“Did one of the Sa’ba Taalor strike you with a hammer while you were traveling?” He squinted a bit as he looked at Merros.
Merros looked back and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “No.”
“Have you been smoking in the Sin Dens?”
“What? No, of course not. I wouldn’t and never have. You know that.”
“Did a Plague Wind sneak from the Blasted Lands and give you a great fever when no one was looking? That no one noticed?”
“Now you’re just being an ass.”
“No, Merros. I’m trying to understand why you would wager your life on a man you don’t know not killing a boy who, frankly, could use a good killing.”
“You only say that because he busted your knuckles.” Merros nodded his head at the damp cloth wrapped around Wollis’ left hand.
“No, I blame myself for that one. I got cocky. Not so cocky that I have thrown away my life, granted, but still, careless enough.”
“It seemed the thing to do at the moment.”
“Have you written instructions for the placement of your possessions? I shouldn’t mind at all having your share from the expeditions.”
“You’re plenty rich enough.”
“One can never have too much gold.”
“I have no intention of getting myself killed, Wollis.”
“Have you even spoken to Drask about this?”
“Well, no. I didn’t feel that was appropriate.”
“You just wagered your life on his actions. It’s very damned appropriate.”
“And how does one bring up the subject without sounding like a whining babe left to fend for himself?” Merros reached for his own ale and took down a deep gulp.
“One doesn’t. Just let the man know where you stand with this.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.” Merros shook his head and looked around the tavern. There were several other tables that were occupied, but no one was paying them much mind.
“Did they really kill over a thousand…?” Wollis’ voice trailed off in wonder.
“Oh. Oh yes.” The other man shook his head.
Wollis mirrored the gesture. “Here’s hoping we avoid a war.”
Merros chuckled. “We’ll avoid it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“No one wants a war.”
Wollis stared past Merros’ head and looked at the wall of the tavern. The place was well enough lit, the walls regularly cleaned, but lacking in decoration of any sort, they were rather uninteresting to stare at.
“I don’t know if you’re right about that.”
“What do you mean?” Merros set down his now empty mug and gestured for the woman serving them to bring another. She nodded from across the room and vanished into the area where the kegs were kept.
“I mean have you noticed that there isn’t a single person from among our new friends who doesn’t have more weapons than a squadron of soldiers?”
“They do seem to have a strong affection for their knives and bows.”
“No, Merros. They have a strong affection for everything. If it was just bows and knives I would think they liked hunting. Even if the Pra-Moresh is the animal they like to hunt, a lot of those weapons are not designed for going after dinner. They’re designed for killing enemies in armed combat.” He snorted. “Hell, man, they have weapons that I’ve never seen before and I’m rather proficient at my trade.”
“They make their own weapons. Maybe they just make whatever comes to their minds.”
“Then they have damned scary minds. You saw that bloody cleaver Tusk used on the Pra-Moresh. I asked him about that. He made it just for situations when he runs across something that needs to be whittled down to a manageable size. Those are his words, not mine.”
“Well, to be fair, he was dealing with a Pra-Moresh.”
“Ever hear of a Mound Crawler?”
“No.” Merros shook his head.
“No one else has, either. But they brought the skull of one for Emperor Krous. Tusk said something about it killing about half his village before he took it down.” Wollis thought about the size of that skull and shivered. “That sort of nightmare might well feed on Pra-Moresh. Like a bear feeds on rabbits.”
“Hardly a pleasant notion.”
“It isn’t meant to be a pleasant notion. It’s meant to make a point. We don’t begin to know these people, Merros. We don’t have a hope of knowing them as more than deadly soldiers. You should not risk your life on one of them doing what you would do in the same situation.”
“We have people who hunt down whales. That doesn’t make them the greatest warriors alive. Hell, most of the whalers I’ve met have never held a sword.”
“Tusk has held a sword. Hell, he carries two of them regularly and has a few more on the saddle of his ride.”
“Well, yes, alright. I can see your point on this.”
“And Drask?” Wollis waved his arms around the room. “You saw him. I saw him. Big doesn’t begin to cover it. And armed? He makes his own bloody hunting bows and those little spears he uses to hook his latest kills.”
“I get it, Wollis. I have possibly made a horrid mistake.”
“Did you notice that Tusk’s biceps are actually wider than my thighs? I did. I looked at his arms and then I did a little measuring. The man could probably bend a sword around his arm. Hell, he probably pounded that bloody great helmet of his with his bare hands.”
“Now you’re just being preposterous.”
“Only a little.”
Merros nodded his thanks as the server brought his ale. He smiled at her before she left and then looked back at Wollis. Wollis knew from the look on his face, the look that lacked that long lingering and silent desire he’d seen in the man’s face for months, that Merros had recently had sex. Under some circumstances he might well have made a crass comment about it, but it was neither the time nor the place for that. Instead he merely acknowledged that something had happened on the road and wondered if it had happened with one of the gray-skinned women from the valley.
Not that it mattered.
Merros held up his ale in salute. “Here’s hoping our new friends don’t get me killed.”
“That I will drink to.”
The two men settled back in their seats and into a comfortable silence. After a few moments Wollis looked over at his captain again. “Over a thousand? Honestly?”
“I swear it on my father’s name.”
Wollis stared at the distant wall again and repressed a shiver.
The sun would be up soon enough. Drask had spent a day in silent contemplation of what was to happen and then a night in conversation with Tuskandru.
There were contemplations to make. His actions were justified, yes, but not necessarily the best for the Sa’ba Taalor.
Time would tell.
Drask Silver Hand spent the next day practicing. He used each of his weapons as he maneuvered around the courtyard that the Fellein had set aside for them, often working alone and occasionally sparring against another of his people.
He saved the final fight for Tusk, who looked as restless as he felt. They grappled, no weapons wanted or needed. Neither of them tended to much like the idea of facing the other with a blade. They had done so before and possibly would again, but it never ended without them both bloodied. Tusk beat him. It was not a contest, really.
Tusk looked at him when they were done and shook his head. “You are distracted.”
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Don’t worry. I am sure the boy will show you mercy.” Tusk’s voice was teasing.
“I suspect I will survive the encounter.”
“They are a strange people, Drask.” Tuskandru’s voice was low.
“Mmm. I have not yet decided if they are soft.”
“They are soft. But I am not sure if they are weak.”
Drask contemplated the meaning of the words and nodded his agreement. The people they spoke of ruled most of the world, if their
maps were accurate. He had looked at several of the maps and Desh Krohan had offered him a set of maps showing the Empire. He took them, of course. He was not a fool.
“What will you do?” Tusk meant regarding the duel, or course.
Drask looked at the man for a long moment. Were they friends? He wasn’t sure. Friendship was not an easy thing for any of the Sa’ba Taalor. The Daxar Taalor did not consider friendship when they gave their orders and none of his people disobeyed their gods.
Drask grinned. “I will do as the gods demand.”
Tusk nodded his head. “Probably that is wisest.”
The monarch rose from his seated position in the courtyard and stretched. “We will leave soon. That’s for the best.”
“As you say.” Drask lowered his head in acknowledgement and then stood as well. There were mere hours left before the fight and he wished to be presentable for the occasion.
Tusk left without another word. None were necessary.
The arena was the same one where Andover Lashk had fought for his justice. He looked at the ground and saw that the blood had been washed away. That was just as well, though he felt no remorse for what he had done to either Purb or Menock. They had deserved their fates.
Around him the seats were filled. That was the biggest difference. There had been plenty of empty spaces when he sought his justice. There were people standing behind the last row of seats now, doing their best to get a good view of the small battlefield.
Emperor Pathra Krous sat in a reserved box along with his cousin. Andover stared several times. The woman was beautiful. For the first time since meeting the man Andover saw guards positioned around him. There were four men in armor that glittered with fresh cleanings, all of them sporting spears and with swords strapped to their hips. Their helmets bore crests of black and red feathers and they looked intimidating.
Across from the Emperor and his retinue, the Sa’ba Taalor sat, none of them wearing armor or carrying weapons. They did not appear the least bit intimidated, but it was hard to say as they continued to wear their veils.
Tega sat with Desh Krohan, her face as pretty as ever, but she looked away from Andover and seemed determined not to notice him. He set his face as neutrally as he could manage and did his best to return the favor. The Sisters took seats near the sorcerer as well, and though everyone seemed impatient, no one seemed in a hurry to commence the fight.
Well, slaughter would be a better word. Brolley Krous was standing in one corner, his hands locked behind his back in an effort to hide the fact that he was terrified. His skin was pale, his brow covered with sweat, his eyes were wide and seemed incapable of looking at any one thing for more than a second. Except when he focused on Drask Silver Hand across from him.
Brolley was wearing a formal dueling outfit. Snug leather pants, boots and a dark leather vest over a long sleeved shirt.
Drask was wearing leather pants and boots. And his veil. Otherwise he was bare. His upper body showed the numerous battles he’d been in, scars overlaid by fresher scars, many small, some of significant size to show a serious past trauma. Unlike other times, he had taken off his gloves and the silver hand flexed as he moved, pacing slowly back and forth, looking not at his opponent, but at the other members of his people. From time to time one of them spoke to him and he answered, but the incidental sounds of the crowd kept Andover from hearing the words.
The heavyset arbiter that had judged the trial for Andover was present again. He stood at the edge of the round arena and looked around. His pinched features spoke more of how good an impression he wished to make in front of the nobles and others than of how important the battle itself was to him. His lips moved as he practiced his lines.
Andover shook his head. Not that he suspected he’d be less worried in the same situation. He just felt more concern for Brolley Krous than for much of anything else. He’d seen the man trying to fight. It had not gone well.
Wollis March walked to the circle, nodding as he passed Drask. Drask nodded in return as Wollis walked over to his student and patted his shoulder.
Tuskandru sat with his people, leaning forward in his seat, his elbows rested on his knees as he studied the young man in the arena and the man offering last-minute advice. Andover wondered if the king was as curious as he was to know exactly what was said.
Finally, the portly arbiter waved his arms and the people around them began to collect themselves and grow quieter. Just as he was about to make his announcements, Drask walked forward and called out clearly, “No. You are not needed here. He knows what he did. He knows why I have called for a challenge.”
“But–” The arbiter started to speak and Drask cut him off.
“No. My King and your Emperor are here. They know why this battle takes place. They do not need a judge or an announcer. Leave before you offend me as well.”
The arbiter looked toward Pathra Krous, who in turn shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands. The arbiter stepped back, looking very much like a child deprived of his after-meal treats.
Drask turned to the man he’d challenged. “Brolley Krous! You have called my people swine who bray like broken mules. You have called me both a savage and a pig. You have offended me, my people, my kings. What say you to these charges?” He gestured to the weapons lined along the stone wall behind the boy. “Answer with words or weapon, but answer me now.”
Brolley looked at Drask for a moment and stepped forward. He licked his trembling lips and bowed from the waist. Holding his hands out to his sides. “I have done you an injustice, Drask Silver Hand. I have offended you a… and your people and, and your kings. I regret my foolish words and place myself before you to face your judgment.” The words were stuttered, but spoken with enough volume for all to hear.
Drask stepped forward and grabbed Brolley by his shoulder, not unkindly, and made him stand. When he spoke it was for the boy alone, but Andover was close enough to hear. “Ask me how I lost my hand.”
The boy looked around, uncertain how to respond. And finally nodded. “H… How did you lose your hand?”
“I insulted a man’s daughter. He cut my hand off to remind me to watch my tongue.” Drask stared hard. “When I got back up, I cut his throat for his troubles.”
Brolley stared at him with eyes that were even wider than before.
“This one time, we will call this a lesson learned. Is that acceptable, Brolley Krous?”
Brolley nodded very, very vigorously.
“Should you open your mouth to insult me or mine again, should I even think you have considered the notion, I will take more than your hand. I will carve you apart very slowly and dye my boots with your blood.”
Drask patted the boy on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him and walked away from him. He stopped exactly long enough to bow formally to the Emperor and his retinue before leaving the arena.
Brolley Krous stared after him, shaken to his core. Andover doubted it was a lesson he would forget anytime soon.
FIFTEEN
Lanaie of Roathes dropped to one knee before the Emperor, more in keeping with the ways of her people than the current fashions of the Empire, but still an acceptable showing of loyalty.
“My Emperor, may I speak on behalf of my father?”
“Yes, of course, child.” Pathra smiled and the girl rose. Desh looked on, hidden behind his hood. They had spoken briefly of exactly how well Drask had handled the situation with young Brolley. He’d have been in his rights to beat the boy or even to kill him if the boy had decided to attack. Instead he had offered a warning against further insults and accepted the boy’s apology. Even Nachia was pleased, and that was a challenge at the best of times.
“King Marsfel of Roathes wishes to thank you for the assistance you offered, Majesty.”
Pathra Krous smiled. He and Desh had spoken of this very matter. “I merely offered witnesses to assess the situation. Any actions taken were done so free of my command.”
That got her. She was looking puzzle
d. “But did you not send the Sa’ba Taalor to aid my father?”
“You were here, Lanaie. Drask Silver Hand made the offer to assist your father as a demonstration. You agreed to it.”
Sometimes it was good to have ears everywhere. Marsfel had indeed been grateful for the assistance, but instead of sending a note of thanks he’d attempted to take the visitors into captivity. His reasoning, according to all Desh could learn, was to have someone to blame for the deaths of over a thousand soldiers on his beachfront. It seemed there was some issue as to whether or not the Guntha had been invited to the area by the king in an effort to gain additional funds for handling the military in his area.
Pathra had been amused. Desh was a bit more worried. Either way, if the Guntha decided to take offense, it might well come down to a war.
“I thought they were sent on your behalf, Majesty.”
“No. They were sent as a demonstration of what ten Sa’ba Taalor could do. They were sent by Drask as assistance to your father. If your father would like to thank anyone, he should thank Drask Silver Hand, and perhaps King Tuskandru, the dignitaries who were gracious enough to offer your father assistance in his hour of need.”
He held up his hand and Desh moved forward handing him a small sheaf of papers. Pathra gave them a cursory glance, signed his name at the bottom of each page, and then sealed the entire affair with a wax mark. After waiting for a moment, while fanning the seal, he offered the bundle to Lanaie. “These papers offer the formal explanation to your father. I am glad that the matter has been resolved to his satisfaction.”
“But, sire, the Guntha are very angry.”
“As they should be. Over a thousand invading soldiers were killed on your father’s behest. I suspect they are very angry indeed, but now they must surely know better than to offend your father with foolish attempts at invasion.”
“Can you not offer assistance at this time, Pathra Krous?”
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