person could travel.
Sometime later she tumbled out of the air, reforming in farmland pastures with a gasp, just outside the walls of Althala.
THE LORD OF PAIN
Forger stared up into the sky, his view framed by towering blades of grass. He blinked.
‘What?’ he said, and sat up.
He had awoken on dirt, though the particles were much bigger than they should have been. Not to mention the pebbles, which
were the size of melons.
‘Except,’ he picked up a pebble and considered it, ‘they aren’t the size of melons.’ He rose and looked about the forest of
grass surrounding him. ‘Because a melon would be the size of a castle!’
He dropped the pebble and kicked it away to thud flatly against a stalk. It was like kicking a heavy rock, and it hurt.
‘Ah!’ said Forger, rubbing his foot. His grimace twisted into a grin. ‘I’m alive!’
He patted himself and found he was wearing his usual garb; brown straps holding together a collection of oddlittle patches of leather scattered about his body. Then he patted his bald head.
‘So I’m me,’ he mused. ‘But I’m small.’
A huge ant appeared, and Forger gave a yelp of alarm. He went to the ground, grasping about for a sharp pebble. The ant paid
him no mind, and cantered off amongst the stalks. Forger watched it go with wide eyes, ready to attack with his pebble … then
rocked back and howled with laughter.
‘Scared of an ant! Me!’ He wiped tears from his eyes. ‘Right. Now, by blood and fire, what predicament am I in?’
The last thing he remembered was Yalenna and Braston, killing him. That was the only way they had been able to do it, the
cowards – together. He remembered a kidney exploding in his side, while they fought on with faces set serious in concentration,
not even taking any pleasure in their success. What a waste.
That had been in a little cottage.
‘Hmm.’
He found a second sharp pebble and approached a blade of grass. Jumping up it as far as he could, he stabbed the pebbles into
its soft flesh like daggers.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Up, up, up!’
Using the pebbles arm over arm, he began to stab his way higher, climbing the stalk with tiny muscles bulging. As he reached
the top, the stalk began to bend beneath him, and he took a moment to steady himself. Aroundhim stretched a sea of grass, and off in the distance stood monumental trees and an enormous cottage.
‘Are you the same?’ he asked it. ‘Or is this,’ he gestured around himself, ‘the exact spot where I died? And
my
cottage, glorious crypt that it was, has since rotted away? Because,’ he froze his gesturing hand and stared at it hard,
‘it is obvious much time has passed.’
After Regret, Forger had learned miraculous things about his changed self. Pain made him stronger, whether it was pain he
caused, or pain he took away. It had been pleasantly surprising to realise that this did not disturb him. Gone were the foibles
of his human days, when the world’s troubles weighed upon him heavily. Blissfully gone was the tendency to make every problem
his own, to
care
and
fret
, as if compassion were some kind of currency and he aimed to grow rich. What a relief it had been, to be done with all that!
He had gone on very happily to feed on humanity’s misfortune wherever he found it, or created it. Something else he had learned,
however – if he did not feed, he grew smaller, weaker.
So how long had it been?
‘Cottages,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter, what cottage is what, or where?’
The stalk gave in and he tumbled downwards, bouncing off other blades to land back on the dirt.
‘Piss and fire,’ he growled, sitting up to rub his bruises.
Behind him a patch of earth rose slightly, and eyes glistened in the shadows beneath. The trapdoor spider burstfrom its tunnel and seized him around the waist, dragging him backwards into its lair. The trapdoor fell back neatly in place,
indiscernible from its surrounds.
Off in the
Sometime later she tumbled out of the air, reforming in farmland pastures with a gasp, just outside the walls of Althala.
THE LORD OF PAIN
Forger stared up into the sky, his view framed by towering blades of grass. He blinked.
‘What?’ he said, and sat up.
He had awoken on dirt, though the particles were much bigger than they should have been. Not to mention the pebbles, which
were the size of melons.
‘Except,’ he picked up a pebble and considered it, ‘they aren’t the size of melons.’ He rose and looked about the forest of
grass surrounding him. ‘Because a melon would be the size of a castle!’
He dropped the pebble and kicked it away to thud flatly against a stalk. It was like kicking a heavy rock, and it hurt.
‘Ah!’ said Forger, rubbing his foot. His grimace twisted into a grin. ‘I’m alive!’
He patted himself and found he was wearing his usual garb; brown straps holding together a collection of oddlittle patches of leather scattered about his body. Then he patted his bald head.
‘So I’m me,’ he mused. ‘But I’m small.’
A huge ant appeared, and Forger gave a yelp of alarm. He went to the ground, grasping about for a sharp pebble. The ant paid
him no mind, and cantered off amongst the stalks. Forger watched it go with wide eyes, ready to attack with his pebble … then
rocked back and howled with laughter.
‘Scared of an ant! Me!’ He wiped tears from his eyes. ‘Right. Now, by blood and fire, what predicament am I in?’
The last thing he remembered was Yalenna and Braston, killing him. That was the only way they had been able to do it, the
cowards – together. He remembered a kidney exploding in his side, while they fought on with faces set serious in concentration,
not even taking any pleasure in their success. What a waste.
That had been in a little cottage.
‘Hmm.’
He found a second sharp pebble and approached a blade of grass. Jumping up it as far as he could, he stabbed the pebbles into
its soft flesh like daggers.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Up, up, up!’
Using the pebbles arm over arm, he began to stab his way higher, climbing the stalk with tiny muscles bulging. As he reached
the top, the stalk began to bend beneath him, and he took a moment to steady himself. Aroundhim stretched a sea of grass, and off in the distance stood monumental trees and an enormous cottage.
‘Are you the same?’ he asked it. ‘Or is this,’ he gestured around himself, ‘the exact spot where I died? And
my
cottage, glorious crypt that it was, has since rotted away? Because,’ he froze his gesturing hand and stared at it hard,
‘it is obvious much time has passed.’
After Regret, Forger had learned miraculous things about his changed self. Pain made him stronger, whether it was pain he
caused, or pain he took away. It had been pleasantly surprising to realise that this did not disturb him. Gone were the foibles
of his human days, when the world’s troubles weighed upon him heavily. Blissfully gone was the tendency to make every problem
his own, to
care
and
fret
, as if compassion were some kind of currency and he aimed to grow rich. What a relief it had been, to be done with all that!
He had gone on very happily to feed on humanity’s misfortune wherever he found it, or created it. Something else he had learned,
however – if he did not feed, he grew smaller, weaker.
So how long had it been?
‘Cottages,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter, what cottage is what, or where?’
The stalk gave in and he tumbled downwards, bouncing off other blades to land back on the dirt.
‘Piss and fire,’ he growled, sitting up to rub his bruises.
Behind him a patch of earth rose slightly, and eyes glistened in the shadows beneath. The trapdoor spider burstfrom its tunnel and seized him around the waist, dragging him backwards into its lair. The trapdoor fell back neatly in place,
indiscernible from its surrounds.
Off in the
Similar Books
