Authors: Victor Gischler
Tchi bowed. “Yes, general.”
Chen said, “And I know it is best for you to travel light. Bringing back just her head should suffice.”
Tosh wiped the sweat from his brow, tossed another log into the iron stove and kicked the door closed. It had taken him three weeks working in the kitchen to learn how to maintain the coals at the exact level he needed. He moved fast, slapped down the skillet, dumped in the diced potatoes, garlic, salt. Another deep pan next to it. Sausages.
He paused to drink water. It was hot work. He wore only boots, apron and breeches. He’d lost eleven pounds in three weeks. For years he’d marched and drilled with the army yet always maintained a soft layer around his middle. It took laboring in the kitchen of the Wounded Bird to finally burn it off.
“Smells good, don’t it?” Bune’s voice came from behind him. The big man tried to squeeze past Tosh, a meaty hand reaching for one of the sizzling sausages.
Tosh smacked the back of Bune’s hand with a spatula, cracking a knuckle with a metallic clang.
Bune jerked his hand back, eyes shooting wide. “Oi!”
“That’s for paying customers,” Tosh said.
Tosh elbowed the big man out of the way, sort of like trying to elbow a mountain, but Bune stepped back and allowed Tosh to get at the huge cooking pot hanging in the kitchen hearth. He removed the lid, sniffed at the lamb stew inside. By the time the late evening crowd rolled in, it would go perfect with fresh-baked bread.
“Dumo knows where Mama found lamb what with all the shortages,” Tosh said. “You’ve got to hand it to her.”
Bune grunted.
“Is there a reason you’re in my kitchen, you enormous lump?”
“Table two wants food”
“I cook,” Tosh said. “The girls come in and fetch the food.”
Bune shrugged. “Tenni said.”
“Tenni said, huh?” Tosh had learned the blonde with the little girl was named Tenni. “They must be pretty busy out there.”
“No empty seats.”
“Right.” He took his shirt from the peg on the wall, slipped it over his head. He’d been told that hairy, sweaty, shirtless men were not an aid to the appetite.
He filled a plate with sausage, fried potatoes, a chunk of dark bread, and took it out front.
Tosh scanned the crowd, spotted table two.
Ah. Him again
.
He set the plate in front of the grinning Perranese warrior. “Welcome back, Corporal.”
The corporal grinned wider, gap-toothed, nodding is thanks. “The potatoes … they are the best. In my land, we have only rice and steamed fish and seaweed. Very healthy but tastes like … like ass.” He greedily scooped a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.
“Only ass we serve here is upstairs.” Tosh winked.
The corporal paused in mid-chew. It took him a moment to get the joke. “Oh! Very good! Very funny!”
“You’ve been in here every day,” Tosh said.
The corporal pointed at Tosh with his spoon. “You master potato chef. Master!”
Tosh smiled. He never gave officers much credit, but he had to admit whoever the Perranese general was, the man was a genius. Opening the Wounded Bird allowed the Perranese warriors to blow off steam in the usual way. But it was more than that. It also gave the people of Klaar a chance to get used to the foreigners. Tosh looked around the common room, saw locals sitting at tables next to Perranese. The scene was being repeated at taverns throughout the city. How long before both sat at the same table together? How long before all this actually seemed
normal
?
Thankfully Lord Giffen had been put in charge of Klaar. Tosh would hate to think what life in the city would be like directly under the iron thumb of the invading general.
They day passed quickly. Tosh worked hard, cleaning his kitchen between meal prep. If he ever returned to the army, maybe he’d put in for cooking duty.
Eventually the Wounded Bird grew quiet and empty, only a few straggling customers in the upstairs rooms getting their final kicks with the ladies. Tosh scrubbed the last pot, set it in the rack to dry. The final thing he did before calling it a night was to consult his supply list. They were dangerously low on salt and bacon and flour. He decided to take the list up to Mama’s office. The woman was a miracle worker, seemed to have some direct connection with the black market. And never failed to come up with the needed supplies.
Tosh folded the list and headed upstairs.
He passed the second floor, paused when he heard the scream.
Tosh had learned early in the going that one heard a variety of screams inside the Wounded Bird, and few of them called for the bouncers. Passion and enthusiasm were often the culprits.
Another scream, panicked, afraid. The smack of flesh on flesh followed by the thud of overturned furniture.
That’s not passion
.
Tosh ran down the hall. More screams. He stopped in front of Tenni’s room, banged on the door with a fist. “Tenni!”
The sounds coming from Tenni’s room were more masculine now, ragged harsh grunts, the sound of pain. Shuffling feet, movement, a struggle. Tosh threw his shoulder against the door, rattling the lock.
“Bune!”
Just when you actually need one of the big bastards …
Tosh threw his shoulder against the door again, heard something crack. The third time did the trick, wood splintering as the door flew inward. Tosh rushed into the room, fists up, ready for anything.
Tenni was covered in bright blood.
Not her blood.
She stood over a naked Perranese warrior, flailing awkwardly at him with his own sword, holding it tightly and clumsily in her slender hands. The warrior was slick with his own blood, back against the bed as he writhed on the floor, one arm up uselessly fending off Tenni’s frantic blows. He was covered with a dozen random slashes already.
“Get away from me! Get away!” Tenni screamed, slashing at the man again, a length of flesh coming away from his forearm, blood splattering. “I’ll kill you!”
Tosh grabbed her from behind. “Tenni!”
She screamed again, struggled violently, but Tosh held on.
When she saw it was Tosh she dropped the sword with a clatter, and Tosh let her go. She backed against the wall, shaking her head. “H-he hurt me. Just k-kept hurting me and w-wouldn’t s-stop. He was s-so drunk and c-cruel …”
“It’s okay,” Tosh said. “It’s okay now.”
She started crying, slid down the wall into a sitting position, putting her face in her bloody hands, shoulders bobbing as she sobbed.
Tosh drew his dagger, approached the bloody, writhing figure on the floor. The warrior had been hacked all over, a number of the cuts messy and shallow. Tosh saw at least two wounds that were more lethal, bleeding freely. The warrior twitched, more blood foaming from his mouth as he silently opened and closed it, maybe trying to say something.
Tosh tried not to slip in the blood as he got closer with the dagger. A quick stab in the throat would finish him.
Tosh looked into the warrior’s eyes. It was the corporal he’d served potatoes to earlier that morning.
Oh, no. You bastard. You stupid fucking asshole bastard
.
Tosh stabbed him in the throat.
* * *
Tosh sat hunched over his mug. The Wounded Bird’s common room was deserted and dark save for the light of a single candle. He felt exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. He’d become fond of the foul brew Lubin and Bune had introduced him to that first morning in the cave. Not quite wine, not quite brandy, it went down harsh but warmed the body quickly. He took another sip.
Lubin and Bune had shown up to dispose of the body. Tenni’s room had been cleaned. No evidence remained of what had happened. It would be daylight soon.
When you’re the cook at the Wounded Bird, you’re not just the cook. He hoped there would not be many nights like this one.
He heard something, looked up.
Tenni sat across the table from him.
She’d cleaned up. Pretty. Thin face, high cheekbones. Golden hair pulled back into a ponytail. He face looked blank, maybe a little haunted around the eyes.
Tosh asked, “You okay?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
“I guess I made a real mess up there,” she said.
Tosh shrugged. “A man can take a lot of abuse before he goes down. It can get ugly. A sword can kill with a single blow, but you have to know how to use one. It takes training.”
“You were in the army,” she said. “You’ve had training.”
“Yes.”
Tenni pulled the Perranese sword out from under the table. It had been cleaned up and had found its way back into its scabbard. It was a long single-edged weapon with a slight curve.
She placed it on the table between them. “Teach me.”
Tapping into the spirit didn’t give Rina superpowers—the exception being the bull tattoo, which gave her the strength—but it did let her exploit her senses to the fullest.
Hearing, for example. It was no keener than before, but tapping into the spirit allowed Rina to more closely examine what she was hearing, categorize it, separate one sound from another.
She sat with her back against a giant fir tree, cross-legged, eyes closed, the long, two-handed sword across her knees. She listened.
The crunch of footsteps, still distant, a hundred yards away at least. Five men, heavy steps implying armor and weapons although they were doing a good job of keeping their metal from clanking. Other sounds … the wind, birds, a babbling brook a half mile away. No snowfall to dull the sounds on the wind. It was still cold, but since they’d come out of the mountains and kept south, there had been no new snow. Just what was already on the ground in patches here and there.
Rina formed a mental picture: the five men spread out among the trees, coming through the forest slowly, weapons drawn. They suspected she was close. Not sure how close. Not sure where the camp was.
It was two hundred yards ahead in a small clearing at the bottom of a shallow dell. Brasley stayed to watch the horses. They’d left the campfire lit. The smell would lead them on.
Part of her brain monitored the sounds of the forest. Another part mused that she did
not
enjoy camping. She missed her room and her bed and hot meals in the castle. She missed everything.
When Rina had remembered the sapphires braided into her hair, they’d veered toward Kern, the closest city of any size where they could sell the fine gems. The proceeds had not only allowed them to properly outfit for the journey, but it had also funded two gloriously warm and comfortable nights in a reasonably clean inn.
And clothes. She wore a pair of black leather pants, good travel boots and a simple but clean white shirt. She’d had Kork’s cloak cleaned and hemmed for her shorter stature. It was still her warmest garment.
Sleeping on the ground was
not
warm. Every night she wrapped herself tightly in her bedroll
and
the cloak and slept as close to the fire as she dared without risking catching herself on—
She titled her head, refocused her attention on a new sound. Footsteps, but quicker and lighter than the others, a rustling of cloth. A child or a woman, Rina thought. Not armored.
Out here?
Rina pressed herself flat against the tree, twisted, peeked around the wide trunk.
A second later, the girl came running through the undergrowth, long, garishly colored purple and yellow skirt scooped up in one arm to let her legs run. A heavy wool shirt that almost concealed a full figure. She was striking. Pale glowing skin and deep red hair, full and wind-blown. Rina thought her older at first, but she looked scared and young. Maybe sixteen.
The girl paused, looked back anxiously.
She’s afraid
.
And she’s stumbled right into the middle of what’s about to happen
. Rina gripped her sword hilt firmly, readied herself.
The girl was about to turn and continue running when an armored warrior erupted from the foliage behind her. She screamed, tried to dart away, but the Perranese warrior latched onto her wrist. The girl screamed again, tried to twist free.
Rina had already leapt to her feet, sword in hand, sprinting toward the two of them.
As always when she tapped into the spirit, the world unfolded before her in slow motion. Dashing toward her from the left were two more armored warriors. She understood that normally these men would be assaulting her at blinding speed, swords prone to strike, grim and lethal professionals.
The first one lunged at her middle. She slapped the blade past her, stepped in to strike backhanded on the return swing at the neck of the second one. The blade bit deeply, an arc of blood trailing on the follow-through. The warrior’s head flopped on his ruined neck. He hit the ground hard, writhing and quivering, some parts of his body still not accepting death.
Rina brought the follow-though around in a complete circle to swipe at the one now behind her. Swords clanged in the cold air. She pressed the attack. He defended well three times before she found her way past his guard. The armor over his chest might as well have been parchment, the thick blade pierced his chest so easily. He grunted, wilted, slid off the blade and hit the ground with a thud.
Rina glanced quickly at the girl, who still struggled in the grasp of her attacker. The warrior backhanded her, spinning her head around.
But Rina couldn’t go to her. Two more warriors ran at her, swords raised.
She dropped under a wide sword swing and kicked out, the heel of her boot connecting with a warrior’s knee. The knee was well armored, but Rina drew on the bull strength flowing within her. There was a
crunch crack
as the armor caved in, the kneecap shattering.
The warrior screamed, titled and went down.
No time to finish him.
She rolled away as a sword struck the ground where she’d been a split second before. She lay on the ground and thrust her sword back and over her head, the point piercing the warrior’s ankle.