Asunder: A Gathering of Chaos by Cameron Hopkin (electronic book reader .txt) 📗

The little waiter swept in bearing a tray laden with their food, and the conversation ceased once more. The resin plate put before Kest was laden with a portion of game bird as large as his two fists together, the white meat dripping with cooking juices where it had been cleaved down the center. Its skin was crisped brown and still bubbling grease, fresh from the oven. The juices were soaking into two thick slices of dark brown bread. A serving of some oblong green vegetable Kest had never seen rounded out the meal and gave a pleasing variety to the plate. A hefty mug thumped down next to the plate, a black, frothy brew sloshing at the rim. His arguments were forgotten, and he set to eating with a will.

It was several minutes later when he surfaced for breath, and he saw with equal parts satisfaction and dismay that only a few bits of food remained on his plate. He picked at a scrap of meat. It was tender and flavorful, as fresh as if he’d brought it down himself. He used a scrap of bread to sop up a bit of the juice on the plate, wrapped it around one of the sweet green pods, and popped it into his mouth with a hum of pleasure. When he looked up, he saw Gamarron watching him with a bemused expression. The man hadn’t even taken a bite yet! He was stripping the meat from the bird’s bones and piling it on one of his bread slices, but his hands had paused.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I sometimes forget the vigor of youth.” He placed the other slice of bread atop the meat and proceeded to eat at a measured pace, taking bites that were neither small nor large.

Kest snatched up his mug, determined not to be embarrassed. “It was a good meal. I could have used more.” He took a deep draught of the drink – beer, the monk had called it – and nearly spit it back up in surprise. It was a thick, yeasty, fruit-laden taste that danced on his tongue and sent little bubbles up his nose. He forced it down and coughed hard, rubbing at his nose and shaking his head. “That… that!” he sputtered. “I’ve never had that before,” he choked out weakly. Warmth was spreading through his chest, and he shook his head in wonder and confusion. “I’m not sure whether I hate it or want more.” He tested the proposition by taking a careful sip. There were too many flavors to identify, but as he rolled it around his tongue the burning, popping sensation he’d had before took on a more pleasant note. It’s like my mouth is alive.

Gamarron spoke around a mouthful of food, somehow graceful even when chewing. “Have you never had beer before? Perhaps I should have ordered milk.”

Kest snorted and took another swig of his drink. It was really quite good, now that he had the measure of it. “Don’t be stupid. I drank with the elders all the time.” This was not exactly true. His father had allowed him to have one or two sips of the spirits the adults shared on story nights, but they were very small sips, and he’d been sent to his pallet soon after. He wasn’t about to admit that to this northerner. He looked doubtful enough about the whole thing as it was. Kest kept the mug in his fist, determined to drink the whole thing.

“Very well,” the bearded monk sighed, taking another bite. “Only the one, though.” He washed down the mouthful with a sip of his own brew, bits of foam clinging to his moustache. “Hmm. That’s stronger than I thought it would be. Don’t drink it too quickly.”

“Quit changing the subject,” Kest growled. He felt warm and relaxed all through his chest, and the sensation was spreading to his arms and fingers. It was really quite pleasant. “You were going to tell me what exactly we’re doing in this awful place.” He fixed the older man with a solid glare that was just the right amount of stern, with a hint of adultiness to it. Offering me milk like a mewling newborn. I will be treated like a man, or I’ll hand him a beating he won’t forget. That was a pleasant thought, and he drifted into a vision of himself grinding the monk’s face into the street. Refocusing on the here and now, he realized that Gamarron was telling him what he wanted, and he was missing it.

“…also a question of knowing where to begin. I suppose the end goal is the logical place. Have you ever heard of demons?” The gray-headed warrior looked across the table at him almost apologetically, his angular cheekbones and prominent nose stark in the torchlight.

“Demons?” wondered Kest, peering into his mug. It had gone empty somehow. “Well, my mother told me stories, but… you mean real demons? As in, really real ones?” He laughed. “Of course not. Have you?”

Gamarron’s eyes were sad underneath the crystal woven into his headband. “Heard of them, heard them, seen them, fought them. Killed them. It is the eternal war of my people, and all others mock it, for they have never been to the Black Isle. They have never seen a demon.” He seemed entirely serious, and Kest fought back the giggle that was bubbling at the back of his throat, trying to look appropriately concerned. It was surprisingly difficult. His head felt a little loose on his shoulders. “For the last ten years I have led the fight for my people. I studied, I learned, and we pushed the beasts back nearly to the mouths of their caves. We regained ground lost centuries ago. But recently, something changed.”

Kest goggled at him. “So… demons. Real ones? You fought them?”

The black-robed man gave him a queer look. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

Kest gave a grunt that was at