Breath of Angel (35 page)

“A cripple’s grip,” Hesel crowed. “The dung digger is missing a finger.”

Varic rubbed his knuckles, his stare boring into Trevin. “Which one?”

“Little one.”

“He can handle a dagger better than you,” Dwin barked.

Trevin groaned inwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fornian edge closer to Dwin. Trevin hoped his brother had his knife with him—and that he was sober enough to use it.

“What’s your name, dung digger?” Varic leaned forward in his saddle, studying Trevin. “Where do you come from? How did you lose your finger?”

Trevin glared. “You tell me your business, and I may tell you mine.”

“My business?” Varic gave a sharp laugh. “We hear your king is short of royal defenders—comains, I believe you call them—so we’ve come to help clean up the Camrithian countryside. I think we’ll start by giving a couple of
dung diggers a much-needed bath. Nice and warm. In gash. Off with your sandals, boys.”

Trevin seethed. Now twenty-one, he had lost his boyhood long ago. Daggers, swords, fists—one on one he could take this reptile. His muscles burned with coiled energy. He locked eyes with Hesel, who pointed his dagger at Trevin’s feet.

“I’ll have your sandals, boy,” said Hesel.

Trevin raised his dagger. “And I’ll have your crooked nose.”

Each eased into a fighter’s stance, assessing the other. Trevin knew he had the advantage of height and reach, but Hesel was all muscle and would be a goring bull if he found an opening. Fornian’s dagger was a concern as well. Trevin glanced at Dwin, who was clutching his knife but unsteady on his feet.

Swift as a snake, Hesel struck, slashing toward Trevin’s face and growling,
“Your
nose, lowlife.”

Trevin ducked and cut toward Hesel’s shins.

Hesel dodged, and their daggers met with a clang.

Back and forth they attacked and parried, Trevin trying to prevent Hesel from slipping in close enough to lunge at him. At the same time, he was trying to keep track of Fornian and Dwin, who were circling warily but had not engaged.

Trevin evaded a cut and struck back, scoring Hesel’s left arm. Hesel lashed out in retaliation. As Trevin jumped back, he saw Dwin twist away from Fornian, throwing the wiry man off balance.

Fornian stumbled, Varic whistled, and the wolf-dog charged Dwin.

Trevin swerved from Hesel and dived in front of his brother.

At Varic’s sharp command the dog froze, his fangs a handbreadth from Trevin’s wrist. Fornian bounded up and knocked away Dwin’s knife. Hesel grabbed Trevin’s dagger.

“You want into Redcliff, I’ll get you in,” said Dwin.

“You will not,” Trevin huffed.

The dog growled.

“Get up!” snapped Varic.

Trevin edged away from the dog and stood, panting.

Hesel pointed his dagger at Trevin’s feet. “I’ll have your sandals.”

Trevin removed his sandals. At least Hesel wasn’t demanding his nose.

“Tunics too,” ordered Varic as the wolf-dog ambled back to his side.

“I can’t get you into Redcliff if I look like a beggar,” said Dwin.

“Keep your tunic then,” said Varic. “You’ll get us in.”

“Not as long as I have a say in it,” said Trevin.

Dwin clenched his jaw and glowered at him.

At sword point Trevin and Dwin stripped to their leggings.

“Now into the well,” said Varic.

“You’re mad,” said Trevin as Hesel prodded him toward the steaming pit.

“Salaciously sane,” said Varic. “In fact, I feel like doing you a favor. You lack balance. It’s the missing finger. Make his hands match, Hesel. A small finger is just the token I need to impress a certain lady.”

As Hesel came toward him, Trevin grabbed his wrist and knocked his dagger hand on the ragged edge of the well. As the blade tumbled into the darkness, Trevin hooked his leg behind the man’s knees. The brawny Dregmoorian hit the ground, and Trevin laid into him, fast and furious. Hesel was strong, but Trevin was enraged. He punched and pummeled, twisted and turned until he had Hesel pinned.

Varic applauded. Trevin looked up to see the wolf-dog crouched, poised to leap at him, and Fornian holding his dagger at Dwin’s throat.

“I would recruit you for my guard, dung digger,” said Varic, “but you have more courage than common sense. One word from me, my dog is on you, and your brother will be something the country folk will gawk at for years to come.” He stroked his mesh sash. “But I’ll be fair. You release my man, and I release your brother.”

Trevin slowly loosed his grip on Hesel and stood, his back to the well, watching Fornian. He wanted to tell Dwin to take the blasted devils to Redcliff and be done with their bullying, but the oath he would take on the morrow loomed over him. A comain pledged to defend king and kingdom dared not provide a way for no-goods like these to enter the royal city.

Hesel rose, wiping his bloody mouth. But Fornian kept his dagger at Dwin’s throat.

Trevin flexed his fists and growled, “Release my brother.”

“Now!” commanded Varic. The wolf-dog shot toward Trevin.

Fangs rushing him, the well at his back, Trevin didn’t hesitate. Before the dog could leap, Trevin grabbed the sharp, crumbling ledge of the well and hurdled over it, hoping to find the inner wall with the balls of his feet. He heard the mongrel claw at the ledge, and he lowered himself, grabbing at chinks in the stone, trying to hug the wall, but it was slick with slime. Before he could gain a hold, he slid within an arm’s length of the bubbling ooze.

Trevin heard Varic’s whistle and Dwin’s strained voice talking fast. He wedged his feet and hands into the widest cracks he could find and felt his way around until he straddled the well, bracing himself to take the full force of Dwin’s weight. His eyes stung from the steam, and he swallowed to keep from retching at the stench.

Hesel peered down, one eye swollen. “How long can you hold on, dung digger?”

Dirt and rocks, leaves and sticks showered down. Trevin turned his head, closed his eyes, and clenched his teeth. Moments later hoofbeats faded into the woods.

Trevin listened for Dwin, then called to him. No answer. He shook the dirt and twigs from his hair and studied the shaft above him. He had scaled walls before, but with hooks, never barehanded. The crevices that pocked the sides of the well might serve as handholds if they were not too slick. He reached up and grabbed at a protruding rock with his right hand.

As the rock touched the place where his small finger was missing, a mist descended over his mind. He blinked back the image of a cloaked figure. His terror-dream. Never had he fallen into his dream in the daytime. Gripping the rock, he fought back the image, ignored the flashing pain in his hand, swallowed the screams.

A stinging sensation on his feet brought him fully back to the danger of his situation. Hot muck spat on him with each thick belch of gash below.

“Climb,” Trevin muttered to himself. “Climb or boil.”

K
ARYN
H
ENLEY
grew up on myths, fairy tales, and spiritual stories and began writing because she loved to read. She is now an award-winning author with more than one hundred titles to her credit, including books for children, parents, and teachers, as well as CDs and DVDs of original music. She received an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts in writing for children and young adults and has traveled worldwide as an educational speaker and children’s entertainer. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband, a jazz drummer. Visit her at
www.breathofangel.com
.