panting, his face a mask of blood, then staggered to his feet. “That was for breaking Innis’s jaw.” His voice was thick with rage, thick with blood. “And this is for almost killing her in Lundegaard. Whoreson.” He kicked Harkeld’s chest again.
Agony knifed through him, but Harkeld had no breath to scream. Pain blanked his mind. For several seconds, the world vanished. When it returned, he became aware that Petrus had lurched back half a dozen paces. The mage sat heavily in the mud and cupped his hands over his nose.
Harkeld cradled his ribs, struggling to breathe.
Long minutes passed. Rain streamed down. The pain didn’t ease. Waves of agony expanded in his chest. Each breath stabbed. Getting to his feet, walking back to the taproom, were impossible tasks. He imagined pushing open the door, imagined the mages turning their heads to look at him, imagined the humiliation of asking one of the healers to mend his ribs.
He glared in Petrus’s direction, hating him. Hatred was good, rage was good; it would give him the strength to climb to his feet. But his rage kept sliding away, swamped by the sheer agony of breathing.
The lantern cast enough light for Harkeld to see that Petrus had his hands cupped over his nose. Healing himself.
He knew better than to ask Petrus to heal him. In fact, it would be prudent to leave before Petrus got to his feet again.
If I can stand.
Harkeld levered himself slowly to his knees, and halted there, dizzy with pain, wheezing shallowly.
Petrus turned his head. His eyes glittered darkly. “Not so full of yourself are you, now?”
Harkeld didn’t bother to reply. He concentrated on breathing.
Petrus wiped blood and mud and rain from his face, and carefully felt his nose. “You broke my nose, whoreson.”
“Good.” Harkeld tried to stand. For a sickening moment he thought he was going to pass out. Or vomit. Or both. He lurched back down to his knees, eyes squeezed shut. Breathe. Slowly .
He heard a sucking sound in the mud—footsteps—and opened his eyes.
Petrus crouched in front of him. “If you set yourself on fire, I wouldn’t piss on you to put you out. You’re an arrogant, foul-tempered son of a whore. We risk our lives for you, we die for you, and you treat us like dogshit.”
“You are dogshit,” Harkeld said. His voice was faint, wheezing. “Lying to me, laughing at me behind my back.”
“Laughing? None of us were laughing. You think we wanted to be Justen? You think we enjoyed it?” Petrus spat into the mud. “We did it to protect you, whoreson, All-Mother only knows why. Should have just let you die. Would have been a lot easier.”
Harkeld shut his eyes again. Breathe slowly .
“Treat Innis or Justen like that again and I’ll cursed well break all your ribs. Do you understand me?”
Harkeld didn’t reply. It took all his effort to breathe.
“Do you understand me?” A hard finger stabbed against his sternum.
It was one agony too much. His chest was on fire. Harkeld bent over, retching.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“W ELL ?” K AREL DEMANDED, trying to keep impatience from his voice. He wanted to grab Solveig by the shoulders and shake the man’s words from him.
“No covered carts passed through the eastern gate this afternoon, sir.”
Karel turned on his heel, surveying what he could see of the town. Its name was Groderling. Torches burned in brackets, lighting some of the doorways. Wooden galleries loomed above, some dark, some warm with lamplight.
They were close to the princess. He knew it. Only an hour or two behind. Was she even in this town? Had the Fithians chosen to stay here for the night?
The gelding he’d been riding snuffled his shoulder with a dusty muzzle and blew out a weary breath. Karel patted the animal’s neck.
“Maybe they’re still here?” The voice was Prince Tomas’s.
Karel glanced at him. In the flickering torchlight, the prince’s scar stood out, bisecting his cheek.
“Maybe.”
Hooves clattered as
Agony knifed through him, but Harkeld had no breath to scream. Pain blanked his mind. For several seconds, the world vanished. When it returned, he became aware that Petrus had lurched back half a dozen paces. The mage sat heavily in the mud and cupped his hands over his nose.
Harkeld cradled his ribs, struggling to breathe.
Long minutes passed. Rain streamed down. The pain didn’t ease. Waves of agony expanded in his chest. Each breath stabbed. Getting to his feet, walking back to the taproom, were impossible tasks. He imagined pushing open the door, imagined the mages turning their heads to look at him, imagined the humiliation of asking one of the healers to mend his ribs.
He glared in Petrus’s direction, hating him. Hatred was good, rage was good; it would give him the strength to climb to his feet. But his rage kept sliding away, swamped by the sheer agony of breathing.
The lantern cast enough light for Harkeld to see that Petrus had his hands cupped over his nose. Healing himself.
He knew better than to ask Petrus to heal him. In fact, it would be prudent to leave before Petrus got to his feet again.
If I can stand.
Harkeld levered himself slowly to his knees, and halted there, dizzy with pain, wheezing shallowly.
Petrus turned his head. His eyes glittered darkly. “Not so full of yourself are you, now?”
Harkeld didn’t bother to reply. He concentrated on breathing.
Petrus wiped blood and mud and rain from his face, and carefully felt his nose. “You broke my nose, whoreson.”
“Good.” Harkeld tried to stand. For a sickening moment he thought he was going to pass out. Or vomit. Or both. He lurched back down to his knees, eyes squeezed shut. Breathe. Slowly .
He heard a sucking sound in the mud—footsteps—and opened his eyes.
Petrus crouched in front of him. “If you set yourself on fire, I wouldn’t piss on you to put you out. You’re an arrogant, foul-tempered son of a whore. We risk our lives for you, we die for you, and you treat us like dogshit.”
“You are dogshit,” Harkeld said. His voice was faint, wheezing. “Lying to me, laughing at me behind my back.”
“Laughing? None of us were laughing. You think we wanted to be Justen? You think we enjoyed it?” Petrus spat into the mud. “We did it to protect you, whoreson, All-Mother only knows why. Should have just let you die. Would have been a lot easier.”
Harkeld shut his eyes again. Breathe slowly .
“Treat Innis or Justen like that again and I’ll cursed well break all your ribs. Do you understand me?”
Harkeld didn’t reply. It took all his effort to breathe.
“Do you understand me?” A hard finger stabbed against his sternum.
It was one agony too much. His chest was on fire. Harkeld bent over, retching.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“W ELL ?” K AREL DEMANDED, trying to keep impatience from his voice. He wanted to grab Solveig by the shoulders and shake the man’s words from him.
“No covered carts passed through the eastern gate this afternoon, sir.”
Karel turned on his heel, surveying what he could see of the town. Its name was Groderling. Torches burned in brackets, lighting some of the doorways. Wooden galleries loomed above, some dark, some warm with lamplight.
They were close to the princess. He knew it. Only an hour or two behind. Was she even in this town? Had the Fithians chosen to stay here for the night?
The gelding he’d been riding snuffled his shoulder with a dusty muzzle and blew out a weary breath. Karel patted the animal’s neck.
“Maybe they’re still here?” The voice was Prince Tomas’s.
Karel glanced at him. In the flickering torchlight, the prince’s scar stood out, bisecting his cheek.
“Maybe.”
Hooves clattered as
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