Fool's Gold (15 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will stood staring at the closed exit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

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

This.

Would.

Not.

Abide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The bread?” the man had replied. Well, he had whimpered a lot, had his head banged against a beam, and then said, “The bread?”

“Where is it being?”

The man had just cried. Balur had not understood it at all.

He had then become vaguely aware of something tapping at his waist. He looked down. Standing there had been a man in his fifties. He wore an apron, a mustache, and a prominent bald spot. In his nontapping hand he had held a mug of ale.

“Perhaps,” he had said, voice shaking, “you just fancy a brew? I think it's been a long day for everyone.”

Balur had considered this suggestion. Finally he nodded. The man had wilted visibly, a sigh exhaling.

“This is being a good idea,” Balur had told him. He had been pleased that someone here beside himself had finally shown some initiative. “You will be fetching me five barrels.”

“Five?” The man had sounded horrified, though for the life of him Balur had not understood why. He had looked around the room, reevaluated.

“Four will probably be covering it. You are largely being gutless, I suppose.”

The man had whimpered and retreated. Balur had waited with poorly concealed impatience. Beside him, Firkin had seemed to have recovered enough to be considering opening his mouth. Balur had given him a long look that he believed suitably conveyed how sick he was of Firkin's bullshit and false promises of prophets, and that if he opened his idiotic mouth to give voice to more idiotic suggestions, he would soon find his idiotic tongue wrapped around his idiotic neck. Firkin had seemed to possess enough sense to understand that at least.

Finally the man had appeared along with several others and the requisite barrels. They had fetched five after all. Using his claws Balur had yanked off the barrel lids, and upended the vial of Fire Root potion over them all, ensuring a liberal amount went into each barrel. He had dunked his arm in each one and swirled it around to ensure a good mixture. He licked a single talon clean. The Fire Root tang had been a powerful kick at the back of his throat. The growl in him had grown.

“Drink!” he had barked at the crowd.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was his accent or his syntax. Sometimes humans did have trouble with that, though he was trying to make this fairly pissing simple for them all. Maybe they were all just horribly inbred and stupid. That would help explain Firkin, for one thing.

Actions, he had decided, would speak louder than words.

He had picked up the hapless, soiled villager who knew nothing about bread, and had dunked him headfirst in the ale. He held him there until he felt the man's chest buck, and he started to kick. That should be a good long swallow.

The man had come up barking, braying, and finally, it seemed, with a bit of fight in him. Balur was satisfied.

“Drink!” he had barked at the room once more, and this time a very pleasing crowd had formed around the barrels as the villagers had scrambled forward to comply.

Lette could say what she liked about his leadership skills. This was proof he could command the masses.

After that, there had not been much left to do until the villagers had drunk their fill, and replaced all their cowardice with a bellyful of alchemically induced murder-lust. And that had led to contemplation, which had led to morose pondering upon Mattrax's dismissal, which had led to embarrassment, which had led, inevitably, to a need for drink.

By that point most mugs had been smashed over someone else's head as the villagers raged and smashed at the confines of the tavern. So Balur had just grabbed a barrel, raised it to his lips, tipped, and poured.

He had lowered it with a satisfied smack of his lips, and seen Firkin's slightly horrified expression. There was a moment of suspicion that perhaps that had not been the smartest thing to do, and then the Fire Root had taken that idea out the back and kicked its head in.

And Balur had drunk.

Everyone had drunk.

He drank again now. Feeling the fire expand out from his belly, into his arms, his fingers, his legs. He was a growl no longer. He had transcended the growl. He was an openmouthed howl of rage into the night. He was the imminence of violence. He was the potential for devastation. And he was tired of waiting.

Above him, hunkered down in his pathetic cave, Mattrax was sleeping. Sleeping and not even thinking about him. Well, that would change. Mattrax would think of him long and hard. Or at least for as long as it took Balur to cave in his skull. Balur was rather beyond the specifics of timing by then.

Finding the door proved difficult. Simply tearing a hole through the cowshit and straw of the tavern's outer wall less so. He sprang, howling into the night. Baying and screaming, the villagers followed hot on his heels.