“No, he won’t,” said the sixth of the party, a smallish man wearing an exotic outfit of black silk, a wide farmer’s hat, and a fabulous and intricately detailed sword on his hip.
“Then he’ll heal the damned trolls!” Bikelbrin fumed.
“No, he won’t,” said the man, Bransen Garibond, said with a confident grin and a wink at the blind Jond—a wink that brought a chuckle to the blind brother’s lips. What a ragtag group they were, Bransen thought. Outcasts all, except for Jond, they had banded together in common purpose to bring about the end of Ancient Badden. For the others, it had been a personal battle—the powries, Milkeila, and Cormack were defending their, and one another’s, communities on the warm Lake Mithranidoon below Ancient Badden’s glacier, and Jond had come north with Bransen at the behest of Dame Gwydre of Vanguard, in an attempt to decapitate the enemy by killing the vile leader. Bransen considered himself the biggest mercenary here, when he thought about it. He was not personally invested in the Mithranidoon communities, or in Vanguard, a land to which he was a stranger, and he had been tricked into the service of Dame Gwydre. He had come hunting Badden to earn freedom, for himself and for his wife and mother-in-law, reparation for his actions as the Highwayman that had outraged many of the Honce lairds. Now they were all traveling south from the defeated Ancient Badden’s fortress, back to Dame Gwydre with their gruesome trophy. There was nothing left up here for the powries, Cormack, and Milkeila, and wounded Jond wanted to go home to Chapel Pellinor, and Bransen just wanted to get back to Cadayle and Callen.
Bikelbrin and Mcwigik both started arguing with Bransen, but Milkeila interrupted, and all turned to her to see her looking from Bransen to Jond curiously. “How did you see that?” she asked the blind monk.
“I saw nothing. I see nothing.”
“You reacted.”
“I agree with Bransen.”
“To the wink,” Milkeila insisted.
Jond’s smile widened. “I felt it.”
Both powries, Cormack, and Milkeila stared long and hard at the blind man.
“Ye felt the wink?” Mcwigik said with obvious doubt. “I got a great fart coming—ye feelin’ that, are ye?”
Bransen drew his sword suddenly, pulling all attention his way. With a shrug, he poked its fine tip into his palm, drawing blood. “I am wounded!” he said to Jond, and before the monk could react, the agile Bransen silently shifted around to the other side of the group, behind the powries.
Brother Jond lowered his head and lifted a hand from his pouch, his fist clenched around a small hematite, a soul stone, which Milkeila had given him from her necklace of various magical gems.
Bransen, remaining perfectly silent, held his hand up for all to see, and sure enough, a wave of magical energy from Jond sealed the small wound.
“How is that possible?” asked Cormack, formerly Brother Cormack, who knew well the properties of the Abellican stones. “How did you anticipate his move?”
“We are all joined, connected,” Bransen explained.
“Only a great shaman can sense such movements through the earth,” Milkeila protested.
“Or a Jhesta Tu,” said Bransen. “Brother Jond and I have formed a bond. He can heal me, and will heal me, unerringly, as we do battle with the trolls we spied on the road ahead. He will not heal the trolls by mistake.”
“And I’ll cast no bolts of lightning, I promise,” said Brother Jond.
“And how’re ye to keep the trolls off yer torn face?” Mcwigik asked. “I’ll not be looking over me shoulder to protect yer arse when I’m fighting for me own!”
“Nor would I ask you to,” said Jond.
“We’ll find a place for him, near the fighting,” said Bransen. “Near enough to throw a healing spell, at me or at any of you who can find a similar bond.”
Cormack was nodding with obvious appreciation, and so was Milkeila, and after a moment of looking at each other, both dwarves said, “Well, all’s the better then!” and the issue was settled.
“Six cogs one!” Mcwigik proclaimed, an old powrie expression of a team of warriors working in unison toward a single goal. “Now, let’s go kill us some trolls, just because it’s a fine day and there’s no better way in all the world to spend it.”
B
ransen held his breath as he watched the approach of the troll mob, some dozen or so of the creatures pushing and shoving and growling as they made their way along the path, windblown free of snow, that served as the main road into Vanguard from southern Alpinador. The young warrior couldn’t help but remember the last time he had been in a situation just like this, when he and a few friends had attacked a troll caravan in an attempt to free the humans they held as prisoner. Crait, a warrior of great legend and stature, had died in that fight, and Bransen and the remaining of his band had been taken captive.
The trolls had surprised them with their tenacity and with sudden reinforcements.
That would not happen again, Bransen, the Highwayman, had decided, and so, before he and his new friends had come to this point, he had circumvented the troll mob and ensured that this time there would be no reinforcements following closely along the road.
Still, the Highwayman could not deny the nervous sweat that made his sword less tight in his grip. He glanced back to Brother Jond and Cormack, to see them engaged in the same type of bonding that he and Jond had used to allow the blind monk to sense Bransen’s proximity. Milkeila had already done so, but the stubborn powries would have none of it.
Bransen had seen Mcwigik and Bikelbrin in battle. He flashed a much-needed grin their way and figured that those two wouldn’t need any help from Brother Jond.
Mcwigik noted his glance with a nod, then held up six fingers, clenched his hands together, and then held up one finger.
Six cogs one.
With an exaggerated wink, Mcwigik slapped Bikelbrin on the shoulder and the pair ran off around a ridgeline to the west.
So much like Crait and Olconna, Bransen thought, for in that earlier tragic battle those two had similarly separated themselves from the main fighting band in a flanking maneuver. This was not the same thing, Bransen reminded himself quickly. Mcwigik and Bikelbrin had concocted this plan and insisted upon it.
“Only to get themselves right in the midst of it,” Bransen whispered, trying to lighten his own mood.
Bransen took a deep and steadying breath, falling into the state of the warrior, the state of the Highwayman, as Cormack and Milkeila came up to either side of him, as the trolls below neared the designated spot. All three of them turned to the ridge west of the approaching trolls and sucked in their breath as one when they heard the opening cry of Mcwigik.
Over the ridge came the rambling powries, their short, powerful legs seeming more to roll than to pump, but propelling them surely and rapidly at the surprised trolls below. The dwarves hardly seemed to be paying any attention to their foes, but were looking back and yelling warnings of approaching enemies.
For powries and trolls, though not on the friendliest of terms, were not mortal enemies (outside of Mithranidoon, where all who were not troll did war with trolls) and had often banded together in Badden’s assault on the men of Vanguard.
“Great, now they’re ready for us,” Cormack muttered.
“Ah, but with a pair in their midst,” Milkeila said as the dwarves moved into the welcoming troll group.
“And looking the wrong way,” added the Highwayman, and he flipped off his farmer hat and pulled his black silk bandanna down into a half mask, holes cut for his eyes. “Be quick!”
Cormack stood a foot taller than the Highwayman, and most of the difference seemed to be in the length of his legs. But he couldn’t begin to pace the explosive speed of the silk-clad warrior. Fast as a hunting cat and silent as its shadow, the Highwayman closed the ground to the trolls far ahead of his two charging companions. As he neared, he heard Mcwigik yell, “Here they come!” and smiled as the dwarf pointed at the ridge over which he and Bikelbrin had run.
And the trolls were looking exactly that way when the Highwayman came spinning into their ranks from the other side, his fabulous sword of wrapped silverel, a Jhesta Tu sword crafted by his mother, slicing troll flesh as easily as it would dry parchment.
And the trolls were still looking that way when the two powries pulled stone axes from their belts and began chopping at them with abandon.
And the trolls were still looking that way when Milkeila’s shamanistic magic reached out to a nearby tree and coaxed down one of its branches to grab a troll about the neck and hoist it, flailing pitifully, from the ground.
The Highwayman cut through the first rank, took a fast stride at the dwarves, and then kicked off suddenly, throwing himself into a forward-diving somersault. He landed lightly on the other side of the pair, running still, and a slash to the right, a reversed backhand, behind-the-back stab back to the left had two more trolls down.
Cormack came in almost at the same time the bulk of the trolls finally grasped what was happening and tried to form some semblance of defense. Three of them fell into a skirmish line, just hoisting crude spears when the former monk flew at them, turning his body horizontal as he leaped. He beat the spears to the spot and sent all three trolls tumbling.
As the pile unwound, though, one of the beasts managed to re-angle its spear enough to stab at the man, tearing a painful gash on his hip. He squealed in pain but gritted through it and, still on his knees, unloaded a barrage of short and heavy punches into the troll’s face, crushing its bones and dropping it to the cold ground.
Milkeila was beside the man, then, and nearly as formidable in melee as in magic, the shaman cracked her staff hard on another troll’s head.
“Are you all right?” she called to Cormack as he came up beside her, but when she glanced at him, she found him strangely grinning. He led her incredulous gaze down to his wound, showing her that it was already on the mend—the magical mend.
Brother Jond. Six cogs one.
In a matter of heartbeats, the powries gleefully went about dipping their bloody caps into troll blood, and coaxed Cormack, who understood well that there was powerful and beneficial magic in a powrie cap, to do likewise.
“Not much of a fight,” Bikelbrin lamented.
“Yach,” Mcwigik agreed. “Someone find me a giant to kneecap!”
“We fight only when they’re in our way,” Bransen reminded them as he wiped his bloody sword on a troll vest. “Our goal is to the south, to Vanguard and Dame Gwydre.”
“To yer lady Cadayle, ye mean,” said Mcwigik.
“No less substantial a cause, then,” Cormack remarked with a wink at Milkeila.
Bransen cut short the conversation by nodding his chin back to the north, where Brother Jond was making his way along the road, tapping his walking stick before him.
“He healed me from afar,” said Cormack.
“Might be that he’s worth keepin’, then,” said Mcwigik. “But I ain’t standing watch over him!”
“No one asked you to,” Brother Jond answered from afar. “To be blunt, I feel safer knowing that no powries are hovering over me.”
That erased a few smiles.
“Six cogs one,” Bransen reminded, and he knew in looking at his mismatched companions that it would be an oft-repeated litany if they were to make it across the miles to the more hospitable reaches of civilized Vanguard.
Of course, once they arrived at the court of Dame Gwydre, a host of other problems would certainly emerge, Bransen knew, and as Cormack and Jond also certainly knew, in trying to explain Mcwigik and Bikelbrin to folk who had never known the bloody-cap dwarves as anything but mortal enemies.
TWO
The Center of Gravity
T
hey were smashed!” cried Yeslnik, the foppish Laird of Pryd and favored nephew of Laird Delaval, who proclaimed himself King Delaval of Honce. He flailed about as he spoke, his voluminous sleeves and leggings flapping and tightening over his limbs just often enough to remind those in the room of how delicate and stick-limbed this excitable man truly was. Not that any would remark on the man’s erratic movements, for Yeslnik was also widely rumored to be the heir apparent to Delaval’s expanding holdings.
“The son of Laird Panlamaris sent the traitors running back to the Mantis Arm! Oh, but we’ll make them regret their decision to take Ethelbert’s gold!” As he spoke, he danced around the circular chamber that marked the bottom floor of Pryd Keep, punching his fist into the air and smacking his hands together as if engaging in a battle with some imaginary foe.
His soft skin reddened under the blows.
A few of the men in attendance, Yeslnik’s entourage from Delaval City and a pair of young brothers of Chapel Pryd, grinned stupidly and became animated at the less-than-inspired performance, but the true center of weight in the room, a muscular middle-aged warrior with long black hair just beginning to show a bit of salt with its pepper and a face that seemed carved out of stone, showed not a hint of emotion.
He did glance to the side, to exchange looks with Master Reandu of Chapel Pryd, the highest ranking of the village’s brothers, who was serving, quietly, as leader of the chapel due to the failing condition of Father Jerak, who was by all reports beyond sensibility. Ever doubtful of the brothers of Abelle, Bannagran had nonetheless found himself growing closer to Reandu over the last few weeks, particularly with Yeslnik and his insufferable wife, Olym, bouncing about incessantly.
Still a young man, barely into his thirties, Reandu had played an important role in the dramatic events of Pryd Holding. He had halted the hand of his superior monk, Master Bathelais, when Bathelais might have struck dead the Highwayman, right before the Highwayman had crashed into Laird Prydae’s room, initiating a fight that had cost Prydae his life. Soon after, it was Reandu who had spoken for the Highwayman, and favorably, and had convinced Bannagran to spare the life of Bransen Garibond and allow the outlaw to leave Pryd.
With all the tumult of the growing war, the investigation of Master Bathelais’s death by Chapel Abelle had never come, and, indeed, the brothers up north had seen fit to elevate Reandu, the next highest-ranking brother in Pryd, to Master, giving him leadership in Chapel Pryd.
That promotion hadn’t bothered Bannagran in the least. To Reandu’s credit, by Bannagran’s estimation, the monk seemed quite unimpressed by Yeslnik’s proclamations and performance. Master Reandu shrugged at Bannagran with obvious resignation, as if to point out that they had to suffer the idiot.
“You do not view this as a great victory?” Yeslnik shouted at Reandu, his tone full of consternation and indignation.
“The Church of Blessed Abelle is neutral in the conflict, Laird Yeslnik, per agreement with both lairds Ethelbert and Delaval,” Reandu replied. “Your claims of great battle mean to us only that we will witness more suffering.”
Yeslnik stopped suddenly, as if some marionette strings had simply fallen limp around him, and his face seemed indeed to be made of wood or stone.
“The Decree of Neutrality by Chapel Abelle is well-known to both warring factions,” Reandu reminded. “And accepted, and was even advised by your mentor, Laird Delaval. We do not ask the allegiance of a wounded man when we prepare our blessed healing.”
Yeslnik gave a little, deprecating snort. “The situation is changing, Brother,” he calmly—too calmly—explained. “A nimble church survives, while one set in the ways of the past can easily find itself marginalized.”
Bannagran closed his eyes at that and tried to tune out of the conversation. Rumors had been spreading from both lines, Ethelbert and Delaval, that as the war had grown more furious, as the stakes had crystallized, pressures had been exerted on the brothers of Abelle in chapels behind each of the respective lines to tend only to those wounded supporting that region’s ruling faction. The lairds were playing a dangerous game with the people, Bannagran knew from long and bitter experience, for the enemy wounded were too often friend and family to the peasants living about the chapels wh
ere they were brought for healing.
Peasants could be pushed hard—Bannagran had seen that from his friend and former laird, Prydae. But peasants also had the capacity to strike back hard when pushed too far.
In his mind, Bannagran saw again his errant throw, his axe spinning end-over-end, sailing above the wretched Highwayman and planting itself deep in Laird Prydae’s chest. He saw again his friend’s blood explode from that wound, saw again Prydae thrown down to his back with such force, the fountain of lifeblood spraying high above his horizontal form. Bannagran shook himself from the awful memory.
“The brothers of Abelle should be aware that Honce is changing,” Prince Yeslnik was saying when Bannagran tuned back in. “The shameful Ethelbert has no sense of the community of Honce! He is not worthy of the title of laird, and many of the folk of his rogue holding bear more allegiance to their brethren south of the mountains than to their fellow men of Honce!”
“You speak of Honce as if it is a united kingdom,” Bannagran couldn’t help but interject.
“And it will be!” Yeslnik barked back at him. “And King Delaval will rule it!”
The answer was perfectly expected, of course, but Bannagran always liked hearing the insistence with which it was pronounced, particularly by this ambitious young man, who had everything in the world to gain if his fantasy came to fruition.
“But it will never be united under Ethelbert, and this the brothers of Abelle must know,” Yeslnik went on, and he was flailing his arms again and turning and storming this way and that, as if little bolts of lightning were exploding through his limbs. “Nay, under the wretch Ethelbert, the Holdings of Honce will become subservient to the needs of the desert kingdom of Behr to the south!”
A couple of attendants gasped at that—so perfectly on cue, Bannagran thought.
The Dame Page 3