Table of Contents
A Question of Honor
Labyrinths of the Heart
Death from Below
Swords and Salt
(The Complete Series)
by Lindsay Buroker
Copyright 2013 Lindsay Buroker
A Question of Honor
(Swords & Salt, Tale 1)
Part I
The bamboo cage rattled as it descended into the depths of the earth, the cool stale air laced with the scent of old sweat. Pressed into the corner by far too many bodies for such a small space, Yanko struggled to keep his breathing slow and even, to loosen the tightness clutching his chest.
It’s a lift going into a mine, not a cage being hurled down a dragon’s throat. People do this every day. Perfectly normal people who suffer no ill effects because they toil in the darkness from dawn to dusk, never spending time under the sun.
The man next to Yanko inhaled deeply and coughed, a moist throaty cough. In the darkness, he didn’t see the phlegmy spittle fly from the miner’s mouth, but a gooey gob spattered against his cheek.
All right, maybe not no ill effects…
This wasn’t the first miner who had coughed or sneezed on Yanko that morning. Of course, that might have more to do with being related to the controller than any true medical issues. His uncle must have mentioned his impending arrival, for several of the bleary-eyed men, reporting for work before dawn, had given him dark looks. Someone had thrust a pickaxe against his chest hard enough that it might have broken ribs if Yanko hadn’t anticipated the blow and tensed his muscles. Though he had loathed the hours of combat training he had endured in the last few years, they had inculcated useful instincts.
The cage jerked, the floor trembling beneath his feet. Yanko would have flailed for something to hold onto, but the bodies pinning him into the corner kept him upright.
Lantern light appeared between the bamboo bars. Yanko stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck, trying to see beyond the men in front of him. At five foot nine, he wasn’t short by Nurian standards, but many of the peasant workers had mixed blood, and some of the burly miners were Turgonian prisoners. Those were the ones who had glowered especially menacingly at Yanko, as if the enmity between their peoples was his fault.
The bamboo door opened, and the miners shuffled out.
“Shaft Thirteen,” a gruff voice said.
The miners shouldered their pickaxes, bowed their heads, and walked past a lean man in yellow and orange robes that remained vibrant despite the dim lighting. Nothing else about him was vibrant. Furrows pinched his eyebrows together in a perpetual frown, and gray streaked the black hair flowing down from his topknot. He had the almond eyes and yellow-brown skin of a pureblood Nurian, and Yanko could see many of his father’s features reflected in the man’s narrow face: a snub nose and pointed chin. Yanko had the same skin and eyes, but a broader face; he had always wondered if he took after his mother, but he’d never dared ask.
After fortifying himself with a deep breath—some of the sweat vapors had dissipated with the miners’ departure—Yanko stepped off the lift. He pressed his palms together before his chest and bowed his head. “Honored Uncle. As my father bade, I have come to assist you in the mines.”
“Assist me, eh?” Uncle Mishnal withdrew a parchment scroll from his robes, unrolled it, held it up to one of the whale oil lanterns guttering on the wall, and read aloud. “The boy’s warrior-mage exams are in six months, but he dawdles with his training and his studies. He would rather make flowers than fire, and he prefers composing poetry to practicing with blades. Please harden the boy, so he won’t disgrace the family any further than it already has been. He is our only hope at redemption in this generation.”
Though the temperature fifty meters below the earth’s surface was cooler than that of the sun-beaten scrublands above, Yanko’s cheeks warmed with impressive heat. Studying the earth sciences was a perfectly respectable passion, and he had only made a flower once, intending to leave it for Arayevo as a gift she might appreciate. And the poetry had been for her, too, or it would have been if he had ever found the courage to recite it for her. His father had simply chosen an inopportune moment to barge into the room and stumble across it.
“Honored Uncle,” Yanko said, continuing to use the formal greeting since he hadn’t had many interactions with his father’s brother in his life and no idea what to expect, “I am competent with a blade and have studied the thermal sciences.” Though not to a degree that he’d claim competence with them. He thought he could stick a sword in an enemy’s heart to defend himself, but the idea of roasting a human being like a lamb shank… His belly always went queasy at the thought. Not for the first time, he wondered what kind of “hardening” his father might have in mind.
“Competent, eh? We shall see.”
Uncle Mishnal strode across the empty chamber—the miners had disappeared down one of several tunnels supported with wooden timbers—and touched a communication orb mounted on a pedestal carved from the same grayish white salt that formed the walls and floor. He folded his arms into his voluminous sleeves and gazed down a tunnel. Faint clanks and clinks had been drifting up from it since Yanko had arrived, but a new sound joined the noise, the clomp of footsteps.
A queue of figures shambled into view, all with their hair and beards uniformly cut to within a half inch of their skin. New workers for the mines, none of them practitioners nor men from honored families their lack of long locks said. Some were Nurian, but more were foreigners. Yanko wondered where they had come from, given how many years had passed since the last war. The men wore all manner of clothing, some the colorful loose layers common in the homeland and others drabber brown and gray wools and cottons. An aborigine wore furs, another man wore a sari, and two were clad in the faded remains of Turgonian military uniforms. Many had scarred faces and calloused hands. They didn’t speak as they lined up in front of Mishnal. Silver control collars glowed at their necks. Perhaps they weren’t allowed to speak.
“Prisoners?” Yanko whispered. He had shifted closer to his uncle without realizing it. He hadn’t lied about his competence with a sword, but his father hadn’t sent any weapons with him, and these looked like the sorts of men he could expect to meet after he finished his five years of training at Stargrind, not before.
“Criminals,” Uncle Mishnal said, not lowering his own voice.
He stared down the men without fear, clearly confident the collars would keep them in line. There would be a control orb in his office somewhere, attuned to his thoughts, allowing him to manipulate the men. As one sensitive to the use of Science, Yanko could feel the presence of many other collars in the miles of mines stretching out around, above, and below him.
“Choose one,” Uncle Mishnal said.
“Huh?” Yanko blurted, then realized he had better phrase his… bewilderment in a more respectful manner. “I mean, for what purpose, honored Uncle?”
Mishnal merely extended an arm toward the men. “Choose an enemy.”
If that was supposed to be an answer, it wasn’t a comforting one. Why would anyone choose to make an enemy of a stranger? And what would Yanko be expected to do with his new enemy? Or—his gut twitched—to his new enemy? Was this to be a test? To see if he could kill a man? Surely such things wouldn’t be expected until he finished his training and walked out on a battlefield…
“Choose,” his uncle repeated, his voice hard this time. There was nothing reassuring in his dark brown eyes.
Yanko held back a frustrated sigh and took a step toward the queue, surveying the offerings. The biggest was a broad-shouldered, olive-skinned man in brown wool trousers and a loose beige wra
p that didn’t quite hide the thickness of his arms or pectoral muscles. Old brown bloodstains spattered one side of that wrap—they might have come from him, but probably not. The hale man stood straight, his short, gray-specked brown hair brushing the ceiling, and glowered challengingly with his single eye—an ugly knot of scar tissue lay where the left should have been. That missing eye was the only hint that he might have weaknesses, but Yanko doubted his uncle would judge him unfavorably for choosing the man as an opponent. The Turgonians and the Nurians had been enemies for centuries, warring at least once a generation, and imperial soldiers were known for their power, ferocity, and willingness to die for their empire. Yanko didn’t want to kill anyone, but he thought it would be easier to deal with a Turgonian than one of his own countrymen, criminal or not. He wasn’t so young that he didn’t understand that men, especially in these times, sometimes came to crime by necessity rather than a willingness to dishonor one’s family and tribe. The Turgonian must have been caught spying or assassinating people inside Nuria’s borders. To kill him would not leave a stain on his soul.
Mishnal shifted his weight, and Yanko thrust out a finger before he could grow more impatient. “Him.”
If the Turgonian felt distress or pleasure at being picked, he didn’t show it. Worse, his glower, which had been focused on his controller, shifted to Yanko. The cold penetrating stare made him want to hide behind his uncle. Yanko frowned at himself. He wasn’t a child any more; such instincts were embarrassing. As a warrior-mage, he would be expected to face men like this all the time.
Yes, but you don’t want to become a warrior-mage.
He shook away the thought. It was even less acceptable than fear. His family was relying on him to redeem its honor. His path had been carved into a granite mountain at three years old, when he had first shown aptitude for the Science.
“Very well,” Uncle Mishnal said. His tone wasn’t any more revealing than the Turgonian’s face. At least he wasn’t scowling.
Mishnal waved a hand and all of the “criminals” except for the Turgonian shuffled back the way they had come, collecting pickaxes and shovels from a rack along the way.
“Come,” Mishnal said, then grabbed a lantern and headed for another tunnel, a broad passage with the corners worn smooth by time and the brush of thousands of bodies passing. The wooden supports had petrified, secure for eons by the preserving nature of the salt.
Yanko didn’t want the Turgonian at his back, so he extended a hand, inviting the man to go first. His new enemy was still glowering at him. But, as Uncle Mishnal disappeared into the tunnel, the golden collar flashed. The Turgonian jerked around and walked after him with the awkward stiffness of a marionette. Yanko winced at the indignity, but he reminded himself that nothing less than evil could have brought the man to this fate.
In the tunnels, they passed workers on errands and big sazchen lizards pulling carts of salt blocks along rails toward the lift. Practitioner-crafted harnesses kept the cold-blooded creatures comfortable in the chilly air, so they could work tirelessly for hours, their strength equal to that of five men.
After passing the food hall and kitchen, storage chambers, and a lizard stable, Uncle Mishnal led them into an oval room with a high ceiling. He lit lanterns all along the perimeter, revealing a rack of scimitars, sabers, pole arms, and kyzar—the short stabbing swords used for closing and finishing an opponent. Alcoves at the four compass points of the room displayed statues of the war gods: wolf, lion, viper, and crocodile. They were carved from the same grayish white salt as the walls.
Uncle Mishnal faced Yanko. “Choose a weapon.”
Still not certain what to expect, Yanko hesitated. His uncle’s brows lowered. Yanko hustled to the rack. His father was already displeased with him; the last thing he needed was an unflattering report to be sent home on his first day.
He selected the saber and kyzar, the weapons he’d trained with most often.
The Turgonian stood in the doorway, his eye shifting to watch every move, though he gave away nothing of his thoughts. His face might as well have been carved from the same salt as the statues. Yanko wasn’t sure what he had expected from a Turgonian, but it had involved more sneers and snarls and perhaps some violent fist shaking. After all, most of the empire’s enemies called them gorillas, if rarely to their faces. Yanko admitted he found the cold stillness more disconcerting.
“Choose a weapon,” Uncle Mishnal said again.
At first, Yanko thought the words were for him, that his uncle didn’t approve of his selection, but Mishnal switched to another language and spoke again. The long stream of sentences must have included more than his earlier three words. Maybe the Turgonian was receiving instructions as to what to expect. Yanko wished he were.
The big man strode toward the rack. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a simple slaying. As the Turgonian selected a double-edged long sword, lifting it to his eye to sight down the blade, Yanko didn’t know if he should be relieved or not. He eyed the fellow’s corded forearms—the loose sleeves had fallen to his elbows. Probably not.
The Turgonian also selected a round shield, then faced the room. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but the calm, casual way he held the weapons… he had been fighting all of his life. Yanko could tell. The man might not be wearing the remains of a military uniform, the way some of the other criminals had been, but he had no doubt this was a veteran of many battles.
“We are… to spar, honored Uncle?” Yanko asked, trying not to show how daunted he felt.
“Spar? You must try to kill him.”
Er. Speaking of daunted…
“Will he be trying to kill me?”
Uncle Mishnal chuckled. “You will have to learn a few phrases of Turgonian to ask that question of him, but I should think so.”
Yanko didn’t find any of this amusing.
“I will prevent him from doing so.” Mishnal waved at the collar. As far as Yanko had heard, his uncle wasn’t a practitioner himself, but many mundane people were adept enough to use tools crafted by Makers. His uncle had been overseeing the mines for more than a decade, so he’d doubtlessly had much practice.
“This doesn’t sound very fair,” Yanko muttered.
His uncle gave him a sharp look. “A recalcitrant lip won’t serve you kindly at Stargrind. Nor is it appropriate to speak to your elders so.”
Yanko lowered his head. “I apologize, Uncle.”
The Turgonian was watching him. Yanko’s cheeks warmed again. What must this grizzled veteran think? That he was some spoiled child who’d never worked in his life? Yanko would have to find a way to show him differently. He had spent countless hours training with Great Uncle Lao Zun while growing up, after all.
You’re small, fast, and wiry. He’ll be strong but slow. Dart in and out before he can strike. Approach on his blind side. You can do this, Yanko.
A sound strategy, he decided, and tried not to think about that old saying… Everyone has a sound strategy until the first blow lands.
Uncle Mishnal asked a question in Turgonian. The big warrior nodded once and walked to the center of the room. He flexed his muscles and stretched his fingers without releasing sword and shield. An impressive cracking of knuckles resonated through the room.
He can’t kill you, Uncle Mishnal said, but how many bones is he allowed to break?
You picked him… What was wrong with the ropy little aborigine who’d probably never held a spear for more than fishing?
I wanted an opponent who wouldn’t prove me a coward…
“He’s ready.” Uncle Mishnal’s tone suggested it was the time for fighting, not for lengthy conversations with oneself.
Yanko shook his arms in an attempt to loosen muscles far too tense to allow a full range of movement, then stepped into the center of the room. He faced the man and stared him straight in the… collarbone.
“Ready?” Uncle Mishnal said. “Remember, kill him if you can.”
Yanko bit his tongue to keep from uttering one
of those inappropriate-to-one’s-elders comments that sprang to his lips, one such as, Should you really be saying things like that in front of him, Uncle? Besides, it was clear the Turgonian didn’t speak Nurian.
“Ready,” Yanko said.
The Turgonian grunted.
“Begin,” Mishnal said.
The Turgonian charged.
Yanko skittered to the side, raising his saber to defend himself. He was too slow. The round shield, its concave exterior a splash of bright blue and yellow, blurred as it filled his vision and slammed into his face. A burst of light exploded in his head, and pain bludgeoned his nose. He hit the ground before he had time to compose himself for a proper roll, the carved salt as hard as marble as his back hit, the air blasting from his lungs. Somehow he managed to keep the presence of mind to roll away, to try and put distance between him and his foe, but he couldn’t move quickly enough. The weight of a mountain landed on him. He ducked his head and tried to get his hands up to protect his throat—tiger spit, he didn’t even have his weapons any more—but that same mountain had pinned his arms. Calloused fingers gripped his chin, forcing it back, and an icy metal point pressed against his throat.
Though his vision was blurry, Yanko made out the cold dark eye of the Turgonian, of that brutish face inches from his own. He saw his death in that stare.
Curse the wolf god. I never wanted to be a warrior! He was certain it would be his last thought.
But before the sword could cut into his jugular, the Turgonian was flung away with such power that he crashed into the wall ten feet away.
Yanko scrambled to his feet, not certain his uncle’s intervention meant the battle was over. The Turgonian had struck the wall as hard as Yanko had struck the floor, but he hadn’t lost his weapons. Already he had regained his feet and crouched like a tiger, ready to spring. Yanko snatched up his saber and sword, using the movement to cover a quick wiping of his eyes. Though he knew the tears were a natural result of a blow to the nose, this vulnerability embarrassed him. As did his performance against the Turgonian.
Swords and Salt - the Complete Series Page 1
