She shook her head. “Desh Krohan has suspicions about the rider. He believes we might be able to translate if the need arises.” Her words were a lie. He felt it in the beating of his heart. Still, he had no choice in this. What if the rider wanted to speak and they had no common tongue? What then?
“We can aid you or leave you with your rider, but decide now, Merros Dulver.” There was no anger or recrimination in the woman’s voice. She was merely stating a fact. “Your rider is almost here.”
He looked away from her and was startled by how much closer the man was. The great beast under him stopped moving and the rider swayed softly as he compensated for the change. Beyond that he was motionless for a long moment.
Lomma made a noise in his throat that could have been a cough or a worried note.
The rider slid from the saddle and landed with ease, the armor and leather on his body jostled and the cloak covering him opened enough to reveal that he was carrying still more weapons.
One of the other women spoke; Merros didn’t have the inclination to look away from his opponent to determine which one. “Captain? What is your decision?”
“Speak to him.”
Before any of them could attempt it, the rider came closer; his stride was efficient, but not overly cocky. He stopped well within reach of the blade he wore on his hip, a fact that Merros did not miss.
The rider’s voice was low and harsh, the words a nonsensical blend of sibilance and barking noises that obviously formed language, but one completely unknown to the captain. The tone was dark enough that Lomma’s hand moved toward the crossbow and Merros stopped him with a gesture.
“He demands to know why you follow him.” The woman’s voice was not completely confident.
“Is that a guess or are you sure?” He made himself look at the woman. It was the redhead speaking this time. He could see the dark red curls of her hair flowing from the edge of her hood.
“A near certainty.”
“That’s not comforting.” He was aware of the rider, knew the man was staring hard at the back of his head, could damned near feel the man’s eyes looking for the best place to bury the blade of his sword.
“It is what it is, Captain.” He forced himself to look away from her eyes and whatever secrets they might be holding.
“Then tell him we wish to offer our thanks for his assistance, to gift him with the kills he left behind.”
The brunette spoke, calling out in a strong, steady voice that was easily heard over the sound of the winds. The rider tilted his head, listening to her words, and Merros wished again that he could see the face buried under shadows, to know what the man was thinking. The eyes that looked him over still shined with that odd gray light, but gave away nothing, no hint of what the rider might be thinking.
Another exchange, the words that snapped from the rider’s mouth were harsh, guttural, and had an undercurrent of odd sounds that made him think of the Pra-Moresh, as if more than one voice was being heard. He felt the fine hairs along his neck rise at the very thought.
All three women spoke at the same time, their voices spiraling around each other in an odd harmony that once again brought the savage beasts to mind.
This time, when the rider answered, it was with laughter, loud and rough. He lifted both of his hands over his head and waved them almost daintily, and though he had no correlation to the gesture, Merros understood it was a sign of humor, simply because that notion fit.
The redhead turned toward Merros and sidled closer. He lowered his head until he was closer to her level, despite still being on his horse.
“He has invited us to join him in a meal.” She paused for a moment. “I offered him the beasts and he accepted.”
“What did you say that made him laugh?”
“Initially he was offended. He took insult to the notion that we thought he could not kill his own dinner.”
They eat those things? The thought was slightly sickening.
“What made him change his mind?”
“I told him he caught you and your men on the chamber pot. For that reason you felt you did not deserve the kills.”
“So, you insulted me to the rider?”
She nodded slowly but shrugged at the same time. “No. I insulted you on your behalf.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about that.” Merros frowned as he stared at the rider. The man was a brute, and it was best not to be fighting him. Still, it was hard to accept.
“You should feel very good about it. Had I not allowed humor to take the place of what he saw as a challenge, he had every intention of challenging you to a blood match.”
His eyes took in the arsenal of weapons surrounding the rider. “Fair enough. Please thank him for the hospitality and accept on our behalf.”
Her eyes smiled and she nodded again. “Consider it done.”
A few moments later the caravan began moving, led by the rider. No one moved very quickly as the winds grew stronger. The women who served the wizard walked across the landscape, seemingly unfazed by the elements, while Merros and his men huddled in their cloaks and did their best not to be blown from their horses.
Magic. Maybe the women were protected by it. Whatever the case, they seemed far more at ease than he felt as they rode ever on toward the Seven Forges in the distance.
TWO
The entire caravan was forced to stop when the storm came, a howling, furious thing that made standing in the open a near guarantee of a savage battering. The men worked hard and quickly, covering the horses with the padded blankets that would have never been brought along had it not been for Wollis’ insistence. Merros was glad he’d listened to his second. The wind brought harsh blades of stone and ice that slid across the ground and skipped through the air, cutting at flesh wherever they touched. Between the cuts and bruises he’d received on his hands while fighting the Pra-Moresh, and the three slashes that graced his neck and face when the storm first hit, it seemed like every part of him was aching and miserable. Then again, that much hadn’t changed since the trek had started.
Still and all, he hardly had anything to complain about. The rider sat across from him in the center of the wagon – that also carried the three servants of Desh Krohan – the interior of which was decorated in thick furs and a scattering of pillows, save where they managed a small fire in a metal contraption that allowed them to cook and heat the wagon without catching the whole thing aflame. The women had cooked for them, an unexpected treat – several delicacies that shouldn’t have been possible in the frozen wasteland – and now they sat facing each other in the insulated interior, safe from the worst of the winds and the cold.
Which, so far, had done nothing to reveal anything at all about the rider. He had taken off the helmet protecting his head, had pulled down the hood of his cloak, but only revealed that his head and face were covered with a thick layer of insulating cloths that he did not remove. It was still impossible to see much aside from his eyes and the skin around them, which had a gray tint and was well weathered. Even when he ate, the rider merely slid whatever morsel he was eating under the cloth that covered his lower face and chewed slowly.
Merros resisted the urge to pull the damned cloths away. Curiosity wasn’t worth getting himself killed over.
As they finished the meal, Pella settled herself down on the cushions to the left of the rider and touched his gauntleted arm with her long, delicate fingers. She spoke softly, but the foul language distorted her voice and made her normally pleasant tones uncomfortable.
The rider listened and responded in kind, and though Pella looked at Merros, it was Tataya, the redhead, who spoke to the captain. “His name is Drask. His title is Silver Hand.” She frowned. “I have no idea what the title means.” She shrugged and poured a strong, hot elixir into several small cups. He had watched her settle tealeaves into the pot, but seen a few other liquids and plants tossed in as well. Though he was suspicious by nature – it was almost a requirement among officers in the army –
Merros took the offered drink and sipped at it carefully. The heat of the brew was pleasant, and whatever had been added to the tea had the muscles in his body relaxing in a decidedly comfortable way.
Drask drank without hesitation as well. Despite his earlier attitude at being followed, he seemed a trusting enough soul. It was the blonde who spoke next – and if he couldn’t remember her name soon, it was going to drive him into a rage. It was on the tip of his tongue, damn it – her voice carrying an odd, nearly lazy quality. “This is tiresome. Better if you could speak to each other, I think, without our interference.”
Merros frowned. “I’ve yet to learn how to speak new languages without years of practice.”
Tataya touched his forehead and Pella brushed her fingers over the exposed skin of Drask’s eyes at the same time. Then the two women reached out and touched their free hands to each other, palm to palm, fingertips to fingertips.
And the blonde whispered something into the air. For a moment the pressure in the cabin seemed to triple and Merros blinked, gasped, struggled to breathe. And then everything was fine again.
“What did you do to me?” He was thinking the words, even as Drask spoke them.
The blonde waved her hand and moved to sit in a thick pile of furs. “A trifle. You can speak freely now, and understand each other.”
“You’ve used sorcery on me?” Merros’ skin suddenly felt clammy and chilled again, the pleasant heat from the fire and the drink alike fading to nothing.
“A minor thing. Only so that you can speak to each other without having to speak through us. This way the words you hear are as they were meant to be heard.” Tataya spoke, her tones soft, placating, her eyes as nearly hypnotic as ever. And he had to concede her point. There had certainly been occasions where translators had made errors. For that reason alone he forced himself to calm down. There was a man here. For all he knew him, Drask, lived alone, but he doubted it. The weapons, the armor, they all bespoke a soldier, and very few soldiers ever lived off by themselves. He was here to map out the Seven Forges mountains. There was always the possibility that meeting a people who lived near the mountains would be worthy of extra rewards. Haste was a foolish waste of energy. So, too, anger at what was already done.
“Should the need arise again, Tataya, I’d ask that you and yours ask before gifting me with any form of sorcery.” That sounded properly polite. He was annoyed, yes, but not foolish enough to taunt someone who could use enchantments. His childhood was filled with stories of people who crossed wizards, and all one had to do was look around to see what happened when the greatest of them warred between each other.
Tataya opened her mouth to speak, but Drask talked first. “You have fed me. You have sheltered me. We should rest. When the winds have calmed, I’ll take you to meet with my elders.” His words were for Pella. His eyes looked to Merros.
Merros was a captain in the army. He had long since developed a skill for knowing when he should answer and when he should hold his tongue. In this case, he let the woman answer.
“We were glad to offer you the shelter, Drask and we are far more grateful to meet your elders, your family.” He couldn’t have said it better himself.
The wagon rocked in the savage winds, and the wood creaked as the air outside roared its frustration at not getting inside. Despite their protection, Merros wondered if the horses would be well when the storm abated. Without the horses, they were as good as dead. They couldn’t possibly carry the supplies, and the journey had already left them far away from any form of shelter save whatever Drask and his people might offer. And while they were, for the moment at least, speaking civilly, he had to remember that several expeditions had come this way previously. For all he knew the ones that had never showed again had fallen victim to whatever hospitalities were waiting at the Seven Forges.
“I am curious, Drask. If I may, why do you carry the title ‘Silver Hand?’” He asked mostly just to keep the conversation going while he pondered the possibilities of what lay ahead.
Drask looked at him for a moment, his eyes unreadable, and then raised his right hand to eye level before he pulled away the armored glove that covered it. The skin of his forearm and wrist, as with his face, had a gray tinge that looked unhealthy, but from the edge of his wrist up, his entire hand changed. The texture, the color, was unmistakably metallic. Merros leaned in closer and stared hard at the appendage, fascinated. The hand was not real. It couldn’t be. The flesh was silver; it shone with the warmth of the fire, but the skin where the hand connected to the rest of the arm was rough, scarred, and twisted with lines of silver that shot directly into the rider’s natural flesh. Though they seemed organic in nature, there were deep scars running across the silver surface, runes and markings that had to be etched in place when the limb was forged, or before the metal had completely cooled.
“How on earth…?” His voice trailed away. Magic, of course. Not a sorcery he was familiar with, but what else could it be?
Drask very casually reached out and worked his glove back over the metallic surface. “A gift. A replacement for what was taken from me.” Drask’s tone wasn’t quite brusque, but Merros nodded his head and forced himself to ask nothing else. Whatever had happened to the rider’s hand, it was apparently a private thing. The captain chose to understand that. Why antagonize the man?
There was no more speech that night. The storm was far too severe for anyone to brave heading out into it, and so the five of them stayed the night together in the wagon. Merros settled himself near the door, and the three women slept together in a pile of furs he couldn’t help but envy. The rider, Drask of the unnatural hand, placed himself in a corner – a proper spot for anyone who was left in uncomfortable surroundings – and soon drifted into silence if not sleep.
Merros was considering how likely it was that he’d never get to sleep when he drifted away into a deep rest.
The morning brought the sort of calm that seldom shows up save before or after a storm, and Merros crept carefully from the wagon to inspect the damage. Most everything was fine, save that the bodies of the Pra-Moresh had been stripped of half their fur in the blasting winds. If that was the worst thing that happened, he was glad to call the storm a successful encounter.
They were ready and on their way again in short order, with Drask riding at the front and Merros keeping the strange man company. They mostly rode in silence.
Three hours or more into the day’s journey the sun managed to force itself through the nearly perpetual twilight brought by the clouds, and changed the way that damned near everything around them looked. The bright rays struck the land, and, in turn, the land retaliated with a thousand shimmering reflections. Even from a distance, he could see the ruins as they approached them.
There were stories, of course. But that was all most people would ever have when it came to the Blasted Lands. The tales of his youth told that the land had once been populated by great cities, and until the sun broke through the cloud cover, Merros would have thought the stories little more than myths. That changed when he saw the mounds to the west of them.
He stared, unable to look away, drawn to the shadows that hinted at other things buried in the fractured, broken glass towers that had been worn nearly smooth by centuries of harsh winds, but that still survived against the impossible odds. The glinting sunlight made him squint, which only made the half-shapes buried in the glass seem even more… organic.
“What are they?” He was barely aware that he’d spoken aloud.
Drask answered him with an oddly detached tone, as if the answer should have been obvious, but still he had trouble looking away. “The Mounds. Death.”
“Death?” That seemed a bit dramatic.
“Nothing that goes too near the Mounds survives. Nothing. No one.” Drask shrugged. “Things live there. Things that only come out in the darkness.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your kind has tried to explore them before, looking for treasures. They have
never come back.”
“You’ve seen my kind before?”
Drask chuckled. “Only from a distance.”
“Why is that?”
“They always want to explore the Mounds.”
Merros opened his mouth to ask another question but the query faded from his lips, his mind, as the sound came from the Mounds. It was a low, deep noise, so low that he nearly felt it more in his teeth than heard it. A long, deep ululation, a mournful tone that made the horse under him dance nervously, and the steed he rode was a well-trained animal, not known for being skittish.
The beast under Drask did not get skittish, but it turned to face the Mounds and a loud hiss escaped from under its armored mask. The thick claws of the thing scratched at the ground and everything about its posture made Merros think it wanted little more than to attack whatever was making the impossible noise.
Drask cuffed the beast between its ears and screamed something that sounded like a different language altogether. The animal immediately calmed down.
“What the hell is that?” The noise was fading away at last, and the scrawling sensation that Merros had barely been aware of eased on his flesh.
“The Mounds.” Drask shrugged. “Things live there.”
“Have you ever seen the things that live there?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you curious?” A foolish question. He might be curious himself; on the other hand he had a strong sense of self-preservation that said exploring the Mounds would be a hideous notion.
“Of course. But it is forbidden.”
“Who forbids it?” This was a chance, just possibly, to hear about the authorities of Drask’s people. The lawmakers, the enforcers. Merros was looking forward to making his encounter with the strangers but a little knowledge would have made him feel a good deal more comfortable.
Drask looked at him, his face still hidden, but the eyes that stared at him expressed their surprise well enough, as did the tone of his voice. “The gods. Who else?”
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