Kaede grinned, waggling the bag that held the trog’s severed head. “You like to eat, don’t you?”
“I’m not eating that!”
“And yet the sheep looked so satisfied,” Kaede said with a grin, slapping Sand on the shoulder, the boy stiffening. “Relax. We’re not going to eat the damn thing. We’re going to sell it. People will pay good coin to have a lizard man’s head adorn their wall.”
Sand made a disgusted face.
“Don’t dismiss its value. It’s going to pay for our rooms, our food, and—”
“Your armor,” Bess added, cutting in.
“Not to mention wine and women and song, boy. Though not necessarily in that order.” Kaede grinned and stepped lively down the road, headed toward the gates of Callipur.
He joined the crush of people headed for the same, warriors and squires and bettors and fools, most indistinguishable from the others. They’d all come there for the same purpose, to become rich off someone less lucky than themselves.
Bess hid her grin behind her cloak as they entered the city alongside the throng. While there was no tournament in the meager town it was the gateway to the city Ketland where the first of the tourneys would be held. Here they would see much of their competition, warriors traveling the same as them toward the dream of becoming the War God. Bess pitied them their ignorance. They would learn soon enough that not all of the contestants were on equal footing.
The smells of Callipur were a welcome change to the road and Sand’s sheep-invoked flatulence. The scent of fresh-baked bread struck them as soon as they cleared the crowd that wedged tight between the gates. The guards ushered them forward and Bess reveled in the wood smoke that carried the enticing scent of properly cooked beef. She drew in a deep breath and groaned.
“We need to find a blacksmith first,” Kaede said and she barely heard him over the sound of her appetite.
At last she nodded agreement. “Take care of business and get us a room. Sand and I will visit the smithy and meet you there.” Sand looked ready to cry as Kaede started off the dirt street alone. She laughed. “Lift your chin. We’ll join him at the tavern soon enough.”
Bess grabbed his biceps and led him down a side street toward the eastern side of Callipur. He gave in easily enough but did nothing to hide the hunch of his disappointed shoulders. He’s like a little child, this one. She squeezed his arm, feeling the mass of muscle beneath the thin tunic he wore. A very big child. Her gaze drifted to his crotch for an instant and she grinned. Most of him, at least.
They wound their way through the narrow alleys and Bess steered her charge past the numerous drinking establishments that populated the seedy stretch of Callipur. Barely noon the taverns were mostly empty; only the wretched regulars whose lives revolved around their cups were in attendance, parishioners to the one-horned god Sappichaeus, the master of spirits. Sand stared longingly at each doorway as if offering obeisance but Bess tugged him along before he gave in to the call.
At long last they drew around a corner and spied the shop of the blacksmith. A great sign wrought in steel and iron hung atop the door in pride:
The Aegis of Eos
“Need to Stab Someone? We Can Help!”
Ask about our blood-spilling specials.
Bess followed the rhythmic sound of steel ringing against steel and stepped through the broad door that stood open wide to the street. Flames roared in the forge and cast flickering shadows about the smithy. The air was acrid and warm the moment they stepped inside. The blacksmith hammered at a wedge of reddened iron, sparks flying with every blow.
“He’s a woman,” Sand said, staring at the smith’s chest with unabashed surprise.
“She is a woman,” Bess answered. “Half the world is and you might have noticed had you been paying attention. They’re usually the ones telling you how wrong you are.”
“But…I never—”
“Just how far from the shire have you traveled, little hobbit?”
“Shire?” He looked at her with a blank expression before her meaning registered. “Oh. I was born on a tiny farm in the village of Seinot.”
“A farm boy, huh?” she asked, swallowing a chuckle. “That explains so much.”
The blacksmith looked up and spied them. She used her tongs to drop the lumpen shape into a bucket of water and steam erupted, misting the room, graying out the details.
“I’m the proprietor, Eos,” the woman told them, stepping through the fog. “What can I do for you?”
Though only of average height Bess could understand why Sand might have been confused. Eos was built powerfully, her bare arms thick and well-muscled, showing off a casual strength earned through the daily labor of tending the forge. The leather apron she wore distorted her figure somewhat but as she drew closer there was no way Sand could be mistaken any longer. Her full lips and big, expressive eyes set over sharply defined cheekbones, left no room for confusion.
“Greetings.” Bess gestured to Sand. “We need a steel breastplate fitted to the great lump here, with leather pauldrons and a skirt to match.”
The blacksmith assessed Sand, her hazel gaze taking him in from his toes to his sweaty scalp. She nodded. “He’s a big one all right. It’ll run you thirty silver now and twenty when I’m done.”
“Deal,” Bess replied, not bothering to negotiate. She dug in her purse and started counting coins. It would do her no good to rile up the blacksmith given what she intended to ask of her.
Eos, all business, grabbed a marked rope from beside the forge and came over to stand in front of Sand. He froze as she grabbed his arms and pulled them out to his sides. “Stand still. I need to take some measurements.” She laid the rope the length of his arms, muttered a number, then wrapped it about his chest, his waist, and then ran it between his legs slowly, pulling it up tight as Sand stood there uncertain, a moth fluttering before the flame. She smiled at his discomfort, his wiggly bits outlined clearly against his trousers.
“Is all that entirely necessary?” he asked in a shaky voice.
Eos shook her head. “No, not really but it’s fun.” She let one end of the rope drop and wadded it into a tangled mess before tossing it back near the bench. Eos turned to Bess. “How soon do you need the chest piece?”
“Day after at the latest.”
Eos grinned. “He’s competing in the War God tourney, eh?” She glanced at Sand once more, pity in her eyes. “Gonna need more than armor to beat the rust off ol’ Lazurae.”
Bess coughed and stepped between the smith and Sand at the mention of the current War God. “Go and find Kaede at the Hoof N’ Mouth Tavern,” she said, slapping a couple silver coins in his hand. “He should be there soon. Have a drink or two while you wait.”
Sand took the coins eagerly and smiled, giving a backhanded wave before practically running out of the smithy and down the street. Bess turned back to the blacksmith after he was gone.
“He doesn’t know what he’s in for, does he?” the woman asked, a mischievous grin twisting her lips.
Bess met the smith’s smile with one of her own. “Like as not,” she answered, “but he’s not entirely on his own.” She tossed a small bag to Eos, the blacksmith catching it with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Add this to the iron when you forge the breastplate and there are three gold crimps atop the silver for your effort.” Bess held up four gold coins. “And one more for your discretion.”
Eos’s smile nearly split her cheeks and she broke out into a hearty chuckle. “You’ve my word,” she said. “On my hammer.”
“Morning after then?” Bess tossed her the gold on the heel of the question.
Eos caught the coins and held them up in agreement. “It’ll be ready.”
“See you then.” Bess left the smithy, wiping her smile aside at the door. A grinning woman drew more attention than was necessary and she’d her fair share of idiocy for the day already.
She made her way back through the alleys and onto the main thoroughfare, coming at las
t to the door of the Hoof N’ Mouth. She pushed it open and stepped inside, struck immediately by the scent of sour ale and testosterone. The place was crowded and noisy, every table taken up by boisterous warriors and their retinues, drinking and boasting, their voices merging in the air to form a singular entity with but one purpose for the evening: to give her a headache.
Kaede waved to her from a table in the back and she made her way to him, dodging an overly friendly squire who had one too many and whose father was clearly an octopus. When she dropped into the seat alongside the old pit fighter she noticed Sand wasn’t with him.
“Where’s your protégé?”
Kaede chuckled and motioned to the bar with his chin. “He’s over there, spending our coin on cheap wine and even cheaper companionship.”
Bess glanced through the crowd to see Sand at the bar, frothy mug in one hand and a blond woman in the other. She giggled and preened as Sand rambled on, regaling her with who knows what, and hung on his every word as though it were wisdom from the gods.
“How much did you pay her?”
“Five silver crimps to keep him busy well into the night and deep inside her short and curlies and out of ours.”
Bess sank into her seat. “Blessed be.”
Kaede raised an eyebrow. “Found religion on your walk with the boy, did you?”
“If only there were a god who looked out for people such as us.”
“The only god willing is Thurfur, and only because our souls might be worth a clipped copper at the end of our days.”
“If he’s lucky, my friend. If he’s lucky.”
Bess glanced once more at the big oaf they were betting their future upon. Sand swayed back and forth, much like he had at the gallows, and swung his arms about in a circle, loud and boisterous and perfectly at home. He wore a smile full of something the locals might consider charm. The boy was comely enough, she had to admit. At least until he hit the pits and earned his scars. But that would be a while still.
Bess saw he was already on his way toward being drunk and could only hope the woman kept him from the animal pens tonight. They’d enough stress without having to worry about corralling him, though a reputation as a sheep-buggerer might play well against the betting odds.
“Did you tell her about—?”
“I most certainly did not.” Kaede shook his head. “That would have cost me another five silver to keep her around.”
He slid a cup of red wine across the table to Bess. She picked it up and swallowed a mouthful, savoring the taste with a sigh. Kaede hadn’t skimped on the vintage.
“You’ve the trog head to thank for that, by the way.”
“To the dead lizard.” Bess raised her glass and grinned. “Now what kind of thanks do we owe the rotten corpse for his mace?”
Kaede jingled his purse under the table. It sounded heavy. It was a pleasant sound.
Bess took another sip of her wine and settled in where she could watch Sand and his paid escort frolic. “We’re going to be rich, my friend.”
He nodded. “Only if our boy there doesn’t bankrupt us first.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she answered, downing the last of her wine.
At that point she’d drink to pretty much anything. So she did.
Keep reading for a short preview of Damaged, written with Timothy W. Long of Z-Risen fame, featuring heavy metal, murder, and mayhem:
Damaged!
Since the 1980s, Damaged has brutalized record charts, sold out countless stadiums, and amassed enough money and fame to last ten lifetimes. But the secret to their success has always been the devil in the details.
At random times, the band has received packages from an anonymous source. A letter written on an unidentifiable parchment that places outrageous demands on them. With record sales flagging and their inability to record a new album mounting, the latest delivery is an ultimatum that may finally tear the band apart.
Wex, Michael, Seth, and Sunny have lived like rock gods for years, but the devil demands his due. The price of failure may be an unspeakable end for Damaged.
GOD OF EMPTINESS
SUNNY
Not fifteen minutes after she’d hopped off the computer, Sunny was in the back of her chauffeured SUV, her skin crawling with ants. She twitched and squirmed in her seat, staring out the window as her driver—Armand, she vaguely remembered his name being—skirted the Wilshire Blvd. traffic and found a place to park outside of St. Basil’s church.
“Just drop me off here and I’ll walk,” she said, not liking the way her voice crackled, her throat itching deep down. “Text me when you find a spot.”
She’d hit the pipe a couple times—and a couple after that—while waiting on the chauffeur to arrive and the shit was starting to hit her hard now. Before Armand even stopped the vehicle, she popped the door open and was stepping out.
“Hold on a second and I’ll—”
She ignored him and jumped for the curb, the sounds of the city drowning him out. The mid-morning sunlight stabbed at her eyes even behind the huge, dark sunglasses she wore to hide her face. Sunny jerked her head sideways, adding additional protection from the thick black wig she wore, it’s wild strands draped across her face like a shroud. The SUV accelerated with a growl and bumped into the lot, back door still swinging, as she marched toward the side door of the cathedral. She grinned, picturing the driver bitching about her jumping out.
“Fuck him,” she muttered while yanking the big oaken door open. She paid him more than enough for him to put up with her shit. If he didn’t want the job, there were a million other people in LA who would crawl through an army of chainsaw-wielding maniacs to take his place. Probably a couple million. Which was a good thing. She couldn’t afford to get busted for driving while smoked out of her mind…again. She’d gotten off light, but who knew what would happen the next time.
Sunny sighed as the cool air hit her and the shadows coalesced. Say what you want about the Catholic Church, but they never skimped on the blessings of refrigerated air conditioning. Her skin prickled under the long coat she’d slipped on to complete her disguise, and she was tempted to take it off. It wasn’t like there would be a whole lot of Damaged fans sitting in church in the middle of the week—or ever, for that matter—but the paparazzi were like roaches in LA. They staked out every street corner, waiting on some dumbass star to stumble in front of their lenses. Sunny sure as hell didn’t need them seeing her sneaking into a church and damn well didn’t need photographs of it circulating on the net, destroying her Satanic street cred in two seconds flat.
She’d told the band she was clean and had found Jesus but she wasn’t about to wreck the gravy train of their fans while doing it. Damaged had sold them on whole Devil worship thing—the reality a bit too close to home for comfort—and it would cause some serious grief were folks to find out that Sunny was playing for the other side.
Not that she’d tried all that hard.
She’d sat in the back of this very church, ten, maybe fifteen times, listening to Father Malcolm preach the good word and talk about redemption and sin and the path to Heaven but, just like in high school, she kept an ear cocked for the shortcuts built into the system, only picking out the parts best suited to her needs. In this case, that was absolution.
That’s why she was there today, to put the holy remedy to the test.
Sunny skirted the nearly empty pews and headed straight for the confessional set in the shadows near the front of the church. The few older women who were in attendance were deep in prayer, or maybe catching a few Zs in the quiet, and none of them looked up. That suited Sunny just fine. She didn’t want to have to explain herself to a bunch of old bitches.
Ladies, she corrected in her head. Wouldn’t do to piss Jesus off right before confessing to the boat-load of other sins she’d committed. Maybe smoking the dust before I came was a bad idea. She shrugged. That was a done deal so nothing she could do about it now. She’d just add it to the list of shit she confessed
to.
She rapped quietly on the confessional door and, when no one knocked back, she pulled the door open and slipped inside. The darkness greeted her as she sealed herself inside and took a seat. Her heart sputtering in her chest, Sunny drew in a lungful of musty air and settled in to wait.
A few moments later, to Sunny’s relief, the door on the other side of the confessional wall opened and she saw a figure shuffle inside, the priest’s face obscured by carefully crafted shadow. He cleared his throat with a muffled cough and turned toward the partition. The small holes in the divider allowed her to see the vague shape of the priest but kept her from identifying anything specific about him. Sunny smiled at that. At least the movies hadn’t lied about that part.
“How may I help you, my child,” the Father said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. She had to strain to hear him. Despite that, Sunny recognized the old man’s voice from his sermons and relaxed.
She took a moment to gather her words, the ones she’d read about, playing them over and over in her mind, before finally spitting them out. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Have you now?” he asked, his Irish lilt adding color to his words. “And what have you done, child?”
“Far too many things to list, Father, but they’re bad. All of them.”
“Well, I can’t help the Lord absolve your sins if I don’t know what they are. Tell me the worst of them, at least, and we’ll work out way down from there.” He shifted in his seat as if trying to peer through the partition. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”
Sunny exhaled hard, the strands of her wig fluttering in her breath’s wake. “No, Father. That’s one of the few sins I’ve managed to avoid.” So far, she thought. That was why she was there. It was only a matter of time before she hit Wex’s and the ultimate sin was expected of her and there was no turning back.
Institutionalized (Demon Squad Book 10) Page 19
