eaten,’ Abban said. ‘If you’ve truly turned your back on Heaven and look to the pleasures of Ala, there is none greater.’
Hasik laughed. ‘Bold words, khaffit. I doubt any meat can give greater pleasure than I had atop your wives and virgin daughters.’
‘As you say, those days are behind us both,’ Abban said. ‘We are eunuchs now, and must take pleasure where we can. Find me a pig, and I will prepare a meal you will never forget.’
‘You’ve tried to poison me for years,’ Hasik said. ‘What makes you think you’ll be more successful now?’
It was true. When they were boys together in sharaj, Hasik beat Abban regularly. Once, Abban paid him back with a drop of sandsnake venom in his gruel. Not enough to kill, but Hasik spent a week embracing pain above the waste pits.
There was no proof it was Abban, but Hasik was no fool. The beatings worsened. After that fateful week, Abban tried countless times to poison Hasik in a more permanent fashion, but the big warrior had learned his lesson. He ignored the food lines, simply picking another warrior at random and taking his bowl at mealtime.
Even among the dal’Sharum, where pride often took the better part of good sense, few dared rise to the challenge. Those who did – often at a bribe from Abban – were gleefully broken in front of the other men.
‘You have always been difficult to kill,’ Abban admitted. ‘But that is no reason to stop trying.’
‘You are not utterly without spine, khaffit, even if you fear to strike at me yourself.’ Hasik spread his arms. ‘When you are ready, come at me. I will allow you one free blow. You may even poison it, if you wish. I will still have time to gouge your eyes and feed them to you. Still time to suck the tongue from your mouth and bite it off.’
Abban turned out his damp pockets, chains clinking. ‘I have no poison in any event. But Everam my witness, I can roast a pig that will dizzy you and set your mouth to water at just the smoke. Pigskin hardens into a cracking shell, slick with grease, and the flesh beneath will make you wish you had renounced Heaven sooner.’
‘Everam’s beard, khaffit!’ Hasik cried. ‘You’ve convinced me! Today we will find a pig and roast it to commemorate our first fortnight together.’
Hasik reached into his wide belt, producing a small hammer. ‘But first, there is our dawn prayer.’
The wood demon faded to mist and slipped back to the abyss as they talked. Now the sun crested the horizon, and Hasik at last got to his feet.
The hammer – no Sharum weapon – was a simple worker’s tool stolen casually as they fled the ruin of Jayan’s army after the Battle of Angiers. A lump of iron at the end of a stout stick.
But Hasik wielded that hammer like a dama’ting’s scalpel. He twirled it absently in his fingers, limbering them as he came to kneel by Abban’s feet.
‘Please,’ Abban said.
‘What will you offer me today, khaffit?’ Hasik asked.
‘A palace,’ Abban said. ‘One to put the greatest Damaji to shame. I will empty my coffers and build towers so high you can speak to Everam.’
‘I speak to Him daily,’ Hasik said.
The foot of Abban’s crippled leg still had its boot, but the other was long gone, his foot too swollen to fit the leather. Hasik had wrapped the foot in rags to keep it from freezing, though Abban welcomed the numbness of cold over the fresh pain each morning.
‘Everam, giver of light and life,’ Hasik drew a ward in the air, ‘I thank you this and each day forward for delivering my enemy unto me. I sacrifice him to you as I promised long ago, one bone at a time.’
Abban howled as Hasik grabbed the purple, bloated appendage, pinning it while he searched for an unbroken bone. He had crushed the toes, then moved on to the bones of Abban’s instep, slowly making his way toward the ankle. Abban never dreamed there were so many bones in a human foot.
‘Quit whining, khaffit,’ Hasik said with a grin. ‘Sharum break toes every day with little more than a grunt. Wait until I start on your leg. Your hip. Wait until I take your teeth.’
‘It would be more difficult to have these lovely conversations,’ Abban said.
Hasik laughed as he brought the hammer down. The pain was unbearable, and as his vision began to close in, Abban welcomed oblivion like a lover.
Abban slowly regained consciousness, slung over the back of Hasik’s great charger like a sack of flour. The beast’s every step sent waves of dizziness and nausea through him to accompany the ever-present pain.
He gave in to it for a time, weeping. He knew the sounds were like music to Hasik, but Abban had never embraced pain as easily as a Sharum.
Still, even the worst pains became bearable over time, especially in the numbing cold. Eventually, the nausea subsided and Abban came back to himself enough to feel the sting of a snowflake striking his cheek.
He opened his eyes, seeing flurries blowing in the wind. North of them great clouds were gathering. There would be a storm soon.
They were making their way along the Old Hill Road, a paved Messenger road that once connected the Free Cities of Thesa to the chin city of Fort Hill, lost nearly a century ago to the alagai. Prince Jayan had used the highway – abandoned for most of its length – to move his warriors north to attack Fort Angiers.
It felt like riding through a tomb. Jayan sacked the Angierian hamlets and farms along the road, their burnt remnants standing in judgement over Abban, who had encouraged the foolish prince in his mad plan.
Hasik spat. ‘Pigs everywhere in the green lands, until you want to eat one.’
‘Turn left at the next fork,’ Abban said.
Hasik looked back at him. ‘Why?’
Chains clinked as Abban gestured at a distant line of smoke drifting above the trees. ‘Jayan kept his foragers within a mile or two of the road, but my maps show Messenger paths to hamlets and isolated farmsteads beyond his reach.’
‘Good news,’ Hasik said. ‘I may not need to cut anything off you for my supper.’
‘I fear you would find it all marble and little meat in any event,’ Abban said.
Hasik chuckled as he turned his charger onto the dirt path leading into the woods. Trees were thick on either side, and even in daytime they rode in shadow deep enough to have Abban wary of alagai.
They encountered several farms along the way, oases of cleared land amid the forest. Each was a wreckage, burned out and abandoned, livestock taken and fields picked clean.
Abban was not surprised. Thousands of dal’Sharum, Jayan’s finest, were lost in the slaughter at the gates of Fort Angiers. When the defeat became known, the chi’Sharum turned on their masters or fled, and the remains of Jayan’s army, perhaps ten thousand Sharum, scattered to the wind. Everam only knew if they would re-form into any sizeable force, but there were doubtless enough deserters to plague the chin lands for years.
‘The chin flame weapons allowed them to hold the gate,’ Hasik said, ‘but they do not have the strength to guard their lesser wells.’
‘Yet,’ Abban said.
‘Today is all that matters, khaffit,’ Hasik said. ‘Tomorrow I may yet see how much meat is truly on your bones.’
The next farm they came upon was not deserted. Abban smelled smoke, but it was not the acrid stench of all-consuming flame. This was sizzling fat and Northern spices, wood