Broken Birthday

Genre: Dark

Genre: Dark

Fantasty

Action/Adventure Genre


BROKEN BIRTHDAY
About 5000 words


          The silence lured Jamie from his hiding spot in the loft. Memory roiled his stomach: a flashing blade, a searing pain, a powerful arm slamming him against the wall. Either forgotten by his attacker or ignored as insignificant, he had passed out and fallen behind the bed.
          Standing made his head explode and tore at his chest. A foot-long slash down his left breast had bled freely and was still oozing, the pain competing with the throbbing in his head. He folded his shirt over the cut and pressed his withered left arm against it. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly until the throbbing pain receded to a tolerable level. I ran away. I tried to hide. Those thoughts might never recede, might never be tolerable.
          The house was quiet and still. The raiding Breakers were gone. He hoped. Even so, his pulse juddered in fear of what he knew he would find as he peered over the loft rail at the carnage below. He tried to ignore the inner voice that whispered, Coward.
          He struggled one-handed down the ladder and almost tripped when he stepped on a spindle. With a lurch, he grabbed the ladder for balance, choking back a cry when the movement tore at his chest wound. The spindle was from the hand-made milking stool his father had given him only that morning as a birthday gift, now smashed to kindling.
          Fearing that the slight noise might have alerted the raiders, he froze and sought the cut-saw at his waist. The sheath was empty. He glanced above the fireplace where his pap's sword usually hung, a souvenir of his days in the army before he was given the farm as a pension. "Peter Corvanin - For Distinguished Service," read the plaque on the holder, now scratched repeatedly and almost illegible. The sword was gone.
          Below the loft, his father's body lay in a corner, slumped atop a dead Breaker as though victor in a wrestling match. His own sword was driven through his back. The boy's breath heaved with a sigh of sorrow, and loss.
          Helpless, useless. The taunts and jibes of fifteen years crowded into his head. Half-man! Weakling! One-arm! Outlander! Fights he'd lost because he couldn't protect his left. Fights he'd fled to avoid. Run, sheep-lover, run! His father's well-meant lies. "You've one good arm, Jaime. There's much you can do." Hah. Weak-arm! Halfling! Any man's work that took two good arms--plowing the field, butchering and dressing a pig, shearing a sheep, scything and stooking the grain--was beyond him.
          His father dead--where was his mam? At the kitchen end of the house, food and broken dishes lay scattered about. His mother's pride, a lace tablecloth that had been on the table this morning for his birthday, lay trampled in the mess, fouled with urine and feces and blood. His eyes watered and he told himself it was the stench. He crept to the front door through a crunch of eggshells and shattered crockery.
          His mother lay outside on the frozen ground. He quickly averted his gaze at what they'd done to her, then spewed what was left of his birthday breakfast onto the stone doorstep. Two dead Breakers were sprawled nearby, scorched holes for eyes. His mother's staff lay beside them, its shaft bloody and its orb dark. She had spent her power to take down at least two of her attackers. Well done, Mam.
          Clenching his jaw to hold back tears, grinding his teeth so hard they creaked, he went to his mam. Looking away from her ravaged body, he used his strong right arm to pull down her skirt and cross her arms on her chest. He gently laid his hand on her forehead and struggled to to be strong.
          Dazed, lost, grieving, he wandered into the farmyard. The stillness struck him—the usual comforting animal sounds were missing. He found the pigs dead in their sty, the cow slaughtered nearby. In the barn, his father's matched bays were a sprawl of spilled guts in their stalls. Gimlet the pup was a heap of black-and-white fur like a rug tossed aside. Jamie clung to emptiness against the wave of horror and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.
          Three horses left by the Breakers were tied in an empty stall. Jamie knew they were hungry, thirsty, tired, and sore. Familiar actions soothed him as he removed their tack, smoothed salve on their saddle sores, watered them, and fed them the hay that would have gone to the cow. It had been his job to feed the livestock, not a chore but a joy with the fowl flocking around his feet for scattered grain, the pigs rushing to see him with the evening's slops, the horses exploring his pockets for carrots, the cow nudging eagerly for her hay.
          "You've a way with animals, a gift of Understanding," his mam had once told him. "When you're older, you may find you have the gift of Speech. Both are useful gifts, but like your ability with the staff, these are things to keep to yourself. People hereabouts are good folk, but ignorant of magic, and suspicious of what they don't understand."
          The slaughtered animals and the memory of his mother shattered his numbness and triggered his tears. He threw himself to the ground and cried for what was lost.

###

          Cold gnawed his muscles into shivering wakefulness. He was face down in the frost, with the wind dusting snow over him like a blanket. When he forced himself up, his clothes ripped from the frozen ground with a sound like tearing flesh and restarted the bleeding from his wound.
          Shuddering, teeth chattering, he stumbled past the snow-drifted body of his mam and into the house. He gathered chunks of firewood that had been scattered when the wood box was smashed, and added them to the banked embers in the hearth.
          Why hadn't the Breakers burned the place down, he wondered as he warmed himself. They left their cold mountain strongholds every few years to raid and pillage. Thieves more than killers, they would terrorize a few farmers, smash a few things, round up livestock, steal clothing and foodstuffs, then ride back into the hills. Any who resisted might have their farm burnt as a warning. His mam and pap had resisted strongly. Presumably the stock had been killed in angry retaliation. But why had they not burned the house?
          Once he had stopped shivering, he left the fire and struggled to the loft. His left arm was weaker than usual, perhaps from the wound, though the hand still worked well enough. Ah, well, his right was strong from years of one-armed farm work.
          He found his cloak slashed and pinned to the wall with his own cut-saw. He donned the cloak, grateful for its warmth despite its rips. Sliding the saw into the sheath he still wore, he returned to the hearth.
          His parents had fought and died. I ran and hid. I should have stayed. I should have fought. I should have died with them.

###

          The fire had burned low, and with a shiver of decision Jamie moved away from its warmth. He would travel to the Davoish's, the neighboring farm, to tell them what had happened, to warn them of Breakers on the attack.
          He went to his father's body and wrenched the sword free. He was forced to put his foot on his father's back, and the sucking noise as the blade came out made him dizzy and ill. He cleaned the blade on the shirt of the dead Breaker. After some search, he located the scabbard in the wreckage and slung the sword on his back with some vague sense of future need.
          Next, he went to the barn to retrieve the slasher--a long blade atop a pole, more farm implement than weapon, but he felt it would be useful. He fashioned a sling for it from a length of rope and slipped it on his back beside the sword. The extra rope he wound around his waist. Always a use for a piece of rope. He considered the Breaker horses, left behind for an eventual return. He doubted he could mount unassisted or ride with the long weapons. He would walk.
          He returned to the sleeping loft and threw down two blankets, to cover his parents' bodies. He spread one over his pap, and spat at the dead Breaker. When he picked up his mother's staff to lay it beside her body, to his surprise it flickered into a weak glow. It would recharge from his life energy, though he wondered how much command he would have over its power. He set the staff by the doorway and returned to his purpose.
          Memories from the morning pressed his mind while he weighted the blanket with firewood against the wind.
          “People call me ‘outlander’, Pap," he had complained.
          “Well, aye, you are a bit more like your mam, slender and dark, not tow-haired like folks here-about. She had a hard time being accepted herself, after I won her heart and hauled her home from my travels in the army. Not sure it’s a good idea for her to be teaching you outlander magic with that staff of hers, though. Makes folks suspicious.”
          His mam had laughed. “That it does, Peter. Dreamers, we outlanders are, wizards and poets and singers, not plodding oxen to work ourselves to death on a farm. But farmers we must be. Come for breakfast, Jamie. It's your favorite, poached eggs."
          By the time he had retrieved the staff and traveled a hundred yards on his way, the blanket was covered with snow.

###

          The Davoish holding was in the valley, normally an easy downhill trip. Today the wind drove into him as though to force him back. Cold stabbed through his leather pants and torn cloak. Snow flensed his bare skin and froze to his eyelashes, nearly blinding him. With his torn cloak clutched to his torn chest with his weak left arm, and his mother's staff gripped in his stiff right hand, he was so helpless that he couldn't even wipe his face.
          His stomach growled and churned, reminding him that he had lost his breakfast; the thought of the attack and its results curdled his guts. He licked ice off his lips to ease his thirst. Every step sent a pulse of agony through his chest wound, his head throbbed, and the dimly-glowing staff seemed to suck energy from him with every breath. His heart burned with loss, and he ached with desire to lie down in the snow and join his mam and pap.
          Is that who I am? Outlander, weakling, one-arm? Am I the half-man that they call me, to curl up and die rather than fight back? Around the loss and pain, there grew a thin layer of determination and purpose. Head bent to the wind, heart bent to strange emotions, he struggled on.
          A screech roused him from his torments. Perched on a rock in front of him was a black-tailed hawk. He had been about to step around it.
          Man! The word rasped in his mind. Take care. I suffer enough without your clumsy feet.
          "You talk! I have never known a hawk to speak."
          Our surprise is mutual. I have never known a man to hear.
          "I'm sorry, I meant you no harm."
          Perhaps not. But heedless harm is still harm.
          One of the bird's wings drooped low. "Are you hurt?"
          The men who came before threw a rock. I sprained a wing dodging it. I will be fine with rest, but I will freeze long before I can fly.
          Men who came before? Foreboding tickled his mind--he might be following the Breakers. But they were on horseback and he had seen no sign of their trail.
          "May I carry you?" He opened his cloak in offer.
          You may, and thank you. Jamie tucked the large bird under his cloak as best he could with his withered arm. It was like embracing a frozen rock. The coolness felt good against his wound.
          "The men who came before and hurt you? They were probably Breakers."
          Why do you call them that?
          "That's who they are. Wild rogues, cast-offs from the mountains who live only to raid and destroy, to break rather than build. They ain't usually killers but this bunch is vicious. Parents tell their children to be good or the Breakers will get 'em." He snorted in disgust. "They ain't tales to frighten children. They are foul brutes. I wish I could kill them all."
          The antidote to wickedness is not revenge but righteousness.
          "But if you are slain in your righteousness,"--he thought of his parents-- "then evil wins."
          Being righteous does not mean being stupid or helpless. Righteousness includes having sharp wits and sharp talons and knowing how to use them both.
          Jamie was silent. His parents had been neither stupid nor helpless.
          You are armed – you have many weapons. Are they decoration, or do you know their use?
          "I got my father's sword and slasher, for all the good they did him in the end. My mother's staff, pretty much burnt out. My cut-saw, good for pruning trees and butchering pigs. I can use 'em one-handed and badly. I'm Jamie half-man, Jamie one-arm. I ain't no warrior."
          Even a hawk with one set of talons can kill a mouse.
          Jamie considered that at length. Breakers were not mice. But still....
          A hawk will kill if he has hunger. Are you hungry, One-arm?
          He had no answer.
          The wind and snow lessened as they pressed on, and soon stopped.

###

          Smoke tainted the sky ahead. Pausing on a hilltop, he studied the farmhold. The Davoish barn was aglow with sullen flames, half-extinguished by the snow. Nothing stirred. Smoke drifted lazily from the farmhouse chimney. Two bodies lay before the house on a blanket of red, like broken dolls cast aside by a careless child.
          The hawk peered out from Jamie's cloak. I see nothing of danger, Half-man.
          "Don't call me that!" Jamie snapped.
          It is what you call yourself. The boy felt the hawk shrug against his chest.
          Trusting the raptor's sharp eyes, Jamie gulped down his fear and crept forward, using the leafless brush for cover as best he could, until he reached the house and ducked under a window.
          A peek through the crack between the shutters showed an empty room with no violent, senseless damage as at his own farm. A banked fire glowed in the hearth. He slunk around to the front. The crumpled dolls were Mam and Pap Devoish, the blanket a pool of blood from violent wounds.
          I am warm now. Leave me. I will keep watch.
          After setting the hawk on the ground, Jamie opened the door and scanned the room. He wiped his feet on the mat so as to not leave wet footprints, and entered the house. What if they left one behind to stand guard? He half-drew the sword and almost took off his ear. Idiot. Halfling. He let the weapon slide back into place.
          Three small casks of apple brandy, unbroached, had been stacked in one corner. Amazing that they didn't stay to drink themselves stupid. But the Tarnao farm is only two miles off. Perhaps the brandy is for a celebration. Ah, and that must be why they didn't fire our farm—it would have signalled the Devoish's. By the time the Tarnaos noticed the smoke from here, the Breakers would be on 'em. That means they know this area. But how?....
          In the loft, he found the bodies of the three little Davoish girls. The manner of their death sickened him, but he swallowed his anguish. It settled as yet another heavy lump in the pit of his stomach, churning with loss and fear and the faint rumbling of anger.
          The larder had not been fouled. He helped himself to some bread, a slice of cold beef, and a piece of cheese. He stuffed the food into his pockets, retrieved his staff, and surveyed the room. He had left no sign of his presence.
          When he came out, the snow had resumed, thick, fluffy flakes that hid the world and began to cover the horror of the Devoish's bodies.
          You have food?
          "I have food. But first we must have shelter. Perhaps the barn. I must take off my cloak. Can you ride my shoulder for a while?"
          I could. But my talons are sharp and would cut you. Perhaps I can fly. The bird flapped awkwardly half-way to the barn.
          "Good enough. Wait there. I will come for you."
          Dragging the cloak to brush out his footprints, he went to where he had stood at the window and then returned to the hawk. The snow in the yard was churned from hooves and boots, with tracks showing where the Breakers had ridden in and out. There were other prints from the house to the barn, from either the Devoish family or the Breakers, so he put on his cloak, picked up the hawk, and followed them. The fresh snow would soon cover his passage. By the time he reached the barn, he was wet to the skin and shaking with chill.
          They hid in an unburnt part of the barn. Though the smell of smoke was sharp and pervasive, they were out of the wind and relatively warm. The hawk tore at the beef, and Jamie ate part of the bread and cheese. The heavy snow hissed on the dying embers.
          After their sparse meal, the hawk perched on a beam and fluffed up its feathers. Almost retching at the stink of wet burnt wood, blood, and dung, Jamie rolled in his cloak and huddled for warmth behind the still steaming corpse of a cow.
          He was almost asleep when the evening was filled with hoofbeats, shouts, curses, and harsh laughter. The Breakers had returned. Jamie froze in terror when they clattered into the barn to tie their horses. The harsh, guttural Breaker speech was barely comprehensible, and what he heard, he wished he hadn't.
          "That's a job well done," a rumbling, raspy voice as though from an injured throat. "Every bastard from our old unit snuffed. Corvanin, Davoish, Tarnao, Fertalin. Every last son-of-a bitch dead, with their whores and brats. Serve them right after what they done to us."
          "I should have made sure myself that the Corvanin brat was dead." Cold, hard, a voice of command.
          "Cap'n, I gutted him like a fish." The familiar voice made Jamie cringe. "His head spattered on the wall like a ripe melon an' he dropped like a poleaxed cow. He was dead."
          "When we go back for the horses, we'll make sure he's as dead as Captain-goddam-Corvanin."
          "Hey, Cap'n Gorfagharn," said a fourth man, "you gonna let us have at that brandy?"
          "Them pink-bellies ain't suckin' air no more. Got 'em all. Reckon you've earned it, boys."
          Cheers and the crunch of boots in snow faded into the distance, leaving the barn silent except for the snuffle and stamp of horses.
          Jamie wondered at what he'd heard, but gritted his teeth to keep quiet, grateful that none of them had spared a glance for dead cows.

###

          Sleep slithered into his mind and whispered promises. With two strong arms, he swung his father's sword, and Breakers' heads rolled and Breakers' blood flowed! With energy and will, he commanded his mother's staff, and Breakers' eyes burst and Breakers' brains boiled! With cut-saw and slasher, he whirled and struck two-handed, and Breakers' throats gaped and Breakers' bellies spewed purple guts!
          The world lurched and the dream shifted. The sword hung at the end of his withered arm and he lacked the strength to even lift it. The staff was dark and powerless. He reached for his cut-saw but it was not in the sheath. A group of Breakers, bearded men in rough and soiled clothing, taunted him. "One arm! Half man! Outlander weakling!" The man called Gorfagharn raped Jamie's mother while the others cheered him on. They turned towards him, all menace and evil grins, waving clubs and knives and swords. "Run, little coward!" He ran like the wind, but the group was always on his heels.
          He awoke gasping for breath, as though he really had been running. From the house came raucous laughter, drunken shouts, and the sound of something being smashed. The Breakers were enjoying the applejack, he guessed, and would soon drink themselves into stupor.
          He slept again, and in his dream a hawk flew overhead and cried, "Remember! Even a one-legged hawk can kill a mouse!"
          He woke at dawn, still chilled and hardly rested, but with a head full of half-remembered dreams and plans. He creaked to his feet and brushed at the dung on his cloak.
          The horses stirred at his movement but settled quickly. He knew that they were cold and hungry too, but he could do nothing for them. The poor beasts had not even been unsaddled.
          The hawk stretched its wings and arched its neck. Another morning. We still live.
          "Yes, if barely."
         He offered to share his meager breakfast with the hawk, but it declined.
          I will hunt this morning. A hot mouse or vole will go well.
          "Wait a bit. When you fly off, would you be so kind as to scout the area to the east?" He explained what he wanted.
          I can hunt east as well as west. I will look. The bird tilted its head and peered at him with one eye. You are hungrier today, Half-man. I am not the only one to hunt.
          On the hawk's return, Jamie was pleased with its report, and the two set off into the rising sun. He had considered driving off the horses, but decided it would be better if the Breakers rode. They would no doubt sleep until noon, and awake hung-over. He would have plenty of time to set things up. Perhaps a one-legged hawk could indeed kill a mouse.

###

          Feeling oddly light and vulnerable without the sword and slasher and staff, Jamie crept to the window and looked in. As best he could tell through the shutters, three men sprawled asleep in the room; there were probably a few more in the loft. He had counted seven horses in the barn.
          Now, how to stir the hornet's nest without getting stung? The hawk chuckled at the prospect.
          "We smoke them out, of course."
          The hawk flew up to the roof. Jamie boldly went into the house and raked embers from the hearth onto the wood floor, then added the dried sticks he had brought in. When the fire was burning well, he added dried dung he had carried from the barn. When smoke began to fill the room, he seized a fry pan from the rack and and a wooden spoon from the table, then stood in the open doorway while he banged the two in a staccato racket. When the hung-over Breakers stumbled to a confused and coughing wakefulness, he threw the fry pan and spoon at them and walked out.
          Jamie stopped at the edge of the forest, and the hawk joined him on a nearby branch. Together, they watched the house.
          The hornets are upset indeed.
          Smoke poured from the open door, followed by five men coughing and cursing. The smoke died away: they had put out the fire. Two more Breakers emerged.
          Jamie yelled to get their attention. "Hey! Baby killers! Rapists! Look over here, you murderers!"
          Several started to stumble towards him. "No," bellowed the tallest one. Jamie recognized the voice from the night before as Gorfagharn, apparently the leader. "We'll never catch him afoot. To horse!" They straggled towards the barn.
          Jamie turned to the hawk. "Fly, my friend, and thanks."
          We fly together, One-arm, and may your hunt be successful.
          When the first mounted Breaker left the barn, Jamie dashed into the woods, running as in a village festival race, but this time the prize was his life. Following the path he had worked out in the light of dawn, Jamie dodged trees and ducked under low branches that would slow the riders, muttering at the snow the trees dumped on him. There was less snow on the ground under the trees, and he needed to leave a plain trail. He had to be fast enough to avoid being caught, but slow enough to encourage the chase. Distant yells and curses and the crash of brush told him he had the right lead.
          He clambered over a fallen log, again careful to leave a clear trail. A horse would jump that log, only to land on the sword buried point up in the snowdrift behind it. The stab of regret he felt at the squeal of a wounded animal failed to slow him.
          He looked back to be sure his trail was visible, then sped on. His foot caught on a root hidden under the snow and he sprawled with a thump that knocked him breathless and left him dazed. He pushed hard with his right arm and rolled himself over just as the lead rider burst from the woods.
          "Got the brat!" the Breaker called, wheeling his horse and raising his sword.
          Light, whatever made me think I could do this? Jamie dodged between two trees and dashed past the place where the slasher was tied to a bent sapling under the snow. A yelp and a vicious curse told him the trap had been sprung. He smiled, but the thunder of hooves now seemed to pound on his heels.
          He hurtled past his mother's staff, its brightly glowing orb concealed in a thicket, with barely a glance. The crash of branches, the pounding hooves, and the shaking ground told him the Breakers were almost on him. He had left his lead too short.
          "There he is!" Gorfagharn shouted. "Get him! Kill the little bastard!"
          Jamie burst from the woods to find himself at the top of a cliff. Cries of glee and victory came from the Breakers when they saw their quarry trapped and teetering on the edge. Whooping and laughing, they charged.
         Jamie seized the rope he had tied to a tree growing at the cliff edge and swung down to the hidden ledge below. To the Breakers, he would have vanished.
          "Now!" he commanded, reaching out with all his will and might.
          The hawk swooped, screeching and flapping at the Breakers. The orb exploded with a sound like thunder and a flash of lightning. The horses bolted in panic. Jamie watched in fascinated horror as men and horses alike rained past his perch. Four...five...six plummeted to their death.
          Watch, friend! One comes!
          At the hawk's warning, he drew his cut-saw and set his back to the cliff. A leering Gorfagharn slid down the rope, sword in hand, onto the ledge to Jamie's left, his weak side.
          "I knew I should have killed you myself, brat. I'm just sorry it took sixteen years to put your pap in the ground, the bloody do-gooder."
          The Breaker jabbed with the sword. Jamie managed a block with his cut-saw. Gorfagharn dodged to Jamie's left, but found himself out of ledge, so he punched at the boy with his sword hilt. Jamie ducked and leaned in. With his left arm, an arm too weak to lift a milk pail or haul firewood, Jamie pushed the unbalanced Breaker. Gorfagharn dropped his sword, windmilled his arms in a frantic grab for the rope, and with a last curse and glare, fell backwards over the edge.
          The scream of the falling man jarred the silence until it was cut off with a heavy thump. The pile of torn and crumpled bodies at the bottom, the carnage of broken bones and writhing flesh, should have filled Jamie with elation. His soul should have soared with joy and satisfaction. There was only sadness for the horses, and peace. The knot in his soul unraveled, the anger and hate dissolved. Yet somehow the determination and purpose remained.
          Jamie climbed one-armed up the rope back to the cliff top. The hawk fluttered down beside him. It cocked its head and studied the pile of destruction at the bottom.
          You have killed your mouse. The Breakers are broken. Revenge--is it sweet?
          "No, not sweet. Proper. Fair. A wise bird once told me, 'The antidote to wickedness is not revenge but righteousness.' At the time, I misunderstood. Now I know that anger can be righteous. Grief can be righteous. Justice can be righteous."
          Then come, let us seek the sky. It is time to soar. It took to the air in rising circles.
          He struggled onto Gorfagharn's horse and rode to retrieve his weapons, weighted still with pain and grief, but feeling for the first time no longer half a man.