Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  “Is it, now?” Pekol said. His tossed the remainder of his pie into the cart.

  Riam added his own behind Pekol’s and slid from his seat on the sidewall to the ground.

  “I’ll soon be free and with a few dregs to boot,” Stick said. He turned to Riam, exposing the cat-eye charm that hung around his neck.

  Pekol scowled at Stick.

  Stick was oblivious to Pekol’s look. “They give you ten dregs for each year you served. That way you have enough coin to start out and don’t go straight to begging. That’s fifty copper dregs for my five years—almost a full gold—and enough to buy some decent clothing and maybe start an apprenticeship somewhere.”

  “Like anyone will take you.”

  The words were too calm and controlled. Riam could tell Pekol wanted to say more, but he was clearly holding back.

  “Well, it won’t be nothing too fine, but honest work learning a trade’s better than this, even if it’s only hammering nails. But first, I’m going to celebrate. Get a bath and a real meal. No more rotten fruit and soured meat. What do you think, Peke, the Blue Duck on Linvar for my first meal? Bet you’ve never eaten there. Bet they wouldn’t let you in. They don’t serve rakers.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t taunt me, Stick.” Pekol pulled the knife from his belt and scraped it sideways against his thumb, testing the edge. “Your first night free wouldn’t be very pleasant with a hole in your stomach.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Stick swallowed and looked left and right, unsure if Pekol would really use the knife right here in front of everyone. “I’m going to be free. Assaulting me would send you to the mines.”

  Pekol pointed the knife at Stick’s arm. “Not until he removes that glyph, it won’t.”

  “You’re bluffing.” Stick took a step back out of reach despite his words.

  “Ever known me to make an empty threat?” Pekol grinned with his lower jaw jutting out so far that his bottom lip covered part of the top one. “Say one more word to me . . . just one.”

  Stick took a deep breath, preparing to say something stupid, no doubt. Why couldn’t Stick walk away and leave Peke alone?

  A commotion at the entrance to the yard came just in time to save Stick from himself. People hurried out of the way to clear a path for a tall man in gray.

  Stick grinned ear to ear. “Too late, Peke. You lost,” he said out the side of his mouth.

  Pekol’s eyes narrowed and his bottom jaw trembled. His hand tensed on the knife, and Riam knew Pekol was going to use it while he had the chance, before Stick was free. Stick was an idiot. He wasn’t paying attention to the danger next to him anymore, as if merely seeing the Draegoran protected him.

  Pekol lunged with the knife.

  No! Riam’s mind screamed. He couldn’t let Pekol kill the older boy like this—not when he had the chance to save him. He threw himself forward and the world slowed around him. Without thinking about what he was doing, Riam punched at Pekol’s knife hand. It moved so slowly it was easy. His fist connected with back of Pekol’s hand and the blade went flying. The world returned to normal speed. Riam felt drained, as if he’d run a long distance.

  Pekol’s eyes went wide in surprise. Then they narrowed as he realized what had happened. He backhanded Riam with all his adult strength, holding nothing back.

  Riam hit the ground hard, the side of his face burning from the impact. He put a hand to his cheek and rubbed. He felt blood on his fingers. It hurt like the Fallen. He smiled up at Pekol. “Guess you’ll just beat me like Doby.” Riam knew he shouldn’t have said it as soon as the words left his mouth. It was dumb, inciting Pekol to hit him again, but he’d only meant to keep the man’s attention away from Stick and maybe attract the warden.

  Murderous rage flashed across Pekol’s face. “If that’s what you want, you little shit.” Pekol charged toward him.

  Riam tried to scramble away, but this time he was too slow. Pekol’s foot slammed into his side with a loud crack, lifting him into the air. He tumbled and sprawled in the dirt. It felt like a horse kicked him.

  “How’s that?” Pekol asked. “Got anything more you want to say?”

  Riam climbed to all fours. He tried to gasp out a reply. “You’re—”

  This time Pekol kicked him in the belly. It was worse than the first blow. Riam clawed at the dirt but couldn’t get any air.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this. Most churps need to learn their place sooner or later. Today’s as good as any for you to learn yours.” He stepped on Riam’s arm above the wrist and ground his heel down.

  Riam thought the bones of his arm would break. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t draw a breath.

  “Look at the glyph on your arm.” He put more weight down. “Look at it!”

  Riam’s eyes watered and his mouth opened and closed as he fought for air, but he tried his best to look at his arm. He’d do whatever the man said to get him to stop. Gods, it hurt!

  “Get a good look. As long as you wear that mark, I can do whatever I want with you. You’re nothing. Understand? Nothing. I paid good money for you. You’ll keep your mouth shut and never interfere again, or by the Fallen I’ll make this feel like paradise in comparison.” Spittle dripped from Pekol’s mouth and splattered on Riam’s face.

  “I think he gets it,” a voice said.

  “Who the fuck—” Pekol turned to the newcomer. The pressure left Riam’s arm.

  Riam collapsed, putting his face in the dirt and sucking in air. It felt like drowning in the river all over again.

  “Deepest apologies, Warden. Didn’t realize it was you.”

  Riam’s eyes cleared enough to see the man who’d saved him. He was one of the ugliest people he’d ever seen, even uglier than Pekol, with eyes that were too small for his wide face, but right now Riam wanted to hug the Draegoran. He was dressed the same as Gairen, but with a single sword hanging from his belt. On the side of his neck, the face of a wolf stood out against his pasty-white skin. Finally, I will be out of this mess. All I need to do is explain things and let the Draegoran read the truth.

  “Trouble with your churp?”

  “No. No trouble. Teaching him a lesson.”

  “Well, it seems he has it now.”

  “Not a churp . . . didn’t steal anything,” Riam said.

  “I guess he doesn’t,” the Draegoran said. “By all means, continue.”

  Pekol didn’t need any more prompting. He moved toward Riam.

  “No,” Riam protested. “I’m not supposed to be here. I have the—”

  Pekol kicked him in the face this time. He didn’t put as much force behind it as the other blows, but it was hard enough. Whimpering, Riam curled into a ball and held his face in his hands. Blood poured freely from his nose.

  Pekol cackled above him.

  “Bastard!” Riam said.

  Pekol raised his foot above Riam’s head.

  “Wait,” the Draegoran said. “Let me help.” He stepped forward and took Riam’s wrist in his hands.

  Relief flooded through Riam. Now the man will see the truth. He would be saved.

  Agonizing pain shot down Riam’s arm. The Draegoran manipulated the glyph somehow. The lines burned through muscle and bone as they changed into a new pattern. A loud, painful, whistle tore at Riam’s ears.

  “There.” The Draegoran released his hold. “That’s a half-year added to his sentence for disobedience.”

  Riam lay in the dirt in tears, his ears ringing and his nose throbbing. This isn’t fair. All the Draegoran has to do is read my thoughts.

  Pekol cackled louder as he and the Draegoran moved to the cart. Riam missed most of their conversation, but he caught a few words over the ringing in his ears.

  “. . . questions?”

  “No . . . was there early.”

  “. . . doubling the price . . .”
/>
  Riam couldn’t be sure who said what, his thoughts were too muddled by the pain, but Pekol must be paying the Draegoran for killing the guard and now the Draegoran wanted more money. But that didn’t make sense. Draegorans are supposed to be the ones who enforce the laws, not break them . . . and they don’t need money.

  He looked at the glyph on his arm. A Draegoran had placed it there, and he’d done nothing wrong. Now he had another half-year added to his time for keeping Stick alive. Things didn’t make sense—not with everything he’d learned from Gairen. Otherwise, the Draegorans were no better than anybody else, simply more powerful. Between sips of air, Riam wondered if he really wanted to be a Draegoran after all.

  * * *

  —

  Riam stumbled through the gate of the inn and collapsed. Pekol had dumped him in the alley where they kept the cart and left him there while he went to finish his lanes. He’d tried to get up but blacked out. When he awoke, it was dark; the cart was back in its usual place for the night. He wasn’t sure if Pekol expected him to get straw, but the truth was, he didn’t really care. All the man could do was beat him again. He’d lived through worse with his grandfather. Bortha, however, was expecting him to clean two of the stables tonight, and he didn’t want to let the innkeeper down. He also needed the food he would earn. With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet.

  It was slow work, and he had to do most of the shoveling with only one arm, but he managed to get the first stall clean. He would get the other one done. He only needed to rest a moment first. He slid down the wall and sat on the ground, still holding the rake. His ribs throbbed.

  “What in Sollus’s name?”

  Bortha stood over him, a lantern in his hand.

  “I’ll get the other stall done. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Riam started to get up, but pain ripped through his chest. He fell back against the wall and slid back to the ground.

  “Fool boy. I wasn’t talking about that. You look as if you’ve been trampled. Did one of the horses get you?”

  Riam put his hand on his ribs, bracing them, and took shallow sips of air. “Pekol was teaching me a lesson by kicking me in the ribs.”

  “You’ve blood all over your face.”

  “Apparently, I’m not a very good student.” He would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much.

  “Faen take that man.” Bortha lifted Riam and carried him into the inn.

  Instead of the kitchen, he continued on to a storage room. A small pallet sat in the corner. Bortha placed him on it and hung the lamp on a nail before rushing out.

  He returned with a young woman. Her dark, curly hair came down below her shoulders, and she wore a tight-fitting blue dress that left enough of her chest exposed to make Riam look in the other direction despite the pain the sudden movement caused. He continued to watch the two from the corner of his eye.

  “What happened to him?”

  “What does it look like? His raker beat him.”

  “He’s a churp?” She shrank back and wrinkled her nose.

  “Get water and a towel to clean him up.”

  “We’re caring for churps again?”

  “No. We’re caring for a boy who needs help.”

  “It’s a crime to aid anyone with a glyph. Feeding them is bad enough. The warden warned you about this with Doby.”

  “I don’t give a screet’s ass what he said. Shut up and get something to clean him up, or you can find another inn to work.”

  The woman stomped her foot down. “Bortha—”

  “I’m not joking, Serina. I’m going to go find a mediker. I expect him to be cleaned up by the time I return.”

  Serina’s eyes shone with anger in the lantern light.

  “And be gentle. I think his ribs are broken,” Bortha called on the way out the door.

  Serina looked Riam up and down. She frowned. “Well, I suppose I’ve cleaned up worse.”

  “Don’t worry,” Riam said. “It looks worse than it is.”

  “Somehow, little man, I doubt that.”

  * * *

  —

  The old mediker finished prodding at Riam’s side. “Well, his ribs are where they should be, and I can’t feel a break.”

  “That’s good.”

  “That doesn’t mean one or two aren’t cracked or that something inside isn’t damaged, but if he isn’t dead by morning, I suspect he’ll be fine within a tenday or two. The young heal fast.”

  “Reminds me of my first month with Pekol,” a familiar voice said.

  Stick stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Riam almost didn’t recognize him. He looked nothing like the churp from the square. For one, he was clean, and that alone would have made it difficult to spot him in a crowd. Second, he wore new clothing and a green hat cocked to one side. He looked fine enough to be mistaken for a young landowner. The shirt was black and laced around the collar, except where it was notched open in the front, exposing the charm he always wore. A small pack hung over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Came by to say farewell to you and Bortha. You’re not the first churp he’s helped survive Pekol’s temper.” The words were meant to be light, but a look of guilt flashed across Stick’s face for an instant before his goofy smile returned.

  “You’re leaving the city?”

  “Going home. I don’t know that anyone will be happy to see me, but I need to check on Ma and let her know I’m alive. I owe her that at least, even if she doesn’t want me to stay.”

  “You’re leaving right now?” Riam asked.

  “In the morning. It’s a long way to the Green Isles.”

  “If you’re done with the social call, I need to bind his chest,” the mediker said before turning to Bortha. “He’ll need it wrapped tight for a few days. Have him drink as much milk as he can. It’ll help strengthen the bones.”

  “Thank you, I will,” Bortha said.

  “No thanks needed. You’re paying for this, though for the life of me, I don’t know why. Waste of money. Most churps don’t make it through their sentence these days.” The mediker pulled a rolled-up bandage from his bag. “The boy related to you or something?”

  “No,” Bortha replied curtly.

  “Well, it’s none of my business. Hold this here a moment,” he told Riam, placing the end of the bandage on his uninjured side.

  Riam put his hand on the end, and the mediker wrapped it around his chest several times. It hurt like the Fallen, but when the mediker finished and tied it off, he could breathe a little easier.

  The man eased him down onto his back. “’Course, if anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”

  “Of course not,” Bortha said, dropping a small pouch into the mediker’s leather bag. There was a distinct clank when the pouch landed.

  The mediker gave Riam an apologetic smile and a pat on the arm. He reached into the bag.

  Riam thought the man was reaching for the coin. Instead he withdrew a short, smooth rod. What is that for?

  He turned to Bortha and Stick. “I’ll need both of you to hold him.”

  Bortha’s hands clamped down on Riam’s shoulders. Stick clasped his forehead and Serina turned away.

  “You’ll want to bite down on this while I set that nose.”

  The rod was shoved roughly into his mouth.

  Fight. Challenge one another. Let no tribe grow weak or lazy. War will keep our blades strong and our people hard. Only then will they be prepared to fight the gray demons north of the mountains.

  But remember, the battle between Parron and Tomu has not ended, and while we fight among ourselves to stay strong, we must put away our squabbles when the Fallen Gods prepare to walk again. If any among us forget and lose their way, or worse, lose themselves to the Dark One, they must be cut away.

  Nothing can be allowed to s
top the tribes from gathering when the Destroyer of the Night comes to lead us in the final battle against Tomu.

  —King Eisha Ryn at the First Gathering of the People

  Chapter 26

  Ky’lem jumped from the raft and sank into ankle-deep mud. The blue-green water came to his waist, with clouds of silt swirling around his body. Thin yellow reeds climbed to heights that towered over him. He held his boots and the rest of his possessions over his head in one hand and the crude rope that led to the raft in the other. A thick swarm of river flies engulfed him, landing on his face and arms. He shook his head like a dog, trying to drive them away.

  The flies were not so easily dissuaded. They buzzed past his ears and landed on his skin, biting at his scalp. Trying to dislodge them did little good. Not for the first time he wished he still wore the face paint of the Ti’yak. Besides providing concealment in the lush forest, the paint kept the flies away.

  A loud splash came from behind him, and a wave slapped his back—Pai’le getting off the raft where Ni’ola lay. He gritted his teeth at the thought of her, and the muscles along his jaw flared out.

  For half a moon he and the girl had traveled together, through deadly snows along the High Sun Path, down the jagged slopes of the mountains, through the rain forests of Ti’yak lands and finally south, carried by the great river. They had faced death at the hands of the gray demons and a living corpse. They might face it again against the okulu’tan. What he hadn’t counted on was facing death at the girl’s hands, and him helpless to do anything.

  The old spirit-walker had warned him, but his protection should’ve lasted until they made it to the Najalii. It had not. If it were not for her inexperience and Pai’le’s assistance when the barrier to her magic collapsed, he would likely be dead and in a grave.

  He looked up. The sun hung low in the east. The thin sliver of the moon floated in the sky near it. Tomorrow, Sollus would be completely eaten by Faen and the night cast into darkness. For tonight, they would camp here—their last night along the river—and in the morning Pai’le would return to Ti’yak lands while Ky’lem would take Ni’ola on to the okulu’tan village. If they left at sunrise, they would be there by late afternoon. It might not be soon enough.