Menock swung a blade with even better skill than he did a hammer. Andover dodged as best he could and hissed as the sword’s tip slashed across his ribs. Had Menock scored a better swing that would have been the end of the fight. Instead the apprentice blacksmith bared his teeth in pain and stepped back as his side started bleeding.
All around him the people he’d come to know stared intently, many with worried expressions. Not Drask. Drask simply watched the action, his eyes moving from one opponent to the other, seldom staying on Andover.
Purb was down on the ground trying to recover, trying to stand up again, his ruined leg buckled under him and his face a bloodied ruin. He reached for his sword again, not finished with yet. How could he be? The fight was to the death.
Menock was eyeing Andover cautiously and weaving the tip of his sword a little to the left, a little to the right. Not quite feinting, but not standing still either.
Most of Andover was in a panic. He was bleeding! Gods only knew how badly he was cut, and he didn’t have the time to examine the wound, despite the warmth he felt running between his fingers. But part of him was unsettlingly calm. That was the part that held the hammer. His hands worked. His new hands, the ones given to him by a god called Truska-Pren. His hands worked. The hands that replaced the flesh and bone that Menock had taken from him because he dared look at a girl. That small part, the voice in his head that kept speaking of the insane actions of the man facing him across a sword’s distance, did not speak softly. It bellowed inside his skull, outraged that the bastard was alive and infuriated that he had drawn blood.
His side hurt? In comparison to the agonies he’d suffered since his hands were ruined the scratch was nothing. He remembered that pain and the cut faded away to a minor inconvenience.
His hand on the hammer shifted and he hefted the comfortable, familiar weight. His hair fell in front of his eyes and this time Andover let it, looking past it at the face of his enemy.
The man who took from him without reason.
The panic fell away, brushed aside by a strange calm that felt alien to him. He would not die today. He would have his retribution.
Andover stepped forward and grinned.
Menock’s face twisted into an ugly expression that was half sneer of contempt and half a wince of panic. The sword drew back a bit and then lashed forward.
Andover’s left hand reached out to block the blade. The edge of the weapon carved through his glove and then screamed across the metal palm and fingers of his hand. He clenched a fist around the piece and pushed it aside as he stepped closer to Menock.
Menock’s eyes flew wide open in shock. The sword was wrenched sideways, half pulled from his grasp as he struggled to right his grip. Andover stepped closer still and brought the hammer up between his straining arms and drove the head into the guardsman’s stomach with all the force he could muster.
The hammer struck him in his sternum. Metal met cartilage and muscle with bruising force and Menock grunted. He did not let go of the sword, but Andover pushed in closer still and wrenched the blade free of his hands.
Menock looked at his weapon as it fell and lunged, determined to take back his prize.
Andover brought his knee into the man’s exposed side and sent him sprawling. While Menock tried to collect himself, Andover stepped in again and this time brought the hammer’s broad side down on his enemy’s left shoulder. The bones of the joint separated and Menock fell on his face, grunting, gasping, overwhelmed by the pain. He retched, his stomach revolting against the unexpected damage to his body.
Andover did not stop. The fury grew larger inside him, exploded into a full rage, and he swept the hammer down on Menock’s arm, breaking the bone between elbow and shoulder. Without pausing, he lifted the hammer and dropped it again, this time smashing in his enemy’s ribs.
Menock screamed, but could do little else.
Andover paused and looked down at his foe.
And while he was staring at Menock, Purb stabbed him in the side of his thigh. He might have been aiming higher, but it was the best he could manage. The pain was immediate, and Andover gasped as the blade cut deeply.
He hopped backward, felt the blade pull free of his muscles, and a second after that felt warm heat running down to his calf.
Purb scrambled toward him, crawling forward with one hand and one leg, holding his sword carefully, and looking up at Andover. His face was a swollen, broken mess and his leg apparently wasn’t working. Andover considered that fact carefully as he looked at the man.
And then he limped as quickly as he could to take advantage of the situation. Purb was a big man, physically much stronger than he was, but the guardsman was also wounded. Andover’s leg threatened betrayal but held its own as he moved around the man. Purb tried to move as quickly and failed. He was still trying to adjust himself to a new position when Andover stomped down on his bad leg and then dropped forward.
The guardsman screeched and tried to swing his sword from an impossible angle. Andover landed on his back and brought the hammer down again, again and then a third time on his enemy’s skull. After that Purb no longer tried fighting him.
Andover stood back up and looked down at his opponents where they lay broken on the ground. His body shook with adrenaline and exhaustion, his leg throbbed and he shifted most of his weight to the uninjured partner.
The Arbiter cleared his throat and Andover looked toward the man who was considerably paler than he had been before.
“This battle is not yet finished, Andover Lashk. You have won the justice you sought but you must decide if the accused have been punished enough.”
They were alive, the both of them. Broken, yes, crippled, to be sure, but alive. Would they ever recover completely? Doubtful. Would they ever serve as guardsmen again? Not possible. Would they suffer? Oh, yes.
“Let them live.” Andover didn’t bother looking at either man again. Instead he walked away from the arena and headed back to the smithy. He had a weapon to return to its rightful owner.
He managed five yards from the arena before he collapsed. Tega ran to his side a moment later, followed by Desh Krohan. The visitor did not move. He merely stared at the downed men.
The Emperor sent out twenty men with full regalia to meet the travelers and guide them through the city. Those twenty men rode out in polished armor, carrying the Imperial banner and riding proudly on white chargers. As it wasn’t very often people saw that sort of thing going on in the capital city, quite a few people watched the procession and spoke of it.
They came back two days later with a caravan. There were more horses, of course, and a few wagons. But there were also the people who quickly got dubbed the Outsiders by the citizens of Tyrne.
They rode great beasts; monstrous things that were decidedly not horses. Those creatures were covered in armor and saddled as if they were somehow tamed, though a good number of the things turned their heads and let out warning growls to the people who gathered on the streets to watch them pass.
The dust of the Blasted Lands still fell from riders and mounts alike, and the air around them seemed to carry a cloud of its own as they moved past. To the last, none of the Outsiders looked at the people on the streets. They kept their eyes on the riders ahead of them, or occasionally eyed the buildings around them, but the people seemed of no consequence.
And those riders? At first there were some who claimed they had no faces; later it was decided that they hid themselves behind cloth veils and sported helmets that hid still more of their features. And all of them wore armor, carried an array of weapons, and did not seem like the sort who should be approached for any reason.
Though several of the Outsiders rode on their great beasts, still more of them marched, moving with steady precision and once again ignoring anyone nearby, save those foolish enough to try touching them. There was some confusion as to exactly how many of the Outsiders there were. A small but vocal crowd insisted that there were enough to invade. Calmer voices act
ually took the time to count and revealed that there were exactly forty Outsiders and twenty beasts.
They did not dawdle.
Though a great number of people were curious to see where the strangers might go, what they might look like, and what they might have to say, the guards at the palace had different ideas, and the masses were stopped at the gates.
Once beyond those walls, the procession finally wound to a stop. The escort climbed down from their horses and presented a man named Wollis to the Captain of the Guard. Wollis in turn nodded his head to the wizard Desh Krohan.
Krohan nodded back and gestured for the three women who had ridden along to join him. When they had done so, he gestured for Wollis to approach him.
“You have done well, Wollis March. I appreciate your services. Can you introduce me to the leader of this band?”
Even as he spoke Drask Silver Hand stepped out into the courtyard and placed his hands on his hips as he looked at the group. Wollis stared at the man for a moment and then nodded to the wizard.
A moment after that an enormous man came toward them both. He was wearing less armor than most, primarily because he had a beast he could leave the armor with. He left behind his great helmet, but wore a veil covered with small metal rings and sported a necklace covered with an intimidating variety of long, pointy teeth.
“Tusk, this is Desh Krohan, the man who hired us to examine the Seven Forges. Desh, this is Tusk, the leader of this particular expedition.”
Tusk nodded his head and very carefully followed the bowing method that he’d learned from Wollis. Step back on one foot, bow at the waist, spread the arms to the sides.
The wizard returned the gesture.
“I know that you and your people must be tired. You’ve ridden a great distance. We’ve prepared rooms for you and an area for your mounts. Can you possibly tell me what they like to eat?”
Tusk looked around, the veil over his face tinkling softly. “Mostly meat, but if they are hungry enough they’ve been known to eat almost anything.”
The wizard was hidden away within his robes, but he nodded his head. “So best to feed them well before they get any ideas. Duly noted.”
Tusk contemplated the words for a moment and then laughed, nodding. His hand reached out and swatted at the man’s shoulder good-naturedly. The sorcerer staggered a bit but did not fall. A moment later he was leading all of them into a courtyard and a wing of the palace that had been set aside for the use of the visitors.
Wollis shook his head and grinned. He was exhausted, no way around that, but he was also excited. They had traveled a great distance to reach this point. He was ready to celebrate.
That was to happen later, as he soon found out. First there was rest and a chance to clean up. The meeting with the Emperor was delayed by several hours. That notion didn’t hurt his feelings in the least.
The blonde woman who had been with them from the beginning of the quest was in the chambers they’d arranged for him when he stepped through the threshold.
“Goriah?”
She smiled at him; it was a curious expression, neither promising nor friendly. Polite. That was the word. She did not want to be there. “I know you are tired. There will be time to sleep soon.”
“What is it you need from me?” He wasn’t much in the mood for her or her riddles. Merros found her enchanting. Merros found most women enchanting, but mostly Wollis just thought she was trouble. She and her sisters, too.
“We’re not your enemies.” Her voice held just the finest hint of reproach.
Wollis shrugged. “Neither are you my friends. You are merely women who serve my employer.”
“I’m here to warn you, Wollis. There will be a great number of noblemen at this dinner. It’s a formal affair, and very significant. The people you have traveled with will be scrutinized very carefully and the people who will be looking them over so carefully will be looking you over as well. Comport yourself appropriately and your future is made. Act the wrong way with this lot and you might well wind up swinging by the neck, or more likely poisoned when you turn your head.”
“Who is supposed to be there?”
“The Emperor, or course, but also his closest advisors and his family. The Emperor is not the problem. His closest advisor is your employer. He is not the problem.”
“So you want me to watch my back?”
“Be smart. Observe.” Her voice was distant. “Do not offer answers unless you are asked. To do otherwise would be ill advised.” Without another word she swept past him and moved into the corridor beyond his room. He let her go.
But he was wise enough to listen.
They came into the city of Larnsport without fanfare. That was the way Merros wanted it. This was really the first chance that the Sa’ba Taalor had to meet up with the people of Fellein and he wanted the situation to be uneventful. We seldom get what we want from the world. They were low on supplies and while the people with him believed in hunting for their food, they were not in an area that made that easy. There were cattle around, to be sure, but they were owned by the people raising them. Since he rather liked the idea of avoiding an incident, they went into Larnsport, and because the notion of a bed appealed to him, they stayed at one of the larger inns. He had the good sense at least to make sure that Saa’thaa and the rest of the mounts were placed in a stable that was cleared of other animals. And because he’d been given money he arranged for a local butcher to deliver a lot of raw meat. A lot. The beasts were sated – or at least he hoped they were.
After that, it should have been easy enough to handle matters. He and Swech and a lean, hard man named Blane went shopping for supplies.
Perhaps he’d grown too accustomed to being with the Sa’ba Taalor. Perhaps he was simply tired, or perhaps it was a combination of the two. Whatever the case, Merros failed to give enough warnings. The people with him stared at everything as much as he had surely stared at the great keep where he met the King in Iron. There was little about Fellein that resembled their valley, their world. While they were purchasing supplies and Merros was haggling with a very determined baker regarding the need for at least two dozen loaves of bread – he had a passionate need for freshly baked bread after the last couple of months – Swech wandered off.
He looked for the woman who had become his new right hand for this trip and, when he couldn’t find her, he asked Blane where she had gone.
Blane was looking at an assortment of cheeses as if they were a complete mystery. He turned to Merros and pointed to his right in a vague way. “She went there.”
“Where?”
“In that direction.”
The baker looked in the same direction with a frown on his face. “Your friend is a woman? That is not the right place for a lady.”
Before Merros could ask what the man meant, there was a loud scream. It did not sound like Swech and that was a good thing, but it most decidedly sounded like trouble.
The second scream? That one sounded like Swech. Merros was moving a moment later, and without even thinking about it, he drew his sword. The blade felt comfortable in his hand, as it always did after the years he’d been carrying it. Later, after everything was done, he would remember what Tusk had said when they talked about how the weapons he had forged himself felt like a part of him. For now he concentrated on Swech and protecting her from whatever might try to hurt her. She was a stranger here, and he felt like a fool for letting her wander off.
The pathways between buildings grew narrower in the area off the market square. There were additional vendors to be found, of course, but they were the ones who could not afford shops or who sold merchandise of more dubious natures. Like as not the reason the baker had warned him was because someone was selling women. Or possibly there was a gang who felt they had the right to take what they wanted from women by force. Either way, Merros would make them pay dearly for hurting Swech if they managed.
He came around a sharp corner just in time to watch Swech drive her elbow i
nto a thin man’s throat hard enough to crush his trachea into a new shape. The man fell back, clutching at his ruined neck and rapidly reddening in the face. His eyes were wild and rolled desperately. He fell back against the wall and fought for his balance and his breath alike, with no success.
While that man was choking on his own internal injuries, Swech caught another man with a swipe of opened fingers across his face that made him scream in pain. While he was trying to recover from the assault, Swech moved against him a second time, her arm moving fast enough for Merros to just make out the way she caught the stranger’s arm with hers and then brought her free arm in to shatter the bone between his elbow and his shoulder.
While the first man was collapsing on the ground and turning redder still, on his way to a dark purple, the second man was shrieking while she bent his arm into a shape it was never meant to take. Bone fragments punched through muscles and the gods granted the man the mercy of unconsciousness.
Three more men were in the area. One of them was dead on the ground, his head canted at an unnatural angle from his neck. The other two were staring at the woman who had just destroyed their friends with wide, terrified eyes.
Merros knew exactly how they felt.
For a second he’d forgotten himself, forgotten the people he was traveling with. In a fit of madness he’d let himself think that Swech was anything like the women he’d been raised with. Had he not seen the weapons she carried? Her proficiency with a bow?
Swech dropped into a crouch and stared in the general direction of the two remaining men. They did not stand still. They ran for dear life. Really the sort of vermin that would team with four others to tackle one woman would hardly be expected to stay around.
Swech looked like she was thinking about chasing after them but changed her mind at the last moment.
Merros looked at her – marveled at her, really.
Swech turned to look in his direction and when she saw who was staring at her, she relaxed. The way her body moved was quickly becoming a second language for him. Merros seldom realized how much he depended on facial expressions until he dealt with the Sa’ba Taalor. With only their eyes to go by, he was beginning to understand how much the way a person stood or even sat could convey a great deal.
The Seven Forges Novels Page 14
