Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 20

First Blood

Amid the rugged beauty of the highlands, forge and stable were sheltered under one thatched roof. While most of the men were raiding, the orphaned child stayed with the smith and worked as best he could for a meal and a sleeping place within the straw. Not family as most would know it, but these were all he had.

Some were kind most were not, his survival hinged on mistrust. At night the boy moved well among the men, filling cups when most were too drunk to walk or pour. He had his niche, slicing gracefully through the darkness serving wine and listening to the rambling stories of the warriors. At an early age he knew well to be useful, but not visible. He could tell by tone when to attend and when to escape, for mood in camp could change with a swallow. The boy learned well how to seize opportunity, for in the company of brigands and mercenaries mead loosened purse strings as well as tongues.

The men had fought that day, a bloody skirmish if the talk was to be believed. When coupled with a full moon, the boy knew well to be vigilant. By firelight he felt the eyes of a tattooed warrior upon him and responded cautiously to the signal for more drink. The small boy did not like the way this one looked at him or the way that he smiled when his cup had been filled. He dodged the arm reaching drunkenly through the darkness and moved with haste to serve in the comfort of others.

The night concluded without event. The boy had done his work well and was the last to find sleep, for the men now lay snoring around the fading fire. He found a private place away from the group. Standing before the small tree, he felt the soft touch of its wet leaves on his face and shivered as he released his water. Tired from his long day, he looked forward to the quiet warmth of his nest.

From the blackness the man pounced.

The cry that would have issued was silenced as all wind was crushed from his delicate body by the weight of his foe. He could smell the man. Alcohol and sweat mingled with the stench of bad intentions. A tattooed hand gripped the top of his trousers and roughly tried to pull them down. The boy knew what was upon him, what pushed his face into the night mud drowning him silently beneath the mire. He knew what rape was.

He moved past the panic of his voiceless scream searching for a solution to a situation that seemed beyond his control. No one could protect him, he was truly alone. Small hands grasped at anything that they could touch until the fingers of his right closed around a dried and broken forest branch. They were called lossoughs, and he had picked them on many mornings, for nothing was better to start the fire of an early forge than these. The familiar feel brought comfort, and comfort brought hope. There would be only one chance.

His attacker turned the struggling boy over and fumbled with the task of loosening his own belt. He pressed his filthy hand across the small mouth as he reached down inside his tunic. Here the boy struck. The thick, pointed stick found an eye. The cry of pain cut through the darkness. It was the sound that should have come from the lad but could not. With a kick of both legs, he was free and snatched the warrior’s short sword away in both his tiny hands. He did not stop.

He hacked the kneeling giant savagely. He smelt the blood and felt its warm wetness paint his face and body, and still he slashed. The rage that was his life drove him onward, unaware of when the man no longer knelt or when the man had perished. The boy was still cutting with all his might when the others broke upon the scene. It was the smith that wrapped him gently in mighty arms and whispered soothing truths, “Vincent, stop now, it is enough.”

All stood quietly in the forest, taken by the scene that they had come upon. The boy was blood soaked but unhurt, the warrior did not fare as well. His corpse was stretched upon the ground recognizable only by its heavy tattoos. The chest was open and hollow, and in the small clenched fist of his left hand, the boy held the dripping heart of his adversary.

As is common in the world of war and atrocity, nothing more was spoken of the night’s event. The smith held the boy closely as he led him towards the stable. He saw the look in the lad’s wild eyes and knew that this one now had the taste of blood. That would serve him well he thought, as would the short sword the warrior no longer needed. By midday he had finished sharpening it anew, and this small one had joined the ranks of men. The civil world of fire and straw was now behind him.

The smith was impressed with the sharpness of his own handiwork. This child is different he mused, and as he placed the freshly honed weapon into the boy’s young hands he drew him near.

“Vincent, may the force that made you guide and protect your path, and may God have mercy on your enemies.”