“My father does not pay ransom, he’ll take—” The prisoner stopped short. He smiled then, a terrible, silent smile. “Wait and see.” He sat back with as much dignity as his bonds would allow. “Wait and see, pawtoon.”
CHAPTER 14: PUZZLING DISCOVERIES
Pelekarr stood in the smithy area on the evening of the second day. The setting sun had dipped below the level of the stockade walls, and here and there brilliant beams shot through tiny gaps between the log wall, illuminating patches of the sandy floor.
This had once been a tidy and well-kept place, he noted approvingly. The sandy floor was swept clean. Circular impressions in one corner revealed where the baskets of charcoal had been kept, but not a single stray lump remained. Gone too were the sword-molds into which the molten bronze was poured. Everything that could be taken had been.
The only anomaly, other than the complete absence of any clues, was a strange little furnace of some sort that stood just to one side of the main smithy area—tall as a man, and built of rough clay bricks. Every Kerathi settlement, no matter how temporary, had a smithy. Bronze was tough, but it often bent with hard use, or broke outright. If the damage was too severe to simply bend back, it had to be recast.
But this odd brick structure was unfamiliar to Pelekarr; he’d never seen its like in either Kerath or Ostora.
He leaned against one of the log corner posts of the roofed forge area and exhaled in frustration. His men were on edge; the mystery was more unnerving than any sign of obvious tragedy. Where had the settlement gone? That many people couldn’t vanish without leaving some clue, yet somehow they had, and the lack of evidence pointed more and more towards deliberate obscuration.
It was no barbarian massacre. The raff would have torn the place apart and left it blood-soaked and burned as a warning. Perian agreed that the fort had not been attacked by barbarians, Silverpath or otherwise, and felt that external, environmental factors were the culprit—some predator or natural catastrophe had driven them out to perish in the forest, en route to the Kerathi-held coast.
“They’re feeding the worms under the trees between here and the nearest of your settlements, Captain,” she’d told him. “If you really want to find them, we must head east again. Perhaps to the north or south of our trail here.”
Pelekarr sullenly kicked at a discolored patch in the earthen floor of the place, exploring the edge of the darker dirt amid the lighter packed earth around it.
It would soon be time for the evening meal. Afterward, Pelekarr had scheduled a meeting of the sergeants to ask for their counsel. If Tibion made good on his threat to spike the boiled mutton with curl-root, the meeting would not go well. The exasperating cook was protesting over the lack of resources devoted to replenishing his supplies, and seemed to think that mild poisoning was a legitimate way of forcing his views on the officers.
The captain had laughed it off, but now he sighed. He would have to send out a foraging party in the morning. Perhaps a good archer or slinger could take a duck on the wing; the girl Harnwe had done it more than once on their march so far. And if Perian consented to go along, she could help them find edible greens. She was already proving herself invaluable in that vein, teaching Tibion which native herbs and roots were safe to eat.
A stone buried in the earth was resisting his toe, and he kicked at it angrily. It didn’t budge, bruising his toe and eliciting a mild curse. It was like the kernel of the nut he was trying to crack, the buried and hidden secret that would unlock the fort’s mystery. He dug at it angrily, determined not to let it go.
The more he worked at it, however, the more excited he became. Perhaps the metaphor he’d been pondering wasn’t as abstract as he’d assumed. The gray stone shone in the low light like no other stone he’d seen.
He bent down and tugged the fist-sized object free of the packed earth. It was not a stone at all: too heavy, and its dark gray, jagged surface was riddled with holes like the air bubbles in a cheese. From its shape it appeared to have been part of something larger, for one facet of the thing looked to have been broken off of a larger piece.
Something about the metallic object stirred an echo in Pelekarr’s mind.
“Sergeant!”
Caspar was trotting past the open doorway on some business. At his captain’s call he approached and saluted.
“Who’s our best metalworker?”
Caspar gave Pelekarr a blank stare.
“His father worked bronze back in Kerath, and he enlisted to pay the family debts. You know the man I speak of?”
“Ah, yes. Tekon, sir. He’s in Keresh’s troop. Does occasional repair jobs for us, but he’s no expert.”
“Send him to me.”
“Yes sir.”
The sergeant jogged off, bawling for Trooper Tekon. Pelekarr waited patiently, studying the thing in his hand.
Nothing like bronze, certainly, and not copper or tin. He knew those well enough. This thing had an incomplete feel to it, though. From its ugly surface and shape, it was obvious it couldn’t be the final product. It was clearly the intermediate product of some larger process. Perhaps the excess material from a casting, or the dross skimmed out of a crucible of molten ore. Yet it was solid and heavy, a lump of something unknown, and it intrigued him. Why had it been buried in the ground?
Caspar came back with the young trooper in tow. Tekon’s face was set. Clearly he was expecting a reprimand and was unsure what rule he’d breached. He saluted smartly and stood at attention. Pelekarr smiled at the man.
“Can you tell me what this is, Trooper?”
Tekon took the object in his hands, turning it over. He lifted it to his mouth and sniffed, then licked it. He nodded and relaxed his stance.
“That’s some type of iron, sir.”
“Iron? You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.” Tekon handed the metal chunk back to his captain. “I’ve never worked it myself, of course, but I’d swear that’s something cast off from an iron-working process.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it’s impossible to get it hot enough to cast, and it wants a full day of beating from the hammer before it will take a shape. Only the rich can afford it in Kerath, and the king placed strict regulations on its use. You can work it if you know what you’re doing, though. My father once repaired a sword hilt for some nobleman. Worked that thing for three days before he finished, cursing it the whole time.”
“Any idea why it would be here, in this outpost smithy?”
“I’d say someone’s been smelting the ore, Captain. Couldn’t say why. That’s a risky business considering the regulations on it. I haven’t seen a royal inspector this side of the sea yet, but there must be at least one or two sniffing about with a nose for iron. My father had one breathing down his neck the whole time he was repairing that sword hilt.”
Pelekarr nodded. Now he understood the echo in his mind: he’d seen iron weapons before in Kerath once or twice. The rarity of the metal made possession of an iron weapon a status symbol, a mark of eccentricity, really. A way to stand out and show off wealth and prestige. He’d met an infantry general once who waved his iron spear around at every opportunity to get attention.
Bronze was just as good for helmets, shields, body armor, and even spear points and swords as far as he knew. And it was far cheaper. So why would he find evidence of iron working hidden in an abandoned timber camp in Ostora? Was this missing smith working on something for his baron, perhaps a gift to appease him somehow? The find made little sense.
Pelekarr stared down at the chunk of ore in his hands. “Why does it look… eaten away?”
“Must be slag, sir. This is the stuff they break off with hammers to get at the pure iron when it comes out of the bloomery.”
“What’s a bloomery?”
Tekon looked around and quickly found what he was seeking. “That clay oven yonder, captain. You’d pour the ore in the top with something that burns very hot, hotter than most woods. Cook it in the oven, and the iron comes
out the bottom. Then you break off the junk with hammers and you have the metal to work with.”
“How many smiths have the knowledge to work iron?”
“Not many, sir. My father learned enough from his father to do a little repair work, but not to forge new product. You’d only find master smiths doing that in the really big cities back home, places with enough wealth to bring the work. It’s a tight secret, and he didn’t even pass on that knowledge to me, saying it was a dangerous trade to get into. He knew an iron-smith who’d been executed for speaking too freely about the king’s iron stores.”
“And what are the odds, I wonder, that a frontier smith in the middle of a savage-infested wilderness leagues from the nearest settlement would have this skill?”
Tekon shrugged. “Couldn’t say, sir.”
“Thank you, Trooper. I may need more of your knowledge later.”
Tekon beamed. “At your service, sir!”
The sergeant rolled his eyes. “Dismissed, Trooper. Back to work.”
Pelekarr dismissed the sergeant and then remained in the smithy for several minutes, deep in thought, rubbing a thumb gently across the misshapen little slag.
The next day, scouts from the fort found tracks in the forest.
They’d been at it all day, in small detachments, up and down the river. Scouts combed the trees, hawk-eyed sentries watched from the walls. They knew they were working against time, gambling that the raff wouldn’t find them, and no one wanted to be the scout unit caught too far from the protection of the stockade.
Then, early in the afternoon, a small cavalry troop returned to the fort, riding quickly. The sergeant in command spurred his sweaty mount straight to the magistrate’s building and dismounted. He saluted the duty officer, and went straight to Pelekarr to deliver his report.
Within minutes word had spread throughout the fort, and riders were sent out to recall the other search parties. Keltos and Makos, working south of the stockade around a bend in the river, heard the news with relief and followed their troop mates and Sergeant Bivar at a hard gallop for the fort. Only when all units had returned did the captain give the word.
A trail had been found two leagues to the northwest. Many tracks, both human and livestock, with cart wheels rutting the grass and leading deeper into the forest. The trail was several weeks old and had been carefully obscured for over a league from the vicinity of the fort, after which the attempt had been abandoned. From the looks of things, the travelers had been moving fast. Pelekarr planned on taking the cavalry out to see for himself.
“Horse troopers, mount up! Infantry and skirmishers, man the walls. We’ll be back before sundown.”
It took them less than an hour, riding at a stiff trot. Perian, as usual, ran alongside the captain’s horse. She carried a short, slender spear in one hand and when she ran, her short doeskin skirts hiked up and bared her thighs. Keltos admired the long, sun-browned muscles that seemed so tireless and so well-formed.
The White River girl seemed oblivious to the frank, appraising stares of the Tooth and Blade, and no man dared to press her for attention. But to Keltos she seemed more than a woman: a sleek panther of the Ostoran forests, unknowable and mysterious. He was simultaneously fascinated and repelled, and he guessed it was the same with the captain and the rest of the men.
They found the tracks in an open glade. It was a slightly boggy place, with a spring nearby, and the ground was perpetually soft, which had preserved the tracks this long and likely made it impossible for anyone to conceal them.
Pelekarr reined in and studied the ground while the troopers fanned out on every side, kicking up the undergrowth for sign. Perian crouched, scanning the sodden earth intently, but there seemed little point. A child could have followed such a trail. It moved in a straight line across the glade and disappeared into the trees on the far side, moving northwest, a veritable highway of churned and pitted mud.
The captain nodded. “Excellent work,” he told the sergeant who had made the discovery. “An extra aleskin for your men tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Pelekarr eyed the forest to the northwest. Afternoon light filtered through the trees and insects whined in the damp air. “No time to follow them today. We’ll return to the fort for the night and head out first thing in the morning.”
“Aye, sir.”
The return journey was brisk, the men elated. The days of waiting, the hanging tension of possible discovery, now evaporated into the hunt. As evening fell, a new energy flowed through the company. The quarry was just ahead.
The cooking detail under Crumbly Tib toiled longer than usual that night, for besides supper the captain had ordered three days’ worth of rations prepared for hasty meals that would likely be eaten on the march and without fire. Multiple teams of foragers and hunters spent the evening replenishing the cook’s supply train, and the temperamental cook’s threats were forgotten.
Sentries were placed on the walls, and most of the men were rolled in their blankets early, eager to leave the fort at first light. None expected their rest to be disturbed that night, not safe within the massive wooden walls that now surrounded them.
CHAPTER 15: HEART OF OSTORA
Cormoran Telos stretched out on a patch of moss by a gurgling spring and removed his armor, piece by piece. The helmet came first, followed by breastplate. Leg greaves came last. It was hell marching in leg greaves, and although he had the hoplite callus on the top of his foot where it joined the ankle, it still hurt after a day of walking in this up-and-down country. He ran a hand through his sweat-plastered locks and heaved a sigh.
He’d get an assignment as soon as his sergeant returned from speaking with the captain, but for now he had a few moments to relax. Leaning down, he scooped water into his mouth with one hand and relished the cool, sweet refreshment it brought to his tired body. Finished drinking, he rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and let the evening sun warm his face.
It was two days since they’d left the grave marker. They’d made good time, considering the terrain. There had been no further attacks from beasts or monsters, and they’d studiously avoided thick groves of mature trees.
Every man of them was conscious of their remote location, every step taking them further into the unknown, further from any possible safety or familiarity. Some handled it better than others, and for all, the thought of possible plunder was the spur that drove them most.
Marching across country on the coast was one thing, not too different from marching in Kerath. But hacking a path forward in this forest was something else entirely. It was all start and stop, high-stepping over obstacles and through dense undergrowth, then around trees, and stooping to avoid tangling one’s weapons and armor on vines and branches.
Then there was the constant scanning for danger, which put a crick in one’s neck and strained the eyes. And already he missed the easy banter and silent support of Fieron. The young hoplite made a long march more bearable with his sarcastic wit and the occasional fits of incredulous pique typical of youth—still expecting the world to make sense.
Sentries had already been posted and small parties of foragers sent out to scour the surrounding area for anything that could augment the expedition’s supplies. The rest filled the clearing around the spring, some filling their water-skins from the spring’s runoff brook.
Cormoran opened his eyes as someone approached. A hairy man had sauntered over and now squatted across from him on the other side of the spring. It was Kairm, their bearded guide. The Ostoran drained the last two drops from a flask he carried, and then frowned as he refilled the vessel from the spring. He looked up and their eyes met briefly.
“Good water here,” the veteran offered.
“Aye.”
“I heard them say you’re a trapper.”
“Aye.”
“What do you trap?” Cormoran asked. “Sloths?”
Kairm grinned sourly. “No. With them it’s the other way around.”
“Why did you lead us under those trees, then, if you knew about them?” Cormoran kept the question light, but he wanted a good answer.
“Didn’t. Usually you see sign under the trees. Droppings, fur clumps. This time I saw nothing. They’d just arrived in the area. Won’t make that mistake again.”
“No, I don’t guess so.”
The trapper rocked back on his heels. “It’s a funny game, trapping. The gods never made a land so chock full of fur. Every kind and color you could want. But it’s playing hob to get it. Me, I’m mostly after geminids and striped mink. Less risk but still a lot of coin. I’ll take guardfish as I see them, or a hoar-swallow if I can catch one unawares.”
Cormoran gave the man a blank stare. The names meant nothing to him. “You didn’t bring any traps along with you on this trek.”
“Them new bronze traps are too dear by half. Only greenhorns use ‘em. Us older ones use deadfalls and snares. Good enough, if you know what you’re doing. ‘Sides, I wasn’t hired to trap this time out. If we find what we seek, we’ll be rich enough I’ll never have to venture into the wilds again. That is, if you soldier boys are up to taming whatever it is that’s out there.”
“Oh, we’ll tame it if you can lead us to it,” Cormoran drawled. “But tell me more about the fur trade. There’s got to be safer, more lucrative ways to make a living in Ostora than trapping solo in the deep interior. What got you into that business?”
Kairm sat back on the grass and looked down at the spring in front of him as he gently swished his flask back and forth. “Hmmm. Dunno. Got started young, like we all did, huntin’ meat for the table. We spent as much time in the woods as we could. If you can’t hunt well on the frontier, you starve.
“The biggest man was always the best hunter, the best archer, the bravest trapper. We value what keeps us alive. By the time I was a man grown, it was all I knew. Never lived anywhere but the frontier. Never cut much dash as a farmer, either. Then the merchants started coming out west, looking for furs, and they paid well. All of a sudden, a man could make a good living just in furs, if he was gutsy enough. I did all right.”
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