by Sam Sykes
“Oh, don’t act like you’re—”
“—you’re the one who should be—”
“—you can’t be serious, you’ll just make things—”
Expletives assaulted his ears. Words he hadn’t heard in a long time felt like salt on wounds. From cursing to invitations to suck one thing or another and back to cursing they went, bickering and yelling.
And somehow, Lenk started laughing.
He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t funny. But somehow, the idea that this, at the eve of destruction, should be just like none of them had ever left each other and they should all be close to strangling each other and leaving nothing for Khoth-Kapira to kill …
Well, what else could he do?
The others, though, perhaps resenting his intrusion on their anger, turned their glares on him. He held his hands up, smiling.
“Sorry, sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t mean to laugh, but …” He rubbed his neck. “I mean, you’re all right. Gariath’s a murderer, Denaos is dead, Dreadaeleon’s. … Dreadaeleon, and we’re all fucked. But it’s you”—he pointed to Denaos—“you’re the one who’s most right.”
“So you agree with me that Kataria does smell like—”
“No, not that. The other part, about being born to trouble.” He looked around his companions, dirty and beaten and half or fully dead. “All this time, I’ve been trying to put this down.” He patted the hilt of his sword. “And every single time I try, everything gets worse. I just keep making more corpses, more blood, more trouble.
“And maybe that’s all we’ve got to give, anyway.” He stared at his feet as though they were going to give him an answer that everything else had failed. “Maybe, for all we do, more corpses is just what we make. Seems a little fucking late to go trying to deny it now, doesn’t it?”
He looked up at his companions.
“Doesn’t it?”
Denaos pointedly looked away. Dreadaeleon opened his mouth like he had an answer but said nothing. Asper simply gritted her teeth and glared at Gariath, who stared off somewhere different. And Kataria …
She looked at him. Right through his skin, like she was watching this realization crawl its way out of him.
“Yeah,” he said. “The time to pretend is over, isn’t it? We can’t go acting like we weren’t made for situations like this, like we don’t go looking for them. Otherwise, we’d put down our weapons right now and leave, like anyone sane would.”
He inhaled, held a sour breath in his mouth.
“I’m not leaving.” He spoke more to himself than to them. “I’ve tried that already. It always ends in fighting, anyway. So … I’ll fight. I’m not leaving.” He looked to his companions. “But you can. I made this problem. I don’t quite know what I’m going to do to try to solve this. I don’t have a clue what you could do to solve it, either. I barely know that I can hurt him and I know you can’t.”
He gestured toward the direction of the city gates.
“If you’re staying, you’re stupid. But if you’re going, you should go now. When the time comes … when Khoth-Kapira comes … I’ll be waiting right in this spot for him.” He held out his hands. “And either you’ll be here or you won’t.”
Not his best speech.
But when had he ever had a good one?
Speeches were for heroes, after all: brave generals addressing great troops, prophets making declarations to the faithful, the right people at the right moment saying exactly the right thing.
His moment had come and gone and he had done exactly the wrong thing in it. He was no hero. He was just a man with a sword.
He thought his speech, at least, got that much across. He thought his speech, at least, would convince them to run.
But he was their leader, once. And if he was a moron for staying, they were fools for following him. So he was a little shocked that they didn’t leave.
“I’ll be here,” Asper said.
He was a little shocked that they spoke.
“I’ll be here,” Dreadaeleon said.
And he was very shocked that he found himself smiling at it.
“I’ll be here,” Gariath growled.
And when he felt a hand on his, when he looked to his side and saw her there, somehow things didn’t feel quite as hopeless as he’d said they would be.
“I’ll be here,” Kataria said.
Denaos glanced around them. His smile came so easy that Lenk almost could believe he wasn’t dead. He shrugged.
“Well,” he said. “I had nothing better to do, anyway.”
“Then we’ll stand together,” Lenk said. “One last time, like we used to. And when Khoth-Kapira comes, we’ll be ready.”
Asper nodded grimly. A morbid smile creased Gariath’s lips. Dreadaeleon’s eyes flared in anticipation. Kataria’s ears twitched excitedly. Denaos cleared his throat.
“Great …” he said. “So, uh … what do you want to do until then?”
Lenk opened his mouth, but found no answer. He exchanged various dumbfounded glances with the others as a long, awkward silence passed. When it was broken, it was by the uncouth sound of Kataria’s belly growling as she scratched herself, sniffed, and looked to Lenk.
“Get some curry?”
FORTY-FOUR
A FEAST FOR THE DAMNED
It wasn’t when the gods answered no prayers that Asper got irritated. If they were just totally silent, she could simply dismiss them and get on with her life.
It was when they answered just enough to make her doubt their un-existence that she got irritated. When they didn’t answer the big prayers but answered just a few of the little ones.
Such as finding a functioning curry shop in the middle of a downtrodden, war-torn city like Savadan’s Spicy Dishes.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Asper said as she watched the man ladle a hot mixture of spiced chicken and thick red sauce over a bowl of rice. “I’m pleased you’re here and I applaud your entrepreneurial spirit, but … you know … there is a gigantic demon-god-king approaching the city, intent on destroying or enslaving all life as we know it, even as we speak.”
Savadi—Savadan’s great-grandson, as he introduced himself—looked up from his bowl. “How gigantic?” he asked.
“Colossal,” Asper said. “Big enough to flatten your store with one foot.”
“That’s pretty big,” Savadi said, returning to the task of arranging the bowl.
“Yes.” Asper blinked. “Yes, it is. It would be smarter to leave now.”
“It would be.”
“Like right now.”
“I know.”
“So … can I ask?” Asper didn’t wait for an answer before slamming her hands down on the counter. “Why are you still here?”
Savadi looked at her like she had just spoken another language. “It’s my great-grandpa’s shop.”
“Yes, and it’s about to be stomped on.”
“My father left it to me, as his did to him, since Savadan opened it. I can’t just leave it. Where would I go?”
“Muraska? Karneria? Somewhere not about to be destroyed?”
He shook his head. “This shop has seen the fashas, the Jackals, the Uprising, the Khovura, and outlasted them all. I am certain that this demon is not so big as you are describing.”
“There isn’t a word in any description for how big he is! You need to leave.”
“I cannot take four generations with me. I cannot take the promise I made with me. If I am to die here, then I will die where my fathers have and be buried, as well, even if I am simply a greasy smear on the street.” Savadi smiled, offering her the bowl. “One bowl. Extra raisins. That will be five zan.”
Once payment was made and customary curses had been offered, Asper stalked toward the only table remaining in the shop—the others, along with much crockery and iron, had been looted ages ago. Her rage was such that she hardly noticed who else was sitting there until she slammed herself down into the chair, dropped the bowl onto the table, and
began to angrily shovel food into her mouth.
Dreadaeleon’s burning eyes did not leave much room for distaste, yet he managed it, anyway.
“Something on your mind?” he asked, wincing.
She shot him an angry glare, thrusting her fork at him. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking start.”
He opened his mouth to reply but—perhaps for the first time—seemed to think better of it. He fell silent, his eyes dropping to the curry bowl before him. Asper was grateful for this. At least, until her thoughts started kicking in.
Just one, she thought to herself. Just one stupid motherfucking currymonger and I couldn’t even save him. The gods-damned Prophet can’t even convince one guy to save himself.
She ate, though she could barely taste the food. And when she looked down at the remains of her curry, she found she wasn’t hungry anymore. She merely pushed a bit of chicken around with her fork.
Just one thing, she said. Just one little fucking thing is all I want to go right. Okay, maybe not always little. But aren’t I entitled to something good happening?
“You shouldn’t have stopped me.”
The words came out before she knew them. But when she looked up at Dreadaeleon, she knew she meant them. And, by the look of his frown, he did, too.
“You should have let me kill Gariath,” she said. “The people he killed are owed that much.”
She waited for him to give her an excuse—to say something smarmy and smug, to say something stupid—anything to give her the chance to punch him in his greasy face. She waited a long time before he answered.
“I know.”
Not what she had been expecting, but it didn’t rule out the opportunity of punching him.
“He’s killed hundreds and will kill hundreds more, given the chance,” the boy said. “He’s dangerously unhinged on his best days and he hasn’t had a good day in a long time. It would make sense to kill him now.”
“Then why?” she roared, shooting to her feet. “Why did you stop me? Why couldn’t you let me have done just one good thing?”
Dreadaeleon looked up at her. “I could do it for you, if you’d like.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“He’s just outside the door.” He gestured toward the shop’s exit. “I could do it without even getting up.” He held up a single finger. “One finger, I can crush him like an insect.”
“That would be—”
“Two fingers …” He held up another digit. “And I can level this entire street. I’d leave nothing behind but bone and ash, if you wished.” He held up one more finger. “Or how about three? I could wipe out the next six streets, too, if you wanted to be extra certain he’s dead.”
Dreadaeleon had only ever been as complicated a man as a boy could be. That was, he wore his expressions plainly, made his intentions obvious, and was never more apparent than when he was trying to sound mysterious.
And perhaps it was just the ever-burning fire in his eyes that made it seem so, but Asper found him impossible to read now. He stared at her, completely expressionless, as though he were seriously awaiting an answer.
The only one she gave was a steady stare and a few soft words.
“Dread,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”
He lowered his hand and turned away. “Nothing I can tell you. Not in any way that would make you understand. Suffice to say, I have come to understand the price of power. No action can be taken without proportionate reaction, and the greater the action taken, the greater the response until …”
He wiggled five fingers. Flames danced across the tips.
“I’m fairly sure that was the first lesson my old Lector ever taught me. I wonder why I never remembered it.”
He looked up at Asper and smiled wearily.
“I could still do it, mind you. But it would have a repercussion. I don’t know what that would be, but it would be big. So big that you might not even begin to see it happening until it’s already there. Still … if you really want, I’ll do it right now, if you can answer me one question.”
She folded her arms and stared at him evenly.
“Do you remember what I asked you?” he asked. “The last time we saw each other? I spoke of a girl in a bathhouse. Do you remember her name?”
Asper squinted, searched her memory before it surfaced.
“Liaja.”
“She’s still in the city, in the square on the western edge of the Souk. I want her to …” He paused, staring down at his hands. “I would like it if you could get her out of here. Assuming the impossible happens and we win. Or the predictable happens and we lose. Just … promise me you’ll do your best to save her.”
He looked back at her. His face was empty.
“And I will kill anyone you want.”
Asper had never studied the finer points of wizardry, save that she knew that all the power it offered came with a price. Magic altered the body, the blood, burned these as fuel until it left behind only withered husks that had once been wizards.
Nothing she had heard of had ever said what it did to the soul.
Whatever Dreadaeleon had given up to achieve whatever it was that he was now, it had been something important, something so crucial that he hadn’t even known how badly he needed it. But it was plain in the emptiness on his face, the sincerity in his voice.
He really would burn this whole city down just for one woman.
Perhaps he knew the insanity of that thought. And perhaps that was why he’d requested that she go and deliver this woman, Liaja, to safety rather than doing it himself.
Perhaps he feared what she would say if she could see the face Asper was seeing now.
And perhaps, then, sparing her that horror, saving her from this hell of a city, would be the one good thing the gods would allow Asper to do.
“Forget it.” She sighed, sitting back down. “I’ll find her.” She met Dreadaeleon’s stare. “I promise.”
He nodded as she dug into her curry again, pausing to glance suspiciously at him and his untouched bowl. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“No.” He smiled. “I did before I got here.”
When Kataria had first seen Gariath, the dragonman had his claws around Lenk’s throat. She was ready to put an arrow in him right then, but two things had stopped her. The first being that she wagered an arrow probably wouldn’t stop him and the second …
It had been hard to describe, at the time, but there was a moment’s hesitation that came from seeing him. He had been snarling about human cruelties, human crimes. And at that time, she hadn’t known Lenk long enough to know him from any other human.
It had been a fleeting and peculiar feeling, but for a moment, there was a sort of kinship with the dragonman.
They had nurtured this, quietly and without words, over the months; the two nonhumans in a group of round-ears. There was unspoken trust between them.
That had been long ago. He had been different back then, as had she. And while some things had changed, others stayed the same. As she squatted down beside the curry shop door, absently shoveling her food into her mouth, he loomed beside her, staring out into nothing, saying nothing.
These were nice moments with him.
Moments when he didn’t open his big, stupid mouth.
“I can smell your shame.”
Those moments didn’t come around so much anymore.
“You reek of it.”
She didn’t bother looking up at him. She could already feel his black gaze upon her, hard and sharp like a stone knife, even when he wasn’t trying to be cruel. She merely chewed on another chunk of chicken and spoke through a full mouth.
“What’s it smell like?” she asked.
“Stale water, salt drying on stone,” he said. “It pours off you.”
She shut one eye. She raised one leg. She let out a long, loud fart.
“How about now?” she asked.
This time, she did look at him. And it was with morbid pride that she no
ted the curl of his nostrils and his lips.
“You disgust me,” he growled.
“Don’t inhale next time.”
“I have known you were a coward for a long time now, sitting away and firing sticks while I do the true fighting. I had thought it a symptom of your own stupidity, a quirk.” He snorted. “And now I discover your whole people are like that.”
She sniffed, looked away. “That’s awfully judgy coming from a guy who just got his army killed.”
“Because of you.” He slammed a fist against the shop’s wall. When he pulled it away, splinters were lodged in his skin. “A handful of shicts, scrawny and puny, and hundreds died.” He snarled. “And you did nothing to stop it.”
Kataria chewed her curry, swallowed, and licked her lips before answering. “What should I have done, then, if you’re so smart?”
“Stop them.”
“How?”
“Kill them.”
“All of them?”
“As many as it took.” He shook his head, snarling. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew they were coming.”
“I did,” she said.
“And you didn’t warn me. You didn’t—”
“No, I didn’t.” She shot him a glare. “Would you have listened?”
“I would have known.”
“You would have. And you’d still have charged in, dumb as a fucking post. Everyone would still be dead.” She tossed her bowl away, rice and chicken spattering across the stones. “You think I haven’t run this over a thousand times in my head already? You think I don’t wonder what would have happened if I had tried?”
“Why didn’t you?” he snared.
“Because of him, you moron!”
She all but exploded to her feet. Despite him standing feet taller, she rose up to him. Despite him outweighing her by hundreds, she shoved him. Despite his teeth being so much bigger, she bared her canines at him and she snarled.
“Because I always choose him. Every single fucking time. I always do it, I always feel like shit for doing it, and then I always do it again. And I’m fucking tired of that middle part.”
