“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 other 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 creatures 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?”
The youth rubbed his still-patchy beard. Arkon’s—Plowys’—had been both thick and neatly trimmed. I could envy him just the beard, let
alone those blades, thought Lhors. He sighed and said, “I think I understand.
Father said a man who fights only those he can beat is a bully. But out there
against giants he couldn’t choose his fights.”
“Exactly. Now—” Vlandar broke off as a huge red-haired man
came into the barracks and began looking around. The man was impressively built
and armed. Tall and massive with broad shoulders, the man’s hands were huge and
capable-looking. Lhors tried not to stare as the fellow stopped mid-room, but it
was nearly impossible not to. A thick, braided sash held up heavy woolen
trousers. A second sash held both an enormous warhammer and a spiked ball and
chain. His armor was all padded and quilted, reinforced here and there with
black hardened leather that was shiny with age. He was very pale-skinned, his
hair pale golden-red and braided back with two narrow beaded strands hanging in
front of his ears. His eyes were light winter-sky blue and intense.
“Who is
that?”
Lhors whispered.
“I’ve seen him round the city once or twice in the past few
days. He’s Fist clan, I think.”
“Fist?”
“They inhabit the lands around the Grendep Bay in the far
northeast, cold lands. He’s a barbarian, anyway. Why?”
“Just wondered. I’ve heard tales of the northerners.”