“Flea?”
“And then boiled them alive, in a giant iron pot.”
“The stink,” said Midge.
“For days,” said Flea.
“Days,” said Midge.
“Now, poet. Sing!” And Tiny smiled.
Brash whimpered, clawed at his greasy mane of hair. “Gotho’s Folly, the Lullaby Version, then.”
“The what?”
“I’m not talking to you! Now, here it is and no interruptions please.
“Lie sweet in your cot, precious onnne
The dead are risin from every graaave
The dead are risin, I say, from every graaa-yev!
Bright your little eyes, precious onnne
Bright as beacons atop that barrowww
“Stop your screamin, precious onnne
The dead ain’t deaf they can hear you fine
Oh the dead ain’t deaf I say, they hear you fiii-yen!
Stop your climbin, precious onnne
Sweet it’s gonna taste your oozin marrowww
Oh we never wanted you anywayyy-”
“Enough!” roared Tulgord Vise, wheeling his horse round as he unsheathed his sword.
Tiny giggled. “Here it comes!”
“Be quiet you damned necromancer! You-”Tulgord pointed his sword at Brash, whose poor visage was pallid as, well, Sellup’s (above her mouth, that is). “You are sick-do you hear me? Sick!”
“Artists don’t really view that as a flaw,” observed Apto Canavalian.
The sword trembled. “No more,” rasped Tulgord. “No more, do you hear me?”
Brash’s head was bobbing like a turd in a whirlpool.
Done at last readying the horse I gave its dusty rump a pat and turned to Arpo Relent. “Your charger awaits you, sir.”
“Excellent. Now what?”
“Well, you mount up.”
“Good. Let’s do that, then.”
“Mounting up involves you walking over here, good knight.”
“Right.”
“Foot into the stirrup-no, the other-oh, never mind, that one will do. Now, grasp the back of the saddle, right, just so. And pull yourself up, swing that leg, yes, perfect, set your foot in the other-got it. Well done, sir.”
“Where’s its head?”
“Behind you. Guarding your back, sir, just the way you like it.”
“I do, do I? Of course I do. Excellent.”
“Now, we just tie these reins to this mule’s harness here-do you mind, Mister Must?”
“Not in the least, Flicker.”
“Good… there! You’re set, sir.”
“Most kind of you. Bless you, and take my blessing with solemn gratitude, mortal, it’s been a thousand years since my last one.”
“Then I shall, sir.”
“For that,” Tulgord said to me, “it’s all down to you for the rest of the day, Flicker.”
“Oh Mortal Sword, it is that indeed.”
I would at this moment assert, humbly, that I am not particularly evil. In fact, if I was as evil as you perhaps think, why, I would have killed the critic long ago. We must bow, in either case, to the events as they truly transpired, though it might well paint me in modestly unpleasant hues. But the artist’s eye must remain sharp and unforgiving, and every scene’s noted detail must purport a burden of significance (something the least capable of critics never quite get into their chamber-potted brains, ah, piss on them I say!). The timing of this notification is, of course, entirely random and no doubt bred and born of my inherent clumsiness.
Leapt past that passage? Good for you. (And I do so look forward to your collected letters of erudition, posteritally)
“Just like the dog, tally ho!” shouted Arpo Relent as the journey resumed, and then arose a milked joccling sound followed by an audible shudder and visible moan from the Very Well Knight.
We set out, in the scuff of worn boots, the clop of hoofs and the rackle of carriage wheels, leaving in our wake Nifty Gums corpse and Sellup who was now gnawing beneath the dead man’s chin, in the works a love-bite of appalling proportions.
Shall I list we who remained? Why not. In the lead Steck Marynd, behind him Tulgord Vise and then the Chanters, followed by the host and Purse Snippet, then myself flanked by Apto upon my right and Brash upon my left, and behind us of course Mister Must and the carriage of the Dantoc Calmpositis, with Arpo Relent riding his mount off to one side at the trail’s very edge.
Pilgrims one and all, and the day was bright, the vultures cooing and the bees writhing in the dust as the sun lit the landscape on fire and sweat ran in dirty streams to sting eyes and consciences both. Brash was gibbering under his breath, his gaze focused ten thousand paces ahead. Apto’s mouth was also moving, perhaps taking mental notes or setting Brash’s latest song to memory. Relish punched one of her brothers every now and then, with no obvious cause. Usually in the side of the head. Which the brothers endured with impressive indulgence, she being their little sister. Purse walked in a drugged daze which would not ebb until mid-morning, and bearing this in mind I pondered which of two tales would prove most timely at the moment, and, a decision having been reached with modest effort, I began to speak.
“The Imass woman, maiden no longer, awoke in the depths of night, in the time of the watch, which stretches cold and forlorn before the first touch of false dawn mocks the eastern sky. Shivering, she saw that her furs had been pulled aside, and of her lover no sign remained. Drawing the skins close, she drank the bitter air and with each deep breath her sleepiness grew more distant, and around her the hut breathed in its own dark pace, sighing its soot to settle upon her open eyes.
“She felt filled up, her skin tight as if someone had stuffed her as one would a carcass, to better stretch the curing hide. Her body was not quite entirely her own. She could feel the truth of this. Its privacy now a temporary condition, quick to surrender to his next touch. She was content with that, as only a young woman can be, for they are at their most generous at tender age, and it is only in the later years that the expanse contracts and borders are jealously guarded-trails carelessly trampled are by this time thoroughly mapped in her memory, after all.
“But now, this night, she is young still, and all of the world beyond this silent and unlit hut is blanketed in untouched snow, plush as a brold’s virgin fur. The time of night known as the watch is a sacred time for many, and one of great and solemn responsibility. Malign spirits are known to stir in the breaths of the sleeping, seeking a way in, and so one of the tribe must be awake in vigil, whispering wards against the swollen darkness and its many-eyed hungers.
“She could hear nothing past her steady breathing, except perhaps something in the distance, out across the bold sweep of snow and frozen ground-the soft crackle from among trees, as frost tinkled down beneath black branches. There was no wind, and somehow she could feel the pressure of the stars, as if their glittering spears could reach through the layered hides of the hut’s banked roof. And she told herself that the ancestors were protecting her with their unwavering regard, and with this thought she closed her eyes once more-”
I paused a moment, and then continued. “But then she heard a sound. A faint scrape, the patter of droplets. She gasped. ‘Beloved?’ she whispered and spirits fled in the gloom. The hut’s flap was drawn to one side, and the Fenn, crouched low to clear the doorway, edged inside. His eyes glistened as he paused.
‘“Yes,’ said he, ‘“It is I,” and then he made a soft sound, something like a laugh, she thought, though she could not be certain for it left a bitter trail. ‘I have brought meat.’ And at that she sat up. ‘You hunted for us?’ And in answer he drew closer and now she could smell charred flesh and she saw the thick strip bridging his hands. ‘A
