Роберт Асприн - Forever After

“Eat it?” Gar stood slowly. “Eating does seem to define these sorians. Do you think we can eat it?”

“Well, sir, I’ve not known of much what eats what we eat that we couldn’t eat, if you catch my drift, sir.” Spido smoothed the feather out, then tucked it through a button hole on his tunic. “In fact, sir, unless I miss my guess, I think this beastie will taste a lot like chicken.”

The crofters gladly lent Spido an ax for the butchering of the sorian once he managed to convince them that, despite his reduced belly, he truly was Spido. At Gar’s urging, he cautioned his cousins not to say anything about his return, else more of the sorians would be let run loose in the Torfay valley. That, and three quarters of the meat from the beast, bought their silence.

The village of Torfay itself lay in the middle of the valley. Spido led Gar around it on a narrow woodsman’s track that circumvented the village but still provided an occasional glimpse of it below. Spido remarked that it had grown a bit since he had left and indeed Gar saw a settlement he would have characterized as larger than a village.

Torfay had been organized around a fairly small town square that appeared to be covered in grass, except where a muddy road ringed and quartered it. Arranged around that were some large buildings of stone, with thatched roofs. Only one rose to two full stories, the rest were more squat. Ringing them in a labyrinth of narrow alleys, single dwellings with small fenced yards predominated — though fairly often one home leaned against another for mutual support.

Spido pointed to the largest building at the city square. “That would be the Prince’s Haven. It used to be Kalaran’s Throne, but me mum says it was changed. Dolonicus calls it the Prince’s Craven and says the tavern should have your picture on the sign.” He winced as he reported that fact, then brought this head up and added, “I figured I’d kill him for that alone.”

Gar nodded solemnly. “Kill him to save your village. Make him suffer to avenge me.”

“Ah, yes, sir.” Spido stumbled on uphill, the sorian haunch swinging precariously over his shoulder before he recovered himself. “Dolonicus has a room there and uses the stable in the back to keep his dinner-sores. I reckon he has them trained to come at the horn.”

“So I gathered.”

“No one else has opposed them, ‘cept One-Armed Horrigan.”

“Lost an arm to the sorians?”

“No, sir.” Spido frowned. “All they found to bury of him was one arm.”

“I see.” Gar heard something in Spido’s voice he had a hard time identifying. “This prophecy you follow, it says nothing about you fighting any of these creatures, does it?”

Fear spilled over into Spido’s voice. “No, sir, I can’t see as how it does.”

Gar forced a sigh. “Good.”

“Good, sir?”

“Yes, Spido, I was afraid you were going to claim the remaining sorians for yourself.”

“Not if you want them, sir.”

“If you don’t mind, I would like them.”

“Don’t let me stand in your way, sir.”

“You are most generous.” Gar’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve taken one with a spear, but that was unfair. These beasts use their claws, and their claws are equivalent to a sickle or a sword. I will use a sword to take the next one.”

“Doom on that one, then.”

“Indeed.”

Spido led the way on along the track, then cut off on a side trail that wound back and around and on down into a valley thick with lush growth. They’broke from the woods and found a croft similar to the two they had seen before. The ramshackle stone building had a crooked chimney from which rose white smoke; chickens and goats wandered around in the front yard. A small stream trickled down, heading toward the river that split the main valley, and small patches of cultivated ground blossomed with com, squash, pumpkins and a seemingly endless variety of beans.

Spido looked back at Gar with a bigger smile on his face than a night with Elise had generated. “Welcome to me home, Grashanshao.”

Apparently his voice carried because the front door of the croft flew open and a small, stocky battle-ax of a woman boiled out with an ax in her hands. In her hooked nose and sharp chin Gar saw some of Spido, but the way she piled her gray hair up on top of her head and the unsteady, lock-kneed gait she used swallowed all other similarities.

“I don’t care who you are, you’re not getting nothing more from this farm, and I brook no opposition in that!”

“Ma? It’s me.”

She stopped, her head coming forward beneath the upraised ax, and she squinted. “Who are you?”

“You only have one son, Ma.”

“And he doesn’t look like you, does he?”

“Ma, it’s me. The war and all, I’ve lost some pounds.”

Her fierce visage softened. “Malveysean Aloysius Kentigern Blott the Fourth?”

Spido winced, but nodded. “It’s me, Ma.”

Gar frowned. “How do you get Spido out of that?”

As his mother scurried forward toward them, Spido dropped his voice to a whisper. “My father’s nickname was Longlegs, and he was my daddy, so I became Spido. The alternatives were worse.” He shivered.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Mallo, give your mum a kiss, there’s a good boy.” Close up the old woman looked as if hard times had plowed deeper furrows into her face than in the fields below. “Who did my little Wishie-wishy bring home with him? Is this one of your little friends from the war?”

“Mother, this is Gar Quithnick.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hiccup.”

Spido’s eyes grew white with terror. “Quithnick, Mother.”

“I heard you the first time, Gernie.” She smiled graciously at Gar. “And how do you know my little Mallo, Mr. Quiknik?”

“Spido and I have been assigned a mission.”

“Ooooh, I hate that name.” She grabbed Spido’s right ear and gave it a twist. “You didn’t tell them that was your name, did you?”

“I wouldn’t do that, would I, Mum?” Spido winced, but did not free himself from her grasp. “I, ah, I…”

“He earned it, Goodwife Blott.” Gar smiled, noting to himself that a three-point Firetalon Touch on her left scapular region would likely free Spido and sink her into unbearable agonies. “He is linked into a weblike communications network of sorcellets. The sobriquet was natural.”

“I hope indeed he has been sober, I tell you, not like Gordo.”

Spido’s face brightened. “Is Uncle Gordo here?”

“As if he would have moved since you left?” She released Spido, then looked at Gar carefully, giving die assassin the impression diat he might not be the most dangerous predator in the valley at die moment. “And you are aiding my son on a mission?”

“We are companions, yes.”

“Ma, we can’t talk about it.” Tugging on her arm, Spido looked up at Gar with an expression that implored the assassin not to kill his mother. “We’ve come all this way because we, I, wanted to see you and we wanted a home-cooked meal.”

She pinched the flesh over her son’s flat belly. “I can see you need a meal, that’s for evident plain. You shouldn’t let your aide do your cooking for you, Mallo, for he’s not got an idea what a strapping boy like you needs.”

She turned back toward Gar as they walked down toward the croft. “My son’s quite the trencherman, he is. When the valley harvest fair came around there wasn’t no one who could beat Mallo at pie eating or milk drinking.”

“Uncle Gordo could have.”

“Only if they brought the fair here and channeled a trough to his moudi.” Again she turned toward Gar. “You being malnourished and all, you’d not be knowing about the pride we takes in a healthy appetite.”