The Skull Throne
Page 111

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!
The magic flared
Creator’s gift
The one force demons abhor!
Some will tell you
Only the sun
Can bring a rock demon harm
That night I learned
It could be done
As did the demon One Arm!
The last words struck Rojer, and suddenly he realized why the tale was so familiar. How many times had Arlen told of the one-armed rock demon that pursued him for years after he cut its arm off as a boy? What were the odds this tale happened twice on the road to Miln?
Keerin ended with a flourish, and there was applause throughout the drawing room, but the sound was noticeably absent from Jasin’s corner, and the duke’s circle.
Rojer’s claps were loud and slow, designed to echo off the room’s high-vaulted ceiling. They continued when the rest of the applause had died away, drawing all eyes to him.
“A fine tale,” Rojer congratulated loudly. “Though I knew a man who told it differently.”
“Oh?” Keerin asked imperiously, knowing a challenge when he heard it. “And who might that be?”
“Arlen Bales,” Rojer said, and there was chatter throughout the room at the name.
He looked at Keerin with mock incredulity as the color drained from the man’s face. “You realize, of course, that the boy in your song grew to be none other than the Warded Man, himself?”
“Don’t remember a Jongleur in that story,” Gared said, and there was more chatter at that. “You want to hear a true story?” He slapped Rojer on the back, knocking him forward a step. “Rojer, play The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow!”
Thamos put his face in his hand. Rojer turned, bowing to Rhinebeck as Keerin had. “Your Grace, I need not …”
“It’s already being played in every alehouse from here to Miln,” Rhinebeck said with a wave. “Might as well hear it from the source.”
Rojer swallowed, but he took out his fiddle and began to play.
Cutter’s Hollow lost its center