Requiem's Song (Book 1) (11 page)

But
where is the fun in that?

She
roared.

I
am Maev Blacksmith. I am the Hammer. I will rise and triumph.

Screaming
and spitting out blood, she kicked, flipped, and knocked Gorn over.
The brawny man slammed into the earth. Maev was a powerful woman, but
he was twice her size. She liked the sound he made falling. At once,
she leaped upon him, wrapped her thighs around his neck, and twisted
his head painfully downward. His spine ridge rose, ready to crack,
and she rained blows upon him. Her fists drove into his kidneys, hard
and fast as her old smithy's hammers. She was raised a blacksmith's
daughter and she fought with the fury of metal hitting metal.

He
screamed beneath her. Maev twisted harder, stretching her legs back,
twisting his head, trying to rip it clean off. She managed to grin at
the crowd. They surrounded the dirt square, pounding fists into
palms, calling out.

And
now they were calling her name.

"Hammer!
Hammer!"

With
a twist, she grabbed Gorn's arm. She yanked him sideways, rolled
across him, and landed hard in the mud. His arm gave a delightful
pop
as it dislocated from its socket.

Maev
rose to her feet and licked the blood off her lips. She spat on him.
"Had enough, little boy?"

His
face was swollen and bloody, and his arm hung at an odd angle.
Groaning, the man rose to his feet. Maev was tall and strong; she had
inherited her father's height and his powerful arms. She was no
delicate gatherer of berries; she was a warrior, her muscles wide,
her body lean and fierce. And yet Gorn towered above her, twice her
width, and managed to grin. He spat out a tooth with a shower of
blood and saliva.

"I'm
going to rip your guts out with my own hands," he said. "And
I'm going to feed them to you."

He
swung.

Maev
ducked and his fist flew over her head. She kicked, hitting his
belly. As he doubled over, Maev leaped, driving her fist upward. It
connected with his chin, knocking his head back. A left hook drove
into his temple, splitting open skin, and for an instant his face
turned to wobbly jelly.

He
stood before her, teetering.

She
drove her fist forward again. Her knuckles slammed into his nose,
shattering it. It hurt like punching a brick wall.

It
was enough to send him down like a sack of turnips.

He
crashed to the ground and did not rise.

Maev
placed her foot upon the fallen man, then raised her bloodied fists
and shouted out hoarsely. "I am the Hammer! I pound flesh!"

She
could barely see through her swollen eyes. The unconscious man's face
was a fleshy mess, all lumps and cuts. Maev knew that she looked no
better, and she spat out more blood. But she could see enough. She
could see the crowd of villagers cheering.

What
was this village's name? Maev didn't even remember. Too many
villages, too many fights. Gorn woke and began to moan; his friends
dragged him out of the square, leaving a trail of blood. As Maev made
her way through the crowd, villagers patted her on the back, offered
her clay mugs of ale, and cried out her name.

She
wiped back strands of her yellow hair. It was slick with blood—a mix
of hers and his.

"Give
me my prize," she demanded, head spinning. She thrust out her
bottom lip and raised her chin. "Give me what I earned or I'll
pound every last one of you."

The
village elder approached her, clad in canvas, his belly ample and his
cheeks rosy. He held forth the silver amulet. When he tried to place
it around her neck, Maev grabbed the jewel, spat onto his feet, and
stuffed it into her pocket.

"I
don't wear no jewelry." She glared at the elder through her one
good eye; the other saw only blood. "I can barter this in the
next village over. It would get me some good mutton—better than the
shite you serve in this backwater." She pushed her way through
the crowd, following her nose. "I smell stew and ale! Feed me
and give me enough booze to knock out a horse."

Ahead
rose craggy tables of logs held together with nails. Other logs
served as benches, and the villagers sat here, eating steaming barley
bread, gnawing on legs of lamb, and washing down the food with frothy
ale. Maev stumbled toward a table, desperate for a hot meal and cold
drinks—free fare for the victor, and she was in no position to turn
down free meals.

Before
she could reach the table, however, a familiar figure leaped forward,
blocking her way.

Maev
groaned. "Get out of here, Tanin, or I'm going to knock your
face into the back of your skull." She raised a fist. The
knuckles were raw and bleeding.

Her
brother gazed at her with a mixture of sympathy and disgust. A tall
man of twenty-five years, he sported a head of shaggy brown hair. He
had inherited his father's bearlike hair, while she had the smooth,
golden hair of their late mother. His eyes, like hers, were gray
tinged with blue.

"By
the stars," Tanin said. "Your face is as swollen and ugly
as a troll's swollen arse." He winked. "Getting it beaten
up doesn't help either."

She
grunted and pulled out her medallion. "A troll's swollen arse
with a silver prize." She pushed past him. He was taller but
Maev knew she was stronger. "Now don't come between me and ale,
or you'll look the same."

She
reached the tables. Men moved aside, patting her on the back, and she
thumped into a seat. Ignoring the villagers, she reached across the
table, grabbed a leg of mutton, and took a huge bite. The hot meat
melted in her mouth, and juices dripped down her chin, stinging her
cuts. Somebody handed her a tankard, and she drank deeply. The frothy
ale was cold in her throat but warmed her belly.

A
drunkard who sat beside her—his droopy red mustache floated in his
ale—yelped as Tanin yanked him aside. Her brother, that oaf of a
juggler, replaced him on the bench. He pointed at Maev and glared.

"How
much longer do you think you can do this?" he said. "This
is . . . what, your one hundredth fight by now? Over a hundred for
sure."

"Not
counting." She stared at the table, chewing her meat.

"And
how many more fists can you take to the face?" Tanin leaned
forward, forcing himself into her field of vision. "You can't
keep doing this."

She
shoved his face away and gulped down more ale. Blood dripped from her
forehead into the drink. "Somebody's got to support this family.
If it's not smith work, it'll be fist work." She thrust out her
bottom lip, chin raised in defiance. "I was a good smith when
Grizzly still had his shop. But I'm a better fighter."

His
voice softened. "There are other ways. My juggling earns us some
food."

She
snorted. "Your juggling does nothing but land you on your arse
to the sound of jeers. Other ways, brother? Not for us. Not for our
kind. Not for people with our curs—"

"Hush!"
He paled. "Not here."

She
looked around but nobody seemed to be listening. The villagers were
too drunk, too busy eating, or too busy comforting the sour Gorn; the
brute was sitting across the table, his face puffy and lacerated.

"Nobody's
listening. Nobody cares." Maev reached for a turnip and chewed
lustily. "This is how we survive, dear brother. Let Grizzly lead
us. Let Grandpapa heal our wounds. And let me pound faces and earn us
a living."

The
truth she kept to herself.
Because
fighting like this eases the pain,
she thought, her eyes stinging.
Because
fists and kicks drown the memories . . . the memories of banishment,
of a lost younger sister, of who I am.
And so she fought, soaking up the bruises and cuts, hiding the wounds
inside her.

Tanin
sighed, head lowered. "We weren't meant to fight like this—with
fists, with kicks." He lowered his voice to a whisper and held
her shoulder. "We were meant to fight as
dragons
."
His face lit up. "To fly. To blow fire. To bite with fangs and
lash with claws."

Maev
glanced around again, but if anyone heard, they gave no notice.
"Well, last I checked, dragons are hunted with arrows, rocs, and
poison." She shrugged. "Maybe I can't fly. Not if I want to
live." She pounded the table. "But my fists are still
strong. Now let me be. I'm eating. Go find some pretty shepherd's
daughter to try to charm."

She
turned her back on Tanin and tried to concentrate on her food. Yet
her thoughts kept returning to the fight—to all her fights. Whenever
she lay bloodied, fists raining down upon her, she wanted to shift
into a dragon. Whenever she paced her canyon hideout, her brother and
father and grandfather always nearby, she wanted to shift into a
dragon. When she slept, she dreamed of flying. It was the magic of
her family—some said the curse. All bore the dragon blood, the blood
the world thought diseased.

Weredragons,
they call us,
Maev
thought.
Monsters to
hunt.

She
bit deep into a leg of lamb stewed in mint leaves, then chewed
vigorously as if she could eat away the pain. Years ago, dragon
hunters had killed her sister; they had poisoned sweet little Requiem
in the fields. Everyone in the family dealt with that pain privately,
desperately. Her father, Jeid Blacksmith, that huge grizzly bear of a
man, had named their canyon home Requiem. He called it a new tribe, a
safe haven for their kind, as if others existed in the world. Her
grandfather, kindly old Eranor, dedicated himself to his gardens of
herbs. Her brother cracked jokes, mocked her, mocked everyone; she
knew it masked his pain.

And
I, well . . . I fight.
Maev looked at her torn knuckles.
I
hurt myself to drown the pain inside me.
She
sighed, looking around at the drinking villagers.
If
anyone here knew my true nature, they wouldn't just fight me with
fists. They'd try to kill me.

A
snippet of conversation tore through her thoughts. She tensed,
narrowed her eyes, and cocked her head.

".
. . a real weredragon!" somebody was saying—a villager with red
cheeks and a bulbous nose. "Shapeshifter. Cursed with the
reptilian disease."

Maev
growled and made ready to leap to her feet. At her side, she saw
Tanin grimace and reach toward his boot where he kept a hidden
dagger.

They
know,
Maev
thought, heart pounding.
They heard us talk.
She rose to her feet, expecting the poisoned arrows to fly, and
sucked in her magic.

"Ah,
Old Wag, you're drunk!" said another villager, an elderly man
with bristly white muttonchops.

"I
ain't!" replied the bulbous-nosed man. "I heard the tales,
all the way from Eteer across the sea. They say the prince of Eteer
himself, a lad named Sena, is a weredragon. His father, the king,
locked him up in a tower, he did." Old Wag roared out laughter,
spraying crumbs. "Like a princess from a story."

Maev
slowly sat down again, loosening her fists. At her side, she saw
Tanin ease too. He slipped his dagger back into his boot.

"The
Prince of Eteer?" Maev said, letting her voice carry across the
table. "Eteer's just a myth." She snorted. "A land of
stone towers, of men bedecked all in bronze, of thousands of souls
living in a town the size of a forest?" She spat. "Ain't no
such place in the world."

The
villagers looked at her, scratching chins and stroking beards.

"Eteer's
real enough," said the old man with the muttonchops. "My
cousin, in the next town over, he's been there himself. Trades there,
he does. He ships in furs and brings back jewels and spices and metal
tools. Aye, a land of stone towers it is, of walls taller than
trees." He gestured around at the village; a few scraggly huts
rose around the muddy square. "There's more to the world than
the north. We here, we're a mole on the arse of the world. But Eteer
now—that there's a golden crown."

Old
Wag leaped onto the tabletop, spraying mud from his boots across
plates and knocking over a mug of ale. "And there's a weredragon
there! It's true, it is. Traders talking all about it. My old nan
swears she heard it from one who saw the beast. A blue dragon flying
over the sea. Locked in the tower now, he is, chained in his human
form. Can't hurt no decent souls like that. His own father put him
there." Wag nodded emphatically. "If my son were a
weredragon, I'd lock him up too."

Men
roared with laughter. "Your son can't even work a grinding
stone, let alone become a dragon!" one woman called out. "Head
of mush, that one has."

Maev
looked at her brother. He stared back at her, eyes somber.

"Maev,"
Tanin whispered. "Tell me you're not thinking of . . ."

She
grabbed his hand and tugged him up. She pulled him away from the
table. Ignoring calls from the villagers, she walked around the well,
between two huts, and into open fields.

The
stars shone above, crickets chirped, and an owl hooted. Fireflies
danced above the tall grass. After the heat and noise and smells of
the village, it felt good to walk here in darkness. They moved
through the grasslands, heading deeper into shadows, for they were
Vir Requis, creatures of the night.

"There
is another," Maev whispered, eyes watering.

In
the darkness, she heard Tanin groan.

"The
drunken talk of fools," he said. He shoved aside the tall, wild
grass, moving through the darkness. "People also say dragons eat
babies, drink the blood of virgins, and piss molten gold. So they say
a prince in a far-off land is a dragon." He barked a laugh.
"What are you going to do, fly all the way across the sea, find
this mythical land of Eteer, and look for a tower?"

Maev
sighed and looked up at the stars. The Draco constellation shone
there, comforting her, easing the pain of her wounds.