by Dave Gross
I turned my attention to the scenery. I’d been trudging along the riverside road for three days, and this was the first time I’d had a good look at the surrounding valley.
The terraced fields were full of water that would have drained away except for the raised lips bordering each plot. Here and there were irrigation gates, little more than wooden planks in frames. A brown Tian man waded through the paddies to open one for a few minutes before closing it again.
A few tiers below, another man drove a plow-ox ahead of peasants who squatted to plant stalks of rice. The water already harbored some kind of floating plant. It looked like someone had scattered clover there. If the boss had been there, he’d have stopped to quiz the peasants about the stuff, taken home a sample.
But the boss wasn’t here.
When the farmers spied me on the road, they bobbed their conical rice hats before returning to their work. I guessed I didn’t look so scary from a distance.
My own wide hat and rain cape helped. Both were accidental gifts from a peddler I’d surprised a couple of weeks earlier.
I’d just settled down for my morning squat when I heard the rattle of wooden wheels. I finished my business and climbed back up onto the road for a look. The poor wretch leaped a foot off the ground when he saw me, leaving his hat and cape as he sprinted away. Since my spoken words still came out in Hell-speech and Burning Cloud Devil wasn’t around to translate, I couldn’t explain that I hadn’t come for his soul.
Still, it was good for a chuckle. I took the peddler’s abandoned hat and cape and helped myself to the contents of his abandoned cart. After eating most of a sack of turniplike roots, I wrapped the bag around my waist. It was a poor substitute for the leathers I’d picked up in Caliphas, but at least there was no one around to see me. No one I knew, anyway.
I was on the wrong side of the world, alone until I caught up with Burning Cloud Devil. He’d been wandering off more and more often since my battle with Fong. We’d encountered a few travelers on the road, most of them harmless.
Twice we’d run into gangs brave enough to have a go at me. The first was led by a man who’d lost his legs, but some sorcerous blacksmith had built him a new pair. Burning Cloud Devil made me fight him only with kicks, which is a lot harder than it sounds, especially when the guy kicking back has iron legs. I ached for days after that fight, and the sorcerer’s skill-sealing spell did nothing to soothe the bruises.
The second gang was a band of deserters turned to robbery. I fought them knife against swords, but that wasn’t good enough for Burning Cloud Devil. He wanted me to wear a blindfold. After a hot argument, he conjured spider-silk webs over my face and promised the men a purse of gold if they could take me. In the end it still wasn’t much of a fair fight, since they liked to scream as they attacked, making finding them easy even while blind. I ended up with a few nasty cuts, but by the end my ears tingled with the sorcerer’s spell, and I knew fighting blind was no longer a problem.
I was pleased with myself. “Not too bad, huh?”
Burning Cloud Devil wasn’t satisfied. He grumbled that we were too far from any town likely to attract a hero strong enough to challenge me. He told me to meet him at a roadside inn to the east and paused with a look of concentration, like he was counting. I started to ask what he was doing when his hand shot out and struck me with that damned Quivering Palm again.
Tired as I was from the recent fight, I was ready to kick his ass right then and there. Before I could cock a fist, he flew off in his ball of fire.
That was two days ago. My anger had cooled, but I was getting hungry.
I considered snatching a goat from one of the nearby farms and decided against it. In daylight, I doubted I could get away without a fight. I had no qualms about the theft, but the idea of some farmer putting up enough of a fight to make me kill him rubbed me wrong. There was only one thing I wanted to kill, and that was this Burning Cloud Devil’s dragon.
By the time the sun turned the Wall of Heaven Mountains purple, I began to regret not going for that goat. Before I could turn back, I spied colored lanterns on a simple gate at the crest of the next hill. Once I reached them, I saw the roadside inn.
This was the place. It was just one story tall, with a little orchard to one side and a well on the other. A hitching rail ran along a wooden porch, but the only trace of horses was a fading tattoo of hoof beats on the road.
Three men and a woman crouched behind the rail. The woman rose a few inches to peer in through the window, but the man beside her pulled her back down. I stood behind them and had a look inside.
The light of a dozen or so lamps flickered around the carnage. Shattered pottery and furniture littered the floor. A man dressed in plain servant’s clothes lay unmoving on the bar. Another limp form was crumpled on the floor beneath him, probably a traveling merchant judging from his fine silk robes and the loop of gold coins on his belt. In one corner lay a pile of empty wine jugs, stacked like the skulls of a defeated army.
Only one undamaged table and chair remained. There sat a young man whose open vest showed off impressive muscles. Behind him an iron-ringed staff leaned against the wall. He had the surviving jugs of wine on the table, along with a soup bowl that he used as a wine cup. If his flushed face weren’t evidence enough that he’d had plenty to drink, I could almost make out the character for “wine” in the fumes of his belch.
At that moment, the woman noticed me standing behind her and let out a little shriek. The man beside her covered her mouth without taking his eyes off the drunk inside. He hissed, “No, my plum. He’ll hear you!”
The others saw me then, slapping their hands over their mouths to contain their own screams. I stepped back, hoping some shadows would make me look less frightening.
The man who’d silenced the woman noticed me. Rather than scream, he threw himself into the dirt at my feet, groveling.
“Hero, please save us! The boxer has driven off all of our other customers. If he is not stopped, he will drink all of our wine.”
I liked the sound of “hero,” even though I was starting to think it meant something different in these parts, especially if Burning Cloud Devil was telling the truth about being the King of Heroes. I decided I wouldn’t mind a cup of wine, but what grabbed my attention was the smell of roasting pork.
There was no point talking to the guy until I got my own voice back, so I pointed to him, mimed slicing a roast pig, and rubbed my belly.
He got it. “Yes, you will be our honored guest, at our expense, if only you can make the boxer leave.”
That was good enough for me. I stepped into the inn and tossed aside my rain cape and hat.
The souse squinted and smiled at me, his nose and cheeks round and rosy. He was cute as a cherub.
“Closing time,” I said. It didn’t matter whether he could understand my words. He couldn’t have been drunk enough to mistake my tone.
“What a strange devil you are!” His face brightened, and he peered into his wine jug as if to see whether that’s where I’d come from.
“Nice.” I jerked a thumb toward the door. “Now beat it.”
“Join me!” He filled the big bowl and pushed it across the table. He raised the jug above his beaming face. “To the exiles of Heaven and Hell!”
I couldn’t tell whether he was toasting or mocking me, but either way I didn’t like it. I moved forward to strike the jug out of his hand, but he slid off his chair and rolled backward. He kept the jug balanced on his palm throughout the fall, twisting his wrist to keep it upright all the way. He didn’t spill a drop until he tipped it over his mouth. Then he let as much wine run down his chin as into his throat.
“You’re a nimble little lush,” I said. “I’ll give you that.”
“You should give me face, brother.”
“I ain’t your goddamned brother.”
He laughed. The sound shook the thatched roof and exploded in my ears. “That is exactly what you are. That is perfect. You are my goddamned little brother!”
That’s when I realized that he understood my infernal speech. I was too annoyed to give it a second thought. I couldn’t say why, but the sound of his voice, the way he called me his brother, that big white smile, his baby face, the smell of wine on his breath—all of it pricked my neck. I wanted to kick his ass out the window and eat my supper.
I jumped across the table. His mouth opened in clownish surprise as my shadow covered him. He rolled away an instant before I landed.
His foot touched my back, and with the slightest shove he redirected my momentum.
A second later, I was spitting out splinters and blinking at the inn’s yard. In front of me, the staff wailed and fell back from the hitching rail. To them, I must have looked like a mounted devil’s head kept alive on some paladin’s trophy wall.
I felt a furnace blaze in my belly.
Jerking back from the wall, I only succeeded in driving splinters deep into the back of my head. Just what my new look needed—more spikes. I cursed, and the innkeepers shrieked and leaped up from their hiding place. They retreated to the cover of the well.
Behind me, the boxer laughed at my struggles. He paused only to chug another drink from his jug before tossing it away. I heard it clink against the pile I’d seen earlier.
The angle was all wrong, so I changed tack. Pushing forward with all my strength, I bent the wall outward. There wasn’t enough room for leverage, so I brought only a fraction of my strength to bear. The hole wouldn’t widen. The wall wouldn’t break. I pounded at it on either side, but just left scratches in the wood.
“Let me help, little brother,” said the boxer. I felt him grab my ankle and pull. I cursed and kicked, but he laughed and slapped away my foot. The force of his “help” drove the splinters deeper into my neck. I twisted and strained my head, finally fitting the unfamiliar shape of my skull back through the hole it had made.
He swung me all the way around, hooting and laughing. After one circuit, he let go. I flew across the inn.
It couldn’t have taken more than a second, but it felt like a cool minute as I sailed across the restaurant. I could almost count the empty wine jugs, adding them to the two whose paper seals were still unbroken on the boxer’s table. The stunned merchant on the floor shook his head and looked up in wonder as I soared past and crashed into the kitchen.
The roasting pig flew away as I smashed through a shelf and landed in the fire pit. Hot water and oil splashed over me. It was almost hot enough to feel uncomfortable, but apart from the embarrassment, the only serious injury was from a kitchen knife that pierced my cheek. Blood began to fill my mouth. I liked the taste.
I knew I’d like the taste of the boxer’s blood even more.
My roar shook the house harder than his madcap laugh. I burst out of the kitchen and leaped over the still-unconscious servant on the bar.
The mirth drained from the boxer’s face when he saw me, but only for a second. He still wobbled like a dockside boozer, but there was something canny in his eyes. I’d spent years dealing with belligerent drunks, and some who only played the part to gull a fool.
I pulled up short. The boxer nodded approval. Ignoring the staff that stood within his reach, he snatched up another jug of wine and rolled it down his arm, across his back, and up into the crook of his wrist. He struck open the seal with a snake-head knuckle shot and offered it to me.
“Calm down,” he said. “Have a drink. The wine is not so good, but it is strong.”
That gave me an idea.
I accepted the wine and made as if to drink. The boxer smiled, but his good mood vanished when I hurled the jug to the floor. Clay shards scattered everywhere, and the wine seeped into the boards.
“What a waste!” Real grief contorted his face.
I reached for the remaining jug, but he was quicker. He grasped it in both hands and turned away, hugging it to his chest.
I threw a hard punch into his kidney.
He cried out and spun away. The jug leaped out of his arms, but he caught it on his foot and sent it back up under a protective arm. He bobbed and weaved, always protecting the jug with his body.
I followed, kicking and punching every time he left a target exposed. Each time, he dipped or faded just enough to avoid my spiky fists and clawed feet.
My hackles rose, scorching my neck like a hundred hot pins. For a few seconds, I forgot I had a plan. Screaming, I cocked a fist and glowered at the boxer’s crotch.
Drunk as he was, he hadn’t taken his gaze off my eyes. He threw the jug high in the air and shimmied back out of reach. But I wasn’t really punching for him. I sprang up and swung for the wine jug.
“No!” He leaped right after me. His hands gripped my arm, and he swung from it like a monkey on a branch. The weight was just enough to pull my fist out of line. My knuckle spikes barely squeaked against the glazed surface of the jug.
He pulled himself up on my arm and tapped the jug with one finger, sending it once more toward the rafters. We fell together, backs against the wall, side by side.
That’s where you don’t want to be when fighting me.
I gave him an elbow to the chest. A square shot from one of my spurs was enough to stun most anyone. They hurt like hell, but they were too short to reach the heart—
That is, they used to be too short.
I jerked my elbow away. A stream of blood followed.
The boxer choked and reached for the falling jug. It slipped through his feeble hands toward the floor.
I reached out my foot and caught it in the nook of my ankle with a few inches to spare. I lowered it gently to the floor.
The boxer gazed at me in astonishment. He tried to speak but produced only a bloody bubble that broke upon his lips. The strength drained from him, and I lowered him to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean ...”
To what? I wondered. How did I expect to keep fighting in this infernal body without killing? I knew perfectly well that my spurs had grown longer. That’s not the sort of thing I’d forget, not ever.
I’d just been so angry.
The boxer burbled some more. I wiped the blood from his mouth.
“Wine,” he said. “One last sip ...”
Still cradling his head, I broke the seal with my ragged fingers and poured a stream of wine into his mouth. His hands came up to tilt the jug, overflowing his mouth and splashing wine over the seeping wound over his heart.
“It is not such bad wine after all. Thank you, my goddamned brother.” He smiled up at my face, but I don’t think he saw me. He was having his first glimpse of someplace else.
I prayed to Pharasma, goddess of death, that they had good wine waiting for him.
The fight had spoiled my appetite, but I knew it’d be back. I went to the kitchen and cut a ham off the roast pig.
As I went to leave, I caught a last look at the boxer. The staff he’d never touched during the fight slid off the wall and onto his body. As it rolled along his arm and onto the floor, I couldn’t help feeling his ghost was offering it to me. Was it my spoils for defeating him? Did he want it delivered to an heir? A hundred other spooky possibilities fluttered in my brain. I should have left it there on the floor.
Instead, I took it with me.
Chapter Nine
Flying Scroll
How swift your brush.”
I muted my utterance of surprise at the unexpected voice so close behind me. Despite the susurrus of the late spring shower, I should have detected even the most careful footstep upon the rice mats of the scriptorium. The intruder moved with uncanny, perhaps even magical stealth. Once I heard the silken voice and discerned the
rain-dampened scent of his favored incense, I recognized Jade Tiger.
There was no time to hide the results of my labor, which the eunuch might well have observed for minutes before speaking. It had been more than two weeks since the incident, yet I considered the possibility that he had come to investigate my disturbance of the princess’s privacy, since surely they were his darts that had so narrowly missed us. It occurred to me that they would not have missed me if not for the fortuitous presence of First Brother Kwan.
No matter the reason for Jade Tiger’s visit, I was intrigued by the eunuch, and by the princess. Surely Jade Tiger was similarly curious about the presence of a foreign half-elf in Dragon Temple. Preparing myself for a subtle interrogation, I turned and bowed.
“Noble Counselor, you honor me with your attention.”
He smiled, perhaps disarmed by my use of the submissive tone I had finally, reluctantly adopted. As Song Chu-yu had counseled me years ago, the bureaucrats of Tian Xia were keen to perceive the most minute variances in demeanor, and quicker still to avenge slights and the pretentions of those of lesser status.
“I have been admiring these foreign characters,” said Jade Tiger. “They are words of magic, are they not?”
And thus I was at his mercy.
While not specifically forbidden to write in my native Taldane, or in this case in the spidery characters of the arcane, I had been tasked with copying local histories in the Tien language. In themselves, the chronicles were educational, but they were not my true interest.
In fact, I had already copied something more than the minimum number of pages demanded by Master Li. After observing the speed with which I copied the sutras in our midday meditations, the wizened temple leader had permitted me to serve in the scriptorium during my convalescence, for Master Wu’s latest chastisement had rendered me unfit for physical exercise.
Kwan had returned to the training grounds within a day of our punishment. To show his courage, Mon Choi had limped out of the dormitory to join his brothers two days later, despite his inability to raise his bruised arms above his head. It was another week before I was able to join them, but by then Master Li insisted I continue to devote two hours to the scriptorium each day. Unfortunately, he did not demand that Master Wu reduce my other obligations. Thus was I deprived of another two hours’ sleep each night.
