‘Shouldn’t throw our silver away then,’ Sand spat. ‘To imagine you could be living up there on the side of the Tower of the Temple with the nobles. Just imagine. Pampered, carrying a sword and a shield probably. Riding like a lazy lording, bullying the lesser folks.’
‘Shut up, you damned, stupid, dirt snuffling peasant,’ I told him brusquely, and he snickered. He was not a fool, not by far though his occasional inane and rough looks sometimes gave one that false impression. Few looked in his eyes. Blue and sharp, they were always on alert, always articulating dangers. He was his father’s son, and Bear was one tough to catch criminal. Some called him the Bear, others the Uncouth Lord, and none knew his name. He always left his victims tied up on trees, most on their knees, robbed and poor. But Sand was right. My father had been a nobleman. That much I had gathered from Mother, but not much more. He had been a famed soldier in the Hawk’s Talon brigade, the First Army of Red Midgard and even an artist in the Red Daub Guild. He had painted King Magor Danegell once; it was rumored.
Then, something terrible had happened. Two decades ago.
He died. A criminal. Mother escaped.
Later, I had been born in Bad Man’s Haunt, and my formerly noble mother was a fence of illegal substances and stolen items, not a high lady of wealth and riches and respect, and I had no horse nor a sword nor a chain mail and a band of warriors to lead around. I had no flag or a house, except for the Lamb and our Shifty Crab. Father had died before I was born, and the king had had him hung. I felt a sour taste in my mouth. Had I not just told Sand the king was trying to protect the land? He was mad, a criminal king, a murderer. And I spoke in his defense? Mad. If I wished it, on Odin’s Crest, the day of high summer celebration, I could hike from the First Ring to the Fifth, all the way up to the Tower of the Temple, the house of the Danegells, of the king. There, before the walls of the Tower of the Temple in the midst of the Sun Court, surrounded by a garden of colorful flowers was a special tree, old as time. It was rumored that it had been planted by the now absent gods. On the thick branches of that tree, countless painted skulls were hung from chains, all adorned with silver bells. These were those fools who had at some point opposed the king and his nobility. Red skulls for treason, yellow for cowardice, black for murder. These were the colors of the skulls. Father’s skull was red, Mother said. The dominant color on the tree, I might add, for the King Magor Danegell deemed many things treasonous, especially since the High King had begun to demand the universal, all-encompassing obedience, and worship. The Singing Garden. That was what it was called, and the dead inhabited it, and when the king held a speech at the Sun Court, everyone knew the price of not obeying the king and his laws. The chains sang with the wind, their bells jingling as if the dead were playing with them. There were hundreds of them.
Father was amongst them.
Why?
Mother never told me. I stopped asking, eventually. I fingered a ring on my finger. It was a black metal thing with a precious yellow stone and gold etchings, and Mother had given it to me when I had been young, very young. It was tight, and I never removed it, and I sometimes wondered how it seemed to grow with my finger. I told Sand it was magical, and he laughed at me though not too harshly, for he too believed in magic. But the ring stayed, and I did not budge it. I had promised it to Mother. It was Father’s seal of the family. I did not wish to remove it. Never had. Sand grunted. ‘Don’t be ashamed of your past. The only thing I ever actually wanted was a noble house of my own. And I don’t mean the title. I want a house. Up there on the hill.’
‘It’s an excellent goal,’ I said.
‘All I want,’ he breathed softly, and I was surprised. He had dreams, just like me. ‘You should change,’ he said stiffly.
I looked around and saw the crowds were left behind. Sand seemed nervous and gave me the slightest of nods. There was nobody in sight as we made for the harbor. I stopped behind a tall wall of crates, scowled at a cat, and concentrated. It was hard, always hard, but I managed it.
My face shifted and melted and settled to my own features. I felt drained.
Dark, long hair cascaded down my back, my beard disappeared and revealed a brooding, thick chin, and my eyes took on a golden brown hue. I was as sturdy of frame as Sand was, but I looked older than he did. Mother often told me I had suffered too much living in the Bad Man’s Haunt.
‘That is so damned creepy,’ Sand complained. ‘They would hang you for it, you know. I’ll never forget the first time I saw you do that.’
‘You should knock when you enter the restroom, Sand. That’s why you found me out. But I’m happy you know. Even if you pummeled me first.’
‘Didn’t expect the moronic beggar from the gate to be squatting over my shit-bowl, in my own apartment, Maskan. If I hurt you, it was your own fault.’
‘Didn’t want to be drowned in my excrement, so I rather let you know.’ I giggled.
‘Never imitate anyone in our home again,’ he sighed. ‘And please be careful out here as well. They will hang you if you get caught. They hang anyone with strange skills and curses and hints of old magic. Particularly in the south. Remember that only the kings are supposed to be godly, and no human I have heard of can do something like that. Sure, Phibs can conjure spirits, and she performs curses in the Squat Street, but this is too real. Kings are gods. Not commoner scums like you and I. And a king might open you up to find that magic.’
‘They cannot catch me to hang me. I never trust anyone. Well. Only you.’ I grinned.
It was a strange skill indeed. One that I had discovered at an early age. It took a lot of concentration to achieve such a change, and I felt there was something that resisted me, but I could change my face and my hair. Only Sand knew as he had caught me playing in the peace of the toilet ten years past where I had taken a face of a demented old man sleeping on the streets near the Lamb and the gate. Face Thief, he called me, and indeed I could adopt a face I had seen before.
It was a very useful skill for a thief.
CHAPTER 2
The mighty harbor of Red Midgard spread out before us, and beyond the wharf there was the narrow seaway separating the north from the Verdant Lands. It was called the Arrow Straits, the waters where the western Callidorean Ocean and the Bay of Whales mixed turbulently. In the past, many a war had been waged in the narrow sea-lane. Pirates slipped through it during the night and smugglers as well. There were islands before the harbor, adorned by forts and towers manned by guards hired by merchant houses to warn them of pirates. You could see or at least imagine mountains and fortifications on the far, far landmass of the Verdant Lands stretching to the south, especially if the weather was totally clear of fog and clouds. From the straight street we were following, you could see the fortified seawall and white towers guarding it, all adorned with the eagle’s black talon on the red flag of the House Danegell and the fated words of a goddess and a sword scribbled on each flag. The brazen flags and thin pennants of the Ten Lords spread around the huge flag in the central tower, guarding the gap of the seawall leading to the harbor. That was the Fat Father, a flat-topped tower filled with ballista and catapults. There was a thick chain that ran from it to a slightly smaller tower across the opening to close the harbor entrance.
‘I need food,’ Sand complained. ‘My innards are damned upset. There is something mean and small gnawing at them.’
‘You are always starving. I’ll get us something,’ I told him cheerfully.
‘Even the beggar children eat better than I do,’ he said as he eyed a group of dirty-footed urchins with bags of colorful sweets. ‘Your mother should cook. She never eats anything, just like Ann. They must live on air.’
I shook my head and pulled him along. ‘Some say women never eat. Old Grinnon says his wife sucked all her nourishment from his soul.’
He laughed gruffly and eyed a group of people. ‘You could lift some bread from that lot,’ he said, pointing at a line of foreign travelers, all buying freshly baked bread from a st
all.
‘Bread is hard to snatch from someone’s hand. Harder to hide. Try sticking a loaf in your pants while you run from a mob of hungry customers,’ I told him. ‘Especially if it’s full of hot spices.’
I never stole food. Only coin and jewelry. And I did not wish to cause trouble for the local merchants, who would get the bad reputation for thievery. The peasants and merchants selling their wares in the harbor were living hand to mouth as it was. I forgot Sand’s sour mood as we arrived at the gate in the port. The bustle and the fragrances of the vast area always made me happy. I anticipated the exciting thrill of seeing a hundred shady foreign merchants dealing with their customers in the shadows of the taverns and alleyways. There were even some honest ones out there, usually well guarded. All of them made me daydream of faraway places. The north was harsh, as I said, especially in the winter. The High King’s and his client’s lands of the south —despite the many worsening problems and rumors of wars—were the stuff of wonders to the people of the north. In the peninsula of Red Midgard, men were hard to govern, tough as a master smith’s forged ax blade and more difficult to budge from their set in ways and opinions. I sighed. I was not entirely fair. I had not seen much of my homeland. Yes, the north was vast and unexplored in many places, full of riches and wonders.
I longed to see the south.
One day, I would, even if I would be one of the sell swords, who occasionally returned home with tons of stories, wondrous possessions, and a happy face, for they all claimed this was where the home was.
Home.
I squinted up the Dagger Hill. The Five Rings of walls and buildings climbed the high, broad hill of the peninsula. The military walls were red and thick and twenty feet tall, with ample, round towers of deadly design. Each gate was fitted with a silver bell that rang at every hour, starting from the gate of the first ring, where the bells were silver and huge. The houses dotting the sides of the hill were larger and better made the higher you went. Terraces, groves of trees full of lemons and apples dotted the noble districts of the Second Ring. The Silk Lane merchant land of the Third Ring was a miracle of pastel clouded roofs on one end of that Ring. The Blue Door’s District of another side of Third Ring looked white and blue and clean. There, the lesser noble houses, middle-class officers, the non-noble officials had recently been the target for many thieving operations. There Alrik had been caught. The Fourth Ring? Land of the middle class, merchants, craftsmen. The houses were sturdy, wooden, well made of brick and thick lumber.
It was beautiful enough. It was home, perhaps.
Sand looked at me and nodded at the Tower of the Temple. ‘He is growing erratic. You think he looks to start a war in the north?’
‘The king?’ I wondered aloud though everyone wondered if it was so. ‘I told you. He has a tough job. He is a bastard, but he has one shitty job. Keeping all this governed.’ Murdering cur, I thought, cursing myself for again standing up for the Danegell. There was something wrong with me, I decided.
Sand gave me a long look, knowing what I was thinking. He went on, ‘But the alliance of the north is breaking. They say he has insulted Lord Tarx of Ygrin and demanded concessions on the border. Over some smuggling issue in the Bay of Whales? Over nothing, really. Nothing. A war looms where the north needs to keep together. The High King is restless.’
I shrugged. It was true. The One Eyed priests of Malingborg had been sent east and south to make sure High King’s One Man cult was being honored as it was supposed to be honored. None had never actually seen one, but that’s what they said. They also said Hammer Legions were marching after the priests, and there were wars in places we had never heard of, yet they too had once been allies and subject to the High King. No doubt the High Hand in Malingborg, the Lord of the so-called capital of all of Midgard had been sending spies to Dagnar as well, to confirm the north was abiding by the rules and laws. And the spies would hear a speech like the one in the morning, no doubt. While nominally at peace, the Fringe Kingdoms were not bowing to the High King, no. Never had, I think, not since the gods were barred two thousand years past. There had been no real wars with the south, not yet. But times were growing restless, indeed.
It was true the alliance of the north was wavering, no matter what the Brother had said in the hanging.
The three largest nations, Red Midgard, Ygrin, Falaris, and the smaller dukedoms had been allied and intermarried for hundreds of years, but no council had been held for five years. Indeed, rumors said the lords of our lands did not get along and that we had disgruntled traders and politicians whispering that Ygrin was trying to steal trade in the Bay of Whales.
If Balic, our nominal High King so wished, he could quickly take sides in these squabbles.
He would, if he thought Magor was not the lord to his tastes, I thought. Times were dangerous, and I was not sure I would fight for Magor, should things take a turn for the worse.
Home. Red Midgard. A land one could not trust and one that was so hard to love.
No, one day I would leave, no matter the high-pitched cries of the familiar dark birds skimming the ancient rooftops and the sights of places I had always known. Father. It was about Father. I never knew why his red skull was hanging in the garden. No matter if I sympathized with the king’s problems, Father was haunting my dreams. I did dream of him. I thumbed his ring and cursed.
A swarm of children brushed by, and I dodged and gave up my scrutiny of the city. Sand slapped my back. Sometimes I thought he could hear me thinking. If he did, he was not judging me. We arrived at the end of the street and waited as some rickety carts were being pulled up the street, filled with vegetables. The Harbor Side Market was rippling with silken tents of green and red, and a bustle was so thick in places that we would have to push through. At the northern end of the harbor, there was the Horned Brewery, and there the crowd was the thickest, like ants on a corpse. ‘Go and find something by the walls?’ Sand asked. ‘Or by the ships? I think ships? I feel that is lucky.’
‘Ships, waterside. Sure,’ I told him with a grin, and I knew he knew there were salted mackerel sandwiches on sale there. He was a glutton yet gained no weight at all. I found a familiar stall, and there an old man gave us both servings of thick, fresh bread filled with cheese and salty, peppery fish. It smelled heavenly, and I paid him and received a generous fistful of bronze in return, which I poured in Sand’s pouch. We ambled on, seemingly careless for the brewery end of the harbor though we were both looking for someone whose pouch looked enticing. The sea breeze brought fresh slaps of salty moistness from the Arrow Straits, and I could not help but smile as I happily looked at the crowds. So many people, wearing all the colors of the spectrum. Most all foreigners were happy, and only a few had the sullen face of Red Midgard. That was the thing with foreigners. They smiled. It was a beautiful day. I took an enormous bite of my sandwich and stopped as Sand pulled at me.
Everything changed.
He pointed his finger at a godly sight.
I saw a young woman in white.
She was strangely familiar. And I could not draw my eyes away from her.
Despite my lack of interest in Ann, I flirted with other girls. Who does not? Sometimes they flirted back, and I dare say with my gifts I could bed quite a few of them by just taking the face of superior beauty if my own would not do the trick, and I could, of course, always take the features of their lover or husband. Many other men would use my skill for such a purpose, maliciously and without a second thought. I didn’t because it was evil, and perhaps there was something pathetically romantic in my soul, something Sand would scoff at, yet agree with in silence. I yearned to love. To fall in love, head over heels.
And now I knew I could.
I had doubted myself, as Ann had not done the trick, but I could.
It is a strange thing, love, and has nothing to do with pure, burning lust. When you fall in love, lust feels shameful. All you want to do is to worship the goddess of your affection in a vain hope of being worshiped back. A
nd this girl? My knees buckled as I contemplated on going to my knees, indeed, to worship her. She was a petite thing, not tiny, but not tall either. Her face was pale like Ann’s, her eyes strangely iridescent in the light of Lifegiver. The face was framed by lustrous, superbly thick blonde hair. There was a delicacy to her face that was delightful, and there was an easy, scoundrel-like quality to her smile, and I would never forget her face and that slightly crooked smile. I had dreamt of her. I was sure of it. It was there, behind my waking thoughts and hidden memories, the thought of this woman, a girl.
And I decided I could never love another as I did her.
I knew it then. Never.
Her white dress was cut low; the waist girdled with black leather belts, and her bottom was swaying enticingly as she moved. I despised myself for looking at her rear and thought she was everything a man could want. She walked slowly and suggestively, skipping now and then over a puddle or trash and then—like a child—she would put a finger over her lip when she saw something interesting. She walked by a display of fine jewelry, running her hand across them. I yearned to see her face again and bumped into Sand.
Sand did not notice. His mouth was frozen in a wistful smirk, his mouth full of chewed fish as he did not budge, utterly mesmerized. I could swear his knees buckled as well. ‘She is something else, no?’ he breathed. ‘I knew there would be something extraordinary here. I think we should rob her.’
‘A goddess,’ I sighed though I gave him a jealous squint. Then I understood what else he had said. ‘What? Rob her? Are you mad?’
He laughed. ‘A goddess? She is but a girl. You will never marry a goddess. Or meet one, for that matter. But she is something else, no doubt. I just think we should rob her. I don’t know why. Cut her purse.’
The Beast of the North Page 3
