“Me neither,” Zollin said. “I feel like I’m in a story. As if some greater power that I can’t see or touch is somehow guiding me through these adventures.”
“God?” Brianna asked.
“Maybe, I don’t know what else it could be.”
“Well, if it is, you’ll know when you need to know. You’re a very capable man.”
Zollin laughed a hard laugh that made his stomach muscles, which were sore from retching, ache. He bent over laughing, and Brianna couldn’t help but laugh too, although she didn’t know what was funny.
“What? What’s so funny?” she asked.
“You,” he said. “I can’t believe you just said I’m capable. If only you’d known me better growing up. I was anything but capable. Quinn could do anything, but I was hopeless. I couldn’t drive a nail straight. I didn’t have the strength to carry the timber. I didn’t understand wood grain, or how to use leverage to saw a piece of wood. There were so many things that I was terrible at that I thought I was worthless. Never in all my life did I think that someone would call me capable.”
“Well, you are,” she said, smiling, her eyes shining as she looked at him. “I love you, Zollin Quinnson.”
“I love you, too,” he said.
Chapter 13
Mansel was glad to be off the ship. The weather had not been bad, but the wind had made it necessary for the ship to sail in a zig-zagging pattern. The sailors had been busy, but Mansel had languished with nothing to do and no way to help. The idleness had almost driven him mad. His mind was feverish with the desire to get Zollin back to Gwendolyn. The witch was always on his mind. When he closed his eyes he could see her, not her face-which he couldn’t picture no matter how hard he tried-but her seductive body and the way she made him feel. He could hear her voice, calling out to him, urging all haste. He had felt a small sense of guilt when he had tossed Quinn overboard, but that had quickly fallen away in his eagerness to complete his task.
At night he dreamed of a lonely cottage. He couldn’t remember where the home was. Sometimes he could see the silhouette of a woman, her features pinched as if by grief, and he knew that she was important, but he quickly pushed all thoughts of everyone but Gwendolyn out of his mind. He couldn’t think of Prince Wilam without growing furiously angry. Jealous rage fueled him and he wanted to get back to the Castle on the Sea to keep the spoiled Prince from worming his way into Gwendolyn’s good graces.
The city at Black Bay was large. It was a major point of trade, with river traffic bringing goods from the Great Valley in the Northern Highlands, and the Sea of Kings bringing goods from the south. The Weaver’s Road ran straight to Fort Jellar and Ebbson Keep. Mansel was tempted to spend the night in one of the many inns in Black Bay, where he could get a decent meal and plenty of ale. But they had arrived in the harbor at mid-morning, and Mansel was anxious to get moving.
“Wait for me here,” Mansel told the captain of the ship. “I shouldn’t be too long.”
“I will need to get back to the Castle,” the captain said. “Her Highness might need me.”
“She won’t be pleased if you shirk your task. I’ll get the wizard, you wait here.”
Mansel’s manner was threatening. He had never before used his size and strength to bully people into doing what he wanted. Growing up, Mansel saw his older brothers do their share of bullying, and it had left a bad taste in his mouth. But now he no longer cared what people thought of him. He cared only about pleasing the witch, and she had given him a task. He wasn’t about to let the rat-faced sailor keep him from it.
His first priority had been to find a horse. He wanted an animal big enough to carry his weight without growing tired, but fast enough that he could make up for the time he had lost on the ship. He wasn’t sure where Zollin was, but he was confident he could find out by staying on the Weaver’s Road.
He bought a horse with the coin he had found in Quinn’s belongings and set out right away. He still had the sword Zollin had forged for him from the links of chain the army had bound them with in the Great Valley, and he wore it over his shoulder while he rode so that the blade wouldn’t constantly slap against his thigh or bother the horse. He had purchased some simple rations: a canteen of water, dried meat, and fresh bread. He was tempted to buy wine or ale, but he didn’t want to add extra weight to his horse. The animal was young and spirited, anxious for adventure, and Mansel rode hard.
When night finally forced him to stop, the horse’s head was drooping. He hobbled the beast and rolled himself in his cloak to sleep. The next morning he set out at dawn. He passed merchants, most often traveling in caravans that forced him to leave the road so that he could circle around them. There were guards, mercenaries mostly, all with heavy weapons like broadswords and maces. They eyed him suspiciously as he passed. He was tempted to challenge them: it would have felt good to use his sword to wipe the smug looks off their faces, but he didn’t want anything to slow him down. He also passed groups of traveling soldiers, usually led by one or two noblemen on horseback with well-made armor. They were the war bands from the Baskla fiefdoms, all traveling west. Their presence seemed odd, but Mansel didn’t waste much thought on them. He was focused on his task, which was all that he cared about.
It was difficult to avoid the inns along the road. There were many, each catering to the traveling merchants and their entourages. It seemed as if the aroma of roasting meat emanated from them all. There were buxom maids in the doorways of many, each tempting Mansel to forget his task and give himself to them. He rode stoically past, forcing himself not to look or respond to their pleas for his attention. On the second night he stopped at an inn to eat his supper. He washed the hot food down with cups of ale, and the more he drank the more he wanted. His usual jovial attitude was nowhere to be found. The more he drank the angrier he became.
Most of the wenches in the inn were wise enough to give him a wide berth. They knew a surly drunk when they saw one. But one young girl was not as experienced. She wasn’t particularly attractive either, which meant she had to work harder to gain the favor of the inn’s patrons and she wasn’t put off easily. She brought Mansel more ale and tried to rub his shoulders. He brushed her off but she came back to refill his tankard, leaning her body against him as she poured. Then she stroked his arm, commenting on the large muscles there. Mansel tried to ignore her, but the ale was kindling a fury that he could barely contain. Everywhere he looked people seemed to be mocking him. The wenches, flaunting and flirting, made him think of Prince Wilam, alone with Gwendolyn, trying to steal her virtue. When the mousy wench ran her cold hand inside the open collar of his shirt, he snapped.
“Leave me the hell alone!” he thundered, shoving the young girl, who was thin and clumsy, across the room.
She fell onto the rough planks of the inn floor. A brutish-looking man helped her up and then turned to Mansel with a vicious look on his face.
“Watch your manners, traveler, or I’ll beat some sense into you.”
Mansel didn’t realize it, but he had been waiting for just such a confrontation. His blood began pulsing through his veins and he could hear the roar of it in his ears.
“Shut up and mind your own business,” he said gruffly.
“Boy, one more word from you and I’ll break that pretty face of yours.”
Mansel stood up. He was tall, his waist narrow, but the muscles of his thighs, chest, shoulders, and arms were large. He still had the sword buckled onto his back. He undid the buckle and looked at the other man, who was even bigger than Mansel.
“Swords or fists?” Mansel asked.
For the first time the man seemed hesitant. The aggressive look on his face was replaced with doubt. He wasn’t armed so Mansel laid his sword across the table.
“Any man who touches my weapon will die by it,” he said in a loud voice.
Then, he lunged forward. It was not the type of finesse that Quinn had taught him. It had none of the careful, patient deliberateness that made his ment
or so dangerous. Instead it was an explosion of brute force. His shoulder slammed into the man and sent him sprawling. Mansel roared like a wild animal and jumped forward. Most of the other patrons were now scrambling to get out of the way. The wenches were quick to flee back into the kitchen with the innkeeper.
The shock of Mansel’s attack quickly wore off the big man and he scrambled to get to his feet, but Mansel was too quick. He brought up a hard knee into the man’s face and sent the local sprawling again. A smaller man joined the fray, leaping nimbly onto Mansel’s back and wrapping one arm around his neck and the other behind his head. Mansel felt the muscles tighten and his air was cut off. He reached up and fumbled to find the man’s hands, and when he finally did he wrenched hard. Bones popped, and the man on his back dropped to the floor with a howl. Mansel took a big breath and watched his opponent rise in front of him. The big local’s face was covered in bright, red blood.
“I’m going to kill you,” the man said.
“Do it,” Mansel taunted.
The man rushed forward, but this time Mansel pivoted sideways and waited. The big man threw a vicious haymaker punch that would have knocked an ox senseless, but Mansel swayed to the side and then used the man’s forward momentum to flip him over. It was a technique that Quinn had taught Mansel, twisting his body and flinging his opponent over his hip. The big man crashed to the floor, but Mansel still had the man’s arm by the wrist. He twisted the arm, then brought his booted foot high and slammed it down on the man’s elbow. There was a sickening crunch as bones snapped, ligaments and tendons tore, and cartilage popped.
The man passed out from the pain, and no one else moved. Mansel roared again and kicked over a nearby table. Then he stalked out of the inn, grabbing his sword as he went past it. Outside the air was cooler. Fall was approaching, and he was far enough north that nightfall brought cooler temperatures. The cool air felt good on his skin but did nothing to clear his foggy head. He didn’t even remember what had started the fight, but he felt like moving on was the best thing he could do. He didn’t want to have to deal with locals trying to avenge their friend’s defeat or gain compensation for the injuries he had inflicted.
He led his horse until he was too tired to walk anymore. The fight had winded him more than he expected and the ale made him even more tired. He found a small stream that ran near the road and made camp next to it. He hobbled his horse and then fell asleep on the ground. He woke up a few hours later with a boot in his ribs.
“This him?” said the man standing over him.
The man was holding a torch that made it difficult for Mansel to see. All around him the night seemed pitch black and he could just make out the group of horses nearby.
“Yes, that’s him. He broke Ennus’s arm and crippled Ryker. He’ll never swing a hammer again,” said one of the men on horseback, just paces away from Mansel.
“Get up, stranger,” said the man standing over Mansel.
“Who are you?” Mansel asked.
“My name’s Torrence; I’m the town constable.”
“What do you want with me?” Mansel asked.
“You assaulted some men earlier tonight,” said Torrence. “I intend to bring you back to town. You’ll need to make reparations to the men you injured.”
“It was a fair fight,” Mansel said as he stood up. He was trying to buy some time so he kept talking. “All I wanted was a warm meal.”
He was dizzy, and the alcohol in his stomach was only moments from coming up. He recognized the feeling all too well. His head was pounding and his mouth felt incredibly dry and foul. Still, he knew he needed to somehow get away from the men who had come to hold him to account for injuring the men in the inn. He tried to focus his eyes on the group of horses. Were there more men, or just the one who had identified him, he wondered. He wasn’t sure and it was too dark to tell.
“You’ll have to come with us,” Torrence said, in a tone that showed he expected no argument.
“Sure,” Mansel said, feigning friendliness. “I don’t want any more trouble. I’ll just gather my things.”
“You can leave all that, my men will see to it,” Torrence said.
“I can’t leave my belongings,” Mansel said. “Someone might steal them.”
“Mister, you’re coming with me, and I don’t care if you come peacefully, or knocked senseless and thrown across the back of a horse. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” Mansel said.
And then he struck. It was a straight jab right at the man’s face, but the constable had been expecting it. He leaned back to avoid the blow, which is what Mansel had anticipated. He moved quickly, grabbing the grip of the short sword that hung in a scabbard from the constable’s belt. Torrence moved back quickly, not realizing what Mansel was doing, and the sword pulled free of the belt.
Torrence swung the torch at Mansel, but it was a clumsy effort, and Mansel was already spinning away from him. He knew he couldn’t leave his back turned to the other man on horseback. Mansel slashed his sword through the man’s reins, startling the horse so that it reared. The man toppled back, still holding the reins that he expected would save him from falling. There was a third man in the group, but he was on the far side of the rearing horse.
Mansel turned his attention back to Torrence, who was ready for Mansel now. The man had a hard look in his eyes, but his only weapon appeared to be the torch, which was really just a tree branch with one end wrapped in rags that had been soaked in oil. The flame fluttered as Torrence swung the torch. The light made things difficult to see, but Mansel acted mostly on instinct. He brought the short sword up to parry the torch, but the branch shattered, and the flaming end flew toward the horses, which reared and nervously danced away from the fight. The man who had identified Mansel was just trying to get up when he was trampled by the skittish horses. The third man was kept busy trying to regain control of his mount.
Torrence was undeterred by the loss of his weapon. He moved forward, obviously intending to fight Mansel with his hands. But the big warrior swung the sword sideways, turning the blade so that the flat side connected with the constable’s temple. Torrence dropped to the ground, knocked senseless by the heavy blade.
Mansel finally turned and faced the third man, but it was obvious, even in the dim light, that the man was terrified. Mansel assumed the man had just been conscripted to ride with the two town officials.
“I didn’t kill them,” Mansel said. “Make sure you remember that when you explain what happened.”
He threw the sword into the ground, where it stuck fast, the hilt quivering in the air. Then he walked over to his horse and promptly threw up. The sour smell of alcohol enveloped him and made his stomach cramp again. He retched a few more times, but there wasn’t anything left in his stomach. He spit, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then untied his horse. His sword was still in its scabbard that was hung on the saddle horn. He had been so tired he hadn’t taken the time to unsaddle the horse. He climbed up in the saddle and rode away.
He didn’t take the Weaver’s Road, but instead rode off into the countryside so that the man who had been too scared to fight him would report that he rode that way. Once he felt he was far enough from the scene of the fight, he turned and rode back toward the Weaver’s Road. He came to it over a mile away from where he had made camp. He crossed the road and made his way to a small grove of trees that he hoped would shield him from the sight of anyone traveling down the Weaver’s Road. Then he unsaddled the horse and tied it to a tree. He laid out a blanket on the ground and promptly fell asleep again.
Chapter 14
The next day Zollin and Brianna both felt much better, and most of the dwarves were back on their feet as well. They were treated like visiting royalty. Many of the dwarves begged them to take small trinkets to show their gratitude. Zollin repaired the bridge in the cavern that was next to the Jaq clan village, and after getting some rest, Zollin and Brianna were ready to set out later that afternoon.
“He’s already an honorary member of the Oliad clan,” said Bahbaz gruffly.
“I’m honored,” Zollin said, trying to keep the peace.
Bahbaz and the other dwarves with him had worked tirelessly to help the Jaq clan, but now that they were leaving, their old bravado was back in force.
“We have a gift for you,” said Hammert.
“You don’t have to do that,” Zollin said. “Really, we were glad to help.”
“It isn’t for you,” said Hammert.
He held up an intricately woven gold chain. The metal was bright and had a fluid quality as it moved. Hanging from the chain was a brilliant ruby that flashed as if a fire burned inside. Zollin noticed that the stone had magical power, but he was unable to identify it.
“Precious stones are rare,” Hammert said. “And we don’t normally forge gold, but occasionally we dally with the soft metals. It’s my way of saying thank you.”
“It’s stunning,” Brianna said as she took the necklace.
“May it be a lucky charm,” Hammert said. “Not many southlanders can lay claim to a dwarfish bauble like that.”
“You are too generous,” Zollin said.
“Hush, Zollin, you might offend him,” Brianna teased, holding the necklace close to her chest protectively. “Here, put it on me,” she told him.
He held out his hand and she gave him the necklace. As soon as the ruby touched his hand he felt the power kindled there.
“Wow!” Zollin said instinctively.
“What? Is something wrong?” Brianna asked, concerned.
“This is a firestone,” Zollin said.
The dwarves all crowded in for a closer look.
“What’s a firestone?” asked Bahbaz.
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