Read Scar Night for Free Online

like bells in the still morning. Deep inside, the scrounger felt some part of himself crumble. And with it, the gem of hope he’d guarded all night slipped away. Had he been wrong not to try to disguise her wounds? Suddenly he was weary, his head slumped to his chest. For the first time, he seemed to feel Abigail’s cold weight pressing down on his shoulders. He sank to the ground.
    And then his teeth locked together and his lips peeled back. Beneath his robe, the muscles in his neck grew taut, his shoulders bunched, his hands tightened to fists, and he was on his feet with a snarl, grabbing the guard’s throat with all of his strength, and forcing him back.
    The man stumbled, flailing an arm. He tripped over one of the corpses and hit the ground in a clatter of armour, his neck still tight in the scrounger’s grip. The pike toppled and landed with an unholy crack.
    Mr. Nettle’s hood fell back; his face twisted into a blur of teeth and stubble and murder.
    The guard wrenched at Mr. Nettle’s arm and struck it, pulled at the fabric of his robe. The sacking ripped but the arm beneath remained hard as iron.
    Mr. Nettle tightened his grip.
    Air burst from the guard’s throat; his eyes rolled back; his face darkened to crimson. He scrabbled again at Mr. Nettle’s arm, then at his face, fingers gouging. His gauntlets, stiff with frost, raked Mr. Nettle’s skin.
    Then something hit Mr. Nettle hard above his ear, pitching him sideways. His 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