by David Welch
“There,” Kamith said, breaking his brooding.
She pointed to a well-worn road that switchbacked across the bluff. They spurred their horses on, descending at a trot. The sun shone high overhead, nearing noon. The road wandered past another oxbow lake, the land inside revealed through breaks in a protective line of trees. Corn had grown tall and was being harvested by two dozen men and women. The road ended at a ford, the water inches deep as it rushed over a bar of sand and rock. They crossed, finding themselves at the western spit of land that led to the town. They kept at a slow pace so the guards in the towers could see them, get a read on them. Neither had their weapons out, and Gunnar’s chain-mail was packed away. Gunnar wore buckskin pants and a blue, linen tunic from his days as a soldier, belted at the waist. Kamith was in leather pants and tunic, her standard outfit for when they rode.
The western gate to the town was open, though two soldiers sat on stools in the middle of it. Both wore thick, bison-leather surcoats, decorated with the painted image of a hawk flying above a bull elk. Long knives rested at their waists, bone-handled slashing weapons with seven-inch steel blades. Heavy thrusting spears, two feet taller than the guards, were held firmly in their hands. Bowmen looked on from the towers.
The guard shouted something in a language that neither of them recognized. He stared hard at Gunnar, taking him in. Getting no response, the guard tried again.
“State your business!” he barked, this time in Trade Tongue. He didn’t bother to get up from his stool.
“Trade,” Gunnar replied.
“There is a tax on foreigners, to pay for the protection our walls offer,” the guard explained. “One silver bit a night, or a full piece for an indefinite stay.”
Gunnar raised an eyebrow. As a bit was one-eighth of a one-ounce silver coin, a single piece for an indefinite stay was quite a bargain. He dug into Thief’s saddlebag, pulling out a silver coin from the distant kingdom he had once served. He flipped it to the guard, who caught it with practiced ease. The guard looked it over then nodded at his companion.
The second guard reached into a leather sack at his feet, pulling out two pendants. Each was a leather thong attached to a circular piece of wood, on which a tiny eagle had been carved. The wood was unique, not the kind which grew nearby; their way of preventing forgeries.
“Okay, then, in you go,” the first guard said, giving them a perfunctory wave. They moved into the town, Kamith’s head darting every which way to take in the sights around her.
They rode down the town’s central street – a broad road maybe twenty feet across. Narrow alleys split off from it, running between the tightly packed buildings. Signs hung from doorways, displaying pictures of the trades practiced inside. Some had candles, others scissors, others weapons. Many of the signs were of beds and steins, a few of nude women. People buzzed about, the sheer number stunning Kamith. Used to a life on the open plains, she’d never seen such a hive of humanity.
They stopped before an inn, outside which a horse and wagon were waiting. The wagon was well-built and had high sides. A figure heaved a heavy barrel from in front of the tavern and dumped it into the wagon. Brown sludge and fetid water poured from the barrel: human waste. Kamith coughed in disgust, turning away.
“Not all that glamorous, up close,” remarked Gunnar.
They moved on to another inn. The sign above this one had a bed, a beer mug, and a blue robin to mark it apart from all the other inns in town. Outside, a nervous-looking young man waited. When Gunnar dismounted, he scrambled up.
“Welcome to the Blue Robin,” he said quickly. “Got a stable out back for the horses. Secure and safe, got a guy watching over it. A bit for a night.”
Gunnar removed his two money pouches, one carrying everyday silver and another carrying nearly two hundred pieces of gold coin. He secured them on his belt, under his tunic, but not before handing a wedge-shaped bit to the man. Kamith dismounted, and the fellow eagerly took the reins, leading the horses down an alley on the side of the inn towards the open stable behind it. Gunnar watched him go, making sure he brought the horses into the stable, a hand on the hilt of his sword the whole while. Once convinced the man was no thief, he walked into the inn with Kamith.
The bottom floor was a tavern; they always were. The vast chamber was one space except for great wooden pillars supporting the upper story. Straw covered the floor. Tables and stools took up almost all the space, making the serving girls twist and turn their bodies to get from one spot to the next. On the far wall sat a large bar, next to a stairway leading up.
The patrons paid little attention to them as they walked in, more concerned with the ale they drank from large, fired-clay mugs. Gunnar and Kamith made their way to the bar. The innkeeper, a wire-thin, copper-skinned man with graying hair and a scar across his forehead, flashed a practiced smile as they approached.
“Looking to drink or sleep?” he asked, his booming voice a seeming mismatch considering his scrawny frame.
“Both,” Gunnar replied. “Need a room.”
“How long you figuring?” the innkeeper asked.
“Few weeks, at least,” Gunnar said.
“Two bits a night is what I charge,” the man informed him. “Plus another for the stable. You talk to my guy outside?”
“Yeah,” Gunnar replied. He dug three silver coins from one of his pouches and slid them across the bar. “You tell us when we’ve worked through this, and I’ll give you some more.”
The innkeeper picked up the coins, clinking them together and listening to make sure they made the sound silver was supposed to make. He took a moment to examine the figures on the coins, the distant head of the king of Harmon on one side and the deer crest of the Langal people on the other.
“That’ll do,” he said after a long moment. “Rasi, room four!”
A boy on the verge of puberty scrambled about under the bar. He emerged with an iron key and waved them to follow. Ascending the stairs, they came to a long corridor which ran down the center of the second floor. On each side, six or so doors lay open to different rooms. Rasi led them a short way, to a door with four vertical lines carved into it. A simple latch opened it, revealing the inside.
The quarters were tight, maybe six feet wide and twice that deep. A wide bed, knocked together from logs, stretched wall to wall across the back end, beneath a small window. A piece of linen had been stretched across the frame, covered in a few inches of straw, and then covered again by another piece of linen. Kamith stared at the bed curiously.
“Never seen one?” the boy asked, a knowing smile on his face. “Get a lot of people off the plains, here. Many never seen a bed in their lives.”
“Thank you,” Gunnar said, nodding at the boy. “You can get back to work.”
The boy, expecting a tip, scowled and darted off. Gunnar closed the door, his key turning a lock just above it, rotating a heavy iron bar into position to keep the latch from opening. A small iron brazier sat in one corner, a pile of charcoal nearby should they need heat. A simple table with an empty basin lay opposite, and iron sconces hung on the walls, each holding a tall, fat candle. Besides that, the room was empty.
Kamith moved cautiously towards the bed then lay down on it. She bounced against it, testing it.
“Not uncomfortable,” she remarked. “Just unusual…”
“Said the same thing the first time I slept on a bison hide,” said Gunnar. “If you wanna stay here, I’ll unload the horses.”
She clutched the long knife on her waist, uncertainty clouding her face. Gunnar removed his own dagger, throwing it on the bed. She pulled it close.
“Won’t be long,” he said. “Promise.”
***
Once everything was unpacked, and the buffalo skin spread out over the bed, they made their way downstairs. The innkeeper smiled his professional smile.
“Everything good?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gunnar said, removing another bit. “I need to know the best armorer and bladesmith in
town.”
The man took the bit and said, “Well, we only got one bladesmith. They’re expensive weapons; most of the tribes settle for spears and axes. Got a bunch of armor guys, but Drikal’s the best, no question. Spent ten years in the kingdoms of the Freshwater Seas when he was young, learned from the best. I’ll have my boy bring you down. Rasi!”
The boy scampered up again. He frowned a bit at the sight of Gunnar, but dutifully led them out of the tavern. They moved down the main street and into the open marketplace. Dozens of booths had been set up, mostly by people selling food. The great hall rose up at the far end, imposing. A balcony on the fourth floor looked over the market, and a man dressed in a fringed, leather tunic watched over the bustle.
“Who is that?” Kamith asked, pointing to the man. Rasi looked.
“Lord Engral, the chief,” the boy said irritably.
They turned north, following an alley almost to the palisade surrounding the town. Not a stone’s throw from the great earthen berm, the boy stopped. He stood before a wood-framed building little different from the others, except for its large, stone chimney, greater in size than those around it. Black smoke billowed from its top, and a sign over the door showed three interlocking loops: chain-mail. A trio of stars rested above it.
“Drikal’s place,” the boy explained. “Lathi the swordmaker is up the street.”
He pointed back down the alley, where they’d just walked. Four houses up, a sign hung over a doorway, depicting a crossed sword and spear. Rasi nodded abruptly and sauntered off into the town.
“I don’t like him,” Kamith grumbled, watching the boy disappear.
Gunnar nodded his agreement and then walked into the armorer’s. Light streamed in from open windows, clashing with the orange glow of the furnace. Two young men in heavy, leather aprons worked in the back. An older man, who Gunnar assumed was Drikal, sat at a table near the front. He looked to be in his forties and had a pot belly from spending too much time bent over his table, but he worked swiftly, pliers in hand, bending steel into rings with practiced ease. He fixed the rings into a sleeveless mail-coat that lay nearby, a great gap of rings missing from the midsection. The man’s balding head shot up when he heard them enter.
“Something you need?” he asked in Trade, with a firmness that bordered on intimidation.
“Mail,” Gunnar replied simply.
“Well you’ve come to the right spot, then,” Drikal growled. “Might got one made that’ll fit you.”
“Not me,” Gunnar said, nodding towards Kamith. “Her.”
“Her?” Drikal asked, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Her,” Gunnar repeated.
“But she’s a woman,” Drikal continued, more out of shock than contempt.
“I know. But we travel a lot, and she needs to be safe,” Gunnar replied.
Drikal stared at Kamith for a long moment.
“I’ve never done one for a woman,” he managed. “I, uh, will have to take measurements. If you don’t mind me, uh…”
Kamith sighed.
“Go on,” she said.
Drikal motioned Gunnar to a chair and then disappeared back into his shop. He returned with a long strip of leather, rolled tight. He unraveled it, inches marked off along its length. Awkwardly, he went about measuring Kamith, spending a while around her hips and breasts. Gunnar felt no surge of jealousy though, for the man clearly wasn’t looking with lust. He jotted down every measurement with a chalk on a piece of slate he had nearby and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, trying to figure out how to adapt his technique to the female form.
“Okay,” he said after about twenty minutes, “think I got it. You want mid-thigh length?”
Kamith looked to Gunnar, knowing little about armor herself.
“Yes. Slits on the side up to hip level for riding,” Gunnar said.
“And sleeves? I can do any length,” Drikal pushed.
“No sleeves,” said Gunnar.
Kamith raised an eyebrow, knowing full well that Gunnar’s chain-mail had sleeves.
“She’s an archer,” Gunnar continued, then looked to Kamith. “Unless you think it won’t get in the way?”
She thought for a moment.
“No sleeves,” she agreed.
Drikal chalked some more notes down.
“Good. You need this right away? Gonna need at least a week. Got the loops and all, could get a man’s done in less, but figure I might need to rework and correct, in case my ideas don’t work right first time,” Drikal explained.
“A week will be fine,” Gunnar informed him.
“Great, great. Anything else you need?”
“What do you have already made?” Gunnar asked.
Drikal waved him forwards, leading him to a series of racks.
“Sometimes, people are in a hurry, so I make some stuff in normal sizes,” he said.
Gunnar looked on. His eyes drifted to a strange leather garment hanging from the center. It looked like a surcoat, sleeveless and running to mid-thigh, with slits below the waist on the front, back, left, and right. But rivets interrupted the brown leather, running in numerous parallel lines across the garment.
“Brigandine hauberk,” Drikal explained. “From the Far East. Got two layers of leather with rows of steel plates inside. Put it over mail, and you’ll never have to worry about arrows again.”
Gunnar lifted the hauberk from its place and pulled it over his head. It was a little lighter than his chain-mail and fit around his frame with an inch or so of space. He flexed and swung in it, making sure it wouldn’t impede the flow of his body.
“I’ll take it,” he said, pulling it off.
Drikal’s eyes widened again.
“Really? I don’t sell many, they’re pretty pricey,” he explained, his voice thick with disbelief. When Gunnar’s expression remained firm, he shrugged.
“Okay. So what do you want to leave until you’ve paid it off?” Drikal asked.
Gunnar cocked his head quizzically.
“Leave?”
“Yeah,” Drikal said. “It’s what we do to protect ourselves. You leave something valuable until you’ve paid off the armor, just in case you try to run away with it.”
Gunnar smiled and nodded, then he dug into his gold pouch and removed five coins.
“How ’bout I leave these?”
Drikal’s eyes, defying all laws of nature, found a way to grow even wider. Gunnar didn’t blame him; he’d just handed the man what it would normally take him three months to earn.
“Spirits be praised,” the armorer muttered, reverently picking up one of the coins. He bit into it several times to test it. When it passed his test, he muttered something in his own language.
“Will that be enough?” Gunnar asked.
“More than enough,” Drikal replied.
“Well, in that case, I’ll be needing greaves, vambraces, and a new helmet. What you got?”
Drikal began showing him the various pieces, describing each in great detail. None of them noticed the small head of Rasi, watching through a nearby window. After seeing the gold coins, the boy ducked down and raced off into the street.
***
An hour later, they entered the bladesmith’s. Gunnar had been surprised by Drikal’s quality, but he was disappointed with Lathi’s product. Most of the swords hanging from the wooden racks were glorified knives, and cheaply made at best. Many of them weren’t even steel; simply iron.
And Lathi looked at Kamith with far too much lust in his eyes. He was a short, thickset man with a pudgy face bronzed from years over the fire. But, of all the blacksmiths in town, this was the only one who knew how to make a blade. Or, at least, Gunnar hoped he did, flicking a twenty-inch straight blade with his fingers. The metal was too thin. Stab anything tougher than leather with it and it would snap like a dry stick.
“So, what sort of sword should I be carrying?” Kamith asked, loitering close to Gunnar, more out of disgust for Lathi than fear.
“I think a slas
hing blade would be best,” Gunnar said. “You’re light on your feet, you can move left and right and dance around your enemy. You’ll have to. Get up close with a man and you’re gonna be outmuscled.”
He moved towards the rear of the shop, where some of the better-looking blades lay.
“You said before that you can’t slash through armor,” Kamith said.
“Not sure you’re strong enough to hack through it,” Gunnar said. “But you can stab. Get a blade that slashes and you’ll cut up anybody without chain-mail. Get one heavy enough to stab, and you can still take out bastards in metal.”
“Besides that armorer, you are the only other person I’ve seen who wears metal,” Kamith pointed out.
Gunnar stopped before a blade.
“Further east, they tell of more settled kingdoms and less tribes. More kingdoms means more people in metal, trained to fight like me,” he informed her. His eyes ran down the length of a sword. It was smaller than his, the blade maybe thirty inches long. The sharp side of the blade was curved like a saber, designed to leave long wounds. The opposite side was dull and built of a rod-like length of metal to give weight to the blade. The heavy rod and the slashing edge met to form a sharp, heavy tip.
“This will do,” he said, taking the sword down from its rack. He handed it to Kamith. She gripped it uncertainly, her hand wrapping around a bison-bone hilt. A metal pommel at the end acted as a counterweight to the blade, and a thin metal disk formed a hilt just above her hand. It was not the best he’d ever seen, but it would be sufficient.
He stepped back, saying, “Try it out.”
She swept the blade in wide, undisciplined arcs. The soldier in him made note that he’d have to correct that, but the man in him simply watched her move. She’d worn her dress today, the one she’d been in when he’d rescued her all those weeks ago. Her graceful limbs whipped and whirled, smooth muscle twitching faintly under supple leather as she moved. He could have watched her long, lithe thighs flex and extend for hours. So could Lathi, from the look on his face.