Chapter 1382: A pebble for an avalanche(4)

Vilon’s whole body went rigid, his mind completely stalling out. There was no way he could have anticipated that.

It was also, to his horror, his very first kiss.

Instinct finally took the reins. Vilon brought both hands up, planted them firmly against the commander’s iron-clad shoulders, and shoved the man back with everything he had left.

Because he had used both hands, he let go of the walker. The clumsy wooden frame clattered into the grass, and Vilon stumbled. Owen darted forward, catching his master beneath the arms just before he hit the mud.

The damage, however, was already done. Pain exploded across Vilon’s bruised ribs, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as a line of sticky spit ran down his chin. He spat into the grass and quickly wiped his mouth with his linen sleeve, his face burning hot. As he did he breathed through his nose, and sniffed at his odour.

He almost puked.

A knight had to be as clean as godly, but it had been weeks since he last had a bath. He needed more set of cloth for himself, he could not go ahead only with one. He looked down at his tunic and britches.

Perhaps they’d allow me to retain them If ask kindly?

The cloth were tight against his skin and muscle, but it wasn’t like he had any better, whatever cloth he needed, would have to be tailored first usually , it was rare to find something that fit him by chance.

His armor had been stripped from him the day he was brought in, left resting on the table in his cottage that he chanced to see as he passed though the door.They were all crimosn with blood.

Walking around without cold iron against his skin made him feel naked, exposed, and vulnerable. A knight might not be defined solely by his steel, but he ought to at least have it within reach, even if he was currently too shattered to draw it from its scabbard.

"What in the five hells was that?!" Vilon demanded, glaring at the scarred commander with furious reproach. Was it some twisted Yarzat tradition to greet strange knights with a mouth full of ale-breath and beard-stubble?

The commander simply burst into a booming, belly-shaking roar of laughter, a foul sound quickly echoed by his four companions. Vilon traded a bewildered glance with Owen; for once, even the king-worshiping squire looked utterly lost.

"By the Warrior’s bloodied hand!" the commander gasped, wiping a tear from his good eye. "The bloody balls on this bastard! Mad as a rabid dog and twice as hard to kill!Let me check the weight of ya!"

Vilon’s hand shot down, swatting away the calloused fingers that reached out to casually pat between his thigh. "I’ll have you stop this nonsense at once!"

Owen stepped up beside him, his small chest puffed out, glaring up at the riders. "Keep your hands off ser!"

As warmed as Vilon was by the boy’s fierce loyalty, he hardly approved of the provocation. They were dealing with Hounds, threats were not to be made.

Mariol finally stepped in to diffuse the tension, swinging himself down from his saddle with an easy, practiced grace. "Easy, lad, easy! Don’t go souring your milk, we’re only jesting with him," he said, offering that smooth, wolfish grin of his. He turned to his commander. "This here is Captain Saron. When he heard what we dragged out of that creek, he insisted on riding down to meet the hero of the hour himself." Mariol winked at the captain. "Told you my eyes never lie. I knew the moment I saw him he had iron in his spine, and by the Weaver’s tits, didn’t he bloody deliver?"

"Saron’s the name," the one-eyed captain muttered, his lone eye sweeping over Vilon like a merchant assessing a broken mule. "I could hardly believe the tale when my boys brought it back to camp. Found you flat in the mire, with three dead brigands around you and a fourth bleeding his life out to attest to the bill. Your sword and your mail were caked so thick in blood they looked rusted through."

Three dead and one wounded?

Vilon’s blood ran cold, his face draining of all color.

"What of the fifth?" Vilon rasped, panic clutching at his crushed throat that started burning all at once. "What of Logen? Did he escape?"

"Not for a lack of trying, mind you," Mariol replied, casually looping his horse’s reins around his wrist. "The old dog was trying to mount your stallion when we crested the hill. It’s a good thing your squire found us when he did, or we’d have been burying your corpse instead of celebrating your victory."

Mariol tilted his head toward the road. "Selm and I rode like the demons were on our heels. When that bald bastard saw two wolves charging down the ridge, he left you bleeding in the grass and made a mad dash for your horse. The fear of the Weaver was thick on him! But a Hound on a trail is faster than a rat in a ditch. A thrown rope around his neck pulled him right out of the saddle. You did a grand and noble service for Yarzat, ser."

"I...’’He was dead,thanks the gods. ’’ I merely did my duty," Vilon stammered, the words hollow, completely drained of fire. "You would have caught them eventually, even without me. It was very little."

Vilon watched in utter confusion as the five Hounds traded bewildered, disbelieving looks.

The rider on the far left, a lean man with a shock of bright auburn hair, leaned over his pommel, staring at Vilon as if the knight had suddenly sprouted a second head.

"You truly have no idea what you really stumbled into down at that creek, do you?" the auburn-haired man asked quietly. ’’You don’t understand what you did...’’

Vilon frowned, struggling to hold himself upright against Owen’s shoulder. "what do you mean?"

Mariol’s wolfish grin widened until his white teeth flashed in the pale winter sun. He slapped his gauntleted hand against his thigh with a sharp crack.

"Come along with us, ser," Mariol chuckled, motioning for the knight to follow. "Hobble on over to the road. For boy-oh-boy, do we have something to show you."

The wretched, rot-eaten door creaked open with a long, wet hiss, sounding for all the world like a viper coiled in the dark. Vilon hobbled across the threshold, every step with his wooden walker sending a dull, sickening throb through his bandaged ribs.

Before his eyes could even adjust to the gloom, a terribly familiar scent rushed to greet him.

Blood.

It was the thick, metallic stench of iron, wet copper, and human misery, a foul perfume Vilon had known intimately since he was old enough to follow his father down the Kakunian highway.

Behind him, the door swung further back, allowing the pale winter sun to slice through the dark in long, dusty rays. The light illuminated the gruesome gift Vilon had unwittingly handed to the Hounds.

Suspended in the center of the damp, earthen room was a man. A rough hempen rope bound his wrists tightly together, trailing upward to wrap around a thick wooden roof beam. The length had been measured with perfect precision, it was neither long enough to allow his heels to rest comfortably on the dirt, nor short enough to snap his wrist and hang him outright like a smoked sausage. He was forced to stand on the very tips of his big toes, straining every tendon in his legs just to take the crushing weight off his arms.

Where the rope bit into his wrists, the flesh had sheared open into raw, weeping ruin. Dark, dried streams of crimson tracked down his hairy forearms, running across his shoulders and pooling in the matted hair of his chest. Lower down, his bare feet were a horror; every single one of his toenails had been systematically pried free, leaving the raw, pink meat beneath exposed to the damp chill of the room.

The man had clearly given up trying to hold himself up. He dangled limply from the beam, his full weight dragging against his ruined wrists, letting out low, rhythmic whimpers every time the rope creaked and stretched.

As the heavy boots of the Hounds shuffled through the doorway, the prisoner’s swollen, bloodshot eyes pried themselves open. He raised his head with agonizing slowness.

When those eyes finally locked onto Vilon, the knight saw the wet, helpless sheen of tears brimming in their corners. Even battered, bruised, and broken, the man’s hideous face was unmistakable. The thick, matted white beard stained with grease, the four yellow teeth, and that horribly mangled nose, shoved flat and pointing upward like a crooked finger aimed at the stars.

Logen.

The old mercenary opened his cracked, bloody lips, a dry, rasping wheeze escaping his throat as he stared at the knight he had tried so desperately to butcher down by the creek.

And then he whimpered and wept.