The Fifth Vertex (The Sigilord Chronicles) (16 page)

He closed the book and stuffed it back into his vest as a young man plopped down at the bar next to him, a wide grin on his face. His cheeks were flushed, probably from drinking somewhere else earlier. If it was more hard drink he was after, surely there were better places to get it than the lonely church hostel common room.

"The winds blow good fortune our way, it seems. We thought we might never see you again, stranger," said the boy. His lips made strange shapes that didn't look like any language he knew, but somehow Urus still knew what the boy had said.

It took him a moment, but he finally recognized the boys as the ones who earlier had ended up on their backs, bruised, shamed, and ultimately punished by their commander.

He said nothing and took another sip of his tea. He had seen enough bullies in his time to recognize their look; that pent-up anger that might explode at any moment. It was a kettle, seeking any excuse it could find to boil over.

"You don't stoke a fire with lamp oil," Aegaz used to say, one of his many lessons about how to deal with bullies. When he was younger, it seemed as if Urus had trouble with a new bully practically every day. The lesson was to not ever give that bully's fire an excuse to explode.

"Knocking down innocent cadets is thirsty work, eh?" the boy asked, nodding toward the pewter teacup, barely turning his face enough to allow Urus to read his lips.

"You struck first," Urus said aloud in Adosian. "I apologize for the misunderstanding."

The boy at the counter doubled over laughing. "You hear that, boys? The wittle baby said we attacked fiwst," he said, mocking Urus's awkward speech.

His friends also started laughing, mocking, and pointing—all gestures Urus had grown up with. His blood boiled, repressed anger at a childhood of bullies welling up inside him.

He grabbed the bar counter and squeezed until his knuckles were as pale as the boys' skin.
Of all the nights for Goodwyn to decide to turn in early!
 

"That's enough, Victor. You would do well to remember that this hostel is still run by the church," said the barkeep, his apron a canvas painted with a rainbow of stains.

"And you would do well to remember who my father is, barkeep," snapped Victor.

At this, the man wiped his hands on his apron and quickly found a place further away to clean.

"I am sorry about this afternoon," Urus said.
 

"Oh sure, now that your friend isn't around to keep you safe, you talk up peace and apologies."

Urus ignored the comment and returned his attention to his teacup, anything to avoid eye contact with the bully. He slouched, his posture submissive and weak. He didn't want to challenge him, and the boy was clearly looking for a rematch.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a young woman sitting in the shadows in the corner, her red hair and bright blue eyes visible even in the dark. She was staring right at him, probably thinking about how weak he was, about how he should be handling this bully situation better. Despite being fully clothed, it still felt as though everyone could see the brand on his chest, the symbol of his failure.

"I'm talking to you, stranger," Victor said, shoving Urus's shoulder. His cohorts laughed the whole time, standing between him and the door. There was no way he would be able to leave the hostel unchallenged.

Urus continued to ignore them.

"I said, I'm talking to you!" Victor punched him in the shoulder this time.

Again, Urus paid him no mind, taking another sip of his tea, choking back the anger and sadness churning in the pit of his stomach.

"Are you deaf?" Victor shouted, this time punching Urus in the ear.

Urus's mind reeled. In his mind, he screamed, allowing all his pent-up rage and fear to surge out of his mouth like some kind of emotional vomit. On the outside, he stayed still, barely reacting to the blow and the little trickle of blood dripping from his ear.

Again Victor punched him in the ear.

Urus could take no more. He snapped.

His mind tried to retreat, to hide from what was happening, but there was no refuge. There was no safe place to hide, nothing he could do to stop the memories from bubbling to the surface like so much flotsam and jetsam from the wreckage of his early childhood.

Urus sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with a little soldier made of burlap and stuffed with straw. Swords made of twigs were sewn to its puffy, fingerless hands.

Hugo was his name, and he was a mighty warrior; the mightiest, in fact. Urus grinned down at him and giggled. Despite looking as fat as the baker and as funny as a jester, Hugo could vanquish any foe, be it human or dragon or troll. Urus had drawn a name sign on Hugo's burlap chest, a symbol that looked like four swords, crossing in the center. Everyone needed a name sign, especially heroes like Hugo.

It took skill to work Hugo's legs across the floor while still swinging his swords around, but Urus was up to the task. Hugo leapt across the partially eaten meat pie Momma had made earlier. It was a cold mountain fortress now, and Hugo conquered it with ease.
 

Urus laughed as he made Hugo do a little victory dance atop Fort Meatpie. He looked around the room for his next conquest. There was always Momma's boots. She loved it when he played by her feet while she sharpened her blades or made armor or sewed things. She was always sewing or sharpening things.

Next to Momma and her boots sat a table filled with treasures to plunder, but Papa hated it when he got the table messy, or spilled something, or worse yet, broke things.

With the table option out, he set his sights on Momma's boots, slithering across the floor on his stomach, following Hugo on his trek across the vast stone wilderness as he ducked under swooping dragons and sent flames bursting from his magical swords.

He looked up and gave Momma a smile, and she smiled down at him from her comfy chair, her lap filled with strips of treated hides, ready to be made into armor or sheathes or whatever else people wanted. Momma was the best at making things and could make anything anyone wanted. After all, she had made Hugo.

Hugo was nearly there, about ready to dive over the bubbling pitch swamps to the safety of Momma's boots, when Urus felt his shirt collar tighten. He couldn't breathe and gasped as he was lifted off the floor. He lost his grip on Hugo while spinning around mid-air.

He hung there, dangling in his shirt like meat on a hook in the cold rooms below the palace kitchen, staring into his father's angry eyes.

"Just because you live in a palace doesn't give you the right to waste food," he snapped, pointing at Fort Meatpie, which had fallen victim to Hugo's trek across the floor.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Urus started to sign.

His father clapped a cupped fist over Urus's ear, hard. His head hurt as if his brain was bouncing around inside his skull.

"You talk to me like everybody else."

"I didn't mean to ruin the meat pie. It got cold and I wasn't hungry," Urus said aloud, finally allowed to stand on his own feet. Papa never signed; he didn't even know how.

"Well, you're gonna go eat it, and finish every crumb right up off that floor you ungrateful demon."

"Yes, Papa," Urus said, bowing his head and taking a step toward the mess.

He hadn't gone more than a step when his father slammed a clenched fist into his ear, knocking him to the floor. Urus struggled for footing but his father lifted him up again, spinning him around.
 

A warm, thick trail of blood oozed out of his ear.

"The demon in you may have taken your ears, but he hasn't taken your manners. You go apologize to your momma."

Urus looked up at Papa, not sure why he should apologize to Momma. This delay cost him a punch to the other ear. Now both ears bled, and the pain was excruciating.

He looked over at his mother, giving her a pleading look. She was a strong warrior; one of the strongest in Kest. She should be able to defeat the smelly, dirty man who had sired him.
 

She returned his look with a sympathetic smile but did nothing. She didn't even stop sewing. How could she let him do this? Maybe on the inside she felt the same way Papa did, that there was a demon in him. Maybe they both hated him and she didn't stop papa because she felt the same way.

Even in a house with two parents and in a palace full of people, Urus was alone.

"I'm sorry, Momma, for wasting food," he croaked, barely able to make a noise through all the pain and the mucus running back down his throat.

She smiled again, looking as though she might cry, but no tears came. She just turned away and kept at her sewing.

He went to go pick up his mess when the punch hit the side of his head between his temple and ear. It sent him sprawling to the ground, scraping his bare knees on the stone.
 

Finally, unable to stem the tide any longer, he wept. The tears streamed, and he did that scary thing where it felt like he couldn't catch his breath, like a stutter but with tears and spit dribbling out of his mouth. His bawling was embarrassing, and he was sure if he didn't cut it out his father would come and hit him again for crying. This time he didn't care. Papa could hit him all he wanted and it wouldn't hurt more than he hurt right now.

He let the tears flow as he crawled over to Fort Meatpie. He scraped the bits of cold food off the floor and into his mouth, swallowing hard, trying to get the dirty food down between sobs.

A real warrior, a true fighter like Hugo, would have drawn his mighty sword and cut Papa down and run; run out into the desert and kept on running, living the rest of his life searching for adventure instead of being a punching dummy for that terrible, foul man.

But Urus was no hero; he was no warrior. He couldn't defeat Papa and escape, and so he kept crying, accepting a future of eating cold meat pies off the floor while his father beat him.

Urus stood up from the bar and took a step back, part of his mind pulling out of the memory but the rest staying there, surrounded by the pain. He turned, rubbing the blood from his ear, remembering the many times his father had hit him there.

He looked at the person responsible and saw Papa standing there, a wicked grin on his face, smelling of ale and dirt. Urus studied his arms while Papa and the two boys with him kept on laughing. They were strong arms, much stronger than he remembered them being. These were arms like Hugo's, the arms of a warrior who could strike Papa down.

Urus spun, instinct driving his body to twist and direct the force up from the spinning ball of his foot, through his hips, up through his tensing torso, through his shoulder, along his arm, and out through his fist.

A surge of blue light erupted from his fist as it slammed into Papa's chest. Papa sailed back across the hostel like a leaf caught in a breeze, crashed onto a table and tumbled backwards over it onto the floor.

Papa's friends rushed Urus from the side but it didn't matter. He was Hugo now, not Urus. Hugo the mighty warrior knew exactly what to do and could do it without thinking.
 

Papa's friends closed the gap in two quick paces, reaching for little daggers hidden in their belts. Urus stepped toward them, slamming his right elbow into the man on the left then striking the other in the back of the head with his elbow's backswing.

He swept his leg and dropped the one on the right easily, then punched the other in the chest. That same burst of blue light bloomed out of his hand, heat searing from his fingertips to his shoulder.

Urus ignored the two boys and stalked over to the table, now in tatters, where Papa had fallen. The broken man was gasping for air and struggling to get to his feet.

Urus unhooked the mace from his belt and squeezed it hard. He imagined what it would be like to hit Papa in the ear with a mace, to finally be rid of Papa and his punching and hating, to pay him back for everything he'd done to him and Momma.
 

He hefted the mace over his head and was ready to strike when he felt a pair of hands grab his wrist.

"Stop!" a girl shouted into his face.

Urus blinked.

The girl from the corner had her hands clamped around his wrist.
 

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Cailix," she said, "What's more important is who that is on the floor—or rather, who it isn't."

Urus looked down at Papa. He looked so helpless, far from the towering brute he remembered.

"You yelled at him, called him Papa," Cailix said. "That boy isn't your papa, he's a stupid bully. You don't want to do this."

"Yes, I do," Urus said. "I want Papa dead, to be free of him forever." His head hurt and he felt tired, his vision blurry. Part of him knew that he was standing in a hostel in the middle of a strange land, half a world away from Kest, but part of him felt he was still in his boyhood home, weeping on the floor and eating cold meat pie.

"That's not your papa," Cailix said, still gripping his arm. "You don't want to kill anybody, not like this, not a stupid kid. You're not the type, I can tell because I know the type and you're not it. You wouldn't be able to deal with the reality of it when you woke up tomorrow."

Urus turned and looked at Cailix, then back at Papa, except it wasn't Papa anymore. This time it was Victor, the bully and shamed cadet. Urus knew what it was like to be shamed. He knew what it felt like to be defeated in front of his friends, and he definitely knew what it felt like to want revenge.

Uncle Aegaz said that revenge is for the weak, that it turns a man all black and dead inside. Urus already felt black and dead inside, and he felt ashamed of what he'd done to the bully and his friends, what little of it he could remember.

He relaxed, lowered his mace, and hooked it back on his belt.
 

"Good. Now you'd better get out of here before the barkeep calls the watch," Cailix said.

Urus turned to leave but stopped, a thought suddenly occurring to him, a gnat that had been chewing on his neck all night until finally it had become so annoying he couldn't ignore it.