They hung back a minute, then followed after the two scouts, sticking to the cover of shrubs and trunks. The rain fell in steady sheets. A strong tang of oil filled Joti's nostrils. Drez pointed ahead, where a waist-high brown cone rose from the bole of a fallen pine. The rain had driven the camphor ants into their nest, but even so, Joti and Drez gave the hive a wide berth.
The two scouts skirted around a clearing, then broke into a jog. Two hundred yards later, they slowed. Further into the woods, a man coughed. Joti moved behind a tree. The two scouts slogged forward and were met by four soldiers carrying spears.
As the group spoke, the forest seemed to come alive. Dozens of soldiers rose from cover and assembled around a woman dressed in iron armor and wolf hides. An orange braid hung down her back, as vividly bright as the throat of a bird, as if she'd dyed it with Krannish minerals.
"Our prey is near!" Her voice bellowed through the branches. "Kill their warriors, but take their workers. The wozzits, too. A good war pig is worth more than ten slaves. So if I smell so much as a whiff of bacon, I'll hang your balls from my belt. Let's move!"
The war party set in motion to the west. Though they looked at least three hundred strong, they moved as quietly as hawks in flight, muffled by the rain. Joti withdrew as fast as stealth allowed, inserting a thick screen of trees between themselves and the warriors.
Drez got out her bone whistle. "Be ready to run. They'll be after us as soon as I blow this."
"The rain's so loud we wouldn't hear it if the mountain exploded again. The whistle will never carry all the way to the tribe."
"It won't hurt to try." She put the whistle to her lips. He smacked it away. She bunched her fist. "I was wrong. It will hurt you."
Joti started back along the path they'd come in, following his own tracks. "You know they won't hear the whistle. Even if we run as fast as we can, we'll barely beat the raiders there. So we start a fire. If the tribe sees the smoke, they'll know someone else is out here."
"What are we going to light it with? Our pet dragon? The whole forest is soaked!"
"That won't stop the camphor ants."
She looked startled, then laughed. They scampered back to the conical brown mound. There, Drez held her cloak over Joti's head like a canvas. He got out his tinderbox, arranged the dry shavings inside it, and struck his flint. The shavings caught. He used them to light one of the lightly oiled sticks he kept in his kit. With Drez stretching her cloak above him, he crossed to the tall hive, stuck the stick inside one of the holes perforating its side, and ran away as fast as he could.
Once he was fifty feet from the hive, he ducked behind a tree. He and Drez peeped around the side of the trunk. The hive wasn't so much as smoking.
"It's not working," Drez said. "We need to light another—"
With a deafening clap, the top of the anthill flew into the sky, impaled on a spear of white fire. The fire folded in on itself, retracting to the tip of the hive, which belched black smoke so thick you could scoop it from the air with a tin cup.
Joti couldn't help laughing. "I want to do that again."
"Then we need to get out of here before the raiders turn our hides into saddles." Drez grabbed his arm and took off running. They splashed through the mud, heedless of the sound. "What did they look like to you? Tuskers, right?"
"I think so. This must be their—"
Branches snapped to Joti's right. Soldiers thrashed their way toward the burning anthill, the smoke from which climbed hundreds of feet into the air. Drez broke to the left. After a minute of quiet running, they swung about, heading back in the direction of the tribe.
Drez glanced through the woods, eyes sharp for more Tuskers. "This isn't good. I heard there are whole tribes that don't do anything but slave."
"Why would they do that when they can hunt? Or raise animals? The gods built the land to give its fruits to us."
She gave him a look that wasn't quite pitying but wasn't far from it. Like he was too young to understand the ways of the world and maybe never would. It hurt him worse than any spear. In that moment, he didn't know what he'd said that was so wrong. All he knew was that he never wanted her to look at him that way again.
Footsteps pounded nearby. Joti motioned to a shallow decline to their left. They slid down it, pressing their backs to the damp soil. Boots squished through the mud.
As soon as the sound faded, they clambered up the decline and raced on, curving to the west to put space between themselves and the raiders. Ten minutes later, having had no more encounters with the Tuskers, Joti was starting to think they'd beat them to the camp.
A thunderous boom blasted through the damp air. The hair stood up on Joti's neck. For a moment, he thought the mountain really had exploded again. Then the boom repeated, less than a quarter mile ahead.
Drez clutched her spear to her chest. "That's at the camp."
Joti's mouth was too dry to ask if it was sorcery. He rushed headlong toward the tribe, skidding through the slimy leaves. The shouts of adults and the screams of children filtered through the branches. Iron clanged on iron. Fifty feet ahead, two bodies lay sprawled in the mire, staining the puddles red. Orange fletching marked the arrows as Yatto and the dead men as raiders.
They'd made camp around a shallow river that was now brown and swollen with runoff. On the western shore, shepherds, children, and the elderly retreated in an orderly mass, escorted by many warriors.
On the eastern bank, Yatto soldiers fell back through the tents, pursued by Tuskers. The Yatto formed up on the eastern shore directly in front of the ford. Boulders stuck from the surface, ripping the torrent with foamy white streaks. Raging as the waters were, it was the only safe crossing for miles in either direction. The Yatto dug in quickly to protect the rest of the tribe's retreat.
"They saw our signal." Drez grabbed Joti's shoulder. "You did it!"
"Great. Now let's cross the river so everyone else can congratulate me, too."
Among the defenders holding the eastern bank, a warrior named Trak caught sight of them, waving his hands over his head. "Over here!"
They ran toward the crossing, hunching low. Bodies from both sides lay scattered in the dirt. As Tuskers skirmished with the Yatto, the orange-braided woman who'd called the raiders to battle walked among the wounded and the dead, smiling like she was reviewing a pleasant memory.
Without so much as a glance down, she lifted her sword and hacked it into the head of a wounded Yatto warrior. Joti wanted to look away for fear she'd feel his eyes and look at him, but he felt transfixed. Her jaw jutted forward like a lion's. Her hair was drawn back in a single braid as thick as a branch. Pale scars cut down the center of her brows, continuing down her cheeks. As Joti neared the ford, she swiveled her head and stared straight at him.
Other than the warriors left behind to defend the retreat, all of the other Yatto were now safely across the river. As Joti waded into the frigid water, the Tusker woman yelled wordlessly. Her soldiers jogged toward the defenders. Kajo darted forward to meet them, spear twirling, ribbons of blood flying from its tip as he knocked down one warrior after another.
A Tusker woman lifted a squat spear to her shoulder. She pointed it at Kajo, tracking his movements. Thunder and flame exploded from the tip of the spear, enfolding the woman in smoke. Kajo spun to the side and fell to the ground.
With a blood-freezing roar, the Tuskers surged forward.
The river was over a hundred feet wide and they weren't yet twenty feet across. Joti slogged forward, the water rising to his knees, tugging at him. Stones clocked under his feet. Joti glanced back in time to watch another fire-spear go off, striking down one of the few remaining Yatto warriors. A Tusker raised another fire-spear to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled a small lever on its side. He exploded in a ball of flame.
The water rose to Joti's thighs, then his waist. He slowed, fighting to keep his footing against the current, propping himself up with his spear. Rain battered his face. Behind him, the last of the Yatto
guard fell to Tusker axes.
The woman with the scarred brows pointed to the western shore and bellowed. Raiders thrashed into the water.
"Hurry!" Joti yelled. "As fast as you can!"
Drez threw herself forward. A single glance was all Joti needed to learn the truth: the Tuskers would catch up with them before they made it to the other side. Their legs were too short, their bodies too vulnerable to the tug of the current.
The two of them would never make it across.
He stumbled forward. The riverbed fell away beneath him and he plunged in over his head, the water yanking him downstream. He crashed into a boulder. Scrabbling for purchase, he dug his spear into the gravel and pushed his head above water. Wading onward as fast as she could, Drez hadn't noticed he'd fallen.
The first of the raiders was less than thirty feet away. Joti took one last look at the back of Drez' head—the trim strength of her shoulders; her rain-slick ponytail draped over the curve of her neck; the red spitebird feather sticking from over her right ear—and dropped under the surface.
Bubbles streamed past his ears. He stuck himself to the boulder like a snail. The water was too turbid to see Drez, but he imagined her looking back, seeing that he was gone, and knowing there was nothing to be done but carry on to the other side.
He came up for air. Five feet away, a Tusker called out in surprise, losing his footing and staggering in the current. Joti braced his legs on the boulder and rammed his spear into the raider's throat. Blood spurted up his chin. He fell into the river, nearly yanking Joti's arm from its socket before the spear point popped free.
Another raider sloshed forward, lifting an axe over his head. Joti pulled himself up the side of the boulder, planting his feet on its rough top. The Tusker threw a hand axe at Joti's center. He ducked, nearly falling off the rock as the blade spun over his head.
The man laughed. "Do the Yatto always send lambs to fight wolves?"
Joti flicked out his spear. The man snorted and leaned back. He unstrapped his battle axe from his shoulders and swung at the shin of Joti's forward leg. Joti lifted his foot and stabbed downward over the axe, piercing the soldier's chest.
The man's face twisted in dismay, then in pain. He struck at the spear's haft with a wild blow from his axe. Joti tugged his weapon free and swung it wide before the axe could clip off its tip.
The raider wasn't laughing anymore. Eyes dark with anger, he backed off, pressing his palm to his chest and waiting for two more Tuskers to catch up to him. Joti glanced over his shoulder. On the western bank, three Yatto warriors picked up a struggling Drez and carried her into the woods.
Joti smiled and turned to face the raiders. He flinched; a rock was flying at his face. His foot skidded on a slick of moss, sending his legs flying out from under him. His head came crashing down onto the boulder.
There was a flash of light: and then there was nothing.
10
In the crowded tavern in Kroywen, Haniel laughed at the young man. "You're a spy—an amazingly bad one."
"I'm a masseuse."
"Good. I'm glad you have something to fall back on."
"I'm not wrong about your training."
"You're wrong about the reasons. I'm not from a line of anything."
"Why then?"
"Mad Dwarf died and I got his hammer and knife—it seemed that the least I could do was learn how to use them."
"Are you any good?"
"I don't know."
He looked at her, puzzled.
"I've never fought anyone—not for real. I can bash a target with the best of them, but it isn't the same as something that cries or tries to stab you."
"You've sparred?"
"Some. You don't see many dwarven chain fighters in the capital. Some people will risk taking a hammer to the head to practice against an unknown weapon; many won't."
"And few humans wield them. An attractive woman who fought with such an interesting weapon would be very appealing."
"At blood fights?"
"Among other things…"
"Like what?"
"Well…blood fights. I do massages for several fighters."
"I thought the Order shut them down."
"They did nothing of the sort."
"Kon Ding is Bound to the Order and working as a dishwasher in their tower."
"He isn't washing dishes—that's just something one of his enemies put out there, you can't believe everything you hear…anyway, even if the Order got Kon, it doesn't mean that the blood fights are over. People are working on getting them started again."
Haniel looked at him with mounting frustration. "And Kon is still in the tower, and will be for the next hundred years."
"But the fights don't need Kon, they just need anyone to put it all together."
"Yes. And anyone will be joining Kon in the tower, the next time a fighter dies or loses a sword arm, as long as there is someone who will seek the damage. To hell with Kon, he doesn't matter; what does matter is that the Order will Bind anyone organizing a blood fight, if the fight causes damage."
"That's just wizard-speak, no one really knows what the Order will do, or why."
Haniel smiled at him, and finished her wine. He started to beckon over a server, but Haniel shook her head. "I've been ignoring my friends, let's drink with them for a bit. Maybe one of them is buying."
They walked back to the front of the tavern and found Bronzino and Chattiel, by themselves now. Chattiel was flushed, and Bronzino looked uncharacteristically morose; Haniel paid little attention to those details, and instead fixated on a mostly full carafe of wine. She poured glasses for herself and her new friend and they sat down.
"Seen Kon lately?" she asked Bronzino.
"The dragar we got for running the blood fights?"
"Yeah."
"Sure. He's an interesting guy and I was on his Controversy. I stop by the kitchen to talk to him when I can."
"You are a wizard?" the masseuse asked Haniel.
"You spend your own time talking to a Bound dragar?" Chattiel asked Bronzino, who tried to ignore him.
"Adept," said Haniel. "We all are."
"Seriously, why do you talk to a Bound dragar?"
Bronzino fidgeted.
"He's not just a Bound dragar," said the masseuse. "He was the most respected and ingenious business man in the capital. Even a wizard could learn things from him."
"Excuse me? What in hell could you know about who a wizard could learn from?" Chattiel said.
The masseuse started to speak, but Chattiel cut him off.
"We're the Order, okay? You don't tell us what we can learn from some slimy dragar. If it weren't for us, you'd be a slave for some orcs, do you understand? And this slime stain can't have been that respected or ingenious if he ended up Bound."
"A wise wizard," Bronzino said very slowly, "learns from everyone."
"And what would you know? You aren't a wise wizard, you run errands for Them."
"Yeah, but he's pretty good at it," Haniel said. "You better hope that They trust you enough to send you on errands a year from now—I wouldn't bet on it." Chattiel started to say something, but Haniel's voice was thick with anger and wine and he reconsidered.
"So you weren't talking out your ass, about the blood fights?" said the masseuse.
"No. The Order, We, see them as utterly useless. Anyone injured in them could have suffered the same injuries, or worse, fighting orcs and bandits, and helped out the Alliance, instead of just making themselves a worse fighter for a handful of coins. The next time anyone pledged to a lord gets hurt in one, we'll let the lord take everything that we can from the promoter," Haniel said.
Chattiel had been drinking wine while Haniel spoke and his face had gone quickly from flushed to pale. He got up suddenly and lurched towards the front of the bar, and out into the street.
"All the gods," said Haniel sadly.
Bronzino grunted grimly. "Rather sorry about him," he said to the masseuse who was looking utterl
y dejected. "He just got here, and doesn't have any manners."
The masseuse nodded. "That's all right. I'll tell you, I'm rather sad to hear about the blood fights, though. I'm not sure what I will do at all."
Bronzino smiled. "They can't have been that much fun. You could take up another hobby. There's a new troop of dwarven clowns in the city, you could go and watch them."
"Oh, they were exciting, all right, but that's not my concern. They were fantastic for my business. You go into a ring and let someone come at you with a sword, you want to be feeling your best, and it puts things in perspective. You won't think twice about paying a few coins extra for a very good massage. I'd come to count on it. I really can't tell you what I am going to do now. You know, it doesn't strike me as fair at all: you've got orcs on the borders, bandits on the roads, and millions of tons of goods moving all over the Alliance, and your Order still takes the time to put me out of business."
"Ah! But that's exactly why We are so against the blood fights. All the things that you just mentioned, orcs, bandits, and the necessity of moving enormous amounts of goods through them, have had the effect of driving up the price in gold that we give to a fighter." Bronzino was thrilled at an opportunity to discuss the technical aspects of wizardry. "Seriously, the gold price that we put on even an average sword-arm has become stupendous. In the eyes of the Order, anyone who can fight well is essentially a walking bar of gold. So, if you have a business, like blood fights, that consists exclusively of damaging fighters, there is no way that we can let you conduct it.
"Interestingly, the problem isn't the fighters at all. In theory, a fighter could sign a Contract saying that he would seek limited or no damage for whatever happened to him in the fight. The issue is when the fighter has pledged his sword to someone else. If Fred Fighter pledged his sword to defend the lands of Lou the Lord against the incursions of Ed the Enemy, and Fred dies or is maimed in a blood fight, then Lou's hold on his land has been damaged and he may seek contribution from the promoter. Now, Fred can, in theory, Contract away his, Fred's, right to seek damage as a result of the blood fight, but he can't Contract away Lou's."
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