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

now, but… You’ve never met this fellow, and suddenly he’s integral to your plans? Oh, and he’s glowing. He wasn’t glowing, you know. You’re seeing things. Are you crazy? Did you suddenly lose your mind?”

Gamarron whirled on him, clutching his shirt in his fists, making his healing shoulder twinge painfully. There was a wildness about the eyes that was completely unlike the man Kest had been travelling with. “I haven’t lost my mind. I’m telling you that without that man, we will fail. Horribly. And die. I don’t know why, but I know it. I know it. I can’t explain.” He turned to the entrance. “I should talk to him. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

The Beast Rider caught hold of him as he was about to stride toward the entrance. “Wait, wait! Are you listening to yourself? They’ll throw you out the second you get close.”

The monk allowed himself to be stopped but leaned toward the door like a koira pulling at its leash. “No, they won’t. It will be fine.”

Kest shook his head, disbelieving. “Do you think you can just storm in there into the middle of a bunch of rich folk and mean guards and they’ll let you talk to their little friend? I’ve lived my whole life in a jungle and even I can see how stupid that is.” He pulled himself up short. “Why am I arguing? Do what you want. Go get in a fight with some lordlings. Get yourself killed. Solves all my problems. Stone and sky bless your way.” He let go of the monk’s curiously soft black robes, waving his hand as if to shoo the crazy old man on his way. “I’m quit of you.”

That stopped the older man. “A change in plans does not release you from your service, Kest. I say where we go, and you follow. That is how this will work, no matter what. Complain however you like, make more grand gestures of defiance if you must – but will you or nil you, you come with me.”

Then, seemingly unconscious of the challenge he had just cast at Kest’s feet, he turned back to the tavern. “Perhaps a little more information would be good. Our professional friend will know something of the merchant lords and their retinues… he should be able to identify this mystery man for us.”

Kest clenched and unclenched his fist, staring at the back of the man’s head, thinking hard about punching it. To be slapped down – treated like a child again – and then so thoroughly ignored? It was infuriating. Intolerable. That’s it, he decided. That’s all I can take.

“I’m leaving. Fare well on your quest, northerner. I hope I never see you again.” With that, he left the man behind, walking carefully back toward the bridge that led up to the Coliseum. I’m strong, and I speak the language well enough; I’ll find work. Maybe there’s something I can do in the countryside. I hate this city. He still itched for a fight, but in a moment of clarity he perceived that staying with the crazy savage just so that he could eventually give the man his just deserts was both childish and dangerous. Time to grow up and let it go.

His feeling of mature satisfaction lasted until he reached the broad junction of the walkway and the bridge in the shadow of the Coliseum. Then someone grabbed him roughly from behind, spun him around, and hit him hard in the face. The world spun in and out of focus, and Kest only knew he had fallen because he felt the rough, pebbly chitin of the walkway against his cheek. His sling-bound arm was caught beneath him and his shoulder ached, but the sensation was a delicate murmur next to the shouting pain in his cheekbone. Suddenly his stomach rebelled, and he rolled onto his side, vomiting onto the road. Wiping his lips with a shaking hand, he rolled onto his back. A black-robed, heaving specter stood over him. The monk’s face was in shadow. All he could see was the glint of the crystal at his forehead.

“It pains me,” growled the graybeard, “that this is the only communication that matters between us.” He knelt and took Kest by the shirt right at the throat, twisting the fabric so that it pinched his skin and made breathing difficult. “I have reasoned with you, been kind to you. I would have been a friend to you… but you refuse. Have your people been so long with the beasts that only the law of strength speaks to you? Then that is the language I will use.”

He hauled Kest to his feet and punched him in the nose. Hard. Kest’s knees buckled, and only the hand holding his shirt kept him from falling. He couldn’t see straight. Colors kept shifting and changing in his vision.

“You are mine,” said the monk implacably.

Kest reached for him blindly, but Gamarron slapped his hand away with ease, then swept his feet out from under him, letting him go. Kest landed hard on his rear, a shock of new, indignant pain travelling up his spine to let him know he had broken his tailbone. He cried out in shock.

“You are mine not because your chief says so,” the savage said. “Because I say so.”

Kest lurched to his feet, enraged by pain and embarrassment. I am not some pup, to be handled so easily! He could feel blood running from his nose, but he ignored it.

“I hear nothing,” he spat at the man. “Why don’t you come here and tell me again?” Hurt and half-drunk he might be, but he would show the man what it meant to be a Beast Rider. He cast his senses out, seeking for aid even as he braced for the northerner’s rush.

The black-robed demon darted forward, but then stopped his charge just outside of arm’s reach. He pivoted gracefully to Kest’s wounded side, hooking a long leg up and around to slam his rock-hard