“You haven’t heard the offer yet,” Vlandar said.
“Giants.” Agya licked her lips. “D’you know what they do to you? I’ve ’eard tales.”
“I saw,” Lhors broke in harshly. “I could tell you what’s true, but I won’t.”
“Well, then!” the urchin tugged at Malowans belt. “Want me to grow up honest-like? Not much chance of it, if we go where I’ll get killed and et, is there?”
“But someone with your talents—” Vlandar began.
“Which he says I gotta give up!”
“But there are ways for a thief to earn honor as a thief,” Vlandar countered. Malowan looked none too happy about that reasoning.
“If the thief lives long enough,” Agya spat back.
“Long enough to return home with wealth untold, treasure beyond counting… ?” Vlandar paused. Agya was speechless. “Any treasure you find—if you help us—is yours… to share with your comrades, of course. But there won’t be more than ten of us.”
Vlandar waited. Malowan touched his friend’s arm and shook his head. Agya was lost in rapt contemplation.
“Treasure,” the little thief breathed happily. “A giants’ trove! Gems and gold, coins and jewels and amulets… a girl could set herself up proper with a store of that!”
Malowan and Vlandar exchanged amused glances. Lhors’ jaw dropped and he stared. “A girl could… you’re a girl?”
Agya grinned at Malowan. “Fooled one, anyway,” she told the paladin, who cast up his eyes. “Tell me ’bout this treasure.”
To Lhors’ surprise, Vlandar and Malowan sent word about the city, not the lord or the king. The day after they were granted the king’s blessing, the two men planned to interview candidates in Vlandar’s barracks and the nearby practice yard. Fortunately, Malowan was as willing as Vlandar to explain things to a village youth out of his element.
“The task has been passed on to Vlandar. Besides, some of those Vlandar would like to recruit are the kind who won’t want any part of an ‘official’ company. On a journey like this, you want the toughest, and they aren’t always law-abiding.”
Lhors had also assumed that by now he would be on his way back to High Haven, but when he had suggested as much, Vlandar waved it aside. “You have a right to be here to see us begin vengeance for your people.”
When the first two men—rough-looking fellows armed with nets and pikes and clad in hardened leathers—came looking for the warrior, Vlandar had both Malowan and Lhors with him.
Vlandar talked to both men for some time—Sterich mercenaries, Malowan later confirmed. Lhors had seen such men once before but had never entertained the idea of working with them. After a short interview, Vlandar turned them down. Neither seemed particularly offended as they walked off.
Lhors shook his head. “They seemed very experienced to me.”
Vlandar laughed. “Yes, but not the kind of experience we want. There’s a rumor those two men killed a companion a year ago so that they wouldn’t have to split a purse of gold with him.”
“It’s not rumor,” Malowan put in quietly. “I know they killed him.”
Vlandar shrugged. “We don’t want swordsmen who can’t be trusted, but Olmic isn’t that good, anyway.” He dropped the subject as someone else came in and hesitated in the doorway, eyes searching the room.
“Nemis!” The paladin held out his hands, and the newcomer took them between his own dark-skinned, long fingers. “I thought you weren’t interested!”
“I have changed my mind.” Dark brown eyes moved across the other two before fixing on Vlandar. One eyebrow went up.
Malowan smiled. “Vlandar’s in charge here. You know of him, don’t you? The young man is Lhors. The village was his. Lhors, Nemis is a mage.”
Lhors studied the newcomer with interest. The mage was tall and lean, and Lhors would have placed him in his mid to late thirties. His hair was long and curled, and his thin, sun-darkened face sported a narrow mustache and neat little beard. He wore dark green trousers tucked into soft brown boots and a long green tunic, held at the waist by a sword belt and a curious-looking woven sash. A brooch of leather at his breast was carved with a pattern of three diamonds. The sword belt held a plain rapier, and a matching poniard was stuck in the sash. The mage casually leaned against a walking stick that looked as if it might be a fighting staff.
“You’re a mage, so why carry those?” Vlandar’s eyes fixed on the sword belt.
A corner of the dark man’s mouth quirked. His voice was low and non-carrying. “I like blades, but only a fool depends on one strength.”
“I can vouch for him. He knows which end of a sword goes in and which you hold,” Malowan said with a sudden grin, “even if he’s not much better than that with them.”
Vlandar nodded. “I trust Mal, and I’ve heard of you, Nemis. But why did you change your mind? Mal said—”
The mage shrugged. “Malowan hadn’t told me you were riding against the Steading, against the giants. If you do, you’ll need me.”
“Oh? Why?” the warrior returned sharply.
“I have battled giants before. I know spells that work against them. I’m good at what I do.”
Before Vlandar could reply, Malowan tapped him on the arm and drew him into the far corner of the barracks room, where they talked quietly but intensely for some moments.
When they came back, Vlandar held out his hands, palm up. Nemis placed his hands on the warrior’s, palm down.
“Mal’s word is good for me, Nemis, but if there’s anything you’d like to tell me before we leave Cryllor, I would appreciate it. An old warrior like me doesn’t appreciate surprises, you know.” He turned to Malowan. “Will we need another magician for healing spells, or can you manage that?”
“Malowan and I have worked together before,” the mage said quietly, “and I will procure a few specialized charms before we leave.”
“Find whatever you need. The king and the Lord Mebree are good for it. We’ll leave here as soon as we can. Stay nearby, or let me know where you’ll be tomorrow and the day after. If there’s any special gear or other supplies you need, let me know.”
The mage merely shook his head, turned, and left.
* * *
Over the next two days, Lhors watched in fascinated silence as Vlandar interviewed a number of would-be giant-slayers and heroes. Malowan was sometimes there but was often acting as go-between with the lord’s steward. The paladin went back and forth—sometimes hourly as yet another list of necessary supplies was worked up.
Most of the time, Malowan’s young companion was elsewhere, much to the relief of Lhors. Agya teased or mocked him incessantly when Malowan wasn’t around. He still found it hard to believe when the girl admitted to fourteen years, but Malowan assured him she was at least that old. Even cleaned up and clad more like a girl, she still looked no more than a skinny ten or so to his eyes. Probably she had found her size and shape useful. Lhors couldn’t imagine a girl thief surviving long in the bad parts of the city.
Vlandar and Malowan both were willing to explain to an untutored villager why they chose one applicant over another. A noble who had proven sword-skill and an impressive background against local road thieves was turned down.
“Hobric can’t get beyond the fact he’s noble, so he feels he must be in charge, even if he hasn’t the skills of a leader,” Vlandar told Lhors after the man had stormed out of the barracks. “Also, he goes nowhere without his personal servant. The creature’s said to be part orc and nowhere near so well trained as he believes it to be.”
“It has eaten men,” Malowan said with distaste, “and it is not a servant. It is a slave, and even though it is a dreadful creature, no one should have the right to enslave another. If Hobric and that brute go with Vlandar, I do not.”
“What is this?” Vlandar asked suddenly.
Two reed-slender young women clad in rusty browns and greens had entered just as Hobric stormed out. One clutched an unstrung longbow, while the oth
er wore a bundle of short throwing spears over her right shoulder.
“Rangers,” Vlandar murmured to Lhors.
The youth nodded, his eyes wide. Not just rangers by the look of them, but identical twins. As they came across the small room, he could see long, neat, very pointed ears rising from their thick dark hair. One of the women had her hair bundled back into a long plait, and her sister confined hers with a leather thong. Both wore small silver hair-brooches shaped like an oak and thistle above their right ears.
Try as he might, Lhors could only tell them apart by the hair and the different pattern of brown-on-brown checkered shirts they both wore over plain trousers that were almost baggy enough to be taken for skirts. Two pairs of incredible, slightly slanted, green eyes met his curiously, then moved on.
“Warrior, I am Rowan,” the bow wielder said in a low, husky voice, “and this is my sister, Maera. We hear you’re hoping to teach the Steading a lesson.”
The other spoke in a slightly reedier voice. “We’re rangers, as you’ve no doubt guessed already. I am told you knew our father, Anaerich of Ket?”
“I met Anaerich some years ago.” Vlandar half-stood so he could bow. “I wasn’t aware he was Kettish—or that there were elves or half-elves in Ket.”
“There aren’t many,” Maera said. “Our father left Ket long years ago.”
Rowan smiled faintly. “We want to help if you’re going after the Steading. What those overgrown brutes did to our forest last spring is appalling. We’ve certain useful skills beyond tracking and woodcraft.”
“Such as?” asked Vlandar.
“We will demonstrate, if you wish,” Rowan replied with a mischievous smile. Motioning the others to follow, she and her sister strode back into the yard.
Lhors accompanied Vlandar and watched in fascination as Rowan strung her bow and slipped an arrow to the string. Lhors had scarcely looked up to the target on the far wall before Maera’s javelin quivered squarely in the center of the tiny white patch. Rowan laughed, pulled the nocked arrow to her cheek, and loosed in one swift motion. Her arrow quivered in the center of the javelin’s haft.
“We’ve been rangers for twenty-four years,” Maera explained. “We know how to work with a team, warrior.”
“Say no more,” Vlandar said, grinning widely. “A man would be a fool to turn down rangers. We’ll leave as soon as we can, so stay in touch. If you have any particular needs as far as gear or supplies, let Malowan here know. He’ll see you get whatever you need.”
“Elves?” Lhors asked after the twins had gone.
Vlandar nodded. “Half-elven, but any elf blood means you’re an elf. And rangers… a thief like young Agya can move unnoted around a city or a slum, but those two could make her look clumsy. We’ll be fortunate to have them.” He grinned as Lhors nodded with enthusiasm. “For their talents, boy. They’re well over twice your seventeen years, even if they don’t look it.”
Lhors blushed.
They both turned toward the door as someone yelled, “Get yourself out of my way, wench! I have business in here!”
Lhors heard Rowan snarl something that left a foppish young man red-faced and sputtering. The rangers bowed sarcastically, then left as the man stomped into the barracks and stared around with visible distaste.
“Mercy on us,” Vlandar said to Lhors mildly, but his lips twitched. “It’s a hero.”
“He looks like one,” Lhors replied, eyes wide as he studied the fellow.
“I am Arkon,” the newcomer announced loudly. His voice was considerably deeper than it had been when he had yelled at the rangers. He wore silk—a brilliantly red shirt with bloused sleeves and sleek black trousers tucked into knee-high boots. Black leather gauntlets covered his arms halfway to the elbow. The pommels of his daggers and the basket hilts of his matched swords were gold-washed, as were the daggers thrust into his belt and his boots. “Arkon the Adamant is here to seek one Vlandar, who has need of my ser—” His voice cracked.
Vlandar bent down to adjust one of his boots and hide a grin, but a splutter of laughter escaped Malowan. The young man snarled a particularly filthy curse and whipped both swords out, revealing wavy zhosh blades.
Vlandar sighed heavily and got up to intercept him. “I am Vlandar,” he said as he began to ease the young man back outside, “and captain of these barracks. This is no place to provoke a fight.”
Malowan suddenly and quietly slipped onto the cot next to Lhors. “Aaaaugh,” the paladin mumbled. “It was too much to hope the young fool wouldn’t have heard about this.”
Lhors blinked. “But all those blades,” he whispered, “and a bow and javelins! He must really be good. Isn’t that what you want?”
Malowan nodded. “If he was a tenth of what he appears to be, yes. He’s not, though. Oh, he’s good enough with the swords. You’d be impressed, if you saw him in a duel against a pack of drunken thugs. His mothers paid for his dueling masters since he was a boy. She’s the one who sees he has fancy clothes and expensive weapons, and she’s noble. Few men of the noble or common rank would risk offending her by injuring her precious boy.”
Lhors eyed Arkon the Adamant, who now stood arguing with Vlandar. Full sun fell on a face that might be considered handsome.
“If I were a swordsman,” Lhors ventured cautiously, “I would not wear sleeves like that. My opponent’s blade might catch in them.”
“You remember what Vlandar’s been telling you,” Malowan said warmly. “Good lad. What else?”
“He looks very wealthy. That’s foolish, unless you want to attract thieves.” Lhors sighed. “And he was rude to the rangers. That wasn’t necessary.”
“He is wealthy, or his widowed mother is. She buys anything he asks for, and when he gets into trouble with his shiny toys, she blames his companions who must have led him astray. He picks his fights carefully and never fights anyone better than he.”
“He’s not a hero?” Lhors asked.
Malowan nodded. “He’s a fraud and not even named Arkon. His real name is Plowys, after his mother’s brother.”
A sharp, angry curse brought the paladin around, hands out. The young noble had come back in, unnoticed by either Lhors or Malowan.
“Your pardon, young Arkon,” the paladin said smoothly. “I was not aware you were eavesdropping.”
“If you mean to imply that I was sneaking about, listening to your gossip…” the youth said angrily.
“I imply nothing,” Malowan said evenly as Vlandar came back into the barracks, where he could step between them. “I merely wonder that your mother Plovenia would allow you to go twenty paces beyond the city gates in any company whatever. I doubt her purse strings or her apron strings stretch so far.”
“You insult my lady mother?” Plowys demanded.
“No,” Malowan replied evenly, “I insult you, and you know why, young Plowys. A young companion of my ward is dead because you challenged him. Remember Vesisk? He was a street lad, a boy with no weapons skill at all, and you challenged him to a battle and killed him. One day, your mother will no longer be able to buy your way out of such situations.”
Plowys—or Arkon—swore under his breath and freed a dagger. Lhors gasped as the man stalked forward, but the paladin made no effort to defend himself. As the fancy-clad young man brought the blade up, it seemed to slam into an invisible barrier and bounce back. Plowys yelped as the dagger went flying.
“You should know better than to try to harm a paladin,” Vlandar told him. “He has his own protection. Fortunately, he’s not in the habit of attacking young men with bad manners.”
“It’s not fair,” the would-be swashbuckler whimpered.
“Life is not fair,” Malowan said evenly. “Most youths your age have learned it by now. Your mother cannot buy you a place in this company, and she would be appalled to learn you came here. Go home. We are looking for those who can work as a team—something you may learn one day. You would not like the world beyond Cryllor. Giants, goblins, and other evil creatu
res do not know your mother and would not spare you because of her rank and wealth.”
“You’re afraid,” Plowys said, “afraid I’m better than you.”
“No,” Malowan replied simply.
Vlandar shook his head firmly. “You cannot pick your fights out there. Challenge the wrong foe, and you’re dead without even a chance to draw your blades.”
“You’ll be sorry,” Plowys snarled, but Lhors didn’t think his heart was in it anymore. The pouting young man resheathed the dagger and stalked off.
Malowan watched him leave then sighed after a moment. “I will spend my next two nights kneeling on a cold stone floor to implore the gods’ forgiveness for my treatment of that poor child. Heironeous sees into my heart and knows I still can feel such anger.”
“Phuff!” Vlandar spoke sharply, silencing him. “I wonder the ‘poor child’ is still alive after insulting so many.”
“He’s still alive,” Malowan replied, “because he only chooses fights against poor or drunk men. I wonder why the guard has not arrested him before now.”
“Because, as you say, his mother protects him, and because he’s only just finished his course of swordplay with Master Eggidos. He hasn’t been on Cryllor’s streets that long.” Vlandar still sounded angry. “Make your amends if you will, Malowan. If your god is the least fair, he’ll understand.”
“No.” Malowan smiled faintly. “In my anger and pride, I challenged the boy’s manhood, his sword skills, and ill-spoke his mother. He is untutored and ignorant, but I am not.” He rose to his feet. “I will return, Vlandar. If Agya comes this afternoon, remind her that I want to hear her recite the Acts of Clean Living tomorrow morning. I also want her to resume honing her skills at sniffing out things. It might prove itself useful on this journey.”
Vlandar clasped his friend’s arm. “I will. Mind you, don’t hold vigil the entire night. I have need of you tomorrow.”
Malowan smiled faintly. “I know. I will be here.”
He left, and Lhors watched him go.
Vlandar cleared his throat. “Any questions, lad?”
Against the Giants Page 5