by Resa Nelson
Answering the unasked question, the alchemist said, “The Scalding taint is all over it. I always heard stories about them but never met one until now.”
“Like I said, I’m no Scalding,” the milkmaid said. “I just married one.”
The alchemist nodded toward Mandulane, who continued to skip around the room with what appeared to be boundless energy. “But that’s the son of one.”
The milkmaid shook her head. “You’re mistaken. No one in this room has a speck of Scalding blood.”
The alchemist looked startled for a moment but recovered quickly. “Count your blessings. There’s trouble in that ring. Trouble that comes from hurting people in the worst kinds of ways. The wise thing would be to get rid of it as fast as you can. It’s bound to bring nothing but sorrow until you do.”
The milkmaid frowned. “But won’t that be spreading the trouble and sorrow around to whoever takes it?”
“Not at all.” The alchemist finished rubbing her hands and put the apron aside. “No alchemist can stomach touching it, but everyone else can as long as they don’t hold onto it for long. In a city like this, it’ll change hands quickly. The more people who handle it, the faster the taint will wear off. In weeks it should be fine for anyone to touch without worry.”
The milkmaid considered the ring. Even though she felt nothing wrong with it, she trusted everything the alchemist told her.
Instead of putting the ring back on her finger, the milkmaid put it inside the pouch hanging from her belt, determined to keep it there until she could get rid of it.
CHAPTER 11
As part of the payment for the dragonslayer sword that Frandulane sold, the merchant arranged for his transportation to the remote Midlands. Frandulane intended to use the rest of the payment to procure land and the help of neighbors to build a home. The arranged transportation provided a horse for Frandulane as well as the company of a few men headed in the same direction.
However, from the very beginning of the journey, Frandulane found the unease of his fellow passengers to be profound. Each man appeared startled the first time he looked into Frandulane’s lavender eyes. He also noticed every pointed glance at the short sword he wore at his belt.
They know I’m a Scalding. Who knows what kind of stories they’ve heard about Tower Island.
They won’t trust me because of those stories.
Neither could Frandulane hide the abundance of silver bracelets and rings that covered his hands and arms—part of the payment from the merchant for the dragonslayer sword.
Not one of these men is a fool. They all know the value of what I wear on my arms.
Dragons posed little to no threat because most had already made their way to the Southlands.
Brigands were another matter.
Everyone knew the safest way to travel was with the fewest valuables possible. That posed a problem for merchants, so they tended to travel with either a dragonslayer or a small group of men as protection. No brigand dared to face a dragonslayer, because no brigand had a chance of protecting himself against a dragonslayer sword.
When brigands encountered a merchant traveling with guards, they considered the value of the merchant’s goods before attacking. Some items—such as cloth—would do brigands little good because they didn’t want to be bothered with the task of selling those items.
Brigands preferred items they could make use of—such as food—or things of great value, like weapons or silver.
That made Frandulane an especially tempting target, and every man who traveled by his side knew it.
As his party rode beyond the limits of the Midlander port city at the beginning of their journey, Frandulane noticed one man gave orders to the others and appeared to be in charge. Frandulane rode up next to that man and asked how long the men planned to accompany him.
“We’ll take the direct southern road to the Rolling Hills,” the man in charge said. “Few brigands bother traveling beyond there. The population is sparse, and those who live in that region have little that’s worth stealing.”
“The Rolling Hills,” Frandulane said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a stretch of hills near the border of the Southlands. We’ll send you over those hills. Not far beyond them is where you’ll find the place you’re looking for. Until then, it’s best you stay in the middle of the pack.” The leader ended the conversation by kicking his heels against his horse, directing it to go up front.
The group traveled for two days without incident, riding along a dirt road flanked first by flat farmland and then by gentle pastures dotted with cattle and sheep. The strong sun made Frandulane sweat, and he appreciated the cool relief every time a cloud blocked its rays. By the time the road paralleled a stream, he convinced his companions to stop so he could take a dip in the brisk water.
The third day of travel led them past a forest on one side of the road and a stone quarry on the other. Frandulane stared into the chasm as he rode alongside it, fascinated by the empty spaces where stone had been carved free and the striation marks left behind. The dry and dusty air had a sharp scent of minerals.
“Hold up!” cried the leader at the front of the pack.
Looking ahead, Frandulane saw him facing a huge tree fallen across the road and blocking it. The road beyond the fallen tree stood like a narrow passage, flanked by a dense forest and a narrow slice of stone cliff that separated the road from the quarry.
When his companions eased forward, Frandulane kept pace with them.
The leader dismounted, tied his horse’s reins to a nearby tree, and walked toward the fallen tree.
When the other men did likewise, Frandulane followed suit.
The leader walked the length of the tree and studied its trunk.
Another man pointed at its base. “No one cut this tree down. Look at how the roots came up with it. The tree is old, and those roots are short. That means the tree is dying. That’s why it fell. It’s an act of nature, not an act of man.”
The leader nodded but continued to study the tree.
Yet another traveler joined his side and said, “The woods on the right are too thick for the horses.” He pointed at the stone cliff on the left. “The ground between the back side of this cliff and the quarry looks wide. There’s no reason not to go that way.”
The leader touched the bark and then examined his fingers. “We can’t see around the cliff from here. We’ll have to ride behind it for a good while. We can’t predict what lies ahead.”
The men argued, pointing out that no one lived within half a day’s journey of the quarry and that it had been abandoned long ago. They’d traveled beyond any land that could support crops, which made this region desolate and uninhabitable. No brigands could be here for any length of time because they’d have to bring their own food and water, which few brigands would do. Therefore, no danger existed.
The leader pointed at the dirt road. “This tree has been moved. You can see the drag marks there.”
“What?” a fellow traveler said. “It’s obvious the tree fell on its own accord. Now you’re saying someone moved it? From where?” He pointed at a gaping hole at the side of the road. “That’s where it came up out of the ground. It hasn’t been moved.”
“It has,” the leader insisted. “Not far. They pulled it forward to fully block the road. The tree first fell in a way that left a spot open that would have let us guide the horses around it and stay on the road. It’s only because the tree has been dragged to block the road that we have to find a way around it.”
The leader then proposed they try to move the tree, but it became apparent they didn’t have enough men to budge it. Instead of solving the problem, they resumed their arguing.
All the bickering reminded Frandulane of the milkmaid wife he’d left behind. He had no use for silly conversations that wasted his time.
Frandulane marched back to his horse. Taking the reins in hand, he mounted and urged the horse toward the cliff standing between the road
and the quarry.
The leader took notice. “Wait!” he called to Frandulane.
Frandulane directed his horse off the road. “You’re taking all day. If you keep talking, we’ll have to spend the night here.”
When his fellow travelers tried to block his path by standing in front of the horse, Frandulane kicked the animal’s sides until it forced its way past them.
While the men raced to mount their own beasts, Frandulane guided his horse behind the cliff and onto the stretch of ground between the back side of the cliff and the open quarry. Once on the other side of the cliff, his traveling companions disappeared from view.
I can’t dawdle. If I do, they’ll drag me back and spend the rest of the day yammering about what to do. Someone has to take charge, or we’ll never get anywhere.
A sharp bend surprised him. Frandulane’s horse must have picked up on his wariness because it stopped and pawed at the ground.
Frandulane stared at what lay ahead. The slice of cliff stood to his right but appeared to angle off even more to the right. The edge of the quarry—and therefore the ground forming the only path he could take—angled off in the same direction. That path appeared to narrow. From here, Frandulane couldn’t see more than fifty feet ahead before the bend made the path seem to disappear.
What’s the worst that could happen? If I come to a dead end, I’ll back track. Then I’ll tell everyone else what I found, and that will solve the problem because it will eliminate coming this way as a solution. I’ll be the one to solve the problem, and they’ll thank me for it.
His confidence renewed, Frandulane dug his heels into the horse’s sides once more. He rode his horse around the bend of the cliff before those companions noticed his absence.
A rumble of falling rocks from high above made his horse rear. Frandulane leaned forward and clung to the reins to keep from being thrown.
In a panic, the horse spun around to face a cloud of dust and debris from the curtain of rocks that rained behind them. Ranging from pebbles to small boulders, the rocks piled up on the narrow path between the cliff and the edge of the quarry. Several rocks spilled over the side and clattered down into the quarry.
Anxious to control his only means of transportation, Frandulane jumped to the ground and held the reins steady in hand. “This way,” he said to the horse. “Come with me where we’ll be safe.” After wrestling with the frightened horse, Frandulane managed to lead it away from the falling rocks, farther around the bend.
Several steps later, the curve of the bend revealed a group of men blocking Frandulane’s path.
The men looked like Midlanders, shorter and darker than Frandulane. Each man wore a black scarf tied around his neck, arm, or head. Although well dressed, their clothing bore the dusty appearance that merchants acquired after spending weeks on the road.
These are no merchants.
The tallest of the Midlander men stepped forward. He looked Frandulane up and down, staring at the wealth displayed on the Scalding’s hands and arms, as well as the short sword at his belt. “Well,” the Midlander man said in a bright voice with a heavy accent. “What do we have here?”
CHAPTER 12
For a moment, dread washed through Frandulane.
These are brigands.
A fresh thought occurred to him.
But I’m a Scalding.
Frandulane counted seven brigands. Noting where and how they stood, he began to assess how he could fight off all of them. He flexed the fingers of his weapon hand, getting ready to pull the sword from its scabbard.
“The name’s Perri,” the leader of the brigands said. He gave a broad smile. “I’d leave your sword where it is if I was you.” He jerked his thumb upward. “There’s more of us than you think.”
Following the direction of Perri’s thumb, Frandulane looked up.
Another group of brigands—all wearing the same black scarf—peered from the top of the cliff.
They were watching from up there. They must be the ones who moved the tree to block the road. And now they’ve blocked me off from my guides by pushing rocks from the top of the cliff.
Frandulane considered the blockage created by the brigands. When he’d coaxed his horse away from the falling rocks, they’d already piled as high as his shoulders.
“It’s a simple proposition,” Perri said. “Take off your sword first and put it on the ground. Do the same with your dagger. Then hand over all the silver, and we’ll let you live.” Perri shrugged. “If you resist in any way, you’ll be flying into the quarry, and we keep your horse as well.”
Frandulane’s initial fear evaporated, replaced by indignation. “I’m a Scalding.” He waited for the brigands to cower in fear.
Perri spoke in Midlander to his fellow brigands. Although Frandulane had learned Midlander years ago, what Perri spoke sounded like a dialect that Frandulane couldn’t understand.
The other brigands laughed at what Perri said, even the ones standing at the top of the cliff.
Frandulane eased his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Haven’t you heard of the Scaldings? Don’t you know what we’ve done?”
Perri jumped forward and smacked Frandulane’s hand away from the pommel. With his other hand, Perri held a dagger point against Frandulane’s throat. “No, no, no,” Perri said. “None of that! We ask you nicely to cooperate, and you are very rude in return. Any more of that kind of nonsense, and into the quarry you go!”
Still looking at Frandulane, Perri spouted a tirade in the Midlander dialect, and his fellow brigands grumbled and shouted at Frandulane.
Despite the fact that he had instigated the protest, Perri held up his free hand to gesture for quiet.
Feeling more incensed by the moment, Frandulane ground his teeth and spoke through them. “If you throw me into the quarry now,” he said, “you’ll throw away everything you want to steal from me.”
“Well, yes. Of course, that’s true.” Perri spoke as if telling Frandulane what he planned to have for lunch. “And no one wants that. We don’t want to waste an opportunity to rob you. And you don’t want to die. So, let’s work together, shall we?”
With that, Perri put his dagger away and continued. “You say you are a Scalding and that is obvious to all.” He waved his hand in front of Frandulane’s face. “With the peculiar color of your eyes and all. But there is much you fail to understand.”
Frandulane remained still but continued to assess the men in front of him. He studied their demeanor. He noticed each man carried either a dagger or an ax, suggesting they came from peasant backgrounds. He presumed they were well fed and strong, based on the fullness of their faces. “What don’t I understand?”
The voices of Frandulane’s traveling companions echoed behind him. “Frandulane? All you alright?”
Perri’s eyes darkened. “Say nothing,” he whispered.
Frandulane considered bolting back toward the fallen rocks with the hope that he could scramble over them without slipping and sliding into the quarry.
At the same time, his pride as a Scalding kicked in.
No Scalding would run from these pathetic brigands. What kind of man would I be if I call for help? What kind of man would I be if I fail to figure out a way to thwart them?
The voices continued calling out until one of them claimed to see Frandulane’s body at the bottom of the quarry. Moments later, the voices dissipated.
Frandulane repeated his words. “What don’t I understand?”
Perri smiled again. “This is the Midlands, not the Northlands. And those men with you? They are Midlanders like us.” Perri’s smile hardened. “Not Northlanders. Not Scaldings. You see, the stories they tell about the Scaldings are frightening because there are so many Scaldings doing terrible things that no one stands a chance against them. But a single Scalding like you? You are not so frightening when you stand alone. All by yourself.”
Frandulane glanced up again to see the brigands descending the side of the cliff.
He
took the brigand’s point.
There are other ways to deal with brigands.
“Clearly, you have never known a Scalding,” Frandulane said.
Perri smirked. “Why should that matter?”
Encouraged, Frandulane proceeded with a cool head. “Unlike you and your men, Scaldings know how to create a grand plan.”
“Grand?” Perri huffed, offended. “What do you call setting a trap like this one? What do you call cutting you off in such a way that you cannot get the help you need?”
“A simple plan,” Frandulane said. “But I can give you an example of a grand plan.”
Once more, Perri spouted in the Midlander dialect at his men. Once more, they grumbled in protest.
“If you listen to my example of a grand plan,” Frandulane said, “you might see how you and your men could benefit from it.”
“Grand plan.” Perri paused and spat at the ground. “If you fail to impress me, prepare to learn what it feels like to fly.”
Frandulane resisted the urge to glance at the edge of the quarry. He didn’t hesitate to begin with the truth and then twist it to his convenience. “My cousins came up with a plan for us to gain even greater wealth. We went to the Northlands. We cornered a dragonslayer and killed him. We took his sword to the market and traded it for a fortune.”
With a wary gaze, Perri conversed with his fellow brigands in their dialect. After a heated discussion, he turned toward Frandulane. “Few merchants have the means or the willingness to consider trading for a dragonslayer sword. Certainly, it is a treasure, but there is too much risk in stealing one and then figuring out what to do with it.”
Frandulane doubted that any of these brigands had ever set foot in the Northlands or knew anything about his homeland. He decided to find out how easily they might believe his lies.
“My cousins and I didn’t have that problem.” With a casual air, Frandulane added, “There is a dragonslayer in the Northlands right now. His name is Skallagrim. No one can safely leave or enter the Northlands until winter ends. But once that happens, anyone with a will that’s quick enough can find this dragonslayer and take his sword before the other dragonslayers can return. There are plenty of merchants in the Northlands who will be fat with riches at winter’s end. They’ll fight over the chance to buy a dragonslayer sword.”