The Swordmaster, page 17
This whole thing went against her better instincts. She hadn’t even managed to organise a horse, and now her mood was reaching freezing point. She quickened her steps and kept an eye out for somewhere to sleep.
A short time later she reached a narrow wooden bridge, just wide enough for one cart to pass over. This was a surprise, for she had never seen a bridge here before. Another thing that bothered her was that there were no soldiers from whatever army guarding the crossing.
Beside the bridge was a little sentry post with a turnpike. And next to it was an impressively spread-out tavern, brightly lit, with loud voices echoing out through the windows. Merry, laughing voices most people would say, but to her ears they were silly and stupid. There were at least thirty horses, some grazing in the adjoining paddock, others tied to a post outside the building.
Now the music was starting. A lute played individual scales culminating in dramatic chords. A Jingling Johnny joined in, making a halfway decent rhythmal clanging in a vain attempt at enriching the senseless rattling.
Shortly before she reached the bridge, a mixed row of women and men hopped out of the house, each person with their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of them as they swayed, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. Leading this rabble of maniacs was a motley-coloured lute player, who – lacking a person in front – had his hands free, which meant that he had nothing better to do than torture his musical instrument. She stood there in shock. She had never seen anything weirder in her life. And as if that weren’t bad enough, the lute lunatic started to sing:
‘And when the blackbird sings
The world, it seems quite splendid.
And when the blackbird sings,
All evil, it hath ended.’
The company all seemed familiar with the song, for they all belted out ‘And when the blackbird sings’ with such gusto that it seemed as if they wished to cause the bridge to collapse. She rolled her eyes. Each and every one of them deserved to die a slow and painful death – if not worse.
‘Dressed up in the finest black leather,
Whilst roaming the woods, the valleys, the hills,
Easing hunger and pain in fair and foul weather,
And chasing the henchmen is one of its thrills
As long as the blackbird still sings.
Well, good for you, blackbird. This was why she hated songs – she didn’t know any whose words made a scintilla of sense. Blackbirds were more useless than a second belly button – apart from crapping in flight, they weren’t up to much. The filthy birds weren’t even edible – there wasn’t enough meat on them.
Now the singing snake – all still connected to their lunatic lutist – had crossed the bridge, where they did a round before coming back towards her again.
‘If hunger plagues both young and old,
the blackbird brings the hare
We feast upon it now –
and Lithor thank we for our fare.
And when the blackbird sings,
with love and beauty in our fold
She will bring her blessing to us
– drive out winter with her gold.’
She began to consider her position. If she wanted peace and quiet, she wouldn’t actually have to kill all the rabble – the lute lunatic would surely suffice. Although the others wouldn’t be too happy about that – they were positively ecstatic in their singing.
One of the women had spotted her standing in the light of the front door and was beckoning her to join them.
‘Come on and take part! We’re going to be partying until the early hours. There’s food and drink to beat the band!’
She murmured to herself: ‘Nah, I think I’ll give it a miss this time. I’m not old enough to be shaking my head like that.’
The song continued:
‘The stonecutter does his rounds in the water
His tortured wife is a lamb to the slaughter.
But when the blackbird sings, the grey mercenaries die
For those who evil bring, the blackbird’s revenge, it is nigh.’
What sort of a shitty blackbird were they crowing about at all?
Then the realisation hit her. It was as though the new bridge had landed directly on her head. She blushed a red that she had never in her life blushed before, and she felt her face burning.
She heard herself whispering: ‘No – it can’t be. I don’t believe it.’
And yet. She had no choice. The leader of the raucous line hammered out another piece of evidence:
When a man is dying, desiring only death
The blackbird will not listen, helps him get his breath.
The blackbird sings, the wounds they knit
Puts him on horse, sends him home forthwith.
And when the blackbird sings
The world, it seems quite splendid.
And when the blackbird sings,
All evil, it hath ended.’
Her legs were feeling like jelly now. This was what came of it all. Performing such actions really weren’t worth it. Blackbird. Pshaw! The people were giving her – the nameless one – a name! Blackbird. If it had to be a bird, then Crow, of course! Black and intelligent, despised and ugly, busy hacking out eyes. Fonder of carrion than of the living. Accompanier of wolves, namesake of a defunct order of assassins. After all, in their name she had dispatched well over a hundred humans to that bourn from whence no traveller returns – for gold that she had no need of.
She should stick that Jingling Johnny right up that Johnny-come-lately’s you-know-what for jangling his instrument so badly. She had a firm image in her mind of what she imagined the ‘you-know-what’ to be, but that would mean leaving the lute lunatic still in the land of the living and able to sing yet another verse. Furious, she thought of one herself:
‘’twas not the blackbird that did sing
but ‘twas the crow that did crow
As she stood on the bridge in the dark
‘twas the lute that did sound as with bloodlust she did go
To cut them to shreds like a shark.
She looked down at herself – dressed completely in black leather. Well, just dandy! If one of the dancers were to see her now as the notorious blackbird and talk to her, she didn’t know what she would do. A killing spree by the barbarians of the Tower Mountains would be a peaceful bagatelle in comparison.
But the group rushed past her exuberantly and noisily and made their way into the building. The lead singer turned his head and called out: ‘Come on in! We are celebrating the completion of the bridge!’
She continued to stand there before the tavern, rooted to the spot, the noise level of the newly returned dancers reaching deafening proportions from within.
She shook her head as if in a daze. She had to get away from here. She was still standing in the entrance light when she noticed a man gawking at her in disbelief through a window. The guy’s eyes were as wide as saucers. This was all she needed – they would all start believing that she was the manifestation of the living blackbird. So, she finally made use of the bridge to cross the Karpane and leave this godforsaken place forever. Then it struck her that she could certainly use one of the many horses outside the building. She was back to her old self again. Exactly – if she needed something, she simply took it. So, she turned round and walked back to the tavern. Some of the people were running around the house excitedly. They were clearly intent on finding the blackbird.
Not to worry – if she had to flatten a few of them to get herself a horse, then so be it. That would straighten out her reputation as a blackbird too. She would kill two birds with one stone then. She reached the other end of the bridge, and everything happened very quickly after that. One of them called: ‘There she is!’ Men came pouring out from all directions, from the roof, from the bushes, from the paddock. Now, there were twenty or so figures surrounding her.
‘Relax, why don’t you,’ she said. ‘Anyone call me Blackbird and I’ll kill them!’
‘What does she mean, “Blackbird”. Wogi, she’s off her rocker, that one. What do you want from that lunatic?’
More and more men were penning her in. They were all wearing black leather frocks, decorated with studs, front and back, and none of them seemed in a celebratory mood. Something had gone seriously wrong here. She remembered a similarly dressed corpse – she had to act. The daggers in her hand reflected the lamplight from the tavern as she spun around. The figure to her left sank to the ground, his sliced-open windpipe splattering a fountain of gurgling blood. The man to her right tried in vain to pull the dagger out of his stomach, but the steel didn’t rest there long enough, for it was already in the chest of the enemy facing her. Indeed, she had her eyes fixed on the next fellow.
‘YOU IDIOTS! I warned you all how dangerous she is.’
More and more gang members were surrounding her while she fought as if she were possessed. She stumbled, and was pulled down, at least ten fellows held onto her arms and legs, two more straddled her, it was all over. Her head was splitting, and her urge to puke was even more powerful than the pain she was feeling.
She remained still and closed her eyes – any further movement was an unnecessary waste of energy.
A voice that she hadn’t heard in ages and ages called out: ‘Let me through!’
A stink that she hadn’t smelled for ages and ages filled her nostrils. A mixture of vinegar, piss, and squashed potatoes. She froze a second time. She heard herself whispering: ‘What’s going on today? This can’t be true.’
But it could. It could be true.
It was him. Woguran – her adversary in the Establishment. The very same fellow who would torture her at every opportunity. The very same fellow whose face she had beaten to a pulp on the riverbank when she’d been wearing the mask. He was alive.
She opened her eyes a fraction and saw him now through the slits. ‘Hello, Wogi! I never knew that Duke Schohtar had a twin brother.’
A steel-capped boot smashed into her cheek. Darkness descended.
never hang around too long
A voice penetrated her consciousness. Her ears took up their duty. The smells of trees, leaves and moss penetrated her consciousness. Her nostrils took up their duty. Her eyes didn’t want to. Probably better that way, for even blind she understood that she had been in better company and in better situations before.
Her wrists were aching. Thick shackles cut into her skin, and her arms were on the point of being ripped out of their sockets.
She peered carefully out beneath her eyelashes. It dawned on her that the modest light in the grey of dawn was another form of torture, for minimal as it was, it went through her eyeballs directly into her brain. It felt as though someone was stabbing a red-hot dagger into the back of her head. She closed her eyes and waited awhile. Only then did she make a second attempt, this time peering downwards. Her hands, bound at the wrists, were hanging from a rope strung around a thick branch, her feet only a smidgeon above the ground – just high enough for her not to be able to touch it with her tippytoes. She peered up. The branch above her was near her hands, but without external help she would never reach it either.
‘Hey, Wogi. The witch is blinking. Seems to be awake.’
What? A witch? First Blackbird, then witch. If anything, Crow – damn and blast it! She groaned. Completely pointless pretending to be out for the count. Simply hanging from this branch didn’t alter her somewhat tense situation one little bit.
Woguran was looming before her. Seeing as she was hanging a little higher from the tree, they were now face to face.
One eye sparkled and stared at her – the other was hidden by a patch. His nose crooked, his jaw crooked, his mouth crooked – his face had lost all sense of symmetry. No, wait a minute – his ears were the exception. She must have forgotten to rip one off that time – then everything would have not fitted together perfectly. She comforted herself – she could do it later. Woguran had never been a beauty in the first place – now he looked absolutely shite.
‘A reunion that I have long been longing for.’
His voice didn’t sound crooked but perfectly normal. Almost friendly. ‘When I’m done with you, we’ll be triplets – Schohtar, you and me,’ he said jovially. ‘Someone told me recently that people have fourteen bones in their face. We will investigate that further – and we will explore whether it is possible to break each one individually – one after the other. You will be delighted, I’m sure, to dedicate yourself to the glory of scientific research.’
‘Don’t know what you’re getting at. There’s nothing special about your proposal. I performed that experiment a long time ago – when I smashed your gob in.’
He grunted amicably. ‘You were always something special – I’ll give you that. My envy of your abilities fuelled my hatred all the more.’ He chuckled. ‘What a pleasure it will be for me now to dissect you piece by piece.’
For a moment she wondered if she should gulp. The fact that the fellow was remaining so calm despite her provocations wasn’t exactly a reassuring sign.
She swung her legs. ‘This is fun. Reminds me of my childhood. There was scaffolding, and very often I used to swing from its beams, its ropes and its poles.’
What she said surprised her. The memory swept away the pain in her head and her limbs, and a garden appeared – a big garden. Laughter. She swung between two trees like a monkey. A woman with kind eyes praised her.
The pain in the pit of her stomach ended her daydream precipitously.
Woguran rammed his fist a second time into her stomach. It took the wind out of her sails. It was a while before she was able to groan: ‘Wogi, what are you doing? My face is much higher up.’
‘Calm down, my childhood sweetheart. I know. I’m working my way upwards – slowly.’
Another fellow with a black beard joined them. ‘She’s a tough nut. She stabbed six of our lads to death. Schohtar will be furious. What are you waiting for? The men want revenge. Let’s each have our way with her before you slaughter her.’
‘Enjoy. I want to enjoy her. I’ve dreamed for so long of getting her into my clutches. And believe you me – she can withstand a lot of pain – more than the two of us together could.’
‘Ah well, she doesn’t look that hard really.’ Beardy stepped forward, ripped her shirt open and fondled her bare breast lewdly. ‘See what I mean – soft as a baby’s bottom.’
He suddenly pulled his hand back. ‘She’s burning hot – she has a fever.’
Woguran rammed his leather boot into Beardy’s nuts. He’d learned that trick from her a long time ago. The other man collapsed like a sheep under an axe blow.
‘No-one touches her. She belongs to me.’
‘But of course, darling,’ she groaned painfully. ‘Only death can separate us.’
‘That will take a while, thankfully – not a very long while, but still – we can have a little fun together in the meanwhile.’
He ripped her shirt off completely, took a hunting knife from his belt and placed it against her breastbone. ‘And just so the men know that you are mine and mine alone, my signature will protect you.’ He drew the blade here and there between her breasts with great abandon – what was left was a bloody ‘W’.
She remained perfectly still – any movement would only give him pleasure. The blood ran down her stomach in four rivulets and soaked her waistband. Some of the men, who had only woken up, looked over curiously from the distance. The only thing she could do was hang around. Literally. Her legs were unshackled to be sure, but any attempt at stamping or kicking would be a complete waste of energy.
Woguran turned towards his men and pointed down at Blackbeard, who looked as though he wanted to warm his ears with his knees as he lay whimpering on the floor. ‘No-one messes with her. Understood?’
‘Sure, Wogi,’ came the chorus of replies.
Woguran drew back, leaving her more or less to herself. The cuts were not deep – the wounds began to crust, and the blood stopped flowing. She swore to herself that she would pay Wogi back some day in a similar manner. Except she didn’t have a name, which meant that she would have to cut the entire alphabet into his skin. What fun that would be!
By now, all the men had woken up – twenty or so leather frocks scurrying around in the early morning encampment. Most of them went off to piss in the forest first, while others heated tin pots on the fire. Where did this band of scoundrels come from, and more importantly, what were they up to?
Suddenly, she felt an urge to urinate. That was all she needed – to wet herself. She scolded herself for her carelessness. All that shite about the blackbird had distracted her and made her forget her natural caution. Now she was hanging here like a cured sausage on a hook. Beardy had mentioned Schohtar. Had the good duke set this rabble on her? This Schohtar fellow was beginning to get on her nerves.
Woguran returned with three men.
‘You lot guard her while we pay our friends a visit. We’ll be back by noon.’
‘What? You want the three of us to stay here? One is surely enough. Isn’t she hanging helplessly from the tree?’
Woguran growled. ‘You three ladies can all hang beside her – then you’ll have enough time to discuss my decision-making in peace. You saw yourselves how she finished off six of us.’
The men grumbled a little, then did as they were told, settling down under a nearby tree.
