He felt the snake dart up his chest, fast, then stop again, and he slowly brought his eyes back to bear on the menace… and almost fell out of the tree when he saw it had come so close it’d gone blurry, reared up in a striking posture, its full attention on his right eye. Old Black, add an extra flagon at the Meadhall, because motionless as most of Maroto had stayed the movement of his eyeball had been enough to draw the serpent in. It probably thought it had found a nice little egg, a suspicion that seemed to be confirmed when the snake slithered forward again, now resting its head on his cheekbone, its neck sliding over his face. He raised his arm so slowly it hurt, not having any other choice but to make a grab for its tail and cast it away. It stopped, and so did he, the viper focusing on Maroto’s eye from a scale’s breadth away, as though appraising itself in a looking glass.
Maroto felt a tear forming as he waged the hardest staring contest of his life, his eyelid seeming to weigh more than all the steel or gold he’d ever hefted, his corked breath threatening to spill out any moment, his arm rising again but not even close to safe snatching distance… and then the snake came in, opening its coral-pink mouth wide to engulf his eyeball.
Maroto almost bit the snake then, doomed a move as it would have been, when the whole branch beneath him shook so hard he almost slipped over the side, and easy as that the snake lost interest in his eye. It was still right fucking there, its tongue flashing in and out, faster than a busy barber’s needle through split flesh, and then another tremor rattled the tree, and the snake scooted up and over the rest of Maroto’s face. Its lithe body swam along his scalp, bowing down the edge of his raggedy flattop, and finally it was gone down the branch, tickling his hair with the tip of its tail as it fled.
Maroto remained as still as he could, there being no fucking way to guess how far the snake had gone, but he slowly let the burning air out of his nostrils, and then gasped despite his best efforts not to. The air felt so blessed good in his burning lungs as he panted in place, the oily bouquet of the eucalyptus blending with the faint smell of cucumber that marked the snake’s passage beside his flaring nostrils. The tree shook again, harder now, and Maroto abruptly sat upright, seizing the wide trunk in both hands as he finally allowed himself to believe he would live longer than however many beats it took for snake toxins to travel from his face to his heart.
The hasty movement made him swoon, as did the realization that he was still fifty feet off the ground. It wouldn’t have been a bad climb, but the situation was somewhat complicated by the dozens of other rainbow-scaled serpents swarming the tree, one dropping from above, onto his shoulder, and then skating off his back and out along the branch after its fellow before he could even reassess the supremely dire nature of his circumstances. Must be a nest somewhere in the tree, which he would’ve thought was the worst fucking luck imaginable, if not for the other rather sizeable factor that occupied a branch slightly beneath his.
It wasn’t an ape, that much was blatantly obvious from the thick, pink-skinned canine jaws that crushed a viper into mincemeat as it dropped one into its mouth, but the furry hand that snatched another fleeing snake was decidedly simian. Didn’t seem to care much about the snakebites as it bit through this new one, either, so maybe it wouldn’t care about Maroto… but no, that was never how it went with monsters, and as Maroto slowly lifted his legs to get his feet under him, the creature’s long, bald snout snapped up in his direction. It was barely ten feet below him and, as it hopped in place on its branch, shrieking at him with all the shrill hostility of alien jungles, the whole tree shook anew from its challenge, dislodging vipers from the higher boughs and causing a vibrant, deadly rain to fall around them.
Some days it just didn’t pay to wake up, but what could you do?
Maroto hopped to his feet on the wide branch and matched its wild cry with a roar to be heard across all the seas and mountains that separated him from his vengeance. Unlike the creature’s wordless scream, Maroto’s battle cry had a name: that of the devil-eating fucker who’d banished him here for some sinister purpose. Or perhaps just for kicks.
“Hoartraaaaaap!”
And then, because the bough it crouched on was just off-center enough from his that there was a ghost-fart-faint chance this might work, Maroto jumped at the monster, leading with both feet. Because, really now: fuck this fucking shit in its fucking face.
Except instead of connecting with its ugly mug, which would have been nice, or feeling its sharp teeth break his ankles as it snatched him out of the air, which, real talk now, seemed a sight more likely, something utterly unexpected happened: it fled. The monster was a grey blur as it swung away through the close-knit trees, but Maroto barely registered this as his bare feet connected with the branch it had vacated.
Twenty-five years ago, he might’ve landed nimbly on the lower bough and watched the creature disappear through the forest. Twenty-five years is a long time. Even before he felt the agonizing earthquake of his impact jolt up his leg bones, he was falling forward again, arms instinctively spinning out to catch something, anything.
Nothing.
Maroto bellyflopped into a green and brown mosaic of vines and underbrush, then slammed face-first into a rock slab, and his world went black. The worst of it was that the pain set in a few moments later, even though he was obviously dead. This presaged extremely fucking poorly for one’s fate after death, as the stinging agony that stretched all the way down from his face to the tops of his feet was only getting started, burning hotter and hotter with every moment… or every eternity, who could really tell? He tried to moan, because surely that wasn’t asking too much from the afterlife, but as soon as he did, thick, sour sludge filled his mouth. Wasn’t that nice, even dead men could taste things, even if it was just fermented arse?
His chest started burning again, and deceased or no, Maroto hoisted his heavy head in a vain reflex to reach good air. As he did, he felt warm fluid stir around him, and dim light crept in at the edge of one of his stinging eyes. Crumbsnatcher coming to taunt his former master in whatever hell he’d landed in, or some worse devil yet? As he wrestled his unhappy flesh out of the mire that weighed down his every limb, silt-thick water cleared his eyes and he saw it was the worst devil of all: the life he had made for himself. He should’ve known escaping it wouldn’t be that easy.
Maroto thrashed about and pushed up through the blood-warm filth, coughing up muck and swamp water as his head broke the surface of the stagnant pool he’d landed in. Standing up was not happening, not even close, but the puddle was no more than a couple of feet deep so he was able to roll over and sit up in the rank stew, painfully gulping up lungfuls of humid air. It had only felt like he’d landed on a rock, then, when he’d actually smacked down into one of the countless stinking, leaf-clogged pools he’d waded through the day before during his aimless trek through the jungle. Oh, how he’d cursed these hollows, which were almost always hidden by foliage until he stumbled in one, sinking to his waist in warm water and warmer mud. The first had claimed his only remaining sandal, the next dozen his good temper, and now one had saved his life. That was the luck of Maroto, right there: why kill yourself outright when you could bruise a few ribs and near drown yourself in a bog because you were too stupid to realize you were still alive?
“That’s right, Hoartrap,” he wheezed in his wallow. “That’s fucking right, you punk-arsed hedgewizard. I’m still coming, son, and coming hard.”
Just not right now. The morning sun bounced down through the dripping leaves, and with the odd viper in the underbrush retreating from his presence rather than forcing the issue, things almost seemed all right. Everything could still work out. He’d lived to fight another day.
Except Purna was dead, and try as he did to imagine her smiling and laughing and just fucking living, right, all he could picture was her washed-out face as she bled out on that dismal field.
And worse, far, far worse, Zosia could have saved her, but didn’t.
And now he was here, w
hich, wherever the fuck it was, definitely wasn’t the Bal Amon jungles or any other wilderness he’d wandered.
So he was very lost and very alone, with nothing to his name, not even a pair of fucking sandals or a broken knife. His still-bandaged but befouled knee was even weaker than the rest of him, and he’d be walking on it for however many weeks or months or years it took for him to catch up to Hoartrap. And even then it wouldn’t be the end of it, because obviously someone had put the old warlock up to the job—tight as he and the Touch had been, no way Hoartrap pulled a trick like this for no reason. Finding out who had forced his hand would involve beating it out of the sorcerer, but it had probably been Zosia… though there was the faintest possibility that his nephew was behind it, or hells, maybe even his father. Mad as Horned Wolves were, there really was no telling.
Maroto splashed some nasty bog juice in his face to clear his thoughts, but thirsty as he might be he knew better than to drink it. You just don’t sip water that smells worse than you do, simple as that.
So he was exiled to devils knew where, for devils knew what reason. His best friend in the Star was dead, cut down by a fucking Chainite and then left to bleed out by Zosia. And for all he knew the rest of his new friends were dead, too—they’d become separated from Din and Hassan during the fight, and because they’d been so late to the battle he hadn’t even seen where Choi had ended up in the fray.
The thought of the Immaculate wildborn twisted Maroto’s stomach in painful knots—ever since they’d faced down a horned wolf together, he’d felt increasingly drawn to Choi, and had dared to dream that the side-eyed looks he sometimes caught her casting his way might be a sign that the attraction was, for the first time in a very, very long time, more than one-sided. She’d even agreed to come out and party with him and the crew once they’d returned to the Cobalt camp, but what had he done? Oh, not much, just stuck his tongue down Zosia’s throat and grabbed her arse to boot… right in front of Choi. He’d followed up that slick move by having his butt kicked by a justifiably pissed-off Zosia. And after that, he’d spent the whole party he’d invited Choi to camped out on a couch, having a bugged-out heart-to-heart with his former flame instead of chatting up the woman he’d spent weeks crushing on.
That was the last time he’d seen Choi, the wildborn beauty standing awkwardly by the bonfire and clearly looking for an opening to approach Maroto, just as Zosia had walked up to him instead. He’d been so intent on making up with his old general that his eyes had passed right over Choi, his worm-addled brain focusing not on the girl who might actually like him but the woman who would never love him. Sure, he’d had a lot on his plate that night, catching up with Zosia only to remember in a horrifying, bug-induced flashback that it was his freeing of Crumbsnatcher with the strung-out wish to be reunited with her that had presumably led to the destruction of her village and the murder of her husband, damn the fates, and the treachery of a devil’s wish… but that didn’t change the fact that the last time he’d had the opportunity to see if he could build something new with Choi, even if it was only an agreeable evening, he’d spent the whole fucking time rehashing the past. And now for all he knew, Choi might be as dead as Purna, another casualty of the Battle of the Lark’s Tongue…
But no, the certainties of life were bitter enough without imagining tragedies that might not have been mounted. Choi could have survived the engagement, and good old Diggelby definitely had. There was still hope for some of his friends, and for himself. And hey, he might be as good as shipwrecked on an unknown shore, but at this point he was a full day off the bugs, so he was back on the wagon and no worse for wear. Other than sobering up to find himself in a snake- and monster-infested rain forest, of course, but he just had to keep his head, and remind himself it could be worse.
Which is what it became almost immediately, because really now, when had Maroto’s luck ever been anything but blacker than a devil’s arsehole?
The thick branches shook overhead, and Maroto looked up in time to see that ugly ape-monster swing back into view. Which was bad.
It hopped down onto a nearby bough, chattering angrily, and from this perspective he saw it was actually smaller than he’d originally thought, no more than four feet tall. Which was good.
It had also brought along its friends, at least a dozen equally grotesque ape-things scampering down from the treetops to surround him, which was so shitty a development as to cancel out the boon of their modest stature. Give Maroto one big beast over a pack of small ones any day. The monsters congregated in the low branches, their long bald snouts chirping and hissing at him with obvious malice. Some of them wore crude vine belts decorated with animal skulls, and the biggest wore a headdress of bright-plumed feathers. All of them brandished cudgels lined with serrated teeth. Which was just great, really.
“This is how you’re gonna do me?” Maroto was addressing the gods and ancestors more than these scrub monsters, but when he spoke, the big one with the feathers held up a naked palm and the rest stopped their aggressive chattering. That was unexpected. Had it understood him? Maroto held up his open hands in what he hoped was a peaceable gesture and said, “Hey, uh, I don’t want no trouble. You hear what I’m saying? Just passing through.”
The big one dropped down to the muddy bank on the far side of the puddle, then stood up straight on its hairy legs, eyeing Maroto with the air of an unsympathetic witch-hunter. It pointed a long-clawed finger at him and made a series of rather serious-sounding chirps.
“Um… yeah, so I don’t know what that fool told you,” said Maroto, pointing at the one he’d run off from the tree in the first place. At least Maroto thought it was the same monster, hard to tell them apart in a lineup. He kept his tone friendly. “But you gotta know it was just a misunderstanding. I’m lost, is all, and figured he was coming at me, otherwise I wouldn’t have rolled up on ’im. I’m not a bad guy.”
The first one chattered furiously but was shushed by a wave of the big one’s hand. It jutted its gnarly chin out at Maroto, pointed at its hairless face, and enunciated a quick burst of chirps. Then it pointed at Maroto and cocked its head expectantly.
Well well well. Whatever he’d expected, this wasn’t it, but Papa Ruthless hadn’t raised no dummies.
“Maroto,” said Maroto, pointing at himself. “Ma-ro-to. Maroto.”
“Marrrrrrrrotto,” the head monster said thoughtfully, rolling the word around its maw. All the other creatures were watching in solemn silence. It pointed at Maroto again and said, “Marrrrrrrotto?”
“Yeah,” said Maroto, daring to hope he was on the cusp of something absurd but not necessarily fatal. “Me Maroto, you, uh Chirp-krip-blurp. Yeah.”
“Maroto,” the apish chieftain said, its doglike lips pulling back to show its full array of teeth. They were the same size and shape as the fangs lining the creatures’ clubs. “Maroto, yeah.”
“How ’bout that?” breathed Maroto. He’d never paid much mind to the sagas of the Horned Wolf Clan, but this right here was exactly how shit would’ve gone down for Old Black or Rakehell—he was going to hook up with a savage tribe of beast-people, and a week from now he’d be their champion, leading sorties against some rival gorilla-dog clan. If he could whip a bunch of soft nobles into shape he could damn sure become king of the jungle folk, and the next thing Hoartrap and Zosia knew they’d be looking up to see an army of monsters led by none other than—
“Maroto!” the chief barked, but instead of pointing at Maroto this time its finger was aimed at the first monster he’d encountered. As if transfixed by its boss’s gesture, the creature jerked upright to its full stature on its branch, the other ape-things bounding away to other trees. The monster swayed in place for a moment, then started furiously jerking off. Not entirely out of character for simians, if a little uncouth with company present, but then the creature abruptly launched itself out over the pool, and as it plummeted it howled a familiar name:
“Hoartraaaaaaap!”
It hit the water,
splashing Maroto and causing the assembled beasties to fall all over themselves, slapping their cudgels and hands against their branches, howling with something rather a lot like laughter. As the monster surfaced and splashed its way to the far shore where its chief waited, it cried out in a whiny voice, “Maroto, yeah, Maroto, yeah!”
Maroto couldn’t believe this shit. While the initial dive had obviously delighted its fellows, this finale brought the house down. In his youth Maroto had worked the shadiest stages on the Star and knew a ham when he saw one—this fucking ape-thing was overplaying his role, but the audience was eating it up. Even the chief was chattering with mirth, slapping its fellow on the back as it emerged from the pool, still croaking, “Maroto, yeah!”
“He’s good,” Maroto called, trying not to let his irritation show. Nothing worse than handing an amateur a role beyond his abilities. “Real funny. Now, can we skip to the part where you welcome me to the tribe with food and drink? Not snake, though, Maroto don’t eat snake. Unless it’s cooked, I mean, I’m not too proud to—”
Except the fickle chief was clearly bored with Maroto already, waving him silent the way it had previously quieted the mob. Now it chattered to its people, punctuating its jibber jabber with several instances of Maroto. Well, whatever got the message across.
Something hard cracked Maroto in the back of his knee. The bad one, which had already been pissed at him for the big battle at the Lark’s Tongue even before he jumped out of a tree and probably tore it all open again. He tumbled forward with a cry, and would have gone down in the shallow pool again if numerous furry hands hadn’t locked on to his limbs.
Maroto fought like the born fighter he was, but it was a rigged match. He slung one so hard it went skipping across the puddle but then another slapped him in the plums. He punched that one in its snout and sent the fucker flying only to have two more take its place, their cudgels singing through the air. The whistling clubs were even louder than the cacophony of monsters and, adding insult to injury, the beasts all cried his name as they beat him down. Better than dying nameless, maybe, but not by much.
A Blade of Black Steel Page 7
