“You brought guests,” the big man said, wiping even more flour from his hands and onto the apron.
Mortsen stepped quickly to Vinnie, who smiled even harder. For once, someone else got the first word with him.
“You must be the man-mountain that beat the snot out of everyone in the Keep 52 alehouse last fall. I wish I could have seen that fight.” Mortsen stuck out his ursine hand.
“Well, Mortsen,” Vinnie gripped the hand hard and pulled himself closer. “There are plenty more fights to be had, and I’m a man who loves to share.”
“You have heard of me?” Mortsen asked.
“Indeed, I have,” Vinnie answered. “I’ve been around the Protectorates for a while.” Astrid noted the straining cords of muscle in their forearms as the two men tested each other. “We should eat, drink and talk.”
They finally released hands, and Mortsen clapped Vinnie on the shoulder with a blow that would have made most men collapse.
“You see, Astrid,” Mortsen announced in grandiose tones. “This is a man who knows how to live.”
Astrid shook her head. “Come on boys, let’s get some food in you before someone starts piss-marking territory.”
The statement made Mortsen chuckle and Vinnie’s face redden. They made their way to a back room where a worn table made from unfinished pine stood with four equally-rustic chairs.
“I’ve been baking bread,” Vinnie announced as everyone sat. “The bakers are kind enough to let me assist. The kitchen is where I do my best thinking.”
Gormer smirked at the flour-covered apron. “You don’t say. I wouldn’t have known that.”
Vinnie ignored him as a woman nearly as large as Vinnie bustled in with two fresh loaves of bread and set the table with oil and salt.
“Thank you, Marla.”
“These are the ones from your first batch. They’re very good, but your technique needs some work. You come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you more instruction.”
“I’m counting on it,” Vinnie replied with a much different grin than Astrid had seen from him.
To her surprise, Mortsen sat but didn’t reach for the bread. “Please start,” Astrid implored, playing the good host.
Mortsen dove in. He tore off a hunk of bread, then handed the loaf to Astrid, who took some and passed it around the table. Vinnie poured oil into another bowl and passed it along with the salt. More attendants entered with trays loaded with roasted vegetables and cold cuts of venison and lamb.
Another round of attendants brought ale and the beet wine for which the Protectorate was famous.
“Can’t drink beet wine,” Mortsen declared. “Reacts with my teeth and makes it taste like sucking on a horseshoe.”
Gormer poured him a cup of ale while Mortsen was talking. He gave a curt nod in acknowledgment, then drained half the mug.
Astrid was about to get down to business, but Mortsen beat her to the punch with a mouth full of bread. “So how can I help you?” he asked with a gulp and a belch.
Astrid gestured to Gormer, who reminded Mortsen. “We need to find out who hired those mercs to capture Charlie.”
“I’ll find out for you,” Mortsen promised. “Now let’s talk about your debt.”
“No,” Gormer countered firmly. “We need your contacts. We need you to tell us where they are so we can talk to them.”
“They won’t talk to you,” Mortsen argued. Gormer just smiled back. Mortsen cocked his head. “Oh, you think you can spy on them. Why would you want to do that if I can just find out for you?”
“That’s our business,” Gormer answered.
“Because we don’t trust you,” Astrid stated baldly.
“Ugh,” Gormer voiced and slapped a palm on his forehead. “Again, she plays all her cards.”
“Only way I play,” Astrid declared.
Mortsen chuckled. “No, she’s right. You shouldn’t trust me. I’ll tell you where they are. I’ll even come with you to make sure when your spy plan fails, I can still make good on my contract.”
“Something tells me your presence will guarantee our spying plan will fail,” Vinnie interjected.
“In this case, you are wrong, man-mountain,” Mortsen replied. “Gormer’s crazy schemes amuse me. Last time, there was opportunity in it for me. I won’t interfere. And, the contacts are in the same place as the first lieutenants you so recently dispossessed.”
Astrid cocked her head. “Why are you telling me that?”
All traces of amusement faded from Mortsen’s face. “Because you going to Kostree means you might have to kill some of them and they’re precisely the people I love killing best.”
“We’ll try to avoid that,” Astrid said. “We just ended a war, if you recall.”
“How could I forget?” Mortsen growled.
“So where is this place?” Gormer asked.
“Kostree just outside the reach of the protectorates.”
Vinnie arched an eyebrow, and his normally animated face froze. Gormer looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes.
“I take it by the reaction of my team here this place is not so nice?”
“You got a gift for understatement,” Mortsen replied. “The place was bad before, but your war made it a breeding ground for mercs. Now, thanks to you, there are magic users on the open market.”
“It seems like you really don’t like mercenaries,” Astrid observed.
“Hate ‘em. Never met one worth a lick of spit. Soldiers I can respect. Whores, thieves, highway bandits—all of those I respect. But you mix them all in one person? They’re the worst. Especially these sorts.” Mortsen paused. “They can be useful, sometimes. Private armies are not always bad…” He looked at the ceiling as if daydreaming.
“Well,” Astrid said with a deep exhale. She wasn’t sure how productive this meeting was, and now Mortsen had attached himself to the operation.
His ability to keep her off balance was impressive. She couldn’t tell what was an act and what was earnest. Was he the selfish rogue, or did he just pretend to be for some unknown purpose?
Either way, Astrid thought, he leads with pride. But he did help save you from the gallows. There was clearly not much in it for him.
She snapped out of her sudden morass of thought. “I have a lot of work to do. Mortsen, you are our guest, and I can’t think of a better host than Vinnie.”
She nodded at the big man, and he took the lead. “Mortsen, have you ever traveled to the great inland sea to the far southwest? The New Ancients called it the Mediterranean. This is the place of my home.”
Mortsen instantly engaged with Vinnie to the exclusion of everyone else. Astrid beckoned the rest with eye contact and a twitch of her head. They quietly left the table trying not to disturb the connection between two big men with bigger egos. Vinnie refilled their mugs as Astrid escaped with Gormer and the two pixies in tow.
Chapter Eight
Breakfast With Juveniles
“You smell like a brewery,” Astrid snapped as Vinnie approached the war room table on stiff legs.
She barely glanced at him. He was late, and she had grave concerns about the trip they were about to take. She’d informed him they needed to start early to plan the mission since they’d had no time to do so the day before. Astrid had spent the remainder of the previous afternoon coordinating the efforts of the first lieutenants who were all busy trying to address this new threat to the Protectorate.
Most of that work involved headache-inducing politics. Thel needed to fine-tune their response to a portal that could pop up at any time, anywhere.
Astrid was a master of strategic planning. She was ready to coordinate with the lieutenants. Instead, she spent most of the time mending political wounds and soothing egos. There was no way around it.
She’d had Gormer to help her, but Vinnie was much better at politics. She softened when she realized she was more annoyed that her trusted team was not complete. She missed any one of them when they weren’t around. That caused her eve
n more discomfort.
“I guess you—” She started when she looked up from the paperwork and got a good look at his face.
One of his eyes was swollen half-closed. His cheek was colored by a dappled purple bruise that stretched beyond the boundary of his beard.
Vinnie reached for a pitcher of water and didn’t bother with a cup. He drank in great gulps, and twin rivers escaped the corners of his mouth.
Astrid blinked, not knowing what to say. Her verbal deficit grew when Mortsen limped into the room with an equally bashed face. A thin, white bandage crossed the bridge of his swollen nose, and his left cheek looked like a squirrel’s in fall.
Vinnie handed him the pitcher with a grin that caused him to wince. Mortsen took a few gulps, then held the cold pitcher to his swollen cheek.
“What in the hell did you two get into last night?” Astrid finally found words.
“We had a spirited discussion,” Vinnie declared, locking eyes with his new playmate.
Mortsen thought that was hilarious and his laugh sounded more like a battle cry. They clapped each other on the shoulders and made mock fighting gestures at one another.
Astrid massaged her forehead and groaned. “I don’t want to know. Food is on the way. We need to plan for our trip this morning.”
“Where is the ale?” Mortsen demanded. “The only cure for a hangover is more drink.”
Gormer announced himself with involuntary laughter as he came out of the bedchamber where the Dregs slept on bunk beds.
“So that’s why you two didn’t come back here last night,” Gormer observed. “And that’s why I got a good night’s sleep for once. No snoring Vinnie.”
The creak of a hinge drew their attention to the heavy-framed windows. The group watched as the windows opened to admit two shimmering forms. Moxy and Tracker gelled into view in their preferred state of undress.
“Oh!” a voice exclaimed from the doorway. Jiri Petran stopped short with his squire beside him. Both men stared wide-eyed at the diminutive, naked forms.
“We were out all night,” Moxy said to the room by way of explanation. “Come on, Tracker. We should put on some of their clothes. They get too distracted otherwise.”
Tracker greeted them in his native language, then gave a little bow. “It is good to greet the day with you. Now I must sleep.”
He ambled into the sleeping chamber past Tarkon, who had just completed his morning meditation rituals. The Forge Monk was instantly set upon by his wife, who nearly tackled him with her embrace. They fell back into the room, and Moxy managed to kick the door closed behind them.
Seconds later, Tracker came out, became a shadow and slipped out the window again. “I’ll perch in the eaves, then,” he remarked along the way.
Gormer shrugged and met Astrid’s eyes. “Tarkon and Moxy didn’t get much of a honeymoon.”
Astrid looked around the room, eyes wide as color rose in her cheeks.
“What the hell is going on here?” she exclaimed. “We’re supposed to be going on a mission this morning. We have work to do.”
“Well.” Jiri recovered and ventured closer. “Tarkon can stay behind, and Squire and I can come with. Between the two of us, we should be able to make up for the talents of the Forge Monk. I’m afraid we can’t compensate for Moxy’s talents, though.”
He flashed a disarming smile that very nearly worked, but Astrid was too stressed.
“She really needs some...” Mortsen started to say with a lascivious smile. Astrid rounded on him slowly and leveled an icy gaze his way. “...breakfast,” he continued.
The arrival of food saved him from another brawl. They hammered out the plan over a quick meal, then headed to the stables.
Tarkon and Moxy did not appear.
On the Road to Kostree
The sun was just past its peak when they reached the end of the toll road and passed the last Protectorate guard post. The road ahead turned from wide and well-tended to narrow and overgrown within the first quarter mile.
Gormer’s mare had slowed. Her attention often strayed and Gormer usually indulged her before gently guiding her back to the intended path. His connection with her let him share some of her delight in sights, sounds, and smells.
“Makes you realize just how much order the protectorates bring to this part of the world,” Jiri remarked at the overgrowth as he rode beside Astrid. His squire trailed behind, followed by Vinnie.
Mortsen brought up the rear of their formation as if taking a pleasure ride. When the old mare slowed enough to be last, Gormer nudged her a bit with his heels to keep the pace. They rode in alert silence for an hour before Mortsen spoke up.
“Take the trail to the southeast. It’s coming up on your left.”
“Why don’t you ride up front?” Astrid called back in annoyance.
“Trust me,” Mortsen replied. “It’s better I ride back here.”
Astrid bit her tongue. She generally felt the opposite when someone asked her to trust them. Making the turn put Mortsen and Gormer even further behind.
“Astrid is cranky. She needs to relax. Maybe I should take her to bed and work all the knots out of her.”
Gormer rounded on Mortsen like a rifle barrel zeroing in on a varmint. “You talk about her like that again, Mortsen, and I will gut you like a fish.” His words were sharp ice.
Mortsen’s chuckle sounded like distant thunder. “She inspires much loyalty from her followers—more like a queen than a military leader.”
Gormer deflated. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Why didn’t you just talk to me about it? You don’t have to play head games with me, Mortsen.” His anger shifted as they rode along in strained silence. “Astrid is more than my leader.” He thought about it for a moment. “It’s like I’m following a star across the desert.”
A long while passed before Gormer was inspired by another realization. “Did you get drunk last night and say something similar to Vinnie?”
“You’re a smart one, I’ll give you that!” Mortsen exclaimed. “Haven’t had a fight like that in ages. It’s refreshing to fight someone who just wants to beat you into submission rather than kill you.”
“Yeah,” Gormer mused. “That’s a fight between friends.”
“Well,” Mortsen huffed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You keep pretending, Mortsen,” Gormer snapped. “You might find it a sign of weakness, but I don’t anymore. I’m not afraid to tell you I’m your friend, whether you like it or not. You’ll get more by being honest with us than by being an asshole. I almost found that out too late.”
Mortsen said nothing. His face remained neutral as the path narrowed until they were forced to ride single-file through thick woods.
They had passed into the valley lowlands between two steep mountain ranges. The trees were ancient here. Some rose a hundred feet or more. The high canopy created pools of light and shadow. Everything was green.
“In the old world,” Mortsen began. His softened voice startled Gormer for its sudden presence in the muted forest. “This was all farmland. It didn’t take but a century for the forest to reclaim the land. These trees must have arrived in the decades right after the World’s Worst Day Ever.”
“Moxy should be here to see it,” Vinnie softly replied. There was no need to speak loudly to be heard, as the sounds of hooves were muffled by moss and soft soil.
Mortsen harrumphed gently. “You all should feel privileged Moxy spends any of the daylight hours with you. Her people are nocturnal. I’m surprised she changed her schedule to match yours. Tracker is probably sleeping in a tree somewhere right now.”
They rode deeper into the forest until the path faded to nothing more than a deer track.
“This should do it,” Mortsen announced. “Hold here.”
“Where is Kostree?” Astrid asked as she dismounted.
They had planned to make camp near the village, then set out to find Mortsen’s contacts. Astrid had agreed to stay out
of the village, as she presented too much of a temptation to the mercs, criminals, and those who were still technically at war with her.
She didn’t agree to be inactive, though. She and Jiri planned to hide near Kostree in case they were needed.
“It’s a couple miles southeast of here,” Mortsen disclosed as he helped unload pup tents and other camp gear. They were prepared to stay a day or two, but Mortsen didn’t think it would take that long.
Vinnie set up a stout cloth hammock between two trees when the rest headed out.
“I’ll stay here and guard the camp,” Vinnie called, as he lay back in the hammock. “You kids have fun.”
He lay back and clasped his hands behind his head with a long sigh. His light snoring blended with a light breeze as the other four moved out toward Kostree.
Kostree was a haphazard collection of buildings centered around an ordered core of New Ancient structures that were reasonably intact.
“Vinnie should see this,” Gormer marveled as he and Mortsen approached the town. “Old world architecture like this is rare.”
“Stop gawking like a tourist,” Mortsen growled under his breath. “Your disguise is already drawing attention. What did you pick, anyway?”
“I invented the illusion from scratch,” Gormer supplied proudly. “It’s a combination of several people I’ve seen.”
“Bad idea,” Mortsen declared. “There’s a reason mystics always impersonate someone they have met before.”
“Relax,” Gormer suggested. “And you wouldn’t have to ask if you’d let your guard down.”
“No way I’m letting you into my head,” Mortsen hissed. “It’s for your own safety as much as mine.”
“Well, now I feel challenged. Don’t show a thief your safe if you don’t want—”
“Hello, Mortsen,” a silky female voice called behind them.
The heavy foot traffic on the narrow, cobblestone streets quickly thinned at the voice. People found another path to take, ducked down alleys, or suddenly found the shops and taverns irresistible.
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