by Alec Hutson
Delan strokes his mustache. “We’ve had a few strangers coming through, but none that match that description, I’m sorry.”
A commotion has started near the stage – two young men are shoving each other while a tall, pretty girl sobs and tries her best to keep them apart. The fiddlers and the other dancers stop, watching the unfolding drama, which looks like it may soon deteriorate into a brawl.
Delan sighs and rolls his eyes. “I’d best go take care of this. Enjoy your dinner, and I’ll have a boy lead you to your rooms when you’re finished.”
The knock is tentative, the barest graze of knuckles on wood. Still, it draws me back from the edge of sleep, and I sit up straighter in the copper tub, sloshing water over the sides.
“Hold on,” I call, hoisting myself out of the tepid bath and grabbing the drying cloth from where it hangs. I consider whether I’ll want to return to the tub later, but now that I’m out the filthy water doesn’t look very inviting – mud, dirt, sweat and a fair amount of kvah gore has sloughed off my body while I’ve been soaking, resulting in a rather fetid mixture.
I glance at the tattered remnants of my clothing piled beside the tub and feel a strong desire not to put my blood-soaked shirt or trousers back on. Instead, I wrap the drying cloth around my waist and make my way to the door.
Another, louder knock comes as I lift the latch. Who could this be? My sword is on the bed across the room, but I find it hard to believe there’s any danger here.
“Yes?” I say as I swing the door wide.
It’s Bell. She looks different than when we parted ways after dinner – she’s also bathed, and her glossy, still-damp hair tumbles over her shoulders. Her shapeless dress has been replaced with a white robe that’s cinched at the waist and is much more flattering to her figure. Scrubbed clean, her white skin has an almost pearly luster. She’s not wearing her spectacles.
“Oh,” she says, blinking in surprise when she realizes I’m only wearing a drying cloth around my waist.
“Bell,” I say. “Sorry, I thought you’d be a servant. My clothes are a mess; I didn’t want to put them on right after my bath . . .”
“Um, actually, I thought . . . I thought you might want to change. I mean, change your clothes. Here.” She holds out what she’s carrying. It’s a pile of folded clothing that looks to be similar in cut to what the men down in the common room had been wearing: a billowy white shirt and black breeches. “I asked Delan if he had any spare clothes – I’m not sure if they’ll fit, but they look about your size.”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the pile. “How are you doing, by the way? Today was a little harrowing.”
Bell lifts her gaze from where it was lingering on my bare stomach and forces a smile. “I’m fine. I’m tougher than you might think.” She hesitates for a moment. “I don’t believe in fate, but if we hadn’t met you this morning we would probably be dead now. Killed and eaten by those horrible things.” She bites down on her lower lip and gives me a glance that looks as if she’s trying to decide something, and then she moves closer and goes up on her toes to kiss me. She tastes delicious.
“That’s my thank you.”
I’m just about to drop the clothes she’s handed me and pull her into my room when she steps back.
“I thought you didn’t like handsome men with swords,” I say lightly.
There’s a hint of a smile playing at the edges of her lips. “Perhaps I like them when they also have silver eyes.”
“I bet that would surprise your father.”
“What Papa doesn’t know about me could fill a book.”
“Be careful, he might read that book.”
Bell laughs loudly, and then claps a hand over her mouth, her face reddening.
“Do you want to come inside?” I ask, moving slightly so she can enter if she wants.
She goes back to chewing on her lower lip, and I can see that she’s considering. Finally, though, she shakes her head slightly. “I’ve known you for less than a day. That would be dangerous, I think.” She darts in again and her lips brush mine. Then without another glance at me she turns in a swirl of her white robe and hurries towards the stairs that lead down to her room. I wait until her footsteps fade away – hoping, perhaps, that I’ll hear her suddenly returning – and then I shut the door.
I’m halfway back to the tub and considering draining it and filling it once more with hot water when another knock comes, more confident than before.
I rush back to the door and fling it open.
A freckled face stares up at me, smiling demurely. “May I come in?” the serving girl asks, twisting a strand of golden hair around her finger. Then, not waiting for my reply, she steps inside.
8
The war golem is somehow both more impressive and more pathetic in the light of day. Last night it had been merely a vast shadow, its black iron skin drinking the moonlight. Now, though, I can see everything – its splayed fingers spidering into the earth, its legs like canyon walls tapering to the wide stairs built over its groin, its jaw hanging open to reveal a cavernous maw, the accretion of buildings clinging to its body – and I can’t help but marvel at how fearsome this thing must have looked as it strode the landscape. However, in ruin – or is it death? – the golem resembles nothing more than a massive drunk sleeping off the night’s excesses, sprawled insensate while the world awakens around it.
“Sleep well last night?”
I tear my eyes from the golem receding behind us. I think I can hear an edge to Bell’s voice, but perhaps that’s just my imagination. Her face looks innocent enough.
“Well enough.”
She smirks. Or is that a smile? “I’m sure you did.”
Does she know? The serving girl – Kina – had been . . . enthusiastic. In our brief snatches of rest between sessions I’d sympathized with our neighbors, but I’d thought that Bell, whose room was on an entirely different platform, surely couldn’t hear us. But had she? What if she’d reconsidered in the end and returned to my door? I imagine her standing outside, her ear pressed to the wood. Well, at least she would probably be impressed by my stamina. And she had walked away first.
“Look, Bell –”
“Ah, what a beautiful day!” says Poz, thrusting his head through the curtain. “Remarkable what a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast will do.” He breathes in deeply. “I feel invigorated. In a few days our long journey will be over and a new chapter in our lives will begin, Bellamina. Are you excited?”
“Somewhat. I’ll be happy when we’re not carrying around enough glitter to blow apart a mountain.”
Poz makes a sound that suggests he wasn’t listening to his daughter. He’s staring into the distance like his thoughts are somewhere else completely. “Hm. Quite. Yes, glitter is fascinating. And I’m sure the Contessa will ask my help in utilizing it as a fuel. The future has many possibilities, and we must be bold to seize them!”
Bell catches me looking at her and rolls her eyes. Poz doesn’t notice, unsurprisingly.
“Oh! My boy, I actually tore myself from my research because I simply can’t stop thinking about your sword. Stayed up for a full watch in bed trying to figure out what it could be made of. May I see it again?”
I unbuckle my scabbard and lay it across my lap, then pull the sword out until a hand-span of the green glass blade is revealed. A musical chime sounds softly as the glass slides against the black leather of its sheath.
“Remarkable,” Poz breathes, coming in for a closer look. A circular glass device has appeared in his hand, and he’s looking through it as he examines the material.
“Not any substance I’m familiar with. It appears that it would shatter if it struck something hard, yet it passed through the armor and flesh of those kvah like they were made of butter.” He turns to me, still holding the device. His eye looks huge through the glass. “Do you know anything about its provenance?”
I shrug. “I was carrying it when I came to myself a few days ago. I
sense that I’ve wielded it many times before, but I don’t have any distinct memories of doing so.”
The old man strokes his mustache. “Well, you certainly are deadly with it. I imagine the Trusts will enter into a bidding war for your services when we reach Ysala.”
I re-sheathe the sword. “I don’t plan on staying if the people I’m looking for are not in the city. They must have come through somewhere. Or perhaps I’ll remain long enough to research these doorways to other worlds – a record of them surely exists somewhere.”
Poz bobs his head. “There are several famous libraries in Ysala. The servants of the knowledge-saint Lahgokep maintain a vast collection, the archives of the Seminarium are legendary, the poelthari’s codex-hoard is impressive, if inaccessible to most, and you have to watch out for the ghasts if you do manage to sneak inside, and then, of course, many of the Trusts and scholar-gangs also keep collections, most notably . . .”
I raise my hand to forestall Poz, as it sounds like he’s just getting started. “I’m still hoping they’ve found their way to the city.”
Poz claps me on the shoulder. “And I as well, lad. I as well. But remember you’ve also gained new friends. If we can help, we will.”
“Thank you.”
“And speaking of help, I should go back to researching a cure for your condition. Let me know when we reach Soril, won’t you? I think we’ll arrive a bit after noon. I know an eating hall that serves the most delicious spiced crayfish.” With that, Poz vanishes back inside the wagon.
Bell grins wryly. “He likes you.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Maybe because you’re a mystery. Excites the scientist in him.”
“Do you like me?”
Her smile twists into something more sardonic. “I’m not sure.”
I sigh, turning to face the road again.
She definitely heard.
The sun has crested by the time we can see the peaked red roofs of Soril rising over the tops of the trees. Long, serpentine blue and white banners snap in the breeze, affixed to the tallest points of the highest buildings. One soaring steeple is topped by a golden disc that burns like a second sun.
“Papa! We’re there.”
Poz clambers out of the wagon, squeezing uncomfortably between Bell and me. “Excellent. And we have the rest of the afternoon to refresh ourselves – then a good dinner, a soft bed, and we’ll depart for Ysala at first light. Oh, I have to remember to visit the seneschal’s office and berate him for letting the kvah creep so close to the roads.”
As we continue on, the trees begin to thin around us until finally the forest gives way to rolling meadows bounded by fences. Aurochs with twisting black horns and striped hides watch us pass, chewing on clumps of the long grass. Here and there I see birds taller than men picking their way carefully across the fields, searching the ground intently for their prey. Most are covered in drab, dun-colored feathers, but one large fellow flashes a more audacious red and yellow outfit, and the comb of this giant cockerel shimmers an iridescent orange.
There are other signs that we are approaching a prosperous township. A gentle river meanders across the road, and a large water wheel is visible someway upstream, attached to a sprawling wood-and-stone building. The ancient and pockmarked road of gray brick we’ve been following ends at a pair of crumbling stone pillars, and it looks like something has collapsed into the water here, but an elegant bridge of red wood has been built to replace it. Our wagon’s wheels clatter upon the planks as we cross, and I see a few dark shapes slip from where they’ve been sunning themselves and slide back into the river.
We pass fields of golden wheat and rows of waist-high green stalks, the crops radiating outward from tidy timbered farmhouses. I can see men and women in the fields, swinging sickles or walking beside plows pulled by plodding cattle. Young children chase each other around covered porches, shrieking and laughing. A few of the farmers in the fields wave at us as we trundle past, and Poz returns the greeting warmly.
It certainly doesn’t look like these people are remotely concerned with raiders like the kvah, and that sense is reinforced when we finally reach Soril. The town’s walls seem more ornamental than practical, a white stucco lacking any sort of fortification, and I think with a running start I could probably leap up and grab the top and pull myself over. There are a pair of guards flanking the entrance, but they wave us past languidly as we approach. The white tabards of their uniforms are stained, though the halberds they’re leaning against look of fine enough make. Still, I can’t imagine these are the soldiers that are keeping the kvah far away from the town and the outlying farms. I do notice a man in dark leather armor leaning against one of the buildings close to the entrance – he’s chewing on something and watching us. Our eyes meet, and he tips his cap and spits out what’s in his mouth, then turns and saunters away.
We follow the main avenue, a wide road of packed dirt lined by well-kept houses of two or three stories. Most are white stucco, like the town walls, and the slanting roofs are covered in vibrant red tiles. Vines and creepers vein the sides of the buildings, spotted with yellow and blue flowers. There are a few townsfolk out and about, but fewer than I would have guessed for such a beautiful day. Up ahead I can see more activity, though, as a crowd is gathered where the street empties into a large square.
“Things look different than last time we were here,” Bell says. She sounds a little uneasy.
I would guess this part of the town usually serves as a market square, as there are stalls piled with vegetables and fabric fringing the edges of the open space. But they look like they’ve been pushed to the sides to make space for something else: a large circle of rocks about twenty-five paces across, empty except for two figures. One is a man clad only in dark breeches, his muscled upper body glistening with sweat. His left arm is hanging limp, and his face is contorted with pain. The other figure is a kvah, also naked from the waist up. He’s been wounded as well, as he’s dragging one of his legs behind him. Both look like they’re about to collapse, but they’re still circling each other warily, their bodies tensed to attack.
Around this ring of rocks a crowd has gathered – many look to be townsfolk, and their expressions are a mixture of excitement, dread and revulsion. There are also a large number of warriors, some wearing the white tabards of the gate-guards, and others dressed in the dark leather armor of the man who had watched us enter the town. My eyes are drawn to a trio of watchers standing close together at the edge of the circle, and my breath catches.
“What in the hells is that?” I whisper.
The largest of these three figures towers head and shoulders over everyone else in the square. He’s bulging with muscle, and his green body has a sheen that makes it look like he’s covered in scales rather than skin. His face certainly isn’t human. He has a lizard’s snout and mouth, and a crest of spines makes him look even taller. A ridged tail lashes the ground behind him.
Bell whistles softly. “That’s an alethian. They’re very rare in these lands.”
“And that explains the ring,” Poz murmurs.
“What?”
“Alethians are obsessed with fighting competitions,” says the scientist. “In their homeland nearly every dispute is settled by a match in a fighting ring. Insulted? Issue a challenge. Think you’ve been cheated? Issue a challenge. Bored? Issue a challenge. Even their lords are chosen by combat, and only hold on to their authority so long as they can defend it.”
“And what about her?” I ask, gesturing to the tall woman standing beside the lizard man. She looks like a sculptor’s vision of a warrior-goddess, though she’s not wearing any armor. From across the square I can see the muscles etched into her reddish skin, and her simple cream-colored shirt struggles to contain her broad shoulders and large breasts. She’s beautiful, and her long wavy hair is purple – not the raven’s wing purple of Bell’s hair, but a deep violet that strikingly complements her russet skin.
“She’s a lamias.
Even rarer than an alethian this far north.”
The last of the three is much smaller. She’s barely larger than a child, in fact, though from her face I can tell that she’s a woman grown. Her skin is milk-pale and her hair a stark white, and it’s been hacked so short and ragged she almost resembles a boy. She’s clad in dark leather armor that has some similarity with what other warriors in the crowd are wearing, though it has been modified to fit her slight build. As I watch, the man from the gate appears beside her and leans down to whisper in her ear. Immediately she starts scanning the crowd – in moments she’s found us, and then she turns to the alethian beside her and says something, gesturing fiercely in our direction. The lizard man tears his own gaze from the circling combatants with what looks to be some effort, and his reptilian eyes settle on us as well. He holds up a clawed hand, as if to tell her to wait, and I can see the spasm of anger that passes across the pale woman’s face.
“They’re talking about us,” I say to Poz and Bell, an uneasiness spreading through me.
“Perhaps they’ve been dispatched by the Contessa to meet us,” Poz says, though he doesn’t sound very certain of this.
A gasp suddenly goes up from the crowd as the man in the ring lunges towards the kvah and catches him flush in the face with his fist. The kvah stumbles backwards, hunched over with blood drooling from his mouth, and the man drives his knee into the creature’s temple. The kvah sprawls in the trampled grass and the man quickly gets on top of him, punching him again and again.
The alethian steps forward to the very edge of the ring, and it appears that he’s about to put a stop to this, when the kvah – who had looked on the verge of losing consciousness – suddenly twists violently and dumps the man beside him. With a bestial roar the kvah finds some reserve of strength and then suddenly he’s the one straddling his stunned opponent, his hands around the man’s throat. I can see the man’s face is rapidly darkening, and after a few weak slaps at the kvah on top of him the man raises a trembling hand.
