Authors: Gail Z. Martin
Never leave an animal in pain,
his father had told him sternly.
If you begin a job, have the balls to finish it.
Jonmarc drew a ragged breath, steeling himself.
“A curse on you, boy!” the raider roared. “May you lose all you love to the flame and sword, and the Dark Lady take your soul!”
Jonmarc knew he was shaking with rage and adrenaline as he stepped closer, his knife raised.
I don’t know how to fight with a sword, but I do know how to butcher a pig.
Before he could think about what he was going to do, he bent forward and grabbed the raider by his long, matted hair. The raider was still cursing him as Jonmarc jerked the man’s head back. With one swift stroke, he drew his blade across the raider’s throat. The man wheezed, blood gurgling and bubbling as he struggled for breath, and then with a spray of crimson, lay quiet in the mud.
Jonmarc did not have to look down to know that his hands were shaking. He was covered in blood, his own and that of the raider. He felt cold to the bone, though the night was mild for autumn. The sound of fighting behind him roused Jonmarc from shock. He bent to retrieve his sword, and turned back toward the carnage on the main street, willing himself not to look at the dead man at his feet.
He kept low, slinking in the shadows of the buildings that had not burned, trying to glimpse the faces of the few village men who were still fighting. He crawled over the bodies of men he had known all his life. Lars, the cooper, one of his father’s best customers, lay sprawled on the ground, a gaping wound in his chest, his face frozen in pain. Dunn, the master of the Rattled Raven pub, was slumped and still against the wall, his body already growing cold, hands pressed against his belly in a vain attempt to force his entrails back into his open gut.
The burning buildings on the other side of the street gave the night an orange glow, casting the area in shifting light and shadow. With a sinking heart, Jonmarc realized that he could not spot his father among the men still fighting the raiders. Pushing away his grief, he began to search the faces of the dead and dying.
The light flickered, and Jonmarc caught a glimpse of a familiar scrap of clothing; the woolen cloak his mother had made for his father. His father was lying in the middle of the street near the bodies of two other men. Jonmarc took a step toward his father’s corpse, and stepped into a puddle of blood. Blood darkened the mud and filled the wagon ruts. And in that moment, Jonmarc felt the coldness from the butchering take him completely even as rage animated his movements. He gave a roar and headed toward the nearest raider, a burly man who was about to best the constable.
He was too late to save the lawman. The raider sank his blade deep into the man’s chest and jerked it back. The constable sagged to his knees, hands clutching his chest, as his shirt grew crimson. The burly raider wheeled, bringing his full attention to Jonmarc just in time to knock aside a blow that was made with more force than skill.
“Now that the men are dead, have they sent in the pups?” the raider chuckled.
Jonmarc wielded the sword two-handed, striking with all the strength he could muster. Work in the forge had made him strong, and the blows he rained down on the raider seemed to take the man by surprise in their ferocity. The leering grin gradually slipped from the man’s face, replaced by dark anger.
“That your old man?” the raider asked, giving the body of Jonmarc’s father a kick for good measure. “Is that it? Well hear this, pup. After I kill you like I killed him, I’ll take your mother like a whore—and your sister, too if you’ve got one—before I slit their throats. Then we’ll have your gold and silver, since you won’t be needin’ it no more.” He chuckled, but his pale eyes were mirthless.
Jonmarc swung again. The raider parried, knocking his sword wide. Seemingly out of nowhere, a short sword was in the raider’s left hand. Jonmarc only glimpsed the blade before the raider rammed forward, driving the point into Jonmarc’s side.
Jonmarc stumbled backward a step, and the raider began to laugh. Blood was soaking down Jonmarc’s shirt and trousers, and the wound hurt like a son of a bitch. But the sound of the laughter stoked his rage and he brought his sword up faster than the raider expected, jamming the blade into the man’s belly just beneath his ribs. Vertigo tilted Jonmarc’s world and he fell, holding onto the sword hilt with his full strength, slicing down through the raider’s abdomen, so that the night air was filled with the smell of fresh offal as a pink cascade of warm entrails spilled from the burly man’s belly.
“You damned cur!” the raider roared. He brought the pommel of his sword down on Jonmarc’s skull, and his world went black.
C
ONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED SLOWLY
, and Jonmarc struggled for breath. He opened his eyes and saw only darkness. Something heavy was on his chest, while whatever was beneath him was cold and oddly shaped. Pain flooded back with awareness, as if hot coals had been pressed to his side. Whatever lay atop him stank of sweat and shit and cheap liquor.
Gradually, memory sparked.
Sweet Chenne, I’m lying in a heap of dead men!
Panic tingled through him, warring with the pain. He gathered his remaining strength to try to hurl the body of the raider off of him when he heard voices nearby. It took all his will to force himself to lie still, breathing shallowly, listening.
“Is that everything?” The voice was whiskey-roughened and deep.
“Nearly. Loadin’ it all onto the ship now, Cap’n.” This voice was reedy and nasal. “Couple of the men wondered if we could bring a few of the wenches with us, shame to waste fresh meat,” he said with a lecherous chuckle that turned Jonmarc’s stomach.
“Poke ’em and choke ’em,” Whiskey Voice replied in a bored tone. “Bad luck to have women on a ship, ’specially women who’ve seen you kill their men.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “They’re like as not to slice off your nuts and branch when you’re not lookin’.”
“Aye.” The reedy voiced speaker sounded disappointed. “This shithole of a town waren’t good for much, if you ask me. Provisions are slim, women are ugly, not a man in the place worth the bother to slave, and hardly no gold nor silver.”
“Patience,” Whiskey Voice replied. “Think of it as practice. We’ll take Ebbetshire next, when we need more provisions and a night on the town,” he said with a chuckle. “Then Eiderford when I’m sure the new crew know their places.” He paused. “Best we be gone before anyone comes to see about those flames.”
Jonmarc felt a jolt as they threw another body on the pile. He heard boot steps recede, and let out a shuddering breath. It hurt to move; it ached to breathe. One leg had gone to sleep under the weight of the dead raider. His side was sticky and warm, seeping blood. He passed in and out of consciousness, then awoke once more to silence.
I don’t care if there’s anyone left to see. I’ve got to heave this big oaf off me before I suffocate,
Jonmarc thought, taking strength from his foul mood. He shoved with all his might, rolling the body of the burly raider to the side and scraping the man’s entrails off of himself. Jonmarc took a steadying breath, and struggled to his knees, looking around. He found his sword and picked it up, watching the shadows warily.
The main street was dark and silent. The shops had burned down to charred posts, and the flames that flickered inside the ruined buildings cast a dim glow across the carnage. Bodies lay everywhere. Some were dead raiders, but most were villagers. Jonmarc looked down at the body that had been beneath him. His father’s corpse was cold and rigid, eyes staring. Next to the body lay the sword Anselm had made for the sheriff. Jonmarc sighed. He leaned over and closed his father’s eyes, and he muttered the prayer for the dead that he had heard his mother say over the bodies of her stillborn babies.
I imagine every dead man here said a prayer before he fell,
Jonmarc thought
. Seems like the goddess isn’t listening.
He reached down and took the sword that lay beside his father’s body, then climbed to his feet. The bleeding had slowed from the gash in his side, and it was hard to tell how much of the blood that covered him was his own, and how much belonged to the dead raider. The smell of smoke hung in the air. An odd scent of roasting meat wafted on the wind, puzzling Jonmarc until he turned. In the ruins of the chandler’s shop he glimpsed two blackened forms.
By the Crone! The tradesmen lived above their shops with their families. When the raiders torched the stores…
He did not need to put words to the thought. He fell to his knees retching into the blood-slick mud, every involuntary heave sending searing pain through his gashed side.
When Jonmarc finally caught his breath, his head was spinning.
I can’t pass out again, he thought desperately. I might not wake up. I’ve got to get home, got to see—
He trudged back up the road to the forge, making as good progress as his battered body would allow. He carried a make-shift torch he had lit from the ruins of the village shops, and it sufficed to light his way. He had no idea how long it had been since the raiders departed, but judging from the sky, dawn was still far off. He passed no one, heard no sounds to suggest that anyone else had survived the raid. Jonmarc struggled to hold on to the coldness that had carried him through the fight, but the best he could manage was numbness. Even his rage felt spent. Desperation carried him forward, along with the hope that by some luck their small home had been too far for the raiders to notice, too out of the way to be worth the bother.
Please, please, please,
he begged silently, though to which of the eight faces of the Sacred Lady he prayed, he did not know.
He rounded a bend in the road. The house and the forge were both still standing. Nothing had been touched by fire. Jonmarc could smell the coal smoke from the furnace, its fires banked for morning. Yet everything was far too still, he realized as he approached. No lanterns burned inside the house. The barnyard was quiet, though the ruckus in town should have spooked the animals into a frenzy.
Jonmarc was so intent on reaching the door to the house that he nearly stumbled when his boot caught on something. He looked down and felt his breath leave him. Neil lay cold and still, his knife still clutched in his fist.
No, please no, please no…
Jonmarc ignored the pain and began to run. Piers lay a few feet closer to the house, with the axe he had used as a weapon turned against him, pinning his body to the ground. Jonmarc stumbled across the threshold, searching for signs of life. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the hearth in a warm glow, though most of the room was dark.
“Mother! Marty!” Silence answered him. Then he saw a bundle near the fireplace, and he took a step closer for a better look.
“Mama!” Jonmarc recognized the pattern on the dress his mother had worn that day, had been wearing just a few candlemarks ago, when she had served him dinner and the world had not gone spinning out of control.
Jonmarc rushed to kneel beside his mother. There was a smear of blood on the hearth, more blood on her forehead where she had struck the stones. He laid a hand against her skin. It was cold and waxy.
“Oh no,” he moaned. He rolled her over, and felt his breath leave him. Beneath her body was Marty, and both of them were soaked with blood.
“No, no, no, no!” His moan became a howl, venting grief and rage. For a long time, he sat with the bodies across his lap, rocking back and forth, sobbing until he could no longer draw breath.
Gone, all gone.
Jonmarc heaved for air, and drew a bloodied sleeve across his eyes.
I’m still bleeding. I could just lie down. If the cold doesn’t take me, I’ll bleed out. Fall asleep. So easy…
The voices of the raiders came back to him. Ebbetshire was next, then maybe Eiderford. More nights of fire and blood and death, more people dead, and no one knew the plan except for him. No one else to warn them. No one else who might keep it from happening.
“Time to go,” Jonmarc said softly. He leaned down to kiss his mother on the cheek, and he laid his hand gently on Marty’s head.
Gone, all gone.
He laid their bodies aside and dragged himself to his feet, pausing to take a last look around. His mother’s loom looked as if she had been surprised in the middle of her work. The carding combs lay on the floor and a tangle of wool stained with blood had been kicked beneath the table. The wind whistled through the eaves, underscoring just how silent it was on the inside of a house that, with four boys, had never been quiet.
Jonmarc thought about going back to his room, but he eyed the stairs warily. It would take all his strength— perhaps more than he had—to make it to Ebbetshire. There was nothing in his room valuable enough to risk spending precious energy on climbing the stairs. He stopped and retrieved a few handfuls of wool from the pile on the floor, and packed it against the gash in his side, wrapping his belt against it to keep it tight.
He went out the back door. The sheep gate was open, and the chicken roost was empty. Looted, no doubt, by the raiders. Jonmarc turned and limped down toward the forge. He had both swords his father had made, as well as the butcher knife, so there was nothing he needed from the forge, but he could not leave without a last look.
The smell of coal smoke greeted him when he entered the shed. The furnace coals glowed brightly, banked for the next morning’s work. But there was another smell, a strange one that put Jonmarc on alert. He drew his sword and advanced cautiously.
“Well, now. Lookit that. Guess there’s one of ye left.” The voice sounded from the corner as a dark, hulking shape rose from the shadows. “I thought I got all ye.”
Jonmarc thought his rage was spent, but the raider’s casual dismissal made his anger flare. “I’m going to kill you.” His voice was utterly flat and not his own. It came from the cold place inside himself, the place that had expanded to fill his chest, the chill that drove out thought and fear, pain, and grief.
The drunken raider laughed. “Are ye now? Like those two pups in the yard? Came at me with a knife and an axe they did, and landed nary a scratch on me.” He took a step out from the shadows, and Jonmarc saw a pockmarked face with a fresh, bloody slash down one cheek.