Bard could smell Oath. Somehow, through the metallic meanderings of blood-scent and the ruination of his nose, he knew his old friend was close. Coarse hair abraded his cheek, the rise and fall of stiff muscle beneath him detailing what his other senses could not. We're moving.
He forced his right lid open and embraced the blur. Shadows moved about him, their progress marked by the sound of shod hooves. Bard's body groaned.
One of the shadows moved, the silhouette of a head turning in his direction. 'Shhh, Bard. We'll be there soon. The Priests can fix you.' Somewhere, in the echoing chasm of his mind, a man stood. Bard couldn't distinguish his face, though he wore a fine bow across his back.
'How does it feel to cheat death, Bard?' One of the other shadows asked, voice exotically flavoured.
Bard uttered a reply. It came out as a slur, too weak to be heard.
'Is he gonna live, Bodkin?' Another voice now, young. A child, perhaps?
'I don't know, lad. His head's as stubborn as the tower he jumped from. Elders know he'll try.'
A fourth boomed from the darkness, 'Must have been some fight. Erikk's broken every bone in his body.'
'He fell from a tower and missed a moat. You heard the sound, Toyne. Every guard in the city would have heard it ... if we hadn't put them to sleep, of course.'
'The Burned Priests aren't going to be happy. They asked for him whole. We may have a problem.' That was the first voice again, the man with the bow.
'Let's concentrate on getting there first. Then we'll worry about those ugly bastards. You sure they won't catch us before Fara Mordova?'
'They won't come into the Brimwood, Taaj. No one does. If we can make it there then we're safe.'
'Will we make it there?'
'I'd say so.'
'Good. Three more then, and we're done. Well, me, Toyne and ... Bard. You hear that, trunk-head? You had better live. Three more names and our list is done. We're free.'
Bard couldn't reply even if he'd wanted to. Hammar, the Gallowmen, Fara Mordova, the Burned Priests; they were all figments graspable as the very wind. He knew only Oath, only the coarse hair on his cheek and the hooves that bore him onward. His eye rose to the night skies. To the moon, ice-white as it watched them go.
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Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)
Fantasy** WATTYS 2018 WINNER ** Not one person in the history of the world ever said being Deathsworn was an easy thing. Fun, sometimes, and completely your fault, but never easy. You have one rule that you obey, unless, of course, you want to die. Your l...
