Page 16 of The Tower of the Tyrant

The alderman’s hands tightened on Siwan’s shoulders.She squirmed and looked up at him, trembling with fright.The coal within Llewyn flared, already stirred to life by pain and combat.

‘Come, Trefor,’ the old man said, one hand holding his ribs while he bent to gather up his rusty sword.‘We’re through, here.’

‘Papa?That hurts.’

The alderman kissed the top of his daughter’s head, his gaze never leaving Llewyn and holding all the hatred in the world.Without a word he stalked away, herding Siwan with him.The crowd dispersed with muttered curses and backward glances.Afanan’s fingers finally retreated from the gemstone at her cuff.

‘Why help?’Llewyn asked.He massaged his bruised and smouldering neck and took deep breaths to calm himself.‘If they’d killed me, the way would be clear for you to take what you want from this place.’

Afanan shook her head with a sad, exasperated smile.‘I told you, gwyddien.Everything deserves to live.’

The troupers retreated into the inn.Musicians returned to the pipe, the drum and the lute, drawing the remaining bystanders, now subdued and quiet.

the Grey Lady said.

Llewyn touched his ring.He recalled the stone chimney of a forge rising not far from where he’d stabled his horse.

Llewyn paused.

the Grey Lady said.

‘Speaking to your lady, are you?’Afanan said.She had lingered in the doorway, watching him.

Night was falling.Something in the way the alderman had clutched his daughter reminded Llewyn too much of his mother in that moment before rough hands took him away.He needed to work quickly.

‘Thank you for the help, whatever your reasons,’ Llewyn said, and set off towards the forge.

* * *

The lock of the blacksmith’s shop endured one kick before it shattered.Iron-laced smoke lingered in the air, burning Llewyn’s face and nostrils.The handle of the smith’s hammer was wrapped in leather.He held it far to his side, like a white-hot brand, and made for the altar stone.

Crows dogged him on his way through the woods, calling down, watching with yellow-tinted eyes.

There were so few children in Nyth Fran, and so many crows.

the Grey Lady said.

He ran, the visions that the raven fiend had shown him flickering behind his eyes.Children given to it in sacrifice, laid out upon the altar stone and transformed into its servants, who now watched Llewyn with their yellow eyes.He saw, too, the girl Siwan’s face, looking up at her own father in fear.The crows followed.

A graveyard stink filled the clearing.The two elders and the alderman stood around the stone, their arms outstretched, their voices raised in a rhythmic, toneless chant.Siwan’s voice joined theirs—a bubbling, muted scream.She twisted on the stone, joints contorting, eyes wide but unseeing, and already stained the same yellow as those fiendish crows.Her hair rippled, then turned from straw-yellow to black, like a brush dipped in ink.Her skull seemed to stretch and twist beneath her skin.

‘Gwyddien!’Trefor cried out, a sob in his throat.‘You have brought this upon her!Forced our hand!’

‘Step away,’ Llewyn demanded, hammer in one hand, ghostwood blade in the other.‘She’s your daughter.’

‘If you interrupt the ritual, she will die!’the old man shouted, his arms shaking.‘We must finish, Trefor!The old agreement holds.If we give this sacrifice, the god of the wood will defend us!’

Siwan screamed.Her back arched above the stone.She fell flat again, her screams breaking into quiet sobs.

‘Papa…’ Her voice was a muted rasp.‘It hurts, Papa…’

A pulse of anger rose up from Llewyn’s deepest, most painful memories.A wave of heat and blinding flame.His arm rose and fell without any thought but outrage.The hammer left his hand, wheeled through the air, and crunched into the old man’s skull.Trefor and the old woman stared, disbelieving, as he collapsed.