Two thirds of the way down, I approached a small crowd. Two Arukh were fighting with a third. I glanced at them as I walked past. The victim, a female about three quarters grown, was putting up a fight, screaming and clawing. The large heavy one grunted and cursed, trying to hold her down and spread her legs, while the thinner, older one darted back and forth, hitting her wherever he could.
They’d misjudged her, I thought. She was putting up too much of a fight to make it worthwhile, but now they were committed. They had to finish it. There was a chance they might kill her doing it. She might kill one of them, or injure one so that he would be easy for someone else to kill.
Fools.
The smell of Arukh blood was in the air.
She landed a lucky kick to the face of the smaller one, throwing him comically back on his ass. But this allowed the larger enough leverage to slam her head into the ground. For a moment, her body went spastic, her limbs thrashing uncoordinated, I could almost see her eyes lose focus. But then she clawed back, her movements regained their futile purpose. She struggled. Better for her if she did not.
I walked over to the Troll’s tables. There were three of them today. Iron Pants, who was usually here, an old bull, and a young Troll, only recently in full growth. The bull was new, but there was a carefulness to him that showed he knew of Arukh. The young Troll had been around lately. He asked stupid questions. Only his size and strength kept him alive.
Iron Pants looked at me.
We called him Iron Pants, but actually, he wore bronze. Tarnished bronze plates covered the fronts and backs of his legs, and ran up to protect his lower torso, all held together and hanging by leather straps. He was the only Troll I’d ever seen that wore armour.
There were scratches and dents on his bronze where Arukh had tried their luck. An Arukh couldn’t kill a Troll, but with luck, you might hurt it.
Nobody’d had luck with Iron Pants.
Apart from the armour he was unexceptional. All Trolls look alike. About ten feet tall, covered with thick hair, great feet and hands, huge exaggerated features, he stank of rancid meat.
He smacked rubbery lips when he saw me.
“Selk warriors come,” he said. “They give me twelve pieces of gold for you. I give you three. I keep eight for you. The last is mine. When they tell me, you get the eight.”
Behind us, the Arukh’s shrieks tore the air. I flinched irritably. Kill her, I thought, or smash her head so she’s quiet, and finish and go away. Their amateurishness, all their amateurishness, annoyed me.
Usually, on commissions, the Troll let go the money when you brought a head in, or after a period of time had passed.
“What happens if they don’t tell you.”
The Troll grinned, showing gigantic, tusklike fangs curling upwards from his jaw.
“I keep it all. See. They have no reason to withhold. They don’t get it back.”
“And if they decide to leave it with a Troll forever?”
“Then you talk to them,” he laughed.
He turned away to haggle with another Arukh that had come with some copper jewelry to trade. The Arukh hadn’t bothered to wipe the blood off.
The old bull ladled me a bowl of thick sauce, with chunks of meat and bone swimming in it. There was a pungent heady odour to it.
I wandered back to watch the rape. It had gathered a crowd, watching from a safe distance. I found my way to a post, squatted with my back to it. There was someone, a male, blocking my view. I kicked him and he moved.
The big male had mounted her finally, I saw. They had her on her stomach, the smaller one sitting on her left shoulder, holding one arm and pushing her bloodied face into the dirt. Kicking, free arm flailing uselessly, she uttered a series of loud cries as the male thrust into her.
I chewed listlessly, observing the technique. Fools, I thought again. She was too much work. I doubted that they would take her many more times. They’d seek easier prey and more docile slaves.
The big male grunted and finished. She tried to scramble away as he pulled out of her, and the fight was on again. She was clearly exhausted, but she shrieked and clawed. Eventually, they had to stun her by clubbing her head several times. Finally, I thought.
The little one took his turn. The big male struck her once or twice, maliciously.
She grunted, still trying to struggle, offering keening screeches.
She certainly made a big deal of it, I thought. Some Arukh are like that. They get really upset by things like this. I shrugged. Arukh were mad, all of us were. I squatted and started to eat.
After the little male finished, the two of them got to their feet and staggered off together.
Another Arukh, a strong bull by the look, stepped forward and rolled her over. He cuffed her irritably as she shrieked. When he was done, another came forward. And then another.
I watched with mild curiosity, as I finished my bowl.
Like wolves, I thought, thinking about the Vampire’s words. No killing blow. Just blow after blow, wearing her down, tearing her apart.
I returned to the Troll’s pot to get more. The young Troll filled my bowl, all the while staring at the rape with rapt fascination. I went back to my spot to watch the show.
She no longer resisted, having used up all her strength. She just lay there, whimpering, gasping for breath, as they took turns.
Once or twice, Arukh came to blows around her. Snarling and circling as if about to fight. But then one or the other would back down and wait as the other took her.
Like wolves, tearing the prey to pieces, devouring while it lived. What must it be like to be killed like that, I thought, to be butchered, to struggle and cling to life and still feel the knife coming down again and again. I pushed the thought from my mind. Where had it come from? Miri, I decided, I was thinking of Mira’s death
I saw no signs of the violent blood hunger I’d witnessed on Mira’s body; but then, I hadn’t expected to. A madness of that sort was rare and distinctive. If it had been here, I would have already known about it.
Pity. It would have made things so much easier.
Finally, all who’d wanted her had taken her. She still laid where she was. Eyes unseeing. Whimpering like a dog.
As I said, for some reason, it seems to bother some of us, this kind of violation. That sort of Arukh, they did not live long.
Abruptly, she convulsed, her legs drawing together, she thrashed and kicked, pulling herself into a crouched ball. She rocked back and forth and began to keen.
Softly at first, she keened. Then her voice rose and fell with her sobbing. She put her hand between her legs and drew forth blood. Nervously she licked it off like a dog, rocking harder and harder, holding her legs. She howled.
It went on and on, rock back and forth howling, lick blood, howl some more. She sucked air, great gasping gulps, and let it out as shrieking, forlorn wails.
I finished my bowl and walked over to her.
She rocked back and forth, smearing her blood with spastic movements, barely noticing me.
I kicked her in the face.
The force of my blow knocked her over. Her limbs thrashed for balance, and for a second, she stopped shrieking. Before she could recover herself, I kicked her again, driving her forward.
She shrieked and tried to scramble away. I grinned and kicked her again, knocking her flat on her stomach. Ignoring her shrieks, I kept kicking her, as she scuttled away, until finally she crawled into a little cubhole. I crouched down to stare at her in there, seeing nothing but the shine of her eyes as she pressed herself up against the back of the shallow hole.
She whined softly.
I snarled at her and bobbed my head. As I crouched, I scraped my knuckles against the ground restlessly.
Nothing. Not even a whimper now. Just the shine of the eyes watching me.
Satisfied, I
stood and walked away, passing near the pair of males who had raped her initially. They squatted lazily, regarding me.
“Arrah?” I grunted at them, questioning.
I bent down and punched the big male in the head, as hard as I could. He went flying.
The little one jumped for me. I caught him in mid leap, lifted him over my head, and slammed him into the ground. I jumped on his body, feeling ribs cracking. Smashing him with my fists a few times I picked him up again and cast him at the big male, who was just climbing to his feet, shaking his head to clear blood from his eye.
He grunted and struck when the small male blundered into him. Too late, I struck him again, grinning as I felt teeth loosen. I spun him around, punching a kidney and kicking the back of his knee. As he fell, I grabbed his head and slammed it into a pillar a few times.
He went limp.
I grinned widely, turning around and around. The other Arukh watched with mild interest.
“Arrah?” I challenged. None came.
I threw back my head and bellowed triumph.
The female watched me from her cubhole.
I grunted and walked away.
“Why did you do that?”
I jumped, turning. The young Troll had left his pots and followed me.
“Why did you do that?” he asked again.
“Stupid Troll,” I hissed, bobbing my head. “Stupid questions.”
Iron Pants came up behind the young Troll. I backed down, snarling, and crouched a dozen feet away.
“It meant nothing,” Iron Pants said.
“But...”
“You think justice? Vengeance?” Iron Pants said. “You think she redressed a wrong? She watched like the others, she didn’t care. Then she attacked the female first.”
“Why?” the young Troll asked in confusion.
“She’s Arukh. There is no why. Sudden attacks, sudden fights are common. Everything is calm, then for no reason, one Arukh jumps another. Sometimes they kill each other. I’ve seen it over and over.”
Iron Pants drew the young Troll back with him.
“They’re animals, full of random violence. Don’t ever think you can trust them, don’t ever think you’re safe with them. They won’t challenge you so long as they see strength, but provoke them, let them see weakness, let them see an opportunity...”
He glanced at me.
I stared back, eyes shining.
“Never trust an Arukh. Not any of them.”
He pointed at me, and I cringed and hissed.
“Especially not that one.”
“Arrah,” I spat.
I thought about the second body. I wondered if she had anyone who might miss her. Nobody ever missed Arukh. I woke late in the day. Putting on the armlet, I wandered over to the Street of Joy.
The Street of Joy was actually a marketplace, or meeting place, located off the Goblin market, near several kingdoms, but controlled by none of them. In fact, it stood just within the Downriver, the slum quarters.
Flesh was sold there. Or more accurately, the use of flesh. All manner of people, male and female strutted here with darkened eyes and painted lips. I passed by sellers of all breeds, Humans, Dwarves, Selks, Hobgoblins, even a Giantess ambled through the throng swivelling her hips. Scattered through the market were hovels and buildings of every kind where buyers might enjoy the wares.
The street was thick with potential customers of all sorts, bargaining or making assignations. Here and there a street shaman patrolled, swaggering with magic.
I seldom visited the Street of Joy and never traded there. The people that dealt in their bodies tried to give nothing else. There was a flat madness here, cold and quick to violence that I found too familiar.
I passed down the street, making eye contact again and again. A few customers propositioned me. A ring of Goblins formed dancing around me, offering extravagant promises of bliss. I grinned, but otherwise ignored them. I reached the end and turned around.
My eyes met those of a blond prostitute. She was thin and hollow looking, even for a Human. Her gaze flicked to the armband I wore, reached for my eyes again, and was drawn back to the armband. I approached her.
“I do Orcs,” she said. “A lot of girls won’t. But I don’t mind. They hurt you, but not too much, and they stop it when they finish. I don’t mind, as long as they stop. They pay good.”
She recited this dully, as if someone had taught it to her. She kept looking at the armband.
“Sometimes they don’t even hurt me. I like that,” she finished. She had scabs on her shoulders from toothmarks. Her body bore the traceries of old scars. She was empty inside. Like an Arukh.
“You do Iron Knife?” The knife would be sufficiently unusual that a Human might identify an Arukh by it.
“Who?”
So much for that trick, I thought.
She continued.
“I have a good mouth. I do that best.” She snuck another glance at my armband. She wore one herself, though not so heavy. The workmanship was similar.
“I don’t want your body,” I told her. “I want to know things.”
“That costs, too,” she mumbled.
I flicked a piece of copper at her. She failed to catch it and had to scrabble along the ground. A Goblin snatched it up and ran away, giggling. I held out another piece.
“Has anyone disappeared from here?” I asked.
“People disappear all the time,” she said. “They just go away.”
She took the copper from my hand.
“Disappear with no reason?” I said. “They should be there, they didn’t go away, but they are just gone.”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know. Ask Copper Thoughts. He knows these things.”
“Take me to Copper Thoughts.”
I flicked her another piece of copper. She caught it this time.
Copper Thoughts was a street shaman. I stayed clear of street shamans. They had the reputation of being crazier than Arukh. In war they were deadly. In peace they were unpredictable and dangerous.
The girl lead me to the Shaman house in the Street of Joy. Magical symbols covered the building as we mounted the rough wooden steps and went inside. It was like the Troll’s lodge, but smaller. Shaman’s and sorcerers drank and gambled and conducted their business at great tables.
I followed the girl to a table near the centre where a handsome young human with long dark braided hair held court with prostitutes and fighters. He had souls in pouches at his belt. Copper Thoughts was everything I hated in a street shaman. He dressed in brown leathers and white fabrics with copper beads sewn into intricate designs. He was armed to the teeth. I counted three obvious knives, all bronze, and other bits of flamboyant useless armament. His magic potions rested ostentatiously in belts of pouches that crossed his chest.
I saw a jumped up fighter with a few magic tricks, growing lazy and working a few whores. I suppressed a sneer. Perhaps not a great magician, but still dangerous.
He too looked at my armband and then snorted from his nose pipe. He gasped softly. His pupils dilating. He threw back his head and looked at me. The nose pipe dangled from a cord on his neck, a complex device: an elaborately carved cylinder with a tall chute and four studs piercing it.
Indolently, he laid his pipe on the table and waved to me.
“What can I do for you, Unborn?”
I sat before him.
“Know anyone who has disappeared?” I asked.
He just laughed at me.
“Heard of any killings?”
His retinue stared. I glanced at them. Three women, obvious prostitutes, all young. A scarred older man, once heavy, now running to fat, a fighter who’d seen better days. The last was a younger, unblooded fighter who looked nervous and uncomfortable. He seemed familiar. Except for the young fi
ghter, they all had the glazed vagueness of enchantments about them.
“There’s always killings. Anyone in mind?” he answered.
I could tell other shamans were listening. One or two ambled closer.
“Bad killing. Eyes gouged out, tongue gone. Crotch torn open. Lots more knifework than needed for a kill. As if the knife keeps going after the heart stops.”
That seemed to make his retinue nervous. The young fighter, the sharpest of them, pretended to look away, but watched me from the corner of his eye. I realized why he seemed familiar: he dressed like the horse riders. I’d seen a lot of that costume around lately.
Copper Thoughts nodded slowly.
“A month ago, we had one like that. Human girl, not one of mine. Tin Dreams.” He indicated another street shaman who met our eyes and looked away. “Cut her throat in her crib. Just kept on cutting.”
“Is that all?”
“A couple of weeks later, found another one. Human girl. This one was tied and gagged. Then started cutting. Looked like she wasn’t allowed to die for a while. Both of them just like you said.”
“Anything else?”
“Caught him. Dwarf tried a knife on a girl. She called, he ran. We all took him apart. No more problem.”
“Tell me about the Dwarf.”
“Nothing to tell. Not Dwarf City, a hanger on with the Worm Totem. No friends. Used to spend here, biding time till he could get in full.”
“He used a big knife?”
“Real big, almost a sword.”
“How long ago?”
“Took him down some days ago. A week.”
I nodded.
“You have good knives?”
“The best.”
“I need a new knife. I want an iron one this time. Sharp on both sides. Know a smith that does that?”
His eyes gave away nothing, but his voice went flat and deadly.
“Try the Trolls. Iron is expensive for an Orc.”
“Yeah. Know any other Arukh with iron knives?”
He shook his head.
“Orc that rich ought to spend.”
I pushed a handful of coppers towards him.
“You hear of any old bodies badly cut up? Anybody disappeared kind of strange?” I asked again, conspicuously fingering the armlet.
The Mermaid's Tale Page 5