Swords and Salt - the Complete Series

by Lindsay Buroker

  The Turgonian stared at him. Oh, right. That’d been a rather complex question for a man who didn’t understand the language. Dak opened his mouth, as if he might say something, then glanced at the overseer who’d been observing this all without a change in expression. Dak shut his mouth and sighed.

  “Sorry I don’t know any of your language,” Yanko said. “I learned Kyattese from my tutors, but they didn’t teach Turgonian. They probably don’t want us speaking to our enemies. If we knew how to invite each other to sit down for wine, we might get drunk and forget we’re supposed to be killing each other.”

  The Turgonian snorted softly.

  Huh, it had almost seemed like he’d understood that bit. Yanko studied his face, but the man didn’t give away anything else. Instead he returned to gesturing, pantomiming a series of attacks first with just his sword and then his sword and shield to demonstrate different fighting techniques.

  “So… for one-on-one you’d use the dueling style, but in a platoon of men, you’d fight straight on with shield and sword, knowing you’ve got allies protecting your sides?” Yanko tried to gesture as well as he spoke, and the Turgonian gave a hand wiggle that seemed to mean, “Something like that.”

  Dak picked up his sword, leaving the shield by the wall, and adopted a similar stance. This time, instead of simply smashing Yanko to the ground as soon as he could, he demonstrated the footwork, attacks, parries, and ripostes. When they started exchanging more earnest blows, he used repetition and a slower pace to allow Yanko time to absorb the lessons. The Turgonian remained silent as they practiced, rarely doing more than changing the pitch of his grunts to indicate whether his pupil was doing something good or something idiotic, but Yanko found himself picking up the style quickly. He had never been the strongest boy in the village growing up, but he’d won a lot of foot races, and this suited his speed more than going toe-to-toe in a flurry of blade work. The footwork allowed him to dart in to attack with a combination of feints and lunges, then dart back out of range before Dak skewered him with his longer reach. Most of the time anyway. Sometimes even his speed wasn’t enough, for the Turgonian was good at anticipating his attacks.

  At one point, Dak pointed at his chest, extended his arm and his sword to show how far inside of his reach Yanko would have to come to hit the target, and then touched his hand, the one holding the blade, and lifted his eyebrows expectantly.

  “Stab your hand?” Yanko guessed.

  They had been resting, so he wasn’t prepared when Dak’s blade whipped up to prod his own hand. Yanko yelped and dropped his weapon. He scowled as warm blood trickled down his fingers.

  The Turgonian didn’t smile exactly, but the thinning of the lips was the closest he had come. He took a single step and demonstrated how easy it was to reach Yanko’s chest with the blade unavailable for defense.

  “I understand” Yanko said. “My people wouldn’t consider that an honorable target, but I suppose if it’s life or death, one can’t be too picky.” He wiped off his hand. “You wouldn’t have needed to demonstrate so effectively.”

  Dak waved his own hand through the flame of one of the wall lamps.

  “Yes, yes, the burned hand teaches best. We have that expression too.” Yanko picked up his saber. He wouldn’t complain further; after all, this session had been far less painful than the others, and for the first time, he felt a little hope that his skills might actually progress during these weeks in the mine, enough to satisfy his father.

  A throat was cleared by the door. Yanko expected the supervisor, but his uncle had slipped in at some point.

  “Honored Uncle,” he said warily, not certain how Mishnal would react to this new fighting style.

  Uncle Mishnal waved Dak toward the exit with a few curt Turgonian words. As soon as he was gone, Mishnal asked, “Have you seen him doing anything suspicious?”

  “Besides pummeling me into the ground?”

  Uncle Mishnal squinted, not pleased with this sarcasm. “One of my men caught him speaking to other foreigners. It’s possible he plans to lead an uprising and escape.”

  Yanko stopped himself from saying that would be understandable, and that he, too, had thought of escaping, if only for a time, to see the grass and the sky again. “I have not seem him often outside of this room.”

  “Oh?” Mishnal’s tone grew cool. “I understand you assisted him with a problem yesterday.”

  An itchy flush ran through Yanko’s flesh. I’m in trouble… And my uncle knows that men are murdered down here, and he does nothing.

  You don’t know that; the overseer could have manipulated the truth.

  Yanko shrugged as casually as he could. “I did not think you would wish to lose men to internecine squabbles between the workers. He has the strength of a pack lizard. Surely that’s useful down here.”

  “He killed ten soldiers before they got that collar on him,” Mishnal snapped. “The only reason he wasn’t strung and quartered is that he has some political significance, and there might be repercussions if he died that way.”

  “I didn’t think we were having… repercussions with the Turgonians right now.”

  “Don’t be naive, boy. Our greatest enemy from the war is sitting on their throne, or whatever they’re calling it now. Nobody knows what actions he will take, and even if he takes none… it will not be good for us. Not at all.” Mishnal gazed at the wall, a deep concern entering his eyes. Somehow that worried Yanko more than his anger. Was there some threat on the horizon? Maybe he should have spent more time listening to his father’s friends discuss politics instead of running off into the woods to befriend bears and convince truffles to grow again from earth long ago depleted of rich nutrients.

  “The work here is dangerous,” Mishnal said, drawing Yanko’s attention again, “Everyone knows that. If he were to die in the mines, the Great Chief could not be blamed.”

  “I understand now, Uncle,” Yanko said, though the idea of turning one’s back so a man could be murdered upset him. Maybe he was naive. He had always thought—no, he’d always been taught—that honor was everything to his people. Honor in the way one responded to one’s elders, in the way one interacted with friends and strangers, and honor in the way one treated one’s enemies as well.

  “I ask you again, have you seen him do anything suspicious?”

  “I saw him speak a few words with another Turgonian yesterday,” Yanko said. It sounded like his uncle had already heard as much so this admission didn’t seem like a betrayal, though he wasn’t sure if he should be worried about betraying this man or not. Yes, he felt more kindly toward Dak after the morning’s training session, but would he be betraying his people if he kept silent when he knew something? What if, in choosing silence, he allowed an uprising that killed many of his uncle’s workers?

  “That’s it?” Mishnal asked.

  “Yes.” Yanko was glad it was the truth. He wasn’t old enough—didn’t know enough—to decide which way to thrust the sword when lives balanced on the blade.

  “Very well. You may skip the screw today. Return to your room and study your books. Make sure you can hurl a decent fireball. The admissions panel will not be amused if you choose to fling a swarm of bees at the enemy troops instead.”

  Yanko flushed. How many stories of his exploits had his father included in that letter to his uncle?

  “And learn what you can in here.” Mishnal pointed at the practice chamber. “Your father is coming in three days with a guest. If you have not progressed suitably, you and I will both have to answer to him.”

  It had been less than two weeks. How much progress could Yanko be expected to have made? The Turgonian had spent the first week flattening him to the ground. And who could this guest be? Outside of the family, who could care about Yanko’s progress?

  The concern had returned to his uncle’s eyes, and he mumbled to himself and shook his head as he walked away. Yanko rubbed his face, scarcely noticing that the wound on his hand hadn’t scabbed over fully, an
d that he smeared blood on his cheek. More than ever, he wanted to take a run outdoors, out where nature ruled and man was only a visitor, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be allowed to flee to the sanctuaries of his youth any more.

  Part 4

  After breakfast, Yanko headed back toward the tiny office where Uncle Mishnal had directed him to study. The route took him toward the lift where Dak stood with a man in yellow and orange overseer’s garb, though a heavier wool version as opposed to the usual silks. The overseer carried a lantern and a bucket of water. The Turgonian, too, wore heavy clothing, several layers of wool.

  Yanko paused in the shadows between two lanterns, his hand pressed to the cool wall of salt. He couldn’t help but wonder if he might have chanced across another attempt to make the troublesome Turgonian disappear. Dak held a long torch in one hand and a lantern in the other. The overseer stood placidly, his head bowed, his face a picture of concentration. Focusing on keeping his lone charge from running off? Dak’s face seemed strained, his eyes tight, with the creases at the corners more lined than usual.

  The lift arrived, and the bamboo gate opened. The Science that operated the machinery plucked at Yanko’s senses, and in his mind he could see the cables in the shaft above and the artifact that hummed far below, providing the power that raised and lowered the device. As the overseer and his selected minion stepped inside, Yanko wished he could also sense where they were going.

  It’s none of your concern. If he dies down here, all the better. You had nothing to do with it, and there’s no guilt on your conscience.

  “No?” he murmured softly.

  You need to study. Whoever this guest is, it’s a foregone conclusion that you need to impress him. Not to mention that it’d be nice to have an approving nod from Father. It’s been so long…

  The voice in his head had a good point, and yet…

  Yanko closed his eyes and imagined the shaft in his mind, the rickety bamboo lift descending into the depths, and the two living beings inside. He hadn’t studied Seeing a great deal, but he was adept enough to track their descent. It helped that the Turgonian wore a collar; to a sensitive mind, artifacts acted like a beacon in the darkness.

  The lift traveled down and down, finally stopping on the lowest level in the mines. The uneasy feeling that had been building in him since he saw Dak with the overseer grew more intense.

  Yanko called for the lift and hustled inside. He sent it to the lower level, and shivered, for the air seemed to grow cooler as he descended. An illusion—the temperature remained a constant in the mine—but he stuck his hands under his armpits nonetheless.

  When the lift shuddered to a stop on the bottom shaft, more than two hundred meters below the surface of the earth, utter blackness awaited him. Staleness made the air smell thick and dangerous. The ventilation must not be as advanced down here, in this newly opened area. Despite this logical explanation, a thread of claustrophobia wrapped around Yanko’s heart, the string tightening like a vice. He forced himself to step outside, into the darkness. The familiar sounds of the upper levels, the clinks of pickaxes and the beats of drums, were absent. Nor could he hear the voices or footsteps of Dak and the overseer. They had already disappeared into the darkness. Only the faint scent of burning pitch lingered in the air. They must have lit that long torch Dak had been carrying.

  Yanko wished he knew what it was for. An image of the Turgonian funeral pyre entered his mind, as if the overseer had a bier waiting down here that he would insist Dak light, then lie upon.

  Yanko could still sense Dak’s collar—it had moved off down the single tunnel, and yes, there was the overseer, forcing the Turgonian to lead the way. Yanko thought about summoning a light of his own, a simple skill for a practitioner, but he hesitated. His instincts told him it would be best not to be discovered down here. He knew which way they had gone; he ought to be able to navigate through the darkness by sense.

  With one hand on the wall for backup to the guidance his mind provided, Yanko started down the tunnel. He slipped on something slick as soon as he started. A couple of puddles dampened the ground near the lift, and Yanko remembered the bucket. He couldn’t imagine what the overseer was up to, but didn’t spend time dwelling upon it. He didn’t want to fall behind.

  Sensing a route in the darkness and keeping track of the collar’s aura taxed him in a way pushing at the screw and sparring with Dak never could. Sweat dripped from his chin and splashed onto his silk tunic. A headache blossomed behind his eyes. Irritated by his weakness—his father was right; he should spend more time practicing—he pressed on. Relief washed over him when the men stopped moving. He had a vague sense of a larger chamber than the tunnel they had been in. Some natural cavern?

  Yanko hurried forward, wanting to close to within eyesight of the men so he wouldn’t have to rely on the Science. If the overseer had a developed mind, he might grow aware of Yanko’s manipulation of it. Many of those who weren’t practitioners themselves were still Sensitives.

  His foot struck something, and he lurched forward, almost tumbling to the ground. Yanko caught himself on the wall, but his concentration vanished, and he lost all sense of where he was and of those he was following. Fighting back the fear of being alone in utter darkness, he probed with his foot, searching for a route past the object that had stopped him. It stretched across most of the tunnel, though. Frowning, he turned his focus inward long enough to summon a ball of light. The others were still far enough ahead that they shouldn’t see it.

  Soft red light formed in the air above his head. It shed illumination on the tunnel, the wooden supports, and—Yanko cursed and stumbled backward, losing his concentration again. The light blinked out, plunging him into darkness. It didn’t matter. He had already seen the two dead man sprawled on the ground.

  He drew a steadying breath and formed the light again. His first thought was that the overseer and Dak had somehow been responsible for the deaths, but there wasn’t any blood. From the way the men had fallen, it looked like they had been running back toward the lift, trying to escape something.

  Yanko picked his way past the bodies. He had gone farther down the tunnel and past two more men—this time the miners had been slumped against the wall, their pickaxes still in hand, when they died—before he realized what had happened. That realization brought him up short.

  “Gas,” he mumbled. Methane—wasn’t that what sometimes gathered in the salt mine and killed workers? If Yanko had been there for more than a week, he would know for sure, but either way, he had heard of men dying because of poisonous air that could fill the passages.

  He eyed the tunnel ahead, wondering if he risked more than lost time at his studies. Should he turn back?

  A voice drifted to his ears. That of the overseer?

  Yanko released his light and continued forward in the darkness, this time focusing his senses closer to him—he didn’t want to trip over any more bodies.

  “In there,” came the overseer’s voice at the same time as the shaft turned and light came into view.

  Yanko crept forward, careful to test each step and keep his footfalls silent.

  A roar sounded, and a blaze of light surged from the tunnel ahead. Yanko squinted and lifted an arm to shield his eyes. He hadn’t seen such brilliance since he left the sun-drenched scrublands above. It faded quickly, the customary darkness returning. All of it. He swallowed. Had something happened to Dak and the overseer to extinguish their lanterns? Maybe they’d gone around a bend.

  Nonetheless, Yanko hurried forward.

  A soft rasp came to his ears, and he halted. It couldn’t be more than a few paces ahead. He hugged the wall, noticing the faint glow of a golden band. Dak’s collar. It would make a poor tool for illuminating one’s path in the night, but it was brighter than the surrounding blackness. Judging by the height, the Turgonian wasn’t sprawled on the ground, but he didn’t seem to be standing either.

  Yanko almost called out, but if Dak had done something to the overseer�
� what would he do? He’d been on his way to study, and he didn’t have any weapons with which to protect himself, nor had his uncle ever given him the mental key to control the collars. The lack of trust in that omission had bothered Yanko, but he hadn’t questioned it.

  He closed his eyes and stretched out with his senses, then picked up the auras of two men. The overseer was standing while Dak knelt. Yanko snorted inwardly. If he had relied on the Science instead of his eyes in the first place, he wouldn’t have been worried. He wished he had been allowed to study at a preparatory mage school as a child so he’d know what amount of skill he should have at this age. His father had tried to find instructors for him, but learning from his cackling grandmother and the traveling gypsies… Yanko’s tutorship had never been ideal. He feared he would struggle to pass those entrance exams.

  A shower of sparks appeared, and the Turgonian soon had a lantern lit again. His and the overseer’s faces came into view, grim in the deep shadows created by the flame.

  “Light your torch again.” The overseer pointed to the pitch-treated brand Dak still held. “There are more caverns that must be cleared.”

  Dak understood the gist and obeyed, though he gave his employer a speculative look before heading off into the next tunnel, his single eye narrowed. He had to wonder why he alone had been assigned this task. Yanko didn’t know if it was common for one worker to clear the methane. Maybe less lives were in danger that way. Or maybe he had been singled out again as expendable.

  When they came to another natural chamber, the overseer lingered in the mouth of the tunnel and waved the Turgonian into the space. Dak approached warily, his nose crinkled, and the torch extended as far above and in front of his body as his long arm would allow. Halfway into the chamber, the flames at the end of the torch flared from inches to meters. Dak ducked, dropping the brand. An inferno roiled across the arched ceiling, flames of blue and orange and yellow writhing in a deadly dance. Even though Yanko stood farther back in the tunnel, light and heat blasted him. Dak hunkered on his knees and elbows, his arms protecting his head.