Tamlyn (12 page)

‘Could I have the knife, please?' he asked Mrs Stenglass.

With it ready in his good right hand, he pressed down on the loaf using his new arm and cut off a slice as easily as I could have done. Then he picked up the piece of bread he'd cut free and tried to lift it to his mouth. It fell out of the claw before he could manage the feat, but this wasn't a failure, only a step along the way, and we spent the rest of the meal arguing over what we would do once we were back at the forge.

This time, it was Tamlyn who came to fetch me for dinner.

‘Watch, watch,' I called to him, and Ryall obliged by using his mechanical arm to hold a length of rope in place while his right hand looped and knotted it to make part of a trap.

With Tamlyn as our audience, it finally came to all three of us what we had done. There were tears in Ryall's eyes as he held up the simple lengths of rope in the claw of his new hand, there were tears in my eyes. Even Mr Stenglass laughed at himself. ‘Look at me, a grown man weeping like a baby.'

This broke the spell, but not the joy we shared. I went to Ryall and wrapped my arms around him, and he did the same, with his one good arm, at least. It was such a natural thing to do, to hug someone you cared about, that I almost expected Tamlyn to join in.

But when I turned to look towards him, what I saw made me let go of Ryall instantly. There was no smile in Tamlyn's face, no joy for sharing. In fact, just the opposite. I knew what jealousy looked like; knew what it felt like, too, as any human being does. But this was different. What I saw on the face of the man I loved was Wyrdborn jealousy — dark, repulsive and deeply frightening.

D
eiton couldn't work out what was happening to him. One moment he'd been running down an alley he'd used many times to escape the call of ‘Thief!', and the next he'd been dragged through a doorway by two men he'd never seen before. At least, he didn't think he'd seen them before. They weren't street guardians, he was certain of that much. Deiton knew all Chatiny's guardians by name, and enough about each of them to be sure they didn't guard anyone much. They were too lazy to catch a thief and too easily bribed to punish any that somehow fell into their hands. These two ruffians were strong and determined. No, they weren't street guardians.

‘Get your hands off me,' Deiton growled, but they took no notice.

He reached for the dagger tucked into his waistband beneath his shirt, a desperate measure he resorted to only when he couldn't talk his way out of trouble. It was snatched from his hand before he could put it to use.

‘You'll get your chance to draw blood, but it won't be ours,' said one of his captors.

The dagger clattered to the ground and was left behind as they dragged him backwards across the rough stone floor of an empty warehouse. He was dumped on his backside, and one of the men held a knife to his throat while the other tied his hands behind his back.

‘We're going on a little journey,' said the man with the knife, ‘and if you struggle or try to run, I'll slit your throat. There are plenty more we can grab if we have to kill you.'

The pair of them hauled him to his feet and moments later he was in the daylight again, pushed and pulled along a narrow lane and then down a staircase that descended into the darkness — a kind of well, it seemed, but not for water. They passed people coming up the stairs from below: sullen, cold-eyed people. He didn't like the look of this, not at all. Where were they taking him?

There was no pausing at the base of the stairs. Light from above showed him an opening in the earth,
as though a tunnel had been hollowed out beneath the buildings above. He'd heard fearful stories … No time to recall the whispered rumours, though. He was pushed through the opening and immediately recoiled — bones, thousands of bones, all around him. He had no doubt they were human.

‘Why are you taking me among the dead?' he demanded.

‘To give you a chance to join them,' snarled one of his captors. ‘Whether you come back this way, to your old life, will be up to you.'

After he stumbled past row after row of bones stacked on both sides, the light suddenly disappeared altogether. It took a moment for him to realise a sack had been placed over his head. He shook his head and ducked his shoulders, trying to dislodge it, until he felt the knife at his throat again.

‘Remember what I told you. Save your strength — you'll need it. We're just the delivery boys.'

Deiton stopped thrashing about. The sack let some light in, enough for him to know there were lamps hung on the walls to illuminate the way. A new fear enveloped him, though. He couldn't see anything through the hood, but his ears could hear the murmur of voices. If there was any doubt, it vanished when the man at his shoulder cried, ‘Out of the way, crone.'

A woman's voice replied, her words a foul curse. Soon after, a scream made him jump. It had come from some way off, but its wild and crazy tone and the way it echoed off the walls worried him.

At last, the sound of other people fell away, replaced by a crunching underfoot. There was something disgusting about the sensation, made worse by the stench.

‘What is this place?' he asked.

There was no answer to his question. Instead, his captors argued over the direction they should take. The only light now seemed to be a flaming torch that one of them held aloft.

‘It's this way, I tell you,' and after more growls of protest, the other man was forced to agree.

At least the dreadful crunching had ceased; and after ten more minutes of rough marching, so did the journey. The hood was snatched from Deiton's head and he found himself in a wide chamber with a vaulted roof higher than the oil lamps on the walls allowed him to see. Not that he wasted more than a moment staring upwards; there was enough to see on the ground and, thankfully, plenty of light to see it by. His hands were released and he was left for a moment to stare at a high wall ahead, made of planks lashed to the many pillars of stone that held up the ceiling of the chamber. A gate stood open in the wall. His captors marched him
through, then pushed him forward with enough force to send him tumbling to the hard-packed earth. Before he had risen to his hands and knees, they had turned and hurried out, closing the gate and shooting home a bolt with ominous speed.

Deiton's hands were wet with something thick and sticky. He pulled back onto his haunches to look at them and cried out. Blood. There was a pool of it close in front of him. The shock sent him too quickly to his feet, where he swayed unsteadily as he turned a slow circle. He was in some kind of arena. The wall he'd seen from the outside now confined him. Only then did he realise that he wasn't alone. In his quick scan of the wall, he'd missed a darkened shape on the ground, which now moved and became another human being.

‘Who are you?' he asked.

‘The sorry wretch who came through that gate before you,' the man replied.

Deiton saw the blood on his shirt. None of his wounds seemed serious, but were enough to make the fellow grimace when he climbed to his feet.

At the sound of their voices, an answering noise came from behind a second gate in the wall, which Deiton hadn't seen until now. If there is terror in what you can see, there is even more in what you cannot. The gate shuddered as the creature on the other side,
whatever it was, slammed into it. A low snarl that would make any man's blood run cold was joined by a bark. A pack of wolves? Hunting hounds, starved and eager for flesh, any flesh? He would be ripped apart.

His eyes searched further afield — for an ally, for anyone who might save him from this nightmare. Almost immediately, they settled on a man watching from beyond the wall. He must be standing on a platform of some kind, Deiton thought, because he was visible to the waist. He hurried towards the man until he was close enough to touch the wall directly below him.

‘Please, sir, open the gate. Let me go back to my wife and children.'

‘You have no wife and no children,' the man answered. ‘You're a thief by trade who looks out for no one but himself.'

Deiton's heart sank — not because it was a lie, but because the man spoke in such frigid tones. He could expect no help from this man, and no sympathy either. Deiton had wriggled his way out of some difficult predicaments with an innocent smile and a silky tongue, but the man staring down at him had the pitiless face of a Wyrdborn and he knew what that meant. He wished that he
had
been captured by King Chatiny's half-hearted guardians. At least then he would know his fate — a day or two in prison, a beating until he
was black and blue, and then release so he could get back to work. There was a sense of justice in it, even if he preferred to avoid its penalties. The Wyrdborn knew nothing of justice.

Above him, the man turned to nod at an unseen companion. Moments later, a bundle was passed up into his hands. Only when it was settled in the man's arms did Deiton see that it was, of all things, a child. He knew little of youngsters, but this one was no more than two years old. The baby squirmed and fought the Wyrdborn's grip, but he couldn't escape those powerful arms.

‘Keep still, Lucien,' snapped the Wyrdborn. ‘Look at these two men — that's what they are here for, so you may see what they're like. They are commonfolk and already frightened by things they cannot see.'

Of course I'm frightened
, Deiton said to himself. There was no shame in fear, especially when the beasts that rattled that gate played cruel games with his imagination.

‘You'll soon see how little courage they have, too,' said the Wyrdborn with a sneer. ‘Like all commonfolk, their courage will prove as weak as their bodies.'

Deiton wasn't simply afraid now, he was angry too. What kind of man derided another so savagely to his face.

‘Get them started,' called the Wyrdborn and two swords came sailing over the wall to land in the centre of the arena.

Deiton immediately rushed towards the nearer weapon, snatching it up just as his bloodstained companion reached the other. Was he a soldier, skilled with a sword, or a vagabond like Deiton himself who lived by his wits on the streets of Vonne?

‘You are evenly matched,' announced the Wyrdborn. ‘There are no rules other than this: to stay alive, one of you must kill the other.'

Deiton had been afraid that they would be made to face the unknown beasts from behind the second gate, but that was reserved for another contest, it seemed, and he praised the gods for that much, at least.

His opponent was already circling him. In readiness, Deiton planted his feet further apart, balancing his weight evenly between them. Without warning, the man darted in with sword swinging, his blade clashing with Deiton's when he defended himself. Sparks lived briefly in the air between them, and after a second swing and parry, each retreated a few steps to get the other man's measure.

Into this silence, a new sound erupted — the crying of a baby.

Deiton backed away even further and risked a look
towards their tormentor, safe above the walls. The child had been frightened by the sudden violence and pressed his face into the Wyrdborn's chest.

You won't find any comfort there
, Deiton wanted to call out, but why provoke the only man who could set you free.

‘Look down into the pit,' the Wyrdborn demanded, forcing the baby's face back towards the combat. The crying grew louder.

‘Keep up the fighting!' roared the Wyrdborn.

Deiton crouched with his sword ready, his free hand outstretched as counterweight to his weapon. He was light on his feet for one his size, and that size gave him an advantage in strength, too. He was younger, faster and his opponent was bleeding from an earlier battle. He could overpower the man, he was sure of it, as long as he didn't make a stupid mistake. Any mistake would prove deadly in this arena.

He went on the attack and with three heavy blows forced his opponent backwards. Yes, he was right. He was stronger. He took up his advantage, slashing and hacking his way forward until all he met in return were desperate parries. There was no counterattack, no deceptive feint to one side so that a killing thrust could be launched from the other. The man was as good as beaten.

‘Spare me. Please!' he begged.

For all his thieving, Deiton was not a cruel man; and although he was handy with a dagger when backed against a wall, he'd never killed anyone. He retreated a pace or two, heaving air in and out of his lungs.

‘Begging for mercy already,' said the Wyrdborn. ‘See how spineless the commonfolk are, Lucien.'

The baby was still in his arms, no longer wailing, but his little face was heavy with apprehension.

‘He can't fight any more,' Deiton called up to the Wyrdborn. ‘There's nothing to be gained here by his death.'

‘Except your freedom.'

‘No!'

‘That is the rule. Only one of you may live.'

‘Why? What have we done to you?'

‘Nothing at all,' replied the Wyrdborn, as though the question surprised him. ‘You are simply the tools I need for this demonstration.'

‘Demonstration!' shouted Deiton. ‘Neither of us are swordsmen. What can we demonstrate?'

‘Blood, pain, death — everything I want this boy to see.'

Deiton felt overwhelmed by disgust and frustration. He wanted to live; he wanted to return to the streets, even though it wasn't much of a life when he sensed
danger in every look and feared capture each time his fingers slipped into the pocket of a passer-by.

‘This isn't right,' he said. ‘I can't kill this man. What has he done to me, except defend himself as any man would?'

There was no answer, only an agonising pause. Then, ‘Kill him. Spill his blood or die yourself.'

There was no choice, no way out but this. Deiton gripped his sword more tightly and let his intent show in his eyes.

His poor victim saw it and drew in a desperate breath. Then, without understanding what he was doing, he made it easier by taking a firm hold of his own sword and lunging at Deiton in a final bid to save himself.

For all his haggling with the Wyrdborn, Deiton hadn't let his guard down. He saw what the man was going to do almost before he began the movement. With sword at the ready, he ducked the poorly aimed thrust and, driven by the need to save himself, rammed his blade into the man's chest.

A terrible cry flew around the arena, then came the dull thud of a body crumpling to earth, a sigh of blood-bubbling breath and silence.

‘Wonderful,' cried the Wyrdborn. Deiton thought that if he hadn't been holding the child, he might have
applauded. ‘Did you see, Lucien? That is how one man kills another.'

The baby stared at the dead man. His tears had stopped and his face seemed entirely blank.

‘Doesn't it feel good to have conquered another?' the Wyrdborn asked Deiton.

Deiton couldn't look at the man he had killed, nor at the heartless audience. It was all he could do to keep a rush of tears from streaming down his face. ‘No, I feel … ashamed,' he muttered. ‘I feel dirty with a stain that will never wash off my skin.'

‘Ah, you see it again, Lucien,' said the Wyrdborn to the child in his arms. ‘Weakness even in the moment of victory. What use is shame when all he did was claim what he wanted?'

‘What I want is my freedom,' Deiton said. ‘That is what you promised me. I claim it now. Have your men open the gate and let me climb out of this madhouse.'

Another pause followed. When Deiton saw an ominous smile on the Wyrdborn's face, he felt the first dread of betrayal enter his stomach.