Terry Brooks - The Darkling Child

Reyn shrugged, fighting to remain calm. “Staying away from you two is a lifelong ambition.”

“Oh, listen to him!” Yancel clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Clever with words, ain’t he? Does all that singing, and now it turns out he thinks he can be clever, too!”

“He ain’t so clever.” Borry was cracking his knuckles and moving to cut off any attempt at escape, which Reyn could already tell was not going to happen in any case. “Else he wouldn’t have let himself be caught out alone like this. You want to try us now, boy? Or do you just want to take what’s coming to you and be done with it?”

“Yeah, maybe that. Just take your punishment for that smart mouth. We won’t break too many bones.”

“’Course, you won’t be playing those pretty songs for a while. Or maybe never, once we’re done with you.”

“Singing, Yance. He won’t be doing much of that, either, I don’t expect.”

“Well, I’m sick of his singing in any case. Best if we don’t be hearing him at all after this. You know what he’s gonna sound like? Like a chicken head after it’s been twisted off, throttled good and proper, all croaking and slobbering. No one gonna understand him anymore. Not a word.”

So there was no avoiding this, no way to keep it from happening. Reyn thought momentarily of trying to dash back inside fast enough that they couldn’t catch him. But if he did that, he would be a marked man and they would call him a coward. There would be no end to their mockery. Better to try to stop it here and now. He was strong enough to take either one alone. He might have a chance against both if he kept his wits.

And if they didn’t use knives.

Then he saw the iron bar that Borry was holding down against his leg. So much for that.

“You really don’t have much confidence in yourself, do you?” he said, taking a step toward them. “If you need that iron bar, you must think you’re in trouble.”

Borry laughed. “Don’t need it, chicken–boy. I just like the idea of it. I don’t want to hurt myself more than I have to on pig slop like you. Come on, step a little closer.”

Reyn unslung the elleryn and leaned it back against the wall of the building, searching as he did so for something he could use as a weapon. He saw a washtub and a clothesline. Useless. Some wood was stacked against the back wall. He moved over quickly and snatched up a four–foot length. Better than nothing.

“You sure about this?” he asked them, advancing a few steps.

The brothers exchanged a quick glance, and then both grinned. “Sure enough,” Yancel spat at him.

“Gonna hurt you bad,” Borry added. “Real bad.”

They came toward him, separating slightly so they had room to maneuver. Reyn kept his eye on Borry and the iron pipe, letting Yancel think he was free to act. As he expected, Yancel came at him first, charging in a sudden rush that surprised his brother and caused him to shout out a warning.

The big man paid no attention, however, and threw himself at Reyn in an attempt to overpower him using his superior size and strength. But the boy dropped into a crouch, braced himself, and jammed one end of the piece of wood deep into his attacker’s stomach. Yancel gasped, retching uncontrollably as he dropped to his knees. Reyn was already leaping up to meet Borry’s attack but to his surprise found the other Fortren just standing there, staring at him.

“You’re so tricky, ain’t you? Just think you can make us look like fools, but I ain’t stupid, chicken–boy. I ain’t my brother. I got something else in mind for you.”

Borry backed toward the tavern wall. “See, hurting you ain’t just about breaking bones. It’s about breaking your heart. By doing this.”

With inexorable purpose he moved to where the elleryn rested. Several violent swings of the iron pipe smashed it to pieces. Reyn stared in shock as his instrument was reduced to broken bits of wood and severed strings, ruined beyond any hope of repair.

Borry turned back to him. “How do you like that, you pissant? How do you like your pretty plaything now? Why don’t you play something for me? Why don’t you make your pretty music?”

Reyn felt the rage building in a slow, steady boiling that worked through him like a fire given life by kindling and air. He started toward Borry, gripping his piece of wood.

But Borry was ready for him. He had discarded the iron pipe and now held a long knife in its place, the blade glinting in the moonlight. “Oh, you think you’re ready for this, do you? Come get it!”

Fighting down the urge to run, Reyn braced himself, ready to block the other’s knife. But suddenly arms wrapped about him from behind as Yancel, having finally regained his feet, came to his brother’s aid. Reyn thrashed and twisted, but Yancel was strong and his grip solid and unyielding.

Borry howled with glee, then lifted his knife and charged.

Reyn, all chance of escape or defense gone, howled back at him in response.

Instantly the air seemed to change color, even in the darkness, and the faint silvery light of moon and stars seeping through the departing rain clouds took on a crimson blush. Borry Fortren felt the impact of the magic as he slammed into its invisible wall, not two feet away. The knife blade shattered. Reyn screamed louder, any attempt at control lost. Yancel’s arms released their grip on him, and he tumbled away.

Borry, still fighting to get close enough to grip the boy with his bare hands, simply exploded. It happened spontaneously, with a shocking and terrible suddenness, pieces of the big man flying everywhere. Reyn stumbled back, shielding his eyes, trying to stay upright. But Yancel snatched at his legs from where he lay on the ground in an effort to topple him. The boy reacted instinctively, all hope of ending this any other way gone. His scream came from somewhere deep inside. It felt as if it came from somewhere else entirely, the intrusion in his own body harsh and raw. Yancel was flung backward, his arms torn from his shoulders, his blood flooding out of his body as he lay gasping out the last of his life.

Then Reyn Frosch felt the familiar disconnect, and he was tumbling into that familiar dark hole in which there was no light or sound and from which he could not extricate himself.

Everything around him disappeared, and his thoughts ceased.

WHEN REYN WOKE AGAIN, IT WAS MORNING. BRIGHT LIGHT streamed through the gap in the curtains of his room, though the light was gray and hazy rather than sunny. He lay in his bed in the loft room over the back half of the tavern, listening to the sound of voices coming from below. He remembered right away what had happened, and he took an extra few moments to check himself over, searching for injuries.

There were none.

Not to him, anyway. But two of the Fortren brothers had suffered the sort of injuries from which you did not recover. And he was the cause. Reyn closed his eyes against the visions that suddenly thrust themselves to the forefront of his mind–Borry, torn into pieces of bone and slivers of flesh; Yancel, armless and bleeding out; his elleryn, its broken remains lying scattered on the ground; himself, falling out of the world, tumbling down into the pit of non–being, everything he had brought to pass left behind.

He closed his eyes. So it had happened again, just as he had feared in those last moments when he faced the brothers. Just as it had happened all those other times. He had been provoked, had lost his temper and composure, had given way to his emotions, and had vented through deadly use of his voice. In an instant’s time he had ruined everything.

Conflicting questions rose in a rush. Why couldn’t he have prevented it from happening? Why couldn’t he have found a way to stop it? If he could control the modulation of his singing, why couldn’t he do the same when he screamed? A light and a dark side to his voice–shouldn’t he be able to manipulate both instead of only one?