Grog II: Book 2 of the Ebon Blades

by RW Krpoun

  He preferred to go by his last name, and talked very little; I had been told that he was a folk hero on the north frontier, hunting Tulg and Ukar scouts as a vocation, a solitary man who was as good with a bow as he was at finding enemy scouts. The Dusmen had had a bounty on his head for years, I was told. How Provine Sael had induced him to sign on with our group was never clear, but he was a large part of the reason we had survived our last undertaking.

  I wanted to ask him if he knew anything about what we would be doing next, but Torl was not the sort to welcome casual conversation, or any conversation at all; when he did speak it was usually to Provine Sael, and it was all business. The only time I had asked him a question was after a bitter fight, when I lay close to death. I didn’t know exactly why he devoted his life to hunting enemy scouts and raiders along the north frontier, or anything about his past, either, and I doubt he knew anything about Burk or me.

  Although there wasn’t much to know about Burk and me, I realized as I washed up and started assembling my breakfast; we didn’t really know anything beyond fighting. I thought about that during breakfast and my morning drills and exercises: was not knowing much else good or bad? Master Horne always had many things on his mind, and he was always in poor humor, so a limited outlook clearly had its advantages.

  That produced a tangent thought (‘tangent’ was a new word for me, and I had yet to use it out loud): I had no idea what Master Horne had done to amuse himself. He was always around, often up before the wake-up drum, and awake after lights out. He didn’t delight in fine meals; in fact, he mostly ate fried bread, cabbage rolls or cabbage soup, and endless cups of strong dark tea. I had seen him drink ale when I escorted him to various drinking places around Fellhome, but it was clear that the drinking was just something he did while he discussed business.

  He was a serious man who had led the barrack to fame; after all, both Broken Johnny and Hook had known who he was and the reputation of the barracks. Perhaps the price of greatness was simplicity and purity of life. That was an interesting thought.

  Hatcher finally got up towards noon, and dragged me and Burk into town for lunch and more shopping, as if she hadn’t looked at everything for sale last evening.

  When we finally returned to camp a couple men were rolling our battered, slope-sided cart out of the camp while a man was loading our goods onto a strange-looking cart.

  “And there is Pieter,” Hatcher smoothly summersaulted off my shoulders. “Pieter Lochbar, meet Grog and Burk, the muscle. You know, you two need to pick last names; you’re free, and free people have more than one name.”

  “You go by ‘Hatcher’, which isn’t even your real name,” I pointed out. “I don’t know if ‘Sael’ is Provine Sael’s first or last name, and I only know Hunter as ‘Hunter’. Torl is the only person in the group who uses his full name.”

  Hatcher grinned. “Her people have a different way of naming; ‘Sael’ is neither her first or last name. They also aren’t big on sharing full names. In any case, Pieter, glad to see you.”

  “That’s rarely mhm the case,” Pieter noted as he lifted a bundle into the cart. He had a dry, thin voice and a frequent little throat-catch like he had sinus drainage. He wore shapeless dull robes, sort of gray-blue-ish, and his head, neck, and the backs of his hands were so coated in scar tissue that he looked as if he had been dipped in tallow. The scars were thick and had dull yellow and reddish streaks swirling through them; his face was just three slits and a knub where his nose tried to poke through. Oddly, both ears and an inch of skin around them were not just normal, but baby-pink.

  “Pleased to mhm meet you two,” he nodded politely before lifting up another bundle.

  “This is an odd-looking cart,” I walked around the thing, which looked like a barge had collided with a wagon hauling a kitchen: It rode high on two axles rather than one, and the cargo box had a gentle outward slope on the sides and a sort of ‘boat’ look to the front and back. The wheels weren’t flat, but rather the rim was about three inches further out than the hub. It had a very narrow driver’s seat, and the sides had cabinets fastened to them, with four inches of cork attached to each cabinets’ bottom, and where there weren’t cabinets, there were things held to the sides by clamps and loops.

  “It is mhm my own design.”

  “It sort of looks like a boat,” Burk observed.

  “It can mhm serve as a watercraft,” Pieter noted. “Very useful mhm when crossing streams or rivers.”

  “We only have one mule,” I pointed out. “And getting another will be tough because the Legion is grabbing everything that can pull a wagon or carry a cavalryman.”

  “One mule will have no difficulty drawing this mhm conveyance. The journal of the mhm axle and the hole in each wheel hub are tapered toward mhm the outside, away from the cart body. The hole in the hub is tapered mhm concentrically from both ends. The journal is tapered on the top mhm but is straight on the bottom, while on the sides the taper mhm is equalized. This permits the felloe to sit level mhm and the wheel to travel in a straight line. It mhm also increases the size of the axle at its weakest point.”

  Conveyance was just one of several new words in that statement, so I stopped asking questions.

  Burk and I loitered around until we could catch Hatcher out of earshot of the others. “Another educated man tending the pack animals?” I asked. “Why not just buy a trained slave and set them free?”

  “Provine Sael wants no more random-hires,” Hatcher shrugged. “Hunter vouches for Pieter’s integrity and skills.”

  “He’s educated, so why is he herding a mule?” Burk demanded.

  “That sort of thing happens, particularly in groups like ours on the fringe of things. But in this case, Pieter needs serious money, and you get that a lot faster in groups doing dodgy stuff. Like ours.”

  “Hunter says the pay is low,” I pointed out.

  “Besides your freedom and membership in the Red Guard, how much money did you get?” Hatcher cocked an eyebrow.

  I sighed and shrugged, but Burk wasn’t finished. “If he needs money, that makes him more of a risk, doesn’t it?”

  “It could,” Hatcher nodded. “Except that in this case he needs the money, or influence, to get his scars healed away; he just had his ears done, if you noticed. The reason he is covered in scars is that he was standing too close when a terrible arcane weapon was used, which means that just healing skills won’t work, he needs arcane arts.”

  “The Sagrit seem to have plenty of money,” Burk persisted.

  “The Sagrit used the weapon that scarred him,” Hatcher shrugged. “Before that day he had a wife, a child, and a home. They weren’t aiming for him or his family, but that doesn’t change the fact that there isn’t enough gold in the world to make Pieter do anything for the Sagrit.”

  I pondered that. “That makes sense.”

  Hatcher nodded. “Remember, you trusted me and Hunter, and we are both possessed of a shady background.”

  “I trusted Akel, too,” I sighed. “This sort of thing makes my head hurt.”

  “We were sloppy,” Hatcher admitted. “Provine Sael and I were so careful with you two, but we took Akel at face value. Of course, we didn’t know how seriously the Sagrit were taking us, although looking back, I suppose the confrontation in the Brocks should have been a warning. Anyway, besides the fact that Pieter hates them worse than we do, I don’t expect the Sagrit will try the same tactic again. Plus, they’re not trying to rob us anymore; now it’s just a straight-up death sentence.”

  Burk snorted. “Finding us is just the first step. The actual killing is an entirely different matter.”

  Hatcher grinned and shook her head. “You two. Now come help me pack all the stuff I’ve bought into my traveler’s chest.”

  Provine Sael showed up just before supper, escorted by a couple Temple guards; Hunter showed up less than an hour later, and surprisingly, was sober.

  Hatcher started in on him immediately. “Are things so bad
that you’ve given up drinking?”

  Hunter took a seat by the fire and leaned forward to glance into the pot. “I only drink to excess on neutral ground; the Sagrit want revenge and they know exactly where we are.”

  “You hear anything new? Aside from the lilting voices of whores?”

  He flashed a grin at that; Hunter was average height for a Man, slender, and had no more hair on his scalp than I did, although he had a dark goatee and mustache. He was wearing fighting leathers and had a short sword and dirk at his belt, but I had never seen him draw either, ever. “More than a little: apparently we have added Broken Johnny to the list of people who want to kill us.” He looked over at me and cocked an eyebrow. “Any input, Grog? Burk?”

  “Hatcher and I neglected our responsibilities,” Provine Sael didn’t look up from the greens on her plate. “Grog and Burk were promised training to prepare them for freedom, but they were overlooked in the rushed aftermath of the last affair. Left to their own devices, they became involved in helping the locals.”

  Hunter snorted. “They won the enmity of Broken Johnny, who is not a man to be taken lightly, and they wrought havoc with a robbery crew who came up from Fellhome after Johnny left; the way I heard it they thrashed a dozen good Brocks blade-boys and dumped them into the welcoming arms of the Imperial Army.”

  “Not all at once,” I pointed out, and Hatcher snickered.

  “None of that matters,” Provine Sael shrugged. “We set out at dawn. We will discuss our undertaking in detail when we are well away from other ears.”

  Hunter nodded thoughtfully and grabbed the heel of a loaf from the bread pan. “You want my opinion?”

  “I do,” Provine Sael nodded.

  “They’ll hit us early tomorrow, once we’re out of sight of the Legion camp.”

  “The Sagrit?”

  “Yep.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because they’ve had plenty of time to catch up, and they won’t want to try anything with the Legion all around us. But they won’t want us to get too far from Merrywine, because then they have to surprise Torl in the wilds, and I’m betting their muscle is all city boys. They’ll try to get close while in disguise and mob us.”

  “Which is why you don’t want a hangover tomorrow,” Hatcher nodded.

  “They’re not going to chase us this time.” Hunter nibbled at the heel of bread. “They’ll try to kill Provine Sael here, where they know the ground and situation, and if that fails, they’ll wait for us to turn up after the new job is done.”

  “You think a mass rush from disguise?” I rubbed my chin, glancing at Burk.

  “Well, you two have been busy showing everyone just how tough you are, so they’ll need numbers. It’s too easy for me to fox an archer’s aim, and a Provine isn’t easy to kill quickly with the Mannish Arts, at least for the sort of practitioners they’re likely to have handy. That leaves cold steel, and that means getting up close and personal. Trouble is, a Provine isn’t much for the offensive arts, and I’m more a limited-number-of-targets practitioner.” He pointed the heel of bread at Burk and me. “You two see any hole in my argument?”

  “No,” Burk said slowly.

  “I was a bit surprised they didn’t try for me while I was off on errands,” Hatcher admitted. “Provine Sael was safe in the temple, Torl was in the wilds, and the duo were looking for a fight. I was the only opportunity to thin the odds.”

  “What about Hunter?” Burk asked.

  Hatcher grinned. “You two weren’t the only ones looking for trouble. Hunter digs in for a siege before he sends in for the first whore. He hopes someone will test his wards.”

  “I believe in peace of mind,” the ‘slinger shrugged.

  “Is there anything we should alter to affect our chances?” Provine Sael asked Torl, who shook his head. “All right. I hope you are wrong, Hunter.”

  “I wouldn’t be disappointed if I am.”

  Chapter Three

  Burk and I were up before anyone else; we slipped away a distance to get in a short workout and confer.

  “It makes sense, and Hunter is smart,” Burk admitted as he curled buckets of water.

  “If we can block the initial rush, we can beat it. The tricky thing is how they plan to get close,” I nodded. “We have to stop them: the Ebon Blades never lose an escort.”

  We headed east at dawn, eating a cold breakfast as we walked. Torl led us, with Provine not far behind, flanked by Burk and me, with Hunter and Pieter walking beside the mule’s head. Hatcher rode on the cart, a blanket loose around her shoulders and her head down as if she was dozing, but her throwing axes were handy.

  I had a javelin in hand, using it like a walking stick, and Burk had his crossbow cradled in his arms. Every group of Legion recruits marching past with beams on their shoulders or weighted packs on their backs was studied carefully; every group of wagons hauling supplies east was watched alertly.

  After two hours Provine Sael had had enough. “Would everyone please stop staring at every child driving geese?”

  “Hunter isn’t likely wrong,” Torl observed.

  “Hunter is assuming that the Sagrit will do more than just put a bounty on our heads,” she shrugged. “They will have their hands full persuading the bulk of their followers that there is still a purpose; remember that their stated goal is to end slavery, which is now in the process of ending. Only the dedicated hard core know that their true goal is the destruction of the Empire.”

  No one had anything to say to that, and we continued on. I tried to appear to relax, but it wasn’t easy, and it was harder still for Burk. The quiet was putting me on edge: normally Hatcher rode on my shoulders and talked constantly.

  An hour later we followed the road in a gentle curve as it skirted a large creek-fed pond, and Torl stopped dead in his tracks, snarling a curse: a line of horsemen blocked the road ahead. A horn sounded, and the line began to advance as part of it split off and rode at a trot in an arc to come at us on our left flank.

  “Mistress, get back to the cart,” I checked to the sides and rear as I spoke. “Burk, stay with her; I’ll divert some of the initial rush.”

  Burk studied the riders, and nodded grimly. “Come, mistress.”

  Torl’s arrow punched a rider from his saddle in the group advancing up the road at a walk. “Mercenary cavalry,” he shook his head as he moved past me. “Didn’t see that coming.”

  I backed up to the cart’s guide shafts, where Pieter was busy unharnessing the mule. “Those are Pullar horsemen,” he advised. “Nomads from the south who fight with the mhm lance and saber’s edge, preferring hit and run attacks. ‘Ware the dogs mhm, they will lead.”

  There were big dogs trailing the horses, mastiffs or a related breed, wearing spiked harnesses; I hadn’t given them much attention. But as the riders closed one nomad sounded a horn and the horsemen broke into a trot, the dogs racing out ahead of them.

  The horsemen wore spike-topped helms and breastplates of boiled leather, and tall leather boots to protect their legs, the boots’ leather was rough and undyed. Their shields were small, round, and painted with interlocking rings of green, blue, and red on a yellow background. The men themselves were burnt dark by the sun, and looked to be accustomed to violence.

  I hated to hurt a horse, but that wasn’t something I could avoid. Torl was emptying saddles with ease, but my skills were nowhere so advanced. I stepped into my best throw, slamming the javelin half its length into the chest of a horse in the center of the line.

  Pulling both javelins from my back, I crouched, right foot forward, the butt of the javelin in my left hand braced against the heel of my left boot. I lowered the point as the nearest mastiff bored it, and it spit itself upon the weapon, frothy blood jetting from its maw as it slipped down two feet of shaft before the wood snapped under the impact.

  Letting go of the broken weapon, I grabbed my right-hand javelin at mid-shaft with my left hand and leaned left, driving it into the side of the ne
xt mastiff as it tried to slow and turn; I had killed a lot of fighting dogs in the pit, and I knew that the secret was to turn their rush against them.

  I rolled over the near cart shaft as I drew my sword, decapitating a mastiff as it came at me from the left. Torl was on top of the cart plying his bow with a deadly calm; Hatcher was near him throwing her axes, but I didn’t see anyone else in the quick glance I spared behind me.

  Fighting mounted men was something new, but a straight-line rush was no new tactic; I rolled over the other shaft as a nomad nimbly guided his horse to stay on me. I took up a middle guard and tried to ignore the mass of horse and rider hurtling at me; Burk and I had watched Imperial cavalry recruits being trained and I knew that he was just coming at a canter, but it seemed incredibly fast. Speed was just a factor, and size didn’t matter if I did this right; for both of us the only issue that mattered was the point of his lance.

  The steel point was flying at me, but my entire life was built on timing and action; I laid my blade against the inside of the lance’s shaft, the friction from the two meeting pushing me back a half-step, but the key was to avoid being rigid, to let your joints flex naturally and diminish the force.

  Then it was just his right arm against both of mine. He was quick, releasing the lance before my blade reached his hand and trying to swivel his shield into place from across his body, but I am quicker than my size would suggest: I twisted to avoid the horse’s chest while keeping my blade in play. My sword bit into his right arm near the elbow just before his leg slammed into my right side and sent me spinning into the ditch as he thundered past.

  I hit and rolled, keeping my sword over my head, and coming back up onto my feet as I had trained to do so many times since I was a youngling, hurting from the impact and a little dizzy, but still in the fight. A mastiff hurtled at me from my left, but I backed a step and split its skull: a High Rate fears no dog.