by Tim Pratt
"He's offered to apologize," the magistrate said. "I think it's clear he didn't mean any harm. I'm as fond of Sonya as anyone, but people make drunken comments all the time. It's hardly worth fighting to the death over, is it? You've got a bright career ahead of you. Why waste it on this?"
Skell turned and stalked out of the barroom, and Sonya disappeared into the back again. The tension ran out of the room, though people kept stealing glances at Rodrick, and the sheath on his back. Rodrick cleared his throat. "Just so everyone knows, the last person who tried to steal Hrym got a handful of ice so cold it made his arm turn black and fall off."
"Not true," Hrym said. "The chirurgeon had to cut it off. After it turned black. It would have fallen off eventually, I'm sure, if he'd waited."
"That's true," Rodrick said. "I'd forgotten. Blocked it out. Gruesome stuff."
People stopped looking then, rather pointedly, and the bartender finally deigned to bring Rodrick another mug of beer. The mercenary—well, he pretended to be a mercenary, often enough—sipped it happily as the magistrate slid onto the stool next to him. "I don't suppose you'd like to fight in the arena? A sword that talks is a bit of a novelty. You could make some good money."
"No, thank you," Rodrick said. "I don't much like gladiatorial combat."
The magistrate grunted. "You said you're a mercenary. It's all fighting for money. What's the difference?"
"Why, when you're a mercenary," Rodrick said, "you get to see the world."
Chapter Three
The Priest, the Knave, the Sword
All clear," Jill said from the hallway, when Rodrick peeked his head out of his room the next morning to make sure Skell and his friends weren't loitering in the hall.
He grinned at her. "Want to come in here for a bit? I'm not entirely committed to this whole getting-out-of-bed plan. I could change my mind."
"I have more important things to do on my morning off," she said. "But I wanted to warn you again. Not that you listened last time."
"I'm a marvelous listener," Rodrick said. "Try me."
"Offending Sonya was bad enough—it's easy to do, but still bad. Now you've insulted Skell's honor, and made him look like a coward, which is very much worse."
"It's not cowardice to back down from a fight with a talking ice sword. That's just good sense. I made him look sensible."
"Skell doesn't see it that way. He won't attack you within the walls of Tymon, but once you get outside of town, if he thinks he can hurt you without being witnessed ..." She shrugged.
Rodrick sighed. "Last night you told me to leave town, and today you tell me to stay in town. Are you sure you aren't just trying to keep me here for reasons of your own?"
"You aren't that pretty, Rodrick." She patted his cheek and sauntered away, putting a bit of extra sway into her walk, which he watched appreciatively. Tymon wasn't such a bad place, apart from the gambling losses, the ever-present smell of blood and sweat, and the scarred idiot who wanted to kill him. But all in all, it was good he'd found a job.
Rodrick dressed, strapped Hrym to his back, and went downstairs. He was almost to the door when the landlady, an iron-eyed woman from some frozen part of the north, glided into his way. "You'll settle your bill now," she said.
"I thought I might stay another—"
"I heard you say last night you intended to depart today." She crossed her arms.
"Ah, well, that was just something I said to discourage Skell from making trouble. Come, I'm trustworthy, you haven't made me pay in advance for—"
"You are welcome to return tonight." Her voice was as implacable as an advancing glacier. "I will even hold your room for you, if you like. But you will settle your outstanding debts now."
Rodrick grinned crookedly. "Of course. I'm delighted to set your mind at ease." He poured far too much of his advance from Zaqen into the woman's outstretched hand.
"I wanted to sleep on that gold," Hrym muttered as Rodrick stepped out of the tavern.
"I'd sooner tangle with one of these gladiators than deny that woman her payment," Rodrick said. "She's formidable."
He spent the morning putting his affairs in order: getting his daggers sharpened at the weapon shop—the big grinding wheel was faster and far less tedious than his own whetstone—and replenishing the contents of his traveling pack as best he could. A few healing tinctures from the alchemist's, salt pork and beef from the butcher's, and other odds and ends. He wanted to stop into the general store to pick up a few things, but he wasn't entirely sure he'd be welcome there after last night. He'd have to trust Zaqen and her mysterious master to provide any necessities he lacked.
Rodrick ambled toward the arena, not because he wanted to see the fights, but because cheap, tasty food was sold in the vicinity and he didn't know when he'd get another hot meal. Walking the circuit of the vast stone coliseum, awash in the bellows of the lunchtime crowd and the distant clash of metal, he sampled all the local delicacies for the last time. After gorging himself on grilled meats, roasted nuts, and a surprisingly spicy vegetable paste smeared on slices of fresh bread, he considered himself amply fortified for the journey ahead.
He stopped at the gate to take a few nips from Chumley's flask. The guard had just arrived for his afternoon shift at the gatehouse, and had heard about Rodrick's altercation with Skell. "He grew up around here," Chumley said. "He's always had a temper, and he always did dote on his sister."
"You could have warned me not to flirt with her," Rodrick said.
"Flirt!" Chumley's fat cheeks wobbled as he laughed. "I heard you asked her if she wanted to—"
"Now, now, I'd had a few drinks. I might have been a bit uncouth, but I meant no harm." He slapped the guard on the shoulder. "I really should be on my way."
"Fine, fine. Tomorrow, you bring the liquor."
Rodrick grinned. "Next time I see you, my friend, all the drinks are on me."
Chumley's face fell. "Oh. You're leaving, then?"
"It's true. I have been offered gainful employment, and must go where the coin calls. Tymon is wonderful at taking away a man's gold."
"Good luck to you, then," Chumley said seriously. "And watch your step until you're a few hours outside of town. The law isn't always so well enforced outside these walls, and if Skell kills you out there, well ...it's not a murder if nobody finds your body, and there are plenty of rivers to toss you into."
"Sonya is a lucky woman," Rodrick said. "What family I claim wouldn't even blink if someone stabbed me in the neck, and they certainly wouldn't swear vengeance against someone who hurt my feelings."
"Well, you see, Skell and Sonya were orphans together, after their father was killed in the arena, and—"
Rodrick waved his hands. "No, please, spare me their heartwarming tale of hardship and survival and success, I can't bear it. I might have to cut his head off later, and I'd hate to hesitate because you told me a sweet story." He clapped Chumley on the back and strolled through the gate, then walked along the main road that led toward the standing stones.
"You stole his flask, didn't you?" Hrym said.
"It's more that I forgot to remember to give it back after my last drink," Rodrick said. "Besides, he's enjoyed nearly a month of conversations with me, a prize beyond compare. Surely I deserve some recompense?"
"It's amazing you have any human friends at all," Hrym said. "Oh, wait. You don't."
"At least I can move about under my own power, you great paperweight."
They continued into the woods, squabbling good-naturedly, as the sun sank lower behind them.
∗ ∗ ∗
There were three horses at the standing stones, one loaded up with supplies, and a fourth animal tied up a short distance away, a sand-colored, long-necked thing with a large hump on its back.
"Is that ...a camel?" Rodrick said. He'd never seen one in the flesh, only in pictures, and pictures didn't convey the smell. The beast stared at him with eyes far more intelligent and malicious than any horse's he'd ever seen.
"I wouldn't think a camel would do well this far north," Rodrick said, choosing not to inquire about how she'd come to possess such an animal in the first place. The mystery was more amusing.
"Eh, it's summertime now. And if the beast keels over dead from the cold later, I can just ride on your shoulders, hmm? We'll be ready to go soon."
"That's for the best," Rodrick said. "I've heard rumors of a rogue gladiator in the woods, turned to banditry and preying on travelers."
"I'm sure you can protect us from any such threats," Zaqen said. "Choose your horse. My master is indifferent to such things."
Rodrick looked the beasts over. He was a decent judge of horseflesh—it paid to know the value of things, especially when you might have the chance to steal one at any moment—and these were fine animals, and looked fresh. All were geldings, placid and biddable, obviously not warhorses or racers, but good strong steady plodders, suitable for a long journey. The black horse was the biggest and looked the strongest, so he went instead to the chestnut horse—show a little deference to the master now, and any future rapaciousness and thievery would come as more of a surprise.
Rodrick patted the chestnut's neck and looked over the saddle and other tack. Nothing ostentatious, but good quality, new or nearly new. This mystery master of Zaqen's had truly been blessed by his god financially. He began shifting some of the contents of his pack—the things he could live without if he had to take off on foot in a hurry—into the saddlebags. "Why hire me?" he asked. "Your master could afford a cohort of caravan guards for what he's paying me. Obviously I'm worth it, and more, but it does make me curious."
Zaqen fussed around with the bizarre tack on her camel. "My master prefers a small group, which can move more swiftly. Three people can live more easily than ten if foraging becomes necessary, too—we have money, but we're going places where there's nothing to spend money on. A man like you, armed with a weapon like Hrym, is the equal of several conventional guards. As for why he's paying you so much ...it's no hardship for him. He has more gold than he could spend in a lifetime. Fish are not stingy with water, and the sun does not hoard its heat. If you serve him well, my master will reward you even further."
"What's his name? No offense, but I can't see myself going around calling him ‘master'—"
"My name is Obed." A figure dressed in robes of blue so dark they were nearly black walked slowly into the circle of stones, his voice low and serious. "I thank you for joining our expedition." His features were entirely hidden beneath his hood, and even his hands were gloved.
"The pleasure is mine." Rodrick bowed low, though it was impossible to tell if such showy obsequiousness pleased the priest. "Zaqen tells me you are a holy man, though she hasn't mentioned which sect. Is there any special form of address I should use? Your holiness, or—"
"Obed is fine," Zaqen said. "But my master is eager to be introduced to the other member of our party, if you please?"
Obed didn't look eager about anything—he looked like a mannequin someone might use to display robes in a shop—but Rodrick shrugged and drew Hrym anyway, holding him up one-handed. The sword didn't sparkle and steam quite so gloriously now, since Hrym wasn't trying to show off, but the blade was still a marvel of crystalline clarity.
Obed stepped closer, head cocked. "Do you truly speak, sword?" Rodrick couldn't place the cleric's accent, with its mushy vowels and softened consonants, but there were plenty of places in the vicinity of the Inner Sea he'd never been.
"When I have something to say," Hrym replied.
"Ha!" Rodrick said. "And lots of other times, too. Hrym tends to be quiet around new people, but once he's grown comfortable with you, you'll grow very familiar with the sound of his voice. More familiar than you'd wish."
"Sword," Obed said solemnly. "How old are you?"
"Good question," Hrym said. "Hard to say. The years tend to run together when you're part of a dragon's hoard, and later a linnorm's hoard, just sitting in the dark, though the piles of lovely gold and jewels heaped on all sides help to pass the time. I've done a bit of adventuring here and there, of course—Rodrick's isn't the first hand to wield me—but ...counting time has never been my strength."
That was an understatement. Rodrick had tried to ascertain some of Hrym's history when they first became acquainted, and the sword was maddeningly vague, either from reticence or simple forgetfulness. The sword was knowledgeable about a vast number of unlikely things, though, and occasionally came out with the most peculiar statements, like that comment yesterday about having met Aroden.
"You must be very old, though," Obed murmured. "Hundreds of years, yes? If not thousands?"
"They don't make them like me anymore," Hrym said proudly. "Craftsmanship, made to stand the test of time."
Obed inclined his head—or dipped his hood, anyway. "We are honored by your company, sword." He gestured to Zaqen, who brought over a mounting step and helped him onto his horse, which was quite the production, what with both of them wearing robes. By all appearances this might have been the first time Obed had ever sat on a horse. Once he was settled on the saddle, though, he sat with an erect and upright bearing, dignity personified. "I will lead the way," he said.
"Don't sheathe me," Hrym said. "I'll keep watch behind us."
"Suit yourself." Rodrick reached behind him with Hrym, but rather than slipping the sword into the scabbard, he just slid the blade along the outside of the sheath. Once Hrym was in the proper position, the sword generated a seal of ice, freezing himself to the scabbard's cracked and abused leather, sticking in place on Rodrick's back. If he needed Hrym in his hand, Rodrick could reach back and draw almost as swiftly as usual, with Hrym dissolving the icy glue in an instant. They didn't always travel this way because it made Hrym's magical nature evident, and because it was horribly damaging to the scabbards.
Obed jostled the reins, and his black horse began to pick its way through the trees, the supply horse tethered behind it, plodding along. Rodrick considered offering to tie the supply horse to his own mount, but decided he should wait a while for that. Such an arrangement would make riding off with the priest's possessions, presumably including a great deal of gold, easier, but he didn't intend to scamper off with a single horseload of loot just yet—not when there could be a greater prize waiting at the end of this journey. He'd have to learn more about this relic they were after.
Zaqen's camel knelt down to let her scramble up onto its back—why couldn't they teach horses to do that?—and then she set off after her master, the camel glaring around evilly at the trees, as if distrusting them. Rodrick nudged his horse toward the camel, intending to engage Zaqen in conversation, but his horse steadfastly refused to draw up companionably alongside, either because it didn't like the camel, or didn't like Zaqen, or both. He got as close as he could and said, "What is Obed a priest of, exactly?" He'd tried to ask that more circumspectly once or twice before, without success, so decided to hazard the direct approach. "I only ask because it would be useful to know if he's versed in healing magics, or the power to make a bandit's heart explode, or what."
"My master worships Gozreh," Zaqen said.
"Ah." Rodrick's knowledge of the deities was limited mostly to the curses he'd heard shouted while looting the occasional temple and the names called out in the throes of ecstasy by various devout women he'd bedded. "God of the sea and so forth, yes? Sailors and ports and such?"
"Goddess of the sea," Zaqen corrected. "And god of the wind. A dual deity, appearing male in one aspect, female in the other."
"Ah, that's right, I remember now. I always thought
that sort of flexibility must be useful for finding companionship for an evening."
Zaqen giggled, and Rodrick smiled. Good. The odd little ...whatever she was ...had a sense of humor. He couldn't help but flirt, even with a specimen of femininity as decidedly unappealing as Zaqen. It was always good to keep one's skills honed. "Good money in worshiping Gozreh, then?" Rodrick said.
"The bounty of the sea can be very ...bountiful," Zaqen said. "If the goddess wills it."
"Ha." Rodrick tried to move his horse closer to her, but it shied away again, making him sway in the saddle. "We're quite some way from the sea, though—" Rodrick began.
He stopped talking as an arrow struck one of his saddlebags, missing his leg by mere inches.
Chapter Four
Ill Met in Tymon
Arrow!" he shouted, and slid off his horse, using the animal as a shield. That wasn't very nice to the horse, especially since, if the beast hadn't shied away from Zaqen at just the right moment, the archer might have struck home with his arrow. Obed shouted a word, and a shimmering dome of twisting translucent colors appeared around him, dark rainbows swirling like the colors glimpsed in a soap bubble. Another pair of arrows struck the shield the priest had conjured and burst into splinters and fragments. Zaqen didn't get off her camel, but raised her hands and giggled.
Ten-foot-long black tentacles burst forth from the ground beyond the edge of the shimmering shield, like monstrous plant growths, writhing and waving and wriggling through the trees. Someone screamed, and one of the tentacles drew back toward the horses, dragging a man toward them as he struggled and hacked at the magical appendage with a dagger in each hand.
It was Black Skell, of course, trying to fulfill his promise to murder Rodrick.
"I sense no others in the woods," Obed intoned. "This bandit works alone, it seems." The shimmering shield around them vanished.
