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BARBARIAN CONQUEROR
PRINCESSES OF THE IRONBOUND BOOK 6
AARON CRASH
 CONTENTS

Summary
Black Forge Books Mailing List

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
More Adventures…

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Acknowledgments
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 SUMMARY

The One Last Ring Might Be One Ring Too Many…

Ymir now has six beautiful wives, seven Akkiric Rings, and only a
year left before he graduates from Old Ironbound—if war doesn’t kill
them all first. The demon king from the southern continent has come
to conquer Thera, but there's a new winged warrior at the school
who might have the secret to stopping him.
And that secret includes forging the last magical ring. Delving into
forbidden texts, dabbling in alchemical necromancy, and uncovering
the obscure history of an ancient deathless emperor, Ymir and his
wives have never been closer to understanding the true nature of the
Lonely Man’s curse.
To finish his journey, the barbarian cursed by magic will need
more potions, more wives, and one final, delicious encounter the
whole harem has been waiting for. One thing is for sure—demons or
not, Ymir won’t stop until he has conquered the world.
 BLACK FORGE BOOKS MAILING LIST

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 CHAPTER 1

Y mir, son of Ymok of the Black Wolf Clan, left the grand library
of Kifu Yun Lirum University bearing a dozen books that
weighed down his satchel. The sun was sinking into the west,
and the light was finally softening after another hot summer day.
He’d been in Four Roads, the heart of the Holy Theranus Empire,
for nearly two weeks, and part of him couldn’t believe it. From Castle
SkyReach to the World’s Square to the Dynasty Bridge spanning
Long River—he’d studied so much of the city’s history that the place
seemed almost familiar to him.
It was a pity that in a little more than a week he’d have to make
the long journey back to Old Ironbound. He had to get back and
finish up his last year at the Majestrial Collegium Universitas. And he
had to forge the eighth and last Akkiric Ring. It was why he and his
wives had journeyed south to Four Roads at the center of the
continent—to look for information on ringology and the Night of Fire.
Ymir knew what had happened on the night Aegel Akkridor died,
but in order to write a book, he would need sources other than the
visions he’d had while wearing the Veil Tear Ring.
In the end, the Lirum Archive had books that Old Ironbound didn’t
have.
Lillee Nehenna and Gatha caught up to him. They walked
together toward the gates of the university. The Kifu Yun Lirum
University was the oldest school on Thera. It was a sprawling place,
with ancient buildings and stone walls. The iron on the gate was
rusted.
 Gatha growled, “I wouldn’t check out books to strangers.
Especially since they don’t have the Form magic to keep their books
from falling apart.” Gatha had her tusks out. Even then, she was
beautiful and savage, in her worn leather tunic with her white hair
braided. Her sandal straps reached to her knees.
“It’s our fame,” Lillee said in a quiet voice. Next to Gatha’s green
skin, Lillee looked so pale. Her platinum-blond hair was also braided,
and her green eyes were alive and bright, taking in the sights.
“She’s right.” Ymir walked with the two women at his side. “The
head archivist, Becca Villar, knew who we were. Della told Kifu Yun
Lirum’s Princept, Ojan Ttej, we were coming.”
Gatha laughed. “But she didn’t tell her what you were studying,
did she?”
Ymir laughed along with her. “No. Della is very good at keeping
secrets.”
Scholars in robes hurried along pathways lit with Sunfire lanterns.
The big front gate led them to Dynasty Bridge and then on to the
World’s Square, the biggest marketplace on Thera, where all the
guild halls were, along with any number of casinos and brothels.
The Undergem Guild’s pyramid was on the left side of the
square. Their room was five floors up, in the middle and on the side,
so they had two full walls of windows.
Ymir, Gatha, and Lillee walked through the throngs of students,
guild members, tourists, and other travelers. Food stalls on the
Dynasty Bridge were open, frying all manner of meats and
vegetables. Ymir was tempted by fish grilling on Sunfire coals, but
Tori would be furious if they didn’t eat her cooking. It would be ready
by the time they got home.
Ymir spoke to Lillee as they walked. Gatha stayed a couple steps
behind them, a hand on the pommel of her curved sword as she
scanned the crowd for trouble. As if anyone would want to rob them
for their books, however elaborately bound.
“What did you check out?” Ymir asked.
Lillee looked pained. “Don’t ask. It’s just a storybook, written by a
friend of my mother’s. I came upon it quite by accident.”
 “Your mother?” Ymir was surprised. Lillee’s mother had cut Lillee
off when she’d been marked as Sullied. Lillee’s mother had attended
the Gruul gladiatorial death match at Old Ironbound, but she hadn’t
even tried to speak with her disgraced daughter, even before her
husband, King Cebor, had been slain.
Lillee sighed. “My mother. She and my father had a friend, Edren
Hyendell, who lived in Four Roads. He was a writer.” Lillee wore a
sleeveless gown and delicate sandals. A few elves walked by and
grimaced, both at the stylized S and her bare left arm.
“Was?” Ymir asked.
“Is a writer, I suppose. He hasn’t published much in centuries,
though. He’s supposedly chaste—which as you know is important to
the Ohlyrra. There have been many rumors about him. Some say he
didn’t wear his essess when he was young, that he was a wild rogue,
an adventurer, but then he put on his cuff to become a scholar, if not
a true artist. My parents spoke of him often when I was younger. I
didn’t even know he was still alive.”
“How do you know anything about him?” Ymir asked.
Lillee adjusted the strap of her own satchel, weighted down by
the old elf’s storybook. “A sand letter from my mother. I…I…sent her
a letter, saying I was coming to Four Roads. She mentioned Edren
was alive, though his health was failing. He’s ancient for an Ohlyrran,
nearly twelve hundred years old. Most of us only live to a thousand.”
“A thousand years,” Ymir mused. “What adventures we’ll have in
our thousand years, Lillee. What wonders we’ll see. What things we
shall do.”
“We, my love?” Lillee tilted her head. “You won’t get so many
years. And I will live centuries in agony.” Her voice broke.
Ymir took her hand. “If Aegel Akkridor could rule for a thousand
years, I can love you for twice that long. I’m surprised that you sent a
letter to your mother. Why would you pursue her affections when she
has spurned you at every turn?”
Lillee didn’t say anything for a long time.
Ymir squeezed her hand. “My Grandmother Rabbit used to tell
me that it’s foolish to enter a tent where you aren’t welcome. She’d
say the wind might be cold, but the hatred of a bad family is colder. I
believe she spoke the truth there. She’d say a good family’s love is
like fire, and that fire can warm friends and strangers alike.”
“Her words are beautiful.” Lillee leaned in close to him. “Before
school ended, my mother sent me a sand letter. She asked that I tell
her if I left Old Ironbound, that perhaps we could speak to each
other. About Father, about our family, about our future. She made the
first move. I answered it.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Ymir asked.
“I could hardly admit it to myself. I could hardly hope. I thought
nothing would come from it, and so I sent her a sand letter telling her
I was coming here. She said she couldn’t come now, but she would
come soon to the Majestrial. To see me. She then mentioned our old
family friend, and said that if I wanted, I could check with the Painted
Pen Guild to see where he lived. I don’t think I will, though. I would
like to see this book he wrote. It’s beautifully bound. Perhaps I’ll do
something similar for my book.”
Ymir pulled her in close. “We’ll make The Crippled Cicada a work
of art, my love. When you finish it.”
Lillee let out a tortured breath. “If I finish it.”
“You will,” Gatha snarled behind them. “Even if I have to chain
you to your desk.”
Lillee turned and smiled. “You’d like to chain me up, I think.”
Gatha retracted her tusks and tilted her head. Then she smiled.
“You know I would, Lillee Nehenna.”
They left the Dynasty Bridge and made their way to the center of
the World’s Square. There, they stopped, craning their necks at the
guild halls to the north and south, as well as Castle SkyReach to the
west. There were gambling halls and taverns and cramped
apartments surrounding the marketplace. The biggest and brightest
casinos were clustered around the Undergem Guild Hall. The size of
the city strained Ymir’s mind. To think, they were standing in a place
so rich in history. How many countless souls had lived and died in
the streets around them?
For a moment, he didn’t want to leave.
He glanced down to see his feet standing on the spot where the
Four Roads connected. There was a plaque there, with writing in
ancient Theranus. “From here to everywhere. All roads are hopeful
for the traveler who walks with a full heart.”
Currently, there were more than four roads that met in the city.
But historically, there had only been the four. One led north, to the
orcs and the dwarves that lived in the Sunset Mountains. One led
south to the Swamp Coast. One led east to the elves in Greenhome.
One led west to the Sorrow Coast, to the humans there, and to the
mermaids who swam in the waters of the Weeping Sea.
The whole world met here, and that was why it was called the
World’s Square.
Ymir turned to Lillee. He bent and kissed her cheek. “You are my
love, my woman, and my wife. I am grateful to be here with you.”
Lillee gripped him.
Gatha didn’t join them. She was keeping watch. “Let’s get back to
our rooms before we start the lovemaking. Besides, I want to read
this old elf’s storybook. The illustrations are gorgeous, and the text
looks mildly interesting.”
“It should be far better than the books I have.” So far, Ymir’s
research had only frustrated him. History as the people of the south
told it was a lie. Why else would they write such nonsense about the
death of Aegel Akkridor? Even in the tundra, a warrior might add little
flourishes to his deeds when he returned from a hunt, but like
Grandfather Bear always said, The truth is buried at the heart of a
good story.
The southerners didn’t just believe the lies some of their so-called
historians fashioned, they embraced them.
Gatha prodded them to keep walking. The day had been hot, but
the lands around them were dry, and so the night cooled the air
quickly. A breeze from the west helped.
The stalls around them sold all sorts of things, from candies to
dresses to books to weapons and armor. Sorcerers sold little magical
baubles. Every so often, a barker would send flames shooting
through the air. Other merchants used Moons magic to draw the
attention of potential customers. Lightning crackled here and there,
lighting the faces of people from any number of races.
 Humans from all across the continent had come to steal, to
barter, to brag. Dwarven merchants waddled along, while Gruul
soldiers looked for a fight. Elves stood back, judging everyone.
There were a few merfolk, rough-looking women and hulking men,
with products from the Weeping Sea or the Blue Sea to the south.
Wingkin in armor, armed with spears, looked about in wonder. They
were ragged, probably refugees fleeing the war on the southern
continent of Reytah.
King Shapta, a demon conqueror, had been seizing cities there.
So far, Thera had not felt his evil at all.
Gruul guards, members of the Bloody Dawn Guild, guarded the
front entrance of the Undergem Guild, though no one would be
stupid enough to try to trifle with the merchant’s guild. The foolish
saw the guild’s mistress as a silly fairy, but the wise knew of her
ruthlessness. Few could guess the truth—that the merchant guild
was run by powerful fairies, who controlled most of the commerce on
the continent.
On the ground floor was the most famous of casinos, and from
inside came the shouts of winners, the groans of losers, and the
rough yells of the drunks. Ymir thought that he’d like to come back to
play Seven Devils in the gambling hall. However, he also knew that it
would be foolish to waste money in there. He thought back to all of
the clansmen who lost a season of pelts in the gambling houses of
Summertown on the coast. He’d have to be careful, but he also
could afford to lose a fortune in there. At this point, he’d spent far
more time in the library than the casino. Oh, how his life changed.
Ymir, Lillee, and Gatha tipped their heads, and the orc guards
stepped back.
It was five sets of stairs to get up to their rooms, but they wouldn’t
be doing that climb.
Queen Dillyday Everjewel, Ziziva’s mother, had asked them to
check in with the guards before casting any magic, so once the
guards nodded, Ymir and his two wives all murmured the same
thing: “Caelum caelarum.”
The three went floating up the side of the pyramid and onto the
balcony of their rooms.
 Standing on the marble balcony, they immediately heard the tiny
cries of little Gertie. And they heard Jennybelle shout something.
From the kitchen came the sound of Tori cooking and yelling, “Dinner
is almost ready! Where is Ymir?”
“We’re here!” Gatha roared.
“Finally!” Tori called back.
Lillee winced. “We must have the loudest family in all of Thera.”
Ymir strode inside the suites.
The floors were polished wood, and not just any wood, but wood
from the sacred sanctum tree, which was precious and expensive.
The Undergem Guild could afford it. There were bookcases in the
main living room, and three sets of bathrooms, where Flow magic
kept the water warm. There were three spacious bedrooms as well.
Ymir slept in the front master suite, which had a balcony of its own
and a view of the university across the Long River. He could also
look down into the World’s Square, which provided him endless
entertainment.
At the back, near the door, was a full kitchen with a connected
dining area.
Ymir kicked off his boots and felt plush red carpet under his toes.
He set his satchel on the table and started stacking books.
“Caelum caelarum!” Tori sent dishes flying onto the table, and
Ymir snatched up his tomes.
Tori had flour on her freckled face, and her red hair was frizzy.
She looked a bit frazzled, but then she gave him a huge smile. “Don’t
you start reading, Mr. Man. We’re about to eat dinner. I have a
stuffed quail recipe. You stuff the bird full of bacon and cheese and
fry it. You’ll like it. Sit! Sit! I also have fruit!” The happy little dwab
reconsidered. “Don’t sit! Go help Ziziva with your daughter! Gertie
has had quite a day, I’ll tell you what. She is not a happy little
wogglebaby!”
Ymir put the books back in his satchel and set it near the
bookcase. He hurried over, hugged the dwab, and kissed her cheek.
She smelled like her own sweetness mixed with cooking and kitchen
grease.
 The wide little woman giggled before pushing him away. “I know, I
know, I’m very sweet. But I’m busy with the final bit of dinner. Ziziva
needs you!”
Ymir loved his little dwab like he loved his fairy wife. As for his
little baby Gertie? Ymir couldn’t wait to see her and hold his tiny
daughter in his hand. Dinner and his books would have to wait.
There probably wouldn’t be anything important in them anyway.
Just more lies.
 CHAPTER 2

Y mir was on his way to check on his fairy wife and baby when
Jennybelle handed him a glass of wine. She looked good, a
little blush on her white cheeks, her black hair fixed up
perfectly. Her blue eyes sparkled. She might’ve been a little drunk.
“Hey, baby, you’re gonna need a glass of wine for this. Gertie is
pissed. And I don’t blame her. I shopped all day and only found one
dress that I could tolerate.”
Ymir kissed the swamp witch. “Shopping all day? I thought you
were going to see about more of your swamp magic. Your
Bloodcross Mist is powerful, but how can we use it as armor?”
“You don’t think I should use my ice armor?” Jenny asked with a
pout. “What’s wrong with my ice armor?”
Ymir left her before he got himself in more trouble. “I want to see
you in that dress you bought. But I’m serious about the magic.”
“Magic, magic, magic.” Jennybelle sighed. “Why do magic when I
can gossip? I had tea with one of my great-great-aunties. She’s one
of the refugees from the Swamp Coast trouble, which is only getting
worse because my fucking sister is so stupid. She’s murdering
people she don’t need to, which is generally a bad idea. You’ll want
to hear the news.”
“I do,” Ymir agreed. “I will.”
He left her and found both Gatha and Lillee in the side bedroom,
which had a bed, desk, and bookcase, but also a little perch for
fairies. It was a room within the room, so the Fayee could be
comfortable.
 Ymir liked to sit in a chair by the window that showed the lights of
the city, especially the gambling halls, which employed Sunfire magic
and Moons magic to create light shows to lure in customers.
Across the room from the window, Ziziva sat on the balcony of
her perch. The fairy mother was trying to breastfeed little Gertie but
wasn’t having much luck.
The little blond fairy woman looked beyond exhausted. “Ymirry,
my dearie, it’s been a day. You’ve been gone but at home I stay. The
baby cries, and I don’t know why. The baby cries, while the swamp
witch sighs.” Ziziva was so tired, she’d slipped into her Winkle
Tongue.
“I heard that!” Jennybelle shouted from the other room.
Little Gertie must’ve smelled him, because she turned from
Ziziva’s breast to give Ymir a big toothless smile.
Ymir opened his palm, and Ziziva laid her baby in his hand.
Covered in her little gown, Gertie kicked her legs. She swung her
arms. She gurgled at him.
Love filled Ymir’s heart. It was the strangest of things, to be
holding his little daughter in his hand. He gently curled his fingers
around her. She immediately wrapped her tiny arms around his
finger and started gnawing on it. He hardly felt her teeth.
Ziziva let out a scream of frustration. “You won’t leave me
tomorrow, Ymir! You’ll stay here with your dear and bring her cheer.
Now, I’m going to fly away from the cry before I die. But I’ll be back
for the next feeding attack. I’ll get myself a snack, but yes, I’ll be
back. I’ll be back.”
The fairy girl flew off into the other room. The sound of glass
shattering followed, and then Jenny screamed, “Watch the wine,
bitch! It’s expensive!”
Ziziva laughed in a little screechy voice. “We can afford it, you
bad Jenny, Jenny, not helping me, and complaining all the time. Bye,
bye, baby, bye, bye.”
Lillee looked pained. “I’ll go help clean up. I wish Ziziva wouldn’t
tease Jenny so.” The elf girl left the room.
Gatha knelt next to Ymir, her eyes on the baby. “Jenny and Ziziva
burn each other because both burn so bright. It’s their similarities
that trouble them.”
Ymir had to think about that for a minute. Then he realized that
Jenny and Ziziva had both grown up in secretive families that had
forced them to watch every word they said. And the expectations laid
on them were equally as heavy. They were both royalty and had felt
the demands of their positions. Both could lie so very well, though
they took little pleasure in it.
“You are wise, Gatha Dragonslayer.”
“And you are wise to call me that, Ymir Virtorg.” The she-orc
grinned at him.
She had killed a dragon. And Ymir had earned the title of
“virtorg,” or conqueror, when he’d helped kill Gulnash the Betrayer. In
a very real sense, he could’ve walked right up to the Blood Steppes
and claimed leadership over the three city-states there.
Of course, he’d have to fight to prove himself in the fighting pits of
Ssunash, Rukklur, and Goyyoat, but that wouldn’t be a problem.
For now, Glagga the Blade was on her way to winning over the
hearts of the Gruul even as she won tournament after tournament.
Gatha said she didn’t care about the Blood Steppes, but even Gatha
listened for news of Glagga’s latest victory.
Gatha touched Ymir’s arm. “I needed that victory. I needed to be
the one to kill Unger. Thank you.”
“You are mighty, Gatha of the Majestrial, Death’s Bride, the
Princess of the Pits.”
The old titles made the she-orc smile wistfully. “Yes. All of that.
But I am at peace. I don’t even have the warrior’s boredom we’ve
spoken of before. I am content for now, though I know more war will
find us. How can it not, given that you and I are destined to live lives
of consequence?”
“Sounds fancy.” Jennybelle stood in the doorway in a black and
red dress that showed cleavage like a valley in heaven. The dress
also accentuated her waist and showed her strong legs. “Well, this is
the dress I bought. What do ya think?”
Gatha looked her up and down. “You wear such a thing in hopes
someone will take it off you. I would be that someone.”
 Jenny did a little twirl. “Ah, Gatha, you know just what a girl wants
to hear.”
The she-orc frowned. “I once asked our Charibda why she wears
the clothes she wears. She said something similar. I miss her.”
Gatha closed her eyes. She and the mermaid had a very special
relationship.
Charibda Delphino, the mermaid, had volunteered to stay back
and mind The Paradise Tree, their xocalati shop. Ribby said she
didn’t like the idea of being so far inland, though the mermaid was
going to miss them all terribly. They’d already spent so much time
separated. However, Ribby was very independent, and she valued
her solitude. To take care of her sexual desires, she’d have to resort
to chitubbing, but then, she’d probably just wait until Ymir and her
sister-wives came home. It was only five weeks—two weeks for
travel and three weeks studying at the capital city of the Holy
Theranus Empire.
While Jennybelle and Lillee rode in the carriage with the rest of
Ymir’s wives, Gatha and Ymir preferred to travel by horseback.
Agneeyeshka, one of Old Ironbound’s guards, rode with them.
Gharam Ssornap, the Gruul professor, worried like an old woman, so
he insisted Agneeyeshka go with them, to help with the horses and
to take care of other travel considerations. Gharam had wanted to
go, but he had to work that summer repairing the damage the dragon
attack had caused. And he didn’t want to leave the Princept there
alone. Gharam had become very protective of Della, the campus,
and all the professors.
Jenny nodded. “We all miss Ribrib. But on a brighter note, we’ll
be back home soon. I’ll be glad to put some distance between me
and the Swamp Coast, I’ll tell you what. If I survive the carriage ride,
that is. You two get to be on horses. I’m stuck with Lillee, who reads
all the time, Tori, who can’t sit still, and of course, Ziziva and the
baby. Gertie is wonderful and cute, don’t get me wrong, but being
trapped for days on end with a baby in a small, enclosed space don’t
do anything good for my nerves. If only we could just do a little portal
magic to get back.”
“Or if Ymir could turn into a dragon again.” Gatha patted his arm.
 Gertie let go of Ymir’s finger and tried to crawl off his palm. He
caught her before she could. “Yes, using the Flesh Steal Ring has
been a challenge. But I’ll master it with practice. I’m not sure I’ll be
able to turn into a dragon if I’m not close to a dragon. We might’ve
killed the last one.”
“There are rumors of a dragon over in Ethra,” Jenny said. “But
closer to home, I got other news. A whole bunch of gossip.”
Gatha snapped out her tusks. “The Vempor Erwin thinks that his
successor shouldn’t be from the Appleford family. He thinks it should
be a new line of educated rulers.”
Jenny put a fist on her hip. “Now, Gatha, are you stealing my
story?”
The she-orc grinned. “I am. I overheard you talking with Tori.”
“This is interesting,” Ymir said. When they’d first met the new
vempor, he’d been an arrogant young man with a certain weakness
of character. However, spending time at Old Ironbound had changed
him. He was in awe of Ymir and his wives. They’d killed the dragon
that had killed Erwin’s brother. Poor Jayke Appleford wouldn’t be
ruling anything except the crypts at Castle SkyReach. Interestingly
enough, though, Vempor Erwin had come to almost worship the
Princept of the Majestrial. She’d handled crisis after crisis over the
years, and Erwin saw that she was strong and capable.
“It’s my story, Gatha!” Jenny rolled her eyes. “Only, you know
where this is heading. Erwin thinks the Applefords are too fucking
looney of a family to go on ruling a joke of an empire. He wants Della
to take over when he’s dead.”
Gatha grinned around her tusks. “That will never happen. Erwin
might be the vempor, but his mother is in control. Arlynda Appleford
will force Erwin to breed, and one of his brood will ascend to the
throne.”
Ymir thought Gatha was exactly right. The rest was just rumor
and wishful thinking on Erwin’s part.
Jenny gently gripped Gatha’s tusk and turned her head so they
could face each other.
Normally, the she-orc would kill anyone who touched her tusks
like that. But there was love and respect between the two.
 “I got a story you don’t know about, Gatha Dragonslayer,” Jenny
said. “You wanna hear it over dinner?”
“What’s it about?” Gatha asked.
Jenny fluttered her eyelashes. “A subject you two love. War.”
Ymir was intrigued. Would Jenny have news of King Shapta?
Who better to war with than a demon conqueror?
 CHAPTER 3

Y mir sat at the head of the table with Lillee on his right and
Jennybelle on his left. Farther down were Gatha and Tori,
though the little dwab didn’t sit much. She was too busy
running back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen for final
sauces, a bit more bread, or to refill their wine.
Gatha finally caught Tori by her arm. “Sit. Eat. We have all we
need.”
Tori laughed and shook her head. “You’re right about that, I
guess. I will have to take my pies out of the oven here soon. Unless
you all want burnt pie? Gosh me underground, I don’t want to know if
you do!”
Gatha chuckled. Not many people could make Gatha laugh. Tori
could, and the two smiled at each other before Gatha cut into her
stuffed quail.
Little Gertie had some mashed roots on a tiny plate, but she
didn’t like to sit still. She crawled around on the table, begged for a
bit of sweet juice, and then found a napkin. Ymir made sure to keep
his tiny daughter on his side of the table so he could keep an eye on
her. If she crawled off the table, she might fall and hurt herself. Ziziva
said the little baby would grow her wings later.
Gertie finally tired herself out and fell asleep wrapped in the
napkin.
Ymir ate Tori’s very good food. There was a crust of thick
breading covering the bird, and inside was a greasy mixture of pork
and cheese. Ymir thought it was very exotic, but then, his new life on
Thera had become one wonder after another. He’d had mixed meats
on the Ax Tundra. Usually it was spicy elk innards inside a white
bear’s stomach along with a good amount of tundra barley, seesee
berries, and naynay, the smoked ground nuts that were so precious
among the northern clans.
Ymir wondered if he’d ever eat naynay again. He doubted it. That
delicacy wasn’t something the clans traded with outsiders. However,
his people probably would never taste xocalati. Xoca and naynay
just might make Ymir die of pleasure. No, if death by pleasure was
possible, he would’ve left the world long ago because of his harem.
His ptoor. His ohnessla. His sharreb.
Gatha pounded the table. “So, Jennybelle Josen, tell us your
news!”
Gertie was shaken awake. She looked up at Ymir and gave him a
sleepy little smile before falling back asleep.
Jenny had only eaten a little of her meal. She wasn’t going easy
on the wine, however. “So while you bookworms were at the Lirum
Archive, I spent the afternoon drinking tea and eating cookies with
my Auntie Daisybelle Josen. Daisy is fucking old. Nearing ninety.
She’s seen some shit, I’ll tell you what.”
Ymir listened to the lilt of Jenny’s accent. He’d teased her about
her grammar when they first met, and it had knocked the swamp
witch off her guard. He was glad he’d kept her unbalanced. It had
tipped her into his bed and into his life.
“To quote Willmur Swordwrite…brevity is the soul of wit,” Gatha
spat. “Get to your point.”
Jennybelle’s mask of coolness and control slipped. Tears
sparkled in her eyes. “But Auntie Daisy is the point. What is a
Josentown dowager doing in Four Roads? Not that us Swamp Coast
women don’t appreciate the big city, but we’d rather have our
wrought-iron railings, stained glass, and narrow stone streets than
this glitz.” She gestured to the window and the vivid colors of the city
lights below. There was a popular brothel called the Red Fire, where
the Sunfire lanterns burned with a crimson light.
Ymir knew why Jenny was upset. “The war has started. King
Shapta has invaded the Swamp Coast Queendoms.”
 Tears slid down Jenny’s face. They were drunk tears, so they
weren’t all that valid, but they showed how upset the woman was.
Then again, Jenny ran hot with passion. “You aren’t wrong, but you
ain’t right either. The Swamp Coast Queendoms are really just the
one, the Josens, and Queen Arribelle is at the top. She and
Darisbeau tied the knot this summer, once they killed or intimidated
all the other queens into joining them. It’s a fucking done deal. Daris
has the brains, Arri has the fucking evil, and put them together, and
you have a dynasty. A lot of my friends are dead. Most, if you wanna
know the truth.”
There was grief on Jennybelle’s face, surely, but Ymir also saw
regret. She’d been ambitious, she’d wanted power, and she’d
backed Ymir thinking he’d conquer the world. And perhaps he would.
If King Shapta didn’t beat him to it.
The swamp woman continued. “Hell Knights, that’s what they’re
calling them. Daisy lived into her nineties ’cause she’s smart. Got out
a week before the trouble. Kept track of things through sand letters.
She knew about the trouble early, but tonight the shit storm is really
starting. The town criers are going to be filled with the news of the
war come the morning. But yours truly knew about it first. You’re
welcome.”
Ymir wasn’t surprised, but he didn’t like the sound of these Hell
Knights. “Did Josentown fall?”
“Not yet,” Jennybelle whispered. “We have walls, but there are
these ratwings that can fly. Only, they don’t know about our swamp
magic, and I guess there are demons on both sides. And ghosts.
Lots of ghosts in Josentown. Ghosts can fly.” She laughed and
brushed her hand across her cheek. “I thought all that talk about
demons and ghosts was so much horseshit. It’s not. We all know it’s
not.”
They sat quietly for a long time, until Lillee got up, took her chair,
and brought it over to sit next to Jenny. The elf girl put her hand on
the swamp woman’s shoulder.
“What does Daisy know of the Hell Knights?” Ymir asked.
Jenny laughed a little. “Oh, she’s old, so she has all sorts of
ideas. Knights in armor with black wings. Fiery eyes.”
 “Like the Corvidae,” Ymir said.
“I don’t know about that,” Jenny said. “But there are spiders as
well, giant spiders, to go along with your giant flying rats. And
remember how Arribelle said she had a secret army? Well, she did.
She sold off some of the family jewels and brought in Wingkin
mercenaries. It’s why Josentown hasn’t fallen, but it’s only a matter
of time.”
Lillee continued to pet Jenny. It was clear the swamp woman was
upset. And she’d said it was all so much gossip. She’d been very
mistaken. King Shapta invading the Swamp Coast was something
out of a story, out of one of the histories that Ymir was studying.
Tori’s eyes were wide, her face pale.
Gatha took her dining knife and sank it into the wood of the table.
“I say good. I say we leave Four Roads and go kill this King Shapta.
We know it will come to that.”
Ymir laughed. “And there’s my girl. War’s Wet Cunt. Just this day,
you said didn’t have any warrior’s boredom. Yet, at the first hint of
war, you suggest we run right toward it.”
Gertie was shaken awake. She crawled over to Ymir’s hand and
patted it. He opened his palm and she climbed onto it. She sat and
seemed to listen as they continued to talk.
Jenny held up both hands. “Wait, you two. We ain’t gonna go
running off on the words of an old woman who sometimes wets
herself. Daisy said that King Shapta hasn’t won the Swamp Coast
yet, and he might not. My fucking sister, the queen, hasn’t left
Josentown yet. And Daris is there, and he’s studied warfare at Old
Ironbound. Nellybelle is there as well. We might not like ’em, but we
have to admit they’ve grown in power. At this point, we should just
wait to see what happens. Maybe the Wingkin mercenaries will stop
the siege.”
Ymir covered Gertie with his other hand, and she let out a little
yelp of delight. She patted his fingers and toyed with his fingernail.
“The demon king. The conqueror. King Shapta. I wish I knew more
about the southernmost continent.” He chuckled. “And I thought
Thera was far south.”
“You can take a world history class,” Lillee murmured.
 Ymir looked Jenny in the eye. “If you tell us you want to go save
your homeland, we’ll go.”
Jenny returned his gaze. “You and your crazy bitches are my
home. Josentown is where I grew up, but I gave up my family when
we made our own. And I don’t want to be queen of a few swampy
cities full of ghosts. I want the world, baby. And I think you can give it
to me.” There was such ambition in her blue eyes.
Ymir swiped a finger through the mashed root on his plate and
gave some to Gertie. “And what do you think of this, Tori?”
“You big overtoppers sure love your wars. Not to say that the
Morbuskor don’t have our issues, but I find all of this exhausting. For
one, war cooking is hard, or so I’ve been told. For another, unless
this King Shapta comes to Old Ironbound, or threatens anyone we
love, I don’t see how this is any of our business. No offense,
Jennybelle.”
“None taken. I agree.”
Lillee frowned. “But it’s easy for you to say such things, Tori. Your
family in your Stonehold will never be in much danger.”
Tori raised a finger. “Nope, Lil, you and Ymir and the rest of these
women are my family. My parents sent me out in the world to find a
home, and a home I found. You’re not wrong about the dwarves
being safe, though. We can seal our doors and hole up for years on
end. We can live on nothing but darkness and mushrooms. And we
have water, you better bet we do. I know six underground rivers in
the Sunset Mountains alone. This King Shapta won’t ever touch us.”
Ymir felt icy fingers on his spine. His vision blurred, and suddenly,
he wasn’t sitting at his dining room table in his luxurious suite. No, he
was taken into a vision, and he was wise enough to let himself be
taken. Magic had led him this far, and he’d learned to trust it.
What he saw, though, astounded him. It was his past, it was his
present, and yes, he was shown his future as well.
 CHAPTER 4

Y mir found himself far away from their apartment in the

Undergem Guild.
For a second, Ymir was on a ridge overlooking the tents
and campfires of the Black Wolf Clan. He smelled the dry autumn
mosses burning. He heard the deep voices of the men talking, the
women laughing, the children squealing. He looked down, and on his
fingers were all eight of the Akkiric Rings, even the Veil Tear Ring.
How could that be?
Looking down at his people, he felt a stab of homesickness. They
were lost to him. Lost forever. An old man laughed, and that laughter
took Ymir away from the Ax Tundra.
He saw an elderly elf, wrinkles and wispy white hair and sagging
ears. Such an ancient thing, so ravished by time, sitting in a house
full of books. This was Edren Hyendell, the friend of Lillee’s parents.
Ymir would find Hyendell in Four Roads. He would prove invaluable.
“Ymir?” one of his wives said to him, but he didn’t answer. He
was too far into the Flow magic.
He saw a woman with white wings, alabaster skin, and flaming
red hair. Her bright blue eyes were filled with tears. And then a rage
filled her, and she screamed, her mouth open to show her perfect
white teeth. She was beautiful, tragic, deadly.
And there was so much sorrow in her. She was so very alone.
And always had been.
Ymir understood what it was like to be alone.
To be the lonely man.
The Lonely Man. The demon who had cursed Ymir.
 I curse you. I curse you forever. Let the sleeper wake from the
dream!
Ymir was taken back to the Lonely Man’s lair, the demon’s temple
home with the eight boiling pools. The five pools to the east were full
of boiling green water. The water was clear enough for him to see
gears churning, a machine in each pool, crafting monstrosities.
Then a pit of boiling mud to the south. A Wingkin was there, but
not the fire-headed woman—a different woman with golden hair. The
winged woman was being pulled down into the southern mud pit,
screaming, weeping, and begging for her life.
The mud pit on the north side of the cavern bubbled ever more
violently. Someone was trying to crawl out of that pit. Ymir couldn’t
see who it was, but the shape of the figure looked familiar.
His eyes were shown the central pool of darkness—only this pool
wasn’t round, it was in the shape of Thera, and he saw the lights of
the Librarium Citadel gleaming there, right on the coast of the
Weeping Sea where Old Ironbound was. The sea was so dark.
A face appeared in that darkness—it was Professor Linnylynn
Albatross, from the Scatter Islands south of the Swamp Coast. She’d
come to Old Ironbound with Hayleesia Heenn, an assassin from the
Midnight Guild. Heenn was killed, while Linny took over as head of
the Moons College, the Studia Dux. Linny was also a member of the
White Rose Society, a secret society that wanted Ymir to finish
crafting the Akkiric Rings. Linny also had a passion for the occult and
demonology of all sorts.
If anyone could tell them more about the demon conqueror of the
southern continent, it would be her.
“Ymir!” That was Jennybelle.
Lillee’s smell filled Ymir’s nose. He felt the elf girl ease Gertie out
of his hands. Tori and Gatha had come to touch him.
He couldn’t lose focus. He had to see what was crawling out of
the north mud pit.
The figure flopped down onto his back and wiped mud from his
face. On that hand were four rings. The other hand also had four
rings. He wore all eight of the Akkiric Rings.
 The screams from the Wingkin filled the Lonely Man’s lair. While
the boiling mud destroyed her wings and burned her flesh, this other
man, this other figure, smiled.
It was Ymir’s own face.
The realization shocked Ymir out of the vision. He fell back into
the chair, but he didn’t fall over.
He smelled smoke—at first he thought it was the stench of the
bird woman being burned alive. But no, this had a sweet smell.
Tori leapt to her feet. “Gosh me underground! My pies!”
It seemed they were destined to eat burnt pie after all.
Tori was able to salvage parts of the pie, but it still put her in a
grumpy mood, even when Ymir told them about his vision.
They all thought it was interesting that he’d seen Professor
Linnylynn Albatross’s face. As a member of the White Rose Society,
she’d been using all of her efforts to find out something about the
last Akkiric Ring. So far, she was as baffled as the rest of them, and
Ymir didn’t have much faith in the books he’d checked out from the
Lirum Archive.
After dinner, Lillee and Tori cleaned while Jennybelle went to bed.
It had been a rough day for her. Gatha played with Gertie while Ymir
drank kaif and started going through the borrowed tomes. It wasn’t
long before he was snapping books closed one after another.
They were useless. They had nothing about Llennala Hana and
the rest of her brave company, who had been the real cause of
Aegel Akkridor’s death. And not a single one even mentioned
Aegel’s rings.
Once the dishes were done, Tori went to put Gertie to bed. That
freed up Lillee and Gatha, who came to sit with Ymir. Lillee put her
beautiful book on the table.
Gatha touched the elaborate gold-leaf binding. “Yes, Lillee, when
your book is done, we will fashion a book such as this. The binding
should be as beautiful as your writing.”
“I wish my writing were as golden,” Lillee said softly as she
opened the book to the title page. The calligraphy was gorgeous.
Gatha snapped out her tusks. “I’ve read volumes upon volumes
of fucking trash, and your book is beautiful. Take courage. Write it.
Finish it. And let the world tremble before your genius.”
Gatha’s rage was always a sight to see. Yet Ymir could
understand Lillee’s reluctance. He’d written his own story, Aeric’s
Sorrow, and he knew how troublesome words could be. At times,
they wouldn’t come. Other times? It was like a river that captured
you in an unstoppable current. How that worked, Ymir didn’t know,
but there was a certain magic there, magic that couldn’t be studied
or captured.
Lillee winced. “Let’s not talk about me and my work. Did this
selection of books have anything on Aegel Akkridor?”
She said that name softly. Even now, in Four Roads, the name
was ominous. Families told stories of the vempor and his long,
bloodthirsty reign. Aegel Akkridor tortured those he didn’t trust. And
he slew anyone who crossed him outright.
Aegel was ruthless and cruel, and he didn’t act alone. He had his
seven elite guards, called the Corvidae. They wore black armor, and
flames filled their eyes…if the stories were true. Could the Hell
Knights in King Shapta’s army be modeled after them?
Ymir had often pondered the true nature of Aegel Akkridor’s
Corvidae. Seven elite guards. Seven wives. Seven governors. The
evil vempor must’ve liked the number seven.
“I’ve had the same problem I’ve had for days now,” Ymir said.
“But first, I agree with Gatha. If Old Ironbound publishes Aeric’s
Sorrow, Della will publish The Crippled Cicada. And it will be a
wonderful book, the best ever published.”
Lillee squeezed her eyes shut. “As if I wasn’t pressuring myself
enough. Please! Let’s talk about your next book. Your history of the
Night of Fire is going to be your Dominist Studiae, right?”
The Dominist Studiae was a special project that all the fourth
years had to complete to graduate. For most, it was combat or magic
oriented. For Ymir, he’d already mastered combat and most of the
spells required. This history he was working on was far more
important.
Ymir glanced around at the stacks of books. “This entire venture
seems to have been a waste of time. I’ve found nothing that I haven’t
read before. There are four main theories. One, a dragon killed
Aegel, which we know is true. However, there is no mention of that
dragon accidentally destroying the Akkiric Rings with his
ShadowFlame. The second theory is that a clansman from the north
came down to murder the vempor. That is also true, though none of
the histories can name him. The third theory? The Corvidae turned
on their master, murdered Aegel, his wives, his governors, and then
each other. That theory is false. Lastly, that Aegel Akkridor never
died, nor did his Corvidae, and they became demons, waiting to
return.”
“Waiting for what?” Gatha slowly retracted her tusks.
Ymir regarded a few notes he’d taken. “For the Reveler’s Moon,
at the turn of the epochs, when the world will know blood and fire,
and a soulless warrior from the north will rise to conquer the world.”
“We’ll see the Reveler’s Moon soon,” Gatha said. “Your people
call it the Wolf Moon.”
“Yes. This autumn, the Wolf Moon returns. The next new year is
the year 6000, and I just might be the soulless warrior from the north.
But Aegel Akkridor is dead, as are his Corvidae. I watched Unger
bathe everyone at the top of Castle SkyReach in ShadowFlame.”
“But we also know that the dead can get restless,” Gatha
countered. “Sarina Sia hasn’t known peace since we took her hyoid
bone to fashion two of the rings. Speaking of the rings, Lillee could
try using the Veil Tear Ring. To learn more.”
“Wait.” Lillee lifted a hand. She’d been reading from Edren
Hyendell’s book. “This is a story about a fellowship of heroes who go
on a quest to slay a mad king. An elven princess, a princeling of the
Sorrow Coast, a dwarven warrior, a fairy, one of the Wingkin, and
two orcs, a man and wife. That is seven. The eighth man in their
party? A wild man from the north.”
Lillee shifted the book to show him a picture of a man with a
square-cut mane of black hair and ice-blue eyes, wielding an ax. The
same kind of ax Ymir preferred.
That was Fionn Ymaol. Ymir had seen him before, in his vision of
the Night of Fire.
Suddenly, it was perfectly clear why Edren Hyendell had been in
Ymir’s vision. He knew the true history of the Night of Fire. And if he
knew that, he just might know about the Akkiric Rings.
Ymir felt icy fingers on his spine. It seemed like their trip to Four
Roads had been fated to happen. Lillee had stumbled upon a book
that was far more accurate than all of the histories Ymir had read.
To think, it was a storybook that just might help him. Grandfather
Bear wouldn’t have been at all surprised.
 CHAPTER 5

T he Honored Princept Della Pennez stood in the sand chamber

on the ground floor of the Imperial Palace and read the town
crier from Josentown. Town criers were news from different
cities sent out using Form magic that allowed them to communicate
across vast distances.
The sand fell from a container at the top into a basin at the
bottom. Paper was fed through the sand, and the communication—
either personal letter, report, or town crier—appeared there out of the
magical sand. Sending out letters, written with magical ink, worked
the same way.
Della stood with hands shaking a bit.
King Shapta had finally left Reytah to try his luck on Thera. No
one was very surprised. What was surprising was that the conqueror
didn’t take a single one of the Scatter Islands, not Buskatow, and not
Williminaville. He’d taken his ships to the Swamp Coast and swept
through any number of cities, killing royalty and seizing palaces.
Josentown alone remained standing, and Della took some pride
in the fact that two of her students—Darisbeau Cujan and Nellybelle
Tucker—were there, defending it. They had help. Arribelle’s secret
army of Wingkin mercenaries had saved her city and her life. Queen
Arribelle had chosen very well.
Money wasn’t the only motivation for the winged warriors. From
her long experience with the Jataksha, Della knew them to be very
honorable and loyal to their generals. Like the Gruul, they were a
culture of warriors. They would fight the demons down to the last sky
warrior.
 Not that Della knew if King Shapta was a demon or not. He’d
taken the name of a demon, an old name, which permeated the myth
stories of the southern continent. Della and Ymir had fought a
dragon out of myth. Why not some demonic lord?
Della realized that the sand letters were just starting. Rather than
stand in the sand chamber, reading, she could retire to her desk.
She found a Gruul guard to bring her the news as it came in. It would
be a long night.
The Princept crossed the moat and entered the Librarium Citadel.
She stood for a moment on the seal showing the symbols of the four
schools of magic. The burst of flame. The three moons. The closed
fist. And the open palm.
Sunfire, Moons, Form, and Flow—those were the four Studiae
Magica. Those were broken down into the five Categoria Magica:
cantrip, armatus, prolium, fascinara, and devocho. So there were
twenty categories of magic altogether.
Della walked up the steps to her mezzanine office. Since it was
late, very few scholars—mostly post-dominists—haunted the
Coruscation Shelves. Lightning crept around the six stories of books,
keeping the ironbound books free of rust. A few of the scholars
spoke in hushed voices about the news of war.
Della sat at her desk, still holding the original report from
Josentown.
The library was so hushed and empty. It was still a month until
school started, yet she longed for the year to begin. This new war
might not affect them at all, or that was the hope. However, she
knew that the continent would be wondering about what the
Majestrial Collegium Universitas thought about the current events.
They’d want the Princept’s opinion. At this point, she wanted to
see what Glagga the Blade was thinking. If anyone could stop this
new army, it would be the orcs. The Ohlyrra would only want to stay
in their forests with their art and chastity. The Morbuskor would hide
away in their underground kingdoms. And what about King Velis
Naoar IX, of the Naoar dynasty in Kreenn? What would the Sorrow
Coast Kingdom think about their neighbors being invaded?
King Velis might only care about waxing his moustache.
 One unlikely ally that Thera might have would be the Aquaterreb
families. Della was close personal friends with Beryl Delphino, the
matriarch of the Delphino family, the Ocean Mother Divine. The
merfolk had wanted to change how the world saw them. What better
way than to stop an invader?
Beryl hadn’t just been a friend. No, they’d been lovers. They still
talked some, but the heat of their passions had mellowed. Beryl had
her many lovers under the ocean, a variety of men and women who
fucked her senseless in their bitribibs. The merfolk loved their orgies
and saw masturbation as a waste of time.
Della would’ve loved to have weekly orgies. As it was, her
masturbation, her chitubbing, kept her sane.
Regardless, it would be interesting to see if Beryl would come to
their aid. And Beryl’s daughter, Charibda, might have an opinion on
the matter.
Della saw she had some leftover kaif. She sipped it anyway, cold
and bitter.
She knew what her professors would think of the news. Gharam
Ssornap would want to send scholars into a fight, while Professor
Issa Leel would warn them to be cautious. Brodor Bootblack would
agree with the elven teacher. And what would Professor Linnylynn
think of the news? She’d grown up in Williminaville. It could be Linny
would want them to take a more active role, especially since
Williminaville might be affected.
More than anyone, the Princept longed to speak to Ymir. The
clansman would have an opinion, as would the remarkable women in
his harem. Jennybelle was a master strategist, as was Ziziva. Gatha
was a warrior through and through. Lillee was brilliant, and Tori was
also very clever, and blessed with a kind heart. Ribby had grown up
feuding with the other Aquaterreb families and preparing for war with
the land people.
That man. Those women.
Della closed her eyes. She’d sent Agneeyeshka with them, and
so Della didn’t have anyone to give her kharo. She shouldn’t smoke
anyway. At the same time, she knew she’d break down eventually
and buy a stick from the Sweet Cough, a smokery on the Sea Stair
Market.
How could her school seem so empty without the barbarian and
his women? Why did her job seem meaningless and her life barren?
What would she do when they graduated? She hoped that Ymir
would stay on for some post-dominist work. In her wilder fantasies,
she dreamed he’d teach there.
That was laughable. Ymir wouldn’t teach at the Majestrial. He
wasn’t meant to be in a classroom. He was meant to be out in the
world, seeking his pleasures, engaging his mind and body, and
ruling.
Ymir was destined to be a king, though he didn’t see it.
Over and over, Della had asked him what he wanted, and over
and over, Ymir had replied with pleasantries or quips about finishing
his schooling, protecting his family, and protecting his home. For
now, Ymir saw that as Old Ironbound.
But could he see that the continent was his home? Perhaps all of
Raxid would be his, if he could only embrace his destiny.
Ymir was such a paradox, a man of action who was obsessed
with reading. A muscle-bound warrior who had a mind as sharp as
undergems. A man meant for glory, but also a man who was
satisfied with his books and his women.
It had been a little over three weeks since Ymir had left. Della
had never felt so lost. Even when she’d left home, even when she’d
joined the Silent Scream and murdered people for money, even
when her studies seemed bland, she had never, ever felt so
unmoored.
She felt like she was alone on a dark sea, in a leaky boat, taking
on water.
And the dreams, the visions at night, the perversions that Sarina
Sia showed her, didn’t help Della any. In fact, the midnight sex
dreams felt like they might drive Della insane. A darkness was rising
in the world, and Della could feel it.
That darkness scared her. It also turned her on like nothing else.
Many poets had written about the interplay between sex and
death. The idea that the living fought death with sex was nothing
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haaiê.. c’est de la blague! je hebt je waar gehad, dus
je moèt betalen.. dat is wet, en wet is recht! mijn zoon
zegt terecht.. dat jullie ’n slavenmoraal hebt.. en..

—Kijk eens Hassel, goeiigde weer notaris, ik heb

waarachtig geen plezier om voor joù te betalen. Ik sta
voor mijn principalen verantwoordelijk.—Er is ’n grens!
Jij.… jij begrijpt dat verward.. Jij nièt betalen, en ik wèl
betalen. Waar zou dat heen? Er is ’n prachtig
aardbeijaar geweest!

—En de boonestorm, de boonestòrm, giftte ouë Gerrit

knorrig, dá’ swaig meneer de netoàris moar van.. en
heul Wiereland is d’r daas deur!

—Er zijn heele moestuinen omgelegd, vervloekt,

schoot hatelijk-bulderend Dr. Troost er tusschen, geen
kracht meer in de boonen, je zoudt ze.…

—Gelukkig, dat je nog ’n appelje in je broeikast hebt,

voor de dorst, lachte Stramme, en mee lachte fijntjes
Dr. Beemstra.—

—Kijk Hassel, goeiigde de notaris weer, ’t is mij

heusch niet om je val te doen, maar ik moet
verantwoord zijn. Als ik nog meer van die klanten had,
zou ik zelf op de valreep staan.. kijk nu.… [383]

—Moar main fésoèn! màin fesoèn, huilde de Ouë in

zelf-opwinding.

—Je fatsoen, dat weten we allen, is onaantastbaar! je

hebt je altijd als ’n brave kerel gedragen. Ieder heeft
met je te doen. Maar jij bent niet meer wat je was. Je
kunt geen toezicht meer houên op je zoons,.. en die
zou ik voor al ’t geld van de wereld niet willen hebben,
hoe zuinig ik ook op mijn klantjes ben.. en de armsten
onder jelui steun!.. Maar dat zijn hassebassen, geen
land mee te bezeilen. Als jij niet altijd zoo fatsoenlijk
was gebleven, zou ik je ook nooit zóó lang
gekrediteerd hebben, maar je was netjes, geen zuiper,
beleefd, stil … maar nou wor je oud.…

—Moar main fesoèn.. main fesoèn, bibberde

mondzenuwend met òpschokkende huilstem ouë
Gerrit,—ikke sit hier àl fairtig joar t’met.—

—Best man, maar je moet kunnen betalen.. ik heb je

destijds ’n drieduuzend vijfhonderd hypotheek
gegeven op je brokje grond … Dat is nou ’n heelen tijd
geleden … je grond is er niet slechter op geworden,
dat zal ik niet zeggen.. je hebt je rente, altoos moeilijk,
maar toch betaald,.. en jij hadt je grond vrij.. Toen heb
je bij meneer Stramme ’n tweede hypotheek
genomen, nog eens van duizend pop … ’n slecht jaar,
leelijke oogst.… tegenvallers hier,.. tegenvallers daar..
twee koeien dood, nou.. nou.. zat je.. zat je an de
grond.. en.…

—Moar ieders tuinder weut tug wá’ sain boel woardig

is hee? hoho! uwes wist wèl wa je déè hee?.. stotterde
woedend ouë Gerrit bleekig van drift,—main grond is
d’r nou miskien ’t dubbele woardig.…

—Soo, nijdigde nù Beemstra stroef, weet iedere

tuinder dat, maar weet iedereen dan wàt ik bovendien
van joù nog.. te vòrderen heb?.. Nou kerel maak je me
boos!.. Nog brutaal op den koop toe. Als jou rommel
bij elkaar door de heeren taxateurs op zeven à acht
 duizend gulden geschat is,.. mag ’t veel zijn. En tel
eens òp wat ik van jou.… te.. vorderen heb … met alle
onkosten daaraan vast? Wat drommel wou jij nog
spreken! [384]

—Moar.. main fesòèn.. gilde Hassel in

zenuwopwinding, en stemmestotter, zonder dat hij
zich met woorden vèrder door z’n angstdrift heen kòn
slaan.—

—Wat jou fatsoèn, bulderde Troost, betàlen dàt is

fatsoen! ben jij bedonderd kerel!

—Je fàtsoen, je fatsòen, lachte ironisch Beemstra,

wèl, dat is ’n mooi ding, maar betàlen is mòoier! Je
bent altijd ’n knappe kerel geweest, daar zal ik niets
van zeggen, en ik heb je altijd geholpen, maar nou
loopt ’t de spuigaten uit.—Dan zie ik je met die.. dan
met die scharrelen.. je loopt te veel naar notarissen
man!

—Hoho! daa’s jokkes! barstte ouë Gerrit uit, plots

driftig van z’n stoel opveerend, ik heb je nuuwte
kukkerint heeldergoar nie sien.… hai waa’s d’r selffers
main komme opsoeke!—Noù, nou dâ je ’t weute wil..
ik seg moàr.. daàs ’n kerel.. die help je nie van de wal
in de sloot!.. die gaif je nie los geld mi sonder dâ.. dâ
je ooit vroagt wort.. hoe of wâ van rinte.. moar aa’s je
je effe buite menair de netoaris wâ doen wil.. kraig je
de raikening thuis … juustemint! juustemint aa’s tie
weut dâ.. je da je.… niks niks hept!.… Nainet
menair … soo hew.. hew je d’r al veul van onster slag,
stroatarm moàkt.. jai gaif d’r losse.. duutjes.. mit vaif
pèrsint.. Moàr soolang.. oploope.. tu je weut.. daa’t
 kan he? Hoho! soo hew je d’r veul van onster slag
f’rmoord … moàr.. die kukkerint.. daa’s ’n fint! die
hellept d’r nou … bai de boonestorm.. aa’s ’n engel!
Enne wai.. wai kenne d’r van joù nie los.… wai sitte an
jou vast aa’s pek! weut jai?… jai hoalt d’r ’t vel of’r
onster oore.. hoho! jai frait d’r de noagels van onster
flees.. jullie bint bloedsuigers doàr, daa’s màin weut!

De kring stond strak; alle gezichten in wreeden kijk op

ouë Gerrit, die plots voelde dat ie te ver was gegaan.
Notaris Beemstra keek, kéék; z’n neus trilde, en z’n
mond schokte van drift.

—Jij bént kranzinnig man.… Ik zal je maar niet an de

letter van je woorden houên, anders zou je … met
getuigen hier,.… nog leelijk te vinden zijn. Maar ’t is
nou genòeg [385]ook! Eén November gèld.. anders je
boel an de paal! Ik had je eerst nog wille helpen, met ’t
zoeken naar borgen.. omdat jij altijd ’n fatsoenlijke
vent bent geweest,—maar nou ben je door ’t dolle
heen.. Eén November gèld, .… of de boel an de paal!
nou weet je ’t. Als betaaltermijn van àl de anderen
daar is, sta jij er ook, of ’t is met je gedaan.

Notarisstem klonk hard, streng en sterk. Ouë Gerrit

had ’m woest gemaakt daareven, door den konkurent
erbij te halen, die altijd tegen ’m werd uitgespeeld als
„zoo goèd”, zoo „bereidwillig” en „hulpvaardig”. Wat
drommel, hij kon ’r ’n beroerte van krijgen van nijd, als
ze ’r over begonnen. En nou die lammeling van ’n ouë
vent die ’t ’m daar pal in z’n gezicht smeet, waar de
heeren bijzaten. Nee, dat was te èrg. Eerst had ie niet
zòò stráf willen optreden, nou moèst ’t.—
Ouë Gerrit, zelf geschrikt van z’n eigen heftigen uitval,
stond te beven van ontdaanheid, plukte zich in de
baard, trok zich aan de lokken, in bange verlegene
nerveusheid. Hij wou terugkrabbelen. ’t Viel in één
over ’m, zoo voor die strakke, deftig-gekleede heeren
staand, wat ’n afstand ’r toch was, tusschen hèm en
tusschen al die voorname stille dingen om ’m heen.
Inéén voelde ie zich schuldig, zwaar schuldig aan
brutaliteit en hij begreep maar niet, dat de notaris ’m
niet inéén de deur had uitgetrapt. Zware angst voor
z’n val pakte ’m weer beet, onrustte in ’m, bracht heel
z’n denken aan den zwabber. Hij voelde wèl dat ze ’n
gruwelijken hekel hadden aan zijn zoons; dat zij die op
alle manieren konden tegenwerken, dat de heele kliek
van de deftigheid, de voorschotman, de dokter, de
notaris, de burgemeester, allemaal tegen hèm gingen
staan. Dat er geen snars van ’m terecht kwam op die
manier, als ie ze later weer broodnoodig kreeg, om
gunstjes en flikflooierijtjes.—Nou moest ie zich maar
weer verdeemoedigen.

Alteratie zat ’r in z’n zenuwschokkenden mond, angst

in z’n krampende handen, die door z’n baard plukten,
en krommer bochelde z’n rug, als of ie al meelij wilde
opwekken, met z’n licht gebrek.—

Hij vond plots alles heel deftig in de kamer!.. de

prachtige [386]gordijnen, de groote schrijftafel, met al
die groote kopij-boeken en portefeuilles … de
bloemetuin achter, de kleeden.… in de waranda.… Hij
rook ’t, snoof ’t, deftig en hoog! Ja, hij most de boel
vergoeilijken met meelij, met verkleineering.—Hij
most, hij most, want inéén, heel scherp, voelde ie
waar ie heenging met z’n spullen? Waar die te bergen,
als ie geen woon meer had? En sterker dan ooit
begreep ie nou, nòu juist, hoe gehecht ie nog was an
z’n brok grond, z’n huisbullen, z’n gereedschap, an z’n
naam, en z’n schijn-fatsoen. En de heele kliek van
heeren tegen ’m. Zij, de lui van den kerkeraad, van ’t
Gemeentebestuur; notaris, de wethouër, de dokter, die
schatrijke landbezitter, de voorsten van alles en nog
wat. Heel Wiereland toch moest bij hèm terecht. En de
kassier en voorschieter!

.. hoho! dâ heule stel nou d’r allain teuge sain.. dá

waa’s d’r te veul.. sellefers aa’s de boel an ’t poaltje
gong. Dâ most baidraaie sain! In snelle
gedachtenwarrel, zwirrelde dat allemaal woordloos en
toch klaar door zijn heet brein.

—Hoho! netoaris, most in main ploas stoane.….…..

Zacht brak ie af … denke.. nou.. denke.. om ’t goed te
plooie nie te haastig.… en sachies àn.. Nie te gauw
baidroaie.—Voort sprak ie weer..

—Nou he’k.. he’k puur fairtig joàr.. dag.. an dàg main

aige stukkie grond had.. poert..! poert.. hoho!.. vier en
vaif en nie g’nog.… daa’s gain pap ete!.. Enne.. nou..
nou he’k alletait main rinte betoald enne nou.…
komp!.. de boonestorm! enne daar goan je de boel
veur d’ waireld! doàr hew je je aige op swait, op
ploertert.. dag en nacht! Daa’s je molle mi de klomp
hee?.. En nou kraig je gain duut veur àl je
deurpoere.… Nou mo’k main stukkie grond of.. d’r of
joagt aa’s ’n hond! die d’r schurft hewt! Is dá nie om te
griene?..
 Notaris weut daa’k alletait main fesoèn houë hew!
daa’k nooit nie suipe hew! daa’k persint waa’s woàr
ikke most weuse! Enne nou bi’k soo achter op! Nou..
miskien mit twai goeije oogste he’k de boel inhoàlt!..
En nou.. mo’k op main ouë dag.. den bedel op. Daa’s
hard netoaris? daa’s hard-stikke ellèndig!.… Netoaris
ik smaik ie … kaik wa je doent! mit ’n [387]ouë fint van
bai de saifetig die s’n heul laife s’n fesoen houê
hewwe!.… uwes weut daa’k ’n ongelukkig waif hew.…
de dokter ook, da main t’met arm moàkt hep! Ikke
smaikie hep d’r meelai! Aa’s ikke strak-en-an wâ nie
bestig sait hew.… f’rgaif ’t main.… main kop is d’r
daa’s.… ’t-en-rammelt hier.… hew d’r meelai mee.…
’n kerel.… die dur poert hew.… s’n heule laife
langest.…

Ouë Gerrit had uitgesproken. Z’n gezichtskreukels

jammerden; op z’n tronie groefde hartzeer.—En z’n
stem had gekreund, half gesnikt.—

Er was deemoed in z’n bocheligen rugstand, en z’n

handen, scheurden en rafelden franje van z’n petje
los, kramperig-nerveus.—

’t Heele gezelschap, had bedrukt-ernstig en stil

geluisterd, maar Beemstra wou ’r ’n eind aan zien.

—Nou Hassel, ik vergeef je graag je brutale woorden,

die ook niet van jou zijn. Je bent opgeruid!—Maar
daar schiet de zaak toch niet mee op. Ik kan, heusch,
ik mag niet langer.. konsideratie gebruiken … wil ik niet
zelf de grond ingeboord worden. Heb je borgen voor ’t
tekort?
 —Borgen, borge? snikte ouë Gerrit’s stem, vast niet,
vast nie.. daa’s daan.. ik hep d’r lest twee had veur de
koebeeste.. Moar nou is ’t daan! nou sullie d’r main
arremoe-en kenne … mit de boonestorm.…

—Dan is ’t blok gevalle Hassel, je begrijpt zelf dat..

—Ik smaik ie netoaris main fesoèn! onderbrak

huilbeverig ouë Gerrit, woar mo’k hain?! op main ouë
dag.. aa’s de boel onder.. main baine wort weghoalt!
Woar mo’k hain? Ikke kèn d’r vast gain werk meer
finde! he’k gain kracht veur! Nou, si’k doàr mit ’n daas
waif.. en kooters!.. Woar mo’k hain? Ik smaik ie
netoaris sien d’r wa je doent? kaik ’t nog rais ’n joàrtje
an! Main heule laife is d’r in uwes hand! Aa’s d’r nog ’n
goed joar-en-komp!.…

—Nee.. néé Hassel, ’t gaat niet, ’t gaat niet! Dat zijn

dezelfde praatjes van ’t vorige jaar. Ik kàn, ik mag niet
langer! Dat is overrompelen! Dat gaat ’r elk jaar dieper
in! Je hebt [388]kinderen, je hebt al met anderen over
grond onderhandeld voor hun. Nou, die moeten dan
maar voor jou werken en je hebt nog ’n duitje bij de
Bekkema’s.

—En ’n meid waarvan ze heel wat leelijks zeggen,

bulderde dokter Troost hardvochtig en wreed-gulzig
woest, dat hij Guurt niet te pakken kon krijgen.

—Lailiks.. lailiks segge, bitste ouë Gerrit weer, daa’t

segge hullie t’met van de heule waireld.. van uwès
ook! dokter! van ùwes ook!
 Hij driftigde weer, vergetend z’n smeek toon van
daareven.

—Kom Beemstra, maak ’r nou maar ’n eind an, hè?

zei Stramme van uit de hoogte, bang dat er nog iets
tegen hem uitbraakte, waar burgemeester bij zat … Er
is vergadering en ’t heeft geen nut langer.…

—Zoo is ’t.… ik heb er niets meer bij te voegen. Tot

één November Hassel, en gaat ’t dan niet, dan is de
boel aan de paal! onherroepelijk! adieu hoor! zie je te
helpen!—

Ouë Gerrit was gebluft en nijdig naar de deur

gestrompeld, op z’n kousen, zacht, en de bulderstem
van Dr. Troost hoorde ie achter zich schaterhoonen:…
iets van stroopersras.… gemeen vollekie.. blijft
gemeen vollekie!

Z’n klompen schoot ie aan op de mat, en vuisten in z’n

jekkerzakken bijeengekrampt van drift, klos-sjokte ie
de deur uit.—

Nou voelde ie pas, heel klaar dat ie verloren was voor

goed, hij en z’n boel.—Het schrijnde, ziedde in ’m van
huilende stikkende woede.—Dat tuig, had ie zich nou
maar niet zoo vernederd, en de waarheid blijven
zeggen. Want hij wist wel, hoe ze allemaal knoeiden
met taxeeren en veilingen, en grond en verbouwing.
Hoe ze duizenden en duizenden wonnen met hun
spekulatie op pachtertjes; met hun los geld, en
voorschot en afrekening en rente. En èven helder, in
z’n woede, voelde ie, dat de heele streek door hen
vermoord werd, door de slokops van grond en geld. Zij
waren gedekt, ook bij hém.… Wat zoo lief helpen leek,
werd dubbel en dwars door hun zelf betaald. En al
armer werden zij, al meer konden zich ophangen.
[389]Dat reed dwars door hùn land, meneer de notaris
in eige span, mèt z’n kinderen, aldegoar geleerden.…
En raik, raik, stinkraik hoho! en noakend in de ploas
komme!.. Nou,.. al kon die dan nie laise en nie
skraife.… da vatte ie tug.. daa’t stele waa’s. Nou waa’s
hai d’r d’r uut, veur goed, omdàt tie de fint beleedigd
had! Tug stom van sain … Enn … veur wâ gong die
nou nie in hande van de aere netoaris? Hoho! waa’s
aldegoar te loat! Veuls te loat!.…..

Nooit had ie gedacht zoo moeilijk van z’n boel te

kunnen scheiden. Nou ging ie ’n wintertje tegemoet!
zou d’r ’n jaartje worden.

En de heele boel, nou zoomaar, onder z’n klompen

weg! weg! voor goed!

In onrustigen peins strompelde ie door de straatjes

naar huis, niemand groetend, niemand ziend. Er
spande hevige angst in ’m, voor dingen die gebeuren
gingen. Maar toch, heel diep in z’n kop, brandde ’n
satanisch-lekker gedachtetje, dat ie ìets overhield, dat
’m geen sterveling kon afnemen.. Z’n spullen.. z’n
prachtspullen.—

Met hem was ’t nou toch gedaan, finaal!

Toch kon ie stikken van woede, dat ze’m z’n naam, z’n
fatsoen te grabbel gooiden; dat zijn boel aan de paal
ging, al begrepen ze dat de boonenstorm ’t gelapt
had. Nou kon ie zelf genadebrood vreten, straatarm
 en z’n broer ’r van lollen dat hìj gekelderd was. Nou
zou ie rondkijken naar ’n huisje.… met ’n brokje
kelder, voor hèm.… Eerst de spulle … had ie s’n heule
laife lang doalik veur sorgt.… z’n spulle.… En dan..
moar goan.. soo ’t wil!— [391]
Vierde Boek
 HERFST.

[393]

[Inhoud]
 TIENDE HOOFDSTUK.

—Wil Wimpie d’r nog effetjes af? goeiigde Ant naar

trieste bedje van ’t kereltje.

—Joa moe.… heul groag.… effetjes moar!

—Och vrouw Seune, wou je main effetjes ’n handje

hellepe? kaik!.… Nou pak ikke d’r sain an ’t hoofie
hee?.. enne nou jai d’r an ’t linkerbaintje! sien je?—
Kees naimt sain alletait in één setje.… Moar da durrif
ikke nie! vast nie.… Soo!.. joà juustig.. Heb je sain nou
vast vrouw Seune?.. soo!.. mooi! joa fintje! kaik d’r
moar nie soo bang.… Nou ikke.. onder.… sain.…
nekje! Soo liefeling?

Zachtjes droegen ze Wimpie bij ’t hooge raam in ’t

goud-fijne zevende licht van laat-Septemberdag.

Z’n oortjes trechterden steenbleek, wijd van z’n hoofd,

en z’n weggevreten beenig, ontvleesd kopje,
doodshoofde grauw-groen in den zonnigen
buitenglans.

Paars geader takte langs z’n ingeholde apige

slaapjes, en hol-onkenbaar z’n groote groen-blauwe
oogen staarden uit de ziektewallen boven z’n
vermagerden neus.

—Mo je nou nog rais loope, main mannetje?

 —Joa moe.. heul groag!.… aa’s ’t kàn, bedeesde
zacht en hijgend z’n doodziek stemmetje.… kaik!.. nou
glai.… ikke.… d’rof.… paa’s d’r op! Soo goed! Vrouw
Seune paa’s d’r op! main dai! soo! ’n endje op sai!
Nou.. mot u main.. ef.. effe.… teuge de.. toafel.. rand..
loate anleune?—

Zwaarder hijgde z’n borstje van vermoeienis. Stervend

verklonk z’n stemmetje, en heel zoetjes was ie van
Ants schoot gezakt. Z’n vuil ponnetje kabaaide
flodderig om z’n stakkerige [394]beentjes, en z’n
vergeelde geraamtehandjes, zwakkelijk-paars
doorpeesd, grepen in angstigen span den tafelrand.
Hij waggelde op z’n doorgezakte knietjes, en z’n lijfje
duizelde zachtjes. Even sloot ie z’n oogen, waar de
leeden, aderfijn en porcelijn-teer doortakt overheen
kapten, stil, doodziek, broos. Vrouw Zeune was links
gaan staan, klaar om hem op te vangen, als ie viel; en
Ant, angstig kromde achter hem d’r magere armen,
zonder dat ze ’t Wimpie merken liet. Zoo stond ’t
mannetje èven als veraapt geraamtetje in ’t herfstlicht,
dat helder invrat op z’n doodskopje, groèf in de zwarte
holheid van z’n oogwallen, en de zieke
oudemannetjesrimpels op z’n beenderige slapen,
neus en mond, smartelijk omscherpte. Foetus-groot
en karikaturig zwalkte z’n hoofd op slap spierloos
nekje, en kroppig zwoegde z’n uitpuntend strotje
angstig naar adem. Om z’n bloote halsje hing z’n
rozenkrans, waarvan de glorie-zij-den-Vader’s zilverig
blinkerden in ’t wasemgouden licht.

—Oarem skoap! t’met ’n dooskop! ’t is sonde!

verzuchtte onbarmhartig vrouw Zeune ontsteld.
 Wimpie lachte, fijntjes, wijs-smartelijk, met stille
ontroering in ’m, over de plompe uitroep van
buurvrouw. Hij kende die gezegdes, en voelde ze
rustiger dan ’t valsche gepraat over z’n goèd uitzien,
woordjes om ’m alleen maar moed te geven.—

Sterker trilden z’n beentjes, en achter ’m de

krampende mager-uitvingerende handen en
armenhoepel van z’n moeder.—

—Hou je je aige nog liefeling?

—Ka.. aik moe! hijgde z’n borstje.… nou.. wou.. ik..

ikke.. van dà.… noà.… dà.… ah!.… hoekkie!.…
dan.… ke’k.… teu.… ge.… foa.. der.. seg..ghe! daa’.…
’k.. f’e.… doag.… weer.… lo.… ooope.… he ..ep! .…
dan.… is.… tie.… blai.…

Vrouw Zeune rilde. Maar Ant keek norsch. Want ze

haatte Kees erger dan ooit, nou ie, na haar miskraam,
gejuicht had over ’t dooie kind dat gekomen was. Dat
leek zoo zondig, zoo gemeen! Zij wist wel, dat ’t van
haar val was, dien avond op ’t land, toen ze stil,
zonder hulp, zich aan ’t boompje had willen ophalen,
en terugsmakte.… [395]

Nou kon ze ’m vloeken, ook omdat ze zag, hoe hij

Wimpie behekste, en ’m al maar dingen liet zeggen,
die ’t schaap niet eens wílde zeggen.

Wimpie hield zich kramp-stijf vast aan den tafelrand,

de vingertopjes bloedloos bleek uitgedrukt van ’t
angstige persen. En vreemd nu schoof ie voort, langs
den tafelrand, telkens in ’n strompelig half-draaitje van
 z’n vermolmd karkasje, één hieltje dwars tegen de
wreef ingehaakt.

Vrouw Zeune keek bang, maar Wimpies vrome oogen

straalden van pret, dat ie ’t met de strompelend halve
draaitjes van z’n bevende hieltjes, zoovèr nog
gebracht had. Aan ’t eind van z’n hoekje, klamde
noodzweet op z’n aderverzwollen doodskopje,
zwijmden plots z’n oogappels wèg in ’t geel-zieke wit,
dat Ant ’r van schrok en ’m oppakte. Vrouw Zeune
schoot ook toe in schrik, raakte z’n rechterdijtje. ’n
Scheur-gil, weenend en hevig smartelijk martelde uit
z’n mager kropje, en z’n bleeke gezicht kermde in ’t
cellige raamlicht.—

—Hailige moagd! je hep sain stootte, schreide Ant

ontzet, lei ’m zachtjes tegen ’r borst aan.—Vrouw
Zeune stond verblokt van dollen schrik. En uit ’t diepe
halfduister van de lage, van valeriaan doorzogen
kamer, tastte armkrommig uit kleine erfdeurtje, vrouw
Rams, en scherp snerpte ’r doordringende stem naar
Ant wat er gaande was.

—Niks moeder.… hai stoan d’r alleweer bai!

Vrouw Rams, schuifelend, schoot uit de donkerte voor

’t vallicht van ’t raam, dat ’r paarse rok eerst in
verborgen kleur duisterend, nu òpgroeide in de kamer.
Haar vossensnuit spitste bitsig, en d’r schaduwen-
staar lag omfloerst van onrustige stilte als bij blinden,
die luisteren met oògen. Haar handen tastten krommig
weer vooruit, en ’r lijf schuifelde naar vrouw Zeune.
 —Nou mot ie ’t f’doag mit moagere moaltje doen,
scherpte ze.… ’t onsie flees van Hummer op de
hoek.…

—Hoe he’k ’t nou? mot ’n sieke nou ook de fraidoàg

houê? barstte vrouw Zeune mannig-woest uit.

—Da wil die sellefers buurfrouw! Weus jai d’r knap en

kraig jai d’r fraidoag ’n stukkie flees in! Daa’s puur ’n
hailige [396]mi die jonge! De koapeloan stoan d’r
sellefers veur! Die is d’r tug soo ellendig-mooi op s’n
geloof hee?.…

Ze straalde Ant dat ze ’t zoo zeggen kon, dwars tegen

Kees in, en vrouw Zeune verbromde wat
onverstaanbare ruwe dingen om Wimpie niet te
krenken.—

Bij de donk’re schouw, in scheemrig goudzachtgen

glans van raamlichtafschijn, zat grootvader Rams te
pruimen en te spuwen, alsof ie nooit nog was
opgezeten. Tusschen ’t gesprek verrochelde ie z’n
slijmhoest, telkens scheurender en heviger. Eindelijk
wrevelde vrouw Zeune er weer uit:

—Nou, moar.… ikke sou ’t sain tòg d’r instoppe.… ’t Is

tòg moar ’n hufter! die jonge mot d’r fraite.… die malle
froome kuure.… ken die s’n moag nie mee sette.…
gekkighaid is gekkighaid!

Ouë Rams verrochelde z’n hoest zoo hevig, dat Ant

vrouw Zeune niet meer verstond, ’t Bleek-starende
kopje van Wimpie lag te sidderen tegen ’r borst, onder
de brullende slijmige hoest-scheuren van z’n
 grootvader, die naar lucht snakte in krampigen
longenhijg, dat ie schokte op z’n stoel, z’n beenen
opspartelden, en z’n gele tronie wegzonk tusschen de
schouders. Uit de donk’re lage kamer verklonk ’t onder
de schouw als rochelend geschrei, plots afgebroken
door slijmgeslik, dat stikte in z’n strot.

—Spoeg tog uit foader! spoeg tog uit! Je stikt d’r t’met
op je ploas, angstigde Ant. Maar Ouë Rams, één
beefhand in angstklem vastgegrepen aan
schouwrand, barstte liever in reutel, dan z’n long er uit
te braken, zooals ie in stomme hardnekkigheid bleef
denken.

Z’n gele kop, even belicht in den valen goudschijn van

’t celraam, stond blauwigzwart gewurgd van
benauwing, en z’n keelkrop sidderde boven z’n
koperen knoopen, als werd ie op en neer gerukt.
Wimpie wou maar weer naar bed, voelde zich doodop
van z’n loopje. Hij had Kees willen verrassen. Want
elken dag zag ie z’n vader treuriger erbij loopen, stiller,
en plots soms in dolle drift tegen z’n moeder uitrazen
als ze’m sarde en vloekte om z’n ketterijen, ze vóór
z’n gezicht uittelde, hoe ’t nest weer tegen den herfst
te hongeren zou krijgen. [397]

Van den boonenstorm had Wimpie gehoord; z’n vader

was er werkeloos door gemaakt. Want na ’t
overeindzetten ’n paar dagen, bij die en bij die, bleek
de pluk voor los werk te klein. En uit den stommen
angstigen kijk van z’n vader naar zijn gezicht, had
Wimpie heel diep gevoeld, dat ’t wel gauw met hèm
gedaan moest zijn. Hij moest doòd! Wat dat sterven