Prince Comedo, laughing, sat high on a white horse with retainers around him. He wore a plumed helmet but no armour. He carried a spear on which a head had been mounted; the ears and nose had been sliced away, the eyes gouged out. Red stains from the prince's bloody hands had stained the mane of his horse where he had stroked it.
One Collosnon soldier, still alive, had been slung over the saddle of a horse and tied there for the journey back to Castle Vaunting. He had taken a scalp wound, but it was not bad enough to threaten his life – worse luck for him.
Laughing, smiling, Comedo gave the signal to head for home. Horns blared, men cheered. They set off with a jingle of harness, a racket of dogs. When all were gone, Blackwood ventured forth. Flies already buzzed around the corpses. He looked back at the forest. The fodden was nowhere to be seen.
'Murmer? Come here! Murmer!'
No answer.
Blackwood looked at the sky. He was running out of daylight. He started to walk east. The hunt had come from the east, as a cursory glance at their tracks made plain. Every step took him nearer to home; it was disturbing to have hunters come so close to his house. He always feared that on his return he might find the door smashed open and blood on the floor and the walls…
When Blackwood was out of sight, Murmer slipped from the forest to disturb the flies. He stooped to a wound-gash, and drank, deeply.
It was almost dayfaiclass="underline" a tarn near the forest edge already held the colour of the night. It was that time of evening when the black slugs emerge to soothe through the cool air; the wind, which had long ago lost its morning strength, was dying. Twilight was settling in the creaking branches as Blackwood stalked into the forest with anger on his heavy-jowled face.
'Softly now,' he said. 'Soft!'
But the animal strung up by wire and iron jaws kicked and strained in panic, tearing its lacerated body still further. Blackwood, knife in hand, saw horror in its eyes. The creature looked so human that it crossed his mind that perhaps it was more than mere deer. But in any case he could not save it. The knife glinted, striking, as he did the deer a kindness. Blood dripped down from the body Comedo's yahooing huntsmen had hung high with wire and trap-jaws. Blackwood cursed the prince:
– Blood in your mouth, you rat-rapist.
This traditional felicity eased his feelings. He had cursed Comedo many times before – though never, not even in his bedrock dreams, did he consider abandoning curses for action.
The tracks – a child could have seen it – showed horses and dogs had been here. Those dogs were big brutes kept hungerfed; they would have put the deer out of its misery soon enough, if their masters had not whipped them off. The prince enjoyed watching suffering. People used to think his father was bad, but the father's faults had lain in overlarge appetites, not in calculated sadism.
Blackwood had been the father's huntsman. Later, Comedo had employed Blackwood to organise hunts for him. However, Comedo's joyful slaughter had swiftly thinned the game away to almost nothing. Blaming Blackwood for the dearth, Comedo had turned him out of the castle, ordering that no man in Estar feed or shelter such a useless mouth, on pain of death.
Blackwood, surviving for years in a house hidden away in Looming Forest, guessed he would fare just as well under Collosnon rule, but still had no compunction about killing the invaders if they came his way. From talks from the Melski of the river, Blackwood had learnt of Collosnon atrocities against poor fishing folk living near the river. The Collosnon had no taint of royalty to protect them from his anger.
Now, as evening faded to night. Blackwood gral-loched the deer, then washed his knife in the tarn. A sudden splash shattered the night calm. Blackwood peered into the darkness and spoke sharply: 'Murmer! Stop throwing rocks!'
The fodden said nothing, but Blackwood knew it was there. Another rock splashed into the water.
'Murmer!'
Spluttering laughter from the darkness. Was the fodden going mad in its old age? Perhaps.
As the moon rose, Blackwood shouldered the carcass and set off for home. It was death to touch the prince's meat, but the prince never claimed his kills. And though it may be death to break the law, it is death to be poor and keep it.
Tramping through the darkness, he indulged himself with smoky memories of the aftermath of other hunts. Horns announcing the return to the castle. Groaning banquet tables. The hall flushed with heat. Jugglers, singers, music. Tankards hammering on the table as the songs roared out. Good meat and greasy fingers.
Had it really been like that, in the old days, before Comedo came to power and the dragon came to Estar? Perhaps. Certanly things were different now. Hard times, hard times…
Blackwood came to a stream, which he followed into the forest; water would wash away footprints and any leaking blood, leaving no trail for men or dogs. His boots kept out the water, but it chilled his feet. The fodden splashed along noisily behind him. Blackwood turned and hissed angrily; Murmer sat down on the bank and sulked.
Deep in the forest, Blackwood left the stream and followed a minimal trail to the clearing where stood his house, outhouse and woodshed. The buildings were hidden in darkness, but there was the smell of wood-smoke in the air, the smell of a hearth-fire. Blackwood hung the deer carcass where no ground-life could gnaw it, then went inside.
Mystrel, his wife, greeted him quietly: touch of hand against hand, touch of forehead against forehead. She smiled; he could see her smile by firelight and rushlights. She said nothing, but brought him some soup; they were in no hurry to exchange words. After years of living in isolation together, a touch could do all their greeting.
She was now thirty-five. Time had been hard on her face, but her body was still strong enough for its purpose. Two months gone, and seven months to go.
– I will have a son. And my son will have a better life than this.
A child. The renewed promise of a future. They had not expected it. Why not? Simply because they were too accustomed to disappointment. But it was happening. With fresh meat outside, a warm fire inside and a future to plan, Blackwood was happy.
Murmer killed a lamb that night.
– Ha! Have you, have at you, womb-warm. Shlust shroost! Kick then, saast, kick. Bog-cold soon, womb-kick. Warm, ha, yes, mother me, warm one, saas-sister. Where's your high-stride hook-crook watching one then, womb-warm? No help now, ha? Dreams now, womb-kick. Dreams. Saaa!
The lamb was dead.
Murmer ate.
He was thumb and fist, but anyone who saw him feeding there by moonlight, glancing round suspiciously from time to time, would probably have classed him as paw and claw, savagery akin to wark and wylie.
After feeding, Murmer was on his way.
His destination was Castle Vaunting.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Name: Blackwood (husband of Mystrel). Occupation: woodsman.
Status: once a hired lackey of the ruling class, but now a victim of the Class Enemy of the Common People.
Description: a dark-haired heavy-jowled man of middle years, looking, incidentally, remarkably like Shen Shen Drax, the leech-gatherer of Delve.
The executioner – such was his title, though he was a gaoler as well – was masked with grey mud. Clay was his face, but his voice was gravel. Shadows lurched as his head swung to face Blackwood. His eyes were black pits.
'Who are,' said the executioner, 'Who are you?'
His breath stank, like dead meat softening underground. Torchlight showed clumsy thumbmarks in his clay mask, from which bits of straw protruded.