Ascent of the Unwanted (The Chronicle of Unfortunate Heroes Book 1) (3 page)

The man was actually telling her that the sacrifice of her innocence was nothing.

“What if I were to tell your father I had conceived by you?” Miranda asked. That popped out as a defense. This was not the way things were supposed to happen. That was not the way to tell him, and she did not need the man to think she was threatening him.

“It would do you more harm than good, Mira,” Gordon said, laughing. “My father would probably pay you a bit of silver. Not much, but enough to relieve his conscience. You would still not get the marriage you want and the entire barony will look upon you as the trollop you try so hard not to be. Let me save my father the trouble.”

Gordon went over to the chair where he had thrown his pants. He reached into a belt pouch, fishing around. He pushed the small, hard object into her palm. “I got this from the High Priest of the Father Oak. He’s been giving me personal instruction. Says I have as much potential for greatness as I am willing to take. He also said this would be invaluable to me. It’s obviously worthless but should be enough to cover the services you have provided over the last year.”

It was a sapphire, cracked on one side while it was cut. Miranda threw it back at him. It bounced of his chest and landed on the floor at her feet. Anger flashed over the man’s face. Miranda cowered back in fear raising her hands protectively. It did not help. It never helped.

Gordon beat her any place exposed. A blow hit low on the back and her kidney screamed. She moved her hands to protect the area.
As soon as her hands left, another blow caught her full on the nose. She heard the pop of it breaking and felt the flood of pain blurring her vision. She reeled back but the pain from that hit paled in comparison to the next blow. A heavy fist slammed into her lower abdomen. A tearing sensation burned deep inside and she retched from the agony. Blood from her broken nose caught in her throat. The rising vomit mixed with the blood choking her. She could not breathe but the pain in her womb still surpassed any panic from lack of air.

She had fallen on her knees at some point
.
“You worked hard for this strumpet. I suggest you keep it. You threatened my family with that little bastard you’re carrying. I think I will pay yours a visit.”

The world began to spin and fade in the corners of her vision. Miranda collapsed completely to the ground trying to control the vertigo while the blackness consumed her.

Miranda woke with her face pressed against the cool floor of the hunting lodge. She did not want to move. Every time she lifted her head pain slammed into her skull. Everything from the waist down felt wet and sticky. She moved gingerly trying to look at herself.
Her skirt, dark crimson with blood, clung to her legs. She did not have to wonder where it all came from. Her child was lost. The blow to her stomach had aborted her pregnancy. Tears filled her eyes fogging out the detail in the room.

Since she had first realized she was pregnant she thought it was a complication she wished never happened. She realized now the enormity of what she had been carrying. She never knew she could feel so alone.

The crying only made things worse. Her breathing was already labored, now the blood from her broken nose had congealed into an airtight plug in her nostrils. Through her sobs she gasped for air.

With great effort Miranda stood up. Fighting off waves of dizziness and nausea she moved out of the room. Gordon could still be in the lodge. Her head spun with a rush of blood. She had to get out of here. She did not want to see him again. The terror that she felt gave her currently weak constitution a boost. She gathered herself up and headed out of the lodge toward the safety of home. The confrontation happened right after lunch, now the sun was already setting.

The need to get away pushed her through the hilled forest for the first quarter mile. It was painful, but bearable. After the initial
rush it was torture. Her head spun often, causing her to sway from side to side, forcing her to steady herself on passing trees. She looked back seeing small droplets of blood littering the forest floor, the occasional bloody footprint on an uncovered rock. She had to make it home. Her mother would take care of her and her father would protect her.

When she was healthy the trek from the lodge to home could wind her. Now, her mouth swallowed air in large gulps as she moved slowly down the familiar path. She wanted so much to blow out the obstruction in her nos, but readying herself for the effort caused a tensing of muscles. That tensing caused her broken nose to scream in pain and the effort to clear the clog ceased.

When evening came she continued to push on. The cold crept into her, slowly forcing out the heat of her body. Before she realized she was following the path by moonlight, gasping breath billowing behind her in silvery light. Her face was frozen from the wind blowing across her falling tears. She was tired, hungry, and in pain. She had to be almost home. She could not walk much longer but did not dare stop. The scent of fresh blood would certainly attract some sort of predator.

The horizon began to turn red. She could not have walked through the night. Miranda leaned against a tree to take a quick breather. What had Gordon told her before she fell unconscious? He went to visit her family. A lump caught in her throat. A shot of fear ran up her spine. She began running as best she could to make up the distance.

Miranda broke through the tree line and into the clearing. The house stood aflame with the frame exposed. Her father’s workshop had the same tongues of flame licking the ribs of its framework. Fire lit the entire clearing.

“Father!” Miranda screamed.

There was no answer.

“Father!” She cried out against the roaring of the flames. Still no reply.

Miranda searched frantically for some sign of her family. The fire provided plenty of light for her search in the familiar clearing. There was no sign of her father, mother, or brother. She stumbled around the clearing in a confused daze. Along the southern edge of the tree line some figures caught her eye. Her father and brother hung from the branches of the large oak tree, their feet at eye level. She had run past them when she entered the clearing. The nooses around their necks bit deep. Dried blood formed a crust around the rope. Nailed to the tree’s trunk, a piece of parchment flittered in the wind.

“By order of the High Priest of the Father Oak, all practitioners of witchcraft will be set to the flame. All people who harbor or give comfort to witches will hang from the nearest oak. All property of such people punished in this fashion will be put in the custody of the High Priest to be distributed as he sees fit. Let it be decreed that the witches put to death are as follows: Julian of Wynnarche and her daughter Miranda of Wynnarche. For the crimes of harboring these women the smith Humphrey of Wynnarche and his son Terrel are hereby hanged. The family’s properties are seized by order of the High Priest Arasmis, Proclaimor of the Father Oak Himself.”

Miranda did not believe she could produce another tear before she read the note. A floodgate opened. She had lost everything of value. Her father and brother hung. Her mother burned alive. She did not fool herself into thinking this new religion had anything to do with her family’s deaths. Gordon had committed these acts against her. He had taken everything from her. With a final gasp Miranda fell to the earth and let the cold take her.

The Brimming Mug appeared much like any other tavern in the port city of Armeston. The aroma from adequate food, stale ale, and smoke from patrons’ pipes created a welcoming atmosphere. Unfinished tables drank as heavily as most patrons, with spilled gravy and sloshing mugs shining them with their own unique lacquer. Conversations and music from the night’s entertainment mingled in the air buttressing spirits, while complaints from the day’s work eased themselves out of the body. The serving maids worked hard for their modest living. Often a man too drunk to remember his manners would place his uninvited hands in unwanted spots but the girls tolerated it because of the business.

Erik sat in the corner waiting. At fourteen, he occupied those awkward years in life. He stood taller than most men, but his gangly frame only added to his boyish looks. He crouched over the table to hide his height with his brown eyes half open, resting his high cheekbone into the cradle of his overly large hand. Wrinkling his nose at the food on his plate he balled up a piece of bread and pushed it around the table with his free hand. Eventually bored with his makeshift toy he stood and watched the tavern keeper rumble along.

Malgar, a large barrel-chested man, tended his tavern like every other tavern keeper in Armeston. Erik looked down at the man with frustration and anger on his face. Although Malgar disdained the practice he kept rooms in the back where a patron with the right price could keep a serving maid’s company. Concessions had to be made to stay in business as the neighboring taverns offered such wares. He had the good grace to give all the money earned in this manner to the woman. Less noteworthy tavern owners took a percentage, and not a small one. The serving maids did not have to participate. They also did not have an income high enough to survive in Armeston, especially if they had a child.

The women kept their own rooms. Malgar quartered any maid who could not live on her own, so The Brimming Mug housed Erik for as long as he could remember. He slept in a cramped bed he had outgrown long ago but found comfort in nightly. He always had clothes that fit him, though patched and worn. His mother had tried getting him an apprenticeship anywhere she could but her status as a prostitute and his status as her bastard made him unappealing for training. He worked in the stable of the tavern allowing him to earn his own food. His mother no longer had to feed his monstrous appetite and this gave him a small sense of pride. Malgar gave the occasional odd job and once in a great while the tavern keeper gave him coin for his service.

Erik’s mother was entertaining a first time visitor who had come early in the evening. The visitor’s arrogance matched the beauty of his horse. The mount was uniquely marked with a dark gray coat and black spots littering its hindquarters with a white mane and tail. When the stranger arrived in the tavern he sat in the corner drinking, tapping his fingers to the music, and staring without much subtlety at the maids as they walked. His head bobbed not with the tempo of the music but with the movement of his prey’s hips.

He grabbed Erik’s mother by the wrist, and crossed the room to Malgar with her struggling to keep up. He snapped a few words at the surprised barkeep throwing him a change purse. Gaining his composure Malgar barked a few choice words altering the man’s approach. The stranger let go of his prize, turned and bowed apologetically to her. His attempt at a winning smile fell on the woman with mocking disdain. Malgar poured the contents of the pouch into his meaty palms, eyes bulging at the large pile of coins. Pulling Erik’s mother aside, he pleaded with her against giving the man any time alone. Erik never heard any of the words exchanged but the look on Malgar’s face suggested concern. She nodded many times as Malgar spoke but pointed at the money in his hand, caressed the gruff tavern keeper’s cheek, and escorted the stranger to her room.

“Your mother is probably going to be occupied all night, lad.” Malgar said. “Don’t get worked up over this. You can stay in my room. The problem right now is you have nothing to do with your time. You wouldn’t want to earn yourself a copper penny, would you?”

Erik nodded with hesitation. The work tended to overshadow the pay but he wanted the money. A copper penny could get his mother a special birthday present and he had seen a set of dark wooden hair combs which would look pretty in his mother’s curly brown locks.

“Hmmm…. Not too interested in the penny, huh? Well, I’ll tell you what. Remember that large pile of horse manure you collected from mucking the stalls? I can give you that instead. Those piles may not smell too nice but I hear they can be awfully comfortable to sleep on.” The threat was not lost behind his large smile.

Erik recoiled in horror but gave the big man a smile and said the only polite thing he could, “The penny sounds great. What do I have to do?”

“We have two very special visitors in here tonight, which are part of a prestigious and well-known organization. You may have heard of them, The King’s Cavaliers.” Malgar paused waiting for acknowledgement of his crude joke. Everyone knew about the King’s Cavaliers.

“You need to tend to their horses, and give them the good feed. You know where the good feed is, right, boy? When the farmer gets here help him get that large pile of horse crap into his wagon. You do that and I may consider that crap to have been yours all along and the penny he pays for it will rightly belong to you.” Malgar finished, his attention being drawn away by a man beating one of the serving maids.

Malgar’s meaty hand grabbed a metal tankard on his way to the patron. He slammed the sloshing mug into the back of the man’s head. The patron went sprawling onto the floor but Malgar did not end the fight there.

“You’re a big guy, huh?” Malgar screamed. The man made a half-hearted attempt to get up. “You like to pick on people who are weaker than you? Well, unfortunately for you, so do I.”

Malgar picked up the patron by his hair and slammed the man’s mouth into the corner of a heavy table hard enough to shift it the span of two hands. Teeth flew and blood sprayed while the man collapsed onto the ground.

“Erik, be a good boy on your way out and take out the trash,” Malgar yelled as he stepped over the mass on the ground to see to another table.

Erik dragged the moaning, half-conscious body out of the bar and lay the man down on the side of the tavern next to the street. He hoped nobody ran the man over before morning. When night crept over the city Erik tended to avoid going outside. The townsfolk called this area the ‘Skirven’s Ward.’ Erik knew the type of people who tarried at night here. Rumors had this as a place where a man would sooner kill you than look at you, probably because there was more profit in it. He had never witnessed a killing but he felt the after effects of a few. Erik calmed himself with the knowledge of not ever seeing a dead body.

Walking around to the side of the tavern toward the stables he found the farmer already waiting. The tall, skinny man wore brown woolens patched with thick scuffed leather at the knees. He sat on his horse-drawn cart, already full with a pungent pile of refuse, chewing on a long piece of straw. The farmer fidgeted uncomfortably sitting in the dark in this part of the city. When Erik approached the farmer hopped down off the wagon and walked the horse and buggy behind him, extending a hand caked in his day of work.

“Nice evening,” Erik said grasping the man’s outstretched hand.

“It’s okay, I suppose,” the farmer replied. “I wish it would rain at night a bit more.”

“It’s not too fun to shovel in the rain though,” Erik said handing the farmer a shovel on their way to the stable.

“That’s true. Say, I’ve seen you around this place. Are you Malgar’s boy? Funny, I didn’t know Malgar had any children.”

“He doesn’t. My mother works here.”

“Oh,”

They loaded the manure pile in silence. An occasional grunt punched through the stillness to alleviate the tension of the muscles and mood. When they finished, the farmer paid Erik the penny and headed off into the darkness.

Erik went into the stables, put the shovels away, and began flipping the coin into the air. The fresh red copper caught the moonbeams on its edges as it spun in the air. A bad flip caught the edge of the coin on Erik’s thumb and his treasure went rolling into the stall occupied by the stranger’s horse. Erik crept in looking down into the bedding for his lost treasure. A red sliver of the coin’s edge glistened next to the stallion’s left hind hoof. The horse turned its head questioningly toward him. A white streak on the horse’s nose glowed in the moonlight that shone through the stable windows. Erik rested his hand on the horse’s rump with caution. A kick in the face would put him down for the night in the worst way possible. With his hand and manner reassuring the horse Erik stooped down to sweep up his penny. On his way up the horse’s brand caught his eye. The oddity of the marking lingered in his eyes, and he traced it with his fingers. Erik could not identify any of the regular brands of ownership. A crude tree scarred the horse on most of its left flank. At the farthest end he guessed the circular object to be a sun with its rays falling toward the tree and nowhere else. Erik had ever seen a brand so large, cruel for the amount of space it consumed. He moved on toward the back of the stables, his duty to care for the Cavaliers’ horses on his mind.

Two horses quartered together in the largest stall at the back. These horses were bigger than any horses Erik had ever seen. Long, powerful legs rippling with muscles supported the mass of their bodies. Their length seemed shorter than horses of this size seemed to need, causing the horses to appear even taller. One inched closer to Erik, jet black, with the moonlight reflecting silver on all its curves and musculature. A white snip decorated the nose. The other, a little smaller than his massive brother, but his brown coat, sandy mane and tail, and black stockings made him a colorful juxtaposition.

Erik had heard stories of the King’s Cavaliers. The best stories the bards told had Cavaliers involved in them. The Cavaliers fought like giants on horseback and two could ride down whole armies like reapers in the field. The stories always placed them in pairs. If a foe unhorsed a Cavalier he would die trying to defend his vanquished mount making the offending legions weep in blood. Their horses had as many stories told of them in their own right. It seemed like figures from the tales stood in front of him now. Looking at them most of the stories had the ring of truth to them.

His mind still fresh from pondering about the strange brand Erik looked to see what brand the Cavalier’s used. Erik studied the horses for branding in the usual areas. None of the points on the shoulder or rump had a mark resembling a brand. He would probably find something during the rubdowns. The horses nickered and danced as Erik approached. Erik understood. Strangers made him nervous as well.

He had a way with horses. While he did not quite have a groomsman’s skill his capabilities in the stable were adequate. He didn’t mind the smell and he enjoyed the honest work and the company of the horses. He hoped to learn as a master groom, under hire from a lord or a lady. If he worked hard, and met the right people, the prospects existed. The work paid well enough and the labor helped clear his head of random annoying thoughts which sometimes crept up on him.

With patience and care he calmed the horses down enough to put two large feed buckets on the ground under their noses. He went to work on the horses’ watering trough. Green and black sludge clung to its sides. The water filled for the horses when the Cavaliers first arrived had picked up a glistening film. This would not do for such horses.

Erik turned the trough over, emptying the contents outside the stall, careful not to soak the bedding. Retrieving a dry wire brush from the wall he scrubbed vigorously removing every speck of scum from the sides. He poured his first bucket of fresh water around the sides and drained the trough again to inspect his work. With a feeling of accomplishment he filled the trough, put away the wire brush, and grabbed a grooming brush.

The black horse pulled his head from his refreshing absorption and stared right at Erik. He could have sworn it gave him a humorous, mocking wink. He decided to play along. It would help to have someone to talk to while he worked.

“I may have gone a little overboard with the watering trough but it’s not often we get the courtesy of guests such as you in this tavern.” Erik told the stallion, his brush moving back and forth pushing away the day’s grime and sweat. “Besides, I really have nothing better to do, and it’s not like anyone in there is worth doing anything for anyway.”

The stallion’s hind foot came down on Erik’s. Not the full weight of the horse but enough to pin it to the ground and cause a great amount of pain.

“Except the Cavaliers, of course, but they’re probably not too interested in talking with a stable hand,” Erik amended. Suddenly, the weight and pain left. Erik laughed a good long time. He did not do that often, but being alone he allowed himself the luxury. The conversation continued throughout the grooming. Erik laughed every time it seemed the horses had a response of some kind to any of his statements. Every burr and miniscule twig the horses had picked up on their journeys he removed with great care. He checked the hooves and shoes to make sure the owners would be aware of any preventable dilemmas. Finally he stepped back, examining the product of his efforts. He beamed at the work he had done and thought these horses had received the best care he knew how to give.

He looked out of the stall toward the moon. Three hours had passed since he first headed out of the tavern. His work no longer consumed his mind and body and he yawned. While walking out of the stable he looked at the stall holding the stranger’s gray horse. The owner must have retrieved his horse silently in the middle of Erik’s work. Erik could now tell his mother about these two amazing horses and bid her good night. He also looked forward to sleeping in his own bed.