“I’m afraid there’s no games today, friend.”
Evetner slowly raised his hands. “I’m looking for shelter. For me and my companions.”
The man approached him, a scowl partially concealed beneath his massive beard. “How many outside?” he asked. “And don’t go lying. I’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“Three,” Evetner answered. “Two children and a man.”
This seemed to unsettle him. “Them children yours? Or you selling ’em off!”
“Selling them off? No, they were stowaways,” Evetner replied. “Didn’t find ’em until we were two days out from Moss Town. We’re taking them with us to the Block.”
The man sat down on a bench, the bow still aimed at Evetner. For a time he was silent, staring at him, until finally he shook his head. “What in the fuck you doing out here, boy? You know what’s comin’, right?”
Evetner nodded. “We’re runners.”
The man laughed. “Bullshit! The last runners I heard of made the Block weeks ago.”
“We had some… complications.”
Two of the dogs now sat silent at the man’s feet, panting as their companions prowled about the room. The man stroked one of their chins with his free hand. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Evetner.”
“Mind telling me where you got that sword and armor, Evetner?”
“My father.”
The man laughed. “Your father… a Watkarian? And he gifted his steel, too? Bullshit.”
Evetner’s hands curled into fists. “No bullshit.”
The man stared into Evetner’s eyes as one of the ragged dogs pawed at his side. After a few moments, he lowered the crossbow and sighed.
“I suppose it don’t matter anymore,” he said. “Won’t save you now.” He placed the crossbow at his side. He wore a thick, fur trimmed vest over a filth-stained leather overcoat and worn leather breeches patched more times than Evetner could count. His brown teeth and leathery skin whispered of hard living far from the comforts of civilization, and his accent betrayed a northerner’s subtle twang.
Evetner lowered his arms as another dog brushed against his leg. “I have a friend who’s sick,” he said. “Can we take shelter here until morning?”
The man considered this for a moment then shrugged. “Why not? Got nothing to steal if you’re thieves. And if you try your luck with the dogs you’ll likely end up like them fellas.” He pointed to the pit. “I fear my furry friends weren’t too happy with their old masters’ accommodations.”
Evetner glanced over his shoulder into the pit. Blood and sinew lay strewn across the floor and walls.
“Who were they?” he asked.
The man lifted the smallest dog onto his lap and stroked its filthy fur. It was missing its right hind leg and a long, white scar bisected its right eye socket.
“Pitmasters,” the man replied. “Gambling whores and slavers. Found ’em pitting the sickest of the dogs against a group of traders they’d captured not far from here.”
“By the gods,” Evetner said. So it was an Ulkay pit. Every continent had its equivalent. On Tritan it was the acid houses of Zurith; on Alg the jungle mazes of Razomoth; even the Culver was rumored to sport nagra runs, where thieves and murderer were forced to walk through fields of the nesting parasites.
Barbarism born of boredom and lawlessness, he thought.
But the Ulkay pits of Alimane were the most notorious. Here, trainers starved and tormented the poor beasts, sometimes crippling or blinding them at birth to hone specific senses for the fights. When they were ready, victims were dropped into the pit with only their bare hands to defend themselves.
The man nodded as the dog nuzzled his shin. “Given our new situation, I let the pitmaster know how I felt about his practices.” He gestured into the blood-spattered hole.
Evetner tensed as the enormous dogs prowled the room. They were Gorisgan punchers, the largest breed in all of Retrac Daor, prized beyond measure for their ability to survive in subzero conditions with minimal food and water.
The man eyed Evetner with a wicked smile. “You think it wrong… that I let them have a go at them bastards?”
“No.”
“So what is it then? You a priest or something?”
Evetner leaned over the pit and spat. “I only wish you had waited so I could’ve watched.”
The man laughed deep and loud. “Well said, friend. Well said.” He handed Evetner a bottle of amber fluid. “Bring your friends in if it makes you happy. I’ve been long enough alone and could use some two legged companions.”
Evetner nodded as he accepted the bottle. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I fart and snore and can smell a liar from a league away.”
His name was Gremin Howel. Trapper, trader, and odd sort of bard. His tools: gossip and whatever news he could scrape or scratch from the many inns and brothels he frequented in his travels.
“Worked my way here all the way from Ash Port,” he told them as Evetner laid Haliden down beside a roaring fire. They were in the rear of the building now, a kennel-like chamber lined with six enormous steel cages.
The brothers sat down beside Haliden and Evetner and warmed themselves by the fire. Every now and then the artist whimpered, calling out a single name: Milane… Milane… Milane…
“Seen a lot things in my life,” the trapper went on as he tossed a fresh log onto the fire. “But nothing like this madness.”
The boys watched silently as sparks erupted up the chimney. Beside them, several dogs rolled about at play.
Evetner stood and began removing his father’s armor. It was heavy and slick with snow and ash. He carefully wiped it down and placed it near the fire.
“Impressive craftsmanship,” the trapper said as he watched. “Castle forged steel, too. Very nice, indeed. You steal it?”
Evetner frowned. “It was my father’s.”
“Really? You’re a Watkarian’s son? And he just let you have his blade and armor?”
Evetner pulled the sword closer. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. Just never heard of a Watkarian gifting his steel to anyone.”
Evetner wiped the blade down with a rag and placed it at his side. “Well, times have changed. For everyone.” He glanced around the chamber. “Where in the hells are we, anyway?”
“Yulith’s Trap,” Gremin said, licking mead from his beard. “At least that’s what one of them fuckers called it before our furry friends had their way with him. A pit house for slavers and gamblers.” He spit into the fire. “Found a handful of the shits still betting on the dogs when I arrived. Had a boy with ’em, too. No older than these two.” He shook his head. “They put him in with the hungriest beasts. Too late by the time I arrived, though.”
One of the punchers brushed against the trapper’s leg, grunting and howling. Gremin smiled as he scratched its chin.
“Had to put a few of ’em down,” the trapper said, his expression saddening. “Too damn feral to be around men. Killed me to do it, though.”
Evetner approached the door and slid back the viewport. Outside the snow had turned to ash, cutting visibility to a few yards. If that charger is still nearby, he thought, his efforts are proving quite pointless. The air had already grown warmer and the horizon was now alit with approaching fire.
“So what’s your move, son?” Gremin asked.
Evetner sighed. “Don’t know. We got no horse. Can’t pull two wagons without one.”
Gremin took another sip from his mug. “You really meant to take them to the Block?”
Evetner nodded.
“Dangerous times, fella. Lots of strange folk out here. Suiciders
drowning themselves in the Mirror. Flesh hunters eating their way through the Pelnor wheat fields. Folks calling themselves fire worshipers and burning themselves alive.”
“I made a vow to my town that I would take their venermin to the Block,” Evetner said. “Come what may.”
/> Gremin nodded. “Mighty valiant of you. But do you know anything of the Block?”
“Of course,” Evetner replied.
“So you know of the Guards of the Stretch?”
Evetner nodded.
“How about Beggar’s Gate and the Maw?”
Evetner shook his head.
Gremin sighed. “You have more to learn than you know then, kid. Bronthius’s Maw stands at the base of the Block, an impenetrable door wrought from six footfalls of Tritan steel. And that’s not even the worst of it. First you have to get through Beggar’s Gate and the two hundred yard tunnel beyond lined with mechanized Tritan crossbows tied to pressure plates buried in the ground.”
The older man sat back and sipped his mead. “When I was around your age, I apprenticed as a stonemason at the Block. Three turns I spent sweating in the shadow of that beast, repairing cracks and extending the outer wall.” He finished the last sip and tossed the flask into the fire.
“One month we were on the western face of the wall, sealing a handful of cracks left over from the last blast. Of my crew, I was the smallest, so it fell on me to brick and mortar any openings we came across. On my hands and knees I toiled, back braced to the ceiling, no air, no room. A single candle to see my fucking way.” He laughed again. “I was beginning to seal off an old fissure when something brushed against my arm. Thought nothing of it until I heard metal drop to the ground beside me.” He turned to Evetner and grinned. “What do you suppose I found?”
Evetner shrugged. “Coinage?”
Gremin laughed. “If only. No, this was a cogal ring. Solid gold and worth three seasons of good trapping.” He reached into his vest and withdrew a rolled corn husk. With a stick from the fire, he lit it and took a deep, long drag. When he exhaled, his entire body sagged. “Can you guess what else I found in that dark hole, boy?”
Evetner shook his head.
“Bones. Thousands upon thousands of bones. Mashed into the cement like hay in a mud hut.”
Evetner felt the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle.
“We were always told the Block was a product of Tritan architects. By design, yes. But the blood and sweat was left behind by people like you and me. All of whom were summarily executed and entombed in the very wall they built.”
“But why?” Evetner asked.
Gremin took another puff on his smoke and exhaled. “Hide its secrets, of course. Lucky for me I was four centuries late to that shift. Otherwise it might have been me mashed up in that tiny fissure.”
Evetner shook his head. “By the gods.”
“No gods, boy. They turned their backs on us long ago. You can blame Tritan and their criminal engineers.”
Evetner felt a weight settle on his chest. This is what I ride for? What I left all I know and love for? A wall built atop the bones of my ancestors? Would they even honor his pendant if they made it? Doubtfully, he thought.
“I’m afraid we have little choice, though,” Evetner said.
Gremin nodded. “Indeed. And if truth be told, I always fancied another glimpse of that beast. But this time from the other side.” He took another drag on his smoke and tossed it into the fire. “That pendant… it grants you and anyone with you entrance. Get me and my new friends inside and we’ll pull those wagons for you.”
Evetner’s heart lifted. “You get us there and I’ll carry you through the gates myself!”
Gremin laughed as he exhaled a cloud of green smoke. “We should be leaving soon, then. There’s still a ways to go. And a lot can happen in the leagues between.”
Evetner stood and held out his hand. “It’s done then. Passage for passage?”
Gremin shook his hand. “Done. But first we rest. We’ll leave in two calls.”
Evetner stared at the punchers as they slept beside the trapper. They were enormous, two, maybe three times as a large as normal dogs, with black and brown stripes cutting across their fur. What stood out most, though, were their pale white eyes.
Evetner watched as one of the dogs climbed into the trapper’s lap. The man was its protector now, its new master after turns of torment and abuse. I only wish I had such a person, he thought.
His heart suddenly ached for his father. He had been the one person Evetner both trusted and looked up to. And I left him, Evetner thought. I could have stayed, but I left.
His final memory of the man still haunted him: Proust standing at the mouth of the tunnel, dripping wet and resigned to his fate. A pathetic projection of the great man he had once been.
But Evetner had also seen a smile on his face as the smoke engulfed him. Satisfaction that their line would go on.
If I survive.
Evetner turned back to the brothers. Both boys were watching the trapper roll about with the dog. Every now and then Jonathan laughed and betrayed a fleeting smile. Evetner warmed at the sight.
“When you’re done, we need to figure out how we’re going to harness your friends to the wagons,” Evetner said, gesturing at the dogs.
One of the punchers playfully nipped at the trapper’s hand. “Now now,” Gremin laughed, rubbing its belly. “Got to warm ’em up first.” He grabbed the largest puncher and scratched behind its hind leg until the dog twitched playfully.
Brandon let out a little laugh as the dog lolled about. The sound made Evetner’s heart soar; the boy had neither spoken nor smiled since they found him.
“Want to pet him?” Gremin asked.
The boy’s smile widened.
Gremin waved him forward. “Scratch ’em right here behind the ear and he’s your new friend. Scratch ’em behind the leg and he’ll die for you.”
Brandon knelt down, his eyes beaming with excitement.
Evetner instinctively stepped forward, but Gremin waved him off. “Let ’em be.”
The dog rolled onto its back and stared at the boy expectantly. Brandon sat up with baited breath, a hand over his mouth.
“Go on,” Gremin urged.
His hand trembling, Brandon slowly touched the dog’s belly. The puncher yelped playfully.
“Go ahead,” Gremin said. “He’ll love you forever.”
Laughing, Brandon began tickling the puncher’s belly.
Jonathan smiled behind a cupped hand, his eyes glimmering with disbelief.
Gremin patted Brandon on the back, laughing. “He’s yours now, boy. Want to name him?”
Brandon’s eyes widened with shock. “Really?”
“I don’t see any other way,” Gremin said. “These dogs were bred with bonding points. Find ’em and you’ve unlocked the key to the puncher’s hearts. And that’s just what you did.”
Evetner shook his head. “Probably not the best time for this, don’t you think?”
“Where we’re going, these boys’ll need all the friends they can find,” Gremin replied. “Better one with fangs than fingers, don’t you think?”
Jonathan moved beside his brother, a hesitant smile on his face. When he petted the dog’s leg, it looked at him and howled playfully.
“Trust me, boy,” Gremin said. “We’ll need any friends we can find. Fur or flesh, fuck if I care. When we get to that Block, nothing else will matter.” He glanced at Haliden. “That reminds me. Best wake your friend now. Dogs are ready to go.”
Haliden dreamed. Fitful, conflating visions swirling through his fever-racked mind.
In one, his father sat beside him, his face sullen and cold as a wagon approached down a muddy road.
Haliden swallowed. He remembered that day clearly. Ice and rain had blown in from the east, driving the bravest farmers back to their families and firesides while flattening the last of the unharvested wheat. The kind of gray autumn day that weighed heavy on both the body and soul.
The lone driver snapped his reigns atop the horse’s back as rain whipped the road from every direction.
Haliden swallowed. He was about to leave for his apprenticeship in Alg, one that was supposed to last five turns. Only those five turns would quickly become twe
nty-five.
He and his father barely spoke that morning. A strange finality hung in the air, a goodbye too hard to speak or express. It was as if they knew they would never see each other again. I should have told you how much I loved you, Father.
But he didn’t and now never could.
The vision suddenly changed. Now he was standing beside the Lake of Bones, the sound of a distant mummers’ show echoing in the still summer air.
Frener Stroke stood beside him, a single piece of parchment in hand. He shook his head, smiling. “You know she’s fatter,” he observed as sweat from his hands smudged Haliden’s charcoal sketch. “And you flattered her with such a large chest.”
Haliden looked up, surprised. “I… I wasn’t gonna show anyone, Father.”
Frener laughed. “A shame. I know some fellas who’d pay good coinage for this.”
“You’re not mad?”
Frener shook his head. “Of course not. It’s…” A smile creased his tanned flesh. “It’s beautiful, son.”
Haliden broke out in a cold sweat as the vision twisted and melted away. One moment he was beside the lake, the next he was standing in a basement, a single torch illuminating an enormous black canvas.
He reached out and traced a finger across its wet surface, revealing swaths of orange and yellow hidden below. His curiosity peaked, he smeared his palm across the canvas. Globs of thick black paint sloughed off onto the floor, revealing an image below.
By the gods!
It was her.
Milane.
Only she was on fire, great tendrils of orange and yellow spiraling around her flesh like tentacles.
It suddenly became hotter in the room. When he looked down, his arms began to bubble and melt, dripping onto the floor with a nauseating slap.
Find me, Haliden, a voice said as fire engulfed him. At world’s end, if you love me, find me…
“Haliden?”
Light crept into the void.
“Artist… are you all right?”
Haliden opened his eyes. He was in a room surrounded by wood walls and strange, iron cages. A few footfalls to his left, flames danced within a stone fireplace.
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