by J. F. Lewis
Draekar eyed her expectantly.
“We won.”
“Excellent.” Frowning, Draekar slung his warpick back onto his back.
Kholster’s expression remained frozen—unreadable. Rae’en tried to guess whether he was pleased with her decision not to share the memory.
On his best days, her father could be maddening in his refusal to comment on the decisions of those under his command. She knew why and tried to keep it in mind as it applied to her and those she kholstered: He was First of One Hundred. Faint praise could be misconstrued. An alternate point of view could be seen a condemnation. She would hear from him later, she felt sure, but here . . .
“Are we clear to proceed?” Kholster interrupted.
“Of course,” Draekar answered.
“Kholster Rae’en,” Kholster turned to her, and Rae’en knew she had missed something other than the oath. The feeling swelled up over her. Was it something in one of Draekar’s subordinates’ free time? Another oath? A— “At your discretion.”
And then she understood. “You have done well, Draekar. I commend you and your hundred on their faithful service. I hope you will be pleased with your next rotation. Am I right,” she reached out for the details of what Draekar had shared with her, the bare metal information which remained even after their warpicks parted, “in thinking you were hoping for Castleguard rather than home?”
Draekar’s frown vanished. “Yes, kholster Rae’en.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” she mimicked the even tone her father used when he didn’t see why he couldn’t arrange something but wanted all the facts first. It was a promising tone, but not a promise. “Carry on.”
Twenty Aern saluted as Rae’en and her father entered the massive gate. She walked into its shadow trying not to compare it to her memories of the exhibition, of the water rising up around her, of sinking to the floor of the Arena with her lungs filling with water.
I am not being swallowed up, she told herself. And once she was in the tunnel itself, her body agreed and the momentary panic bled away. She had made her home in tunnels far smaller. Once inside this one, she marveled that she had ever let herself fear it.
CHAPTER 36
CROSSING THE BRIDGE
A loud metallic peal rang throughout the courtyard as Kholster head-butted the elderly Dwarf. Rae’en’s eyes widened as she watched the Dwarf’s eyes glaze over. She hoped he wasn’t going to pass out. The other Dwarves standing nearby, guards of some kind she surmised, blanched but fought to control their expressions.
They wore heavy breastplates and helms. Each also bore a shield on his back and a sword scabbarded on his left side. She’d expected them to all have long beards and axes or mattocks—maybe a pickaxe or two—but only four of the seven guards had long beards. Two of the remaining guards had short jaw-hugging beards like the one her father often kept—and had nearly regrown—the last was smooth-shaven. An inner struggle played out in the eyes of those guards as they fought the urge to reach out and assist the older, unarmored Dwarf.
Rae’en had never seen a Dwarf dressed like him. He wore a sleeveless burgundy shirt with platinum buttons up the front, its thin collar folded up against his neck. His bare arms revealed intricate tattoos done in shades of purple, blue, and gold which seemed of some significance, but if they had ever borne a resemblance to the runic markings her uncle’s people used, it was too distant for her to recognize. The thick leather belt at his waist seemed to have little to do with holding up the plaid pants he wore, though the oversized bone-steel buckle was worked with the same patterns as his arms, so maybe it served a similar purpose. The boots she recognized. The same thick-soled work boots worn by her uncle back home.
What a strange Dwarf, she thought to herself. I wonder if he knows he’s bleeding.
Blood an only slightly darker red than a human’s trickled across the lines on his forehead. Not the dark, almost black of Glinfolgo’s miners, nor the near orange of Aern blood. Her uncle had once told her the color in blood came from the mineral traces within it, the red color of human blood from iron, the near black of mining Dwarves from the overabundance of the same, and an Aern’s orange blood from the near-complete lack of it.
When she’d asked why there was such a difference, Glinfolgo had been unwilling to share. Dwarves and their secrets . . .
After crossing to the Dwarven side of the bridge, Rae’en and Kholster had walked out into an open expanse of land which hardly seemed any different than the countryside beyond the walls of the Guild City, except that the grass was more lush and the trees she could see to her far left and right were of a more uniform height and obviously well-tended and carefully trimmed. She hoped to catch sight of one of the famous Bridgeland trams which hauled cargo along the Western and Eastern walls, but they’d used the pedestrian South Gate, so all she could see was the occasional flutter of one of the Bridgeflies, the steam-driven dragonfly-shaped craft used to scout the walls and occasionally move troops or cargo rapidly from one gate to another.
Rae’en had hoped they might get to ride in one, but instead they’d come to a stop in a courtyard about fifty steps outside the South Gate tunnel, where statues of Jun (as an anvil) and Torgrimm (as a single twisted symbol of infinity wrought in metal) stood across from a representation of Aldo (as an open book). Arced stone benches formed a triangular arrangement around the fountain, and Rae’en wondered if the water was supposed to represent Queelay or if it was just water.
Up ahead, beyond the Dwarves and the fountain, loomed a village with squat-domed buildings all of wonderful white stone. Obelisks made of the same stone provided direction as the large central road upon which they had walked out of South Gate diverged. Looking back over her shoulder, Rae’en spotted more guards back along the wall and thought she spied a recessed stair from which additional guards probably stood ready to emerge.
On a normal day, Rae’en imagined the place busy with the hustle and bustle of visitors, constant traffic which their simple arrival had brought to a complete standstill—at least at this gate.
Maybe the increase in traffic before and after make up for it, she thought, people wanting to spot the great “Kholster Bloodmane.” She grinned at the thought, then covered it up quickly as she caught the smooth-shaven guard frowning at her.
The elderly Dwarf swayed slightly and coughed, clearing his throat. A light breeze picked up as if by design, the air smelling sweet. It didn’t smell of the sea like she’d expected; then again she guessed they were awfully high above the sea itself.
Was it two thousand hands high, she thought at Kazan, or three thousand?
The Dwarf shook his head as if to clear it, eyes brightening, then going dull again.
Of all the cultural “Prove you’re really an Aern” tests Rae’en had encountered, only the Dwarves had chosen one which involved physical discomfort for both parties. So many humans wanted an Aern to cut himself to reveal the bone metal within and a good flow of the orange blood which seemed to so easily amaze them. Kholster narrowed his gaze, concern showing on his face when the Dwarf wobbled.
“Karl?” He put a steadying hand on the Dwarf’s armored shoulder.
“I swear your skull gets harder with age,” the Dwarf said, waving him away.
Of course our bones get harder with age, Rae’en thought to her absent Overwatches. What does he think would happen? They’d get brittle?
Of course, there was no answer. Rae’en wondered if the information would all be delivered to them in a rush once they were back within range or if they were just lost thoughts. She waited for her father to confirm Karl’s suspicions, but he did not clarify, so she didn’t either.
At her father’s age, his bone-steel was notoriously hard to work with, requiring heat approaching draconic levels of intensity to melt and shape. Fortunately, Dwarves didn’t require a full-force head butt, just enough to hear the sound of the Aern’s skull ringing. That was one thing the bridge Dwarves had in common with the Dwarves back home: the
y loved the sound of ringing metal, bone-steel in particular.
Are they weaker than the Dwarves back home? she asked her Overwatches. They look weaker.
Karl steadied himself. His tanned skin was a near-human shade rather than the mineral hues of home. Karl’s hair was odd, too . . . a light chestnut which reminded Rae’en of human hair. She wondered if it was flammable like human hair. And further pondered why no one ever picked that test for an Aern.
Hair inflammability. Surely it would be much more comfortable for everyone involved. Maybe it’s too easy to fake, she thought, and it wasn’t as if Aern hair wouldn’t burn, it just took more heat than it did to burn human hair. Cadence had burned Kholster’s hair off pretty easily . . . and probably there were alchemists who could do the same sort of thing.
Several spells too, she imagined.
Karl, the elderly Dwarf, swayed on his feet again, then, seeming to master himself at last, smoothed the front of his burgundy tunic, resting his hand on the broad bone-steel buckle which graced his thick leather belt and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Welcome to the Great Junland Bridge, Kholster of the Aern,” The elder Dwarf announced. “You are our welcome guest . . . ah . . .” he stumbled over the word as if just remembering her, “You and your daughter are our welcome guests. I greet you . . . eh . . . both . . . on behalf of my fellow servants of Jun.”
“Thank you, Foreman Karl,” Kholster said as the two of them clasped forearms. “Your head is hard and your works are an honor to Jun. I come in peace to your people and seek passage to North Gate where I shall continue on to Oot that I might fulfill an oath there.”
“We would not hinder you,” Karl said with the air of someone reciting a script he knew well and considered important, but one he wanted to get out of the way so the real conversation could begin. “But if you would like to grace us with your presence for a time, there are many matters we would like to discuss and many inventions we would like to share.”
“Kholster Rae’en?” Rae’en jumped at the unexpected transfer of command, heart quickening. Foreman Karl? FOREMAN Karl? Her father was handing her command in the midst of a conversation with the Dwarf responsible for kholstering the whole of the Junland Bridge! She wondered how many Dwarves made their homes there and how many humans, gnomes, and manitou besides called the bridge their home and, this Dwarf, therefore, their kholster.
Something mischievous glinted in the old Dwarf’s eyes. He covered it well, but she’d spent too much time around mine Dwarves to miss the look even on a bridge Dwarf.
“I’m sure we could spare you a few days, Foreman Karl, if the matters you wish to discuss cannot wait for our return trip.”
Karl’s eyes lit up at the word “days.”
“Of course,” Rae’en continued, “we would need to prevail upon your hospitality and complete our journey across your fair domain underland.”
Karl’s expression darkened.
That old Dwarf wants to maximize the number of assassination attempts, Rae’en bristled inwardly. Can you believe him? she thought to her Overwatches.
“Underland?” Karl asked, stricken.
“As I’m sure you are aware, Foreman Karl,” Rae’en said as diplomatically as she could manage, “it is the common practice for assassins funded by Castleguard, the Guild Cities, and various other nations to attempt to kill my father on his sojourn to Oot. Historically, Bridgeland has been the focus of such attacks, as the Aern are unlikely to invade Bridgeland because of our friendship. I’m told there is some small amount of gambling involved.”
“Gambling, you say?” Karl blinked. “In my kingdom? Are you quite sure?”
Kholster snorted at that.
“Kholster doesn’t mind,” Rae’en bulled on, “a certain amount of it. After all, he is one of the Armored and cannot die unless he allows himself to do so. As a result, I’m told most of the betting now has to do with how many attempts there will be, how quickly the assassins will be dispatched, and how long the journey from South Gate to North Gate will take to be completed.” Rae’en smiled brightly.
“It’s all in good fun from our perspective, but I’m further informed most bets have an underland route nullifier. While we’d hate to break the game, only an underland route would allow us sufficient time to enjoy your Dwarven hospitality at this point.”
Kholster leaned forward. “I know I, for one, am very interested in viewing some of the air-gardening techniques you’ve been using—”
“Of course. Of course.” Karl nodded. “We’ll make ample time for that on your return trip.”
“But, Foreman,” Rae’en jumped back in, “if the matters you have are truly urgent, the Aern would be loath to—”
“It can wait,” Karl blustered. “No trouble at all. I have to look into this gambling business immediately. Would . . . would you and Kholster like an escort? I mean, if you’re going to be attacked by these . . . assassins . . . in my domain, I—”
“We’ll be fine, old friend.” Kholster interrupted, putting a hand on Rae’en’s shoulder.
Well done, his thoughts touched hers for an instant, and she repressed the urge to grin from ear to ear.
“It’s settled then,” Kholster continued. “You’re sure it would it give no offense, Karl, if we waited to spend time together on my return trip?”
Karl sighed. “We Dwarves are patient and I know your task weighs on your mind. On your return then?”
“You have my intention.”
“But not your oath?” Karl raised an eyebrow.
“Not this time, my friend, but I assure you the lack of my oath is no indication of my feelings toward you or your kingdom. We remain one people in peace and friendship as far as the Aern are concerned.”
“The Dwarves feel the same.” Karl nodded. “We are kin.”
Kin that apparently think it’s great fun to set you up for assassination and then watch, Rae’en grumbled to her Overwatches.
As they took their leave, Kholster unslung Grudge from his back and offered it to her. “Swap with me?”
It was a question, not a command, but she swapped weapons all the same, feeling guilty as she handed over Testament and felt Grudge’s extra weight settle against her back. In her mind’s eye she saw the weapon dropping through the seawater. I will never drop it again.
I’m told that Karl bet long, which means either the assassins are particularly impressive this year, or there’s some new wrinkle he doesn’t think I’ll be able to get around too easily. Kholster’s thoughts flowed into her mind. Best to stay in easy communication range until we see what’s going on.
Yes, sir.
Shall we run or take it slow?
Aren’t we in kind of a hurry now?
Haste would not be inappropriate.
Run, then. Rae’en breathed a sigh of relief. The desire to run through Bridgeland as quickly as possible and only pay real attention to it upon their return—when no one was trying to kill her—was what she craved.
Shall we make it something of a race then?
Done! Rae’en burst ahead of him as she answered. Behind her, Kholster laughed and the world felt right again.
CHAPTER 37
THE BRIDGE RACE
We’ll need rules, Kholster sent Rae’en shortly after her head start.
Rules? Rae’en thought back at him.
Kholster waited until she was out of sight, glad to see her happy, hoping it was the first step in putting his mistake at the Arena behind them both. Once she was clear, he jogged back to the courtyard catching Foreman Karl and his guards at the top of the one of the recessed stairs leading into the Underbridge, where only Dwarves were allowed.
A guard tapped Foreman Karl, and he turned as Kholster approached.
“Forget something, old friend?”
Yes. Kholster thought back to Rae’en. Rules. Otherwise it’s only an endurance test. To Karl, he said: “They can try to kill me, Karl, and it doesn’t even chaff my skin, but her—”
“K
holster,” Karl smiled broadly, arms wide. “This gambling and assassination, I’ll admit I’d heard rumors, yes, but—”
Closing with the Foreman, Kholster chose to ignore the nearby guards moving as if to intercept him. Karl’s surreptitious waving them off told Kholster all he needed to know, but he had to play it out. Sometimes other sentients insisted on seeing these social interactions through even when the outcome had already become heartshot certain.
So Kholster leaned in close to the elderly bridge Dwarf, keeping his voice light, eyes bright and smiling. Doubled canines peeking out like swords with only an inch of steel showing above the scabbard—a threat . . . but one that could be denied.
“I can’t die, Karl.” Kholster’s words tumbled out. “But she can. She’s just realized it herself, and I need to give her time to move past it.”
And in a straight endurance test you’d automatically win, Rae’en thought back.
“Then shouldn’t you let her get right back in the mine and swing the pick?” Karl firmly but gently pushed Kholster back, and Kholster let him.
“Maybe I’m the one who has to get used to it,” Kholster said as he stepped back. Probably. If this is going to be fun, it should also be fair, he sent to Rae’en.
“What do you want me to do, I can’t be everywhere at—”
“You think I don’t know about your fly spies,” Kholster scoffed, pointing directly at one of the minute bronze insects with its translucent wings, “or those scrying posts?” His gaze shifted, looking for one and not finding it right away. “I’ve ignored them in the past, but now I need you to use them to keep her safe.”
“And if I don’t?” Karl tucked his thumbs into his belt.
“I think you will.”
“Are you threatening me?” The warmth in Karl’s voice chilled but did not altogether vanish. His pupils widened.
Fair how? Rae’en asked.
You tell me, Kholster shot back.
“I shouldn’t have to.” Kholster spread his hands wide. “But . . . ‘the Eye that spies on me, I shall pluck out.’ It’s not an oath, but it is a . . . firm opinion. A warning.”