Chuggie gathered up his spears and froze, listening to the sounds of the forest. Off in the distance in the direction of the fleeing sow he heard a flock of birds take startled flight. He hunkered down and crept along the trail of churned up earth that led into the brush below. He could almost smell that pig all trussed up and slathered with plum sauce. He listened, sniffing the breeze.
A trickle of blood dribbled down his side. He'd take a look at that later. From the feeling of it, he'd need a stitch or two. A good job for Shola.
A gamy stink hit his nostrils as hog shit squished between his bare toes. He got low and ready to defend, scanning the vicinity. Dung piles of varying size dotted the ground. Big, adult-sized mounds and the tiny black droppings of hoglets littered the ground. It was a good thing he didn't have his boots on. This would have been the farewell voyage for the old boots.
The bushes were lousy with wild berries and milkweed. He may not have been in the boars' lair, but he was definitely in their feeding ground. And, oh yeah, they knew damn well he was there.
Rustling and heavy animal breathing sounded nearby, no doubt an agitated boar. Chuggie scanned the area for water. It'd be mighty handy if a fireboar got in the fire starting mood. He saw no sign of water anywhere.
Chuggie picked up a handful of stones from the weedy ground. He lobbed one into the thick undergrowth where he'd heard movement. He threw another, and another.
"I know you're here, you rat-raping pile of…" He threw the last stone. It flew through the air. A demon-like squeal followed the thud as the stone struck the beast.
Chuggie crashed through the brush and sprinted toward the sound.
The sow snorted and thumped her hooves in retreat.
Another sow, gray-skinned and wild-eyed, charged from his left side.
Chuggie swung the anchor, planted his feet, and launched it at her, leaning backward against the swing. It smashed into the beast's face, spraying blood and tusk fragments into the air. She crashed off into the brush with a squeal like damnation itself, hurt but not defeated.
Another trample arose behind him. He wheeled and footed the back of the spear into the mossy ground, pointing it at the charging beast. It gored itself on the spear with a wet squeal. It flopped into the tall grass, twitching and convulsing. By its small size and thick coat of black bristles, he knew it was just a teenager in pig years.
The big ol' male from back at Shola's snorted its fireball at him. A blast of heat hammered into Chuggie and knocked him on the ground. He rolled and smacked out flames on his jacket, then scrambled to his feet just in time dive under the next fireball.
The mammoth hog charged.
Chuggie whirled and flung the anchor at the boar's face. His blow caught it on the snout. The force of it knocked the pig off course. It turned and shot more fire. It charged as Chuggie dove away, then charged again, planting the curve of its tusk in the small of Chuggie's back. Screaming in pain, Chuggie stabbed it in the side with a spear until it retreated.
Chuggie had a new tusk gash along his lower back, and his sleeves were on fire again. He smothered the flames and spat blood as he struggled to his feet.
The boar charged jarring the chain loose from his hand. Chuggie faced the boar on all fours and lowered his horns.
The boar snorted out an enormous, oily fireball that smelled of burning hair.
Fire crackled as it chewed up Chuggie's clothes. Engulfed in flames, he held his ground like a snapping turtle. He bucked his neck and stabbed his soot-blackened horns into the boar's chest. He slashed its throat for good measure.
When the boar snorted its last, the remaining two sows of its harem ran away squealing.
Chuggie shook his horns and fought to free them from the boar's chest.
Like a meteor crash, sound and concussion tore through the air. The explosion slammed Chuggie against a tree with the force of a cannon blast. He slid to the ground and lay motionless.
His horn had pierced the boar's gas-bladder, releasing a sphere of fire. For miles around, birds took panicked flight. Rodents dove into their holes. Deer perked up, then ran away. Frogs stopped croaking.
The sun crawled across the sky, and night fell as Chuggie lay broken on the ashy ground. Unconsciously he drew the moisture of the surrounding vegetation, the fallen boars, the air, the water table. Water collected around him in a pool before he absorbed it like a burnt, bloody sponge.
Shola's eyes haunted his dim thoughts. Blue and white, blue and white. In his addled state, he thought maybe he could love those eyes, maybe he already did. She was so vulnerable without him. If he didn't make it back, she'd probably just wither away, cursing his name with her last breath.
As he lay there in the growing darkness, something tugged Chuggie down into to that dark, wet hell — the lonely realm waiting for him on the other side of death. Down there in the dark, every drop of liquid he'd ever drank swirled around him in a whirlpool of woe, drowning him for centuries, crushing him.
Hands like pitchforks stabbed and tore at him in the darkness. He tried to push them away, but he had no strength. He caught glimpses of spindly, asymmetrical creatures.
The darkness pulled at him just as the shadowy figures yanked him through briars and over logs. Sticks and stones pummeled his face. Through the slivers of his eyes, he saw treetops silhouetted against the moonlit clouds. He tried to call out but lacked the voice.
"Damn it," he managed to mumble. "How come a guy like me can't ever die with a shit's worth of dignity?"
"I'll leave this backwards shit-heap, that's what I'll do," said Priole. "I've had enough of this fucking town and the vultures pulling the strings. When I put on the black and red, I thought I'd be defending the people. This place is sick!"
"I feel the same way, believe me. I'm sure if I was a young man like you, I'd be gone by morning." Rorid didn't make eye contact with his young comrade. "Whatever either of us decides to do, we have to do it smart."
"You aren't leaving?" Priole threw up his arms.
"I don't think I can. Drexel's a good son, but he's no fighter. I couldn't take him into the wilderness. Besides, this time next year I'll be collecting my pension."
"Your pension's blood money, you coward!" hissed the younger man.
"Bite your fucking tongue, boy. I'd do anything for my son," said Rorid. "But I'm not going to close my eyes, put my head down, and run blind into the wilds just because I'm pissed off."
"Then what are you going to do?" Priole asked.
"All I can do is wait. That's what I'm advising you to do. I know you're mad, and so am I. We goddamn should be. I'm saying, don't make things worse."
"Coward." Priole puffed out his chest.
"Say that again, boy, and you'll find out who's a coward. Now I'm going to speak some words. I want you to listen to them and understand their meaning." Rorid squeezed his hands into fists and released them. "If you get
caught
trying to leave, your young bride will be visiting the torturgist again."
Priole started to speak, but a gesture from Rorid stopped him.
"But let's say you got out of the city on foot. How long do you think you'd last without a fully equipped caravan? Or, let's say you swipe a boat. Think you could outrun the Steel Jacks' barge? No. So you'd get back on land and have the same problem. I know you want to get out. I'm telling you to wait and consider the angles. Think about some things you haven't thought about."
"Somebody should kill Haste. His little henchmen, too. I don't care if they're all magistrates." Priole lifted his gleaming dagger and pointed it at Rorid.
"Close your mouth!" snapped Rorid. "Shit like that can be heard in the Pheonal trance, and you damn well know it. I asked you to meet me here, so I could talk some sense into you. You and me, we have to stick together now. Like it or not, I'm the only person in town you can even talk to about this."
"Fine, I'll wait." Priole spoke through clenched teeth. "But not for long."
"Stay close to me. When it's time to move, we'll know it without a doubt. And I think we'll need each other then." Rorid looked up at the moons and narrowed his eyes. "They
will
pay."
"Sorry for calling you a coward." Priole looked down at his feet. "This calls everything into question, you know? Everything we've done. Raids on the Carnie District, every arrest. Even the drunk we tried to send north. I don't trust them now. Not for anything."
"I feel the same way," Rorid said.
"Every order we've gotten cites 'the greater good' or 'the well-being of Stagwater.' The greatest good that could be done for this place would be a group of armed citizens went down to the Municipal Building and —."
"Enough!" Rorid snapped. "It's late, I'm cold, and this alley smells like piss. I'm going home. Now I want your word that you won't do anything stupid."
"I remember my wife on that table. I remember her squirming and crying," Priole growled.
"I told you, they
will
pay."
"Then you have my word." Priole stomped off, pausing only to kick a dent into a metal barrel.
The young man was right. The black and red uniform of the Stagwater Corps of Guardsmen meant something once. Wearing it had been an honor. Those days were gone.
Kale walked with heavy footsteps whenever he walked on the big bridge. He loved the sound his boots made on the wooden planks. The cool morning air invigorated him as the sun rose over the trees. Walking east into the sunrise in the early morning, he could forget the filthy, crowded city at his back.
Two young men waited for him at the center of the bridge, but the wind and the river made their conversation impossible to hear. Upon seeing him, they stopped talking entirely.
Jaron Haskall and Dan Diori were nearly inseparable, and they gave Kale as much allegiance as he could buy. Fortunately, he had deep pockets. These two would do just about anything if the price was right.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Kale.
"Good morning." Jaron gave a nod. He was bigger and stronger than Dan. He always wore his long, black hair tied in a ponytail. One of these days, Kale was going to grab that ponytail and lop it off. No man should have hair like a woman.
"Anything to report from last night?" asked Kale.
"Not a goddamn thing," answered Dan. He was the fast one of the pair, the thinker. He had short, light brown hair like a good soldier should. His blue eyes had a reputation with the ladies in town, but Kale knew both of the young men would rather pay to beat a person than lay with a woman for free. He could appreciate that.
"What was your position?" asked Kale.
Jaron pointed a thumb to the south. "We were south of town, like you told us. We spent a little while under the south end of the swamp bridge, but then we moved further out. We set up a little ways into the forest."
"I want you to go out farther tonight," said Kale. "I don't want anyone from town or even a patrol on goatback to see you. They better not even catch a whiff of you."
"Got it." Dan said.
"Off the road," Kale went on. "A tight ambush."
"Fucking right." Dan said with a grin.
"No mistakes." Kale spat over the side of the bridge and watched it fall, just to let Dan know how he felt about bravado. "Kill him and drag him off the road. Bring me anything you find on him. Any questions?"
"It's about time you sent us a real job," said Jaron. "We're tired of shaking down Carnies."
Kale glared.
"Never mind my idiot partner." Dan backhanded Jaron. "He's just saying we want to show what we're made of. Get what I'm saying?"
Kale eyeballed Jaron. "Can you two idiots keep your mouths shut?"
Jaron's face reddened. "Of course, of course. You're the man with the money."
"Well, go home and get your beauty sleep. I want you back out there tonight, an hour before sundown." Kale rubbed his face. "Make this problem go away, and it'll be worth your while."
Dan flipped his dagger once in the air and sheathed it. "You got the money, we'll get you what you need."
They left Kale, slapping and shoving each other as they went.
Kale leaned against the side rail. The morning calm would be over soon enough. He looked out over sleeping Stagwater. Soon, very soon, he'd get this burg in line. The era of Haste would be over soon.
Chuggie awoke to the smell of pork frying. Shivering naked in the washtub, his breath puffed in the chilly air. His only covering was the chain that linked to his ribcage. Someone had unwound it from his torso and left it in a pile on his midsection. The anchor sat atop the pile like some kind of reigning champion. He guessed there had been water in the tub at some point, but he'd absorbed every last drop.
"Meat's cooking if you have an appetite." Shola's voice carried over to him like a song.
He started to climb from the tub, lost his strength, and plopped back down.
"Maybe I'll just lay here a bit," he grumbled. "I don't seem to have the
oomph
to liberate myself. Guess I'm meant to stay." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
"If you let this meat get cold, you'll be sorry," she said.
"What kind o' meat are you burnin' over there, anyhow?" He turned his head to look at Shola. She sat down and began to eat with delicate and graceful gestures. Her wild black hair danced whenever she moved. A regular guy might've felt self-conscious about appearing naked before such a lady, but Chuggie's only concern was getting another hour of sleep.
"This is one of the boars you killed. Remember that?"
Chuggie muttered, "Nah, but if you come over here and take your clothes off, I'll fake it."
"What was that? I can't hear you way over there."
"I said I vaguely remember something like that," he called.
Honestly, Chuggie's memory of the hog hunt was hazy. The last thing he remembered was being lugged through the woods, and fading in and out of consciousness. Shola's scarecrows had transported him about as gently as a bee-stung wargoat with a crippled puppy tied to its leg.