The strident clanging at the forge lasted a few more minutes. Finally the smith dropped the red-hot wedge into a charred barrel. Water hissed wickedly as the man glowered at his visitors. “What are you useless scamps doing in here?”
“We are merchants in the business of weapons trade.” A bead of sweat trickled down Viper’s back, and he forced himself not to squirm. “We’d like to buy some of your axes. I’m told that you are the master axe-smith in the entire valley, and possibly the world.”
“Is that so?” The smith frowned, but the muscles around his mouth relaxed. “What makes you think I’d sell anything to the likes of you? You don’t look like you could lift an axe, blossom boy.”
Ice cramped his belly. Lightning strike the man. He wasn’t anybody’s whore. “If I can lift it, will you sell it to me?”
Lorel glanced down at him, her eyebrows halfway to her hairline.
Tsai’dona shoved her elbow into the turybird’s ribs.
The smith bellowed with laughter. “If you can lift it, I’ll sell it to you for twelve copper tashi.”
He’d expected to pay ten silver renani for a middling-sized weapon. If he could carry off even one large axe, he was guaranteed a profit. “At that price, I can lift a dozen of them.”
Lorel’s mouth worked, and Tsai’dona shook her head.
Their reactions warned him to add, “One at a time.”
The smith chuckled. “This I’ve got to see. You lift them, blossom, the raven-haired beauty carries them, and the pretty southerner can keep count. You can take as many as the raven lady can hold. But she stays put right there and you carry each axe over to her.”
“Deal.” Viper handed Tsai’dona his crutch. He’d have to rely on his stump holding him up for as long as this took.
He studied the weapons on the wall before choosing a medium-sized battle axe with very little decoration. It smelled of smoke and sulfur, but the shaft’s smooth wood caressed his moist palms.
“Good choice.” The smith’s voice rumbled with amusement. “Let’s see you get it off the wall.”
Viper balanced on his foot, and shoved up hard on the shaft to free the head from the prongs. He staggered backwards when it came free. The padded boot twisted sideways.
This monster must weigh half as much as he did. And all its weight was way up there!
“Look out, kid!” Lorel shouted. “Watch your feet. ”
“I can’t. I’m too busy watching this thing’s head.” He staggered the whole way, but he hauled the axe to her without falling over.
“One,” Tsai’dona said.
The smith slapped his thighs and laughed. “Well, dragons ate the village. I didn’t think you could do it. Care to try again?”
“Yes.” He twisted his boot around as inconspicuously as he could, though it didn’t seem to matter which way it was pointed when he was walking.
“Good boy. Next time lower the butt to the ground. The weight of the head will drag you over otherwise.”
Viper nodded grimly and limped back to the wall. His next choice was much larger, longer than he was tall. It was painfully heavy and rather ornate, but it came down more easily than the first.
“Two.”
“I like this one better, kid.” Lorel shouldered the haft. “Get a couple more like this.”
He staggered back to the wall and pretended to study the weapons. His head hurt, his back ached, his shoulders were killing him, and his stump felt like he’d shoved it into the forge. But he wasn’t about to give up.
The third and fourth axes took a bit more time to get down, and he was panting hard when he ran into Lorel with the fifth. He leaned against her to catch his breath.
“Five.” Tsai’dona frowned at him. “Don’t sprain your back.”
“Four big ones are enough.” Lorel patted his shoulder while she held him up. “Try a couple smaller ones. And wipe the sweat out of your eyes. How can you see where you’re going?”
The smith shifted restlessly. “Maybe the little butterfly should quit.”
Viper glared at the man, but he was too exhausted to think up a decent insult. Whatever it took, he’d prove the sandcrab wrong.
He managed to get down two more axes, both only as tall as his own chest. The next three came only to his waist, and three after were only as long as his arm. He staggered back to the wall.
“Thirteen.” Tsai’dona looked worried. “Are you hurt? You’re paler than you ought to be.”
“Hold up, kid. This is all I can carry.” Lorel shifted the axe hafts on her shoulder until the load was balanced. “Any more and I won’t be able to walk.”
Praise the Thunderer. He sank to the cool stone floor and massaged his stiffening shoulders. He didn’t dare touch his stump: he’d scream like a peacock with a nercat chewing on its tail feathers.
He wiped his sooty sleeve across his sweaty forehead. “How much do we owe you?”
“You’re not finished yet.” The smith bowed slightly, but no insult seemed intended. “I said as many as she can hold. If you can get any more over to her, I’ll help her carry them off myself.”
The words didn’t begin to make sense. Had the man offered to carry more weapons? Why?
His back stiffened. That old metal pounder thought he was too tired to move one single axe more. He’d show the cold goat he was wrong, even if it killed him.
“I accept your sandblasted offer.” He wobbled to his foot and staggered toward the biggest, most perfect axe in the building. The shaft of the weapon was twice his height, and the iron blade was bigger than Lorel’s chest. Only a Setoyan could use this thing. And he’d make his kinsman pay in blood and glory to buy it, too.
He positioned himself under the axe and braced his knees against the wall. He heaved up against the shaft–
and nothing happened. The axe head didn’t even shift.
He glared at the weapon. I will get you down, you stinking vulture. He wrapped his sweaty hands around the shaft and heaved until his stomach hurt.
The axe felt glued to the wall.
Viper rubbed his hands through the sweat on his face and hair. Distantly, he noted the blisters forming on his palms.
I will succeed. I will get that thing down. I will.
He grabbed the shaft and pushed, and willed the head to rise above the prongs.
The axe rose free of the hook. He pulled the axe away from the wall and thunked the butt down on the floor.
For a moment, the axe supported the sorcerer.
He forced his legs to shuffle forward. He had to lean his entire weight upon the shaft as though it were an old man’s cane, but he limped the axe over to his audience.
Tsai’dona’s mouth hung open. She cleared her throat. “Fourteen.”
Lorel watched him with a turtle-turd grin on her face.
The smith stared at him wide-eyed.
“I’m not finished yet.” Viper stretched his shoulders, and every bone in his spine popped.
***
Lorel’s jaw dropped when the kid snarled at the smith. She’d never heard him growl at nobody before. Who’da thought he had it in him?
She slammed her mouth shut and watched the kid hobble back to the wall of axes. Fraying men. They must be playing some sort of boy’s game.
The gorgeous smith rubbed the back of his bald head. “I may have made a mistake, goading that one.”
Three trips later the kid collapsed on the floor, a little hatchet locked tight in his fingers.
“Seventeen?” Tsai’dona dashed forward and knelt beside him.
Lorel tried to drop her load of axes and run to him, but her legs tangled in the shafts. She tumbled to the floor with all the grace of a scarecrow built of broken broomsticks and burnt burlap. “Thread-snipping kid! Why does he have to be so stubborn? Loom bust a Thread, get me loose!”
“Dragons protect us all.” The smith sat on his anvil and cackled like he’d laid an egg the size of Weaver’s chapel’s bronze bell. “Don’t glare at me, raven lady. Hold
, wait. Let me give you a hand.”
He bodily hoisted her out of the tangle of shafts. Weaver’s blood, he was strong. And pretty. Too bad the kid would tease her silly if she ever told him. Sing to the Weaver she could share with Tsai. She’d understand.
The smith strode to the kid, picked up the little, sweat-soaked body, and carried him to a long pallet behind the forge.
“Your friend can sleep here for a while,” he told them amiably. He glanced at Lorel. “Your lover?”
Tsai looked up from twisting the kid’s boot back the way it belonged. “Lover?”
“Him? You gotta be kidding.” The little guy wasn’t as tall as her tits.
“He suits you. He’s got a lot of nerve.”
She paused and studied the sweaty, snoring kid. “Sometimes.” He had the nerve of a warlord, when he really wanted something. But that was rare. “We ain’t like that. It would be like – messing around with my youngest brother.” Not the she had younger brothers. But he felt more like a brother than her older ones.
“Honestly?” The smith shook his head and grinned. “Amazing. Never mind. Let’s reckon up the bill, and I’ll write you a receipt. If you can carry him, I’ll carry your new axes back to the tavern. Fair enough?”
“Full fair. ” Lorel forced her gaze to shift from his naked shoulders to the kid’s sweaty face. “I’ve been carrying him for years. We need to go through his pockets for the coins, though. He don’t trust me none with money. Says that I’m good at defending it, but lousy at spending it.”
Tsai’dona laughed. “He’s right about that.”
Like she’d know. He didn’t trust either of them with money. Come to think of it, he didn’t trust nobody about nothing. Except the Kyri-thing, and something was weird there. Someday she’d do something about that slithering toad.
But first she had to figure out how to pay the gorgeous smith.
Lorel shrugged at Tsai and started rummaging through the kid’s jacket pockets. Through his shirt pockets. Through his trousers pockets. She finally found a pouch of coins hidden down the front of his underpants. Why on the Loom would he hide anything there?
Boys did the strangest things.
Chapter 9.
Wind screamed through craggy, red-stone mountains that loomed like giants guarding the frost-rimmed road. Switchbacks hid the trail ahead, revealing faces in the cliff walls. Severe, disapproving faces that stared down at the travelers and seemed to consider leaping off the cliff and mashing the lot of them.
He’d never seen mountains that radiated such life. Such anger.
Not that he’d seen that many mountains. Setoya was mostly flat, with gorges carved into its plains. The hills around Zedista weren’t a tenth this tall.
Were the cliffs natural, or had the locals carved faces into them? Were they secure, or as ready to collapse as they appeared? He wished he had a notebook handy to write down his impressions.
“There you go, you’re doing it again,” Lorel shouted.
Viper sat up guiltily and grabbed the reins before they slipped from his lap. He wrapped the leather straps around his wrists and blew into his cupped hands to try and warm them. Breathy steam billowed around his face. “Doing what?”
“Dreaming about Margat’s cooking, I bet.”
He ducked his head to hide his face. He’d been dreaming about writing his own book, but he wasn’t going to admit to it.
Lorel laughed and shook her head. “Keep your mind on the road, kid. I ain’t gonna bury you in this frozen mud heap, even if I managed to scrap you off the rocks.”
He peered over the right side of the driver’s bench and shuddered from more than cold. The sheer drop curled the hair on his toes. No part of the road was visible on that side, and the solid rock wall on his left was close enough to scrap paint off the siding. He’d rather not think about the road at all. “Why should I bother? These horses don’t need me. They do better without me pestering them.”
Lorel laughed and urged her young stallion forward to ride beside Tsai’dona.
The girl was full of moondust, telling him to be careful while racing around on that black fireball.
She was right about one thing, though. He did miss Margat’s cooking. And a real bed. And a decent bookstore. And a real friend, like Trevor had been. The Kyridon was a warm body to cuddle against at night, but it hardly counted as a friend. He wished it would coil around him out here, but it refused to stick its nose out of the wagon.
He shook the stiff reins and little icicles chipped off onto the horses’ backs. He was so thundering cold. He needed gloves and a better coat or he’d turn into a water crystal, glacier style. The blanket around his shoulders wasn’t doing its job. Should he scramble inside and steal Lorel’s? Maybe not. She’d strangle him with it.
He pretended to guide the wagon around a bend, but the team obviously knew the turn was there and didn’t need his guidance one bit.
Praise the Thunderer they did know what they were doing. He threw up his arms to protect his face from the fierce wind. He’d like to know how they knew where they were going. He couldn’t see a thing.
The horses trudged forward stoically, and eventually the wind eased down to a casual wail.
Viper peered ahead sightlessly, and lifted his head to sniff.
He smelled cows. Yes, definitely ripe cow dung. Maybe a whiff of smoke. He’d wager they weren’t too far from a town, and the only town on his map was Padue. Thunderer’s drums, he was ready for a long, hot bath. A very hot bath. Even then, he might not thaw out for days.
Two mismatched horses bearing equally mismatched riders cantered back to the wagon.
“Move it along, slow poke,” Lorel yelled. “How much longer ’til dark?”
“About an hour,” he shouted over the wind.
“But the sun’s only been up a little while! Weaver spit on this north country, I hate these short days. I know, I know, you warned me, but I still hate it. We’re going to scout ahead to find a ledge wide enough to camp on.”
“Don’t stop at the first one you find.” He pointed into the wind, trying to look dramatic. Was it possible to be impressive when your nose was red and drippy? “We’ll reach the town near dusk.”
“How do you know?” Tsai’dona reined in her horse. “An hour ago you didn’t know how far.”
“The wind told me,” he said airily. At least, he tried to sound casual while shouting over the icy gusts.
Lorel stared back at him. “Weaver’s cold toes. Why didn’t you ask it sooner?”
“Oh, I did.” He hesitated, thinking fast. “But the wind doesn’t always answer, and it never remembers anything smaller than a storm for very long.”
“Snip my thread.” Lorel shook her head and nudged her horse back up the path. “Let’s go town hunting, Nightshade.” She sent the horse trotting up the steep path, Tsai’dona riding close behind her.
Now he knew how sorcerers and wizards acquired their reputations. They simply improvised so they didn’t look dumb.
That sounded too much like what magicians did, according to his new books. Trevor would be ashamed of him.
The team nickered uneasily when they started to pull the heavy wagon up the next steep section of road. They put their heads down and dug their hooves into the rocky soil. Their muscles strained and sweat poured down their sides, in spite of the cold wind.
Poor creatures. He ought to get down and help push the wagon, as though that would do any good. He was more likely to get himself run over. But maybe he could help.
He put the reins between his knees, tucked his cold hands under his armpits, and fought to concentrate.
This should be just like the ‘Open the Basket’ chant. Only change the words a little and make the wagon lighter.
“Wagen, leoghtre be! Eiseren thas lode.
“Rise uppe tha hyll
“In myn need I wyll,
“For horsas thara gode.”
The horses surged forward as though the wagon was suddenly
empty, and made of balsa wood besides.
“Trevor, look! It worked the first time.” Viper cheered aloud, adding a Setoyan victory chant for the joy of it.
But the wagon swayed drunkenly. A corner of the roof knocked against the cliff wall.
His elation disappeared. “Lightning-blasted storm.”
More harsh wind gusts threatened to thrust the magically-lightened wagon completely off the cliff. He glanced down, and immediately turned his gaze back to the horses’ tails.
Blood hammered inside his ears. His guts squirmed into a pretzel.
The valley floor was several hundred feet straight down.
Viper released his hold on the first chant and the wagon settled firmly on the road.
The team slowed to a miserable slog. They looked even more exhausted than before. That wasn’t fair. His efforts to help had been nothing but a cruel tease.
Hastily, he constructed a new chant. This time he’d do it right. Lighten the wagon, but keep it on the road.
“Wagen leoghtre be! Be waerie of hwistlian wind.
“Staie on tha paeth
“Forfendre death,
“Oththe wyllen we be skinned.”
Again the horses walked more quickly, but this time the wagon stayed firmly on the ground. Viper smiled in triumph and focused on keeping his will steady.
Sweat poured down his face. His stump burned as if he’d shoved it into the camp fire. His hair prickled like spider feet danced across his scalp. No, no, don’t think about spiders. Last time he thought too much about spiders, a giant arachnid had Manifested on top of his head. He tried to think about books, instead.
His concentration wavered and he had to start the chant all over again.
By the time the wagon cleared the top of the grade, he was exhausted. He wiped frozen drops of sweat from his face and leaned back against the wagon door. “Horses, you’re on your own. I don’t have the strength to help you anymore.”
The blue roan mare nickered.
He laughed weakly. “Thank you, Poppy. I’m glad you appreciate my efforts.”
Both horses whickered.
Did they really understand him? Or was Lorel coming back? They’d hear Nightshade long before he would. At least, he thought they would.
Serpent's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 3) Page 11
