Blood Ties (11 page)

He went on like that for some time. I hate to admit it, but I was actually grinning. If I wasn't the target of his diatribes, he could be rather amusing to listen to.

With all of that, the air still remained silent of anything save the gnome's insults and the occasional laughter from the other defenders of Blackholm, who were clearly finding the gnome as entertaining as I was.

Finally, the gnome became aware that we were enjoying his comedy stylings.
“Shut up! Stop laughing, you clucking chickens!”
he snarled, but by that point we were so merry that even the insults he hurled at us simply generated more laughter. Angry that he wasn't getting the typical responses of annoyance and outrage that he was accustomed to, the gnome finally fell silent. I could only imagine his frustration and wondered whether he would be so aggravated that he would just take off. I doubted I could be quite so fortunate, but I could always be optimistic about it.

Having satisfied ourselves that the enemy had either temporarily retreated or indeed given up entirely, I quickly established sentry points so that we could watch for any further incursions. The men didn't hesitate to take my instructions as if they were orders, never questioning my commands or my right to give them.

What can I say? I suppose I have an air of authority about me.

Satisfied that the parapets were attended to, I made my way down to the ground and quickly returned to the barracks. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that that was where Russell would be.

He was lying unconscious on one of the beds, his shoulder thoroughly bandaged. There was a spot of blood visible in the bandage where the wound had been seeping through, but it appeared to have stopped. He was pale, which was understandable.

Old Henry was standing over him, staring down at him.

“Did you get the bullet out?” I asked.

“Went right through him. Clean shot. Near as we can tell, no major organs were hit.” He never looked my way but still he spoke to me. “That was a damned stupid thing you did.”

“So you've said.”

“You were one of the best marksmen up there.”

“One of?”

He didn't smile, but he did deign to look at me. “We needed your gun and your eye in defense of Blackholm. Risking both to save a single young man who isn't even a particularly competent soldier . . .” He shook his head.

“I'm sorry if my priorities ran into conflict with yours.”

“Never say you're sorry when you're really not,” said Old Henry. Then he paused, and his voice softened. “You did what you felt you had to do in order to live with yourself. I can respect that and consider it a worthy achievement. And I suppose I should thank you”—and he glanced toward Russell—“for saving my son.”

“Your . . . ?”

I probably didn't cover myself with glory with my reaction, which was to stand there slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “Are you serious? He's your son?”

“According to his mother.” A vague suspicion passed through his eyes. “As for me, I have my doubts. But life is what it is, and so I accept her word and play the hand I'm dealt, as I'm sure she did.”

In my experience, when one doesn't know quite what to say, it's preferable to say nothing at all. I knew one thing of a certainty, though, and that was that Old Henry was clearly someone who placed his dedication to protecting Blackholm above every other consideration.

As if my rescuing his son was no longer something worth discussing, he said brusquely, “How long will you be staying here? I ask because you strike me as someone who tends to move around quite a bit.”

“I have been known to.”

“Makes it more of a problem for your enemies to target you?”

“Fate, actually.” I smiled mirthlessly. “If I stay in one place too long, fate looks down and says, ‘Ah, there he is. Let's visit some particular devastating mishap upon him, or maybe just strike him with a lightning bolt.' ”

“You jest, but with an undercurrent of truth. Well, while you're here, I'd like you to do as much good as you can. The recruits are already speaking of you with reverence.”

“As they do you.”

“Be that as it may, I want you to work on training them. I'm a brawler, Finn. If the enemy overruns the wall, if it comes to face-to-face combat, then stand behind me and be secure that none of them will get to you. Far preferable, though, is preventing them from getting to us in the first place. In that regard, you appear to excel, plus you have the sort of foolhardy bravery that fools tend to admire.”

“Thank you,” I said, unsure if that was a compliment or not.

FOR WEEKS, MATTERS IN BLACKHOLM
progressed very smoothly. In retrospect, one would have thought that that alone would have warned me that it couldn't last. But I was, and admittedly still am, something of a vain bastard, and I told myself that the enemy had learned its lesson. I had shown them (well, the others and I had shown them, but mostly it had been me) that any and all assaults on Blackholm were destined to be a waste of time, energy, and lives.

Still, one could never assume. So I spent my time doing exactly what Old Henry had instructed me to do. I worked with the troops. Actually, I suppose that “troops” might well have been too generous a word since they remained raw at best in their skills. I credited them for being eager to learn, however, and I did my utmost to impart my extensive knowledge to them.

By day I would provide them instruction on both marksmanship and tactics. In a combat situation, being able to hit one's target is only a part of it. You also have to discern quickly which targets are the ones you should be aiming for. Take down the leaders, kill those individuals to whom the others are looking for guidance, and oftentimes you can send the others running. You don't just want to destroy the soldiers; you want to destroy their confidence.

By night I would provide them entertainment. I didn't sing or dance or anything equally ghastly. But I had tales to tell, yes I did. And if I do say so myself—and since this is my narrative, who is there to gainsay me?—I tell them rather well.

There would always be some soldiers who would claim that I was exaggerating either the level of threat I would face at particular points in my tales, or perhaps making too much of my own part in the proceedings. Most of the time such accusations had only the smallest pinch of validity, but ultimately it didn't matter, for they would invariably be shouted down by the more accepting and credulous who only wanted to know one thing: what happened next.

Having recovered from his ordeal, Russell regularly joined us at the evening get-togethers and was as attentive as anyone in the group. Old Henry, his father, tended not to. On occasion I would glimpse him at the periphery of the gathering, perhaps lending an ear to one of my more outrageous tales before moving on his way. His vigilance was incessant, and he never seemed satisfied with the notion that there were guards posted, wary and attentive to any possible assault. He was never satisfied lest he was ascertaining personally that all was well.

As for the gnome, he became a great favorite of Blackholm, much to his frustration and chagrin. Rather than be offended by him, it became something of a badge of honor to be insulted by him because the hardened residents of the town were impressed by the cleverness of his diatribes. His were not simply mindless exercises in namecalling. His insults were often quite clever and inventive, and it turned into a bit of a status symbol to be subject to his ungentle attentions. “You'll never believe what the gnome said to me!” would be the way conversations extolling his “virtues” would begin, and the people would compare notes and sometimes even agree: “He's got you there. You really do have a turnip for a nose. Many's the day I've wondered how you didn't suffocate and die with that thing mounted on your face.” Then there would be raucous laughter, and somewhere crouched behind a barrel or hiding in a corner, the gnome would tremble with fury and wonder about the hell he had willingly dropped himself into. But something about the perversity of his nature wouldn't allow him simply to depart once and for all. He had to stay and keep trying to upset people and wouldn't take lack of offense for an answer.

One day and night passed into the next, and the time of peace stretched to such a degree that I began to conclude one of two things had transpired. Either the warlord was trying to lull us into a false sense of security, or else he had simply given up and moved on to easier fare.

Then came an evening when we had settled in for the night. The men who had drawn guard duty were patrolling, overseeing what hopefully promised to be another quiet night. I was lying in my bunk, fingers interlaced behind my head, staring up at the ceiling.

I should have been asleep, but was not.

Something felt wrong.

There was no one thing that I could put my finger on. There weren't any unusual sounds, no unexpected snapping of branches being trod upon in the darkness by an overloud opponent. And yet there was something undefined in the air, and I disliked it intensely.

The rest of the men in the barracks were sleeping soundly. I heard their peaceful snoring and envied them; for my part, I was never able to sleep so deeply. I had conditioned myself to come fully awake at the slightest hint of trouble, a technique that had saved my life on more than one occasion. In this particular case, it didn't matter since slumber was eluding me in any event.

I rose from my bunk, unable to even essay sleep anymore, the sense that something was amiss continuing to gnaw at me. It was the work of moments to clothe myself fully and move out into the main square. Then I stood there, trying to discern just what it was that was causing my unnamed dread.

“You're going to die tonight.”

The gnome had spoken practically at my elbow. I was inwardly startled but managed not to show it since I was loath to give him the satisfaction. “Why should tonight be different from any other night since that's your regular prediction?”

He didn't reply immediately, which was unusual for him. Typically, he delighted in making continued insulting comments and predictions of my imminent demise. I looked down at the gnome. He was simply staring straight ahead, as if he could see something that I couldn't. “Because it is different,” he said, and there was something about his tone that I disliked intensely.

Then he looked up at me, and I saw something in his eyes that unsettled me to my core.

I saw pity.

He appeared to be sorry for me.

That was enough to send me hastening toward the parapets as though something spat up from the darkest depths was behind me, which, for all I knew, was the case.

Moments later, I was making my way along them, and I found Old Henry standing there, gazing warily into the darkness. “Henry,” I said briskly in a harsh whisper, “something is—”

“I know,” he said, apparently way ahead of me. “There's something in the air, and I don't know what.”

“You feel it, too?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Even though I hear nothing, see nothing. There's still a wrongness in the air.” His nostrils flared. “This may sound ridiculous, but sometimes you can smell the darkness. You know what I mean?”

“I think I do. There's something unnatural . . .”

“Exactly,” he said. “We live in the heart of nature, and when something unnatural approaches, nature is pushed aside.” He considered the darkness a bit longer. We were nowhere near any lamps, crouched down, peering just above the top of the fence and providing no target that anything human could hit. “All right, Finn, listen carefully. Here's what I want you to do . . .”

And suddenly an arrow was protruding from the side of Old Henry's head.

There was one time in my youth when my brother, Quentin, had staggered into the house with thick red liquid seeping from his mouth and an arrow right through his head. My mother had let out a screech like unto the damned, then the rest of us fell down laughing as Quentin stood there with a demented grin and lifted the jesting device from his head. He had fashioned the jape from two halves of an arrow and some wire that he had bent around his skull to give the impression that his head had been skewered. Once she got her breath back, our mother had chased him halfway down the street, and when our father showed up in one of his rare sober evening appearances in our household, Mother angrily demanded justice be done. Our father grabbed Quentin firmly by the wrist and, with an amused twinkle in his eye, slapped Quentin on the wrist as lightly as he possibly could. Whereupon everyone started laughing all over again, and finally even my scowling mother allowed for a chuckle.

It was one of the only memories of my family I had that didn't involve lawbreaking, drunkenness, or death.

Now I would never be able to look back upon it without feeling a chill because I was seeing it transpire in real life, upon a man who had—in the short time I'd known him—earned my respect.

Old Henry stood there for a moment, looking bewildered, obviously unable to process what had happened. I doubt he even knew. Then, of all things, reflexively he tried to go for his sword before toppling backwards off the parapet and landing heavily in the village square below. The sound of his body thudding to the ground immediately drew the attention of the guards, and there were gasps and cries of shock.

The awful sound snapped me from my paralysis, and I shouted,
“We're under attack! Watch your heads!”
even as I dropped flat on my stomach. Two more arrows whizzed right over my head. Had I been standing, I would have wound up joining Old Henry, who was not going to be getting any older.