Read Online The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps by Kai Ashante Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kai Ashante Wilson
Ads: Link
terrified. Dogs—hacked-up carcasses—had been tied to them.
“Cheaters,” said the captain. “They put poisoned collars on their fighting dogs.” Packed into the alley were other refugees off the Mainway, and the eldest of a mother with more children than arms wriggled nearer: to hear the captain’s song, and see what he glossed. “Or they fixed the odds, or else threw some match. Something like that.”
Thicknecked mastiffs bibbed the men in front, forepaws of the dogs wired at the men’s napes, muzzles slobbering cold gore onto chins and chests. On top of rooves, at windows, and from the mouths of streets and alleys, Mother of Waters jeered.
The men ran up the Mainway. Hecklers flung offal, chucked stones.
“Anyone who makes the one-league waymark goes free.” As in battle, Captain wore a look of bleak detachment. “No one ever makes it that far.” To Demane’s senses, the captain’s mood seemed mostly enrapt attention, a little mixed with grief.
One of the indicted passed their alley—
booking
. His scentwake entirely fearsweat and adrenaline, this frontrunner doubled his distance from the rest every few steps.
Two others, neck and neck, lagged hindmost. One, a fat man, the other, thin but very old, staggered and lurched more than they ran.
Now a lone horseman emerged from the western piazza.
Captain murmured: “Fanged-drone.”
Demane glanced at him. Above his beard, Captain brushed two fingertips down his own left cheek, scarless and smooth. (Though often wounded, he
had
no scars.) Demane looked back: the horseman’s left-cheek insignia bore two stingers. Unlike the other calvarymen, he did not wield a lance, but viper of supple rawhide. Moaning like wind through arroyos, the serpent lashed the air about the horseman, in sinuous accord with his whirling arm. Spurred, his stallion surged forward. Mother of Waters cheered. Making no soft sound—
shrieking
—the snake unfurled to outpace sound itself for twenty feet. The viper kissed the runner midmost.
Bit
him, rather: with a thunderclap.
“No, pop.” Captain’s forearms crossed Demane’s chest like iron bars. “Stay with me.” Captain reeled him back against long bones, hard scrawn. “You can’t help them.”
Demane, not even realizing, had moved to succor the stricken man.
The viper’s bite had knocked Middle-Man to his knees. His scream was keening and breathless, nearly silent. His robe was split and gaping open—the shirt beneath as well, and living flesh, too. He reached one hand around his waist, the other over his shoulder, as if to catch some small swift thing nestling at his back. Just behind the man stricken, Fat-Man stumbled in astonished terror. He flopped belly down onto his passenger dog. Air currents moved such that Demane knew when Fat-Man’s bladder voided. The wallowing man didn’t and couldn’t rise, flailing with the heavy stiff dog and swells of his own rolling suet, treading the hem of his robe. “Aw, that nigga
there
?” muttered some fellow-of-the-alley. “Bout to get
kilt
.”
Captain sang low. “There’s no reason to watch, Demane.”
Yes, but how to look away?
The horseman pulled up short. (Breeze blowing northwesterly still: Fat-Man’s bowels let go.) The one bitten clambered sobbing to his feet, a generous fillet peeling raw off his back, and struggled off after the old man who was passing the gates. Three times the viper bit the wallowing man. The first bite chunked out pudding from a wide thigh, laying white femur bare in grisly depths. There were screams, pleas, groveling. The next and deadly bite enwrapped Fat-Man’s neck, hungrily gnawing through chins and jowls: crushing vertebrae with a splosive pop. So why then a third bite? Was it done to assure the crowd of a death, to show the body jolting up from the dust, only to fall again, still and silent? Was it done as a droll offering to the great demon, the antiurge, tsoa , that which incites human hearts to senseless evils?
“Cheaters,” said the captain. “They put poisoned collars on their fighting dogs.” Packed into the alley were other refugees off the Mainway, and the eldest of a mother with more children than arms wriggled nearer: to hear the captain’s song, and see what he glossed. “Or they fixed the odds, or else threw some match. Something like that.”
Thicknecked mastiffs bibbed the men in front, forepaws of the dogs wired at the men’s napes, muzzles slobbering cold gore onto chins and chests. On top of rooves, at windows, and from the mouths of streets and alleys, Mother of Waters jeered.
The men ran up the Mainway. Hecklers flung offal, chucked stones.
“Anyone who makes the one-league waymark goes free.” As in battle, Captain wore a look of bleak detachment. “No one ever makes it that far.” To Demane’s senses, the captain’s mood seemed mostly enrapt attention, a little mixed with grief.
One of the indicted passed their alley—
booking
. His scentwake entirely fearsweat and adrenaline, this frontrunner doubled his distance from the rest every few steps.
Two others, neck and neck, lagged hindmost. One, a fat man, the other, thin but very old, staggered and lurched more than they ran.
Now a lone horseman emerged from the western piazza.
Captain murmured: “Fanged-drone.”
Demane glanced at him. Above his beard, Captain brushed two fingertips down his own left cheek, scarless and smooth. (Though often wounded, he
had
no scars.) Demane looked back: the horseman’s left-cheek insignia bore two stingers. Unlike the other calvarymen, he did not wield a lance, but viper of supple rawhide. Moaning like wind through arroyos, the serpent lashed the air about the horseman, in sinuous accord with his whirling arm. Spurred, his stallion surged forward. Mother of Waters cheered. Making no soft sound—
shrieking
—the snake unfurled to outpace sound itself for twenty feet. The viper kissed the runner midmost.
Bit
him, rather: with a thunderclap.
“No, pop.” Captain’s forearms crossed Demane’s chest like iron bars. “Stay with me.” Captain reeled him back against long bones, hard scrawn. “You can’t help them.”
Demane, not even realizing, had moved to succor the stricken man.
The viper’s bite had knocked Middle-Man to his knees. His scream was keening and breathless, nearly silent. His robe was split and gaping open—the shirt beneath as well, and living flesh, too. He reached one hand around his waist, the other over his shoulder, as if to catch some small swift thing nestling at his back. Just behind the man stricken, Fat-Man stumbled in astonished terror. He flopped belly down onto his passenger dog. Air currents moved such that Demane knew when Fat-Man’s bladder voided. The wallowing man didn’t and couldn’t rise, flailing with the heavy stiff dog and swells of his own rolling suet, treading the hem of his robe. “Aw, that nigga
there
?” muttered some fellow-of-the-alley. “Bout to get
kilt
.”
Captain sang low. “There’s no reason to watch, Demane.”
Yes, but how to look away?
The horseman pulled up short. (Breeze blowing northwesterly still: Fat-Man’s bowels let go.) The one bitten clambered sobbing to his feet, a generous fillet peeling raw off his back, and struggled off after the old man who was passing the gates. Three times the viper bit the wallowing man. The first bite chunked out pudding from a wide thigh, laying white femur bare in grisly depths. There were screams, pleas, groveling. The next and deadly bite enwrapped Fat-Man’s neck, hungrily gnawing through chins and jowls: crushing vertebrae with a splosive pop. So why then a third bite? Was it done to assure the crowd of a death, to show the body jolting up from the dust, only to fall again, still and silent? Was it done as a droll offering to the great demon, the antiurge, tsoa , that which incites human hearts to senseless evils?
Similar Books
