Skin by Peter Fugazzotto

Author:Peter Fugazzotto [Fugazzotto, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-14T22:00:00+00:00

10

When they were beyond the cast of the light from the doorway, Hemming gave Elof one of his knives.

“You trust me with this?” asked the red-haired hostage.

“Two blades are better than one.”

“But I’m the enemy. The Sverge.” He touched where Arne had burned his skin the night before.

“I’m not like Arne,” said Hemming. “I’m not perfect but I wouldn’t have done what he did to you. I saw too much torture and murder during the war. And I know it only leads to more torture and murder.”

As the two delved deeper into the tunnel, a faint but sharp stench, reminiscent of singed pork, filled Hemming’s nostrils. It made him gag slightly. At first, he thought it might have been from the monster that they were tracking and then he realized that it came from Elof’s seared flesh. He imagined how painful those burns must have felt for Elof. Arne had gone too far the night before. Hemming wondered how far away he would need to go to be free of the madness of men.

Hemming looked down. The blood painted the floor. He peered ahead.

His breath misted before him, for a moment obscuring his vision of the tunnel ahead. The light from the torch crackled at his shoulder. Hemming’s shadow stretched long and monstrous before him, jumping and bending with the sputtering light.

The walls were slick. Rivulets of water streamed down the dark rock, the water under the keep somehow not frozen despite the ice on the snowfield above. His teeth chattered.

Hemming hesitated.

At any moment the creature could hurl itself out of the darkness ahead. He imagined he would have enough time for at least a single swing, and then he and the monster would be tangled together in tight quarters. The axe wouldn’t be of much use without the room to swing it, and giving one of his knives to Elof might not have been the best idea, especially if the Sverge decided to run when the fight began. After all what did Elof owe him or his people, and what would Hemming do in the same situation, especially after having been tortured?

“How far does this tunnel go?” asked Elof.

“Not too far. This one turns right and when it begins ascending we’ll know we are close to where it ends.” The air felt colder, icy gusts blowing towards Hemming, sending needles of pain into his lips and cheeks.

“I always imagined myself growing old at court,” said Elof, “or being killed in a duel with one of the doddering dukes over an indiscreet affair with one of their young, ripe wives.”

“No fancy court for me. No growing old. I should be dead already, left in a muddy trench covered in shit and flies.”

“Pleasant. On the other hand, if we get out of this alive, the princes and dukes will marvel at the tales of my time here. The hostage returned to entertain the courtiers.”

“You really want to go back?” asked Hemming. He stopped, momentarily raising his axe, before realizing that what he saw moving ahead was merely his own shadow.

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