Peter Brett - The Core

‘What will you offer me today, khaffit ?’ Hasik asked.

‘A palace,’ Abban said. ‘One to put the greatest Damaji to shame. I will empty my coffers and build towers so high you can speak to Everam.’

‘I speak to Him daily,’ Hasik said.

The foot of Abban’s crippled leg still had its boot, but the other was long gone, his foot too swollen to fit the leather. Hasik had wrapped the foot in rags to keep it from freezing, though Abban welcomed the numbness of cold over the fresh pain each morning.

‘Everam, giver of light and life,’ Hasik drew a ward in the air, ‘I thank you this and each day forward for delivering my enemy unto me. I sacrifice him to you as I promised long ago, one bone at a time.’

Abban howled as Hasik grabbed the purple, bloated appendage, pinning it while he searched for an unbroken bone. He had crushed the toes, then moved on to the bones of Abban’s instep, slowly making his way toward the ankle. Abban never dreamed there were so many bones in a human foot.

‘Quit whining, khaffit ,’ Hasik said with a grin. ‘ Sharum break toes every day with little more than a grunt. Wait until I start on your leg. Your hip. Wait until I take your teeth.’

‘It would be more difficult to have these lovely conversations,’ Abban said.

Hasik laughed as he brought the hammer down. The pain was unbearable, and as his vision began to close in, Abban welcomed oblivion like a lover.

Abban slowly regained consciousness, slung over the back of Hasik’s great charger like a sack of flour. The beast’s every step sent waves of dizziness and nausea through him to accompany the ever-present pain.

He gave in to it for a time, weeping. He knew the sounds were like music to Hasik, but Abban had never embraced pain as easily as a Sharum.

Still, even the worst pains became bearable over time, especially in the numbing cold. Eventually, the nausea subsided and Abban came back to himself enough to feel the sting of a snowflake striking his cheek.

He opened his eyes, seeing flurries blowing in the wind. North of them great clouds were gathering. There would be a storm soon.

They were making their way along the Old Hill Road, a paved Messenger road that once connected the Free Cities of Thesa to the chin city of Fort Hill, lost nearly a century ago to the alagai. Prince Jayan had used the highway – abandoned for most of its length – to move his warriors north to attack Fort Angiers.

It felt like riding through a tomb. Jayan sacked the Angierian hamlets and farms along the road, their burnt remnants standing in judgement over Abban, who had encouraged the foolish prince in his mad plan.

Hasik spat. ‘Pigs everywhere in the green lands, until you want to eat one.’

‘Turn left at the next fork,’ Abban said.

Hasik looked back at him. ‘Why?’

Chains clinked as Abban gestured at a distant line of smoke drifting above the trees. ‘Jayan kept his foragers within a mile or two of the road, but my maps show Messenger paths to hamlets and isolated farmsteads beyond his reach.’

‘Good news,’ Hasik said. ‘I may not need to cut anything off you for my supper.’

‘I fear you would find it all marble and little meat in any event,’ Abban said.

Hasik chuckled as he turned his charger onto the dirt path leading into the woods. Trees were thick on either side, and even in daytime they rode in shadow deep enough to have Abban wary of alagai.

They encountered several farms along the way, oases of cleared land amid the forest. Each was a wreckage, burned out and abandoned, livestock taken and fields picked clean.

Abban was not surprised. Thousands of dal’Sharum , Jayan’s finest, were lost in the slaughter at the gates of Fort Angiers. When the defeat became known, the chi’Sharum turned on their masters or fled, and the remains of Jayan’s army, perhaps ten thousand Sharum , scattered to the wind. Everam only knew if they would re-form into any sizeable force, but there were doubtless enough deserters to plague the chin lands for years.

‘The chin flame weapons allowed them to hold the gate,’ Hasik said, ‘but they do not have the strength to guard their lesser wells.’

‘Yet,’ Abban said.

‘Today is all that matters, khaffit ,’ Hasik said. ‘Tomorrow I may yet see how much meat is truly on your bones.’

The next farm they came upon was not deserted. Abban smelled smoke, but it was not the acrid stench of all-consuming flame. This was sizzling fat and Northern spices, wood smoke from a warm hearth.

But it was not Northerners they encountered. At least not entirely. Two Sharum moved along the fences protecting the fields and yard, keeping the wards clear of snow. Others stood over a handful of chin working in the yard. They leaned casually on their spears, but the greenlanders were wise enough not to test how quickly they could be put to use. There was noise from the house and the stables.

‘They look to be settling in,’ Abban said.

‘We were not made for these Northern winters, khaffit ,’ Hasik said, though Abban had never seen him show the slightest bother at the cold.

‘Perhaps it would be wise to …’ Abban began, but Hasik ignored him, kicking his charger into a trot.

Hasik had opened the gate and ridden into the yard before there was a shout. Nine Sharum came running out to surround his horse, a circle of spears pointed inward.

Hasik spat on the ground. ‘No one on watch. Who leads this rabble?’

‘We’ll have your father’s name first, warrior,’ one of the Sharum said. He was bigger than the others and had an air of command about him, though the veil around his neck was as black as any other.

‘I am Hasik asu Reklan am’Kez am’Kaji.’

‘Jayan’s dog,’ the lead warrior said, ‘left with no one to heel.’ The others laughed.

Hasik joined their laughter. ‘True enough, though I have my own dog now.’ He swept a hand over Abban.

All eyes glanced his way, and Abban wilted further under the collective stare. No doubt the men had only just noticed him. Sharum focused foremost on potential threats.

‘The Deliverer’s khaffit ,’ the first warrior said. ‘Not so proud any more. Is it true he can turn sand and camel shit to gold?’

‘Indeed he can,’ Hasik said. ‘He can sell water to the fish men, and wood to cutters.’

The warrior tilted his head, meeting Abban’s eyes. ‘It did not save him.’

Hasik showed his teeth. ‘Nothing could, on my day. Now we have given our names. I ask again for yours.’

‘Orman asu Hovan am’Bajin,’ the man said. ‘Welcome to my csar. It is no prince’s palace, but there are slaves and food is plentiful.’

‘The Bajin are not returning to Everam’s Reservoir?’ Hasik asked.

‘Not these Bajin,’ Orman said. ‘Who leads there, now? Qeran? I’ve no desire to become a privateer and spend my life on the water.’

‘The monastery, then,’ Hasik said. ‘Dama Khevat still rules there?’

Orman shook his head. ‘For now, perhaps, but he hasn’t the men to hold it. The fish men will be eager to reclaim the monastery with Jayan’s forces broken. It is the key to striking at Everam’s Reservoir. Why spend a week walking that freezing, demon-infested highway to join a hopeless battle when there is warmth and comfort here? The green lands are soft and ripe for plunder.’

‘Wise words.’ Hasik glanced about the yard. ‘Do you have pigs?’