He hardly felt the weight of the two buckets, though they were nearly full, for his grip had grown strong and sure. That much of his muscles, Bransen could control. As for the rest, he stumbled and had to realign himself continually after each awkward step, certainly living up to his nickname. It had been a rainy spring, and so Bransen was used to the muddy ground, and he was managing well enough, though with great concentration, his eyes set straight ahead, his every thought locked on his forward movement.
He didn't notice a figure move silently up beside him, or the foot that went out in front of him.
Bransen tripped and stumbled; the chamber pots at his side sloshed and splashed him. He caught himself and would not have gone down, but the foot kicked hard against the back of his locked knee, buckling it.
He heard the laughter as he crashed to the ground, the contents of the pots splashing over him, mixing with the mud on his face and sliding up his nostrils.
Bransen fumbled and finally managed to come up to one elbow and lift his head, spitting with each movement. Then he froze, seeing four legs-strong legs, the legs of young men-planted before him.
"Aye, Stork, you fell down hard that time," came a voice that Bransen knew, a taunting voice he had heard on many occasions for more than ten years: that of Tarkus Breen, who had been away at the war, so Bransen had thought. Now he was back, apparently. As Tarkus finished, he stamped his foot down hard, spraying Bransen's face with muddy water.
"Take care, Tarkus," said his companion-Hegemon Noylan, Bransen knew. "You'll bury Stork where he lies and only make it all stink worse."
"Bah, all right, then," Tarkus conceded. "I'll pick him up." The strong young warrior reached down, grabbed Bransen by the front of his tunic, and hoisted him to his feet. But then he shoved Bransen hard as he offered a phoney "oops!" and the poor helpless young man stumbled back and fell in a painfully twisted manner.
He had barely hit the ground when a boot came in hard against his back, jolting him.
"Hey, you nearly tripped me with the dolt," said the third of the group, a younger boy of about fifteen, Hegemon's little brother Rulhio. He gave another kick, this one more vicious, that set off an explosion of pain in Bransen's shoulder. Bransen grabbed at the wound and tried to cover up, but his inability to curl onto his belly made him roll back before Rulhio in a vulnerable position.
Bransen tried to scream as a muddy foot lifted over his face, ready to stamp him flat. The poor young man couldn't even manage to cry out properly, his face twisting and his voice gurgling. He couldn't even manage to bring his arm back across to block the blow. A moment later, he tasted blood with the mud-his blood, running from his nose.
Then he was up again, suddenly, hoisted by Tarkus.
"Aw, you hurt him," Tarkus said, and he threw Bransen forward.
Rulhio caught him roughly, turned him, and shoved him to the waiting grasp of Hegemon.
"Well, I don't want the wretched thing!" Hegemon proclaimed, and he sent Bransen hard at Tarkus.
And so it went, around the triangle of bullies, the three of them taunting, pinching and punching, and throwing him in turn. Bransen couldn't begin to put his feet beneath him, couldn't even twist his mouth to shout a protest. On one throw, he tripped as he started ahead toward Tarkus, and he toppled forward, crashing hard against Tarkus's waist and knocking Tarkus off balance so that he followed Bransen to the muddy ground.
Of course, though that made the other two howl with laughter, it infuriated Tarkus, and he punched Bransen even harder in the face, then hauled him back up. Before Bransen realized that he was standing again, Tarkus slapped one hand between his legs and grabbed him by the front of his tunic with the other. A twist and heave had Bransen horizontal and in the air, Tarkus lifting the thin little man right over his head. With Bransen up high, the powerful Tarkus began to turn.
Only then did Bransen realize that the commotion had brought a crowd of onlookers-men, women, and children.
Tarkus stopped short, then threw Bransen down. He landed on his back, dazed and out of breath. He heard the crowd, and it brought an ache to his heart that far exceeded any of the pain the three bullies had caused him. For most were laughing, while one or two expressed their sympathy for "the ugly little creature," mostly in the form of whispers along the lines of, "It's a pity that such a beast should have survived birth."
Tarkus's foot stamped on Bransen's stomach, and Bransen jolted into a curled-up position.
"Hey, we're not done with you!" Tarkus said, and he grabbed Bransen again and pulled him to his feet, violently shaking him.
Crying, bleeding from his nose and gums, Bransen offered no resistance as Tarkus wound up to pound him some more.
"Stop it!" came a cry. "You leave him be!"
Before Bransen could register the identity of the speaker, the distant familiarity of the female voice, a woman crashed hard into him and Tarkus. Bransen slipped and would have fallen, but Tarkus held his ground and held Bransen upright; and the free hand that was about to launch a heavy punch at Bransen instead shoved the woman back.
Bransen tried to cry out, "Cadayle!" but only managed something that sounded more like "Cc…c…ca-daaaa!"
Cadayle pulled herself up from the mud and came right back in-or tried to before Hegemon and Rulhio intercepted her and held her off.
"You leave him be!" she continued to shout. "He's done nothing to you! He's just a-" She stopped short, and Bransen saw that something had caught her attention and had caught the notice of both men holding her. He followed her gaze back to Tarkus and saw him looking back over his shoulder. And Bransen realized that the crowd had gone silent.
When Bransen finally managed to turn his head to see what the others were looking at, he understood, for there stood Bernivvigar.
The Samhaist towered over Tarkus and all the others, making them all seem insignificant. He stared hard at Bransen mostly, and there was no mercy in his awful glower.
Bernivvigar curled up his withered old lips and chuckled menacingly. Out of the corner of his eye, Bransen noticed the transfixed expressions on the faces of the three bullies and noted that Cadayle had apparently shaken off the trance. She twisted suddenly, pulling free of Hegemon. Her arm came forward suddenly, slapping Tarkus across the face.
That brought the three to action. Rulhio moved quickly to grab the young woman. Tarkus Breen reacted even more directly, stepping forward and punching Cadayle square in the chest. She tumbled backward and would have fallen had not the other two regained solid grips upon her.
"Oh, but you're to pay dearly for that, witch," Tarkus remarked.
A moment of clarity, in the form of outrage, surged through Bransen, and he cried, "No!" and lashed out with both arms, flailing away. He heard the laughter erupt all around, even from Bernivvigar, but that didn't slow him. He felt Tarkus's grip tighten on the front of his tunic and knew the man was regaining his composure and balance, but that didn't stop him.
But then his face exploded in pain, spraying blood, again and again as Tarkus pumped his free arm. Cadayle screamed; many in the crowd gasped, while others laughed; and Tarkus growled like some rabid animal.
Bransen's senses were fast deserting him under that barrage, but he did hear a distant shout of protest and then a sharp and thunderous report, as if from a thunder bolt.
People stumbled and people screamed, and Tarkus stopped punching.
"Let him go!" cried Master Bathelais, and he extended his hand and opened it, showing the gray graphite stones, crackling with power.