tip upward into the socket. He put all his strength into the penetration, and was horrified and relieved that the tool’s home was found as if it were an inevitability.
Another howl of pain rippled through the night, and his father blindly reached for Syn, paws swiping at the air, the sleeves of the filthy tunic whistling by Syn’s head and face. Relinquishing the hold upon the rake, Syn ducked between his sire’s legs. As he emerged through to the other side, he spun around, arched back, and caught himself upon the ground with his palms. Kicking upward with the soles of his feet, he punched his father’s backside.
The push was enough to send the weight that was already off-balance into a free fall, and his father landed face-first on the rake, the handle penetrating deeply into his skull, yanking his head to the side, popping out, popping free.
As his sire continued unto the ground as deadweight, Syn’s eyes went to the knife mounted upon his father’s wide leather belt. With the beast as yet stunned by the injury, Syn rushed forth and unsheathed the blade. The hilt was too thick for his palm, so he applied two hands unto the gripping. Raising the dagger over his head, he buried the sharp point in his father’s thick coating. He didn’t know whether it went in enough, however. His father, writhing in slow motion, seemed not to notice the fresh assault.
That was when Syn saw the rock. Flat. Broad. About the size of his chest.
It weighed almost too much for him. But fear and fury combined to strengthen him immeasurably. He waddled the stone over and brought it down upon the top of the hilt, once . . . twice . . . three times.
He hammered the knife in until its guard prevented any further progress.
Stumbling back, he fell upon the hard dirt patch created by a congregation of hooves around the shelter. He was breathing so hard his throat hurt and his eyes were blurry. When he went to clear them of whatever was upon them, he realized he was crying—
With a groan, his father rolled over and sat up, a ghost from a grave, except very real, and very capable of still doing damage. The injury to his eye was horrific and blood flowed freely, covering his features upon that side with a gloss that made Syn’s stomach lurch.
When it appeared as if his sire would stand up and fight anew, it was clear that he was drunk and did not feel the injuries sufficiently. Or mayhap the soul that animated him was just that hardy and evil.
Terror clutched at Syn’s heart and he jumped up to run—
Sometime later, much later, centuries later, Syn’s awareness returned unto him. Which was a strange thing as he was not aware of it having left.
Everything seemed quite blurry, so he rubbed his eyes—
A sting made him frown, and as he blinked . . . he realized he was sitting cross-legged upon the dirt patch in a puddle. Had it rained?
No. It was not water.
It was blood. He was sitting in a congealed puddle of blood.
Syn frowned. Lifting one of his hands, he found that it was covered with more of the same. Indeed, there was blood all upon him, staining his ragged clothes. Was he hurt? Had his father attacked him and—
“Dearest Virgin Scribe.”
Syn jumped and raised his eyes. The figure standing over him was one that his mind told him he should recognize. Yes, he should know who this is.
The pretrans male knelt down before him. “Please . . . give me the dagger.”
“What?”
“The dagger, Syn.”
“I dinnae have a dagger—”
“In your palm.”
It was as Syn lifted his hand to prove to this familiar stranger that he had naught within his grip that his sight informed him he was the one in the wrong. There was a dagger against his palm. How had he not noticed? And abruptly the identity of the pretrans came unto him. It was his cousin, Balthazar. He recognized the male’s face the now.
“The dagger, cousin. Give it to me.”
Syn looked to the left and saw the first body part by the broken handle of the rake. The second was impaled on the rake’s tongs. The next was . . . over by the fence.
There were many more, and the largest, the torso, had been field dressed.
His father had been torn apart by someone. Who else had been . . . here?