Alchemy's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 5)

by D J Salisbury

  The bahtdor shook her head viciously. She nearly flung him off, but he squeezed his legs tighter.

  By now he must be cutting off her windpipe. Why wasn’t she slowing down?

  She bellowed – plenty air in her lungs – and ducked her head.

  Praise the Thunderer. Her spine was arched perfectly.

  He plunged both saikeris into the back of the bahtdor’s neck. The right saikeri dug uselessly into thick muscle.

  The center prong of the other sank deep into the base of her skull.

  The bahtdor screamed, reared onto her hind legs, and tossed her head higher than the treetops, throwing him off her neck.

  He thudded into a mound of rotting leaves.

  She crashed to the ground, heaved upward, and convulsed. Her legs thrashed, her tail whipped up mountains of dust. But she didn’t fight back to her feet.

  How amazing. His theory had actually worked.

  A deep breath and a shaky sigh. He crawled closer and softly chanted the hero’s deathsong while he watched the ancient warrior die.

  He’d won. By the rules, without any magic. He’d won.

  Or at least, he’d win if he claimed his victory before a dishonorable turtle turd snuck up and slit his throat.

  “Come to me!” He climbed up the hot, limp body and pulled his gory saikeris out of the corpse. “Gyrfalcon! Tsai’dona! Setoya, I claim the trial!”

  Warriors swarmed down the canyon wall, accompanied by Lorel, who stood as tall as many of the smaller men. They surrounded the bahtdor and gawped at it – and him – in obvious disbelief.

  Tsai’dona crept down the cliff in their dust.

  Pretending nonchalance, he straightened his padded boot until the toe pointed forward again. He hadn’t even noticed twisting it.

  Tsai’dona saluted him and handed up a clean sword cloth. At least, she tried to give it to him. She wasn’t nearly tall enough to reach.

  Lorel grabbed the fabric and scuttled up the bahtdor’s side. “Didn’t know you had it in you, kid. Was a fr– froggy good fight.”

  “You saw it?” He wiped the saikeris clean before working on his hands. So much blood for two little holes.

  “We could see you from the top of the cliff, down there a ways.” Tsai’dona tried to hand up another cloth. This time the war leader intercepted it and passed it up to Lorel.

  His turybird dabbed the white cotton against the bloody thorn holes in his skin. “You looked good, kid. Slow, but good.”

  The war leader nodded. “You overcame your ordeal. We name you a trader to the Tribe of the Prowler. Now we will hold the ceremony.”

  Good. After the ceremony it would be dishonorable for them to stone him, Outcast or not. And with the tribe’s token, it was less likely the other tribes would throw rocks at him.

  Now all he had to do was find the wielder of Kyri’s enchanted broadsword.

  But the blasted sword didn’t as much as twitch during the two days they delayed (and traded) in the Prowler’s camp.

  ∞∞∞

  Weaver bless, these Setoyans were pretty! Dark gold hair, dark gold skin, and so tall she had to look up to see their bottomless black eyes. Most of them were even taller than her father. They made her chainmail jingle just looking at them. Weaver bless!

  No wonder the kid was cute, seeing as he was a pintsized version of these hunks.

  She knew they were good folk because Baby Bear liked them, too. Baby snuggled with the girls, played chase with the little kids, and chomped on the men’s spears. And them sweet guys just laughed and let her chew, and pointed out her teeth marks afterward like they was battle scars or something.

  Them spears, though. Their spears were creepy, carved all over with little marks and drawings. Half of them had dried blood crusted in the markings. Somebody oughta teach them how to take care of their weapons. But not her. She had plenty trouble just keeping track of the kid.

  Only a few of the younger boys had swords, but by the time the kid was through with them, most of them owned either a Crayl knife or a cheap bronze blade. And all of them – including the kid – were thrilled.

  The poor kid kept popping inside the wagon, but she could’ve told him none of these guys were right for the broadsword. Not that he’d ever listen to her. But none of these gorgeous boys were tall enough to handle the overgrown sword. Silly kid done made it so long, a dragon could swing it.

  Though now that she’d seen his kin, it looked like they might find somebody to fit the thread-snipping – snotty – thing.

  The kid’s kinfolk liked to party, in a quiet sort of way. Everybody sat around a long skinny campfire, boys on one side and girls on the other. People wandered around a lot, talking and eating and offering all sorts of weird food. And other stuff, too.

  Offers of marriage didn’t much bother her. At least, she thought the word meant marriage. Sometimes it sounded more like they wanted a one-night stand.

  None of these guys were pretty enough to tempt her to abandon the kid. And she wasn’t about to risk getting preggers. But it was too much fun to watch the priss blush and squirm.

  Too bad the priss didn’t take them up on a wedding. Leaving the brat behind would make the trip lots easier. It was stupid, the way she tormented those boys, bending this way and that to show off her figure. The brat was barely fifteen. Even as chunky as she was, the priss ain’t got no tits to show off. But the boys drooled over her straight blonde hair, her round pink cheeks and her chubby chin.

  Though she had to admit, older men paid her own self lots of attention. Maybe grownup guys liked bony, dark, muscular girls with black snaky ringlets.

  Maybe they didn’t want to compete against the boys for the priss’s attention.

  The kid never noticed the fr– froggy priss’s teasing, and he shooed the gorgeous boys away after they got too pesky. Amazing how anybody listened to a boy that tiny. Maybe his status as a trader made him more important than he’d be otherwise.

  After two days of watching him trade, and of turning down way too many offers of marriage and who knew what else, she was more than ready to move on.

  They had a quest to finish. They had a Mindbender to beat. And she had a feeling time was running out.

  Chapter 21.

  Warm rain caressed Viper’s bare skin with the tenderness of a lover. He stretched and leaned back his head to feel the rain on his face.

  This is what he’d missed most about the plains.

  Thunderdrums wandered westward, allowing a red sunrise to peek through the Wind Dancer’s curtains and reflect in the shallow pool where he sat. He admired the rosy clouds and glowing pool for several moments. He felt as if he were sitting in a puddle of magic, but without the effort of awakening the power.

  Wooden blades clacked atop the canyon wall. A strident voice complained, a lower one soothed. Normal morning sounds, these days.

  Praise the Thunderer, he had an excuse to avoid the fray. He had honest work to do. Gathering new trade goods meant higher profits later on.

  He returned to sifting through rubble at the edge of the pool.

  A chunk of fire opal glittered in the pale light. He examined it closely in the brightening dawn.

  This gem was shaped as a long, spiraling sea shell. As long as his little finger, it tapered from the width of his thumb to a sharp point. Even in such frail light, it sparkled as brightly as a cone of frozen fire.

  Viper glanced at his leather ‘keeper’ bucket, but set the opalized shell on top of his pouch. One more treasure for his purse.

  The next few pieces of opal were nearly colorless, but enough fire showed to make them worth selling. He dropped them into his bucket with scarcely a second glance.

  He was admiring a fist-sized opal shaped like a conch shell when he heard Lorel’s whispery whistle. “I hear you, turybird.”

  “Shut up and put some clothes on,” she hissed from the top of the canyon. “We got company!”

  Kyri’s head rose out of the pool. The enormous serpent peered down
at him, its uncanny blue eyes demanding attention. “This one advocates the hatchling shall neglect to promulgate this one’s existence.”

  “I understand.” It didn’t need to tell him. It never wanted to be seen. Someday it would learn to trust him.

  The Dreshin Viper sank back into the warm water.

  He stopped to gaze at Kyri’s distorted image for a moment, but shook his head. He often wondered what the serpent was thinking. Most likely, he would never know. Even with their tenuous mental link, he rarely heard its thoughts, and only occasionally its emotions. Why did it hide from him? Why didn’t it tell him more?

  He shrugged the questions away and dropped the big opal into his bucket. The spiral opal he slipped into his pouch.

  The dragon-egg pouch repelled water, but the rest of his clothing was soaked through from the rain. He sighed and struggled into his wet clothes.

  Best to leave both buckets down in the canyon for now. He didn’t want anyone to think he was stealing anything, not even “useless” rocks.

  With the ease of recent practice and many years of childhood training, he climbed the steep wall of the canyon. He sauntered to the wagon, pretending he didn’t see the warriors stalking through the deep grass.

  Lorel lifted her eyebrows at him. Tsai’dona shrugged. Bess and Zharyl reluctantly climbed up to the driver’s bench. The wretched serdil cub was out of sight, hopefully inside the wagon.

  Good. Everyone was ready.

  He nodded a warning to the four women and turned to face the plainsmen. After his conversations with the Prowlers, he had a better idea of how to catch their attention.

  “I am called Viper.” He spoke in a normal tone of voice, but his words seemed to carry for miles in the moist air. “I am a trader, new to this route. I carry swords and axes made of bronze and Crayl steel, plus knives and fabric, and oddities to amuse the eye and spices to delight the tongue. I seek whatever the Tribe wishes to trade, and nothing they do not.”

  A short gray-blond man, hardly taller than Lorel, stepped forward and stared down at him dubiously. Their shaman? But he wasn’t wearing the proper ornaments for the role. “You are Tribe born, are you not?”

  He resisted the urge to cringe. “I was, but I am of the Tribes no longer. I am a trader, and my home is where I halt my wagon.”

  The older man gave a slight, solemn bow of acknowledgement. “It is our custom to demand an ordeal before accepting a new trader.”

  Viper nodded. “I am ready. Name the ordeal.”

  “Will you kill an abuelo snake?”

  Lightning strike them! They definitely didn’t want anything to do with him. The average abuelo snake was larger than Kyri, vicious as a Nashidran lord, and perpetually hungry.

  He took a deep breath and grinned fiercely. “I can kill an abuelo. But I get to keep the hide.” He gestured toward the half-tanned bahtdor hide nailed to the top of the wagon. It was so big not an inch of wood nor a single starfish showed. The empty hind legs trailed behind the back wheels as if it was trying to wipe out their back trail.

  Lorel had done her best, but her idea of tanning was a bit primitive. As in, hang the skin out and let it dry.

  The wretched thing stunk worse than a mountain of rotting tuna.

  The men studied his wagon in silence.

  Viper stood very still, hoping for any other trial besides a trip underground. Hunting an abuelo snake was not a traditional ordeal.

  He raised his chin.

  Zharyl gagged, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and tried to breathe through the linen.

  Bess’s face turned green before she gave up and held her sleeve over her nose.

  Rotting tuna was far too mild a comparison. Maybe he shouldn’t have insisted they stay on the wagon.

  A loud guffaw burst from one of the warriors, and suddenly everyone was laughing.

  The old man wiped the tears from his eyes. He strode forward, lifted Viper off the ground, and gave him a fierce hug.

  His ribs creaked. Every bone in his spine popped explosively. Was this a welcome? Or a strange sort of torture?

  “The Tribe of the Elder adopts the Viper as a brother in trade. Such insolence is ordeal enough!” He hefted Viper high into the air before setting him on his foot. “We must await the verdict of the dance, but I doubt you’ll have any problem there.”

  Lifting him up like a child wasn’t an insult. He couldn’t allow it to be an insult. He had to find the wielder of the broadsword. Besides, he looked forward to a few days of friendly haggling. He grinned and bowed shallowly, breathing carefully for fear of cracked ribs.

  “Go fetch whatever you want to trade,” the spokesman told his warriors. “Tell the women about him. Be wary, my brothers. Our viper will be a fierce bargainer.”

  The men laughed and disappeared into the mist.

  ∞∞∞

  Over the next few days, Zharyl sold the last of her fabric for Nashidran gold. A surprising amount of gold.

  He had the most fun haggling he’d had in lunars. Well, since they’d left the Prowlers.

  He traded knives for ground grain (they had enough bahtdor meat to last through the next decade), velvet for carved trinkets and braided-hair jewelry, spices for root vegetables, and two swords and the largest war axe for a better tanning job on the bahtdor hide. Praise the Thunderer, even though it still air-cured on the roof, the rotten thing finally stopped reeking.

  Bess and Zharyl played their instruments late into the night, charming the tribe with their skill.

  Lorel and Zharyl sparred with the men in broken Setoyan, and each received numerous offers of a conjugal hour, impulsively offered and, praise the Thunderer, graciously refused. Even tiny Tsai’dona had to fend off a suitor who was three feet taller than she was.

  But the Hreshith-bone broadsword didn’t shift from its slot on the wagon wall.

  Had he been wrong to assume it would move, the way the other weapons had? Could he have bypassed the warrior they needed to fulfill the quest?

  He didn’t want to show the broadsword as if it were for sale. Refusing to part with it would get him killed. Maybe get all of them killed.

  How would he find the fighter they needed?

  He was still worrying the next morning, when he drove the wagon away from the Elders’ camp.

  Chapter 22.

  A few days later, fierce dry winds rose at midmorning. They rocked the wagon so hard he feared they’d topple it. Unripe grain pelted the bahtdor hide covering it, the gray serdil-fur blankets protecting the horses, the serdil-fur hood covering his face.

  This was one of Wind Dancer’s storms. It would happen today.

  What, he wasn’t sure. But days like this were blessed.

  Sweating under thick fur blankets, the team plodded onward, but they’d stopped complaining once he had them protected from the spiky grain.

  He trotted beside them and checked their coverings before pulling his own fur hood more tightly across his face. It was much too warm for a cloak of any sort, much less one made of winter fur, but the wind and blowing grain was far too painful to ignore.

  The Wind Dancer’s gale howled steadily.

  He plodded back to the wagon and dragged himself up the the seat.

  Somewhere nearby, Lorel and Tsai’dona rode on serdil-coated horses, but in their own gray serdil-hide cloaks, he couldn’t see them.

  Bess and Zharyl sensibly stayed inside the wagon with Kyri and the cub.

  He wouldn’t wake them when it was Zharyl’s time to drive. He’d rather deal with any problems himself. His nercat’s solutions tended to be… even more inventive than Lorel’s.

  Early in the afternoon the winds died abruptly. Right on schedule. Around dusk, the Thunderer would take his turn with the weather.

  Viper dropped the reins into his lap and wiped grit out of his eyes.

  Waves of tall grass shimmered.

  Warriors stood up out of hiding. Their spears glittered like ice under the bright sun. Bahtdor-bone spears, decorated
with the sacred glyphs of the Wind Dancer.

  Blast. He should have known. The Tribe of the Wind had found him. His own Tribe.

  No. The tribe he’d once known. They were no longer his.

  “Who goes?” called the chieftain.

  Old Drenfeg? One of the few men who seemed ashamed the day he was Outcast. He’d be fair, if the hot bloods let him.

  Lorel and Tsai’dona rode in close to the wagon.

  “Traders.” Viper pulled the team to a halt and stood up on the driver’s platform. Which only earned him a few inches.

  He stepped up onto the seat. “Weapons dealers interested only in trade.”

  “We do not recognize you.” Drenfeg planted the butt of his spear in the soil.

  His gut twitched. How could anyone in this tribe not recognize him?

  Well, in the hooded cloak, they might not. He pulled it off his head and shoulders, stood as tall as he could, and ignored the sweat dripping down his face and chest.

  The horses juddered. He needed to get those fur blankets off the poor beasts, too. But it had to wait until the tribe acknowledged him.

  The warriors simply stared at him.

  Blast. He wasn’t known as a trader, only as an Outcast. But the chieftain had given him an opening to change that. He pulled leather thong with the Prowler’s and Elder’s tokens out of his shirt to ensure everyone could see them.

  Cold eyes glared at him.

  This encounter was going even worse than he’d feared. He swallowed bile and tried to look confident. He had killed a rogue bahtdor, after all.

  “We are new to this route, and we travel widely.” He hesitated and took a risk, offering the only thing he owned that might interest these men. “We have Crayl blades to trade.”

  The chieftain nodded.

  “Kill them and take the blades,” yelled one of the tallest warriors. Which was the exact reaction he’d feared.

  He located the speaker. And flinched. Agrevod hadn’t forgiven him. His own father still hated him.

  “I do not recognize the warrior.” He held his head high, even though he wanted to crawl under the wagon. “What right has he to speak for the Tribe?”