After ruminating on that long-forgotten event, the boy shrugged and reached for the blade.
“You’re wasting your time,” he suddenly heard. His legs almost shook out from beneath him. “Everything is firmly bolted down.”
Swallowing hard, the street rat stepped back and turned around. From that angle, he could see Maximus in the back room and knew he had been spotted. With shoulders hunched and his head bowed just slightly, the waif stepped into the doorway. All of his guilt was cast aside then, replaced by fear.
A gasp forcibly ripped its way from his lungs. There, on the floor, was the mutilated corpse of a horse. The boy wanted to run, but his legs teetered, and he lost his balance, tipping into the doorway.
“Easy, lad,” Maximus said, finally turning to the boy. “It isn’t going to hurt you.”
The museum curator had a nonchalant attitude about the intruder. He hadn’t made eye contact, instead passing by the street rat. As he crossed before him, the child could see the layer of grime upon the apron the man wore. Dark streaks and smudges covered Maximus. He looked nothing like he had when he’d dismissed the visitors earlier.
As the older man drifted out of sight, the lad’s vision was once again drawn to the horse carcass on the ground. Its torso had been neatly severed so that only half of the body remained. Its eye was drawn open wide, as if it clearly experienced that horror, even in death.
“It was dead for some time before I did that to it,” Maximus said. “Died on the side of the road on the way from Seramore. The owner had to put him down. His legs gave out.” When the boy said nothing, he clapped his hands together and walked back toward the carcass. “He was going to bury it, but I paid to take it.”
“Why would you pay to do… that?” the street rat suddenly said. He tensed up when the words were spoken, as if he expected to be carved in half next.
Maximus sheepishly grinned and threw his arms out wide.
As the museum curator fell back into his wooden chair beside the mutilated horse corpse, the boy noticed the sheet behind him for the first time. It was draped over something large, nearly completely covering it. He noticed the small bronze spots just at the floor, however.
Gulping down a mouthful of air, the street rat stepped forward. “Is that what smells so bad?”
Maximus looked toward the horse and scrunched up his face. “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve been keeping it in ever-ice, but it seems like every time I take it out, it thaws faster and faster. To tell you the truth, I’ve begun to get used to the stench.” He looked at the intruder, who stood with wide eyes and a drooping jaw. “What is it, boy?”
“You keep the body in hell?”
“What?” the curator wondered. “No. No. Not Evarice,” he clarified, remarking on the deepest hell where demons dwelled. “I keep it in ever-ice. I just store it in a room in the back that I’m calling a freezer.”
“But… why? Who needs half of a horse?”
Maximus flashed an uneasy grin and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “It is pretty grotesque, but I can assure you, it’s necessary research.”
“Research?” the boy asked.
“I can see you’re not going to let this one go easily,” the curator said. “I’ll speak quickly, so the stench doesn’t have the chance to overwhelm us. Do not ask me to repeat myself. I’d sooner remove you from the building than waste my time.”
The street rat locked his jaw and nodded his consent.
Stretching his legs, the bones just below Maximus’ knees cracked in protest. He groaned, though a smile formed on his face. “Have you ever heard of Seramore? It’s a beautiful city, few days southeast of here. It sits on this grand bluff, like it’s reaching toward the heavens. Down below it, though, they have what they call ‘the ring.’
“The city is well-protected on all sides because it’s difficult to get to,” the curator continued. “Only one land bridge crosses over a wide ravine that surrounds the bluff. Over the ages, the people of Seramore have put sweat on their brows, toiling away at the ravine until it became the ring.
“A massive racetrack, can you believe it? And Seramore is no small town, either. Only the best and brightest think to win a day in the ring, and it puts a lot of requirement on a man and his horse.”
Maximus sighed, staring at the far wall of the room, as if a door to the past was open, swung ajar so he could see. “A man who doesn’t respect the ring is sure to find his fair share of disappointment. A good horse will press on until its legs give out, and with the purse of gold the winner of the biggest races gets, that happens far more often than it should. Every man is a dreamer, and those dreams are so often the downfall of someone or something else.
“As I said, this horse was run into the ground,” the curator said, his voice resonating with a tinge of regret. “Its owner ran him hard in the race. To its credit, the horse made it to the end. But it didn’t place, and the owner wasn’t paid a single coin. He could have stopped at any time, but that dream was poison in his mind. All he saw was the money—not the pains his horse was going through to see his rider to his wishes. A good horse would take its rider to Evarice and back, if it could.
“I found this horse on the side of the road, already having taken its last breath. It was easy to recognize it as a racehorse. It still had blood in its nostrils from the rapid, hasty breaths it had to take. Even though it was weary, its owner wasn’t going to let it wait long. Someone who only cares for money won’t think long enough of others. I’m sure this horse was going to be sold to someone with a carriage or a wagon, and he would have worked until the end of his days.
“It didn’t take much to convince the man to sell it to me,” Maximus said. “After all, it was already dead. He was already digging the shallow grave, growling all the way. Likely a patrol from Seramore had seen the horse drop and warned him not to let the body just lie on the road.
“So I offered the fool what he wanted. A bit of coin for a dead horse,” he said, a quiet groan in his voice. “This steed will be more appreciated by me in death than it ever was by him when it was alive.
“I put the poor thing in my wagon and drove it back to Atalatha. I had to call in a few favors, of course. The wizard that lives in that great black tower in the center of town had to make the ever-ice for me, and that was no easy task. He had to apprehend some frost giant blood and magical water from the Raster Springs, far to the south.
“That wait is where the smell came from,” the curator insisted. “We kept the horse in stillweed for as long as possible, but that ride from Seramore was a long one. Had to bat away my share of flies that day.”
He shook his head and then his hand. “Eventually, the wizard created the ever-ice for me, and I stored the steed in with it. Once it was rock solid, I took a week to saw through it.”
As silence entered the room, the boy stared at the curator. Maximus threw his hand out wide, indicating the completion of his tale.
“But why?” the street rat asked. “Who needs half of a horse?”
Standing up, his knees cracking, Maximus stepped to the side. He placed his hand on the sheet, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “That story is a mite longer, so I’ll need something from you in return.” When he was sure he had the boy’s attention, he grasped the cover more fiercely. “I want you to promise me you’ll never steal again.”
Swallowing hard, the waif slowly nodded.
Maximus couldn’t keep his grin from stretching into a smile. In one hasty motion, he tugged the sheet away.
The boy’s eyes widened, and he took a step forward. There before him was a spectacle of awe. A beast of bronze, tin, and silver stared at him as if it was aware of his presence. Fully formed yet lacking some features, the clockwork steed was impressive to behold. Maximus ran his hand through the horse’s artificially attached mane.
“This,” the curator said, “is Equinicus.”
***Don’t forget, you can get a free copy of the no
vella, Awake, by signing up for the Tellest newsletter. You’ll receive a reader copy within 24 hours—my way of thanking you for being awesome!***
Son of the Storm Page 11
