Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Amanvah looked doubtful, but Gared appeared a moment later, and Rojer was happy for the save. “Count says we’re gonna go smoke.”

Gared waited expectantly for Rojer to join him. He’d been seated between hopeful young noblewomen all night, but Rojer had seen little apart from uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll be with Gared Cutter,” he told Amanvah. “Only a fool will threaten me.”

Satisfied, Amanvah moved to join the women, scooping up Sikvah and Kendall as she went.

Gared let out a deep sigh.

“That bad?” Rojer asked.

“Kareen’s perfume gave me a headache,” Gared said. “Like she dumped a bucket of it over herself. And talks like a mouse. Had to keep leaning in to hear, catchin’ a noseful o’ stink.”

“Probably whispering to let you lean in and ogle her neckline,” Rojer said.

“And Dinny was worse,” Gared went on. “All she wanted to talk about was poetry. Poetry! Night, can’t even rippin’ read! What do I got to say to fancy ladies like them?”

Rojer laughed. “It doesn’t matter. Those women were probably desperate to impress the Bachelor Baron of Hollow County. Say whatever you like. Brag about all the demons you’ve killed, or talk about your horse. It doesn’t matter. They’ll laugh and sigh all the same.”

“If it doesn’t matter what I say, what’s the point of talkin’ at all?” Gared asked.

“Passes the time,” Rojer said. “These people ent done a hard day’s work in their entire lives, Gar. Nothin’ but time on their hands for poetry and perfume.”

Gared spat. One of the servants gave him a look, but wisely kept silent. Gared had the decency to look embarrassed, at least.

“Don’t want a wife like that,” Gared said. “May not be smart or know my letters, but Creator my witness, I break my back all day and night. Don’t want to come home and have to listen to a bunch of ripping poems.”

“You want a woman who’s waiting with an ale,” Rojer guessed, “ready to lift her dress on a moment’s notice.”

Gared looked at him. “Don’t know me as well as you think, Rojer. Break my back for Cutter’s Hollow, and I need to know my woman’s done the same. I can get my own ripping ale.”

He dropped his eyes. “Like the sound of that last part, though.”

In Rhinebeck’s drawing rooms, men were smoking and drinking, debating politics and religion, and generally trying to impress one another. There were several Succor tables with men clustered about them, sipping brandy and acting not the least affected as more money than most Angierians saw in a lifetime changed hands with every throw of the dice.

Jasin was present, but the herald had claimed a corner and was surrounded by a knot of sycophants that made an unexpected encounter unlikely.

“Gared! Rojer!” Thamos called, waving them over to where he stood with his brothers and Lord Janson. “Join us!” Keerin, Duke Euchor’s herald, was there as well, but with the air of a man trying to join a conversation where he is not entirely welcome.

“Are you refreshed from the road, my sons?” Shepherd Pether asked. “Thamos was telling us how your caravan traveled at night as well as day, slaying corespawn as you went. A most impressive feat.”

Gared’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Same as any other night, I guess. Killin’ demons is sweaty work, but it’s not like choppin’ a tree. Arlen Bales warded my axe himself. Don’t get tired when I swing it at a demon. Feel stronger with every hit.”

The men all grunted and nodded knowingly, but Rojer could see through the façade. Odds were none of them had never even seen a demon up close, much less fought one.

“And you, Rojer?” Janson asked. “As I understand it, you gain no such advantage when you charm the corelings with your fiddle. Playing through the night must be taxing.”

“Calluses, my lord,” Rojer smiled, holding up his eight fingers. The men were too on guard to flinch, but he could see the shock in their eyes. His crippled hand was a harsh reminder of what lay beyond their wardwalls at night.

“As Gared says, we’re used to such things in the Hollow,” Rojer went on. “I think my fingers could limber a bit more with a spot of Succor …”

“Don’t bother,” Keerin said. “I’ve already tried. They all know better than to dice with a Jongleur.”

“The Duchess Mum raised no fools,” Janson said. Rhinebeck and his brothers looked his way and laughed, acting as if Keerin had not spoken at all.

The herald laughed along uncomfortably, desperate to find some bit of acceptance. In the moment of silence that followed, he pressed his suit. “I, too, have some experience with demons. Perhaps you’ve heard the tale of how I cut the arm from a rock demon?”

Something about that tickled Rojer’s memory, but that was all. The other men groaned.

“Not this ale story again,” Rhinebeck said.

“Must’ve been a little one,” Gared said. “Don’t look like you could reach the arm of a decent-sized rock. What’d you use? Axe? Pick mattock?”

Keerin smiled, seeming to come alive at the words. “Therein lies a great tale.” He swept a bow to Rhinebeck. “With Your Grace’s permission …”

The duke put his face in his hand. “Had to ask, ay Baron?” He swept the hand at Keerin. “Very well, Herald. Sing your song.” Keerin swept into the center of the room calling for attention while the duke signaled for more wine. He had a fine lute, and while he was unlikely to be counted among the great singers, neither was Rojer. Keerin’s voice was rich and clear, washing over the room as he cast his spell.

The night was dark

The ground was hard

Succor was leagues away

The cold wind stark

Cutting at our hearts

Only wards kept corelings at bay

“Help me!” we heard

A voice in need

The cry of a frightened child

“Run to us!” I called

“Our circle’s wide,

The only succor for miles!”

The boy cried out

“I can’t; I fell!”

His call echoed in the black

Catching his shout

I sought to help

But the Messenger held me back

“What good to die?”

He asked me, grim

“For death is all you’ll find

“No help you’ll provide

’Gainst coreling claws

Just more meat to grind”

I struck him hard

And grabbed his spear

Leaping across the wards

A frantic charge

Strength born of fear

Before the boy be cored

“Stay brave!” I cried

Running hard his way

“Keep your heart strong and true!

“If you can’t stride

To where it’s safe

I’ll bring the wards to you!”

I reached him quick

But not enough

Corelings gathered ’round

The demons thick

My work was rough

Scratching wards into the ground

A thunderous roar

Boomed in the night

A demon twenty feet tall

It towered fore

And ’gainst such might

My spear seemed puny and small

Horns like hard spears!

Claws like my arm!

A carapace hard and black!

An avalanche

Promising harm

The beast moved to the attack!

The boy screamed scared

And clutched my leg

Clawed as I drew the last ward!