by C F Welburn
“Shhh!” warned the other.
Balagir smiled and turned to his left.
“You spoiled it!” cried the one on the east.
“Another game,” the westerly pleaded.
“I fear not,” Balagir said, not unkindly.
They became agitated as he neared the pathway, hissing like cats.
“You’re no fun,” they called after him.
He dallied not to argue.
As soon as he was out of the clearing, the mist dissipated. He turned to see all was as it had been, and the girls were gone from sight.
As he strode north, a gentle sobbing dwindled in his wake.
How long he had been waylaid he could not guess, but the sun’s acute arc was as menacing as a fiery whip at his back. He pushed on, not keen to spend a night in these woods. He began to fear that may be the case until the faintest waft of wood smoke caught him. He followed it, and just as the sky blazed red, the village came into view.
Little more than a clutter of uneven stone and wooden dwellings, Mudfoot nestled down lower than the treeline, and was already lit by a chain of swinging lanterns.
He descended to the muddy street. Several people eyed him warily, but none approached. A few windows closed, and he heard doors bolted as he passed. It took the sheen off the welcome he had hoped for.
Pausing before a window, he examined his features. Dark, tangled hair that was beginning to brush his shoulders; a strong jaw obscurred by a thick beard that threatened to become unruly if not checked; a straight nose, thin lips, a sardonic brow; younger than Finster, perhaps of an age with Ginike. And his eyes… His breath caught as he peered deeper into the black stare. No, it couldn’t be. He was Balagir yes, but an ashen?
About him, shops were being shut. He averted his gaze and stumbled distractedly down the street.
He had arrived in time, for the dull ring of the smith’s hammer was one of the dying sounds of the day.
A small bell tinkled as he entered, and the hammering stopped.
“Closed,” came a gruff voice from behind a partition.
“I’ve come far and will take little of your time.”
A grunt, followed by the scrape of heavy iron, preceded the footsteps and the eventual bald, burnt head of Roule. His arms were the size of Balagir’s legs, and his crown brushed the beam.
“I said I’m closed.”
“And I, that I’ve come far.” The smith eyed him sharply, his charred face unsightly up close. Then he snorted.
“You haven’t come far. Not yet, ashen.” There it was again, that word. He had seen it in the way people looked at him, in the way they had hurried indoors. Slowly Balagir drew himself up, still only reaching the smith’s ham of a shoulder. Roule gave a deep rumble and shook his head.
“I suppose you’ve got something you want me to look at?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He paused to squint wryly. “Does this happen often?” Roule only rolled his eyes and extended his hand. Balagir, almost ashamed, handed him the sad scrap of metal. The smith examined it briefly, hummed, then tucked it into his apron.
“Come back tomorrow.”
“Wait,” Balagir called out, hoisting his sleeve. “You recognise this?”
“You want to get that seen to. Fogwar and no mistake. There’s an apothecary across the way, next to the Spoke. He’ll sort you for a dozen keplas.”
Then he was gone, and the terrible ringing began anew.
Keplas, Balagir thought as he stepped onto the street. He found himself pitifully short of keplas.
The apothecary was withdrawn and reluctant to speak with him. Decidedly so upon discovering he had no coin with which to pay. Even priced modestly, the Fogwar antidote exceeded his means, and credit was, as evident in the small man’s knitted brow, a most unviable play.
Back out beneath the lanterns, it began to rain.
Short of thievery, there was only one means that came to mind of raising funds; so he turned towards the Broken Spoke, his head bent low neath the gloaming.
All eyes were on him at the threshold, dashing any hopes of an inconspicuous entrance. Curiously he felt neither hunger nor thirst, but disagreeable was the venomous burn in his arm. The inn was busy and eclectic. He noticed men and women of course, but here and there grey-skinned jaegirs, whose hooked mouths and sharp eyes made him uncomfortable; stumpy, red-nosed ‘gnilos, and slender, oval-headed, jaundiced idris… How was it he knew these things? The inn itself certainly did not feel familiar.
As he had hoped, there was a group gaming in the corner. He could not call them men, for that they were not, and they were given an equally wide berth by the locals as he seemed to warrant. This in itself allowed him to approach, though he did so without great joy; not just for the fact that he was about to gamble with something other than coin.
“Sit,” the swarthy jaegir with the narrow, birdlike face said in a lisping timbre. Balagir noticed his eyes were black too. A jaegir ashen? He was of a similar stature to man, though this one was lithe and spindly, and had a decidedly down-trodden mien. The black quills that typically adorned the heads of his kind were mostly broken. His mouth, although not a beak, was pronounced enough to evoke an avian quality, making it difficult to know what those dark, slanted eyes were thinking.
“Alas, you catch me in mean times,” Balagir declined, splaying hands in that universal gesture of penury.
“I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,” the jaegir said levelly. “You didn’t come over to discuss the weather, after all.” The muscular, ruddy-skinned one laughed, and Balagir turned to regard him. This was a horlock, he instinctively knew, and by the yellow colour of his eyes, clearly not ashen. He found his presence disconcerting. For much as the Spoke was a melting pot, this creature’s red dermis and broken black horns seemed as odd as finding a fish on land. His flat nose and wide ugly mouth would have made him intimidating even had his bulk not threatened to crumple the stool upon which he perched. His small amber eyes were murderous.
“The solidarity of your kith never ceases to amuse me,” he said in a deep voice.
The jaegir wrinkled his nose. “Don’t heed Hompa, he could never understand. I’m Nifla, not had the pleasure.”
Balagir gave his name somewhat distantly. Too much was happening for him to give anything its due. He turned his attention to the third, and instinctively pulled back. Nifla hissed grimly, and the pale figure let out a faint, antagonised moan.
“A breaker,” he said, as if that explained all. “Biding his time for all it’s worth, ain’t you, Erd?” Balagir, unwilling to regale them with his ignorance, regarded the man warily. Or what had once been a man. For he was pale to the verge of transparency, his skin sagged like sad cloth, and his eyes were holes that had never known pleasure. He mumbled something, but like his sorrowful self, his words were insubstantial and diminished in the air.
“Now, shall we play?” Nifla said, signalling the barman.
“As I mentioned, I’m bereft of funds.”
The jaegir narrowed his already narrow eyes. “Come, you knew I’d front you from the first.”
“And if I lose?”
“I’m sure we can settle amicably.”
Balagir was inclined to believe him. For the belt weighed at his hip, warning him of what he already owed, and what others had chosen as a form of currency with greater avarice than for simple keplas.
When the landlord unceremoniously slammed down a sloshing mug, he regarded himself once more. He, like Nifla, like Finster and Ginike back in Warinkel, all shared the same black irises. He knew now why people had drawn back at the sight of him. Why from the bar folk regarded them with sidelong glances. Why the landlord had not tarried.
Ashen. What did that mean? He was a man, beyond doubt. And Nifla was a jaegir. Yet they shared a likeness beyond this. Something, he assumed, connected to the fire where he had awoken with its ethereal host. Connected to the belt and the disc that glowed upon it.
He felt a sudden nee
d for air, and were it not for the numbness that even now crept into his jaw, he would have declined.
He regarded them once more; the charcoal, leathery jaegir, sinewy and taut, greedy black eyes and acute face; the blood-red hulk, whose eyes showed no ounce of reason or remorse, whose breath reeked of old meat; and the pallid shade, whose skin hung slack and empty. A broom dressed by children to scare the birds, eyes vacant as a skull’s.
Sighing, he pulled up a stool. The jaegir clapped, the horlock grunted, and the breaker, well, he did nothing.
“Straight up Ciga, you all right with that?” Nifla asked sibilantly, placing what seemed to be five knuckle bones on the table before him.
“I may need a refresher,” Balagir said.
“Classic rules, none of that southern nonsense. A rook’s a rook here, an eye’s an eye.”
“Mhmm.”
“Here are ten keplas. I’m sure you’ll knock off the rust in a couple of rounds.”
Balagir played prudently at first; even so, it took him seven of his loaned coins to grasp the gist. Ciga, the jaegir had called it, a game played by casting bones each bearing a symbol. Three cast initially behind a shield so that bets could be made, two cast openly to finish the round.
The jaegir played almost recklessly, raising and hounding all the while, even when the bones lacked any apparent pattern. And though his bravado proved false on occasion, he still claimed the majority of keplas from those first few games. Hompa, on the other hand, seemed to bet strongly only when he was confident, for he was quick to fold when the bones were not to his liking. There was something odd about the way these two were playing. As if there were something other than keplas at stake, and that the coins were merely to keep tally.
Balagir was down to his last kepla when he won his first pot. He hid his relief by buying a round of drinks for the table and filling his mouth with Graff’s sheep-swill, as Nifla aptly dubbed it. When he had won enough, he repaid the jaegir his ten keplas and played more easily with his own coin, squirrelling adequately for his needs.
The game took an unexpected turn when Nifla committed to one bluff too many, recklessly lavish with his coin. A yellow-toothed grin split the horlock’s face.
“Come Hompa, the night is young,” the jaegir pleaded. “Let’s not ruin it now. Double or quits.”
The horlock, still grinning, shook his head.
“What’s done is done. I’ll buy you a drink for the road.”
“Filthy.” The jaegir hissed, knocked his mug to the floor, and stormed out in ire.
Hompa shrugged.
“He’ll come to terms with it. Place your bet.”
“What just happened?” The rashness of that final hand had been unsubtle, not in keeping with the pace.
“He lost. Now, you want to earn some keplas or not?”
Balagir met the horlock’s unnerving eyes, then Erd’s, whose fingers gripped the edge of the table as though he would otherwise drift away. He had almost enough for the remedy. Roule would require paying too, come dawn.
“Perhaps a couple more rounds.”
Balagir’s winning streak continued for some time, and when it began to wane and he reckoned his winnings enough to cover his needs, he made his excuses. Hompa seemed indifferent. Ever since he had beaten Nifla, he had played with abandon, as though he had already won the jackpot and all else was pure diversion.
Balagir crossed the yard to use the outhouse when a movement in the rain made him turn. Nifla came from the shadows like a long-limbed spider.
“You mustn’t stop now!”
“I’m done for the night,” Balagir said, turning away. But the jaegir gripped his shoulder.
“Done? Ha. Tell me, how can you hope to go on without sound investment? You’ve no weapon as I can see. You’re as fresh as they come.”
Balagir frowned, dismayed, but unwilling to discuss it more with the scrawny jaegir in a dark courtyard.
“I’ll survive.”
Nifla laughed bitterly. “Is that what you’re doing? I’d say not for long. Fellvine was it?”
“Fogwar.”
Nifla sucked the air. “Nasty. Lack of a weapon is nothing compared to lack of an arm.”
“I’ve enough for the antidote.”
“And you think you’ll fare better on your next trip? You think the smith will arm you for free?”
As reluctant as Balagir was to show interest, he couldn’t deny Nifla’s logic. The road he had trodden had been wrought with peril, and he had not come far. Greater challenges must surely lie ahead. Leaving Mudfoot unarmed would not be prudent.
“What are you suggesting?”
“That you go back and play with these.” He opened his grey palm to reveal five bones identical to those with which they had been playing. “Charmed,” Nifla explained. “Try a couple of hands. If you like, raise the stakes; if you don’t, opt out.”
Balagir examined the bones suspiciously. “And what do you get out of this?”
“Hompa has burdened my life, I only seek to vex his.”
“This is about more than just coin, isn’t it?”
Seeing no point in denying it, the jaegir smiled slyly. “An oath,” he said, as if it were a natural occurrence.
“Then deny him. Leave and be done.”
“Ha. I’ve met gillards less wet behind the ears than you. You saw Erd back there, that’s what happens to breakers.” Balagir swallowed, unable to keep his eyes drifting to his belt. The gesture was not lost on the jaegir.
“Ah. You’ve got yourself into debt early. Then more reason you should equip yourself well.”
Balagir looked grudgingly at the proffered bones.
“Just a couple of rounds,” he said.
“As you like,” the jaegir said, his black eyes agleam.
Balagir retook his seat.
The first hand he bought in with two keplas and won easily, the bones lining up favourably to produce what he had come to recognise as a ranged murder. Next he increased his bet to five, and was once more blessed with an utter tangle. The third hand was weaker, but Hompa folded all the same. In the fourth, he wagered a full ten keplas and got the four-handed eye. The next hand proved equally as profitable. By this juncture, Hompa had begun to look irritated.
“Beginner’s luck,” he grunted. “Or something more?”
“What can I say?” Balagir shrugged. “Now, whilst I’m ahead…” He began gathering his winnings, but Hompa’s large red hand fell upon his wrist.
“Allow me one opportunity to win my coin back. Graff may spit in my drink if I cancel my room now. Not that it would worsen the flavour.”
Not entirely sure if it had been request or mandate, Balagir nodded.
“One more.”
The round started low, but swiftly rose to ten keplas apiece. Behind his shield, Balagir had the coupled pack, and knew that the next open roll should give him the majestic pack. He relaxed, letting Hompa call the shots, unwilling to scare his opponent off early in what promised to be the last, lucrative round. The horlock would not be cowed however, and doubled the pot. Even Erd mumbled something as the stakes grew to an unprecedented altitude.
Balagir matched the bet confidently, although feigned discomfort in the hope of bolstering Hompa’s spirits and wheedling as much coin from him as he could. But even his nerve fluttered when the horlock pushed all of his keplas into the centre. Unwillingly, he matched it and found himself suddenly with everything at stake. A few drinkers at the bar were craning their necks with interest. A tense hush settled over the room. Hompa threw his bones and revealed a murderous tangle. A strong hand. Balagir held his breath, cast… and then stared aghast as Hompa roared and clapped his hands.
“Ahh, you ashen never know when to quit. My luck, it seems, has returned!” The horlock dragged all the coins towards him with huge, folded arms.
“Wait,” Balagir said. “I need some coin. Just enough for an antidote.” Hompa stared gravely at his swollen hand and shook his head.
“If
you did not wish to lose your arm, you should not first have lost your head.”
“I beseech you, just enough coin to pay the apothecary. I swear come dawn I’ll repay you with interest.”
“I’ll be gone by dawn.” He continued pocketing his coin before pausing thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could return some of your coin in return for something else.” Balagir knew then that he had been duped. A movement at the window betrayed the jaegir’s dark face, and shortly he joined them, rubbing his hands connivingly.
“You crooks.” Balagir cursed.
“Who sought to cheat who?” Hompa growled.
“What is it you would ask?” he muttered darkly.
“The same that I asked Nifla. Perhaps the two of you together may be able to achieve what so many have failed.”
“Which is?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Did you not question what I’m doing here?”
He had thought it odd, but everything had been odd since that wretched fire. A solitary horlock’s woes had been low on the list.
“I wish to return to my clan. Take up my rightful seat.”
“And you need our help?”
“They took my horns,” he snapped. An angry string of spittle leapt across the table; Balagir tried not to look at it. “Why else should I come crawling to such knaves.” His lip curled as he looked at the three ashen. No one challenged the insult.
“And how is such a thing to be achieved?”
The horlock smiled grimly and sat back, stool creaking. “Why, by killing my brother, of course.”
Balagir had no choice but to accept, and an unnerving weight added itself to his belt and mind. He accepted the twenty-kepla boon without relish.
“You’re more use to me with both hands,” Hompa said indifferently. After all, keplas were nothing to a horlock, and none of this had been about coin.
He banged on the door of the apothecary, who berated from an upstairs window that the small hour would demand a large price. Having no other option, Balagir consented, his face streaming with rain as the lantern passed from window to stair to doorway. He paid, downed the small vial there and then, ground it to shards beneath his boot, and returned to the inn.
