flesh, drawing more blood. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and chest, stinging in the raw abrasions. His body trembled with fatigue. He closed his eyes and clung desperately to the wall, fighting off dizziness.
Finally, he crawled unsteadily the rest of the way to the stable, gripping the edge of the wall with a strength born of terror. Using very nearly the last of his stamina, he slithered under the eave of the thatched roof and fell heavily to the floor of the loft. Below, one of the horses snorted, startled.
Mouse had spent most of his life in the stable. He knew it better than anyone else knew it, even the Stablemaster. As a child, he had found secure places to hide from the Stablemaster’s wrath. One of those places was right there in the Stablemaster’s own stable, a small cleft in the thatching of the roof, barely large enough to conceal a full-grown man, but roomy and comfortable for the boy Mouse had been. He still fitted into the small hollow, but the fit was tighter now.
Even in the thick gloom shrouding the loft, Mouse had no trouble finding the hiding place. He crawled up into it and wrapped himself in the old horse blanket he had stolen so many years ago. Trembling and shivering with exhaustion, he closed his eyes. Only sleep could replenish the strength and energy healing himself had cost. Once he was strong again, he would find a way to exact his revenge.
His last conscious thought was of the dogs. But they would track him to the wall and think he had gone over into the river. Perhaps they would think him dead and not bother hunting any further.
***
It was dark when Mouse awoke. He lay huddled in the old horse blanket, the iron bar cradled in his arms. He woke slowly, not moving, and listened intently without opening his eyes.
A quiet murmur of voices came from the stable below. Mouse could not quite make out the words, but he recognized the voices of the other two stable slaves. The soft, unmistakable sounds of hay being tossed into feeder troughs and the quiet snuffles and snorts of feeding horses told him it was not long after the dinner hour. It would be at least four more hours until midnight when the Stablemaster would retire, sending the two stable slaves to their beds before him. An hour after that, Mouse thought it might be safe to leave the stable.
Every muscle of his body screamed in protest as he snuggled deeper into the blanket. Hunger gnawed at his belly and thirst raged in his throat. But he was used to that and could ignore it for a while longer. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to accomplish the revenge he needed more desperately than he needed to ease the hunger and thirst.
A sudden shout from the stable yard startled him and he froze, hardly daring to breathe. A troop of horses clattered into the stable, their iron-shod hooves loudly on the polished stones of the floor. One of the dogs growled, then yelped as a hard hand cuffed it.
“Hela, Gredad,” the Stablemaster cried. “Any sign of the lad?”
Gredad swore. “None,” he said. “We took the dogs along both banks of the river as far as the estuary. He’s gone to the sea, is what. Drowned and dead. Good riddance, is what I say.”
Mouse clutched the iron bar. His fingers tingled as the strength of his grip forced the blood out of his hands. They wouldn’t be looking for him within the Holding. He had time for his revenge.
Gredad grunted. “Lord Mendor wanted to see his balls roasted and fed to the pigs. ‘Twould barely appease young Lord Drakon, though. He wanted the lass, but unsullied. He’s mad enough to spit.”
“Let him spit,” the Stablemaster muttered. “Serve the little bastard right.”
Gredad chuckled. “You’d be well to guard your tongue, my friend,” he said. “That young whelp never forgets an insult and never lets one go without retaliation.”
“Well, I can’t say as I blame him about the lass. She was a choice morsel.”
“Oh, very choice indeed.” Gredad laughed
Finally, he crawled unsteadily the rest of the way to the stable, gripping the edge of the wall with a strength born of terror. Using very nearly the last of his stamina, he slithered under the eave of the thatched roof and fell heavily to the floor of the loft. Below, one of the horses snorted, startled.
Mouse had spent most of his life in the stable. He knew it better than anyone else knew it, even the Stablemaster. As a child, he had found secure places to hide from the Stablemaster’s wrath. One of those places was right there in the Stablemaster’s own stable, a small cleft in the thatching of the roof, barely large enough to conceal a full-grown man, but roomy and comfortable for the boy Mouse had been. He still fitted into the small hollow, but the fit was tighter now.
Even in the thick gloom shrouding the loft, Mouse had no trouble finding the hiding place. He crawled up into it and wrapped himself in the old horse blanket he had stolen so many years ago. Trembling and shivering with exhaustion, he closed his eyes. Only sleep could replenish the strength and energy healing himself had cost. Once he was strong again, he would find a way to exact his revenge.
His last conscious thought was of the dogs. But they would track him to the wall and think he had gone over into the river. Perhaps they would think him dead and not bother hunting any further.
***
It was dark when Mouse awoke. He lay huddled in the old horse blanket, the iron bar cradled in his arms. He woke slowly, not moving, and listened intently without opening his eyes.
A quiet murmur of voices came from the stable below. Mouse could not quite make out the words, but he recognized the voices of the other two stable slaves. The soft, unmistakable sounds of hay being tossed into feeder troughs and the quiet snuffles and snorts of feeding horses told him it was not long after the dinner hour. It would be at least four more hours until midnight when the Stablemaster would retire, sending the two stable slaves to their beds before him. An hour after that, Mouse thought it might be safe to leave the stable.
Every muscle of his body screamed in protest as he snuggled deeper into the blanket. Hunger gnawed at his belly and thirst raged in his throat. But he was used to that and could ignore it for a while longer. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to accomplish the revenge he needed more desperately than he needed to ease the hunger and thirst.
A sudden shout from the stable yard startled him and he froze, hardly daring to breathe. A troop of horses clattered into the stable, their iron-shod hooves loudly on the polished stones of the floor. One of the dogs growled, then yelped as a hard hand cuffed it.
“Hela, Gredad,” the Stablemaster cried. “Any sign of the lad?”
Gredad swore. “None,” he said. “We took the dogs along both banks of the river as far as the estuary. He’s gone to the sea, is what. Drowned and dead. Good riddance, is what I say.”
Mouse clutched the iron bar. His fingers tingled as the strength of his grip forced the blood out of his hands. They wouldn’t be looking for him within the Holding. He had time for his revenge.
Gredad grunted. “Lord Mendor wanted to see his balls roasted and fed to the pigs. ‘Twould barely appease young Lord Drakon, though. He wanted the lass, but unsullied. He’s mad enough to spit.”
“Let him spit,” the Stablemaster muttered. “Serve the little bastard right.”
Gredad chuckled. “You’d be well to guard your tongue, my friend,” he said. “That young whelp never forgets an insult and never lets one go without retaliation.”
“Well, I can’t say as I blame him about the lass. She was a choice morsel.”
“Oh, very choice indeed.” Gredad laughed
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