by Pemry Janes
“Are conditions east truly that bad?”
The dwarf nodded as he picked up the metal frames again and donned them. “The Deposed are gearing up for another attack on the Oathfellowship, and this time they are led by the new Duke of Griffenhart. I say he wants to grow his reputation. Reconquering the lands of the Oathfellows would certainly be a start,” Ghajir said as he led them out of his tent.
“Griffenhart? I met him—he had just succeeded his father. I found him to be intelligent, strong, and very arrogant.”
Ghajir nodded. “A dangerous combination. I say there will be war this year.”
They went around the tents to the area behind them where another camp had been set up. This one wasn’t so neat; the tents were gray or brown and patched up. Horses were tethered here and there, one being groomed by a bare-chested man whose graying hair had receded from the top of his head.
Off to the side, six dwarves decked out in armor aimed their dwarfbows at a row of targets. The weapons barely resembled the examples he’d seen in the hands of humans and were completely made out of metal. The body of the weapon held the steel arms of the bow in a horizontal grip, and a trigger released the steel string that sent the short, stubby arrow hurtling toward the target.
The missiles punched through the thick planks with a loud thud, and the dwarves’ left hand slid back and forth on the stock. A cylinder on top of the weapon rotated and the same motion pulled back the string. Another volley of arrows hissed their way toward the targets a moment later.
Not too far from the archers, two human men in padded armor dueled with long swords sheathed in leather. A group of men watched them practice, some doing chores as they did so. Among them was an orc, towering at least a head above everybody else. He was bald, the left half of his body covered in scars, his left arm reduced to a stump.
“Slyvair,” Ghajir called out as he came to a halt. “I must speak with you.”
It was the orc that reacted to the name, ambling over to them on bare feet and giving Eurik a better look at his scars. The skin looked like half-melted wax and there was almost nothing left of his left ear.
Orcs were famed for their healing abilities: they could regrow entire limbs, given enough time. But there was one thing that could defeat that, and that was fire. Judging from Slyvair’s appearance, he had come very close to death. But what was an orc doing so far from the sea, leading a band that contained not a single orc?
“What is this about, Master Aldhoub?” Slyvair’s voice was a smooth rumble. His eyes flicked over Eurik and Silver Fang.
“Silver Fang and Eurik here approached me with an offer to provide extra security in exchange for passage east. I am in favor, but our contract states that you are in charge of security for this journey.”
“Is that so?”
***
“Is that so?” The sun-man looked up. “I might not have to pay them, but I won’t have my men endangered.” He sidestepped around Ghajir and got very close to Leraine. His eyes captured hers as he leaned forward until his breath ruffled her hair. “You carry weapons, but anybody can do that. Can you stand, woman? When the blood flows, when the enemy’s desire to kill you beats in your breast, will you still stand?”
Leraine was too busy being insulted to be intimidated by the sun-man’s demeanor. Her hands did not reach for her weapons, nor did they ball into fists. She stared back, thinking of all the battles she had already fought—the small ones, the big one. “Yes.”
The moment held, then the sun-man nodded and broke the standoff. He stepped back. “Good. She will do, but the other one . . .” Slyvair looked over at Rock. “He is not trained as a swordsman. He can stand his ground, but what use is that when he doesn’t know how to use his weapon?”
Rock spoke before Leraine could. “Would you like a demonstration?”
Captain Slyvair showed a hint of a smile. “Hanser, you have a new opponent,” he called out in Irelian. One of the men who had been sparring walked over to the group that had been watching them while the other remained and studied Rock. The sun-man turned away and approached Hanser. “This boy thinks weapons are beneath him, so why don’t you educate him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rock leaned over to Leraine. “They want me to fight that man? The one with the covered sword?”
“Yes.” Leraine, too, made sure to keep her voice low. “Slyvair called him Hanser and ordered him to teach you a lesson.” She hesitated, until she remembered that he wasn’t of her people. “Are you in fighting shape? I have noticed you sometimes favor your left side still.”
His hand drifted to where the demonic construct had clawed him, then he dropped it and nodded. “It’s nothing.”
And there it was. She would have to take him at his word or call him a liar. “Do not take him lightly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She went to stand next to the sun-man while Rock faced off with Hanser. By now, she could recognize the difference between the two Ways Rock used. The stance he assumed was for earth: strong, but not one that lent itself to quick reactions.
Rock wasn’t finished, however, because next he pulled a large piece of dirt out of the ground and let it settle around his lower arm. The clump of earth shrank and hardened into a gauntleted fist. He bowed lightly to his opponent, who saluted back with his practice sword after a slight pause.
Next to her, Ghajir muttered something in his own language.
“That’s . . .” Slyvair said in a stunned voice, drawing Leraine’s attention away from the short man. The sun-man’s expression was a mixture of surprise and recognition, his face turning a lighter shade of green. He snarled another word, and Leraine didn’t recognize the language.
Without warning, Hanser swung the long sword at Rock’s left side. A clear test of the thoroughness of Rock’s defense and not a serious attack, not the way the mercenary exaggerated the swing.
Rock blocked with his left, dust and chips of hardened earth flying off the gauntlet at the impact. Another swing, overhead this time, and blocked in a similar matter. Rock didn’t wait for another attack but stepped forward and sent a palm-thrust with his uncovered arm toward Hanser’s chest. The mercenary’s reacted quickly, interposing his weapon, but Rock’s thrust still had him stepping back.
Yet Leraine knew that he was capable of generating far more strength than this. She had warned him not to take his opponent lightly and still he held back. So he wasted the element of surprise, not something you could afford against a warrior of Hanser’s experience.
And that experience was clear in the way the man moved, how quickly he adjusted his approach, the scars on his arms. She shook her head, and her draen ticked against her neck. Getting Rock to see reason truly was like a moving a mountain.
Her prediction came true a moment later as Hanser shifted his grip on his weapon, one hand on the long hilt and the other slipped over the cross guard to grab the blade itself. Thrusting it like a short spear rather than a sword, he planted the blunted tip in Rock’s stomach, right where he’d been clawed.
Her friend didn’t quite double over, but the strike still left him gasping for air and Hanser didn’t give him time to recover. The pommel crashed into Rock’s jaw, snapping it to the side. It was Rock’s turn to stumble back, but Hanser used the cross guards to reel him back in.
Rock reacted. His hand swept up and the ground beneath Hanser’s feet responded to his will, throwing the Irelian away from him. The smart move would be to move in now, when his opponent was on the ground, but Rock didn’t do that. Instead, the earthen gauntlet crumbled and fell off his arm before he took a different stance—one that was lighter, his body in constant motion even as he waited for Hanser to get back up.
“Captain was right, you need some sense knocked into you,” the Irelian said in his own language. Still holding the sword with one hand on the blade, the mercenary advanced. A feint at Rock’s head was easily dodged, as was every subsequent strike. Hanser tried to close, but Rock danc
ed out of reach, spinning out of the way of a thrust before jumping over a low swipe.
Wind plucked at Leraine’s hair, and it kicked up dust as it gained in strength, swirling around the combatants. A glancing kick against Hanser’s shin stopped another rush. A slap against his left arm had him bury his weapon into the ground rather than Rock’s chest. A series of fast palm-thrusts to Hanser’s face had him reeling back with empty hands.
Rock threw his own hands out, then forward, and the winds obeyed him. They picked Hanser up and sent him tumbling along the ground while Leraine had to shield her eyes. At last Rock did what he should have done right away: he didn’t let the mercenary get back up. The winds died down; his hands grasped nothing and lifted it up. Thick earth trapped Hanser.
Leraine studied Rock for one long moment, but his posture was straight now and there wasn’t a hint of blood. She turned to Slyvair. “Satisfied?”
The sun-man stared hard at Rock for a moment longer before his gaze turned to her. He said nothing to Leraine, though, but addressed Ghajir. “I have no objections. You can hire them.” Saying not another word, he walked over to Hanser and helped him up; Rock had freed the man the moment the fight was over.
“I will have the contracts ready in a few hours,” Ghajir told them. “I expect to leave either tomorrow or the day after, so you should move your belongings to the camp as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” Leraine said.
“Yes, thank you,” Rock added.
Ghajir waved them off and strode away. Leraine noticed that many of the people in the camp were looking at them, but it was Slyvair who caught her attention. He didn’t seem to stare at Rock so much as through him, rubbing his stump as he did so. When the sun-man caught her looking at him, he turned away and walked deeper into the camp.
***
“Talk about an ironclad contract,” Misthell said as Eurik held it in his hand. The writing was blocky, he couldn’t read a word of it, and it had been literally stamped into a sheet of iron. There was a strip of paper on the bottom, but he had no idea what its purpose was.
Silver Fang didn’t have that problem. She scanned the contract then pressed her thumb against the strip of paper, rolling the digit before pulling the strip away. It revealed an intricate pattern of blue glowing whorls and lines, a pattern he recognized from his own fingers.
“I mentioned how highly they think of metal,” Silver Fang said as she handed the signed contract back over to Ghajir. “The Mochenak do not recognize vows or promises—only agreements set in metal or stone will do.”
“Words are fleeting and memory is faulty,” Ghajir said. “Especially when it is convenient.”
“I see.” Eurik mimicked what Silver Fang had done and handed over the signed contract to the dwarven merchant. “Speaking of stone, I was curious about your reaction when I demonstrated what I could do. You called it stonesense?”
Ghajir nodded. “But let us speak with our tongues properly lubricated. Business you should conduct sober. Catching up with a friend and her friend, I say that calls for a loosening of the tongues.”
He retrieved three small green glasses from under the table as well as a ceramic bottle. “A taste of home. Silver Fang’s, that is. I wouldn’t inflict mine upon you and I have no idea where you grew up, Eurik.”
“San,” he answered as Ghajir uncorked the bottle and poured an amber liquid into the glasses.
“San . . . The island of the san is your home?”
“I grew up there.”
“I had heard stories of how they could command the elements, but until today I did not connect it to what my own people can do.” He stoppered the bottle again and placed it on the low table. “Stonesense, we call it, because that is what it does for most. They can tell if something is solid gold or gold plated with a single touch, navigate a mine without a single light. And there are a few who can do more, who can actually shape stone and metal with their bare hands. Not me, though. I’m practically stoneblind.”
Eurik let the revelation sink in. To think there were other people who followed the Ways. Or at least one of them. What sort of insights have they gained? Do they differ from the san’s? Did Zasashi know of this when he told Eurik to go out into the world?
“You haven’t tried your drink,” Ghajir said, drawing him out of his musings.
“My apologies.” A glance to his right told Eurik that Silver Fang had already emptied her glass and their host poured her another. Lifting up his own glass he went to take a sip, and the smell prickled his nose before the glass touched his lips. The vaemac turned out to be much stronger than any other drink he’d tasted before, and it burned its way down his throat. Coughing, he struggled for breath.
Silver Fang’s hand landed on his shoulder. “What do you think?”
“Strong.” Eurik took a deep breath. “It has a strong taste. Sort of . . . like smoke.”
She laughed softly. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” he answered slowly. “There’s several tastes, I can’t put a name to many of them.”
“You don’t gulp it down like beer. Vaemac should be savored.” Putting word into action, Silver Fang swirled the vaemac in her glass.
“This stonesense . . .” Another cough. “Can you tell me anything else about it? How does it feel?”
“I know little, never had much use for it myself. I’ve heard it say that those with the talent listen and let the stone speak to them.” He shrugged and finished his drink before pouring another. “Most don’t know much more than that. It’s not a subject many study. You could go to the Dwarghoss, but I don’t think you can afford the entry fee.”
“Entry fee?”
“Non-dwarves have to give a certain amount of metal before they are allowed past the doors. Five pounds of gold, eight pounds of silver, there’s a long list. Or you could bring knowledge we do not have.”
He didn’t have to weigh what metal he had to know he wasn’t even close to that. “Knowledge,” Eurik said. “I may have something to offer in that area.”
Ghajir held up a single finger. “The gatekeepers may disagree.”
“At the moment there are other questions I want answers for, so my curiosity can wait.” Eurik tried another sip. Once he stopped coughing, he decided that one glass was enough for him. Though he wouldn’t object to giving at another try, on another day.
Chapter 3
Fitting In
“Stuveg,” the mercenary commented as he rapped his knuckle on Eurik’s stone shelter.
“I didn’t catch that.” Eurik recognized it as Irelian, but his command of that language was spotty at best. He did better with the written word.
“He said that it was solid,” Misthell informed him.
“That I did,” the Irelian confirmed, having switched to Linesan with a choppy accent. “The name is Gerd, I’m the captain’s second.” He offered Eurik his hand.
He took it. “Eurik, and the sword’s name is Misthell.”
“Silver Fang,” the Mochedan said, receiving a handshake in turn.
“Saw your little fight with Hanser, you gave him a real tumble.” Gerd laughed uproariously, though Eurik didn’t know why. Eventually, the man collected himself. “How’s your Irelian?”
“Only one of us can speak it,” Silver Fang said and Eurik nodded.
“You mean, only one of us can’t speak it,” Misthell said right after. “I’ll have you know I’m fluent in every language.”
“Could be a problem,” Gerd said, dragging his eyes away from Misthell. “Most of the men know some Linesan—even a farmer in Sachom knows a word or two—but they can’t speak it. Not like me or the captain can.” He nodded at the shelter. “How long does it last?”
“Last?”
“Yeah, how long until the spell falls apart?”
Eurik sighed. Ghajir’s reaction had made him forget what others first thought at seeing his abilities. “It’s not magic. I formed the plates by compressing dirt and pulled them out of the earth.
They’ll last until time and the weather wear them down, but I intend to put them back into the ground when we leave.”
“Really now.” Gerd scratched his graying beard. “How many of these plates can you make? Enough to, say, build a wall around this camp?”
Eurik looked the camp over. They’d set up on the edge of it so the mercenary’s tents blocked his view of the other side of the camp, but he’d seen enough walking through it. “How tall does it need to be?”
“Not asking for city walls here, boy. Tall enough that a man can’t hop over it, that’ll do.”
“It would be simpler to just raise the wall in one go,” Eurik mused, surveying the camp in his mind’s eye. “It would be slow and I can’t do it if the camp’s more spread out than it is here, but I can make the wall a lot stronger that way.”
“Really?” Gerd sucked in air through his teeth. “How slow are we talking here?”
“I’d need to gather the chiri, study the local geology and reshape it, then pull the construct up from however deep it is . . . Half an hour.”
“You sound sure,” Gerd said slowly. He rubbed his stubbled chin, then nodded. “I’ll run it by the captain, see what he thinks of it. In the meantime, I’ll introduce you to the company’s mage. And you, girl, how good are you with those throwing spikes?”
Silver Fang stilled. “You noticed them?”
Gerd smile was crooked as he scratched his cheek with a dirty fingernail. “It’s easier when you know to look for them. I’ve faced you lot a few times. You got sharp bits in every fold and pocket.”
“I hit what I intend to hit,” Silver Fang said, returning the smile.
“I would hope so.” The Irelian chuckled. But then his expression sobered. “Do either of you have any experience guarding a caravan?”
“None,” Eurik replied while Silver Fang shook her head.
“I have been taught how it is done, though,” she said.
“And how to rob one blind.” Gerd waved off her protest. “Doesn’t matter. And forget about any fancy notions you’ve learned, this isn’t about formations or tactics and this isn’t some pitched battle or heroic quest. You look mean enough, you scare them enough, and you won’t even see the enemy. Don’t matter if it’s elves, wolfmen, or stinking bandits. You’re safe the moment you convince them you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
