throat bowed backwards. A moment later there was a resounding crack, and Simi slumped to the deck at his feet, her head skewed at an unnatural angle.
‘By the Lord,’ Bera Rolfsen was heard to say.
Thin Hildi made the protective warding sign of Feya’s cradle.
Kit Farsen began to howl.
Baranguet laughed. ‘That one was very ugly,’ he announced to those assembled in the Old Tongue, his eyes alight with unholy glee. ‘And very noisy, too.’ He paused. ‘She must be descended from – what are those great ugly beasts you northern people believe in? That dwell in dark places, in caves and under bridges?’ He looked around. No one said a word. Ferociously, he kicked Kit Farsen hard on the arm. She shrieked and backed away from him, but he came after her. ‘What do you call these creatures?’ he persisted. He caught up to her, whip raised.
At once, Kit’s wail subsided into gulped sobs. ‘Tr-tr—’ She took a deep breath, then wailed again as the whip cut through the gloomy air with a whistling sound and landed with a crack, catching her across the face. Blood leapt out of the cut. Tears sprang from her eyes. ‘Tr-tr—’
Kit had always stammered when she was nervous. The boys had taunted her for it when she could not repeat her lessons, until Katla had punched them till they promised not to do it any more. Everyone was forever picking on little Kit Farsen.
‘Trolls!’ The word blasted out across the hold. ‘But there’s not a troll in all of Eyra as ugly as you. Your mother must have been a yeka and your father a warthog.’
His attention distracted from the shuddering creature at his feet, Baranguet turned to fix his basilisk gaze upon Katla Aransen.
Katla stared back at him, fierce with fury. There was no weapon in grabbing distance and nowhere to run. She stuck her chin out and waited. Why was she always fighting others’ battles for them? Halli would have warned her to keep quiet and seek an advantage, rather than rushing thoughtlessly into the breach. But she never seemed to learn. It was not even that she was friendly with little Kit Farsen, who was far too much a milksop to sustain Katla’s boisterous company for very long; and she had hardly known Simi Fallsen; but no one deserved to die so needlessly, nor be hurt for the entertainment of a sadistic brute. ‘You are a coward and a murderer,’ she growled. ‘May you burn in the fires of that bitch-goddess you call Falla.’
She put her fists up. It was, she had to admit, a pathetic gesture, but maybe if she could catch the tongues of the whip as it came at her, she could drag Baranguet off balance and that might at least give her a chance to run for a blade . . .
A few paces away from Katla, Baranguet cocked his head on one side and looked her up and down, clearly unimpressed. ‘Not much loss to us if you follow the ugly one. I can’t see you fetching much, anyway,’ he grinned unpleasantly. ‘Where I come from we like a girl with some flesh on her, not some skinny little fox’s runt.’ He raised his whip.
Katla ran at him, but it was an unequal and very swift contest. A moment later the many-tongued whip lashed out and though she caught two of the flails with one hand, the rest wrapped themselves tightly around her neck. Baranguet began to pull, and they tightened again. As she sank to her knees, gasping for breath, Katla heard her mother’s roar of protest, then the sound of a fist connecting with flesh and bone.
A blizzard of black snowflakes filled her vision; then everything went fuzzy and dark and she heard and saw nothing more.
Eight
Alisha
It was dawn when Alisha Skylark raised her head from the cold mud in which she lay, a chilly, grey dawn in which the sun made its presence known only by a bloody tinge to the easternmost clouds, as if it had little wish to examine the sights offered by the grim world below.
She was alive. She hurt, but she was alive.
For a few seconds a sharp buzz of elation revived her enough to
‘By the Lord,’ Bera Rolfsen was heard to say.
Thin Hildi made the protective warding sign of Feya’s cradle.
Kit Farsen began to howl.
Baranguet laughed. ‘That one was very ugly,’ he announced to those assembled in the Old Tongue, his eyes alight with unholy glee. ‘And very noisy, too.’ He paused. ‘She must be descended from – what are those great ugly beasts you northern people believe in? That dwell in dark places, in caves and under bridges?’ He looked around. No one said a word. Ferociously, he kicked Kit Farsen hard on the arm. She shrieked and backed away from him, but he came after her. ‘What do you call these creatures?’ he persisted. He caught up to her, whip raised.
At once, Kit’s wail subsided into gulped sobs. ‘Tr-tr—’ She took a deep breath, then wailed again as the whip cut through the gloomy air with a whistling sound and landed with a crack, catching her across the face. Blood leapt out of the cut. Tears sprang from her eyes. ‘Tr-tr—’
Kit had always stammered when she was nervous. The boys had taunted her for it when she could not repeat her lessons, until Katla had punched them till they promised not to do it any more. Everyone was forever picking on little Kit Farsen.
‘Trolls!’ The word blasted out across the hold. ‘But there’s not a troll in all of Eyra as ugly as you. Your mother must have been a yeka and your father a warthog.’
His attention distracted from the shuddering creature at his feet, Baranguet turned to fix his basilisk gaze upon Katla Aransen.
Katla stared back at him, fierce with fury. There was no weapon in grabbing distance and nowhere to run. She stuck her chin out and waited. Why was she always fighting others’ battles for them? Halli would have warned her to keep quiet and seek an advantage, rather than rushing thoughtlessly into the breach. But she never seemed to learn. It was not even that she was friendly with little Kit Farsen, who was far too much a milksop to sustain Katla’s boisterous company for very long; and she had hardly known Simi Fallsen; but no one deserved to die so needlessly, nor be hurt for the entertainment of a sadistic brute. ‘You are a coward and a murderer,’ she growled. ‘May you burn in the fires of that bitch-goddess you call Falla.’
She put her fists up. It was, she had to admit, a pathetic gesture, but maybe if she could catch the tongues of the whip as it came at her, she could drag Baranguet off balance and that might at least give her a chance to run for a blade . . .
A few paces away from Katla, Baranguet cocked his head on one side and looked her up and down, clearly unimpressed. ‘Not much loss to us if you follow the ugly one. I can’t see you fetching much, anyway,’ he grinned unpleasantly. ‘Where I come from we like a girl with some flesh on her, not some skinny little fox’s runt.’ He raised his whip.
Katla ran at him, but it was an unequal and very swift contest. A moment later the many-tongued whip lashed out and though she caught two of the flails with one hand, the rest wrapped themselves tightly around her neck. Baranguet began to pull, and they tightened again. As she sank to her knees, gasping for breath, Katla heard her mother’s roar of protest, then the sound of a fist connecting with flesh and bone.
A blizzard of black snowflakes filled her vision; then everything went fuzzy and dark and she heard and saw nothing more.
Eight
Alisha
It was dawn when Alisha Skylark raised her head from the cold mud in which she lay, a chilly, grey dawn in which the sun made its presence known only by a bloody tinge to the easternmost clouds, as if it had little wish to examine the sights offered by the grim world below.
She was alive. She hurt, but she was alive.
For a few seconds a sharp buzz of elation revived her enough to
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