Read Online Votan and Other Novels (FANTASY MASTERWORKS) by John James - Free Book Online
Authors: John James
Ads: Link
beneath my cloak. I still had my knife, the one that had pointed to Joy. I held my knife in my pain. The horse stopped. He got down. I could not remember who or what had given me pain. I only knew that I must increase pain, breed pain, multiply pain, bring pain to its highest power.
He took me by the shoulders to pull me off.
I stabbed him through the cloak, under the ribs and up. The man screamed, the horse screamed. Through pain I knew where pain lived. We fell together. I was on top. I struck and struck as he screamed, to the groin, to the face I slashed at his eyes, he vomited blood, he jetted blood and pain. The knife had gone, I held hair. Through pain I beat his head on the ground, I felt bone break.
He had been a long time dead. He had been long out of pain. The painful river ran with painful noise. The painful sun was high. Somehow I must see what I was left with.
The horse had gone. He was still there. He had a bag, on the ground near him, with sausage. He had a water bottle, full. I washed my face, swilled out my mouth. A little farther was another water bottle; mine, empty.
I felt I could look at him. The flies crawled in his eyes. I took my knife from his armpit. I cleaned it in the ground, I washed the blood with water. I made myself eat some sausage. I brought it up. I ate more. I must.
I turned him over. He stank. His clothes were tattered. My cloak was bloody, but his was foul, drenched in blood and worse. There was a wallet on his belt. I cut it away; a few silver pieces, a lump of Amber. I knew what I was going to do. I wanted rope. I turned him over and over. Round his waist, not rope, a chain, an iron chain, a gang chain, with places for the necks, and a lock. No key. Where to look for the key?
He had a bronze ring. Why should a man wear a bronze ring? Those keys with a finger ring on the end are common enoughhere, but I found it hard to think of one there. But even in this wilderness, the chain was Roman, the lock was Roman. The key must be Roman.
Those tales you have heard of cutting off a finger from a body to take a ring. They are true. I did it. I had the key. I put it on my own finger.
I could move a little now. I rolled him fifty paces to the edge of the river. It might have been a mile. We were on the outside of a bend, where the stream ran deep and fast and had cut the bank into a low cliff. I pushed him over into the water. He floated away. I never knew his name.
I lowered the water bottles by their straps and filled them. I soaked the shirt away from my wound. It was long and ragged but not deep. If I could lie up somewhere for a few days I might be fit enough to walk back to Haro’s farm. Cat men could follow the trail we had left, wolves could smell the blood. I must move on.
I reckoned that I could make perhaps a mile in the hour. It was slower going than that. After a few steps I stepped on my spear lying in the long grass, where it had fallen. I used it as a staff. It was easier then. I moved away from the river, through the scrub, alder and willow. I went up hill. There was nothing to my purpose. I had the set mind of the mad. No sane man would have done what I did.
I came out of the scrub. There was about half a mile of open space before the edge of the forest itself. There were charred stumps, spongy earth. The clearing had been burnt, frequently. No trees, nothing but grass had grown over it. In the centre of the clearing, too old and huge for a grass fire to harm, was an oak tree.
The oak in the burnt land should have warned. The scraps of rag and fur in the branches, the broken jars at the foot, the horse skulls around, should have told what it was. I was mad. Wolves could not climb a tree. Cat men could not see through a curtain of fresh leaves. Who sent me mad?
I got into the crown of the tree, a man’s height above the ground. Too high for wolves to jump? Every movement now tore at my knitting side, my brains flowed loose in my skull. I leantagainst a limb. The
He took me by the shoulders to pull me off.
I stabbed him through the cloak, under the ribs and up. The man screamed, the horse screamed. Through pain I knew where pain lived. We fell together. I was on top. I struck and struck as he screamed, to the groin, to the face I slashed at his eyes, he vomited blood, he jetted blood and pain. The knife had gone, I held hair. Through pain I beat his head on the ground, I felt bone break.
He had been a long time dead. He had been long out of pain. The painful river ran with painful noise. The painful sun was high. Somehow I must see what I was left with.
The horse had gone. He was still there. He had a bag, on the ground near him, with sausage. He had a water bottle, full. I washed my face, swilled out my mouth. A little farther was another water bottle; mine, empty.
I felt I could look at him. The flies crawled in his eyes. I took my knife from his armpit. I cleaned it in the ground, I washed the blood with water. I made myself eat some sausage. I brought it up. I ate more. I must.
I turned him over. He stank. His clothes were tattered. My cloak was bloody, but his was foul, drenched in blood and worse. There was a wallet on his belt. I cut it away; a few silver pieces, a lump of Amber. I knew what I was going to do. I wanted rope. I turned him over and over. Round his waist, not rope, a chain, an iron chain, a gang chain, with places for the necks, and a lock. No key. Where to look for the key?
He had a bronze ring. Why should a man wear a bronze ring? Those keys with a finger ring on the end are common enoughhere, but I found it hard to think of one there. But even in this wilderness, the chain was Roman, the lock was Roman. The key must be Roman.
Those tales you have heard of cutting off a finger from a body to take a ring. They are true. I did it. I had the key. I put it on my own finger.
I could move a little now. I rolled him fifty paces to the edge of the river. It might have been a mile. We were on the outside of a bend, where the stream ran deep and fast and had cut the bank into a low cliff. I pushed him over into the water. He floated away. I never knew his name.
I lowered the water bottles by their straps and filled them. I soaked the shirt away from my wound. It was long and ragged but not deep. If I could lie up somewhere for a few days I might be fit enough to walk back to Haro’s farm. Cat men could follow the trail we had left, wolves could smell the blood. I must move on.
I reckoned that I could make perhaps a mile in the hour. It was slower going than that. After a few steps I stepped on my spear lying in the long grass, where it had fallen. I used it as a staff. It was easier then. I moved away from the river, through the scrub, alder and willow. I went up hill. There was nothing to my purpose. I had the set mind of the mad. No sane man would have done what I did.
I came out of the scrub. There was about half a mile of open space before the edge of the forest itself. There were charred stumps, spongy earth. The clearing had been burnt, frequently. No trees, nothing but grass had grown over it. In the centre of the clearing, too old and huge for a grass fire to harm, was an oak tree.
The oak in the burnt land should have warned. The scraps of rag and fur in the branches, the broken jars at the foot, the horse skulls around, should have told what it was. I was mad. Wolves could not climb a tree. Cat men could not see through a curtain of fresh leaves. Who sent me mad?
I got into the crown of the tree, a man’s height above the ground. Too high for wolves to jump? Every movement now tore at my knitting side, my brains flowed loose in my skull. I leantagainst a limb. The
Similar Books
