Swords & Dark Magic - By Jonathan Strahan Page 0,8
his head, so now he was back to normal and his eyes didn’t cross no more. Unless he got mad. As far as Wither could tell, there’d be no reason for Dullbreath to get mad here and on this night. This place was lively as a boy’s Cut Night after three days of fasting and no booze.
She and Huggs glanced over when a man and a snot-faced boy came into the bar.
“He ain’t so bad,” Huggs said. “Think he’s for hire?”
“Y’can ask him.”
“Maybe I will. Get his face cleaned up first, though.”
“Them two was the diggers.”
Huggs grunted. “You’re right. Could be we can find out who did all the dying.”
Wither raised her voice, “You two, leave off that table and come here. We’re buying.”
The older man tipped his head. “Obliged. And the lad?”
“Whatever he wants.”
Sure enough the boy moved up to stand close beside Huggs, wiping at his nose with a dirt-smeared forearm. His sudden smile showed a row of even white teeth. Huggs shot Wither a glance and aye, things were looking up.
A life on the march sure messed with the bent of soldiers, Wither reflected. Camp followers were mostly people with nothing left to lose and lives going nowhere, and plenty of scrawny orphans and bastards among ’em, and so a soldier’s tastes got twisted pretty quick. She thought the older man looked normal enough. A grave digger like every other grave digger and she’d met more than a few. “Swilly, more ale here.”
The digger was quiet enough as he drank and he showed plenty of practice doing that drinking.
Wither eyed him a moment and then said, “Five graves. Who up and died?”
He glanced at her, finished his tankard, and then stepped back. “Obliged again,” he said. “Snotty, you coming?”
“I’ll stay a bit, Graves.”
“As you like.”
The man left. Wither stared after him, and then turned to say something to Huggs, but she had her hand down the front of the boy’s trousers and he was clearly old enough to come awake.
Sighing, Wither collected her cup and went over to join Skint and Dullbreath. “A piss pit of a town,” she pronounced as she slumped down in a chair. “Captain, you scrape an eye o’er that keep on the hill? Looks like it’s got a walled courtyard. Stables.”
Dullbreath looked at her. “It’s a Jheranang motte and bailey, Wither. That conquest was a thousand years ago. The Jheran Concord’s been dust half that long. I doubt a single inner roof’s standing. And since we’re on the border to the Demon Plain, it was probably overrun in the Birthing Wars. Probably stinks of ghosts and murder, and that’s why it stays empty.”
“It stays empty because this valley’s been forgotten by whoever rules the land, and there’s nothing to garrison or guard. Upkeep on a pile like that is a pig.”
Dullbreath nodded. “That too. Anyway, it should do us fine. Nice and quiet.”
“For a change.”
Skint stirred. “One more round for the lot,” she said, “and then we ride on up.”
Wither rose. “I’ll tell Huggs t’get on with it, then. Boys that age it’s short but often—she’ll just have to settle with that.”
The Broken Moon dragged its pieces above the horizon, throwing smudged shadows on the empty street, as the troop dragged themselves back into their saddles and set off for the ruin.
Graves stood in the gloom between two gutted houses and watched them pass, his shoulders hunched against the night air. He heard a noise behind him and turned. Herribut the blind cobbler edged closer, and behind him was a half-dozen villagers—most of the population, in fact.
“Y’think?” Herribut asked.
Graves scowled. “Ya, the usual. First pick’s mine, as always.”
Herribut nodded. “Lots drawn on after ya. I won.” He grinned toothlessly. “Imagine that! I never had a touch of luck in my whole life, not once! But I won tonight!”
“Happy for ya, cobbler. Now, alla you, go get some sleep, and be sure to stopper your ears. Nobody’s fault but your own if you’re all grainy-eyed and slow come the morning pickings.”
They shuffled off, chattering amongst themselves.
Exciting times in Glory, and how often could anyone say that without a bitter spit into the dust and then a sour smile? Graves stepped out into the street. The soldiers had reached the base of the hill, where they had paused to stare up at the black, brooding fortification.
“Go on,” Graves whispered. “It’s quiet. It’s perfect. Go on, damn you.”
And then they did, and he sagged in relief.
Nobody invited any of this, so nobody was to blame,