Shadows of Consequence - 7. Chapter 7

The small hours of that night felt never-ending.

Sleep continued to elude Sam. Instead, he hovered in restless states of consciousness. His mind repeatedly played the events of the day to consider all the feasible alternatives he could’ve taken. In hindsight, his lack of courage perhaps wasn’t so appalling. After all, four men had stood before him, but the situation still angered him. While their combat skills weren’t terrible, they weren’t experts, either. It was more likely they used their bluster to get their way—bullying those with no proficiency in fighting at all. But up against a veritable foe like Graeme, they didn’t last long. Still, Sam wondered if he could’ve taken them on himself had Graeme truly been injured.

A crash downstairs broke his thoughts. Groggily, he rose from bed and perked his ears, trying to discern what he’d heard. A clay pot, perhaps? The interruption caught him by surprise in more than one way. He was pleased to find the first vestiges of sunlight creeping through the window, heralding the end of another sleepless night.

A scream ripped through the air.

It was his mother. Sam tumbled out of bed and heedlessly bounded down the steep stairs, nearly losing his grip on the railing. His parents’ bedroom door was ajar.

“Mum?” he called out.

When there was no reply, he gingerly pushed at the door with the tips of his fingers. At first, he couldn’t comprehend what he saw. A black form sat atop the bed, looming over his mother. On Pa’s half of the bed, an arm hung limp over the side, with something dark coating the exposed skin. The form rose and turned, revealing a man wearing a hood. In the gloom, the only detail Sam could discern was a twinkle in one eye and bared teeth. The grin was deranged.

“Makin’ my job easy for me, eh?” the man said.

Sam lurched into the room. “Mum? Pa?”

The man snickered through his nose—a shuddering, uneven sound. He jumped from the bed, landing nimbly on his feet. His hands were covered with the same dark coating. Blood. Mum and Pa’s blood. With wide eyes, Sam stared at the shapes under the covers. They didn’t stir. Spatters of blood, resembling black sludge in the dim light, marred the bedclothes.

“You killed my three mates,” the man said, brandishing a wicked knife covered with gore. “Only fair you and yours follow ’em. An eye for an eye, yeah?”

Sam couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t accept the scene before him. Even as the bandit edged nearer, his mind refused to take action. But then footfalls approached from behind him. The bandit, noticing the new arrival, froze. His maniacal grin had disappeared, replaced by a silent gasp.

Graeme uttered one word, laced with malice. “You . . .”

Something snapped in Sam’s mind.

He heard his own voice—a horrific, bestial cry—and watched himself recklessly tackle the bandit. The knife sliced through his shirt, into the meat of his shoulder. He felt nothing. They hit the floor, and the blood-slicked knife flew from the bandit’s grip, clattering nearby. Boundless power surged through Sam’s body as they grappled, and he managed to wrangle himself atop the bandit’s chest.

Fists flew thoughtlessly. An endless flurry of strikes, left and right, battered the man’s face. Sam took in hoarse, deep gasps—each breath fuelling his rage as the wild blows grew in intensity. The bandit was either unconscious or dead, but that didn’t stop Sam. He reached for the knife, held the handle in both hands, and stabbed. The blade sank deep into the bandit’s chest, only to be pulled out and stabbed again. There was no finesse—the motion was automatic, uncontrollable. At times, the aim faltered and the knife hit the bloodied floor, but once again, that didn’t stop him. He yanked the blade embedded into the wood and perforated the flesh again.

A distant voice caught his attention. Initially, he ignored it, but with each passing moment, the voice rose in volume, growing more stern, more harsh, more demanding. Someone was calling his name.

As swiftly as he’d been pulled from his body, he was roughly thrown back in. That distance had allowed him to watch the violence unfold almost impassively, but now, he was forced to contend with his senses firsthand. Hot, sticky blood coated his hands. The air was permeated with a coppery tang. His nightclothes, once white, were now sodden with the scarlet ichor. The bandit’s lifeblood pooled around the man’s head like a perverse halo.

“Sam! He’s dead! You must stop.” Graeme's voice had turned ragged from his attempts to snap him out of the violent state he’d fallen into.

The knife slipped from Sam’s grip as he looked upon the scene in horror. His stomach lurched. Burning acid rose up his throat. He scampered away on his hands and knees, stumbled past Graeme, and escaped outside. Bile spewed from his mouth and nose, splattering onto the dirt. In the cold air, tendrils of steam rose from the vomit. Another wave hit, and Sam coughed and gagged on the harsh contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, only to find it covered with blood. Thinking he might gag again, he ran toward the well and pulled up a sloshing bucket of water. Dunking his hands into the near-freezing water burnt his skin, but all he cared about was to be clean. He scrubbed at his hands, attempting to find the true colour of his skin underneath. The water splashing on his nightclothes only enhanced the crimson stains on the fabric. Disgusted, he ripped the clothes from his body, then pulled up another bucketful of water to dump over his head. The bracing cold brought a ravaged cry from his lips, but he welcomed it. Anything to rid himself of this blood was worth the sting.

“Sam.”

Graeme’s voice was hushed and calm. He stood beside him and held out a blanket. Wet, naked, and gasping for air, Sam felt profoundly vulnerable. He glanced up warily. Although Graeme was wearing his long hood, a rim of early morning light along the right side of his face emphasised bold features—a strong jaw, and piercing yet concerned eyes. He didn’t appear ugly at all. Having made eye contact, the knight turned his head away to conceal his face, but still held out the blanket. Sam accepted it, wrapping up in an attempt to dry himself. Blood still likely stained his skin. The blanket would be ruined, but the cold had won the fight. Now, he needed to get inside.

The door to his parents’ room was shut. Sam silently thanked Graeme for doing so, but it did nothing to erase the raw images in his mind. With fumbling fingers, he tossed a few logs onto the embers in the stove, then sat on the floor beside it, waiting for warmth to return. His knuckles were torn, bearing witness to the savage assault he’d dealt to the bandit.

At first, Graeme awkwardly hovered in the periphery, but then sat at the table. Neither spoke. What could possibly be said after such an ordeal? Incredible fatigue abruptly overtook Sam, and he found himself nodding off. He allowed himself to close his eyes, vaguely aware of movement around him after a while.

“Sam.”

It was Graeme’s voice again. Sam opened his eyes to find the knight crouched before him. The room was noticeably warmer, and the angle of morning light beaming through the windows hinted at the passing hours. A metal bucket sat atop the stove. Steam rose from within. Graeme brought it down, dipped a cloth into the hot water with his right hand, and squeezed the excess. Even now, he wore a leather glove on his left hand.

Without uttering a word, he gently wiped Sam’s cheek with the hot cloth. There was a tenderness to it that Sam thought impossible coming from this stoic knight. It felt wonderful, and he closed his eyes, allowing Graeme to clean his face. Pulling the cloth away revealed streaks of blood. Graeme rinsed it and continued his work.

Sam’s shoulder throbbed, but he wasn’t sure why. Pulling back the blanket exposed the reason. Blood—his blood—oozed from the gash he’d forgotten about.

“You’re wounded,” Graeme said anxiously, wiping at it.

Sam grimaced at the pain it brought. “Yeah, he managed to hit me.”

“You fought bravely.”

Brave wasn’t the word that came to mind when Sam considered his actions. Frantic, mad, crazy—those were more accurate descriptors.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Sam mumbled.

“Very well. But we ought to have a healer tend to your wound.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“At least let me bandage it.”

Despite Sam’s protests, Graeme fell to the task of boiling fresh water to disinfect a strip of cloth. Meanwhile, Sam finished washing himself and then dressed in clean clothes Graeme had fetched from Sam’s bedroom. Graeme must’ve retrieved them while Sam had dozed off. Once the sterilised dressing was ready, Graeme bound it tightly over the wound.

As Sam donned his shirt, a sudden bang at the front door caused him to stumble back in fright.

“Gods damn it, Sam!” came a voice from outside. It was Mr Kent.

Graeme deftly crossed the space and opened the door.

“Who are you?” the blacksmith asked.

“I am Ser Graeme.”

“The visiting knight, huh? Where’s Sam? He’s late for work.” He tried to peer over Graeme’s shoulder. “Where’s Joefre and Sophie? Why’re you answering the door?”

Upon hearing his parents’ names, Sam found himself weak at the knees. Using the table for stability, he said, “Mr Kent, something’s happened. Something—”

For the first time, tears fell. And once they started, Sam lost all control. He collapsed to the floor, overtaken by racking sobs. He’d never cried like this before, and the shame of it—breaking down before these two men he respected—was overwhelming. The blacksmith roughly pushed Graeme aside and fell to his knees before Sam.

“What’s wrong, lad?” he asked. “What happened?”

“Mum and Pa, they’re . . .” A knot of grief in Sam’s throat threatened to choke him. He swallowed it down and tried to speak again. “They’re dead.”

“What?!” Mr Kent whipped his head back toward Graeme, who remained standing at the door. “What’ve you done?”

“No, no! Not him!” Sam cried.

“Come with me,” Graeme said to the blacksmith. “I’ll explain everything.”

Mr Kent, not wanting to leave Sam in such a state, hesitated before accepting the offer. Sam nodded insistently. There was no way he could retell it himself. Graeme took Mr Kent outside and closed the door. The rumble of the knight’s measured voice could be heard, but not the words themselves. Taking in a shuddering breath, Sam was thankful.

But what would he do now?

Graeme had shut the door to his parents’ bedroom, but that didn’t change the fact there were three dead bodies there. He had to bury Mum and Pa. The bandit? He could rot in a ditch for all he cared. Let the animals feed on him.

He felt queasy again. He needed out of the house. He needed to move.

Sam ran outside, ignoring the calls from Graeme and Mr Kent. He grabbed a shovel from a lean-to and considered the land before him. Where would he lay his parents to rest? A place they could call home for eternity. Somewhere beautiful yet protective.

The wind rose, bringing with it the autumnal scent of musky-sweet decomposing foliage. In the distance atop a hill, leaves of an oak tree rustled against each other. They were a deep brown—long dead. Yet oaks always hung onto their leaves well into wintertime. The massive tree beckoned, its limbs reaching outward toward the sky.

Climbing the hill, Sam approached prudently, keeping his gaze fixed upon the enchanting giant. Another gust of wind pushed at his back, urging him onward. The tree responded in kind, calling out to Sam with deep groans as the wood flexed and bowed. Upon reaching the top, he turned to take in the view before him. It offered an expansive vista of the farmhouse, the fields, and the forest beyond. The peaks of the Rothgoraian mountains overlooked all. It was familiar, yet now, held so much more importance.

Yes, this was right.

Sam thrust the shovel into the grass. The earth was still soft, not yet frozen despite the cold nights. He promptly lost himself in the task, digging into the pungent, rich earth. Sweat dripped from his brow. Consumed by the work, he hadn’t been aware how long Graeme and Mr Kent stood there, watching him. Startled, his shovelful of dirt fell back into the hole.

“Is there anything you need?” Mr Kent asked.

Sam shook his head.

“I’m gonna get help,” Mr Kent continued. “Don’t you worry about cleaning up, okay? We’ll take care of it. You won’t ever have to go back into that room, y’hear?”

Sam shifted his gaze to the dirt at his feet, then nodded in acknowledgement.

“I know this ain’t easy, but you’re a strong lad. You’ll be okay.” When Sam didn’t answer, Mr Kent turned to Graeme. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Thank you,” Graeme replied, and watched as the blacksmith made his way back to the farm’s lane. Once they were alone, he asked, “Can I help you dig?”

Sam shook his head. “I need to do this alone.”

“Very well.”

The knight turned to leave.

“But if you could . . .”

Graeme stopped. “Yes?”

“I know Mr Kent is getting help, but I don’t wanna talk to anyone. Can you keep them away from me? I just wanna be alone right now.”

“Of course.”

Sam blinked away a tear. He refused to show such cowardly emotion to the knight again. He was a man, not a child. “Thank you, Graeme, for everything.”

The knight nodded solemnly in reply and left Sam under the vigilant guard of the looming oak.