Page 7 of The Thrice-Bound Fool

There was nothing funny about the storm coming for us. The clear sky hadn’t lasted long before an even more ominous set of clouds gathered over the Thralls. It was proper cold now. I asked Worrig if it was going to be the first snow of the season, and he laughed and shook his head.

“First one to worry for,” he said.

Amazing how fast the foothills became small mountains, and how large the mountains before us. The Thralls were serious, the biggest things I’d ever seen. The huge, snowy fangs of some sky-eating beast, white against the black snowfront.

We made camp in a kind of saddle between rocks, covered the top with an oiled skin, dared a small fire with brushwood Worrig had gathered up. The Wostran was already well earning the quarter scale a day he’d asked for. At this rate, and with nothing to spend it on, he’d be able to afford an overpriced donkey in a fortnight. Come to think of it, why didn’t he have a donkey?

“Why don’t you have a donkey?” I asked him.

“No need. You have donkey.”

“Yah, but that’s our gear on it. Where are the things you’ll need for the trip?”

“No need much things. But some.”

He made a gesture that seemed to suggest several places west of us, and I got the idea he’d cached provisions along the way.

“Corviscus do this,” Galva said, meaning war corvids, like the two she’d fought beside in the Daughters’ War. Like the one that slept in a tattoo on her chest. Dalgatha. Named after her goddess. “They make hiding places, store food for later. They are very good at finding things, like you are.” She gestured at the brushwood he’d wrested from the barren-looking rocks around us. “Maybe you are part corviscu, eh?”

Worrig’s face went stone.

“You are making hurt on my father?”

The very little bit of animation in Galva’s face went slack.

“No, friend. I meant no offense to your family.”

Worrig kept his face stone for a moment, but I knew what was coming. A smile broke across his face, and he laughed. He’d been taking the piss.

Galva looked at once offended that she’d been fooled and also relieved. Worrig, pleased with his jape, probably thought she was relieved he wasn’t angry with her, but I knew she was relieved not to have to kill him.

Kark him anyway. The first time she’d made anything resembling a joke in weeks and the bastard had punished her for it. He was funny, sure, but joking circles around Galva was my game, wasn’t it? Was I being outmischiefed? Could this Wostran be another follower of Fothannon?

“Who’s your god, Wostran?” I asked him. The little bit of fire danced in his eyes, shone on his reddish hair.

“I am not telling you who. Maybe when we … more…” And at this, he clasped his hands together. When he trusted me, he’d tell me who he worshipped. Fair play. I was going to end up either liking this Kark or sticking a knife in him. I’m guessing he was thinking the same about me.

I ate a little honey and started falling asleep listening to the growl of thunder over the Thralls and the hiss of wet snowfall on the oilskin.

It was easy to relax not just because I was tired but because I knew Galva wouldn’t sleep first. I caught a glint of her watchful eyes, saw where she had her spadín ready under furs. She’d be poking me awake in a few hours, when she couldn’t watch anymore. No fucking way were we both sleeping with a stranger in among us and a guild of murderers on our heels.

Then a small whimpering rose up from the packs on the donkey, followed by the gentle clink of a bear trap’s chains as the murderous tome of the Thieves Guild squirmed, restless and angry in its confinement. I don’t know how I knew this—how’s a karking book to have feelings at all?—but know it I did.

The Wostran sat up a little.

“What is?” he said.

“S’just a book. But don’t go reading it. The letters’ll kill you.”

Turns out there was no shortage of killers in these mountains.

4The Killers

When I told you about the Wostran and how we took him on as our guide, doubtless you were thinking we were bollocksed in the head and that he was likely to deal us grief. You might have understood that we really had no choice and simply had to hope for the best, but you’ll have had a bad feeling about the ginger fellow with the tassled red hat of Wostra. Guess what? He wasn’t the problem, at least not at the moment. It was his karking wife.

The word “Rubbhorinkkit!” rang out and echoed in the rocky pass we three travelled.

As I collect vulgarities in other languages, I feel fairly confident this was a variation of bastard in Oustrian Gunnish, rubb meaning “arse,” horinkkit meaning “whore-child.” All together, arse-whore-child—not only is the mother allegedly a whore, she birthed him out the wrong plumbing. Proper fighting words. They still echoed as we stopped still and looked around.