by Tim Pratt
"I'm afraid that rather limits my interrogation options."
Zaqen sighed. "I'll get the rope."
Once the halfling was bound to the tree trunk, Zaqen dispelled the paralysis, and the halfling strained pointlessly against the bonds. Rodrick waited politely until he stopped struggling, then said, "Shall I repeat the question?" He waved Hrym back and forth. "Attack on a priest and a huntsman?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." The halfling peered suspiciously at Hrym. "I was just taking a walk in the woods—"
"Here's our problem." Rodrick sat down to get more comfortable. "Our priest is not with us, as he was grievously wounded by bandits—did I mention he was attacked? Now, if he were with us, I'm sure he could invoke the powers of his god to tell us whether or not you're lying. But since he's not available, we're forced to rely on cruder measures. Zaqen?"
The sorcerer smiled, showing off her frankly dreadful teeth, then bowed her head. A drop of saliva formed on her lips, then dropped to the forest floor, where it sizzled and smoked.
"That would be acid," Rodrick said. "We'll start with your fingers. Do you favor your left or your right hand? We're not monsters, and I'll feel bad if you turn out to be telling the truth, but it will take at least three fingers to find out—"
"Yes, all right, I robbed them," the bandit snapped. "They were walking in the forest, the idiots—what did they expect? We didn't even kill them, so what are they complaining about?"
"Oh, as an occasional brigand myself, you have my sympathy. Our victims never appreciate it when we go easy on them. Alas, I am presently in the employ of one such victim, so I have to set my natural sympathy for your plight aside. We're almost done now. I just need you to give me back the things you stole—especially a particular ring, and a jeweled skull."
"Ha," the halfling said. "Torture me all you like, you won't get those things back. Our chief has them."
"That's fine. We'll talk it over with your chief. Just tell us where we can find him."
The halfling snorted. "You may as well kill me now. She'll kill me anyway if I reveal the location of our camp."
"He thinks we want to kill him, Hrym!" Rodrick said. "Isn't that ridiculous?" He patted the bandit on the knee. "We wouldn't kill you. If you aren't alive, how can you suffer?" He twitched Hrym back and forth before the halfling's eyes. "This is my sword. He's his own sword, really, but we travel together, and he'll do things for me if I ask politely. He is a sword of living ice, as you may have noticed, and while he can certainly kill people, he can also do damage more ...selectively. Zaqen, could you hand me that branch?"
The sorcerer handed over a broken length of branch, sprouting three smaller branches at the end, festooned with dying leaves. "Hrym, could you freeze this for me? Not the whole thing. Just the leaves on one of the branches."
The air around them grew suddenly cooler, and half a dozen leaves turned white with frost. Rodrick held out the branch to Zaqen, who flicked one of the leaves with her fingers. The leaf shattered like delicate glass, shards falling to the forest floor.
"Hrym has amazing control," Rodrick said. "He can turn things to ice very selectively. What do you think would happen if I asked him to freeze you? Not all of you. Just, say ...your manhood. Or not even your whole manhood. Say just the tip?"
The halfling swallowed. "Don't," he said, all sneer and smirk gone.
"Give me a reason not to," Hrym said.
∗ ∗ ∗
"We should have killed him," Zaqen said.
"Shh." Rodrick crouched beside her behind a deadfall near the bandit camp. "We left him tied to a tree, didn't we? Maybe some carnivore will come along and devour him—would that make you feel better? His people didn't kill Cilian and Obed, so I see no reason to escalate things now."
"You don't think killing is going to come into this? I count five of them."
"And Cilian says there aren't any others lurking in the trees, so the odds are practically even, if you count Hrym. These people seem to trust in the safety of their isolation so much they don't post sentries." Rodrick shook his head. "Bandits are so lazy. I admire it, really. Quite the lifestyle. Hunting and gathering. Lots of time for leisure."
The camp was hardly a buzzing hive of activity. An orc and a hulking man with bizarre crystalline growths on one side of his face sat around a cold firepit, sharpening weapons and swapping filthy stories. Rodrick wondered if the man with the growths was an oread, or just the victim of some bizarre magical parasite. A woman in mud-stained robes mumbled and fussed over some sort of crucible—she was an alchemist or wizard or healer, probably. An older, leaner, stringy man slept with his head pillowed on a heap of moss, a bow at his side. And the black-haired, dark-skinned woman lounging against a tree cutting off slices of apple and popping them into her mouth was presumably the bandit chief, because she wore the best armor, a black leather affair that looked like some kind of snakeskin.
The jeweled dog's skull rested on top of a log near the center of the camp, and it was less impressive than Rodrick had expected. It must have come from a fairly small dog, and the skull was gray and stony with age, some of the teeth chipped and uneven. The jewels were just little emeralds in the eyes, barely worth the trouble of prying out with a knife.
A bird somewhere sang a snatch of melody that Rodrick recognized as part of a bard's song about the great and mighty Aroden. That was their signal that Cilian was in place. Rodrick would have preferred it if he and Zaqen could have attacked the camp from separate directions, but there was precious little in the way of cover or concealment—the big trees all around them didn't allow enough sunlight for any decent undergrowth to develop. The snarl of fallen trees they crouched behind was the closest they could get to the camp while remaining concealed.
Rodrick slowly unsheathed Hrym and counted under his breath.
Before he got to four, the wizard/priest/alchemist gurgled and fell face-forward into her own crucible, the feathered end of an arrow protruding from the back of her neck.
Rodrick approved. Always take out the magic-users first. They weren't necessarily as strong or even as dangerous as swordsmen, but you knew what to expect from a swordsman. Magic-users were unpredictable, and winning even a small battle like this was easiest when you could account for as many variables as possible.
The thugs by the fire silently dove for cover behind logs, the sleeping bowman didn't wake, and the bandit chief rose and started to walk backward quickly. They couldn't have that.
Zaqen raised her hands, without leaving the cover of the deadfall, and spoke an invocation that made Rodrick's eardrums ache. A stinking greenish cloud precipitated out of the air and flowed across the camp. The bowman woke, gasped, rolled over, and began noisily vomiting. That sound was followed by gagging and retching from the two thugs.
That left the bandit chieftain. Rodrick stood, gestured at the bandit with Hrym, and shouted "Freeze!"
"Freeze?" Hrym said. "You tell her to freeze, and you also want me to literally freeze her? I know being funny isn't your strong suit, but surely you can do better than—"
"Knife!" Zaqen shouted, and Rodrick saw the chieftain had paused long enough in her retreat to hurl a dagger at him. The flying knife shimmered blue, encased by magical ice, and dropped harmlessly to the ground.
"Freeze, please?" Rodrick said, and the chief gasped as her boots were frozen to the ground. Ice crawled up her ankles, and she bent at the waist, hammering at the ice with the hilt of another dagger, but magical ice was tougher than most, so she didn't make much progress.
Rodrick sauntered over to her, while Zaqen warily approached the vomiting bandits and Cilian materialized from the trees and edged forward, bow at the ready in case of further surprises.
"Drop the knife, please!" Rodrick called.
The bandit raised her arm, and Hrym froze the limb in place for her, icy armor growing across her shoulders and up to her wrist, forcing her to hold the arm aloft. She grunted, trying to lower her arm, but the ice wouldn't shif
t. The dagger tumbled from her fingers to the dirt.
Rodrick stood before her and grinned. "How does a woman as pretty as you—"
She spat in his face.
Rodrick wiped the spit away, nodding to himself. "Yes. I deserved that. Commenting on your beauty could be seen as condescending. You're obviously a formidable woman of great accomplishment—"
She spat again.
"Hrym, couldn't you freeze her saliva or something?"
"Sure," the sword said. "Let's try that. An interesting technical challenge."
"Your sword talks," she said.
"Yes, this is Hrym, a remarkable magical artifact—"
This time when the bandit spat, the spittle froze into tiny ice balls, which rather stung when they struck Rodrick's cheeks.
"New plan," he said, and pressed Hrym against the chief's throat. "You don't have to die today. Neither do your men—though my friend who unleashed the stinking cloud on them says they might wish they could die, since their guts will be turning inside out for a while. Just the barest whiff of that cloud made my stomach churn and my eyes water, so I can't imagine getting it full in the face. We're here to take back the dog skull—"
"That thing?" She frowned. "Why? It's just some old temple trash. We tried to pry the emeralds out, but the knife broke. It was a good knife, too, and hardly worth wasting on those gems. I've seen bigger fleas."
"The reason we want the skull doesn't matter—" Rodrick said.
"It's magic," Hrym interrupted. "The skull. Howls in the presence of demons. We're, ah, crusaders. Bound for the Worldwound. Seems like a useful item."
"Your sword talks," she said again.
Rodrick frowned. "Did you get a head injury? We've already established that—"
"Your sword talks shit," she continued. "What good would a charm for recognizing demons do you in the Worldwound? The land is utterly infested with demons, and has been since the Locust Lord escaped his prison. If you go there, won't the skull just scream all the time?"
"A fair point," Rodrick said. Now it was his turn to frown. "Why do you know so much about demons? You're not some kind of cultist, are you?"
She snorted. "Humans who worship demons make as much sense as cattle who worship men or rabbits who worship wolves. Only fools become demon cultists. But of course I know about demons. I am of Brevoy. The Locust Lord and his host were defeated here—don't you know anything? Deskari's army was driven into the Lake of Mists and Veils by Aroden himself. The Last Azlanti and his allies forced the demon host into the freezing depths to drown, and cleansed this land of its taint." She lifted her chin. "I know only what any loyal daughter of Brevoy would know."
"Ah, yes, Brevian pride, how nice. Or Brevish? Brevic? No matter. The fate of a host of demons a thousand years ago isn't high on my list of concerns right now, nor should it be on yours. You should be more concerned with your own fate. The skull is safe in your camp, and will be retrieved. But we also need the ring you stole from the priest. The pretty one with the pearl?"
She snorted. "The ring is gone. Why would we keep the worthless thing? It helps you breathe air. That's like having a magical ring that lets you grow hair in your armpits or take a shit after eating. What's the point? We didn't even think we could sell it, so my wizard took it apart to see if he could make it into something useful." Another snort. "He couldn't."
Rodrick sighed. "This is very inconvenient."
"What is?" Zaqen said, shuffling over.
"The ring. They destroyed it."
The sorcerer sighed. "Of course they did. Rodrick, why don't you get the skull and have Cilian show you where Obed is? I'll be along in a moment."
He frowned. "What are you going to do?" Rodrick realized he hadn't heard any retching for a while, and he turned to look back at the camp, where all three of the male bandits were facedown on the ground.
"I am doing what my master requires," she said.
"Zaqen, there's no need to kill her, they've been defeated—"
"Obed will not suffer this indignity." Zaqen did not take her eyes off the defiant bandit chieftain's face. "The ones who ambushed and stole from him must die. I know you do not approve. I let you spare the life of the halfling. You have that much, Rodrick. Do not push me for more."
"Obed is terribly bloodthirsty for a man who worships the sea, nature, the sanctity of life—"
"Nature does not consider life sacred." Zaqen drew a hooked blade already stained red. "Nature will destroy life on a whim, pointlessly. There's always more life waiting to replace what dies, and to feed on the dead. Life is not sacred, any more than mud or rocks or ashes. Nothing so plentiful can be precious."
"Zaqen ..."
"I don't like this any more than you do. But it must be done."
"I still have one free arm, bitch, try your best—" the chieftain began, and Zaqen spat a stream of acid onto her throat.
Rodrick turned and rushed away before the smell of melting flesh could reach his nose.
Chapter Twenty
The Surface Curse
Why does she take the eyes of her enemies?" Cilian whispered.
Rodrick shrugged. "I don't know. She threatened to tell me once. I'm just as happy not to know."
Zaqen knelt at the side of the woodland pool where Obed was soaking, speaking to her master in a low voice. Their conversation was occasionally punctuated by Obed's angry pronouncements. Rodrick hoped the various imperatives and remonstrations wouldn't take much longer. It would be dark soon, and he wanted to get out of the woods before then. Just because they'd defeated—no, don't be coy, slaughtered—one group of bandits didn't mean there weren't other dangers here.
"The portents have troubled me of late." Cilian picked up a handful of soil and let it sift through his fingers, peering at the way the falling dirt scattered on the ground. "I have seen things that disquiet me."
"Like being attacked by bandits and coshed into unconsciousness?" Rodrick said.
Cilian shook his head, serious as always. "No, those are the ordinary dangers of life in this world, and in the wild. I have seen—"
"Rodrick!" Zaqen called, and Rodrick was annoyed to find himself snapping to attention. "Come help me, please!"
"We'll talk later," he told Cilian, who nodded, his brow knit in worry. Who knew what anxieties a mad half-elf seeking Brightness suffered? And more to the point, who cared?
Rodrick picked up the small pack they'd filled with dry clothes for Obed. The priest was treading water in the pool, expression furious.
"You're annoyed about the ring," Rodrick said, and Obed just growled. "I can't say I blame you. Fortunately, Zaqen and I were prepared for the possibility of failure. If you're feeling sufficiently saturated now, we'll start walking. We should make it to the road before you dry out too much, and if you start to feel too arid ..." He thumped the pack, and the inexhaustible pitcher of seawater inside clanked. "We can always douse you with the first key. I suggested we fit the pitcher with straps, make a sort of helmet from the thing, and just upend it on your head to constantly shower you with brine, but ..." He shrugged. "Zaqen seemed to think that would lack dignity."
"Just get me out of these woods," Obed said. "And let me worry about my own dignity."
∗ ∗ ∗
The dry clothes proved a bit pointless, since the priest stopped every hour or so to inundate himself with water from the pitcher, upending the artifact over his head and letting the torrent of brine slosh down over him, cascading down his chest, back, and shoulders. Zaqen fluttered around him like a nervous hen around a chick, and Cilian ranged ahead, scouting to make sure they wouldn't encounter any nasty surprises. Which, fortunately, they didn't. Rodrick had been party to enough casual murders today. Sometimes murder was necessary, but they hadn't even made a profit off this last bunch. If the bandit camp had contained any decent loot, they'd hidden it well, and Zaqen hadn't left any of the brigands alive to interrogate about the location of any treasure troves.
By the time they reached the
actual outskirts of the forest, it was nearly dark. Zaqen paused by a particular stone and deactivated the deadly magical traps she'd created around the area, then dug down in the dirt to a shallow depth and found the folding shovels they'd hidden there. Cilian and Rodrick pitched in to dig a deeper hole to retrieve the saddlebags, wrapped in sacking, that held that portion of Obed's wealth he carried with him in gold and gems. Cilian slung the bags over his shoulder and didn't even stagger under the burden. He would be a good man to have along in a robbery, Rodrick thought. Load him down with the contents of a vault and send him running for the hideout with a quickness.
They passed through the last few trees and out into the logged clearing that abutted the road. The carter they'd hired was waiting there, standing on his driver's seat, shading his eyes and peering in their direction. Rodrick felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease at the sight of the man, his wagon, and his placid draft horse. Despite the promise of extra coin, and the implied threat that they would seek him out at his place of business in New Stetven if he deserted them, Rodrick hadn't been entirely sure the carter and the guards would wait. Their horses and the camel were still there, tied to the cart, along with the two bored mercenary guards they'd hired in New Stetven to keep their vehicle from being stolen by any passing brigands.
Zaqen scurried up to the guards, paid them in small bags of coin she'd prepared earlier, and sent them smiling toward their tethered horses. The carter began to complain loudly about how long he'd had to wait, and Obed spoke up: "You. Leave. Now."
The carter gaped, staring down from his high seat at the priest. "We can leave as soon as you lot—"
Obed's face was obscured beneath his soaking-wet hood, hiding his expression, but the snarl in his voice was unmistakable. "You will leave. You alone. Zaqen, pay him for his filthy nag and his rattletrap cart."
"Here, now, you can't talk to me that way. What makes you think my horse and rig are for sale? I was hired to haul, not—"
"Will this do?" Zaqen said, shaking a clinking coin bag.
The carter snapped his head around at the sound of jingling coins, took the bag, teased open the strings, and looked inside. He was an old man, gray hair sprouting from his ears, doubtless the striker and receiver of countless hard and bitter bargains, a jaded negotiator who would let no reaction show. Nevertheless, he couldn't prevent a little grunt from emerging when he looked inside the bag. "Well," he said slowly, looking meditatively up at the darkening sky. "I guess this is a start—"