Read The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) for Free Online Page B
Authors: Justin DePaoli
throughout the city to cut down on populations of opportunistic dogs. Then thunder came with all its bluster, and the wind whistled. Buying and selling and conning went on all the same. Storms weren’t enough to shut business down here. Rain was a way of life and it often moved on as quickly as it came. Such is life near the sea.
I offered a stable boy a few coins to keep Pormillia in a stall without any neighbors. You never know what kind of horses will shack up next to yours in a city like this. Biters, kickers, spitters — my good girl didn’t need any of that shit.
I took a secluded alley away from the hustle and bustle of the market. It’s an experience going through the market, but one that’s quite dulled when you realize the only reason this kingdom of riches exists is because of the embarrassment of resources it sits upon. And guess who has the luxury of mining and chopping and farming those resources? Slaves, the hidden pride and joy of Braddock Glannondil.
The dark alley spilled out into the heart of Erior. One artery led to the stepped plateaus which, if you climbed all three, would put you face-to-face with the keep. Another led to city’s bathhouses and entertainment. And still another took you down a sloping path to the farmlands, where my brother most certainly was not located, but I’d find him later. I had a six-year-old promise to keep first.
Unless you fancy rows of corn, beanstalks, cows, sheep, and finally goats who do not know the meaning of personal space, the farmlands weren’t particularly enticing for visitors of Erior. The smell of lemony heron and sweet custards was replaced by the repulsiveness of cow shit.
I studied the ground carefully as I walked, lest my foot plunge into an oily lumped mound that could take your breath away and never give it back.
“Gray roof, silver rooster,” I whispered, scanning the rooftops. That’s what the letter said many years ago. I squinted. “There you are.”
I started that way, planting my foot in the ground of sunken mud… at least I hoped it was mud. All the men and boys stopped plowing and milking. Their narrow eyes moved as I did. One woman stood in the middle of her farm with her arms at her side. Her stomach rolled over her pants, although that very well could have been her breasts. There’s a scary thought. I continued on toward the farmhouse, when she shrieked.
“Get off me damn crops, ya big legged lug!”
Fearful that she might charge me like a sex-deprived elk and grind my bones into her soil as fertilizer, I jumped to the side, gave her an uneasy smile, and nodded.
I walked up to the house with a silver rooster perched atop the gray roof. I knocked on the door twice and then opened it.
In hindsight, it’s probably better to knock first, and then wait for the door to open. Especially if you aren’t certain whether your good friend still lives there. It had, after all, been six years since he sent me that letter.
With the door swinging open and slamming against a wooden wall, another sort of slamming greeted me: the slamming of flesh on flesh.
Picture the cranky gal outside, except without clothes and doing her best to mimic a standing dog. Her pasty white blubber, covered with wrinkles and a few brown dots for good measure, jiggled and wriggled as her bony man, bald as a rat, pulled back and entered her again and again and again. His jutting ribs wimpled as he thrust, as if they were swinging back and forth, determined to break free of his decrepit body and find a healthier abdomen to live inside.
There were ancient grunts, throaty roars and sharp spankings. The sheets were bitten and balled up and kicked aside. Vigor apparently grows with age.
The woman’s face slammed into the bed, twisting around as it did. She opened a twitchy eye, and that’s when she saw me.
Her mouthful of rotting black gums produced the kind of shrill wail so piercing that if you would attempt to parrot it, you’d probably avulse the soft
I offered a stable boy a few coins to keep Pormillia in a stall without any neighbors. You never know what kind of horses will shack up next to yours in a city like this. Biters, kickers, spitters — my good girl didn’t need any of that shit.
I took a secluded alley away from the hustle and bustle of the market. It’s an experience going through the market, but one that’s quite dulled when you realize the only reason this kingdom of riches exists is because of the embarrassment of resources it sits upon. And guess who has the luxury of mining and chopping and farming those resources? Slaves, the hidden pride and joy of Braddock Glannondil.
The dark alley spilled out into the heart of Erior. One artery led to the stepped plateaus which, if you climbed all three, would put you face-to-face with the keep. Another led to city’s bathhouses and entertainment. And still another took you down a sloping path to the farmlands, where my brother most certainly was not located, but I’d find him later. I had a six-year-old promise to keep first.
Unless you fancy rows of corn, beanstalks, cows, sheep, and finally goats who do not know the meaning of personal space, the farmlands weren’t particularly enticing for visitors of Erior. The smell of lemony heron and sweet custards was replaced by the repulsiveness of cow shit.
I studied the ground carefully as I walked, lest my foot plunge into an oily lumped mound that could take your breath away and never give it back.
“Gray roof, silver rooster,” I whispered, scanning the rooftops. That’s what the letter said many years ago. I squinted. “There you are.”
I started that way, planting my foot in the ground of sunken mud… at least I hoped it was mud. All the men and boys stopped plowing and milking. Their narrow eyes moved as I did. One woman stood in the middle of her farm with her arms at her side. Her stomach rolled over her pants, although that very well could have been her breasts. There’s a scary thought. I continued on toward the farmhouse, when she shrieked.
“Get off me damn crops, ya big legged lug!”
Fearful that she might charge me like a sex-deprived elk and grind my bones into her soil as fertilizer, I jumped to the side, gave her an uneasy smile, and nodded.
I walked up to the house with a silver rooster perched atop the gray roof. I knocked on the door twice and then opened it.
In hindsight, it’s probably better to knock first, and then wait for the door to open. Especially if you aren’t certain whether your good friend still lives there. It had, after all, been six years since he sent me that letter.
With the door swinging open and slamming against a wooden wall, another sort of slamming greeted me: the slamming of flesh on flesh.
Picture the cranky gal outside, except without clothes and doing her best to mimic a standing dog. Her pasty white blubber, covered with wrinkles and a few brown dots for good measure, jiggled and wriggled as her bony man, bald as a rat, pulled back and entered her again and again and again. His jutting ribs wimpled as he thrust, as if they were swinging back and forth, determined to break free of his decrepit body and find a healthier abdomen to live inside.
There were ancient grunts, throaty roars and sharp spankings. The sheets were bitten and balled up and kicked aside. Vigor apparently grows with age.
The woman’s face slammed into the bed, twisting around as it did. She opened a twitchy eye, and that’s when she saw me.
Her mouthful of rotting black gums produced the kind of shrill wail so piercing that if you would attempt to parrot it, you’d probably avulse the soft