Scar Night Page 0,12

head struck the deck of the bridge and he rolled awkwardly, twisting the muscles of his shoulder. Darkness flickered through his vision. He ended up on his back, gasping. His ear burned, and his skull felt like it was shrinking. He shook his head, looked up. Spans of iron spun against the still lightening sky.

A second guard stood there, livid in the dawn, armour gleaming, pike levelled.

Mr. Nettle staggered to his feet. Blood streamed from a gash on his forehead, filling his eyes. The crowd of mourners backed away.

He charged at the guard—or tried to. Pain hit him like a nail driven into the top of his spine. Everything suddenly lurched to one side; the bridge slid out from under him. His legs folded and he stumbled, brandishing his fists like a drunk, and dropped to his knees.

The second guard stove the base of his pike into the scrounger’s stomach.

Mr. Nettle curled and clawed at the wooden deck beneath him. Splinters pierced him under his nails. He bit down hard, tried to rise, and was struck again. And again. And again.

The mourners looked on in silence. One of them crouched to inspect the injured guard. Pinned by his armour, the man coughed and spluttered and drew in great rasping breaths.

Mr. Nettle had no idea how long he suffered this beating. After a time, he stopped feeling the blows as they rained on him. They came as quick as licks of flame in an inferno. He was only distantly aware of the sting of metal on flesh, the deck of the bridge rough against his cheek, the blood bubbling in his nose as he sucked in air. It might have lasted minutes, or for hours.

Finally, the guard held back. “Get lost,” he said, panting. His arms trembled as he levelled the sharp end of his pike at Mr. Nettle’s throat. “Go! Out of here. Get lost.”

Mr. Nettle tried to move, his muscles screaming protest. Torrents of fresh pain rushed through his arms and legs. He bit down on the urge to retch, and pushed back against the bridge, hefting himself onto his hands and knees. His left eye had swollen shut. At least one rib was cracked or broken. He spat a bloody tooth on to the deck.

But he moved away. Without turning to face his attacker, he crawled back to his daughter’s body. Slowly, carefully, he replaced her arm in the shroud. Blood dripped from his face onto the linen.

Then he gathered her up and forced himself to his feet. For a moment he wavered: she was suddenly so heavy. His legs shook, but he wrenched himself upright again with a loud gasp that echoed back from the temple walls.

Unhooded now, with teeth bared and his face swollen and bloody, he started back across the bridge. His robe was torn and hung in strips about his arm. He swung a savage glare over the other mourners, who parted like a dark river before the bow of a ship, crowding as far from him as they could, only to follow his retreat with shrouded eyes. Nervous voices hushed as he passed.

Mr. Nettle continued across the bridge with blood pounding in his ears and only silence in his wake.

In the shadow of the girders at the Gatebridge entrance, he held his daughter over the edge, over the darkness, and looked down at the rumpled fabric covering her face, at the strands of hair that hung out from the cloth. Tears mixed with the blood on his cheeks as he dropped her into the abyss. The white shroud flamed for an instant in the gaslight and then she was gone.

The cleaver handle dug into his ribs and, for all its cost, he felt like throwing the damn thing far into the abyss too. What use would it be to him now? How could he ever get close enough to his daughter’s murderer to use it?

To kill an angel, he’d need to find a far more dangerous weapon.

3

Dill and Rachel

Dill woke with a jolt, gasping for breath, still in the grip of his nightmare. He’d been alone somewhere in cold, crushing darkness. No, not completely alone: there had been a girl. Black eyes, red lips, white teeth . Even as he tried to remember, her face faded, leaving him with nothing but the feeling that, somehow, she’d been both beautiful and hideous.

Had she been crying—or laughing?

It was morning, and he was lying facedown on his mat in a pool of his own spittle. The