Sentinelspire - Mark Sehestedt [79]
"Wonderful," he said to himself. He turned back to the open doors, reconsidering a night in the open. Fresh air was one thing. Sleeping in the rain was quite another.
Bur then he saw Ulaan, peeling off her gown before getting into bed. All the candles were out, and the warm light from the fire settling to its rest painted her skin in glowing curves and soft shadows. She saw him watching. She returned his stare and arched one eyebrow. She said nothing, and even though Lewan had known her only a few days, he knew what she was asking. Are you sure?
Lewan took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and closed the balcony doors. Perhaps a cold shower was just what he needed after all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
That day in the foothills of the Khopet Dag, Lewan had not been entirely truthful with Sauk.
You ever killed anyone? Lewan had evaded the question, then let Sauk believe whatever he wanted. I'll take that as a no.
But Lewan had killed. And not just the animals he'd told Sauk about. He'd killed a person. He'd been only twelve years old. For years after, that day had haunted him, recurring again and again in his nightmares, and the images and sounds coming to him with sudden clarity in the middle of the day while he was in the midst of a task for his master. Years had dulled the nightmares, and even the waking memories now seemed distant and hazy.
Even as a young boy, working the fields with his father or helping his mother cook, he'd seen death. Lambs that did not survive a hard birthing. Sheep or hens slaughtered for feast days. He had seen death. But the first person he'd ever killed…
Most likely, the raiders from the Ganathwood had waited outside the village most of the night. They'd waited until the eastern sky was just light enough to cast the village in a muted glow. The first shepherds had just been walking bleary-eyed out of their homes to tend the fields when the first raiders slew the guards and threw the gates open wide. Lewan didn't know how or when his father had been killed. He hadn't seen the body until it was all over and the raiders were dragging him away.
The sound of his home's front door being kicked in and his mother shrieking had woken him instantly. Outside, the flocks were bleating.
He'd sat up on his straw mattress and started to call out for his mother, but hearing the raucous voices, the main room's table being thrown aside, and his mother continued screaming had filled him with a sensation he'd never known before: sheer terror. As a small child, Lewan had been afraid of the dark, and thunderstorms had often sent him scurrying to the pallet his parents shared in the main room. But this was something entirely new. His hearing and vision sharpened, but his heart was pounding so hard he could feel his temples pulsing. He felt cold all over, like he'd been rolled in snow.
His mother's screams intensified, but amidst the shrieks Lewan had heard the creaking of the ladder that led to his loft. Someone was coming up. His breath coming in ragged sobs, Lewan rose. Taking steps that were far too slow-he'd barely been able to get his feet to move at all-he staggered to the far corner, where their croft's roof almost touched the floor and the shadows were deep and dark. A pile of dirty clothing and his heavy winter blanket in need of mending lay there. He'd crawled under them and waited.
The hatch on the floor next to the far wall slammed up. A wild-haired, unshaven man thrust his head and arm through the opening. That hand held a knife. He looked around- looked right where Lewan lay curled in the shadows-then called down, "Empty! Just a loft. My turn. Now you hold her!" And he'd leaped down, leaving the hatch open.
His mother's voice rose to one long, agonized shriek, then broke into quiet sobbing. With the hatch still open, Lewan could hear at least two men chuckling and another breathing heavily. How long it went on, Lewan could never remember, but in his nightmares of the following