Dead Man's Hand_The Knights of the Golden Dragon_Book 2

by Troy Reaves

  The two facing him did not bother with their stricken partner as he lay bleeding out on the ground between them, searching the trees for from where Boremac’s assault had come. These were definitely professionals, Boremac thought, and taking them off guard now would not be so easy. Boremac dipped into a crouch, though it was a poor position for his throw, and launched another throwing dagger. His tumbling dagger was deflected by his target and the other mercenary very nearly had him. Too close. Only Alchendia’s grace saved him being struck in the leg as he rolled to take cover behind yet another tree nearer the pair facing him. He took little comfort in seeing the man pursuing Fisher farther into the woods back the way he and the ranger had come. He was certain that if it came to a trial of blades, the ranger would be killed. Boremac pushed the thought away, focusing on his own quarry. Only one crossbow bolt left to avoid and then he would have to face the pair with his own daggers. He silently thanked the twins for their brutal training in his earlier years and hoped it would be enough. The remaining mercenary with a loaded bolt fired apparently wildly, hoping for a lucky hit where Boremac had hidden, however his actual intention became soon clear. Boremac saw the one man moving to the right of his position with his sword drawn and quickly became aware that the other man who had fired was coming at him from the left. Boremac realized he only had one chance. He crouched like a coiled spring on the balls of his feet, waiting mere moments for the attackers to come around the tree at him. He had anticipated a coordinated strike aimed at his head and his legs. He was not disappointed as he sprang up and guided his daggers into the throat of one man and the chest of the other. It was not enough to kill them immediately but it served to take the force from their attacks. Boremac wasted no time checking his handiwork, removing his blades and skirting the tree to go after Fisher.

  Boremac found that the ranger had chosen to face the mercenary sooner than he had expected. The two men were both wounded but Fisher’s guard was failing despite his skill with his own short sword. The mercenary continued pounding the ranger’s defense, paying no heed to the noise behind him as Boremac attacked. Just as the killer stabbed Fisher deep in the shoulder bearing his sword, Boremac leapt into the air to close the distance between the mercenary and himself. His daggers found solid purchase in the man’s back, one sliding neatly between his ribs and the other taking him in his opposite shoulder. Boremac figured one could never be too careful, stabbing the man in the back of the throat even his weight carried them both to land at the ranger’s feet.

  “You look rough, Dead Man, though not as rough as he does. You could have been here a little sooner.” Fisher started to laugh but it turned into a painful fit of coughing. “I do not know who is after you but they are definitely determined. Get out of my wood before I recover enough to carry you out.”Boremac ignored the ranger’s last words and asked him how he fared. “Well, if any of the blood on you is yours, I think we fared about the same, Dead Man. Somehow I think that little of the blood on you is yours, judging from how you throw daggers. I will live. Get away now and I am not going to say it again. Your path to the north should be clear now at least. Do not worry about me, I have had worse than this hunting bears. If you ever take the notion to hunt bears, Dead Man, do not do it. They do not suffer the foolishness of men with anything resembling grace. In fact, they are downright ornery. Travel far and safe from here, Dead Man, and thank you for showing up. Work on your timing for the next time we meet.” Fisher looked away from Boremac and set about pulling bandages from his hip pouch.

  Boremac wanted to wait for the old ranger to wander back into the woods toward his home, but Fisher did not seem interested in his help. Boremac thought the old ranger was probably thinking he had had enough death in his woods and was ready to be rid of it. Boremac was partially right but by no means completely. The ranger murmured prayers to the Goddess of Nature, who had most certainly protected them when they encountered the mercenaries, and asked she continue watching over the unknown man that had saved him. Boremac was making the same request of Alchendia on the ranger’s behalf as he made his way to the edge of the forest, stopping only to retrieve his throwing daggers and be certain the mercenaries were dead. The animals would take care of the bodies and, to his mind that was some small amount of justice.

  21

  Soap’s On

  Boremac made it through the woods with no sign of other mercenaries. He stopped only briefly to exchange news of the ranger’s state with the pair on militia he encountered. The pair ushered him on his way, assuring him that Fisher would be seen to if he chose to make his way to the keep. Boremac doubted Fisher would bother but moved on none the less.

  He took some time to don his disguise as a newly released militiaman, storing his myriad daggers and tools while leaving the sword sheathed at his side and his shield mounted loosely on his pack, before making the road to the village that lay to the north beyond the boundaries of Verson. The ranger had suggested that this would be the best place to prepare to enter Verson, taking the farm paths that ran between the main road and the waypoint. The village had profited from its proximity to Verson, a solid day’s travel by cart from the larger city and an easily reached point from the main road leading off to and from Travelflor much farther north. The small inn had grown with the demand for cold ale and warm beds, even as the farmers had profited with the trade with the mercenary mecca. There were even men who maintained the horse paths that ran between the main road, crossing through the village, and Verson. No one bothered patrolling the paths. The people who traveled the route were well armed or well protected, making bandit raids unlikely.

  Boremac began moving a bit more north down the main road just after nightfall and was glad for the lack of rain. The moonlight shown down on the well-worn wide road and he had little trouble making his way. He spotted a group of traveling merchants not far from the road, settled in for a night of rest before they made their way to parts unknown. Boremac felt weariness sweep over him at the sight of the blazing fire and decided to see about making camp with the group. He doubted they would mind one more sword at the side of their wagons, especially one that requested only a meal in payment.

  He spotted the merchant easily as he made the edge of the camp, a fat man with oddly long hair braided down his back. Boremac approached, slowly calling out to the merchant’s guards once he was in earshot and keeping his hands up at his shoulders, palms facing out. He was greeted without a hint of suspicion and welcomed into the camp. Boremac thanked the guards briefly as he joined the merchant at the fire, wishing to do away with business negotiations and hoping to eat. He noted that the long braids running down the man’s back were littered with odd bits of metal, some copper, some gold and even bits of iron, sewn into the carefully weaved strands. Boremac thought this was curious but was distracted by his stomach before he could bother with inquiries. Boremac introduced himself to the merchant as Frosstel, butchering his elder friend’s name in the process, but it seemed as good as any, and offered his services to the merchant for a warm spot at the fire and a loaf of bread.

  The merchant’s response was surprising, even to the rogue. The merchant laughed deeply and warmly at Boremac’s words, which reassured him immediately even before he spoke. “I will have none of that in this camp. The guards I have already will think I wish to dispose of their services cheaply, or worse yet renegotiate their contracts. Renegotiate,” the merchant shuddered theatrically, “that is curse not lightly spoken around hired men. You must be new to the trade. I am Boragash, traveler of these roads, and those of my homeland, for a great many years. We will speak of your payment soon but eat for now. Your growling belly is worrying my ears! Go and get some stew and a loaf. The roasting pig will be ready soon and we can talk when you are full. I would say that would make you more malleable but it seems you are too cheap already. See if you can bring a challenge to our negotiations after you have eaten. I do enjoy healthy haggling!”

  Boremac proceeded as ordered with haste, holding back on
devouring the loaf entirely to save room for the pig. One of the guards approached the merchant, a few mumbled words passing between them in a language foreign to Boremac before the guard laughed and turned to go back to the other men. The merchant gestured to Boremac and spoke briefly to the men gathered nearby. Boremac was certain the resulting fits of laughter were intended to be at his expense. The foreigners may have spoken a different language but some things were easily figured out. He waved to the group as they looked him over, grinning around his meal and shrugging, which only seemed to tickle the guards more. Alchendia appeared to have favored him with such a bunch and he could not help but think he had met with the men’s approval in some way. ‘Probably just a well-received distraction after such a long trip.’ He thought and went back to gnawing at his bread.

  The merchant waved to Boremac a bit later, telling him to grab some meat and join him. A young boy that Boremac assumed was a servant brought the fat man a silver platter laden with a chuck of the freshly roasted boar meat and some bits of food that Boremac did not recognize. When Boremac moved near the merchant, he was immediately overcome by the smells. The tendrils of steam wafting up from the platter sitting in the merchant’s lap held his attention in the same way the sirens must have captured sailors. There was a small clay bowl that dominated the air with the scent of the sauce it held every time the merchant dipped a piece of meat into it. A cake, Boremac assumed, was layered with a minty scented glaze that fought with the spicy sauce for air. The counterpoint between the two was intoxicating. Boremac closed his eyes in reverence, catching the merchant’s attention

  “Knowing a man’s tastes gives insight into the man. Have a taste so that I can better know you. First, a bit of the flame.” The merchant stabbed a chunk of meat with his fork and dipped it in the potent sauce, handing the fork to Boremac. “You may want a drink after. Allow me.” The merchant snapped his fingers and his servant brought a mug of milky liquid, setting it near him. Boremac took the fork, holding back from gobbling up the morsel, and took a tentative bite from the meat. Spices Boremac had never tasted blessed his tongue, gently coaxing his mouth into a sense of security. The spicy bite of the sauce caught Boremac completely unaware as blood surged to his cheeks, almost as if trying to put out the fire from the inside. He managed to sip the goat’s milk at first, to his credit, but noting the milk seemed to be lessening the burning some, he drank the whole mug of it at once. Watching intently, the merchant snapped his fingers again. The servant materialized immediately, grinning openly at Boremac as he filled his mug. “You should have some cake. It will help.” As the merchant finished speaking, Boremac rudely snatched a piece of the cake up, swallowing it whole and chasing it down with the fresh milk. Except for the mint, the cake tasted chalky and seemed to coat Boremac’s stomach almost immediately. Not to be undone, Boremac ate the rest of the meat on the fork, sliding it down his shielded throat as quickly as possible. As Boremac finished gulping down the rest of the spiced meat, the merchant graced him with a measured, almost serious look. Despite his best efforts the man could not hold back the twinkle in his eye as he spoke. “What do you think?”

  Boremac made to answer, pausing to wipe the milk from his goatee in an effort not to make a complete ass of himself. “I think your belly curses you often and you have the constitution of a bull ox. That is a wicked concoction.”

  The merchant laughed, appearing will pleased with Boremac’s answer. “It grows on you. The tastes are divine before the payment is extracted and with time one even grows to enjoy the heat of the last. I am just glad someone thought to put mint into the counter agent. Oh, I could not tell you how many nights I was awakened by the fire in my belly. The sauce burns as much coming out as it does going in but tastes much better going in.”

  Boremac was caught somewhat off guard by the laughter of the whole group of men in the camp. They had formed a semi-circle at Boremac’s back, watching the conversation between the merchant and himself. The big men were as quiet as mice when they wanted to be, or so he thought. He almost felt sorry for anyone who trifled with this group. He was disappointed that the group was not stopping in Verson as they made their way to Nactium. The merchant had always found the port city more welcoming to traders than Travelflor, and more profitable. He could make one stop, selling off the bulk of his wares and taking on goods that would sell well in his homeland, saving him a great deal of time.

  The men all came from the lands over the far mountains at Travelflor’s border, Nommude by name or at least in translation. The native name of the lands ran rough over the tongue, much like an oxen trying to speak common, when Boremac heard the words. It was named for the earlier peoples of the land, strong tribal peoples who were nomadic in nature and roamed the frozen lands far north. They had encountered the mountain men long ago by accident while exploring the burning wastes of the Fire Mountains, as they called them, and had been intrigued by the small permanent villages the mountain people maintained where they mined. The first merchants from Nommude to see Travelflor were shocked and baffled by the great walls of the city, as well as the separation of sections within. They were a peaceful people by necessity as well as disposition, hardened by their environment. They had never faced invaders from other lands and could not fathom the need for such massive defenses.

  “We had had solid intermingling and trade with the fire giants long before encountering the mountain men. The giants told of people who mined the core of the great peaks constantly. These people were heavily built despite their short stature, and our warriors never went without a strong challenge when facing their village protectors. Woe came quickly to any foolish enough to drink with miners. Our own drink warms the belly and fires the spirit but the constitution of the mountain peoples is without match. Our people practice their arts with weapons, and just as often without, in combat without killing. It is a long tradition that has kept us strong, strong enough to take down even giants when we met with them and performed ritual combat. However, the stout mountain men were something beyond our warrior’s reckoning at first. Our explorers brought back tales of battles where the women would even disarm them readily with their tools, and have men twice their height pinned on their backs before they could blink, all the while not spilling a drop from their mugs of dark bitter ale. We found common ground with them in their rough nature, and so we had never met people who found it necessary to hide behind walls.” The merchant paused, as if deciding how to continue. “We have no need of cunning and deception in my homeland. We could not survive the wastes if we lived as men do in the cities, always attempting to undo one another in one way or the other. Thieves were everywhere! Not just in the streets picking pockets, mind you, but we found quickly even more as traders. No one could be trusted, or so it seemed, but over time we learned to handle ourselves. We could not have lived so well in the savage lands of our home and trekking through the Fire Mountains if we could not adapt, and spot deception once we had learned how deep it ran in your cities.” Baragash looked over Boremac’s shoulder and stated, “I carry on and my guard reminds me that they have need of you at present.”

  Boremac was not exactly pleased as he turned around to face where the guards were standing a few moments ago. The largest of them, he assumed the leader, was looking at him intently, with his huge arms crossed over his chest. Even before the man spoke Boremac was certain he knew what was coming and took time to get his shield, for all the good it might do him. When the man spoke, Boremac was once more reminded of another person who sounded like he chewed boulders when he talked. “I Sumar. Sumar, smash. Smash Frosstel.” Sumar spat a piece of wood out of his teeth roughly the size of one of Boremac’s fingers and grinned broadly, just before launching himself at Boremac. He had just enough time to bring up his shield and deflect most of the blow as Sumar struck down on him with his giant hands. Boremac was certain he was being tested yet again, and equally certain he needed to end this brawl quickly before the man beat him to death accidently.

  Bore
mac let the blow carry him back, staggering more than needed to open up some space and give him room to move. He saw the other guards were at Sumar’s back, leaving Boremac room to retreat if he chose to do so, but he had no intention of doing that. Sumar took the bait as Boremac hoped and charged again, his heavy fists over his head this time. Boremac launched his counter immediately, sliding his arm from his shield leaving it to take impact, while almost simultaneously bringing his boot up into Sumar’s crotch. The blow landed with a satisfying thud, but Boremac was less than pleased with the reults. Sumar stood up straight and grinned at Boremac, gesturing for him to retrieve the shield that Boremac had cast aside during his attack, when the merchant spoke up. “Ah yes, the first time Sumar was introduced to that maneuver, he did not fare well. He has made some small armoring adjustments since that fight! Even so, I would not recommend doing it again! Sumar gets terribly annoyed by it rather quickly!”

  Sumar turned and walked toward the rest of his men while Boremac picked up the shield. He thought he might have one chance to take the man and he wasted no time putting his plan into effect. Boremac covered the ground between himself and Sumar in three quick steps, tapping him on the shoulder before dropping into a crouch with the shield in front of him. Sumar turned with his head reflexively dipped forward to see what his opponent was up to now and fell right into Boremac’s trap. Boremac braced the shield in his arm and leapt upward with as much force as his legs could muster, taking Sumar full in the chin with the edge of metal on the shield. Sumar’s head snapped back with such force that at first Boremac feared he had broken his bull neck, and when Sumar’s eyelids fluttered as he fell backward, Boremac was sure he had. He held his breath until one of the other guards slapped Sumar hard across his face and the big man shook his head. He was a bit wobbly when the two men at his side helped him to his feet but to all appearances none the worse for the blow.