by Aaron Crash
Rhee hooked her arm in mine. “That’s what I thought. The Wynnym women are the giants, including that tasty redhead back at the gate. I’m not sure if she would lick me or spank me. As for the Wynnym men? Broomhelga did say horse cock. And there you go.”
Wynnym males were centaurs with human torsos and human faces. They kept their hindquarters hidden under colorful skirts—stripes and polka dots and purples and yellows and kill-your-eyes oranges. I didn’t see the point of the color orange except as part of the logo for the Denver Broncos.
Many of the centaurs had naked chests. Others wore armor—leather, chain, or plate—to cover their top halves. They had big bushy hair that matched their skin, or would that be hide? Either way, unlike having the typical skin color of humans, they were all the different colors of horses, from the black coats of Friesians to the speckles of paints to the chestnut and platinum of palominos.
It was their arms that threw me. They were long and muscled, easily able to reach back behind them. I saw one stand up on his hind legs to piss. His arms were long enough to reach his skirts, which he pulled up. The gushing urine cut through the ash and ran down the gutter.
“And there’s your horse cock,” Rhee said, giggling.
Then the horse man was back down on all fours and moving down the street.
Some women carried bags of coal thrown over their shoulders. There were others who carried vegetables. I saw one couple kissing. The woman was as tall as the man because of his horse legs.
I considered the more romantic aspects of the culture. The women had two legs, human enough, though there was a tail involved, and I supposed a vagina. Then you had the four-legged males and their sizeable pingas.
Figg also looked on in wonder. “I’ve heard stories, but I never thought they were real. I met other races at the Khambatta University, but none of the Wynnym. I am shocked.”
“I’m turned on as fuck,” Rhee tittered. “All that cock. Those big giant women must get on all fours and then those big horses must mount them. Yes, I’m being perverted. We don’t want our favorite redhead giant over there spanking me because I’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
Rhee couldn’t stop laughing, but she was keeping her voice down. She kissed my arm. “Don’t worry, Axel. Your pinga is big enough to satisfy me. However, if we ever break up, I’d come back here to see. I mean, it would be some work to get it in me, but the labor might be worth it.”
I squinted. “But the birth canal. How would the four legs fit?”
“They must have enormous yonis,” Rhee said. She made a fist and looked at it, slightly dazed.
I had other questions beyond their apparent biology. For one, why was there a vast shantytown around the city? And what were those big buildings and chimneys on the north side? The smoke was so thick it could hide a sky palace above us.
There wasn’t just the Wynnym in the city—there were also human women and men. I saw a few dwarves, though they didn’t look like the leather and iron dwarves I was used to. They were short, yes, but they were thinner, and they wore green clothes, fine clothes, with lace at their necks and dangling from their wrists. I then saw another sight, a snake man slithering on two serpentine tails instead of legs. He disappeared down an alleyway. So, Xid had nagas as well as dwarves.
Figg frowned. “We have to keep going. If we stop and stare, people might stare back. Please, let’s go find this Hannek Cash person.”
We knew the Mazes was to the east, and so we followed the road. I felt like a toddler among the giant women and the tall horses clopping along on their horseshoes. The smell of the men was eau de barnyard. The women smelled far sweeter, and I was getting used to the tails. It was definite Sweetleaf fashion to sew your clothes so you could show off your tail. A few fancy giantesses even had braids in the tufts of their tails, tied off with ribbons that matched their fancy dresses.
The avenue crossed various canals oozing black water. The street turned north and followed a wall marked by moss and moisture. We were under the central lake. Then we saw the entrance to the Mazes, a big archway that came with a variety of warnings in Xiddian and a few other languages.
Rhee pointed them out. “That is Myrran. That is some dialect of dwarven. That is Sayskritch.”
Figg nodded in agreement.
My brain used its weird thank-you-very-much translator to puzzle out the language. “There is no law here. Enter at your own risk. Do not cause trouble. Or you will be killed.”
Rhee sighed. “I love this place already. Carry your satchels in front of you. Keep them shut tight. If anyone bumps into you, hit them, because they are trying to steal from you. Don’t make eye contact if you don’t want to fight. Ignore beggars. Ignore anyone asking for help. If you see some crime, don’t get involved because it’ll be a fucking scam, every time. Oh, I am so coming back here.”
Figg looked a little overwhelmed. She’d gone away to college, sure, but I imagined her life was mainly just her dorm room, her classrooms, the library, and the cafeteria. This place? It was like New Orleans crossed with a nightmare Kentucky Derby with a dash of Johannesburg thrown in. Or would that be the Soweto township? Either way, the alleys were tight, only one horse butt wide. We let some horse guy in a purple-and-yellow skirt pass us, and he took up the street.
Which, like I said, was a lot like New Orleans—I smelled piss, vomit, and alcohol. And frying dough. If those were beignets, I was going to have a bag full.
All of this was an assault to the senses, and yet, I’d done this before. I’d gone to other worlds—only then, I’d been better prepared.
I’d had far more spells than I had currently, and I was packing my Colt Defender with extra ammo, both magical and armor-piercing rounds. I also went with backup. Uncle Jared and I usually went exploring together, but I also had memories of going with my sister Regina and with Cooper, another Dragonsoul, who was one happy hombre.
I wanted those memories back. I wanted to remember everything, the good, the bad, all of it, especially my mother’s name. I wanted a working brain again, even if it meant I had to remember how Jared had died on Azrack.
“Come back to us, dragon man.” Rhee kept her hand on her sword. She nodded at the archway. “Figg, you go first. Axel, keep an eye on her. I’ll make sure both of you are safe. This is like going home to Thieves’ Island. That’s where the Myrran meet every five years to drink, to steal from each other, and the orgies there, I’m pretty sure, would turn your stomachs. We do... wonderful things to each other...” She got a distant gleam in her eye.
Figg fell in line, then I went, and we threaded our way through any number of streets. It wasn’t called the Mazes for nothing. There were wider roads, but they ended in walls. The long steps were everywhere, and I realized they were for the horses. This whole city had been designed for the horses. Dvey hadn’t been a centaur, I didn’t think, but he’d had to bow to the biology of his subjects.
Some alcoves in the sooty stone contained red bows and a quiver full of red arrows. They looked like the Sweetleaf equivalent of fire extinguishers. The bows were probably for the nightly attacks from winged creatures. Sure, grab a weapon, shoot an arrow, like take a penny, leave a penny.
Rhee noticed them as well. “Whatever is hitting these poor bastards at night must be bad to unite these cutthroats and cutpurses. I can’t wait to see this Cashcow’s bar. If we can ever find it.”
Figg stepped into one of the emergency alcoves. “Vankaat injit.” Her concentration ink glowed silver. Her eyes matched the radiance and their light flickered away. “I can find it.”
She went through another alley and went down steps, and at every turn, she knocked her bident against the wall. A light flashed under the tip, marking the stone. A few rough human men eyed us. One horse man, with a filthy patch over one eye, gave us a long look as he leaned his horse body against the wall to let us by. Figg didn’t make eye contact, but I did, and I made it clear that if he tried anything, I would send him to the glue factory.
Ol
d horse-killing joke. Don’t mind me.
The street opened into a courtyard where a dry fountain sat, another effigy of the demon king Dvey. On the chest plate of his armor was the symbol for the Uma branch of magic–a swirl of wind shaped into three moons.
Figg saw it and shook her head. “See? The air brand is in Sweetleaf, the Uma Jalana, not the earth brand.”
Rhee pointed. “There. Cash’s Feed, Fuel, and Fighting.”
A building stuck out into the courtyard. The iron sign protruding from its tip showed a centaur with his arms crossed. The name Cash hung over his head. The three F words had been crafted in the stylized metal of his chest.
The entrance was big enough for a Wynnym male. The building itself stretched back to where sludgy canals ran alongside the outer walls. It was an enormous place.
I had no idea where we were, but Figg had marked our way out.
We walked through the door and into a large hall at least a hundred yards long and ten yards wide. The narrow room had fireplaces, though they weren’t lit, since it was summerish. Agni torches flickered in sconces on the wall.
Long tables, like in an Oktoberfest hall, were set up. There were some places for humans, some places for the giantesses, and some for the centaurs. Big Wynnym waitresses were serving big steins of beer that smelled like actual beer. They were also laying down big silver trays of sausage links and something that looked like ribs slathered in a rich, dark red sauce. Those were beef ribs, from the unicows, I was sure of it.
My mouth filled with saliva. The place was full and busy, and it was loud and smelly, and smoke from both dully and tobacco flowed across the ceiling beams high above. There were holes there that let the smoke escape.
Sure, they allowed smoking inside because outside, just walking around was like taking hits off one big coal bong.
Rhee looked like she’d gone home to Grandmother’s house for Christmas. This was her element. Figg looked pained. I was near tears at the idea of beer and beef. I recalled the sign. Feed, fuel, and fighting. What was that all about?
“Oh, so the fucking witch who scried me finally shows up!” a voice bellowed through the noise of people talking, hooves clattering on the stone floor, and one giantess laughing so hard her tail looked like a fireplace poker, stiff and quivering.
Forcing his way through the narrow aisle came the fattest centaur I could ever imagine. Not that I spent a lot of my time contemplating obese horse men.
People were pushed into their plates as he came through. And this had to be Hannek Cash. He had the coat of an Appaloosa, white with speckles of black, from his bright orange skirts to the black leather jacket that was pushed into his armpits because of the vastness of his belly. He had bushy black hair and a rather handsome face. I guess the gods blessed him with some chiseled features because the rest of him sagged, from his arms, to his man boobs, to his belly. Even his horse haunches had a layer of fat. That face was mostly white with a spray of black.
A series of black tattoos circled his long left arm. That was concentration ink.
He came forward with dagger claws—push daggers in his pudgy hands with three long sharp blades, very Wolverine. Unlike everyone’s favorite X-Man, Hannek Cash had sheaths for the push daggers on either side of his expansive belly.
Figg whirled her bident around. We’d found the fight at Cash’s Feed, Fuel, and Fighting. It seems the big, bad centaur had felt my summoner’s magic.
I readied the stone staff, though I didn’t want to fight this guy. We needed his help.
And if we did have some epic bar fight, I probably wouldn’t get beer and beef. I refused to let that tragedy happen.
Chapter Sixteen
“STOP!” I THUNDERED. “Mr. Cash, I need to know two things. Do you have any pork ribs, which I prefer, and what’s that sauce on those ribs? Finally, I need vodka, vermouth, olives, and nacho cheese, but not all together.”
Cash stopped. His thick lips opened in a smile. “Pigs, right? You want pigs? The Sylvukor have them in the Morbu Forest. I’ve never partaken in any myself. What’s wrong with our cows?”
I pointed to my forehead. “The one horn is weird. Why not two horns?”
Rhee chuckled.
Figg, though, wasn’t about to relax.
And I wondered about Dryx and where she might be. I hoped to reconnect with her before nightfall. Knowing the sky warrior, though, she was probably watching us, perched on the roof. With those feather wings, she could be a guardian angel.
Cash stepped forward. I was eye to belly button with him. I wondered if horses had belly buttons. Centaurs did, obviously.
He leaned down. He still had the triple-threat punch daggers. He wasn’t using them, though, and he was grinning. “The sauce on the ribs is some honey, some tomatoes, and some heaven. But you asked for other things. We have olives. I don’t know what vodka and vermouth are.”
“I need a martini, Cash,” I said, laughing. “It’s a drink, clear alcohol mixed with a little really dry white winish stuff. That’s the vermouth. You stick an olive in it and sprinkle on some bad decisions. Any of this ringing a bell?”
“I mostly serve bad decisions!” The big guy laughed, and his belly shook. “Fuck that other stuff.”
There wasn’t going to be a fight, so the patrons returned to feeding and fueling.
Cash threw a chin at Figg. “Why was she trying to look my ass up? I like you all right, black hair, but I don’t like this Dawn Coast trash casting spells.”
Rhee shoved herself forward and patted the big belly bulging down over the horse half of the barkeep. “Hey, Cashgrab, Finniwigg is the respectable one. I’m the Dawn Coast trash. Maybe you’ve heard of me... I’m Rheesee Helleen.”
Cash’s eyes went wide. “I’ve heard of the Dawn Coast Hellion! Who hasn’t? Last I heard, you wound up fat and pregnant in Foulwater.”
“No,” Rhee protested. “I wound up drunk, bad drunk, and drinking like I was gets in the way of anything except for more drinking. But, hey, Cashcow, we’re looking for concentration ink, and we’re here for some other business. Can we buy a bunch of your shit and go somewhere and talk?”
“Rheesee Helleen in my bar?” Cash shouted. “You bet your sweet elven ass we’re going to drink and eat together. And I like the black hair. Still don’t know about this Foulwater wench you drug up. She looks humorless. I don’t much like humorless people casting spells on me.”
“I am humorless.” Figg half-smiled. She motioned to me and Rhee. “They provide the jokes. I’m just the pretty one.”
That made Cash laugh again. “You are pretty. I don’t much like human girls, myself, but you do have a certain way about you. You’re a schoolgirl by the look of your ink. Too bad you don’t have a tail, or we could get nasty. When I find a human girl who likes the idea of a Wynnym pinga, I don’t disappoint. You know what they say, once you try a horse pinga, you won’t ever linger.”
Rhee rolled her eyes. “Cashgrab, no one says that. It doesn’t rhyme. Now, quit your talking. I’ve been sober way too long.”
In short order, we were in a back room, which didn’t have the stable meets Oktoberfest feel of the main room. This was more mafioso parlor—polished wood, brass fixtures, and a big horsey bed for our horse man Cashcow. He slumped down on it. Giant women pulled a table up to him. They brought chairs, and I had to climb up onto mine, which brought back odd memories of being a toddler.
On one wall there was a big window with lead-lined panes and a wavering, warbled view of the twilight sky and some of the skyline of the Mazes.
A big stein of beer was set in front of me. It was Wynnym-sized, thirty-four ounces easily, which was a liter for those with more international sensibilities.
I sipped the beer, and it was beer, real beer, rich and thick and bubbly, and it didn’t taste like a mother goat. I stopped, sipped, and sighed. This was home. This was beers with my father, with Liam out around the fire, with Jared and Cooper at this dive bar we went to in Wyoming. And we invited up Cousin
Timmy, that was another of our crew, but Timmy lived in Denver. We weren’t related by blood, but time had glued us together. Cousin Timmy was the son of my father’s lawyer, William “Bud” Novak, the consigliere of the Drokharis Dragonlord family.
I glanced around the room. There was a little bit of everything, some swords, some books, some papers and ink, and a complicated looking machine, silver and black, sitting on a stand. Spaced along the wall were brass handles. I wondered what those handles were for.
Trays filled with beef ribs were smacked down in front of us. And there were deep-fried vegetable roots, not taggoggo, but something similar, liberally coated in salt.
The nuna seed was wearing off, but the beer was helping keep the burning away. And then I dove in, chewing meat off bone, which is how men are supposed to eat. The sauce had a definite tomato base, and it was spicy. I knew barbecue sauces, having grown up with two Texan mothers. Texas twins. This didn’t taste like any sauce I’d ever had. It was good though, addictive. The meat was a bit stringy, but I didn’t care. The fries had a definite turnip bite to them. The salt both emphasized that flavor and softened it at the time. The grease helped the most. Deep-fry rat butt and it would be good.
Once I got my fingers dirty, I didn’t want to stop. I’d clear my plate and then get back to that good, bubbly beer. Real beer!
Cash ate like a world-class chili dog connoisseur, both with gusto and love, for even the most basic foods. He had two steins brought to him. Lying on his side, with his big gut, his horse half was basically blocked. It was easy to forget he wasn’t just your friendly everyday fat man.
He motioned behind him. “For the right price, I can ink you up as good as those assholes at Khambatta University.”
I took another look at the contraption on the stand, and it was a tattoo gun.
Figg’s face flushed with anger. She opened her mouth to defend her school and curse our host.
The fat centaur licked sauce off his lips and stopped her with unexpected words. “That’s where you went, wasn’t it, Finniwigg Nightshine? That would make you Alvig’s girl. From all accounts, he was the best mahat rajan Foulwater has seen in the last century. That poor town has seen some hard times, but you have a new hero. He took care of the Kankar. I’ve heard he owns a dragon, and he unleashed the beast on those demons. That can’t be. I like a good story, but that’s just utter stallion shit.”
