The Farmer and his hanger-on strode out the building. On the way out, the Farmer nodded to the soldier guarding the Nub. The man looked around, sat down on a wobbling chair, and held his sword across his knees while he watched the Nub breathe.
Lutigan said, “I hope the little shit-eater is smart, because he sure doesn’t look tough.”
The gods settled on the grass. Fingit and Harik started arguing about whether existence could continue once Cheg-Cheg had murdered all the gods. Over the next few minutes, they concluded that the monster was really just destroying himself and he’d go away if only somebody could make him understand that. Krak commanded them to go right out and explain it all to Cheg-Cheg. Or, if they’d rather, they could shut the hell up and let Krak enjoy the end of existence in peace.
Sakaj didn’t look away from the Nub. Before long, he smacked the bench with the heel of his remaining foot.
The soldier spit on the wooden floor covered in sloppy grime. “What?”
Still gagged, the Nub pushed up with one elbow until he sat on the edge of the bench. He bent forward and strained as if he were passing a crocodile egg.
“Hold on to it,” the soldier said.
The Nub strained again, producing a spectacular five-second fart that spanned an octave and a half.
“Gah! What did you eat, a demon’s balls? Fine, come on. Stay in front.”
The Nub hopped on his one leg to the door. The soldier pointed left and gave a little push, knocking the Nub flat on the grass. The solider helped him stand, but on the one-minute hop to the latrine, the Nub fell twice more.
At the latrine, the Nub held up his bound hands.
The soldier leaned against the wall. “Forget it.”
The Nub raised his eyebrows and shrugged at the soldier.
“Hell no, I’m not wiping your ass! Just shit and get moving.”
The Nub looked at his belt and then back up at the soldier.
“Fine! Face the wall.” The soldier lowered the Nub’s trousers.
The Nub relieved himself, was reclothed, and hopped back to the wooden building, where he flopped onto the bench.
“Our hopes rest with this boy?” Harik dropped his face into one hand. “We deserve to be extinguished.”
Lutigan sneered. “I may never have seen a more disappointing performance by a sorcerer.”
Krak held up a hand. “Hush. You’re acting ungodly. Of all the times one should be dignified, death is the most important of all.”
“What bullshit!” Sakaj overheard Lutigan whisper to Harik, but Krak didn’t react.
“I wish we had something to drink.” Fingit sat up. “I can bring drinks here from the other side—”
“Stay here.” Krak dropped his hand like a felled tree onto Fingit’s shoulder.
Sakaj lay back and put her hands behind her head. She examined the little stick that the Nub had picked up on one of his falls. None of them saw it. How long will it take them?
The Nub had turned his back to the guard, his hands worrying with the stick. It wasn’t much longer than his palm, and Sakaj saw nothing unusual about it. It wasn’t even straight. The boy gripped it with his left fingers only since his broken thumb stuck out useless. He scraped at the stick with his right thumbnail and fingernails.
About a minute later, the Nub started sawing at the ropes with the little stick. The ropes began fraying.
Sakaj stood. “Perhaps we should recruit the Nub to lead our armies against Cheg-Cheg. He did not merely fool his guard. He fooled all of you.”
Before the exclamations, insults, and expressions of insecurity died away, the Nub cut through the rope that was binding his hands.
Lutigan raised his voice over everyone else. “Don’t get excited. He has one leg, two free hands, and a tiny stick. He’s a pissant baby sorcerer.”
The Nub rolled off the bench and flopped onto the floor like a ham. Before the gods could express dismay, the Nub reached out and jabbed the top of the soldier’s foot with the end of the stick. The thing must have been pointy as well as sharp on the edge, because the soldier yelped and bent over. The Nub grabbed the soldier’s collar with the fingers of his left hand, stabbed him beneath the ear, and dragged the stick halfway around the man’s neck. As blood sprayed from the neck wound, the soldier fell backward in his chair, over, and onto the floor. He gasped, writhed, and bled.
“Yes!” Fingit stood and clapped his hands toward the sorcerer’s image. “Listen to me, Nub! Nub!”
Krak grinned. “You’d better get to bargaining with him before someone puts a sword through the little cripple’s head.”
All of the gods shouted and gave advice, but the Nub did not call. He used the soldier’s sword to pull himself upright, and then he hopped to the door again.
“Nub! Listen to me! Listen!” Fingit shouted.
The Nub didn’t appear to have heard Fingit at all.
The Nub won’t call Fingit. He won’t even answer the grimy dwarf. He thinks Fingit has deserted him. Sakaj punched Fingit on the arm. “Not like the old days, eh?”
Fingit swore and then walked off a little distance to pout.
“He needs to get moving!” Lutigan growled.
Sakaj saw Louze, the torturer, ambling back to the rotting house. He would spot the Nub in less than a minute. The Nub turned right and hopped toward the scaffold, the toy-strewn grass, and the woodpile that held his leg. He tripped and fell under the scaffold, and the sword flew out of his hand into the darkness. He sat up, looked toward Louze, and froze.
“Call me now!” Fingit shouted.
The Nub whispered, “Harik!”
“No! The Void suck it to eternity!” Fingit screamed, aiming a kick at the God of Death.
Harik sidestepped and stumbled a little. He slurred a bit when he said, “The young man knows what he wants.”
Sakaj bared her teeth. Oh, Harik’s going to do it. That nasty, mincing, porcelain god is going to set all this
