Bryon walked along a darkened edge of Aga Min. No torches. No miners. Just stars and solitude and the sound of the distant howls of wild dogs. His green bottle of wine hung loosely in his hand, and as he looked around, he had forgotten how he got to where he was. He held up the bottle. It reminded him of home, of his father.
“Damn you,” he cursed.
Why had he started walking? His cousins were boring. The dwarves only spoke to each other, and in their own language. Wrothgard was too busy flirting with some bar wench. And Vander Bim and Switch seemed to want to have nothing to do with him. He had gone to Madame Ary’s, but the whore he had bedded the night before was taken and the others weren’t to his liking. So, that left only one good alternative . . . drinking. Only, now, he had lost his way. How hard could it be to find an inn and brothel in a small mining camp? Bryon shrugged. He supposed it mattered how drunk he was.
His thoughts trailed off to Switch, that little weasel of a man who thought himself so smart and cunning and worldly. Bryon would show him . . . one day. He was certainly angry with Bryon, for standing up to those men in The Golden Miner. But he wouldn’t do it. Neither would Wrothgard or Vander Bim. Or the dwarves for that matter.
“Yellow-bellied cowards,” Bryon said as he took another draught from his bottle.
What had Switch said as Bryon left the inn?
“I’ll stick my knife up his ass. Teach him a thing or two.”
As if to add lemon juice to the sting of Switch’s words, Wrothgard had added, “Leave him be. He’s only a boy.”
Bryon felt his face grow hot. He shook his head and drank yet again.
As Bryon tilted the bottle up, it shattered. The green shards sparkled in the bright moonlight, some of them scratching his face. But that wasn’t what sent him tumbling backwards. Something hard hit his cheek. His head hit the ground, and when he stared up at the stars, they danced and bobbled back and forth. Something shadowed them, blocked them out. When his vision normalized, he saw a face in the pale glow of the moon. Mohawk.
“Trying to act all tough earlier,” Mohawk said. There was something about his smile in the faint light, something almost fake, like his skin was made of porcelain. Bryon thought the man might go for his sword, but instead he saw Mohawk tugging his belt, loosening it. “We’ll see how much of a man you are, boy.”
“What by the Shadow are you doing . . .” and then Bryon realized.
Bryon pushed up to his elbows and dug his heels in the ground, sliding backwards a few paces. Then he went for his sword. He had been foolish enough to go for a walk by himself and to drink himself into a mild drunkenness, but he hadn’t been foolish enough to go without his sword.
Before he could reach his weapon, someone caught his arms and pinned them to the ground. He looked up. Crooked Nose put the full weight of his frame—a whole two heads taller than Bryon—against Bryon’s shoulders, and he found himself motionless.
“You should’ve stayed with your friends, boy,” Crooked Nose hissed, “or better yet, stayed home. Too bad you won’t live to learn your lesson.”
Mohawk dropped his belt to the ground and walked to Bryon, still struggling, even though it proved futile.
“This isn’t happening,” Bryon cried. “Son of a whore, this isn’t happening.”
“Did you know my mother?” one of the men replied with a laugh.
“Oh, it is happening,” another one said.
He kicked out at Mohawk as the mercenary loosened the tie on his own pants.
“Oh, boy, keep fighting. It just makes the meat all the sweeter.”
The mercenary dropped his pants, grabbed one of Bryon’s ankles as he kicked out, and jerked his leg up. The man licked his lips, a bit of drool rolling from the corner of his mouth and collecting on his chin.
“Please, no. Gods, please, no. The sailor’s gods, the soldier’s gods, Erik’s God, please, any of you, help me.” Bryon’s cries only made the three men laugh more.
Just then, a quick glimmer, almost like a shooting star, flashed in front of Mohawk. The mercenary, still smiling, dropped to one knee. He even chortled, and leaning forward onto one hand, his dull eyes met Bryon’s. Then, he dropped Bryon’s leg. He felt Crooked Nose’s hold on his shoulders loosen.
“What’s wrong with you, Poc?” Crooked Nose asked.
Mohawk—Poc—looked to his comrade. The smile on his face faded, although he still drooled incessantly. But, no, it wasn’t drool. In the pale light, Bryon could see. It was blood. A stain along the collar of his shirt grew as a thin line appeared across his neck. In a moment, blood poured from his wound, and the mercenary, eyes wide and pants around his ankles, dropped face down to the ground, breathless.
Bryon scooted away from Crooked Nose and rose to one knee. He saw Bushy Beard standing off to the side, sword drawn. He heard steel on leather and saw Crooked Nose draw his sword as well. He growled at Bryon and gripped his sword with both hands. It gleamed, almost purplish, in the night, and Bryon knew that blade could take his head off with half an effort. He saw a shadow move, and as Bushy Beard ran to him, Switch jumped from seemingly nowhere onto the mercenary’s back, covered his mouth with one hand and plunged a dagger, blade almost as thin as a needle, into the man’s neck.
“Who is the dog now?” Blood sprayed across Switch’s rictus snarl as he pulled out the knife and plunged it into the man’s flesh again, and then again, and then twice more.
Crooked Nose stood, only for a moment, stunned, sword down. Bryon knew this was the moment and, with sword drawn, lunged at Crooked Nose. The mercenary saw Bryon’s attack, if only a little late, and brought his sword up to block the farmer’s. It prevented Bryon’s iron from striking deep into his gut, but he still managed to drive the weapon into his enemy’s shoulder. Before Crooked Nose could cry out, a knife thudded into his neck.
Crooked Nose coughed, spewing blood all over Bryon’s face. He pulled the knife from his neck with a grunt and grabbed Bryon’s blade with his gloved hand, preventing him from retrieving his weapon. With his long arms, the mercenary reached out and grabbed Bryon by the shirt, pulling him close. He dropped his sword and both his hands worked their way to the young man’s throat.
Bryon felt the squeeze, felt air leaving his lungs. He swung up, catching Crooked Nose in the chin. It did nothing. He stepped down hard, his boot heel catching the man’s instep. Nothing. Then, suddenly, Bryon heard, of all things, his father’s voice. It was a time when Bryon had had enough of his father, enough of his drunken rants and his put-downs. He decided he would show his father he was a man. He had stripped off his shirt and put up both fists.
“Come on, old man,” Bryon had said.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” his father had asked. Bryon had replied with a simple nod.
Before Bryon knew what had happened, his father was in on his legs, lifting him off the ground and driving him back to the ground hard. Bryon had gotten a hold of his father’s head, squeezing it between both arms, but a quick pinch to the inside of one arm made him let go. A knee drove up into his groin, and then he felt another knee press on his neck, hard enough so that he could not move but not so hard as to stop him from breathing.
“Are you done?” his father had asked.
“You didn’t fight fair,” Bryon had replied.
And then the words Bryon heard in the back of his head.
“There is no such thing as a fair fight. Fight to win, at all cost. One day, it may mean your life.”
Bryon drove his knee up hard. He could feel the soft flesh of Crooked Nose’s groin give way, feel the man’s balls crushed under his kneecap. The mercenary let go. Bryon saw Switch creep up behind the man, a dagger in his hand. He slid the dagger across the man’s hamstring, and Crooked Nose promptly fell to his knees.
“Remember what I said,” Switch hissed into Crooked Nose’s ear, wrapping one arm around the man’s giant head and pulling it back, exposing naked neck.
Bryon saw fear on Crooked Nose’s face.
Switch’s blade slid across the soft flesh of the man’s neck and as a thin, red line trailed the steel, Bryon saw the thief keep his promise. Crooked Nose reeled forward, wanting to scream, but Switch clapped a hand over the man’s mouth and kept it there until he stopped breathing.
Switch walked to a large tent, the flap of which was held open by a heavy cord.
“We’ll stuff these bastards in here,” Switch said.
“How did you . . . where did you . . .”
Bryon’s arms felt like lead. He couldn’t move. Numbness overcame his body. Blood covered the ground, in great pools of inky black under the bright moon. He looked around the unlit portion of the camp, visible under the bright moon. Tents lined the walkway along with lean-tos resting against the trees that grew here and there, tall and bushy. This was certainly a part of Aga Min that people didn’t spend much time in.
“When you left the inn, I followed you,” Switch explained. “I suspected these prigs were up to no good, wanting to send a message and show force. After that drunken sod leaning against his meat cart gave you his wine bottle, I saw them.”
“Why didn’t I realize they were following me?” Bryon asked, as much to himself as to Switch.
“They are cunning warriors and you’re not,” Switch said with a shrug. “Pretty simple if you ask me. Anyways, when I realized what was going to happen, I snuck ahead of you and hid in one of these tents. It was easy. They’re equipment tents, and no one comes around here much. When they jumped you, I used that as my opportunity.”
Bryon shook his head. He felt his hands shake. He looked at Mohawk’s dead body. He was going to . . . Bryon shivered.
“Bloody Shadow,” Switch exclaimed as loud as he dared. “You are undefiled and alive. Praise the gods and the saints and the seasons and whatever else you bloody want to thank. We need to cover up the blood and hide these bodies and make sure they stay hidden until we leave.”
“Drag them into the Plains?” Bryon asked.
“Nah,” Switch said. “That’ll take too long. No one checks these tents. This one here is full of bags of sand and barrels of coal. We’ll stuff them under those bags. It’ll be weeks before anyone finds them.”
After they laid the dead men towards the back of the tent and piled as many bags on top of them—stacking barrels, then, in front of the bags—Switch threw three swords down at Bryon’s feet. Bryon eyed the swords.
“Take them,” Switch said. He jerked his head towards the resting place of Bryon’s attackers. “They don’t need them anymore. Spoils of war, if you will. They’re too big for me.”
Bryon eyed Crooked Nose’s hand-and-a-half sword. It was a thing of beauty with an odd, eerie tint to it, almost as if it reflected black, purplish light rather than the normal, dull gray of steel. He took it, sheathed it in its scabbard, and stuffed the scabbard into his own belt.
“Leave your old one. You don’t need it with your new one, and it’s a rusted piece of cow shit anyways.”
Bryon threw down his old sword.
“Don’t know if you care or not, but you might want to grab the other two swords for your cousins,” Switch suggested. “They’re a far sight better than what they’re carrying now. And, the gods know, we’ll need decent weapons where we’re going.”
Bryon nodded and grabbed Mohawk’s and Bushy Beard’s swords.
Switch gathered the men’s purses, pouring their contents into his hand and stuffing it all into his own purse. He grabbed the knives on the dead men’s belts and put them on his own. He searched through their pockets, their boots, inside their shirts, under their armor. He shook his head.
“What are you doing?” Bryon asked.
“Men hide their valuables in the queerest of places, but these bastards have almost nothing. They’re even scarce on their coin.” Switch kicked Mohawk and spat on his dead body. “I figured they’d have a good deal of coin, perhaps even something magic.”
“Magic.” Bryon took a step back.
“Aye, not that I’ll use it, but anything magic, especially a blade, can fetch a handsome amount of gold in the right market,” Switch explained.
“You can tell if something is magic?” Bryon asked.
“Aye, a little. I am no expert, but a thief has to know what to keep and what to throw away,” Switch replied. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be a very good thief. Now, before we go, we must cover up the blood with dirt.”
Switch and Bryon, getting sober by the minute, slowly walked back to The Golden Miner. Wrothgard was the only one in the bar, a barmaid Bryon noticed him talking to the night before sitting on his lap, giggling as the soldier whispered something into her ear. The easterner saw the two walk into the inn and met the thief ’s eyes. The thief nodded, and Wrothgard returned the nod.
“Was this all planned?” Bryon asked softly, not to Switch but to himself. “Was I used as bait?”
“Aye,” Switch replied in a whisper. “Don’t feel bad. Our plan worked well.”
Bryon felt his face go hot. A flash of anger coursed through his body. But then, it went away. What difference did it make? It was over and done with, and he was alive. As he walked up the stairs to his room, Switch leaned against the bar, a pitcher of ale in front of him, as if nothing had just happened.
“Bryon,” Switch said.
The farmer, halfway up the first-floor stairs, stopped and turned. It was Switch, pitcher in hand. The thief drank from it like it was a mug.
“Come here,” the thief commanded.
Bryon hesitated. Was he going to stick a knife in his belly? Bryon wouldn’t put it past the man. He descended the stairs to face the thief.
“Hold out your hand,” Switch said.
Bryon complied. The thief pressed something into his hand and then walked away. The young man looked down and saw three gold pieces sitting there. Bryon cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t understand this game.
Bryon walked up the stairs and to his room. He opened the door. Erik lifted his head from his pillow, eyes still half-closed from sleep, saw it was Bryon, and dropped his head back to his pillow. Befel sat on the edge of his bed, exercising his shoulder as best he could. His face contorted and grimaced as he made circles with his arm and stretched it across his chest.
Bryon could see Befel eyeing the two swords he held in his hand, watched them questioningly as he leaned them against the wall next to the door.
“They’re for you,” Bryon said.
Erik sat back up. “Which one is mine?”
“Don’t you even care where he got them? Where did you get them?” Befel asked.
“I don’t want to argue. They’re good swords,” Bryon said. “Don’t worry about where they came from. Just take them.”
Erik shrugged and nodded his head, but Befel gave Bryon a disparaging look. “No. I want to know from where they came.”
“Damn it,” Bryon hissed. “Why do you always make things so difficult? The three mercenaries from this afternoon attacked me. They’re dead. These were theirs. Now they’re ours. I took one too.”
He unsheathed the sword he took for himself and held it out for Befel and Erik to see. The steel caught the light from the room and, again, sparkled with a purplish glimmer. He looked closer in the room’s light and saw pictures, letters, some sort of carvings along the blade.
“Interesting,” Bryon said and smiled to himself.
“I don’t think I want it,” Befel said. “I appreciate it but, well, I just don’t think I want it.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Bryon sheathed his own blade and glared at Befel. He left Befel and Erik’s swords leaning against the wall and walked to his bed, crashing against the mattress without even taking off his boots.
Chapter 20
“ARE YOU COMING?”
Serving the General Lord Marshall of Gol-Durathna, and following mercenaries heeding a call from the Lord of the East, had led Ranus and Cliens deeper into the Southern Mountains, and Cliens wondered if, despite his desire to serve his country and Creator,
the mission was worth the trouble.
“You grew up in a swamp,” Cliens replied. “You’re used to this.”
Ranus had a very real ability to annoy Cliens, despite their friendship. The rain had been coming down for days now, and their trek up into the Southern Mountains had slowed to a crawl. Some of the steeper slopes proved almost treacherous, and even the flat surfaces had turned to such a muddy mess that Cliens thought he might sink knee deep with a wrong step. Ranus didn’t have the same problem.
“I could help,” Ranus said.
Cliens found it hard to understand his friend, his language made up of clicks and clacks, chirps and hisses, through the monsoon deluge, so for a moment he just stared and tried to decipher what he had said. Finally, he figured it out and shook his head.
“I don’t want your help.”
Cliens watched Ranus, a good dozen paces ahead of him. The rain seemed to part above him, split just as it was about to hit his friend’s head and flow to each side, not a single drop touching him. Truly, he stood as dry as a sun-bleached bone even though everything else around him stood soaked beyond comprehension. Even the ground under his feet sat dry as if the rain had never been there.
“It’s just a little charm,” Ranus said with a smile, “a prayer I give to the Creator.”
Cliens shook his head. “Whatever you call it, its magic, and I don’t like it. Nothing good can come from magic.”
“It’s a gift from the Creator, which is only good,” Ranus replied, laughing. “I pray, and he gives.”
“And if he doesn’t give you this . . . this little charm?”
“I walk in the rain,” Ranus replied.
“Has he ever not given it to you?” Cliens asked.
“No.”
“And how do you know it’s the Creator giving this . . . charm to you and not something else?” Cliens asked.
Ranus shrugged. “I just know.”
“Right,” Cliens replied.
They hiked long through the night, the rain never leaving. There were moments when the rain seemed to lighten, only to regain its strength and dump more water than before on Cliens and Ranus . . . well, at least Cliens. The Durathnan watched as the water simply spilled around his companion. He shook his head.
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