This is the twenty-fifth chapter of the Fang & Bone serial; click here to visit the previous installment of Fang of Triseria. Please share your thoughts on the story in the comments, or visit the project hub for more information.
Leaving comments and feedback on chapters unlocks new chapter images. Visit the chapter image gallery for more information and to see what chapter images have been unlocked so far.
Previously on Fang & Bone, Fang, Erryl, and Corea encountered a massive boar and were able to take it down. Back in New Gordhurst, Nathan Gorten and Corrigan Gorval dug up past family trauma to the benefit of neither man. Eghart, meanwhile, is waiting on a silver coating for his knuckledusters.
Nathan Gorten had not really visited his mother much over the past few years, even though she lived in the shack behind his inn. Circumstances within the family had driven everyone apart by necessity, and for the past nine or so years, her mind had clouded so much that she stopped recognizing him when he did show up. What was once there in Lavinia Gorten, formerly Gorval, before the collapse of the family, was a faint echo, and she became a stranger to him in her final years.
Though Nathan knew that to be a lie. He had become a stranger. Pawned her off onto her grandchildren, and he poured his time into a rarely-used inn, always second-guessing and undermining his brother. Doing what he could to mitigate the damage of the bastard who ruined everything. Now, as he saw her frail, pale corpse beneath piles of blankets, he knew he had failed her. The whole family had, except for Corea and Garen, who were now off – Garen missing, Corea in the shadow of two roadmen. It was only now, truly confronted with the loss, that he actually felt it and realized he could have been more present. But all that he could do now was stare silently at the corpse of Lavinia Gorten, formerly Gorval, and feel heartsick and angry at the world she had left him to.
A light knock at the shack’s door frame pulled him out of the developing mood, and he turned back to see Young Kent, his head bowed low, a hat in hand. The young man was always Young Kent – he was some distant relation, as were many in the town – and it did not seem necessary to know much more about him beyond that, and that he once tried to stretch himself by tying himself to a tree and a goat as a child.
“The pyre is ready, sir. I’m – I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Nathan said nothing. He bent over and began to peel the layers of blankets and sheets from her body. When he had gotten to the last remaining layer, he paused, staring at how slight her frame had truly been, and how small she was. Had she always been that small?
Of the blankets, he picked the most colorful one he could find – he felt it had some significance, but he could not recall much about it beyond some vague notion of it being attached to the faintest of childhood memories. He did not remember much of childhood, but the blanket, the color of a light rose with yellow ivy stitching, seemed appropriate. He thought she would have liked it. She must have. He was sad; he didn’t really know.
“Did you need help with her, Mr. Gorten?”
Again, Nathan was silent and began wrapping her into a bundle. He tucked in some wildflowers between her sheet and the blanket before wrapping her from head to toe and binding her with heavy twine. As he stood back, he took in the delicate shape and suddenly thought of a child – she was slight enough.
“The children should be here for this,” he whispered.
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Go to the pyre and prepare to light it.”
“Sir.”
And with that, Nathan was alone, kneeling before his mother’s body, wrapped in some blanket he barely remembered, but felt good about – he thought. It would need to be enough. He gently lifted her from the bed where she had spent her final years. She was so light, and yet the shape of her body in the straw mattress was so deep. He quickly rose to his feet and turned away, knowing that had he looked a second longer, he would have begun to cry. Tears were for the pyre. Tears were for the send-off.
…
Sandval had said the silver coating needed time to cool over the knuckles, and Eghart, eager to commence the hunt, waited with the intensity of a hungry child over the evening soup pot. He paced back and forth for a while in front of the forge until Sandval told him to leave – not asked – told. Eghart could have snapped the man’s fucking neck, easily, but that was obviously a rushed judgment that would have been more trouble than it was worth.
Merely an intrusive thought, of which Eghart rarely acted upon anymore. He’d grown more sensitive to these sorts of things over the years, since he had a position of authority. It wasn’t that he was softening himself; he learned to protect himself from his own mind, most of the time. He knew he was a sick man – it was something he’d always been aware of – and it probably also explained why he felt no pain. The frustration and anger present in his father’s fist at being unable to correct the boy. Well, he did not feel most pain. So when the bad thoughts came along, the really risky ones, he’d go to the widow, Elspeth. He’d pay her with food or copper for her children, and she would hurt him in the only way anyone could. A secret shame he discovered in childhood, when a farmhand cornered him.
He’d considered visiting her as he waited for his commission to be released into his custody, but thought better of it. He was still running on rage and desire, eager to get to the Wolf, and he wanted to be ready at a moment’s notice. Needing to dress again was an entirely avoidable delay.
Still waiting for his prize, he took to the center of town where the main roads met, and watched a pyre being erected. The turnout was surprising, with even Elspeth and her children in attendance. He wondered for a moment what had drawn so many. Then he remembered the old woman and ran as quickly as he could to the Mayor’s home. The spark could be drawn at any moment, and Gorval would take back all of the nice things he said if Eghart did not see to his needs.
…
As Nathan Gorten emerged onto the road from behind the inn, the sound of a Sanaran mandolin began to play. At first, it was a few hesitant plucks, but after a few moments, a melody began to wring out in the early-afternoon silence. Nathan saw ahead that Kanaeth Gaer stood at the corner of the crossroad, opposite the unlit pyre, playing the tune. Kanaeth’s mandolin was one of the few things the man had absconded with in the razing of Gordhurst, and it meant a great deal now for Nathan to see it out and about. Soon enough, as Nathan took slow steps down the lane toward the pyre, he recognized the tune of “The Light in the Shadows” and faltered a bit. He’d felt mostly in a daze since he left the shack, and now, aware of where he was, with his mother’s body in his arms, saw that many of the folk he knew were out and observing silently.
Nathan did not move for a while, just listening to Kanaeth play the tune. He felt something deep and indescribable in the moment, like he had to take this moment for her. On one of his rare visits, she had been mostly gone, completely frail, confused, and scared; a stranger he could not really comfort. But he recalled her humming the same tune, if only briefly. And here it was, playing in the silent town where people had gathered. When Kanaeth stopped, Nathan nodded to him in silence and continued to walk to the pyre. Kanaeth picked up the tune again – seemingly more confident than he had been moments before.
Eventually, the slow walk ended, and Nathan stood before the pyre, a raised bed of wood surrounded by stacked and laticed kindling. He laid the bundle that held his mother’s remains with great care on the bed and stepped away. He stood in silence, contemplating the moment as best he could, but a murmur of the locals drew his attention behind him, and to his anger, his brother, Corrigan, limped in with such an intensity that Nathan was shocked he could move so quickly. Shocking him even further was the haymaker that connected with his jaw, thrown by the Mayor of New Gordhurst.
“You have no right!” Corrigan shouted. As Nathan began to recover, Corrigan took another wild swing at his brother’s face, and Nathan fell against the pyre. “You have no right!”
Nathan rubbed at his jaw and stared his brother in the face. Corrigan’s eyes were red and watery, and his skin ruddy between bruises and fury. The man still had not cleaned himself up from their last moments together that morning. Corrigan pulled a fist back, ready to throw another haymaker. Nathan rolled against the pyre to his left. Corrigan’s first slammed into some of the kindling, snapping it, and Nathan recovered and took his own swing. But as soon as he threw his fist forward, The Egg was upon him, catching him by the wrist and squeezing it with all his might. Nathan felt like his bones were just about to crack and violently yanked his arm back, looking at the towering, pale man who had loosened his grip almost as fast as he had tightened it. His face was passive, except his eyes, which looked almost bored or distracted. Corrigan propelled himself from the pyre and tackled Nathan to the ground, grabbing him by his tunic and shaking him violently, screaming into his face.
“No right! She is my mother, too!”
At that, the murmurs and whispers of observers picked up. Not everyone knew about the family strife. Some did, but for most, all of this had been kept secret for decades. For many, this explained much. Nathan put his palm over the center of his brother’s chest and stiffened his arm, pushing him back a bit, and stared directly into furious eyes.
“Now? You want to do this now?” he asked.
“You will not burn her!’
Corrigan continued to press his weight onto Nathan’s arm, and the strain was beginning to hurt.
“She’s not just some carcass!”
Nathan had had enough. He released the tension in his arm, and gravity pulled Corrigan’s face close enough so that Nathan swung his forehead directly into his nose, breaking it and dazing himself. The two men rolled from one another onto their backs in the dirt and grass, breathing hard, dazed in different ways and yet united in grief. Nathan glanced around, and most of the small crowd had dissipated some distance, leaving only The Egg nearby, along with Selwick and Ewan, two of the town guards. They stood still, waiting for their orders from either the Mayor or The Egg. But it seemed The Egg merely observed in a detached way, not immediately concerned with Corrigan’s well-being. The fat, pale bastard was certainly showing loyalty, Nathan mused.
Corrigan rolled to his side, toward Nathan, just as Nathan did the same toward Corrigan. They locked eyes with one another, both grounded, mourning, and exhausted.
“Don’t do this. Don’t burn her.”
“We have to burn bodies now. We have to burn them because of you, Corr.”
“Don’t…”
“I don’t want to see her eyes, or nose, or teeth in some grotesquery, Corr. Nothing is sacred to that monster, and you know it. We’re parts. We’re all just parts. And you’re fine with that?” Nathan spat on the ground, but he was so tired that there was little distance, and most of it ran down his chin. It didn’t matter. He continued, “Are you comfortable with that monster defiling your mother’s memory? Is this part of some agreement?”
Corrigan said nothing, simply seething at Nathan
Nathan continued, his own eyes now red and watery, the floodgates open before the pyre. Not quite at the time he’d have chosen, but it could not be avoided.
“Why?” Nathan asked. “What hold does that fiend have on you? You’re a godsdamned thrall!” His voice was cracking.
Nathan had remembered the crowd, and the murmuring had picked up again, now, many in agreement. “What is keeping you keeping us here? You can send The Egg to clear a path. He’s strong, we all know this. He could actually be useful to us, but you will not do it.”
Nathan pulled himself off the dirt and awkwardly got to his feet. Corrigan continued to lie on the ground, continuing to glare. “What hold is on you?”
There was louder agreement from the gatherers now. The Egg stood passively, merely balling his fists. His guardsmen shifted awkwardly. The crowd continued to jeer and comment, but Nathan had grown oblivious to it, simply looking down upon his brother, who in return simply stared back.
When Corrigan threw his hand up and outward, The Egg stopped forward to help his patron up from the floor. Corrigan’s heft was almost a triviality to The Egg, who did not seem to struggle in bringing the man to his feet. Corrigan patted dust off his already disheveled morning coat and then felt at his nose, wincing in pain and gingerly dabbing for blood with pudgy fingertips. He looked back at his brother.
“You will not burn her body, Innkeeper. I forbid it in my authority as Mayor of this town, and then the man who led us from the destruction of our old home. You may also be my brother by blood, but you are not in spirit.”
Corrigan pulled out an already bloodstained handkerchief from a pocket and gently dabbed at his upper lip. He inspected the blood on the stained white silk for a moment and then crumpled it, throwing it to the ground between the two men. The Egg was watching this display with a curiosity that made Nathan nervous.
Corrigan looked back at Nathan, looking him over before locking eyes with him. He shook his head as he spoke to The Egg.
“If he makes a move to light that pyre, kill him.”
The Egg nodded, but his attention was suddenly divided now, as the crowd of onlookers seemingly exploded. Nathan watched the blank face of the giant man suddenly furrow his brow in apparent surprise and caution. Several people in the crowd, Kenaeth and Young Kent included, began to press toward the Mayor’s position. Even the widow, Elspeth, wove herself into the crowd, her children nowhere in sight. Nathan felt a surge of animosity ripple out and grew fearful of what it could become. He raised his arms, spreading them out, trying to make himself a wall.
“Please, this is a family quarrel, I’ll handle it.”
But the plea fell on deaf ears. Young Kent, stupid, kind, Young Kent, shoved Ewan, the smaller of the guardsmen. Before anyone in the crowd could take in what had happened, Young Kent was crumpled on the ground, bleeding from his ears, eyes, and nose, as the Egg stood over him, his arms stretched out wide and his palms open and flat, with dabs of blood splashed across them.
The crowd suddenly grew silent, except for a lone scream from a woman Nathan couldn’t identify as everyone saw the young man on the ground. Kenaeth, his mandolin still in hand, knelt beside Young Kent.
“Kent’s… Kent is dead.”
Kenaeth looked up at The Egg, who had lowered his arms. The Egg was staring back at Young Kent’s body, his head tilted slightly, seemingly impressed by the suddenness of his strike – like he had done something admirable or surprising and not something utterly terrifying.
“You killed him.” Kanaeth rose to his feet.
“Stop,” Nathan pleaded. “Don’t…”
But deaf ears again, when it mattered most. Kanaeth got into the Egg’s face with an accusatory finger. The Egg grabbed the entirety of Kanaeth’s hand within his own and quickly squeezed. The sound of shattering bone was audible to all. Kanaeth fell to his knees, dropping his mandolin, howling. He would never play again.
The stunned silence gave way to yelling, screaming, and thrashing as the crowd surged toward the guardsmen. The Egg grabbed Corrigan, lifting him over his shoulder as the man thrashed his protests. The Egg threw his bulk through the crowd with no concern for them. Nathan heard one man’s leg break when The Egg trampled right over it. The guardsmen followed along, shoving away people and bloodying their noses and battering their bodies. Nathan stood at the pyre in shock, devastated at what had occurred. He watched his brother, slung over the shoulder of the pale giant, ineffectually beat at his protector. He kept glaring at Nathan, his eyes wide.
The crowd surged around the escapees, twentyfold and two three now, as Nathan watched helplessly. The crackle of a nearby torch, for the ceremony, snapped him out of his stupor. He glanced at it and back to Corrigan, who was still staring through the surging township.
Nathan plucked the torch and shoved the flame directly into the kindling. He watched the woodsmoke give way to small flames that continued to envelop the space. He looked back at the crowd following the guardsmen to the mayoral house.
He could not see his brother.
Click here to visit the project hub for Fang of Triseria; click here to read the next installment of Fang & Bone.
Please consider leaving feedback or your thoughts in the comments. Feedback and comments help unlock new chapter images.
I can not explain how much Egg needs a fucking sword through him right now.