“Two bottles of Red Leak, and a ride in your cart for my sister,” Theel said.
“That is an easy bargain for me to accept,” the older man said. “I know the Knights of the King’s Cross are true no matter what some oracle of the new god says.”
“This is a very good tactic you are employing,” the skinny man said. “Make him trust us. And as soon as he lets his guard down…Bam! I’ll turn him to salt. Yeah!”
“You are not turning anyone to salt,” the older man said.
“But first, I’m going to need sp-…ack…components,” the skinny man said, digging through his backpack. He pulled out a live frog and a half-eaten turkey leg. “Is this what I need? Yeah! No. Maybe?”
“Maybe your brain is worm-eaten,” the older man suggested. “Is that turkey leg still good?”
“But we must move quickly,” Theel cut in.
The older man nodded. “We have a bargain then,” he said, extending his hand.
“It’s a bargain,” Theel agreed, and accepted the handshake.
“It is a true pleasure coming to agreement with a fellow son of Embriss,” the older man said, shaking Theel’s hand vigorously. “The Red Leak is in the gray box next to your sister’s leg. Help yourself to two bottles. As soon as these casks are loaded, we’ll get moving.”
The skinny man continued searching through his bag. “You hold still,” he ordered Theel. “Imagine what it is like to be made of salt, ’cause that’s what’s about to happen. Yeah. This is going to be great!”
“Shut up and help me, you half-wit,” the older man said. “And give me that turkey leg.”
The Drunk and the Idiot
The road Theel followed south out of Dockhaven was gray and soupy, making each footstep sound like a sucking plop. The road was surrounded by dead grass, dead trees, and patches of marsh that steamed and bubbled and stunk. The day was just as cheery, with the downpour slowing to a drizzle by late afternoondark. The sky no longer spoke with volleys of thunder, but the rainfall remained steady. The clouds moved continuously northeast, but the blanket of gray was never quite pulled from Thershon for the rest of the day.
The day was dreary, but Theel’s spirits were raised. He guzzled a bottle of Red Leak and his health began to improve almost immediately. Even though he still ached in his head, neck, and limbs, the throbbing in his chest subsided and the bleeding stopped. Best of all, he felt strength in his legs and back for this first time since waking on the beach. Walking was no longer such a chore. Neither was breathing. For the first time in hours, he started to wonder if he and Yenia might actually survive this ordeal.
Even though it was a bad day for travel, the road wasn’t deserted. Instead, it was filled with refugees of Dockhaven and other towns at the west end of the valley, men and women and entire families. They were walking, pulling rickshaws or riding mules, with wagons or ox carts packed with children and possessions, driven out into the elements from their fear of the invading Iatan armies. Theel trudged along beside the mule cart, beside his unconscious sister. He kept his head low and watched as his feet disappeared and reappeared in the gray muck with each step, listening as the older of his two new acquaintances made small talk.
“I’m Hoster. Just Hoster,” the sun-stained man in the misshapen hat said. “I got no surname or sigil like any of those noble jackholes because I don’t need the heavy cargo it brings. I don’t need the cargo and I don’t need the sigil, so I’m Hoster, just Hoster, and as you can see, I cook booze. The wares in that cart there is all I have, and I’m thinking it’ll buy us whatever we need. I can trade with the best there is. I’ll barter your balls off.”
“Really?” Theel asked.
“Yes, sir. Clean off.” Hoster nodded his head proudly. “That’s Rasm over there with his nose in the book.”
The young man with the bald head walked along on the other side of the mule cart, holding his book, staring at the pages with glazed eyes, his jaw hanging open.
“You met him,” Hoster said. “He’s a no-good, half-wit lumberhead. Says he’s a wizard but that’s a bunch of scatter, so don’t listen to it.”
Rasm kept pace with the mule cart, despite not watching where he was going. His eyes were locked on his book, causing him to stumble constantly. As Theel watched, he tripped and fell facedown in the mud.
“He’ll be fine,” Hoster said. “Those two stinking, mangy flea farms are my mules, Chigger and Ragweed. Chigger’s on the left, and, uh…”
“Ragweed’s on the right?” Theel guessed.
“Sure,” Hoster said, and belched. “Shut up, Ragweed!”
“She didn’t make a noise,” Theel said.
“She’s cursed by God, I say,” Hoster said. “The worst damned mule in all the Western Kingdoms. She’s stupid and slow, and a general disgrace to four-legged creatures worldwide. Her daddy was a good pull, a good ride, and was sturdy. Ragweed is stupid as hell and good for nothing. She ain’t sturdy at all. She don’t even listen. Rasm says she’s deaf.”
“Your mule is deaf?”
“A deaf mule is the worst kind,” Hoster explained. “Chigger farts a lot. See? You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“He’s strong and a good puller, when he’s faced the right way,” Hoster said. “He’s pulled my old ass out of the fire all manner of times. But he’s dumb, even for a mule. You got to let him know he’s got to earn his keep. Let him know he isn’t worth his weight in his momma’s shit, so he’ll keep stepping. Hey, Chigger, you keep stepping or I’ll carve you up for my stew, damn you! He acts like he don’t hear me, but he does.”
“He hears you?” Theel asked.
“Yes, he does,” Hoster said. “But he acts like he don’t. At least he knows he’s a mule. Not like Rasm, who doesn’t know he’s an idiot.”
Rasm popped up on the other side of the cart. His eyes were wide, staring through a mask of road filth.
“Not true!” he cried indignantly. “I do know I am an idiot. No…um…ack!”
“You see?” Hoster sighed. “I love my boy, but his brain is rotted through. If you look at his ear from the correct angle, you can see through his head.”
“I am a skilled wiz-…ack…wizard,” Rasm sputtered. “…Uh…”
Hoster rolled his eyes. “Sure you are.”
“Yes I am,” Rasm countered. “And I’m going to meet the Blessed Soul of Man.”
“You are going to do what?” Theel asked.
“Ack!” Rasm tripped again, and fell in the mud.
“He’ll be fine,” Hoster said. “So who’s this dead girly on my cargo again?”
“She is not dead,” Theel corrected. “Her name is Yenia. She is my sister.”
“Your dead sister is sure to wake up hurting,” Hoster warned. “I’ve slept on those crates before, and it can be unpleasant, let me tell you. I’ve awakened so stiff I thought I had a broken ass.”
“I am not well enough to carry her,” Theel said. “Besides, waking with a stiff back will be the least of her concerns once see rouses.”
“If she rouses, you mean,” Hoster corrected. “A fever like hers would kill most men, and leave their brains stupid if it don’t.”
“Yenia will survive this,” Theel said. “She is strong.”
“Whatever you say,” Hoster said. “I’ll pile up the crates and throw the dead girly on, if you insist. Lord, this road is one endless skid. Poor Chigger’s working his ass off. Good work, Chigger. You keep stepping, you dumb bastard. Ragweed, stay out of Chigger’s way, damn you. So where are you and your dead sister headed? Where were you going when all this trouble befell you?”
“Southward, to the crossroads at Calfborn, then into the Great Dividers,” Theel answered. “If all goes well.”
“You’re headed straight through the mountain kingdoms, aren’t you? That’s Yarik country.” Hoster thumped his chest. “You’re looking at a proud son of Yarik, boy. I was born and raised in the Dividers, carried the spear for my clan for six years. Yarik
by birth. Yarik by blood. I know every way through the mountains of Yarik. Every way to walk, and every way to run. You should hitch up with me and the lumberhead. We’ll show you the way to wherever you are going.”
“I know the way,” Theel stated.
“I can lead you anywhere you wish to go,” Hoster said. “Whichever path it is, I’ve walked it twice. Chigger will curse my bones, but I just curse him back and still make him pound those rocks. Dig in the snow deep enough and you’re sure to find some thirsty bastard with a coin in his hand. There’s the king’s work to be earned. Even on those rocky slopes. Yes, sir. I can get you through the Dividers in two sucks of a beer bladder. I got some beer bladders in the cart if you want a suck or two. Takes the scratches away, you know?”
“I know.”
“What route through the Dividers are you taking?” Hoster asked.
“The Narrows.”
“What? The Narrows?” Hoster exclaimed. “What would lure you there? Don’t answer, because I don’t want to know. But why would you go? No, don’t answer.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“There is no good reason to go there, and I know it,” Hoster said. “You can trust my word.”
“Are you certain?” Theel asked.
“As certain as death,” Hoster said. “Those tunnels go on forever. You can walk the Narrows for days without seeing the sun.”
“That’s terrible,” Theel said.
“Horrible is what it is,” Hoster corrected. “If you don’t get lost and starve or freeze to death, you’ll make supper for those who have. There’s spooks hiding in that darkness, the type you don’t want to meet.”
“Those are only campfire tales,” Theel said.
“You’d do well to listen to those campfire tales.” Hoster shook his finger. “A wind wraith will freeze the blood in your veins whether you believe it exists or not. But suppose the spooks show kindness and let you pass. Your reward is a trip across the Dead Man’s Bridge, where a whole army of zoths await you. That’s where the Crowlord lives. You hear of him? They say he’s the worst zoth ever.”
“I know of the Crowlord,” Theel said.
“No place will show you greater proof of how unkind the world can be than the Narrows,” Hoster said. “It’s a big bucket of scatter.”
“A bucket of what?” Theel asked.
“Scatter.”
“A bucket of scatter?”
“Yeah, a bucket of scatter,” Hoster said. “I’ll never take my mules there. I prefer to go on living.”
“I understand,” Theel said.
“Don’t walk the Narrows,” Hoster said. “You go marching into those tunnels and you’ll end up swallowed by the spooks or skinned by the zoths. No, you should come with me and Rasm. We know safer ways, smoother roads that are far less stressful. You won’t even stub your toe.”
“I’m going to the Narrows,” Theel insisted.
“No, you are not,” Hoster said. “Why would you want to do that? No, don’t tell me. You’ll come with me and Rasm. I’m always willing to help, especially a god-fearing soul like yourself with plenty of coin to spend.”
“I appreciate your generous offer, but—”
“I can’t imagine why a clean-looking, kinda decent, mildly intelligent sap like yourself would wish to dip your toe into a piss puddle like the Narrows. I’d love to know why. No, don’t tell me. I’m enjoying this lovely day of rain and mud, and don’t need it ruined by your tale of woe. That’s for certain. Holy scatter balls.”
“Holy what?” Theel asked.
“Scatter balls,” Hoster said.
“Holy scatter balls?”
“Yeah.”
“Scatter balls are holy?” Theel asked.
“Huh?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Theel said. “What is scatter?”
“Are you serious?” Hoster said. “Holy scatter balls, you are serious.”
“What does it mean?” Theel asked.
“Well ‘scatter’ is a term we working folk use to describe shit,” Hoster said. “It’s what Ragweed did, and Rasm stepped in it when we were leaving Dockhaven.”
“How can you call that holy?” Theel asked. “It isn’t holy.”
“I’m not saying it’s holy. I’m just saying holy scatter, that’s all,” Hoster said. “Boy, you need to learn a thing or two about common speak if you’re going to walk the roads among the smallfolk and underfoots. If you stand out like some rich, lordly bastard traveling alone, a band of coin-thirsty bandits will have your ass.”
“They’ll have my ass?”
“On a stick.”
“Sounds terrible,” Theel said.
“Horrible is what it is,” Hoster corrected.
“Sounds horrible.”
“You got to act common, speak like you got no coin, like you haven’t washed your balls in a month,” Hoster said.
“And proclaim the holiness of shit?” Theel asked.
“Yes! Finally, you understand.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“The roads can be very unfriendly,” Hoster said. “Especially to city sods like you.”
“City sods?” Theel asked.
“Yeah,” Hoster said. “City sods. Delicate daffodils like you and your dead girly.”
“She is not dead,” Theel said.
“She will be soon,” Hoster said. “That’s one of the worst fevers I’ve ever seen.”
“It is bad,” Theel admitted. “But no one fights like my sister. And the Red Leak is already helping.”
“You’re damn right it is!” Hoster exclaimed. “That’s some of the finest tonic you can drop a coin on. You’re looking better yourself. You were half-dead an hour ago, but now you are upright and clear-eyed. All thanks to stiff pour of my recipe into your belly.”
“And for that, I am grateful.”
Hoster beamed with pride. “Red Leak was the perfect medicine for that nasty poke in your chest,” Hoster said. “It’s fine stuff for cuts and scrapes, small coughs and fevers, but not for what ails your sister. She’s going to need to swallow something stronger or we’ll bury her before we reach Calfborn. She needs a brew that’s harder to cook, something rare, something…expensive!”
“Such as?” Theel asked.
“I have just the thing,” Hoster answered. “Oaken Wart, milked from bark mold. It works, but it tastes like owl scatter.”
“Tastes like owl…?”
“Shit,” Hoster finished.
“How do you know what owl scatter tastes like?” Theel asked.
“I don’t,” Hoster answered.
“Then how do you know the potion tastes like owl scatter?”
“Because I put owl scatter in it.”
“Why?”
“To mask the awful taste,” Hoster explained, exasperated. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“I don’t think it’s very obvious at all,” Theel admitted. “Hoster?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t give owl shit to my sister.”
“Of course not,” Hoster said. “Not unless you got the coin to spend. Oaken Wart ain’t cheap.”
“That’s right,” Rasm said, nodding. “Owl shit is costly.”
“Sorry to reveal deep truths to you, city sod,” Hoster said. “But living is a dirty business. And if you want your sister to live, you’re going to have to dirty your hands.”
“Yes, but…with owl…?”
“Scatter,” Hoster finished. “It’s how Oaken Wart is brewed. And Oaken Wart is our dead girly’s only hope.”
“Are you certain?”
“Oaken Wart is the most powerful healing tonic that can be brewed using common methods,” Hoster explained. “You don’t need any spells or prayers or rituals. All you need is commonly acquired ingredients and the practiced hands of a skilled brewmaster like myself.”
“That’s terrible news,” Theel said.
“Horrible is what it is,” Hoster corrected.
“Horrible i
s how it tastes,” Theel guessed.
“My sympathies, you dandy city sod,” Hoster said. “But your sister is going to die.”
“Unless we feed her owl droppings?” Theel asked.
“Lots of owl droppings.”
“Is there no other way?”
“Of course there is,” Hoster answered. “We could find a nice spot, dig a deep hole, then discuss which prayers we are going to say. Like this.” Hoster looked up at the sky. “Lord, I implore you, find a cozy spot up there in Heaven for this wilting daffodil here named…what was her name?”
“Yenia.”
“This sad dead girly, Yenia, sister of this ignorant sap I just met whose name is…whatever it is. What was your name again?”
“Theel.”
“Yeah, Theel’s his name,” Hoster said. “Forgive Theel for getting his sister killed, and set aside a nice spot for Yenia up there with you. You’ll hardly notice her. She don’t eat much by the size of her, or even take up too much space.”
“How much for the Oaken Wart?” Theel asked.
“You don’t…ack…need Oaken Wart,” Rasm said absent-mindedly, not looking up from his book.
“Yes he does, Rasm, you lumberhead,” Hoster insisted. “His sister needs healing or she will die.”
“No…ack…” Rasm choked. “He doesn’t need the potion. The Blessed Soul will save his sister.”
“Shut up, fool,” Hoster snapped. “Go back to reading your book.”
“What is he talking about?” Theel asked.
“Nothing,” Hoster said. “We were discussing the cost of Oaken Wart.”
“Why does he keep mentioning the Blessed Soul?” Theel asked.
“I don’t know,” Hoster answered. “He’s a lumberhead. Don’t listen to him. You need a bottle of Oaken Wart, and I’m feeling generous today. I have a desire to help a squire of the King’s Cross.”
“A God-fearing soul like myself with plenty of coin to spend?”
“Precisely,” Hoster said. “Besides payment, the typical ask for a potion of this complexity includes some ingredients. I’ll need a few personal items from you and your sister.”
“Such as?” Theel asked.
“I’ll need blood,” Hoster explained. “Two bubblers of your sister’s blood, and two more from the veins of a healthy man. We’re short on men of healthy blood around here. Rasm has a brain disease that renders him incompetent of speech and thought. You don’t want Rasm’s blood anywhere near your sister.”
Warrior Baptism Chapter 3 Page 5
