Glanno landed in deep mud consisting mostly of horse shit and piss, which was probably what saved his two legs, already broken, from being torn right off. The horses came to a halt beneath thrashing rain, in early evening gloom, easing by a fraction the agony of his two dislocated shoulders, and he was able to roll mostly on to his back, to lie unmoving, the rain streaming down his face, his eyes closed, with only a little blood dripping from his ears.
Outside the tavern, frightened patrons who had rushed out at the cacophony inthe street now stood getting wet beneath the eaves, staring in silence at the wheel less carriage, from the roof of which people on all sides seemed to be falling, whereupon they dragged themselves upright, bleary eyes fixing on the tavern door, and staggered whenceforth inside. Only a few moments afterwards, the nearest carriage door opened with a squeal, to unleash of gush of foamy seawater, and then out stumbled the occupants, beginning with a gigantic tattooed ogre. The tavern’s patrons, one and all, really had nothing to say.
Standing in the highest room of the tower, an exceedingly tall, bluish-skinned man with massive, protruding tusks, curved like the horns of a ram to frame his bony face, slowly turned away from the window, and, taking no notice of the dozen servants staring fixedly at him-not one of whom was remotely human-he sighed and said, ‘Not again.’
The servants, reptilian eyes widening with comprehension, then began a wailing chorus, and this quavering dirge reached down through the tower, past chamber after chamber, spiralling down the spiral staircase and into the crypt that was the tower’s hollowed-out root. Wherein three women, lying motionless on stone slabs, each opened their eyes. And in doing so, a crypt that had been in darkness was dark no longer.
From the women’s broad, painted mouths there came a chittering sound, as of chelae clashing behind the full lips. A conversation, perhaps, about hunger. And need. And dreadful impatience.
Then the women began shrieking.
High above, in the topmost chamber of the tower, the man winced upon hearing those shrieks, which grew ever louder, until even the fading fury of the storm was pushed down, down under the sea’s waves, there to drown in shame.
In the tavern in the town on the coast called the Reach of Woe, Gruntle sat with the others, silent at their table, as miserable as death yet consumed with shaky relief. Solid ground beneath them, dry roof overhead. A pitcher of mulled wine midway between.
At the table beside them, Jula and Amby Bole sat with Precious Thimble-although she was there in flesh only, since everything else had been battered senseless-and the two Bole brothers were talking.
‘The storm’s got a new voice. You hear that, Jula?’
‘I hear that and I hear you, Amby. I hear that in this ear and I hear you in that ear, and they come together in the middle and make my head ache, so if you shut up then one ear’s open so the sound from the other can go right through and sink into that wall over there and that wall can have it, ’cause I don’t.’
‘You don’t-hey, where’d everyone go?’
‘Down into that cellar-you ever see such a solid cellar door, Amby? Why, it’s as thick as the ones we use on the pits we put wizards in, you know, the ones nobody can open.’’It was you that scared ’em, Jula, but look, now we can drink even more and pay nothing,’
‘Until they all come back out. And then you’ll be looking at paying a whole lot,’
‘I’m not paying. This is a business expense.’
‘Is it?’
‘1 bet. We have to ask Master Quell when he wakes up.’
‘He’s awake, I think.’
‘He don’t look awake.’
‘Nobody does, exceptin’ us.’
‘Wonder what everyone’s doing in the cellar. Maybe there’s a party or something.’
‘That storm sounds like angry women.’
‘Like Mother, only more than one.’
‘That would be bad.’
‘Ten times bad. You break something?’
‘Never did. You did.’
‘Someone broke something, and those mothers are on the way. Sounds like.’
‘Sounds like, yes.’
‘Coming fast.’
‘Whatever you broke, you better fix it.’
‘No way. I’ll just say you did it.’
‘I’ll say I did it first-no, you did it. I’ll say you did it first.’
‘I didn’t do-’
But now the shrieking storm was too loud for any further conversation, and to Gruntle’s half-deadened ears it did indeed sound like voices. Terrible, inhuman voices, filled with rage and hunger. He’d thought the storm was waning; in fact, he’d been certain of it. But then everyone had fled into the cellar-
Gruntle lifted his head.
At precisely the same time that Mappo did.
Their eyes met. And yes, both understood. That’s not a storm.
My finest student? A young man, physically perfect. To look upon him was to see a duellist by any known measure. His discipline was a source of awe; his form was elegance personified. He could snuff a dozen candles in successive lunges, each lunge identical to the one preceding it. He could spear a buzzing fly. Within two years I could do nothing more for him for he had passed my own skill.
I was, alas, not there to witness his first duel, but it was described to me in detail. For all his talent, his perfection of form, for all his precision, his muscle memory, he revealed one and only one flaw.
He was incapable of fighting a real person. A foe of middling skill can be profoundly dangerous, in that clumsiness can surprise, ill-preparation can confound brilliant skills of defence. The very unpredictability of a real opponent in a life and death struggle served my finest student with a final lesson.
It is said the duel lasted a dozen heartbeats. From that day forward, my philosophy of instruction changed. Form is all very well, repetition ever essential, but actual blood-touch practice must begin within the first week of instruction. To be a duellist, one must duel. The hardest thing to teach is how to survive.
Trevan Ault 2nd century, darujhistan
Gather close, and let us speak of nasty little shits. Oh, come now, we are no strangers to the vicious demons in placid disguises, innocent ? eyes so wide, hidden minds so dark. Does evil exist? Is it a force, some deadly possession that slips into the unwary? Is it a thing separate and thus subject to accusation and blame, distinct from the one it has used? Does it flit from soul to soul, weaving its diabolical scheme in all the unseen places, snarling into knots tremulous fears and appalling opportunity, stark terrors and brutal self-interest? Or is the dread word nothing more than a quaint and oh so convenient encap-nidation of all those traits distinctly lacking moral context, a sweeping generalization embracing all things depraved and breath takingly cruel, a word to define that peculiar glint in the eye-the voyeur to one’s own delivery of horror, of pain and anguish and impossible grief?
Give the demon crimson scales, slashing talons. Tentacles and dripping poison. Three eyes and six slithering tongues. As it crouches there in the soul, its latest abode in an eternal succession of abodes, may every god kneel in prayer.
But really. Evil is nothing but a word, an objectification where no objectifica-tion is necessary. Cast aside this notion of some external agency as the source of inconceivable inhumanity-the sad truth is our possession of an innate proclivity towards indifference, towards deliberate denial of mercy, towards disengaging all that is moral within us.
Hut if that is too dire, let’s call it evil. And paint it with fire and venom.
There are extremities of behaviour that seem, at the time, perfectly natural, indeed reasonable. They are arrived at suddenly, or so it might seem, but if one looks the progression reveals itself, step by step, and that is a most sad truth.
Murillio walked from the duelling school, rapier at his hip, gloves tucked into his belt. Had he passed anyone who knew him they might be forgiven for not at first recognizing him, given his expression. The lines of his face were drawn deep, his frown a clench, as if the mind behind it was in torment, sick of itself. He looked older, harder. He looked to be a man in dread of his own thoughts, a man haunted by an unexpected reflection in a lead window, a silvered mirror, flinching back from his own face, the eyes that met themselves with defiance.