Fool's Gold Page 14

  Quirk hesitated. Will wanted to go over and shake her. “It’s the only way,” he told her. Because it was.

  Still Quirk vacillated. Will decided actions spoke louder than words. He grabbed the hoof once more. “Come on,” he said, starting to heave. A moment later he felt Quirk throw her weight into the cow’s back end. They recommenced their crawling pace forward.

  Will breathed a sigh of relief. While disaster seemed to have fallen, they had at least avoided compounding the issue.

  “You,” barked a voice from behind them. “Stop what you’re doing right fucking now.”

  Of course, thought Will. I forgot. The gods hate me. Lawl, Betra, Klink, Toil, Cois, Knole, even absent Barph—the whole bloody lot of them. Sitting up in the heavens, they have hexed me and each and every element of my life. They have marched through kicking and shrieking, trying to make sure they’ve covered every conceivable way to screw me. Will found that he almost admired their thoroughness. It truly was divine.

  He turned slowly. Quirk still had her shoulder to Ethel’s rump, her feet still pushing at the ground. Still desperately fighting against reality.

  She went nowhere.

  The soldier bore down on them. He was a large man, the noseguard of his helmet bent askew, and a large livid red weal where Will had flung soup into his face several nights before.

  Will froze, tried to swallow against the sudden dryness of his throat, failed. A tiny overture of discomfort heralding the pain to come.

  The soldier cuffed Quirk over the back of the head. “Did I or did I not tell you to get your face out of the arse-end of that cow?”

  Quirk turned abruptly, and Will was surprised to see her fists were balled. Where was the pacifist now when he needed her? This was not the moment to start a fistfight. This was, in fact, pretty much the opposite of that moment. This was the moment when they desperately, desperately needed to go unnoticed.

  Then the soldier’s eyebrows arched. Quirk stumbled, managed to turn the raising of fists into a pathetic salute. The soldier sneered. Will tried his best to turn away.

  “Mattrax has had another of his hissy fits,” the soldier said finally. “Going to need more guards down on his portcullis.” He pointed to Quirk. “Move your arse.”

  Quirk remained frozen in her salute, a look of mounting horror on her face. “But…” she said, “the cow. For Mattrax. It is. I mean it is for him. It’s his supper.”

  No! Will wanted to shout at her. Shut up! Agree! Nod. Smile. Do anything you have to do to get him to leave and to take all his attention with you.

  Brilliant idea, said the smaller, more hateful voice that resided behind the panicky one. Leave yourself alone in the castle. Try and haul Ethel by yourself. Gods, you are absolutely chock full of terrible ideas, aren’t you?

  Quirk was still frozen, as if some part of her anatomy had glitched, a piece of the clockwork of life come undone, and the artifice of the whole charade suddenly revealed.

  “This cow is Mattrax’s dinner?” said the soldier without any apparent concern. “Well, let me take a moment to see if I give the slightest of fucks.” He placed a finger on his chin. “Nope. Appear to be all out of fucks.” He leaned in, his undamaged cheek turning as red as the burned one. “I told you to get your maggoty little arse down to the gate before I deliver you there in a bloody gods-hexed pile! Am I bloody clear?”

  Quirk took an involuntary step away from both the soldier’s flying spittle and Ethel. She looked at Will imploringly.

  He was going to have to do it. He was going to have to open his mouth.

  “I really need—” he started, dropping his voice an octave.

  The soldier backhanded him without looking, the metal of his gauntlet splitting Will’s lip. “You need to learn to shut up when you’re not being spoken to. And—” He paused, considered, then finally turned to Will. Will’s heart stopped for a moment, then appeared to decide to try to bore a way out of his rib cage.

  “—as funny as it would be,” the soldier went on, “to watch your stupid arse try and do this on your own, you probably try to remember the invention of the fucking handcart.” He shook his head sadly. “You country recruits. I swear you get stupider every batch we pull in.” And he turned away without giving Will a second glance, saw Quirk still staring at him.

  “Well?” He veritably exploded. “What gave you the impression you should still be bloody standing there? Move!” And finally Quirk did, going back the way they had come, almost at a run, casting distressed looks back at Will.

  Will sagged against Ethel, then realized that moment hadn’t arrived yet. The soldier still stood a few paces from him, staring at Quirk’s strange retreat. He shook his head again.

  “Barph’s hex on their brains,” he said quietly. And then strode away.

  The soldiers of Mattrax’s castle were, Will discovered, no more full of the milk of human kindness when they were at home and helping out their fellows. In fact, whatever milk they were filled with, Will suspected it was spiked with bile and tasted much like fermented piss. Requests for directions to the much-rumored handcarts were met with blank stares at best, and long tirades about his dubious parentage at worst. It was late afternoon by the time he finally found them. There was no way to get Ethel on without hacking her to pieces, and while Will had some experience at butchery, a blunt soldier’s sword was not the ideal tool for the job. On the plus side, by the time he was done there was no way to notice the bloodstain that marked the fate of his armor’s previous owner in among all the others.

  The sun was low in the sky as he squelched toward the keep, leaving dark red footprints in his wake. His passage drew enough attention to make his hands shake, but all the soldiers gave him a wide berth.

  What was I thinking? he asked himself as he trundled the remains of Ethel and her wake of attendant flies through the keep’s main gates. I’m a farmer. Not a thief. This is absolute madness.

  He looked around the main entrance hall of the keep. Half-remembered conversations with Firkin flickered through his memory. Down. He remembered that Firkin had known that there was a path down here.

  Not just a path. A ramp.

  He saw it, off to his left, a torchlit archway, a spiraling floor that led down and away.

  Would this make Firkin happy? Should he have brought the old man in here, somehow? It was an impossible dream. No subterfuge would have been possible with Firkin in tow. But… could seeing this plan finally put into practice heal whatever wound it was that kept driving the old man back to the bottle?

  There was no way to know, and no time to ponder. So Will just went through the archway and into a spiraling descent. The path led down. And down. And down. Torches set into rough iron brackets in the wall seemed spaced farther and farther apart. Their flames spat and flickered. Soot stained the walls around them.

  What was left of Ethel was beginning to smell. Not the natural, bloody smell of fresh meat either. There was a slightly-too-sweet tang to the odor rising from her. Unconscious flies littered the handcart. The Snag Weed was working.

  Glancing behind him, Will hesitated. Down in the valley, Quirk had given him a final vial of the potion to rub into the meat before it was delivered to Mattrax. A just-in-case backup to ensure full perfusion.

  What if it’s not enough? nagged the voice in the back of Will’s head. Quirk had no sense for how big Mattrax is. She doesn’t know anything about dragons. What if he digests food differently? Will didn’t know much anatomy, but he knew enough about animal husbandry to know that most creatures were unwieldy bastards who delighted in fouling human plans.

  Again, none of those thoughts helped. He was committed now. He upended the vial of potion, let the contents glug out over the meat. Quickly he rubbed it into the meat, fresh blood squeezing between his fingers. When he regripped the cart’s handle, it felt slippery beneath his slick fingers.

  Trying to keep his breathing steady, he made two more circuits of the descending ramp before it opened out onto a small,
dark room, containing one guard, one stool, and one very solid-looking iron door covered with so many spikes that Will wondered if its creator was trying to compensate for something.

  The guard beside the door did not so much sit upon his stool as sag around it. It appeared like some curious outgrowth of his posterior—like some foreign object left in a tree and slowly absorbed by the growing wood. His chain mail stretched over his gut, then finally gave up, leaving an exposed stretch of skin, which he scratched at idly. He was covered with a sheen of sweat. The few torches that guttered against the walls cast off more heat than the stone walls and low ceiling could shed.

  “You’re late,” he said in a voice that seemed to bubble up from the spreading swamp of his chest. “Hours fucking late.”

  “I, erm, had, err, trouble with the cart,” Will said.

  The guard belched. “Good thing for you Mattrax took it all out on those poor bastards guarding his front gate. Otherwise…” He shook his head, setting off a series of small tremors that caused landslides of wobbling flesh to run down his sides.

  Will worried that if he sweat any more he would simply melt and run between the flagstones below.

  “Well,” he managed to get out, though his voice shook, “I’m here now.” The artificial cheer in his voice sounded like hysteria even to him. “Just let me on through and he’ll get his supper.”

  The guard’s eyes, perched precariously above the sloping hills of his cheeks, retreated deeper into valleys of creased skin.

  Will nodded at the door in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion. Sweat dripped off his nose with the motion. “You know,” he said, “I’ll just pop in and get everything laid out for him.” He was increasingly aware that he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

  The guard’s eyebrows were struggling to clamber out of the creases around his eyes and up his forehead. “Go in?” he burbled. “What is it? Your missus left you? Gambling debts?”

  Will saw he had no option but to resort to monosyllables. “Huh?”

  “Normally they’re more weepy,” the guard went on. “The suicidal ones.”

  “Erm…” was as far as Will was willing to extend his vocabulary.

  The guard broke into brief, gasping laughter. His gut shook and Will had the distinct impression that if the chain-mail shirt could have given him a reproving look it would have.

  “Go in?” gasped the guard, panting from the apparent exertion. His cheeks had turned a dangerous shade of purple. “Go in?” He gasped again, pounded at his chest with a hammy fist. “Nobody goes in, you fucking numbskull. That’s his lord high Mattrax’s personal abode that is. That’s no place for mere mortals. And it certainly ain’t the place for fuckwitted young fools like you. Now—”

  He reached over, grabbed a short lever previously hidden among the spikes on the door, and yanked on it. The bottom third of the door lifted up, making a flap.

  “—shovel all that meat through there and get out before the Hallows take you.”

  It was short and bloody work. The guard made faces as Will did it. “Fuck. Can tell you was late. Smells something awful that does.”

  Will’s own stomach roiled, but it had little to do with the meat. He was meant to be in that cave. He was meant to be spooning this shit into Mattrax’s mouth. Except now he wasn’t in there and the meat stank so highly of poison that even this bubbling cesspit of a guard could smell it over his own overpowering body odor. And so Mattrax would smell it. And he would see Lette as she emerged from her hiding place—assuming she was even still alive—and he would devour her instead of poor Ethel, who had now died for naught. And then, when Balur and Firkin showed up he would eat them as well. Quirk too, like as not.

  As for himself, he would be lucky if he was eaten. The soldiers would take turns seeing how deeply they could stab him without killing him, until he was more wound than man. And then they would leave him by the gate to bleed out as a warning to others who thought that anger counted for more than good sense.

  The last portion of Ethel landed with a slick slop on the far side of the flap. There was a wet sound as it slipped down a ramp into the darkness beyond. The guard cranked on his lever, and the flap shut.

  Will stood staring at the closed exit.

  “Go on,” belched the guard. “Get out.”

  Will turned away, walked on heavy feet. But even as he passed under the arch and back onto the spiraling path that led upward he knew there was no way out.

  16

  Strong Drinks and Weak Minds

  Far below Mattrax’s castle, down at the floor of the Kondorra valley, Balur watched as the sun, tired of the drudgery of the day, slowly collapsed behind the peaks of the valley wall. Shadows stretched. Darkness descended.

  It was possible, he thought, that when even Firkin questioned your actions, you had made a miscalculation. However, Balur found it was also likely that he didn’t give a shit.

  If he was being honest, it all came down to one thing: He was embarrassed. He had talked the big talk. He had told Lette to expect a certain amount of violence. He had told himself that he would not be forgotten. This was to be his moment of glory. Something wondrous and wonderful.

  But what had Mattrax done? Had he suffered? Had he bellowed in fear and pain?

  No. Mattrax had barely even noticed him. Mattrax had dismissed him. With a flick of his claw. Not even a full swipe. And Balur had not even landed a blow. Hadn’t even left a dent to be remembered by. It was pathetic. It was beyond pathetic. Mattrax wouldn’t even remember him for being pathetic. It was… forgettable.

  That was the truth, if Balur was being honest. But Balur was well on the way to ensuring that he wouldn’t have to be honest with himself for much longer. He was drinking, and he was drinking heavily.

  This was the source of Firkin’s objection. Not that Firkin seemed the type to usually oppose the heavy consumption of beverages. In fact, if anyone seemed likely to be a proponent of consuming Barph’s nectar—as the bards were wont to call a mug of ale—then usually it was Firkin.

  The problem was, Balur supposed—with what little senses were left to him—that they had spiked the ale with all that was left of the Fire Root potion.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  He had come to in the woods below Mattrax’s cave, stitched with splinters, muscles aching. The crowd had gone, fled back down to The Village. Mattrax had swaggered back into his cave. The gate had shut behind him. Of Lette, there had been no sign. Of Firkin, unfortunately, there had been ample sign. He had been in front of Balur, attempting to shake him into consciousness. And Balur had sat up, and taken stock. He had grown embarrassed. And he had decided then and there, that this would not abide. A growl had risen out of him. No… if he thought back, that was not how it was being. The growl had not been coming out of him. It had been being him. He had been becoming the growl. His muscles were a growl. His thoughts. His footsteps as he strode down to the village.

  This.

  Would.

  Not.

  Abide.

  He had been embarrassed. The village had embarrassed him. Firkin had skittered and scampered after him, barking words. Questions, he supposed, but knowing Firkin it had as likely been a dissertation on the advantages of fornication with squirrels. He had not really cared. Growls did not listen. They rumbled with hatred. They grew. They exploded.

  The villagers would be easy to track, he had told himself. They would be easy prey. He could slip into their homes silently. He could be the monster beneath their beds. He could rend them, drink them, bury his face in their bowels.

  But he would not. They were not worthy to be part of him. No. Instead they would submit and be the gods-hexed extensions of his will that he needed them to be.

  And if they refused… Well, burying his face in a few bowels always seemed to turn him into the persuasive type. It was one of those funny human peculiarities he had trouble wrapping his head around.

  When he had arrived in
The Village he had found them all huddled in the tavern. His head had cracked the lintel above the door as he strode through it. That had failed to improve either his mood or his audience’s disposition. They cowered.

  “Useless.” His growl had become a word. He had grabbed a villager by the neck, hoisted him aloft. His growl had grown, became a command. “Fight,” he had barked into the man’s face.

  Not only had the man failed to fight, but he had also lost his own battle with continence. Balur had dropped him in disgust.

  “Fight!” he had roared at the tavern’s occupants. “Find your balls and fight!” The balls part had seemed a popular part of Firkin’s speech as he recalled. He had not been above pandering to the idiots if it was truly necessary.

  From the reaction he had received, he had wondered if it was a translation problem. Perhaps “fight” meant something different here. Something along the lines of “grab the nearest piece of furniture and cower behind it while all the time making a telltale whimpering sound.”

  Firkin had stepped forward at that point, had puffed out his chest. Balur could sense the air entering the scrawny man, could almost feel it becoming gibberish inside that pigeon chest. He grabbed Firkin by the neck, squeezed off that air. Firkin did actually fight. It was that act alone that had convinced him to not squeeze any harder. He dropped Firkin and let him gasp a bit.

  What was wrong with these people? Could they truly be so cowed? This morning…

  And then he had remembered. Somewhere in his rage and his embarrassment he had forgotten. Drugs. Quirk’s potion had been in them. He had scrabbled at the pouch at his belt. Lette had not used all of it. Something about not wanting to poison everyone. Some weak-willed swill like that. Lette really needed to remove her head from her posterior and get back to kicking arse and taking gold.

  He had stared around looking for some bread to mix the potion with. For some reason, none had been readily apparent. He had grabbed the villager who had refused to fight him, shook him a couple of times to make sure he was focusing, and demanded, “Where is the bread being?”