Kevon placed the blade back into the coals, and scowled at the ash-muted light that still streamed into the room. “This part would be easier in a cave.”
The bellows continued their even motion, even as the dwarf’s moustache twitched with irritation.
* * *
“It’ll need a stout grip,” Kevon commented, scraping the last of the fired clay from the blade’s fuller. “The tip is still heavier than I expected.”
“Alder,” Kylgren-Wode grumbled, fussing over the placement of the tools and the newly-made fuller-jig back in the box. “Been passing them fer days before we stopped. Best thing for it, until we find some Ironwood.”
“The patterns are…” Kevon traced a finger along the wavy borderline of dark and light metal that rippled along the length of the weapon between the outer edges and the depression of the fuller.
“The same as ye’ll see if ye look close at yer axe,” the dwarf lectured, packing away the rivets, leather, and a length of bright red ribbon he’d produced from somewhere. “Different metal, doesn’t mark as easy. Same methods.”
“And you’re sure that I won’t want to sharpen it here?” The thickened edges that ran nearly to the top of the depression in the blade would take a good deal of filing to bring to a working edge.
“Yer learning the war-axe,” Kylgren-Wode shook his head. “Two hands from the tip, all the sharpening yer going te need.”
Kevon nodded, feeling the thickening at the end of the weapon, the slight flaring that lent extra weight, but thinned the metal for easier sharpening. The variations in coloring appeared as tongues of cold flame, different on each side of the sword-tip, but similar enough. The weight distribution would be more like an axe or hammer, the cutting reserved for the end, the length of the blade more for blocking and breaking. A flicker of familiarity lurked for a moment at the edge of his awareness, but fled as he noticed it.
“I like it.”
Chapter 6
The better part of the morning consisted of sorting out breakfast and clearing the layers of ash that had settled over everything in the wagon during the night. Rhysabeth-Dane doled out the last of the ship’s biscuits and hunks of cheese they’d traded for before they left the port almost three weeks prior. Kylgren-Wode unlatched the back gate of the wagon, stowed the partially finished blade, and let the horses eat hay from the end of one of the uncovered bales.
Kevon patted down the fresh earth over the re-buried box of tools. The remaining stock and scrap that was left in the box was supplemented with a pouch of coin that was nearly twice the value of the supplies they had used for repairs and new weapons. Had the owner been present, the improvements they’d made over the week they’d spent there might have paid for the iron they’d taken. Without such an agreement, Kevon felt guilty even leaving as much silver as they had.
Mirsa sat outside, looking over the Dwarven librarian’s shoulder as she studied the ancient book and her notes.
“Eat,” Rhysabeth scolded the Master Mage before hunching back over the text.
“It’s not agreeing with me-”
“It is not just for you…”
“Hush,” Mirsa cautioned, looking around to where the others made preparations for departure. “No one knows…”
“They are blind,” Rhysabeth-Dane agreed, glaring over her shoulder for a moment. “But they do need to know.”
“When the time is right.”
“If you’re talking about leaving, the time is right now.” Alanna knocked the caked ash from the soles of her boots before picking up her saddle and disappearing back outside as fast as she had appeared.
Mirsa gnawed off a bite of cheese, and washed it down with a swig of water.
The Dwarven librarian nodded as she began arranging her notes and books, packing them away for travel.
Kylgren-Wode helped Mirsa and Rhysabeth-Dane stow their belongings and lifted them into the back of the wagon before securing the gate. He snugged the harnesses of both of the stout draft horses before he climbed up to the seat and took the reins.
“What are ye waiting fer?” he roared at Kevon and Alanna, already in their saddles and standing by. “The mountain te belch again?” He jerked his thumb sideways for emphasis, pointing to the thinner column of steam and ash that billowed in slow motion from the peak far to the east.
The Warsmith smiled and clucked with his tongue, turning his mount onto the pallid track, Alanna moving alongside as the ashes swirled up and about in his wake.
“Never thought I’d be looking forward te getting back on the sea,” the ambassador grumbled, waiting a moment for the grey cloud to settle before following his friends southward.
* * *
“What about now?” Mirsa prodded Rhysabeth-Dane as the wagon rattled along the mountain road that wound down to the port city below. “Can you feel this mountain?”
The latent Earth power had been pressing against Mirsa’s mind for the greater part of an hour, but the tiny librarian just shook her head. “I’m glad to be near it, but it’s not my mountain.”
Mirsa pressed her senses outward, searching for any trace of the oddly structured power that had surrounded the Dwarven Hold, but found nothing, and severed the link before the magic could overrun her. “Interesting,” she mused, squeezing Rhysabeth closer to her side.
Chapter 7
“And good fortune to ye,” Kylgren-Wode shook the stablemaster’s hand and scooped up the pile of silver coins from the table. He walked back outside to where Mirsa and Rhysabeth-Dane waited by the emptied wagon.
“It’ll be enough te get us there,” he grumbled, “but not much else.”
“The elves are the next piece of our puzzle,” Mirsa declared. “We’ll have to go from there.”
“We’ll not be going anywhere if they don’t find a ship willing te carry us there,” the Dwarven ambassador grumbled, jerking a thumb toward the waterfront district. He stooped and scooped up the remaining saddlebags containing their scant belongings, and tossed them over his left shoulder, wiggling back and forth until they settled into place. Shifting his axe harness to the right until he felt balanced, he rested his hand on the haft of the weapon and glanced over at his companions. “They may already be sailing fer that island in the time it takes fer us te get te the water.” He grunted and took a few halting steps to punctuate the joke before dropping into an easy stride down toward the sea.
Rhysabeth-Dane covered her mouth and peeked at Mirsa with glimmering eyes before grabbing hold of the Master Mage’s hand and lurching after their companion.
* * *
“They say you’re the man we need to talk to,” Kevon said, stepping up to the bar and sitting down.
“Who says?” the man beside him asked, lowering his mug.
“Every ship captain who’s heard the words ‘passage’ and ‘Mage’ in the same conversation, for starters,” Alanna answered, taking a stool on the other side of the man. “Seems you have a pet Mage of your own, if the stories are true.”
“He wouldn’t like being called that,” the man laughed, “But there’s a lot of things Reko doesn’t like.” The man stood and extended a hand to Kevon. “Yusa’s the name, Captain Yusa. But you already knew that.”
“We did,” Kevon admitted, “But what we need to know is if we can buy passage on your ship.”
“Where are you headed?”
“We’d rather discuss it in-”
“Excellent!” Yusa clapped Kevon on the shoulder, and tossed two coppers onto the bar before gulping down the last of his ale. “Secrets is extra…” he whispered over the background noise of the small tavern, and turned to leave.
Alanna glared at Kevon, who could only shrug and follow the ship captain out onto the street.
“I don’t know about ‘extra’,” Kevon commented as he caught up to Yusa and matched his stride. “There could be trade opportunity where we’re headed though, Alanna here could help with that, make it more than worth your while.”
“The elves ar
e particularly fond of Heartmelons, which will not grow on their home, but are abundant here. They…”
Kevon smiled at the brief slice of personality that showed through the assassin’s toughened guise.
“I’ll help,” she hissed. “But you’ll make it worth my while. Both of you.”
Captain Yusa stopped and glanced around before speaking. “Travel to the Glimmering Isle is something that is simply not done. I…” He looked over Kevon and Alanna for a minute, then laughed. “I’ll see what Reko has to say about it. Then I’ll probably do it anyway.”
* * *
“Yer certain of this Yusa? And this ‘Reko’ ye’ve never met?” Kylgren-Wode scowled as the longboat approached the pier. He blew the fresh shavings off of the alder grip he’d been whittling at, and tucked it in a pocket with its twin.
“Who can be certain of anyone?” Kevon asked. “It may have been different for you in the Hold, but we have all felt the sting of betrayal. We’ll feel it again. The important thing is to be prepared for it.”
“The games ye play are with yer lives, we gamble instead with honor.” The ambassador agreed. “Deception in the Hold would only feel like a knife in yer back, it wouldn’t really be one.”
Alanna’s glare hardened, her face flushing half a shade in an uncharacteristic show of outward emotion.
Kevon and Kylgren caught tossed lines from crewmen and helped secure the boat on the pier.
Captain Yusa waved the two aside and climbed up from the boat himself. “No offense,” he offered, brushing himself off and standing tall before the group. “I studied the Arts for a season, to no real effect. I still like to stay clear of metal. Sometimes I feel a connection to the sea. I’d hate to lose that.”
“No arguments here,” Kevon smiled. “Have you made your decision?”
“Master Reko is not completely convinced, but I am captain of my own destiny.” Yusa laughed. “I’ve spent too long fishing and following the coastlines. The men are ready for adventure, as am I. We’ll reprovision, and sail with the morning tide in two days.”
Chapter 8
Bertus knocked on the door well after the farmerfolk had left for the morning, a break in the routine of the previous few days. After riding from before dawn until after dark nearly every day the last week, the horses and the tempers of their riders were sorely in need of a break.
“Ready!” Alma smiled, opening the door and shouldering her share of the provisions. Martin grunted and hefted his saddlebags before following her out into the hallway.
“Breakfast is already on the table,” Bertus announced, taking Alma’s satchel and one of Martin’s saddlebags.
“I hope it’s strips of smoked venison and lukewarm water!” Alma’s eyes glinted mischievously as she slid past Bertus down the hallway toward the little inn’s common room. Martin chuckled and followed her out to the table near the fireplace.
“No,” Bertus whispered as they disappeared around the corner. “That’s lunch.”
“Now that there seems to be no hurry,” Alma began as Bertus set down the bags and took his seat at the table, “Perhaps you can tell us more about why we have been hurrying.”
Bertus waited until the innkeeper left the pitcher of milk and dish of butter and returned to the kitchen before beginning to speak.
“What would you like to hear about first? Our battle with the Orclord? The ambush by fanatic Magi in the palace in Navlia? Or the showdown with Holten that burned down part of Eastport?”
“Begin with our connection,” Martin suggested. “Tell us about Master Holten.”
“Holten sent Kevon across the realm with a message that would have ended in his death. With a trinket that suggests your ‘Master’ had been involved in other serious crimes against the Myrnar. After years of hiding behind a curtain of iron and steel, Kevon finally faced his past not more than three days before I arrived in your valley.” Bertus cut a piece of ham and speared it with a fork already laden with scrambled egg.
“But Holten lives?” Martin asked as Bertus chewed.
“Mmm.” Bertus swallowed as he shrugged a shoulder. “The battle was… unusual. Kevon and another Mage slung fire at Holten, and he at them. Then… he seemed to turn to living flame, and escaped to another place, one opened by magic. Kevon and the other Mage seemed to think that he may have died there, but sent me to fetch you, should it not be the case.”
“It is good that we are far from there,” Martin agreed, reaching to hold Alma’s hand. “Though Holten was never one for sentiment, he was practical, and would likely use it against his enemies.” His eyes narrowed. “Now, what’s this about an Orclord?”
* * *
The torch lights and skyline of Smara showed against the southwestern horizon as Bertus sat watching the sun sinking behind it. The horses had been stabled hours ago, supper eaten and cleared away. The relaxed pace of the day had helped ease the tension that had been growing in his mind since they’d fled Laston, and given him time to think about how to proceed the next few days. Outsiders in Kron were treated differently than residents; catered to, but charged dearly for it. Smara was the center of that practice, and the most extravagant by far.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Martin asked, walking up behind him.
“No.” Bertus shook his head. “I’ve seen the sights in Eastport, feasted in the palace in Navlia, roamed the halls of the Dwarven Hold.” He sighed. “Your home was beautiful. I’m sorry you had to leave it, sorry that I was the one to tear you from it.”
“I’d much rather lose my land than my life,” Martin assured Bertus. “You may have saved us, or given us a fighting chance. That is no cause for sorrow.”
“He should have sent someone else. Someone older, stronger…”
Martin laughed. “The Kevon I knew, those years ago, would have looked up to you. From what little you’ve told us of your travels, I can only assume there is much more we’ve not heard.” His face grew somber. “I’ll do whatever you ask, follow wherever you lead, if you will keep my Alma safe.”
Bertus shrugged. “South, then. Until we have to choose to turn east for Navlia, or continue on to the frontier. The palace will have improved defenses after the last attack, but we’d stand out more there than we would blending into one of the units Carlo is commanding on the edge of the wastelands.”
“Until we must decide,” Martin agreed. “We should turn in for the evening.”
Chapter 9
“Faster,” Alanna whispered, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow visible in flickers from a distant torch.
Kevon grunted, weary already from the evening’s exertion, but thrust yet again.
The assassin shifted to the side, dodging the blunted wooden practice knife by the width of two fingers at most. She ducked as her student shifted his weight and slashed to the side, passing through the space where her head had just been. She rolled her neck as she straightened, smiling at the slight pop as the tension eased. A raised knee impacted Kevon’s arm on his reverse slash, stalling his attack. The precise application of force at his wrist and elbow caused him to cast aside the wooden knife, and after a few twists of the captive arm, the Warsmith found himself face-down on the dirt floor, unable to act except for twitching at the pain of the leveraged arm.
“You want to protect her,” Alanna mocked, pressing herself close upon Kevon’s prone form to whisper in his ear. “You can’t even protect yourself from me.” She squirmed a moment longer, as if to emphasize her complete control of the situation, before releasing Kevon’s arm.
Alanna rose and let Kevon struggle to a seated position and rub at the pain in his arm. “I was there when Carlo taught you not to fear getting hurt. That’s a start.” She sat on a nearby crate and leaned against the wall. “The less you fear, the easier decisions are to make, in combat, in life.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face, and wiped a smudge of dust from underneath her good eye. “But I don’t know how to teach someone not to fear death.”
&n
bsp; This is the only way I can see to get through to her, Kevon thought, glaring at the parody of his love that sat sneering at him from less than two sword lengths away. The only way that Alanna has mentioned Marelle’s return as even possible. He closed his eyes and thought back to the evening they met, years ago just outside the North Valley. The children they had been then would be terrified at what they had become. The evening walks, the stolen glances between Elburg and Eastport whorled through his mind, a blur of green eyes and satin ribbons, punctuated by clacking wooden swords and sprinkles of her laughter. Their last evening together in Eastport, the folded note he still kept in a pouch, in a pocket close to his heart.
So close to getting her back, Kevon’s teeth clenched at the realization. If fear is all that is standing in our way… I would rather die than lose her this time. He rolled his right shoulder in a few slow circles, recovered the stick-knife, and climbed to his feet.
“Again.”
* * *
Alanna woke, stifling the scream that nearly escaped her lips. Fragments of the nightmarish memory forced themselves into her, white-hot shards of reality that had severed Marelle almost completely from the world. If the assassin thought hard enough, she could remember things from Marelle’s life, but aside from the occasional twinge of guilt, the shopkeeper’s daughter had effectively died the same day as her father.
Kevon snored softly beside her. The two had fallen asleep, exhausted from the brutal combat practice.
She felt his fingertips resting against the small of her back, and cursed the part of herself that wished his arm was draped around her waist. Wriggling away, she sat up, stretched, and pulled her boots on before venturing outside.
“Yer awake!”
Alanna faked a smile and instantly regretted not staying in the room and trying to take advantage of Kevon. “Good morning, Ambassador.” At least the other one is quiet, she thought, glancing over to where Rhysabeth-Dane studied in a corner by Mirsa. If she weren’t so fond of the Mage…
Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3) Page 3
