Shadowfell (2 page)

Once play started in earnest, they all forgot me. I stood in the shadows at the back, watching as the games progressed. Father was watching too, working out other men’s strategies, their strengths and weaknesses. He would not join in until he had their measure.

Most of the players had the look of seasoned travellers: reserved, cautious. The ones standing behind them were making all the noise – local fishermen, perhaps, or smallholders. There was a silent fellow at the back, on the opposite side of the cabin from me, his hood shadowing his face. Beside him stood a burly red-faced man. Seeing me looking, he grinned, and I lowered my gaze.

They were playing stanies, which Father had the knack for. The rattling fall of the playing pieces on the wooden table, the calls of
Spear! Crown! Oak! Hound!
, the occasional dispute over the timing of a call or the angle of a throw, all were familiar to me. Father had played game after game of this in the past and had won most of them. But that was then, in another age, before his sorrows tore out his heart and with it his good judgement. All the same, he wasn’t playing yet, but sat there drinking his ale and watching the others, biding his time. Perhaps he would confound me by staying sober, by playing as he used to, so quickly and deftly that nobody could match him. Perhaps he would win and our money would double and treble, and we would be able to pay for both food and a bed for the night.

The games went on, and still Father sat watching. I saw Fowler refill his cup. The cabin was warm from the press of bodies. I was finding it hard to keep my eyes open. Every part of me ached with tiredness. I must not fall asleep. Father needed a guardian, and the only one was me. Besides, I did not like the way that big fellow was looking at me, his eyes greedy.

‘Here, lass.’ Fowler, a sharp-eyed ferret of a man, slipped between two bulky farmers and put a cup of ale in my hands. ‘Drink this, you look dead on your feet. No payment needed. You can sit over there if you want, out of harm’s way.’

It was so long since anyone had been kind to me. I let him usher me into a tiny alcove furnished with a wooden bench. I sank down on the seat gratefully and took a sip of the drink. My stomach was empty; the rough ale went down like honeyed wine. Gods, it was good! I made it last; likely this was all the supper I would get.

From the alcove I could not see Father quite so well, but if there was trouble I should be able to reach him quickly. And I was at least half-shielded from the intrusive gazes of those men. All the same, I must be vigilant. I must not allow my mind to wander, despite the utter relief of sitting down, despite the sweetness of the ale, despite the way my body was urging me to rest . . .

I started, realising I had been drifting on the verge of sleep. Oh gods, how long had I sat here in a daze? Father’s voice came to me, slurred with ale now and raised in anger. ‘’Nother round! Who’s man enough to take me on?’

I rose to my feet, and saw him waving his arms wildly. The man beside him shrank back to avoid a blow to the face. ‘Come on, what are you, a pack of cowards?’

There was a silence. The quality of it set every part of me on edge. I would have to stop him. He was drunk, and in this mood he might do anything at all. I would have to elbow my way through the crowd of men and get him out of here before he caused more of a scene.

Before I could move, one of the men said, ‘You’ve got nothing left to wager, fool. Your purse is empty.’

Gods, had he already gambled away every coin we had while I sat here oblivious?

‘Father,’ I began, my voice cracked and tentative.

‘I need no stake,’ Father rumbled, half-rising. His fists were clenched; his face was flushed. How much ale had they given him? ‘I’ll win. I can beat anyone. I’ll take whatever you put up.’

‘No stake, no play! That’s the rule!’

‘If you can’t put up a price, you’re out of the game, fellow!’

‘And not before time,’ someone muttered.

I made myself push forward through the crowd. ‘Father, it’s time to go,’ I said, tugging at his arm. My voice was lost in the general hubbub.

‘Li’l surprise for you,’ Father said, getting unsteadily to his feet and draping a heavy arm around my shoulders. ‘See? I have got a stake – my girl here. What’ll you wager against her? No paltry coppers, mind. It’s silver pieces or nothing.’

My heart faltered. I stood rigid, unable to move, unable to speak. I was dreaming. This couldn’t be happening. But it was real, for I saw the eyes of the men opposite Father widen with shock.

‘Steady on, fellow,’ someone muttered. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Speak up!’ Father shouted, gripping me harder. ‘Who’ll take me on? I’ll beat every last one of you!’

My body was cold stone. ‘Father,’ I whispered. ‘No.’ But he did not hear me. His mind was on the silver he would win, silver that would buy him ale for a whole turning of the moon, a purse that would restore his pride.

Muttering had broken out all around the circle. I was the object of every eye once more. I could see men undressing me in their minds, but nobody spoke. I snatched a panicky breath, praying that even the basest of them would be above accepting such an appalling proposition.

Fowler stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘I can’t allow –’ he began just as the big red-faced man at the back reached into his pouch and brought out something that glinted in the lantern light. Silver coins. I swallowed bile; my gut twisted in terror. He was going to play.

A black-clad arm reached past him. With a dull knocking sound, three silver pieces fell from a long-fingered hand onto the table. ‘I will play you,’ said the man in the hooded cloak, turning my heart to ice.

‘No,’ I managed. ‘No, Father, please don’t do this –’

‘Hold your tongue, Neryn!’ said Father, and sat down again, releasing me.

I gazed across the table at the challenger, but the hood concealed his face so well I could not even see his eyes. He could have been anyone.

‘Toss for the call,’ said Fowler. It was too late for him to stop this now. Once a wager was accepted, the rules required the game to proceed. ‘Single round, or best of three?’

‘Your choice,’ Father said, glancing up at the hooded stranger.

The man held up three fingers. Someone got up hurriedly, and the man took the vacant seat, opposite Father at the table. A hush descended. I could not seem to breathe properly; my chest felt as if there were a tight band around it.

‘Challenger throws first,’ Fowler said. ‘When you’re ready.’

I could not look. I clutched my shawl around me, as if the threadbare length of woollen cloth might shield me from a world gone all awry. My heart sent out an incoherent prayer. The stones clicked together in Father’s hand, and I heard his opponent make the call: ‘Owl!’ A clatter as the pieces fell across the circle chalked on the tabletop, and a babble of excited talk. The owl symbol had come up closest to the centre, so it was a clear win.

‘First round to – what’s your name, friend?’

‘Never mind that.’ The hooded man was gathering up the stones, ready for his own throw. If he won the second round, I would belong to him. He had not spared me a glance.

‘Opponent throws second,’ said Fowler. ‘When you’re ready.’

Father sat silent. This time I watched, my heart in my mouth. The hooded man weighed the pieces in his hand, and as he cast them Father made his call: ‘Shield!’

A murmuring from the crowd as the stones fell.

‘Shield’s closest to the centre,’ one man said.

‘Not from this side it isn’t,’ another countered, bending to squint at the lie of the playing pieces. ‘Spear’s the same measure out, look, one finger’s length. Makes the round void – throw again.’

‘Rubbish,’ growled Father, and my stomach clenched tight.

‘Don’t you fellows know the rules?’ Fowler’s voice was all calm authority. ‘In a dispute about placement, Shield outweighs Spear, provided neither piece is touching the margin of the circle. Second round goes to the challenger.’

A small cheer went up. Someone lifted a tankard in celebration; someone clapped Father on the back. Drunk and incapable as he was, he had won the second round and there was still a chance to stop this before my freedom was forfeit.

‘Father,’ I said, leaning close to whisper in his ear, ‘please don’t go on with this. Ask that man to let you out of the game. Tell him it was a mistake. Nobody in his right mind would agree to such a thing. Father, don’t do this to me –’

He swatted me away as if I were a troublesome insect. ‘Leave me be, girl!’ His eyes were on the three silver pieces. My price. Fifteen years as his daughter. Nearly three years as his guardian and attendant, his minder and companion on the hard road to self-destruction. Oh gods, this couldn’t be real. I would never complain about cold and hunger again, if only this could be a dream.

‘Challenger throws the third.’ Fowler’s voice had an edge in it. ‘You sure you want to go through with this?’

Father did not speak, simply gathered up the pieces.

‘So be it, then. When you’re ready.’

In the silence before the throw, it seemed nobody breathed but me, and mine was the shallow, uneven breath of utter panic.
Make this not be happening, oh please, please . . .

‘Flame!’ came the hooded man’s call, and an instant later the stones hit the tabletop. I heard the universal gasp of horror and knew without the need to look that Father had lost.

No time. No time for anything. Father shouting; a bench toppling, a fist connecting with someone’s jaw, a string of oaths. Now several men were throwing punches, knocking over seats, grappling with one another, as if they had only been waiting for an excuse to fight. Someone crashed into me, sending me reeling into the red-faced man, who grabbed me and seized the opportunity to clamp one hand around my breast and slip the other between my legs. In the press of bodies, nobody noticed. In the general din, my protest went unheard. The man’s hand was creeping up my inner thigh. I put my hands against his chest and pushed, and he laughed at me. Struggling in his grasp, I heard Father’s voice raised above the others: ‘Filthy cheat! Liars and swindlers, the lot of you!’ A pair of combatants lurched across the cabin, scattering others in their wake, and the fellow who was holding me let go abruptly. I staggered, caught off balance, and fell to my knees. The fighters reeled into me, crushing my hip and shoulder against the wall; in a moment I would be trampled. The cabin was full of surging bodies and flailing arms. I struggled to catch my breath.
Out. Oh, please, let me out.

A hand reached down, fastened around my arm and hauled me upright. Someone interposed his body between me and the crowd, then shouldered a way out of the cabin, drawing me along with him. As we stepped out into the cold quiet of the night, I saw that it was the hooded man, the man who had just won me in a game of stanies. I shrank away, but he kept hold of my wrist. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Make haste.’

‘No! You can’t make me go! He didn’t know what he was doing. He’s not in his right mind! You can’t –’

The man headed across the plank, his hand a manacle around my wrist. Rather than topple over and fall into the water, I followed. Above the noise from the chancy-boat I heard my father’s voice, shouting.

‘Please,’ I gasped as we reached the shore and my captor marched on toward the settlement without so much as a glance at me. ‘You must know how wrong this is. He didn’t mean it. He needs me. Please don’t do this.’

The man stopped so abruptly that I crashed into him. He spoke in a sharp undertone.

‘That’s what you want, is it? A life on the road, a father who’s prepared to sell you to a stranger for the price of a few jugs of ale?’

I stood shivering and silent in his hold, for the moment unable to answer. My life had shrunk to a wretched thing indeed. I had let this happen. I had passed the bag of coins over to Father. I had become as weak and hopeless as he was. ‘He needs me,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t make me go, please.’

‘Move,’ the man said, and strode on, pulling me along with him. ‘And keep quiet.’

Gods, he was going through with this, the wager, the win; he was taking me with him and I’d have to share his bed and do his bidding and . . . It was unthinkable. ‘But –’ I began.

‘Shh!’ He made a sharp gesture, drawing his fingers across his throat.

After that I did not try to talk. Besides, I needed all my breath to match his pace. We strode through the settlement in silence, passing between the houses and up a steep path toward the deeper darkness of the forest above. The noise from the chancy-boat faded away behind us. I managed a glance back over my shoulder, but the jetty looked deserted. Nobody was coming after me. I thought of Father waking in the morning and realising he had gambled away his only daughter, the last of his family. I could not find tears. I could not find words. I was hollow as a gourd, a rattling, empty thing that had lost all its meaning. With my captor’s hand a tight bracelet around my wrist, I set one foot in front of the other and moved on.

We were almost in the shelter of the trees when a new sound came up the hill, a sound that froze the blood in my veins. My companion halted and turned, still holding on to me. Thundering hoof beats; jingling metal. A troop of riders came into view, moving fast along the road into the settlement. The moonlight made them spectral and strange in their dark cloaks and concealing masks. I had not thought I could be any more afraid, but I was. I must have made some small sound, for my captor hissed sharply in my ear, ‘
Shh!
’

It was early for the Cull; barely autumn. But there they were, hammering on shutters, kicking in doors, riding to every hut in the settlement to rouse its occupants with barked commands and – now – flaming torches that revealed here a cottager being dragged out by his hair, there a child snatched from its screaming mother; here a pair of household goats being unceremoniously put to the knife, there a furiously protesting dog silenced with the kick of a booted foot. The king’s Enforcers. Three years ago they had destroyed my grandmother for her canny wisdom; three years ago my brother had died in a valiant attempt to defend our village from the cruel and arbitrary violence of the Cull. Three years ago my father’s heart, already weakened by the loss of my mother, had finally shattered under the grief of those deaths. Dear gods, how many such tales unfolded down there tonight? How many years of sorrow were being wrought before our very eyes?