steel and fire 03 - dance of steel

by rivet, jordan

  “Hold on, Gull, dear,” said the leader in red—Kres. “I’ve never seen a wine merchant fight like that. He’s scrappy. I like it.”

  “He got lucky,” said the fourth—and youngest—man. Siv gave a start when he realized this fellow was Soolen. He had the characteristic dark complexion and sleek black hair, but he wore it short, unlike Chala Choven, who’d always been so proud of his long ponytail. He wasn’t wearing Soolen clothes either.

  “That was more than luck,” said Kres. He fixed Siv with an intelligent gaze. “This one’s got fight in him.”

  “Uh, thank you.” Siv cleared his throat. “I’d better be on my way if you don’t mind.” He surveyed the clearing, wondering if he’d have a chance to make a break for it. He probably wouldn’t get ten feet. His limbs were still shaky after being tied up for so long. “Could someone point me in the direction of the High Road?”

  “Don’t move,” snapped Gull, brandishing her sword. “I say we kill him.”

  “Come now,” said Kres. “No need for all this hostility. Why don’t you tell us why you’re really here, lad? And exactly who you intend to report to on the High Road.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Great. They think I’m a spy. They’re going to kill me.

  “He was with the blasted Soolens,” Gull said. “That’s answer enough for me.” She glanced at their Soolen companion. “No offense.”

  “In case you didn’t notice, I killed one of them.” Siv nodded at Charn’s corpse. “Would have done the others if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Indeed.” Kres smiled, revealing a shiny row of perfect white teeth. “The enemy of our enemy is our friend.”

  “You’re not thinking about keeping him, are you, boss?” asked the woman—Gull. “Don’t we have enough misfit projects for one squad?”

  The Soolen boy scowled at her. He must be one of the projects.

  “As it happens, we are one short for the Dance.” Kres tapped his knife against his perfect teeth, scrutinizing Siv—and the body on the ground beside him. “What do you say, friend? Ever wanted to be a pen fighter?”

  “A what?”

  “You’ve never heard of pen fighting?” said the young Soolen scornfully. He was right around Siv’s age—twenty—a little wider in the shoulders, but not quite as tall.

  “I’ve heard of it,” Siv said. “But never in Trure. As far as I know, Pendark is the only place where pen fighting is still legal.”

  “Sounds like someone got an education in what matters,” Kres said. “I could use a decent fighter like you on my squad. Trust me: the gold is better than anything you’d earn peddling Fork Town wine.”

  Siv blinked. “You . . . you think I could be a pen fighter?”

  A wild light flitted through Kres’s eyes for an instant. “If you stick with me, I’ll make you a pen champion. In any case, we can’t have you running off and reporting what you saw here. You will travel with us until we can be sure of who you really are.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I should be—”

  Abruptly, Kres had a knife in each hand, and he’d closed the distance between them. He had barely moved! One of the blades lay cold against Siv’s neck before he could even gasp. The other rested on the wrist of his knife arm.

  “That wasn’t a request.”

  Yes, Siv definitely wasn’t walking out of this one alive. He didn’t know what sort of spy Kres thought he was, but they wouldn’t let him leave in a hurry. He took a breath, and the knife bit into his throat. Okay, no breathing. Maybe he could pretend to go along with this pen-fighting scheme—at least until they found their way to a road. He could try fighting his way out there. His knees picked that moment to wobble, reminding him that he didn’t stand a chance against them alone right now.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m in.”

  A slow smile spread across Kres’s face. “I had a feeling you would be. What’s your name, son?”

  “I’m Siv—ren.” He cleared his throat. “Sivren Amen.”

  “Welcome to the team, Sivren Amen.” Kres removed the two knives from Siv’s arteries at last, making them disappear in an instant. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Krestian March, the best damn pen fighter ever to spring from the fetid swamps of Pendark. You’ve met Gull Mornington, swordswoman extraordinaire—and a wicked dancer if you’re lucky enough to see it.”

  Gull spit on a burning brand at her feet and took her time sheathing her blade. Siv resolved never to ask her to dance if he wanted to keep his head attached to his shoulders.

  “And this magnificent colossus,” Kres continued, patting the huge blond Truren on the shoulder, “is Fiz Timon. He’s smarter than he looks.”

  Fiz stuck out his meaty hand. “A pleasure,” he said.

  “And last but not least is my protégé, my heir-apparent if he doesn’t screw up too badly: Latch.”

  The young Soolen man jerked his head in what was probably the least-friendly nod Siv had ever seen.

  “Best clean up this mess and get some sleep, children,” Kres said. “We leave for Pendark at dawn.”

  Siv almost grinned. He’d always wanted to see Pendark. Of course, there was no way he’d get that far. He’d return to Dara and his family as soon as he could slip away—or convince the pen fighters he wasn’t a spy. Still, he’d love to see the famous city by the sea one day.

  The pen fighters hauled the bodies away from the encampment and rearranged it to suit them. Gull kicked the burning brands back into some semblance of a campfire. They didn’t seem overly concerned about guarding their supposed spy as they worked. Maybe they realized just how little chance he’d have against them if he tried to run. It sure beat having a sack over his head, though.

  Fiz disappeared into the trees and returned leading a quartet of horses.

  “They’ve got a wagon, boss,” he said. “Shall we take it?”

  “I expect it would only slow us down,” Kres said after a moment’s consideration. He shot a sharp look at Siv. “That must have been quite laborious, lugging you through the woods in that thing.”

  “I was blindfolded for most of it,” Siv said neutrally. He wanted to ask why this group of traveling fighters had attacked his captors in the first place, but he was worried that would inspire more questions about his own shaky origin story—and more speculation about his career as a spy.

  He suspected the group might be bandits or mercenaries in their spare time. Resha had mentioned trouble on the road. Pen fighters sometimes took alternative employment. They didn’t get sponsors like Vertigonian duelists, and they had to rely on prize purses for their living. This bunch certainly didn’t have any qualms about appropriating the Soolens’ belongings and divvying up their weapons.

  Whether they were bandits, mercenaries, or spies in their own right, at least they didn’t feel the need to tie Siv up. After dealing with the bodies, Kres and Latch disappeared into the darkness, saying something about scouting the perimeter. Siv flopped down onto the ground beside the campfire and rubbed his wrists and ankles. Angry red bands encircled each of his limbs. How long had he been a captive? A week? It was sure nice not to breathe through that grimy sack anymore. It had started to smell like a dead zur-sparrow.

  “Here.” The big man, Fiz, sat down beside Siv and handed him a wineskin. “You look like you could use this.”

  “Thanks.” Siv accepted the skin and tipped his head back for a long gulp.

  “Can you tell where it’s from, wine merchant?” Fiz asked.

  “This side of Kurn Pass, I reckon.” Siv passed it back to him. “It’s similar to Fork Town wine, but not quite as oaky. Tollan?”

  “Correct,” Fiz said. He took a huge swallow. “You pass the test.”

  “If there’s one thing I know, it’s wine,” Siv said. “So how long have you been a pen fighter? You’re from Trure, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Fiz said. “Tollan, in fact. I’ve been in Pendark for nearly seven years now. None of the horses wanted to carry me, so I had to fin
d something to do outside the Horseplains.” Fiz lifted his massive shoulders in a shrug.

  Siv laughed. “I wouldn’t want to carry you on my back either.”

  Gull joined them at the fire, folding her long legs beneath her. She immediately took out a knife and began sharpening it with a whetstone, looking at Siv without blinking.

  “She’s not so mean when you get to know her,” Fiz said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Just don’t ask her to cook for you. Made that mistake once.” Fiz gestured to a long scar down the side of his cheek, not far from his ear.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Siv said. “So you’re a duelist?” he asked Gull. He figured he’d had decent luck getting female duelists to like him. No sense in having any enemies amongst his newest team of captors.

  “This look like a frilly Vertigonian rapier to you?” Gull demanded, and suddenly her sword was in her hand, the tip hovering not an inch from Siv’s nose. How do all these people move without seeming to move? He wanted to learn that trick. Gull’s sword had a wicked curve and a guard that wrapped forward over her hand to join with the pommel.

  “I’d say that’s a mighty fine saber,” Siv said. “Good craftsmanship.”

  Gull studied him for a moment, then a faint smile crossed her face. “Aye. I had to win a month’s worth of solo fights to buy this beauty.”

  “Looks worth every copper,” Siv said. “I take it you’re good?”

  Gull arched an eyebrow and returned her sword to its sheath at her hip. She picked up her whetstone and knife again and resumed her work.

  Fiz chuckled. “She’s good. There aren’t a lot of women I’d trust to watch my back in the Dance, but she’s one.”

  Siv had never seen a Pendarkan pen fight, but he knew the competition was divided into solo fights and the five-person melee known as the Dance of Steel. Five different weapons. Five fighters on each side. The melees took place in arenas called Steel Pentagons, usually built on islands in the swamps around the city-state of Pendark. Fighters could win huge prize purses—if they made it out alive. Unlike the Vertigonian duels, the Dance of Steel was a dance of death. This group must be skilled indeed if they had survived this long. Or at least most of them had survived.

  “So what happened to your fifth?” he asked.

  Fiz spit into the campfire, sending up a jet of steam.

  “Soolen scouting party. Got more than they bargained for with us. But Shreya was a little too slow. We killed some, but four of them got away.”

  “Is that why . . .?” Siv gestured to the bodies of his former captors, indeterminate lumps beyond the warm ring of firelight. He wondered if the scouts had been part of Commander Brach’s vanguard. How much longer before his whole army crossed into Trure?

  “Aye,” Fiz said. “By the time we realized they were the wrong group, we were too far into the fight to back out.”

  “I’m grateful for it,” Siv said. “Sorry about your friend.”

  “Didn’t get a chance to know her,” Fiz said. “She was why we came all the way out here in the first place. Kres heard about her skills back in Pendark and just had to have her for this season. He’s been in an ugly mood since it happened. We’re lucky he took out his aggression on this bunch, or he might have killed us all before we made it back to the High Road. She’s got to be the most-expensive recruit of all time, and we didn’t even get to see her in action.”

  “Don’t joke about her.” Latch had returned from scouting—and he did not look happy.

  “Easy there, Latch,” Fiz said. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Latch glared at him for a moment and then stalked to the other side of the fire. He sat beside Gull and reached for a share of her wineskin.

  “Kres has first watch,” he muttered. “If I were you I’d sleep with one eye open.” He fixed Siv with a level stare. The look was full of animosity, but Latch didn’t even come close to being the scariest person Siv had met lately. He simply shrugged and tipped his head back for another drink.

  He’d have to tread lightly while he traveled with this team. He resolved to be as friendly as possible in hopes of convincing them he was who he claimed to be. It looked as if he had his work cut out for him with Latch. He didn’t fancy the idea of standing back to back with him in a Steel Pentagon anytime soon. Not that he’d be going all the way to Pendark, of course.

  Siv studied the pen fighters lounging around the fire. They had a breezy confidence that Siv found surprisingly appealing. They looked ready to take on any comers with nothing but their blades and their wits. What would it be like to go wherever he wanted, to fight for gold and glory with no one to answer to but himself?

  The prospect was actually kind of tempting. Siv hadn’t done much good as king. His sister was dead, his crown lost, and he’d been stupid enough to get himself captured. What if he started over completely, as his Uncle Tem had suggested? Would it be possible for him to begin an entirely new life?

  Dara’s face rose before him, her intense eyes, her fierce smile. The thought that he might never see her again was like a burning coal in his skull. But what had he ever done but let her down? She had given up everything to be there for him after his father’s death, and he hadn’t even managed to keep his throne. She deserved to follow a superior king. Firelord knew he had never deserved her. Maybe she would be happier if he was out of her life forever.

  Siv’s father had always told him to take care of his duties. Well, his father was gone. It was almost liberating to know he had failed so completely. He could fall no lower than this. And for the first time, perhaps in his life, he had a real chance to leave it all behind. He could go anywhere. Do anything. Be anyone.

  Not that he would really do that. He’d remain with the pen fighters until they reached the High Road. He’d pretend to join their team and prepare for their Dance of Steel, and then he’d return to Rallion City as soon as he could leave without being hunted down and slaughtered as a spy. But it was interesting to imagine what it would be like to take this path.

  As he settled in to sleep, the skies opened and soaked them with rain, but he didn’t care. For now, he was Sivren Amen, responsible for no one but himself.

  21.

  Roan Town

  DARA awoke to the sounds of children laughing and Rumy squawking. She emerged from the cot where she’d spent the night, still stiff from all the riding, and discovered that Roma had relented and allowed Rumy to come inside the farmhouse. A ring of children in their nightclothes surrounded him, all giggling and reaching out to touch his scaly hide. Even little Shir had overcome her fear enough to place a tentative hand on the hard knob of scales at the end of Rumy’s tail.

  “Good morning,” Vine said brightly as Dara joined her and Roma at the table. Sturdy mugs of tea sat before them. “I took the liberty of letting you sleep in.”

  “Thanks.” Dara accepted a cup of tea from Roma and rubbed her eyes. “We should get back on the road soon, though.”

  “We needn’t hurry,” Vine said. “I need time to calm my mind and reexamine my Senses. Roma has offered to let us stay another day.”

  “But what about—”

  “It would be better to get a feel for his position than to continue running about in the wilderness, don’t you think?”

  As much as Dara hated to admit it, Vine was right. They could wander the plains forever unless they got some guidance. Vine needed time. She thought about the three riders Yen had seen on the road behind them yesterday. Hopefully they would bypass the farmhouse without causing trouble. She didn’t like the idea of sitting around doing nothing, though.

  “Yen is taking the three oldest into Roan Town today,” Roma said, seeming to sense her restlessness. “Why don’t you go with him? You can ask after the news. You may learn something useful.”

  “Oh yes!” Kol said, abandoning the group around Rumy to skip over to the three women. “Please come with us! Mummy promised to make me a new dress, and I’ve been saving coins for the fabric. Lady Vine, you can he
lp me pick it out!”

  “I must spend the day in meditation,” Vine said. “I need time and space to calm my mind and petition the Air. Dara can help you, Kol.” She leaned toward the girl conspiratorially. “She pretends not to care about pretty dresses, but she secretly loves them.”

  Dara’s mouth dropped open, and Vine gave her an innocent smile.

  “I want to go to town too!” little Shir whined.

  “Not this time, love,” Roma said.

  “I’ll bring you back a new bow, Shir,” Kol said. “Miss Dara can choose the color!”

  Vine grinned at Dara. There was no point in contradicting her. Maybe Dara did like wearing dresses sometimes. Only on very special occasions.

  She finished her tea in one gulp and went to sit on the floor beside the children. Rumy gently nudged his way through them and stuck his snout into her hands to greet her.

  “Good morning to you too,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling suitably spoiled.”

  Rumy snorted and turned his head so she could see the purple ribbon one of the children had tied around his neck. He huffed out a contented sigh and went back to being patted and prodded by his pile of fans.

  The children tore their attention away from Rumy for a breakfast of dried winterberries and fresh brown bread. Afterwards, Vine settled onto the porch for her Air meditation session, and Dara set out with Yen, the twins Kol and Kay, and Jin.

  They left the horses behind to rest for the day and approached Roan Town on foot. Farmland lined the road on either side. The houses became more numerous as they got closer to town. The children identified which of their friends’ families owned each one as they skipped along. Occasionally they passed riders and wagons on the road, and Yen called out greetings to everyone they passed.

  “Roan Town is a trading hub for all the farms in the region,” Yen explained. “It’s the biggest town east of the High Road. Not far south of here, you reach the foothills beneath the Linden Mountains.” He nodded toward a dark-purple ridge on the horizon.

  “That’s the border with Soole, right?” Dara asked.