Fold Thunder

by Gregory Ashe

Chapter Ten

  Dag shook his head, his heart breaking. “I’m truly sorry, Pariscius,” he said. “It hurts me as much as it does you.”

  His subject in question, bound to the gouged wooden table of the abandoned slaughterhouse, had been broken. His dark eyes were wide, staring, unseeing. They quivered in time with the tremors that ran through his body. Blood from hundreds of tiny cuts pooled on the scarred wood and dripped between the worn slats, providing an occasional soft plink as accompaniment for the scene. The air, rank with years, perhaps decades, of decay and death and bile, stung his nose with the sharp smell of freshly spilt blood.

  No response from the . . . creature on the table. Not that I burning expected one. He’s not even a man anymore; he’s an animal. A physician, an herb-hand, would give the boy a hopeful prognosis. The wounds were not serious; they would heal in a matter of days, perhaps weeks, although some would be disfiguring. The true damage was to the mind, the spirit, to whatever lurked inside a man. Dag knew from experience that, while some men could survive—could, in a sense, return—most could not.

  Dag knew from experience. He knew from watching the shell of his own son, returned in a prisoner exchange after being captured a few years ago. Fawda. A boy, not even a man, really, although Fawda would have bristled, his chin jutting out, to hear that. Now all he did was sit, huddled in a blanket in what used to be the pantry, a husk. Experience is cruel, Dag thought, looking at Pariscius. Dag had tried to tell the man what would happen, had tried to explain what being broken meant. Pariscius had laughed. The man had held out a long time, in fact, longer than many. Longer than Fawda? Dag could not help wondering. The question was a knife wielded with infinite cruelty. It made him sick, but it was a pain he brought himself, punishment for what he had done to the man on the table. The thing on the table.

  It had been easy to find Pariscius, spreading a few coins in the taverns, and a few more among the household servants, until he found the man who had attended Lord Trenius Evus the night of his departure. The man who had summoned the priest to tend to the body. Whatever attention his Jaecan accent attracted was muted by the clink of Apsian coins, even among Evus’s own household. Amazing, really, Dag thought, what people will do for money. He looked down at the broken thing before him. Amazing what we will do out of hate.

  Dag slit Pariscius’s throat, ignoring the last final heave of his body. “It was a mercy,” Dag said to the dead man. “A mercy, to die now. I’m so sorry.” A mercy no one showed me. Sorrow hid inside somewhere, buried under the scars of too many years. That was the true tragedy. Awareness of my own insensitivity, Dag thought with a cold smile. Does that make me less of a monster, then? Ishahb burn me, as he burns us all. Purgation, then nothing; Pa-Shatan’s promised end for sinners. Nothing won’t be so bad.

  Dag left the body in the slaughterhouse and washed quickly with the brackish water of the well. He had chosen a building well removed from the small village, hidden in an overgrown vale between two hills. That it had turned out to be a slaughterhouse only proved Ishahb’s flame shone on him. The building was far enough outside the town that Dag felt no need to hide the body; he did not plan on spending any more time than necessary in Famia.

  The walk back to town took him along a dirt road, barely visible through thick weeds. There were farms a few miles ahead that he needed to avoid, but for the moment he could just walk and try to leave behind the scene from the slaughterhouse that clung to him like an odor.

  Escaping Trenius’s men had not been difficult, once he had stopped that cadaver from killing him. They weren’t even trying to find me, Dag thought. The cowards wanted that thing to finish me off for them, so they wouldn’t have to risk their thin necks. Typical Apsian soldiers.

  Dag had little use for soldiers in general, and even less for Apsian ones. Soldiers aren’t any different from me, but look at them—medals, awards, pensions, even some spoils if they fight in a war. Ishahb burn them, the common folk practically worship them, as though they were the Emperor’s own flesh. Escaping from soldiers, any kind of soldiers, was not difficult, not for someone like Dag. Making his way back to Famia, his right shoulder hurt so bad that he thought it broken, on foot . . . well, that had been more difficult. Time spent laying up, until he could wield a knife in both hands, even if his shoulder still sent flashes of pain through him. Time spent searching out this servant . . . Time, time, time. Time’s what I bloody don’t have.

  Semença was only a few weeks away, and Trenius Evus had to be dead by then, if not sooner. Or Brech doesn’t give me the names, Dag thought. The names were the only things that mattered now; Ishahb could burn the empire to ash for all Dag cared.

  Brech Ordin was not a man to let failure pass though. Dag’s meeting with the man had been singular, in more ways than one. He still couldn’t shake the shiver of fear when he remembered Brech Ordin’s mad servant, a man with wild eyes and wild hair. Fashim. Terrible rumors surrounded the man. Dag did not want to run across him again.

  Trenius Evus had proved too much trouble by far. Two men dead, and both competent, skilled even. And then to send Grunge back after me like that. The cold, sagging flesh, those lifeless eyes. The memory brought a second chill to his spine. Dag caught himself scanning the tall line of oaks along the side of the road, one hand on his dagger.

  Bloody fool, he cursed himself. You damn near cut his head off; Grunge isn’t coming back for anyone now.

  Still the corpse meant a practitioner was in play, and that meant the priest. Best is when practitioners keep to themselves, he thought. Like most of them do, noses in their books, shut up who knows where, so that decent people don’t have to deal with them. A practitioner meant holding back, waiting, watching, until he could figure out who it was. Then a bolt between the eyes and they die just like anyone else.

  Dag turned off the road, following a narrow game trail. The path led down, through the lines of oaks, and through a tangle of briars to a creek. He followed the water upstream, using the trees and brush to hide. Aside from the tiny minnows flashing beneath the water’s surface, Dag saw no one.

  After almost a mile of tracing the water, Dag came to a small pond. He had found it a few days ago, while searching out ways to approach the slaughterhouse without being seen; it marked the edge of the town. Two boys stood on the opposite bank, fishing with narrow willow branches and horsehair lines. Neither would have come higher than his waist, if Dag had stood next to them, and both had long, ratty brown hair and almost identical pug noses. They were fighting, shoving each other. One slipped and let out an angry shout. The other jumped on top of him, and they rolled across the ground.

  Dag loped around the pond, until he saw that their fighting was really just rough-housing, and then he slowed to a walk. The smaller boy said, “Who’s that?” and both of them got up to look at him.

  “What do you want, sir?” the older boy asked. His dark eyes watched Dag carefully. “Town’s up that way,” and he nodded over his shoulder.

  “You shouldn’t take advantage of your younger brother like that,” Dag said. “Give him a chance to get back on his feet at least.”

  “He’s my cousin,” the younger boy corrected.

  “Quiet,” the older boy said.

  “He said brother,” the other insisted, “and he said it wrong, anyway.”

  “Fine,” Dag said smiling. “Cousin, then.”

  The older boy shrugged, still watching Dag. Nervous because of my accent, Dag thought. He’s smarter than he looks. “We were just playing,” the boy said.

  “Even so,” Dag said. “Best to learn now; a man doesn’t fight dirty like that.” At least, a good man doesn’t.

  “That’s what my pa says,” the older boy said. “Biggest man in the town. He’s just up the hill.”

  Bloody likely, Dag thought, admiring the boy’s quick-thinking. “Well, I’m off to the village anyway. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurting each other. I don’t suppose you two could tell me where to find Meneas the pri
est of Bel?”

  “The drunk?” the older boy said. “Either at the shrine, sleeping one off, or at the tavern.”

  “Where’s the shrine?” Dag asked.

  “East side of town, near the road to Sidal.”

  Dag pulled out two copper puls and tossed the Jaecan coins to the boys. The older one caught both and passed one to his cousin. “Thanks, sir,” the older boy said.

  Dag nodded and hurried up the hill and out of the thinning spread of yew and ash. He emerged at the very edge of the village, behind a run-down house, its stucco worn and cracked, red-brown stairs from the iron railing of the roof running down the walls. Dag circled around the house and made his way into the village. The sun stood almost overhead, its light reflecting off the stucco and plaster walls, and hammered down on Dag. In spite of the heat, the street was full of men and women, many carrying baskets as they shopped for the midday meal. Dag slipped in among them; he had been careful not to get blood on his clothes, and the dark leather jerkin and brown trousers would hide whatever stains he missed.

  He worried more about his Jaecan coloring. A few people, older men in general, gave him hard looks. The legacy of a conquered people. It was hard to remember that for most of the war, this crappy little town was under the heel of Yein Ayl and the Jaecan armies. He caught sight of another older man’s furrowed brow. Well, hard for me to remember, perhaps.

  He negotiated his way through the crowded market, trying to avoid jostling the people there; the town was small enough that he would stand out no matter what he tried, and the less attention he drew, the better it would be. Not that I bloody plan on staying here after today; I’ve had my fill of this place, thank Ishahb. The time wasted, first recovering and now hunting down Evus, gnawed at him. Time wasted, and Semença approaching. Ishahb bless me that Pariscius knew what he was talking about. This priest had to be the one to animate the body.

  When he reached the shrine, Dag felt a slight burst of disappointment. The long, narrow stone building, its roof patched in some spots, and still broken in others, sat at the end of a worn-down lane. Small, thick windows opened up the stone walls slightly, but almost as many of the windows were broken as not. The glass that remained was bubbled and warped. Do these bloody Apsians take pride in anything? As-as-Din is not much bigger than this place, but the chapel to Ishahb that Rida attends is twice this size, with Canian glass. How did this tiny country ever hold out against Jaegal? They should thank their gods they had the coin to hire Manc khiteps.

  Dag approached the shrine, hands on his daggers. He moved quietly, soft leather boots barely scraping the irregular paving stones beneath them, until he reached the door. Then he tested the handle. It practically fell off as he opened the door, and the hinges gave a loud creak. Dag winced at the noise. He gagged as the smell of stale wine and unwashed bodies, perhaps vomit, flowed over him. No voice answered the creak, though, and Dag stepped into the dark front room, drawing his daggers.