Shattered Shields - eARC (21 page)

Bone Candy

A Black Company Story

Glen Cook

The campaign season was over. The weather stank. The Dark Horse was packed elbow to asshole. There wasn’t enough make-work to keep the troops busy. Markeg Zhorab’s wife and sister had to help him serve. The wicked of mind hoped he would bring out his delectable daughter.

Otto checked his last card, cursed. A turn as dealer had not helped. His luck was still dreadful. “You’re damned grim for a guy that keeps winning, Croaker.”

“Bad nightmare last night. Still feeling it.”

Silent signed, “Same one?”

“Third night in a row.”

Otto grinned. “Your honey must be missing you.” The old canard.

Silent signed, “Stop that.”

My turn. I pounced, down with eleven. Otto cursed. Silent shook his head, resigned. Corey, in One-Eye’s usual seat, pretended to wipe away tears. “When is the battlefield not a battlefield?”

“Huh?” Sergeant Otto grunted. “That some dumb-ass riddle?”

“One-Eye asked me that last time we talked.”

Silent was the only wizard in the tavern. I asked, “Where
are
Goblin and One-Eye?”

Their apprentice, the Third, was missing too. He did not usually stray far from the beer. Those two can drive anyone to drink.

Otto collected Silent’s deal like he feared the cards would bite. “Them two are gone together, that could be bad.”

Those two wizards are always up to no good but not usually together. The table fell into a deep disquiet. Corey muttered, “Definitely not good.” Silent nodded grimly.

Zhorab delivered an untimely pitcher, muttered, “Flies.” He hustled off, loath to leave his bar undefended.

I discarded. Corey snagged the card, spread a five-six-seven-eight, but nobody groused. Everybody suddenly had a whole lot of nothing to discuss. Cards and drinks had become totally fascinating.

Two Dead stepped into the room. Long, lean, skeletal, he needed more legs and eyes to complete himself.

Otto murmured, “When is the battlefield not a battlefield?”

That could be more than one question depending on how you heard it.

* * *

Two Dead. Real name, Shor Chodroze, wizard colonel from Eastern Army HQ with plenipotentiary powers. A blessing upon the Black Company bestowed by the Taken Whisper. He never volunteered anything about his real mission. He was said to be an unpredictably nasty sociopath. Our main wizards disappeared right after he arrived. He was Two Dead because when he rolled in with one oversize bodyguard, all bluster and self-regard, the lieutenant had declared, “That man ain’t worth two dead flies.”

Otto dealt. The rest of us shrank. Somebody was about to get unhappy.

I met Two Dead’s gaze, as always amazed that he owned two good eyes. The left side of his face featured a lightning bolt of bruise-colored scar tissue, forehead to chin, but his eye had survived. I suspected a glancing upward thrust from an infantry pole arm.

He headed our way. And…something had him spooked. Not good, a sorcerer with the heebie-jeebies.

We were not the cause. He held us in abiding contempt. Still, he kept his bodyguard close. He knew his Company history.

Where was Buzzard Neck now?

Two Dead pointed at me, then Silent. “You two. Come with me. Bring your gear.”

I always lug a bag. You never know when some idiot will need sewing up.

* * *

Silent took two steps out into the street, stopped dead. I banged into his back. “Hey! None of your mime stuff!” He had picked up the hobby recently.

This was not that. This was a response to the weather.

A wind hummed in from the north, flinging snow pellets into our faces.

The chill did not bother Two Dead. Nor had he been drinking. The cold shock had me hungry to piss, but Two Dead barked, “Come!”

I came.

Buzz awaited us in full battle gear, including a great goofy old-time kite shield. His expression was pinched. He had obvious stomach troubles.

He was a house in boots. Guys like him usually end up being called Tiny or Little Whoever, and are dim, but this walking building was supernaturally quick, monster strong, and twice as smart as the creep who employed him.

He was Buzzard Neck because his neck was long and crooked and included an Adam’s apple like an Adam’s melon. The name quickly shrank to Buzz.

He never said much. He was as well-liked as Two Dead was well-loathed. He claimed to have survived some of the shit the Company had, including the Battle at Charm.

Two Dead headed out. We followed, me hoping I would not have to hold it long.

Technically, we could have told Two Dead to go pound sand. He was not in our chain of command. But he was tight with Whisper, and Whisper was hungry for excuses to pound the Company. Also, he might be a cat underfoot for a long time. Not to mention, I was really curious about what could give the spider wizard the jimjams.

* * *

Aloe sprawls without being big, though it is the grandest metropolis for a hundred miles. Two Dead led us a third of a mile, to the lee of a redbrick box on whitewashed limestone foundations.

“There.” He indicated a mound of brown fur in a dried-out flower patch. Wind stirred the fur and dead leaves.

I opined, “It don’t look healthy.”

Silent said nothing. Buzz clutched his gut.

I asked, “What is it?” Not a badger. It was too big and the color was wrong. Not a bear. It was too small.

“I don’t know,” Two Dead said. “It smells of sorcery.”

Silent nodded. Buzz looked desperate to take a squat.

I stepped left, relieved myself at last. Steam rose to meet randomly falling snowflakes. Fat flakes. It must be getting warmer.

I eased closer. The beast was curled up like a pill bug.

Two Dead said, “There were two others. They scooted when they saw us.”

Buzz said, “I didn’t see them.”

Two Dead said, “They ran a few steps and just faded out.” He was nervous all over again. How come?

I asked, “What did they look like?”

“Giant beavers or woodchucks? They were gone too quick to tell.”

Well. Beavers and groundhogs are somewhat less fierce than bears.

This one was not the right shade for a woodchuck. I didn’t know about giant beavers, though.

I noted a stir not caused by the wind.

Silent offered a sorcery alert.

Two Dead said, “Something magical is about to happen.” He did not mean magical in a wondrous surprise for the kids kind of way.

The moment disappointed. It expired without calamity.

I took a knee, faked veterinary skills.

The animal breathed slow and shallow and had a faint heartbeat. Hibernating? Some bears just drop in place when the sleepy season comes.

It didn’t waken and shred me. Two Dead took that as license to revert to his old obnoxious self.

* * *

Silent and I hauled the beast on Buzz’s shield. Buzz was too damned big to help. The downhill end had to carry most of the weight. Plus, he was having trouble keeping his trousers clean.

* * *

The beast sprawled on a table in my clinic. Two Dead perched like a spider on a stool close by, manfully keeping his yap shut. The captain and Otto were present as well. Like Two Dead, they kept quiet while the professional me worked. Buzz was off haunting a latrine.

“This is one ugly gob of snot,” the professional said. Stretched out it looked more like a baboon than a beaver. Its face was a fright mask of scarlet skin. It had teeth fit for a crocodile. Its eyes were snakelike. Each foot included semi-retractable claws and a stubby but opposable thumb.

“It’s starting to smell like a vulture’s breath,” Otto observed.

Its heart rate was rising, too. “The cold must have laid it down.” Our vile weather might not be all bad.

The captain jiggered the flue on my heating stove.

“Then these things shouldn’t be dangerous till the weather changes.” It would, local boy Corey had promised. We would see one more spring-like week before winter came to stay.

Otto prodded, “Croaker?” There was work to do. Critical work. The Old Man was here his own self.

Did they know something? Two Dead certainly wondered.

The Old Man was all fired-up curious. “It’s supernatural, right? What kind? Where from? Was it summoned? Is it invasive? Somebody talk to me.” He was sure that Two Dead was to blame.

Two Dead shook his head. “I promise, it’s new to me.”

“Where are Goblin and One-Eye? Anybody know?”

Otto said, “They ain’t been seen for days.”

I reminded, “The colonel says there were more of these things. Better find the others while it’s cold.”

Otto mused, “Warfare by elliptical means?”

“When is the battlefield not a battlefield?”

We had crushed the Rebel in the region, a success that troubled some “friends.” Vast incompetence and corruption had been turned up, which the guilty resented. Whisper’s own discomfort was why we had Two Dead as a guest.

I had hoped the Rebel survivors would slink away to recruit, to train, to collect weapons and supplies, and to wait for us to be transferred. Informants said that quiet season would never come. Senior Rebels wanted Aloe back. The Port of Shadows might be hidden here.

Aloens did not understand that echo out of deep time. Rebel insiders did. The honest ones got so scared they sometimes came over to us.

* * *

I read a lot. I root around in folklore, legend, and local history. Port of Shadows references a plot to resurrect the Dominator, lord of the old Domination. He is still a demigod to some. The Port of Shadows is a gateway he can use to escape his tomb.

Some Rebel chieftains are closet Resurrectionists. The Lady has been plagued by them since she escaped her own grave, leaving him behind.

The Old Man and his cronies are worried, but they do not confide in the Annalist. The Annalist writes things down.

Might this monster be a Resurrectionist tool? Our enemies had not yet gone supernaturally asymmetric. Sneaking lethal paranormal uglies into an enemy camp was more like something we would do.

The captain leaned in, tempting the beast. He asked Silent, “Have Croaker cut it up to look at its insides? Or cage it and wait?”

Silent shrugged. He was out of his element.

The captain asked Two Dead, “Suggestions, Colonel?” while looking for some subtle tell.

The beast had been the sorcerer’s discovery.

Two Dead remained unperturbed. He had come to us suspect. That would never change. “Let it live, but keep it cold. Find the others. Examine a healthy one.” He eyed Silent.

Silent shrugged again, stubbornly frugal with his opinions.

* * *

I bent close, combed fur, hunting vermin. Fleas, ticks, lice all tell tales. “This thing is getting warmer…” I reeled back, shoved by Silent. He pointed. Flakes of obsidian ash had puffed out of a nostril. “Hand me a sample bottle.” Then, “Make that a bunch.”

A black beetle stomped into the light, as shiny as the flakes. It glared around, measuring the world for conquest.

The Old Man asked, “That some kind of scarab?”

A second bug marched out, bumped into the first. Number one was in a bad mood. Bam! No threat display. No ritual dance. The bugs started trying to murder one another with ridiculous bear-trap jaws.

I whined, “Anybody got any idea what the hell?”

Nope. Two Dead, though, did snag my biggest glass jar, which he shoved over the beast’s head. He packed the gaps with handy rags.

Otto took off in a big hurry, leaving the door halfway open. Snow blew in before Silent shut it.

Black flakes presaged the emergence of more beetles. These were not immediate bugacidal maniacs. They just wanted to leave. The jar frustrated their ambitions.

Then
they went berserk. “What a racket.” The captain was rattled, something you seldom saw.

The host animal began to deflate. Two Dead stuffed more bandages. A few beetles, struck brilliant, snipped cloth chunks with those nasty jaws.

“We need a container big enough for the whole thing,” Two Dead said. “Maybe a pickle barrel.”

Bam! Otto came back lugging a big tin box with a latch-down top that hailed from the commissary, where it kept grain and flour free of vermin.

“Perfect,” Two Dead declared, nonplussed. This was too-quick thinking by people he wanted to be too dull to notice him nudging them onto a hangman’s trap.

Otto said, “Push it in, glass and all.” He positioned the tin so Two Dead could shove the beast in.

Two Dead held his paws up like a dog begging. He should soil his delicate fingers?

“Really?” the Old Man barked. “Push the damned thing!”

A particularly formidable beetle chose that moment to make his getaway via the beast’s nether orifice. A Two Dead finger was nearby. It took a bite. Two Dead howled, “Oh, shit! Gods damn, that hurts!”

An even studlier bug tromped forth as the beast flopped forward. It had even more ridiculous jaws and a back end like a long, thin funnel. It flew at Two Dead, literally, wing cases flung high, ladybug style. It landed on the back of the sorcerer’s left hand, grabbed hold, took a hearty bite. Then it stood on its nose, curled its tail down, drove its tip into the wound.

All that took only an eye-blink to happen. Two Dead shrieked again.

Silent crunched the bug.

Otto pounded the lid onto the can. The monster left several wriggling grubs on the table. The Old Man chased escaped beetles. Silent and I wrestled Two Dead into a chair. He began to shake. Shock? The bites did not look that bad. Silent hand signed, “It laid eggs.”

The sealed tin sang like a metal roof in a hailstorm.

The Old Man killed one last fugitive bug, turned on the grubs. “Otto, take the can to the trash pit. Then get every swinging dick out looking for the other two animals. Hire tracking dogs.” He moved over to watch as I dug almost invisibly tiny cream-color beads out of Two Dead’s hand.

Otto left with the singing biscuit tin. And busted back in half a minute later. “Look what I found sneaking around with a sack of stolen bread and bacon.” He had our apprentice sorcerer, the Third, by the scruff of the neck.

The kid was not happy. Truth be, he had had few shots at happiness since he got tangled up with Goblin and One-Eye.