Critical Failures VI (Caverns and Creatures Book 6)

by Robert Bevan

  “I said,” Chaz continued, speaking properly now. “What the fuck are you doing on my face?” He looked down at the arrows sticking out of him and groaned. Then he licked his lips and grimaced. “And what's this taste in my mouth?”

  “There were medicinal liquids on the sled,” said Ravenus. “I had to administer them the only way I knew how.”

  “Oh my God. Did you drink them, and then shit in my mouth?”

  “You're not far off.”

  “Don't tell me that.”

  “I drank as much of the liquid as I could, then regurgitated it into your mouth.”

  “You puked in my mouth?” Chaz seemed rather upset about it.

  “I may try your method next time. Regurgitation was a bit rough on my throat.”

  “Jesus Christ, just let me die next time.” Chaz sat up and winced as he plucked the arrows out of his chest. He took in the scene around him. “Holy shit. It was a total massacre. Is anyone else alive?”

  Ravenus lifted his wings, mimicking the gesture Julian sometimes made when he didn't know the answer to a question. “I honestly didn't think you were alive. I was just double-checking before I ate your eyes.”

  “You stay away from my eyes, you twisted fuck.” Chaz got to his feet, stumbled toward Cooper, then placed two fingers on his throat. After a moment, he nodded. “He's got a pulse, but it's weak. How many more of those healing potions are there?”

  “None in the bag I opened.”

  “Shit,” said Chaz, plucking arrows out of Cooper's back.

  “There may be some in the other bags.”

  Chaz paused in his arrow plucking to glare at Ravenus. “Well, would you mind checking?”

  “It's difficult for me to work the buckles.”

  “Are you good for anything but squawking in people's ears and eating their eyes?” When he finished plucking the arrows and rolling Cooper onto his back, he walked over to meet Ravenus at the wagon, groaning down at his blood-soaked clothes. His jaw dropped when he looked in the bag. “Jesus, Ravenus! There were five potions in here. These could have brought Cooper and I back to full health if you hadn't spilled them everywhere.”

  “Perhaps you haven't noticed,” said Ravenus, getting a trifle annoyed at Chaz's continuous berating and lack of gratitude. “I don't have hands.”

  Chaz checked the other bags, then shook his head. “Nothing but grains, seeds, and tiny camping equipment. I guess Cooper's fucked.”

  Ravenus thought for a moment. He came up with one idea that was probably too stupid to bother with, but it was better than any of the zero ideas Chaz was coming up with.

  “The bag is still soaked with the liquid. Perhaps we could force him to eat it?”

  Chaz pursed his lips and looked down at the bag. “You might be on to something.” He picked up the bag, turned it inside-out, and sucked hard on a wet spot. “I think it's working. I feel a little better.”

  “Save it for Cooper. He's a lot more likely to help you stay alive than the other way 'round.” Ravenus allowed himself to feel a twinge of satisfaction watching Chaz come to terms with that as he stopped sucking on the bag.

  When they'd returned to Cooper, Chaz covered his fingers with the end of his sleeve and pulled Cooper's jaw open. What looked like a pint of bloody drool flowed out the corner of his mouth.

  “Now what?” asked Chaz.

  “I could tear the bag into smaller pieces,” offered Ravenus.

  Chaz licked his lips. “I've got a better idea. We'll juice it.”

  “I'm afraid I don't quite follow you.”

  Chaz crumpled the bag as small as he could, then stuffed it in Cooper's open mouth. A low groan and some snot bubbles came from Cooper's nostrils.

  Ravenus perched on Cooper's chest, watching curiously as Chaz cupped his hands together and dunked them in the black water. When he pulled them out, the water in his hands was murky grey. Chaz gave it a sniff and frowned.

  “What does it smell like?” asked Ravenus.

  “Rotten eggs and spoiled milk. The old man said the pool had been corrupted or something. I don't know if that's what the smell is from, or if Cooper shat in it. Either way, it's better than bird vomit, and it's all we've got to work with.” He let the water trickle down on the crumpled bag in Cooper's mouth, then repeated the process three more times. He looked at Ravenus. “Here goes nothing.” He placed one hand beneath Cooper's chin, and the other on the top of Cooper's head, then pushed his arms together, squeezing Cooper's jaw as closed as he could.

  Cooper started to gurgle, then choke. His eyes opened.

  Chaz smiled wide. “Cooper! You're –”

  Cooper's fist hit Chaz's face hard. Chaz fell into the murky black water. Ravenus hopped off Cooper's chest and flew up to a branch on a nearby tree.

  “Wabwabwa?” said Cooper after he took the bag out of his mouth. “Bargar snargargblar!”

  “Gwaflabla!” Chaz shouted back, rubbing his face as he picked himself up out of the water. “Nga nga jawagwag!”

  “Snurg?” Cooper looked at the bag in his hand, then quickly shoved it back in his mouth, sucking as hard as he could. As he gulped down his own saliva, soiled water, and presumably some trace amounts of the medicinal liquid, arrows began to drop out of his body, and his wounds closed up. He sucked and sucked until he caught Chaz staring longingly at him. He took the bag out of his mouth and held it out to Chaz. “Frugnuck?”

  Chaz grimaced and shook his head. “Wibbajibba tumtum.”

  Ravenus couldn't fathom why anyone would choose to pass such a dreadful language down to future generations. What was the point of communication if it sounded like that?

  Cooper tore pieces off the bag and ate them while Chaz checked the other bodies for signs of life.

  “Zanzifurl and the old guy are dead,” Chaz said to Ravenus. Then he said what Ravenus assumed to be the same thing to Cooper.

  Cooper took the news harder than Ravenus had expected him to. “Bwargfnarb!” he said again and again, obviously upset as he paced back and forth, staring at the ground.

  “I hadn't realized he cared so much for these people he hardly knew,” said Ravenus. “I wonder if he'd be that upset at the news of my passing.”

  Chaz let out a hollow laugh. “He's not upset about them. His axe is missing.”

  That made things a little less awkward.

  “In that case, would anyone object to me eating the deceased's eyes?”

  Chapter 40

  “The mountains keep us hidden in the east, north, and west,” said Orgol. He sipped the sweet milky-white, slightly alcoholic drink from his wooden bowl, then set it down. “But we've created a permanent illusory border, as well as a moat, along the southern edge of our village to protect us from wanderers in the Fertile Desert. There are dangerous creatures in the desert, and those who are not understanding of our simple way of life.”

  Stacy washed down a mouthful of some kind of bland meat with the same beverage, which Orgol's ruddy-faced wife, Grella, had poured for them all. “Not to mention rapists.”

  “Oh dear.” Grella frowned sympathetically. “Did you meet a lamia?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Stacy thought she remembered that being the type of creature Strovgar had referred to himself as. She found it odd that Grella had immediately jumped to that conclusion though. Were all lamias rapists? She supposed that being born with innate powers of magical seduction might cause a significant number of men to lean that way, but she wasn't comfortable with the racial profiling.

  “Did he... violate you?” asked Grella.

  “No. I...” Stacy caught Julian watching intently. “I mean we sent him on his way with a lesson in manners.” Relishing the memory of having so savagely defended herself and Julian against a creature that powerful, she shoved a spoonful of mashed potatoes and peas in her mouth. The dwarves of Tamar prided themselves on the simplicity of their culture, and that simplicity was certainly represented in their food. It was probably the least exciting food she'd eaten since arr
iving in this world. But it was also one of the closest experiences to normalcy, and she appreciated that.

  Grella ladled out a second serving of potato onto Julian's nearly empty dish.

  Julian covered his mouth for a nigh-imperceptible belch. “Please, ma'am. You've already been too generous. You really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble, especially when you're not even eating.”

  “We've supped for the day, lad,” said Orgol. He lifted his cup and smiled. “But there's always room enough for a bit more to drink.”

  “We really appreciate your hospitality. But honestly, I'm stuffed.”

  “Look at you,” said Grella, poking him in the ribs with a wooden spoon. “All skin and bones. There's no substance to you. How do you expect to court a fine young woman such as this without some meat on your bones? She's like to break you in half!”

  Orgol laughed. “I'm surprised the lamia didn't have a go at him as well.”

  Stacy and Julian glanced at each other, but remained silent. Stacy tried to find a way to steer the conversation away from them having nearly gotten raped. The eight hefty children waddling around the kitchen seemed like a good place to start.

  “You have a lovely family.”

  Grella beamed. “Why thank you! They are a handful, but we thank the gods for the blessings they have bestowed upon us.” She grabbed the oldest one by the cheek as he waddled by, chasing his slightly younger sister. “Rorrick here fancies the new girl in the village.”

  “Mother!” said Rorrick, trying to pull his cheek away.

  “There's no shame in that,” said Orgol. “You'd do your family proud. She's a fine-looking young miss, and I've no doubt she'll make a devoted wife. Once she's been properly educated, of course.”

  That was a strange caveat, but Stacy supposed that it was good that they valued providing women with an education in their simple culture.

  Grella winked at Stacy. “Three times we've caught him sneaking off in the night to go see her.”

  “Mother!”

  “It's perfectly natural to be curious. Your father visited me on many more than three nights before we were wedbound.”

  “True,” said Orgol. “But I was never caught.”

  Grella gave Rorrick a stern look. “Just you remember to keep your hands to yourself.” She pointed at the ceiling. “The gods are watching.”

  Rorrick sighed. “Yes, mother.”

  Grella's expression turned sour as she sniffed the air. “Gorki soiled his nappy. Run along and change it.” She let go of Rorrick's cheek, and he waddled away looking relieved to get out of there, even if it was to change a diaper full of shit.

  Grella shooed the other kids out of the kitchen as well, poured everyone another round of the milky-white beverage, as well as a bowl for herself, then took her seat at the table and gulped it back. When she placed the bowl back down on the table, Stacy couldn't help but notice that some of the drink had dribbled down her beard. On one hand, she felt like she should discreetly let her know about it, so as to allow her to wipe it away. But on the other hand, it seemed wrong to ever point out a lady's facial hair.

  “By the gods, woman,” said Orgol. “You look as though you've been sneaking off to have shameful relations with the lamias.”

  “Father!”

  Stacy cringed. Hearing a woman refer to her husband as father was way worse than seeing the drink in her beard, or even Orgol's insinuation as to what it resembled.

  “You've got sweetmilk in your beard.” Orgol wiped his own beard to demonstrate where she should wipe. He winked at Stacy. “I can't be helped if that's what it looks like.”

  Stacy wished they'd both stop winking at her. It was getting weird now.

  Grella wiped her beard. “You needn't say aloud every thought that enters your filthy mind. We can't have our guests thinking we're ungodly savages. Any more talk like that, and we'll be drinking without you.”

  “It's really okay,” said Julian. “I can assure you, some of our friends have much filthier minds than your husband.” He finished his cup of sweetmilk, and Grella rose from her chair to refill it.

  “Be that as it may, it's rude to speak that way in front of strange folk. One can't just assume that everyone they meet is comfortable with that kind of talk.”

  “Or as much talk,” Orgol snapped back, “regardless of the kind.” He opened a door on the hutch behind his chair and pulled out a dark brown glass bottle. “It's getting late. Time to break out the good stuff.” He grinned and winked at Stacy again.

  Stacy wasn't any less creeped out by the wink, but some stronger booze than this sweetmilk wouldn't go unappreciated. This stuff was so weak they were even letting the younger kids drink it.

  Following their hosts' lead, Stacy and Julian drank what sweetmilk was left in their bowls, into which Orgol then poured about two shots' worth of the brown liquid.

  Grella raised her cup. “Thank the gods for blessing us with the gift of these travelers.”

  “Oh, that's too much,” said Stacy. She and Julian raised their own cups and touched them against Grella and Orgol's.

  “Thank you so much,” said Julian. “It's been an honor to be guests in your home.”

  Orgol sniffed his drink and smiled. “Drink up, lad. This'll put some hair on your stones.”

  More out of curiosity than to follow her host's lead, Stacy gave her drink a sniff. She reeled back, her eyes tearing up. The stuff smelled like turpentine.

  Orgol laughed at her, gulped back his drink, then clenched his fist as he exhaled. “Ah, that's nice.”

  “We don't drink to excess,” Grella explained. “For the gods frown upon such behavior. But it's not every day we have he privilege of hosting strangers to our village. A single cup is appropriate for such an occasion.”

  Stacy didn't require any explanation. After the day she'd had, she was ready to suck back that whole bottle, in spite of how the liquid inside it smelled. But she didn't want to disrespect their customs. The single cup would have to do. She could get her drink on properly when she and Julian made their way to a slightly more cosmopolitan town.

  “Speak for yourself, woman,” said Orgol. “I believe I may have another cup.”

  “Not before taking our guests to their quarters, you won't.” She smiled apologetically at Stacy and Julian, presumably for her husband's boorish behavior.

  Stacy wondered where these quarters could possibly be. The house wasn't that big. She was pretty sure she could see most of the inside from where she was sitting. No matter. That question would be answered soon enough.

  She held her breath as she, Julian, and Grella necked back the contents of their own cups. It barely tasted like anything. It just burned going down. She could feel the shape of her whole esophagus and where it spread out to the top of her stomach.

  “Goddamn, that's strong!” she said, slamming down her cup on the table. Then she remembered where she was and who she was talking to. “Excuse me. I just wasn't expecting... I think you're right. One cup might be enough.”

  Grella looked at her sternly. “Indeed. We'll need to cleanse that filthy mouth, Father.”

  Stacy didn't know if it was an effect of how suddenly the booze was hitting her, but the situation seemed to have just turned a lot darker.

  “I'm sorry.” Her words were coming out slurred. “I don't usually talk like...”

  “We can throw the mouth to the pigs,” said Orgol. “I want to taste that meaty thigh.”

  What the fuck?

  Stacy looked down at her legs. “Are my thighs meaty?”

  Come on, Stacy. Get a grip. Something fucked up is going on here. Stay in control of your –

  CLUNK

  Stacy turned to Julian, whose head had just hit the table. “Julian?” She stood up, knocking her chair over behind her. She tried to focus on Orgol, but there were at least six of him weaving in and out like Strovgar's illusion spell. But this wasn't the same, because there were at least six of everything. It was the booze. There was somet
hing more than booze in that bottle.

  “What... the fuck... is going on?” she said, stumbling back and tripping over her chair.

  The Orgols frowned sympathetically at her. “It's easier if you just let it run its course, Miss Stacy.”

  “Fuck that, and fuck you two weirdos! You think I'm afraid of you? I fought off a llama today!”

  “Lamia,” Orgol corrected her.

  “Whatever!”

  “Oh don't bother arguing with it, Father,” said Grella. “Just let the potion do its work, then bring it and the other one to the kennels.”

  Stacy swayed on her feet. She wanted to attack one of them, but she knew she'd fall flat on her face if she dared take a step. “Who are you calling it, you hairy-faced bitch?” She felt bad about attacking her physical appearance, especially since dwarven women didn't seem bothered about having hairy faces, but continuing to talk was all that was keeping Stacy's body from succumbing to sleep. She looked in the doorway and saw eight or nine swaying images of their oldest child, Rorrick, holding the baby and staring back at her. “What the fuck are you looking at?” It occurred to her that she might be mistaken about their intentions. Maybe it was a misunderstanding brought on by getting so suddenly shitfaced, and she was currently making an ass out of herself. No, they definitely said something about feeding her mouth to pigs and eating her thighs. There wasn't more than one way to interpret that. She did her best to focus back on Rorrick. “I'll fuck your mother!” No, that wasn't what she'd wanted to say. “I mean, fuck y–” The rest of it came out in a huge yawn. “I'll motherfuck your fuck.”

  No. That's definitely wrong.

  “Go mind your brothers and sisters,” Grella instructed Rorrick. Then she turned to Orgol. “Can you believe the filth this beast is capable of? And in front of our children!”

  Stacy was going down, and she knew it. She held up both middle fingers at Grella. “Fuck you, lady. And fuck your children.”

  As her vision faded into complete darkness, Stacy considered that that last bit might have been a bit harsh. Fuck it. At least she'd managed a coherent sentence. At least she thought she had.