Blood Lust

by Garrett Robinson

  “Eight slivers, dear.”

  “I have it,” said the old man, reaching into a pocket.

  “No, please,” said Sun, grasping for her coin purse. “I can pay for—”

  “Of course you can, with clothes like that,” said the old man. “But you are a guest here, and I insist. It is my pleasure to share what I have.” He produced the copper pieces and placed them in the barmaid’s hand.

  “Thank you.” Sun turned to the barmaid. “And thank you as well.”

  “Of course, love.” The barmaid winked and left. Sun felt blood rushing into her cheeks.

  “Have a sip,” said the old man. “It is a decent enough brew.”

  Sun sipped at the beer and found it good. Better than she had expected from a tavern in such a small town, though she still preferred the mead of home.

  “That is pleasant,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “And even better after a long day on the road,” said the old man. Sun must have looked surprised, for he smiled. “Your boots are muddy, and as I said, it is clear you are not from this place.”

  He did not ask where she was from, for which she was grateful, though the question seemed to hang unspoken in the air between them. Slowly she drank another swig of beer.

  “The second sip is better,” she said. “I imagine the third will be more so.”

  The old man snorted and leaned forwards. “I love Tunsha dearly, and so I ask you not to repeat my words, but his brew is hardly the best I have ever had. In my youth I knew a woman who could brew the best ale in all of Underrealm.”

  Sun nodded politely. But again she was struck by a strange feeling—a sense that she was missing something obvious. It was disconcerting. She had never been in this place—why should she expect anything here to be familiar?

  As the old man kicked his chair back to lean against the wall again, she studied him more closely. He kept saying how she was a stranger in this town, and yet she realized suddenly that he, too, had recently traveled here. His chin bore several days of beard, and his long-worn clothes spoke plainly of travel—not to mention the second, stained cloak which she herself wore over her blue one. And mayhap most telling of all was his money. He had paid for her drink as if it was nothing, and Sun had heard many coins in his purse. Only someone traveling, and traveling a long way, would bear that much coin while looking so shabby.

  Then Sun noticed something curious: despite his single arm, there was an unstrung bow leaning on the wall behind him. Sun knew bows, and this was one of the finest she had ever seen. It had certainly been crafted in Calentin, and she had already noticed signs of that kingdom in his features.

  Her thoughts came crashing together with the force of an ocean gale. Sun’s mouth fell open and went dry all at once, and her fingers clenched upon the mug of beer.

  The old man noticed her reaction, and his eyes glinted.

  “Yes?” he said amicably.

  “You … you are Albern. Of the family Telfer.”

  The old man took a long pull from his mug, returned it to the table, and wiped some foam from his upper lip. “Now, what would make you say such a thing?”

  “Your bow. Your face. Your … your arm. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but …”

  He cocked his head. “But do the tales not say that Albern of the family Telfer lived a very long time ago?”

  “Not that long ago,” said Sun. “And none of the tales say that he has died yet.”

  The old man’s smile widened. “Then I suppose there is some worth in them. You have guessed aright.”

  “But … but you …” Sun gestured vaguely, having no idea what to do with her hands. “You … you fought in the War of the Necromancer, and—and in everything that happened afterwards. You—” Sun’s voice fell almost to a whisper. “You walked alongside the Wanderer.”

  She thought his eyes went a little sad at that. But he answered only, “Take another drink.”

  Sun did so, downing quite a bit more than she had intended. It struck her gut, and a heady feeling crept into her skull. “I … what are you doing here?” she said finally.

  Albern only gave her the same sad look. “I did walk beside the Wanderer, as you said. And it is her beer I praised so highly. Is that how you guessed?”

  “That was part of it.”

  “To think that legends of her ale survive to this day.” Albern shook his head. “I would give much to taste it now. Those were the days when Mag was happiest—when she lived in Northwood, and ran her inn, and loved her husband well.”

  Sun gave a start. “Her husband?”

  Albern raised his brows. “You know of her ale, but not of Sten?”

  “I had never … they say she was not a lover.”

  “They would be more correct to say she was not a bedder,” said Albern. “But love? Oh, yes. She loved Sten. And I suppose it is not altogether surprising that he should have faded away from her story. She would hate that he did. Yet talespinners often focus only on the choicest gems in their own treasure. They have not the jeweler’s touch, and so they discard the mountings that make the gems shine brighter still.”

  Sun did not know quite what to make of these words. She tried for a moment to think of an answer, but when she could not, she took another sip of beer instead.

  “But now we are unequal,” said Albern. “You know who I am, but I know nothing about you.”

  “What do you want to know?” asked Sun, her pulse skipping.

  “Your name, for one thing.”

  “It is Sun.” It felt strange not to give her family name. Her tongue wanted to say it by reflex, and she had to restrain it from doing so.

  If the look in Albern’s eyes was any indication, he had noticed her omission. But his tone remained kindly. “Do not worry. In this place, you are only yourself. You are not whatever person you left in the street outside.”

  It was a pleasant thought, that she had left her past at the door like a coat. But she did not entirely believe it. She felt a need to steer the conversation away from her identity, and she had a perfect excuse.

  “Is it true what they said about the Wanderer? About the way she fought? All those things she did?” Again her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Is it true what they say about how you lost your arm?”

  Albern smiled. “That is a pile of questions all at once. You know, I imagine, that if I were to tell you all the tales of the Wanderer that I know of, we would be here for months at least?”

  “I know that,” said Sun quickly. “But … but could you tell me the important parts, at least?”

  He studied her more closely still, and Sun felt that he was seeing more than her face, more than her fine clothing. She felt understood in a way that she rarely had before, truly seen in a way that no one in Dulmun had ever made her feel.

  “The important parts,” murmured Albern, and it was as though he was talking to himself. “Yes, I suppose you might need to hear the important parts.” Then he spoke in a normal tone of voice again. “But I think the important parts are quite different from what you believe them to be. I will tell you a story if you wish, but not the story of my arm. Not tonight.”

  Sun could not help the crestfallen look upon her face. “Why not?”

  “Stories may belong to whoever knows them, but these are more mine than most,” said Albern, smirking a little. “I do not mind sharing some of my adventures with you—but only if you will listen to the ones I choose. Do we have a deal?”

  It was not such a bad thing, Sun supposed. Knowing what she did about Albern and the Wanderer, even a simpler tale was bound to be exciting. And the beer was good. Glumly, she nodded.

  Albern motioned to the barman again—Sun had not even realized her mug was empty—and waited for two more beers to be brought out. When the drinks had been set down on the table, Albern leaned his chair forwards, drank deep, and waited for Sun to do the same.

  “Very well, Sun of No Name. These are the tales of the Wanderer.”

  I WAS NOT YOUN
G WHEN this story began, but I was younger, at least. This was decades ago, and though my temples were just starting to grey, I was still hale.

  In those days I lived in the town of Strapa, but I had been hired to guide a party of travelers through the Greatrocks. Leading the party—at the end of our journey, not the beginning—was Loren of the family Nelda. Have you ever heard of the Nightblade? That was her. Then there was the girl Annis, of the family Yerrin, and Gem of the family Noctis—no blood kin of Loren’s, yet closer to her than siblings. There was also the wizard, Xain but … well, he was less than cheery company.

  And there was one other who set out with us from Strapa. But I would rather not speak of him now, for no story should begin on a note of tragedy.

  I guided them all through the Greatrocks, across long leagues and through great dangers. We had some dark times in those mountains, and some good ones—both victory and defeat, though not in equal measure.

  What you care about is that at the end of the journey—the end of that journey, at least—we rode down from the Greatrocks and into the town of Northwood. Our hearts were heavy, but our steps were light. To me, riding into Northwood was like visiting an old friend. I had dwelled there for some time. And Mag lived there. Mag, who would one day be called the Wanderer, and to whom legend had already given other names—first among them, the Uncut Lady. Mag, the mercenary, the barmaid, the wife. Mag, my dearest and oldest companion.

  How long had it been since I visited her last? I do not remember now. Too long, I am certain. It is often that way when two people part after their youth. We made plans, we promised we would not lose touch, we thought we would always remain close. Such promises are always made in earnest, but the world usually works to break them, and so it was with us. It had been years since we had seen each other, and though we sometimes sent letters, even those had become more infrequent.

  Mag and Sten had built their inn with some help from the townsfolk. It had a second floor, which was unusual in Northwood, but very necessary; Mag’s skill with brewing was well known, and she had many visitors from both near and far. But despite its size, the building did not seem to loom over you when you approached. Rather, it stood with welcoming arms spread wide, like an old woman greeting her grandchildren as they come to visit. Sten had fashioned a large sign to hang over the front door; upon it, a great rock thrust out of the land, waves and wind crashing against it.

  “The Lee Shore,” I said. “And does it not feel like one after those mountains?”

  We were eager for rest, so after tending to our horses, I pushed open the door and led our little party inside. Once through the door, I stopped to soak in the feel of the place. It was a sunny day outside, but I felt like I had found a warm hearth in the middle of a blizzard. I imagine you appreciate the atmosphere of this tavern where we are now. The Lee Shore was superior in every way you can imagine.

  There behind the counter stood Mag. A figure of legend, though she did not look it at the moment. Her hair was held back by a string, and her arms were streaked with grease and dirt and sweat. But she had washed her face and hands, and as we entered she was scrubbing a glass clean.

  She looked up suddenly, and our eyes met from across the room. Her expression broke into a smile that warmed me to the depths of my heart.

  “Now there is a face this place has missed for far too long,” she called out. “Come here, you great lummox!”

  I suppose I should tell you how I met Mag. It was not long after I reached adulthood. I had left my home looking for freedom and an adventure. Great skill at archery had been drilled into me by my family’s masters at arms, and my sword work was passable. So when I found a mercenary company that was recruiting, I submitted myself to their trials.

  They were called the Upangan Blades, and they were a good lot—for mercenaries, you understand. There were no evil soldiers among their ranks, at least, and they had a code of honor. They treated each other well, and did as little as they could to make others’ lives worse than they had to be. It had earned them a good reputation, which I knew even in my homeland, and that reputation meant they were never hired by cruel or vicious kings. That suited me just fine. As it happened, they were in their homeland of Feldemar at the time, and I happened to be passing by.

  The master at arms was a hard-bitten woman—I imagine I shall tell you more of her later—and she did not look upon me very favorably. I fear I made rather a fool of myself when they asked to see me ride in plate. But they let me show them my bowcraft, and the head of the company happened to pass by while I was shooting. My acceptance was assured after that.

  Still, they had a long period of training for all new recruits, and the master at arms tried her best to break us. We worked hard from sunup to beyond sundown. Many did not withstand the trials, but fled home in disgrace. It was not a pleasant time, but it hardened me for a future that was often even less pleasant.

  And then, shortly after I joined the Blades, Mag arrived. My sergeant was a man named Victon, and he called me to him one day while I was in the middle of sparring practice. Mag stood beside him.

  “Albern,” he said, “we have fresh blood today, and you will see to her arrangements.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  I stepped forwards, and Mag and I clasped wrists.

  “Well met,” said Mag.

  “And you. Let me show you the first and most important thing you must know in the Blades, or so they have told me. Latrine duty.”

  Victon smiled and shook his head. “I will take my leave.”

  Mag watched him go. “He seems to have heard a private joke in your words. I imagine you make the newest recruits dig the latrines?”

  “Nothing so unfair.” I fished into my pocket and drew forth a copper sliver. “A thousand decisions must be made every day, and a soldier has no time for arguing. When we must choose between two things, and both choices are equal, we let fate decide. Now—head or moons?”

  I flicked the sliver into the air. “Head,” said Mag.

  The coin came up. The face of Andriana stared up at me.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “You get to dig the latrines.”

  Mag scowled. “I said heads.”

  “And your sign came up. We did not specify if you got to choose who dug the latrines, or if you had to do it yourself.” I clapped her on the shoulder. “Here is your second lesson as a sellsword: when you gamble, make sure the other person is not stacking the odds in their favor.”

  “Now that is a lesson I will take to heart.”

  “Fear not,” I said. “It is your first day, and so I will be generous and help you dig.”

  “I suppose I shall take it,” she said, smiling, “since you should be doing it on your own.”

  I decided that I liked her. After we dug the latrines, I took care of the other little details of her indoctrination, showing her around the camp and introducing her to those who would call themselves her superiors—though as we would soon learn, that was only in name.

  ALBERN COCKED HIS HEAD. “DO you know why they called Mag the Uncut Lady?”

  The question seemed to come from nowhere. “I … do not think so,” said Sun. “I know they call her the Wanderer because of the way you two crisscrossed all the nine kingdoms.”

  “Yes, but she was called the Uncut Lady long before that,” said Albern.

  “I always assumed she could not be touched in battle, and so had never been cut.”

  Albern smiled. “You are not wrong.”

  Sun grinned back. “I notice that you do not say if I am right.”

  He gave a great laugh at that. “Oh, well done. You speak the truth of Mag’s name, but you understate the matter. Let me tell you another, smaller tale that will explain further. It happened at the end of Mag’s second day with the company. As you know, sparring is sweaty, dirty work. It was common for the recruits to go and bathe in the river Skytongue at least once every few days. Some recruits were more modest than others, and they would find places
to bathe alone. But most of us stayed together, stripping down to our skins and flinging ourselves into the water.”

  Albern paused for a moment as he saw color rising in Sun’s cheeks. “Ah. You would have been one to bathe alone, I suppose? I do not need to tell you this story if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  Sun shook her head. “I am not uncomfortable, and I would not have bathed alone. Just because I have never done it before does not mean I would be … squeamish.”

  He hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Very well. Then, with your permission, I will continue.”

  “Please,” said Sun.

  “Well, we were all young, then, and blood flowed in our veins. Recruits often stole glances at each other from time to time—though there is nothing very lovely about bathing, truth be told. But in any case, I got a better look at Mag than most. I will not dwell overmuch on the details. Suffice it to say that she had a fine body. Exquisitely muscled and strong and … well, she was worth glancing at, let us say.”

  Sun’s blush deepened, and Albern gave her another smile. “Are you sure you do not want me to stop? I had nearly forgotten about the proclivities of noble children.”

  “Oh, please,” said Sun. “I am not some trembling son of Selvan. I am fine.”

  “Well, then. It was quite some time before I noticed the oddest thing of all about Mag. She had no scars. None at all. Not on her body, her arms or legs. Not even her hands.”

  “That makes sense, considering how well she could fight,” said Sun.

  Albern frowned. “It does not make sense. No matter how skilled a fighter may be when they learn warcraft, they still have to learn it. And everyone, when they are learning to fight, gets injured. Training accidents are common. Your opponent is trying to strike you with a blade. No matter how blunted it is, no matter how padded your training armor, at some point, everyone spills a little blood. You yourself have scars on your hands that do not look like they came from a cooking accident.”