This Broken World, page 14
What has not changed are the habits I picked up during my years at the Archive. Such as: when confronted by a problem, seek the wisdom recorded by others who confronted it before you. And so I have come full circle, back to the Archive and Shaananca.
She was glad (although unusually unsurprised) to see me, and without so much as a frown or a tsk, she escorted me down to the very place I had spent a decade trying to enter: the Reserved Collection. Now, she simply smiles, waves a hand at the many strange shelves and glass-protected cases, and leaves me to my researches. Unattended.
As I said, it is the same Tlulanxu, and yet, it is entirely different.
The sources on urzhen were greatly varied in both style and substance. However, what the collection lacked in cohesiveness it amply made up for in diversity, ranging from dry, learned (and often unintentionally amusing) tracts by scholars to utterly accessible (but likely exaggerated) firsthand accounts. A small number of the writers combined both insight and readability in tolerable measure. The best was a campaigner whose career included both service beneath national banners and in the company of free-spirited bountiers. He was also a keen observer of the urzhen traits that seem to predispose them to become the scourges they have been to what he calls “the civilized lands”:
Unfortunately, the patience required for farming is neither native nor congenial to the Bent. Most of them are not even particularly good hunters, just as few of them are good archers. Their impulses lead them into lives of scavenging and marauding, no matter the community in which they are raised. Rather than track difficult prey or snare small game, they invariably prefer the larcenous titillations of stealing kills and raiding other sapient creatures for what they possess.
However, if they are not careful—and as a rule, they are not—many, if not most, of these raids become deadly debacles. Lacking the organization and discipline to pillage with anything like speed or efficiency, the Bent are frequently overtaken by human riders, who harry and delay them until overwhelming force can be brought to bear. It is not uncommon for every last one of the Bent to be slain.
However, every decade or so, one or more great orc leaders can bring together the fragmented tribes by appealing to the one thing they all have in common: seething hatred (and envy!) of the prosperous humans who have dealt them so many defeats. Using this sentiment as a rallying cry, those leaders can whip the ranks of the Bent into a frenzied wave of slavering marauders who are also very hungry. This is due to the periodic surge in numbers that also seems to quicken an instinctual drive to go a-hordeing. Or as countryfolk whisper (while making warding signs), it causes them to burst forth in a massive “Pekt-tide.”
This wave of urzhen is the bane of frontier existence. They emerge from their mountain warrens like a raging flood that swallows up everything in its path. Until, that is, that tumultuous flume of bestial humanoids runs into a truly fortified position. The patience required to mount an effective siege, along with the ever-mounting threat of retaliation by organized human troops (whose cavalry strikes terror into them) typically undermines whatever modest coherence the host possessed.
And so the Horde is eventually reduced to ever-smaller bands that eventually drift back up into the hills from whence they came. Indeed, their cowardice is so complete that the fast-moving warriors often abandon the dependents who traveled with them (since any who remain behind in their warrens may starve before the raiders return). Consequently, the females and young who were the Horde’s scouts, throat slitters, porters, etc., are found by the pursuing humans, who are obliged to stop long enough to dispatch these troublesome vermin and burn them en masse. A most annoying interruption of their avenging pursuit of the remains of the Horde!!!
As were many of his contemporaries, this chronicler saw the Bent as little more than animals and evinced excessive excitability in both his diction and punctuation (!!!).
However, out of all the treatises and accounts I have read, only a handful have ever mentioned the perplexing speed with which the Bent reproduce. Considerations of how that phenomenon occurs are rarely touched upon. Most dismiss the quandary the same way the bountiers did: they presume it is effected by whatever deities the Bent might worship. A few do admit it is a puzzlement, but only one went so far as to attempt to discover its cause. Indeed, his last entry declared his determination to solve the mystery or die trying. As that was the very last page in the very last of his journals, it seems that—sadly—he was as good as his word.
Which means that after more than a millennium of accumulated accounts, two critical questions remain unanswered: By what miracle of reproduction do the Bent recover from near decimation every ten years to flood forth in yet another Horde? And, if it is not the work of the gods, then from whence comes all the food that fuels and sustains such growth?
I had hoped that the Reserved Collection would hold some useful clues or insights. Of clues there were none, and of insights, only one that was useful: that we do not know enough about the lives of the Bent to even hazard a reasonable guess. Leaving me with but one option: to seek the answer myself.
I once again hear Darauf’s voice wondering if I am brave, mad, or desperate. I know I am not brave, for I am no stranger to terror. And my desperation to join the ranks of the Legions, while no less powerful, has become less urgent; if it takes longer than I hoped, so be it. Lastly, insofar as madness is concerned, more than a few have wondered that, and I sometimes wonder if they are right. But when all those explanations for my commitment to this investigation are put aside, the real reason I want to answer the mystery of the Bent becomes clear:
Insatiable curiosity. If the sudden surge that leads to a hordeing is the act of gods, I wish to know, because then we are indeed little more than their playthings. And if it is not, then what strange and undiscovered truth has shaped their existence for these many centuries, hidden in their dark and distant warrens?
It seems as if fate is trying to smooth my start upon that journey of discovery. I have now accumulated a full year of leave from my duties. Also, upon my return, I was specially commended for my attempts to recover all of Garasan’s effects and reports and, as a reward, have been given permission to travel as I wish during my leave. Lastly, while I am hardly wealthy, my accrued stipend will allow me to fulfill any needs that my Legion-assigned equipage does not address.
Now, if only I can locate the fellow who both Darauf and Fronbec mentioned. His last known whereabouts are in the free city of Menara, not far over the border from Aedmurun. I do not know if I possess enough coin to pique his interest, but no other course of action presents itself.
However, finding him may prove easier said than done. He is just one more itinerant sell-sword of questionable reputation in a free city notorious for its black market, double-dealing underworld, and constant churn of persons from the furthest corners of Arrdanc. And my only lead is a name, which I must hope is uncommon enough to be distinctive on those unpredictable streets:
Ahearn.
Chapter Thirteen
As Druadaen approached the time-gnawed sign over the tavern entrance, it swayed in the wintry breeze running in from the sea. The wooden placard’s legend appeared to have been modified, either genuinely or as part of a conceit suggesting it had been “forcibly altered.” The gaily-painted “original” name of the tavern—Truth or Consequences—had lost almost half of the first word to a deep, ragged gouge in the wood. Two replacement letters had been scrawled beneath it, rendering the dire “new” name: Truce or Consequences.
Druadaen was still not entirely accustomed to the quirky, even perverse, names of taverns beyond the borders of Dunarra. To date, most of his lodgings had been at inns with the predictably staid labels that guests associated with conventional—and therefore, safe—establishments.
But most taverns brought in their pence and marks through drink, food, and a broadly accepting atmosphere—which was to say, lax attitudes about taproom behavior and complete indifference to the professions of their patrons. Predictably, the more boisterous the establishment, the more its name reflected the freewheeling and even iconoclastic nature of its clientele. And judging from a label like Truce or Consequences, Druadaen could only expect that this would be a very “lively” tavern. He made sure to push open the heavy door and enter all in one motion; anything else might look like hesitation and so, trepidation.
It was not what he’d expected. Most of the tables were full, but instead of loud debates and drunken arguments, heads were low, and shoulders hunched into each table’s own furtive buzz of conversation. That gave Druadaen a better opportunity to take in the low-ceilinged taproom, which sprawled to the limits of the building’s four walls, the far corners dim. The scent of various smoke-herbs was in the very wood of the place, old and musty beneath the more immediate odors of salt-cured fish, cheap bread, and the sour tang of spilled ale.
No one looked up and no eyes followed him as he walked in. Or at least, none that he could detect. A barboy passed, nodding, waving vaguely deeper into the room. Druadaen wandered over to the rickety driftwood bar that wasn’t much more than a long, high table with saw-toothed skirts made from sun-bleached strakes. The barkeep nodded what might have been a greeting, flipped a hand at various bottles on the table behind him. The boy’s resemblance to him, even in the gesture, was unmistakable.
Druadaen affected a casual inspection of the various libations, using his movement along the bar to give him a viewing angle into the taproom so that he could casually scan for—
Ahearn—it had to be him—was sitting at a table near the farthest corner from the door. He was as large as described: almost Druadaen’s height, but somewhat more thickly muscled. However, since a man of that description was hardly unique in Menara, it was his two companions that made him easy to spot.
Sitting to one side of Ahearn was a lithe, slightly older man with a dark-rust complexion, the type usually associated with the nations of southern Mihal’j. On the other side was a wolfhound of such immense proportions that the chair beside his master had been removed to give the dog enough room to sit. Even with its haunches on the floor planks, its head was higher than Ahearn’s and that of the others sitting at the table.
Which was not only more full than Druadaen had anticipated but populated by persons he would not have expected encountering in Menara. Or any other human city.
One appeared to be aeostun and, like many of that race, her/his sex was difficult to determine. Not that it mattered to the aeostu much or that it was any of his business, but that ambiguity frequently made them unwelcome in human lands other than those that had frequent contact with them, such as Dunarra, Alriadex, and Irrylain.
Even more surprising was what appeared to be an urzh woman who was almost as heavily built as Ahearn. But there was one aspect of her appearance that made Druadaen wonder if she wasn’t HalfBent instead; there was no green tint to her flesh. Indeed, her skin tone was no different than those of peoples who lived near Arrdanc’s middle latitudes.
The third and most impossible being at the table was not merely an urzh, but a very green-skinned one. The heavy jaw and blocky build were consistent with the ones the bountiers had more frequently called Rot or Rotters, although he’d never determined if that epithet was inspired by specific traits or just general disdain. And most amazing of all was the reaction his presence elicited from the other patrons:
None at all.
As Druadaen gestured toward a tap and waited for a half-beer (probably simply watered down, here), he also noted that the various individuals at the table did not evince the easy postures or proximity of a close-knit group. The two humans were companions, the two pekt were something similar, and the aeosti was too aloof to determine which, if any, of the others she/he was affiliated with.
He pushed two copper pence across the bar in exchange for the mug being carried by the barkeep, who eyed the two small coins and then stared in exasperation at Druadaen. Who pushed another pence into contact with the first two, received his drink in exchange for them, and wandered toward a table along the far wall, midway to Ahearn’s table.
Reaching it and planting himself on a rough stool felt like coming to the end of one journey and the beginning of a new one. Druadaen had visited many foreign and perplexing places as a Courier and an Outrider, but always in the company of other Dunarrans. No longer. Druadaen was no stranger to the free city; Outriders often had reason to visit its streets or surrounding areas. But this was not the Menara he knew. His forays into its questionable precincts—such as this one—had been rare and very brief. So he had remained cautious while seeking leads on Ahearn’s whereabouts and divested himself of any gear that was distinctly Dunarran. Avoiding notice meant remaining innocuous; he knew full well he’d never manage to blend into Menara’s ever-shifting and ever-bustling shoreside quarter. Transients accounted for over half the population and had only one thing in common: they had come seeking their fortune.
Once his inquiries led him to Truce or Consequences, his trained reflex had been to gather information on its interior. But experience and common sense told him that any attempt at scouting its layout would have only one certain result: he would be detected doing so. So the only way to avoid the possibility of walking into a scenario of someone else’s making was to enter the tavern as a complete unknown.
So far, so good, he thought as he sipped the horrid half-beer. He leaned back, trying to appear more relaxed than he felt, and purposely missed placing his mug squarely on the tabletop. Half on the edge, it tilted, slid, hit the floor.
Druadaen jumped to his feet, stifled a curse, and shrugged apologetically as the barboy tromped wearily over. He laid three more pence on the table. The boy nodded and returned to the bar, calling for a bucket and some rags.
As Druadaen started to sit back down, he straightened with yet another suppressed curse; there was a puddle on his chair…just as he’d planned. That gave him a reason to glance around for another empty table. The only one was adjacent to Ahearn’s, and none of its occupants seemed to notice the commotion, let alone attach any significance to it. Wiping half-beer off his britches, Druadaen made his way there and slid into the chair closest to the wall…which providentially positioned his left ear at an oblique angle to the center of Ahearn’s table.
Well, he thought, that worked well. Had he gone directly to his present seat, even a half-wit would have been suspicious. Instead, he wound up there through an embarrassing sequence of mishaps. Now, if he overheard a likely point at which to enter the conversation at the next table…
But understanding their rapid, irritated exchanges was challenging. The two humans had a good command of Commerce, but the pekt woman’s was stiff and halting. The other pek mostly grunted, and when the aeosti spoke at all, it was usually a mutter to herself—and in her own language.
“This is rich,” Ahearn was saying. “You approach me, a human, to guide you in the Under…and then you have the nerve to quibble over the price?” He snorted and drank a great gulp of whatever was in the tankard in front of him. “I’m surprised you’re willing to take on the shame of having a thinhide like me show you around your own home.”
The female pek’s voice was hard, her words clipped. “Do I look like the Under is my home? Besides, shame is put aside where an oath must be kept.”
“And what oath is that?”
“I swore to my companion, Kaakhag, that if he agreed to wear my tribe’s colors, I would help him find and free his get-brother.”
“Well, doesn’t he know the way back to his own home? Why do you need us?”
“His tribe lived in the Gloom, but it was defeated in battle. The chief was wounded, and the survivors went deeper. Down toward the Black, where the Rot gives way to the Red. I am told you are familiar with such places.”
Ahearn’s response was apparently stilled by his companion. “We may know such places,” the other human said. “But if his tribe is no longer in its old haunts, then how do we find them?”
The pekt woman shrugged. “Tribal hashes. We will go to the last place where his tribe had its great hearth. From there, you will guide us deeper into the tunnels and he will watch for their hashes.”
Ahearn shrugged. “Just one thing puzzles me: Why does Kaakhag not tell the tale himself?”
“He cannot. His tongue was taken from him.”
“A punishment?”
“A precaution. He was young when the tribe captured him. But he was never accepted by them, and, as he grew older, they did not want him to be able to speak of things he saw while serving their colors. Such as secret places and passages.”
“And these, er, secret places and passages: Is that how you mean for us to enter the deep without being filleted?”
“It is.”
“Well, I think we should get another opinion. You!” Ahearn’s voice was slightly louder, and more direct. Almost as if he’d turned in Druadaen’s direction.
“Yes, I mean you! Don’t keep pretending. You know I’m talking to you.”
Druadaen ground his teeth together. By the hells, how did they know I was—? But it was pointless to wonder.
Without any idea of what might happen next, Druadaen turned and answered, “Yes?”
Chapter Fourteen
Ahearn was grinning at Druadaen. The aeosti was smirking. The dark man was expressionless but shrugged. “Well,” he said reasonably, “if you’re going to keep listening to us, you might as well sit at the table.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—”
Ahearn held up his hand. “No buts. And no kindness involved. This is business.”
Druadaen felt his wariness increasing. “Business?” he repeated uncertainly, stalling. Typically, eavesdroppers were sharply rebuked and sent packing, not invited to join the offended. No: something’s wrong here, but I’m where I need to be, so…“What kind of business?”
