The Tyranny of the Night

23. Brothe, Fists of the Gods

Shagot muttered, "Bel's Balls, little brother! How long was I out of it this time?"

“Two and a half days. I've got food warming. And you'd still be snoring if I hadn't started in on you. Here. Drink."

"What's up?" Shagot felt it. Dramatic things were happening.

"Pirates are attacking Brothe."

"Pirates? Sturlanger?"

"Not our people. Pirates who belong to that religion that hates the religion they have here. It's hard to explain. I can't get out and talk to people much so I can't understand what it's really all about”

Shagot sometimes doubted that Svavar could understand much of anything, even given his own tutor.

Svavar said, "Grim, we're going to get pulled into it here, ourselves, pretty soon. The raiders are only a few blocks away."

Shagot drank a cup of water and followed that with a huge, long draft of beer. Which he would have to honor his brother for having found in this pussy city infested by cowards, winners, faggots, and an all-time supply of effete snobs. All of whom did nothing but suck down wine, the preferred libation of boys who thought they ought to be girls.

Shagot said, "We don't have much that they'd think was worth stealing." He had gone to the trouble of ensuring that every spare copper he and Svavar accumulated went into the care of a certain Devedian investment specialist.

Asgrimmur growled, "Grim, get a hold on reality. Right now nobody gives a fuck about investments. Not to mention that these Calziran fish-fuckers could end up stealing our fortune anyway if they end up looting the whole fucking city."

Shagot hauled himself upright. "You got a point, little brother. If they work the way we did, they'll haul away anything they can carry and wreck whatever they can't."

"Now you're listening. So what do we do? They're headed this way. And getting closer while we talk."

"Then I guess we'd better travel on." Shagot shivered, unaccountably nervous.

"You need to eat first. But no screwing around."

Shagot had not been out into the city since the killings. Svavar had, occasionally, after his wounds healed. In disguise, of course. He knew that some powerful men wanted to get hold of them.

Shagot ate, indifferent to what he stuffed down. "How long do we have?"

"I don't know. Let's not tempt fate."

"I guess not. What do we do? Dress me up like your wife?"

"You really are an asshole. How about we just shave, cut our hair and wear something besides reindeer hides?" Asgrimmur had acquired the tools and clothing. They could not stay denned up. The man they had to destroy would not come to them.

There had been no sign of their quarry. Unless Grim had dreamed something. But Grim did not talk about his dreams, much.

Grumbling, Shagot let Svavar dress him in local clothing, followed by a trim and a shave. "You been busy, little brother."

"Somebody had to do something. And you're always asleep."

"Good on you. I always figured you could do something. If you really had to."

"Yeah." Grim was full of shit. "You got any idea where to find our target?"

"It's a long reach for the Old Ones down here, little brother. They do know he's in Brothe. They do know that he doesn't know we're after him. They do know that we aren't the only enemies he has. And they insist that we'll know him when we see him. Which they know you've been wondering about."

"Then we shouldn't be hiding out We should be looking. Like maybe about as soon as you finish gnawing that damned sausage."

The old, familiar sounds of panic came from outside.

"You're always in a hurry. You need to relax. Aren't you done with the hair yet? The killing is getting closer."

Svavar felt it, too. The pirates were moving fast. Meaning they were meeting little resistance.

That did not surprise Svavar. They had no guts, these Brothen girls in their funny pants.

There would be some cherries popped today.

SHAGOT AND SVAVAR WERE STILL EATING WHEN THEY reached the street, each loaded with fetishes from that ancient battleground. Shagot raised a hand to signal a halt. That hand held part of a roasted chicken.

People ran hither and thither around them, not knowing where they were headed but painfully sure they had to get there in a hurry. Svavar had seen this before, in Santerin. Right after he and Shagot and Erief had come roaring over me hill.

Shagot listened for fighting. He said, "This way." He headed away from the excitement.

It was not their fight. They were here to winkle out the Godslayer.

Svavar determined to become more active in that search. It would take forever if they hunted only while Grim was awake.

The brothers rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a band of pirates who were making no noise because no one was resisting them. Shagot and Svavar were carrying stuff. Obviously, they were trying to get that stuff out of the neighborhood. That was all the evidence the pirates needed.

They were swarthy, hungry little men who would not have dared face the Grimmssons one on one. But there were a swarm of them.

"Shit," Shagot swore softly, with no special heat. "The Walker must be thirsty." He discarded the chicken, shed his pack, produced his sword and the head of the dead demon. There was no doubt whatsoever that Shagot was touched by the gods. Svavar even wondered, sometimes, if his brother was still alive, in the generally accepted sense.

Shagot took the fight to the pirates. Perforce, Svavar stayed close, covering his brother's back.

Nineteen pirates were down when the handful still upright broke and ran. None were dead until Shagot removed their heads.

Shagot was in a state of communion with his gods. Svavar felt it. He sensed their attention, too. The Gray One himself was close. There had been blood and slaughter sufficient to span the occult abyss. A little more blood and the Old Ones would be able to enter this alien world and time.

Shagot was possessed. "I feel him, now. Come, brother. This way."

Grim headed north, toward the river. Toward the pirates. He used the latter to provide blood sacrifices in quantity, more than sufficient to assure the continued attention and assistance of the Old Ones.

THEY REACHED THE TERAGI. THEY MUST HAVE SLAIN A HUNdred Calzirans. Svavar was having trouble keeping up. Grim had been cut several times, too, but was not showing the effects. They were going to need another long convalescence. Unless their luck turned better than he expected and they brought their man down.

Svavar remained alert for the presence of someone – anyone – from the Great Sky Fortress. He was convinced that the slaughter had made it possible for those Instrumentalities of the Night to begin stalking Brothen streets.

However, if one of the Old Ones did slip through, he was not making his presence obvious.

"The Godslayer is on the other side," Shagot said. "There." He pointed vaguely in the direction of some burning ships.

Svavar said, "There's a bridge up there. Half a mile, or so."

Shagot did not care about bridges. A hundred yards directly ahead a dozen pirates were piling plunder aboard a captured rowboat. Shagot killed them and took the boat. Then their heads. Then sat down at the oars.

He pulled like a thing not human. Svavar did not volunteer to take a turn. His wounds bothered him too much. And he did not want to disturb his brother's connection with the gods.

Svavar feared that Grim was so far gone he could turn on anyone. He had become a berserker of the oldest form.

A few Calzirans attacked them when they reached the north bank. And so added their blood to the sacrificial pool. Shagot did not take heads this time. In fact, he abandoned his collection with the boat, retaining only the head of the demon. His wounds had begun to slow and weaken him at last. But that lasted for only a short while.

Shagot healed almost visibly fast. Calzirans overcome, he turned his nose north of northwest and started limping. Svavar had trouble keeping up.

Svavar felt his own wounds healing, though not at the ridiculous rate Grim enjoyed.

In minutes they reached a neighborhood untouched by current events. It was a poor area but not a slum. It was not crowded, horizontally or vertically. Svavar thought he remembered a wall not much farther on. Beyond that the city faded into a typical Firaldian countryside of olive groves, vineyards, truck farms and, farmer out, wheat fields. All the ground that could be tamed had been – two thousand years ago.

Shagot began to show an uncharacteristic uncertainty. "We're real close," he said. "Right on top. I can almost smell him. But I can't pinpoint him. Something is getting in the way."

"Any idea how close?" Svavar asked. If he had a distance to work with he could attack the problem intellectually. Which was a concept almost alien to his brother.

He felt something disorienting, too. Like a mild buzz inside his brain that kept his thoughts mushy at their center. His vision seemed a little wobbly.

"Thirty yards at least. Not more than fifty."

Svavar reasoned the possibilities down to four houses and their outbuildings. He explained, then asked, "Why don't we start with the closest?"

"Let's do it." Shagot hefted his battered blade and hoisted the demon's head.

And Svavar realized that this was not going to go well. Because Shagot was going about it all wrong. And there was something else…. Something more … A Presence that should not be present…