by Bruce Blake
Don’t be an ol’ fool, Horace.
His brain knew the best thing to do, but the rest o’ him didn’t so much agree with what it had to say.
Horace swapped the chunk o’ pig from his right hand to his left, wiped his hog-smelly palm on his leg, and grasped the wooden spoon in his fingers. He gave the stew a stir, releasin’ more o’ the growl-bringin’, saliva-inducin’ smells into the air. His belly growled again as he leaned in, sniffed deep, then scooped a spoonful o’ stew.
A chunk o’ meat burned his lip on the way in, but he didn’t stop puttin’ the spoon into his mouth. If it set him afire, his belly wouldn’t’ve let him cease jammin’ food in his gob. He’d barely swallowed before scoopin’ another spoonful up, then another. Stew squirted out between his lips, runnin’ down his chin and catchin’ in the stubble what were on its way to bein’ a beard. His stomach gurgled delight.
With the fourth scoop o’ stew sittin’ on his tongue, Horace’s brain detected footsteps and the door bangin’ open; it attempted tellin’ him he should do somethin’, but his achin’ belly still held dominion o’er his actions. It took a woman’s angry words for his body to let his head do what it were meant for.
“What are you doin’?” the voice yelled, startlin’ Horace.
He dropped the spoon but kept holdin’ onto the pig leg. The ol’ sailor stumbled back a step, eyes wide and starin’ at the tavern wench standin’ in the doorway. Her shoulders was wide for a woman, her belly bigger’n what Horace liked to see. Hair stuck out from under the cap on her head and her cheeks was redder’n the wine stain on her dull white apron.
“Hungry,” Horace said through a mouthful. A half-chewed potato chunk flew outta his mouth and plunked on the floor between him and the woman.
“Herrin,” she bellowed o’er her shoulder without takin’ her eyes from ol’ Horace.
He didn’t know who this Herrin’d be, but he didn’t s’pose he wanted to meet him, neither.
The wooden spoon skittered across the floor as Horace kicked it in his haste to reach the window before this Herrin feller made an appearance. The woman yelled again, but he didn’t bother payin’ her no mind. So long as she weren’t chasin’ him or throwin’ shit at him, Horace’d find more important things to be concerned for.
He heaved the pig leg out the window and draped his leg o’er the sill before sneakin’ a peek back to see what the woman were up to and whether Herrin’d arrived or not. The woman’d gone to the same counter where the pig’d been and picked up a cleaver. She waved it toward Horace, but didn’t come no closer. Then Herrin showed up in the doorway, and he turned out to be a big bastard wearin’ a floppy mustache and an angry countenance.
Horace didn’t wait no longer. He pushed himself out the window, landin’ beside the pig leg with a breathy whoof from outta his lungs and a crack he knew’d cause him some pain later, but he had no time for concern. The ol’ sailor snatched the pig leg up, holdin’ it by the knobby bone, and bolted for the forest, Herrin and the fat woman both yellin’ at him to come back.
He didn’t.
***
Horace followed a long and windin’ road back to the flat place amongst the trees he called his camp, confusin’ himself along the way and almost missin’ it. By the time he got there, the pain in his chest made it clear what the crack’d been 'bout. Each gulp o’ air he took, the rib made sure he knew.
With the bone protestin’ his ev’ry move, it took Horace longer than it ever had to get the fire lit. Collectin’ wood hurt, pilin’ wood hurt, makin’ a spark outta two rocks hurt even more. Finally, a flame caught in the brown grass he’d wadded at the bottom o’ the fire pit he’d dug the day before. He bent o’er, which hurt, and blew out his air to encourage the spark, which hurt most of all.
A while later, the fire smoked and crackled with ev’ry juicy drop from the pig leg hangin’ on the makeshift spit he’d skewered it with. His belly weren’t growlin’ as bad as before since it’d been stuffed with four scoops o’ stew to calm it, which he were happy for, but his achin’ gut makin’ him pause and near gettin’ him caught upset him some.
“Fuck me dead. I could be rottin’ in the brig right now,” he said glarin’ at his belly as if it were a child what needed admonishin’.
He hated livin’ out in the woods, though not so much as he despised floatin’ atop the sea, but it turned out it weren’t far behind. Maybe he’d be good at livin’ in a farmhouse, or runnin’ a tavern like Krin’s or the one from which he’d just pilfered, but he didn’t dare show his face in town. Any town. After what he did to Dunal—the cousin of a skipper’s wife—he weren’t sure if the law mightn’t be after him to remove his head from his neck, a place his head quite liked to find itself.
With a grunt what sent a shock o’ pain through his chest, Horace stood from the log upon which he sat and rotated the pig leg a quarter spin. The fat 'round the edge’d cooked to golden and he licked his lips. Not only did he believe the meat’d be flavorful on his tongue, but he’d also have enough to last him a couple sunrises.
Horace stared into the fire, watchin’ drips o’ fat sizzle on the wood and contemplatin’ his situation. He couldn’t stay too long—he risked bein’ caught if he o’er-stayed in one place, but he didn’t know where he were. Fallin’ off a ship and floatin’ in the sea for an indeterminate time can leave a man disoriented, as it did with Horace, makin’ it impossible to know if he were closer to sunrise or sunset, or somewhere in the middle.
If he were too far toward sunrise and went that way, he might end up at the Horseshoe, the city where his trip began. If the wrong people saw him returnin’ on foot rather’n on the deck o’ the Devil, there’d be hell to pay. Especially if they knew the Devil’s fate. No one liked deserters any more kindly’n murderers, and somehow, ol’ Horace’d made himself into both. On the other side, if he were too far toward sunset and he kept goin’, stumblin’ into the Green might be in his future.
He’d prefer the law chopped his head offa his body.
Horace rotated the leg another quarter turn. It’d be done soon and, when it were, he’d eat until his belly bulged and fuck whether he were near sunrise or sunset. Today, he were here with a blazin’ fire, a stingin’ rib, and a delicious smellin’ chunk o’ pig. Tomorrow, he might be dead, so he might as well enjoy it.
The ol’ sailor tilted his head up toward the clear blue sky peekin’ between the treetops. High overhead, a dark shape whisked past; a bird, but it streaked by too quick for Horace to identify. He liked birds. Gulls was the one thing he’d miss 'bout plyin’ the sea.
He kept his eyes pointin’ skyward in case it came back and was glad for doin’ it, because he saw a speck droppin’ through the air, somethin’ the bird’d let go of. One thing Horace knew 'bout birds: they don’t carry nothin’ for pleasure. Likely whatever it dropped’d be food of a sort, and Horace needed ev’ry scrap. He glanced at the pig leg, ensurin’ it weren’t burnin’, then struggled himself away from the fire for a better look.
The speck in the sky were gettin’ bigger. Judgin’ somethin’ up in the air weren’t the same as peerin’ at a thing across the sea—which practice had made Horace better’n average at doin'—but it seemed to him like whatever the bird dropped were headin’ right for his camp.
Horace watched it growin’ bigger and bigger, hardly believin’ his eyes while it plunged toward him. It twisted and turned through the air, sproutin’ arms and legs and a head as it neared, turnin’ out a man, he thought, maybe a child.
“Fuck me dead,” Horace whispered when the speck with arms and legs and a head hit the treetops’ first layer o’ branches.
Wood cracked, leaves scattered, and the bird’s dropped item bounced from branch to branch, tumblin’ and gruntin’ as each impact with a piece o’ tree slowed it, redirected it improbably and inexorably toward Horace.
He saw a flash of gray, eyes wide with fear, a mouth opened in a scream, and the trees’ slowin’ effect gave him time to realize whatever the bi
rd’d dropped were alive before it hit him.
Seein’ the thing mesmerized him, and ol’ Horace forgot he should try to get outta the way until it were too late. He twisted away, but the gray thing with arms and legs and a head smacked him hard in the shoulder, caught him upside the head, too, and set his ear ringin’ as if someone’d sounded the ship's bell right inside his noggin.
Horace tumbled back onto the pile o’ wood he’d collected to keep his fire burnin’ until sleepin’ time, and a log he were particularly proud o’ findin’ caught him in his injured rib and knocked ev’ry bit o’ air outta his lungs. His vision doubled, blurrin’ the branches and leaves hangin’ o’er his head and the sky peekin’ through above them into one ugly, pain-tinted smear.
He lay on that uncomfortable woodpile for a time, blinkin’ and gaspin’, tears streamin’ down his cheeks. After survivin’ near thirty-five turns o’ the seasons aboard ships, after bein’ thrown into the sea and near ate by the God o’ the Deep, after ev’rythin’ what’d happened durin’ a life o’ happenin’s, ol’ Horace were gonna be done in by somethin’ what a bird dropped on him.
Weren’t no regrets in his head, mind you, 'cept he wished he’d got the chance to eat that pig leg, because it sure did set his mouth to waterin’.
Gradually, Horace’s chest loosened up and, though the pain from his tortured rib remained, he drew breath into his lungs again. Air shuddered into his chest, tormentin’ him and makin’ him wish to stop one of the pain or the breathin’, but neither wanted to quit.
He lay on the woodpile until his breath came more easy and the pain...well, the pain stayed and didn’t act like it intended leavin’ any time soon, but his head cleared enough to hear the sizzle o’ fat drippin’ on fire, smell the smoky aroma of his pig leg burnin’.
“Shit.”
He pushed himself up on his elbow, the pile o’ wood shiftin’ under him and sendin’ him to the ground on his ass and makin’ him notice the pains in his back and shoulder, his neck and head. The ringin’ in his ear’d dissipated, but ev’rythin’ else hurt and his pig were burnt.
“Damn bird,” he muttered, his words remindin’ him 'bout the one thing he forgot: the whatever-it-were the bird dropped on him.
Horace raised his head, holdin’ his breath both to keep his rib from tearin’ out his chest and because that’s what he did when somethin’ scared him enough he might shit in his breeches.
The gray man stood less’n five wide paves away. He were small as a child, but not a child. A broad nose and wide-set eyes dominated his face; he had two arms and two legs like a man, and a cock swung between his legs same as Horace’s would if he were the one standin’ naked in the middle o’ the forest. As the ol’ sailor gaped, the small man’s flesh shifted from gray, to green, to brown, then back to gray again, like colored waves washin’ across him. Seein’ it made Horace realize what he gazed upon.
“No,” he muttered. He pushed with his feet, tryin’ to get away, the heels of his boots diggin’ into the ground and kickin’ up dust.
The thing stared at him, took a wobblin’ step toward him. If it were a man, Horace woulda guessed his expression fearful and confused, but since it weren’t, the ol’ sailor lacked the certainty it weren’t hungry and loathin’, or lusty and desirous.
“Stay away from me,” Horace said, his voice scrapin’ the inside of his throat raw. “I know what you be.”
The thing’s skin went green, brown, blue, gray. It tilted its head like an animal doin’ its best to understand him.
“How’d you get outta the Green? You’re one o’ them Small Gods.”
The thing’s expression changed, becomin’ an emotion easy to recognize. Its skin went a light shade o' red, the ridge o’ skin above its eyes where a man woulda had brows wrinkled down toward its flat nose. Long fingers curled into fists. Turns out anger looks the same on ev’ryone.
“Small Gods?” the gray man said in a voice pitched high, but not so high as a woman’s, and speakin’ the language what Horace did. It stomped toward him a step, its small foot sendin’ dust swirlin’ into the air. “The Small Gods are useless pricks of light meant to decorate the sky at night and scare idiots and imbeciles.
“Thorn is not a Small God. Thorn is one of the Gods.”
For the first time in his life, Horace were so scared, he shat in his breeches.
XXI Rescue and Retribution
The stench of vegetables well past their prime wafted to Teryk. His nostrils flared and he wrinkled his nose, realizing worse smells hid beneath the stink of rotten tomatoes and wilted lettuce, things he didn’t want to identify.
Other than interlocking patterns of brick replaced by loose gravel, the first stretch of the outer city hadn’t been much different from the inner city. Orderly rows of squat stone buildings housing the militia lined the avenues for two blocks. Once past them, the gravel became dirt and everything else changed, too.
Buildings fallen into disrepair. Garbage strewn across the streets. Drunk men shouting obscenities. Women offering themselves for coin.
Teryk walked along the street, heels grinding in the dirt or clicking on the odd stone or chunk of broken paving stone left over from a time when the streets here matched those of the inner city. Weeds grew wherever they pleased and more than once the prince caught sight of a cat or dog with knobby ribs protruding beneath its grimy fur.
His mouth hung open as he stared at the unexpected sights. On occasion, he’d heard stories of the outer city’s crime and prostitution, but he’d refused to believe them—surely a kingdom as peaceful and prosperous as Northward wouldn’t allow its subjects to sink so low. Whenever he imagined the outer city, he pictured the pristine walks and tidy avenues of the inner city, the merchants and shops replaced by warehouses, artisans, and smithies. Now he saw for himself.
The sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving him wandering the shadowy streets. No oil lamps hung invitingly outside the doors lining the avenue; the only light offering illumination shone through the thin cracks around the closed shutters covering the windows of the buildings.
Ahead, noise spilled out of a slouching, single-story structure Teryk assumed to be a tavern. Loud voices sang a lilting tune, the words slurred and the air close by tinged with the aroma of potent grain alcohol. Part of him wanted to go inside, discover how the people who’d one day be his subjects lived their lives, but he decided his time was better served traveling across the city, finding a place to acquire a horse for his journey.
He strode past the public house and down the block to a cross street. On the corner, a woman leaning against the railing outside a building with a red door called to him.
“Hey, fella. Lookin’ for a fuck?”
Teryk glanced sideways at her stringy, unwashed hair, her legs no thicker than the prince’s forearm; she looked like the human version of the stray animals he’d seen earlier. He hurried his step to get past.
“Whatsa matter? Gotta problem gettin’ hard? I can fix that.”
He rounded the corner onto a darker street. No lanterns or torches seeped through cracks around window shutters, no harlots lolled on porches, no drunken song leaked from doorways, but the fetor remained. Teryk raised his hand to cover his nose and mouth and block the stench. It was stronger than anywhere else he’d been in the outer city and a few paces down the deserted street showed him why.
Moonlight peeked between the buildings, illuminating the refuse cluttered in the short, dead end alleys between the broken-down hovels. The prince took a step toward one but stopped a few paces away, the unbearable stink preventing him from getting any closer. He squinted, trying to penetrate the darkness and find out what caused the god-awful smell, but a noise farther down the street caught his attention and he abandoned his effort.
A vague shape moved in the shadows and shoes shuffled in dirt. A woman’s choked cry spilled down the street, then cut short. Teryk’s brow furrowed and he laid his hand on Godsbane’s pommel.
“Hey there.” He moved
toward the shape, then realized the darkness concealed two people, not one. “Are you in need of help?”
“Mind yer business,” a man growled.
The prince heard the woman again, too, her voice muffled as though the man held his hand over her mouth. Teryk continued toward them, their silhouettes coming into sharper focus against a cracked gray stone wall at their backs. The man appeared to be standing behind the woman, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other on her face.
“Let her go,” the prince said and pulled the first few inches of the crown sword from the scabbard, making sure the edge scraped hard enough against the leather for the man to take notice.
“Fuck off.”
The woman mumbled again, the man cried out.
“Bitch!’
“Help me!”
Teryk bared his steel and jumped forward, moonlight glinting on Godsbane’s sharp edge. The man pushed the woman aside, retaining a grip on her arm, and drew his own blade, a weapon which paled in comparison to the crown sword.
“Let the woman go.”
“I thought I told ye to mind yer business, whelp.”
The prince gritted his teeth and felt the heat of blood burning in his cheeks. He wanted to tell this miscreant his name, inform him he’d referred to the prince—the firstborn of the king and next in line for the throne—as a whelp, but he bit back his retort. If he exposed his identity to anyone, his undertaking would come to an end without ever getting started. With the words aching in his mouth, he took up the stance Trenan had conditioned into him since his first lesson in swordplay.
“Unhand her,” the prince grated between his clenched teeth.
“You want her?” the man said. “Well, here ye go.”
He shoved the woman at Teryk, then followed close behind, jabbing the point of his sword toward the prince’s gut. The woman hit Teryk’s shoulder and spun him sideways enough for the attacker’s thrust to go wide of its target. The prince stumbled with the impact, but the woman grabbed his arm, keeping him on his feet.
