A Plague of Giants - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Kevin Hearne (ч. 7)

Shrouding myself in fire, shield shifted to my left arm and axe in my right hand, I roared and turned on the four remaining catapults.

Fintan threw down a black sphere, shrinking down directly once more from Gorin Mogen to Nel Kit ben Sah.

The thornhands made a mistake that might have killed us all—an understandable mistake, but no less dire. A boil of stampeding kherns thundered past, slamming into the lavaborn and presumably on to a pack of houndsmen that I heard baying, and they chose to pursue them rather than make sure all the lavaborn were dead. Perhaps they were drawn by the fact that the kherns appeared to be under the control of a single Nentian man riding on the back of the rearmost khern, black straight hair streaming behind him, a hawk of some kind cruising in the air just above him and a single bloodcat, of all things, trailing behind the boil. It made my jaw drop open at the implications: Had the Nentians finally discovered, at long last, the fabled Sixth Kenning? Did they have control over animals and not really require our help to defend their lands?

But Gorin Mogen missed all this when he got to his feet. He glanced briefly in our direction, then went to discover what had happened to the rest of the lavaborn. When he found out, he would come for us, and our siege crews had no thornhands to fight him: only four greensleeves and the lesser blessed, such as grassgliders and culturists, who had few fighting skills.

I followed branches of strategy to their ends, and none would support any weight except for the most desperate one, though why should it give me pause when thornhands had to confront the reality of it as soon as they were blessed by the First Tree?

Mogen set the bodies of the fallen lavaborn aflame, or at least I think he did, since I could see only him and not their bodies. But the flame shooting from his axe pointed down, and his body wilted like a water-starved violet, so I doubted he was attacking anyone. When he was finished, though, his giant form blossomed into orange flame and he turned our way with a roar audible even over the distance and the din. Nef Tam ben Wat was directly east of him, and Mogen’s eyes found him for a single fearful moment and then slid past, dismissing the grassglider as a threat because several members of the closest siege crew had the brilliant idea of lobbing some gourds his way. Mogen destroyed them in midair with fireballs, but the effort visibly tired him; it was too much energy to expend at once, unlike sparking something small and spreading it. He did that next, setting the catapult aflame and then spreading it to the crew, as he’d done with the others. Three catapults remained, but their crews hadn’t seen Mogen coming yet, so intent were they on fulfilling their mission and forcing the Hathrim out into the open. My head turned to the north, where the first sun’s rays revealed a smudge of the approaching Nentian army on the horizon. We needed to flush the giants outside their walls to make them easy targets for the Nentian archers; the Hearthfire needed his people to stay in there if he wanted a chance to prevail, so he needed those catapults destroyed, and he was justified in thinking he could do it all by himself.

The Hearthfire charged with his teeth bared, hefting his axe and keeping his shield in front of him. He took huge strides, building up speed, passing by the writhing figures of the crew he’d just set aflame and forgoing his kenning altogether to attack the next crew with an axe he probably had forged himself. And running on a course that was not exactly parallel but still coming my way, shouting and waving his hands, was Nef Tam ben Wat, trying to warn the next crew that they were in mortal peril. Over the din of the field I couldn’t hear him as his mouth moved silently, speaking doom like distant lightning whose thunder never reaches your ears.

The greensleeve in charge of the crew, a member of the Green Beetle Clan, finally heard Nef’s shouted warning in time to witness but not avoid the blow coming from his blind side, a scything sweep that cut the greensleeve in half and smashed the light wood of the catapult to kindling. The surviving members of the crew bunched together around the catapult attempted to scatter, but Mogen killed four at once by leaping horizontally and landing on his six-foot shield, flattening them underneath it with an audible crunch and then an awful silence. Nef flinched at the horror of it as Mogen rolled and rose like a grinning avatar of death with the gore of our countrymen sliming his shield. But then Nef resumed his run to warn the next crew that Mogen was coming, and he did so with utter unconcern for his own safety, since the Hearthfire could see him and set him aflame whenever he wished. Nef didn’t care; he was putting others first. And in that moment, completely out of its proper season, the small sprouts of springtime affection I had nurtured for him bloomed into summertime love. He was a truly good man. Together as Nef and Nel we would be almost sickeningly cute. But there were only two catapults left. And only two Fornish truly capable of stopping Gorin Mogen.

Vin Tai ben Dar, the greensleeve from Nef’s clan who had taken him to his Seeking years ago, saw Mogen coming and ordered his crew to scatter with a gourd each, leaving the catapult unguarded. “Surround him and throw your spores!” he shouted, and they spread out to encircle him. Mogen came to a halt, stood in place, and peered down at them, apparently unconcerned, maybe even slightly amused. Trying to take him out with the spores wasn’t a terrible stratagem except that Mogen was clearly ready for it. He waited and watched Vin, his eyes daring the greensleeve to proceed. And Nef, seeing that I was watching this unfold, came to a halt himself. My siege crew still had no idea and continued to work on launching gourds over the walls.

Vin called out for his crew to throw their gourds, and Gorin Mogen took a deep breath, crouched, and expelled a wave of fire from him in all directions as the gourds came his way. They melted or exploded, and any spores that escaped were singed in the air, never reaching him. A few members of the crew, including Vin, were caught in the fire blast and fell away, rolling in the grass and trying to smother the flames.

After that effort, however, Mogen’s face was a mask of pain and he was slow to get to his feet. The exertion of that kenning exacted a heavier toll, perhaps, than he had expected, and it did nothing to improve his mood despite saving him from a likely defeat. When he did rise from his crouch, he took his anger out on the catapult with his axe, reducing it to splinters with repeated blows and ignoring the Fornish, who presented no threat to him. I surged forward and told my crew to abort the mission and run for cover in the forest, taking any surviving member of Vin’s crew with them if they could. Then I backed away from the catapult, fading as much as I could back into tall grasses. There was only one way to stop him, and none of the others had thought to do it because greensleeves are taught to think of preservation above all, including self-preservation. But while I had much to lose, Gorin Mogen no longer had anything to lose: I assumed he lost his hearth to the boil of kherns, because she was lavaborn, too. So he would kill and kill until the plains were scourged clean of his enemies or one of them found the courage to do what needed to be done.

Vin Tai ben Dar was in no shape to do it, and his actions already had demonstrated that he did not see the only branch leading to victory. If I did not do it, no one would. Mogen would destroy our catapults, retreat inside his walls, burn the Nentian army, and wait for reinforcement from Hathrir. The Canopy would be forever in danger from Hathrim predation if I did not stop him. How could I refuse such a clear duty? I sent out silverbark shoots from both my shins and my forearms to plunge into the earth. I sent out all of them.

“What are you doing?” a tiny voice broke through the noise. It was Nef, suddenly running toward me again, one hand outstretched, pleading. “Nel, don’t try it!”

My mouth twisted in regret. He and I would have been such a winsome couple. The garden we would have grown together would have been lush and fragrant and nurturing, and I truly should have kissed him when I’d had the chance. I longed to kiss him now. But I could not possibly place my happiness above the safety of the Canopy. “I’m sorry, Nef,” I said softly, doubting he would hear me, but I imagined he could read my lips well enough, and that would have to be our farewell.

I tore my eyes away and heard him shout “No!” but he didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was defeating Gorin Mogen. The roots, at least, were already there, coaxed from the trees on the hills to lash the catapults in place by each crew’s greensleeve. But now they must do more, take on girth and strength, for Mogen was not inanimate timber; he was a giant firelord. Making that happen, channeling that energy and forcing that rapid growth so far from the Canopy, required will and strength I might not actually possess.

My fingernails dug into my palms as I concentrated and let my consciousness meld with the trees, forcing pulp and sap to move and grow by my command. The buildup began as Mogen finished dismantling Vin’s catapult. The roots bulged and stirred underneath it, the earth bubbled, and then the first thick rope whipped out toward the Hearthfire even as he lifted his gaze to seek his final target. The pine root twined around Mogen’s left leg, and he immediately kindled it, setting his body and armor aglow with new fire. He raised his axe to hack at it, an awkward proposition because it was in his right hand and he could not easily target the root behind him on the left. He tried to pivot to get a better angle, but I had never stopped building and growing: more roots erupted from the earth to encircle his right leg and hold him in place. I was sweating, my entire body ached, and my nails had opened up cuts in my palms, but that was fine. Mogen wrenched his left leg free with a roar and took a step before fresh roots shot out of the ground to entangle him anew.

The eye sockets of his helmet were fireballs, nothing human in them anymore, only rage, and they scoured the area for the source of this attack—it had to be a greensleeve. He remembered seeing Vin Tai ben Dar, searched for him, and found his body smoking in the grass yet still moving. He sent a fresh blanket of fire out from his axe to alight on him, making sure he would perish, and then he sparked my catapult, the last one, which was a useless hulk without a crew to operate it anyway. The roots still held him and indeed kept thickening in spite of his efforts to burn them away, so he let his gaze roam farther afield. That was when he saw me and perhaps recognized me. Our eyes had met briefly after he’d destroyed the first catapult, then Nef had come to tell me my crew needed me to lash the catapult down with roots. Yes, he recognized me, perhaps even understood that I was the Fornish Champion. He certainly understood that the shoots leading from my silverbark into the earth meant I was the one wrapping him up in pine.

He snarled and pointed his axe in my direction, and a gout of flame blossomed and arced toward me. It was a significant distance to project, fifteen lengths, perhaps, so I saw it coming and knew what would happen. I gritted my teeth around a sob and sent my final instructions through the roots with concentrated fury: fury that he thought he could take whatever he wanted, that he had in fact taken so much already, that he would take my life as well.

The trail of fire split into three fingers as it neared me while behind Mogen thicker roots emerged from the earth and reached out for him like longarm tentacles. That was when the flame landed on me, and I shrieked my pain into the suffocating heat, my body a pillar of orange blossoms on a black bough, my skin crisping and melting, my silverbark turning into glowing coals, my final defiance and the dregs of my strength carried through the shoots before they crumbled into ash. Through the flames, I saw the roots wrap themselves over the giant’s shoulders, underneath his arms, and around his neck. His bellow of outrage was cut short as the roots constricted his throat. A moment later, my last command was executed and the roots convulsed, squeezing in concert and pulling in five directions. Gorin Mogen’s four limbs ripped free of his torso, and his head popped off, extinguishing his fires and showering the grasses with his blood, and though I still burned and felt only pain, cried only pain, I saw the sky, and it was so blue now, no longer gray, except it was moving and going dark at the edges, all black—

Fintan dispelled the seeming of Nel Kit ben Sah and spoke into silence:

“To Nef Tam ben Wat’s ears, there was no finer sound than the final heavy clank of Gorin Mogen’s armor hitting the ground. And there was nothing more horrifying than the sound of Nel screaming as she burned. She toppled backward, crying out, wreathed in orange and yellow, billowing black smoke, and Nef could think of nothing to do but kick dirt on her in an effort to smother the flames. He kept at it even after her screams passed into silence and her body crumpled and shifted as it was consumed. He kept at it so that something of Nel would remain long after Mogen’s corpse had rotted and fed the scavengers of the plains.

“When he finally subsided, chest heaving and tracks of tears streaking his dusty cheeks, the fire was snuffed and what remained was only a vaguely human-looking mound of dirt. A shout caused him to look up. One of the Invisible Owls of Nel’s crew was pointing to the city. There, waving above the walls, a ragged white tent canvas affixed to a narrow pine trunk signaled surrender.

“ ‘Good,’ Nef said, nodding once. He had forgotten that there were still plenty of giants hiding behind those walls, and just as quickly as he’d been reminded, he forgot them again. He knelt next to Nel’s body and waited for something to move. When it did, he leaned over and gently blew dirt away, brushing off small clumps of it with the tips of his fingers so that the leaves of the rapidly growing silverbark sapling could drink in the morning sun. Nef made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, then smiled as fresh tears spilled down his face. ‘There you are, Nel,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. ‘There you are.’ ”

Fintan sighed and said nothing for a few moments, and some sniffles could be heard. Maybe one or two of those were mine. I thought perhaps he would end there, but instead he withdrew a new black sphere and held it aloft between his fingers. “The Mogens defeated, most of the lavaborn slain, and surrender indicated, the Battle of the Godsteeth was over. But for the aftermath, we’ll hear from that young Nentian man who trampled over the lavaborn with a boil of kherns.” He dropped the sphere, and a plume of black smoke rose around him.

For both the hunter and the hunted, there is always terror right before death. The hunter terrified he won’t eat, the hunted terrified of being eaten. There is defiance and desperation and even bloodlust. But those kills are quick. A torn throat, a snapped spine, or a spear to the heart, and the suffering is over. There is no reveling in pain and grinning at screams the way the Hathrim do when they set people on fire.

The smell of those poor burned Fornish people is in my nose, and I may be sick. And the khern that died in the charge—I was so involved in directing it to trample the lavaborn that I felt its agony and its confusion at what was happening as it burned and then took an axe to the head. That was my fault. I was responsible. I would add it to my toll.

And the Hathrim, too, of course. Though I supposed that my efforts, together with those of the Fornish, had prevented the Nentian army from suffering much in the way of casualties. By taking twenty or so lives I had perhaps saved thousands. I still wished it hadn’t been necessary.

We drove the houndsmen to the sea, where I commanded the hounds to sit down in the shallows while the kherns formed a wall, an intimidating front in case any of the Hathrim had ideas about charging on foot. Most of them, unable to stay comfortably in the saddle when their mounts were sitting and refused to stand, dismounted and stood next to them in the shallows.

Thornhands joined us, standing in front of the kherns, daring the Hathrim to try anything. If any of them were lavaborn, they didn’t reveal it. They didn’t surrender, but neither did they fight. We just stared at one another, promising violence if the other made any advances, and I was content to let that stand until someone thought of a way to defuse tensions. The white flag that waved over the walls of the city, signaling surrender, caused a ripple of dismay to run through the houndsmen, but they made no comment. I asked them politely to drop their weapons into the surf or the thornhands might have to take it as a given that they would attack, and after one of them with silver thread in his mustaches translated, they complied. We did nothing else, though, since none of the Fornish thornhands were in a position to accept surrender and neither was I as a contracted mercenary. We had to wait for the Nentian army to arrive.

Viceroy Melishev Lohmet rode up eventually, along with a senior tactician he called Hennedigha and a somewhat short Raelech man carrying nothing but a harp. He looked at me sitting on top of a khern, a stalk hawk sitting on my shoulder and a bloodcat waiting patiently below, and his eyes grew to the size of dragon eggs. I smiled and waved at him so he would know I was friendly.

The viceroy apparently had met one of the houndsmen before, a flame-haired brute who scowled as soon as the viceroy appeared.

“Hello again,” Melishev said as he reined in behind the thornhands. “Your Hearthfire and hearth are both dead. The city has surrendered. Have you surrendered as well?”

“We have not.”

He craned his neck to look up at me. “Where are their weapons?”

“I made them drop them into the tide.” So the giant was all bluster.

“Perhaps you should rethink not surrendering,” the viceroy said, turning back to him, “considering the odds and the fact that your hounds won’t obey you.” The giant flicked a murderous glare up to me but said nothing. “Tell me your name again.”

“Lanner Burgan. Where is Korda?”

“He died in a terrible accident, I’m afraid. My condolences. So! Lanner. Who’s in charge of your city now? Who speaks for you?”

He spat into the ocean. “I don’t know. We don’t even know who waved those surrender flags.”

“Well. I’ll give you the same deal I’m going to give them: you can get on those glass boats and sail the fuck away from Ghurana Nent, or I have all these archers who are just itching to bring down a giant. You choose.”

His eyes flicked to the giant with threaded mustaches standing next to him, indicating that perhaps he wasn’t the actual leader here, but then he scoffed. “Let me know who’s in charge in the city and what they say. Then I’ll give you my answer.”

A play for time. The viceroy craned his neck to look up at me. “Are you okay with standing guard a while longer?”

“I think the thornhands will do just fine, along with the kherns. Neither they nor the hounds will move until I say so. I’ll come with you.” Melishev didn’t look pleased by that, but he could hardly cast any doubt on my abilities thus far. I needed to stay close to him so that he couldn’t give an order to have me meet with an unfortunate accident. And besides, I wanted to see the inside of this Hathrim city and talk to the Raelech, so I hopped down, realizing too late that normal people don’t hop off the backs of kherns. The bard was waiting.

“I’m Fintan, Bard of the Poet Goddess Kaelin,” he said. “And you are?”

“Abhinava Khose. A plaguebringer … of the Sixth Kenning, I guess.”

“Plaguebringer! Fascinating. I do hope we get to talk more.”

“I’d be delighted. This stalk hawk is Eep, and this bloodcat is Murr.”

We followed the viceroy and tactician into the “city,” which was nothing more than a wall surrounding a bunch of tents and fire pits and a very large well. There were, to be fair, a couple of buildings under construction: a forge, no doubt, and perhaps a public house. Still, it had potential as a city site now—a Nentian one. We could benefit from those walls and the well, too.

The mass of Hathrim had collected against the walls nearest the harbor gates, away from where the Fornish had launched those exploding gourds full of spores. Some of them were prone and coughing up blood anyway, loud racking heaves that sounded like imminent death.

“Who’s in charge?” Hennedigha called to them. Two women came forward. One was twelve feet tall and had some light armor on but no helmet. She had red hair and might have been attractive if she weren’t so huge. The other was a couple of feet shorter but was completely bald. She had earrings and a brightly colored chain leading from her nose to her ear and wore a shimmering dress of white and orange.

“I am Olet Kanek,” the redhead said, “daughter of Winthir Kanek, Hearthfire of Tharsif, and this is La Mastik, Priestess of the Flame.”

We introduced ourselves, including the Raelech, and then the viceroy asked Olet, “Are you lavaborn?” The priestess would be by default.

“Yes. I’m a firelord.”

“Can you put out that fire on the mountain?”

She looked at the blaze for a few moments and shook her head. “Not by myself. But I can contain it, keep it from spreading.”

“That would be appreciated,” he said. “We’ll let you get to that in a moment. But first, why is a daughter of Winthir Kanek here?”

“I was betrothed to Jerin Mogen.”

“I see. And where is he?”

“Dead. And his parents with him, I imagine.”

“Right you are. So, the terms of your surrender are simple: Stop the fire. Then get on your boats and sail back to Hathrir. Or die here.”

She glowered at him for a moment, then nodded. “May I offer a third option that will be to our mutual benefit?”

He made her wait before saying, “Go ahead.”

“There is nothing for me—or for many of us—back in Hathrir. My father will simply arrange another political marriage for me, and most of us can expect less welcome than that. We will choke on ash from Mount Thayil, and our keeping will be begrudged. But we can be of use to Ghurana Nent, and you can offer us a home—in the Gravewood.”

Hennedigha gave a short bark of laughter. “In the Gravewood? Nonsense.” He shook his head, but the viceroy pretended he hadn’t spoken.

“What did you have in mind?”

“A city surrounded by rich resources open to people of all kennings or of no kenning. Far in the north, above Ar Balesh. We’ll build the road to the northern coast as we go. All the taxes benefit Ghurana Nent, and you will have a new center of commerce in addition to this site’s potential. We few Hathrim can help fuel your country’s expansion.”

Melishev looked perplexed. “But you’ll be eaten by gravemaws or worse.”

“Even gravemaws are afraid of fire.”

“If it were that easy, it would have been done already.”

“You have not heard me say it would be easy. You are correct that we may die. And if we do, what do you care? But if we succeed, Ghurana Nent’s coffers will be filled. To us it is preferable to returning to Hathrir. Please consider it. We were not brought here of our own free will. We came with the Mogens because they had a way to escape Mount Thayil, that is all. Now they are dead, and we reject their plan to take this land by force. We have no desire to invade but a desire to coexist and fill the coffers of your government—with your permission.”

“Let me think on it,” the viceroy said. “How many more lavaborn do you have?”

“There are only we two,” Olet said, hooking a thumb at the priestess. I wondered why she shaved her head.

“If I may,” the bard broke in, “which tent was Gorin Mogen’s?” Olet pointed out a large one near the southern gate. “May I look inside?”

The giantess shrugged. “Of course. Take whatever you like. They are gone. They are no relations of mine. We have no interest in their possessions or secrets.”

The bard spun around immediately and ran at top speed for the tent. He emerged a short while later carrying a journal, and it reminded me that Melishev carried one as well. I stole a glance at his tunic and saw the telltale outline of it in his pocket. He only had eyes for Olet Kanek.

“Stop the fire,” he said to her. “Remain here until the morning. Understand that you’re surrounded by twenty thousand men and your good behavior will go a long way toward deciding what we choose. We’ll give you an answer then.”

She nodded, and we departed, returning to the standoff at the oceanside. Once we explained, Lanner and the other houndsmen agreed to throw in their lot with Olet Kanek, and then, much to everyone’s surprise, I said I’d join them.

“You’ll join … the Hathrim?” Melishev said.

“Well, if they’ll have me, sure. I’d like to see the Gravewood if you let them do that. I can protect everyone from the animals there. And I’ll be out of your way, Viceroy.” I saw immediately that this idea appealed to him.

“As you wish,” he said, and the sly look in his eyes told me he’d do his best to make sure we met misfortune somewhere along the way.

A horrible accident when the archers were taking target practice.

An unfortunate food poisoning—I must have eaten some spoiled meat on the plains!

An outright ambush arranged somewhere around Ar Balesh.

And it occurred to me then that if I could imagine the viceroy doing such things so easily, he should not be a leader at all. Tamhan would do so much better. Though I may simply be paranoid.

Fintan dispelled the seeming of the plaguebringer and sighed. “The aftermath of a battle will haunt you; it certainly haunts me. The bodies you see are the ends of so many stories, and most of them never get told. It was my duty to collect what stories I could—a duty drilled into me as an apprentice—but as I went about it, I felt somewhat guilty, as if I were a blackwing picking over bones. Gorin Mogen’s journal was mine to take, the viceroy caring nothing for the machinations of a dead man. I’ll tell you more as my former self,” he said, and transformed to his armored, slightly younger seeming.

Abhinava Khose told me much of his personal journey that morning after dismissing the kherns, and he allowed me to read what he’d written in the journal his aunt gave him. I determined to follow him around for a while—how could I not? It had been millennia since a new kenning had been found. We met Nef Tam ben Wat together after inquiring about the small saplings the Fornish were guarding. While the Nentian army was setting up camp around the walls of Bagrha Khek and Olet Kanek was busy containing the fire Gorin Mogen had started, Nef moved quickly up the mountain, around and above the fire, to the cache the Fornish had left before the battle—a standard practice of theirs. Nel Kit ben Sah’s journal was buried there, and he fetched it down for me. If I was going to tell all these other stories, he wanted hers to be told also.

“She was our Champion, you see,” he said, placing it gently in my hands with both of his. “And it was she who brought down Gorin Mogen for the Canopy—and our Nentian allies.” He stared at the small journal, and I didn’t move it, sensing that he had something more to say. Finally, he wrenched his gaze up to mine. “I read some of it. She didn’t know, but she was well loved.”

I nodded. “Of course she was. Tell me more of her?” I asked, and invited him to sit with me and Abhi. He told me much of what happened during the battle since most of it had happened out of our sight and coached me on what Nel looked and sounded like. He and most of the Fornish were going to return to Forn the next day, carrying back their dead to return to the roots, but some would stay behind to look after the silverbark saplings. “Once they’re strong enough for the journey, they will be transplanted to grow in the Canopy.”

Noon passed us by before we knew it, and Nef bid us farewell to rejoin his countrymen.

“You now have my journal, Gorin Mogen’s, and Nel Kit ben Sah’s,” Abhi noted after he departed. “Everything a bard would need to tell the story of this battle but the journal of Viceroy Melishev Lohmet. Would you like to take a look at that?”

“Sure. Does he have one?”

“Yes. And I’m pretty sure I can get you a look at it. But you have to be ready to leave right now.”

“Right now?”

“Right now. We get on our horses and ride north all the way to Talala Fouz. It will be perfectly safe.”

“All right. I’m game.”

Packing only water skins, we walked out past all the soldiers, and then the plaguebringer called a couple of horses to us from somewhere—they were his, apparently, waiting for him to hail them. Once we mounted, the young man searched the skies above and then turned his gaze toward the trees to the south still untouched by fire.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“A cheek raptor,” he replied, then smiled. “Found one. Look over there.”

He pointed, and I saw a cheek raptor take to the sky.

“Give me a few moments,” he said, “and I’ll see if we can get that journal.”

Picturing what Melishev Lohmet looked like that day—a gold and sky-blue tunic over armor with a significant rectangular outline in the right-hand pocket draped over the thigh—Abhi sent that image to the cheek raptor so that he could spot his target. And he felt in turn what the raptor felt: flying high, searching, spying Melishev so easily among all the drab colors, then spiraling, diving, cries of alarm before the sweet tearing, the clutching, the escape, and wails of regret behind. Finding the man who wanted it, opening the feet, letting it go, circling back to the roost—

The viceroy’s journal dropped near Abhi’s horse, and he dismounted to fetch it. He flipped through the latter pages until he found the one Melishev had been writing on the day Abhi came to Hashan Khek. There were some scribbled notes about his demands and then, on the next page, a written reminder: “Kill the Khose boy at first opportunity.”

Abhi read that aloud to me then said, “Well, that’s all I need to know.” He tossed the journal to me. “Here,” he said. “New stories for you.”

We rode north together, glad to be shut of the Godsteeth for a good long while.

The bard grinned at the audience, and many of them grinned back at him. “That’s how I became the traveling companion of the world’s first plaguebringer. We will hear plenty more from Abhi in days ahead, though for obvious reasons I will have no more of the viceroy’s personal reflections to share. Meanwhile, as Abhi and I made our way north, Gondel Vedd and Ponder Tann arrived here in Pelemyn for a brief while. Gondel found out some rather startling news, and I assure you ahead of time that I have permission to share it.”

The Wellspring of Pelemyn was so humid that one could almost feel clouds parting as one walked through the vapor. To be charitable, I supposed no one ever felt like their skin was drying out, but taking a deep breath of air was impossible without inhaling a good measure of sea salt in the bargain. Thank goodness it was quite cool or else it would have been unbearable.

Soon after my arrival in the city and the return of Culland du Raffert’s journal to his superior, Second Könstad Tallynd du Böll, she brought me the documents she’d seized at Hillegöm. The Brynts had been unable to make sense of them, but I immediately recognized the Eculan language. As with translating Zanata Sedam, there were words here and there that escaped me, but they were not enough to keep the basic meaning out of reach, and the Eculans had not bothered to use a code.

My discoveries warranted a meeting with Pelenaut Röllend and his Lung, Föstyr, as well as their chief military officer, Könstad du Lallend. The Lung started with a minimum of formality.

“Scholar, thank you for your work. Please share what you’ve found.”

I handed over a copy of the documents translated into Brynt to him, which he immediately passed to the pelenaut. “What the Second Könstad stole was the Eculan invasion plans, much of which you already know because it happened. But what you did not know is that they sent two additional fleets in search of the Seven-Year Ship. One landed at the Mistmaiden Isles, and one went to some ill-defined place in the Northern Yawn.”

Könstad du Lallend swiveled his head to the right. “That means they could still be out there.”

“We’ll check the Mistmaiden Isles,” the pelenaut said. “Actually, I’d like you to do that tomorrow, Tallynd, very carefully, if you would not mind.”

“Of course,” she replied.

“But I’m sure the wraiths took care of them for us or we would have heard from them by now. The other army worries me more. A force that size could conceivably make its way south through the Gravewood, and we have Fornyd repopulated and some new settlers on their way to Festwyf.”

“There was nothing about which side of the Poet’s Range the army may have landed on?” Föstyr asked me. “Are they north of us or north of Rael or even Ghurana Nent?”

“They were unsure of their final destination. They were looking for some landmark along the coast, the sort of thing where they would know it when they saw it.”

“What sort of landmark?”

“It’s never described, only named in their language as the ‘Nest of Man-Eaters.’ I’ve translated it as ‘Kraken’s Nest’ since that is what the Eculans typically mean when they say ‘man-eater,’ though it could also refer to bladefins or longarms. I have no idea, unfortunately, what that might look like, nor have I ever heard of such a landmark along the northern coast.”

Pelenaut Röllend turned to the Lung and said, “Dervan du Alöbar is an historian. Ask him if he remembers ever hearing of it.”

“There’s more. The Eculans have a contact here in Pelemyn.”

Silence, widened eyes, and then the Lung said: “A traitor?”

“I assume so. A contact by the single name of Vjeko.”

“This never leaves the room,” the pelenaut said, making eye contact with each of us in turn. “You tell no one. I mean no one, Föstyr.”

“Understood.”

Pelenaut Röllend tapped the copy of the report I’d given him. “Gondel, do you know where I can find mention of Vjeko in here?”

“Page ten, I believe.”

He began to flip through the papers. “Any other contacts listed besides him?”

“No.”

“Exactly how were they to contact him?”

“That’s not mentioned, unfortunately.”

“Very well. Thank you, Gondel. We’re very grateful for your assistance, and I’m going to take some time to absorb this. You’ll remain in Pelemyn for a few days at least in case I have questions?”

“Both Ponder and I are at your disposal until duty calls us elsewhere,” I said. “We’ll be staying at the Kaurian embassy.”

Ponder had no difficulty with the decision; the handsome lad had many admirers already. For my part, I longed to return home to Maron and call my duty done: no one would question it except for me. If I returned now, I would always wonder if I could have done something more to save lives and to prevent Kauria from ever suffering the way Brynlön has. So I determined to stay and wrote Maron a love letter instead so that he would know that yes, I was still driven, still consumed by my work, but I was thinking of him, too, and though I might seem lost, one day I would be found again in his arms.

The mood is justifiably dark and bleak here, and I can see the pelenaut straining to see a way through for his people. In addition to what I’ve seen with my own eyes—the slaughter at Möllerud and Göfyrd, the loss of so many families like Kallindra du Paskre’s—I’ve since learned that it was just as bad in the north.

Amid so much ruin I prayed that Reinei would, in some near future, gasp a labored breath of peace.

Continued in volume two, A Blight of Blackwings

This is the latest table according to Fintan, the Raelech bard. By looking at the three colored stones on a Raelech’s Jereh band, one can tell immediately a person’s status and profession. The left stone always identifies the goddess or other affiliation, and the middle stone indicates rank; the right-hand stone will signal one’s profession or status when combined with the left affiliation stone. A Jereh band that reads brown, purple, and white, therefore, would indicate that the wearer is affiliated with the Goddess Dinae as a master healer. A journeyman tanner would wear yellow, blue, and brown; an apprentice hunter would wear red, brown, and evergreen, and so on. Visitors must also wear cheaper, temporary bands, the first stone usually green (foreign) or white (unskilled, at least in Raelech eyes). Relationship status is indicated with the metal of the band: bronze means single, gold means married.

AFFILIATION (LEFT STONE):

UBY

) R

ED:

Hall of the Warrior Goddess Raena (usually called the Huntress)

ARD

) B

ROWN:

Hall of the Earth Goddess Dinae

ITRINE

) Y

ELLOW:

Hall of the Poet Goddess Kaelin

ALACHITE

) E

VERGREEN:

Foreign National

BSIDIAN

) B

LACK:

Criminal

NYX

) W

HITE:

Triune Council/Ward of the Triune

RANK (MIDDLE STONE):

ARD

) B

ROWN:

Apprentice

APPHIRE

) B

LUE:

Journeyman/Laborer

METHYST

) P

URPLE:

Master

ADE

) A

PPLE

REEN:

Protected by the Goddess (Raelechs from ages nine to twelve)

BSIDIAN

) B

LACK:

To be determined/Probationary Status/Stripped of Rank/Foreign skill

NYX

) W

HITE:

Unskilled/Tradeless/Raelech children up to age nine

PROFESSIONS (RIGHT STONE) ACCORDING TO AFFILIATION, ALWAYS SUBJECT TO CHANGE/EXPANSION:

COLOR/STONE

RAENA

DINAE

Red/Ruby

Soldier

Farmer

Brown/Sard

Constable

Miner

Yellow/Citrine

Temblor

Shepherd/Cowherd/etc.

Blue/Sapphire

Archer

Fisherfolk

Purple/Amethyst

Navigator

Laborer

Orange/Fire Opal

Army Officer

Miller

Green/Malachite

Hunter

Forester

White/Onyx

Enforcer

Healer

Black/Obsidian

Dark Blue/Sodalite

Naval Officer

Herbalist

Violet/Charoite

Architect

Dyemaker

Apple/Jade

Scout

Green/Emerald

Mercenary

Gardener

Sepia/Smoky Quartz

Juggernaut

Stonecutter

Light Blue/Chalcedony

Sailor

Mother of Pearl

Courier

Brewer/Distiller

Pink/Rose Quartz

Jurist (Lawyer)

Sexitrist

Gold/Tourmaline

Engineer

Beekeeper

Grey/Howlite

Siege Crew

Silver/Quartz

Jailer

Turquoise

Bailiff

Mauve/Rhodolite Garnet

Clergy

Please note that some terms are catchalls: Hospitality, for example, includes a multitude of professions, from bartenders and innkeeps to household employees of all kinds. Almost all professions involved in food production are given a ruby in Kaelin’s Hall, but curiously (at least to me) is the inclusion of Brewers and Distillers in Dinae’s Hall. Fintan’s explanation for this is a Raelech legend in which Dinae supposedly outdrank her sisters one fine Felech evening three thousand years ago, and thus became the patron goddess of hopheads everywhere. —Dervan

KAELIN

FOREIGN

CRIMINAL

TRIUNE

Chefs, Butchers, Bakers

Mercenary

Colaiste Master

Tanner

Lawyer

Magistrate

Bard

Diplomat

Potter

Herald

Jereh Fraud, Other Fraud

Herald

Hospitality

Laborer

Merchant

Thief

Coiner/Banker

Woodcraft

Despoiler

Papermaker

Student

Murderer

Chandler

Official of State

Smuggler

Adviser

Glasswork

Fence

Teamster

Armorer

Head of State

Tax Official

Weaver

Hygienist

Mason

Clave Poobah

Blacksmith

Tradesman

Stevedore

Dancer/Acrobat/Artisan

Council Member

Thespian

Organized Crime

Jereh/Gemcraft

Scholar

Tailor

Tourist

Poison/Drug Offenses

Harbor Master

Cobbler

Violent Crimes

Postal Service

Clerk/Printer

Clerk

Conspiracist

Clerk

Clergy

Though Ghurana Nent insists on a different timekeeping system for their internal use, the Six Nations otherwise use the Kaurian Calendar. It begins on the day of the Spring Equinox and ends on the last day of winter. It uses eight-day weeks: ten months have four weeks, but months six and twelve have three, for a total of 368 days. A few days are usually subtracted from the last week of the year to ensure that the Spring Equinox falls on Bloom 1, which means in practical terms that Thaw is often only twenty-one to twenty-two days long. Bloodmoon 1 is usually the day after Autumn Equinox.

The Giant Wars began in the winter of 3041 with the eruption of Mount Thayil and the destruction of Harthrad, followed closely by the du Paskre Encounter and the capture of Saviič in the east.

SPRING SEASON

Bloom (32) Rainfall (32) Foaling (32) (96 days)

SUMMER SEASON

Sunlight (32) Bounty (32) Harvest (24) (88 days)

AUTUMN SEASON

Bloodmoon (32) Amber (32) Barebranch (32) (96 days)

WINTER SEASON

Frost (32) Snowfall (32) Thaw (21) (85 days)

DAYS OF THE WEEK

Kaurian Language

Deller, Soller, Tamiller, Keiller, Shaller, Feiller, Beiller, Reiller

Raelech Language

Delech, Solech, Tamech, Kelech, Shalech, Felech, Belech, Ranech

I’ve had the Raelech bard in my head a long time—longer than the Iron Druid, in fact. The idea of nightly, serial storytelling has fascinated me ever since I learned that this was something Homer might have done in ancient Greece, and it took me about ten years to figure out how to simulate that experience in a novel. It could not have been done without the following:

1. My wife’s constant belief that I could pull this off. Thank you, Kimberly.

2. My editor’s keen insights and tremendous patience while I figured things out. Thank you, Tricia.

3. My good friend Alan O’Bryan, who read extremely early versions of the story, provided feedback, and helped think through the Raelech Jereh system. Thank you, Alan.

Many thanks to you for reading, and I hope you’ll return for the rest of the bard’s tales.

extras

www.orbitbooks.net

about the author

Kevin Hearne lives with his wife, son, and doggies in Colorado. He hugs trees, rocks out to heavy metal, and will happily geek out over comics with you. He also thinks tacos are a pretty nifty idea.

kevinhearne.com

Facebook.com/authorkevin

Twitter: @KevinHearne

Find out more about Kevin Hearne and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newslettter at www.orbitbooks.net

interview

When did you first come up with the idea for A Plague of Giants?

About ten years ago! I had a first draft written before I wrote my urban fantasy series, in fact. It was both huge and hugely awful. Thankfully I learned quite a bit while writing the Iron Druid Chronicles. When I came back to Plague, I scrapped almost the entirety of the first draft, keeping only twelve lines and the world itself. That was 250K words I kissed goodbye, but I really like the twelve lines I kept.

Did you need to approach the writing of this book in a very different way to writing the Iron Druid Chronicles?

Absolutely. Epic fantasy is significantly different from urban fantasy to begin with, and since I have eleven first-person points of view that also jump back and forth a bit in time, trying to organize that in Word would have driven me insane. I used Scrivener to compose this, since it allows one to create folders for each chapter and then those folders can be easily rearranged with a click and drag, whereas moving things around in Word requires a lot of scrolling, highlighting, copying, and pasting.

What was your inspiration behind using a bard as the framing device for a much larger tale?

That came from my desire to render in prose the experience of an audience listening to a bard like Homer performing the Iliad or Odyssey a chapter at a time. Those old epics were the popular culture of the ancient world, and the closest thing we have now is binge-watching a series on Netflix, which is somehow a comedown. We’ve lost something magical since we let bards pass into obsolescence, and I wanted to recapture a smidgen of that if I could.

The magic system you’ve come up with is very original. What were the challenges of creating this system?

The challenge to creating any magic system is maintaining internal consistency. The challenge of presenting that system is how much to reveal and when, and in this case, we have narrators who possess only one kenning or none at all, so there is never an opportunity for someone to explain everything—not that you would ever want that. And kennings are at once simple but mysterious: tremendous power available to all at tremendous risk and cost, but no one is sure why such power is available, or how it came to be there apart from vague assertions that the gods must be responsible. Discovering that, along with the precise nature of the Seventh Kenning, will occupy part of the narrative of the next two books.

If you were to seek a kenning, which one would you go for?

Oh, egad! I think I’d be too afraid to be a Seeker; I rather like my chances of staying alive without risking that. But if I did seek one, I suppose I’d go for the Second Kenning and dive into Bryn’s Lung. There’s a whole lot of fun to be had in the water.

Is there a character you most identify with in this book? Who was your favourite to write?

I probably identify most with Olet Kanek, daughter of the giant Hearthfire Winthir Kanek. She is a minor character in the first book but a major point-of-view character in the second. She’d like to see her generation follow a different path than their parents have and I feel that quite strongly myself. I think you see that in current US culture and around the world as well—we frequently see articles about how Millennials are not conforming to the values of the Baby Boomer generation or even Generation X, and every time I see such an article I think, “Good on them.” But the greatest joy for me to write was the voice of Nel Kit ben Sah, the greensleeve who loves her forest so much. There’s a lightness and poetry infused in her language that made her headspace a treat to inhabit.

What can we expect from the next Seven Kennings novel?

A Blight of Blackwings will pick up where A Plague of Giants leaves off, for while some crises have been dealt with there are bigger ones coming. You will see new narrators (such as Olet, mentioned above), the world’s reaction to the new power risen in the west, and a rather frightening demonstration of the Seventh Kenning.

if you enjoyed

A PLAGUE OF GIANTS

look out for

THE FIFTH WARD: FIRST WATCH

Dale Lucas

In the cramped quarters of the city of Yenara, humans, orcs, mages, elves and dwarves all jostle for success and survival, while understaffed watch wardens struggle to keep the citizens in line.

Enter Rem. New to the city, he wakes bruised and hungover in the dungeons of the fifth ward. With no money for bail – and seeing no other way out of his cell – Rem jumps at the chance to join the Watch.

Torval, his new partner – a dwarf who’s handy with a maul and known for hitting first and asking questions later – is highly unimpressed with the untrained and weaponless Rem. But when Torval’s former partner goes missing, the two must learn to work together to uncover the truth and catch a murderer loose in their fair city.

CHAPTER ONE

Rem awoke in a dungeon with a thunderous headache. He knew it was a dungeon because he lay on a thin bed of straw, and because there were iron bars between where he lay and a larger chamber outside. The light was spotty, some of it from torches in sconces outside his cell, some from a few tiny windows high on the stone walls admitting small streams of wan sunlight. Moving nearer the bars, he noted that his cell was one of several, each roomy enough to hold multiple prisoners.

A large pile of straw on the far side of his cell coughed, shifted, then started to snore. Clearly, Rem was not alone.

And just how did I end up here? he wondered. I seem to recall a winning streak at Roll-the-Bones.

He could not remember clearly. But if the lumpy soreness of his face and body were any indication, his dice game had gone awry. If only he could clear his pounding head, or slake his thirst. His tongue and throat felt like sharkskin.

Desperate for a drink, Rem crawled to a nearby bucket, hoping for a little brackish water. To his dismay, he found that it was the piss jar, not a water bucket, and not well rinsed at that. The sight and smell made Rem recoil with a gag. He went sprawling back onto the hay. A few feet away, his cellmate muttered something in the tongue of the Kosterfolk, then resumed snoring.

Somewhere across the chamber, a multitumbler lock clanked and clacked. Rusty hinges squealed as a great door lumbered open. From the other cells Rem heard prisoners roused from their sleep, shuffling forward hurriedly to thrust their arms out through the cage bars. If Rem didn’t misjudge, there were only about four or five other prisoners in all the dungeon cells. A select company, to be sure. Perhaps it was a slow day for the Yenaran city watch?

Four men marched into the dungeon. Well, three marched; the fourth seemed a little more reticent, being dragged by two others behind their leader, a thickset man with black hair, sullen eyes, and a drooping mustache.

“Prefect, sir,” Rem heard from an adjacent cell, “there’s been a terrible mistake …”

From across the chamber: “Prefect, sir, someone must have spiked my ale, because the last thing I remember, I was enjoying an evening out with some mates …”

From off to his left: “Prefect, sir, I’ve a chest of treasure waiting back at my rooms at the Sauntering Mink. A golden cup full of rubies and emeralds is yours, if you’ll just let me out of here …”

Prefect, sir … Prefect, sir … over and over again.

Rem decided that thrusting his own arms out and begging for the prefect’s attention was useless. What would he do? Claim his innocence? Promise riches if they’d let him out? That was quite a tall order when Rem himself couldn’t remember what he’d done to get in here. If he could just clear his thunder-addled, achingly thirsty brain …

The sullen-eyed prefect led the two who dragged the prisoner down a short flight of steps into a shallow sort of operating theater in the center of the dungeon: the interrogation pit, like some shallow bath that someone had let all the water out of. On one side of the pit was a brick oven in which fire and coals glowed. Opposite the oven was a burbling fountain. Rem thought these additions rather ingenious. Whatever elemental need one had—fire to burn with, water to drown with—both were readily provided. The floor of the pit, Rem guessed, probably sported a couple of grates that led right down into the sewers, as well as the tools of the trade: a table full of torturer’s implements, a couple of hot braziers, some chairs and manacles. Rem hadn’t seen the inside of any city dungeons, but he’d seen their private equivalents. Had it been the dungeon of some march lord up north—from his own country—that’s what would have been waiting in the little amphitheater.

“Come on, Ondego, you know me,” the prisoner pleaded. “This isn’t necessary.”

“’Fraid so,” sullen-eyed Ondego said, his low voice easy and without malice. “The chair, lads.”

The two guardsmen flanking the prisoner were a study in contrasts—one a tall, rugged sort, face stony and flecked with stubble, shoulders broad, while the other was lithe and graceful, sporting braided black locks, skin the color of dark-stained wood, and a telltale pair of tapered, pointing ears. Staring, Rem realized that second guardsman was no man at all, but an elf, and female, at that. Here was a puzzle, indeed. Rem had seen elves at a distance before, usually in or around frontier settlements farther north, or simply haunting the bleak crossroads of a woodland highway like pikers who never demanded a toll. But he had never seen one of them up close like this—and certainly not in the middle of one of the largest cities in the Western world, deep underground, in a dingy, shit-and blood-stained dungeon. Nonetheless, the dark-skinned elfmaid seemed quite at home in her surroundings, and perfectly comfortable beside the bigger man on the other side of the prisoner.

Together, those two guards thrust the third man’s squirming, wobbly body down into a chair. Heavy manacles were produced and the protester was chained to his seat. He struggled a little, to test his bonds, but seemed to know instinctively that it was no use. Ondego stood at a brazier nearby, stoking its coals, the pile of dark cinders glowing ominously in the oily darkness.

“Oi, that’s right!” one of the other prisoners shouted. “Give that bastard what for, Prefect!”

“You shut your filthy mouth, Foss!” the chained man spat back.

“Eat me, Kevel!” the prisoner countered. “How do you like the chair, eh?”

Huh. Rem moved closer to his cell bars, trying to get a better look. So, this prisoner, Kevel, knew that fellow in the cell, Foss, and vice versa. Part of a conspiracy? Brother marauders, questioned one by one—and in sight of one another—for some vital information?

Then Rem saw it: Kevel, the prisoner in the hot seat, wore a signet pendant around his throat identical to those worn by the prefect and the two guards. It was unmistakable, even in the shoddy light.

“Well, I’ll be,” Rem muttered aloud.

The prisoner was one of the prefect’s own watchmen.

Ex-watchman now, he supposed.

All of a sudden, Rem felt a little sorry for him … but not much. No doubt, Kevel himself had performed the prefect’s present actions a number of times: chaining some poor sap into the hot seat, stoking the brazier, using fire and water and physical distress to intimidate the prisoner into revealing vital information.

The prefect, Ondego, stepped away from the brazier and moved to a table nearby. He studied a number of implements—it was too dark and the angle too awkward for Rem to tell what, exactly—then picked something up. He hefted the object in his hands, testing its weight.

It looked like a book—thick, with a hundred leaves or more bound between soft leather covers.

“Do you know what this is?” Ondego asked Kevel.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Kevel said. Rem could tell that he was bracing himself, mentally and physically.

“It’s a genealogy of Yenara’s richest families. Out-of-date, though. At least a generation old.”

“Do tell,” Kevel said, his throat sounding like it had contracted to the size of a reed.

“Look at this,” Ondego said, hefting the book in his hands, studying it. “That is one enormous pile of useless information. Thick as a bloody brick—”

And that’s when Ondego drew back the book and brought it smashing into Kevel’s face in a broad, flat arc. The sound of the strike—leather and parchment pages connecting at high speed with Kevel’s jawbone—echoed in the dungeon like the crack of a calving iceberg. A few of the other prisoners even wailed as though they were the ones struck.

Rem’s cellmate stirred beneath his pile of straw, but did not rise.

Kevel almost fell with the force of the blow. The big guard caught him and set him upright again. The lithe elf backed off, staring intently at the prisoner, as though searching his face and his manner for a sign of something. Without warning, Ondego hit Kevel again, this time on the other side of his face. Once more Kevel toppled. Once more the guard in his path caught him and set him upright.

Kevel spat out blood. Ondego tossed the book back onto the table behind him and went looking for another implement.

“That all you got, old man?” Kevel asked.

“Bravado doesn’t suit you,” Ondego said, still studying his options from the torture table. He threw a glance at the elf on the far side of the torture pit. Rem watched intently, realizing that some strange ritual was under way: Kevel, blinking sweat from his eyes, studied Ondego; the lady elf, silent and implacable, studied Kevel; and Ondego idly studied the elf, the prefect’s thick, workman’s hand hovering slowly over the gathered implements of torture on the table.

Then, Kevel blinked. That small, unconscious movement seemed to signal something to the elf, who then spoke to the prefect. Her voice was soft, deep, melodious.

“The amputation knife,” she said, her large, unnerving, honey-colored eyes never leaving the prisoner.

Ondego took up the instrument that his hand hovered above—a long, curving blade like a field-hand’s billhook, the honed edge being on the inside, rather than the outside, of the curve. Ondego brandished the knife and looked to Kevel. The prisoner’s eyes were as wide as empty goblets.

Ingenious! The elf had apparently used her latent mind-reading abilities to determine which of the implements on the table Kevel most feared being used on him. Not precisely the paragon of sylvan harmony and ancient grace that Rem would have imagined such a creature to be, but impressive nonetheless.

As Ondego spoke, he continued to brandish the knife, casually, as if it were an extension of his own arm. “Honestly, Kev,” he said, “haven’t I seen you feign bravery a hundred times? I know you’re shitting your kecks about now.”

“So you’d like to think,” Kevel answered, eyes still on the knife. “You’re just bitter because you didn’t do it. Rich men don’t get rich keeping to a set percentage, Ondego. They get rich by redrawing the percentages.”

Ondego shook his head. Rem could be mistaken, but he thought he saw real regret there.

“Rule number one,” Ondego said, as though reciting holy writ. “Keep the peace.”

“Suck it,” Kevel said bitterly.

“Rule number two,” Ondego said, slowly turning to face Kevel, “Keep your partner safe, and he’ll do the same for you.”

“He was going to squeal,” Kevel said, now looking a little more repentant. “I couldn’t have that. You said yourself, Ondego—he wasn’t cut out for it. Never was. Never would be.”

“So that bought him a midnight swim in the bay?” Ondego asked. “Rule number three: let the punishment fit the crime, Kevel. Throttling that poor lad and throwing him in the drink … that’s what the judges call cruel and unusual. We don’t do cruel and unusual in my ward.”

“Go spit,” Kevel said.

“Rule number four,” Ondego quickly countered. “And this is important, Kevel, so listen good: never take more than your share. There’s enough for everyone, so long as no one’s greedy. So long as no one’s hoarding or getting fat. I knew you were taking a bigger cut when your jerkin started straining. There’s only one way a watchman that didn’t start out fat gets that way, and that’s by hoarding and taking more than his fair share.”

“So what’s it gonna be?” Kevel asked. “The knife? The razor? The book again? The hammer and the nail-tongs?”

“Nah,” Ondego said, seemingly bored by their exchange, as though he were disciplining a child that he’d spanked a hundred times before. He tossed the amputation knife back on the table. “Bare fists.”

And then, as Rem and the other prisoners watched, Ondego, prefect of the watch, proceeded to beat the living shit out of Kevel, a onetime member of his own watch company. Despite the fact that Ondego said not another word while the beating commenced, Rem thought he sensed some grim and unhappy purpose in Ondego’s corporal punishment. He never once smiled, nor even gritted his teeth in anger. The intensity of the beating never flared nor ebbed. He simply kept his mouth set, his eyes open, and slowly, methodically, laid fists to flesh. He made Kevel whimper and bleed. From time to time he would stop and look to the elf. The elf would study Kevel, clearly not simply looking at him but into him, perhaps reading just how close he was to losing consciousness, or whether he was feigning senselessness to gain some brief reprieve. The elf would then offer a cursory, “More.” Ondego, on the elfmaid’s advice, would continue.

Rem admired that: Ondego’s businesslike approach, the fact that he could mete out punishment without enjoying it. In some ways, Ondego reminded Rem of his own father.

Before Ondego was done, a few of the other prisoners were crying out. Some begged mercy on Kevel’s behalf. Ondego wasn’t having it. He didn’t acknowledge them. His fists carried on their bloody work. To Kevel’s credit he never begged mercy. Granted, that might have been hard after the first quarter hour or so, when most of his teeth were on the floor.

Ondego only relented when the elf finally offered a single word. “Out.” At that, Ondego stepped back, like a pugilist retreating to his corner between melee rounds. He shook his hands, no doubt feeling a great deal of pain in them. Beating a man like that tested the limits of one’s own pain threshold as well as the victim’s.

“Still breathing?” Ondego asked, all business.

The human guard bent. Listened. Felt for a pulse. “Still with us. Out cold.”

“Put him in the stocks,” Ondego said. “If he survives five days on Zabayus’s Square, he can walk out of the city so long as he never comes back. Post his crimes, so everyone sees.”

The guards nodded and set to unchaining Kevel. Ondego swept past them and mounted the stairs up to the main cell level again, heading toward the door. That’s when Rem suddenly noticed an enormous presence beside him. He had not heard the brute’s approach, but he could only be the sleeping form beneath the hay. For one, he was covered in the stuff. For another, his long braided hair, thick beard, and rough-sewn, stinking leathers marked him as a Kosterman. And hadn’t Rem heard Koster words muttered by the sleeper in the hay?

“Prefect!” the Kosterman called, his speech sharply accented.

Ondego turned, as if this was the first time he’d heard a single word spoken from the cells and the prisoners in them.

Rem’s cellmate rattled the bars. “Let me out of here, little man,” he said.

Kosterman all right. The long, yawning vowels and glass-sharp consonants were a dead giveaway. For emphasis, the Kosterman even snarled, as though the prefect were the lowest of house servants.

Ondego looked puzzled for a moment. Could it be that no one had ever spoken to him that way? Then the prefect stepped forward, snarling, looking like a maddened hound. His fist shot out in front of him and shook as he approached.

“Get back in your hay and keep your gods-damned head down, con! I’ll have none of your nonsense after such a bevy of bitter business—”

Rem realized what was about to happen a moment before it did. He opened his mouth to warn the prefect off—surely the man wasn’t so gullible? Maybe it was just his weariness in the wake of the beating he’d given Kevel? His regret at having to so savagely punish one of his own men?

Whatever the reason, Ondego clearly wasn’t thinking straight. The moment his shaking fist was within arm’s reach of the Kosterman in the cell, the barbarian reached out, snagged that fist, and yanked Ondego close. The prefect’s face and torso hit the bars of the cell with a heavy clang.

Rem scurried aside as the Kosterman stretched both arms out through the bars, wrapped them around Ondego, then tossed all of his weight backward. He had the prefect in a deadly bear hug and was using his body’s considerable weight to crush the man against the bars of the cell. Rem heard the other two watchmen rushing near, a flurry of curses and stomping boots. Around the dungeon, the men in the cells began to curse and cheer. Some even laughed.

“Let me out of here, now!” the Kosterman roared. “Let me out or I’ll crush him, I swear!”

Rem’s instincts were frustrated by his headache, his thirst, his confusion. But despite all that, he knew, deep in his gut, that he had to do something. He couldn’t just let the hay-covered Kosterman in the smelly leathers crush the prefect to death against the bars of the cell.

But that Kosterman was enormous—at least a head and a half taller than Rem.

The other watchmen had reached the bars now. The stubble-faced one was trying to break the Kosterman’s grip while the elfmaid snatched for the rattling keys to the cells on the human guard’s belt.

Without thinking, Rem rushed up behind the angry Kosterman, drew back one boot, and kicked. The kick landed square in the Kosterman’s fur-clad testicles.

The barbarian roared—an angry bear, indeed—and Rem’s gambit worked. For just a moment, the Kosterman released his hold on the prefect. On the far side of the bars, the stubble-faced watchman managed to get the prefect in his grip and yank him backward, away from the cell. When Rem saw that, he made his next move.

He leapt onto the Kosterman’s broad shoulders. Instead of wrapping his arms around the Kosterman’s throat, he grabbed the bars of the cell. Then, locking his legs around the Kosterman’s torso from behind, he yanked hard. The Kosterman was driven forward hard, his skull slamming with a resonant clang into the cell bars. Rem heard nose cartilage crunch. The Kosterman sputtered a little and tried to reach for whoever was on his back. Rem drew back and yanked again, driving the Kosterman forward into the bars once more.

Another clang. The Kosterman’s body seemed to sag beneath Rem.

Then the sagging body began to topple backward.

Clinging high on the great, muscular frame, Rem realized that he was overbalanced. He lost his grip on the cell bars, and the towering Kosterman beneath him fell.

Rem tried to leap free, but he was too entangled with the barbarian to make it clear. Instead, he simply disengaged and went falling with him.

Both of them—Rem and the barbarian—hit the floor. The Kosterman was out cold. Rem had the wind knocked out of him and his vision came alight with whirling stars and dancing fireflies.

Blinking, trying to get his sight and his breath back, he heard the whine of rusty hinges, then footsteps. Strong hands seized him and dragged him out of the cell. By the time his vision had returned, he found himself on the stone pathway outside the cell that he had shared with the smelly, unconscious Kosterman. The prefect and his two watchmen stood over him.

“Explain yourself,” Ondego said. He was a little disheveled, but otherwise, the Kosterman’s attack seemed to have left not a mark on him, nor shaken him.

Rem coughed. Drew breath. Sighed. “Just trying to help,” he said.

“I’ll bet you want out now, don’t you?” Ondego asked. “One good turn deserves another and all that.”

Rem shrugged. “It hadn’t really crossed my mind.”

Ondego frowned, as though Rem were the most puzzling prisoner he had ever encountered. “Well, what do you want, then? I can be a hard bastard when I choose, but I know how to return a favor.”

Rem had a thought. “I’m looking for work,” he said.

Ondego raised one eyebrow.

“Seeing as you have space on your watch rosters”—Rem gestured to the spot where they had been beating Kevel in the torture pit—“perhaps I could impress upon you—”

Ondego seemed to appraise Rem honestly for a moment. For confirmation of his instincts, he looked to the elf.

Rem suddenly knew the strange sensation of another living being poking around in his mind. It was momentary and fleeting and entirely painless, but eminently strange and unnerving, like having one’s privates appraised by the other patrons in a bathhouse. Then the elf’s probing intellect withdrew, and Rem no longer felt naked. The elfmaid seemed to wear a small, knowing half smile. Her dark and ancient eyes settled on Rem and chilled him.

She knows everything, Rem thought. A moment in my mind, two, and she knows everything. Everything worth knowing, anyway.

“Harmless,” the elfmaid said.

“Weak,” the stubble-faced guardsmen added.

The elf’s gaze never wavered. “No.”

“You don’t impress me,” Ondego said, despite the elf’s appraisal. “Not one bit.”

“No doubt I don’t,” Rem said. “But, by Aemon, sir, I’d like to.”

The watchman beside Ondego leaned close. Rem heard the words he whispered to the prefect.

“He did get that brute off you, sir.”

Ondego and the big watchman continued to study him. The elf now turned her gaze on the boisterous prisoners in the other cells. A moment’s eye contact was all it took. As the elfmaid turned her stone idol’s glare on each of them, they fell silent and withdrew from the bars. Bearing witness to the effect the elf’s silent, threatening stare had on those hard, desperate men made Rem’s skin crawl.

But, to his own predicament: Rem decided to mount a better argument—he certainly couldn’t end up in any more trouble, could he?

“You’re down two men,” Rem said, trying to look and sound as reasonable as possible. “That man you were beating and the partner he murdered. Surely you can give me the opportunity?”

“What’s he in here for?” Ondego asked the watchman.

Rem prepared himself to listen. He was still trying to reason that part out himself.

“Bar brawl,” the stubble-faced watchman said. “The Bonny Prince here was casting dice with some Koster longshoremen. Rolled straight nines, nine times in a row. They called him a cheat and he lit into them.”

It was coming back now. Rem remembered the tavern. He’d been waiting for someone. A girl. She hadn’t shown. He’d had a little too much to drink while waiting. He vaguely remembered the dice and the longshoremen—two tall fellows, not unlike the barbarian he’d just tussled with in the cell.

He couldn’t recall their faces, or even starting a fight with them … but he did remember being called a cheat, and taking umbrage.

“I wasn’t cheating,” Rem said emphatically. “It was just a run of good luck.”

“Not so good,” Ondego said, “seeing as you’re here in my dungeon.” To the guardsmen beside him: “Where are the other two?”

“Taken to the hospital, sir,” the big man said. “Beaten senseless by the Bonny Prince here.”

“And a third Kosterman, out like a light on my dungeon floor. What is it with you and these northerners, boy?”

Rem shrugged. “Ill-starred, I guess.”

Ondego seemed to appraise Rem anew. Three Kostermen on their backs was bold, and he couldn’t deny it. “Doesn’t look like much,” the prefect said, as if to himself, “but he can hold his own in a fight.”

Ondego was impressed with Rem—no thanks to the stone-faced watchman laying that damned “Bonny Prince” label on him. Rem guessed that Ondego’s grudging respect might work in his favor.

“I don’t like being called a cheat,” Rem said, “first and foremost because I don’t cheat. Ever.”

Ondego nodded toward Kevel, limp in his chair. “Neither do we,” he said.

“So I see,” Rem answered.

A long silence fell between them.

“Get him on his feet,” Ondego said. “We’ll try him out.”

Without another word, the prefect left.

Rem looked to the tall man. He felt a smile blooming on his face, then suddenly felt the pain of his brawl the night before. A swollen, split lip; a bruised nose; at least one missing tooth, far back in his mouth; the taste of old blood.

The big man offered a hand and yanked Rem to his feet. Upright, Rem swooned for a moment, his vision briefly going black again before finally clearing.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, my bonny boy,” the stubble-faced watchman said. “You’ve no idea what you’re in for walking the ward.”