by Dorian Hart
He was the last to arrive, but before he could hand out the dates Ernie started talking.
“I found it! I found a place where they’re hiring folks for a dig out on one of the islands in the desert. That must be what we’re looking for!” The baker described his experience at the recruiting house.
Tor beamed at his friend. “Well done, Ernest! Let’s get over there and lift those barrels and get hired and out in the desert and see what those Black Circle cultists are digging up!” He was already forming a plan; he’d impress the recruiters with his great strength and then insist that all of his friends be allowed to join him as a condition of his taking the job.
Grey Wolf scowled at him, made a shushing gesture with his finger, then turned to Ernie. “How do you know this is the right operation?” he asked. “You didn’t name-drop the Black Circle, did you?”
“Of course not!” said Ernie. “But how many ventures like this could be happening out there?”
“Ernie’s right,” said Tor. “I asked a bunch of locals about it, and if there’s one thing they agreed upon, it’s that no one goes out into the Mouth of Nahalm. They laughed at the idea of someone bothering to walk as far as the nearest island.”
“From what I hear,” said Dranko, “you couldn’t walk across the desert even if you wanted to. As we already discovered, the sand is more like dust, so fine that you’d sink in up to your arse, or further.”
“The sign on the door said ‘travel kits provided,’” said Ernie. “I saw a bunch of bundled up packages in the recruiting hall. They must have figured something out.”
Grey Wolf scratched his stubble. “They’re not being very secretive, are they? You’d think an evil cult would be more hush-hush if they were trying to hide some unscrupulous plan.”
“They’re hiding in plain sight,” said Morningstar. “By making it look like a legitimate business venture, no one will think twice about it.” The Ellish priestess had her hood drawn so close around her face, not even her nose was sticking out. Was the heat as uncomfortable for her as light, given her upbringing?
“And I didn’t see any signs of these Black Circle people,” said Ernie. “The recruiters seemed like normal folk to me, if a little brusque.”
“They probably don’t even know who’s sponsoring it,” said Dranko.
Tor slapped Ernest heartily on the back. “Lead on!”
* * *
The recruitment house wasn’t far, and Tor was ready to walk right in, but Dranko grabbed his arm. “Hold on,” he said. “I think I shouldn’t go in with you.”
“Why not?”
“The traitors in my church may have sent out a warning that they’ve been compromised. If that warning got here before us, my lovely complexion could set off some alarm bells. Better I wait out here.”
“Agreed,” said Grey Wolf.
The remaining six walked into the recruitment office. The three men Ernie had described were there, tearing hunks from a loaf of bread on their long table. They all stood as Tor and the others walked toward them.
“I see you brought your friends, boy,” said the tallest of the three. He walked from around the desk and looked down at Tor, who was unused to being looked down upon, literally or otherwise. This must be the one Ernie called “Flat-nose.”
“So, you want to work on our little dig?”
“Yes, sir!” said Tor.
“We all do,” said Grey Wolf.
“We’re only hiring men,” said the bald fellow. “You’ll have to leave your women behind for as long as you’re working for us.”
Aravia made to protest this characterization, but Grey Wolf put a hand on her shoulder.
“Fine,” said Grey Wolf. “You want strong backs? Our backs are strong, and we need coin. Tell us how this works.”
“First we see if you’re worth our time,” said Flat-nose. “You, man-child, let’s see you lift the third barrel in that line.”
Tor looked at Ernie, who stared back at him pointedly. Oh, right! Was “man-child” meant to be an insult? “My name is Tor,” he said proudly. “Tor Bladebearer.” Tor walked to the barrel, bent down, grabbed it with both hands, and lifted it above his head. It wasn’t very heavy.
“Impressive,” said Flat-nose. “Put it down slowly, then lift the…how about the eighth one. Third from the end.”
The next barrel was much heavier, and there was no way he could get it higher than his chest, but he muscled it up that far and held it there. All three men were watching now, and the bald one nodded in appreciation.
“You’ve got the chops, kid,” he said. “Let’s see what your friends can do, and then we’ll talk specifics, find out if you still want the job.”
Tor put the barrel back down, and Grey Wolf took his turn. He could only lift the sixth barrel in the row, but the recruiters found that sufficient. Then Kibi stepped up and walked straight to the last of the ten barrels. Its lid leaked sand.
“Not that one,” said Flat-nose. “Nobody’s been able—”
While the man talked, Kibi cracked his knuckles, squatted a couple of times, and grabbed the sand-filled cask. With a grunt he lifted it up off the ground. The three recruiters stared, eyes wide. Tor himself was a bit shocked, and delighted. Who knew that Kibi was so strong? Being a stonecutter must really build up one’s muscles!
“You’re not from Sand’s Edge,” said the third man, who had not spoken before now. He was barrel-chested and shorter than the others, and most of his fingers sported thick silver rings. His voice was oily and sibilant. “Where do you folks call home?”
“Tal Hae,” said Tor, and he immediately cast a glance towards Grey Wolf. Maybe he should have made up something else, but it was too late now.
“And tell me, Tor Bladebearer, did you come all the way from Tal Hae just to do hard manual labor in one of the most dangerous places in Charagan?”
“Er…no, not exactly…”
“Curious.” The man stared at Tor with beady and unblinking eyes, his gaze disconcertingly intent. His two confederates frowned and became inexplicably tense. “Haske,” the bald man asked the man with the rings, “do you think—”
“Quiet,” said Haske. “I’m sizing this one up. I’m thinking he could be foreman material.”
Tor smiled, relieved. “You’ll find I’m more than capable of—”
“These are the ones,” Haske said abruptly, but before Tor could figure out what he meant, the man added, “Kill them.”
Tor was certain he misheard. While he tried to work out what the man had actually said, Haske flicked his hand towards the door and it slammed shut by itself and a conspicuous thunk came from its lock and now Tattoo-head and Flat-nose were drawing swords from their sheaths while Grey Wolf was doing likewise and Morningstar pulled her mace from her belt. Ernie bolted for the door while Kibi tried to ready his pick, but it became caught in his shirt.
“What are you doing?” Tor cried, staring at Haske. “We just want to—hey!”
Haske’s two thugs moved to bracket Grey Wolf, who was sidestepping rapidly and moving toward Morningstar, but Tor had to return his attention to Haske himself, coming swiftly at him. “Bad luck, boy,” Haske hissed, but it wasn’t bad luck at all; he had a sword and his enemy did not, and he was full of confidence despite the pain in his leg from the wound he suffered during his altercation with the Sharshun, though that reminded him that he hadn’t actually drawn his sword, so he did that. But as his blade came free of its sheath, Haske spoke a few quick syllables and waved one hand at him; his sword was wrenched from his hand, stinging his fingers, which wasn’t fair at all, and the weapon slid rapidly across the floor and came to rest beneath the shelves of travel kits and when he looked back a dagger had appeared in Haske’s other hand.
“It’s locked!” Ernie shouted from the other side of the room. “Aravia, can you open it?” Tor risked a quick glance over Haske’s shoulder; Morningstar and Grey Wolf had arranged themselves back to back, fending off flurries of sword blows from Flat-nose
and Tattoo-head.
“Dropped something important?” Haske chuckled, advancing with the knife. His opponent knew what he was doing, moving the way Master Elgus moved back in the training yard of his father’s castle, so Tor backed up, and maybe he could make his way over to where his sword was, but didn’t dare take his eyes off his enemy, and Haske lunged, and he hopped back out of the way. Haske stepped quickly toward him a second time and slashed again, and this time he also spat a syllable while his off-hand made a swift gripping motion, and when Tor tried to leap away something pulled hard on his collar and the knife cut a gash right across his arm above the elbow. Blood quickly soaked his shirt.
If only he could hold on a little longer, his friends’ superior numbers should become decisive. Ernie was returning from the door holding Pyknite, and Kibi had finally gotten his pick sorted out. But Haske quickly disengaged from Tor, backpedaled, and made a throwing motion with his left arm. The large table tipped itself over and slid across the room, smashing into Kibi and Ernie both as they tried to join the melee, sweeping them into the wall with the line of barrels. Tor lost sight of them, while Tattoo-head took advantage of the distraction to open a bleeding nick on Grey Wolf’s cheek.
Tor focused again on Haske, just in time to see the dagger flashing toward him, and though he leapt to one side he was not quick enough to avoid the strike and it punctured his side just above his hip and the pain was searing. It was going to be tricky regaining his own blade because Haske was maneuvering him to the wrong side of the room, and while this man wasn’t quite as skilled as the Sharshun person he fought near Verdshane, him having a weapon while Tor didn’t was going make this a difficult fight to win. He fought down the tiniest upwelling of doubt, as this was his third battle as part of Horn’s Company and he hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory in either of the previous two and this one wasn’t going so well either, and could Master Elgus have been exaggerating about how good a swordsman he was?
“It’s nothing personal,” said Haske, making a feint with the dagger. Tor dodged nimbly, arms extended, trying to block out the pain of his injuries. Should he try grabbing his attacker’s wrist or moving in to grapple? Though he and the others had been practicing their sword-fighting on the road, wrestling was a discipline out of his experience, and Master Elgus had warned him of the folly of engaging an armed attacker without a weapon of one’s own, but it was now past the moment when that advice would be useful. Worse, this man had both a dagger and wizardry at his disposal.
“What do you think we know?” he asked, thinking maybe he could distract his enemy until one of his friends could help. Grey Wolf had been knocked to the ground, scalp bleeding, but Ernie had limped from behind the magicked table to engage Flat-nose while Morningstar fought Tattoo-head. There was no sign of Aravia or Kibi. He hoped Aravia had gotten the door open and gone for help.
“I don’t think,” said Haske. “I know. The squealing brat from Tal Hae sent you.”
Haske feinted and stabbed; Tor spun away, but the pain from his wounds was slowing him, and his foot nearly skidded on his own blood. They might be losing.
Gods, he thought. I wish I had my sword.
And his sword appeared, hovering in the air by his right hand, and how amazing was that? He grabbed the hilt and swung, and this time it was Haske who leapt back, barely avoiding the blade.
Tor was exultant. Adrenaline flooded through him, dulling his pain. He could make wishes! I wish this man’s feet were rooted to the floor, he thought. But Haske ignored his plea to the supernatural, took another step back, crouched, mumbled, and waved. Tor’s sword tried to free itself again from his grasp, but this time he was ready, and his grip was stronger, and even though his hand was getting slick with blood dripping from his arm, he held on, then stepped up to attack. This was the kind of fighting he was trained for! Haske fell back, startled, which gave Tor a good view of Tattoo-head driving Morningstar back toward the wall. Tor made a feint of his own toward Haske, then spun and rushed toward Tattoo-head, who barely turned in time to put his own sword up to block. But that left him wide open to Morningstar, who planted her mace in his chest.
One down, two to go! Flat-nose was hammering his weapon down upon Ernie, who was reduced to using Pyknite as a shield. “Morningstar, help Ernie. I’ll take care of the wizard.”
Gripping his sword as tightly as he could, Tor returned his attention to Haske. The man was standing fifteen feet away, looking straight at him, mouthing incomprehensible words and spiraling the fingers of his left hand.
Tor’s muscles all seized up at once. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even blink! Haske shook his head and appeared slightly dazed, like Aravia when she had cast too many spells at Verdshane, but he was well enough to stumble forward, knife out.
I wish I could move!
It was no good. Tor was well and truly paralyzed by some fancy magic, and now Haske was going to slice him wide open. Grey Wolf was regaining his feet, but Morningstar and Ernie were occupied by Flat-nose, and he couldn’t see Aravia or Kibi anywhere, and there was nothing but a foot of air between Tor’s chest and the point of Haske’s dagger.
We did better this time. I hope everyone else survives.
Haske was drawing back his elbow, blinking rapidly, when one of the testing barrels soared into Tor’s field of vision and caved in the side of Haske’s head with a sickening crunch.
“Nice throw, Kibi!” he called. Kibi must be the strongest person he had ever met, which was strange because the stonecutter had never mentioned it, and if Tor were that strong, he’d want everyone to know so they’d realize they could rely on him even more.
Flat-nose, seeing that Haske was dead, dropped his sword and raised his arms.
“I surrender! Don’t kill me, please!”
* * *
Dranko rushed into the room; having unlocked the door, Aravia slipped outside and returned ten seconds later with the placard seeking recruits, then closed the door quickly behind her. But when she moved to join the others, she stumbled and sat down awkwardly, clutching her head between her hands. Tor limped to her side.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“Just been overdoing the magic,” she said weakly. “First the lockbuster, then arcing your sword to you, then arcing the sign off the wall, all within a minute or two. And those last two were quite difficult; your sword is heavy, and the sign had about twenty nails in it.”
“My sword…that was you, then?”
Aravia raised her eyebrows at him. “How did you think your sword got from the floor to your hand?”
Tor realized how ridiculous his first guess had been, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. “I…I wasn’t sure. Everything was happening so fast…”
“Tor, lie down. Gently.” Dranko stood before him, appraising his wounds. Tor did as he was told, and Dranko knelt to examine his injuries more closely.
“You win,” Dranko told him. “You’re the worst off. The arm is superficial, but the hip will get serious if we don’t take care of it.”
“Could you try channeling again?” Tor asked.
“Yeah, maybe, but not until after I’ve taken care of you the traditional way. Just in case.”
Tor lay still, trying not to flinch while Dranko applied his salves, stitched his wounds, and wrapped him in bandages. His cut from the Sharshun had reopened during the fighting, so Dranko took care of that one too.
While Dranko attended to the hurts of the others, and Kibi finished tying Flat-nose to a chair, Tor lay there on his back, ignoring the pain and replaying the battle in his mind. It was exhilarating, and he could easily set aside that he was the one who kept getting injured. The wizard, Haske, would have killed at least one of his friends if Tor hadn’t been the one to engage him. That was his job—to find the most dangerous person in the room and take him on. Protect his friends. He had let the team down in Verdshane, letting Mrs. Horn get killed. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
His father, Olorayne Firemount,
the baron of Forquelle, had once explained to him what life would be like once he had inherited the throne. Back then, before he had been rescued by Abernathy, his destiny had been to succeed his father as baron, when he would rule Forquelle, wasting his days with a daily torture of diplomacy, economics, ledgers, taxes, and various affairs of state. His sword would have grown rusty, his back bent over a desk covered in contracts and agreements, and his true destiny would have gone unfulfilled.
“A sword is a plaything,” Olorayne had said. “The true weapons of a ruler are wisdom, knowledge, and guile. A sharp bookkeeper will be of more value to you than a sharp blade. Though,” he had added with a chuckle, “ruling a barony is just as bloody a business as fighting on the battlefield.”
Tor looked around at the red-splattered aftermath of their fight and severely doubted it. But by the Gods, he was better off here than safe in his palace back home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MORNINGSTAR GRIPPED THE handle of her mace. “Let’s start with the basics. What’s your name?”
Grey Wolf was pressing Haske’s knife to the man’s neck. Morningstar had never done anything like this before, but she was damn near certain that, possibly excepting Grey Wolf, she was the only one in their group who would have no qualms about following through on threats.
“Why should I answer?”
Morningstar hefted her weapon, the spikes of which still glistened with blood. “Because if you don’t, I will cause you great injury. Is withholding your name worth finding out if I’m lying?”
“Tig,” said the man. “I’m called Tig.”
“Well, Tig, I have several more questions for you, and as long as you keep answering them to my satisfaction, you stay healthy. Do we have a deal?”
