Another blade slashed, cut through half his neck.

He saw himself falling, in the hallway, almost within reach of the entrance threshold and the hacked body of Lord Jaen lying beyond, where boots and legs crowded past and drew close. Someone stepped on his hand, breaking fingers, but he only heard the sound – the feeling was a sense of wrongness, but there was no pain.

There was only a growing emptiness, black as the river. He waited for it to take him. He did not have to wait long.

* * *

They had caught the nobleborn woman in one of the back rooms, trying to climb out through a window, and dragged her into the main hall. And then the raping began.

When Narad was pushed forward – his sword unblooded and hanging from his hand – the woman who had run with him laughed and said, ‘This one to finish her! She’s a beauty, Waft, and she’s all yours!’

To the crass urgings of a dozen onlookers he was shoved to where she was lying on the hearthstone. Her clothes had been torn away. There was blood on the stone under her. Her lips were split from hard kisses and bites, and the once unmarred flesh of her body now bore deep bruises left by hands and fingers. He stared down into her glazed eyes.

She met them unblinking, and did not turn away.

The woman behind Narad was tugging down his trousers, taking him in hand to wake him up. Laughing, nuzzling the side of his neck, she pulled him down until he was on top of the nobleborn.

He felt himself slide into a place of blood and torn flesh.

Having delivered him, the woman stepped back, still laughing.

The nobleborn woman’s body was warm under his, and for all the bruises it was wondrously soft. He reached to hold her tight – to the howls of the others – and he whispered in her ear, asking for forgiveness.

Much later, they told him that she had breathed out her last breath while under him, and Narad had then realized that on that morning, upon the hearthstone, beauty had died in his arms.

* * *

Kadaspala woke with a start. He sat up. In his mind there remained the echoes of screaming – a terrible dream he could not even remember. He rubbed at his face, looked down in the pale morning light to see that his bruised thigh had swollen to twice the size of the other. Groaning, he sank back down.

But the faint echoes of the screams did not fade away. They did not fade at all.

No. Oh, no no no no—

Paint and brush boxes left lying on the ground, Kadaspala somehow found himself on his feet, limping through blinding waves of agony, scrabbling up into the road. Trying to run, leg dragging, lurching under him, his breaths raw in his throat.