13
GORARIC
SARASINIAN OCCUPIED AHRENIA
ENGUND’S TOR
Goraric twisted lazily in the air, dangling from the rafters of Mother’s house courtesy of a rope around his ankles. This was how Torsmen hung a sheep before they cut its throat, and no doubt they planned to take him out the same way. Not at all how he pictured leaving this world, but seldom do men choose their fate.
It seemed as if every man, woman and child on the Tor had lined up to take a shot at him. His lips and face felt thick. He had a searing headache, too, the worst of his life. One eye was swollen shut, and out of the corner of the other he could see where red welts had blossomed all over his body. Some of the cuts on his forearms were open again, too, sending rivulets of blood down past his shoulders. And on top of all that, in the middle of the gore on the ground under his head sat a tooth. What could he do but praise Owic, though? If not for the Lord of Shields, the Great Intervener, he might be even worse off.
So he gave thanks to Owic and sighed, closing his good eye. Against all odds, sleep came. Dreams too, though it could easily have been delirium. Either way, his mind took him back through the years to Mother’s house. Not the dirty hovel of now, but the one he’d been born in. And oddly enough, he wasn’t looking at the place from his own perspective, but from that of something clinging to the ceiling. A fly or some other insect, perhaps. Dreams didn’t always make sense.
What came next seemed very real, even though Goraric knew it wasn’t. A little boy burst into the room, naked and crying. It took him a moment to realise he was watching himself. Mother came barrelling in, wielding a switch with both hands. She wailed as she beat the poor little fellow. Beat him raw! The screams made him want to vomit, and things only got worse. Dream Mother turned out to be far crueller than the real one ever had, doing things to his dream-self that were, frankly, unspeakable. At least nothing like that had happened for real. Or had it? He fought to recall. He vaguely remembered at least one occasion when the switch had gone where it shouldn’t, followed by Mother’s taunting laughter…
Goraric’s shock turned to rage. On the floor below, out of reach, the boy lay still, hugging his knees. Blood dribbled out from between his legs.
“Ugh,” said his mother, pausing to look up at the ceiling at him.
He willed himself to strike. Whatever insignificant thing he was, he would launch himself at her. However pitiful his attack, he would still make it. Alas, no. He hesitated and it cost him; the crone’s switch came down hard and his world went white, then dark.
At first Goraric thought he’d lost his sight, but eventually he realised there was something over his eyes. He’d have taken it off if he’d been able to move his arms. It felt like a piece of cloth. Or leather, maybe.
“Where will you take him?” asked a woman. He knew, without a doubt, that it was Kushran who spoke. He’d have recognised her voice anywhere.
“North,” said a man. “North. And that’s all you need to know.”
“Uncle?” Goraric’s voice came out more like a hoarse whisper. “Kolf?”
“Aye, it’s me,” said his uncle, right in his ear. To someone else he said, “Dose him up some more, will you?”
“Wait,” said Goraric, but then something rough and unpleasant pushed past his lips. A cup or bowl, maybe.
“Swallow.” Whoever so commanded him now, it was neither Kolf nor Kushran.
Goraric did as he was told. He drank down a bitter brew, something with particles floating in it that reminded him of tea leaves. But it definitely wasn’t tea. Yeech. Whatever it was, it tasted terrible. He kept swallowing until a strange floating sensation overtook him. Perhaps he slept; he knew nothing more for the longest time.