Churn gestured, ‘Why did we leave?’
‘He was flat-nosed, ass-over-hill dog-pissed.’
Churn waved one hand irritably in front of the smaller man’s face.
‘Yes, I know I can sign those things, but sometimes, Churn, we need to express ourselves a bit more eloquently.’ Hoyt’s fingers moved in a rhythm that somehow matched the timbre of his voice. ‘He was drunk… crushed… ruined as a whore at Twinmoon Festival.’
‘So? I’m sure she’s seen drunks before.’
‘Not drunk, Churn, absolutely demonpissing comatose. I should have checked him for a pulse.’ They made their way down a flight of stairs into the great room of the more reputable inn they had found.
‘I’m still not entirely convinced he’s alive down there.’
‘Are we going back?’
‘Yes. I didn’t want Hannah to see him. It’s better if she sleeps now, anyway. She’s been so nervous. I think she would faint if she saw him in this condition.’ Hoyt paused a moment, trying to remember something the pox-scarred bartender had said. ‘I think Alen’s been at this for a long time.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know-’ Hoyt broke off and announced, ‘Let’s go find him. We’ll bring him back to our room, let him sober up and make introductions in the morning.’
The Middle Fork Tavern was three muddy streets away. It wasn’t long before the Pragans were back in the dark room with the exposed beams and fiery maw blazing at the base of the far wall. They found Alen exactly where Hoyt had left him two avens earlier. The healer politely asked the men sitting around him to clear an area so he could extricate the drunk.
‘Shove off,’ a gruff, elderly man barked at Hoyt. ‘These seats are taken.’
‘Oh, no, sir, you misunderstand: I don’t want your seat, I just want to dislodge my friend-’
‘Do you have a hearing problem, son?’ The grizzled patron turned round with some difficulty. Hoyt’s charm obviously wasn’t working too well.
He tried a different tack. ‘Ah, no,’ he said, gesturing with an outstretched thumb towards Churn, ‘but he does.’
Churn stepped forward, gripped the bench with both hands and lifted. The heavy wooden seat, along with the four drinkers astride it, began to rise, slowly, from the floor. The old man’s quickness belied his age: in a heartbeat he was brandishing a thin dirk and lurching towards Churn’s exposed ribs. Hoyt was faster. Without a flourish he drew a small steel blade, honed to a surgeon’s edge. Two quick slashes, one to the old man’s wrist, just behind the thumb, and another across the fleshy part of the forearm: the dirk fell to the floor.
The old man, his hand now useless and hanging limp, slid off the bench to his knees. ‘You bleeding horsecock!’ he screamed, more in fury than pain. ‘You crippled me, you bastard.’ He started to choke back embarrassing sobs. ‘How am I going to work now?’ He looked around the room, hoping for sympathy, but everyone looked away, gazing thoughtfully into goblets and tankards.
‘Any local healer can stitch that,’ Hoyt told him calmly. ‘Go soon, and for the forest gods’ sake, keep it immobile until you get there. If you don’t, you’ll rip those tendons – and then you really won’t be happy. Go on, be quick about it. Get moving.’
Hoyt didn’t wait to see if the old man did as he was told but turned his attention to the filthy plank floor. There was Alen, still in a crumpled heap, sleeping – or perhaps even dead. He didn’t appear to have moved since Hoyt had nudged his feet out of the way earlier that day. Churn bent down to peer under the table himself. He raised an eyebrow at Hoyt and when the healer nodded, hauled the stinking figure out as if he weighed less than the sack of dirty laundry he so resembled.
Back at their own far more salubrious lodgings, they discussed what to do. Hoyt was nervous that Hannah might have been looking for them; perhaps, unable to sleep, she’d come downstairs to sit near the fire and sip tecan or try a goblet of the local wine.
‘We have to be quick and silent,’ he gestured in twists and flicks of his hands. ‘Up to our room. We’ll decide what to do with-’ he cast a sidelong glance at Alen’s cadaverous face, ‘- with him once we get there.’ He peered through a crack in the front door: they were safe, the room was empty. Throwing the door open, he and Churn carried their foetid bundle across the great room and up the stairs along the back wall. Hoyt could feel his heart rate slowing once they’d tiptoed past Hannah’s door. They were going to make it. Only a few steps further along the hall, then they would have all night to clean him up.
Creak!
Churn stepped heavily on a loose floorboard and Hoyt froze, holding his breath. He waited for what felt like a Twinmoon, then moved to their own door. He grasped the leather thong that threaded through a small hole to the latch inside the door and pulled.
Creak!
The ancient wood groaned as the door swung open slowly. Again Hoyt waited, motionless, his gaze fixed on Hannah’s door across the hall. The planks were pretty warped, he noticed. Nothing moved.
Shaking his head, he relaxed and indicated that Churn should go ahead into the narrow chamber. He closed the door as quietly as the moan of leather against wood and protesting hinges would allow and was several steps into the room before he noticed the candle.
‘Did we leave that-?’
‘No. I lit it.’ Hannah smiled enigmatically. ‘Hello boys,’ she said.
Hoyt was rooted to the floor as she stood up and stretched, then moved closer to get a better look at the grim carcase Churn had slung over one shoulder like the evening’s kill. ‘And who is this? A friend you met at a bar, or another body we need to dispose of before morning?’ Hannah was enjoying herself. ‘Oh, relax, you two! I don’t care if you went out for a drink. I just couldn’t get to sleep. So I started thinking about ways to find Alen and-’ She paused. They still hadn’t moved.
‘Are you all right?’ Hannah took a step towards them. ‘And who is this? Oh God, is he dead? Not another one. I was joking! What happened? Please tell me; don’t just stand there like frightened children. Who is he? Did he try to kill you? Is he a spy?’
Something broke and finally Hoyt was able to move. ‘Hannah,’ he began tentatively, ‘this is my dear friend, Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.’
Steven woke in the night; though it was cold, he could feel the warmth of a fire somewhere nearby. Struggling to lift his arms, he realised he was tied down, lashed to pine boughs and covered with thin wool blankets. He swallowed; his parched throat felt like sandpaper. Above him he could see an interlocking mass of branches, a near-impenetrable canopy.
He abandoned the struggle to loosen the straps when the tangle of irregular green branches started spinning before his eyes and he nearly lost consciousness. Slowly he realised he was not alone.
‘Who’s there?’ he croaked, shocked at how weak his voice sounded.
No one answered. He tried to lift his head far enough to see across the campsite, but this time pain shot from his ribcage across his back. He remembered the grettan attack and his breath quickened as he recalled the image of his leg disappearing into the beast’s canine-studded jaws. Wincing, he hesitantly tried to move his feet. His left leg, although tied firmly, moved with little pain, but his right did not respond at all. Steven remembered the sickening snap of his calf bones as the grettan slammed its jaws closed above his boot. Now he could feel nothing from the knee down. Despite the cold, he started to perspire as he imagined the mutilated stump the animal might have left him. Sharp, jagged canines. Those pierce and tear flesh. It must be gone.
His ribs were broken, his shoulder was dislocated, his leg was ripped off below the knee: Steven was surprised he was not more terrified. He must be in shock. He was aware of himself and his surroundings, but his mind was protecting him from the thought that he was gravely, perhaps mortally injured. Except for the searing pain in his ribs and the dull throb in his leg, he felt little pain. His shoulder ached with every motion, but since he could still move his fingers, his arm was clearly intact.