Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 21

The Shield

His first foray into the world of men was less than successful, and his first skirmish did not last long. With a child’s foolishness he thought it would be the most memorable, but in fact, he was left with almost no memory of it at all. He picked his target, a large lowlander with a wooden shield, and attacked with all the spirit of a full grown Celtic warrior. That was his only surviving recollection.

By God’s mercy a large mercenary had befriended the boy and kept a watchful eye. He was skilled enough to finish what the boy had started, fast enough to pull him from where he had fallen, and kind enough to bear the wounded boy home. Vincent had been unconscious for the two-day carry, the first and only casualty of this excursion. He was laid groaning upon the familiar straw and held down throughout the night as he thrashed violently against enemies that only he could see.

The one that had hauled him stayed with him, watching to see which way the lad would go. The soldier wondered to himself why he had worked so hard on the boy’s behalf. The smith assured him that this one was worth saving, and that he was right to intervene.

Like the worst hangover, morning light brought agony and confusion. The dull ache in Vincent’s neck contrasted with the sharp pains shooting down from his head. This sobriety was not a pleasant state, and his missing reality would have to be filled in by others gradually, one painful fragment at a time. For now, however, he lay where he was dropped. Eventually he deployed tentative fingers to survey his damaged skull.

“A simple fracture, leave it alone,” the smith told him, while the soldier added, “You forgot about the shield.” In truth he had forgotten the entire encounter. The event, however, was not without lesson.

For a Celt the head is the seat of power, the house of the soul, and his would have to be rebuilt. He could not stand. His balance was undone, and there was no hearing on his left side. Fingers again explored, dipping into the clear brown fluid that leaked freely from his ear. It was the smell of it that disturbed him, for it seemed better suited to another orifice.

Over the changing of the next full moon, the boy lay restlessly for the time of his healing. On the nights when he was alone, the buried memories of the tattooed menace he had butchered surfaced. These were now with him forever, his first express direction from Death. He wondered why his brain would haunt him with these, but not release the events of his own wounding, for surely they would have been more valuable in his growth as warrior. Then again he knew that his mind, no matter how noble its thoughts, floated in a stinking pool of clear brown fluid. Its fluvial discharge still dripped occasionally from his damaged ear. So how much was it to be trusted?

In time he healed. Although his body was weak from inactivity, his hearing and balance had gradually returned. The boy came to know that death would be his life’s work, and he accepted this without a struggle. It was clear to him that life was brutal and his would probably be brief. He held the short sword in his hand and ran a finger along its edge. His broken head and temporary frailty were a blessing, for with this wound came the strength of resolution. Vincent sought the one that had saved his life and begged for any lesson that he could give.

The man was rough but not stupid. There would not be another carry home. He introduced the boy to the way of the blade, and Vincent returned the favor by applying the lessons learned with ever increasing skill.