The Wurms of Blearmouth

Reaching the top of the landing she heard a door open behind her and turned. A young woman was edging out, and there was enough about her that made it clear to Birds Mottle that this was Feloovil’s daughter. Seeing Birds, the young woman hurried over. “Who are they?” she asked in a whisper.

“Always a good question,” Birds replied. “Who is who?”

“Those huge men coming up the street. And one woman. Friends of yours?”

“Huge?”

“Giant!”

Birds pushed past her and hurried back up the corridor. She threw open the door to Hordilo’s room. “You were right! I need you. I want you. Let’s get married! Find us a shack somewhere out of the village, where we can hide away, making wild love for days on end!”

Hordilo stood, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. “A shack? Somewhere remote? Secluded, private, where no-one will disturb us? Sounds like my farmhouse. Ain’t been there since, well, since a while now.” He smiled at her. “Who’s the man with all the answers?”

“You!” she cried, rushing into his arms.

Tiny Chanter threw open the inn door and stepped forward, only to bang his head on the jamb. “Ow,” he said, ducking and continuing on. Over his shoulder he said, “Lesser, Puny, fix that door, will you?”

Behind him the two brothers started hacking at the plastered beam with their axes.

“Hey! Feloovil shouted from behind the bar. “Stop that!”

“Needs doing,” Tiny said, glaring round. “Too low for a proper man, anyway.”

“Then you duck!”

Tiny bared his teeth. “Tiny Chanter don’t duck for nothing.”

“Glad to hear it,” Feloovil said, throwing a tankard at his head. It cracked hard just above his left eye, fell to a table and bounced and then dropped to the muddy floor.

“For that you die!” Tiny bellowed, one hand to his forehead.

“Before or after I serve you?” Feloovil asked.

“Make it after,” said Relish, slipping past her brother. “I’m thirsty and famished!”

Flea went to a table and dragged locals from their chairs and flung them into a corner, and then he turned to his siblings. “Found us a table, Tiny!”

As Lesser and Puny, putting away their axes, hurried to join Flea, Scant and Midge, Tiny pointed a finger at Feloovil. “Ale. Food. Now.”

“Pay. First.”

“Tiny Chanter don’t pay for nothing.”

“Tiny Chanter gets hungry and thirsty, and so do his brothers and sister. Not only that,” Feloovil continued, “they all get to sit outside, on the ground.”

“Gods below,” Relish said to Tiny, “cough up some coin, brother, so she don’t spit in our bowls.”

Snarling, Tiny pulled out a small pouch. He loosened the drawstrings and peered into it. He frowned, small eyes getting smaller.

Feloovil snorted, leaning her forearms on the counter. “No wonder Tiny don’t pay for nothing.”

Midge rose from the table and walked to the bar, shoving Relish to one side as he slapped down three silver coins.

Feloovil swept them up in one hand. “Got pretty women upstairs,” she added.

“Really?” Relish asked.

Ackle led Spilgit down to a shelf of sand and crushed shells well back from the thundering surf, but spray engulfed them nonetheless, icy and fierce. Lightning flashed through the massive storm cloud roiling above the wild seas, thunder drumming through the howl of the wind, and Ackle was hunched over like an old man, prodding the ground ahead every now and then with his shovel. At last he halted and faced Spilgit. “Here,” he said.

“Then start digging,” Spilgit replied.

“I’m freezing.”

“The exercise will fix that.”

“No, I mean I’m freezing solid. My arms barely bend. I can’t straighten my legs. There’s ice in my eyes and my tongue feels like frozen leather.”

Spilgit scowled. “Stop pretending to be dead, damn you! You think I’m not cold? Gods below, go on, then. Freeze solid for all I care.” Pushing Ackle back he set to digging in the heavy, ice-laden sand. “If this is a waste of time,” he said in a snarl, “you’re not leaving this spot, Ackle. In fact, I’m digging you a grave, right here.”

“It’s there, Spilgit. My haul. My hoard. Enough to buy a damned estate, maybe two, if one of them is run-down and occupied by an old woman who’s half mad and eats bats for breakfast. The kind of woman you can push down the stairs and no servants to ask any questions, so the property just falls into your lap, because of debts or whatnot-”

“What in Hood’s name are you going on about?” Spilgit demanded, glaring up at the man. “What old woman? What debts?”

“I’m just saying. I was the last one to go, you see, and maybe bats were fine with her but I was down to making tea from cobwebs, and yet I stayed on as long as I could, and did I get a word of thanks? Not on your life. That hag spat on me and clawed my face, but the candlesticks were my severance pay-she promised them to me! Instead, she rips the pack and everything falls out, and then she kicks my shin and tries to sink her teeth in my throat. But she didn’t have any teeth. She gummed my neck, Spilgit, and that wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

Spilgit laughed harshly. “You ran from an old woman. Gods, Ackle, you really are pathetic.”

“She probably poisoned me. Or cursed me. Or both. I was actually looking forward to a proper death, you know. Just an end to this whole miserable existence. I’d earned it, in fact-”

Something clunked under Spilgit’s shovel. Breathing hard from the exertion, Spilgit worked the blade around the object, and moments later he could make out the curved lid of a banded chest.

“That’s it,” said Ackle. “I told you I wasn’t lying.”

Spilgit set the shovel aside and pulled at the chest, working it free. It was heavy and he grunted lifting it from the hole. “Hold on,” he said, eyes finding the seal over the lock, “this is a Revenue Chest!”

“That’s right,” said Ackle. “I beat a tax collector senseless, on the Whitter Road just east of Elin. With a candlestick.”

“You stole tax revenue!”

“Just getting my own back, Spilgit. Anyway, you quit as a tax collector, so what difference does it make to you? You’re getting half, besides.”

Spilgit climbed out of the hole, brushed sand from his hands, and then leapt at Ackle. “Thief!” His hands closed on the man’s twisted, scarred neck, and his weight drove Ackle down to the ground. Spilgit knelt on him, squeezing with all his strength, seeing the ugly eyes bulge, the deepening hue of the face going from blue to grey. “This time you die for real! Just what you wanted!”

Ackle’s struggles fell away, his kicking stilled, and all life vanished from his mottled face.

Still Spilgit gripped Ackle’s throat, gasping out the last of his rage. “Thief,” he said again, but this time without much feeling. “Look at you. Got your wish, fool. This was punishment. Legal execution, in fact. I’m still a tax collector-it’s in my blood, in my bones, gods, in my hands!” He pulled his grip free, crawled off the corpse.

Eyes falling to the chest, he frowned. “Stolen revenues. For building better roads. Lanterns in the streets. Keeping the drains clear. But still, well, a man needs to get properly set up. It’s not like they’ll take me back, anyway. I could go into accountancy, use my skills for the other side. A nice office, in a decent neighbourhood, in a fine city, with proper clothes. Servants. It’s what I deserve, after a year in Spendrugle. Year? Only a year? More like a century!” Reaching over he pulled close the chest, broke the seal and flipped back the lid.

The coins were properly columned, each column wrapped and sealed and marked with the total amount. They’d already been converted, meaning every damned coin was solid gold. This wasn’t no normal haul. Not some scrapings from villages, farms and hamlets. Gods below, this was a city’s take. What in Hood’s name was that tax collector doing with it on Whitter Road? Without an armed escort?

Spilgit, you fool, the bastard was stealing it, of course!

He dropped the lid. He was getting cold again, now that he’d stopped digging and strangling Ackle. He had enough coin here to buy Spendrugle, all the lands surrounding it, and that damned Wurms Keep. He had the coin to hire an army and march back in the summer and lay waste to the whole place, and it was only what they all deserved.

Spilgit stood, staring down at the chest.

The shovel flattened the back of his skull and he toppled forward. His legs kicked a few times then went straight as spears. Ackle studied the sprawled corpse of the tax collector. “I told you I was dead!” he shouted. “You can’t kill a dead man! I told you!”

Dropping the shovel, he fell to his knees and pushed the chest back into the hole. It could all wait until the spring, anyway. Too cold for travel. His joints were freezing solid, making every move a creaking ordeal.

Ackle filled in the hole again, and then took up Spilgit by the ankles and dragged him to the edge of the shelf. He kicked the body into the thrashing surf, watched as the corpse was tugged out to sea, sucked down and out of sight between two massive rocks.

“Killing tax collectors,” he muttered. “I could make a living out of that.”

Picking up both shovels, he set off for the village.

Witch Hurl crawled up from the bushes and made it onto the trail on her hands and knees. Blood dripped sluggishly from her forehead, but the cold had frozen most of it. She had to hand it to Spilgit: the man’s reflexes were like lightning. Still, no matter. Against nine of her, he would have no chance, and indeed the time had come.

Muttering under her breath, she sembled. Her form blurred, she yowled in pain, and moments later nine lizard cats emerged from the redolent, spicy haze. The wind whipped those scents away. Her bodies were scrawny, but filled with venomous hatred. She slipped forward, tails writhing, nine slinky forms rushing up the trail.

The King’s Heel. It would all start there, with the conclusion of plenty of unfinished business. It was likely all the denizens of the village were in there, anyway, meaning she wouldn’t have to do much hunting through houses and huts, pig-sties and stables. No, they would all be crowded in the Heel tonight, sitting out the storm, warm in each other’s stink.

She would make of that wretched inn a tomb, a haunted crypt, its walls sweating the blood of slaughter, the echoes running in all directions from the screams and shrieks and death-rattles.

Racing closer, her gazes caught once more the glaring light from the tower of Wurms Keep. Her fury sizzled like fat in a pan, and she found her throats opening to hisses and then spitting, every scale upon her nine backs arching into serrated lines.

There, directly ahead, the entrance to the King’s Heel.

Reaching it, she flung herselves against the barrier. And rebounded. Frustrated rage filled her bodies. Claws were unsheathed, lashing out at the wind, gouging deep furrows in the frozen mud. She glared at the door, willing it to explode. But it defied her power. Hurl screamed through nine throats.

At the high-pitched wailing from outside, Feloovil shivered. “The wind’s gone mad out there! Here, then, have another drink!”

Laughing, Relish held up her tankard, watching it weave before her. “Brilliant idea,” she shouted. “A tavern on a ship! We should’ve thought of that years ago!”

“You ain’t on a ship no more,” Tiny said, his small red eyes tracking the room before returning to their concentrated fixation on Feloovil’s breasts. “You’re drunk,” he explained. “That’s why you’re all wavering back and forth, and the floor keeps tilting, and those lanterns swaying like that.” He belched then and leaned on the counter to get closer to those breasts, and then he addressed them. “I know you’re old and all,” he said, with a bleary smile, “but that just makes you more desperate, and a desperate woman is my kind of woman.”

“The only kind, I would think,” Feloovil replied. “And I’ll have you know I’m only thirty-one years old.”

“Hah hah hah!”

“Now, if you had me some offerings,” she continued, ignoring his derision, “I might show you the youth of my soul and all that.”

“Oh,” Tiny replied, “I’ll offer you something all right. Hah hah hah!”

“Listen to that wind!” Relish said, swinging round to face the door. “Like voices! Screaming witches! Ugly hags riding the black winds!” She looked round, frowned at all the pale faces and the huddling forms at the tables. “Wind’s got you all terrified! You’re all useless, the worst sailors I ever seen. All hands on deck! Storm-sails, reef the jibe and trim the anchor!” She spun back to Feloovil. “I want some women!”

“She can do that,” Tiny said, nodding, “since it keeps her a virgin, and we promised old Ma we’d keep her virtue and dignity and stuff.”

Feloovil shrugged. “Head on up and find one, then,” she said to Relish.

Weaving, Relish made her way to the stairs.

Feloovil eyed Tiny Chanter. “You got small hands,” she said.

“They ain’t small.”

“Too small for the rest of you, I mean. That’s not too promising.”

“Tiny don’t make promises,” he replied, nodding at her breasts. “Tiny Chanter does whatever he wants to do, with anybody he wants to do them with, as long as they do what they’re told, they’ll do fine.”

“They’ll do fine all right,” Feloovil said. “And I bet you want to see them naked, don’t you?”

He smiled.

“All right, then,” she said. “Here’s the deal. You all look tough and that’s good. There’s someone up at the keep needs killing.”

“I can kill,” Tiny said. “Better than anybody. Just ask ’em, all those people I killed. I ain’t just a sword, neither. I got sorcery. Necromancy. Jhistal, Demidrek, High Mage. Pick a title, I’m it.”

“Even better,” she said. “Since that keep’s full of sorcerors right now. Lord Fangatooth Claw, and his guests. Bauchelain and Korbal Broach.”

Tiny seemed to reel for a moment, and then his face darkened. “Aye, them. Wait, who’s Lord Fangatooth Claw?”

“The local tyrant,” she replied.

Tiny grunted. “Nice name.”

“He thinks so,” said Feloovil. “So, that’s the deal.” She lifted her breasts. “You get these, in all their glory. But you got to kill everyone in that keep first.”

“We can do that,” Tiny said. “We was going to do it anyway.”

“Oh. Well, then-”

“After we killed all of you,” Tiny went on. “But instead, we’ll do it the other way round. Keep first and then everybody here, but not till after you and me do … you know … the stuff men and women do. The pinky stuff.”

“The what?”

Tiny reddened. “Pinky naked, I mean. You know.”

“You ain’t never done any of that before, have you?”

“Of course I have!”

But Feloovil shook her head. “If you had, you’d know that what your sister’s doing upstairs with one of my girls makes her no virgin in anyone’s eyes.”

“Watch your mouth!” he snarled, reaching for his sword.

“Never mind what I just said, Tiny. Go on and kill them up there, if you think you can. Wurms Keep.”

“We will! And then we come back down and kill all of you!”

“The walk will sober you up, I hope,” she said, glancing over at Tiny’s equally drunk brothers. “You’ll need your wits about you.”

“Tiny don’t need no wits about him,” Tiny replied.

“You’re giving me all the reasons I need know about why you’re called Tiny,” said Feloovil. “But I’m sure I’ll get a few more by the time we’re done.”

He jabbed a finger at her. “Count on it!” Turning to his brothers he said, “On your feet all of you! It’s time! In the keep up there, we’ll find Lord Fungaltooth and those two from the Suncurl!”

“Who’s Lord Fingaltooth?” Midge asked.

“A dead man!” shouted Tiny.

Flea frowned and said, “We gonna kill a dead man, Tiny? What for?”

“No, he ain’t dead yet, Flea. But he’s going to be, when he meets us!”

Midge laughed. “And he won’t be no Lord Fancytooth then, will he? Ha ha!”

“Fumbletooth,” corrected Tiny.

Feloovil watched the huge man draw his equally huge sword, and felt a brief wilting of anticipation. Shaking it off, she pointed at the door. “On your way, Chanters. Destiny awaits!”

“Ha ha ha,” said Midge. “Destiny’s taking us up to the keep! Where is she, then?”

“Get the door, Puny,” commanded Tiny. “We’ll regroup in the street,and then begin our charge on the keep walls.”

“Up that hill?” Lesser asked.

“Tiny don’t do hills,” Tiny said in a growl. “We charge and that’s that. We take the walls, and then we slaughter everyone!”

“Hey,” said Puny, “where’s Stint and Gil and Fren?”

“Probably ran off with your new hat, Tiny,” said Scant.

“We’ll deal with them later,” Tiny snapped.

Puny walked to the door and swung it open.

“As far as stupid ideas go,” whispered Sordid, “this is our worst one yet.” She was crouched with the rest of the squad, barring Birds Mottle, in the ditch beside the track, not thirty paces from the keep’s gatehouse. From their hidden vantage point, they studied the lone guard standing in front of that gate.

“You got a bad attitude there, Sordid,” said Bisk Fatter in low tones. “It’s always been your problem, you know. You’re always wanting to stand apart from the rest of us, as if you were special or something. Smarter, maybe.”

“Prettier, that’s for sure,” Heck Urse said.

“Shut your mouth, Heck,” said Bisk in a growl. “Listen, Sordid, it’s bad for morale.”

She turned to study the man. “Morale? Have you lost your mind, sir?”

“We can do this,” said Bisk, glowering in the gloom. “He’s just one guard, for Hood’s sake.”

“But he’th juth sthanding there,” hissed Gust Hubb. “Thorm’th howling and wind’th blowing and thill he juth sthans there, holding tha’ sthworth.”

Sordid saw Wormlick slide close to Gust, reach up with one gloved fist, and knock on the side of the man’s head.

Gust flinched away. “I ain’t thimple, you fool. Juth got a sthliced thongue.”

“And one eye, no nose and no ears, and bite marks on your legs.” Wormlick laughed.

“Sthooth thoo clothe to Manthy, ith all.”

“Gave you the title, I’d say,” Wormlick went on. “Gust Hubb the Luckless. Sorry. The Luckleth.” He sniggered.

“Look whothe thalking, you pock-faced hog-butt.”

“Keep it down you two!” Bisk commanded in a rasp. “Someone throw a rock against the wall. Make the guard turn round, and then we rush him.”

Sordid faced the guard again and shook her head. “He ain’t right, sir. Too pale. Too bloated.”

Heck Urse pushed up beside her, squinting. “Necromancy! That’s man’s dead. That’s one of our ship-mates from the Suncurl. That’s Briv, who drowned.”

Gust Hubb joined them on the bank. “Briv the carpenter’s helper or Briv the rope maker?”

“That don’t matter,” whispered Heck. “This is Korbal Broach’s work.”

“So what?” Bisk said behind them. “Dead or alive, it’s just one man.” He pulled up a stone from the ditch. “Get ready.” He straightened slowly, and then threw the stone. It sailed over the guard’s head and thumped high on the wooden gate.

The guard turned.

“Now!”

The squad rose from the ditch and rushed forward.

But somehow, still the guard faced them, and was now raising his sword.

The charge slowed, wavered.

“How did he do that?” Wormlick demanded.

“It’s not the same man!” Heck said. “That’s Briv one of the other ones!”

“He thowed them thogether!” shrieked Gust Hubb.

The squad’s charge dribbled away, and they stood staring at the new guard, with fifteen paces between them.

The dead man lifted his sword with some alacrity.

“A guard no one can sneak up behind!” cried Heck Urse.

“Gods below,” said Sordid. “That’s the stupidest thing I have ever seen.”

“You’re only saying that,” retorted Heck, “because you weren’t on the Suncurl!”

“Wormlick, you and Bisk go to the right. Heck and Gust, to the left. Follow me.” She headed forward, drawing her fighting knives.

“I’m corporal here, Sordid-”

“Just follow, sir.”

The others fanned out while Sordid advanced on the guard. “Hey!” she shouted.

As she suspected, the guard facing the gate sought to turn round. The other one resisted the effort and they stumbled.

Bisk howled and charged in from one side, trailed by Wormlick, while Heck attacked from the opposite flank. Gust Hubb stumbled on something and fell hard on the track. He cried out as he landed on his shortsword.

The guard tottered about, waving swords that kept clashing against one another.

Sordid came in low and hamstrung the creature. It fell over, just as Bisk shrieked and swung his huge two-handed sword. The heavy blade swished over the guard and flew from the corporal’s hands. It sailed across the track and speared Gust Hubb through the right thigh. He loosed another howl.

Heck Urse reached the fallen guard and hacked at both heads. “Briv and Briv! Die! Die and die and die again!”

Sordid backed away. “Wormlick, check on Gust. See how bad it is.”

Wormlick laughed. “How bad? The fool’s skewered through the leg! And he fell on his sword! He’s spurting blood everywhere!”

“Then bandage him up, damn you!”

“You ain’t corporal-”

“No,” she snapped. “Our corporal’s the one who speared him! I’m busting him down right now. Whose plan was this? Did it work? Of course it worked. Why? Because it was my plan! Listen, all of you, I’m now Captain.”

“Sergeant, shouldn’t it be?” Heck asked, still gasping from hacking open Briv and Briv’s heads.

“Captain! Sater always had it in mind to promote me.”

“Since when?” Bisk demanded.

“Since I just said so.”

Gust’s howls went on and on.

At that moment the gate swung open and there stood a tall man with a forked beard. “Ah,” he said, eyes alighting upon Gust Hubb, “the late Captain Sater’s redoubtable soldiers … and friends. Well, your timing is impeccable. I have just made cookies.”

Emancipor Reese sat across from Korbal Broach, watching the huge, fat man licking the icing from one of Bauchelain’s creations. His stomach rumbled and then gurgled. “How is it you’re allowed to eat them, then,” he asked.

Korbal blinked at him, said nothing.

There was a commotion from one end of the dining hall and a moment later, amidst clumping boots, gasps, whispers and moans, Bauchelain returned leading a woman and three men carrying between them a fourth, who had a massive sword thrust through one thigh, and a short sword driven up into an armpit. His bandaged form was splashed with blood.

Emancipor pointed a finger at one of the men helping this unfortunate comrade to a nearby bench. “You was on the Suncurl,” he said. “You led the charge onto the Chanters’ ship during the mating and the battle and all. Then you stole one of their lifeboats and lit out.”

The man glared. “Aye, ’Mancy. I’m Heck Urse. And this is the rest of Sater’s squad. They chased us down, all the way from Stratem.”

“Very loyal of them,” said Bauchelain, resuming his seat. “Korbal, my friend, will you do me a favour? This poor wounded man needs healing.”

At that the bandaged man suddenly sat up. “No!” he cried. “I’m bether!”

Korbal set the cookie-stripped clean of its covering of icing-down on the table, and then rose and walked over to the wounded man, who shrank back. When Korbal tugged the sword from the thigh, the man swooned, which made removing the shorter sword much simpler. Weapons clanging to the floor, Korbal Broach began peeling sodden bandages from the man.

Emancipor could see that this effort was going to take some time. He rose and reached out across the table for the cookie Korbal had left behind, only to have his hand slapped by Bauchelain.

“Now now, Mister Reese, what did I tell you?” Bauchelain then gingerly picked up the lone cookie, and slipped it into a pocket beneath his cloak, but not before Emancipor caught a glimpse of the pattern incised on the top of the flat cookie.

From somewhere below came a long, wavering scream.

The squad soldiers started.

“That would be our host,” Bauchelain said, smiling. “I believe he is torturing prisoners in the cells below. However, I am assured he will be joining us soon, to partake of my baking.”

“He’ll want a food tester,” Emancipor predicted, settling back and reaching for his goblet of wine.

“I sincerely doubt that,” Bauchelain replied. “Lord Fangatooth is doomed to bravado, as we shall soon see. In any case, I shall be his food tester.”

“But with you immune to poisons, Master-”

“I assure you, Mister Reese, no poison is involved.”

“So how come the fancy patterns beneath the icing, Master?”

“My private signature, Mister Reese, that shall remain so, yes? Now, although I am not yet the host, permit me, if you will, to be mother.” Bauchelain gestured with one thin, pale hand to the plate heaped with cookies. “Do help yourselves, will you?”

The woman snorted and said, “Wine will do for us, thank you. No, Heck, don’t be a fool. Just wine.”

Bauchelain shrugged. “As you wish. Of course, a lesser man than I would be offended, given my efforts in the kitchen and whatnot.”

“That’s too bad,” the woman replied with all the sincerity of a banker. “Heck was telling us about compensation. For injuries and all. Also, there’s the whole matter of our cut in the haul from Toll’s City, which Sater promised us.”

“Ah,” murmured Bauchelain, nodding as he sipped his wine, “of course. It would be coin, wouldn’t it, behind your impressive, if somewhat unreasonable, pursuit across an entire ocean. We are indeed driven to our baser natures in this instinctive hunger for … well, for what, precisely? Security? Stability? Material possessions? Status? All of these, surely, in varying measures. If a dog understood gold and silver, why, I am sure the beast would be no different from anyone here. Excepting me and Korbal Broach, of course, for whom wealth is but a means to an end, not to mention cogently regarded with wisdom, with respect to its ephemeral presumption of value.” He smiled at the woman and raised his goblet. “Coin and theft, then, shall we call them bed-mates? Two sides of the same wretched piece of metal? Or does greed stand alone, and find in gold and silver nothing but pretty symbols of its inherent venality? Do we hoard by nature? Do we invest against the unknown and unknowable future, and in stacks of coin seek to amend the fates? We would make of our lives a soft, cushioned bed, warm and eternal, and see a fine end-if we must-shrouded in the selfsame sheets. Oh, well.”

The woman turned to Emancipor. “Does he always go on like this?” Without awaiting an answer she faced Bauchelain again. “Anyway, cough up our share of the coin and we’ll be on our way.”

“Alas,” said Bauchelain, “we do not possess it. I imagine the bulk of the treasure will be found beneath the wreck of the Suncurl. That said, you are welcome to it all.”

Emancipor grunted. “If that comber ain’t collected it already.”

“Oh, I doubt that, Mister Reese, given the inclement weather. But the townsfolk, being wreckers, will of course contest any claim to that treasure.”

Sordid snorted. “That’s fine. Let them try.”

Bauchelain studied her for a moment, and then said, “I am afraid you do not intrigue me in the least, which is unfortunate, as you are rather attractive, but by your tone and the cast of your face, I see both inclined to dissolution in the near future. How sad.”

She glared at him, and then slouched back in her chair, drew a knife and began paring her nails. “Now it’s insults, is it?”

“Forgive me,” said Bauchelain, “if in expressing my disinterest you find yourself feeling diminished.”

“Not nearly as diminished as you’ll feel with a slit throat.”

“Oh dear, we descend to threats.”

Korbal Broach returned to the table, sat and looked round for his cookie. Frowning, he reached out for another one.

“My friend,” said Bauchelain, “I ask that you refrain for the moment.”

“But I like icing, Bauchelain. I like it. I want it.”

“The bowl awaits you in the kitchen, since I instructed Mister Reese to make twice as much as needed, knowing as I do your inclinations. Is that not so, Mister Reese?”

“Oh aye, Master, half a bowl in the kitchen. Ground powder of sugar cane, moderately bleached and with a touch of honey, too. Nice and cool by now, I should think.”

Smiling, Korbal Broach rose and left the dining hall.

Emancipor looked over at the bench to see that Heck had gone over to his companion, who was now sitting up. Divested of bandages, he was now recognizable as Gust Hubb, although one of his eyes was green while the other was grey, sporting a new pink nose that was decidedly feminine, and the ears were mismatched as well, but of scars and wounds there was no sign.

“High Denul!” hissed Heck Urse, shaking his friend by the shoulder. “You’re all healed, Gust! You look perf-as handsome as ever!”

“I’m marked,” groaned Gust. “He marked me. Might as well be dead!”

“But you’re not! You’re healed!”

Gust looked up, wiped at his eyes and sniffled. “Where’s Birds? I want Birds to see me.”

“She will, Gust. Better yet, we’re getting our cut! All we got to do is kill all the wreckers and go out to the Suncurl and collect it all up!”

“Really?”

“Really! See, it’s all worked out for the best!”

Gust slowly smiled.

A moment later Lord Fangatooth Claw strode into the room, drying his hands with a small towel, and in his wake trailed Scribe Coingood, pale and sweaty and, as usual, burdened with wood-framed wax tablets. Eyes alighting on the heap of cookies on the pewter plate in the centre of the table, the lord nodded. “My, don’t those look tasty!”

“Oh they are,” said Bauchelain, reaching out without looking and taking one. He bit it in half, chewed and swallowed, and then plopped the second half into his mouth and followed that down with some wine. Sighing, he settled back. “Delicious, but of course that does not surprise me. I speak not from a dearth of modesty, as the kitchen was impressively stocked, Lord Fangatooth. Most impressively.”

“It is nonetheless a shame,” said Fangatooth, “that the sacred notion of host and guest must be dispensed with before the dawn.”

“I fully understand,” said Bauchelain. “After all, we are two sorcerors under the same roof. High Mages, in fact, and so see in each other the deadliest of rivals. Like two male wolves in their prime, with but one pack awaiting the victor.”

“Just so,” Fangatooth said, pouring himself some wine-all the servants were gone, it seemed, or perhaps in hiding. The lord lifted the goblet and then made rolling motions with his other hand. “Rivals indeed. Tyrants in the same bed. Rather, the blanket, only big enough to warm one of us. While in that bed. Two fish in the same basin, and only one rock to hide under.” He faltered for a moment, and then said, “Oh yes, just as I said, Bauchelain. Rivals, in the midst of deadly rivalry. Foes, already locked in a contest of powers, and wits.” Then he blinked and looked round. “Why, it seems we shall have ourselves an audience as well! Excellent. Dear strangers, make yourselves at home as my guests!”

“Right,” said the woman in a drawl, “at least until you decide to kill us.”

“Precisely.”

She faced Bauchelain. “Whereas you are prepared to let us go, is that right?”

“Why, so it is.”

“All right, then, we’re with you, and not just for that, but for healing Gust, too.”

Smiling at her, Bauchelain said, “Why, you grow warmer in my eyes, my dear.”

“Keep it up,” she said, “and I might melt.”

“You do understand, don’t you,” said Bauchelain, “that I see little of the negative in dissolution?”

She grunted. “Why, that makes two of us. Which is why you’re too upright for me. Sorry, but we won’t be rolling in a wedding bed anytime soon, I’m afraid.”

“Hence my earlier sadness.”

Fangatooth cleared his throat, rather loudly. “I see, Bauchelain, that you have commandeered my chair at the head of the table.”

“My apologies, sir. An oversight. Or, perhaps, impatience?”

“No matter. In any case, you will not leave this room alive, I’m afraid. I have sealed the chamber in the deadliest of wards. Death awaits you at every exit. I note, of course, that your friend, the eunuch, is not here. But so too is the kitchen sealed, and should he endeavour to return here, intending to assist you once he hears your terrible cries, he will die a most terrible death.”

Bauchelain reached for another cookie. Bit, chewed and swallowed.

“The sorcery I have perfected,” Fangatooth continued, “is solely devoted to the necessities of tyranny. The delivery of pain, the evocation of horror, the agony of agony-Scribe!”

“Milord?”

“Are you writing all this down?”

“I am, milord.”

“My last line, get rid of it. Devise something better.”

“At once, milord.”

Emancipor filled up his pipe and lit it using one of the candles on the table. He drew deeply and filled his lungs with smoke, and then frowned. “Oh no,” he said. “Wrong blend.” The scene sagged before his eyes. Oh, and that was uncut, too. His eyes fixed on the plate of cookies. Sweat sprang out under his clothes. He could feel his heart palpitating, and saliva drenched his mouth.

As Bauchelain reached for a third cookie, Fangatooth held up a hand and said, “Please, you have well made your point, Bauchelain! I know well that these cookies are no more than a distraction, a feint, a not-so-clever attempt at misdirection! No, I imagine you have secreted about you an ensorcelled sword, or knife, as you clearly appraise yourself a warrior of some sort. But I am afraid to say, such things only bore me.” He reached out and collected up a cookie. Examined it a moment, and then used one fingernail to scratch loose some icing, which he then brought to his mouth, and tasted. “Ah, very nice.” He bit the cookie in half, chewed and swallowed, and bit the next piece in half, and then the next, and so on until the cookie was gone, except for a single crumb on one finger, which he ate whole.

He sat back and smiled across at Bauchelain. “Now, shall we begin?”

Bauchelain’s brows lifted. “Begin? Why, sir, it is already over.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have won, Lord Fangatooth.”

The man leapt upright. “It was poisoned! A double blind deception! Oh you fool, think you I am not also immune to all poisons?”

“I am sure that you are,” Bauchelain replied. “But that will not avail you, alas.”

“Prepare to defend yourself!”

Bauchelain sipped at his wine.

Emancipor, trembling to keep from stealing a cookie, started as Fangatooth suddenly clutched his stomach and gasped.

“What? What have you done to me?”

“Why,” said Bauchelain, “I have killed you.”

The lord staggered back, doubling over in pain. He shrieked. Then blood erupted from him, spraying out from his body. He straightened, arching as if taken by spasms, and his torso bulged horribly, only to then split open.

The demon that crawled out of Fangatooth’s body was as big as a man. It had four arms and two bent, ape-like legs with talons on the end of its toes. Beneath a low, hairless pate, its face was broad and dominated by a mouth bristling with needle-like fangs. Smeared in gore, it clambered free of Fangatooth’s ruptured corpse, and then coughed and spat.

Lifting its ghastly head, the demon glared at Bauchelain, and then spoke in a rasping, reptilian voice, “That was a dirty trick!”

Bauchelain shrugged. “Hardly,” he said. “Well, perhaps, somewhat unkind. In any case, you will be relieved to know that I am done with you, and so you may now return to Aral Gamelain, with my regards to your Lord.”

The demon showed its fangs in a bristling grimace or grin, and then vanished.

“Mister Reese!”

Bauchelain’s hand slashed down, knocking the cookie only a hair’s breadth from Emancipor’s mouth.

“Beneath the icing, my friend, you will find pentagrams of summoning! Ones in which the demon so summoned is already bound by me, until such time that the pattern is broken by someone else! Now, step back, Mister Reese, at once. You were one cookie away from death, and I’ll not warn you again!”

“I was just going to lick off the icing, Master-”

“You were not! And that is not rustleaf I am smelling from that pipe, is it?”

“My apologies, Master. It didn’t occur to me to think.”

“Yes,” Bauchelain replied, eyeing him, “upon that we are agreed.”

The dissolute woman stood. “Glad that’s all over with, then,” she said. “Lord Bauchelain, would you be so kind as to disperse all those deadly wards surrounding this chamber?”

Bauchelain waved a hand. “Korbal did so already, my dear. But will you not stay the rest of the night?”

She turned to her squad-mates. “Find beds, soldiers. A dry and warm night until we greet the new dawn!”

At that moment a loud crashing sound came from the stairs. Blearily, Emancipor turned to the doorway beyond which was the wide hallway that led to the staircase, in time to see that door burst apart in splinters and shards, with a dented, broken golem tumbling into the chamber. Its bucket head rolled away from its leaking body, rocked back and forth for a moment and then fell still.

From somewhere atop the stairs came Korbal Broach’s high, piping voice. “It was an accident!”

Yowling in frenzy, Witch Hurl fought among herselves just outside the door to the King’s Heel. She cursed that infernal barrier, and the pathetic claw-clattering paws sadly lacking in thumbs, a detail that made the door stand triumphant and mocking before her glaring, raging eyes.

The wind buffeted her writhing, spitting forms, forcing a few of her to slink low upon the frozen mud of the street. And still the fury within her burgeoned. Her serrated scales running the length of her spines were almost vertical; her tails whipped and reared like seaworms awaiting a fast-descending corpse. Her jaws stretched wide to lock the hinges of her canines, and that horrible wind whipped into the cavern of her mouths, cold and lifeless but hungry all the same. She slashed the ground with her claws. She leapt into the air in berserk rage, only to be flung sideways by the gusts storming down the street.

Murder filled her mind, a word that stood alone, that floated and surged up and down and slid to one side only to swim back to the centre of her thoughts. She could taste that word, its sweet roundness, it slithering tail of sound at the end of its utterance that stung like tart berries in a goat’s belly. Fires licked around it, smoke curled from it, blackening the air. It was a word with a thousand faces and a thousand expressions displaying but the faintest variations of universal dismay.

She wanted to eat that word. Take it by the neck and hold on until all life left it. She wanted to leap upon it after a vicious rush low over the ground. She wanted to eye it venomously, unblinkingly, from nearby cover. She wanted it to stalk her dreams.

And in the midst of this mental tantrum of desire, the cruel door buckled, indifference torn away until its very bones of flat wood and banded bronze quivered as if with ague, and then it swung open.

Witch Hurl converged upon that misshapen eruption of light, and the figure silhouetted within it.

Murder!

Puny bellowed and staggered back. Scaly creatures clung to him, upon his chest, fighting to close jaws on his throat; upon his arms where they writhed like tentacles; another attempting to burrow into his crotch. Blood spurted. He batted at the things, tore them away, flung them in all directions.

His brothers roared. The patrons screamed.

Feloovil, standing behind the bar, hissed a vile curse under her breath.

Nine lizard cats and not one of them much bigger than a house-cat, or a scrawny, worm-ridden barn mouser. But this did nothing to mitigate their viciousness.

Puny clambered back onto his feet. Tiny and the others began swinging their huge weapons. Blades crashed through chairs, tables. Shrieks ended in frothy gurgles as those weapons struck hapless locals. Severed skull-pates knotted with hair spun across the room; limbs flopped, bounced and twitched atop tables or on the muddy and now bloody floor. The lizard cats evaded every blow, spinning, leaping, darting, clawing at everyone.

Feloovil beheld utter carnage from her place behind the bar. She saw two of the brothers struggling to ready a three-handed sword, only to wither to an exploding tabletop, staggering apart, their faces and necks studded with splinters. A cat leapt to wrap itself around the side of one of the brother’s heads, tearing the ear off with its jaws, while the other brother stumbled over a chair that collapsed under him, and as he thumped on the floor, four cats closed in. His scream became a spray.

Then, as if of one mind, the lizard cats spied Feloovil, and all nine suddenly rushed her, leaping over the counter. Their multiple impacts made her stagger back. She screamed as talons raked through her tunic, bit deep into her flesh. Clothes disintegrating under the assault, she was stripped naked in a welter of blood.

Until one cat, seeking to sink its fangs into one of her breasts, instead found savage teeth clamping about its throat. A moment later another cat howled as another mouth, this one from the other breast, caught hold of one of his forelimbs and bit down hard enough to break bones.

All at once, more mouths appeared upon Feloovil’s ample form: upon her shoulders; upon her low-slung belly; her thighs. Another split open on her forehead. Each one stretched wide, bearing teeth sharp as knife-points.

“You damned witch!” Feloovil shrieked from countless mouths. “Get away from me! I am your goddess, you stupid fool!”

In the room before Feloovil and her snarling or yowling attackers, where only a few huddled figures still twitched amidst the wreckage, and only three of the Chanter brothers stood with heaving chests, with weapons draining blood and gore, with lacerations upon their bodies, faces turned, eyes fixed upon the battle on the other side of the bar.

A dead cat, its throat crushed and leaking, hung from Feloovil’s left breast. The cat trapped by the other breast’s mouth, had clawed that swelling of soft flesh into ragged ribbons, and still the mouth held on, masticating to grind through the creature’s forelimb.

The other cats withdrew, crowded on the blood-smeared counter-top, and then from their throats came a wavering, shrill chorus of voices. “She’s mine! You promised! Your daughter is mine! Her blood! Her everything!”

“Never!” Feloovil screamed.

Its ruined limb chewed through, the cat upon her right breast fell away, running three sets of claws down Feloovil’s belly on its way to the floor. She glanced down and stamped on its head, making a crushed-egg sound.

The remaining cats all flinched, barring the dead one hanging from the other breast.

Feloovil’s many mouths all grinned most evilly. “I got rid of you once, Hurl, and I’ll do it again! I swear it!”

“Not you, whore! Her father did that!”

A voice then spoke from the doorway. “And it seems I shall have to do so again.”

The seven remaining lizard-cats all spun round. “Whuffal Caraline Ganaggs! Vile Elder! Leave me be!”

The grey-haired man with the finely trimmed beard, moustache and eyebrows slowly drew off his fox-fur hat. “I warned you, Witch. Now look what you’ve done. Nearly everyone is dead.”

“Not my fault! Blame the Tarthenal!”

“Lies!” bellowed Tiny Chanter. “We was defending ourselves!”

Whuffine studied them. “Begone,” he said. “I have already slain three of your siblings and if necessary, I will do away with the rest of you. It’s this nostalgia,” he added, with an apologetic shrug. “It’s not good me getting nostalgic, you see. Not good at all.”

Growling, Tiny glared about, and then said, “Tiny don’t do getting killed. Let’s go.”

“What about Relish?” asked Midge.

Tiny pointed at Feloovil, “Send her up to the keep after us.”

Feloovil’s mouths twisted into sneers. “Just be glad she ain’t no virgin,” those mouths all said. “Hurl wants herself a sacrifice.”

“No more sacrifices,” said Whuffine, leaning on his walking stick. “It’s my talents with stone what’s done us in here, and so it’s up to me to clean all this up.”

“Then kill that Fangatooth!” shrieked Feloovil.

“No need,” the comber replied. “He’s already dead.”

“Then kill the one who killed him! Away with all sorcerers! I will not again be bound to a witch or warlock!”

Whuffine sighed. “We’ll see. A word or two might be enough to send them on their way. I don’t like violence. Makes me nostalgic. Makes me remember burning continents, burning skies, burning seas, mountains of the dead and all that.” He pointed at the D’ivers. “Witch Hurl, best semble now.”

The lizard cats drew together, blurred and then, in a slithering of spicy vapours, transformed into a scrawny hag of a woman. “Aagh!” she cried, “look at me! My beauty, gone!”

Feloovil cackled with many of her ghastly mouths, while the others said, “You ain’t worth nothing anymore, Witch. You’re banished! Go on, out into the storm! And never come back!”

“Else I kill you for certain this time,” added Whuffine.

“I want my keep!”

“No,” said Whuffine.

“I hate you all!” Hurl hissed, rushing for the door. “Murder will have to wait. Now it’s the other sweet word! Now it’s hate. Hate hate hate hate! This isn’t over, oh no it isn’t-”

An odd sound came from the doorway, where Hurl suddenly stopped, and then stepped back, but when she did so she had no head, only an angled slice exposing her neck, from which blood pumped. Her knees then buckled and she collapsed upon the threshold.

Tiny Chanter stepped over her and peered into the tavern, looking round with a scowl. Blood trickled rivulets down the length of his huge sword’s blade. “Tiny don’t like witches,” he said.

“Begone,” Whuffine said again. “My last warning.”

“We’re storming the keep now,” Tiny said, with a sudden bright smile.

To that, Whuffine shrugged.

“Hah hah hah!” said Tiny, before ducking back outside and bellowing commands to his brothers.

Eyes fixing on Feloovil, Whuffine sighed and shook his head. “All for a slip of the chisel,” he said.

Huddled at the top of the stairs, Felittle edged back. A muffled murmuring came from between her legs, to which she responded with: “Shhh, my lovely. She won’t last much longer. I promise.”

And then it’s my turn!

Coingood broke the last of the manacles from Warmet Humble and stepped back as the broken form sank to its knees on the stained floor. “It wasn’t me,” the Scribe whispered. “I’m a good scribe, honest! And I’ll burn your brother’s book.”

Warmet slowly lifted his head and looked upon Bauchelain. “My thanks,” he said. “I thought mercy was dead. I thought I would spend an eternity hanging from chains, at the whim of my foul, evil brother’s lust for cruelty. His vengeance, his treachery, his brutality. See how broken I am. Perhaps I shall never heal, and so am doomed to shuffle about in these empty halls, muttering under my breath, a frail thing buffeted by inimical draughts. I see a miserable life ahead indeed, but I bless you nonetheless. Freedom never tasted as sweet as this moment-”

“Are you done now?” Bauchelain interrupted. “Excellent. Now, good Scribe, perhaps the other prisoner as well?”

“No!” snarled Warmet. “He cheats!”

The other prisoner weakly lifted his head. “Oh,” he quailed, “so not fair.”

Shrugging, Bauchelain turned to his manservant. “By this, Mister Reese, we see the true breadth of honest compassion, extending no more than a single blessed hair from one’s own body, no matter its state. Upon the scene we can ably take measure, indeed, of the world’s strait, and if one must, at times, justify the tenets of tyranny, over which a reasonable soul may assert decent propriety over lesser folk, in the name of the threat of terror, then upon solid ground we stand.”

“Aye, Master. Solid ground. Standing.”

Bauchelain then nodded to Warmet. “We happily yield this keep to you, sir, for as long as you may wish to haunt it, and by extension, the villagers below.”

“Most kind of you,” Warmet replied.

“Mister Reese.”

“Master?”

“Upon this very night, we shall take our leave. Korbal prepares the carriage.”

“What carriage?” the manservant asked.

Bauchelain waved a dismissive hand.

Warmet slowly climbed to his feet. Coingood rushed to help him. “See, milord?” he said. “See how worthy I am?”

Warmet grimaced with what few teeth he had left. “Worthy? Oh indeed, Scribe. Fear not. I am not my brother.”

As the sorceror and his manservant made their way to the steep, stone stairs leading up the ground level, Warmet loosed a low, evil laugh.

Both men turned.

Warmet shrugged. “Sorry. It was a just a laugh.”

“Tiny never gets lost,” said Tiny, looking around with a frown on his broad, flat brow. The sun was carving its way through the heavy clouds on the horizon. Then he pointed. “There! See!”

The keep’s tower was perhaps a third of a league to the south. The brothers set out. Midge, Puny and Scant, and of course Tiny himself. A short time later, after crossing a number of denuded, sandy hills, passing near a wretched shack with thin smoke drifting from its chimney, they reached the track they had, somehow, missed last night.

At the keep’s gate they found Relish sitting near a heap that consisted of one corpse lying atop another, with both heads caved in by weapon-blows. Their sister rose upon seeing them. “You useless twits,” she said. “I saw what was left of the tavern, and Feloovil was wearing a shroud and didn’t want to cook me any breakfast.”

“Be quiet,” Tiny retorted. He walked up to the door and kicked at it.

“It’s open,” Relish replied.

“Tiny don’t use his hands.” He kicked again.

Puny walked past and opened the heavy door. They all trooped inside.

They found servants huddled in the stables, their eyes wide and full of fear, and in the house itself there was little to see, barring a pair of broken iron statues lying in murky pools of some foul oily liquid, and the exploded body of some man in robes, lying in the dining hall with demonic footprints stamped in the man’s own blood around the corpse.

“We’ll have to search every room,” Puny said, “and see what’s been squirreled away, or who’s hiding.”

Tiny grunted, glaring about. “The bastards fled. I can feel it. We’re not finished with them. Not a chance. Tiny never finishes with anything.”

“Look!” cried Scant. “Cookies!” And he and Puny rushed to the table.

From the dirty window, Birds Mottle had watched the Chanters walk past in the pale light of early dawn, and once they were out of sight she sighed and turned back to study Hordilo where he lay on the bed. “Well,” she said, “I’m heading into Spendrugle.”

“What for?” he demanded.

“I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you, in fact. I never want to see you again.”

“If that’s what you think,” he retorted, “then go on, y’damned gull-smeared cow!”

“I’d rather sleep with a goat,” she said, reaching for her weapon belt.

“We was never married, you know,” Hordilo said. “I was just using you. Marriage is for fools and I’m no fool. You think I believed you last night? I didn’t. I saw you eyeing that goat on the way here.”

“What goat?”

“You don’t fool me, woman. There ain’t a woman in the whole world who can fool me.”

“I suppose not,” she said, on her way out.

Down in Spendrugle she found the rest of the squad, and there was much rejoicing, before they all headed off to plunder the wreck of the Suncurl.

Feeling turgid and sluggish, Ackle walked into the tavern, whereupon he paused and looked round. “Gods, what happened here? Where is everyone?”

From the bar, Feloovil lifted a head to show him a smudged, blotchy face and red eyes. “All dead,” she said.

“I always knew it was catching,” Ackle replied.

“Come on in and have yourself a drink.”

“Really? Even though I’m dead, too?”

Feloovil nodded. “Why not?”

“Thank you!”

“So,” she said as she drew out an ale from the tap, “where’s that tax collector hiding?”

“Oh, he’s not hiding,” Ackle said. “He’s dead, too.”

Feloovil held up the tankard. “Now,” she smiled, “that’s something we can both drink to.”

And so they did.

A little while later Ackle looked round and shivered. “I don’t know, Feloovil. It’s quiet as a grave in here.”

On the road wending north, away from the coast, the massive, black-lacquered carriage rolled heavily, leaf-springs wincing over stones and ruts. The team of six black horses steamed in the chill morning air, and their red eyes flared luminously in the growing light.

For a change, Bauchelain sat beside Emancipor as he worked the traces.

“Such a fine morning, Mister Reese.”

“Aye, Master.”

“A most enlightening lesson, wouldn’t you say, on the nature of tyranny? I admit, I quite enjoyed myself.”

“Aye, Master. Why we so heavy here? This carriage feels like a ship with a bilge full of water.”

“Ah, well, we are carrying the stolen treasure, so it is no wonder, is it?”

Emancipor grunted around his pipe. “Thought you and Korbal didn’t care much for wealth and all that.”

“Only as a means to an end, Mister Reese, as I believe I explained last night. That said, since our ends are of much greater value and significance than what might be concocted by a handful of outlawed sentries, well, the course ahead is obvious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Obvious, Master. Aye. Still, can’t help but feel sorry for that squad.”

“In this, Mister Reese, your capacity for empathy shames humankind.”

“Heh! And see where it’s got me!”

“How churlish of you, Mister Reese. You are very well paid, and taken care of with respect to your many needs, no matter how insipid they might be. I must tell you: you, sir, are the first of my manservants to have survived for as long as you have. Accordingly, I look upon you with considerable confidence, and not a little affection.”

“Glad to hear it, Master. Still,” he glanced across at Bauchelain, “what happened to all those other manservants you had?”

“Why, I had to kill them, each and every one. Despite considerable investment on my part, I might note. Highly frustrating, as you might imagine. And indeed, on a number of occasions, I was in fact forced to defend myself. Imagine, one’s own seemingly loyal manservant attempting to kill his master. This is what the world has come to, Mister Reese. Is it any wonder that I envisage a brighter future, one where I sit secure upon a throne, ruling over millions of wretched subjects, and immune to all concerns over my own safety? This is the tyrant’s dream, Mister Reese.”

“I was once told that dreams are worthy things,” said Emancipor, “even if they end up in misery and unending horror.”

“Ah, and who told you that?”

He shrugged. “My wife.”

The open road stretched ahead, a winding track of dislodged cobbles, frozen mud, and on all sides, the day brightened with an air of optimism.

Bauchelain then leaned back and said, “Behold, Mister Reese, this new day!”

“Aye, Master. New day.”