Rogan felt rewarded to find his faith in his friend was not misplaced. Natrone was a true innovator, driven by his own desire to create perfection. He led them to a nook along the northern wall concealed by drawn, black curtains. Natrone whisked them aside to reveal a secondary workshop, full of tools and scraps of assorted materials. More shields lined the wall panel, which slid to the side to reveal a secret alcove. Within stood another four armor stands, bearing specimens unlike anything worn by the combined armies of the region.
Two were dyed midnight black, the others rust, tinged by blood – full-bodied suits of leather armor. Created with an extra layer of cured hide, they had holes seemingly everywhere, as if some brilliant, giant moth had gotten into the wardrobe and feasted on them. “The cut-outs allow the skin to breathe and stay cool, and the joints to move without constriction,” Natrone commented while gazing admiringly at his handiwork. They were, quite honestly, the most striking pieces of armor craftsmanship Rogan had ever seen.
“Are they effective protection with all those holes?” Saffron asked.
“Aye, that’s what the extra layer is for.” Natrone’s pride showed through the matter-of-fact tone of his voice. “You might take a scratch, but the spaces actually slow the motion of a blade, distributing force. Plain and simple, you are not cutting through this with a weapon – it’s kank hide.”
Rogan felt the sleeve of one the black pieces. It was soft, supple – more so than typical leather. “This one looks about my size,” he smiled.
Natrone nodded. “I actually had you in mind – used your measurements from the one I made you months ago. I guessed you might be landing in more trouble.” He looked over Saffron with a critical eye. “I’ll have to make some adjustments on this other one for sure – take out the chest, tighten up the limbs. All right, Wispy, take off that cloak; I need to get the lay of the land.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a coil of black string with evenly-spaced white marks across it.
Saffron shot a look at Rogan, protesting the proposal of the burly man’s fingers circumventing her, but he shrugged and she acquiesced.
“How soon can you have it ready, my friend?”
“Haha, friend is it? How soon do you need it?” Natrone looped the string around Saffron’s chest, waist, and hips, measuring her body and calling numbers aloud to help memorize them.
Rogan waited until Natrone finished with her arms and legs. “Tonight?”
“Ha,” Natrone bellowed in response. “Now I know you’re mad. Tomorrow. Late. And that is only if the blasted Blood Tear Ambassador of Impatience doesn’t show up to keep pressuring me to complete his order first.”
“Fair enough,” said Rogan, retrieving his pouch of gold crowns. “We will be back tomorrow, before sunset. Come, Saffron,” he beckoned, “let us leave the man to his work.”
She gave him a sideways glance and opened her mouth briefly, but ultimately held her tongue.
Rogan and Saffron made it back to the Silver Trumpet unmolested. He could tell the next day was torture for her. Rogan still had some errands to run about town, preparations for the arrival of Sir Golddrake and his men, but he would not allow Saffron to leave Cyril’s shop. She simply brought too much attention, and her ever-more-agitated behavior only convinced him of it.
Before leaving to return to Natrone’s workshop, Rogan practically had to force her to eat something. She was too nervous for an appetite, but he knew they would both need their strength. It got worse when Cyril announced his informant was nowhere to be found. He did not report back to the viscount, and was absent from his usual haunts. Rogan took it as more than a bad omen, but Saffron refused to be dissuaded.
“Do you think the armor will be ready?” she asked, pulling at the end of her sleeves as they walked.
“If he’s still the man I knew, it will be. Cyril did not want to tell you himself, but he regrets that you and your sister cannot return to the Silver Trumpet, once we break into Hope’s End. There will be a search for Begnari women, I assume, and people know he was trying to track one down the other night. It is too much of a risk for the viscount and our other plans to hide you there.”
She kept silent upon hearing the news, but after a few, long breaths simply said, “I understand.”
Rogan patted her back, wishing he could be of more comfort. “Clear your mind, Saffron. We will need your wits tonight.”
They reached the Arms Quarter just before sunset, and neither one particularly wanted to try talking their way in again. Though still wrapped in their brown cloaks, they brought their full packs along as well, since they were heading straight from the armorsmith’s to the docks. Armed and burdened for travel, Rogan knew it would be a difficult sell to convince the King-priest’s guards they were merely innocent citizens out for a stroll. Tonight, they would have to embrace the shadows.
Rogan led them around the perimeter of the Quarter, staying well beyond the fence until they got close to Natrone’s shop. They abandoned the paved pathways and cut across the grass, staying behind structures and trees to keep out of sight. The fence was only chest high, not tall enough to present much of a problem, but they absolutely had to avoid detection by the soldiers frequenting the district.
Already using the dusk to their advantage, Rogan aided their cause by unsheathing his dagger, placing them in a globe of dimness as the uril-chent alloy sapped ambient light from the air around it. He watched as a pair of armored men walked the path inside the fence, patrolling the border of the Quarter to dissuade any mischief.
After waiting for them to pass, Rogan counted down from twenty before covering the final fifteen strides of open ground to the metal barrier. Saffron kept close, behaving as though she were his living shadow. He boosted her over before grabbing the top and thrusting upward, taking care not to catch the hem of his cloak on one of the iron prongs atop the fence. Their luck held the short remainder to the workshop, and they slipped in without attracting attention.
“Great hammers of Grothgar, if you were two minutes earlier we would be a sorry lot!” Natrone bellowed when he realized who had just entered his shop. “This imperial peacock kept going on and on about his new position at the river-palace, and how with Ebon Khorel so long absent on his campaign, his harem girls were just ripe for the plucking. Indolent bastard, does he think I want to hear about how easy his duty is, surrounded by beautiful women, while I slave through the day working for these pushy half-wits? Still, it is lucky he left before you arrived. Let me close up shop.”
Rogan chose not to say anything, but he paid heed to the armorsmith’s comment. If the King-priest had not shown himself for some time, it could work to their advantage. The guards at Blackthorn prison were always more attentive when their superiors were in the vicinity. It was a shame Cyril’s contact never reported back, but he could use this information in his infiltration plan.
For all his previous complaining, Natrone came through; the alterations were already complete. The men gave Saffron the privacy of the curtained alcove to undress, while Rogan donned his armor in the main room.
He was pleased with the fit and feel of the new suit – unrestrictive, light, tough. Wearing it was empowering. He would be protected, yet still able to act decisively – a major boon in hand-to-hand combat. He still wore his scarlet tunic underneath the black, and fancied himself a poisonous spider, ready to strike with quick, deadly fangs.
When Saffron emerged from behind the curtain, however, Rogan’s jaw dropped. She looked svelte in the red leather suit. The supple armor fit exquisitely, hugging her curves and leaving her femininity no place to hide. The cut-outs provided alluring glimpses of Saffron’s tanned physique. Unlike Rogan, she did not wear a tunic underneath.
“I feel naked,” Saffron said, standing with hands on her hips.
Despite her words, Rogan noted she did nothing to cover herself. “Well, you did not have to take everything off.”
“I did not remove everything, but it wouldn’t fit right with my tunic. It was
too snug.” She shot a glance at Natrone, remembering how he’d called out her measurements at the fitting.
He, in turn, gave a silent look to Rogan and shrugged, though a slight curl shaped his lips.
“You look fine,” Rogan covered. “Besides, I recall an outfit or two of yours baring some skin. More importantly, how does it feel? Can you move well enough?”
Saffron jumped in the air and took a full spin before she landed, spreading her arms for balance. She alighted with the grace of a jungle cat. “I suppose.”
“Here,” said Natrone, as he walked to the wall and dislodged one of the hanging shields. It was a disk, less than two feet in diameter, made of hickory cast in bronze. The motif engraved upon it included three stylized sand dunes and a scimitar. “I know the Baron never properly learned how to use one, but if you are going into battle, you shouldn’t want for a good shield. The design reminds me of your people.” He handed it to Saffron, who immediately tried it on for size.
“Thank you; it is exquisite. Imshihi ezmaran kubahi uhm: may your generosity return to you many-fold.” She bowed and took the shield to the rest of her belongings, investigating a way to strap it to the back of her pack.
Rogan clasped his friend on the shoulder, though he had to reach up to do so. “You have come through for me once again, and I am in your debt.”
“Ah, forget all that.” Natrone brushed away the thought with his hand. “You pay in advance, which is more than I can say for the King-priest – I’ll be lucky to see my rightful wages by autumn. Just send him to the Burning Wastes if you see him, huh? That’s all I ask.”
“I will try, my friend.”
“May your swords strike true,” Natrone called as the pair left his shop, hooded cloaks concealing their identities once more.
With Saffron’s shield on her back they looked dangerously like mercenaries, so Rogan did the best he could to take an unpopular route toward the docks. The sun was all but down, and the shadows long as they crept one alley at a time toward the water, trying to stay out of view. The few citizens afoot were hurrying home ahead of the oncoming curfew, and none showed concern for a couple of cloaked figures slipping past them in the twilight.
Night was fully upon them when they reached the wharf, where scores of workers still labored in the moonlight to unload the moored ships. The curfew was abrogated for those properly employed, and lines of torches provided additional illumination to the docks.
“I dropped some supplies off at our canoe earlier – things we may need – so we should be ready to go, assuming no banditry has taken place.” Rogan’s pace quickened once they were on the boardwalk, belying his outward calmness as they approached their transport to Hope’s End. “Cyril presented me with a gift for you from his War Room as well, to soften the blow of your exile, I believe. He wanted you to know it was not because he didn’t enjoy having you around.”
“I understand,” Saffron acknowledged. “There are no grudges. I am grateful for the help he has already given me. Something about him gave me the shivers, anyway. All I care about is rescuing Dhania.”
The canoe remained where Rogan had left it that afternoon, and the canvas tarp he’d placed over it was still drawn tight. A row of nearby torches cast barely enough light to mark the edge of the dock. Saffron misjudged the shadows and nearly plummeted into the river as she bent to peel back the cover.
“Whoa!” Rogan reached out just in time to steady her. “Let’s not get wetter than we have to tonight.” He helped her clear the way into the canoe, folding up the tarp to take with them. In the belly of their boat lay a spear with a haft of black ash. Its total length was almost equivalent to Saffron’s height, leaving it short enough to be wielded with one hand. The head was serrated steel, elongated and embedded to reinforce the shaft. Flexible and strong, it was the perfect weapon to match Saffon’s experience.
She smiled from ear to ear and immediately reached out, eager to lift the spear and feel its weight. She drew back her hand, instead carefully moving it aside with her foot as she climbed into the canoe. “Is it Begnari?” she asked as Rogan followed her in and untied the line. “The spear looks like what our armies use.”
Rogan shook his head. “Actually, it’s from the jungles of Chelpa. The primitive tribes there favor spears, not having much access to metals, but this one belonged to a war-chieftain. I thought you would like it, though. I saw you fighting during the ambush, and we may have some to do tonight.”
Saffron took up her paddle and noticed two sacks, in addition to the packs they had carried, already stowed. “What else did you bring?”
“A few things we may need, and a few others I hope we don’t,” he responded. “Let us cast off and get moving, shall we? This night is likely to be long enough as it is.”
Without another word, they paddled away from the docks into the dark embrace of the River Chelhos. The vastness of the swift waters was amplified by night, nearly swallowing them in blackness. Its current seemed more powerful with no clear view of the banks to provide perspective, and louder with their sight abated by the heavy clouds moving in to shroud the moons.
Chapter 17
Hope’s End
W hat started as a distant collection of candle flames grew into an impression of the palace as they drew nearer. Hope’s End stood as Cyril described, on an island in the midst of the river. Its eastern side faced the Chelpian shore, where a small harbor built on an abutting island received traffic from the mainland. Rogan, however, steered them toward the western face, where a shallow shoreline led abruptly to the towering, stone walls of the palace.
Originally designed as a fortress, the structure had more than adequate defenses. The crenellated outer wall stood three stories high with bastions at the corners, where men could rain arrows or stones on their enemies from cover. A drawbridge protected the only true gate into the palace from the east – Rogan and Saffron hoped to scale the wall furthest from it.
They dipped their paddles into the water as quietly as they could during their approach, though Rogan could not spot any movement atop the walls. He hoped the darkness would serve them just as well. His heartbeat accelerated as the canoe washed to a stop against the wet sand of the shore. Unlike the thrill that accompanied battle, this feeling was danger of the unknown – true fear. He would have to control and use it if they were going to succeed. He offered a silent plea that Saffron mastered hers as well.
Rogan jumped onto the bank and pulled their boat further in until satisfied it was secure. The hull was a mere arm’s length from the palace foundation. He offered his hand to Saffron, who took it and stepped onto land. They removed their cloaks and threw them back into the canoe. Saffron grabbed her spear and shield, while Rogan untied and rifled through one of the sacks.
He withdrew two pairs of metal claws. One set was attached to bands that fit around his palms, while the other slipped over the toes of his boots. “This brings back memories,” he said to himself as he slung a coiled rope over his shoulder and across his torso. The lapping of the river against the shore created enough noise that he felt safe for the moment, as long as they did not do something foolish. Rogan’s mind had been spinning through scenarios during most of the approach, preoccupying him too much to speak, but he needed to ensure they agreed on strategy.
“We have no idea how many guards the palace has, or who of consequence might be present, so we want to draw as little attention as possible.” He hoped the tightness of the King-priest’s grip all these years had lulled their enemy into a false sense of security, but did not dare express this out loud for fear it would sabotage their luck. “I imagine the majority of look-outs will be positioned near the gate, where any ship of consequential size would have to dock. Less time inside means less chance for detection, so be decisive without being rash. Still, we should watch out for one another, especially if one of us has to focus on another task.”
Saffron nodded her compliance. “Of course. I have never heard you speak so quickly, Baron.
Are you anxious?”
Rogan’s brow furrowed. “Since you have your spear and shield to manage, I’m going to scale the wall first and throw our rope down to you. I think we will have to risk leaving it tied for our escape.” Rogan paused, trying to read the dark pools of her eyes, but the night and shadow of the walls were too deep. “You should be prepared for anything when it comes to your sister. She might be a changed woman – different than you remember her. Who knows what she has been through? She might be drunk or drugged when we find her, assuming she’s here at all. You need to be ready to accept it if she isn’t, and concentrate on us getting out alive.” He exhaled stiffly. “Are you ready?”
Her response was calm, but determined. “I will not fail Dhania. I cannot.”
It was enough for Rogan. He reached up and slapped the wall with his right hand, forcing the claws into its surface. He prayed they would hold, and that the noise of the river was enough to drown out their sharp clink. Repeating the process with all four limbs, embedding one hand then the next, raising one foot at a time, he chipped into the palace stone. Much as a lizard made slothful by the cold, Rogan crawled up the hard surface until within a couple body lengths of the top.
From there, he paused to survey the battlements, but still saw no guards from his limited vantage. He made sure not to look down, fully aware how precarious his hold on the wall was. The air was humid, but at least at this height a breeze cooled the sweat from his face. His arms and shoulders burned from the continued exertion, but soon Rogan was hoisting his leg over the top of the wall.
He immediately ducked to eliminate his profile from any observers on the eastern side of the palace. Once more he checked for nearby guards, but the only discernable movement was the whipping of banners mounted atop the bastions. Was something occupying everyone’s attention, or were they being insidiously invited in?
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