The Nethergrim (19 page)

Harman stepped up close at Edmund’s side. “Son, the flail.”

Edmund looked down. He had forgotten that he was holding it. He set it on the floor.

“All right, then,” said Harman. “We’re unarmed. What now?”

The stranger glared at Edmund, his face drawn skull white. “You know what I want.”

Edmund took the cellar steps all in a bound. He knocked aside the piece of plaster behind the last keg, pulled out the book and bolted back into the tavern.

“Put it there, on the table, then get back.” The stranger’s voice came strangled. “Stay out of my way. If anyone comes too close or makes a sudden move, I will snap her in half. Don’t think for a moment that I won’t.”

Edmund came forward, ducking past his mother’s dangling feet. He set the book on the table and retreated. The balding guard slumped out of his chair and pitched over onto the floor.

“So this is all your doing.” His father curled his fists. “I never believed all that stuff about the Nethergrim.”

“Oh, you should believe,” said the stranger. “Though, really, what you believe or think is of no consequence.”

“What have you done with Geoffrey? What have you done with my boy?”

“You’ll hold your tongue, peasant, if you want to keep what you still have.” The stranger edged over to the book, so busy watching for a twitch from either Edmund or his father that he failed to mark where he placed his feet. He brushed his leg through the straw that had smoldered to life next to the dropped rushlight. The trailing ends of the fabric strips wrapped around his breeches caught fire.

Everything happened at once. The stranger yelped in pain and reached down. Sarra dropped, struck a table and rolled to the floor. Edmund sprang for the book. The stranger snarled and produced a long, thin knife.

“Edmund, back!” Harman rounded the tables and charged, knocking Edmund aside over a bench. Edmund tripped, struck the floor and saw stars.

“Run, Edmund!” His mother tried to pull him up and flee with him. He shrugged her off and gained his feet—and found his father swaying over the burning straw with the stranger’s knife stuck in his gut.

The stranger staggered over to the table, grabbed up the book and turned to run. Edmund’s father toppled down into the rushes. Sarra shrieked out his name.

“Father!” Edmund leapt over the growing blaze to kneel at his side.

“Oh, no.” Sarra stumbled near, already weeping. “Oh, no, no, no.”

Edmund rolled his father over onto his back and leaned in to inspect the wound. Harman gasped and choked, his hand clamped over a dark stain on his shirt.

“Help!” Edmund leapt out onto the road. “Please, someone help!”

Chapter
19

T
he village bell clanged out, loud enough to be heard for miles. Troops of castle guards tramped the roads outside—they shouted to each other to mark the time, to announce and report that they could find nothing. The neighbors were gone, home to worry and wonder for themselves. They had gripped Edmund’s shoulder, told him to be brave, told him that his mother needed him. Someone had even called him master of the house—he could no longer remember who it was, only that he had nearly punched the man.

He took a stick and poked at the embers, stirring them up hot again. The fire gave him something to do. Moans sounded from upstairs, his mother speaking low and soft amidst the mutter of the healers. Lamplight shifted through the gaps in the floorboards above.

The bloodstains were far too much to bear. They ran in spatters up the stairs where they had carried Edmund’s father, up to his bedroom to survive or not. Edmund stood over the place where his father had fallen, offering silent bargains—
spare him, spare him, let him live and I swear that I will be a good son.
He reeled back across the empty tavern and sat down before the fire. He tilted his head into his hands.
Spare him.

The door opened. Edmund covered his face. “We’re closed.”

Someone stepped inside.

Edmund turned. “I said—”

Katherine stood in the doorway. She wore her embroidered shirt, breeches and riding boots. The light of the fire made a halo from the careless wisps of her hair. She carried a leather pack over one shoulder and saddlebags over the other. Ropes bound a round shield tightly to the pack, crossed by her uncle’s sword.

She set down her things. “How is he?”

“They don’t know yet.”

Katherine touched her foot to the burned, sodden circle on the floor. “Papa’s gone.”

“Gone?” Edmund wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “Gone where?”

“Up into the Girth. Hunting for the Nethergrim.” She seemed to tremble. “I need a place to stay.”

Edmund stepped around the turned tables and the mess of discarded blankets from the night before. He reached down for Katherine’s pack and hauled it over by the wall.

She held out a tarnished coin on the flat of her palm. “Is this enough for a few nights?”

Edmund just stared at it until she put it away.

They sat together by the hearth without speaking for a time. The noises around them grew in the silence. The fire licked and hissed; a log groaned, then split with a loud crack. The wind sang droning, and above them, rolling upward with every breath, moans and gasps grew in volume and pain until they became wails.

“Come on,” said Katherine. “Let’s get some air.”

If the village hall of Moorvale seemed uncommonly old, the bridge that arched over the river at the eastern edge of the square was ancient beyond reckoning. It was massive out of all proportion with the modest wood-and-thatch houses that surrounded it—even Jarvis’s handsome new mill seemed flimsy and ephemeral by comparison. The river ran deep and fast beneath its span, lulling and rushing by the banks in an endless half-musical drone, one note that changed with the moment and yet never changed at all.

Edmund hunched at the river’s edge, watching eddies curl black below. “Have you ever felt as though the ground won’t hold you up, no matter where you stand? Like you’re sinking everywhere?”

“Yes.” Katherine sat with her arms on her knees, her hair hanging loose across her face.

“I’m sick of waiting for the world to hurt me some more.” Edmund felt about him on the bank. He found a smooth, flat stone and turned it over in his hands. “I want to do something.”

“I made a promise,” said Katherine. “I told my papa I would stay out of trouble. Even if I broke it, what would we do? We don’t even know where to go, let alone what to do if we got there.”

“He’s my brother.” Edmund flipped the stone into the water. It skipped once and plummeted.

“We’re only fourteen.”

“But we know things. We can do things.”

“I made a promise.” Katherine skipped a rock of her own. It skittered again and again across the water and disappeared into the dark.

Edmund sank over his arms. He could not cudgel what he remembered from the book into any sort of shape. “I can’t. I just can’t think anymore.”

He sprawled back in the grass. Katherine lay down beside him. The wind blew cold along the riverbank. They moved closer so slowly, they did not know it until they touched shoulders.

Katherine turned her head. “You were very brave last night.”

Edmund dug his fingers in the grass, and through it to the mud. The names of the constellations rose before him, then melted away, leaving stars.

“Papa will save them.” Katherine sounded far away, and not very sure of herself. “He will.”

• • •

Tom tensed, took his grip and hauled the axe over. The head caught and drove into the wood, running a split down to the end. He set his foot and pulled loose, turned and swung again, breathing heavy, round and even. The sound of every chop came back to him in echo, once and twice across the barren field.

The sun fled. The flapping sleeves of his overlarge shirt got in the way on the downswing, but it had gotten too cold to take it off. He made a pile by the stand of birch above the banks, dragging each limb down by the stream before he chopped it and then setting up the pieces by the charcoal pit for Aydon Smith to find. He took no pauses in between, for that would make his hunger worse.

Tom made his progress down into the dark, hauling by the place where the Dorham road crossed the stream. A magpie alighted in the branches of the alder nearest by. She watched him work—the last glimmers of the sun caught in her quick dark eyes. He raised the axe and brought it down, turned and set and did it all again, one breath into the next. The tensing was a part of him, the release, the pause and the hunger. Black spread from gray, quicker down where the growth was older, among the trees last lopped before he was born.

The magpie cackled and fled. Tom listened, then looked. He set down the axe. “Who’s there?”

Hoofbeats sounded on the footbridge over the stream. A shape moved past on the Dorham road.

Tom leapt down to the banks. The horse stopped to drink on the far side of the stream. Even in the dying light the outline of an empty saddle stood out plain along its back—his back, a gelding or a stallion. Saddlebags hung from under the cantle, one closed, the other slashed and dangling open.

Cold dread seized Tom. He stepped onto the bridge. The horse raised his head to look at him.

“Oh, no.” Tom reached out for the reins. “No.”

Chapter
20

T
om raced down the Dorham road, leading John Marshal’s wayworn horse as fast as he could go. He sprinted by the turn for his master’s farm without the least precaution, hurrying past thick cover with no thought spared to the curious quiet. The horse gave a whinny of alarm too late—hands snaked out from the undergrowth to seize his shoulders, and then his master’s face loomed from the darkness in hateful, hard-glittering triumph.

“You’ve done it now, boy.” Athelstan croaked the words. “You’ve done it now.”

Tom twisted to look behind him. Oswin held him fast by the arms.

“Stole a horse, did you?” Athelstan stepped out onto the road. He nodded to Oswin. “That’s good work. If we hadn’t caught him here, he’d be in Quentara by tomorrow.”

“I’m not running away!” Tom twitched in belated struggle. “It’s John Marshal’s horse—Master, please, he’s in trouble—”

“Leave the horse. Let John Marshal go a-hunting for him.” Athelstan held out a hand to take Tom by the shirt.

Oswin jerked Tom back from Athelstan’s reach. “That’ll be a penny.”

Athelstan scowled.

“A penny, or I let him go,” said Oswin.

Athelstan reached into his belt and drew forth a coin. “Half a penny now, half when I’m done with him.”

“Fair enough.” Oswin shoved Tom forward with one hand and plucked up the coin with the other. He kept his face averted from Tom, his features set and grim.

The two men pressed in tight at Tom’s sides and frog-marched him up to the farm. A lone candle burned in the window of the master’s house. Moon-white faces peered out in its light.

Athelstan glowered, then glanced at Oswin. “Bring coals from the fire, and tell the women if I catch a light or a sound from that house when I am done, they will regret it.”

“Coals? What for?” Oswin got no answer. He shrugged, let go of Tom’s arm and strode over to the house. The candle snuffed and the window drew shut.

Athelstan took hold of Tom and shoved him through the door of the byre. Tom stumbled in the doorway and fell to his knees in the straw. A thick braided whip lay coiled around his tree-stump table. The sheep and oxen milled about at the back, bleating and mooing at the late disturbance, while the cats prowled belly-low in the corners, looking for a way out. Jumble rushed up to Tom, then past him, barking in fright at Athelstan’s feet with his paws splayed out to beg.

“Please.” The last of Tom’s shock gave way to terror. “Master, please, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Oh, that you won’t.” Athelstan picked up the whip and stretched the coils in his hands. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He dragged Tom over to one of the two rough posts that braced up the ceiling. A peg had long ago been driven into its side, high enough that a man could hang by his hands from it with his knees bent.

“It’s been a while since you were kissing that post.” Athelstan gave the whip a few experimental cracks. “I would have thought I taught you well enough then to mind your place. Mark me, boy—you’ll learn this time.”

Jumble could stand no more. He advanced in a storm of growling barks, jaws open wide in angry display.

“Shut your noise, you cur!” Athelstan cracked the whip across Jumble’s muzzle. Jumble sprang whining to the back of the byre, scattering the ewes and lambs to all corners. Oswin stepped inside with a bowl of glowing coals in his hands and stood gaping at the mayhem before him. The cats seized their chance to bolt through the open door.

“Put down that bowl, you addle-pated jack-in-the-dirt!” Athelstan jabbed a finger into Oswin’s gut. “Get the rope and let’s get to it!”

Oswin set the bowl on the stump next to Tom. A look of regret spread on his pock-scarred features, but then it hardened into stony resolve. Athelstan stripped Tom’s shirt from his shoulders, hauled him up and shoved him face-first against the post.

“Master, I was coming back,” said Tom. “I was coming right back. I swear I won’t do it again. I won’t run, I promise.”

The grating rasp Athelstan made bore only the most passing resemblance to laughter. “No, you won’t be running again. But your promise is of no account.” He placed something in the coals, something that rang when it struck against the side of the bowl.

Oswin grabbed hold of Tom’s wrist and drew it up to the peg. Tom writhed and tried to slither away, but Athelstan seized him firm and squashed him against the post until he lost his breath.

“You ungrateful pile of filth.” Athelstan’s breath hissed warm across Tom’s neck. “I took you in when you were nothing at all, just an orphan babe half dead of fever, covered in muck and wasting away in the reek of an alley. I clothed you, I fed you and raised you, and this is how you thank me.”

“Please, Master. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me.”

Athelstan grabbed Tom by the hair and jerked back his head. “I should have left you to die! Do you think I bought you out of kindness? Eh? Do you? Do you think when I picked you out of all the stinking brats for sale that day that I did it because of the way you looked at me? Eh? No, I picked you because all the other children for sale in the alley that day were girls. I needed someone to work in my fields, to learn from me, to gain by me, but every time my wife would swell in the belly, out would pop another girl, another milkmaid, another dowry to pay, so instead of a son I had to settle for you. That’s why I chose you, boy—because I have no sons.”

Tom stared upside down into his master’s hard blue eyes. “I could have been your son.”

“You are no blood of mine.” Athelstan slammed Tom’s head against the post. “You are property. You have no purpose in this world but to serve me and mine until you die.”

He reached for what he had placed in the bowl. “I’m going to whip you, boy, you know that. But that’s not all, not this time.”

He held it in front of Tom’s face—it glowed a dull red. “I’m going to brand you, like the stupid animal you are.” He thrust it back into the coals. “You’ll wear my mark for the rest of your days, and no matter where you run, the world will always know that you are mine.”

Tom let out a hissing moan that sank into a sob. He felt Oswin’s fingers move to tie the knot.

A growl rose to a snarl, and then a black-and-white shape slashed across the byre. Jumble leapt at the men, and this time sank his teeth deep into Oswin’s arm. Oswin let out a yelp and staggered away from the post, waving his arms all about to try to shake off his attacker. He stumbled back amongst the sheep, startling them and sending them in a panicked surge for the open door.

“Back!” Athelstan struck at Jumble’s muzzle, opening the cut he had made with his whip. Jumble cried out, dropped his tail and backed away. Oswin made a similar noise, clutching at his bleeding arm.

Athelstan jabbed a finger into Oswin’s belly. “Get those sheep back in here, you twit, and kill that dog!”

“No!” Tom twisted around to look, to beg—and froze, hardly daring to twitch. The ropes that bound his hands had begun to give under his weight. He groped upward with his fingers—the top of the knot fell loose in his hands. Oswin had left it half done.

Oswin picked up a shovel from the corner and swung it like an axe. Jumble fought back with all his might, but was overmatched. After a few swings and dodges he retreated through the doorway with Oswin in pursuit.

Tom worked his thumb under the knot and pulled it open, then held his hands over the loosened ends of rope. He bowed his head against the post and drew in a long, slow breath.

“Now, boy.” Athelstan came up close again. He let the coils of his whip trace down Tom’s naked back—it was impossible to mistake the hungry quaver in his voice. “This time I swear to you that you will learn your lesson at last.”

“I already have, Master.”

Tom spun from the post and struck his master hard on the jaw, sending him sprawling back across the byre.

He raced outside to find Jumble at bay, cornered against the wall of the master’s house with Oswin rearing up above him, shovel raised for one last crushing strike. He had never truly known rage before.

“Oswin!” His shout distracted his target for just long enough. He charged and leapt, throwing all his weight into a flying tackle. He slammed Oswin into the wall, seized the shovel and flung it far across the yard. There was no need to tell Jumble to follow. They streaked out onto the road together, leaping the footbridge before Athelstan could come out to start the hue and cry.

• • •

The hearth fire in the tavern spat and groaned. Edmund curled forward to shift the logs and sat back again.

“Have you slept?” Katherine sat beside him, still dressed, slumped in the other of the tavern’s two proper chairs with her sword laid sheathed along her legs and her booted feet crossed at the ankles. She hardly moved, save for two fingers that tapped without rhythm on the hilt of the sword.

“No.” Edmund crossed his arms, but he could not stop shivering. Every now and again his mind would grip on to something—a man serves the Nethergrim, a living man, a wizard—but then his thoughts would dislodge once again into the melting rush.

Katherine set down her sword and drew up a blanket on her shoulders. “They stopped the bleeding. He’s got a chance. A good chance.”

Edmund worked his hands together. He could not keep the question down. “Did you love your mother?”

Katherine stared at him. “Of course I did.”

“Did you get to tell her, before— Were you there, at the end?”

Katherine turned to the fire. The roaring flicker danced in her eyes and tossed her shadow about the walls in looming triples. “I remember her just as I saw her last. Her hair, her eyes, her mouth. She tried to take my hand, but she was cold and sweaty, so I pulled away. ‘I’ll see you again, very soon,’ she said, ‘and when I do, all the world will be brighter.’ Then they closed the door, she tried to give birth to my brother, and she died.”

“I’m sorry,” said Edmund. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Katherine leaned over on her arm. “And whenever I hope, whenever I despair, there she is.”

Edmund churned his hands in his hair. “What sort of world is this?”

Katherine opened her mouth to answer him—and closed it again. The flames found a seam of wet wood, seized upon it and brought it whining to ashes.

There came a frantic knocking at the door. Edmund crossed the room, pulled up the bar and opened it. Tom stood on the step, half naked and half broken, the cut on his forehead leaking blood into his eye.

“Tom!” Katherine threw off her blanket and rushed to the door. “Tom, what’s happened?” She put her hands on his shoulders. “What has he done to you?”

“I’ve run away.”

“I’ll kill him.” Katherine balled up her fists. “I will kill him!”

“Quiet.” Edmund joined her at the door. “How far behind you are they?”

“I’m not here for me.” Tom stepped aside. Behind him on the street stood a saddled horse with a long glum face, chestnut save for three white stockings. Katherine made a noise like she had been punched.

“I found him by the footbridge on the Dorham road,” said Tom. “He was trying to get home.”

Edmund slid past onto the step. It did not take a great horseman to see that John Marshal’s stallion had been running all day.

“Papa.” Katherine put her hands to her face. “Oh, no, no.”

Edmund started moving before he knew what he had decided. He dove down to his hiding spot and dug out the last scrap of parchment he still owned. He seized his quill and inkhorn and brought the parchment back upstairs to the light of the fire. He set it on the table and started scribbling:
Dear Father—

Tom looked down at the parchment, then up at Edmund. “What are you doing?”

Edmund reached for Katherine’s sword and held it out by the scabbard. “I want you both to understand that I don’t really know where I’m going—but I’m going. I’m going into the Girth to try to save Geoffrey, and the other kids, and John Marshal, if I can. It might be stupid, it might get me killed, but I am going, and you can come with me if you like.”

Katherine stared at him, then seemed to come awake. She took the sword.

“Go to the kitchen and grab what you can find, but keep it quiet.” Edmund padded up the rickety stairs to his bedroom. He fumbled over to the trunk and pulled out a thick woolen tunic his mother had made for him the winter before. He slung his quiver onto his back and grabbed his longbow from the corner. He turned at the door, remembering his knife—then changed his mind and brought Geoffrey’s.

He slipped back down to the tavern. “Got enough?”

“All we can carry.” Katherine turned a pot of water over on the fire, then picked up her pack from the corner of the room. She pawed through it, dumping out belts, sets of hose and the blue dress she had worn to the fair, then started stuffing it with hasty bundles of food.

“Edmund?” His mother’s voice came weak and weary down the stairs. “Edmund, what is going on down there?”

“Nothing, Mum.” Edmund held the door open for his friends, then whispered as he shut it: “Goodbye.”

• • •

The shadow of the statue in the moorvale square stretched out long and faint down the road. The moon that cast it was a cat’s-eye edging over a bank of high cloud, miserly with its light, cautious and sly. Another row of clouds crowded the opposite horizon, and between them, a funnel of air led up their raked walls to the great and lonely theater of the stars.