Chapter 1
“Clubfoot! Clubfoot!”
Gennady stayed low as he ran into the undergrowth, trying to put as much distance between him and his father as possible. The man had come home blind drunk, as always, and would beat Gennady to a pulp if his father caught him before the drink finally sent his father into a drunken stupor. He’d been drinking more than usual lately, ever since Huckeba—Gennady’s elder brother—had married some poor girl from the neighbouring village and moved into her shack with his in-laws. Someone had probably reminded him that his son was a cripple, a disabled boy in a world that cared nothing for disabled boys, and he’d gone home to take out his frustrations on his son.
He gritted his teeth as his ankle started to hurt, a grim reminder of why everyone—even his parents—called him Clubfoot. It wasn’t a real clubfoot, he’d been told, but it was bad enough. Gennady could barely keep up with the women, let alone the men. He was weak, too weak to handle anything from farm work to the late-night drinking and fighting that occupied the men when they weren’t working the fields. There was no way he’d ever be allowed to marry, let alone have children. His father would probably disown him, sooner or later. There was no way he could pass the family’s tiny shack to a cripple. Gennady’s younger brother would probably kick him out even if their father didn’t. And no one would say anything about it at all.
The bitterness welled up, again, as the shadows grew and lengthened. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t chosen to be a cripple. He wasn’t one of the idiots who tossed axes around for fun and accidentally cut off their own legs. He hadn’t done anything to deserve being the runt of the litter, the laughing stock of the village ... he hadn’t. His bones ached as he stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath. The louts had beaten him yesterday, chasing him from the vegetable gardens and into the forests surrounding the village. No doubt they’d hoped he wouldn’t come crawling back. Gennady himself wasn’t sure why he hadn’t simply walked away and allowed the forest to kill him. No one in their right mind ventured out of the village after dark. The night belonged to the other folk.
He stumbled to a halt, sweat trickling down his back. His father’s voice had stilled. Gennady knew what that meant. The old man had probably gone back to the shack, to take his anger out on his mother instead. He felt a pang of guilt, mixed with relief that it wasn’t him. He knew he should be ashamed of himself for letting it happen, for doing nothing, but ... he couldn’t help it. He’d been beaten down so often that he knew he had little sympathy to spare for anyone else.
Why should I, he asked himself, when no one has any sympathy for me?
He warily looked around. Few people came this close to the Greenwood, save for the lonely, the lost and the desperate. The tangled branches and undergrowth up ahead were impassable, even to a strong man with an axe. No one in their right mind would try to get in, not if they knew what was waiting for them. The other folk lived there, in a realm so overgrown the sun never shone. They’d kill anyone foolish enough to enter their world. Gennady forced himself to start moving again, giving the Greenwood a wide berth. There were times when he thought he could hear voices, urging him to walk into the alien realm. He knew if he did, he’d never come out again.
Birds flew through the forest as he trudged onwards, despite the growing pain in his ankle. He forced himself to keep scanning the ground, noting mushrooms growing near the taller trees. They didn’t look ripe, not yet, but they were edible. If he was desperate ... he promised himself he’d come back later to pick them to take home for his mother’s stew. If he could get them home, without having them stolen by one of the village louts, his mother might be pleased.
No. He knew better. She could never forget what he’d done to her, simply by being born.
It wasn’t my fault, he told himself. It wasn’t his fault that the village woman had cracked jokes about Gennady’s mother lying with the other folk, before his birth. It wasn’t his fault that her husband had come very close to kicking her and her cursed child out of the shack, throwing them into the cold to die. I was just a child.
The thought didn’t comfort him. How could it? He was a cripple. There was no place for him in the village, no place anywhere. It was only a matter of time until he was exposed to the elements and left to die. The village couldn’t afford to feed useless mouths. Gennady knew, all too well, that his father only kept him alive because he was good at scavenging. He had to be. There was no way he could kill a wild pig or catch a bird or do anything useful for the village. The day he stopped bringing home mushrooms or herbs or anything else along those lines was the day he’d die. He knew it with a certainty that could not be denied.
He flinched as he heard something moving in the undergrowth, something big. A wild pig? A boar? Hogarth, the strongest lout in the village, wouldn’t dare tangle with a wild boar in the forest. Even the count who owned the village and the surrounding region of the mountains would hesitate to don his armour to hunt a wild boar. Such a creature was strong enough to pose a threat to anyone, save perhaps a sorcerer. Gennady hadn’t met many sorcerers. He’d been kept firmly out of their way the last time the roving wizards had visited the village. He hadn’t cared. Sorcerers could be childishly cruel at times.
The sound grew louder. Gennady turned and inched away, resisting the urge to run for his life. The boar—if it was a boar—would give chase, if it thought he was scared. It was all he could do to saunter away, despite the sense of unseen eyes studying his back and trying to decide if he’d make a tasty meal. Gennady had to struggle to breathe, despite a suicidal impulse to turn and walk towards the boar. It would be over quickly, then his family could pretend he’d never existed. He knew what happened, when someone was exposed and left to die. Their families never mentioned them again.
He sighed inwardly as the sound died away. He moved towards one of the paths, towards one of the few safe walkways between the villages ... as long as one wasn’t a tax collector or someone else who might be quietly murdered a long way from civilisation. Gennady had met a couple of tax collectors, overweight men gloating as they skimmed what little they could from the village ... one had laughed, openly, as the villages sweated to meet their dues. He’d insisted he was exacting revenge for everything the villagers had done to him, once upon a time. Gennady wanted to be like him, even though he knew it would never happen. No one would be scared of him. He’d just vanish, somewhere in the forests, and no one would give a damn ...
... And then he noticed that someone was walking down the path.
Gennady froze, convinced his father had found him. His father ... or one of the village louts. It didn’t matter. He’d get a beating no matter who found him. He peered through the trees, breathing a sigh of relief as the walker came into view. Primrose. A girl who’d smiled at him, once or twice. The only person who’d ever been nice to him. He found himself staring, despite himself. Primrose was beautiful, with brown hair that seemed to glow with light and health. She wore the simple smock that all village women wore, as she was now old enough to wed, but she made it look like a dress. Gennady was smitten. He knew he wasn’t the only one. Every boy in the village—and the surrounding villages—wanted to pay court to her. He was surprised she was alone, outside the stockade. The custom of kidnapping brides might be outdated, yet it persisted. Primrose would have no choice but to stay with someone brave and bold enough to take her, marry her and bed her before informing her parents. She would be his ...