Page 53 of Fires of the Forsaken
They didn’t answer.
So, to distract myself from my suddenly icky-feeling stomach, I glanced around.
Niall was the Viking Land version of Philadelphia: a sprawling city that wasn’tquitebig enough to compete with the scope of a place like NYC. Tall columns of row homes twisted around the cobblestone streets. There were no livestock pens here; too many buildings stacked on top of each other and not enough space on the claustrophobia-inducing roads to allow that. A car would’ve gotten stuck trying to drive through. The horses barely fit. Sometimes people had to flatten themselves against nearby walls to avoid being run over by the animals.
So where did the livestock live? In people’s homes, apparently. Probably notallof them—no way that tubby bull would fit through any of the narrow doorways. There had to be fields or barns somewhere. But the woman who bought the black-and-white pig led the walking slab of bacon right into her house.
These city people were…different.At least compared to what I was used to.
They all wore similar garb: leather breeches, boots, and shirts. Simple. Working outfits. Some women spruced it up a bit and wore knee or ankle-length dresses over their breeches. The clothes were grimy. The people even dirtier.
Hygiene? These people hardly knew her.
It was a culture shock, to be sure. Astankyculture shock.
But everything also seemed…familiar.Because these people, despite their grunge, were normal.
Nearby, a man leaned against the side of his house, smoking from a long pipe. Kids ran by us, laughing, while their parents barked at them to“stop causing a ruckus” or to“get your wee arse in bed before it gets a smack.”A young couple were having a domestic spat because one of them had“left ruddy, muddy boots on the fucking tableagain!”And one street had a little barbecue going on. People were sprawled on the ground or perched on wooden crates. They sizzled skewers of meat over a fire and chugged beer from wooden mugs.
Food, a grill, and alcohol: a perfect recipe for a good time.
And being surrounded by all this lively chatter lifted my spirits. It almost felt like I was back home.
Almost.
“Oi! Welcome back!” A woman called to us as she dumped a chamber pot out her front door.
Yup. A whole bucket of urine going right onto the street. Yum.
The woman had a kind face and a big, brown-toothed smile. She waved cheerily until her eyes caught mine. Then she stopped dead, her hand flying to her mouth. Her face changed color faster than a traffic light, going from red, to white, to green in three seconds.
Aw shit. Had I been saying my judgy thoughts out loud?Again?
“We'll explain later, Deborah,” Cheriour said to her.
“But—” she protested.
“Later.” Cheriour’s voice was firm.
The woman nodded, gave me another wide-eyed glance, and darted back into her home.
If she had been the only person to react that way, I would’ve figured she was the town Looney Tune.
But she wasn’t.
More people gave me weird, dazed looks. One man started to walk over to me with his hand outstretched. Cheriour nudged his horse closer to Sacrifice’s side, blocking the man from getting to me.
“Okay, what the heck is going on?” I asked.
No answer.
“Have I been word vomiting? Or do I have bird shit in my hair? Why is everyone staring? Or…oh, is it the tats?” I looked at my sleeve tattoo. “Or the dress?”
Silence.
My skin prickled. The tats and dress might’ve explainedsomeof the confused stares. But not Deborah’s odd reaction.
So…what the heck was going on?
