Verris
Verris was unapologetically drunk. This is very similar to belligerently drunk, the state where a drunk person will fight anyone who looks at them funny, but in the case of unapologetically drunk they won't feel bad about it in the morning and are slightly more likely to throw up on your shoes. He'd been trying to figure out his birthday present. It burned to go crawling to his father but he refused to miss out on anything he could take from the fat old man. But he was finding it hard to focus, or at least to focus on what he wanted to. Right now he was focused, as much as he could be, on Hallek and some whore dressed as an acolyte of Maia.
“Verris,” Hallek said. “You're drunk.”
“I know!” Verris said. “I don't need you to tell me I'm drunk. I am unapologetically drunk. That's when...”
“You know I was having a good night. And I don't really feel like dealing with you now.”
“Well I'm having a bad night!” Verris spat back. Why in all the hells should he care what kind of night Hallek was having? “And it's not getting any better listening to you spout. Gods, Hallek, when I make Foreman I'm petitioning to have you fired. You...wet rag. That's what I can't stand about you. From the beginning. You've got no ambition.”
“Maybe I should go,” the priestess whore said. Maybe, just maybe, she was a real acolyte of Maia. But then if you believed the rumors they were all whores anyway.
“We'll both go,” Hallek said, turning away. Red filled Verris's vision. He wasn't done talking yet.
“Hey come back! I'm not done talking to you! I said you've got no ambition. While I...I've got the blood of emperors in me, did you know that? I'll at least be godsdamn foreman one day.”
“Do you have any idea how many people in this city have the blood of emperors?” The whore said with a sigh. “I don't think there's been an emperor with less than six wives and at least that many concubines. Not to mention stray maids and boredom.”
Verris spat. He was owed, gods damn it. He was owed. And he didn't care what a whore said.
“And besides, if Hallek has ambition or not has nothing to do you with you.”
Except it did. Hallek's lack of ambition boiled Verris's blood. Because he and Hallek were the same. Orphans, brought to Downwind young, raised by the diggers and handed a shovel as soon as they reached the double digits. But every minute of every day on the piles reminded Verris that he wasn't in his father’s house. That he made a living digging the excrement of animals owned by men he should have spat on from his father's carriage. How dare Hallek shovel the same filth and feel content? How dare he be...happy ankle deep in dung? Where did Hallek get off smiling in the stinking depths of the hell they'd been condemned to? The poison rage boiled in his gut. It had to go somewhere, and since he couldn't find the words he leapt at Hallek and punched him across the face.
Oh, it felt good.
The whore was shouting something but Verris wasn't listening. He had Hallek on the ground, pounding his face. Could you punch a man so hard he couldn't smile anymore? Well he'd try anyway. Never having to see that awful smile again would be worth it. Hallek was punching back, but the blows didn't matter. Some distant part of him warned they hurt, but who cared? Hate makes us strong, Verris remembered just before Hallek's fist struck him in the mouth one more time and the world went black.
“He seems alright,” a woman's voice. A little familiar. Hallek's whore? Right, I'm unconscious. Why's it so dark? Oh yeah. Open my eyes. His eyes creaked painfully open and he stared up into the face of Hallek's whore. He had to admit she was beautiful. He wondered how Hallek could afford her. “There we go, his eyes are open.”
“Get off me,” Verris grumbled, shoving her away. Reality filled in around him. He was sitting in an alley someplace near the arena. “Go away. I'm fine.”
“If you're sure,” the whore said. “You should find someplace to sleep it off.”
“Screw you,” Verris said. Hallek stepped in front of him. Verris grinned when he saw the welts on Hallek's face, on their way to being bruises. The grin came with a painful reminder he couldn't look much better.
“I don't know what's up with you,” Hallek said. “I don't know your story, or what happened to you tonight, or what's going on in your head. But what I do or don't do is none of your business. Leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone. And gods, if you ever make foreman I'll kill myself.”
Verris started giggling. It was an ugly thing that made his whole body twitch and shudder as he climbed to his feet.
“What's so funny?” Hallek asked.
“Oh nothing,” Verris said. “I just figured out what I want for my birthday.”
Dalluth
Dalluth worked with patience, much the same way he would work with a hammer. His patience was a tool, he was holding it, and he was using it, and he knew the job couldn't be done without it, but it wasn't really a part of him and he'd put it down as soon as he didn't need it anymore.
The infant's blood hung from a peg on the workshop wall in the water skin. He was afraid if he opened it he'd lose too much of the life force inside to properly bind the infant's soul, and since the infant had died there was no way to get any more. So Dalluth left it where it was, carefully constructing his masterwork. Possibly his masterpiece.
There were no bones in the infant's body the right size and shape for what he had in mind but that was a common problem and easily solved. The earliest infusion an apprentice learned was how to create new shapes of bone by making a glue from the sinews of the animal who's bone you were working with. That glue, spread across bone carved with a simple rune of just two lines, could seal two pieces of bone together as if they had always been one.
Dalluth had made a large pot of the sinew glue and was working with pieces of three different ribs to shape the sword. It was already a thing of beauty even half-finished and stunted looking as it was, a shaft of gleaming white with a handle sticking out beneath. But to make it that way Dalluth had to carefully chip off sections of bone, then seal them in place, then even more carefully smooth and shape them until they fit the blade he was making, inch by inch as he constructed the sword. Deep inside he was restless, desperate to complete the blade, desperate to begin the infusion that would make him a master.
But the work had to be done carefully. The sword would have to be perfect. So he reached for the glue again, and spread it across the bone, and held his patience like a hammer, until the carved bone in his hands had become the masterpiece in his head.
The only marks on the polished bone were the infusion runes running down the center. The handle was wrapped in leather he'd made from the creature's own skin. The cross guard of the handle was two of the infant's enormous teeth set end to end, facing so they curved up towards the point of the blade. The pommel he'd left a simple round lump of polished bone. It wasn't infused yet, but the magic in it sang. A few practice swings felt like he was slicing the very air apart.
And when it isinfused! He thought giddily. A bone could only be infused with blood from the same type of creature. It worked best if it was the same individual or that individual's direct blood relation. And it worked absolutely best, with the most powerful result, when the creature whose blood and soul were infused into the object was alive when the process began.
Oh well,Dalluth thought. How many people ever even see one? Two out of three is fine.
He took the skin of blood off the wall and very carefully poured some of it into a cup. An infusion this complex and powerful needed to be treated carefully. If he poured a soul into it too fast, especially one as powerful as the infant's, the bone could crack. Before he could infuse the runes he had to gently infuse the blade, imbuing it with essence so it would accept the soul once the time came.
He reached out with his mind as he'd been trained to do. The blood was still preserved properly, the life force within it holding strong. Good. He hung it back on the wall, laid the sword across his lap, and picked up a brush of bone and hair, using it to wash the sword in the infant's blood until it trembled with power. When it was ready for the final touch he pulled the skin of blood off the wall and pulled the stopper.
The roar ripped through the village like an avalanche, and the tools on the walls rattled in terror. The sudden noise made Dalluth jump, squeezing the skin and sending the blood inside splattering all over himself and the wall. He could feel the infant's life force pulsing as it slid across his skin. Another roar echoed through the village.
And then the screams.
He ran outside in time to see the thing brush another hut aside like a pile of sticks with its tale. An old man tried to run from the wreckage. Gavvek, his name was. Dalluth had known him his entire life. The massive jaws clamped around the old man's waist and tossed him screaming into the air, only to fall back into them. They closed with a snap, but it wasn't enough to muffle the screams as the man was swallowed.
Men poured out shooting arrows at the thing's eyes, but all they did was draw its attention. The thing thrust its head forwards, knocking men aside even before itsmouth snapped shut to a spray of gore and blood. A bleeding arm waved desperately from between the thing's teeth as it pulled away.
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In one of the smashed huts a cooking fire had caught and was spreading quickly
The blood on Dalluth's skin pulsed in joyful recognition, and the monster turned to face him. It sniffed the air and let out a sickening bellow. Just the force of the roar caused the ruins of a hut to collapse in on themselves as it turned its eyes to Dalluth.
It sees me, Dalluth thought, panic rising in his throat. It came looking for its child.
The creature whirled, snatching another archer as its tail reduced huts to powdered rubble.
It wants its child back and I'm COVERED WITH THEIR BLOOD!
Dalluth turned and ran from his doomed village with all the strength in his body. The creature crossed the village in two strides, kicking huts away as it closed the distance and clamped its jaws down onto Dalluth. He felt a fang pierce his skull and he screamed, too far gone to realize he'd been lifted into the air and left his legs lying on the ground below.
Hallek
Hallek was ankle deep in dung, but that was alright. Start of shift it had been up to his knees and every day couldn't be guard duty. In Downwind, you dug your weight. The pile he and a cluster of other workers had started on at midnight was almost gone. Well dug up and poured into vats anyway, where it could be worked into compost by someone else down the line. They were fond of saying the whole empire had its roots in Downwind...at least in Downwind.
“Shift bell soon,” another digger said. “I can't wait to sleep.”
“A nap and a shower,” Hallek agreed. “And then I've got a date tonight.”
There were whistles and claps from the other diggers. Hallek grinned, eyes locked on the manure he was shoveling.
“This that priestess again?” A digger asked.
“She's an acolyte,” Hallek said. “She doesn't become a priestess for at least a year. There's a ritual.”
“Not the point,” a digger leaned on his shovel. “Same girl for three weeks? Sounds like it’s getting serious.”
“Shovel it or eat it,” Hallek laughed back. “Let’s get this pile done or the foremen won't let us off, bell or no bell.”
“And they'll be here pretty soon,” a digger chimed in. “Backs into it everybody. Dig your weight.”
The pile was gone when the foreman rode over the line on his tethyshadros. The dinosaur was dull green with a leaf shaped body tapering into a thick tail. Its head was a lot like the horses of the planes, just covered with scales. If it needed to it could rear up on its hind legs and race at frightening speed, but the foremen rode them (aside from them not minding the smell) because on all fours they were placid, comfortable, and calm. It was the tethy's rider who looked about to bolt, sitting high in his saddle beaming like a maniac under his wide brimmed hat.
Sweet gods. Verris.
“When the hells did he make foreman?” One of the diggers asked. “He's too young.”
That wasn't the problem that had jumped straight to Hallek's mind but yes, Verris was also younger than normal for a foreman. More than that foremen had to be voted on by the diggers, twice a year. And the vote wasn't for another six months. And yes, sometimes in an emergency they'd promote a foreman in between but they'd have to be voted on eventually. And Verris didn't have a lot of friends in Downwind.
Then again he's always been a hard worker. Maybe I'm overthinking this. However he got the orange hat maybe he'll do a great job. Hells, maybe I'll be voting for him in six months.
The thought was so strange it was hard to keep in his head, and it didn't get any easier when Verris rode up grinning.
“Hallek!” Verris said. “So what's it going to be? Cut a wrist, jump off a roof, or drown yourself in the piles?”
“Leave it off Verris,” Hallek sighed.
“I'm just saying promises were made,” the newly minted foreman laughed. “And you're supposed to call me foreman.”
“Well foreman,” one of the diggers said, “we're minutes away from going off shift and we almost have this pile dug.”
“Good good,” Verris said. “Keep up the good work.”
He pulled the reigns on his Tethy and rode off around the piles. They waited until he was far enough away for to burst into laughter.
“Gods. New foreman are always the same, aren't they?”
“I still want to know how he got made foreman. He'll never survive the vote.”
“Hey he works hard,” Hallek said, out of a mixture of guilt and...loyalty? Guilt that he'd had the same unkind thought, and loyalty because he felt if anyone was going to put down his lifelong worst enemy it should be him. There were a few more chuckles but half an hour later the pile was dug and the shift was over. Hallek sighed and tossed his shovel into the bin. Some other diggers would have to cart the dung away, and that was fine with him. What he wanted now was a shower.
In the city proper there were many homes with plumbing, stone and baked clay pipes flowing water in or taking it out into the laminated brick wall sewers. The wooden huts in Downwind didn't, but they clustered around public showers and outhouses shared by twenty or so huts each. A place to wash off the filth before climbing into bed. Which was mostly what Hallek wanted to do, until he heard the shouting.
He didn't recognize all the voices but Verris's came through loud and clear. When Hallek rounded a pile he found the scene he'd been afraid of since he saw a hooked nose under an orange hat. Verris, shouting at a bunch of angry diggers.
I'm off shift. It's none of my business. And it's Verris.
Ah hells.
Hallek walked up to shouting crowd and saw it was worse than he'd thought. In the center of the angry ring were two men. A young digger, a skinny pale blonde haired boy. A northerner. If he was down from the northern provinces chances were he wasn't used to the heat. Northerners often had trouble when they started out in Downwind. The diggers and the foremen usually gave them a break. Except judging by the look on his face Verris hadn't felt like it.
And Verris, on his Tethy, was holding his whip.
Spiders made of ice skittered down Hallek's spine. This was bad. Foremenused the whip on shirkers and thieves. Only on shirkers and thieves. It was the deal. It was what kept Downwind stable. Misuse of the whip could start a riot.
Gods, Verris, you were a digger yesterday what the hells are you thinking? He didn't even notice he was moving until he was standing between Verris and the boy.
“Verris!” Hallek said. “I mean foreman! Hold off a second, the kid knows he screwed up right?”
Verris glared down at him from on top of the tethy and Hallek tried not to flinch. Something complicated and horrible was happening is Verris's eyes. They were half crazed and half desperate, like a madman in the ocean scrabbling for driftwood to hold onto.
“He cursed at me,” Verris said, in a ragged voice. “When I told him to get back to digging, he cursed at me!”
“Diggers curse the foremen all the time,” Hallek said. “Remember? I've heard you curse the foreman. Why don't you put the whip down. Okay?”
Verris looked at the whip in his hand as if he was seeing it for the very first time.
“You think I didn't hear you,” Verris said. “Laughing at me.”
“What?” Hallek said.
“When I left before. You laughed.”
“That was nothing, just...”
“Stop it,” Verris hissed. “Stop laughing at me!”
And the whip came down. Bringing his arm was a reflex. If it had been a stronger swing it could have broken the bone, or cut the flesh down to it at least. But it wasn't a strong swing, it was the flailing of a maniac, so it just bit and burned as it wrapped around his forearm. Hallek grabbed it, and stared into Verris's eyes.
“Gods damn it Verris I just tried to help you. And I don't know why. Because I know you, Verris. I know you went looking for some poor digger you could pick on just to make yourself feel tall. And isn't that the saddest thing you ever even heard of?”
Verris glared, but he didn't deny. His fist clenched around the handle of the whip. Hallek pulled, yanking Verris out of the saddle. And while he was on the way down, Hallek punched him in the face. His nose broke with an ugly crack and he fell bleeding to the ground. He was up in seconds, eyes red, blood seeping down his mouth.
“I'll kill you!” he roared. “I'll....”
Hallek was already kneeling, holding the whip up to Verris.
“Seventeen lashes,” Hallek said. “I struck a foreman. That's the standard penalty.”
The diggers had gone quiet. That was...good. Mostly good. Hallek's eyes met Verris's, and Hallek willed him to understand. Seventeen lashes to prevent a riot. Give me the whipping and go, and it can all be quiet again. I can't promise you'll win the election, but you'll get out of this alive.
Verris silently took the whip and cracked it across Hallek's back. He hissed, but didn't cry out at the second, third, or even tenth blows. The crowd watched in equal silence. They stayed that way through strike eighteen. It was strike twenty one where the crowd started shouting again. Something inside Verris had obviously snapped, and the whip strikes came faster and faster. Hallek weaved on his knees, bleed seeping down his back, and the riot he'd been trying to prevent had almost started when the foremen rode in.
Things got kind of hazy after that. He remembered being pulled up onto the back of a tethy and ridden away. He remembered shouting, from diggers and from foremen. He didn't remember blacking out, but since he was on a bed with his wounds bandaged when his focus came back he must have, because he didn't remember any of that either. Old Mungo was sitting on a chair beside the bed.
“What the hells?” Hallek groaned.
“Doing alright there?” Old Mungo asked. “You've been out for three hours. What the hells were you thinking boy?”
“I was thinking I didn't want a riot. What happened?”
“That's complicated. Healers say you're fine, just passed out from the pain.”
“Verris?”
“There was an emergency vote. He's out.”
Verris nodded grimly. The diggers could vote you out of Downwind. They almost never did, but they could. And while there was no official law empowering the diggers to banish someone from the district,staying in Downwind once they'd voted was not a recipe for long and healthy life.
“And then there's you. The diggers think you're some kind of hero.”
“Screw that.”
“Not always up to you,” Old Mungo grinned. “But I got a visit from the foremen. All apologies, lots of talk about bonuses. They don't want any riots either. But they said you need to go.”
“Go?” Hallek sat bolt upright in bed. “What do you mean, go?”
“Relax. You're being promoted. Senior Digger. And with your promotion comes a year-long assignment to a little farming village about two weeks ride from the city that requested an adviser on their fertilizer and waste management. City might not be safe for you. Apparently, Verris got promoted because some noble stuck his head in.”
Hallek felt a pang. Promotion meant more pay, which was nice, but...well, he'd been happy. The way things were. But he didn't protest, just nodded. Having a noble upset with you, laws or no laws, was not a good thing. A year out of the city would give things time to die down.
“When am I leaving?”
“Right now if you want. Doc says you're healthy enough. I'd have a meal first if I were you.”
“Ah hells,” Hallek sighed. “I had a date.”
Hallek washed and had his meal. He was given a cart, a minmi to pull it, and a sack full of traveling gear. He could have gone straight northwest but he didn't want to disappear on Shylldra and he doubted there were assassins stalking him in the shadows already. So he rode into town and stopped at the Temple of Maia. He hadn't spent much time there, so he wasn't sure what to do. He just snagged the first priestess he saw in mural covered entrance room.
“Excuse me,” Hallek said. “I'm a friend of an acolyte named Shylldra. Could I talk to her, or at least leave a message? I was supposed to meet her later but I have to leave the city...”
“Shylldra?” the acolyte said, eyes going wide.
“Uhm, yes,” Hallek said. “Is something wrong?”
“No!” the priestess said. “No, not at all. Come with me please.”
He was led into the temple, down winding halls and finally into a small room tucked away in a hallway. There was no furniture, and it didn't look like anyone had been there in years. The priestess disappeared, replaced a few minutes later by Shylldra herself. She was wearing traveling clothes under her robes.
“Shylldra,” Hallek said. “I'm sorry, but...”
“Stories later,” Shylldra said. “You're leaving the city, right? Was that real or are you just trying to dump me?”
“It's real!” Hallek said. “What in the hells is going on?”
“I need to get out of the city,” Shylldra said. “Now. I'm going to call this Maia's work. Take me with you.”