then another, and then the pile of debris that half-blocked the passage onwards. Hauled himself over it, whimpering with every movement. Snow had said there was someone else down here. Probably another alchemist. He’d been putting that out of his mind, concentrating on one thing at a time – getting to shelter – but he was going to have to think about it now, down here in the gloom. Didn’t have his bow – that was somewhere up the slope by the castle where the dragons were. Didn’t have any arrows with him any more, what with being thrown down a mountain. Nor two working arms. Knives then. Softly creeping closer, a quick stab in the neck and he’d be done. And then just lie here until the dragons went away and his arm got better or else the food ran out. Whatever happened first.
One of his knives was missing too. Just gone. Probably buried in the snow under the trees somewhere. Still had the other one, though. One was enough. Only had one good hand anyway.
At least the light was still there, off in the distance, the same shadow hundreds of yards away. Steady this time. He shuffled along the tunnel, propping himself up against the wall, trying to be quiet. There was still plenty to trip on. He passed passages, dark and lifeless, one, two, then the third, the other stairs leading back to gods knew where. As he reached the light, he heard a noise, a sort of rasping, gasping noise. He gripped the knife in his good hand. His left hand, which wasn’t his better hand. Then he peered around the corner.
The refuge was as he remembered it. Beds, table, pots to piss in. The food was still there, and the lamps too. Three dead bodies on the floor with Kemir’s arrows in them. And a woman. Sitting at the table with her head in her hands and her back to him. She had no idea he was there.
He held the knife tighter still. The easy thing, the wise thing, would be to creep around behind her and send her the way of the rest of them. He didn’t know how he’d missed her when he’d come down before. Must have been lurking in the shadows at the back, invisible in the dark. Chances were she’d seen him. Would remember him. Couldn’t be many folk came creeping down these tunnels, after all…
Dragon-riders, alchemists, same difference. He was about to take a step, but then hesitated. He’d never cut a throat with his off-hand before. Never done it with one hand. Wasn’t sure he knew how. Best to bury the knife in her back then. Or into her neck. His hands and feet wouldn’t move, though. Stabbing a weeping woman in the back was enough to make him at least pause.
So what if she’s a woman? Makes no odds. Why should it?
Maybe she wasn’t an alchemist. Maybe she was just some serving girl they’d dragged down here to amuse them while they waited for the dragons to go.
Or maybe she is an alchemist. Get on with it!
His feet still weren’t moving. If he made a noise, he didn’t hear it, yet the woman suddenly looked up, right at him. She blinked, saw the knife and then jumped up, skittering away to the other side of the table. Scared witless. He searched her eyes. No sign of anything except what you’d expect when you’d just spotted someone creeping up on you with a knife.
He was so gods-damned tired. The knife quivered in his hand. He slumped against the wall and let out a low moan of pain. ‘I thought. ..’ Thought what, Kemir? Go on, talk your way out of this one. He closed his eyes for a moment and found it hard to open them again. Gods, but it was dark. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Who are you?’ Her eyes were wide and wild. ‘Are you an alchemist?’ She was young, when he finally forced his eyes open again. Alchemists were always old, weren’t they? But it was hard to say in the strange half-light of the shelter, in the dim white glow of the alchemical lamps that lit it.
She shook her head.
There was food on the table. A bit old and a bit stale, but it was still food. Kemir lurched to the table, crashed down into a chair and slumped across the table. He was ravenous. ‘You’re the only person I’ve seen alive. Dragons have destroyed everything.’ He coughed, which still sent pains ripping through his chest. Not good. Maybe Snow had done more than break his arm.
‘You…’ She was looking at the knife. Kemir glanced at it, still in his hand. A good killing blade. Snuffed a few in its time. She wouldn’t be much of a problem. Small and scared and fragile. Even as broken as he was. For the second time he stepped through in his head exactly how he’d kill her.
Dragon-riders, alchemists, same difference.
No. He was sick of killing.
The dead men on the floor with the arrows sticking out of them told him he was a liar, that he wasn’t sick of killing at all. He was afraid, that’s what it was. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of dying with no one to hold his hand. That was more like it.
‘No,’ he said. He let go of the knife and pushed it across the table. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ And then he watched, willing her to believe him. She didn’t say anything. Just stared. Kemir shrugged. The less said the better. ‘First I knew about anything was the roof coming down. Spent the night buried in rubble. Couldn’t see a thing. Managed to get out in the end. There’s dragons up at the castle, tearing it to pieces. Lake’s gone. Empty. Everything else smashed to bits and burning.’ He narrowed his eyes. Looked down at the three dead men with arrows in them. ‘Did you see them, the ones who did this?’ The knife was still there, still in reach if he needed it.
She shook her head.
‘I didn’t see anything except a roof fall on my head. By the time I got out they were on up the mountain. Just as well. I’ve got no strength for a fight.’ Kemir closed his eyes. Mostly he wanted to lie down. He needed rest, and lots of it. Then maybe he’d get to find out whether Snow had broken anything that wouldn’t get better. Broken bones he’d had before. He sighed and stood up. ‘Can you help me?’
She looked at him like a frightened rabbit.
‘My arm’s broken. I need to set it straight. It would be a lot easier if you helped.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t you alchemists learn about that sort of thing?’
‘I’m not an alchemist.’ There. Words. Not screaming spitting hatred. Words.
‘You know how to set a splint?’
Eventually he got a reluctant nod. He started plucking the arrows out of the dead men on the floor. Good strong shafts. Good for splinting a break. Shame to have to snap them in half, but needs must as the Silver King drives… He frowned, hearing himself think that old saying. Silver King, silver ones. What did they have to do with all this? Could they be the same? Had to be, didn’t they? Did that mean the Silver King was coming back? Not that he had much of an idea of who the Silver King even was. A demon? Outsiders knew nothing when it came to things like that.
He put the thought aside. For now he had other worries.
She watched him. Didn’t help, just watched, even as he got to taking off the shirts from the dead men, cutting them into ribbons then tying them back together. One-handed it was hard, and he had to hold his knife between his teeth, but she still didn’t help. Finally he was done.
‘Come here.’ He held out the arrow shafts and the strips of cloth. The woman shook her head. Didn’t move. He clenched his fist, but she just backed further away. Staring, watching. For a moment Kemir wondered whether she was as much a liar as him, whether she knew exactly who he was and was just waiting for the chance to kill him.
Well fine. If that’s what it is, let’s get on with it. I’ve gambled worse in my time. He started to bind his right hand to the top of a table leg, wincing and groaning. Every movement made his arm worse. When he was done, he looked at her. One last chance.
‘Please?’
Another shake of the head. Another step away.
Right then. He put a wad of cloth in his mouth. Then he braced his feet and his good arm against the table and pushed, separating the two broken halves of his arm. And screamed. Lots of screaming. Vaguely, through the walls of pain, it looked like his one good arm was doing something vaguely right. Splinting the break. Wrapping strip after strip of cloth around as tightly as he could. Strip after strip…
Screaming felt good. At some point he either finished or gave up. He didn’t remember untying his hand. The screams faltered to weeping and whimpering. He forgot about the woman then. She was a vague thing across the room, as significant as the food on the table and the dead bodies on the floor. He stumbled and crawled to one of the cots and fell into it, sobbing. The pain overwhelmed him. Turned out he had a lot more than a broken arm to scream about.
Eventually he fell asleep.
