Gorel and the Pot Bellied God Read Online Free PDF Page A

The roots were alive. The great fleshy roots of the trees high above moved here, in this underground cavern, with no water, no wind to move them. Of their own accord they writhed and thrashed, like questing fingers, and when they found the humans in their midst the fastened on to them with slow, but sure, greed.
    ‘Some of them have been here for decades,’ his father had told him, quiet pride in his voice. ‘From the time of your grandfather, and before. Look –’ and he took Gorel by the hand and they walked amidst the ploughed fields of the prisoners, and the roots shied away from them, and the prisoners whispered in their soft, sad voices and crawled away. They came to the opposite end of the tavern. Roots hang from the ceiling. ‘Every year he is fading more. But still he remains. Since before your grandfather’s days, he who was once a mighty sorcerer, and now there is no man living to remember his name. Look at him!’
    Gorel looked, and saw the fat pale grub that clung amidst the roots, almost headless, merely a wide, gummy mouth fastened on the flesh of trees, and they in their turn had entered him throughout the years, had found his orifices and grown shoots inside them. The man was a fungus, feeding of the roots just as they fed of him. ‘I hope,’ his father said with the same quiet pride, and held Gorel’s hand stronger in his, ‘that one day you might take your own son down here, and show him the greatness, the durability of Goliris. Even our enemies we keep.’
    ‘You seem deep in thought, gunslinger. Missing home?’ the voice, cool and smooth and mocking, jerked him out of a half-dream and the guns were in his hands before the voice had finished speaking. A shadow rustled in the canopy of the trees. The voice had come from above. ‘Please refrain from shooting, if you possibly can.’
    A mocking voice, and too close for comfort in its assumptions. ‘Show yourself,’ Gorel said.
    ‘Gladly.’ A shadow dropped down from the canopy and stretched itself lazily before Gorel. A high-pitched voice, melodic enough. An elongated, pale face, and a wiry body, and two great wings, now folded about him. An Avian – the same he had seen, a week or so before, stirring a fight in a drinking hole by the river. Gorel said, ‘You?’
    ‘So you remember me?’ the Avian’s eyes twinkled. They were large and black, looking like twin bruises set in his delicate face. Gorel made no reply, and the Avian chuckled. ‘I remember you,’ he said.
    ‘What do you want?’ he did not lower his guns. The Avian shrugged. ‘I saw your fire and desired some company.’ From a fold of cloth (he was very lightly dressed) beneath his wings he extracted a bottle. ‘Care to join me in a drink?’
    No visible weapons, though he wouldn’t necessarily need them. He had flight, and nasty talons if he needed them, on both hands and feet. Gorel had fought for a time alongside a company of Avians in the Mesina Campaign; fought against them, too, when it came to that. ‘Sure,’ he said, holstering the guns without flourish. He was not fool enough to think this meeting was accidental, nor was he meant to think so. And he was curious.
    ‘Name’s Kettle,’ the Avian said, uncorking the bottle, taking a long gulp, and passing it to Gorel. Gorel drank. It was local rice whiskey, and potent; it nearly made him cough. ‘Gorel,’ he said. He sat back down, and the Avian joined him. He stretched against the trunk of a tree, wings rustling with the motion, opening a little on either side of him. There was something strangely sensuous about that movement; Gorel saw smooth, exposed skin, and muscles…
    ‘Where do you go, Kettle?’ Gorel said. Kettle titled his head sideways and looked at Gorel, smiling. Mocking, yes, but below that, something else too. ‘I rather fancy I am going the same way you are, Gorel.’
    ‘And where would that be?’
    Kettle’s smile grew larger in reply. ‘What happened to your face?’ he said. Gorel