by Troy Reaves
Sumar put out a broad hand, placing it with an immovable grip on Boremac’s shoulder, and spoke. “Sumar like Frosstel. Frosstel quick and smart.” Before Boremac could discern the big man’s intention, Sumar slammed his head into Boremac’s. That was the last thing Boremac remembered before he woke up some time later, a bitter taste in his mouth and a cool rag on his head where he lay near the fire.
Boremac saw that he had the merchant at one side and Sumar at the other, the guard kneeling patiently with his hands in his lap obviously waiting for him to come around. “Well fought!” The merchant’s words slammed through Boremac’s head with almost as much force as Sumar’s thick skull had. The merchant quieted his tone when Boremac flinched involuntarily. “I was expecting a much different outcome. Truth is that it is not unknown for men facing Sumar to flee in terror. The healing powder should lessen your pain soon.” The merchant poked Sumar in the shoulder with a mischievous look on his face. “He would not leave your side when you fell, clucking around like a mother hen. He really is an elder warrior, who, by tradition, should be training the young rather than traveling, but he is not one to hold with traditions so much. Most of my men do not, except for the shaman. I get no end of grief from that man for not abiding the ritual days and things of that sort. Still he has proven invaluable with his herbs and powders. He has even opened his mind enough to learn the medicines of your varied people.” The merchant gently lifted the rag draped over Boremac’s head and drew in a sharp breath. “That will be leaving a mark for a bit.” He shook his head at Sumar, speaking a few words in their native language. Sumar only shrugged by way of reply, rising to go back to his duties, Boreamac assumed.
When Sumar was out of earshot, Boragash addressed Boremac directly. “I wish to be blunt with you and hope you will honor me with an honest reply. You are no militia, I know that for a fact. No real militia trained soldier would face Sumar without a sword. You move like a shadow walker, quick and exact with no wasted motion. The shield strike was pure brilliance at first thought, but that could have gone against you quickly, which tells me you are used to taking risks. You are disguising yourself, foregoing the weapons of your kind. This tells me you are not a scout for a band hoping to take us, but more likely hiding from the thieves you knew. I could be wrong on this point but I rarely misjudge the people I deal with. One cannot afford to in my profession. So tell me how far afield I have travelled in my thoughts.”
After a moment of consideration, Boremac answered. “Not nearly as far off the mark as I would have hoped. I will leave immediately as you wish and trouble your camp no further. Trouble seems to follow me though my Goddess has blessed me with the ability to get out of most of it. This has not always been true of others near me.”
“You would have me anger Sumar?” Boragash’s show of mock alarm was less than convincing. “I might go against him if I shouted at him with an army of my own people in front of me, but even then only after much consideration. No, you will be with us until we leave you in Verson. A traveling militia man newly freed from duty that has taken up short work with foreigners. I do not know where you are going to claim to be from, but that is not my concern. We are three days from Verson, so name your price for your services.”
Boremac tried not to smile, and failed. One could not help but like the merchant and it was obvious Alchendia had placed Baragash in his path. “Two silver, not a copper more, paid promptly at breakfast before you try to kill me with your native food again.”
Baragash looked puzzled. He addressed Boremac simply, as if educating a willful child. “I would think someone of your talents would know more about haggling than you appear. Give me sport befitting your station or I will insist Sumar have another go at you.”
Boremac was not certain if the merchant was serious or not but he thought it best to assume he was. “Two gold per day with the same terms save one additional. Anonymity. Complete and total anonymity while I am with you, as much for your safety as my own.”
Baragash countered without hesitation. “You have underestimated my unquenchable need for gossip, my young friend. I will have your story and you will have four gold pieces each day with us, perhaps a bonus if the tale is good and true. The road grows wearier every day that passes with the same stories of our people. I would pay double just to have other stories knocking around my head. It is too late for you to alter the contract. Bind with me, rogue, so that I know you will not try to weasel out of your part.” The merchant produced a sharp blade from his clothing, piercing his palm in the manner of thieves everywhere sealing a blood bond. Boremac only nodded and took the blade to pierce his own palm. The two men gripped their palms together tightly and sealed the deal.
The caravan traveled for three days to Verson without incident. It seemed Boremac’s assumption concerning of the prowess of the guard was shared by any would be bandits that dared that particular stretch of road. Baragash shared as much about his people as Boremac shared about his adventures, each man embellishing their stories more with the passing of each day. One legend was so compelling when Baragash related it that Boremac pressed him for details, sure the man was inflating every word. “Tell me more about the bear eater, Baragash. If such a creature could exist, I doubt a man could face it and tell the tale.”
“Ah, Frosstel, Sumar has and returned alive, no less! I get ahead of myself, forgive me. The creatures are called Warrior’s Bane by some and Frost Guardians by others, considered with great respect in each case. There is a flower called the Frost Lily by my people, similar in scent to your own land’s lavender but not nearly as abundant. The flower blooms only twice a year in the warmest parts of our season. There is only one season truly, being cold and colder. The flower is what gives the creature its title as Warrior’s Bane. Only the boldest men seek out the flower in the time of our joining to win a suitable mate, daring the wrath of the beast who makes its home in a cave generally near where the flowers bloom. Only the quickest and the strongest return from gathering the sacred flowers, Sumar was the latter. He faced one of the Guardians and returned with its great head, twice the size of the white bears in our lands, it was. He told of the beast he had fought having claws nearly as long as half his arm with arms that dragged the ground even though the creature was twice his height. Its strength was more than he had ever encountered in any beast and only his speed had saved him from death. Some of our men doubted him and questioned his story, burning with jealousy. They accused Sumar of taking the Guardian as it slept. Sumar extinguished all their envy when he threw down the head and ripped open the leathery chest piece that he wore.” Baragash paused here, calling Sumar over to the cart where he and Boremac rode and halting the caravan. He spoke rapidly to Sumar in their native language, bowing his head. Sumar just grinned broadly and untied the hard leather chest piece he wore. When he opened it the other guards knelt where they stood and even the shaman of the group nodded with reverence. There was a giant piece of a claw that had been broken off in Sumar’s chest, the point of which appeared to have just missed his heart. Boremac could see from the size of the claw torn from the beast that its length had been somewhat exaggerated but not by much. He bowed to Sumar, as the merchant had done, amazed. Baragash continued as Sumar moved back to the head of the caravan and set the group into motion once more. “So you see, Frosstel, Alchendia blesses more than just the two of us in this caravan. We call her the Queen of the Wastes, for any who survive her wrath is blessed among our people. Sumar sired many children after that battle. Those born of these unions among women from various tribes are raised to be our shamans, their father honored by our Goddess and chosen by our God for his strength. It makes for a strong heritage. Our shamans are often the tallest people in our tribes, even among the female ones.” Boremac just shook his head, stunned to silence for quite some time after that.
Baragash brought the caravan to a halt as they neared Verson, ushering Boremac down from the cart. “Give me a moment and then you will be on your way. I see no reason to lose a
day going into Verson.” The merchant jumped to the back of the wagon they had been riding with more grace than Boremac had thought him capable and once more he was intrigued by these foreigners. “I have your payment for the day lost right here and a gift for your tales as well. I hope you will be pleased.” He tossed the bag down to the rogue’s waiting hands.
The small sack was open in the blink of an eye and Boremac stood there confused. Warring scents rose out of the sack in equal measure, readily identifiable as the spice in the sauce of Baragash’s people and a soft lavender scent. Boremac arched an eyebrow, filled with curiosity, as he pulled one of the three similar objects from the small bag. It was similar in size and weight to the shaving stone he used but with a piece of thin rope forming a loop in the body of the stone with each end terminating in the stone itself. This particular stone carried the heady aroma of foreign spices. “Thank you very much, Baragash. No disrespect intended but what exactly is it?”
Baragash smiled. “That particular one is a ritual bathing stone for the men in our tribes before mating after bonding. The spice warms the skin, as you can imagine, and also makes the men taste better or so I am told. Too cold to bathe often so I imagine we are much more pleasant when we do.” The merchant laughed heartily before continuing, obviously amused by the jab at his own people. “Our men brave the nearly frozen waters of the rivers to prepare themselves. They rinse most of the odor off as quickly as possible and rub the powdered spice into their skin. It is quite exhilarating! Our women are much smarter in their preparations. Heating water to cleanse themselves and rubbing their bodies with the frost lilies gathered in their season and stored for this purpose. The sweeter scented stone in the bag is scented with oil of the lavenders from here. It is much less precious and very popular among the women in my lands. The line attached to it is made of fine woven silk from the same source that I get the lavender extract in Nactium. Presentation is everything, my friend, and I make three times my cost with the lightly scented creations in my homeland. They turn a good profit here as well though the spiced ones have still not caught on in these lands. My buyer says the orc tribes and wildmen of the plains trade well for them. Their women folk line up with precious horns and furs when he comes, or so he says, in hope of getting the spicy ones. I imagine their cultures are not much different from my own.”
Boremac nodded remembering what he had read about the untamed tribes of the plains. “What about this last one? I do not recognize the scent.”
“I cannot tell you exactly how to describe that one. It was made when my fellow who trades with the peoples of the plains started experimenting with some blends of his own. Its heavy scent has a curious effect on females that seems to ignore cultural lines and differences. I cannot say why but females are drawn to the males that use that one more than any other I sell, if the stories I have heard of it are true. Tests on my own person would indicate that there is reason to believe them. Beware of that one, Frosstel. It does not discriminate, and women folk lose their charm when they come to blows over you, well, some of their charm to some people anyway.” A wistful grin ran across Baragash’s face as he finished speaking.
Boremac laughed at this last part, and inquired once more. “What do you call the things, Baragash? I should like to know how to seek them out if I have need of more, especially the last.”
Baragash’s answer came quickly. “Spice, Sweet, and Wonder, all are called cleaning rocks on rope.”
Boremac replied after a brief pause. “That last needs some work and the’cleaning rocks on rope’ is clumsy. Hopefully when I see you again I will have come up with something better.” Boremac made his rounds, thanking every one of the group for their hospitality. He even risked head butting Sumar, certain the giant man had pulled back at the last second out of respect. He stood a moment watching the caravan turn back toward the main road and tucking his new treasures into his back pack before making his way into the outskirts of Verson. One thing was certain, he needed a bath and he already knew what soap he would use first.
22
The Catch
Boremac found a stream for his use near enough to Verson that would allow him to reach the city before nightfall. The rogue was grateful it was no colder or deeper than it was. He was desperately afraid of slipping in the chilly waters and going in over his head, certain it would be the death of him. There was no real reason beyond his inability to swim that could account for the fear, but there it was none the less. He could only assume that everyone had to be afraid of something, and death by drowning was the one for him.
Not long after Boremac had begun bathing in earnest, he became aware he was being watched. A stealthy figure darted about the trees and shadows of the evening almost like a doe, not sure, it seemed, what to make of the man she saw splashing the road grime away in the stream. He was keen on not being caught off guard, especially with a bounty on his head and rivals that he had acquired over the years, and being caught naked in the stream with a rock in the back of the head would have been the worst way he could imagine going out.
The figure had grown somewhat bolder and had begun to approach him more openly, but Boremac had chosen not to turn toward her, thinking he might startle her with quick movements. Despite his being able to establish that she was indeed a woman, he could not determine if she was armed. He acted surprised when she called out to him, announcing her presence. “You there! What are you doing? I mean I can see what you are doing but why are you so far from the city? Answer me, stranger!”
Boremac dipped lower in the cool water of the stream and turned to address her. “No need to fret…” he paused a moment as he noted she was hefting what appeared to be a small stone in one of her hands, “or attack. I was just cleaning up before going into the city. I apologize if I have trespassed. I saw no mark or signs of private land.” Boremac lifted his arms slowly, letting the cleaning stone hanging from his left arm fall as he did, all too aware that if she had any skill with throwing at all, she would hit him in the forehead at this distance with little effort. “I am new to Verson, released from my lord’s militia due to injury.” He had not thought what the injury might be, but he felt if she was a local girl then a play for sympathy might be worth the risk. He had scars to allow him to make something up later if it was necessary.
“That is all well, perhaps, and you make no trespass here. I cannot say the same of the cleaning soap you use. It rouses the senses in a way that would make a lady regretful later…” she paused mumbling her next words under her breath but not quite out of Boremac’s keen hearing… “much later.” As she smiled at him, Boremac could not help but be reminded of a fox, and felt very much like a chicken. “You should definitely clean that off before entering the city proper. I am certain it would cause more ill than good if you went to one of the inns smelling like that.” She tossed the ‘rock’ in her hand out to him.
Boremac, despite his usual grace, could not grasp the soap stone as it flew toward his raised hands. He managed only to speed the travel of the projectile toward his bare forehead as he tried to grasp the slippery bar, jarring himself as it struck. He felt dizzy, losing his footing on the slippery stones beneath him, and his head dipped under the water. He felt certain something was clawing at his legs as he floundered, trying to break the surface of the water. Boremac felt sure a creature was using the stream’s gentle flow and its own tendrils to draw him under. He panicked.
The lass had moved to the stream’s edge, noting the impact seemed to have dazed him enough to cause his head to dip beneath the surface of the water. When he did not immediately resurface, she waded out into the stream to rescue her new acquaintance, cursing her luck. “There will be no end of blame if the poor bastard drowns and I have to explain what happened.” Well familiar with navigating the stones in the stream bed, she got his head above water without much effort, however, dragging him to the bank had proven much more difficult. She felt his body tense as he went into panic mode once his head broke the surface, thrashing
about like a cat thrown in a washing tub, until finally she realized she would have to do something drastic before they both drowned. Her delicate, strong fingers wrapped around his neck, holding his windpipe until he passed out.
Boremac awakened to her mouth on his, blowing violently into him in order to bring him around. Boremac had a moment to think there must be a more pleasant way to experience her lips than this before he threw his head to the side and coughed up the little water he had swallowed. It took only a quick blink of his eyes before she turned from Boremac’s naked form lying on the bank, excusing herself to fetch his clothes. The blush she must have been wearing on her face carried around her neck and slightly down her partially exposed back. Boremac’s smile could not be restrained, although he did keep from laughing out loud. All his caution and wariness as he had set about the bathing ritual had been undone by an innocent female and a bar of soap.