He’d watched men murder each other for a scrap of food, or for no reason at all. But none of it compared to this. He sank to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.
“Paladine,” he wept “Oh, my god, forgive us for what we have done…”
He didn’t sense the three men stealing up behind him… didn’t hear the scuff of their footsteps on the dusty ground … didn’t see the cudgels in their hands. By the time he noticed, it was too late; they swarmed in his tear- blurred vision, already on top of him. He turned, reaching for Ebonbane-the sword was the one thing he’d kept from before the Cataclysm-and started to rise. But they were too close: he’d only half-drawn the blade when the leader, a scraggly youth whose blue eyes were dark with hate, brought his club down on Bron’s wrist.
Bone snapped. Pain bloomed. Bron fell, screaming. He never saw the second man’s face; only the club as it caught him under the chin, driving his teeth through his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth as his head snapped back, then darkness swarmed over his vision. He slumped, stunned, onto his side.
He felt a tug as one of them took Ebonbane from him, then another stole his purse. Dimly, he saw legs moving, and heard voices that sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a pit. Something wet and sticky hit his face. Spit.
“Bloody god-lover,” snarled one. “You heard him praying, didn’t you, Tarlo?”
A foot struck his side, bringing new pain. “Damn sure I did. Knew he was one o’ them the moment I saw the bastard.”
Bron understood, then, dimly. He’d passed by a small village early this morning-the sort of place where desperate men gathered to protect themselves from other desperate men. These three had followed him, probably hoping to rob him, and he’d been so intent on what lay ahead, he hadn’t noticed them. He cursed himself for not noticing them. He was a trained knight-or had been, anyway-and a gaggle of peasants had gotten the best of him.
“Only a few silvers and coppers,” said a third voice, thick with disgust. Bron guessed it was the boy who’d broken his arm. “What do we do with him now?”
“Toss him over the cliff,” growled the first. “Damned god-lovers don’t deserve any better.”
Rough hands seized his shoulders, shoved him forward. Panic flared in his mind, and he struggled to fight back, but his body refused to respond. The pain paralyzed him, and consciousness was draining away.
“Hold on,” said the one named Tarlo. “Look at this.”
They stopped, and dropped him on the ground again, on his back. His wrist-bones ground together, nearly making him pass out, but he fought through the pain. Bile burned in his throat as he fought to keep his eyes in focus.
They were gathered in a knot. In the middle, a scar-faced balding man-Tarlo-held Ebonbane. “This ain’t no ordinary
“It’s a fine weapon,” agreed the leader, a huge Dravinish brute who smelled like ripe cheese. He took it from Tarlo, turned it to catch the dim sunlight “A nobleman’s weapon.”
“Or a knight’s,” said Tarlo.
The youngest of the three raised his club. “A Hammer? Gods’ fists! We ain’t seen none o’ them for near six months. I thought they were mostly all dead.”
“So did I,” agreed Uvar. Then he peered down and laughed, one of the unfriendliest sounds Bron had ever heard. “He must be one, though. Look at how scared he is, Tarlo.”
The scarred man crouched down, cupped Bron’s cheek with his hand. “Hah! No doubt, Uvar. He’s one of them. Stupid of you to come here, Sir Knight,” he snarled, then let go, and cracked the back of his hand across Bron’s face. Stars exploded.
“We ain’t dumping him now, are we?” whined the boy.
The others laughed. “No, lad, we’re not,” said Tarlo.
“Dumping’s too easy for him,” Uvar agreed. Now he bent down over Bron, his breath reeking. “Hear that, Hammer-lad? You’re gonna be sorry you came here. You’re gonna be sorry you were
Bron tried to answer, to show defiance, but the only thing that got past his thick lips and bleeding tongue was a stream of bloody drool. Then Uvar’s meaty fist slammed into his eye, and that was all.
Later, the pain came rushing back: The peasants had trussed Bron like an animal. Heedless of his broken arm, they’d dragged him all the way back to their village-a squalid, grimy cluster of thatch huts, the charred skeleton of a Mishakite hospice looking down upon it from a hilltop. It was drizzling and cold, but a crowd had gathered anyway, jeering and hissing as the three peasants hauled him into the patch of mud that served as the town square. There was a post in its midst, with a rusty iron hook pounded into the top. Bron guessed its purpose well before they looped a rope through his bonds, then flung the other end up and over.
He gritted his teeth, but it did no good. He still howled like a babe when they hauled on the rope, hoisting him up off the ground. He vomited, and nearly choked on it as they tied off the top, leaving him swaying fifteen feet above the ground.
Then the torment began.
The children were the worst. He could endure the rage of the men, the scorn of the women. He could handle the mud and rotten vegetables they hurled, even the odd stone. He weathered their cries of “
It lasted all day long. Even when the sun went down, the villagers didn’t disperse; they kept at him by torchlight, hurling abuse and rubbish long into the night. It was past Midwatch when the crowd finally began to thin. By then, there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t smeared with blood and filth, not a part that didn’t sing with pain. When the last villagers finally departed, his mind turned to the day to come, and what would happen then. Would they kill him? Or would it be like yesterday, more abuse? How long would the punishment go on?
He prayed for a quick death, and not just because the alternative was more pain and humiliation. Could he really go on in this world, with all he’d ever known and loved vanished or destroyed? Could he stand it any longer, pretending to be a different man from the one he’d been? Could he face the knowledge that Istar would be long remembered as an empire of fools and villains?
Let it end here, he begged. Let it be soon.
They left Uvar as a guard. In the ruddy moonlight, Bron couldn’t make out much more. The village was dark, quiet. A half-starved dog rooted through the refuse until the big Dravinishman lobbed a rock and sent it yelping away. In the gloom, neither man saw the shadowed figure until it was standing right in front of the pole.
Uvar started, reaching for his cudgel, then relaxed. “Oh,” he said, stepping forward. “It’s you. What in the Abyss are you doing up so late? Want a go at him?”
Bron tried to make out the newcomer’s face, but he couldn’t see anything: just a gray cloak and hood, dark and sodden with rain. Whoever it was walked up to Uvar, saying nothing, and stopped when the two of them were face to face.
“Go ahead, have at him,” the brute continued cheerily. “You won’t have another chance, come morning. Just grab-” Suddenly, Uvar fell silent. Then he stumbled back, staring dumbly at his chest. The hilt of a dagger was lodged there. He grunted, looking at the stranger with an absurd expression of surprise, then pitched backward into the mud.
The cloaked newcomer wasted no time. Reaching down, he pulled the knife from the big man’s body, then went to the rope and began to cut through. Bron watched in amazement … then suddenly he was falling, landing in the mud with a splat and a sob of relief and pain. He gasped for breath, got a mouthful of sludge, and gagged while the stranger hurried forward to cut his bonds.
“Quickly now,” she said-a woman’s voice. “On your feet.”
Bron groaned. “I don’t think I can walk.”
“You’d best try. Tarlo will come to check on this one soon.” She kicked Uvar’s body. “We’d best be gone when he does.”
Bron peered at her, still trying to make out her face. “Who are you?”
