The Daughters' War (Blacktongue, #0)

by Christopher Buehlman

When he took advantage of my inexperience and attempted to lay hands on me, it was clear to me that he had spent more time studying seductions than grappling, and he had more ribbons than muscle. To his credit, I will say that the spot he chose by the river was very fine. I still have an image of him bent over its waters, drooling blood from his broken nose, next to a cracked cider bottle and a very pretty willow tree.

My father made apologies to the king of Holt, saying it was unfortunate that the prince had slipped and hurt himself—that he should have been warned how treacherous the bank of that river could be. King Conmarr replied that the boy needed to learn how to tell dry ground from slick, and to proceed, or not, according to terrain.

Gallard wines, according to their songs, are made to be drunk from the bodies of one’s lovers. Nerêne’s temples are found in every worthy town. They do not have a native god of war, or of death, but borrowed theirs from us, and from Unther, and the Gunnish Islands. Of course the goblins went to soft, pretty Gallardia.

If I close my eyes I can still picture them with their tar-black feathers giving off blue highlights and their great curved beaks and the breastplates they had learned to tolerate—even Inocenta’s Richu allowed her to strap him in. The breastplates shone that day in the strong sunlight. The spurs we had fixed to their heels shone as well, ten-inch blades they could kick an ox to ribbons with, I have seen this.

Espalle’s buildings had suffered nearly as much as its people. Goblins hate symmetry, so they wreck it where they can. If they can pull off the corner of a building without too much trouble, they do so. Here and there, once-fine buildings sagged and gaped where they had been damaged in this way. If a door stood exactly in the center of a façade, goblins would make a door-sized hole near it to destroy the balance. I had heard this, but now I saw it with my eyes.

It is tiring to deal with someone who has made an enemy of you when you do not think of them at all. But, of course, this is often why they hate you.

My first thought was that she was what soldiers call a sop, good only for absorbing seed, cleaning messes, and wiping the shit of babies. It is possible to call someone a bitch and still have respect for them. To call a dam a sop is to invite violence. Unless of course they truly are one, in which case it is to invite tears.

I did not know what to say to this, so I grunted, which made him laugh one quiet ha, which in turn made me smile. To love someone well is to know their small noises, and to hear home in them. This is not a small thing on foreign soil.

Or a wing would beat in the brush and then a buzzard would fly in their heavy, guilty way, leaving the wreck of someone’s father or wife or sister behind until you left and the buzzard might return.

Some of the town had cried during this evil business, but most just wore the mask that one’s face becomes after too many outrages.

Old and fleshy priests are allowed to wear robes, though these are few because their practice involves running, swimming, and other exercise that keeps one lean and hard. Sath is a vain god who made us in his image so he could look upon his own beauty, and he expects us to preserve it.

Inocenta never told me the names of her children, saying she would introduce them properly to me should we all live, as if keeping their names against that day made it more likely to come. I begrudge no one their superstitions—we climb out of despair by whatever rungs we have at hand.

One of the goblin mages, however, summoned a water elemental from the greeny brine. I have never seen one, but the woman who told me about it said that it looked as if a running lizard made of water skipped along the surface of the bay, growing in size until it was larger than an ox, and that it launched itself at the tower of Haros even as the people on the streets screamed in terror. The Spanth magicker would not be going back to Coscabrais in glory, as it is said that she had bragged—her remains were found burst all over the inside of the tower, waterlogged and bloodless, countless gallons of seawater having entered her nose and mouth with great force.

Zhebrava came around the house hopping and whistling. She was three-quarters hare, only two feet tall, and served no purpose I could tell except as a pet—Fulvir was fond of dandling her ears while he smoked his pipe or read, which was most of what he did while not in the barn making abominations against the gods.

The price to continue living is often too high, as the Bride teaches us, and many live to regret refusing the offer of a good death. Freedom from cowardice is Dal-Gaata’s greatest gift, and one I pray she continues to provide.

When the goblins came, some ran to the woods and climbed high, and some went down into the caves west of town, which are complex and deep. Those of the caves soon found that hiding from goblins underground is like hiding from a shark in water. Always go up, away from them. Always go toward light, and toward the cold.

The dogseller was a pathetic figure, with a floppy hat the color of rust—you could tell the hat had once been fine, but now he cast a lean shadow and dirt had mortared the creases of his neck.

This is one reason, besides the great shortage of men, that the bird knights have been women. Most men want so much to control that they forget how to coax. You must never let a corvid anger you—they sense such things, and men are quicker to anger. They are also less concerned with the comfort of others. This is fine for falconry, where a vulgar or idle nature may be hidden behind the grace of noble and forgiving birds. Corvids are noble, but they are not forgiving.

Just as I thought it might be abandoned, I saw a pile of freshly chopped wood stacked near a treestump, an axe in this. The door of the farmhouse opened, and a very pregnant woman stepped out, with a very old man beside her, holding a spear he did not look strong enough to stab butter with.

Ceques was far enough from the army that the official foragers had missed it. We moved fast with our cart and our birds, the donkeys pulling hard because they sensed the birds’ hunger and had seen them eat donkey.

Every castle and fortress will set down pans of water to be watched for ripples that mean goblin miners are digging below, and if these ripples are seen, a countermine will have to be dug. Then our half-mad badgers will go down with war dogs, and a hellish underground fight will take place. The goblins often win, and then bring down walls and gatehouses by burning the wooden supports of the tunnels beneath.