by Jon Hollins
Durmitt was with him, with hangdog eyes, a bandage around his scalp, and a pitcher the size of a small child that he was sipping directly from.
They found a quiet room away from the others and all stood around staring at each other. Afrit had her hand on Quirk’s shoulder again. Quirk tried to work out how to put everything into words. Then she heard a shout of pain from elsewhere in the temple. A chirurgeon had arrived that morning and was seeing to some of the wounded. And then the words weren’t so hard.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I screwed this up. I tried to force my will upon others. I was everything I’m fighting against. I lost my way. I want to find it back.” And then she could even say, “I need your help.”
Firkin wrinkled his nose, then spat a wad of brown phlegm into the corner of the room.
“I don’t help,” he said with scorn. “I am not helpful. I am … I am …” He rubbed his head violently.
Something really was wrong with him. And Quirk found she still had some compassion left for him. She reached out and held his hand. His skin felt papery and thin. “What do you want, Firkin?” she said.
“Peace,” he said to the table. “Peace and fucking quiet.” He sounded his age as he said it.
“You know the dragons won’t give it to us,” she said gently. “Don’t you? That there can be no peace under them. Things will only get worse.” She waited for him to respond but he just kept his head down on the table. “We have to fight now for peace later. Or else we’ll always be fighting. Fighting or dead.”
Finally Firkin looked up and spat. “Fucking dragons.”
“You want to fight the dragons?” Quirk pressed.
“Authoritarian arseholes,” Firkin said. “Deserve to be dick-punched.”
This, Quirk supposed, approximated progress.
“I want to help you dick-punch dragons,” she told him. Afrit twitched next to her. If it was with laughter they were going to have words later.
Firkin flapped a hand at the door behind them. “So be going and doing it. Leave me to my beverage.”
Durmitt picked up on the hint and passed Firkin the pitcher again, albeit with a slightly regretful look.
“That doesn’t work.” Quirk really wanted him to see. “I can’t do this on my own. I need your help. I need Afrit’s. I need Durmitt’s.”
Durmitt looked thoroughly terrified by this prospect.
Afrit shifted her hand from Quirk’s shoulder to her arm. Quirk really wished she would stop that.
“How would you stop the dragons?” Afrit said, leaning toward Firkin.
“Dick punches!” Firkin cried. “I finally speak my own words, and no one listens!”
“Okay.” Quirk managed to summon a chastised expression. “I’m sorry. You did say that.” Firkin appeared to be somewhat mollified. “So,” she went on, “we need an army to dick-punch the dragons. And,” she added, pointing to the door, “out there you have the start of an army, don’t you?”
Firkin looked at her suspiciously. “You want me to say things, don’t you?” he said. “You want me to tell them to dick-punch dragons.”
“Well …” Quirk hedged.
Firkin gave her a sickly smile. “Talking is …” He grimaced, leaned toward her. “Someone took a shit in my skull,” he whispered. “Some skull shitter was in there. And it’s a fucking sentient brain turd. You understand? There’s a talking shit in my brain.”
Quirk, really, really did not understand. She tried to put on her most sympathetic face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t understand. What’s wrong, Firkin?”
“You want me to talk,” he said. “But the brain shit might be waking up and he might not want to dick-punch dragons. Might have some strong moral opposition to dick punches. Might be afeared of them himself. Maybe had a terrible dick punch in his formative years and he can’t stand them no more.”
Afrit leaned forward and nodded understandingly. “You want peace and quiet,” she said. “We want to give it to you. But there’s a mile to go before you can get it. And it’s not because of us. It’s because of the dragons. You understand that?”
Firkin spat. “Fucking dragons,” he said again.
Quirk tried to push forward. “You don’t want to talk much. You want to give the, erm … brain shit as little chance as possible to talk. We all want that. But that means you need to tell everyone to listen to us. To convince them. If that’s what you want.”
Firkin stared at Afrit, then at Quirk, then at Durmitt, then at Durmitt’s pitcher. He seemed to like the pitcher the most. Durmitt pushed it over with a sigh.
“No offense,” Durmitt said, watching with sad eyes as Firkin drained the jug, “but he might have to do a lot of work to sell the pair of you. I don’t know if there’s much love these days. Not after how everything went.”
Again excuses leapt to Quirk’s mind unbidden. She breathed. She was listening to other people’s advice. “Is there anything we can do to help?” she asked.
Durmitt shrugged. “I don’t know. No one wants my opinion. My missus don’t even want my opinion.”
“I do.”
Durmitt seemed caught off balance by her honesty. “I don’t know.” He grimaced. “I guess to most folk you seem … a bit sober?”
Quirk thought she was going to throw up.
She blinked, tried to focus. Firkin was at one end of what must have once been a large meeting room. A table was serving as a makeshift altar. The roof of the place was gone, and stars winked and flickered in the dark sky above. And she was hammered.
There had to be easier ways to save the world than this.
“—bit of an arse-kicking,” Firkin was saying. “Fucked everything up really.” He nodded at the crowd. They seemed rather low energy to Quirk. She should probably try to get them more riled up. She whooped. Nobody seemed to respond.
“Bit of an arse that, isn’t it?” said Firkin. He was rubbing the side of his head with his palm again. “Hard to kick someone else’s arse while they’re kicking your arse. You’re all the wrong end of the arse, and trying to get your foot round them.” He gulped wine. “Arse punching might be a better idea.”
“You said we’d tear the city a new arsehole!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. They sounded belligerent and accusatory. “You said it would be different, that we’d take things back from the High Priests. Now it’s worse than ever.”
“Well,” said Firkin, frowning, “I don’t see how that’s on me. I was very successful when I told you to rip them a new arsehole. You’re the ones who fucked it up.”
Which did little to endear Firkin to the crowd. And Quirk realized there was nothing else for it, she was going to have to stand up. When she finally made it to both feet she was sweating and felt nauseous.
“Us!” she shouted, pointing at herself and Afrit, who was still sprawled on the floor. “This is the bit when you introduce us.”
But Firkin still couldn’t hear her. The crowd was moving now, on their feet, a herd of belligerent beasts, sweating their anger out into the room. There was shouting, the sound of tempers fraying, and furniture breaking.
“Shut up!” Firkin screeched. “You want this city? You nut up and you fight for this city. You don’t treat it like a party.” His voice screeched higher, wavering at its breaking point. “Oooh, I’m bleeding. I better go home now.” He spat. “Of course you’re fucking bleeding. They’re soldiers. They have pointy bits of metal. So make them bleed. Bring your own pointy metal. You’re meant to be anarchists and drunks. Not gods-hexed idiots.”
Which seemed pretty much like it was the crowd’s breaking point. They roared, a single violent rejection of this new petulant, angry Firkin. This Firkin who had brought them defeat instead of victory. This Firkin who blamed them.
Quirk stumbled forward. She had to get to Firkin. She suddenly really, really wanted to be sober. Her body felt distant and clumsy. She stumbled. She heard the crack of the makeshift altar breaking. Everyone else here was so much
more practiced at being drunk than she was.
“SHUT UP!”
Firkin’s roar thundered through her. Her whole body quaked with the sound of it. For a second all she was, was the sound. She could feel its echoes thrumming through her blood, her guts. It was a desire transmitted directly into her soul. She could no more deny it than she could will her heart to stop beating.
Absolute silence rang out through the room. There was not even the creak of people shifting their weight. Not the clink of coin purses against belt buckles. Not a sound.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!”
Breathing rapidly, Quirk found herself backing away from the altar. All of the crowd moved with her, tiptoeing and clutching at any loose clothing that could flap or clank.
Firkin emerged from the locus of the crowd. He held himself differently now, no longer stooped and cowed, no longer clutching at his temples. He shoulders were thrust back, an almost regal expression of disdain upon his face. Quirk couldn’t look away, couldn’t even glance over her shoulder to see if Afrit was witnessing this transformation.
She had glimpsed this, she knew, back in the cells beneath the High Temple. A momentary look behind the curtain at this thing. But she hadn’t understood. She still didn’t. What was this? What could this possibly be?
“BLOOD AND WINE, I TELL YOU,” Firkin thundered. It almost seemed impossible that he could generate such volume. Blood was trickling in a thin stream from his nose. And Quirk felt ashamed at the scorn she heard in his voice. “AND YOU BRING ME WINE, BUT WHERE IS MY BLOOD?”
And still there was nothing but silence, everyone frozen by the question. And Quirk felt the shame pressing down and down on her like a force.
“I WILL GIVE YOU THIS CITY. I WILL DELIVER ITS QUIVERING CORPSE INTO YOUR GREEDY HANDS. AND YOU CAN FEAST UPON IT. YOU CAN STRING THE HIGH PRIESTS FROM THE SPIRES OF BARPH’S CATHEDRALS. BUT YOU MUST BRING ME BLOOD AND WINE.”
Firkin stared out balefully. No one stirred.
“WELL?” Firkin demanded. Both his nostrils were streaming blood now. It sprayed as he spoke. “WILL YOU BRING ME BLOOD WITH MY WINE?”
Another moment’s hesitation. And then Quirk found she was cheering. She had to be cheering. She had to scream that, yes, yes, she would. Of course she would. How could she not? Everyone screamed.
“Good.” Finally Firkin eased off the volume. Finally the pressure of his will seemed to lift up off her mind. But she could still feel it buzzing in her like the alcohol she had poured in there. And she was aware of an enormous dryness at the back of her throat, a thirst growing.
“Good,” Firkin said again. “And I know you ask yourselves, How? How shall I do this? Well, look at yourselves. See what the priests see. Because they see nothing. You are nothing to them. You are weak and useless and pathetic, and they spit at you.”
Again Quirk felt ashamed, but there was anger in the shame now.
“That is your strength.” Firkin almost crooned the words. “That is why you will beat them. Because they cannot see the truth. You are invisible. Because you can slip in among them, unseen. Because you can infiltrate and destroy.”
And it would work, Quirk realized. Of course it would work. The High Priests were utterly unprepared for such an attack. How had she not seen that?
“Be the piss in their vinegar!” Firkin shouted. “Be the shit in their shoes!”
The energy in the room was rising again, soaring upward. Because they would rise. They would rise, and rip, and tear, and take back this city, just the way Firkin said.
“This woman.” Firkin pointed, and suddenly Quirk found herself staring directly at his finger. She felt the whole focus of the room come crashing down on her, assaulting her from all sides. The crowd leaned toward her, as if giving in to some unseen pressure directed by Firkin’s outstretched digit. She felt pinned. “She will tell you where to go, what and who to strike. Listen to her.” The command was absolute. There was no threat of consequences. There was no need of them. There would be no disobedience.
Then Firkin let out a huge breath, his body sagging backward, almost collapsing. He stumbled a step, steadied himself against the table. He reached for a bottle of wine with a shaky hand.
The crowd hesitated, stared a second. Then they lost their collective mind. They roared, they screamed. They charged forward, grabbed Firkin, and raised him up unto their shoulders. They bore him aloft around the room, bellowing his name. They were, Quirk realized, ready for war.
41
Breakfast of Champions
Oh gods, thought Will, it’s actually going to happen. I’m actually going to shit myself in front of Lette.
And then he realized he was going to die. Messily, and painfully. First Lawl’s champion was going to crush his arm. And then, as he lay bleeding out and screaming on the floor, the rest of his body would be mashed to a pulp by that massive fist piece by bloody piece.
“No!” The champion’s voice was like a trumpet blast from the armies of heaven.
“I—” Will heard himself say. “I’m sorry.” He tried to let go of the chalice containing Barph’s Strength, but his hand was held too tightly.
The champion sat up. And Will truly got to appreciate the size of him as he sat and rolled one shoulder and craned his neck. His hand was so large it swallowed Will’s arm above the elbow. He did not relax his grip on Will for a moment, but he did not crush him either. The steel of his armor clattered and clanked. In the impenetrable shadows of his helmet, two eyes of red mist floated.
“No,” said Lawl’s champion again. “I pour.”
And then, with surprising delicacy, Lawl’s champion plucked the golden goblet from Will’s trapped hand and released him.
Will stood there gasping from shock, still braced for death, for the backhand that would smash him against the rock wall.
Lawl’s champion reached one massive hand up and massaged the side of his helmet. “Oh my head,” he said. “I got so shitfaced last night.”
Will blinked. Something was happening. He didn’t know what. He looked desperately back at the golden archway. But Balur and Lette were not in evidence at all. Did he run away now?
The champion reached out and rummaged in some discarded pots and pans. “Here it is,” he said, collapsing back and adjusting his codpiece. He held out a hand to Will. In it was a pewter tankard. Again using a delicacy that surprised Will, he poured dark red liquid from the golden goblet, filling the tankard below.
“Bottoms up,” the champion said, and he raised the golden goblet to his lips. And poured. And poured. And poured. Will could hear the liquid flowing, splashing down into the confines of that shadowed mouth. It went on and on. Impossibly on.
It never runs dry. Will remembered Firkin’s words.
And this was it. This was Barph’s Strength. This was what he was meant to deliver to the world above. This was what could save them from the dragons.
And the champion wanted him to drink it?
Was this a test? Would the unworthy be melted from their stomach outward? Was it meant to make him worthy to fight the champion?
He was still staring at his tankard when the champion finally stopped tipping his back. The great creature smacked his lips. “Fuck me,” he said in his voice like thunder. “That is better.” Then he turned great smoky red eyes on Will. They flickered and billowed in the confines of his great helmet.
“Drink!” he bellowed at Will. “Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Hand shaking, Will raised the cup to his lips. The smell of grapes and alcohol surrounded him, swallowed him. Visions of sunny afternoons spent on grassy hillsides exploded in his head. Of running through a vineyard chasing giggling naked creatures. Of drowsing in the dappled shadows of a tree. Summer, and fruit, and joy.
And then he drank.
“Your thumb is enormous,” Will said. It seemed incredibly relevant.
“Like a baby pig,” said the champion.
And that blew Will’s mind. “Oh gods!” he said. “It’s exactly the
same size as a baby pig. You have pig thumbs.”
The champion wiggled both his thumbs at Will. “Porky,” he said.
Will laughed so hard he threw up.
At some point, Will was pretty sure there had been a point to all this. He had come here for something. And he was also pretty confident that if he wanted to he could remember what that thing was. He just didn’t want to right now. Why in the gods would he want to? Drinking Barph’s Strength was like drinking happiness. Every time he took a sip it was like his mouth was having an orgasm.
He had taken a lot of sips.
“You know,” the champion said, and then looked around quickly.
Will looked around too. Maybe there were people here.
Holy shit! Lette and Balur were here somewhere. They should totally try this drink!
Wait … Wait … There was a problem with that. Wait … He almost had it. He … They were hiding! He tapped his forehead. He remembered now.
“I don’t,” Will told him.
“Don’t what?” The champion cocked his helmeted head to one side.
“Don’t know,” Will said.
“Don’t know what?” asked the champion.
“I don’t know,” said Will.
The champion’s glowing red eyes blinked twice. “Why are you telling me then?”
“I wasn’t,” Will told him. “You told me.”
The champion thought about this for a moment. “I have thumbs the size of baby pigs,” he said after a while.
“You totally do,” said Will. “I was a farmer. I’ve seen tons of baby pigs. Those thumbs are the exact size of baby pigs. We could show them at fairs and win like … a shit ton of gold.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” said the champion.
“Right?” said Will, nodding vigorously.
“Except,” said the champion.
“No!” Will shouted at him. “No! No ‘except’! We’re going to go to village fairs and show your thumbs and be rich. Rich!” He decided to drink a bit more just in case.
