Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater (20 page)

"I'm not saying I'm the greatest knife-thrower in the world," said Dawes. "I merely submit I'm the best in the city."

"Sure," she said. "Maybe someday you'll give us a demonstration."

"Out of the question. If I did that, you'd all learn the secret of my technique. I couldn't stand to be plagiarized that way." He downed his shot, grimaced, and signaled for another.

A hand clapped him on the back, and a woman said, "Time for bed, Dawes. You've got a big day tomorrow."

Dawes turned to see Faben. "Ah-ha! Faben! Now it's a party. Pull up a stool, madam. We were just about to play —."

"Can I have a word with you, Dawes?"

Faben led him outside.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, unsure if he was in trouble.

"I'm taking a little trip tomorrow. I'd like you to come. I'm not forcing you to. But if you do, it could go a long way for me endorsing you to the Lodge."

Dawes gave a chuckle. "Where are we going?"

"I met a fellow last night, and interesting man. He's going to look for an artifact tomorrow, up north of the city, and I'm going with."

Dawes tilted his head. North was bad news. Nobody knew what was up there. Some said a monster. But Dawes subscribed to a theory of his own.
Nothin
g lived up there. People died from the treacherous terrain. When they were dead, little woodland critters came along and made a mess of them. Magistrates created the monster stories to frighten children and keep them from sneaking out of town. Then the children grew up, still believing the story, and passed it to the next generation. Stupid superstitions; yet another reason he wished to be gone from Stagwater.

"So who's this man? How do you know you can trust him?" asked Dawes.

"Haste hates him. The magistrates don't want him coming back, so that's good enough for me. I'm going to help him. Haste and his little gang have been screwing us long enough. Maybe this way we can do some screwing of our own."

"Is it going to be dangerous?" said Dawes.

"I don't know," Faben replied. "But I can't endorse you to the Lodge if I've never seen you outside city walls."

Dawes jutted his chin out and nodded. "I get you, I get you. I'll go with you, sure."

"Good," said Faben. "You'll want a weapon. You'll want some food and some water. The plan is to leave early in the morning and be home before dark. But plans go to hell quick, so it couldn't hurt to be ready for a camp out." Faben put a hand on Dawes' shoulder. "I want you to come with, but I also want you to understand the risks."

Dawes brushed her hand away with a smile. "Hey, I said I'd go. You clearly need me and my unorthodox, yet devastating, abilities."

"Yeah, well, get some sleep, and be at my door by dawn." Faben gave a solemn nod and walked off toward Carnietown.

Dawes stuck his head back in the bar and shouted a quick farewell to his friends. He blew a kiss to Rosie and headed for home.

He loved and despised Stagwater at the same time. The city of his birth might as well have been a prison. He needed adventure. He needed exploration. He needed Fey Voletta.

Dawes felt no hint of fear over the journey north. No eyewitness had ever seen the rumored hell-spawned horrors. As a summoner, Faben spoke with many spirits, and none of them could say what was up there. It was a ghost story for children, so what was everyone so afraid of? He was a little embarrassed on behalf of his people.

And even if some demonic beast lay
did
lay in wait, true Woodsmen stood tall, even in the face of death.

Dawes increased his pace. He hoped he'd be able to get some sleep, but it seemed doubtful. In his mind, the Woodsmen had all but accepted him as a greenhorn.

In Stagwater's northeast corner, a townhouse towered over the river. Kale stood in the window of the apartment Dan and Jaron shared, admiring their view of the moonlit water. The two young men rested on couches. They groaned every time they moved.

 "I want you men to remember why you were on the table today," Kale said without turning from the window. "This drunk drifter you brought into town, he's the reason. You might as well know he's going on a little trip, and we don't expect him to return."

When Kale turned around, Jaron and Dan's bloodshot eyes watched him intently. He crossed the room and stood over them.

"You aren't in this alone, and you never were. I'll tell you this, too: If I'm lucky enough to see that miserable bastard again, I'll kill him where he stands."

"I'd like to watch that," Dan's voice was shaky and weak, as if he'd been on a six day march.

Kale smiled. "And speaking of miserable, you know that little bastard from the orphanage? Well, I haven't had the time for him, and my house is starting to smell like… well, like an orphan. Every time I try to take him out of the house, Haste dreams up some crisis. Orphan doesn't wash out of suede, boys. I'll be needing your help in that department soon. That should cheer you up."

They gave him little, tired smiles. Jaron cleared his throat and swallowed dryly.

"I want to kill him," said Jaron with some effort.

"The orphan?" asked Kale. "Don't we all?"

"No… Haste." Jaron looked to Dan for support, but Dan had fallen asleep.

"Some problems take care of themselves, my young friend," Kale said with a grin. He placed two stacks of money on the table, shook Jaron's hand, and made his exit.

In the wake of their torturgy session, Kale felt generous toward these two. Stepping onto the street, he got the notion to send them up some prostitutes.

The sun rose over Stagwater, but it never broke through the clouds. Morning chill washed over the few shivering souls ambling about the streets. A touch of frost iced a metallic sheen on top of everything.

Faben dressed in a gray trench coat, and her bright-eyed apprentice Dawes led a goat apiece toward the Fifty Moons Inn.

In front of the inn, Chuggie strapped his goats up with water jugs and various bundles. He nodded to Faben.

"Good morning, boss," she called.

Chuggie finished packing up the last goat. "Gotta say, I don't know if I expected you to show up.
I
probably wouldn't have."

"This is Dawes. I've told him to keep his damn mouth shut, so you two might just get along."

Dawes put his hand out. "I'm Dustiv Dawes, sir. You can call me Dusty."

"Nice to meet you, Dawes." Chuggie shook his hand. While he certainly appreciated the young man's help, Dawes seemed far too happy for this time of day. Chuggie hoped the kid wouldn't talk to him much.

"That's a nifty hat you're wearing, sir. Where's a guy get a hat like that?" Dawes pointed a finger at Chuggie's head.

Chuggie stared blankly at Dawes for a moment. Bringing the kid might have been a bad idea. The smooth-faced youngster didn't look like he'd ever shaved, let alone been in a fight. Worse, he didn't look like he had a speck of fear in him. Still, Faben vouched for the smirking teenager, and Chuggie had to trust her. He turned to Faben. "You two need breakfast?"

"We're fine. Ready to go whenever you are." Faben studied Dawes as if she shared Chuggie's doubts.

Chuggie pointed to the staff strapped to the side of Faben's goat. "Is that what I think it is?"

"That'd be my summoner's podium." She held the goat still and unsheathed the weapon.

One end of the staff spread into a three-pronged spear for stomping into the ground. Tiny letters covered the shaft. As Faben removed the leather cover, the semi-circular blade at the top of the staff glinted in the morning light. With the prongs in the ground, the blade's shape allowed it to hold Faben's book of summoning. Razor sharp, the podium doubled as a close-quarters weapon. She handed it to Chuggie.

"Looks brand new," he said, studying the armament. "Ever use this thing before, Brassline?"

She smiled, took it back from him, and stepped into the street. Faben moved her legs apart and lowered herself into an athletic pose. Still smiling, she began swinging the podium blade in figure eights. Faster and faster, then behind her back, she whirled and spun, whipping the weapon about in a blur. Her trench coat twisted with her in a dizzying display. She glanced the blade off the cobblestones in clanking rhythm, flicking sparks at Chuggie.

Coming to an abrupt halt, she held the podium blade up for Chuggie to see. To his surprise, the blade's edge had not a single nick or blemish from striking the stones.

He nodded and grinned at her. "Let's ride."

The three mounted up and rode toward the northern gate.

The houses north of the town square were luxurious. Only one family seemed to live in each, and the buildings didn't have a coat of soot. Actual lawns separated homes from the street.

Chuggie shook his head. He doubted these people knew or cared about the living conditions in Carnietown. What business was it of theirs if the poor froze or starved?

As Chuggie and company approached the northern city gate, the guardsmen took notice. Two of them slid down a pole to the street. "Who are you, and what is your business?" asked the bleary-eyed senior officer.

"I'm Norchug Mot Losiat," Chuggie answered. "Lemme out!"

The guardsmen conferred for a moment, then waved to their colleague in the gate control tower. The spiked, iron-lattice gate rose with a loud clacking. Apparently, word had gotten around that Chuggie was no one to trifle with.

Chuggie, Faben, and Dawes rode through the gate and up a logging road. Soon they entered a maple grove, and the city disappeared behind them.

As the morning breeze lost its chill, all Chuggie could smell were his unscrubbed goats. The smell took him down the winding road of his memory. Once he'd ridden a wargoat into a terpeskoa-filled mist alongside —.

"What's the story with that chain and anchor around your chest?" Dawes asked.

"Not something I care to talk about, thanks," said Chuggie.

"Well, what about the hat?" Dawes kicked his goat to a faster pace, so he rode at Chuggie's side.

Chuggie rolled his eyes. "The hat was a gift from none of your business. No offense, kid, but when I want to give you my life story, I'll beat it into you."

Faben shot Dawes a narrow-eyed look and mouthed
Shut up. NOW.

And Dawes
did
stop, but not for long.

Less than five minutes passed before Dawes called out to Chuggie. "Where were you born? Hey, I said where were you born?"

"I meant it, Chuggie," said Faben. "You can slap him any time you want."

"I would, but I think I'd break him." Chuggie narrowed his eyes at the youth.

"He asks questions when he's nervous," Faben explained.

"Hey, I'm not nervous!" said Dawes. "I'm
excited
. Big difference."

"That's great, kid," said Chuggie. He pulled his goat to a halt. "Aw, damn it all! I forgot something back in town. Dawes, will you scoot back and get it for me?"

"What did you forget?" asked Dawes.

"Oh, you'll know it when you see it. Meet me back here with it tomorrow." Chuggie chuckled.

Faben laughed, too.

"Oh, you guys are
so
funny." Dawes pouted like a six-year-old whose big brother had taken his toys. When he stopped to water the bushes, Chuggie and Faben pulled ahead.

"You got any family wondering where you are, Chuggie?" Faben asked.

Chuggie's smile vanished. "One brother, two sisters. Four of us. Mischief, mayhem, want, and woe."

"I see," said Faben. "Which one are you, Chug-along?"

"
Want
, I guess. That's how the story goes, anyway." He looked up at the skeletal branches of a towering oak. A troupe of red-eyed crows watched him back, which he hoped was a good omen.

"Is the rest of your family like you?"

"Yep, probably more so than I like to admit. Fire, Flood, Sickness, an' Drought. That's us." Chuggie didn't like to talk about them, but it felt good to confide in Faben as long as Dawes didn't hear. The kid would never be able to shut up about Chuggie's family.

"Hmm, I'd hate to attend your family reunion. And I thought my kin were bad."

"Sister Flood, well, it'd be an understatement to say she's sad all the time. She cries an' cries. Cries rivers, all 'cause of some deep sadness she can't ever cry away. Sister Fire, she's not out to hurt anybody, just out for a little mischief. She likes to play with flames, and who could blame her? Sometimes they get away from her. Sometimes they get away real bad." Chuggie lit his boar tusk pipe.

"And what about your brother. Sickness?"

Chuggie nodded his head. Well, she was going to ask sooner or later, the way the conversation was going. He lowered his head and blew smoke out his nose. "Every family's got one, don't they? A black sheep."

"I suppose they do."

"I see his touch everywhere I go. His mind is as sick as his body. He ain't anybody's friend. He wants mayhem. He'd tear the world to pieces if he could. He used to march across the land spreading disease and madness. These days, I think he just sits back and watches it spread on its own. Like the rest of us, he's died many times. And he's got his own private Hell to go to when he does. When the conditions are right, he comes back to pick up where he left off. That's all I care to say about my brother 'n sisters."

"I don't blame you," said Faben. She furrowed her brow and stared straight ahead at the ever-vanishing trail. "You said you were
Want
. I'm not sure I understand that."

"I'm
want
. It means I thirst. It means I'm poor. It means something's missing. It means I fall short." Chuggie spat at a mossy log. His eyes pointed at the ground, but his gaze pointed inward.