The shot of the long gun resounded through the chilly air. Collapsing into the snow, Vyncent and Brames approached their prey.
"Perfect shot," Brames mused, "I've never seen anyone shoot like you, Vynce."
Though long guns were infamous for their inaccuracy, there were a few men that had the talent to fire it precisely. One of them was his father, but he was gone. Another, Vyncent knew, was a certain mercenary back in Virtera. Master Jaul of Millsrow was his name. The man would pick men off the walls of cities. The storytellers called him Death's Eye, for when his aim fell upon his target, they were as good as dead.
"I got it from my father, I suppose," admitted Vyncent.
Blood oozed out of the hole in the buck's neck, its wildness rapidly fading with its life. Together, they bound it to the wooden pole and carried it back to Ralmes. Brames had no trouble lifting; he was fourteen but much larger than Vyncent, both in height and width. He had small black eyes, a tiny nose, and big ears. His dirt-brown hair was poorly cut: uneven and messy.
The sky was clear: there was not a cloud above them, and the snow shone brightly underfoot. For three days, Vyncent and his party had stayed in the hidden village; dire omens, ones foretold by the moon bowls, had the villagers urging Ferangis to stay to keep them safe. The green woman, to ease their fears, used her flori to conjure up a sapling to keep them safe. Vyncent assumed the tree would ward off whatever malevolent being that threatened them. But we must travel through that haunted wilderness to get to Mistress Farrok, thought Vyncent with worry. Today, Ferangis would finish nurturing her enchanted greenery; tomorrow, they would continue their journey.
"Your father shot well, did he?" Brames asked as they trudged through the snow.
"I've heard stories," Vyncent answered.
"Where's he now?"
"He's gone."
"Oh," muttered Brames, scratching his thick neck, "where'd he go?"
"I mean," Vynce said slowly, "he's dead."
"Oh," Brames glumly muttered again, "dead, is he? My father's dead, too."
"It's hard on us," said Vyncent flatly, shifting the weight of the pole to his other shoulder.
"My mother said a man from Lesser Vior poisoned him," explained Brames. Vyncent thought that was the end of it, but there was more he wanted to tell. "But, I know the truth," he said without pride. "At night, I saw them wrestling. A wolf was howling and kept me from sleeping, so I went to them. Scared, I was. So I went to them. They made lot'sa noise."
Gods, thought Vycnent, sighing, how far did we go out? Shouldn't we be in the village by now? Must I hear all this?
Vyncent had heard this story before on the day they met; Brames had mumbled the whole tragedy, apropos to nothing.
Brames went on. "And they were naked. My mother sounded like she was hurt. But then she gets up and pins my father down. I … I think she was winning." Brames sighed. "I think my mother was too rough. My father stopped moving."
Vyncent remembered seeing Nimlama Stamroth at the manor house. A large woman, she was, perhaps the biggest he had ever seen. She must have weighed thirty stone. Her sister was Lady Lombrea: half-sisters, they were. When trouble fell upon Brame's parents in Lesser Vior, Lady Lombrea took her and her husband, Karl, in her household. Karl was a fine officer under Magnus, which surprised Vyncent once Brames told him who he used to work for. "My father had a friend named Wylder," Brames had said, "but then they hated each other. He's a liar, my father used to say. A bloody liar."
Karl Stamroth had kept his coin well, however. Whatever underhanded talent the man held, he must have kept at it in Mayse in secret; Brames would brag about how his father would always come home with sweet cakes and berry pies for his mother.
When they passed by the grove—the sacred little glade where they buried their dead and planted sapling's over their bodies—Brames pointed at one, healthy and growing strong. "That's his little tree. They tell jokes. They say—"
Up ahead, they could see a crowd of children gathering at the rim of Ralmes; they were cheering as two of them fought. Vyncent dropped the stag suddenly and sprinted to one of the combatants; Reyen, stricken in the face, stumbled to the floor. The boy he fought sat on his chest and showed no mercy, battering the arms Reyen shielded himself with.
"Stop!" shouted Vyncent as he pulled Reyen's attacker by a shoulder. "Enough of this."
He got between them. The child fought in his arms. Reyen stood up and wiped the blood seeping from a cut on his cheek.
"Go away, Vyncent," growled Reyen, annoyed by the intervention, "I'll break his stupid nose on his stupid face. I don't need you."
"It's your nose that's gettin' bashed," spat back his opponent.
Molly sat on a rock, crying over a doll with its head torn off.
"What happened?" Vyncent asked Molly, though he had a slight idea of what transpired.
Reyen bellowed the answer before Molly could finish a sob, however. "It was stupid Bennett," Reyen insulted as he pointed at his adversary. "He ripped up Molly's doll."
"So?" Bennett drove his knee up between Vyncent's legs. Vyncent let go of the boy, grunting in pain."That's what you get for being friends with a Viorian." The children echoed their approval, telling the pair to get out of their village and how much trouble they would bring them.
Reyen, angered by Bennett's attack on his friend, shoved him. "You leave him alone, too." Then the boys were wrestling. Brames, who was dragging the game across the snow, abandoned the stag; he lifted Bennett off his feet like a baby. "Put me down, you oaf," Bennett shouted, hammering his holder with his fists.
Another voice called out, approaching from behind the spectators. "You best put him down, Brames," it said, "or I'll gut you."
The speaker pushed his way through the boys and girls; they all fell silent. A boy of sixteen years. Though Brames towered over him, he quickly did as he was told and shriveled at his approach.
"I'm sorry, Barrett," he apologized, shaking in fear, "they were fighting, and all … and …"
"and, and, and?" Barrett mocked. Brames closed his big, quivering lips and stared at his toes. When he jabbed at Brames belly with two fingers, he jumped back and made the sound of a kicked piglet. "And what?" He kept on with his assault. "I'll open you right here."
"I'm sorry," Brames whimpered, covering his stomach with his hands, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"City filth always stands with city filth," Barrett snarled, every word bitter.
"Please, Barrett, that hurts," begged Brames, "stop—"
The plea was an insult to the bully. "Or you'll what?" Barrett prodded for a threat. "'going to tell your sow-mother to straddle me?" The tormentor guffawed cruelly at his own joke. A few of the children echoed his laughter, albeit awkwardly.
Molly couldn't tolerate it. The girl got up from her rock, wiped her eyes, and rolled up a ball of mud and snow. "You leave him alone!" she shrieked as she threw the slush.
Vyncent didn't know which one of the brothers she meant to hit, but both were enraged all the same.
"That little bitch!" Shrieked Barrett, looking at the mess on his younger brother's tunic. Molly ran back to the manor house. Bennett tried to chase after her, but Vyncent grabbed his arm to stop him.
The act inflamed Barrett even more.
"NO ONE FUCKING TOUCHES MY BROTHER!" He howled, his voice loud enough to rattle the snow on the branches overhead.
He swung at Vyncent, but he saw it coming. He swooped down and struck Barrett's gut with his fist. That's for Brames. But in his wrath, the bully was far from being checked. He threw himself at Vyncent, knocking him off his feet. The two rolled around in the snow. When Barrett was on top, he wrapped his fingers tightly around Vyncent's throat. His teeth clenched hard, he squeezed. Never had Vyncent seen such hatred in another man's eyes; if he did nothing, Barrett would surely kill him. He tried to say, "stop." But he couldn't find the air to utter the word.
Vyncent bucked underneath, and his right hand, madly shifting through the snow, found a rock.
He slammed the stone into the side of Barrett's face. Released, Vyncent greedily sucked in air and threw the rock aside. To his left, Barrett moved a hand away from his mouth to spit out a tooth; blood leaked out between his fingers. Barrett showed no sign of fighting back: he stood on his hands and knees, dumbly staring at the snow that melted in the heat of his blood. But Vyncent's own ferocity was far from extinguished.
Vyncent kicked Barrett's ribs hard; when the force made him roll over on his back, Vyncent pinned him down and delivered a punch where the rock had hit him. He hit him again, this time in his nose.
Lost in his rage, Vyncent was relentless.
"No…" was all Barrett muttered weakly, covering his bloody face with his bloody hands.
Someone yanked Vyncent by his shoulder; whoever this was—by their strength—plucked him as if he was a rose petal.
Vyncent said nothing to his handler but, instead, growled like a mad dog, elbowing them until they released him. Suddenly, he regained his senses when they spoke.
"It's over." Pyran said. Vyncent ceased his fighting, and Pyran relaxed his grip.
When Vyncent looked upon Barrett, he was confused for a moment. As his opponent was lifted off the ground by Bennett and an older man, perhaps a guardian of his, he saw how terribly beaten his face was. How? Did I really …. He looked down at his hands: they were soaked with Barrett's blood. How far would he have gone had not Pyran stopped him, Vyncent wondered.
The whole village had gathered to watch the brutes brawl. They all stared at the victor, a low murmur in the ranks brought on by latecomers. Some looked angry with him, others disgusted.
When his eyes passed to Reyen, the boy swallowed spit, discomfort clear on his face. Molly had returned with her father, clutching at his leg and wiping her eyes on his breeches. Lady Lombrea stood behind them, a tight frown upon her lips. Brame's mother was there, too; Her big son had run to her and was crying into her shoulder. Larissa was there as well: she stood still, her expression blank. In her golden eyes, he could not tell if she feared or hated him for what he did.
If there was guilt or regret in his heart, at that moment, he couldn't find it, or he was not too interested in looking.
"What are you all gawking at?" Vyncent asked them all, annoyance heavy in his voice.
No one answered, but several of the villagers turned away and returned to their duties. Pyran's grip softened, Vyncent jerked away from him suddenly. The man in blue showed no interest in pursuing him as he trudged through the snow; instead, he went to assist Brames in carrying the stag.
"He would have killed me," Vyncent said quietly to himself.
Picking up his long gun from the snow, he made his way back into the woods to be alone. His mood cooled, he felt vestiges of guilt for his brutality.
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