Page 94 of Wild Reverence
He had removed his armor in the antechamber and was now wearing nothing more than his chainmail and trousers.
A simple helm was tucked into the crook of his arm, and I could see he had bandaged a wound on his thigh with a strip of crudely torn linen.
He was barefoot, and his hair was still damp from the river.
“We meet again, nephew,” Grimald said. “The last time I saw you here, I thought you were dead.”
I came to a stop, four paces behind him. “It would have saved you so much trouble, wouldn’t it? If I had died that night.”
“I made a poor calculation ten winters ago.” Grimald sighed.
Still, he refused to turn and look at me.
And it would have been so easy for me to draw my sword and slice my uncle’s throat.
To give him a mortal blow, to watch him stagger and gasp and bleed onto the flagstones, in the very place where my father and brothers had died.
But I stayed my hand.
“I thought that if I took back my inheritance, the people of Wyndrift would respect me. Follow me. Bend their knee with tears in their eyes, relieved to see that the rightful lord had returned to guide them.” Grimald chuckled, as if the only way he knew how to face this memory was to laugh at it.
“Yet how wrong I was. Although sometimes I think… maybe they would have yielded quickly to me, out of fear of bloodshed. Out of a desperate need to survive. But then the knights caught wind that you lived. You were wounded but you still breathed. You and Nathaniel both. And you gave Wyndrift hope. Hope that I could not conquer.”
I had never thought of the Dark Winter in this way. I had only known my grief, my pain. A melting of physical and emotional agony that I would not wish upon my worst enemy. Not even my uncle, the betrayer, who had authored my wounds.
Grimald, at last, turned to regard me.
“Again, I have miscalculated, even with the god of rivers as an ally. I thought, surely, I can claim my inheritance, but I did not factor in the goddess. She has covered your fortress with ice, and mended the holes I tore through your walls, and snuffed out any fire that my men sought for warmth or protection. The torch even refused to burn in my hands, to lend me comfort, and I have never felt so cold as I do tonight.”
I was quiet, but my heart was a hammer in my chest.
“I lost a thousand men in the river,” Grimald stated. “They could not withstand the cold once winter struck early. And the ones who made the crossing? They either slipped on the ice or froze to the wall. They were met at once by your swordsmen when they entered the fortress.”
“Surrender,” I said. “You know that you have lost this battle. Surrender now and I will call a ceasefire. You, as well as whatever remaining forces you have, will be taken prisoner.”
Grimald smiled.
“I am afraid I cannot surrender to you, Vincent. My pride will not let me.”
“You would rather die here?”
“I would rather give myself to the river.”
This was not a poetic turn of phrase. I knew exactly what it meant, and I lunged forward, eager to catch my uncle before he bolted for the bridge.
Grimald was expecting it.
His fist, which had been hiding beneath his helm, flung a handful of sand into my eyes.
“ Gods, ” I swore, stumbling back as I clawed at my face. “ Damn you!”
I could hear the patter of Grimald’s bare feet slapping the floor as he ran, and I blinked the grit from my eyes, my surroundings blurred. But fear and anger tangled deep in my lungs when I breathed, tunneling what little clear vision I had.
I now understood why Grimald had removed his armor.
He could run, swiftly, to the bridge. He could swim in the currents without fear of drowning.
He would slip through my defenses; there was nothing to identify him by—no sword, no armor, no heraldry.
Not even the simple helm he had most likely plucked from one of Wyndrift’s dead could reveal him.
My memory guided me as I sprinted in Grimald’s wake, dodging the trestle tables, into the foyer. I dashed the sand from my eyes, tripping when I reached the courtyard. Even here, it had snowed, and the air was crisp. At last I could see.
Grimald was running to Rye Tower, passing through the open gateway.
“Stop him!” I ordered. “That runner is Grimald!”
My voice went unheard, stolen by a sudden gust of wind.
Clenching my jaw, I ran across the flagstones and through Rye Tower’s breezeway, catching sight of Grimald as he continued to sprint down the bridge, a glimmer of chainmail and blood-soaked feet. He slipped on a sheet of ice, which gave me enough time to catch up to him.
I ripped off his helm and cast it aside.
“You coward, ” I snarled, punching his face. Once, twice, a third time. Blood flowed from his nose and his mouth. “You lost this river the night you murdered my father and brothers. It will never be yours.”
Grimald spat out a loose tooth, blood dribbling into his beard. He headbutted me, square on the brow. Pain exploded across my skull; stars danced in my eyes as I collapsed on the ground.
“That’s right, little bastard,” Grimald taunted. “Writhe on the ground, where you belong.”
“Vince!”
It was Nathaniel’s voice that brought my attention back into focus.
The haziness, the stars, melted and I was up on my knees, dodging the fist that Grimald swung at me.
That was when I noticed an audience had gathered around us.
It was Nathaniel and the knights, as well as a few archers.
They watched, lips pressed into thin lines, breath like clouds, hands white-knuckled on hilts and bows.
When it began to snow again, I knew Matilda was also watching from Maiden Tower, and I rolled, evading another swing of Grimald’s fist. I found my feet, ankles popping.
My armor acted like a vise, making it difficult to move quickly, but my uncle was suffering more from the cold, his movements losing their edge of surprise.
He was panting, and frost was gathering on his damp clothes and chainmail.
I drew back, faking Grimald with a punch. Instead, I delivered a kick to the wound on his leg.
He let out a screech, hobbling away to put distance between us.
I followed, my fingers going numb beneath my gauntlets. I clubbed Grimald on the temple, then jabbed him in the jaw, knocking another tooth loose. And I wondered how long this would last. The two of us circling each other in the snow, drawing blood and snapping bones.
I still had my sword, sheathed at my side, weighing me down.
For a moment, I thought about unsheathing it, but to what end?
I had often dreamt of taking my revenge on Grimald, carving him into ribbons, and yet now that the opportunity was upon me…
I realized it was nothing like my mind or my heart had imagined it would be.
My emotions were no longer aligned with my past.
I was looking at an old man who had lost everything, even if his destruction had been sparked by his own greed and foolishness. A man who was panting, barefoot and bleeding, in the snow.
“I taught you how to swim in this river,” Grimald said, as if sensing the interlude between us. “Do you remember? Your mother stood on this very bridge and watched us. She shouted critiques at me the entire time, as if swimming in the sea is the same as swimming in a river.”
“I remember,” I said, the memory an ache in my throat.
Grimald stepped closer, brow arched as if testing whether I would strike him again. When my fists remained at my sides, he took another step, until our ragged breaths mingled.
“Why don’t you kill me?” he asked. “Why don’t you take up your sword and drive it through my rotten heart?”
I held his stare. Behind me, the river sang a downstream melody. Before me, Nathaniel watched with a concerned expression, just over the slope of Grimald’s shoulder.
“Surrender,” I said.
My uncle heaved a sigh, bowing his head as he stared at our feet—my boots, and his bloodied toes. When he struck, it was unexpectedly swift.
He took me by the neck, his nails scoring my skin.
He pushed with the might of a mountain, moving us as if we were trapped in a dance.
When my backside hit the balustrade, my armor lost the round for me, making it easy for Grimald to throw off my center of gravity. To knock my feet out from beneath me.
We went over the edge together.
Down through the roar of cold night air, into the river’s embrace.