Dech arched his eyebrows and said, “Rather well stocked for a mendicant. Aren’t those of us in the military and mendicant orders supposed to live strict and spare lives?”
Friar Theobald scowled and then broke into a grin. “This isn’t spare enough? I see no dishes save for a cup or two. No tables or servants in sight. I see no utensils but for a single blade. I must ask for anything I receive. Some respond quite generously when I do. Am I to say no to one who offers freely? I am rather artful in the asking I must say and the Creator looks after His own.”
“And us apparently,” Dissy said. “You are a rather odd holy man.”
“And that lets me fit in rather well with my current traveling companions, does it not?”
Dissy sighed. “You have a point.”
. . .
As Friar Theobald carefully repacked the food, Dissy hefted the short sword taken from the last bandit she’d fought and sneered at the weapon’s quality and feel.
“This is awful. The balance is atrocious. No wonder he was such a poor sword-wielder.” She placed her thumb on the blade’s edge and pronounced, “Iron, and poor quality to boot.”
“How is it you ended up… well, the way you did?” Dech asked.
“I suppose you mean running nearly as bare as a dryad through the woods?”
Dech nodded.
“Bandits, but not the same group we fought. Ran into a sizeable pack of them on the road the other side of the river. They pursued me and seeing no other escape route, I was forced to cross the waterway. I lost my pack and weapons in the doing, but slipped the bandits. Made camp after dark and hung my clothes up to dry. This morning I found they were still a bit damp, so I ventured into the woods to find food and something that might serve as a weapon. Found a staff of sorts and then found brigands in my camp. I ran. Thank goodness, I decided to put on my boots. You know the rest.”
“Why are you traveling alone?”
“My pressing engagement requires it,” she said in a hard tone.
“I won’t press then. You know what I’ve been doing for the last several years, what about you, or is that prying?”
“It’s not. I finished growing up and learned many in this world view my ears too short to be elvan, too long to be human, and those that push the issue too far get a taste of the swordplay you taught me so long ago. Worked as a caravan and merchant train guard for a while just after I heard you died. Saw much of the world outside Arataine and learned it and its inhabitants are even worse than here, so I returned. Since then, I’ve mostly served as a ranger in the forests of the Brosalean. I largely worked alone and was glad for it.”
Dech nodded, his expression showing his admiration. The Brosalean was a region of the Southerlies that few dared to venture. Inhabited by druids and a host of others who wished to be left alone and were willing to enforce their desire with the considerable powers the forest possessed, those that served as rangers needed to gain the approval and trust of the forest and its denizens to acquire the title of ranger. “Not an easy feat. You’re not doing it anymore?”
“Not just now. Something needed my attention. What about you? This is what you do, roam the land and aid unarmed travelers in distress and clothe poor half-elves?”
“On good days. Yesterday I fought with a specter.”
“Obviously you won that fight as well.”
He pointed at his holed shield. “We broke even. I hurt it. It hurt me. We went our separate ways and left the place to those that live there.” He pulled up the sleeve of his hauberk and showed her the now black and blue bruise that encircled his arm.
“Your magic help with that?
“No. I need a real mage. We’ll find one in Carpen.”
“How does your wife deal with your current position? If it’s not prying.”
“She’s dead. The pestilence in Limodan claimed her not long after I joined the order. My daughter as well.”
“Cruthor maeth me,” she said in a pained and angry voice. Dech knew the words, an Elvan Old Tongue phrase asking forgiveness of the Creator.
“Your eyes said I shouldn’t have asked, but I did,” she hissed. “Forgive me, Dech.”
“How could you know? It’s been a decade and I know you didn’t ask just to cause pain. There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Me and my mouth. That’s one of the reasons why I stay clear of most others. I was going to ask, but tell me about the order some other time, all right?”
“All right. Tell me of Brosalean then.”
. . .
Chapter 8
Dech led Ridan to a small house on the edge of Carpen, the residence of a local mage healer according to the city gate guards. Dissy dismounted, still favoring her leg.
“I’ll see what the local priest has for a poor friar on his way to the capital,” Theo said as Dech and Dissy walked to the door of the house. “Be sure to say farewell before you depart.”
After knocking, an elderly woman waved them in and went to work immediately.
Dissy’s knee took little time to improve. “You’ll be fully recovered in a couple of days,” the mage said. “Until then, go with ease.”
Dech’s wound took longer. “Specters,” the mage spat when she saw the marks on his arm. “Lost and angry beings so twisted they can’t just pass on. No, they stay and continue to dispense misery.” She pointed at the order emblem on his chest. “Your sort gives me a fair bit of business. The local post might as well encamp outside my door.”
Once finished, Dech drew a bag of coins from a pouch only to have the woman wave a hand at him.
“I’ll put it on the bill with the rest, the girl as well, yes?”
Dech nodded. “I am Warder Dech, for your notation.”
“Ah, there’s another warder at the post now I hear. Is it trouble that brings the two of you to Carpen?”
“None that I know of.”
The woman shrugged. “Pity. I make a great deal of coin when there’s trouble.”
The warder and Dissy left the mage’s house and walked into the main part of the town, stopping near an alchemical shop.
“I need to check in at the patrol post,” Dech said as he drew the bag of coins out again. He handed it to Dissy. “Go buy some clothing and whatever travel gear you need.”
She bounced the coin bag in her hand. “I do not need this much.”
“You’ll need weapons I presume? Unless the tree branch and junk iron sword will suffice. I recall you used to be a fair archer.”
“Imagine that, an elf who’s good with a bow.”
“Half-elf.”
She glared and then looked up the street and smiled. “It has its advantages. I shoot like an elf, but draw like a human. My bow is at the bottom of a river.” She sighed in disgust. “Any decent arms merchants around here?”
“I’ll find out. Meet you here in a while.”
Dech found his way to the contrition knight patrol station, a small blockhouse shared with the King’s Legion patrols near the city guardhouse, a common arrangement. He led his horses into the nearby stable and left them in care of an order knight serving as hostler before making his way into the station.
A contrition knight wearing a tunic and bandages on both arms sat at a desk near the door scribbling with a quill pen. The man looked up and smiled before grimacing.
“Warder Dech! Between you and Warder Bernard, our small post is infested with half of the warders within the ranks.” The man broke into a laugh. “You have nothing better to do than harass we poor junior brothers of the order?”
Dech smiled, having known the man and his boisterous nature for several years, a contrition knight called Eric. “When a post has the likes of you in its midst, I doubt just one of us might keep you on the path.” He pointed at the man’s bandages. “Just look at what kind of troubles you find.”
Eric laughed again. “Will mercies never cease? Not one condemnation of my not donning a hauberk while on duty.”
“I see why,” Dech said.
/>
“A robber threw a hot retort at us when two legionnaires and I stopped him from predating the local alchemist. I thought I might catch it and keep it from the floor. I was successful, but it was a bad decision. Most of the contents ended up on me. For my sins and lack of grace I get desk duty and administrative tasks.”
“You’ll heal?”
“Certainly, but armed with a quill until then. Warder Bernard has a message for you. In the back.”
Dech crossed the space and stepped into the back room.
“Bern,” Dech said as he approached his fellow warder. Standing next to a legionnaire examining a map, Bernard turned.
“Dech,” Bernard said with surprise. “Your appearance saves me much travel. The Grand Master sent me. You are to report to Cruxford as soon as possible. Order-Captain Niall has the details. The Grand Master didn’t say it outright, but I believe it connects to Malig Tancar. That likely means dealing with the nobles in the palace.” Bernard’s face displayed his distaste at the idea.
“Perhaps the smugness among them will be tempered by Malig’s latest actions.”
“Perhaps,” Bernard replied, his face and tone expressing he knew it would not be so. “I hear it was you that dealt with the bandits on Hydell Road. Alone?”
Dech nodded. “I wished to draw them out, not simply run them off. A band of knights or legionnaires would be sure to do the latter. Better to be rid of them.”
“Effective, but risky. I worry some of our less skilled brothers might attempt to emulate you.”
“They should choose a better man to emulate, but if it seems to be the case, we may need to dissuade them of such foolishness.”
Bernard smiled. “Foolishness? I think not. I see you still possess all of your limbs. Better to be too aggressive than timid. When will you set out for the capital?”
“Shortly.”
Bernard nodded. “I will tell the Grand Master when I return to the Fortress. Creator go with you.”
Dech returned to the desk where Eric toiled with his quill pen. “Do you have a shield I might swap for this?” he asked as he lifted the neck strap free.
“We have spares.” Eric pointed with a thumb over his shoulder. “The corner over there. Looks like that one is due for retirement.”
“I believe it is. Is there a reputable arms merchant in town?”
“An establishment with not the best reputation, but the owner is rarely there these days and he is the source of the poor reputation. His current man is honest enough though. Knowledgeable as well. Next street over,” he said with a point. “Houda Arms.”
. . .
Dech waited near the point where he and Dissy had separated, but not for long. She arrived carrying a few bundles and wearing new clothes, tight breeches above her boots and a woodsman shirt with belt at the waist.
“Do not ask if I bought anything pretty,” she snapped.
“It never crossed my mind until you said something.”
“I need to watch my tongue,” she said with irritation. “It does little but cause ill. There’s supposed to be an arms shop here. The—”
“Houda Arms,” Dech said. “Shall we?”
“Let’s.” She handed him the borrowed blouse neatly rolled with the belt wrapped and buckled around it. “Thanks,” she said as she dropped her pendant inside her shirt.
. . .
“Are you the proprietor?” Dech asked as they stepped inside Houda Arms. Clean and well-stocked, the warder was sure the store might provide what Dissy needed unless the man at the counter was the owner.
“No, I simply work here, but I know weapons. You appear to be one who needs little advice though. Based on the chevrons and star above the order emblem, you’re a warder, am I right?”
“You are. My friend here needs a bow, arrows, and blades.”
“Then your friend is in luck. We have that and more. Does she speak or must you do it for her?”
“I do,” Dissy said. “I need no advice either.”
The man smiled. “Never said you did. What are you after?”
“To start, a bow.”
“Let’s see. You’re not a longbow archer. You’re a bit too slight and your left arm’s not that of their ilk.”
“You’re right on that. Any bows made of uevar?”
“Some, but the only ones of uevar be longbows.” He smiled again and pointed with his left hand at a nearby rack. “Have one you might go for. First one on the left. Aelmwood-hearted composite bow of the sort they use in Brosalean. Compact, recurve, but quite stout.
“How do you know they use such a bow?” Dissy asked.
“Been there. A druid delegate in Cruxford died back in the reign of King William and I was part of the escort that took her to rest. Saw enough in the place to know what their bows looked like.” He paused and smiled yet again before pointing at Dissy’s legs. “Those boots’d be from there, am I right?”
“That they would,” she said returning the smile. “I heard this place was a den of deceitful coin snatchers. Are you having an off day?”
The man laughed. “I’m an honest enough man. Honest enough that smart and mendacious men like the owner of this establishment hire men like me when word gets out that folks are being chiseled when they shop here. I’ll be here until the reputation changes, then the chisels come out again.”
“And you?” she asked as she made her way to the rack.
“I’m no prognosticator, but it is surely a possibility that I will not remain when that time comes.”
Dissy lifted the bow the man had mentioned, her eyebrows arching with approval. She grasped the bowstring with her right thumb, palm down, and drew as she stepped forward, wrist coming to rest near the armpit, thumb against her breast as her left arm extended. She smiled, as did the man at the counter.
“You shoot like those from the steppes, striding into the draw, low hold, fingers round the thumb. Seems right considering the horn on the belly of that bow is western aurochs. Odd mix, Aratainian aelmwood and aurochs horn from the steppes. Do not know who made it, but whoever it was knew what they were doing.”
“That they did. Price?”
“Depends. How many arrows and what blade you buy brings the bill down. Arrows are cheaper by the sheave. Blades cheaper with a scabbard or sheath.”
Dissy nodded, her expression noncommittal. “Blades? A short sword is what I seek.”
“Cheapest at the back, nicest down the side of the counter here,” he said with a pat of his left hand on the countertop.
Dissy placed the bow back in the rack and returned to the counter, Dech joining her.
She stopped short as her eyes locked onto a white-hilted sword with a short blade held within a well-made black scabbard, an act not lost on Dech or the man behind the counter.
She pulled the weapon from the rack and drew the blade in a practiced motion revealing a graceful double-edged length of gleaming bright steel. As she held the weapon in a ready stance, her eyes flashed in joy, but she soon sighed and her expression became muted as she replaced the sword into its scabbard.
“Nice?” Dech asked.
“Marvelous,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “Perfect balance.” She looked to the man behind the counter. “Elvan made, yes?”
“I’d say so,” he said with a smile, “but I’ve a soft spot for elvan things and there’s nary a smith’s mark to say who made it, so who’s to say.”
“So it might be an imitation,” Dech said.
“I doubt it considering the quality, but honesty compels me to admit it might be a possibility.”
“Whether it is or not, its cost is beyond any I can pay,” Dissy said in the same bitter voice. “Beyond what the likes of me is ever likely to acquire lawfully. Let’s move on.”
Without waiting for a response, she walked toward the back of the shop.
Dech pulled the weapon and placed it on the counter. “This, the bow, two sheaves of arrows, and a single-edged knife, how much?”
Dissy
stopped in her tracks and turned wide-eyed and angry to glare at the warder.
The man glanced at Dissy before speaking. “I’ll drop the price in exchange for a bit of information.”
“Depending upon what that information might be and how far the drop, I’m amendable,” Dech replied as Dissy stomped toward the two men.
“I know a lot of things, but one thing I do not is right there on your shin guards,” he said with a point downward. “Never seen the like. Not standard contrition knight kit, that much I do know. What purpose? That’s my question.”
Dech smiled, but before he could speak, Dissy grabbed him by the arm.
“What in the underworlds are you doing?” she said.
“I’m trying to get you some decent gear for your journey, unless you want something only marginally better that the junk metal you have now.”
“Decent is one thing,” she said with a pained look at the sword on the counter. “That is an entirely dif—”
“Don’t be so hasty or presumptuous,” the shopkeeper said. “Gold, silver, and copper have their value, but so does knowledge and suitability.”
“Suitability?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t let that sword go for less than an Aratainian mark… if it were mine and I was desperate. It’s not mine though, nor am I desperate so it goes for just a bit more than I bought it for a week ago. It brings a profit for my employer and a clear conscience for me. I like it when weapon matches wielder. Satisfies my sense of equilibrium. You offset the muscle-bound thugs and neophyte adventurers dripping with gold that want a war sword as imbalanced as a hammer and won’t listen to an old soldier’s advice. It was one of that sort that brought that sword in. The thug had no idea what he had, but wanted to swap it for a massive iron two-hander. Who was I to argue with such a mighty man?”
Dissy looked to the warder, but it was his turn to cut her off.
“Maybe you’ll do a better job of hanging on to your weapons if you value them,” he said.
She glared for a few seconds before realizing she faced a fight she couldn’t win, one she didn’t want to win. Cracking a smile she said, “Maybe you’re right.”
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