by B R Crichton
“Well it would seem that some men never bloody grow up!” she retorted, and continued on her way.
Granger only shrugged at her back.
There had been a sense that they were abandoning those people on the road to Dasar. Those men of Mallin following the small army into the hills and mountains to the north said tearful farewells to their loved ones, and then had to endure the sight of that sorry caravan dwindling into the east, as they themselves climbed higher into the Mora Mountains. By mid-afternoon they were gone from sight.
Kellan began to understand why these mountains were regarded by Blunt as a relative safe haven for his army. They were not big, certainly not when compared to even the Lesser Cascus, and were dwarfed by the Greater Cascus that had formed the northern backdrop to so much of his life in Lythuria. Rather, it was their deeply rutted and broken nature that made them a rabbit warren of deep gulleys and sheltered ravines.
A pair of men from Mallin, Giaco and Rino; brothers, who had grown up in the mining communities in the mountains, had been appointed as guides by Blunt. They had been keen to prove their usefulness, and now, as they entered the convoluted rock formations, they would need to.
The brothers said that they knew of several abandoned open caste quarries, denuded of their iron ore, that would make ideal camps for the three hundred or so soldiers and their forty horses. The horses themselves were laden with supplies, as no carts could be pulled over the rough terrain. They carried food and weapons, tents and bedding, even a small mobile forge, bought from the farrier. He had serviced the mining community’s animals with that forge for years, and now it was being carried once again into the mountains. Foley’s older brother Marlon would serve as farrier now, he had trained as an apprentice in Dasar before being drawn into Blunt’s Band of mercenaries. Marlon had sounded less than confident that he would be able to keep the horses well shod, as it had been nearly ten years since he had taken up a hammer, but Foley had insisted that it would all come back to him. “You never forget it. It’s just like falling off a horse,” his younger brother had said with a grin.
Kellan looked at the forge, remembering the previous owner, and a promise made.
He carefully picked his way over the increasingly broken ground. He watched Dimas stagger drunkenly along ahead of him, occasionally steadied by one of the ‘Remnants’, or offered a drink from a wineskin. Dimas looked particularly dishevelled after the efforts of the climb, his face sweaty and skin pallid. The wine would take its toll eventually if they kept this pace up much longer, but he was in no great hurry to leave an offered drink un-drunk. Dimas’ stubble had turned into an unkempt beard, which only added to his scruffy appearance.
That feeling that he was being hounded had been nagging at Kellan again. He tried feeling with his mind in the direction he sensed it from, but kept coming up against an area invisible to him, an area of wrongness. It was as though he was just too far to break through the layer of fog that occluded that area of his mind space, fingertips barely touching the periphery but not with enough force to push it aside.
They stopped in one of the old quarries that night, setting up a temporary encampment. The ground was stained red from the rusting traces of iron in the broken rock. It would be a good base from which to watch for movement from the west. Blunt sent a small detachment east with one of the guides, Rino, to establish emergency hideaways and caches of supplies should they need them, and map out the best routes in and out of the mountains.
“I want to own these mountains by the time we engage those bastards,” he had said.
The quarry had fresh running water at the western edge, and even some grazing for the horses where sufficient soil had gathered in a long strip to the north and grass and scrub had taken root. Most important, though, was the commanding view of the land to the south.
Governor Krennet had set up his camp of Arbis Moran militia a disdainful distance from the rest of the army, clearly setting them apart from the Bal Morans and mercenaries. The men of Mallin however, had warmed to the relative newcomers, and especially after the rape, had grown frosty towards Krennet and his men. A very definite divide had appeared.
Giaco told Blunt about a mining community to the north-west, and on day four of their encampment, the mercenary decided to send a scouting party to check on its inhabitants. News trickled slowly up the slopes of the Mora Mountains and there was no guarantee that the miners knew anything of recent events to the south..
Olimar insisted on leading the party.
“Take that drunk bastard and try to sober him up will you?” Blunt said gruffly from inside his tent. “And take a couple of Krennet’s men; those arseholes ought to pull their weight around here.”
“The drunk? Really, Blunt?” Olimar complained.
“If he is to be of any use to us, he needs to be able to draw that sword he carries about with him.” Blunt emerged and placed his bright red hat on his shaven head, squinting accusingly up at the hot sun.
“He can barely walk. How far did you say?”
“Giaco tells me it will take three hours. Take him and a couple of others. Here,” he said throwing a bag of jingling coins to his son, “If there is anyone there, see if they have any flour to sell you. In any case, tell them to cut and run as soon as they can.”
“Horses?”
“Take two,” Blunt replied, “but take them steady if they’re to be loaded. We don’t need them going bloody lame up here.” With that, he stomped off through the camp, no doubt to rain abuse upon some poor soul’s head. Blunt was happiest when he was making someone else’s life a misery, and at that point it was not Olimar’s, and so he gladly went off about his task.
Granger looked up from his writings to see a small party with two horses leaving the encampment. He was not surprised to see Kellan among them, bow across his back. He sighed as he put down his pen and powdered the ink reverently, before carefully closing the book.
That boy would volunteer to jump from a cliff if someone was looking for a willing participant. Perhaps he was just trying to keep his mind from dwelling on bigger things. He had always been impulsive, but worse than that, would put himself in harm’s way without a second thought. Kellan could not be kept swaddled in his care, he knew that, but did every parent feel that tightening in their chest each and every time their child disappeared from view? For that is what he felt like. A parent.
The concern he felt was for Kellan first, the world second, and he chided himself for that dogged selfishness. No harm could come to Kellan without greater harm following for the countless people, oblivious to the inevitability of their doom. But it was still Kellan’s fate that gave him the most profound sense of helplessness.
Had the Daemon never taken the boy, would he still have been compelled to intervene in that icy river, on the day the child had lost his home and family? Was it pity for the youngster, or something greater that had forced his hand?
Whatever the cause, he was in no doubt about his feelings for Kellan.
He lifted his gaze, staring into the middle distance and quietly addressed the air. “Are you watching him? Have you been drawn to him as I was? You may remember him in your stories, but your memories will be dust compared to mine. Your accounts are stale with lack of emotion. Words on a page are no substitute for the beating life inside the least of us here. Your existence is hollow; I know that now. If you could feel a fraction of the rending of my heart as I watch him leave each time you would know how soulless your words are.” He clenched his fist against his chest, pulling at his shirt. “How dare you commit our lives to scrawls on a page as though that somehow gives us meaning. My love for that boy gives me meaning, and you are so much less than me. Remember that to your petty telling.”
He became aware of Alano, watching him from a distance, concern on his face, and returned to his writing. His hand trembled.
Emerico had accompanied Kellan, Olimar and Dimas, behind Giaco’s confident lead, to the small collection of rough timber buildings that
were home to the miners. At least they would be if there had been anyone at home. Two of Krennet’s men had joined them too, likeable men despite their commander, and they hitched the horses to a post below the steep entrance to the quarry. Dimas had been grumbling to himself incessantly all the way there, growing sober, and not liking it one bit.
“Stay with the horses,” Olimar said to the Arbis Morans, and signalled to the others to climb the steep, roughly hewn steps.
They ascended into the main part of the open caste mine, strewn with boulders and shattered rock. The exposed rock had the same reddish hue of their own camp-site, giving a hint of the iron held within. The few buildings were simple timber structures that would no doubt be occupied during the warmer months, as they were by no means wind or rain proof.
“Where are your miners?” Olimar asked Giaco.
There was no sign of life here, despite the time of year. Obviously the miners had caught wind of events below and headed east days earlier. They had not left much either. They would have had sturdy pack animals, used to hauling iron ore, and so even the heavy tools were gone.
“We should check the huts,” Giaco replied.
Each building was the same. A table here, a chair and bed there, but the miners had cleared most of what they had brought up with them. The place was deathly quiet, and each scuff of a boot or dislodged stone was amplified in the rocky basin.
Kellan quickly developed a deep respect for the miners who had worked here. This was a desolate place to live and work; scratching at the rock daily to extract precious iron ore, then load it onto pack horses or ponies to be taken away for smelting. He left the last of the small dwellings he had entered and saw Olimar and Emerico looking at a hole that plunged into the rock face at a shallow angle from a terrace, slightly higher up the quarry’s edge. Giaco was scrambling up the last few paces to join them. Seeing their interest, he went up the slope to see what they had found.
The scree was loose, shifting and scraping under his feet, but he reached flatter ground where the others had gathered.
“What is it?” He asked.
“Nothing much,” Giaco replied, “They must have been following a seam or something. Occasionally they find rich deposits in small quantities, and it is worth their time to follow them into the rock.”
“Is it deep?”
“No. Ten paces, no more.”
“It’s empty,” The ‘Remnants’ second in command added.
“Well,” Olimar said dejectedly, “that was…” He was cut off by Emirico, pulling him down low and pointing to the western crest of the quarry, less than a hundred paces away.
Jendayans! Four of them on foot.
They had entered the steep sided quarry by a narrow path that angled around to the south. Kellan unslung his bow as the first of them disappeared behind one of the buildings.
“Wait,” hissed Olimar, pulling the others into the shadow of the small cavern. “They may turn back when they find this place deserted.”
“If they follow the path we came in by, they will see the horses,” Emerico said softly.
“Let’s hope they don’t. They may turn back. Let them return empty handed. Better that than have them go missing up here. That could bring a much bigger force to ask why.”
They Jendayans reappeared in the middle of the settlement. They were discussing something, and then one headed towards one of the larger structures.
Suddenly, they all realised that one of their party was missing.
“Dimas!” Emerico said urgently, “I’m sure I saw him go in there.”
Even as he said it a shout rang out from the building below. The three other Jendayans, who had started drifting to other buildings, turned suddenly and rushed to the larger structure.
Kellan was on his feet and running down the hill before his companions could react themselves. As he urged the Calm to settle on him, he became aware of his companions following him. He heard shouts ahead, screams, and steel being brought to bear. He was too far away to help Dimas now, although he ran anyway. Still the screams. He drew his own Jendayan blade and readied himself for combat. In his cool detachment, he prepared to watch the enemy forms with his unfamiliar blade, aware that this would be the perfect opportunity to see them used at close quarters. Already the fighting was over in the building, Dimas was dead but they would find Kellan a greater challenge. He rounded the building to the open door and skidded to a halt. The Calm fled.
It took a moment to take in what he was seeing. Emerico and Olimar arrived at his side brandishing their own weapons, and froze.
Dimas had entered what was clearly a small storeroom and he had found what he was looking for. He pulled the stopper from the wineskin with his teeth and spat it out. He put it to his lips and tipped it back for a long drink. His bloody sword slipped from his fingers unnoticed as the red liquid spilled from the sides of his mouth and down his shirt to mingle with the blood that covered him from head to toe. At his feet lay the butchered corpses of what, Kellan had to surmise, were four men, although it was difficult to tell from the bloody carnage. Limbs were severed and torsos ripped open, their contents spilled obscenely. Giaco retched as he reached their side, and Kellan heard the hurried footsteps of the Arbis Morans, drawn into the quarry by the screams.
Dimas belched loudly, then staggered from the store past his companions without a word.
“Ah, yes,” Emerico said nodding, “there is something we did not tell you about Dimas.”
What was left in the store had been easily loaded onto the horses, and gratefully received by Blunt. There had been wine, and a strong spirit the miners distilled themselves. Giaco told them it was called ‘skull-thumper’, and a sniff at the open neck of the bladder told him why.
Sentries were doubled that night as a result of the run in, so soon, with Jendayan scouts.
“Bugger me if I did not want a few more days to map out these hills better,” Blunt cursed as they gathered that evening. The air was growing cooler as the sun dropped below the horizon, and the fires were kept small to reduce smoke. Any sign at all might be spotted, but a hot meal each night was worth the risk. Wood was not plentiful either in the immediate area, so that was another reason to keep the blazes low.
Granger had worked another miracle with cured ham and potatoes, and the thick broth had made the Band the envy of the other groups.
“It smells as though I would do well to be entering your employ,” Alano said as he approached from the ‘Remnants’ camp. He was smoothing down what little hair he had on the top of his head, the long blonde wisps having a mind of their own.
“The pay is lousy,” Foley piped up, mopping his bowl with a piece of flat-bread.
“But the food is better, I suspect,” he laughed.
“You will find plenty of work as a rent boy in Mecia if you don’t like the conditions,” Olimar said to Foley through a mouthful of bread.
Blunt scowled at Foley’s remark. “The historian knows his way around a cook-pot.”
“Some herbs and spices in the correct measure, that is all it takes,” Granger said modestly.
“Come,” Blunt invited Alano to sit, “pull up a rock.”
Valia moved over to make room for the Bal Moran on a long flat rock she shared with Truman, the gap between them narrowing to the poet’s obvious delight.
“Am I to understand that Krennet will not be joining us?” Blunt enquired.
“I saw him retire to his tent some time ago,” Alano replied. “I am afraid the Governor is taking badly to the conditions here.”
True, Governor Krennet was suffering. He was used to far softer living and his constitution was being tested to breaking point by his new diet and environment.
“Spent most of the morning at the latrine pit,” Elan said. “He looked greener than me when he returned.”
“Perhaps someone forgot to peel his grapes,” Kellan said.
“Krennet’s bowels aside,” Blunt said sourly, “I understand there is something you negl
ected to tell me about our friend the drinker. I am hearing fantastical tales.”
Alano glanced over his shoulder to where Dimas slept fitfully in a drunken stupor. One of the ‘Remnants’ had kindly covered him with a blanket. “So, you have not heard of him before?”
Blunt only shook his head, and exchanged puzzled looks with a few of the Band.
“Dimas Malmotti of Sangier? The Sword-smith?” Alano searched their faces.
“Malmotti of Sangier?” Truman said, astounded. “Of course I have heard of him. But that cannot be the same man. Malmotti must surely be older.” There were nods of recognition around the campfire, of the name if not the man.
“That man can only be, what? Fifty?” Blunt said. “Malmotti is older by far.”
“Fifty six, and you are incorrect,” Alano replied with a humourless smile. “That is the legendary man, in the flesh, but such is his reputation that everyone expects him to be older. Our fathers were astounded by his skill and so we associate him with their generation, but he was forging weapons from the age of twelve and winning the respect of his much older peers.”
“So, what brings the blacksmith here in that state?” Olimar asked from his father’s side.
“Sword-smith,” Alano said carefully, “Dimas Malmotti is an artist of the highest order. As I said, he began his career as a boy, serving under his father in the family business. It soon became apparent that he had a particular talent for the working of steel, beating and folding to such a fine degree of quality and strength that his blades began to fetch a very high price. A single sword with his mark upon it could fetch more coin than most sword-smiths could earn in a year.
“He rapidly earned a reputation as a swordsman too, but, there was an accident whilst sparring with his best friend. A cut that would not have been life threatening from a duller blade, went deep, and the bleeding could not be stopped. His friend died, and from that day, Malmotti swore never to raise a sword against another man. He was devastated. He still made weapons, but fewer, and spending more time on each, pushing their quality and value higher still. He married and had three children. About ten years ago, he turned his attentions to civic duties and was named Speaker for Sangier. He put past misfortunes behind him and made a life for himself. Then the Jendayans came.