by Sam Sykes
The scent of rage from this creature was overwhelming.
“I would not have,” he said, voice rigid as the blade he held in his hands.
“If you want to go finish him, I don’t think he’s gotten very far,” Gariath replied. “He was yours to kill, anyway. I just needed him for a moment.”
The tulwar shook his head. He flicked blood from his blade and slid it back into its sheath. Heedless of the wound in his shoulder or the bodies floating in the water around him, the tulwar offered a short, stiff bow from the waist.
“It was an honor to have watched you kill.” The rigidity of his stance was in his voice, as well, every word forced out with slow precision. “I had only heard stories and rumors.”
About me?
Gariath couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. Not that such information was entirely surprising. The Rhega were, after all, the stuff of legend.
Or at least the stuff of mass panic. That was almost as good.
“The outer city sings of your deeds in the Souk.” The tulwar’s eyes lit up: tiny, angry stars in the darkness. “The vulgore, the saccarii, the couthi, and my people all speak of the dragonman that defeated his own kind.”
Gariath’s earfrills twitched. “You mean Kharga? What do you know of the Drokha?”
“That is your word for them?” the tulwar asked. “We call them other things. Hounds of the fashas. Swallowers of gold. They take the humans’ coins to keep the other races in check. We know they are our enemies. We know they cannot be harmed.”
He grinned, all fangs and hatred.
“Until yesterday.”
The reek was all around Gariath now, in his nostrils, in his eyes, in his ears. It was palpable, roiling off of the tulwar with every breath. A hatred too well-tempered, too finely sharpened to seem fitting on this creature.
This creature before him was strong, proud. Hatred was supposed to be something he merely felt from time to time, not something he honed, not something he practiced. That kind of hate, that keenly scented reek, was something that belonged to humans.
That’s how it should be, anyway, Gariath thought.
“You called them… Drok-ha?” The tulwar spoke the word hesitantly; it always sounded wrong coming from someone who wasn’t a dragonman. “What do we call you, then?”
“Gariath.”
“That is your name or the name of your race?”
Gariath stared at him flatly. His voice escaped in a bitter growl.
“It no longer matters.”
The tulwar nodded, stiffly. He tapped two long fingers to his hairy, gray chest. “Daaru. Saan Rua Tong.”
So many names, Gariath thought. Who needs more than one?
Even though he knew the answer already.
“You hunt the Khovura?” Daaru asked. “The footwar is a human problem.”
“I decided it was mine,” Gariath said. “The building the human mentioned. Where is it?”
“I can show you.”
“You can tell me, just as easily.”
“The tulwar owe you a debt for striking against the Drokha.”
“That’s my fight. Not yours,” Gariath growled.
“No tulwar fights alone,” Daaru said. “All tulwar share blood. And tulwar blood spilled is tulwar blood avenged.”
“I am not a tulwar.”
“No. You are shkainai. Foreign. You don’t know where you’re going and you don’t know what the Sumps are like.” Flashes of color appeared across his face. “And I am still tulwar. I do not leave when I am needed.” He pointed at Gariath. “You need me.”
It was easy enough for Gariath to figure out why he wanted to hold the tulwar under the water until he stopped struggling. He was presumptive, insistent, and overall far too convinced of his own worth. All qualities Gariath found could be easily cured by violence.
Less easy was figuring out why Gariath wasn’t moving to do just that. There was something about the tulwar that he found too hard to throw away. The earnestness in his yellow eyes, maybe; the very real, very obvious belief that he was absolutely right, no matter how stupid he sounded.
The stink of faith. Daaru was a fanatic, but not a human fanatic.
Gariath found it slightly irritating just how easy it was for him to accept that.
He said nothing. No request for help, no invitation to come along, no forbidding warning to stay behind. He merely turned around and began walking in the direction he thought was northwest. If the tulwar wished to come, Gariath would not stop him.
He heard nothing. Not the sound of another pair of legs wading through the water behind him. Not the chatter about subjects like family, honor, bloodshed—subjects the tulwar seemed to think he knew about.
But he couldn’t help smelling. The scent of anger off the tulwar, a well-aged, hundred-year hatred, was impossible to ignore. It was pungent. It was pervasive.
And it was so terribly human.
In the utter silence of a city long drowned, Gariath still couldn’t hear them.
He could see them, or flashes of them, anyway. Brief flickers of torches and lanterns, dancing like witchlights before fading into darkness. Faces peering around the corners of ravaged buildings and rotted-out stalls, disappearing the moment he glanced in their direction.
But never once did they make a sound. Even in the ever-present water of the Sumps, those watching him never made so much as a splash.
And they never lingered long enough for him to get their scent.
“Cowards,” he muttered.
“Survivors,” Daaru corrected. “When humans were just gluttonous instead of glutted, this was Cier’Djaal, the outer city. They built the buildings you see here and were content to live in the shadow of the sea.” He pointed to the ground. “But they built it in a valley that was too low. The first Harbor Wall broke years ago and let in the sea. And when their buildings were ruined, they moved to dry land and built bigger.”
“The Souk?”
“And Silktown. And Temple Row. What they call the inner city today. The outer city is where they throw out their undesirables: Shicttown and the harbor.”
“And the Sumps?”
“Are where the outer city throws its undesirables,” Daaru said. “Cier’Djaal is a great, devouring beast. The Sumps are where it throws its scraps. And so, its scavengers grow large.” He waved a hand. “But they are not cowards. Most are saccarii and other unwanteds, willing to seize any opportunity to survive. Opportunists.”
“There is no difference.”
“A coward is craven out of opportunity,” Daaru said. “A rat is craven out of necessity. There is little to fight over here in the Sumps.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because where my people come from, there is even less.”
“Then go elsewhere.”
Daaru hesitated, looking over his shoulder. “You have never seen civilization before, have you, Gariath?”
“Human words are of no concern to me.”
“Nor any of us,” Daaru replied, chuckling. “We were content to live in our deserts, grow rice, hunt, and ignore the humans. But humans hate to be ignored. So they build their cities, they take our rice, they hunt our game, and offer to sell our own property back to us at a generous discount.”
His lips peeled back in a sneer. “So we played their game. We traded our rice for their gold, our strength for their steel. And once we began to amass power of our own, they changed the rules. They brought in the Drokha and put us down.”
“You hate the humans, then.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Then why stay in their city? Why not fight them?”
“I need to eat.”
“Then stay out in the desert. Starve and die with dignity.”
“And my children?” Daaru asked. “My grandmother? My wife? If the fashas do not bat an eye when I die with dignity, will they suddenly see a dozen dead tulwar and feel sympathy?” He shook his head. “I play their game. I survive.”
“It’s not enough for you to just survive.”
“No.” Daaru sighed. “It’s enough that the tulwar survive.”
It was, at that point, that Gariath decided that he didn’t like Daaru.
Daaru was a coward who skulked at the heels of the humans and ate what scraps they threw him. Daaru was a weakling who had been tainted by humans to have their scents blended with his. Daaru was a pretender who spoke of strength, but never used it.
This is what Gariath told himself.
But that was not what Gariath knew.
Daaru was the coward who collected scraps for family and people. Daaru was the weakling whose hatred was strong because he must keep it controlled. Daaru was the pretender who spoke of strength and never had to use it.
Daaru Saan Rua Tong, tulwar, father, husband, warrior, was someone Gariath, long ago and in another life, had been. Someone who Gariath had dearly enjoyed being.
This was what Gariath knew.
But that was not what Gariath told himself.
“How much farther?” he asked.
In response, Daaru came to a halt. With one hand resting on the pommel of his blade, he pointed out to a distant shape.
Remarkable only because it was merely decrepit instead of a standing ruin, the building loomed large over the rest of the Sumps. Retaining most of its windows—albeit all of them at least cracked—and with its roof caved in only on one side, it looked a far sight better than the rest of the drowned outer city. Even the moon seemed less disgusted by its presence, a silver glare peering through the gloom overhead to light it.
And that’s when Gariath saw the chains. Crossed over a door that looked far too solid to belong here, two dozen iron links were secured upon the door with a large, impressive-looking lock.
Suspicious enough, even without the lingering scent of fear around it.
He began to approach without a care for the sloshing of his steps, pushing past Daaru, who merely watched him.
“The saccarii say not even a serpent slithers in the Sumps without someone knowing about it,” the tulwar warned. “They may know you’re coming.”
“Good,” Gariath replied, coarsely. “This will be quick, then.”
“Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait? Scout it out first?”
Gariath paused and drew in a deep breath.
“There are people in that building that I intend to kill. If I can’t, then I will die. I could wait. But it wouldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Live or die, I have to go eventually.”
He snorted.
“So, we might as well be messy about this.”
He had hoped that would keep Daaru back. But he heard the sloshing feet behind him. Daaru was not staying behind.
That bothered him.
He approached the lock on the door and held it in his palm. The finer points of locksmithing had never been his strong suit—mostly because he had never cared about the duller points of locksmithing—but he knew a few things. He knew how to spot a well-made, mostly new lock, as he did then. And he also knew the surefire way to open any lock, as he was about to demonstrate.
Once I can find a big enough rock, he thought.
“Gariath,” Daaru said from behind.
Or a thick enough head.
“GARIATH!”
He whirled around, ready to deliver a cursing and possibly a beating for good measure, but thought better of it.
He probably wouldn’t have been heard over the sound of the giant rampaging through the water toward him, anyway.
The darkness kept him from knowing exactly what it was, but there was no darkness deep enough to hide its size. Tall as a tree, wide as a boulder, something huge came loping toward him on two massive arms and a pair of thick, short legs. Walls of water erupted with each massive stride, froth churning in its wake. Sand and stone were flung aside by arms big as trees.
It was impressive.
Not impressive enough that Gariath didn’t leap out of its path, but still.
The behemoth smashed into the doors with the rattle of chains and the crumble of stone. Bricks came loose and fell around the creature as it slowly turned to face Gariath, settling on the knuckles of immense hands.
“Kudj acknowledge perceived cowardice of ambush,” a thundering voice spoke. “Being honest, Kudj surprised Kudj not noticed earlier.”
Gariath recognized this creature. He knew the massive, bulky frame. He knew the chitinous horn jutting from the center of his brow. He knew the sigil worn on the creature’s harness.
“Perhaps squibs not blame Kudj when Kudj make milk’s meat out of them.” The vulgore reared back on his stumpy legs, raising his giant arms over his head. “Perhaps squibs blame own lack of awareness.”
His fists came crashing down and Gariath was forced to leap backward again. Frothy geysers erupted, sending waves roiling strong enough to force Gariath to fight to keep his footing.
A smile leapt to the dragonman’s face. He felt his claws twitch, his blood rush, his wings draw tight against his back. The water beat against his legs as he walked toward the monster. The earth felt unsteady beneath his feet as the behemoth lumbered toward him.
That was fine. He didn’t think about the water, the earth, or just how small he was in comparison to his foe. He had enough of thinking and feeling.
It was time to let violence solve everything again.
“Wait!”
Starting with Daaru.
The tulwar leapt in front of the behemoth, arms thrown out to the side.
“Stand aside, vulgore!”
“Kudj not paid to stand aside,” the vulgore said.
“We have no wish to fight you.”
“Kudj lament resort to violence. Kudj always thought true career choice would lie in cooking.” The vulgore raised a massive arm. “Harsh economy makes demands of Kudj, though.”
The most self-righteous gnat in the world, Daaru was swatted. He flew into the darkness, his cry ending in an unceremonious splash. Gariath suspected he ought to feel worse for not having tried to help. And he knew he ought to feel worse for smiling.
And he promised he would, right after he took care of this.
Kudj lumbered forward with an air of boredom, likely not at all convinced that even a dragonman could pose a serious threat. That was fine; Gariath had killed much bigger than him.
He rushed Kudj as the vulgore raised a massive fist, and darted aside as it crashed down. The ground shook, the waves roiled; these were concerns for people who reeked of fear.
Gariath’s nostrils were filled with the scent of dirty water, the aroma of dying buildings and, as he slipped around the behemoth and leapt upon a colossal back, the scent of blood.
If the howl that followed was any indication, Kudj was no longer bored.
Gariath scaled the vulgore’s spinal column like a ladder, wrenching his claws as he jerked them out of thick red flesh, twisting them as he plunged back in. Kudj shuffled beneath him, massive red arms swinging around him; Kudj roared, stomped, groped in a desperate effort to dislodge him.
And Gariath crawled inexorably up toward the neck. Like the rest of the vulgore, it was thick and covered in a dense rhinoceros hide. But amidst the flailing and the gnashing and the blood staining his hands and feet, Gariath could see his chance. A thick rope of muscle connected the shoulders to the skull, big and bulging and begging to be severed.
And Gariath, ever the giver, moved to oblige it.
His jaws opened, he leaned forward.
There was a great spurt of blood as he was pried off the vulgore’s back, a writhing tick between five massive fingers. He clawed blindly at Kudj’s hand for a moment before the behemoth roared, snapping his arm forward and dashing the dragonman upon the ground.
His bones rattled against the earth. Sound, scent, and sight vanished as he plunged beneath the water. Something inside him that should be solid felt loose and liquid.
He couldn’t see Kudj’s fist. But he felt it as it slammed into the ground right b
eside him. He supposed Kudj couldn’t see him, either. Not that one needed to see too well when one’s fists were the size of hogs. He could hear the muffled slam, feel the shock through his body as the fists came down over and over, each time narrowly missing him as he scrambled blindly beneath the water.
The pounding stopped for a moment. He rolled onto his back. Through the wavering moonlight, he saw the behemoth’s simian face leaning down to peer beneath the shuddering surface.
Gariath came howling out of the water, froth and claws and blood rising up to attach to the vulgore’s horn. The behemoth reared back, taking Gariath with him. The dragonman clawed at the behemoth’s face, bit at his cheeks, kicked at his chest. He felt the warmth on the behemoth’s breath, the spittle in his howl, the blood torn from his face.
And in another instant, he felt the sky.
The vulgore ripped him off with barely a flinch, seizing him in both hands and hurling him.
Gariath felt his wings flapping for purchase before he skidded against the water and slammed against the brick-and-lumber remains of a long-dead building in a shudder of stone. Whatever had come loose inside him now rattled around in his chest. When he coughed, it burned and his mouth tasted of copper.
He staggered to his feet, half-surprised that he was able to without being ground into paste. Kudj merely stood, resting on his massive knuckles, looking at Gariath with an inscrutable expression.
“You’re bleeding,” the dragonman snarled. “Step aside before you lose more.”
“Kudj have lots of blood. Squib can have more, if he need.” The vulgore shifted on his knuckles, peering at the dragonman. “Why not squib run? Squibs always run from Kudj. Make guard duty much more preferable than squish-dependent jobs.”
“What you’re guarding is something I’m willing to kill for.” He sneered. “Do they pay you enough to die for it?”
“Kudj not privy to rationale behind fasha decision,” the vulgore rumbled. “Kudj not even know what Kudj guard. But Kudj sure it not worth more blood.” He pointed a massive finger over Gariath’s head. “Squib go. No more blood today.”
“Gariath disagree,” the dragonman growled.
He took a step forward. It hurt.
It shouldn’t hurt, he said inwardly. You’re Rhega. The strongest. You’ve fought demons. You’ve killed things that should not be. Why does this hurt so much?