8. Eight

Crunchy, juicy, sweet.

“This is the best damn carrot I’ve had in ages,” said Ryurikov.

Awimak looked a touch ominous, lurking in the shade of trees fencing in the garden. The demon had assured him that any food plucked from its soil was safe to consume. Since he had no reason to doubt him, Ryurikov ate as much as his unsettled stomach would allow, which wasn’t much.

There was plenty of fresh food, from an assortment of long, violet mulberries to vegetables he didn’t even recognise. In the shadiest corners among turquoise and honey-scented flowers, there was a stone hollow housing mushrooms. All edible, according to Awimak. Somewhere around the corner of the hut and out of sight, he thought he heard clucking.

Ryurikov bent low to pluck another carrot from rich soil, giving it a wipe across his thigh before holding it out. “Do you eat?”

YES. I CONSUME DREAMS.

“Right.”

“When you’re done stealing my vegetables,” Jezibaba snapped, standing in the doorway, “mind telling me where it is you expect to go?”

“Wouldn’t that have been a question to ask before we started moving?” At the hag’s glower, he sighed. “To the nearest town. I need to…”

What, exactly?

Ryurikov couldn’t face going home. He could glean news from other places, surely. Besides, hadn’t the Quinary told him he needed to take from the wealthy and give to the deserving? Now was as good a time as any to start that nonsense. He might even learn something along the way.

“Care to finish that thought, or has that feeble head of yours purged itself of coherency already?”

There was a moment, only a brief one, where Ryurikov debated asking Awimak to kill her. He had a feeling the demon would do his bidding, within reason. But that wouldn’t do. If the hut died with her and they were at least a hundred feet above ground, that would lead to another unpleasant descent.

He had enough of those to last him a lifetime—however long this one might be.

“Listen, you pungent old trout,” Ryurikov growled. “I need to go to the nearest town that isn’t the log village. Can’t have you stealing more children.”

Especially if those children were Andrew and his siblings.

“For someone who’s tired of slander against the late King and Queen Maksim, you’re certainly eager to believe other rumours.” Jezibaba padded to the rocking chair in the corner of the back porch and eased herself into it with a tired grunt. “I do not steal or eat children.”

Ryurikov’s lips quirked up in victory. So he’d hit a sore spot. Good. “Tell your hut to head for the nearest town, if you please. I need to stock up on supplies.”

Eastcairn.

Its sign had seen better days, and the town itself was worse. What might have once been fine structures of white wood and blue shingled rooftops was now decrepit, in parts burned to nothing but embers still glowing hot. The heat of smouldering structures and the stench of smoke spiked fear through Ryurikov’s chest. He had half a mind to turn back ’round and leave.

ARE YOU WELL?

“Quite well,” uttered Ryurikov, casually stepping over the blue stone of what might have been a beautiful arch once.

Bringing Awimak along hadn’t felt like a brilliant idea at first. Now, Ryurikov was glad of it. The town remained inhabited, its people going about their day as though nothing was remiss. But he saw the fear in their eyes, and it had nothing to do with the massive demon walking alongside him, he was sure. Ryurikov’s lips thinned into a line, apprehension eking its way into his heart. He suspected he knew what lurked behind the damage—the leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his fists, wishing he had some sort of weapon on him.

He scoured the streets, his gaze skipping from one fretful face to the next as townsfolk rushed by, until he spotted a sign creaking in the dull wind. Hammer and Hand. A quaint name for a blacksmith, truly.

Sweltering temperatures stifled the inside, dark and smoky. The door creaked shut behind Ryurikov—Awimak remained outside. He hoped the demon wouldn’t run off with Jezibaba’s broom.

An impressive array of hand-drawn designs cluttered the walls, pinned by knives and nails. Aside from some chainmail however, there wasn’t much else on display. The blacksmith, a barrel chested man with thick leather gloves and apron, sat on a stool in the back, eating what Ryurikov presumed was his lunch. It smelled of fish and—Ryurikov sniffed the air intently—herbs and rice.

“What do you want?” groused the man, barely above fifty years of age, if Ryurikov had to wager. Sunlight filtering in through grimy windows behind him outlined his bald head and wide shoulders.

“Daggers,” Ryurikov replied, lazily.

The blacksmith looked at him for a long moment, bushy moustache hiding the scorn that became blatant in his voice. “Smithing weapons for anyone but the Jarl is no longer allowed.”

“Shame.”

Ryurikov snaked his hand into the pocket of his breeches and fingered the necklace before pulling up. In the forge’s low light, the pearls shimmered in invitation, their purple radiant despite the surrounding murk. Heavy eyebrows rose, and so did the burly man. He set his bowl down and approached, the thud of large boots heavy. Dark eyes peered at the pearls, and a broad hand reached for them. Ryurikov snatched the necklace back.

“I’m willing to bet you have a stash somewhere,” he said, his voice faintly muffled by the scarf. “Let me take my pick, and the pearls are yours.”

The blacksmith straightened up and folded his arms over his chest, thick biceps threatening to rip the rolled-up shirt that revealed a series of intricate tattoos. “Hmph, you seem sure of yourself.”

“I see the expert craftsmanship on that chainmail,” said Ryurikov. “A man of your talent won’t let himself be kept from smithing what he wants.”

The bushy moustache moved to reveal a smile. “It is fine craftsmanship, isn’t it?” He waved his enormous arms, beckoning Ryurikov to follow him. “The Jarl once thought so, too.”

The blacksmith stomped the floor behind the counter, and a trap door sprang up, sliding away with a nudge of a foot to reveal a staircase. Ryurikov followed down the creaky steps, into a basement lit by flickering lanterns. The orange flames gleamed against a bounty of blades, proudly displayed along the walls.

“Delightful.” Ryurikov made his way to a long dagger, its blade curved, the hilt a masterful design of a skull and ram horns. A bit like Awimak. What harm would it do to flatter a demon? Ryurikov lifted it off the wall, flicked it up and caught it in quick succession. Well balanced, an utter delight to hold.

“A man of refined taste,” said the blacksmith.

Ryurikov hummed, and helped himself to another dagger. Shorter, and serrated. For good measure, he reached for a third, a hunting knife, small enough to conceal inside a boot. He tossed the pearls at the blacksmith, who caught the necklace with ease and inspected it with a keen eye.

“Fair?” Ryurikov asked.

The blacksmith shuffled his moustache. “Fair.”

If it weren’t for smouldering fires and smoke tarring the air, Ryurikov would have been glad to be back outside. Awimak lurked by the door as if standing guard, looking entirely out of place and still, no one paid him any mind.

“Can others see you?” Ryurikov craned his neck to look into burning eyes.

Even though Awimak didn’t have a visible mouth, even though there were no signs to indicate it at all, Ryurikov knew the demon was smiling, and that it was a sly smile.

THEY CANNOT.

“So, I’m talking to myself as far as others are concerned?” Awimak’s chuff was confirmation enough. Ryurikov raked his eyes across the townsfolk again, and sighed. “I don’t want to stay here much longer.”

THE SKIN CRAWLERS, said Awimak.

Ryurikov rolled his shoulders. “Yes, them.”

His gaze snagged on a woman in a simple brown dress and dirty apron, standing by the entrance to a narrow, sunlit alleyway. Her eyes wide, heart-shaped lips parted. She stood eerily motionless, aside from her head, jerking and twitching as though manipulated by strings tied to her head. Ryurikov pursed his lips in disdain.

Fucking Skin Crawlers and their companions.

Lingering would only invite trouble, and so Ryurikov hastened down the road, once more crossing over blue stone to get the blazes out of there.

WE WILL NOT BE GIVING AND TAKING?

“Taking and giving.” Ryurikov darted alongside the demon, who barely needed to pick up his pace. “Although I might prefer it the other way around.”

He hopped off the road and sprinted into a boscage, somewhat pleasantly surprised to find Jezibaba’s hut waiting for them. Rapping his knuckles on one of the colossal trees, he stepped aside as they bowed low and branches again parted.

Jezibaba was where he left her, sitting on the rocking chair by the hearth. Gnarly hands held a pair of needles that Ryurikov was certain were of bone. Whatever she was knitting, it looked like a pile of moss.

“Back so soon?” Lizard eyes briefly flicked up. “And without food, I notice.”

“No shops open, couldn’t believe it.” Ryurikov perched himself on a stool by the table. Awimak had, perhaps wisely, chosen to go around the hut. His gigantic frame shifted past the kitchen windows.

“May have something to do with the Skin Crawlers plaguing the town.”

Ryurikov glared at the hag, who wasn’t looking at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jezibaba sneered at her knitting. “You won’t even face them? Cowardice runs in the family, clearly.”

He looked elsewhere. “Nice try.” But he would not be goaded into fixing that problem.

Mostly because it couldn’t be fixed. The demons were out, there was no putting them back. He suppressed a sigh and rose to his feet, out the back door before he knew it.

Awimak had returned to his corner in the shade below a tree bearing the first signs of fruit. Apples, possibly. Ryurikov could have pondered why the demon’s presence suddenly soothed him, but that meant thinking. In particular, about his state of mind, which he preferred to avoid. With a cock of his head in greeting, Ryurikov lowered himself to a patch of grass and leaned back against the tree nearest Awimak.

Faint clucking emerged from between beanstalks supported by bare branches. Ryurikov quirked an eyebrow at a very plump chicken, scratching around the dirt. It had a dizzying pattern of black and white.

“Well, I know what to kill if I get too hungry.”

DREAM FOR ME?

“Speaking of food, yes,” Ryurikov sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “I suppose I will nap. Nothing too horrific this time, if you please.”

Awimak made a most eager sound that Ryurikov didn’t especially like.