They didn’t look the same as when they were ruining his hands. The clothes they wore were simple cloth pants and jerkins, and none too clean. Menock had a look on his face, a pinched expression that made him appear both older and more like a rodent. And Purb, who was always somehow larger than life when he was strutting around in his Guardsman attire, seemed substantially smaller.
Or maybe it was just the rage.
The gathering took place at the Emperor’s Palace. The arena was small, only twenty feet across, which barely even seemed like enough room to pace, but there would only be three of them inside the area when the time came, and that would be enough, he supposed. A deep-set pit, the arena was surrounded by perhaps a hundred seats though Andover doubted most of them would be filled. The entire affair was in an area that had been hastily cleaned and prepared. Andover knew that only because he had heard the activities during the night and Tega told him about it as she paced around, working her lower lip with her teeth.
“You can’t do this, Andover.”
He looked at her and shook his head. “I have to. If I don’t…” He looked down at his hands. Tega looked too, with that same morbid fascination. She kept touching his hands, always asking permission first, as if he could possibly deny her, but when she touched them it was with a clinical detachment. Her eyes examined the metal of his new replacements, moved along the odd patterns that had been built into them, but never seemed to want more than to examine them as instruments. She asked questions, of course, and was always surprised when he explained that he could feel everything he touched.
But she did not like touching them. She didn’t understand how much it meant to have hands again, even if they were different.
Even if they made him a freak.
Andover was wearing gloves. He intended to wear them a lot.
Twenty feet away Drask stood looking at his opponents. There was also a very large assortment of weapons laid out next to the man, which he was completely ignoring. Andover would have preferred that the man instead point to the best of the tools available to him.
Tega shook her head. “I don’t know if I can watch this.” Her voice shook.
He looked toward her, once again a frown forming on his face. “Tega? If I don’t at least try, I could lose my hands. Do you understand that?”
She nodded her head. “I just don’t like this, Andover. I don’t want to see…”
She didn’t say “you get hurt” but he understood what the silence meant.
And her doubt in him only increased the anger he felt. “There’s a difference this time, Tega.”
“What difference?” Her eyes searched his. How was it possible that every time he looked into her eyes seemed like the first time? How could she mean so much when they barely knew each other? No. No time for that. He had to focus. He couldn’t take solace in her or in anything. Not now.
“I’m not being held down.”
“Not yet. But you said you wanted to fight them together.”
Well, alright, that had been a horrid notion.
“I know.” It was his voice that shook this time.
Drask waved him over. He cast one last look at the girl who always made him feel like he could do almost anything, and then he walked over.
Drask’s eyes looked him over from top to bottom and the man nodded. “You seem fit.”
“I feel like pissing myself.”
Drask chuckled. “That’s natural. You’re about to fight to the death with two men.”
“That would seem to be the problem, yes.”
Drask grabbed his shoulder. “Why are you here?”
“To fight those two men.” He had no idea what else he should say.
“No. You are here to kill them. Why do you want to kill them?”
“Because they…” Andover looked at the two again, looked hard. He remembered the pain when Purb half-ruined his testicles. The screaming, hellish agonies that Menock brought about when he brought down the hammer on his hands. In that moment the rage grew hotter again and his hands, his new hands, the ones that Drask and his god had given him, clenched into fists. “Because they tried to kill me.”
“Pick your weapon.”
“I thought you were going to choose?”
The man stared into his eyes, and that odd light burned as he stared. “It is not my fight, Andover Lashk. It is yours. What feels right to me is not what will feel right to you.”
Andover looked carefully. There was a good assortment of decent tools, three different swords, and a dozen knives. He cast his eyes toward the other two men who were looking at a similar array.
“None of this.”
Drask looked at him and crossed his beefy arms. “You would use your hands alone?”
Andover shook his head. “No. I know what I want.”
“It is almost time. If there is a different weapon you should get it now.”
Andover nodded his head. A moment later he was jogging away as Drask walked over to the officials discussing the situation. A couple of them were staring after Andover’s retreating form.
“Does he forfeit his challenge?” The man who spoke was the Arbiter, the judge of the combat. His sole purpose as far as Drask could understand it, was to declare a winner when the combat was finished.
“No.” Drask looked the man up and down. He was soft and heavyset, with clean and perfumed skin. He doubted the man had been in combat in many a year. “He said he had a different weapon in mind.”
The Arbiter shook his head, a petulant scowl on his flabby face. “There are no ranged weapons permitted. He can’t go off and get himself a crossbow and expect a proper judgment.”
Drask felt a smile pull at his face. “I don’t think that’s what he intends.”
Desh Krohan was there again, wearing his impossible robes and staring from the shadows that hid his face away. “Let’s just see what the boy is up to shall we?”
Drask nodded his agreement, and the Arbiter apparently decided that debating with sorcerers was a bad idea and reluctantly agreed.
Ten minutes passed before Andover reappeared. When Drask saw what he was carrying he allowed himself a small laugh and nodded his agreement.
Andover looked at the courtyard and the deep retaining wall designed to keep anyone from escaping judgment.
The Arbiter looked toward him and stared at the farrier’s hammer he carried. “That is the weapon you prefer?”
Andover’s fingers held the sturdy handle with the ease of long familiarity. He looked at the two men across the small area where each was holding a sword and nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“I suppose it’s acceptable,” he said finally, sniffing the air as if something foul had just occurred. Andover resisted the urge to hit him with the hammer.
The Emperor came into the room and everyone stood at attention, facing him. He waved away the start of a formal bow and settled himself near the pit. Without another word Desh went to sit next to him. Drask walked over and looked at the scarred, heavily used head of the hammer. One side was broader and square, the other side tapered down to a heavy chiseled point that was deeply scarred and scratched. “This is a weapon you know?”
“I’ve used it many times.”
“Have you ever used it to fight?”
“No.” Andover’s eyes looked to the men across the pit from him. Both of them seemed a little more confident now that he was holding the hammer instead of a sword or axe. “But it’s tasted blood before.”
Drask patted his shoulder. “That seems a proper justice.”
The Arbiter cleared his throat and spoke loudly. “Purb Larfsen and Menock Westerly, you stand accused of betraying your position and attacking Andover Lashk unjustly, causing the ruination of his hands and great suffering.” Both of the accused stood and faced the man. “By the traditions established in the time of Emperor Aurent Krous, Andover Lashk has chosen trial by combat to decide your fate. Do you accept this judgment as fair and final?”
Menock nodded and coughed into his hand. “Aye, ho.”
Purb sneered in Andover’s direction. “Aye. Ho!”
The Arbiter looked to Andover. “Do you accept the fate of these men as fair and final judgment in your case against them?”
“Aye.” He looked from one to the other and then finally at the Arbiter. “Ho.”
Drask leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “Take the big one first.”
The Arbiter ignored the breach of protocol. “Then let the combat begin and may the gods be just.”
Two guardsmen stood at each entrance to the pit. Menock and Purb entered on one side of the small battlefield and Andover entered across from them. The sand was soft under their feet and yielded with each step taken. Andover would have preferred a solid footing. Whatever they were thinking as they stepped down those stairs, all three men seemed solemn enough.
Both of the accused held their swords at the ready, taking proper stances. Drask eyed them carefully, studied their positions, the way they held their weapons. Andover did the same as he held the hammer in his hand then carefully stepped to the left.
Purb did not wait to be approached. He charged toward Andover with a roar coming from his throat. The guard was a large man, heavily muscled and capable. He hefted the sword and prepared to cleave Andover in half.
Andover let out a much smaller sound as he scrambled to the left a second time.
Purb took a chance and swung the sword in a wide arc aimed at Andover’s chest. Andover dropped to his knee, ducking under the hard swing, and as Purb was drawing the sword back a second time, he brought the heavy hammer down across the man’s leg. Hard metal met meat and bone with a mild slapping noise. The sound that came from Purb’s mouth was much, much louder as his kneecap exploded and slid sideways under the flesh.
Purb staggered and dropped his sword, gasping at the pain. Before he could attempt to right himself, Andover brought the weapon backward in a hard arc, growling and nearly spitting. The tapered side of the hammer’s head caught his enemy across his face and tore skin before shattering teeth and the bone of his lower jaw.
Andover stood back up, shaking the hair that had fallen into his face away from his eyes. He hefted the hammer with practiced ease and then yelped as Menock came for him, moving with far greater stealth than Purb had managed.
Menock swung a blade with even better skill than he did a hammer. Andover dodged as best he could and hissed as the sword’s tip slashed across his ribs. Had Menock scored a better swing that would have been the end of the fight. Instead the apprentice blacksmith bared his teeth in pain and stepped back as his side started bleeding.
All around him the people he’d come to know stared intently, many with worried expressions. Not Drask. Drask simply watched the action, his eyes moving from one opponent to the other, seldom staying on Andover.
Purb was down on the ground trying to recover, trying to stand up again, his ruined leg buckled under him and his face a bloodied ruin. He reached for his sword again, not finished with yet. How could he be? The fight was to the death.
Menock was eyeing Andover cautiously and weaving the tip of his sword a little to the left, a little to the right. Not quite feinting, but not standing still either.
Most of Andover was in a panic. He was bleeding! Gods only knew how badly he was cut, and he didn’t have the time to examine the wound, despite the warmth he felt running between his fingers. But part of him was unsettlingly calm. That was the part that held the hammer. His hands worked. His new hands, the ones given to him by a god called Truska-Pren. His hands worked. The hands that replaced the flesh and bone that Menock had taken from him because he dared look at a girl. That small part, the voice in his head that kept speaking of the insane actions of the man facing him across a sword’s distance, did not speak softly. It bellowed inside his skull, outraged that the bastard was alive and infuriated that he had drawn blood.
His side hurt? In comparison to the agonies he’d suffered since his hands were ruined the scratch was nothing. He remembered that pain and the cut faded away to a minor inconvenience.
His hand on the hammer shifted and he hefted the comfortable, familiar weight. His hair fell in front of his eyes and this time Andover let it, looking past it at the face of his enemy.
The man who took from him without reason.
The panic fell away, brushed aside by a strange calm that felt alien to him. He would not die today. He would have his retribution.
Andover stepped forward and grinned.
Menock’s face twisted into an ugly expression that was half sneer of contempt and half a wince of panic. The sword drew back a bit and then lashed forward.
Andover’s left hand reached out to block the blade. The edge of the weapon carved through his glove and then screamed across the metal palm and fingers of his hand. He clenched a fist around the piece and pushed it aside as he stepped closer to Menock.
Menock’s eyes flew wide open in shock. The sword was wrenched sideways, half pulled from his grasp as he struggled to right his grip. Andover stepped closer still and brought the hammer up between his straining arms and drove the head into the guardsman’s stomach with all the force he could muster.
The hammer struck him in his sternum. Metal met cartilage and muscle with bruising force and Menock grunted. He did not let go of the sword, but Andover pushed in closer still and wrenched the blade free of his hands.
Menock looked at his weapon as it fell and lunged, determined to take back his prize.
Andover brought his knee into the man’s exposed side and sent him sprawling. While Menock tried to collect himself, Andover stepped in again and this time brought the hammer’s broad side down on his enemy’s left shoulder. The bones of the joint separated and Menock fell on his face, grunting, gasping, overwhelmed by the pain. He retched, his stomach revolting against the unexpected damage to his body.
Andover did not stop. The fury grew larger inside him, exploded into a full rage, and he swept the hammer down on Menock’s arm, breaking the bone between elbow and shoulder. Without pausing, he lifted the hammer and dropped it again, this time smashing in his enemy’s ribs.
Menock screamed, but could do little else.
Andover paused and looked down at his foe.
And while he was staring at Menock, Purb stabbed him in the side of his thigh. He might have been aiming higher, but it was the best he could manage. The pain was immediate, and Andover gasped as the blade cut deeply.
He hopped backward, felt the blade pull free of his muscles, and a second after that felt warm heat running down to his calf.
Purb scrambled toward him, crawling forward with one hand and one leg, holding his sword carefully, and looking up at Andover. His face was a swollen, broken mess and his leg apparently wasn’t working. Andover considered that fact carefully as he looked at the man.
And then he limped as quickly as he could to take advantage of the situation. Purb was a big man, physically much stronger than he was, but the guardsman was also wounded. Andover’s leg threatened betrayal but held its own as he moved around the man. Purb tried to move as quickly and failed. He was still trying to adjust himself to a new position when Andover stomped down on his bad leg and then dropped forward.
The guardsman screeched and tried to swing his sword from an impossible angle. Andover landed on his back and brought the hammer down again, again and then a third time on his enemy’s skull. After that Purb no longer tried fighting him.
Andover stood back up and looked down at his opponents where they lay broken on the ground. His body shook with adrenaline and exhaustion, his leg throbbed and he shifted most of his weight to the uninjured partner.
The Arbiter cleared his throat and Andover looked toward the man who was considerably paler than he had been before.
“This battle is not yet finished, Andover Lashk. You have won the justice you sought but you must decide if the accused have been punished enough.”
They were alive, the both of them. Broken, yes, crippled, to be sure, but alive. Would they ever recover completely? Doubtful. Would they ever serve as guardsmen again? Not possible. Would they suffer? Oh, yes.
“Let them live.” Andover didn’t bother looking at either man again. Instead he walked away from the arena and headed back to the smithy. He had a weapon to return to its rightful owner.
He managed five yards from the arena before he collapsed. Tega ran to his side a moment later, followed by Desh Krohan. The visitor did not move. He merely stared at the downed men.
The Emperor sent out twenty men with full regalia to meet the travelers and guide them through the city. Those twenty men rode out in polished armor, carrying the Imperial banner and riding proudly on white chargers. As it wasn’t very often people saw that sort of thing going on in the capital city, quite a few people watched the procession and spoke of it.
They came back two days later with a caravan. There were more horses, of course, and a few wagons. But there were also the people who quickly got dubbed the Outsiders by the citizens of Tyrne.
They rode great beasts; monstrous things that were decidedly not horses. Those creatures were covered in armor and saddled as if they were somehow tamed, though a good number of the things turned their heads and let out warning growls to the people who gathered on the streets to watch them pass.
The dust of the Blasted Lands still fell from riders and mounts alike, and the air around them seemed to carry a cloud of its own as they moved past. To the last, none of the Outsiders looked at the people on the streets. They kept their eyes on the riders ahead of them, or occasionally eyed the buildings around them, but the people seemed of no consequence.
And those riders? At first there were some who claimed they had no faces; later it was decided that they hid themselves behind cloth veils and sported helmets that hid still more of their features. And all of them wore armor, carried an array of weapons, and did not seem like the sort who should be approached for any reason.
Though several of the Outsiders rode on their great beasts, still more of them marched, moving with steady precision and once again ignoring anyone nearby, save those foolish enough to try touching them. There was some confusion as to exactly how many of the Outsiders there were. A small but vocal crowd insisted that there were enough to invade. Calmer voices actually took the time to count and revealed that there were exactly forty Outsiders and twenty beasts.
They did not dawdle.
Though a great number of people were curious to see where the strangers might go, what they might look like, and what they might have to say, the guards at the palace had different ideas, and the masses were stopped at the gates.
Once beyond those walls, the procession finally wound to a stop. The escort climbed down from their horses and presented a man named Wollis to the Captain of the Guard. Wollis in turn nodded his head to the wizard Desh Krohan.
Krohan nodded back and gestured for the three women who had ridden along to join him. When they had done so, he gestured for Wollis to approach him.
“You have done well, Wollis March. I appreciate your services. Can you introduce me to the leader of this band?”
Even as he spoke Drask Silver Hand stepped out into the courtyard and placed his hands on his hips as he looked at the group. Wollis stared at the man for a moment and then nodded to the wizard.
A moment after that an enormous man came toward them both. He was wearing less armor than most, primarily because he had a beast he could leave the armor with. He left behind his great helmet, but wore a veil covered with small metal rings and sported a necklace covered with an intimidating variety of long, pointy teeth.
“Tusk, this is Desh Krohan, the man who hired us to examine the Seven Forges. Desh, this is Tusk, the leader of this particular expedition.”
Tusk nodded his head and very carefully followed the bowing method that he’d learned from Wollis. Step back on one foot, bow at the waist, spread the arms to the sides.
The wizard returned the gesture.
“I know that you and your people must be tired. You’ve ridden a great distance. We’ve prepared rooms for you and an area for your mounts. Can you possibly tell me what they like to eat?”
Tusk looked around, the veil over his face tinkling softly. “Mostly meat, but if they are hungry enough they’ve been known to eat almost anything.”
The wizard was hidden away within his robes, but he nodded his head. “So best to feed them well before they get any ideas. Duly noted.”
Tusk contemplated the words for a moment and then laughed, nodding. His hand reached out and swatted at the man’s shoulder good-naturedly. The sorcerer staggered a bit but did not fall. A moment later he was leading all of them into a courtyard and a wing of the palace that had been set aside for the use of the visitors.
Wollis shook his head and grinned. He was exhausted, no way around that, but he was also excited. They had traveled a great distance to reach this point. He was ready to celebrate.
That was to happen later, as he soon found out. First there was rest and a chance to clean up. The meeting with the Emperor was delayed by several hours. That notion didn’t hurt his feelings in the least.
The blonde woman who had been with them from the beginning of the quest was in the chambers they’d arranged for him when he stepped through the threshold.
“Goriah?”
She smiled at him; it was a curious expression, neither promising nor friendly. Polite. That was the word. She did not want to be there. “I know you are tired. There will be time to sleep soon.”
“What is it you need from me?” He wasn’t much in the mood for her or her riddles. Merros found her enchanting. Merros found most women enchanting, but mostly Wollis just thought she was trouble. She and her sisters, too.
“We’re not your enemies.” Her voice held just the finest hint of reproach.
Wollis shrugged. “Neither are you my friends. You are merely women who serve my employer.”
“I’m here to warn you, Wollis. There will be a great number of noblemen at this dinner. It’s a formal affair, and very significant. The people you have traveled with will be scrutinized very carefully and the people who will be looking them over so carefully will be looking you over as well. Comport yourself appropriately and your future is made. Act the wrong way with this lot and you might well wind up swinging by the neck, or more likely poisoned when you turn your head.”
“Who is supposed to be there?”
“The Emperor, or course, but also his closest advisors and his family. The Emperor is not the problem. His closest advisor is your employer. He is not the problem.”
“So you want me to watch my back?”
“Be smart. Observe.” Her voice was distant. “Do not offer answers unless you are asked. To do otherwise would be ill advised.” Without another word she swept past him and moved into the corridor beyond his room. He let her go.
But he was wise enough to listen.
They came into the city of Larnsport without fanfare. That was the way Merros wanted it. This was really the first chance that the Sa’ba Taalor had to meet up with the people of Fellein and he wanted the situation to be uneventful. We seldom get what we want from the world. They were low on supplies and while the people with him believed in hunting for their food, they were not in an area that made that easy. There were cattle around, to be sure, but they were owned by the people raising them. Since he rather liked the idea of avoiding an incident, they went into Larnsport, and because the notion of a bed appealed to him, they stayed at one of the larger inns. He had the good sense at least to make sure that Saa’thaa and the rest of the mounts were placed in a stable that was cleared of other animals. And because he’d been given money he arranged for a local butcher to deliver a lot of raw meat. A lot. The beasts were sated – or at least he hoped they were.
After that, it should have been easy enough to handle matters. He and Swech and a lean, hard man named Blane went shopping for supplies.
Perhaps he’d grown too accustomed to being with the Sa’ba Taalor. Perhaps he was simply tired, or perhaps it was a combination of the two. Whatever the case, Merros failed to give enough warnings. The people with him stared at everything as much as he had surely stared at the great keep where he met the King in Iron. There was little about Fellein that resembled their valley, their world. While they were purchasing supplies and Merros was haggling with a very determined baker regarding the need for at least two dozen loaves of bread – he had a passionate need for freshly baked bread after the last couple of months – Swech wandered off.
He looked for the woman who had become his new right hand for this trip and, when he couldn’t find her, he asked Blane where she had gone.
Blane was looking at an assortment of cheeses as if they were a complete mystery. He turned to Merros and pointed to his right in a vague way. “She went there.”
“Where?”
“In that direction.”
The baker looked in the same direction with a frown on his face. “Your friend is a woman? That is not the right place for a lady.”
Before Merros could ask what the man meant, there was a loud scream. It did not sound like Swech and that was a good thing, but it most decidedly sounded like trouble.
The second scream? That one sounded like Swech. Merros was moving a moment later, and without even thinking about it, he drew his sword. The blade felt comfortable in his hand, as it always did after the years he’d been carrying it. Later, after everything was done, he would remember what Tusk had said when they talked about how the weapons he had forged himself felt like a part of him. For now he concentrated on Swech and protecting her from whatever might try to hurt her. She was a stranger here, and he felt like a fool for letting her wander off.
The pathways between buildings grew narrower in the area off the market square. There were additional vendors to be found, of course, but they were the ones who could not afford shops or who sold merchandise of more dubious natures. Like as not the reason the baker had warned him was because someone was selling women. Or possibly there was a gang who felt they had the right to take what they wanted from women by force. Either way, Merros would make them pay dearly for hurting Swech if they managed.
He came around a sharp corner just in time to watch Swech drive her elbow into a thin man’s throat hard enough to crush his trachea into a new shape. The man fell back, clutching at his ruined neck and rapidly reddening in the face. His eyes were wild and rolled desperately. He fell back against the wall and fought for his balance and his breath alike, with no success.
While that man was choking on his own internal injuries, Swech caught another man with a swipe of opened fingers across his face that made him scream in pain. While he was trying to recover from the assault, Swech moved against him a second time, her arm moving fast enough for Merros to just make out the way she caught the stranger’s arm with hers and then brought her free arm in to shatter the bone between his elbow and his shoulder.
While the first man was collapsing on the ground and turning redder still, on his way to a dark purple, the second man was shrieking while she bent his arm into a shape it was never meant to take. Bone fragments punched through muscles and the gods granted the man the mercy of unconsciousness.
Three more men were in the area. One of them was dead on the ground, his head canted at an unnatural angle from his neck. The other two were staring at the woman who had just destroyed their friends with wide, terrified eyes.
Merros knew exactly how they felt.
For a second he’d forgotten himself, forgotten the people he was traveling with. In a fit of madness he’d let himself think that Swech was anything like the women he’d been raised with. Had he not seen the weapons she carried? Her proficiency with a bow?
Swech dropped into a crouch and stared in the general direction of the two remaining men. They did not stand still. They ran for dear life. Really the sort of vermin that would team with four others to tackle one woman would hardly be expected to stay around.
Swech looked like she was thinking about chasing after them but changed her mind at the last moment.
Merros looked at her – marveled at her, really.
Swech turned to look in his direction and when she saw who was staring at her, she relaxed. The way her body moved was quickly becoming a second language for him. Merros seldom realized how much he depended on facial expressions until he dealt with the Sa’ba Taalor. With only their eyes to go by, he was beginning to understand how much the way a person stood or even sat could convey a great deal.
“You are angry with me?” Her words were curiously soft.
“What?” He looked at her. “No. Not at all. You were defending yourself, obviously. I’m angry at myself for not warning you.”
The man whose throat she had crushed thrashed and shuddered behind her, and a moment later was as still as the death that had come to claim him.
“Do the men in your land always try to mount women they do not know?”
“No.” He spat. “No but some of the men think they have that right.”
“They are wrong.” She shook her head and then moved toward him. She dismissed the dead and dying as if they did not matter. In truth they didn’t, not really. There would possibly be trouble if they lingered and less if they moved on, so he moved with her, back toward the bakery.
“What made you come this way?”
Swech looked at the small carts where vendors were suddenly reappearing. They had been gone as soon as the trouble started and now they were back as if they had remembered it was rude to watch a woman get raped. Now that the possibility was gone they were glad to once more hawk their wares.
“That one.” She pointed to a flat cart where a withered crone of a woman crouched over a collection of baubles and tokens. There were medallions and rings and an assortment of well-crafted leather works, all meant for decoration rather than any practical use.
Merros smiled. Of course a woman would find the jewelry. He shook that thought away. The woman in question had just killed three men with frightening ease. Best not to underestimate her. “You see something you like?”
“What does it do?” She pointed to a bronze medallion with a feathered serpent adorning it. The craftsmanship was exemplary. Like as not the lady in question had either stolen a few of the pieces or she was dealing with someone from the Guntha. The winged snake was one of their symbols.
“The items she sells? Nothing. They are meant to be pleasant to look at and to wear. That is all.”
Swech stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide with wonder. “They mean nothing?”
“Well, I suppose they mean something to someone.” He pointed to the medallion she’d been looking at a moment ago. “This is a symbol to the people we’re going to observe. Here? In this area? It is just a pretty piece to wear around the neck.”
The old woman tending the cart looked from Swech to Merros and back again and then snatched the medallion that had struck Swech’s fancy and held it out to her. She chattered in the local tongue – same language but a sharp, fast dialect that even Merros had to listen to carefully – offering the prize up as a reward for having stopped the group of men from hurting anyone else.
Swech stared hard at the woman for a moment while Merros translated and then waved the offer away. “Tell her I did not do this for her, but because they offended me. I would no more take her offering than I would steal from her.”
Merros conveyed the message and though she seemed puzzled, the woman nodded her head in understanding.
As they walked the short distance back to the bakery Merros kept his eyes peeled for signs that the two who got away might want to come back with reinforcements, but he saw nothing.
“She merely wanted to say thank you.”
“No.” Swech shook her head. “She wanted to feel better about not stopping the men or reporting them. I am not here to make her feel less guilt.”
Merros chose not to argue the point. Instead he asked, “Where did you learn to fight that way? Without weapons?”
“Wrommish tells us that we must never forget the body and mind are weapons before the tools are weapons.”
“Wrommish is one of your gods?”
“Of course.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“But who taught you?”
Swech stopped just before they reached the bakery. “We are taught. From the time we can stand we are taught all the ways of the Daxar Taalor. We are always taught. We are always learning.” She patted the blade on her belt, and gestured to the short sword he knew was strapped to her side. “Before we can forge a blade we are taught. When we walk we are taught. When we hunt, when we grow crops. We are always taught.”
He nodded and smiled. This was one of the differences he was trying to understand. The Sa’ba Taalor seemed to take for granted that everything they did was about learning the ways of their gods. Everything. From the way they walked to the way they trained their mounts, everything seemed directly connected to their deities. He wasn’t sure if he envied them their connection to their gods or pitied them their delusions. Time would tell, he supposed.
The baker called to him. There were negotiations to finish.
Blane nodded. He seemed indifferent to the events that had unfolded. As far as the man was concerned it was simply another day and Swech had never been in danger. Then again, considering what she had done to three men, Blane seemed to have the right mentality.