The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) by Ian Irvine

Author:Ian Irvine [Irvine, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ian Irvine
Published: 2014-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY

At the moment the red fog disappeared from above the whirlpool and revealed that Vivimord was gone, Nish knew in his heart that he had made the wrong choice and that Gendrigore’s peaceful existence would soon be over. He went heavily back to the tents and sorted through Vivimord’s gear. There wasn’t much – just clothes, which he burned, since not even the meanest peasant of Gendrigore would have worn them – some potions and ointments which he threw out, a book written in a script he could not decipher, which he put away for later, and a sabre with a basketwork handle, which he kept, because metal weapons were hard to come by in Gendrigore, and of poor quality.

The sabre was beautifully made, of the same black metal as Vivimord’s wavy blade, and Nish knew he would soon have need of it. It was a trifle long for him, but he would have to get used to that, for no smith in Gendrigore had the skill to cut down such a blade without ruining it.

The Maelstrom of Justice and Retribution did not reform, and the townsfolk expressed some unease about it in the inn that evening, though after a vigorous and well-lubricated debate they gave the next whirlpool the same name and got on with their affairs.

In the morning, the sea leviathan that had attacked Vivimord was discovered, floating upside down and blackly bloated, at the point where the former whirlpool had been. This was seen as a bad omen, but by the following afternoon a hundred sharks and ten thousand eels had reduced it to a skeleton which sank out of sight and, to Gendrigore, the matter was finally closed.

‘We’re not afraid of the God-Emperor,’ said Barquine, the mayor, several nights later. He and Nish had taken to sitting on the deck of the open-air inn with their feet on the rail, watching the mist roll in over the forest, as it did every afternoon that it wasn’t actually raining. Such afternoons were rare at any time, for it was always raining in Gendrigore.

Nish took a hearty pull at his beer. Though it had come up from cellars excavated ten spans into the rock below the inn, it was tepid. It was good beer, though, strong and dark with a powerful flavour of roasted malt and a bitter aftertaste from some local herb used in place of hops, which were unobtainable here.

‘I swear this is the finest beer I’ve tasted in more than ten years.’ He raised his glass to Barquine.

‘Considering that you spent most of that time in your father’s dungeon, and the rest on the run, that isn’t much of a compliment,’ said the mayor. ‘But I’ll take it as given, and so will my brew-girl, when I tell her.’

‘Brew-girl?’ frowned Nish. ‘Brewing beer is a man’s job in Gendrigore, isn’t it?’

‘Not since Alli took over, and if she hears you say so there’ll be a warty toad in the bottom of your next mug. I taught her everything I know about brewing, and she surpassed me within the year.

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