Michael Sullivan - Wintertide

Royce sipped his wine and thought awhile. "Can you save him?"

"Hadrian?" Merrick paused and then answered, "Yes."

The word hung there.

"What do you want?" Royce said.

"Interesting that you should ask. As it turns out, I have another job that you would be perfect for."

"What kind?"

"Find-and-recover. I can't give you the details yet, but it's dangerous. Two other groups have already failed. Of course, I wasn't involved in those attempts, and you weren't leading the operation. Agree to take the job and I'll make sure nothing happens to Hadrian."

"I've retired."

"I heard that rumor."

Royce drained his glass and stood. "I'll think about it."

"Don't wait too long, Royce. If you want me to work this, I'll need a couple of days to prepare. Trust me, you'll want my help. A dungeon rescue will fail. The prison is dwarven made."

Tournament Day The morning dawned to the wails and cries of the doomed. The snow ran red as axe and mallet slaughtered livestock whose feed had run out. Blood Week happened every winter, but exactly what day it began depended on the bounty of the fall harvest. For an orphan in Aquesta, the best part of winter was Blood Week.

Nothing went to waste-feet, snouts, and even bones sold-but with so much to cleave, butchers could not keep track of every cut. The city's poor circled the butcher shops like human vultures, searching for an inattentive cutter. Most butchers hired extra help, but they always underestimated the dangers. There were never enough arms carrying the meat to safety or enough eyes keeping lookout. A few daring raids even managed to carry off whole legs of beef. As the day wore on and workers grew exhausted, some desperate butchers resorted to hiring the very thieves they guarded against.

Mince had left The Nest early, looking for what he could scrounge for breakfast. The sun had barely peeked above the city wall when he managed to snatch a fine bit of beef from Gilim's Slaughterhouse. After a particularly sound stroke from Gilim's cleaver, a piece of shank skipped across the slick table, fell in the snow, and slid downhill. Mince happened to be in the right place at the right time. Snatching it, he ran with the bloody, fist-sized chunk of meat clutched inside his tunic. Anyone noticing the sprinting boy might conclude he was mortally wounded.

He was anxious to devour his prize, but exposing it would risk losing the meat to a bigger kid. Worse yet, a butcher or guard might spot him. Mince wished Brand and Elbright were with him. They had gone to the slaughterhouses down on Coswell, where most of the butchering would be done. The fights there would be fierce. Grown men would struggle for scraps alongside the orphans. Mince was too small to compete. Even if he managed to grab a hunk, someone would likely take it, beating him senseless in the process. The other two boys could hold their own. Elbright was as tall as most men now and Brand even larger, but Mince had to satisfy himself with the smaller butcher shops.

Arriving on the street in front of Bingham's Carriage House, Mince stopped. He needed to get inside, but the thought of what he might find there frightened him. In his haste to get an early start, he had forgotten about Kine. For the past few days, his friend's loud wheezing had woken Mince from a sound sleep, but he could not remember having heard anything that morning.

Mince had seen too much death. He knew eight boys-friends-who had died from cold, sickness, or starvation. They always went in winter, their bodies stiff and frozen. Each lifeless form was once a person-laughing, joking, running, crying-then was just a thing, like a torn blanket or a broken lantern. After finding remains, Mince would drag them to the pile-there was always a pile in winter. No matter how short a distance he needed to drag the body, the trip felt like miles. He remembered the good times and moments they had spent together. Then he would look down at the stiff, pale thing.

Will I be the thing one day? Will someone drag me to the pile?

He gritted his teeth, entered the alley, climbed to the roof, and pulled back the board. Coming in from the brilliant sunlight, Mince crawled blindly into the crevice. The Nest was dark and silent. There was no sound of breathing-wheezing or otherwise. Mince reached forward, imagining Kine's cold, stiff body. The thought caused his hand to shake even as he willed his fingers to spread out, searching. Touching the silken material of the robe, he recoiled as it began to glow.

Kine was not there.

The robe lay on the floor as if Kine had melted during the night. Mince pulled the material toward him. As he did, the glow increased enough to reach every corner of the room. He was alone. Kine was gone. Not even his body remained.

Mince sat for a second, and then a thought surfaced. He dropped the robe in horror and kicked it away. The robe's glow throbbed and grew fainter.

"Ya ate him!" Mince cried. "Ya lied to me. Ya are cursed!"

The light went out and Mince backed as far away as possible. He had to get away from the killer robe, but now it was lying between him and the exit.

A silhouette passed in front of the opening, momentarily blocking the sunlight.

"Mince?" Kine's voice said. "Mince, look. I got me lamb chops!"

Kine entered and replaced the board. Mince's eyes adjusted until he could see his friend holding a pair of bloody bones. His chin was stained red. "I woulda saved you one, but I couldn't find you. By Mar, I was famished!"

"Ya all right, Kine?"

"I'm great. I'm still a little hungry, but other than that, I feel fantastic."

"But last night…" Mince started. "Last night ya-ya-didn't look so good."

Kine nodded. "I had all kinds of queer dreams that's for sure."

"What kind of dreams?"

"Hmm? Oh just odd stuff. I was drowning in this dark lake. I couldn't breathe 'cuz water was spilling into my mouth every time I tried to take a breath. I tried to swim, but my arms and legs barely moved-it was a terrible nightmare." Kine noticed the beef flank Mince still held. "Hey! You got some meat, too? You wanna cook it up? I'm still hungry."

"Huh? Oh, sure," Mince said as he looked down at the robe while handing the beef to Kine.

"I love Blood Week, don't you?"

Trumpets blared and drums rolled as the pennants of twenty-seven noble houses snapped in the late-morning breeze. People filed into the stands at Highcourt Field on the opening day of the Grand Avryn Wintertide Tournament. The contest would last ten days, ending with the Feast of Tides. Across the city, shops closed and work stopped. Only the smoking and salting of meat continued as Blood Week ran parallel to the tournament, and the slaughter could not halt even for such an august event. Many thought the timing was an omen that signaled the games would produce a higher number of accidents, which only added to the excitement. Every year crowds delighted in seeing blood.

Two years before, the Baron Linder of Maranon had died when a splintered lance held by Sir Gilbert pierced the visor of his helm. The same year Sir Dulnar of Rhenydd had his right hand severed in the final round of the sword competition. Nothing, however, compared to the showdown five years ago between Sir Jervis and Francis Stanley, the Earl of Harborn. In the final tilt of the tournament, Sir Jervis-who already bore a grudge against the earl-passed over the traditional Lance of Peace and picked up the Lance of War. Against council, the earl agreed to the deadly challenge. Jervis's lance pierced Stanley's cuirass as if it were parchment and continued on through his opponent's chest. The knight did not escape the encounter unscathed. Stanley's lance pierced Jervis's helm and entered his eye socket. Both fell dead. Officials judged the earl the victor due to the extra point for a head blow.