Osmund Kettleblack
The scent of another man's death was intoxicating. Osmund lost himself in it, stabbing and slashing with savage abandon. He came to his senses only when everything around him was splattered with blood.
"Bled like a pig," Osmund muttered after looking Tywin over and realizing the man was already dead—or would be any heartbeat now. He bolted into the corridor.
Osfryd was slumped against the wall. A massive pool of blood spread at his feet. Osney was barely holding on. Both he and his opponent had been wounded.
"Ah, you bastard—!" Osmund shouted and hurled himself at the enemy.
The officer fought back while retreating. They drove him into a corner, pinned him there, and finished him off with brutal ferocity.
"They'll be here any second," Osney rasped, exhausted. "They'll come running to the noise."
Osmund only nodded.
The brothers moved forward and heard pounding footsteps—someone was running, heels hammering against the stairs, armor clattering. Just in time. The moment two guards burst onto the upper landing, the Kettleblacks struck simultaneously, as one.
The guards recoiled, and another skirmish erupted. At that moment, someone attacked them from behind. Their father, Oswell Kettleblack, had come to his sons' aid. He could no longer keep pace with young, swift legs—but here, when the guards had stalled, he did not miss his chance.
The three of them, attacking from both sides, quickly finished off the last opponents.
"Idiots," Osmund snarled. Making sure the Gold Cloaks were no longer a threat, he rushed to his middle brother. A sticky fear began to bloom somewhere deep in his stomach. With each passing second, its clammy hands tightened harder and harder around his insides. It was as if they were fingering his guts, examining them, weighing what would become of this body and how long it would take to die once their crime was exposed.
Osfryd looked like hell.
"Looks like that goat slit an artery," he muttered.
"He's already discussing it with the Warrior," Osmund said harshly. "Hold on, brother. It's just a scratch."
Together with Osney, they hauled Osfryd upright, hooked his arms over their shoulders, and dragged him toward the exit. Their father cast them one quick, assessing glance, then silently turned and ran ahead. His legs, in soft boots, moved soundlessly out of old habit.
The smoke and stench of burning thickened in the corridors, and with every minute breathing became harder. From a side passage, a dazed, panicked, fat bald man with bulging eyes stumbled straight into them. Probably a servant. Osney didn't hesitate. The sword plunged deep into the man's body and lodged between his ribs. Swearing, Kettleblack yanked at the blade several times before finally ripping it free with a crunch.
Behind the dead fat man, two women flashed into view in the passage. One clapped a hand over her mouth, staring in horror at what she'd seen. The Kettleblacks could no longer afford the luxury of killing them too.
Time. Time. Time…
Now, with a wounded brother, everything hung by a thread. They could be noticed or stopped at any moment.
The only thing that saved them was the raging fire. Burned and injured people groaned all around, and no one paid them any attention.
In recent months, the Hand had found and sealed most of the underground passages leading out of the Red Keep. But a few of the most reliable ones he had not yet discovered. And now, he never would.
The brothers used one of them. Their father moved a dozen steps ahead the entire time—clearing the way, instilling confidence. Darkness ruled the narrow, twisting passage, and there was no time to light a torch. The brothers cracked their heads hard against the walls more than once.
At last, the passage ended. In the heat of it all, it even seemed short. Here, beneath the castle walls, a boat with several rowers waited for them. The fresh breeze pleasantly cooled their overheated faces.
"Faster, faster," their father urged as they dragged Osfryd toward the boat. His legs carved two deep furrows in the sand.
The rowers immediately set a strong pace. Everyone desperately wanted to live. The anchored ship was quickly drawing near. Oswell examined his middle son, occasionally throwing out short, clipped phrases to keep the others informed. And with each word he grew ever more grim.
Osney hastily bandaged his brother, but from the troubled look in his eyes Osmund understood that the situation was very serious.
The boat bumped against the hull, and friendly, strong hands helped pull Osfried up. The rowers quickly scrambled aboard after him, dragged the boat in, and moments later the sailors were raising anchor and unfurling the sail.
The galley shuddered, caught the wind, and slid across the small waves. Only then did Osmund find the time to glance back. The massive bulk of the Red Keep slowly dissolved into the darkness. It seemed they had made it out of the harbor.
When the world fully vanished into the night and they were left alone amid the boundless sea, the Kettleblacks realized their middle brother was dead.
Three Kettleblacks—father and two sons—stood for a long time, staring down at the enormous body. Cold, indifferent stars gazed upon their grief from the heavens. There was nothing to say.
A couple of days later, they reached Gulltown. A forest of masts and a web of rigging greeted them. The vast port lived its own life. Ships docked while others put out to sea; toll collectors inspected and assessed cargoes; merchants argued; sailors and whores cursed at one another. And no one cared about Osfryd Kettleblack's death.
A drunken merchant, in full view of everyone, was pissing off the side straight into the water and singing loudly, his voice carrying across half the harbor:
In Gulltown a maiden waits for me, hey-ho, hey-ho!
Wait and hope, your love will come, hey-ho, hey-ho!
Years apart will reward true love, hey-ho, hey-ho…
Here, in a graveyard not far from the port, they buried their middle brother.
(End of Chapter)
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