The Dark Cycle - Chapter Two

Chapter 2

The Brawl

As they fled together, down the hallway that led to the kitchens, the marshall’s son asked: “You do not remember me, do you?”

“Remember the plan,” Raeffe whispered, glancing behind him. “Rescue first. Talk later.”

“It’s strange that you don’t remember, because we basically lived in the same house for sixteen years.”

Even Raeffe’s strong instincts for self-preservation could not let this statement go unanswered. He bristled and muttered: “The same house? Ha! I lived in a manor, you slept with the horses. The same house...indeed!”

“Well close enough, anyway,” Stephen Marshall snapped. “And if you want to be rescued, you’d better start being nice to me.”

“You smell like horse,” said Raeffe.

“You smell like perfume,” countered Stephen. “And stop leaning on me. You’re not wounded.”

“I smell delightful. Like apples in autumn. And I am terribly wounded on the lip, and covered with mead besides. Now, get me out of here.”

Stephen did not answer, but moved a little faster. They were almost through the kitchens, which Raeffe thought smelled of dirty water. No-one was left to cook there - the tavern wenches had all left to watch the brawl, and in their absence, the Crooked Arms insects were having a grand old time.

Raeffe saw a beetle swimming briskly in the soup, making its way toward a potato island. Thick flies swarmed around an abandoned chunk of raw beef hanging from hooks on the wall. As they passed near this part of the room, Raeffe smelled the sourness of the meat and felt the grittiness of one of the flies in his mouth.

They were almost to the doors leading out to the road when Grey burst in, wild-eyed, his mouth agape.

“Raeffe!” Grey cried. “What were you thinking, going off like that? And who is this?”

“Stephen, the marshall’s son,” Raeffe muttered, slapping his brother on the shoulder. “You remember him, surely. He was always underfoot.”

“Right - fine - Raeffe, I’m still mad at you,” Grey said, beckoning for them to follow him into the shadows behind the tavern. “Sneaking off like that, without an escort! Thank you, Stephen the marshall’s son, for rescuing my sheep-brained brother.” He stared at Raeffe for a moment before adding, under his breath: “The brains of the stupidest sheep, in the dumbest flock, on the most knuckle-headed farm - ”

“Rescue and done-nothing,” Raeffe said indignantly, wiping his sleeve where Stephen had touched him. “You see my split lip? That was all Stephen’s doing. He stole our father’s charger, just as I suspected.”

“Steal Lander?” Stephen exclaimed. “Well, I would never - I didn’t steal him - ”

“Lads. Bad time to argue,” Grey said, as the ruckus from the tavern began to reach the kitchens. Just beyond the doors came the sound of crashing and loud oaths. “There is a barn a few yards from here, if you want to quibble.”

Raeffe made no answer, but wiped his sleeve again with an offended sigh, and strutted toward the main road. He tried not to look overly hurried. But the night was bleak and erupting with wolf-song. The Crooked Arms Tavern was unattached from the village, and the world around was all dark fields and skeletal crops.

Grey led the way to the barn. In the scrap of moonlight shining through the clouds, his copper-ish hair looked black. Unlike Raeffe, he did not carry himself with high manners, but moved through the world with an awkward gait that was almost limping.

“I think we can wait out the fight here,” he said, pushing aside the wooden bolt and opening the barn’s side door. This done, he went into the room with his arms crossed. “Stephen Marshall, if you took our father’s horse, you should return it.”

“And make a full apology!” Raeffe added.

“I would settle for just the horse,” Grey said. “Stephen Marshall, will you agree?”

Stephen hesitated. He looked from little Raeffe to his thicker younger brother. Both of them looked dead serious, and exhausted besides. Raeffe, in particular, looked double his sixteen years, his eyes ringed with shadows.

Stephen said, “Of course I will return your property. If I had known you were both alive - ”

He broke off, and swallowed.

“If I had known anyone was alive - ”

“Yes, well, here we are,” Raeffe said dryly. “Did you happen to steal anything else where you are at it? Is there any further property for us to claim?”

When Stephen looked at Raeffe, the tears were gone from his flashing eyes. “Of course not. I only took Lander because - ”

“Because of his great worth!”

“Because I knew how special he was,” Stephen said. “To both your father and mine.”

At his words, a thick silence came between them. They could hear the squeaking of farm equipment above them, swinging in the wind.

“Did your father survive?” Stephen asked.

“I don’t know,” said Raeffe.

“We hope so,” Grey said, punctuating his words with the smallest smile. “What about your family?”

“No,” Stephen admitted. “I thought I was the only one who escaped. Have you told anyone what happened?”

“We only just arrived,” Grey said. “I wanted to tell the tavern-keeper, but Raeffe said - ”

“Hush, Grey!” Raeffe snapped. “We are under orders. To cross the Rocky River at the ferry, and make our way north. Then, we are supposed to find our aunt, who is one of the Ladies of the March, and deliver the tale of what happened. And not to tell a soul about it.”

Stephen said: “You basically just told me your entire plan. Let’s work together: you tell me what you think happened to our village, and I will tell you what I saw. That will help you, when you tell your aunt what happened.”

“Really,” Raeffe scoffed. “As though I would stoop to converse with a mere servant - ”

“Brother!” Grey exclaimed. His voice was almost a growl, and it cut through the night, echoing for a moment against the damp beams of the barn around them. After a moment, Grey went on a quieter voice: “We are a little low on allies, at the moment.”

“Fine, fine, but - ”

“Not to mention food.”

“I have food to share,” Stephen said gamely. “When my father saw the storm approaching, he bid me take four pieces of gold.”

“Such a trifling sum?” Raeffe scoffed.

Stephen glowered. “Actually, that was all he owned in the world.”

Raeffe paused, feeling a rare flush of embarrassment. The intensity of this dark little servant carried a weight that surpassed Stephen’s years. For the first time, Raeffe realized that Stephen Marshall had gem-green eyes, a strong chin, and a ruddy face splashed with dark freckles: the face of a working man, who took pride in his labors. Stephen Marshall was obviously the sort of young man it would be impossible to argue with, especially when it concerned his family.

Raeffe leaned against the barn’s wall and shrugged. “I suppose that showed foresight.”

Grey, encouraged that his brother was finally behaving himself, sat on the floor and motioned for Stephen to do the same. “My father’s falconer was the first to see the storm. Not yesterday - many days ago.”

Raeffe sat down beside the two of them. “It was exactly seventeen days ago. You know the falconer, I’m sure. You servants all know one another.”

Stephen looked almost reluctant to admit: “Yes. Marus Merkyl.”

“Right. Whatever his name was. He saw the dark clouds while he was on a hunt with my father. But he and my father were separated, on the trail of different deer. By the time time the falconer - ”

“Marus.”

Raeffe frowned. “By the time the falconer found my father again, the storm was out of sight. Dipped beneath the trees. No-one saw the storm again until it was bearing upon our manor.”

“Now that,” Stephen said, “is where you are wrong.”

As he spoke, he pointed his finger in Raeffe’s face - a dirty finger, with chapped knuckles. Raeffe squirmed and took little pains to disguise his disgust. But Stephen did not seem to notice, for he continued in a steady voice: “I saw the storm the day before it reached the boundary of our village. It was close to the shepherd’s hut. You know Gabriel, the shepherd who tended your father’s flocks?”

“Well, I assumed someone or other was tending them,” Raeffe muttered. “I certainly didn’t know his name.”

“But the shepherd said nothing about the storm?” Grey pressed. “That’s not possible.”

“He told your father,” Stephen assured them. “But apparently, your father did...nothing.”

“How fascinating,” Raeffe muttered, standing to his feet. To his own surprise, he swayed a little. Hunger and exhaustion were creeping upon him, filling his vision with darkness. But he continued: “I don’t think my father had any idea what was coming.”

“Of course he did,” Stephen said coldly. “How else did the two of you escape?”

Raeffe stared at Stephen a moment, then sat back down.

“I think you are a thief and a liar,” Raeffe said.

“And I think you are a stuffed-up little brat,” Stephen said. “Good. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, we can strategize. I say we take the charger and ride north, to tell the king what has happened.”

“Why...would we do that?” Grey asked. “It is just a storm. It is over now.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” Stephen said, lacing his hands together and bending forward. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper: “Lads, I have seen many storms bear down on the valley surrounding our village. And my father - he was old enough to remember the sea-squalls under the last king. But I never saw him looking so frightened, not in my life.”

“The sky went black,” Grey murmured. “It was darkness. In the middle of day.”

Stephen nodded at this. Then, to Raeffe’s surprise, Stephen looked at him and asked: “What did you think?”

“About what?”

“You were in the manor, right? On the hill. You saw it all.”

Raeffe felt his heart sink at the slightest remembrance. He could still see the approaching storm without closing his eyes. He felt the thick veil of moisture in the air. Bearing down on him. Bearing down on all of them: him, his father, his uncle, his little sisters.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Raeffe murmured. “It was a passing storm, that is all.”

“It was evil,” Stephen insisted. “You know it, as well as I. There was evil in that storm. It was coming for us - the falconer's story proves it! What ordinary storm approaches slowly, over the course of several days, like a thief in the night?” Raeffe shook his head, unconvinced. “How can a storm be evil?”

Stephen shrugged, and no one spoke for a moment.

And then, into the silence, Grey ventured in a low voice: “Do you think anyone else survived?”

“Of course,” Raeffe said. “Loads of people. And probably father, as well.”

Stephen looked up at him, bewildered. “What do you mean? Did you not see the roofs ripped off houses? The dams breaking atop the Long River? The trees! The trees that were plucked like flowers - ”

“What a fanciful imagination this fellow has,” Raeffe said briskly, grabbing Grey by the arm. “Come on. Stand up. We are going off the March, to find our aunt and be reunited with our family. Come, come.”

“But I want to stay with Stephen,” Grey whispered as Raeffe hustled him out of the barn. “I think we’ll be killed without him. Also, he seems like a good sort of fellow.”

“He’s frenzied with the pressure of it all,” Raeffe informed his brother. “The mind of a peasant is not built to withstand things like displacement. We cannot trust him anymore than we could trust a rabid wolf.”

“He does not seem like a wolf, more of a nice retriever of some kind - ”

“Pick any dog metaphor you like. If he were a rabid dachshund, he would still be rabid, and that’s the problem.”

“Do you really think Father knew about the storm?”

Raeffe shushed his brother. They had almost reached the barn’s doors, and Raeffe could hear some sort of ruckus on the path beyond: the meaty sounds of blows being exchanged, moans of pain, and drunken battle-cries.

“They’re still brawling!” Raeffe exclaimed in amazement. “Apparently, the fight has spilled out of the tavern-house - but we need to get back to the stables. We need to get our horse.”

“Should we ask Stephen to protect us?” Grey asked, glancing behind them.

“Don’t be a ninny,” Raeffe whispered, pushing open the barn door. “Just move quickly, and try not to look anyone in the eyes.”

Both brothers went out together, Grey grabbing for Raeffe’s hand, and Raeffe trying to slap him away. The scant moonlight revealed about a dozen thugs near the tavern’s kitchens, dueling with pots, pans, and scraps of blazing firewood from the hearth. The group’s enthusiasm, however, seemed to be petering out. The few who were still wrestling now seemed to be leaning on one another more than fighting. The Cercian mercenaries were throwing around dizzy punches that turned into hugs. One man was passed out, face-down on the ground, and Big Agetha was already picking through his pockets.

The sour stench of fresh vomit was everywhere - Raeffe felt like he was inhaling a nasty fog whenever he took a breath. As they approached the tavern, Grey gagged and started burping with rhythmic intensity.

One of the mercenaries staggered toward them and laughed with drunken delight. “I threw up all over myself!” the man cried, opening his arms. “Give us a kiss!”

“I’d sooner die,” Raeffe muttered, putting his arm around his brother and leading him toward the stables.

“Aw. What a mean little man,” the mercenary said, raising his voice into a mocking whine. “See how he ignores me?”

“That’s the one from earlier,” another, less-drunk mercenary said, stepping in front of Raeffe and Grey. He was carrying a crooked dagger, which he pointed at the brothers. “And he’s found a little friend. I would wager a gold piece that they are carrying some treasure. Fancy manners like that. If not, maybe we could get a ransom for them.”

“Eat fish,” Raeffe said, which was the worst insult he knew.

The mercenaries all laughed. There were four of them now, forming a half-circle around the brothers.

The one with the knife stopped laughing and began to lunge for Grey. “I’ll take the fat one!”

But before the mercenary could make good on his threat, there was a flash of steel and a scream.

It took Raeffe a moment to realize that he himself had been the one who screamed, and the flash of steel had been Stephen, coming to the rescue. This time, Stephen was armed with one of the meat-hooks from the barn. He used this rude weapon to push back the mercenaries, swinging the blade and shouting terrible oaths.

Raeffe felt dizzy. He realized all the excitement was making him hyperventilate.

“Breathe,” said Grey, patting his hand. “Stephen will take care of this.”

And Stephen certainly did. He clobbered his way through the drunk mercenaries: cracking heads, jabbing shoulders, and swiping his blade through the air. When one particularly inebriated enemy stumbled toward him, Stephen bent over at the last moment, and the man went flying over his back.

Soon, all four mercenaries were groaning on the ground, tenderly touching their bruised bones, and pathetically trying to rise out of the churned-up mud.

“Well done!” Raeffe said, genuinely impressed. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Working in your father’s stables,” Stephen said, as he looked around to make sure the mercenaries were finished. “If you want to manage horses, you have to be strong.”

“We’re lucky you came to the rescue,” Grey said cheerfully. “Weren’t we...Raeffe?”

Raeffe observed his brother. Fourteen-year-old Greyden d’Piers was pale as a fish and, admittedly, a little fat, but he was standing up straighter now, and flushed with the triumph of being on the victorious side. He looked more like the champion of the fight than the trophy being fought over, his satisfaction evident in his crooked little smile.

“We are lucky. Very lucky indeed,” Raeffe admitted, tugging off one of his leather gloves and extended his bare hand to Stephen. “You’re a top-notch fighter.”

Stephen looked a little dazed at Raeffe’s invitation to shake hands. He lumbered forward and stood toe-to-toe with Raeffe. The difference in their heights was now stark: Raeffe’s eyes came up to Stephen’s chin.

Before Stephen could shake, a startled look suddenly lit up his dark eyes.

“What is it?” Raeffe asked.

The young man took a step backward, his mouth falling open, agape. “Behind you,” he whispered, pointing.

Raeffe turned around. At first, he saw nothing. The sky was thick with darkness and the moon had vanished behind a cloud. The only light now was coming from the hearth in the tavern’s kitchens, and the fingers of its light did not reveal much beyond the barn. Raeffe had no idea what Stephen meant..

But then - he saw it. A flicker of lightning. It illuminated the sky for one instant and, in that instant, Raeffe saw it. The billowing, blood-red clouds. Rolling like smoke on the horizonless sky. The crags of light were stark and illuminated the waves of thick darkness that were bearing down on them.

“The storm,” Raeffe whispered. “No. It can’t be. It’s not possible.”