by Ari Marmell
“Wooden hafts,” Nycos explained, hefting his own szanzsya for emphasis, “would be too weak for what we need. Everything here is iron or steel. They’ll be heavy, but I think you’re strong enough to wield them. I know I am.”
“We’re making dragon-slaying weapons,” she summarized flatly.
“Yes.”
“And wood isn’t strong enough.”
“Correct.”
“And the fact that we’ve both got perfectly good swords isn’t relevant because…?”
“Why do you suppose it normally takes an army, or an enchanted blade, for humans to kill a dragon, Silbeth? For all the strength, the speed, the breath of flame, it’s the dragon’s hide that makes them nigh invulnerable.”
Smim made soft choking sounds. The knight ignored him—just as he ignored his own twisting, conflicting emotions at exposing the weaknesses of his kind.
“Our swords wouldn’t penetrate the scales,” he continued. “We need weapons that will, or we’ve no chance at all.”
Silbeth grunted, reached down and lifted one of the prybars. For a few moments she spun it around her body, thrust with both hands, running through an array of lunges and parries. When she was done, her breath had grown labored and she had to wipe away a sheen of sweat before it froze, but she nodded. “Heavy, and the balance is for shit, but manageable. I assume you’ve some idea for blades or tips, if you’ve thought it through this far?”
Nycos nodded and produced a thick pouch, from which he in turn poured the five black talons he’d sliced from his own hand days before. “Slivers of Tzavalantzaval’s own claws,” he said in what wasn’t entirely a lie. “Smim and I kept them as trophies after the battle.”
It had been long enough, he hoped, that Silbeth wouldn’t think to associate these five talons with his injured digits. Even if she did, though, he’d spent enough mystical effort on forcing his hand back into its original human shape that not even a close examination would suggest that, mere days ago, he’d literally been missing his fingertips.
Whatever thoughts she had, however, whatever suspicions she may or may not have nursed, she said nothing of them. She only nodded once more, after a brief examination of the talons.
“I need space to work,” Nycos said, “where we’re not going to set fire to anything.” He shortly had Silbeth and Smim excavating a circle in not just the snow but the frigid soil, building a small bank of earth, while he ostensibly went off to search for stones they might use to augment that miniature barrier.
Once out of sight, he removed a small metal flask from his belt. Concentrating on his throat and jaw, he felt the flesh warp, shift. Careful not to spill, he worked up multiple mouthfuls of draconic spittle and deposited them into the flask. It would retain its potency for only a few hours, but that ought to be enough.
He had little luck with the stones, but then, he hadn’t really anticipated otherwise. The banked sides of the earthen circle would do. Returning to the camp, he laid out the wood for a small fire near the center of the cleared space, and the five iron “spear shafts” beside it. Finally—after claiming for Silbeth’s benefit that the flask contained more of the goblin’s alchemical mixture he had wielded against the psoglavac—he coated the narrower ends of the various tools with the spittle.
It all worked about as well as he’d hoped. As each tool was thrust into the small flame, igniting the dragonfire, the sudden burst of supernatural heat bent and softened the metal. From there it was a simple matter of taking a talon in the blacksmith’s tongs and thrusting it base-first into the now pliable shaft, followed by a few blows of the hammer to ensure it was secure and more or less straight. It was sloppy, ugly, but “it would suffice.
Smim cooked them a hot stew that night, rich enough to warm them—though he hadn’t been able to do much about the taste of the salted meats of which they were all growing heartily tired. Clustered around the campfire, they discussed tactics and techniques for battling dragons: the need to surprise the wyrm with their ability to harm it, to keep the fight in a contained space as best they could, to always have cover close at hand. Nycos even offered up some pointers and observations on Vircingotirilux herself, claiming to have heard tales of the wyrm of Gronch from Smim, who had in turn heard them from Tzavalantzaval.
Silbeth took it all in, listening intently, asking for clarification on this point or that, but otherwise offering no comment, no observation of her own. She’d still given no oath of secrecy, and Nycos went to sleep that night wondering just what the mercenary was thinking.
What she suspected.
Tomorrow morning, then. He hadn’t wanted to push the issue, but he had to have an answer, one way or the other, tomorrow morning.
Because come tomorrow evening, they would stand within the shadow of Gronch.
___
“All right.”
Hunched tight against the frigid morning, Nycos wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. He’d been reluctant, even sheepish, bringing it up, and he’d anticipated, at the very least, a bit more discussion.
“I’ll swear to keep your secret,” Silbeth continued, calmly dismantling her tent as she spoke. “But only so long as you’re alive. Your death frees me to choose whether it warrants exposure or not.”
“I…” The caveat made him nervous, but he saw no specific harm in it. “Fair enough. Thank—”
“Don’t. Don’t thank me, Nycos. I haven’t yet shown you the other side of this particular coin you’d have me pay with.”
He waited. She rolled up the canvas, stuffed it in her backpack, and then turned to face him. “If anything I learn suggests to me that I’ve been deceived into committing acts, supporting a cause, I find abhorrent? If I decide your secret makes you too much of a threat? I will stop at nothing to free myself from my oath.”
“But you just said your oath binds you so long as I’m… Oh.”
“Can you accept that?”
Smim was all but hopping foot to foot behind him. “Master, might I have a word with you before you—”
“I can,” Nycos said.
The goblin spat a variety of syllables that might just have inspired Silbeth to behead him if she’d understood what they meant.
“Then I swear by my honor as one chosen to serve the Priory of Steel, and by Louros, Lady of the Moons and protector of all who travel in darkness, to keep your secrets, Sir Nycolos Anvarri, until your death or my own.”
“Oh-ho! Options!” Smim crowed.
“Hush, Smim. Silbeth, thank you.”
She waited a moment, perhaps to see if he were going to reveal anything immediately, and then went about striking camp.
So, now what? Some humans would violate even the most sacred oath if circumstances warranted. He didn’t believe Silbeth was among them, but could he be certain? He didn’t know her nearly as well as he sometimes felt he did. And even if she’d keep his secret, if she discovered who he was—and who he wasn’t—would that constitute a threat? An unforgivable deception? Would he be forced to kill her?
After all that, could he really trust her any more now than he had? He wanted to, desperately, and he hated that he did.
Maybe… Maybe luck would be with him. Maybe he could yet get through this without revealing himself more than he already had. He couldn’t erase her suspicions or questions, but those would fade in time if she never saw, never learned, anything that might feed them.
His thoughts racing like maddened hounds, Nycos clambered up into Avalanche’s saddle and began the first of the day’s many fretful, worried miles.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The trees stood packed together, branches intertwined. Untamed beards of moss hung from jowls of rough bark, and the undergrowth—as much fungi as vegetation, and far moister than it ought to be—slurped obscenely at passing shins.
Even accounting for the lack of wind and sleet, both blocked by the thick woods, it was warmer than it should have been. The air still carried winter’s bite, enough to cause a shiver, yet th
e boles seemed to generate their own humidity, a sticky warmth that not only clung to the skin but somehow seeped inside. The result was an unpleasant, vaguely feverish blend of sensation to make the flesh crawl and the stomach roil.
After lengthy debate, they’d left Avalanche and the rest of the mounts at the edge of the great wood. Tethering them wasn’t an option, in case they had to run or defend themselves from ogres or other threats, so all Nycos and the others could do was trust in the strict Kirresci warhorse training to keep them there for the duration. After hours of slow trail-breaking through this damnable forest, though, with the bundle of makeshift spears slung over his back and catching on every single obstruction and protrusion the place thrust in their path, Nycos would have gladly traded places with them.
Smim muttered constantly under his breath in the language of his people, jumping at every sound, snarling at every upthrust root. Silbeth, on the other hand, was almost hostilely silent, lips pressed together until they’d gone as pale as her skin.
Nycos found both grating, though he couldn’t blame either of them. He wanted to lash out with szandzsya or clenched fist, not merely at any perceived danger hidden within the trees but at those trees themselves, to clear a space in the woodland that seemed to grow tighter by the step. It was crushing, suffocating, as though Gronch itself sought to swallow them whole. He realized he was breathin hard and forced himself to calm, drawing upon centuries of patience and self-control.
He shoved a branch from his path, hissing in the back of his throat at the greasy feel of whatever grew upon the bark, and slipped past. The limb bounced back into place and he heard sharp gasp.
“Watch it, you jackass!”
He spun, literally growling. Silbeth stood behind him, a dark smear streaking her cloak and mail hauberk where the branch had lashed them.
“I trust my companions to be able to watch out for themselves,” he retorted in a harsh rasp. “If you can’t even do that much—”
“I can watch out for myself just fine, it’s the idiots around me that are posing a problem!”
Smim advanced on her, hand on the hilt of his short sword, a low rumble in his throat Nycos had heard from other goblins in his time.
“Look,” Nycos said, fists shaking with the effort of swallowing his mounting fury, “let’s all take a breath and—”
Fast enough to catch even him by surprise, Silbeth’s blade was in her hand and she hurled herself at him. In the blind confusion of what followed, it took an instant to register that she hadn’t, in fact, attacked him at all. She slammed into him with her left shoulder, knocking him away from the looming bole even as she swung at something dangling from the canopy above.
Something that shrieked in frustrated rage as it scrabbled to avoid her sword.
It hung from a thick, ropey web like some great arachnid, and indeed it had six spidery legs protruding from its midsection. Before and behind those, however, it boasted four canine limbs, and its body was roughly that of a mangy, blood-slicked wolf. Its jaws gaped open as it screamed and howled, exposing a pair of oversized mandibles within. They emerged, slow and slick, tearing at the soft flesh inside its canine maw until thin streams of saliva-diluted blood dribbled to the earth.
“What in the name of…?”
Even had Nycos known how to answer, he lacked the time. For while Silbeth was focused on the nightmare above, he spotted another threat below.
“Smim, stop!”
Too far gone to obey, perhaps even to understand, the goblin leapt for Silbeth, mouth wide in a drooling howl, cleaving sword raised high.
Nycos, uncaring now what Silbeth saw, lunged with impossible speed to meet him. Gripping the sabre-spear backward, just below the blade, Nycos swung the butt end as a club, catching Smim in the gut and knocking him back to the soil. He continued the turn, letting the momentum carry him around even as he spun the szandzsya and then, trusting in desperate strength to make up for the weapon’s utter lack of aerodynamics, he threw.
Threw and missed. The hideous creature on its web dropped a foot or so, easily avoiding the clumsy, wobbling missile. It chittered at him, mandibles clacking and throat wobbling in a grotesque song of mockery.
Silbeth leapt, swung, and the tip of her blade sliced neatly through the distracted monstrosity’s stomach.
Loops of ichor-smeared and cobweb-coated intestines spilled forth, coiling and bouncing. The beast plummeted with an agonized shriek to land, twitching and kicking, at Silbeth’s feet. Her sword rose and fell, again and again, and Nycos turned back to the disobedient goblin, confident that his companion had the other creature in hand.
Smim lay beside a puddle of vomit, still dry-heaving from the blow to his gut. Nonetheless his fingers remained clenched around the hilt of his weapon and he struggled to roll over, to drag himself toward Silbeth.
“Smim? Smim!”
Nycos saw no recognition, only the instinctual, fearful hatred so common to Smim’s people. The goblin screamed at him, and the sounds only vaguely resembled words.
Wrath flooded Nycos’s heart. How dare he?! How dare this pathetic little creature defy him, turn on him now, of all times? He raised a hand, preparing to transform fingertips into talons and end the wretched, dishonorable beast…
No.
He couldn’t stop himself from striking. The anger was too strong for that. But when he did, it was with a human fist, with roughly human strength. The goblin spasmed, face gone slack.
“Rope.”
“What?” Silbeth finally stopped hacking at the thing, now long past dead and verging on no longer entirely solid.
“Bring me some rope.”
“Get it yourself, you—!” She stopped, stared at her ichor-coated sword, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Carefully she lay the weapon down and retrieved a large coil of rope from the side of her own pack.
“Sorry,” she muttered, stepping close and handing it over.
“Not your fault. Not mine. Not even his.” Nycos played out a length of the hemp line and carefully tied the goblin’s arms and feet. “Something about this place. It’s… getting to us. On an emotional level. Maybe spiritual.”
Was this part of why Vircingotirilux was mad? Had her home driven her out of what was left of her mind? Or the reverse, perhaps. Had her madness somehow spread through Gronch itself?
Then again, maybe neither. Maybe she was just drawn to the place, her broken mind having found comfort here.
“We’ve got to move,” he said, hefting Smim over one shoulder and casting about for his missing weapon. “All that screaming’s likely to have attracted attention.”
Silbeth only nodded, took a moment to retrieve a rag from her backpack, and then collected her sword. She wiped the worst of the grime from it as they walked.
“I’ve never seen anyone move that fast,” she said finally, dodging around a particularly gnarled tree. “When you stopped Smim, I mean. Thank you. But how did you do that?”
Even in her gratitude, she had to push, didn’t she? To question? Why couldn’t she just—?
Calm.
Nycos grunted, not trusting himself to answer, and Silbeth, perhaps for the sake of her own self-control, fell back into silence rather than press the issue.
Whether it was the tumult of the earlier struggle or something more subtle—their scent, perhaps, or even some primal awareness within the denizens of the Ogre-Weald—the trio indeed attracted further attention. On multiple occasions they had to dive for cover or scurry into the shelter of the underbrush, concealing themselves amidst thistles and dead leaves. Once, they hid from a creature near twelve feet in height, with the gait and build of an ape but a slick, cracked carapace that resembled nothing more than the enamel of a human tooth. Other times they never clearly saw what it was that stalked them, but one of the ogres walked with so heavy a tread, rustling the branches so high above, that Nycos thought it might have looked big to him even if he wore his true form.
Either Smim had regained some semblance o
f his civilized self, or else even in his maddened, monstrous state of mind, the goblin recognized the danger. Whatever his motivation, the bound figure went as silent as Nycos and Silbeth when stealth was called for.
On other occasions, hiding was no option at all.
___
The club, nearly a small tree in its own right, hurtled toward Silbeth with enough force to turn organs and bone into something akin to pudding. Nycos threw himself into the weapon’s path, as near the ogre’s fist as possible, in hopes of avoiding the worst of the impact. Still it sent him flying to collide hard with a heavy bole. He slumped amidst the roots, head ringing and spine screaming, watching dully as his szandzsya once more spun off into the shadows of Gronch.
But at least he’d gotten the thing’s attention, drawn it away from his companions. Fantastic. And the next step in my brilliant plan was…?
Other than the massive cudgel instead of a rusty axe, the psoglavac looked very much like the one that had attacked King Hasyan’s court. It was, if anything, a bit larger, and somehow smelled even more foul. Its single eye gleamed with the same fury, however, and its slathering jaws suggested similar vile appetites.
“Get the spears!” he called as the ogre closed on him, each footfall landing with limp, meaty thud. “They should penetrate its hide!”
So too, of course, would his own talons, but he still clung to a faint hope of keeping some of his secrets.
Silbeth dived for the parcel of makeshift weapons, which he’d dropped as he’d charged the psoglavac, fumbling at the ties. She’d have the shafts free swiftly, but he could see already it wouldn’t be swift enough.
The club crashed down and Nycos rolled aside, ignoring the discomfort as protruding roots poked at his back and sides, bruising even through the mail. He rolled back just as swiftly, grasping the weapon under one arm and bringing the heel of his boot down upon the fingers that clutched it.
It wasn’t sufficient to break bone, but he struck with far more strength, far more pain, than the ogre anticipated. It reared back with a low roar, dropping the weapon as it tried to shake the agony from its hand.
