Grog II: Book 2 of the Ebon Blades

by RW Krpoun

  “So where did Men, Dellians, and Niskers came from? Isn’t it desert to the far south?”

  “It is. No one knows. Perhaps it wasn’t desert back them. Perhaps it was becoming desert and that’s why they moved north.”

  This was interesting. “Why did the Ukar and Tulg move south?”

  “Because the Dusmen were further north, and the Ukar had to give ground or be overwhelmed. But when they ran into the Men, Dellians, and Niskers, they couldn’t progress further south, and eventually the Dusmen took control of them.”

  I thought on this. “And now the Dusmen are pushing south.”

  “They are, with the Ukar and Tulg as their minions. Eventually they mean to subjugate Men, Dellians, and the Nisker as well.”

  I glanced over and saw that Burk was listening, his face set like stone. “Well, the Legions will have something to say about that.”

  “I expect they will.”

  I sat and thought. “I never heard about these Elder Folk before. Or dolmen.”

  “Part of that is because there are no dolmen where the Empire rules. That was one of the first laws old Umbargen the First handed down.” Hunter stowed his flask and rummaged in his belt pouch.

  “What was?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, that all the stones from the Elder Ones be pulled down and broken up. They leveled the barrows, and collapsed the caves that the First Folk used. There’s isn’t a single work of theirs still standing in any place the Empire holds, or held for any length of time.”

  “Why?”

  Hunter grinned without humor. “Old Umbargen understood the Elder Ones.” He slapped the stone ledge we were sitting on. “This was where they sacrificed their own children in their quest to understand the powers of the world. Umbargen had no knowledge of the Arts themselves, but he understood the principles of power in all its forms. He knew you cannot stop men from seeking knowledge, but you can prevent them from learning from those who came before.”

  “But you said the Arts came from the Elder People, so how did Umbargen stop anything?”

  “There are more powers in the world than our feeble Arts,” Hunter shrugged. “Powers that live in the dark, that pre-date any thinking being. Those were what the Elder Ones were seeking to harness, or perhaps negotiate with.”

  “Did they succeed?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Who knows? Some think that it was that pursuit of knowledge that destroyed them.”

  “Huh.” I thought on that for a bit. “But why did you say the Arts are feeble? You’re a powerful ‘slinger.”

  Hunter chuckled. “I’m not.”

  “You bested Yinran.”

  “Yinran.” He shook his head, his eyes far away. “Now, there was one who was truly versed in the Arts.”

  “Hatcher said you bested him.”

  “Hatcher sees things the way she wants to see them. The Arts are not a constant like swordsmanship, where skill, reach, and the like can be factored into something akin to odds of success. You rarely see practitioners confront each other directly, at least by choice, because the heart of the Arts is chaotic. Yinran was brilliant and highly educated, things that made him very powerful, but those also made him a linear thinker.” Seeing my expression, he grinned. “Think of Yinran as a master swordsman, a true expert of the craft, who has two peg legs. He can teach, he knows every move and counter, but in a real fight he is not as effective as his raw skill suggests. Me, I’m…suited to chaotic thinking.”

  “Back at the Pullar fight, you said you were waiting to see if the nomads had a practitioner,” Burk pointed out from behind us.

  “I was,” Hunter nodded, turning towards Burk. “The thing is, often you can’t tell a practitioner of the Arts from anyone else unless they’re carrying something arcane, or they actually use the Arts.”

  “So if the Pullar had had a practitioner, you would have had the drop on him,” Burk nodded.

  “Exactly. Now, it’s different with Tulg and Ukar: they use a ritualized form of the Arts, and are at a disadvantage when facing Human or Dellian practitioners.”

  “What about Niskers?” I asked.

  “They don’t have many with the knack. Personally, I think it’s because they tend to be deeply chaotic thinkers, and things that are too much alike tend to repel each other.”

  I thought on what he said, but it didn’t make sense; I didn’t point that out.

  “There’s always so many new things,” I sighed. “Sometimes it seems like there’s just no end to it.”

  “I’m not paying attention to anything that doesn’t have to do with guarding, fighting, or just living,” Burk said. “Too much new stuff makes my head hurt. Who cares about some people who lived that long ago? If you survive a match in the pit, you don’t go around wondering what your opponent’s favorite food was. I’m leaving that stuff to my betters, and focusing on what I’m doing.”

  I gave that some thought. “That’s a sensible approach. I’ve got my hands full just hating forests; I could hate trees for as long as I live and still not be done.”

  “The barracks had a great deal that was commendable,” Burk nodded. “We trained, fought, and escorted. Master Horne and the staff dealt with all the rest, which was a good thing.”

  “It never made my head hurt,” I agreed. “As a life, it had many good qualities.” I checked that Hunter was out of earshot, trailing behind us looking at rocks. “You know, Akel took the whole slavery business very seriously, but I’m certain he was never a slave. Why do you think that was?”

  Burk scowled. “Provine Sael is against slavery, and she’s a very good person; I think the important thing is what you really want.”

  “How so?”

  “Provine Sael wanted slavery to stop without any trouble, but Akel, he wanted slave-owners and the like to be punished. I think he was more interested in revenge than ending slavery.”

  “A good point,” I nodded. “And he kept trying to explain how we were supposed to think, did you notice that? I mean, I’m dumb, but I got the point when Provine Sael first told us we were free. He expected us to think a certain way because we were slaves, like we were…I don’t know, too stupid to understand what was happening and needed him to explain things.”

  “I think he looked down on us because we were slaves, but didn’t want to admit it to himself,” Burk rubbed his jaw. “Like some people pretend that brutes are just like everyone else, but you can tell that’s just on the outside.”

  “Master Horne owned us, but he never treated brutes differently.”

  Burk grinned. “He always said that everyone in the barracks was equally worthless. I liked that.”

  “He was fair, and you can’t ask for more than that. Sometimes Provine Sael makes me nervous because she is too nice.”

  “It isn’t the proper way to run a group; when you are in charge you need to yell now and then so people know their place.”

  “When I was by myself, I had a couple runaway slaves who were travelling with me, and they were constantly complaining. Of course, their former master was nothing like Master Horne. Or Provine Sael.”

  “Master Horne was the best master you could have,” Burk nodded thoughtfully. “He always let you know where you stood. Things were neat and simple.”

  “So how was the dolman?” Hatcher asked as I lifted her onto my shoulders.

  “It was four big rocks on a rise. Hunter found it interesting.”

  “Well, that’s how things go,” she observed.

  “How much do you know about the Elder Ones?”

  “No much, and I didn’t go looking for what I do know. They’re long dead, is the core of what I know, dead or so far gone as to make no difference. I’m not a great student of history.”

  That seemed sensible. “How did Pieter get hurt? It looks like someone punched him.”

  “Hmmm? No, Provine Sael has been working on the scars around his eyes. They’re turning dark because…well, I dunno. Anyway, the scar tissue will come off like using pumice to grind off
thick callouses. That’s why he hired on. Plus I got Provine Sael to fix the thing in his sinuses that gives him that hitch in his throat; I told her to take it out of my share.”

  “That was nice of you. I noticed he was talking better.”

  “I like him, but that hitch was getting on my nerves. He knows so much, and he’s interesting to listen to, but that catch…”

  “How hard is it to take care of a mule?” I kept my voice low.

  “More than you might expect, but the job is a lot more involved than that; the muleskinner in a group like this needs to be able to plan, pack, repair leather and wood, tend a mule’s aches and pains, cook, and a dozen other things that are beneath the more arrogant members of the group.”

  I thought about that. “Akel did a lot of things, repairs, adjustments…he made a case for those glass plates. Whatever happened to them?”

  “They’re in the cart. Provine Sael has been too wrapped up in current events to bother with them, and honestly, I’m more than willing to leave them alone. The Sagrit group thought they were more important than chasing us, if you remember, so I don’t expect they are going to bring us any joy when we have time to look into their history and uses.”

  “Huh.”

  She slapped the top of my head. “Keep talking or I’ll fall asleep, and then Provine Sael will give me the ice-eye the next time we cross paths.”

  “What did you get for your reward?”

  “Money. Hunter got a block of greasy-looking wood, and Torl got something similar to what you and Burk got, but you’d need red-hot irons to get him to talk about it.”

  “What about Provine Sael?”

  “She asked to be part of the effort to discover the reason for the Dusman’s assault. She had the Emperor himself in her debt, and she asked for a front-row seat to a war.”

  “She’s a good person.”

  “She’s got such a nervous disposition she has to have a special diet, but she’s leading a bunch of specialists on yet another fool’s errand. Look around: two top-rated pit-fighters, an entry specialist of considerable repute, a ‘slinger of noteworthy expertise, and a border ranger who is well on his way to being a legend. It’s nothing short of a miracle to gather and lead this group, much less commit it to action again.” She drummed on the top of my head. “How do you do that? Do you just get up one morning and decide to devote your life to making things better? And challenge a murderous organization of ruthless skulks, with your life as a wager, to boot?”

  “Well, for Burk and me, it was a walk of about forty feet.”

  Hatcher was silent and motionless for a long moment, and then she hooted and slapped the top of my head. “All right, you got me: I was being too melodramatic. But you have to admit, she’s something out of the ordinary.”

  “You bet your life against the Sagrit, too.”

  She made a rude noise. “How worried are you?”

  “Not much. Killing is what I do.”

  “Not all that you do, don’t ever think that; you’re more than just a swordsman. We saw what you were truly made of when Akel gave you the opportunity to stand aside. Every one of us had a chance to change their mind and walk away from this whole business.”

  “When you engage the Ebon Blades, a proper barracks of the old school, you get quality work, that is the rule.”

  She was quiet again. “That’s sort of your moral compass, yours and Burk’s, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You could do a lot worse.”

  “What is yours?”

  “I am a professional, and my word is good,” Hatcher said slowly. “But part of it is Provine Sael setting an example I can’t ignore. Logic tells me this is a fool’s game that will get me killed, but part of me wants to be, well, better than I usually am. And it feels good to be part of something bigger than just profits.”

  The hills started thinning out the day after we looked at the dolman, and Torl spent more time talking with Provine Sael and Hunter; the scout did not look worried, but he had an air about him that reminded me of the time before going into the pit: alert, focused, ready. Not that Torl ever stopped looking ready for trouble, but he seemed more intense.

  Pieter had cunning folding cots which made sleeping in the field a lot more comfortable than our first outing; it hardly rained, but even though it was summer it didn’t get too hot, and nights were actually a touch chilly.

  I was snug and sleeping soundly, a rolled blanket for a pillow and my sheathed sword cuddled in the crook of my left arm; in my dreams I was young again, and our entire age block was drilling on the old parade field. It was sort of a sad dream, because somewhere in the back of my sleeping mind I knew that the others were all dead, but it was kind of nice to see all of them again.

  Then someone slapped me on the back and I heard Torl hiss “To arms, stand ready.”

  It was pitch black when I opened my eyes, with the only reference coming from a carpet of stars gleaming high overhead; rolling to a sitting position I reflexively jerked my socks tight and pulled on my boots, wondering how we were supposed to see to fight, and who we were going to have to face. The others were moving as well, but quietly, just the sounds of bodies and clothing interacting.

  Then some sort of dim flickers of greenish light started to briefly outline tree trunks to my right as I pulled on a soft padded undershirt and tucked it in; I always left my breast-and-back inside-out by the head of my cot so all I had to do was flip it over my head and start fastening the side-buckles and then the straps on the studded bracers I had left attached.

  The cots were always arranged in a single row to avoid confusion in exactly this sort of situation; I slept with Burk to my right and Hatcher to my left, only Hatcher had been on guard. Burk was struggling into his scale shirt, making too much noise but unable to do anything about it.

  As I fastened straps with the surety of frequent practice (Burk and me always put on our armor with haste, to be ready for the times like now), I tried to pick out the source of the dim glints which were getting slightly brighter with each heartbeat. Burk’s head finally emerged from the metallic depth of his scale shirt and I could hear him cursing under his breath as he fastened the straps that kept it from shifting as he moved.

  I finished my right arm and started on my left as Burk stomped his feet into his boots. I sensed rather than saw Hatcher to my left. “What’s happening?” I whispered.

  “Dunno. Torl woke up and raised the alarm before I saw the first witch-light.” I could hear her gathering her spare throwing axes. “How are we going to see to fight?”

  Finishing my left bracer, I pulled on my fighting gloves and thumped my fists into my palms to seat them. “Dunno.”

  I was buckling my belt into place when Hatcher, who had climbed up onto the cart, whispered that the lights were coming closer.

  “Tulg hunting someone,” Torl muttered under his breath, making me jump: I hadn’t heard him come up. “And heading our way. Try not to make noise.”

  “When do we start lighting torches?” Hatcher hissed.

  “Hunter has it.” Then the scout was gone.

  I shoved my axe into my belt and drew my sword from the baldric still lying on my cot as the dim glows became orbs of green light zig-zagging through the trees, heading slow but steadily towards us, accompanied by faint, high-pitched word-less cries.

  “Nobody around for miles, and they’re coming right at us,” Hatcher muttered from her perch. “Do we have luck, or what?”

  “Not an accident,” Pieter whispered from behind us. “From the movement mhm of the witch-lights, those who are being hunted are mhm deliberately heading for us. Slaves escaping, I should expect.”

  “They’re hoping to use us as a means to break contact,” Hatcher said after a long pause. “But how do they know we are here?”

  “I would assume the Tulg detected us, and the slaves overheard mhm that fact. The Tulg are notoriously careless about mhm such things.”

  “If the Tulg knew w
e were here, why aren’t they just coming for us?”

  “Renegade Tulg value their lives more so than those who serve the Dusman mhm. What this small group has is not worth the mhm price in blood they would have to pay.”

  “I dunno, Tulg always seem pretty mindless to me.”

  “Hatcher, shut up,” Torl snapped, once again startling me by getting close without a sound.

  As the lights drew closer we could hear the calls clearer, and twice sudden, piercing screams of agony that suggested that the Tulg’s hunting was getting results. After each scream the span of the lights across our front visibly diminished.

  Torl was back. “Move forward a few feet past the cots; they’re being led straight towards us. Feel free to talk, Hatcher: I wouldn’t want you to explode.”

  “If they can hear me whisper while chasing people through the brush…”

  “There’s a shaman involved,” Torl snapped as Burk and I eased forward.

  “So how do the ones being chased know where we are?”

  “Look up.” We all did, and after a moment I realized there were two glowing dots circling at treetop level over our camp. “Those are small glow-bags tied to bats,” Torl whispered. “Trained to hunt Humans by scent. I expect the slaves stole them on their way out.”

  “So why are the Tulg running around through the brush like a bunch of demented owls?” Hatcher hissed. “If they have hunting bats…”

  “Because the Tulg slaves are familiar to the bats from feeding them. And bats are not terribly easy to train.”

  “The Tulg are notoriously lazy,” Pieter added.

  “Hatcher, stay at the cart; Provine Sael and Hunter will join you. Grog, Burk, you’ll act as a breakwater.”

  “How many are coming?” I whispered.

  “Not all that many; renegade bands are small, and these have learned some caution, so they may not press home the attack. Although Tulg are unpredictable.”

  “Why didn’t you mention there were Tulg in the area?” Hatcher whispered.

  “Because there have been Tulg in the area since we struck out north. We don’t post a sentry because of foxes.”