Lorin reached up to rub his face and a link of the cold chain brushed against his nose. He needed to leave, to escape. But how? A wave of nausea hit him, and he crawled over to the bucket. He heaved a few times and added some new contents to it. Lorin heard the guard scoff at him. Still hunched over the bucket, Lorin lifted the rock to uncover his cubby-hole. Inside were the pebbles and sand he used to mark the date, a finger-length of metal wire, the leather Venator book, and one arrowhead. He gagged again, pulling the bucket close as he reached down past the items. Lifting the bottom stone allowed some light from the cellar beneath to escape. Lorin laid on his side, rattling the chains to their limits, but he kept the light from illuminating his cell. Looking below, he could see a few oil lanterns hanging from the walls. The glass was thick at the base where the oil was, but Lorin hoped the lantern’s heat might make the glass brittle enough. He hacked again into the bucket with a glance to his guard. The guard was half turned away, smelling his finger. Lorin looked back at the cubbyhole and held his arrowhead in his hand. Lorin didn’t think this plan was the best, but he didn’t have time for another one. If Ash was still alive she might need help. Lorin sat back for a moment, then launched forward with a loud dry heave and exaggerated movement. In that motion he let the arrowhead fly as best he could through the fist-sized hole in the floor.
Lorin crawled back to the cot, his chains rattling along with the movement, his bucket back in place over the loose stone. A few moments passed before shouts and cries of alarm echoed into the cells. The guard staggered to his feet and went to check the large door. A rattle of chain and the faint click of manacles unlocking came from Lorin's cell. "Stay put," the guard yelled over his shoulder while he fiddled with his key ring. The guard didn’t find the right key before Lorin was on him.
Out in the hall servants and guards rushed to the fire raging in the cellar with buckets and blankets. Within the commotion, a beaten puffy-faced guard easily went unnoticed as he walked, book in hand, through the halls.
Lorin was outside with a pouch of coin, a sword, well-fitted boots, and two sets of clothing moments later. The watchmen on the walls were called in to help with the fire, so Lorin jogged his way through the courtyard and toward the back wall where the bell hung. The execution area was behind a gate past the walls, so Lorin found stairs up the wall. After securing some rope in an out-of-the-way pocket of stone, he descended the outside of the wall. He hid the rope and went to the chopping block. It was wet with coagulated blood and recent footprints and wagon tracks littered the area. Lorin's heart sank, but he forced himself to breathe and began following the tracks.
It didn't take long, but Lorin was out of breath when he reached the trail’s end. A small wooden building that reeked of death sheltered the wagon beside a lit-up interior. Lorin took a moment to quiet his breathing and crept along the building to look inside. A hearth and some candles brightened the room enough for Lorin to see a wiry old woman walk around the inside. He couldn't see much more, so he straightened his uniform and knocked on the door. It opened a moment later.
"Yes? How may I—"
Lorin pushed past, almost knocking her to the floor. The room had three tables spaced out evenly in its middle—two were empty, but the last was not. Laying on the table was Ashmere. She was naked, and her skin had a blue tinge which was prominently displayed on her lips. Her neck and head were separated by a few finger-widths of grizzled, bloody skin. At least three chops had been used to sever her head. The rest of her body was bruised and beaten. Lorin couldn't tear his eyes from her. She was dead. He was alone again. Sorrow and anguish built inside of him until a club hit him between the shoulder blades. The blow took him by surprise and he was forced a step ahead, but instinct took hold of his reflexes and he turned to grab the next hit of the old lady’s club.
"How dare you barge in!" she said once she saw Lorin had palmed the hit and twisted the club from her hand. "This is my home and I did not invite you in."
Lorin threw the club to a corner and looked back at Ashmere's corpse. "I invited myself, now answer me my questions." Lorin's voice had become a growl. "Why do you have her?"
"Because it's what I do. The executioner kills ‘em and I take the good parts and get rid of the rest."
"What good parts?"
"The soft and gooey insides. I sell it to the Thornguard to stew for their dogs. If there are any piercings or jewelry hidden away in places, I take them too. Then, I burn'em and crush the bones up for my garden."
"No. You won’t do that to her. What have you done to her so far?"
"Washed her up and searched around. I haven't started cutting yet, since it's still too warm. I’ll wait till a little past midnight."
Lorin gagged at the thought of this leather-faced hag combing Ashmere for loot. "There won't be a cut tonight. Did you find anything?"
"She had a piercing of a star on the front of her hip, but nothing more other than tattoos—you can see those from here."
"I want that star, and I want her properly buried."
The old lady’s demeanor changed now that she was doing business. "That'll cost you."
Lorin glared at the old woman—her eyes looked as dead as Ashmere's. He took out the pouch he’d stolen, then emptied out three gold coins and a handful of silver and copper. It was enough to keep him going for at least a year, and the rest he threw to the hag.
"Most generous of yous." The old lady shook as she bowed. "Where would you like her to be buried?"
"Not here and not by you. Prepare her for travel to Blackpool and arrange for her to be buried there."
The hag's smile turned to a scowl. "That doesn't leave much for me."
"Is it not enough to do what I want?"
"Yes, but I don't get—"
Lorin stepped close to her and gripped the pommel of his sheathed sword. "You get paid a fair wage, and you get to live. If you don't like the deal I will instead introduce you to those dogs you have kept fat. Piece by squirming piece I'll introduce you."
The hag’s face drained of all color. The threat was empty, but the words felt horrible and tasted like tar as they left his mouth. He had gone too far and it didn't feel right—it wasn't the way his family or Ashmere would want him to be.
The hag only nodded and shuffled around Lorin to the corpse on her table. Lorin watched while she wrapped and embalmed Ashmere. By the time she was done and Ashmere was packed and ready for travel, the sun was beginning to dawn. Once everything was set, Lorin kissed his hand and touched the coffin.
"Goodbye, my friend. The rest of my life is because of you. Rest well, and in time when we again meet I'll introduce you to my family, I promise." Bleary-eyed, Lorin ran his hand over the rough wood one last time and walked away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lorin left the hag's place and walked for a time, staring off into nothing. When the sun warmed his face, he found a secluded area and changed into one of his sets of clothing. The guard's uniform was conspicuous, and he didn't have the mind right now to bluff past any inquires. Leaving the sword behind was the hardest part, but it was necessary, as he would be questioned if he was openly armed. Since he was lost in thought, he chose the direction in which he traveled by the sweet smell of fresh-baked bread and stew. His mouth watered and at that moment all he could feel was hunger. The pangs took over and his mind focused on that captivating smell.
He walked up to a two-story wooden building a street or two off the main thoroughfare. It was a modest building with a few carved swirls of wood in the corners and some well-worn benches set up under its porch. The building’s sign was worn down by weather, but the words were clear enough to spell out ‘The Stagger Inn.’ Lorin was proud of himself—he had read the sign almost as fast as he had seen it, without having to sound out the words.
The front door was open and a muffled voice came through the doorway. His face ached from the beating he had had last night almost as if it was a warning—warning that he would be noticed and remembered; after all, a
beaten man must have a story to tell. He wiped some drool and blood from his mouth that had crusted over, then ran a hand over his beard and hair in an attempt to freshen up. He might've been embarrassed, should've been concerned, but all he really felt was numb and exhausted. Hungry, mostly.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior when he walked in. Once the room grew clearer, his sight was drawn to the large horse posed in the corner, its front legs lifted up and trying to paw at the air. It looked so real that Lorin expected it to drop and charge. When it instead remained still and breathless, an artful taxidermy, he walked up and ran his hand along its short smooth hair.
The smell of food drew his nose and eyes, mid-stroke, to a counter that faced toward the kitchen, directly opposite the door he’d entered. A broad bear of a man sat with his back to Lorin, consumed with examining the counter in front of him. Lorin couldn't see past to what the man was so focused on, but he was the sole occupant of the room. The rest of the main area was just filled with empty tables and chairs. Lorin walked up and sat at the counter next to the man. The smell of food was so enticing that hopping over the counter and raiding the kitchen seemed like a good idea.
The large man turned to Lorin as he sat. "How may I help you, sir?" His voice wasn't nearly as deep as Lorin had expected it to be. The strange voice drew Lorin's attention away from food and he turned to see that the man beside him was, in fact, a woman—possibly. The person had soft eyes and lips, but the square, hard jaw and forward brow muddled their appearance into something strange.
"I'm hungry," Lorin said, his eyes hazy with exhaustion.
"Well you’re just in time. My morning's work cooled a bit, but I'll get you a bowl," the person said and stood. The stool's wooden legs sighed with relief while the floorboards bent with every step.
"My thanks," Lorin said, his eyes following the movement around the counter and toward a large black pot in the kitchen. The heavy lid rose and let the smell of fresh stew permeate the air.
The person grabbed two bowls in one hand and ladled stew in, then they grabbed a bread roll for each, and a couple of spoons. For their size, the effortless movement in the kitchen was surprising. Without a drop spilt, they placed the full bowl and the warm bread before him. Lorin grabbed the spoon and paddled the warm, savory broth into his mouth. Each spoonful tasted like bliss, hot bliss, and his tongue numbed from the burning broth a few spoonfuls in, but that didn't stop him. Entranced by the food, he only noticed the tankard of dark brown ale in front of him when he went to break his bread. He did, however, notice his bowl fill up as the cook poured their bowl into his. They said something that Lorin didn't hear through his mouthfuls.
When he was done, his bowl had been filled up twice, two more rolls with butter melting atop them had become crumbs, and two full tankards of ale had disappeared. Lorin felt good. A little queasy, but good. His belly was full—a foreign memory that felt like a welcome friend. He leaned back in his chair, looking up to the rafters of the ceiling, his eyes heavy and breath slow.
"Been through quite a bit," the large person said, grabbing the dishes and wiping the crumbs on the counter into one of the bowls. "There's a room upstairs. Go sleep it off. The second door on your left."
"Thank you," Lorin said. His face felt heavy, and speaking was like each word became a hill to climb.
"I don't want to carry you, otherwise you'll puke up what you scarfed down. Go on, make your way up to the bed now, otherwise you won't. I'll see you after you’ve gotten some rest."
Lorin wasn't in any mind to think, but he knew he could still walk. That is, until he stood up from his chair and had to grab the counter for support. His body was exhausted and fought every movement, but he did make it up to the room, using anything he could for support. The room was plain with a desk and bed, not much bigger than his old cell. The bed was neatly made, until it wasn't, as Lorin, still fully clothed, landed face first into the pillow. It was a much more comfortable bed than he had ever had, and he was asleep almost immediately.
No dreams plagued him. It wasn't good or bad. The sleep was just dark and restful.
He had eaten his meal sometime late morning, and when he awoke the single window in the room glowed with warm sunlight. His body ached. The blankets, warm and soft under him, gripped him like chains. He didn't resist and after turning on his side he fell back into dreamless sleep, still clothed atop the blankets.
When he awoke the room was dark. His stomach growled, but the claws of warmth gripped tight. He managed to undress and crawl under the covers before fading back to sleep. This time he did dream.
Back at the wedding feast, Varron and his father sat atop their grandiose throne side by side. They laughed at an unspoken joke while cutting morsels from a roast pig between them. Lorin was dressed in all black, a bow and arrow ready in his hands. He drew and fired. The arrow hit Varron and he turned to look at Lorin, the arrow still quivering between his eyes. Varron's face began to melt like a candle, his smooth skin sloughing into gray wax pooling beneath the table. The Baron laughed a madman’s laugh and took a large hunk of pig which he devoured like a dog. Lorin dropped the bow at his feet and fell to his knees—he could feel tears roll down his face. The gray mush disappeared from under the table and a figure appeared from behind the throne. From the black beyond, Jessica walked out. Naked as the day she was born, she waved to Lorin and ran up while he was still on his knees. She lifted his face and they stared into each other's tear-filled eyes. Lorin wanted to reach up and wipe away the tears from her face, to feel her rose-petal skin, hold her close, heart-to-heart. But his arms stayed at his sides. He fought and fought, but nothing responded to his will. He saw a flash. It was quick, and he couldn't turn to see. Even the hot pain of the dagger forced between his ribs didn't break the paralysis. When his love twisted the blade with the audible crack of his ribs, Lorin still had no control over himself. She pulled the blade free after twisting it slowly inside Lorin. She smiled—it was the smile she gave when Lorin, beside her in bed, stroked her cheek and awoke her with a kiss. He gazed at that smile now as she drove the dagger into his eye.
The room was bright again, a bird's song filling the room from just beyond the window. Lorin's mouth felt dry while his face was damp from the drool-soaked pillow. The room, aside from a mug of cold tea on the desk, was unchanged from before he’d disappeared in sleep. He dressed and patted down the wrinkles in his clothes before he made his way down to meet with the innkeeper. He stopped at the privy first, then entered the main room. The large personage of the innkeeper stood behind the bar.
"Rent is due," they said, not looking up from wiping the yellow-stained glass in their hands.
A wooden stool in front of the bar made a muddled scraping sound when Lorin pulled it out to sit. He set his elbows on the bar-top and rested the tip of his nose atop his interlocked fingers. "How much do I owe?" Lorin asked, watching his host.
"One silver and thirty copper." They looked up from the now-spotless glass and smiled, or grimaced, or the sagging, wrinkled skin of a face might've just twitched. "Not including gratuity, of course." The innkeeper turned back to rubbing the same glass again.
The innkeeper set the glass down and wiped the coins off the bar. A soft tink of coin hitting coin came from under the bar and the innkeeper said, "Thank you, M'lord, I am Gretta."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Gretta. Could I get something to eat when you have a chance?"
"‘Course," Gretta said while she turned into the kitchen. "I would be hungry, too, if I slept away three days." A few moments passed and Lorin sat with his thoughts, absentmindedly playing with the rest of his coins. Lumbering footsteps announced Gretta well before she backed through the door with two bowls of lentil soup, fresh bread rolls, and a few slices of white cheese. The innkeeper set down Lorin's meal an
d pulled a stool out to sit across from him with her own bowl. The cheese was a sharp, but welcome addition that stood out as the highlight of a rather bland meal. They ate in silence, although Gretta stared at Lorin the entire time they ate. Or perhaps she was focused on her food—her wrinkled face moved on its own and was impossible to read.
Lorin pushed the empty bowl and crumb-speckled plate away and sat back, a faint bit of happiness creeping in from his warm full belly.
"How long are you staying?" Gretta asked, crumbs spraying and falling with every word.
"I'm not sure yet. I might leave today or stay a few more nights, but I haven't had time to think about it."
"Well get thinking. I'll be running out of rooms soon and I don't need one of them taken up by indecision."
Lorin looked around—no one else was in the building.
"Not right now, wise ass," Gretta said. The words were followed by a spray of spit and drool. "The wedding is less'en a fortnight away, and every room will be filled with paying customers. More than one to a room, most like." She pointed a sausage finger at Lorin. "An' they will be willing to pay much more than the normal rate, elsewise they might be stuck outdoors. But"—she sat back—"I'm not an unreasonable woman. If you pay in advance you'll get the room for what you pay now."
"What makes you think I'm staying till the wedding?" Lorin said.
"‘Cause everyone and their mother's mother is staying for the wedding. Did you get beaten senseless?"
Lorin didn't know how to respond, so he shrugged.
"The old Baron died before he could see his son wed, so our new Baron invited anyone and everyone, including us folk, to join in the celebration of his new Lordship and bride. It’s taken a while to happen—what with the new Baron gettin’ settled and all—but the whole thing is meant to be a celebration of his father's life. Though no one really gives two shits about that." She stood, grabbed the dirty dishes, and walked into the kitchen.
"The old Baron wasn't great, but was he that hated?" Lorin asked, his voice raised a bit to reach past the door.