planning to do a few moments ago,’enquired Cyrus, now standing above Tor who was still crouched next to Cloot.
An unspoken message passed between Tor and his crippled friend. Tor stood, finding himself eye to eye with the Prime, which was a new experience for both of them. Each was used to being the tallest of men. Tor noted with relief that the man’s eyes had resumed a certain mellowness and he opted for his usual explanation when he found himself in an inexplicable situation: a characteristic shrug.
‘I asked you for your name, boy,’ Cyrus reminded quietly.
‘Tor, sir. Torkyn Gynt.’
‘And you hail from…?’
‘I’ve just arrived from Flat Meadows, Prime. I…um…I stabled my mare and was strolling around the town hoping to find a room for the night and stumbled across this…er, him.’ Tor nodded towards the prisoner who remained silent.
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, sir, er Prime, I don’t. Well, he spoke…No sir. No, I don’t…not exactly.’
This made Cyrus glare at him again. He enunciated his words very carefully in case Tor had not understood the original question.
‘Have you or have you not met this person before? Don’t be clever with me, boy.’
‘I have not,’ Tor replied, relieved he could answer with honesty.
The Prime squinted as he tried to read Tor. It was a look his two lieutenants knew intimately. He possessedan uncanny ability to judge the integrity of someone. Everyone in the royal corps knew to fear that look if they were not being entirely truthful. Tor held the gaze steadily and, though tempted to look down and kick a stone or shuffle his feet with the embarrassment he felt, resisted the urge.
Cloot, his head still attached to the post by the nail in his ear, grunted in pain. Cyrus cast a glance at the prisoner and then back at Tor. Finally he extended a large and surprisingly well-manicured hand at the boy.
‘Well, Torkyn Gynt, if you don’t know this man then you’re a fool.’ He smiled broadly which took Tor by surprise. ‘But a courageous one. I’m glad someone had the bollocks to think about standing up to that sadistic swine…though the gods only know what you had in mind.’
His smile, ferocious and brilliant in intensity, disappeared as soon as he looked back at the man on the floor. ‘Help me, boy. Let’s get the halfwit free.’
‘He’s not a halfwit, sir; his name’s Cloot…er, Prime Cyrus.’ Tor’s leap to defend was sprung too fast.
Cyrus peered at him with raised eyebrows and a grim yet bemused expression. He said nothing, the look was enough.
‘I mean…’ Tor was about to start gabbling. He knew he had made an error. ‘With respect, Prime, from what I can tell, he may be mute as well as a cripple, perhaps not an idiot though.’
Tor grinned. He hoped it would help, and he felt sweet relief when the Prime’s brow puzzled.
‘You’re a physic as well as a warrior, then?’ Cyrus’s sarcasm was gentle this time.
‘No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I’m training to be one, that is, sir. I just think he would have cried out…er, from the pain if he could talk. Don’t you think so?’
Cyrus growled quietly to himself. He locked his knife behind the carelessly banged-in nail. ‘Now for the nasty bit,’ he said, before releasing Cloot who fell helplessly against Tor. ‘You poor sod,’ Cyrus muttered, noticing just how badly hurt the man was. ‘Wait whilst I get help, Gynt.’ He stalked away.
Cloot, still in Tor’s arms, turned his large head to face the boy. His misshapen features, pulped by the beating, somehow rearranged themselves into a smile. Thank you , was whispered into Tor’s mind.
Tor was moved by the man’s dignity. ‘Rest, Cloot.’
Cyrus returned with two of his men in tow, dragging a cart.
‘Get him loaded on there, Riss,’ he ordered. ‘Gently, man, he’s half dead already.’
Tor stood up. ‘What happens now, sir?’
‘My men will see him to the alms hostel. If old man Jonas is not in his cups yet
An unspoken message passed between Tor and his crippled friend. Tor stood, finding himself eye to eye with the Prime, which was a new experience for both of them. Each was used to being the tallest of men. Tor noted with relief that the man’s eyes had resumed a certain mellowness and he opted for his usual explanation when he found himself in an inexplicable situation: a characteristic shrug.
‘I asked you for your name, boy,’ Cyrus reminded quietly.
‘Tor, sir. Torkyn Gynt.’
‘And you hail from…?’
‘I’ve just arrived from Flat Meadows, Prime. I…um…I stabled my mare and was strolling around the town hoping to find a room for the night and stumbled across this…er, him.’ Tor nodded towards the prisoner who remained silent.
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, sir, er Prime, I don’t. Well, he spoke…No sir. No, I don’t…not exactly.’
This made Cyrus glare at him again. He enunciated his words very carefully in case Tor had not understood the original question.
‘Have you or have you not met this person before? Don’t be clever with me, boy.’
‘I have not,’ Tor replied, relieved he could answer with honesty.
The Prime squinted as he tried to read Tor. It was a look his two lieutenants knew intimately. He possessedan uncanny ability to judge the integrity of someone. Everyone in the royal corps knew to fear that look if they were not being entirely truthful. Tor held the gaze steadily and, though tempted to look down and kick a stone or shuffle his feet with the embarrassment he felt, resisted the urge.
Cloot, his head still attached to the post by the nail in his ear, grunted in pain. Cyrus cast a glance at the prisoner and then back at Tor. Finally he extended a large and surprisingly well-manicured hand at the boy.
‘Well, Torkyn Gynt, if you don’t know this man then you’re a fool.’ He smiled broadly which took Tor by surprise. ‘But a courageous one. I’m glad someone had the bollocks to think about standing up to that sadistic swine…though the gods only know what you had in mind.’
His smile, ferocious and brilliant in intensity, disappeared as soon as he looked back at the man on the floor. ‘Help me, boy. Let’s get the halfwit free.’
‘He’s not a halfwit, sir; his name’s Cloot…er, Prime Cyrus.’ Tor’s leap to defend was sprung too fast.
Cyrus peered at him with raised eyebrows and a grim yet bemused expression. He said nothing, the look was enough.
‘I mean…’ Tor was about to start gabbling. He knew he had made an error. ‘With respect, Prime, from what I can tell, he may be mute as well as a cripple, perhaps not an idiot though.’
Tor grinned. He hoped it would help, and he felt sweet relief when the Prime’s brow puzzled.
‘You’re a physic as well as a warrior, then?’ Cyrus’s sarcasm was gentle this time.
‘No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I’m training to be one, that is, sir. I just think he would have cried out…er, from the pain if he could talk. Don’t you think so?’
Cyrus growled quietly to himself. He locked his knife behind the carelessly banged-in nail. ‘Now for the nasty bit,’ he said, before releasing Cloot who fell helplessly against Tor. ‘You poor sod,’ Cyrus muttered, noticing just how badly hurt the man was. ‘Wait whilst I get help, Gynt.’ He stalked away.
Cloot, still in Tor’s arms, turned his large head to face the boy. His misshapen features, pulped by the beating, somehow rearranged themselves into a smile. Thank you , was whispered into Tor’s mind.
Tor was moved by the man’s dignity. ‘Rest, Cloot.’
Cyrus returned with two of his men in tow, dragging a cart.
‘Get him loaded on there, Riss,’ he ordered. ‘Gently, man, he’s half dead already.’
Tor stood up. ‘What happens now, sir?’
‘My men will see him to the alms hostel. If old man Jonas is not in his cups yet
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