Grog II: Book 2 of the Ebon Blades

by RW Krpoun

  Then we left the road and started following a couple ruts heading northeast, and we quickly left behind all other people. Forest promptly closed in on both sides of the road, which yet another thing I did not like about forests. This was a different type of forest than I had seen before: these trees were very tall and straight, with scaly reddish-brown bark, and instead of leaves they had little bundles of dark green needles. They didn’t have branches for the lower third of their length, which was usually at least the first fifteen feet. There wasn’t nearly as much brush under them, and what there was, was low and sparse.

  The good thing about the days spent walking was the that it allowed me to ponder various things; pondering is different than thinking, because it doesn’t have urgency or complexity. For much of one day I pondered the events at Merrywine, particularly our run-ins with the criminals.

  I had, back in the old days, dealt out harm to cheaters as part of my duties to the Ebon Blades, but it was for the honor of the barracks, and under orders. These men like Broken Johnny, Hook, and the others, they made a free choice to take what was not theirs, to create hard times for ordinary people. This was not proper, and I was glad that Burk and I had stood against it, however inadvertently we had started.

  Then there was the subject of puppet shows. After lengthy consideration I still wasn’t sure if it was proper for High Rates of the Ebon Blades to engage in such things, but I was certain I was going to see more such shows if the opportunity ever came again.

  The wandering players would get no more of my money, however; the farces had included many scenes of rather bawdy humor, which I did not consider proper or fitting; I certainly wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t been under orders.

  Then there was the eating of different foods at different restaurants; that had been Hatcher’s doing. Burk and I had been eating basically the same foods for most of our lives: bacon, salt pork, salt beef, coarse white or rye bread, hard orange cheese, peas, butter beans, red beans, corn, and potatoes, but not all at once, obviously. Meat was grilled or fried, and vegetables were boiled except for the potatoes, which were fried or baked or cut up into stew. A little salt, some butter, and that was all we needed to grow tall and strong. None of this business of bits of colored peppers, or Hatcher with her flasks of black sauce she put on every meal. Food was fuel, first and foremost. I wasn’t sure about too much variety in cooking; since joining this group I had experienced fish and several types of fowl, and fresh-killed goat, but that was based more what was available than anything else.

  Worrying about how food tasted seemed improper, and it smacked of slackness. Start thinking along those lines and you could get soft very quickly, start thinking about dying and such, and the next thing you could fail to uphold the honor of the Ebon Blades, a barracks of the old school.

  It was forgetting one’s place, I concluded, of getting airs and letting your standards falter.

  “Why are you staring at the trees?” Hatcher asked halfway through our first day heading north.

  “I don’t like forests.”

  “These aren’t too bad; this is tall pine country, although these are actually called longleaf pines, if I remember correctly. I like them: I can actually see over most of the brush.”

  “That is a point,” I conceded. “But I still don’t like them; trees belong in rows.”

  “That would be handy,” Hatcher nodded absently, tapping on my breastplate with the butt of a throwing axe. The entire group had remained fully armed since we left Merrywine, which wasn’t that big a difference: Hatcher added a half-dozen throwing axes, and Hunter wore a kind of harness covered with little pouches. “I’m still wondering about the incursion at Merrywine.”

  “Huh.”

  “Especially since that that is the focus of Provine Sael’s theory. Most everyone else who’s looking is doing so around the actual invasion path, which is further east, while we’re a long way away.”

  “Huh.”

  “Keep in mind she’s the one who found the Emperor’s Tomb,” she pointed out as if I hadn’t been along for most of that trip. “She thinks along odd lines.”

  “She’ll tell us when she’s ready,” I mumbled, checking our backtrail.

  “She’ll tell us when she finds some facts; she’s too nervous to risk being embarrassed by telling us her actual theory, only to have it fall flat. Maybe shy is sort of the better word.”

  “She’s not shy,” I said. “I have trouble believing she’s ever nervous.”

  Hatcher snickered. “That’s because you see a pretty face and go all mush-brain.” She drummed on my head. “She can’t fool another woman, though. What sort of girls do you like?’

  My neck burned. “I dunno.”

  “Yeah, you do. C’mon, you never talk. Tell me something.”

  I didn’t point out that since I had known her there hadn’t been many opportunities to get a word in edgeways. “Tall ones. Brutes for preference.”

  “Really? Why brute girls?”

  I shrugged. “They’re tall and sturdy.”

  “Yeah, I guess for a big’un like you, a lot of Human girls must look like twigs. What do you look for in brute girls?”

  “Long hair. Brute girls can grow hair on their heads if they ate well as children. If they didn’t it is patchy at best.”

  “I knew that. Why are most brutes male?”

  “Master Horne told us that of every ten brute babies only three will be girls.”

  “I wonder why?” She drummed for a bit. “Ever have a girlfriend?”

  “What? No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Master Horne didn’t approve of such things; he sent in girls when we were of age, but it wasn’t always the same ones. And there was no ‘hiring out’, either: we fought and escorted, but that was all.”

  “Did you meet any girls in Merrywine?”

  “Whores.” My neck was burning again.

  “Brute whores.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Find any special one?”

  “No. What sort of men do you like?” I desperately hoped to change the subject.

  “Nisker men, with green eyes for preference, and who can make me laugh. And be a good listener, that’s important. They need to have ambition, too, because I can’t abide a slacker.” She faded into blessed silence for a few minutes, before starting to drum again. “Is ‘tusker’ worse than ‘brute’?”

  “Kind of, especially if the brute has very small tusks, like Burk, or none, like me.”

  “Burk’s just got lower fangs, really.” She went back to tapping my armor; I had never known any person to make so much pointless noise. “So what should your kind be called? Half-breed’s a little awkward.”

  “I don’t mind being called a brute; they have to call us something. Do you mind being called a Nisker?”

  “No, but ‘short-arse’ is a fighting word. Or words. Why didn’t it bother you when kids threw rocks at us?”

  I was wishing she would go back to chattering away so the questions would stop. “People don’t like people that are different, unless they’re pretty. Brutes are not pretty, and we remind them of all the wars with the Ukar, so kids throw rocks and some people don’t like us. Things usually work out once we’ve been around and people can get used to us.”

  “They shouldn’t feel that way; you didn’t choose how you were born.”

  “Ugly people get treated different than pretty ones,” I pointed out. “You said it yourself: Provine Sael makes males go mush-brain. That’s sort of the same thing, but you don’t see it because you’re pretty.”

  “I’m not really pretty,” she bumped her heels against my chest. “But if I could ever get my hair to behave, I’m trying this liquid soap, it has goose eggs in it…”

  I sighed in relief.

  With each mile the trail we were following grew narrower and less used; I noticed that Pieter’s cart handled the increasingly rough terrain much better than our old cart. I still didn’t know what to think about
him.

  In the afternoon, after a rare bout of silence Hatcher suddenly smacked the top of my head with the palm of her hand, startling me. “Talk to me!”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t do everything around here, you know.”

  I wanted to point out that I was doing all the walking, but I just shrugged. “I dunno. How old is Provine Sael?”

  “Hmmmm? Not old; actually, she was very young when they made her a Provine. They age differently than Men or Niskers.”

  “So when will her horns grow out?”

  “They won’t. Females’ horns tend to be shorter than males in any case, but Provine Sael’s are not going to get much bigger. It’s like height: some people are destined to be tall, or short. Provine Sael is saddled with short horns.”

  “Does it affect how they see her? Other Dellians?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s a bit self-conscious about them, though.”

  “Why do they have horns?”

  “Dunno. I don’t know why my people are miniature Men, either. I don’t think anyone knows for sure.”

  “Are there half-breeds from the Dellians or Niskers?”

  “No, which is weird. I’ve never understood why Ukar and Humans can produce half-breeds, but no one else can.”

  “Huh.” I trudged along, trying to think of something to say. “Can Provine Sael do magic because she’s a Provine?”

  “That’s complicated. Not just any Dellian can become a Provine, but all those who do, can use some Arts. They can’t use dangerous Arts like Hunter uses, mostly healing and stuff, although she can hurt Undead and make that flash you saw in in Fellhome. I think you have to have a knack or aptitude, and if you do have it, you can be chosen to be a Provine, which makes what you can do stronger. Only there’s a lot of rules and cultural things tied to it. She’s not like a priest or anything, but she is part of their church structure, and Provines are well-respected by other faiths. It’s all very involved, and none of the Dellians I’ve known will talk much about it. While Provine Sael is a lot more reserved than most of her people, they all are very quiet about religion and certain parts of their culture, not secretive, but more like it’s impolite to talk about it.”

  “Have you known many Dellians?”

  “A few; as a group they tend to stay at home, but some get out into the world. People always talk about Niskers being little homebodies, but that’s not true, it’s the Dellians who generally never stray far from hearth and home. I take it you’ve not known many?”

  “None before Provine Sael, the same for Niskers. I’ve seen both in passing, but neither fight in the pits, at least that I’ve heard of.”

  “Yeah, there’s not many great Nisker warlords, either,” she chuckled.

  Chapter Four

  As we followed the ever-thinning trail north, we passed ruins, usually just lonely chimneys standing in open areas that had been gardens, or simple stone towers on overlooks, but once a big open area which had once held a whole village. It was sad to think of the people forced to leave their homes, although there was probably a good chance that some of them hadn’t survived whatever destroyed their home.

  The tall pines stayed the same, but the ground became more hilly the further we went, and reddish rocks like sandstone became much more common as the undergrowth thinned.

  We didn’t see anyone else, but Provine Sael didn’t appear to be upset by that, so I didn’t worry about it, either. Hatcher kept working with me and Burk on reading and sums, and I practiced with the javelin every day; otherwise, it was just walking north with Hatcher chattering away and using the top of my head as a drum.

  Around midmorning on the sixth day heading north Hunter passed me to walk alongside Provine Sael. “There’s a dolman out there,” he pointed to the right. “I’m going to have a look.”

  “Must you?”

  “I must,” he grinned.

  She sighed. “All right, take Grog and Burk.”

  “I should leave you one.”

  “I’m confident that if anything were close to the trail, Torl would know about it. But that dolman is at least a mile out.”

  “I’ll stay back,” Hatcher smacked the top of my head. “Put me on the cart.”

  “You know, I did not hire Grog to be your personal transport,” Provine Sael informed Hatcher in an icy tone as I stepped over to the cart and put her down.

  “Consider it a bonus,” the Nisker grinned, unabashed.

  “Follow me, lads.” Hunter struck out heading off the trail. “And if you see anything or have an opinion, don’t be shy: I’m a city boy.”

  I waited for Burk to say something, but when he didn’t, I finally had to. “What’s a dolman?”

  “It’s an old place, and worth looking at.”

  That made no sense, but I kept my mouth shut. There’s no point in reminding people that they’re smarter than you are.

  We hiked through the tall trees for at least mile until we came to a sharp slope. “Let’s take a moment.” Hunter produced a flask and took a swig. “Ever notice that these type of trees don’t grow on inclines? Only level ground. Why is that, do you suppose?”

  I didn’t know, but I had noticed it, and added it to my general dislike of forests and trees.

  “How did you know this dolman is here?” Burk asked after a long pause.

  Hunter tapped his nose. “I can smell them. So can Provine Sael; it’s the Art, you know.”

  That didn’t make sense either, but I didn’t say so. After a few minutes we trudged up the slope and found ourselves on the crest of a low hill that was just barely below the tops of the sea of trees sweeping away on all sides.

  On the grassy crest was three thick slabs of rock, each around six feet high, which had been set on end in a row, and which supported a thinner slab of rock. The top slab was about twenty feet long and six across at the widest; they weren’t cut stone, just slabs of natural rock assembled into sort of a table shape. The top slab was tilted to the side, and in all it looked very primitive and old.

  “That’s a dolman,” Hunter waved a hand at the stone assembly. “I’ll just need a few minutes.”

  “It’s not level,” Burk pointed out as Hunter circled the dolman, studying the stones carefully. “And the supports aren’t evenly spaced. Pretty shoddy work.”

  “It’s hard to find proper workmanship the further you get from a city,” I nodded. “Look at the forest: trees any old way, no planning whatsoever. I hate forests.”

  “Give me a city any day,” Burk nodded.

  Hunter needed more than a few minutes; Burk settled down on the grass to study the Red Guard manual, while I sat on a handy shelf of rock and watched a hawk hanging on spread wings overhead.

  Finally, Hunter came over and sat on the other end of the shelf, writing in a small book. It took quite a while, and when he had finished, I jerked a thumb towards the dolman. “What is there to write about? It’s four big rocks.”

  “It is indeed,” Hunter grinned as he stowed the book and produced his flask. “And you’re just a big brute, except that things aren’t always the sum of their appearance. Back at the Fist, I figured you were dead when you walked out onto the sand.”

  “Oh. So why is it way out here? And not put together better?”

  “It was assembled by the Elder Ones, the Ochre clans, the First People, First Folk, take your pick from a dozen names. They covered most of the land centuries ago, so far back that they did not know how to work metals other than gold. Or perhaps they didn’t want to work metal.”

  I touched the pommel of my dirk as I considered that; it had never occurred to me that there was a time when steel wasn’t around. “What is ‘ochre’?”

  “A color, somewhere between yellow and tan.”

  “So why did they build it?” I indicated the dolman. “It must have been a lot of work.”

  “What makes lightning?”

  “Storms.”

  Hunter grinned again. “That’s an answer that will
serve a man his entire life. But there are always those who want greater detail. And take my word on this: when you meet a man who seeks that sort of knowledge, it nearly always develops that the reason he wants to know, is that he wants to gain the power to make lightning.”

  “Can you make lightning?”

  “No one can, unless standing on a tall hill holding a long copper rod in a bad storm counts. But it doesn’t stop people from trying.”

  “So these Old Folk built the Dolman trying to make lightning?”

  “First Folk. No, they were looking for more primaeval forces. Along the way, they made the first discoveries of what eventually became the various Arts.”

  “So that’s why you wanted to look at it?”

  “Yes. These people could not weave cloth, smelt ore, or use a plow, but they created the foundation of the Arts.”

  “Huh.” I thought about that. “So when did they just become regular people?”

  “They didn’t.” Hunter dug the little book out, or maybe a different one, and thumbed through it before holding it to show me a crude figure of a man, except the man had tall elk horns and his knees bent backwards. It sort of looked like he had hooves, too. “They went away.”

  “To where?”

  “No one knows. Maybe they died out, maybe they migrated, maybe something else. But they are gone. Later, Men, Dellians, and Niskers came from the south, and the Ukar and Tulg came from the north. All we found were burial mounds, paintings in caves, and arranged stones.”

  “So if they left before Humans came, how did they create the Arts?”

  “They established the foundations of the Art,” he corrected me, stowing the book and taking another swig. “They carved things here and there, and men smarter than I am deciphered the carvings and built upon what the Elder People had learned.”

  “So when Men, Dellians, and Niskers came from the south they didn’t know the Arts?”

  “No. Back then they were just learning to work iron in quantity, and to make steel. They carried weapons and tools of bronze for the most part.”