The uncle, Berkop, his bald head raked by purple scars, as if clawed by some great bird.
The youngest son, Thriton, the one Gad liked, is nowhere to be seen. His family medallion hangs from the back of his usual chair, so that no one else will sit there. A place has been set for him, though without fork or knife.
"He leapt from the battlements," intones Aeris, seeing the question in Gad's gaze. "I told him to leave, but he wouldn't. Suma honor, he said."
Braval emits a warning cough.
Aeris ignores him. "We lack all else, but retain our ancestral honor. Do as his father and grandfather did. Fight the demons. Don't desert your post. The castle is more important than you are. Its stones and mortar. Defend them at every cost."
"Shut up, you mad bitch," Berkop growls.
As Gad passes, Aeris lays a chalky hand on his arm. "Take her with you and never bring her back," she implores. "One of us at least must escape this awful place. This tomb."
"Shut up, mother," says Julnes.
Simon rouses briefly from his wide-eyed daydream. "I've stabbed you before and I'll stab you again," he tells Julnes.
"I'd welcome the attempt," Julnes sneers.
Braval bangs a fist on the table. Plates rattle. "Shut up, the lot of you," he says. "There's only one of you still fit to call himself a Suma, and she's late for supper." He stands up and shouts, "Where, by Iomedae's tapered tits, have you gotten yourself to, Jerisa? I won't have you humiliate me again!"
Jerisa appears, shamefaced, in the doorway. A series of sulky hops takes her to the table. She notes the spot where Gad is standing and sits down across from him. A theatrical scraping of her chair's legs against the cold stone floor rends the feast-hall air.
Gad sits down. The others follow his cue. Tiberio is the last to sit, his shoulders visibly drooping under the tension of the room.
Sallow serving girls bring in the promised mutton, and salt pork besides. There are gray, mounded bread loaves, boiled turnips, and a jar of pickled beets.
"W-we're ss-sseeing it in our d-duh-duh-duh-dreams now," says palsied Frane.
"What?" says Gad.
"Y-yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh ..."
"Yath," snaps Simon. "We're seeing Yath. Rising from the earth. Roots of corrupted stone. Hairs and tendrils and pincers. A parasitic worm, come to devour our minds."
The mother giggles. "This handsome man will sweep you away from here," she tells Jerisa. "To safety."
"No, he won't," Jerisa says.
Gad reaches for the bread basket. "We'll talk about it later."
"No," says Jerisa, "Let's dispense with it now. Because there's nothing to talk about."
"It's Yah-Yath t-told p-p-puh-poor Thriton to jump," Frane says.
Gad studies Frane for a moment.
Julnes downs a flagon and belches.
"I shouldn't have done what I did," Gad begins.
"Be more specific," says Jerisa.
"But whatever mistakes I made, whatever hurt I caused you, doesn't matter compared to the threat out there. All of Mendev might be at stake. The world."
"Find someone else," Jerisa says.
"I need you."
"But for m-m-muh-muh-me Yath h-has d-duh-duh-different plans," says Frane.
"Oho," says Hendregan, as if Frane has told a joke.
Vitta sits beside Frane. "Shush now," she says.
Gad stands. "Let's talk elsewhere."
Jerisa slumps in her chair. "You knew how I felt. From the first minute, you knew."
Braval's fist clatters the plates again. "Aroden's bones, child! This is the family table! Take your filth talk away from us."
Arms crossed, head down, Jerisa leads Gad to an antechamber. "You want to talk?" she says. "Then talk. But I'm not going with you."
"We're going to banish Yath."
"So?"
"You can see that it's the force destroying your family."
Her head swivels involuntarily toward them. "They deserve it," she hisses.
"Even your father?"
"Him it won't get. But him most of all."
"I don't believe you when you say that. You don't believe you."
She says nothing.
"You're right," Gad says. "I did know how you felt, from the very first moment."
"You always know that. With all of them."
"I thought it was what you wanted."
"You knew I didn't want it like that."
"I thought it would finally burst the bubble for you."
"Burst the bubble?"
"To let you see that it didn't matter."
"It did matter. And that's not why you did it."
"Then tell me why I did it."
"I caught you in a moment of weakness."
Gad thinks for a moment. It's a trap, but he's not sure how. "That's right. A moment of weakness."
She moves to strike him.
There's no knife in her hand, so he lets her. It hurts. It never stops surprising him, how hard her blows can be. How much power those skinny arms contain.
"That's what I am to you," she says, "Your moment of weakness."
"On the other side of the ledger, you did slit my throat afterward."
She gives him her back. "If I'd really slit your throat, you wouldn't be breathing."
Another gloomy day. They convene in the feast-hall. The half-blind servant brings them cheese and nuts. Gad arrives late, come from a parley with Braval.
"The old man's letting us stay?" Vitta asks.
"To make our plans, yes. As long as we like."
"He's hoping we'll still be here to fight when next the demons come." Calliard adjusts his lute. The damp air has reversed his tuning efforts.
"More demons to burn?" asks Hendregan.
"Of those, there will be no shortage," says Gad.
"Is Jerisa coming?" Tiberio asks.
"I'll turn her around," says Gad.
Vitta shakes her head. "She's not coming."
"I'll get her there," says Gad.
"What that girl wants, you haven't got to give."
"There's got to be an object we can steal," says Gad.
"An object?" Vitta asks.
"There's always an object," Gad explains. "A fetish, a focus, something Yath needs to stay in this world."
"It's possible ..." Calliard strums the lute, frowns, and tightens a key.
"We can't go in until we know more," Vitta reasons.
"We've heard of Yath. The Sumas have felt it in their dreams. Who's been there and directly beheld it?"
"Seen Yath and come back alive?" says Calliard. "That's easy enough. To my knowledge, there's only one. Sodevina."
Tiberio leans in. "Sodevina, who broke the Metal Legion?"
"Yes. And found the Bridge of Breath."
"Do you know where she is now?" says Gad.
"I have a good guess. If Braval can spare a messenger, I'll find out."
"Maybe she'll be our sixth," says Vitta. "Because the girl won't."
Gad grits his teeth.
"Another question," says Vitta.
"Ask," says Gad.
"The money."
"The money?"
"We're thieves, remember? A rip isn't a rip without money at the end."
Gad barely shrugs. "There's not a copper."
"Those aren't words that inspire me to risk my life."
He fixes his full attention on the halfling. "The bigger risk is to do nothing, and let the land be overrun. Try thieving then, when Mendev's a steaming lake of sulfur."
"We'll move on. Find somewhere else to set up."
"Assuming Yath stops after only eating Mendev. Calculate the costs of
moving. Of finding new contacts. Learning which officials are straight and which are crooked. Shouldering aside the local competition who are already well established wherever you choose to poke your nose. Forget heroism, Vitta. I promise you, this is the only selfish thing to do."
Calliard rises. "Shall I ask Braval about a messenger?"
"I'll come with you," Gad says.
They walk together down tower steps. "You're still good?" Gad says.
"You intend to keep asking?"
"Yes," says Gad.
"I'm still good. I haven't touched a drop in a year. I'm not about to start now."
"Good."
"We might need to work a banishment. What good is a demon hunter who can't banish?"
"If you have the stuff in your veins, you can't banish?"
"I can sense them better, but affect them less."
"An important fact," Gad says.
"Not relevant to the current situation. I've sworn off. I'm clear of it."
"Any bad dreams last night?"
"No. You?"
"No."
They reach the ground floor and head from the castle toward the parade ground, where Braval inspects his fraying troop.
"During the fight yesterday," Gad says. "That demon. The shadowy one on the parapet."
"The invidiak," says Calliard.
"It seemed to shake you."
"You don't trust me yet."
"You had that expression," says Gad.
"It was a larger specimen than I've seen before," says Calliard.
Jeweled slippers whispering across stone tiles, Lord Braval paces the floor of his daughter's bedchamber. He pinches a cold chicken leg between greasy fingers. He has taken one tiny bite from it. "Never has our need been greater," he says. "You cannot desert us now."
Jerisa sits on her bed, atop a bearskin blanket, knees tucked up under her chin. She won't look at him. "I already said I'm not going with him."
"We are Suma. This is Suma Castle. That is all there is to be said."
"Good." She points to the doorway.
Braval grimaces. "You say you aren't going, but I see into you."
"You don't see me at all."
"No more may you go into the world. There is nothing for you there but ruination. Every time you come back to us, you are weaker than the time before."
"Harder to command, you mean."
"Others may give in to wanderlust, but it is not for you. The walls of Suma are all the world any of our clan require."
"How exciting."
He points the chicken leg at her. "That mocking tone. You weren't like that, until you went out there. Mockery is the mark not of the leader, but of the led. It is for wretches and insubordinates. You must expunge it from your manner."
"Yes, father. Right away, father," she says.
"You mean to anger me so that I'll storm through that door and leave you in peace. I am forced to admit that you know me all too well. It is because we are the same, Jerisa."
She laughs.
"No longer," her father says, "will I fall for your devious games. It's far too late for that. Tomorrow our enemies might swarm at us again. If not, then the day after that, or the day after that. Any day a demon might take me. Whether my time comes this week or years from now, you will see me torn apart by an Abyssal foe, as I saw my father die and as he saw his. Then it will be you who must command. And you are not within a mile of being ready for that."
"Simon is the eldest son."
"He'll inherit the title. If he survives me, a prospect which I would not dare to predict. But it is you who is fit to wage war, and therefore must. I have been slow in accepting this necessity. He was the respectful one. The careful one. The one who obeyed. And now he is dead inside, shattered by the horror of our fate."
He kneels at her bedside. "You fought me from the moment you could speak, as you fought your way from your mother's womb. I was blinkered not to see it—your wilfulness, your rebellion, your ambition. These are the qualities of a warrior."
"They are your qualities."
"And my father's, and his father's, too."
She reaches for his hand.
"You must be toughened," Braval says, as he stands and moves away. "As I said, assume Simon survives my death. My titles are split. He becomes Lord; you become General. Consorts shall be found for the both of you. For him, so that the lineage may continue. For you, that your girlish flightiness may be stamped out and replaced with womanly fortitude. Also as a contingency should Simon fall without issue. I'll send a delegation to Kenabres, where presently resides a certain count. If he is as I have heard, he'll fight ably beside you, but is not so glorious or clever as to eclipse your authority. Should he prove unwilling or unsuitable, we'll find another. Until then, I must grant you greater authority over the men, so that you might become more accustomed to wielding it. In time they'll fix themselves as loyally to you as they have to me. But, as I said, you must alter your demeanor to achieve this. This Gad fellow ..."
"What about him?"
"Seeing you together, I understand."
"Understand what?"
Finally Braval gnaws a chunk of meat from the chicken leg. "You have been poisoned by his example. You think of him as a leader."
"Not anymore."
"You affect to despise him now, but still you see his ease and his impertinence as traits to be admired. Now, this attitude doubtless wins the fickle affections of outlaws and layabouts—"
"I am an outlaw, father."
"Impossible. A noble does not steal; she exercises her right to plunder." Braval stops himself short. He smiles a bearish smile. "Again you seek to distract me from my intent." He sucks a chunk of chicken into his mouth and heartily chews. "Understand this, my precious daughter. Gad is no leader. A leader must be stern, distant, unwavering. Soldiers live in fear; your certitude serves as antidote against that constant condition. Tomorrow I shall ...are you listening to me?"
She finds Gad on the outer parapet, facing the border, studying the distant, broken landscape of the Worldwound.
"I'll go with you," Jerisa says.
"Good," says Gad.
"But I want one thing from you."
"What would that be?"
"A kiss."
"A kiss," he says.
"A single kiss, and I'll go with you."
In the bleak distance, miles into demon country, a range of hilltops writhes. It segments itself into a half-dozen pieces; they shamble off in separate directions. A spearing shaft of sudden light reveals them as enormous, lacteal worms.
"I'll go there for you," she says.
"One kiss is all you want?"
"One kiss."
"And only a kiss?"
"If that's difficult for you—"
"I'm not sure what your—"
"No. No arguments. No negotiation. One kiss."
"Now?"
"It can be now. Or any time before you leave."
He squints. "So long as you understand—"
"No, no, I don't have to understand. I don't want to understand. That's not part of the deal. The deal is, you kiss me. Once."
"Then that's the deal," Gad says.
"It has to be real," she adds.
"Real in what sense?"
Her hands are on her hips. "Not like you'd kiss your sister."
"On the mouth," he says.
"A real kiss," she says.
"Very well," he says.
"Good, then."
"Calliard's messenger should be back soon," he says. "We might have to leave as soon as tomorrow."
"Well, then you have until as soon as tomorrow."
He moves in and brushes his lips against hers. Placing cool, thin h
ands on his face, she pulls him in tight. She holds his face to hers, prolonging the contact.
He tries gently to pull away. She presses herself harder to him. He resists, firmly disengaging himself.
She comes toward him. He pulls back.
"You have to understand," he says.
"I told you," she says, "I don't want to understand."
Her eyes glisten.
Chapter Six
The Ring
The granite barricades that once protected Zharech lie in blocky ruins. Like suffocating guardians, bushes and briars close in on them. Throughout the ruined and rebuilt town, a few stone walls remain. From them grow newer structures thrown together from ragged timber. Mud laneways curve to avoid piles of old rubble. Scrawny dogs sniff at them, pursuing scrawnier rats.
Makeshift corrals encircle scruffy nags, malnourished mules, and sleek, muscular warhorses. Grim armored men stand guard at their fences. Vendors hawk from canvas tents, announcing bargain prices on the implements of battle: blades, bows, shields, potions, arcane scrolls. An albino dwarf waves an engraved stick, claiming that it's a rod of might. Gray-robed healers offer to melt away bruises and fuse sheared bone, at exorbitant rates. Lay clerics stand on boxes, proclaiming the superior efficacy of their gods.
The loudest din comes from a half-repaired keep: roars of delight alternate with disappointed groans. Torchlight escapes its arrow slits.
The six ride along Zharech's central laneway.
"You know this place?" Vitta asks Jerisa.
"My father comes here sometimes to recruit," she says.
"Anyone we can trust with the horses?"
Jerisa scans the competing corrals until she spots a familiar face. A gristly old woman, her head a scrawl of white, witchy hair, sits on a high chair beside a corral gate, a longspear balanced on her knee. Jerisa dismounts, exchanges words with her, and drops a few coppers into a sack tied to the chair. Their horses squared away, the six lope together to the keep.
Leather-masked doorkeepers, jeweled in the manner of distant, decadent Taldor, bear scimitars at the gateway to the keep. They brace for resistance as Gad approaches. He trades a few hushed words with them; they ease themselves and beckon in the travelers.
They step into what was once the keep's interior courtyard. The air is choked with sweat and the sour musk of unwashed armpits. Spectators throng around a fighting ring, demarcated by chains strung along a series of iron posts. Coins clank, held aloft in threadbare purses. With open throats, the watchers scream. They curse in the common tongue, vituperate in Elven, and utter vile profanities in Dwarven. Most are ostentatiously armed. Their faces boast the scars of violent struggle. Madness tinges their wild cries, testimony to long months spent in the Worldwound's shadow.
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