Vol.5, Ch.3, P.9
“Hmph…”
Down a dark street Sigmund strutted, kicking pebbles along the way. On his mind was the man from the tavern—a soul who himself ought be as obedient a lamb of Yoná as any other Arbellite. And thus should the thought of Déu Tsellin’s fall please him as would a fly emitting maggots in his gruel. Curious, then, to have aired the words that he had. “Obedient”, indeed.
Albeit was it just as true that many of the free-burgh folk would rather kiss a pauper’s pimples than a priest’s pax. But though such half-hearted impiety had been long an open secret, doctrine was doctrine at the end of the day, ingrained and insoluble, and so no amount of ale could have let that drunkard forget his innate anger for the Nafílim.
“‘Grinds me gears’,” Sigmund muttered the man’s words, “…peh.”
Yet, anger was all that had been. Perhaps just a grievance aggravated by a rotten mood, even. Who could know? Might the man have merely quaffed a tankard too many? So much so that he could no longer leash his own tongue? Or perceive even the silliness in his own words? Indeed, it all might have been just a jest, for like as not, the man, in his heart, never truly believed the holy mountain could ever fall, to begin with. And that was surely the way of it for a great many others; save, of course, those fated to fight soon upon the very slopes. Such was the sturdiness of Déu Tsellin, that even in the imagination was it a mountain indomitable.
“…”
Sigmund sank deeper into thought. Sotted though that tavern man might have been, over and again had he spoken of “lambs and lions”. Yes; if aught shed any light on his true heart, it was those very words; that in him was hid an acknowledgement for the might and momentum of Rolf and all the alliance. The contradiction scarce escaped Sigmund’s ken. Of course, the ramblings of a drunkard were just that, ultimately. But Sigmund saw differently. If even a man deep in his cups could dare humour such thoughts, what did that reveal about those of the more sober population? Might the same sentiments be unearthed from their hearts, given the aid of some ale?
The former mercenary exhaled. It was all proving rather much for his pate to ponder. Looking up to the stars twinkling over the cityscape, he turned his mind to the memories so beckoned by the bitters. His own grievances, his own anger; there did all of them come smouldering up again.
The world—how helpless, how hopeless it was. How sadistic, how maddening, how detestable. A thing wheeling only by the force of its own woe. Such did Sigmund deem the world. Such was why he hated it.
And to this moment was that hatred unchanged. How could it be otherwise? The world itself was unchanged, after all. Or… was it? A sliver of light streaked across the sky. Sigmund’s feet slowed. Were this world to change; were it in his power to change it, then maybe, just maybe…
“O-oy! ’Ands off! Off!”
Shutting off Sigmund’s thoughts: a shrill cry. To the side he looked, and found there a man and woman squabbling in an unbrightened alleyway. The former, from his looks, seemed of an unsavoury sort and profession both. The latter, on the other hand, was wantonly whitened and rouged of face, and altogether sported more skin than clothes.
“’Nother wench at work, eh,” Sigmund thought aloud.
Of late had Former Ström been in the graces of good governance. Coin coursed unoccluded; public security was adequate. But not as yet lived a single law against prostitutes and their profession. To be more precise, such was this world that not without them could it wheel. And aface its momentum, the layers of laws were all but helpless. Thus was Arbel, too, no less a workbed for the bawdy women. And wheresoever they would lurk, so, too, loomed those only too fain to savour them.
The squabble playing afore Sigmund, then, was as common as tea upon the table, and nary a thing for him to concern himself about.
“…”
Only, the woman’s face—he had seen it once. Yes; brusquely had he brushed her off, right before his tarry in the tavern tonight. Sigmund, however, was hardly the sort to care even then. Indeed, it was his habit, his very nature to put behind him aught and all that tickled none of his fancies. And yet, right when that habit began to point his feet the other way as it so often had, words unfaded flitted in Sigmund’s ears.
‘…Gandrin’ like a droolin’ droll ’ound…!’
Beasts a breadth broader than the heftiest hunting dogs; behemót with whom brutality was synonymous—such were the drollhounds. And drool they did, fangs and all. And drive after their prey they did, eyes ever red with murder. Vermin evil as they were violent; a fitting comparison to Sigmund, some might say. But in truth, tonight had been the very first time he was so compared.
Had he always looked the part? His littler self certainly had not seemed so savage when he once stared into the slum-waters of Tallien long ago. When was it, then? When his face had turned terrible to behold? Was it sudden? Gradual? Perhaps the product of his ceaseless hating? Of knitting his brows upon every waking hour?
Before he knew it, the faintest of fancies flickered in Sigmund—one for the woman who has ignited in him those very thoughts.
“…Hmph.”
Into the alley his feet then ferried him, whereupon he found in the narrow dimness the duo still in the throes of their quarrel.
“Blin it, ye madman!” cried the woman. “Wot’s yer deal!?”
“Connivin’ lightskirt!” the man growled back, gripping and groping after her. “Best shut that whore-mouth if ye knows wot’s good fer it!”
“Oh, indeed! By this ‘whore-mouth’ were yers fed fer Yoná knows ’ow long!” the woman quipped.
“Wot’s that!? Why, if ye’ll not still that tongue o’ yers,” the man seethed, and drawing a sudden dagger, “then I will!!”
With evil vigour, the man then caught and clasped the woman’s locks before brandishing aloft his glinting blade. Lovesome even now was her straining, struggling face. But with a severing stroke, it could be made lovesome no more. Such was the man’s mind: to spoil the appeal of this prostitute; to end her life without taking it.
Proud this woman was. Proud enough to have taunted Sigmund whilst under his beastly stare. Proud enough to have maintained her dignity through so dirty a trade. But fear was fear, and afore so fast a dagger as it fleeted unto her face, she could but flinch and scream.
“Eeeaaah!?”
In her eyes twinkled tears. In her mien mixed panick and despair. This was it. Her doom was finally upon her.
“Oi.”
The dagger hung. The violence stopped. Met by a new voice, the man stayed himself for an instant. Appease the perpetrator, lull him to a calm—a most common and correct course of action for a case such as this. But of it Sigmund knew not. And even had he, not here would he have employed it. For instead, right when he called to the man, he kicked him square in the ribs.
“Gwakh!?” the man lowly cried as he careered unto the cobblestones.
Bulky and brutish in his own right though he was, the man’s mass was as a feather against Sigmund’s storm-like boot. And so there he laid, all in a daze; and after a moment of piecing together what had transpired, he stumbled back to his feet.
“Agh… Bloody… bastard, ye!” he hissed whilst scrambling to retrieve his dagger. And finding it, he flashed it forth and poised himself. “Wot’s yer bus’ness, ah!? Wot!?” he bellowed.
Sigmund gave no immediate answer. The next voice instead came from the woman, who had blanched back against a wall. “Y… y-y-you…!” she stammered, staring wide with astonishment. The former mercenary returned but a glance before gazing back upon the man.
“Come t’save th’princess, eh!?” he jeered at Sigmund.
“Aye. Always were keen to play a prince,” came the answer.
“Hah! She’s nowt but a flippin’ pickpocket, yer ‘princess’!”
“Slick ’ands; I likes that in a woman.”
For all his humouring, Sigmund’s tone well-sounded sapped of all interest. None for the source of this squabble, nor for what history that preceded it. Yet there was one thing he remained constant about, one rule he imposed upon all in his presence: that he who wantonly wields a weapon deserves not a pittance of peace.
“Keep this up an’ ye’ll regret it, rascal!” the man snarled.
“Oh? I will, eh?” Sigmund dismissed him. For it was a fact that in spite of all the man’s barking and bellowing, his tail seemed too between his legs to make the lunge, as it were. And so, with botheredness in his brows, as though he grudged the effort soon to be exerted, Sigmund stepped straight towards the man.
The dagger dithered. “Oy! Back, you! Lest ye’re reight fain fer a foinin’!”
“Ain’t no foinin’ tonight.”
“Ah!? Thinks I won’t, eh!? Thinks I won’t!? Then come ’ere!!”
Amidst the set-to, the woman panicked. “O-oy!” she yelped, trying futilely to stop the madness. This menace of a man—short of fuse he was, and to a fault, no less, that on many a past occasion had he made full use of that dagger of his. And being privy to this, the woman feared the worst for Sigmund. Were he to keep up his provocations, then yet again might the dagger drink deep.
And as though driven by its thirst, the man lunged at last, yelling, “Die, die, die!!”
The woman gasped. “W-wait! No, no!”
But she went unheeded, for the next words to shoot through the air were:
“Shut it!!”
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