grated together inside his chest; he could feel it, and hear it. The collar shifted on his neck, sliding down and settling into place just above his shoulders, the spikes tearing grooves into his skin. But he could stand up. His legs were still sound; the pain was all in his neck, head and torso. The collar unbalanced him, and he staggered sideways and hit the wall. More pain blossomed inside him, but he grabbed hold of one of the roof supports and managed to stay upright. Once he had rested, he turned himself around and began to make his way toward the door, staying close to the wall to hold himself up. Walking was painful, and he had to move very slowly and place each foot carefully. If he trod down too hard, it sent pain shooting up his spine.
He reached the door after what felt like an age and rested there again. It was daytime, but the light coming in through the broken windows was dull and grey, and as he stood in the doorway, lightning turned everything pure white for a heartbeat. Thunder rumbled a few moments later.
In daylight, the ruin of his home was much easier to see. Everything was destroyed: the cupboard doors had been ripped off, the shelves were broken, all the food had been stamped into the floor, and his clothes chest had been tipped over and the contents were either wrecked or missing. They had even found the secret cavity under the floorboards, and he knew without looking that they’d stolen everything in it.
They’d taken his sword, too, along with his bow and arrows, and every plate, bowl and cup was in pieces on the floor.
Arren put a hand over his face. One side of it was badly swollen, and he winced. He’d probably lost a few teeth as well, he thought.
He breathed deeply, trying to keep himself calm. All right. One thing at a time. He couldn’t stay in the doorway forever. It was just a few steps to the table, and that was still intact. He could make it.
He braced himself, took in a deep breath, and set out. He reached the table in a few lurching steps and grabbed on to it before he collapsed, gasping for breath. There. He’d made it.
The chair had been reduced to a heap of shattered wood, but the crate was still there. He managed to shove it into place next to the table and then sat on it, resting his elbows on the table. Sitting down was difficult. It made his back and chest hurt—not horrendously, but continuously, to the point that he considered standing up again. But he couldn’t summon the energy for that and instead slumped over the table. The collar dragged his head downward, and he had to prop his chin on his hand to hold it up. There was blood in his beard. He tried absent-mindedly to clean it off while he waited for the pain to subside, which it eventually did.
His head felt a little better now, and he found it easier to think. Strangely, his first thought was that if he could walk, then that meant he would be all right. He wasn’t too badly hurt. He’d survive, even if he wouldn’t be as flexible as he used to be. They hadn’t killed him.
Fear suddenly intruded on him. He tried to remember what his assailants had looked like, but he had no idea. He’d only caught a brief glimpse of the one in the doorway, not enough to be sure of anything. But his first thought was that Rannagon must have sent them. Somehow, he’d found out that Arren had told someone the truth. But how? Who had told him? Bran? Gern? Flell? How much did they know? Had there been a spy listening in on him in that alley? Had the others been arrested, or were they dead?
He started to feel cold all over. In his head, images spiralled, each one worse than the last. Bran and Gern, assaulted like himself, either dead or badly hurt. And Flell, what would Rannagon have done to her? He wouldn’t kill her. There was no way he could do that. Not his own daughter. But the others . . . if anything happened to them, it would be his fault.
He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t get to them. Just walking across a room had exhausted him. And he couldn’t go outside. Not like this. Not with