Desh Krohan paced around the dining hall with his arms behind him and the hood of his cloak thrown back. “Well, that was unexpected.”
Emperor Pathra Krous looked at him with one raised eyebrow. “I should hope so. What in the name of the gods were you thinking? Introducing me to the first stranger to see the Empire in a hundred years that way?”
“Well how was I supposed to introduce him? Wait for the entire bloody entourage to show up and then ask you to join the whole merry lot for a picnic?”
Pathra shook his head. His hair moved in a nearly solid wave around his face. “Alright, seriously, Pathra, you have got to talk to that girl. Your hair could almost be a helmet.”
The man waved away the annoying words, not willing to be distracted from the matters at hand.
“One of my citizens just fell down screaming in the middle of my throne room. He’s unconscious and his arms smell like they’ve been dropped in a smithy.”
“Well, your citizen agreed to the chance to have new hands – replacing hands destroyed by the City Guard, I might add. You really have to decide what to do with those guards and soon, too. I’d wager a few tongues in the city are still wagging over the fact that they’ve not been properly punished. Also, as he worked as a smith’s apprentice, maybe he always smells that way.”
“That’s a weak excuse even for you, Desh. I’m not foolish enough to think the smell of molten metal stays on skin for several weeks.”
“It was a bad attempt at a jest. I’m a little stressed at the moment.” He paced some more, trying to come up with a proper plan of action. “We can’t very well arrest this Drask Silver Hand. He’s come as an emissary of a king from another land. We don’t know a damned thing about them. All I can say for sure is he’s a very large man and he looks remarkably capable of eating half the City Guard if they were to try anything foolish with him.”
“Well that seems a little…” The Emperor paused and contemplated the man who’d come before him. “Yes, alright. Good point. But sheer size doesn’t mean he’s a capable warrior.”
“There are fifty more of his people coming here to meet with you formally. If you don’t handle this the right way, you could very well have a war on your hands.”
“Don’t be absurd. Who would dare attack the Fellein Empire?”
Desh rounded on the Emperor and jabbed a finger in his direction. Most people wouldn’t have dared. The wizard was not most people, but he was also wise enough not to act so casually when there were others around. “We’ve discussed that. Yes, you have soldiers, but when was the last time you had an actual war on your hands, Pathra? Not in your lifetime is when. It’s been close to a hundred years. The Empire is getting along just fine and that’s a wonderful thing, but only because we’ve not had more than a few scuffles with the Guntha since your father built the walls separating their land from ours.”
“The Guntha are hardly an issue.” Which was true enough, since the Guntha had given up all attempts to attack the Empire, save in occasional skirmishes along the waterfronts of the southlands.
“The Guntha aren’t currently the problem.” He pointed to the throne room beyond the closed doors of the small dining hall. “He is. He and his people are. We don’t know anything about them.”
“We know their so called gifts aren’t very impressive.”
“We know no such thing. Drask said the process wasn’t finished.”
“Then let’s go out there and see what happens when it is finished, shall we?”
“Just be prepared, that’s all I ask, Pathra. We have to be prepared for if things go poorly. We also have to be prepared if things go well.”
“I am the Emperor, Desh. I’ve been trained in etiquette.”
“Yes, you were trained by me. That’s why I’m reminding you to be cautious. I always hated having to follow the rules.”
“Well, I’ve always been less temperamental than you, too, old man.”
“Good point.”
Desh sighed and pulled his hood back in place. He was still working on looking mysterious for the brute in the next room. “So did you hear about the mount they rode here on?”
“No.” Pathra frowned.
“Big as a house. It also ate a horse roughly two hours ago.”
“A horse?”
“One of the white chargers you’re so fond of.”
“Well, that’s certainly an awkward step in the wrong direction.” The Emperor sounded just a bit pouty about the horse.
“Possibilities of war, Pathra. Just remember that part.”
“Stupid rules.”
“Yes they are. Perhaps you should change them. Just do it later, yes?”
Pathra opened the door and moved back into his throne room. Soon they’d know how badly things were going.
The entourage continued on, moving across the wasted landscape at a pace that exhausted riders and mounts alike. Human riders and horses at least. The people from the valley seemed just fine and their beasts looked almost as fresh as when they’d left.
Merros and Wollis rode side by side again, both of them sharing a certain anticipation now that they could see the steppes ahead of them. They would be out of the gods-forsaken Blasted Lands soon, and as far as Merros was concerned if he never saw them again he would live a fulfilled existence.
A few things they had learned about the Sa’ba Taalor: first, they were not much for idle chatter. Though Merros had spoken on repeated occasions with all of the retinue traveling with them, they had spent most of those conversations doing their best to learn the language of the Empire. Second, they were very, very determined to learn. Though none of them could be called fluent in the tongue, they had learned enough to now have conversations with the rest of the group. They were formal, they were inquisitive, and they seldom volunteered anything about themselves. Maybe it was difficult to open up to strangers when they had never seen strangers before.
While almost all of the riders wore armor, he also now knew that easily a dozen or more of them were women under their gear. It was almost impossible to tell from a distance, but in speaking with them he’d noticed the differences in tone – sometimes a challenge as all of the people from the valley had the same unusual distortions to their voices – and as the weather warmed a bit and they came closer to the Empire, layers of cloth were removed and more flesh was exposed. The females had smaller arms. They were still muscular, and a few of the women had the sort of muscle tone that made Merros realize he should get more practice time with his weapons. The time out in the fields had robbed him of some of his shape.
Third, there wasn’t a single one of them that wasn’t covered with scars. When the curiosity got too much for him he decided to approach a rider named Tusk who was more curious than a lot of his peers. Tusk sported a scar around one wrist that wrapped itself over his forearm twice. The scar was a thick, serpentine mess and it seemed almost a wonder that the sort of wound that would leave that scar didn’t require the loss of a limb.
Tusk – he wasn’t sure if that was a name or a nickname as the man’s skull-shaped helmet was adorned with large teeth from some sort of animal, possibly a Pra-Moresh by the sheer size of the fangs – explained without hesitation. “We are trained to defend ourselves from a young age.”
“From whom?”
“The Blasted Lands have many threats.”
“You mean the Pra-Moresh?”
“They are only one. There are others.” The man shrugged his shoulders, sending a rattling effect across all of his armor. “We are also taught to make our own armor and weapons. That often leaves scars.”
“You forge your own weapons?”
“You cannot be connected with your weapons if you do not make your weapons. They should be as the claws of a beast, a part of you.” The way he said it made Merros suspect he was quoting an age-old adage.
“You forged your own sword?” The notion was damned near ludicrous. It took years to learn how to work a forge and pound metal into something other than a shapeless lump.
Tusk drew his sword, a thick bladed affair with surprisingly delicate inscriptions across the center of the blade. He offered it hilt-first to Merros. Merros took the blade carefully, not only because it was a weapon and should be respected, but also because he suspected he was being given a great honor when he was offered the piece in the first place. The craftsmanship was damned fine, and the balance was perfect. The metal was lighter than he expected, but he could see how well-sharpened the blade’s edge was and he had no doubt it was as fine a sword as he’d ever held.
“You do not forge your own weapons?” Tusk’s turn. His tone was hard to read. It was hard to tell much of what the man thought under the helm he wore. One tended to get distracted by the amazing array of sharp teeth leering in one’s direction.
“Well, no. Not really. We have people who bake bread, we have people who tend animals, we have people who build houses, and we have people who forge weapons. Each is a skill that is learned over years.”
Tusk stared at him in silence for a moment as if trying to absorb a piece of vital information. No, as if he were genuinely surprised by the response he’d received.
“Then how do you know your weapon is well-made?”
“You test it, of course. Before you make a purchase. Or if you are in the army, you are issued a weapon.”
“May I see your sword?” Tusk’s voice was unusually formal.
“Of course.” Merros had little choice, really. The man had just offered his own weapon. He first handed Tusk back the sword the man had proffered and then extended his own. Tusk’s movements were nearly a blur. He held the weapon, ran a finger along the blade, eyed the edge carefully and then swung the blade several times in arcs above his head and to his side. Merros was unsettled by how little effort the man seemed to extend in the process.
He then handed it back. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Merros pointed to Tusk’s arm and the thick scars. “May I ask how you came by that one?”
“I was hit with a chain.”
“A chain?”
Merros leaned in closer, looking at the scar. He could imagine the sort of chain that had links thick enough to break skin in that way, but he didn’t really want to.
“Why in the name of the gods would anyone hit you with a chain?”
“As I said, we are all trained in defense.”
“Against a chain?”
Tusk chuckled, a deep sound that came from low in his chest. “If you do not think a chain can be used as a weapon, you have obviously never been hit with a chain.” He patted his side and Merros looked at the spot where a length of chain had been coiled several times before being secured to his belt.
“Good point.” Merros thanked him for his time and slowed down a bit until he and Wollis were once again riding next to each other.
Wollis looked a question at him.
Merros shook his head. “I’m beginning to understand how Drask killed four Pra-Moresh.”
“How is that?”
Merros looked at one of the riders off in the distance. He could see the muscles on her arms and though he could not see her face, he was astonished by the attraction he felt for her. Like Tusk, she had several serious scars on her exposed flesh.
“These are not a people to be underestimated, Wollis. Let’s leave it at that for now.”
Wollis, ever one to conserve his energies for things more interesting than speech, merely nodded his head and kept riding.
Andover woke up in a different room this time. The ceiling was higher and there were furs on the bed beneath him. Also, he was clothed differently.
Also, his hands weren’t screaming at him. For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, his hands weren’t shrieking their tortured agonies into his arms and then through the rest of him. He lifted his arms without thinking and looked at his hands.
And froze in wonder.
They were hands. There was simply no doubting that. The fingers were as long as he remembered, and he stared at them as he moved them. His lips trembled and tears threatened to break from his wide eyes.
His hands were metal. He’d known they would be, if those of the stranger, Drask were any indication, but knowing in your mind is different from knowing in your heart. In color they looked as if they’d been freshly forged from good iron, free from impurities. The “flesh” had a polished, buffed look and was smooth, save where the joints met. That area was a bit rougher, more textured but still impossibly flawless. The real skin of his wrists was heavily scarred, and he could see where metal and flesh were married if he looked, but he did not want to look too closely, not yet. He might think too much, and then he might well start screaming and never stop. A miracle these hands, yes, but many were the people who had said that to look upon the blessings of the gods was to know their flaws and their pettiness. He would not consider the flaws of the deity that had offered this amazing blessing. There were markings along each finger, across the tips, the palms. Everywhere. They made no sense to him, but the marks were there, a language he had never seen, perhaps, or merely decoration. He did not know.
When he flexed the fingers moved exactly as they should, smoothly, without hesitation.
More importantly, oh, so much more importantly, he could feel through his hands. Not the ghost pains that had insisted his hands were still there even after they’d been taken, but real sensations. He closed his eyes and ran his hands across his face. The flesh of his jaw line felt warm metal, not hot, merely warm, caressing the angles of his face. His fingers felt those same angles, read them as well as his fingers had ever read any surface.
Impossible! But there it was. He opened his eyes and sat up on the bed and for the first time was aware of the people around him, looking at him with expectant faces. Tega was there, and the wizard and the Emperor and the stranger, the man with the silver hand. The only person who did not seem surprised by the use of his hands was the man who had a similar limb.
“How do they feel?” That was Desh Krohan.
“Like flesh. Like real hands.”
“They are real. The gods do not offer trinkets.” Drask spoke softly and in the semi-dark room his eyes offered a faint silvery glow that reminded Andover of the odd way cats’ eyes could reflect light.
“How can I thank you?” Andover’s voice shook and he closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed with a wave of gratitude. Later, perhaps, he would allow himself to feel dread at the sight of his new hands. But he hoped not. Let them look odd. Let others see them as strange. He could accept that. He had hands again, and that was an amazing, spectacular thing.
Drask shook his head. “To me you owe nothing. I am merely a messenger. If you would offer your thanks, offer them to Truska-Pren, God of the Iron Forge.”
“When I am at his altar, I shall surely do so.”
Drask nodded without saying another word.
Really, there wasn’t much to say. Not then. The emissary from the Seven Forges merely crossed his arms and waited patiently while the rest of the group asked their questions. Andover answered them all, and as he did so his smile grew a little at a time.
He had hands!
No one was more surprised than he was when Tega placed her hands upon his and ran her fingers over the metal, surprised and curious.
He had feared that she would be repulsed.
Instead she seemed fascinated. He did his best not to read anything into that, but as is often the case with young men who think they are in love, he was not completely successful.
The steppes were close enough that the air felt almost warm again. Merros couldn’t quite keep himself from getting jumpy about it. He’d been away from the world he knew for just a little too long.
Not far away from him the remaining two women who served as the wizard’s eyes and ears – and at times as his mouth – had actually left their wagon and were walking alongside the supply wagon. The wind occasionally caught their cloaks and threw the hoods back far enough to let him see the startlingly blonde hair or the midnight black. Without the redhead they didn’t seem complete; beautiful, yes, but not complete.
To make up for the difference, they spoke with two of the women from the valley. Although they were also female, they were not quite cut from the same fabric: two ladies who looked like they should be dining with royalty, and two women who looked like they’d spent their lives working the fields.
Wollis noticed him looking and chuckled. “Hard to decide which you prefer?”
“Not at all. After months of dealing with you and sleeping in a tent, I’d gleefully bed your mother.”
Wollis frowned. “I have told you about my mother, yes?”
Merros smiled. “And yet I would still bed her.”
“Gods, Captain, you are beyond desperate.”
“So you can see why staring at four fit women would be a nice distraction?”
Before Wollis could respond, one of their escorts blew three sharp notes on his horn. He was a decent distance away and the winds were still bad enough that all the bellowing in the world might not be heard.
And as fast as the wind, the Sa’ba Taalor were in motion. They looked toward the sound of the horn and then they moved, not so much heading in the direction of potential trouble as stalking it. The two women he’d been admiring a moment before spun away from the wizard’s servants and crouched, sliding their bows from their backs and communicating with each other with quick hand gestures between motions. Bows removed, arrows pulled and notched in place all in seconds.
Goriah looked toward him, her eyes startlingly blue. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called out “Pra-Moresh!” Merros nodded and looked toward the horn blower.
It was almost over before it started, really. There were only two of the beasts this time, not seven like they had encountered before. The Sa’ba Taalor devastated the damned things in a matter of moments. The two women who’d started in that direction both fired arrows at the same one and they surely must have spoken to each other, because each of them fired exactly one arrow and each of them planted an arrow in a different eye. The great, screeching beast fell backward amid a thunderous roar of voices, and bucked and thrashed for several seconds before dying.
The horn blower was none other than Tusk, who took the other animal by himself. He did not throw an axe. He did not fire an arrow. Instead he charged on his war beast and drew a great sword unlike any Merros had ever seen before. The blade was well over four feet in length, very thick in the center and with a heavy curve. Merros was still trying to identify exactly what the weapon was when Tusk climbed from his saddle, balanced himself on the back of his moving beast, and then leaped at the Pra-Moresh. One hand held the hilt of the sword. The other was braced along the blade’s length, and as Tusk came downward, so too did his hands.
Hard to say who was more surprised, really; Merros or the monster that Tusk jumped toward.
“What is that madman doing?” Wollis’ voice cracked as he watched the man from the valley bring the sword down and cleave the blade through the neck and shoulder of the monstrous wall of flesh. He did not completely decapitate the Pra-Moresh, but it was close. The impact ran through hunter and hunted alike and Tusk rolled past the falling creature sliding across the frozen ground as he brought himself to a halt.
Merros was far too busy staring at the dead monster’s carcass to answer Wollis’ question. The damned things had hides thick enough to slow a crossbow bolt. They had bone plates under the skin in a dozen different places. He wasn’t completely sure, but he was fairly certain that the cut Tusk made carved through at least one of the bones.
Tusk stood up and raised his massive sword over his head, roaring to the heavens. “Durhallem!” The war cry was nearly as loud as the roar of the monsters he and his brethren had just slaughtered.
Wollis led his horse in a wide circle. The animal was well-trained and had been steady through the entire time they’d been on the expedition, but now it was edgy and seemed ready to bolt.
Merros could fully understand that. The smell of the Pra-Moresh was potent, made stronger here because the air was cleaner. Leagues away, closer to the Seven Forges, the air was thick with soot all the time, heavy with dust and ash. Here, closer to home, it was almost like his senses were coming back for the first time.
The hunters made quick work of their kills. While Merros watched and Wollis worked on calming his animal – a task he handled expertly – Tusk swept the massive sword clean with a heavy piece of his prey’s fur and slid it back into the sheath. Then he took a different blade, smaller but decidedly sharp and sturdy, and began cleaning the carcass. Within ten minutes he’d cut away a good portion of the meat from the Pra-Moresh. He called to two of his brethren who moved over and helped pack the meat into several cloth sacks. While they worked, the mounts they’d been riding stared at the dead beast and shifted from paw to paw. Not one of the creatures moved from where it stood.
The two women were just as fast as their male counterparts, and had cleaned a good amount of the meat away from the carcass in short order. When they were done, they stepped back and one of the women called out with a harsh, barking command. A moment later the great predatory animals they rode on pounced on the bodies. Not all of the Sa’ba Taalor rode the animals, just as not every person on the expedition had a horse. It simply wasn’t practical. Still there were a dozen of the beasts, and they tore hard meat and gristle away from the bodies and feasted on the entrails and several dubious looking organs their masters had set aside for them.
Tusk walked around the circle of feeding animals and held two more massive teeth out to show a few of his friends. He spoke in his own tongue, laughing, and Wollis, who had finally calmed his horse down, rode close to Merros. “What is he saying?”
“He’s just having fun. He’s being a hunter.” Merros pointed to the teeth. “He’s planning on adding those to his helmet. He’s just cracking wise because he can’t decide if he wants to merely add them or replace a couple of teeth that have broken in previous combats.”
“So he’s bragging?”
Merros shook his head. “No. He’s just having a good time. He may as well be a woman discussing what sort of fur to line her cloak with.”
“I’m thinking referring to him as a woman might be a mistake.”
The voice that responded came from Goriah. The blonde woman had crept closer while both of them were busy conversing. “No. I don’t think they care. Male, female. It’s all the same.”
“How so?”
She looked from one man to the other, her eyes drawing both of them. She was, as always, extremely distracting. “They have been learning from you. We have been learning from them. The only thing that matters seems to be how well they obey their gods. If you were to call Tusk a woman, he would probably think you were confused. He wouldn’t be insulted. He’d just possibly think you had been hit in the head too many times to think clearly.”
“Really?” Wollis’ voice was a skeptical.
“You wonder how that could be? Why he wouldn’t be offended?”
“Well, yes. No disrespect, Goriah, but most of the soldiers I’ve met would beat a man into the mud for calling him a woman.”
Goriah smiled. Even her teeth were perfect. “That’s because most of the soldiers you’ve dealt with would consider that an insult to their manhood and to their ability to fight.”
Wollis squinted at her. He was thinking it through. “Well, yes.”
She nodded her chin to the two women who were cleaning their blades and sliding them back into the sheaths on their bodies. Their cloaks were opened to the elements and the numerous straps that held knives, axes and even swords in place were revealed. Once again, Merros found himself watching the smooth play of muscles moving under their scarred skin. Once again, he found himself oddly drawn to their forms. Too damned long away from civilized women. He’d have to fix that and soon. “Answer me this, Wollis. Do either of those women strike you as the sort who would be considered too delicate to fight?”
Wollis shook his head. “Gods no. I don’t think I’d want to cross either of them.” His tone clearly revealed his admiration.
“Then why would a fighter be offended to be compared to them?”
“Your point is well made, Goriah.”
One of the women called out to Goriah and she in turn called back with a fast response. When she was done she looked at Wollis again. “We are apparently in for a treat.”
“How’s that?”
“Ehnole over there is going to make us a stew from the hearts, eyes and tongue of the Pra-Moresh.” The woman looked at Wollis with a certain humor. “Apparently it is a treat.”
“I doubt that.”
Goriah waved a dismissive hand and started toward the woman in question. “Should I tell her you wish to decline her generous offer? Keep in mind that if she takes offense she might decide you’ve insulted her honor.”
Wollis blanched.
Merros smiled. “I think we’ll both be delighted to try whatever dish she offers.” His second did not disagree.
They gathered together at the dining hall where Pathra Krous and Desh Krohan often had their conversations in private, joined by a dozen others who simply had to know what was happening.
The Emperor had numerous advisors, most of whom were not present. Some had other engagements, some had families to attend to, some were not invited because at that particular moment Pathra did not wish to see them. To the very last of them the newcomers stared at Drask Silver Hand with the sort of fascination normally reserved for a new and particularly unsettling looking bug. It either said a lot for him that he didn’t seem to care, or it spoke volumes about his ignorance of what was going on around him. Desh Krohan reached the same conclusion Merros had earlier: the stranger was not foolish enough not to notice that he was being observed, and carefully. He simply found nothing to be concerned over.
Among the people in the room was an exotic beauty from the far south of the Empire, whose flawless skin was darker by a few shades – in much the same way that Drask’s skin was grayer – and whose hair fell in a straight wave down past her shoulders. She had trouble taking her eyes off of Drask, and when she did, it was only to stare at Andover’s new hands. For his part, the young man was staring around the room with the same sort of fascination, save when even he found himself drawn back to his hands. The woman had come to the seat of the Empire to seek a solution to a growing problem with the Guntha. Once again the closest kingdom of any size was feeling the need to stretch their legs into the Empire’s territories, in this case a tropical zone called Roathes, the domain the young woman’s family ruled. Roathes was allegedly beautiful. Desh had not been there in a very long time and no longer remembered it clearly. What he did know, however, was that the girl was one of Marsfel the King of Roathes’ daughters, and that she would be staying in the area and making multiple requests for aid until the situation either grew bad enough to require action, calmed down on its own, or her presence offended Pathra. The reason so staggering a beauty had been sent along? To ensure that she did not quickly get on the Emperor’s nerves.
“Well, the Guntha are a persistent problem, Lanaie. We aren’t ignoring them, but we also have to make sure that the borders throughout the Empire hold against our enemies.” That was Pathra, who was currently trying to explain why he wasn’t sending troops to help the girl’s father. He was talking to her chest as much as he was talking to her face. That was to be expected, as her assets were considerable. The advantage of being the Emperor was that no one would say a word to him about his boorish behavior. Except for Desh, of course, but he would wait until after the meal.
“How many troops do the Guntha employ against your father?” Desh had been about ask that very question. Drask beat him to it.
The dark eyes of the girl grew wider as Drask spoke to her. She looked at him with slightly parted lips and drank in his words, fascinated by him. His face still remained behind the veil he found so important. Tataya had seen him, of course. Well, she had felt his face so she understood what was going on behind that cloth. So too did Desh. What his associates knew soon became his knowledge as well.
“My father says the Guntha have gathered almost two thousand in preparation.”
Desh held his breath. That was the last thing Fellein needed at the present time.
“Does your father not have an army of his own?” Drask again.
“Well, of course, but we were hoping for additional forces.”
“How many soldiers does your father have?” Drask again. The girl listened to every word he said and answered quickly each time he spoke. When Pathra talked to her she seemed to take forever to get around to answering. Her father had not chosen wisely when it came to a good representative. She was too easily distracted.
“Our numbers are good, but we hope for additional assistance to end the assault before it can become substantial.”
Drask turned to the Emperor. “And do you plan to offer assistance, Your Majesty?” He had learned quickly the proper form for addressing the Emperor. Tataya was teaching him.
“Well. It’s something I have to consider, of course.”
“May I offer a solution, Your Majesty?” Drask stared hard, his face unreadable above the veil.
“Of course.” Pathra’s expression said he was curious about what the solution might be. So was Desh.
“I could send ten of my fellows to see to the situation. They would like the opportunity to explore Roathes, and to meet these Guntha face to face.”
Pathra Krous stared at Drask for several heartbeats, his face frozen at the edge of a smile. He managed to behave himself, but Desh knew him well enough to know that the Emperor was tempted to laugh.
“Ten men?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
A quick look. A question shot toward Desh with a single expression. They had known each other so long that they needed nothing else for the communication. Pathra asked What do you think?
And Desh responded with Why not see what Drask thinks ten men can do?
Pathra smiled and lowered his head in a small bow of concession. “I appreciate the offer, Drask. Why don’t you send your men?”
Lanaie frowned. She did so very fetchingly. “That is all the help you can offer?”
Pathra said, “Merely as a consultation, another group to offer an impartial consideration.”
And at the same time, without any hesitation, Drask answered, “You shall see, Princess, what ten of the Sa’ba Taalor can do.”
The look Pathra shot was both amused and shocked. He had the good graces to hide his face from the eyes of both strangers before he stared at Desh.
Desh gave a small wave of his hands in dismissal and hid it behind the act of reaching for his wine. This would be enlightening at the very least, and if the Sa’ba Taalor managed to make a miserable situation more manageable while simultaneously telling something about themselves, all the better.
Of course he’d have to make sure he knew what was going on down there. And he’d have to get the strangers there in one piece. The good news was he already knew how to handle that.
Tataya looked in his direction and he nodded. She knew the way he thought. That was a good thing. It made life much easier when it came to certain things.
The sun broke through the thinning cloud cover and Merros sighed. What a beautiful sight. He’d been granted a teasing glimpse of the sun when he was in the valley of the Seven Forges, but that had been through the perpetual haze that covered the entire region. When one considered the misery of the Blasted Lands in general, the fact that any place within the depths of the frozen hell they were leaving ever saw sunlight could almost be considered a miracle.
The ground was no longer frozen. Spring was coming to Fellein, though it was hard to tell this far north. The air was warmer, sweeter and had the first scent of green, fertile plants that he could remember in forever it seemed. Even in the valley the air had a taint of soot.
Wollis was involved in a serious discussion with Tusk about the benefits of marinating wild meats. For reasons Merros didn’t begin to understand, the two had struck a mutual respect for each other. He didn’t quite want to risk calling it a friendship.
Pella called his name, and he turned to the sound of her voice. Without the winds half-deafening him he realized again that even her voice had an air of sensuality to it. How the hell was that even possible? Too long without companionship, that was how. He tried not to think about it.
The wizard’s servant moved closer and walked with a woman who either had the name Swech or the name Soot Hair. Possibly both. He still hadn’t quite grasped all the nicknames versus titles versus actual names of the people they traveled with. The differences were once again instantly obvious. Swech was almost as tall as he was, and she dressed for easy function in her motions instead of for any semblance of fashion. In other words, she dressed like a man. She had longish hair that did, indeed, carry the same color as the ash from a campfire. Her hair was tied back at the present moment, and fell in a tail halfway down her back. She also had a body that was as delightfully feminine as he could recall, just in a very well-muscled way he wasn’t at all used to. Pella was far thinner, seemed more like a proper lady, but both of them were distracting.
The weather was warm enough that both had discarded their cloaks and were happy to wear shirts instead of thick layers of cloth. That didn’t help with the distraction at all, but he still decided to enjoy the show rather than be annoyed. Pella was wearing a long skirt of dark cloth that shimmered around her. Swech was wearing leather breeches that fit almost as well as her skin. Oh yes, she had a feminine shape to her.
She also sported one sword, two daggers and at least one axe that he could see. Judging by the way they were carried, she’d long since adjusted to their shape and weight against her. She was still wearing a damned veil, too. His desire to see what she looked like under that cloth cover was even more distracting than the very shapely curves her outfit revealed.
“What can I do for you, Pella?” He made himself speak to avoid looking like he was staring as much as he wanted to. He also looked away from both of the women and let his attention soften until he was aware of everything around him instead of focusing on any specific details.
“Desh has been in contact with me.”
“Of course he has.”
She ignored his tone. “He requires additional work from you.”
“I believe our contract is fulfilled within the next two days, barring unforeseen occurrences.” There was a rather large fortune waiting for him and he intended to get around to spending it. He also intended to spend at least a full day soaking in hot, scented waters.
“Yes.” She nodded and he looked at her face. Damn if she wasn’t stunning.
“Then what could he possibly require from me?”
“That you lead ten of the Sa’ba Taalor to the southern edge of the Empire, the better to examine the border between Fellein and Guntha. The Guntha seem to want another war.”
“And why would I be at all interested?” He was interested, of course. He hadn’t been to the southern part of the continent in a very long time, and he was curious about what the Guntha were up to since he and a few thousand others had helped repel them in the past. That was how Wollis got his leg wrecked as he recalled. A spear hurled by a particularly angry Guntha had gone completely through his thigh, bone and meat alike. He had recovered but never completely.
“Double the money you have already earned.”
By all the gods, the man had gone mad. With that sort of money a man could buy himself a title and the castle to go with it.
“Yes, you could. But if you keep on Desh Krohan’s good side, he might well arrange for the title himself.” Pella’s voice was soft and amused.
Merros pulled back, not at all aware that he had been speaking aloud. A moment later he realized he hadn’t been.
“You need to not do that.” He made his voice hard.
“Do what?” Swech’s voice was naturally husky.
Merros chose to ignore the innocent question. “Fine, I’ll accept the commission, but I’ll need to go to the capital at any rate to finish this commission and draw the papers for the next. There’s also the matter of supplies and getting a fresh horse.”
“There’s no time for that. I was discussing the matter with Swech and she’s agreed to let you ride along with her.”
“Excuse me?” Was he blushing? Gods, he hoped not.
Swech struck him with a companionable cuff across the shoulder. “This horse of yours is slow. My Saa’thaa is faster and can easily carry two. If you are nice, I might even let you take the reins.” Oh yes, there was a bit of blushing going on now. He coughed into his hand in an effort to mask that fact.
Both of the women kept their quiet, but he suspected they exchanged an amused look while he wasn’t looking.
“So when do we leave then?”
“Immediately. Take what you need from your horse. Wollis will take over the leadership of the expedition.”
Wollis would take the maps to Desh Krohan. Wollis would handle the exchange of goods between the Sa’ba Taalor and the Emperor’s people. Fair enough. Wollis was his right hand and had certainly earned a bit of credit.
Merros nodded his head and called to Wollis. A few moments later he was removing his bedroll and a satchel of clothes from the saddle. Food, too, though he wasn’t sure he’d need it.
Pella came closer as he was gathering the last of his needs from his horse. His sword tapped against his hip as he settled it. Unlike his new friends, he didn’t carry the bloody thing around all the time. “Wollis is prepared to make the trip without you?”
“He’s probably delighted.” He snorted. “He and I are friends, but we have very different opinions on how an expedition should be led. He’ll enjoy himself a great deal more now that he’s in charge.”
Pella reached out a hand and offered him a pouch. He took it and felt the weight of the coins inside. “Expenditures. You’re back in the realm now, and the need to eat and sleep can be better accommodated with a few silvers than by pitching a tent.”
He nodded his head. “Like as not we’ll ride hard. That seems to be the only way these folks like to ride.” Pella’s ornery smile made him look away and cough into his hand a second time. He hadn’t meant it that way, of course.
Swech came up next to Pella as if summoned to make him even more uncomfortable. “The day is half done. If we’re to make good distance we should go.”
Wollis limped over and stood next to Merros as if for moral support. “We’ll be waiting for you when you return.” He took the horse’s reins and nodded a brisk farewell.
“Go home to your wife instead.”
“By the gods, man, why would I do that?” His second walked away without looking back.
Swech started toward her mount, and Merros gathered his belongings.
“Ride fast, Captain. Be safe on your journeys.”
“So are we going there merely to observe?”
Pella stared at him long enough to make him uncomfortable. “You are. You are going to observe. The Sa’ba Taalor will follow their own instructions.”
“And where are they getting their instructions from?”
Pella pointed to where Swech was standing. “Drask delivered a message to them at the same time as Desh contacted me.”
“How?”
“You are endlessly full of questions.” She waved a careless hand toward the wagon where she stayed. “Tataya rests in the wagon now, recovering from her journey here.”
He frowned. No riders had come toward them. They were in the steppes now and the land was fertile enough in comparison to the Blasted Lands, but there wasn’t a tree or even a shrub that could have hidden the approach of a rider or even a wanderer walking under her own power.
Instead of making a comment, he headed for the woman giving him a ride to their next destination. They’d be riding together for a while. During that time he intended to learn more about the Sa’ba Taalor. He’d have time. There was very little else to do while riding.
When Pella laughed behind him he felt himself blush again and wished desperately that if she were indeed reading his thoughts she would do a better job of hiding that fact from him.