime this man could possibly
be accountable for. He finally found his voice and asked the shopkeeper.
‘Caught peeping in the ladies’ bath-house.’
‘That’s all?’ Tor’s exclamation caused the man to step back.
‘We don’t like his sort around here. Scares the little ones and the fine ladies. Just his appearance at the market yesterday saw business take a turn for the worse. I tell you, it’s unsettling for folk. He’s no good to anyone and should have been done away with at the hour of his birth.’
Tor snarled at the smug shopkeeper. His lighthearted mood of just moments ago had evaporated. The roasted meat juices which lingered in his mouth now tasted acidic. He tossed the second untouched skewer at the shop front where it was fought over by several very lean dogs.
Suddenly the noise of the jeering, the smell of the people gathered and the memory of the humbled, deformed cripple overwhelmed him. Tor was tired too. He needed that bath, some ale and a place to rest and forget what he had witnessed. He strode away with purpose, pushing past yet more people streaming into the square to get a look at the prisoner. As he shouldered his way past a buxom woman, her flesh all but wobbling in anticipation of the ghoulish entertainment, he heard the gentle voice in his head.
Help me…please
, it said.
Tor whipped around. ‘Who said that?’
A couple looked at him as though he was hearing voices, which he found grimly amusing.
The voice spoke again in its deep yet gentle pitch.
I am innocent of the charge. Won’t you help me, please, Torkyn Gynt?
He ran back towards the shop front and returned to his ledge, ignoring the protestations from the keeper. Once again the scene of humiliation assaulted him. He wanted the man to look at him; wanted proof that it was the prisoner speaking to him and not his imagination.
He cast across the link.
Who is this?
Cloot. I am the prisoner. I am wrongly charged and seek your help Torkyn Gy—.
The man’s voice broke as a nasty blow from one of the guards smashed into his nose.
Tor could see more blood, this time spilling from the man’s face. He felt incensed. This persecution was a pursuit of entertainment rather than justice; he was sure of it.
Cloot…the link is open, draw on my strength if you can.
He pushed strongly through the crowd this time, with no idea why he had suggested the prisoner should attempt to use him as support. He had never tried such a thing, did not know whether it could be done. It was simply all he could think of, and as for reassuring the poor wretch that he was coming…it was ridiculous. What was he supposed to do and why was he doing it?
Still, Tor neither excused himself nor wavered in his direction as he pushed through the gawking, jeering audience. Finally his height allowed him to
keep Cloot in his sights. He was astonished by a new sensation: the cripple had turned the link into a physical connection, skimming off Tor’s reserves of energy to hang onto consciousness.
Now he was at the front of the crowd and several disgruntled people wondered at the youth’s arrogance in pushing past. He noted the same brute of a guard aiming another kick. He had to stop it. With no time for sophistication he used a trick which Alyssa had taught him, sending a brief but blinding pain into the eyes of Cloot’s tormentor. The guard halted with a look of shock, before screaming and falling to the ground.
Tor drew level with the prisoner.
Thank you for staying, Torkyn.
The voice in his head was full of pain and there was no time for pleasantries. The confused guard was climbing to his feet and Tor knew he could not risk a second spike of magic so close on the last. Inquisitors were always around and may suspect something even if they could not detect it.
Then a new voice spoke.
‘Good people, please, hush yourselves. Corlin, would you be so kind as to ask your brave guards here to desist from injuring their prisoner further. I’m sure he has no plans to leave just at the moment.’
The last comment drew titters from the immediate onlookers. Tor studied the man who was now arguing with the head guard. He seemed at ease in front of all the people; almost amused, in fact, by his own participation in the show.
Corlin did not share his good humour.
‘This is not your business, Cyrus, nor your jurisdiction, I might add. I’m acting on behalf of the good people of Hatten.’
‘That’s Prime Cyrus to you and your fearless guards, Corlin, and by the looks of the prisoner I’m certain his punishment is complete. Do tell me again what it is he is accused of?’ The Prime’s voice dripped dangerously with sarcasm.
Corlin was angry at the breach in protocol but the man before him outranked him. He took a breath and faced the people, speaking theatrically, hoping to resurrect some of the previous enthusiasm.
‘He stands accused of peeping during the ladies’ session at the baths this morning.’
It suddenly sounded ridiculous. The crime considered heinous several hours ago, when several of the wives of the town’s most prominent and wealthy citizens had levelled the accusation, now seemed petty.
The Prime was a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick, dark hair and a closely cropped beard. He wore no badge of office and was dressed in simple dark breeches and white shirt. His voice was clear and deep and his grey eyes had a sparkling quality, as though in perpetual merriment, which he demonstrated fully now by lifting his head and laughing. In fact he roared, and many in the crowd joined in. Even Tor, relieved at finding himself forgotten in the scene, found himself grinning.
‘Ha! The rich and pampered ladies who frequent the baths should be secretly delighted that anyone
should want to peep at their ample backsides and thunderous thighs.’
By now it seemed that everyone but Corlin and his sidekicks had dissolved into laughter. Tor noted, however, that the Prime’s eyes were no longer smiling when they returned to rest on the cripple’s tormentors. And his voice was as cold as a winter’s stream.
‘Release this wretch, Corlin, and go and find some bigger game to amuse your apes with. This man’s punishment—just or unjust—is complete.’
‘Says who?’ snapped Corlin, who thought he had been in charge of proceedings.
‘Says I!’ The Prime’s eyes were glittering dangerously dark now. ‘Release him immediately on my order. Call off the thugs who masquerade here as men of the military and don’t even think of reaching for your sword. Your head will be rolling in this very gutter before it is out of its sheath.’
Corlin hissed a threat. ‘I will live to see you regret this, Prime. Another stage, another day, and don’t be too sure it won’t be your own head the dogs fight over.’
He turned swiftly, drew a large knife and cut the bonds on Cloot’s hands and feet. His final act was to scowl meaningfully at the hushed crowd before pushing past, his helpers falling in step behind him.
The people who, minutes earlier, had been crying for blood now saw the cripple for what he was. They began to drift away, embarrassed.
‘I’d be obliged if you told me who you are and what you were planning to do a few moments ago,’
enquired Cyrus, now standing above Tor who was still crouched next to Cloot.
An unspoken message passed between Tor and his crippled friend. Tor stood, finding himself eye to eye with the Prime, which was a new experience for both of them. Each was used to being the tallest of men. Tor noted with relief that the man’s eyes had resumed a certain mellowness and he opted for his usual explanation when he found himself in an inexplicable situation: a characteristic shrug.
‘I asked you for your name, boy,’ Cyrus reminded quietly.
‘Tor, sir. Torkyn Gynt.’
‘And you hail from…?’