corpse of a rabbit strung up and forgotten about over a campfire. Nature had packed it into the form of mountains that were said to be so tall you could stand on top of them and finger the clouds. But time had worn them into disfigured hills, chopped off at the head and thinning around the waist. They had shed their glazed black skin across the flat expanse, creating a harrowing land that glinted like a demonic eye when burnished by the sun.
This place used to be the site of an old volcano. Now, it looked like it belonged to a population of pyromaniacs who’d run a few too many experiments.
My horse, who I’d borrowed from the slavers, crunched across the rocks. Her hooves crushed the slag into dust that smelled like ancient smoke.
Rivon coughed as we trudged through Crillick, home of Vereumene. His lungs weren’t as good as they used to be, when he smoked every leafy herb rumored to induce psychosis. Probably because he used to smoke every leafy herb rumored to induce psychosis.
A few more nights of hoofing it over volcanic rock — a total of ten since we’d left Writmire Fields — and the circular outer wall of Vereumene greeted us through the fog of morning. An accessory parapet intersected the middle of the wall and rose far over the city, eventually forming a cross armed with trebuchets and catapults. Enormous nets were anchored into the rotund crags that surrounded the kingdom, snagging falling rock.
Vayle tilted her head back and poured the last of her wine — her fifth skin in as many hours — down her throat, then tossed the skin behind her.
“Knackered yet?” I asked.
“Perfectly subdued,” she said, winking.
With a hand in the air, I idled the advancing swarm of Rots behind me, stopping well short of the wall, in case a jittery city guardsmen let his finger slip from the twine of his bow.
“City’s closed,” hollered a voice.
“Open it,” I replied. “We’re here to have a chat with your king.”
“Said the city’s closed. No visitors.”
“Look—”
“Wait,” Vayle whispered, shushing me. She guided her mare in front of mine. “We, the Black Rot, seek an audience with the honorable Lord Serith Rabthorn, King of Vereumene, Lord of the Rabthorn family, and Gate of the South. If it pleases his lordship, only the Shepherd will enter.”
I side-eyed her. “You and your fancy language.”
“The word you are looking for is diplomatic.”
Behind the crossed parapet, a tiny figure appeared on an equally tiny balcony bolted into the high-rising rectangular keep itself.
“Did I hear that right? Black Rot? Open the gate for our friends. We are a welcoming kingdom, mm… not a… mm… come in, come in.” He turned and vanished inside the keep.
Vayle and I looked at one another. “Thought he couldn’t speak?” I said.
“Sounds like he’s not cured just yet.”
The weighty doors of the gate creaked open, and the Black Rot set on a path toward the walls. I swung around on my saddle and said to the guys and gals of the Rot, “Don’t drink the water here. Seriously.”
“Well, Shepherd,” Kale said, “we’re going to have to get proper fucked then on wine and ale.”
Some of the Rots belted out ragged laughs.
“There’s always tea,” I said.
“Tea has water,” Kale countered.
“Yes. Boiled water.”
“Not a big drinker of hot drinks in the South. Unless it’s mead, of course. Honey preferred.”
This may well have been the South in the cusp of an early spring, but the dregs of winter hadn’t dissipated quite yet. We trotted headlong into an autumn wind, the kind just cool enough to make you wish you had something covering your arms.
“Not sure I like this,” Rivon said cautiously. “No, no. Not sure whatsoever.”
“What’s your problem?” I asked.
“Gives me the pimplies, this place does. Look at it, just look! A very, very depressing place, mm hmm.”
He gave his lips a good tonguing and swiveled his eyes back and forth, perhaps hoping to spot
This place used to be the site of an old volcano. Now, it looked like it belonged to a population of pyromaniacs who’d run a few too many experiments.
My horse, who I’d borrowed from the slavers, crunched across the rocks. Her hooves crushed the slag into dust that smelled like ancient smoke.
Rivon coughed as we trudged through Crillick, home of Vereumene. His lungs weren’t as good as they used to be, when he smoked every leafy herb rumored to induce psychosis. Probably because he used to smoke every leafy herb rumored to induce psychosis.
A few more nights of hoofing it over volcanic rock — a total of ten since we’d left Writmire Fields — and the circular outer wall of Vereumene greeted us through the fog of morning. An accessory parapet intersected the middle of the wall and rose far over the city, eventually forming a cross armed with trebuchets and catapults. Enormous nets were anchored into the rotund crags that surrounded the kingdom, snagging falling rock.
Vayle tilted her head back and poured the last of her wine — her fifth skin in as many hours — down her throat, then tossed the skin behind her.
“Knackered yet?” I asked.
“Perfectly subdued,” she said, winking.
With a hand in the air, I idled the advancing swarm of Rots behind me, stopping well short of the wall, in case a jittery city guardsmen let his finger slip from the twine of his bow.
“City’s closed,” hollered a voice.
“Open it,” I replied. “We’re here to have a chat with your king.”
“Said the city’s closed. No visitors.”
“Look—”
“Wait,” Vayle whispered, shushing me. She guided her mare in front of mine. “We, the Black Rot, seek an audience with the honorable Lord Serith Rabthorn, King of Vereumene, Lord of the Rabthorn family, and Gate of the South. If it pleases his lordship, only the Shepherd will enter.”
I side-eyed her. “You and your fancy language.”
“The word you are looking for is diplomatic.”
Behind the crossed parapet, a tiny figure appeared on an equally tiny balcony bolted into the high-rising rectangular keep itself.
“Did I hear that right? Black Rot? Open the gate for our friends. We are a welcoming kingdom, mm… not a… mm… come in, come in.” He turned and vanished inside the keep.
Vayle and I looked at one another. “Thought he couldn’t speak?” I said.
“Sounds like he’s not cured just yet.”
The weighty doors of the gate creaked open, and the Black Rot set on a path toward the walls. I swung around on my saddle and said to the guys and gals of the Rot, “Don’t drink the water here. Seriously.”
“Well, Shepherd,” Kale said, “we’re going to have to get proper fucked then on wine and ale.”
Some of the Rots belted out ragged laughs.
“There’s always tea,” I said.
“Tea has water,” Kale countered.
“Yes. Boiled water.”
“Not a big drinker of hot drinks in the South. Unless it’s mead, of course. Honey preferred.”
This may well have been the South in the cusp of an early spring, but the dregs of winter hadn’t dissipated quite yet. We trotted headlong into an autumn wind, the kind just cool enough to make you wish you had something covering your arms.
“Not sure I like this,” Rivon said cautiously. “No, no. Not sure whatsoever.”
“What’s your problem?” I asked.
“Gives me the pimplies, this place does. Look at it, just look! A very, very depressing place, mm hmm.”
He gave his lips a good tonguing and swiveled his eyes back and forth, perhaps hoping to spot
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