Kaschar's Quarter Read Online Free Page B

screaming. His breath caught in his throat. As the voices approached, he could hear them laughing. He shivered in the cold liquid that surrounded him, disoriented within the pitch-black confines of the barrel. The shouting faded abruptly. He let out a desperate breath, thinking that perhaps the danger had left him, when suddenly there was more pounding on the door.
    It was not his father. This was not knocking, but the sound of a great weight triking the thick wood regularly. Whoever it was obviously meant to break down the door. After a few more impacts, it finally gave way with a great clatter that echoed for what seemed like an age. Cautious footfalls could be heard coming from the ruined doorway, before one man spoke up.
    “What do you think they have in here?”
    “Looks like wine, Brother,” said the second, his Cyrnnish accent lilting as he spoke.
    “Indeed. They will not be needing these anymore, the filthy drunkards.”
    “Right you are. Say, care for a little sport? No one here to tell us off.”
    “You mean to bust up these barrels?”
    “Why yes, else they go to waste. Shall we begin?”
    A thud and a wet splintering sound to Matthieu's right meant that the first barrel had been breached, and its contents subsequently sloshed onto the stone floor. He recoiled in terror, shrinking further into the wine of his own barrel as if anything he did at this point could spare him an assured death at the hands of the two intruders. A second was split, followed by a third, and then a fourth, all increasingly closer to his own. He did not know how many stood between him and the men outside; he only knew they were close and getting closer still.
    More footsteps, this time almost directly in front of him. The gruffer-voiced man called out to his partner.
    “And what about this one? Quite an old one, I should say. Should I break it as well?”
    “Let me see,” said the other man, approaching. He was silent for a moment, and Matthieu did not allow himself to breathe as he heard the other man circling the barrel, even catching glimpses of torchlight as it flitted through the hatch on top.
    “No,” he said. “No, this one is a Kamischkani, and a very old vintage at that. I would feel sorry to spill it all over the floor like the others. How about a drink instead? Just a little cannot hurt.”
    “Are you sure? What if Lemaste finds out?”
    “Nonsense! He will not know a thing. Besides, we shall make it a toast to our victory!”
    “Hmm... If you insist, Brother.”
    “I do insist, for it is not every day that one gets to sample such a grand old Kamischkani as this one.” Matthieu heard the man pull the little cork from the spigot in the flat side of the barrel, and a steady stream of wine came pouring out.
    “To Leopold,” cried the first man, “and victory over the children of darkness!”
    “To Leopold,” replied the other in his deeper voice. They could be heard lapping the rich, dark wine out of their hands before replacing the cork. Matthieu could feel his lungs beginning to burn inside him, as he had not yet exhaled. He quivered out of fear and the throbbing pain in his chest, waiting only for this nightmare to pass.
    “We should go, Brother. There is much more left to do.”
    “Yes,” said the one with the sing-song voice. “Let us be on our way. This house has already been given Kaschar’s quarter anyway.”
    They continued their conversation until they had left the cellar and proceeded up the stairs again, into the hall. It was only then that the air came bursting out of Matthieu's lungs, followed swiftly by tears he did not care to stem. After all, if what the intruders had said was true, there was no longer another soul left in his house to see him weeping so.
     
     

Chapter Two: The Survivor, or Injustice
     
    I will tell you of my first experience with death. I was nine years old, perhaps ten; my paternal grandfather had just passed away. Though the cause of death reported to the authorities