IRON GOD | 1: Peripeteia

[20] Azvalath: Wee Rotting Wren

          Staffen was annoying.

Not annoying in the somewhat amusing way that Azvalath's comrades were, but in a way that made Azvalath want to leave the room before he punched someone in the face. It took everything he had to force a chuckle at the young man's remark that someone of Azvalath's status ought to have bigger jobs than delivering quarterly reports

"Who's to say it's not a big job to maintain the transparency agreement?" Azvalath took the empty chair. "I mean, we like having food and all."

"Sure you do." Staffen leaned back and folded his arms. "Though that report can't possibly be anything interesting, like you said. The past few months have been quiet, right? Except for your new little ride-along. Tell me about her, why don't you?"

He searched around the crowded room to see if he could spot Kolo. It relieved him somewhat when he managed to pick out her voice. She was always too loud. Azvalath sighed. "It hasn't been quiet in the slightest. Kolo's a big deal. Anyone new is a big deal." He managed to catch a glimpse of her white hair through the sea of people. "Sorry if she gave you trouble earlier. Seems to be her obsession."

A cold draft swept through the room. Azvalath turned his head and saw the door swing open. Mr. Nack yelled something about shutting the door behind oneself being common courtesy, then slammed it shut again.

Staffen took a sip from his mug. "Say, Azvalath, do you believe in ghosts?"

Azvalath shrugged. "Can't say I think about it all that often. Anyhow, can you pass this message along on my behalf?"

"Gladly." Staffen took the envelope. "We'll review it at our next meeting. Good grief, I wish I had something more interesting to do than go to meetings and hear the older folks argue all day. Really gets dull."

"Careful what you wish for." Azvalath rocked his chair. He took a deep breath, smelled something foul, and wrinkled his nose. The warrior turned his head to see a little girl, barely older than a toddler, dragging a backpack with a broken strap toward their table. She had ratty reddish hair and sunken-in eyes. Her cheeks were red and raw, either from windburn or crying. His eyebrows rose. "Hey, little miss. Can I help you?"

The girl sniffled and wiped her nose.

Azvalath beckoned her closer. "What's your name?"

The child looked down and spoke in a voice that was barely audible. "Wren."

"All right, Wren." Azvalath got down from his chair and crouched on the floor in front of her. The awful smell intensified. She must not have bathed in months. "Let's go and find your parents."

"Don't need to." She rubbed her eyes. "Papa's here."

"Where's your papa?" Azvalath tried to keep his voice gentle and hide his revulsion at her stench.

Wren looked at the backpack she was dragging.

"Need help carrying that?" he asked.

"No." She bent down and opened the backpack. "Papa's in here."

Azvalath's eyes shot wide open when he saw what was inside. Staffen screamed at the top of his lungs and then fainted. The young councilman crumpled from his chair with a heavy thud.

The little girl took the decaying severed head and held it up to show Azvalath.

"I thought I knew you from somewhere, sabretooth devil." A woman – the woman from the riverbank – stormed through the shocked onlookers and stopped to glare down at Azvalath. "You murdered this little fledgeling's papa. Recognize him at all?"

Azvalath stood up. If only he had his sword, then no one would dare give him trouble. But he didn't, so he took a deep breath and tried to speak at least somewhat calmly. "I don't recognize him. I doubt I was even the one that killed him."