Chase the Morning полностью

I needed a drink – badly. In the worst possible way. I didn’t like bottles, but the thirst had me gulping greedily for the sickly bite of it. The dancers milled around us now, catcalling, spitting; but all I could see were those bloody bottles. Them swigging and spilling it like that when I didn’t have any, that made me suddenly furious. I yelled at them, and when they only howled and jeered all the louder I felt myself boil up like a kettle. In red rage I demanded my share, I pounded on the ground with my bound fists and roared out ‘Rhum, merd’e’chienne! D’rhum –’

I was a bit startled at how it came out, so loudly it drowned out crowd and drums together. I saw the advancing acolytes hesitate, the crowd sway back.

There went the rum!

I snatched out after the nearest bottle, and found that somehow my wrists had come free, though the broken bindings still dangled from them. My feet were still tied – I couldn’t think why, so I kicked them free with a joyous whoop, tried a flying grab for that bottle – and fell sprawling on my face in the mud.

Of course! There was this bloody iron collar and chain round my neck – and the others, too! What were we – spaniels or something?

I tapped the iron indignantly. I heard myself demand in aggrieved tones why my old friend, my faithful old servant was treating me like this. Didn’t it know me? Didn’t it recognize its master? I caressed the worn old surface agreeably – and felt the joy that leaped and shivered in the living iron, like an eager dog greeting its master. I heard the bolt squeal in delight as it squirmed and wormed its way to freedom, and the singing clang of wild liberation as the collar burst from my neck.

The laughter faltered. With one great gasping breath the crowd shrank back. I leapt up into a tense crouch, like a cat ready to spring. Beside me Le Stryge kicked violently at his diagram, then with an exhausted groan he collapsed. One acolyte caught sight of it, and his eyes bulged. He jabbed a finger and shrilled out ‘Li vever! Ogoun! Ogoun Ferraille!’

Something in me leaped to that name, something billowed like a banner of bright scarlet in the wind, something sang like trumpets. I felt a wild whirl of exaltation, a madly singing, strutting, capering joy. I was the Boss, I was the Man in Charge, I gave the orders round here – and don’t You forget it!

These bokor bastards! They’d thought –

They’d had the nerve to think –

They’d dared to believe they could ride the Invisibles as the Invisibles rode men.

They’d dared try to compel me to help them! Me!

Me –

Me –

Me –

Me –

Me –

Me –

Me!

They’d thought they could sacrifice my friends –

My friends –

To shackle them in iron –

My iron!

And they’d dared to deny Me rum!

RUM!

The rum that was My right. My sign. My lifeblood – they DARED –

I roared. This time I really roared. And the sound went crackling out across the darkness, the guttural thunder of a stalking lion. The flames bent before it. The crowd shrieked, the acolytes dropped their halters and scuttled back, one snatching awkwardly at a cutlass in his belt. The drums stuttered, faltered, failed. They didn’t start again.

My heart was pounding so hard I shook with every beat. Like a tidal wave a red haze swept down on the night – and I went for the nearest Wolf. He lashed out at me barehanded. I caught the arm, wrenched it, seized the bottle from his other hand and hurled him aside. He sprang up, spitting blue murder, and caught me by the throat. With my free hand I seized his wrist, but it was huge – my grip slipped. Something else faltered, something inside. Then behind me I heard Le Stryge rasping out

I heard. I heard –