Achan stumbled through the darkness toward the barn. The morning cold sent shivers through his threadbare linen tunic. He held a flickering torch out in front to light his way, clutched a wooden milking pail at his side, and wove between dark cottages in the outer bailey, mindful to keep his torch clear of the thatched roofs. Most of the residents of Sitna Manor still slept. Only a few of the twenty-some peasants, slaves, and strays serving Lord Nathak and Prince Gidon stirred at this hour.
Inside, the walls of the barn stymied the bitter wind, and Achan’s shivering lessened. The scent of hay and manure drifted on the chilled air. A long path stretched across the center of the barn with ten stalls on each side penning chickens, geese, pigs, and goats. Two empty stalls in the front housed hay and feed. Achan slid the torch into an iron ring just inside the door and approached the goat stall.
“Morning, Dilly, Peg. How are my girls? Got lots of milk for me?”
The goats bleated their greetings. Achan blew on his hands and rubbed them together until they were warm enough to avoid his getting kicked. He perched on the icy stool to milk Dilly. It was tedious, but he could have worse jobs, and he liked the goats.
By the time Achan finished with Dilly, the stool under his backside had thawed, though his breath still clouded in the torch’s dull glow. He lifted the pail to get a better look. Dilly had filled it a third. Achan set it between his feet, slapped Dilly on the rear, and called Peg. When he finished her, he moved his stool outside, set the milk on top of it, and grabbed a pitchfork off the wall.
“Anyone hungry?”
Dilly and Peg danced around as Achan dumped fresh hay into the trough. The goats’ excitement faded to munching. The other animals stirred, but they were not his responsibility. Mox, the scrawny barn boy, shuffled from stall to stall at the other end of the barn.
Achan dumped in a few more scoops, leaned the pitchfork against the wall, and paused. A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. The familiar, hollow pressure in his head wasn’t painful but brought a sense of a looming, sinister shadow. He stiffened. Someone was coming.
“Lo, Mox!” someone called.
“Moxy poxy hoggy face, we know you’re in here.”
Achan sucked a sharp, icy breath through his nostrils and slid back into the goat stall. The voices belonged to Riga Hoff and Harnu Poe, Sitna Manor’s resident browbeaters. Achan had been their favorite target until his height and strength developed enough that they could no longer win easily. It was rarely personal with them. The bloodthirsty mutts were just bored.
Mox’s young voice cried out, “Stop it! Don’t do that! Ah!”
Achan set his jaw and thunked his head against the wall of the stall. He met Dilly’s reprimanding gaze.
“I’m going,” he hissed, knowing once he interfered in their fun, Riga and Harnu would make it personal.
Poril, the cook and Achan’s master, would flay him if he returned late. And there was no guarantee he could beat both boys. Why couldn’t he leave people be? Regular beatings had made him tough; they could do likewise for Mox. Achan sighed. Or they could cripple him for life. An image of a young slave Riga and Harnu dragged through the linen field, flooded his mind. They’d crushed his hands so badly, all the boy could do now was pull a cart like a mule.
Achan crept out of the stall, grabbed the pitchfork, and edged to the other end of the barn. Two piglets scurried past his feet. He clenched his jaw and stifled a growl. Riga and Harnu had to know if the animals got out, Mox would be punished by his master too.
In a pig stall at the end of the barn, Harnu held Mox’s face in a trough of slop. The mere thought of the smell turned Achan’s empty stomach. Riga leaned over Harnu’s shoulder laughing, his ample rear blocking the stall’s entrance. Being the merchant’s son, Riga always dressed his best. Achan didn’t see the clothing as an improvement. The fine linen stretched over Riga’s girth and rode up his back in wrinkles, baring more skin than Achan cared to see.
He sent a quick prayer up to the gods and poked the pitchfork into Riga’s rear. “Can I help you boys with something?”
Riga spun around, his mess of short, golden curls sticking out in all directions. His face was so pudgy Achan could never tell if his eyes were open or closed. “Stay out of this, dog!”
Harnu released Mox and pushed past Riga out of the stall. The torch’s beam illuminated his pock-marked face, a hazard from working too close to the forge. “Moxy poxy piglet got out of his pen. He needs to learn his place, and you need to learn yours.” Harnu stood a foot taller than Riga and was the real threat in the barn. His father was Lord Nathak’s smith and armorer, a job that required muscle, of which Harnu had plenty.
Achan held his ground, pitchfork ready. “Let him go.”
Harnu’s gaze flitted to the weapon.
Achan waved it slightly back and forth, hoping to scare the brute into flight. “The barn is off limits to your instruction. Anything else I can do for you boys? Little hay? Some oats, perhaps? Drag you to the moat, tie a millstone to your ankles, see how well you swim?”
Like a dog being teased with a bone, Harnu lunged.
Achan stepped back out of the attack and raised the pitchfork above his head the way he’d seen knights do in the long-sword tournaments. With nothing to stop his hurtling bulk, Harnu stumbled. Achan swung. The left tong sliced across Harnu’s face. Harnu growled, stooped over with one hand on his knee, and clapped the other over his cheek as if to hold it together.
Riga slipped past the stall and made toward the milk pail. Achan darted forward and stuck the pitchfork in the clay earth, tilting it enough to snag Riga’s foot. The merchant’s son tripped and sprawled into the dirt and hay. Footsteps behind Achan sent him wheeling around. He lifted the pitchfork to Harnu’s chest.
Harnu raised his hands and stepped back, a thick line of blood swelling across his reddened cheek. “Lord Nathak will hear ’bout this, stray.”
No one—especially Lord Nathak—would take the word of a stray over a peasant. Achan jabbed the pitchfork out, pricking Harnu’s chest. “If Lord Nathak hears a breath of this, I know where you lay your head.”
Harnu snorted and beat his chest with a clenched fist. “You dare threaten me?”
Riga had inched out of sight. Achan backed toward the hay pile looking to keep an eye on both peasants, but Riga had vanished. Achan took another step back, keeping the pitchfork aimed at Harnu. His boot knocked against something.
Harnu cackled and pointed at the ground behind Achan’s feet. Achan looked down. The stool and pail lay on their sides, milk seeping into the red clay soil.
Pig snout!
Riga charged out of the hay stall and jerked the pitchfork away, startling Achan long enough for Harnu’s brute force to batter him to the ground. The pitchfork dug into Achan’s back. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to give the peasants the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He was more upset over the spilled milk than the pain.
Pain he was used to.
Mox pointed at Achan from the end of the barn, his face gooey with slop. “Ha ha!”
The ungrateful scab was on his own next time.
Dilly and Peg kicked against the wall of their stall, agitated by Achan’s distress. Harnu crouched in front of him, grabbed the back of his head, and pushed his face toward the puddle seeping into the dirt floor. “Lick it up, dog!”
Achan thrashed in the hay, losing his battle with Harnu’s hand. He turned his head just as his cheek splashed into the milky muck. The liquid steamed around his face. Harnu released Achan’s head and sat back on his haunches, his wide lips twisting in a triumphant sneer.
Riga chortled, a dopey sound proclaiming ignorance. “I’d like a new rug, Harnu. What say we skin the stray?” He dragged the pitchfork down Achan’s back.
They never learned.
Achan gritted his teeth and pushed up with his arms. The prongs dug deeper but allowed him enough space to slide his right arm and leg underneath his body and twist free. He grabbed the handle of the pail and swung it at Harnu, who fell onto his backside and clutched his nose. Achan scrambled to his feet, grabbed another pitchfork off the wall, and squared off with Riga.
The peasant waddled nearer, chubby face sneering, and lifted his weapon. Achan faked an up-swing. Riga heaved the pitchfork up to block, but Achan stabbed low into his shin. Riga squealed and dropped his weapon. Achan yanked the prongs free, kicked the fallen pitchfork aside, then swung his own weapon hard into Riga’s wounded leg.
The boy went down like a slaughtered pig.
Thankfully, Harnu was still tending his nose. He pinched it with one hand and wiped a fistful of hay across his upper lip with the other. Harnu normally put up more of a fight, but the blood must have distracted him.
“This does grow old,” Achan said. “How many times must I trounce you both?”
Harnu pinched his nose, his voice nasal. “I’m telling Lord Nathak.”
“You’ve no right to attack us,” Riga mumbled.
Achan wanted to argue, “And what of Mox?” but he’d sacrificed enough for the thankless whelp. He grabbed both pitchforks and fled, seeking to destroy evidence of his foul play. Pale dawn light blanketed Sitna Manor. He glanced at the sentry walk of the outer gatehouse while running toward the drawbridge. The squared parapet was black against the gray sky. A lone guard stood on the wall above like a shadow.
Achan looked away and exited the outer bailey. As usual, the guards ignored him. Few people in the manor acknowledged anyone wearing an orange tunic. One small advantage to being a stray. He ran around the moat to the water’s edge and sank to his knees to wash the blood off the pitchforks.
Riga and Harnu wouldn’t let this go easily.
Achan sighed. His fingers stiffened in the rank, icy water. One of these days he’d accept pretty Gren Fenny’s offer to weave him a brown tunic and he’d run away. He was almost of age; maybe no one would question his heritage. He could tell people his mother was a mistress and his father was on Ice Island. Sired by a criminal and almost sixteen, people wouldn’t ask too many questions.
But if it was discovered he had no kin, they’d check his shoulder for the mark. When they found it, they’d force another orange tunic on him and drag him back to Sitna in shackles.
When the pitchforks were clean, Achan returned to the barn. His attackers had left, and thankfully not done any damage they could blame him for. He shuddered to think of what their feeble minds hadn’t. The torch still burned in the ring by the door. They could have burned the barn to ashes. They were truly the thickest heads in Sitna, maybe even in all Er’Rets.
Not that Achan was much brighter, sacrificing himself for an ungrateful scab of a peasant who was probably out chasing piglets.
Achan hung one pitchfork on the wall and used the other to clean up the hay. When the ground was tidy, he picked up the empty pail and sat on the stool to catch his breath. The scratches on his back throbbed. The goat’s milk had completely soaked into the ground, the front of his tunic, and his face. Only the latter had dried, making the skin tight on his left cheek. His nose tingled from the cold. He shivered violently, now that he’d stopped moving, and gripped the wooden pail tight. The consequences of his heroism were suddenly laid before him. He scowled and pitched the pail across the barn. It smacked the goat stall, and the girls scurried around inside, frightened by the sound.
Achan didn’t want a beating. He dragged the stool into the stall and managed to squeeze another two inches of milk from the goats. It was all they had. Poril would be furious.
Achan jogged out of the barn, around the cottages, and across the inner bailey. By now, more people were stirring—it was almost breakfast. He wove around a peddler pushing a cart full of linens and a squire leading a horse from the stables. A piglet scurried past, just avoiding the wheels of a trader’s wagon. Achan ignored it. Mox could hang for all he cared.
Pressure filled his head again, but this time the insight that followed was kinship and hope. Achan paused at the entrance to the kitchens and turned, seeking out the sensation. His gaze was drawn to the armory. Harnu slouched on a stool clutching a bloody rag to his nose; his father stood over him, hands on his hips. The warm glow of the forge behind their menacing forms brought to mind the Lowerworld song Minstrel Harp sang in the Corner last night.
When Arman turns away, Utopia denied
To Lowerword your soul will flee
At the fiery gates meet your new lord, Gâzar
And forever in Darkness you’ll be.
Achan shuddered. The sensation of kinship definitely was not from them.
A knight leaned against the crude structure—a safe distance from Harnu—and watched Achan with a pensive stare. He wore the uniform of the Old Kingsguard, a red, hooded cloak that draped over both arms and hung to a triangular point in the center front and back. The crest of the city of Armonguard, embroidered in gold thread, glimmered over his chest. The knight pulled his hood back to reveal white hair, partially tied back on top and hanging past his shoulders. A white beard dangled in a single braid extending to his chest.
It was Sir Gavin Lukos, the knight who had come to train Prince Gidon for his presentation to the council.
For what purpose did the knight stare? Achan had never met anyone above his station who didn’t wish him hard work or harm. Yet his instincts had never been wrong. He’d always been able to sense the intentions of others, even before they were near, and his senses promised Sir Gavin harbored no ill will. Achan gave the old man a half-smile before entering the kitchens to face Poril’s wrath.
* * * *
Achan settled onto a stool by the chest-high table, worn with years of knives and kneading. Poril, a burly old man with sagging posture, poured batter into stone cups and carried them to the hearth oven. Serving women scurried about filling trays with food, gossiping about Lord Nathak’s latest rejection from the Duchess of Carm. Achan’s stomach growled at the smell of fried bacon and ginger cake. He wouldn’t be able to eat until after the nobility were served, and then he was only allowed one bowl of porridge. Poril had a knack of knowing if Achan had eaten something he shouldn’t have. Achan suspected the serving women’s tongues flapped for extra slices of Poril’s pies.
The scratches on his back burned. He was in no mood for Poril’s daily lecture, nor could he stomach the cook’s nagging voice and the queer way he spoke about himself using his own name. Especially not when he was hungry and had a beating coming.
Poril scurried back to the table with a linen sack of potatoes. His downy white hair floated over his freckled scalp. “It’s what comes from giving a stray responsibility, that’s what. But Poril’s a kind soul, he is. Mother was a stray and no kinder woman there ever was, boy, I’ll tell yeh that. Worked hard so Poril could have better, she did.”
Poril dumped the potatoes onto the table. Several rolled onto the dirt floor, and Achan scrambled to pick them up. He spotted a crumbled wedge of ginger cake on the floor and stuffed the spicy sweetness into his mouth. It was even a bit warm still. Achan took his time setting the potatoes back on the table and pressed the lump of cake into the roof of his mouth to savor it, hoping Poril didn’t see. Then he grabbed a knife and hacked at the peel of the biggest potato.
Poril pointed a crooked finger in Achan’s face. “It’s only ’cause Poril’s the best cook in Er’Rets that Lord Nathak won’t be aware of yer blunder today, boy. ’Tis my responsibility to beat some sense into yeh, not his. Poril’s a fair man, and yeh deserve to be punished, that’s certain. But turning yeh over to the likes of the master is cruel, and cruel, Poril’s not.”
Achan set the peeled potato aside and picked up another. True, Poril was not as cruel as some, but he was of the opinion, beatings with the belt were kinder than beatings with a fist. Achan grew tired of both.
Poril clunked a mug of red tonic onto the table beside Achan’s potato peelings. Achan glanced at it, then up at Poril.
The old man’s gray eyes dared him to refuse. “Drink up, then. Poril’s waiting.”
Achan sucked in a long breath and guzzled the gooey, bitter liquid. The taste killed the lingering ginger cake flavor on his tongue. He’d been fed the tonic every morning his whole life, and every morning Poril insisted on watching him drink. The thick mixture always churned in his gut, begging to come back up. Achan sat still a moment, breathing through his nose to calm his nerves, then rose to settle his stomach with a few mentha leaves from the spice baskets.
Achan might not have free range of the kitchens, but Poril had learned long ago to allow Achan as much mentha as needed.
Poril claimed Lord Nathak insisted Achan drink the tonic to keep away illness—that strays were full of disease. But the tonic hadn’t prevented Achan from being ill several times in his life. Plus no other stray he knew took the drink. The one time he refused, he’d received a personal summons from Lord Nathak.
Achan shuddered at the memory and chewed on the leaves. Their fresh taste dissolved the tonic’s bitterness and tingled his tongue.
Poril wiped his hands on his grease-stained apron and sprinkled a bit of sugar over the prince’s ginger cake. Hopefully he’d forget to clean the crumbs off the table when he left to deliver it.
“Never wanted yeh, Poril didn’t. But the master brought yeh to Poril to raise and that’s what Poril’s done. Yeh brought none but trouble to the kitchens, the gods know. None but trouble. ’Tis why I named yeh so.”
As if an orange tunic wasn’t humiliation enough, achan meant trouble in the ancient language. Achan returned to his stool and raked the knife against another potato, trying to block out Poril’s braying voice. His pitchfork wounds stung, but it would be at least an hour before he could tend to them.
“…and Poril will teach yeh right from wrong, too. That’s Poril’s duty to the gods.”
If that was true, Achan would like to have a little talk with the gods. Not that the all powerful Cetheria would be burdened by the prayers of a stray despite all the day-old tarts Achan had offered up at the entrance to the temple gardens over the years.
Day-old tarts didn’t compare to gold cups, jewels, or coins.
An hour later, Achan washed the dishes while Poril delivered Lord Nathak and Prince Gidon’s breakfast. There were servants to do the task, but Poril insisted on being present when the first bites were taken.
Achan shifted his weight to his other leg. He hated cleaning dishes. Standing in one position for so long made his back ache, and today, with his pitchfork wounds, the pain doubled.
Strays were property in most parts of Er’Rets, lower than slaves, yet, gods be praised, Achan had more freedom than most slaves. Poril kept him busy tending the goats, getting wood, keeping the fireplaces hot, and both kitchens clean, but at least there was variety. Some slaves worked fifteen hours a day at their tasks. Such tediousness would have driven Achan insane.
And as long as he obeyed and worked hard, he avoided beatings. The only problem was his habit of getting into fights to help someone else. He berated himself for another bad choice and vowed to steer clear of trouble in the future. People could take care of themselves.
Achan dried the last pot and hung the towel on the line outside. When he came back in, Poril had returned. The cook wiggled his crooked fingers, beckoning Achan to follow him down the skinny stone steps to the cellar. Achan sighed, dreading the bite of Poril’s belt buckle.
The cook lived in a cramped room off of the cellar, furnished with a straw mattress, a tiny oak table, and two chairs. Achan slept in the cellar itself, under the supports that held up the ale casks, although he barely fit anymore. He feared to be crushed in his sleep one night when he rolled against one of the supports and it finally gave way.
As per routine, Achan went to Poril’s table, removed his tunic, and draped it over the back of one chair. He straddled the other in reverse, hunching over the back and hugging it with his arms. His teeth fit into the grooves of bite marks he’d made over the years. He clenched down and waited.
Poril ran a finger down one of the scratches on Achan’s back. “What’s this?”
Achan quivered at the feel of crusty blood and flaky flesh under Poril’s touch.
“Well? Speak up, boy. Poril don’t have all day to waste on yer silence.”
“I met some peasants in the barn this morning.”
“Spilled yer milk, did they?”
Not exactly, but Achan said, “Aye.”
“Yeh cause trouble?”
Achan didn’t answer. Poril always complained when Achan defended himself or anyone else. He said a stray should know his place and take his beatings like he’d deserved them.
“Ah, yer a fool, yeh are, boy. One of these days yeh’ll be killed, and Poril will tell the tale of how he knew it would come to pass. The boy wouldn’t listen to Poril. Had to smart off. Had to fight back. Not even Cetheria will have mercy on such idiocy.”
Cetheria, the goddess of protection, had done little for Achan, despite his meager offerings and prayers. He doubted it mattered if he stuck up for himself or not. If a stray was invisible to man, how much more so to the gods?
Achan heard the swoosh of Poril pulling his leather belt from the loops on his trousers. He hoped his pants fell down.
When Poril was done flogging Achan, he kindly swabbed his back with soapy water, washed the blood from his tunic, and gave him an hour off to rest while it dried.
Good old Poril.
* * * *
Achan returned from the well that afternoon, carrying a heavy yoke over his shoulders with two full buckets of water, and found Sir Gavin Lukos in his path. A kindly presence flooded his mind. He stepped aside, pressing up against a cottage and carefully turning the yoke so the buckets wouldn’t hinder the great knight’s path.
Sir Gavin slowed. “What’s your name, stray?”
Achan jumped, wincing as the yoke sent a sliver into the back of his neck. Sir Gavin’s eyes bored into his. One was icy blue and the other was dark brown. The difference startled Achan, but he remembered to answer. “Achan, sir.”
The knight’s weathered face wrinkled. “What kind of a name is that?”
Poril’s voice nagged in Achan’s mind, ’Tis trouble, that’s what. Instead Achan said, “Mine, sir.”
“Surname?”
Achan lifted his chin and answered, “Cham,” proud of the animal Poril had chosen to represent him. Chams breathed fire and had claws as long as his hand. Such virtues would tame Riga and Harnu for good.
Sir Gavin sniffed. “A fine choice.” His braided beard bobbed as he spoke. “I saw a bit of that ruthless bear in the barn with those peasants. What’s your aim, lad?”
Achan stared, shocked at the knight’s attention. He’d seen the fight? Would he tell Lord Nathak? “I…um…should like to serve in Lord Nathak’s kitchens…perhaps someday assist the stableman with the horses.”
“Bah! Kitchens and stables are no place for a cham. That’s a feisty beast. You need a goal fit for the animal.”
What could the knight be skirting around? “But I…I don’t have a…what choice have I?”
“Aw, now there’s always a choice, lad. Kingsguard is the highest honor to be had by a stray. Why not choose that?”
Achan cut off a gasping laugh, afraid of offending the knight. “I cannot. Forgive me, but you’re…I mean…a stray is not permitted to serve in the Kingsguard, sir.”
“It wasn’t always that way, you know. And despite any council law, there are always exceptions.”
Achan shifted the yoke a bit, uncomfortable with the weight and the subject matter. He cared little for myths and legends. Council law was all that mattered anymore. Despite his fantasy of running away, he was Lord Nathak’s property, nothing more. “Even so, sir, one must serve as a page first, then squire, and no knight would wish a stray for either.”
“Except, perhaps, a knight who’s a stray himself.” Sir Gavin winked his brown eye.
A tingle ran up Achan’s arms. He knew Sir Gavin was a stray because of his animal surname, but it had been years since strays were permitted to serve. Surely he couldn’t mean—
“Come to the stables an hour before sunrise tomorrow. Your training mustn’t interfere with your duties to the manor. Tell no one of this for now. If I decide yer worthy, I’ll talk to Lord Nathak about reassignment to me.”
Achan’s mouth hung open. “You’re offering to train me?”
“If you’re not interested, I’m sure another would be eager to accept my offer.”
Achan shifted under the weight of the yoke. “No. No, sir. I’ll be there…tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll show you a trick or two you don’t yet know.”
Achan grinned. “Yes, sir.”
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