The Living Sword 2: The Road Ahead

by Pemry Janes

  “And keep a sharp eye out,” Silver Fang added.

  “Goes without saying.” Gerd gave a toss with his head. “But with that out of the way, we should go see ourselves a wizard. He’s actually a new addition, like you lot. Captain got him straight out of Linese itself,” he said as they made their way around the tents. “Old Wasser decided to settle down, said he was tired of all this moving about. Now there was a mage who could throw a mean spell. Once saw him melt a man’s skin right off—it spilled out from underneath the poor sod’s armor like water. He screamed so loudly that the rest of his mates dropped their weapons right then and there. Heh, easy money.”

  Lunch threatened to rise up, but Eurik fought it back down. Neither Silver Fang nor Gerd himself seemed troubled by the imagery the old mercenary had just conjured up. “What is he doing now?”

  “Opened a magic shop over in Dorvhuse and was courting a very nice-looking widow, last I saw him. Now the new mage, I’m not sure he’ll live long enough to find himself a nice widow. He’s got his nose in that book of his often enough, but I’ve yet to see him cast a spell.”

  Rounding another tent, they came up on one that was set apart slightly from the others. And the robed man in front of it was indeed reading a book. His index finger slowly glided along the lines as his lips moved, a wooden staff lying on the ground beside him.

  “Oi, Herardios, I got you some competition,” Gerd called out.

  The mage’s head shot up. “You what?”

  Eurik paid little attention to their exchange. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t pin it down where he’d come across it before.

  “Him over here,” Gerd said, his hand landing heavily on Eurik’s shoulder. “His magic’s weird, but it sure works.”

  Eurik sighed. “It is not magic.” Would he ever be done repeating those words while he was here on the mainland?

  Gerd waved it off. “Sure, sure. I’ll leave you two to compare scrolls or whatever. Come on, girl, time to make good on that boast of yours.”

  “And what boast would that be?”

  “The one about your aim. Before I trust you at my back I need to know you won’t nail my ass!” Gerd laughed loudly as he walked away. Silver Fang shook her head and followed, though not before giving Eurik a nod.

  This left him alone with the mage, who had gotten up and was staring over Eurik’s shoulder. “Is that a living sword?”

  “A good eye,” the blade said. “The name’s Misthell.”

  “It is an honor to meet you, Misthell. I am Herardios of Tymanum, a humble mage of the twelfth order. And now a member of the Gored Axes,” he said, his lips twisting at the name.

  “Gored Axes?”

  “Yes, the name of this exalted mercenary company. You joined without even knowing the name?”

  “Oh, I didn’t join.” Eurik shifted himself backward. “We made an agreement with Ghajir that we could accompany this caravan on its way east in exchange for our help protecting it.”

  “I have no desire to call you a liar, but I was under the impression that Master Senan Aldhoub was satisfied with our company’s performance,” Herardios said as he interwove his fingers. “Why call in . . . outside talent?”

  “My friend knows Ghajir and he’s not paying us in metal.”

  “A good reason.” The mage chuckled, retaking his seat on his little stool. “So Master Gerd thinks you have talent in the arcane arts, one you dispute?”

  Finding no other stool, Eurik created one by raising a short pillar of stone out of the ground. “Yes, I don’t use magic. I . . . are you all right, Herardios?”

  “It’s Master Herardios,” the mage said, his gaze glued to Eurik’s makeshift seat. “No spell words, no burst of magical energy . . . How did you do that? That’s not magic!”

  “It isn’t,” Eurik heartily agreed. “I use the Ways.”

  Herardios frowned. “What ways?”

  “Ah . . . that’s a good question.”

  ***

  Leraine rolled her shoulders as she felt their eyes upon them. The targets before her were no broad screens of thick planks, but rolled up reed mats. Her spikes weren’t coated in poison—she’d lost most of her supply in Campan and hadn’t wanted to waste what she had left.

  She focused on her breathing and stilled her thoughts. The targets were ten feet away; it shouldn’t be a problem. A deep breath, and then her fingertips closed around the first spike.

  Leraine didn’t know when the weapon left her hand. It didn’t matter. No thought, only action. The steel projectile sank into the reeds, its sisters swiftly joining the first spike as her body got into the familiar rhythm.

  Breathing a little harder, her arm still extended from her final throw, Leraine let the rest of the world snap back into place. Each of the three targets had sprouted at least two metal spikes where their heads should be, though two had gone a little low for her taste.

  “You sure don’t miss,” Gerd said as they walked over to the targets and she started to pull out the throwing spikes. Helping her, he pulled one out as well and examined it. “But I don’t think you’ll get much more range out of these things.”

  “They are for close in.” Leraine accepted the throwing spike and slid it back in its place.

  “It should be fine. We got those dwarven archers for the long-range stuff, but now I know what I got with you.” His fingernail dug into one of the holes. “Whoever trained you did a very good job.”

  Leraine’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Yes . . . she was the best.” When she looked back up she found Gerd staring at her.

  “Even the best fall, girl,” he said with a gentle voice. “If you carry all that sharpened metal around you’d best accept that, or you got no business wearing it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am a warrior of Snake,” she said softly. Her left hand landed on the hilt of her dagger. Her body tensed as a part of her measured the distance and noted he wasn’t wearing any armor. He’d tried to defend with his right, so she just had to slip the blade under and—

  What was she doing? She yanked her hand away as if she had burned it.

  The Irelian must have noticed her reaction, but gave no hint of it. “I’m guessing the same was true for your teacher?” Leraine kept herself to a silent nod. “Then she knew what she was doing, even if it didn’t turn out so great.”

  “I haven’t told you how she died.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t need to. Unless you want to?”

  Leraine was surprised to find that she didn’t know. How would this experienced warrior judge Irelith’s decision to face a blooddrinker by herself? Praise her bravery, admire her skill, or deride the decision as foolish?

  “Sometimes we go into a fight not to win, but because the alternative is worse. Not me, of course,” Gerd said, putting a hand on his chest. “As a cold, calculating mercenary I only fight when I get paid.” His laughter was subdued. He looked over at his left at the mercenaries who had gathered to watch her performance. “Some of the younger Axes need to be reminded of that. How about you give ’em a lesson?”

  Looking over at the men, she thought she could tell which ones Gerd was talking about. Their gaze was too low and their smiles too hungry. “It would be my pleasure.”

  ***

  Flames licked the blackened metal of the cooking pot, an appetizing smell wafting up from under the lid. Rock and Leraine had joined the Gored Axes at their campfire, rather than the one used by Ghajir and his people. Dwarven food rarely agreed with humans and from the glimpse she had gotten, tonight’s fair would be no exception.

  Gathered together like this, it struck her how old many of the mercenaries were. In her experience, most mercenaries were younger. But many of the Axes had graying hair, and only six of the seventeen mercenaries were even close to her own age.

  The one exception trailed Slyvair as he strode into the circle. Perun was a child, probably twelve, and appeared to be either the sun-man’s assistant or his apprentice. At the moment, the redheaded
child took a seat next to Gerd while Slyvair raised his hand in the air in a call for silence.

  “Before we eat, there are some announcements you all need to hear,” he said in Irelian. “No doubt you all already know that our employer has been gracious enough to supply us with two squires for this job.”

  Laughter rolled through the group, next to her she could hear Misthell whisper a translation to Rock.

  “What this means for you lot is that you’ll get a few extra hours of shut-eye a night. But sleep lightly, because our employer has shared with me what road we will be taking. It’s going to be the southern one.”

  The sun-man nodded at the silent tension his words elicited. “Trader Aldhoub believes it is the safer one. There hasn’t been an elven attack in months and the Blood Lords are restless. But just because he thinks it’s safe does not mean you can slack off. There are plenty of dangers that don’t have to cross the Elodrada.”

  “How long until we leave, Captain?”

  “The day after tomorrow. Which means we’ll be very busy tomorrow so dig in and make sure you are well rested. It’s the last full night’s sleep you’ll be getting for a good long time.”

  ***

  Leraine didn’t take Slyvair’s advice; there was something more important that needed to be done first. Something she should have done sooner, but there had always been something else that needed doing, the timing had never felt right. Now faced with the prospect that there wouldn’t be a good time for it for months to come, she would take what she could get.

  The stone shelter and the late hour provided her with the privacy Leraine needed and her behavior that afternoon told her it was past time. With her legs crossed and her index fingers intertwined, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes to seek communion with Ghisa.

  They were all scales of the Great Serpent, all part of the whole. Past, present, and future; the dead, the living, and the yet to be born. But it was hard to remember that truth among those who did not believe this, and even harder when her liver ached with loss.

  Deep breath, hold the air in your lungs, then let it go slowly. “Irelith.” Her spirit reached out, one part seeking the other. “Thank you. For everything.”

  There was no reply, not in words. Leraine hadn’t expected one. But she received a response all the same.

  Leraine nodded. “I do. Don’t worry.”

  Chapter 4

  Tension

  Clouds like plucks of cotton drifted high above their heads as the wagons rattled down the road, the wind carrying the sounds and smells of Parmenorum to them. Eurik and Silver Fang were sitting on the back end of one of the wagons because there was no room on the wagon seats. Ghajir’s drivers and his archers had those while the mercenaries rode beside the caravan on their horses.

  “No graves along this road either,” Eurik noted.

  “They must line the road west then. Or perhaps they follow the horse people’s custom,” she added.

  “You mean they use a cemetery?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the Mochedan’s custom? You told me the body didn’t matter, but you are holding on to Irelith’s sword.”

  She shifted her weight and looked over at the grazing cows in the meadow to their right. “The body matters less. Irelith’s sword is a replacement. Her daughters may decide to carry the weapon, display it in their home, or bury it in their . . . garden.”

  “Garden?”

  “Yes, unlike Irelians or Linesans we do not display our dead or our grief. When someone dies, the body is burned and the bones are gathered. Sometimes they are buried in a sacred place, and some families have their own place for that purpose. A garden, a grove, a private place where it is easier to—”

  “To what?”

  But Silver Fang shook her head. “No, there are matters that are not shared with outsiders. I should have said nothing on it. All I will say is this: it is not the body itself, or her possessions, but their connection to her spirit that make them important. But what of the san? How do they view death?”

  “Do we really need to discuss such a gloomy subject like that on such a sunny, dry day as today?” Misthell said. “Burying swords in the ground, letting them rot and rust in darkness.” He rattled in his sheath.

  “Don’t worry, the san don’t bury a deceased’s belongings. They belong to the community,” Eurik said.

  “My life there was very peaceful, didn’t get so much as a scratch in seventeen years,” the blade said, sounding wistful. “But a couple of months in your hands and I already look like this.”

  As far as Eurik could tell, there was not a scratch on Misthell.

  Silver Fang repeated her question. “And what do the plant-men do with the dead themselves?”

  “Burn them and scatter the ashes over the fields to nourish the next generation.”

  “The next generation. Of course, they are plants. So they place no markers, no monuments to their dead?”

  “The san don’t believe they die, they believe they shothou. It means . . . reborn, sort of. The one that succeeds them is born during their life, taught by the one that they will replace. There is no afterlife for them. There is only this life, repeating again and again.”

  “And what about you, what do you believe?”

  “I am not san,” Eurik admitted in a low voice, his gaze trained on the hooves of the goats pulling the next wagon. “You called me outsider and this is true. But even outsiders belong somewhere and the island still feels like my home.”

  “And should it happen that you are not welcome there one day, know I will keep a place free for you at my hearth.” Silver Fang’s lips quirked. “Though at the moment that would be my mother’s hearth, which is a good thing. It’s much bigger than any I will own.”

  Eurik bowed to her from where he sat. “Thank you.”

  “No need, it is a natural thing to offer to an ally. However, that does bring me to another matter. I’m already teaching you the sword,” she said, and Eurik nodded.

  His first lessons had been yesterday. How to grip the sword, how to stand, how to defend, how to strike. It was slow going, and he found himself struggling to grasp a way of fighting so different from the Ways.

  Silver Fang continued. “But you may not find all your answers with the Immortal. And if your search brings you to our homeland, you will need to be able to speak our language.”

  “I see,” he said. The rattling of the wagon wheels and the bleating of the goats filled the silence that descended upon them. “Many of the Mochedan do not speak Linese and having your sword speak for you will cause problems.”

  Eurik frowned. “I hadn’t considered that, you and Irelith are the only Mochedan I’ve met.”

  “I was taught many things and Irelith picked up much on our journey. She had never been past the Glinster. Not until I took her along.” Silver Fang looked off in the distance.

  “Did she . . . did she long for home?”

  Her eyes sharpened as she looked Eurik in the eyes. “No.” Silver Fang shook her head with a sad smile on her lips after a moment. “She loved seeing new things. Her only worry was for me; she urged me to do my duty. But I have another duty now.” She leaned forward, resting her hands on her thighs. “There is, however, something I should warn you about. Though all the Mochedan use the same language, they do not speak the same way. The way I speak is different from a Puma, or an Elk. If you learn from me, that will mark you in the eyes of others.”

  Eurik scratched the side of his neck with his index finger as he tried to follow. “Marked in what way? How would it be a bad thing to be associated with you?”

  “With me? Yes, I have not told you who my mother is, have I?” She shook her head. “But that is not what I was referring to. If you learn Thelauk from me—that is its proper name—then others may assume you are Snake, and our tribe is not well-liked by the others.”

  “Would this be because of what happened to the Hawk tribe?”

  Silver Fang gave him a sharp l
ook. “I thought you were a stranger to my people.”

  “A stranger to your customs, yes, but your history is mentioned in several books. Not much, and it is hard to figure out what is true and what is myth. But they all agree that it was the Snake tribe that wiped out the Hawk tribe.”

  She bared her teeth, silver glinting in the morning sun. “It was they who betrayed us.”

  “As I said, fact and myth. But none of the writers were Mochedan, so I would appreciate hearing the story from you. It will help me understand the Mochedan.”

  Silver Fang tilted her head, and the short braid at the back of her head hit her neck and then danced as she nodded. “It started with the invasion of the demons. You know of it, of how the Dark Lake was not always a lake?”

  “It was the kingdom of Evenau and the heart of the Irelian Empire.” He wondered where she was going with this. So far, this was all well-known history. At least, Eurik had thought it was.

  “Not all the lands now submerged were. My people, the Snake tribe . . . our lands bordered that kingdom. When the demons began to push us out of our lands, when there did not seem to be any hope, the warriors of Snake sent their mothers, their crafters, their children—all who were necessary to safeguard the tribe’s future—away. Hawk vowed to shelter them until the threat was over, until our lands were safe to return to.”

  “Instead, the lands sank when the rift closed.”

  “Killing all who had been fighting the demon hordes. In one day, most of our tribe had died and the rest were now at the mercy of Hawk.” Silver Fang bared her teeth. “They declared that their oath had been fulfilled and that we had to return to our homes.”

  “The ones that were under water?”

  “They thought themselves very clever. But they would not let the women or the young children leave, for the customs of Hawk were that they were property. And the men of Hawk decided they required payment for their generosity. They tried to sever our connection with the Great Serpent, break our will as they had their own women.”