Peter Brett - The Core

A stab of pain between his legs woke Abban from one of the rare lapses of consciousness that passed for sleep in his new reality. He sat up from the cold ground with a start, his foot joining the agony as he squinted in the firelight.

Hasik took his cock first. Abban had steeled himself, knowing it was coming, but nothing could truly prepare a man for that. He did it with his teeth, and made Abban watch.

Abban begged Everam to let him bleed out, or take a fever and die, but warriors of Hasik’s experience knew their way around wounds. He’d tied it off first, and burned the end.

Dampness between his thighs made Abban think the wound had reopened. His chains clinked as he scrambled to undo the drawstring of his ragged pants and check.

Abban might have prayed for death while it was going on, but now, cock or no cock, he meant very much to live. He pulled back the cloth. There was no fresh blood on the bandages, but they were stained yellow and soaking.

It was nothing new. Abban now pissed through a hollow needle punched into the charred flesh. He had no control, bladder draining steadily throughout the day. He was always wet between the legs now, and stank of piss.

Hasik laughed from the other side of the fire. ‘You’ll get used to it, khaffit. So used to wet pants they will grow as comfortable as dry. So used to the smell of your own piss you will sniff the air and smell nothing even as everyone around you complains of your stink.’

‘That’s hopeful, at least,’ Abban said, retying his pants. It wasn’t as if he had anything to change the dressing with. For now he would have to endure the wet.

‘Enjoy it while you can, khaffit. ’ Hasik waved at the lightening sky. ‘The sun will rise soon. How many has it been?’

Abban gritted his teeth, but he knew better than to fail to answer. Hasik fed on his pain and anguish like Sharum fed on magic. But while a certain amount of torture was inevitable, there was nothing to be gained in making it worse.

‘Fourteen,’ Abban said. ‘A holy number. Fourteen days since you murdered the Deliverer’s son.’

Hasik laughed. He did so often now, his mood more jovial than Abban had ever seen. ‘And yours. No doubt you thought the poisoned blade at the end of your crutch was clever. How did it look shoved up Fahki’s ass while he foamed and shook?’

He chuckled again as Abban swallowed, uncharacteristically finding himself with no reply.

There was a crackle of magic and a flash of light. A lone wood demon paced the perimeter of their circle, searching for openings where none were to be found. Even the dimmest Sharum had the basic circle of protection beaten into his head by the time he earned his blacks, and Hasik was turning out to be brighter than he let on.

Hasik lay back on his saddle, hands behind his head. An empty bottle of some chin spirit lay beside him. His cold eyes followed the demon as it paced.

‘Why not kill it and have done?’ Abban asked. ‘Isn’t that what Sharum live for?’

Hasik spat in the demon’s direction. ‘All those years in sharaj and you never learned anything about us, did you, khaffit ?’

‘I learned that you love carnage more than you hate the alagai ,’ Abban said. ‘That you prefer weak foes to strong, particularly the soft chin. But drunk or not, I did not think you a coward, afraid of a single demon.’

He expected the words to get a rise from Hasik, but the warrior was unmoved. ‘I fear nothing, but I am through with Everam’s foolish war.’

‘Now, with Sharak Ka nigh?’ Abban probed. Hasik seemed to be in a rare moment of introspection. Perhaps he might learn something of use. Crippled, he could not flee Hasik. His only choice was to find a way to manipulate the warrior into keeping him alive until new opportunities presented themselves.

‘The Deliverer was to lead us in Sharak Ka,’ Hasik said. ‘But Ahmann was cast down in shame, and his son was pathetic. Who does that leave? Even if the rumours are true and the Par’chin is still alive, I’ll go to the abyss before I follow him.’

He swept a hand at the demon, watching their words with the blank stare of a camel. ‘I will fight demons when there is something to gain, but I am through killing them for Everam’s sake. What has the Creator ever done for me?’

Abban shook his head. ‘If the Creator exists, He is not without humour, that only now should we begin to understand each other.’

‘Perhaps it is because we both lack cocks now.’ Hasik smacked his lips. ‘I tell you, khaffit , that was the sweetest meat I ever tasted. I’m tempted to carve off more.’

‘No doubt it’s all the pig I’ve eaten,’ Abban said. ‘If you’ve truly turned your back on Heaven and look to the pleasures of Ala, there is none greater.’

Hasik laughed. ‘Bold words, khaffit. I doubt any meat can give greater pleasure than I had atop your wives and virgin daughters.’

‘As you say, those days are behind us both,’ Abban said. ‘We are eunuchs now, and must take pleasure where we can. Find me a pig, and I will prepare a meal you will never forget.’

‘You’ve tried to poison me for years,’ Hasik said. ‘What makes you think you’ll be more successful now?’

It was true. When they were boys together in sharaj , Hasik beat Abban regularly. Once, Abban paid him back with a drop of sandsnake venom in his gruel. Not enough to kill, but Hasik spent a week embracing pain above the waste pits.

There was no proof it was Abban, but Hasik was no fool. The beatings worsened. After that fateful week, Abban tried countless times to poison Hasik in a more permanent fashion, but the big warrior had learned his lesson. He ignored the food lines, simply picking another warrior at random and taking his bowl at mealtime.

Even among the dal’Sharum , where pride often took the better part of good sense, few dared rise to the challenge. Those who did – often at a bribe from Abban – were gleefully broken in front of the other men.

‘You have always been difficult to kill,’ Abban admitted. ‘But that is no reason to stop trying.’

‘You are not utterly without spine, khaffit , even if you fear to strike at me yourself.’ Hasik spread his arms. ‘When you are ready, come at me. I will allow you one free blow. You may even poison it, if you wish. I will still have time to gouge your eyes and feed them to you. Still time to suck the tongue from your mouth and bite it off.’

Abban turned out his damp pockets, chains clinking. ‘I have no poison in any event. But Everam my witness, I can roast a pig that will dizzy you and set your mouth to water at just the smoke. Pigskin hardens into a cracking shell, slick with grease, and the flesh beneath will make you wish you had renounced Heaven sooner.’

‘Everam’s beard, khaffit !’ Hasik cried. ‘You’ve convinced me! Today we will find a pig and roast it to commemorate our first fortnight together.’

Hasik reached into his wide belt, producing a small hammer. ‘But first, there is our dawn prayer.’

The wood demon faded to mist and slipped back to the abyss as they talked. Now the sun crested the horizon, and Hasik at last got to his feet.

The hammer – no Sharum weapon – was a simple worker’s tool stolen casually as they fled the ruin of Jayan’s army after the Battle of Angiers. A lump of iron at the end of a stout stick.

But Hasik wielded that hammer like a dama’ting ’s scalpel. He twirled it absently in his fingers, limbering them as he came to kneel by Abban’s feet.

‘Please,’ Abban said.