by Aaron Crash
Another embraced it. His thumb found the Black Ice Ring. He’d unlocked unimaginable powers.
Ymir thought of his women, his wives, and he swore he would keep them safe. That meant keeping Old Ironbound safe.
He wondered what the Majestrial’s Honored Princept, Della Pennez, knew of these rumors. And if Della might know why the mistress of the Undergem Guild was buying him drinks.
Chapter Two
THE NEXT DAY, YMIR stood on the balcony of the Imperial Palace to watch the Open Exam.
Two years before, he’d been one of those men standing in line, waiting their turn to prove themselves inside the pavilion. The Majestrial had more than enough women in its ranks. However, with the dwindling male population, thanks to the Withering, the school invited any boy who wanted a place at the college to try his luck at the Open Exam. It was fair, if unforgiving. Every year, some boys were mortally wounded; others were maimed for life.
This year would be no different.
The balcony was a nice place to watch the young men line up for their try in the tent pitched on the Sunfire Field. Ymir didn’t have to worry about anyone complaining about him being in the Reception Room of the Imperial Palace because most of the staff and faculty were either at the Sun Gate, processing the potential scholars, or evaluating the scholars inside the tent.
Ymir and Gharam had to basically carry Brodor to his room the night before. The dwarf’s big black boots—his namesake—had been filthy. As a joke, they’d tucked the boots under the dwarf’s head instead of a pillow. He’d wake up to a muddy bed. The idea made Ymir laugh. Such pranks on the Ax Tundra were known as the drunk’s price—boots for a pillow were called the rude boot.
Ymir had rarely paid the drunk’s price, but there had been that one time when his best friend, Ykor, let Ymir sleep in a bog the entire night. Waking up cold and muddy had been quite the joke, especially when he had to walk past their entire clan to find water to bathe.
“I told you he’d be up here!” Jennybelle called out from the ornate room. Her voice was loud and had that Swamp Coast accent.
His wives had found him.
Jennybelle Josen came in first, her hair inky, her eyes a bright, blazing blue. Since it was a Saturday, she wasn’t wearing her scholar’s robes. She wore a dark scarlet dress with knee-high black boots. She came over. On her tiptoes, she kissed him. Her smell was light perfume and soap and wonderful. She was picture-perfect, as always, but then Jenny had grown up in a swamp of backstabbing and court politics that would’ve killed a lesser woman. You had to look perfect, or others would take advantage of that and murder you sweetly.
To drive the point home, Jenny had her dagger, the Sapphire Fang, sheathed at her side.
Lillee Nehenna followed closely behind her. She was dressed in white, and her golden hair was pulled back from her face, falling down her back in a complicated braid. On the left side of her face, near her eye, was the mark of the Sullied, which was a signal to all of the Ohlyrran that she hadn’t been able to control her sexual urges. For all the time he’d known her, Lillee had worn her golden arm cuff, the essess, which magically suppressed her natural desires. The elves would say her desires were unnatural. They were fools.
Since the death of her father—the murder, actually—she had mostly stopped wearing her essess. That meant more lovely work for Ymir, Jennybelle, and Gatha because Lillee was horny all the time. And yet, she was learning to live with the heat between her legs relatively well. Sometimes she still wore her cuff, when she worked on her art, since she sometimes found it hard to focus.
Gatha had no such trouble. She reveled in her sexuality, as was apparent from her love of the vast collection of pornography she kept in the Library Annex off campus in the Sea Stair Market, just down the alley from The Paradise Tree.
And Gatha had no trouble keeping up with Lillee. Actually, since the elf maiden had taken off her cuff, the pair had been nigh inseparable. That shouldn’t have been a problem, but Gatha had been drinking more. Even now, she came out with a flask of her ippa-pagg-ippa, a favorite liquor of the Gruul. She stormed out, took one look at the men on the field, and laughed raggedly. “They all look like weaklings and idiots. Not a one of them should be allowed in our school.”
“Would you have said the same about me?” Ymir asked, a playful smile on his face.
Gatha shoved him. “You came with deer meat over your shoulder and the strength of the gods in your thews. Nay, Ymir. Nay. I would’ve invited you into our school, as long as you fucking cooked my lunch.”
The orc princess was dressed in her Sunfire robes. On her finger, acting as her Focus ring, was one of the artifacts they’d forged—the bone and gold of the Yellow Scorch Ring. Gatha’s white hair was tied back in a leather thong—the color gleamed against her dark green skin. For now, her fighting tusks were hidden behind her sensual lips. Her rose-colored eyes bore into his.
The world stopped as he and his orc bride shared the Farrg Panng, the long gaze, as intense as lovemaking. It was a symbolic act between two people who truly loved one another. It was a crushing embrace, a passionate kiss, a long poem of love—all encapsulated in the burning looks they gave each other.
He gazed into the depths of her soul. And he saw trouble there.
Gatha knew it. “What you see is the storm, my Ymir.”
“Will you weather the storm?” he asked seriously.
She didn’t answer. It was troubling. But nor did she look away. And that gave him hope.
Jennybelle went to push herself between them. Lillee seized her before she could. “Let them have this moment,” the quiet elf said softly.
“Their damn staring contest?” Jenny’s laughter was raw. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand this looky thing between the orcs. By the black water of my home, I doubt I’ll ever understand orcs anyway.”
Gatha finally turned away. She marched up to the Swamp Coast woman but didn’t do the Farrg Panng with her. Instead, Gatha grabbed Jenny and kissed her. The she-orc’s muscles flexed as she pulled Jenny into the embrace. Their kiss was hot tongues and bruised lips, wet enough to mark them both.
Gatha then stared into Jennybelle’s eyes. And Jenny didn’t say a word. She stared back, caught up in the moment. It was as much Farrg Panng with Jenny as it had been with Ymir.
Lillee quietly took Ymir’s hand to let him know she was near. He turned. Tears filled her eyes. One spilled loose and trickled down her cheek.
He wiped it away. “Why do you cry, Lillee?”
“The storms in Gatha are in me as well. The wind whips her mind with lightning and hate. But in me, Ymir, under the still water are monsters.” The elf princess glanced away.
Ymir knew about such feelings. These past six weeks had been turbulent. Each of the women had lost a parent in the bad business of the Kurzig Durgha. Each was handling their grief in different ways.
Ymir knew how it was to mourn someone you hated. It split your heart in two. It drove you to distraction. Ymir had hated his father, the same man who had exiled him. The single tear his father had wept in Lost Herot, the hall of the clans, had haunted him.
He took Lillee’s chin in his hands. He turned her face up to his. He was swept up in her green eyes with platinum flecks. “And we will talk until those monsters under the still water are dead. We heal through our mouths. And we will kill the monsters with our mouths as well.”
“I will try, my love. I will try.” Her eyes might’ve told him a different story, perhaps, but she pulled him into a kiss. He had to wonder at the honesty of the kiss—that was one thing about the Farrg Panng. It was painfully honest.
The drama of the moment left them, but Ymir knew they were still on the road to happier times. The Kurzig Durgha had torn them all apart, and even now, they felt the loss of their sweet Ribby keenly. The mermaid promised to come often to StormLight Island, where the lighthouse warned sailors of the rocky reefs of the AngelTeeth Islands. The idea of seeing Charibda Delphino was appealing, but Y
mir wondered if being close to them, but not with them, would hurt the mermaid. It was troubling.
Toriah Welldeep came out last, pushing a rolling table full of food. “Hello, people. If we’re going to be watching the Open Exam from this here balcony, where we shouldn’t be, I’ll be darkness-damned and twice-mined if we do it without food.”
The happy dwab had a fire-head, cute freckles, and a large chest. She wore her green dress with the white frills, the front buttons undone to show her vast cleavage. There were times when Lillee asked the wide little woman to button up because the elf princess couldn’t concentrate. Tori would cover herself and laugh. “You have a pair yourself, Lil, but I’ll cover ’em. You all make such a big deal about my anatomy. Gosh me underground, but I find my whole body embarrassing.”
Tori pushed the table up to them. On it was a collection of fried dough, fried breaded meats, sweet dipping sauces, and a variety of pastries. To drink was strong kaif, exotic fruit juices, and weak beer, far weaker than Gatha’s poison.
The dwab plucked the flask away from the she-orc. “Now, none of that, Gatha. You had enough of that last night. It’s no good trying to drown your pain. Much better to eat it away, one bite at a time.”
Tori laughed at her own joke.
It was a testament to Gatha’s love for the dwab that she let Tori take away her flask.
The five of them ate, taking bets on which of the young men down on the field would make it through the Open Exam and which ones would fail. Many were from the nearby Farmington Collective, though they were big, thick boys with fresh faces. How many of them would emerge from the tent victorious? Only about one in ten would pass the Open Exam. The Sorrow Coast Kingdom men probably had better chances, but the real contenders would be the dwarves and orcs—they’d come a long way to the Majestrial, which meant they had power and resources. Interestingly, there were a few Ohlyrran boys. The elves were probably a hundred years old, though they looked like fresh-faced youths. There weren’t many elven men at the Majestrial. Most stayed in the eastern forests and got their education there. Perhaps the Kurzig Durgha had made some curious.
Ymir couldn’t help but laugh at his own success. He’d finished the Open Exam without using a lick of magic. He hadn’t been able to control his dusza back then. He won his way into the school by using his wits, his axes, and his determination.
The memories amused him, the food was delicious, and he liked to listen to the banter of his women: the Swamp Coast witch, the Sullied elf, the she-orc librarian, and the happy little Morbuskor girl with the big hips and cheerful laugh.
Ymir had thought the Axman had cut him a difficult path through the world while the Shieldmaiden looked on with love on her face. Now, two years later, watching those young men shuffle into the tent, he thought maybe the path hadn’t been as thorny as he’d first thought. He loved his wives, and they loved him.
Yes, the Axman had been kind, but what of the Wolf? The Sacred Mysteries of the Ax was clear on that account—The Axman cuts the path. The Shieldmaiden keeps it clear. And the Wolf pisses on it all.
The Wolf was always there, to remind men they were but simple creatures in a complex world, and the minute you thought you were victorious, you’d wake with a two-fang spider on your balls. That was the Wolf—laughter, animal lust, and luck. Or misfortune, depending on the moods of the gods.
A tiny figure flew down from above in a splash of golden sparkles and sweet, sweet perfume.
Ziziva Honeygood zoomed around the women, giggling, until she fluttered down onto the railing. “Ymirry dearie, you look so yummy in my tummy tum tum, tried and true. I had a good time last night, did you?”
Tori wrinkled her freckled nose. “And what were you up to last night, Ymir? You said you were drinking down at the Angel’s Kiss with your favorite professors.”
“Not exactly my favorite professors,” Ymir protested.
Ziziva flew off the railing and went dashing over to Tori. The fairy stole the last wedge of a lemon-cream pastry out of Tori’s hand. The fairy didn’t eat it, but tossed it at Gatha, who of course caught it.
Jennybelle made a face. “Zee, what’re you doing, girl?”
Ziziva whirled around in a splash of sparkles. “Being silly, silly, Jenny J. Being me, being me, being the me I’d like to be.”
A green dress hung from her tiny shoulders, tight and low cut to emphasize her hips and the cleavage of her tiny tits. Those blue eyes were sparkling, but Ymir wasn’t quite sure there was joy in them. She seemed as troubled as his wives, who loathed the fairy girl.
Granted, Jenny and Tori had had sex with the fairy, but Tori didn’t talk about it, at all, given the nature of the encounter. Her Inconvenience had consumed her. As for Jennybelle, she didn’t remember the encounter. Ymir did because the Veil Tear Ring protected him from magic that stole away his memories. Tori had the same type of protection.
Gatha snapped out her tusks. “Tossing food at me will only bring my ire.”
Like that would stop the fairy from giggling at her. “Then catch me, greenie green. Catch me if you can.”
Gatha should’ve ignored that challenge, but the orc liquor had addled her wits. She stormed forward, and Ziziva lured her into bumping into Tori, who hit the food table and toppled it over. The food ended up in a pile on the floor. Kaif, juices, and beer formed puddles around shattered carafes.
Tori flushed a bright red. Then she fell into an angry rant. “Oh, gosh me underground. This is going to come out of my paycheck. I’ll have to pay for this. And clean up the mess. What the fucking fuck, Ziziva Honeygood! What the fuck!”
For Tori to curse like that, she must’ve been mad.
Lillee put a hand over her mouth. She hated cursing. Jennybelle looked amused, if weary. It was like this latest piece of drama exhausted her.
Gatha grabbed a piece of shattered plate and flung it as hard as she could.
Ziziva dodged that, still giggling. “Oh, my, whatever have I done?” She was as flushed as Tori, though for the fairy, it was from the effort of flying and avoiding flung dishware, not rage. “Looks like Gatha can’t get me, and you all hate me, and what a pity, but not a surprise. What a pity, and not a surprise.”
The fairy floated out beyond the railing—to stay out of Gatha’s grip at least. The she-orc started a spell, but Ymir touched her hands. “No.”
He addressed the fairy. “You will be paying for this.”
The blond Fayee laughed more. “Pay I can, but I won’t clean it up, business partner. Business partner is all we’ll ever be, while the Fayee fear more from me, but then I’ve said too much, I think. Dillyday wanted to hear all about the dicking I got, and she was jealous, and all the fairies last night were jealous, and I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.” She wasn’t laughing as she repeated the word. She looked damaged. She flung herself away and was soon gone, disappearing over the edge of the red roof tiles of the Imperial Palace.
Jennybelle sighed. “Well, shit, that was weird and unpleasant. What crawled up her butt to drive her so crazy?”
Tori blushed at the very mention of butts. “Don’t need to put it that way, Jenny. You know. With how fairies are.”
Ymir wasn’t sure about what Ziziva was after, but when it came to the fairies, they had to be careful. Fairies were not what they seemed. Not at all. And Ziziva was probably the most troublesome fairy he’d ever met. They were in business together, but Ymir had gone over the contracts like an old woman going through elk entrails to predict the future.
He would be discussing this incident with Ziziva.
But there was someone else he’d have to talk to first.
Lillee motioned down to the field. There stood a furious Della Pennez. They were just lucky she didn’t have her swords, or she would’ve flown up and cut them all to pieces.
It seemed the professors on the Sunfire Field had heard, if not seen, the commotion on the balcony. Ymir had thought to keep his presence in the Reception Room a secret. That hadn’t hap
pened, so he would get a stern talking to by someone.
“The Wolf pisses where he wants to,” Ymir said with a laugh. At least his life wouldn’t be boring. And he didn’t think Della could do much to him, no matter what he did, not after all they’d gone through together.
Not after that kiss...a kiss neither of them wanted to discuss.
The fairies were dangerous. Della’s kiss might be downright deadly.
Chapter Three
THE HONORED PRINCEPT of the Majestrial Collegium Universitas, Della Pennez, watched the scholars dancing in the Throne Auditorium. The Open Exams were over, classes had begun, and they were all enjoying the First Night Festival.
Della had sent Gharam Ssornap to talk with Ymir. The orc professor told Ymir that as a student, he didn’t have the run of the campus. The barbarian had to follow the rules. Gharam had said he’d try to appeal to Ymir’s honor as a clansman. Who knew what the results would be?
Della knew Ymir was smart enough to follow the rules when it benefitted him. She had faith in that.
All in all, the Princept was feeling good. She liked how their festivals marked the school year—First Night Festival, Harvest Festival, Winter Solstice Festival, Tree of Life Festival, Summernight Festival. It was the rhythm of the school year, as sure as the season, as enduring as the Weeping Sea kissing the Sorrow Coast with every wave.
The elven musicians were as excellent as ever, and Della recalled her own dances growing up in Four Roads as the daughter of a rich elven merchant. Her father would later become a magistrate of the Undergem Guild in Four Roads. Della had known every luxury, yet the humans never really accepted her. She’d always been different.
It had taken some time for her to embrace that difference. Then, when Unger had adjusted her ears to make her appear more human, that difference went into hiding. She could hide her secrets, and, oh, being an assassin of the Silent Scream certainly gave her more secrets than most. During the day she’d been a simple professor at Kifu Yun Lirum University, but at night her victims would plead for their lives. She’d silence the pleas with sword, dagger, or garrote. It had given her a certain perspective on life—that death was ever-present, capricious and cruel, and hidden, so hidden. Death hid perfectly in the shadows of our minutes. Alive one second, dead the next, and the reaper was gone like an errant breeze after blowing out a candle.
