The Giver of Iron

By Nathaniel Firmath

For four years, Second Ray Taemon, son of Alais, has been a messenger. As an Initiate of Brek, he has been trained to march and fight; only by force of obedience has he accepted the role pressed upon him. Now, tasked with a new assignment by the Onidai, himself, he will reclaim his armor, his sword and his shield, and lead his people to a land of ancient nightmares.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathaniel Firmath
• Release date: Mar 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463032510

Nathaniel Firmath

I write novels.

Book preview

Chapter One

Sword

Sir? What is this?

Coronate Tidas had to turn his eyes from the missive I had just passed into his keeping. But I wasn't kept waiting—there were but two items on His Eminence's desk. My orders had been tucked beneath the second. The first was a waxed leather parcel, a bit larger than needed to store a helmet. That was my cargo. It was the other item that had piqued my interest.

That Taemon—is a sword, or so His Eminence insists on calling it.

I see. Am I to deliver it as well? There is no mention of it in the brief.

"You are to carry it, Second Ray—you'll need to leave your chisel-of-issue with your stowed gear."

That sword, was not the weapon I'd trained with. The sheath was too narrow, with a hilt that looked as if someone had sawn through the cross guard just behind the handgrip; it appeared to offer protection only for knuckles and fingers, leaving the wrist exposed.

If I may?

He nodded; he was clearly displeased with something, though I could not imagine what I might have done to affect him so.

The sheath was leather alone, with no core of copper mesh or lining of linen, and it rasped when I drew out the blade. It resembled a proper Brek tzela, the leaf-bladed longsword that my order carries in the ranks, but split down its length. The spine was straight, and the only edge it had bowed out precisely like that of its proper forebear. The point was more narrow, and would likely pierce more efficiently, but it lacked the width behind the point that made a thrust from a tzela the equal of any spear. As I have written, the edge curved identically, but it did not have the same heft, and would not, like the real weapon-of-issue, cleave with the shearing power of an axe. And as it possessed but a single edge, I could not attack forehand and backhand, as I had been trained to do.

'Sword' was the right word for it; I would not use my own tongue to name such a thing.

To be fair, it was light, and would be swift in the attack, and its designer had at least the decency to use the same pommel as that of its progenitor, so that with a blade of half the weight the balance was much closer to the hand that held it. It was responsive in a satisfying way, but something about it suggested to me more of a pruning implement than a weapon of war.

I did not like it.

"His Eminence wants you to carry it in the field. Get a feel for it. If, Sun forbid, you should require its use, he'll want your impressions of its virtues and flaws in your report when you return.

On an unrelated note, I've left word with the quartermaster to issue you an additional sheaf for this assignment. Use the javelins first. You've a good arm for casting. If you find yourself in need of a javelin on more than four occasions, I suppose His Eminence will never know the difference.

* * *

Viharth. In all my time traveling I had never been there, seen the Hyrav mountain chain, or the cliffs abutting the Urvileth. And I had heard much of the Five Plateaus. Cities of great luxury and pleasure, or so it was said. Mine are not a traveling people, and so I was not without the presence of mind to appreciate the rarity of my journey. And, considering the fame of the foreign markets there, I appreciated the opportunity as well.

My back pay, winnings from my wager, and every sliver of copper resembling a coin had found its way to the merchant bank in the intervening hours, where more solvent currencies of silver and copper can be exchanged for higher denominations of internationally-recognized currency. If I'd had the time, I might have called on the money-changers housed in the same building; the bank notes of Viharth, Sangholm, and Meadrow could be acquired at a loss of only five percent. But we were now at war, and the exchange of all bank notes, title deeds, and merchant vouchers required the authorization of the designated Councilor or Councilman. I did not have days to wait, and so my silver and copper were traded, without loss, for coins of bright gold. It was pathetically little coin—sadder still when paired with the three silver lunaris and fourteen mixed pieces of copper and brass that did not add up to gold. But it would be easier to hide in my baggage, and I consoled myself with that.

I had picked the horses myself; we were well acquainted. Three were chestnut geldings, half-brothers, the oldest barely three years ahead of the youngest. They answered to the names Emmett, Rus, and Rul. Unshakable those three; they'd seen much that would put a sheepdog to flight. I knew I could rely on them.

The fourth was a jet black mare, the full sister of Her Eminence's own personal mount. Originally, she'd been an alternate during Her Eminence's two-year search for the Onidai. One of my mounts had broken a foreleg in northern Tulakal. I ended his pain myself, but my own was greater than I care to remember. I hid my tears, though I suspect Lady Brenna knew. After lending her alternate mare for the delivery of dispatches, she somehow forgot the horse was her own.

Thalia was a year younger than Rul, the youngest gelding, but of those four, she was in command. In truth 'of we five' might be more honest, for she had proved herself so intelligent, even for a horse of the Trathnona, that she had changed my mind on several occasions, and a few of those decisions aided in my early successes.

It is difficult, even now, to express just how important those animals had become to me. Most of my time was spent in their company. I could read in the sound of their breaths how much wind they had left in them. I knew from the texture of the sweat-salt that dried on my calves how often I should stop to water them. I knew their favorite treats—they were surprisingly, endearingly picky about their treats—and when best to give them. When they'd carried my weight too long I felt the aching of their hooves in the soles of my own feet.

They had carried me through danger, and we, together, had seen things about which most of my tribe has only heard and read. It was fair to call them my friends, but they were more than that. I could not comb the dirt or burrs from my own hair before brushing clean their manes. They had fodder before I had bread, and when water was scarce we rationed it by weight of the drinker. That relationship, that bond, is quite unlike anything I can compare it to.

And when I saw them outside the gates of Brek, loaded for travel and full of excited energy, in spite of everything, I smiled.

* * *

From the city gates to the edge of Trathnonan holdings we held an ambitious pace, reaching the downgrade preceding the Hyrav river valley in two day's time. Horses need only a few hours of sleep each day, and so I had adopted their waking hours, and thus increased our rate of travel. This had been a hazard in the past, for I had been unaware of my limits, and if not for the insistence of the unusually intelligent Thalia, many intended choices might have ended in ruin. But much had changed in the four years since.

I had learned that I could keep a horse's waking hours for a week, and perhaps even as long as nine days, though any longer and I would be incapable of coherent thought. Without any sleep at all, three days was my outward limit; having learned that lesson I had no wish to repeat the experience that taught it. But those lessons had not been learned without compensation for the trouble; the tricks of my unintended trade were by that time well known to me.

Among the obvious was the practice of disrobing to the waist, that the chill of the air displaced by our passing might jar me to awareness through force of discomfort, though doubtless that trick is known to many.

Second, when even the chill ceased to shock me, I resorted to the intense tartness of dried persimmons; this has served me well on many occasions.

Lastly, when sleeplessness became an issue with which petty tricks could no longer contend, I turned to a concentration of the tea of boiled holly leaves; this is a secret of Ashad, passed down from mother to daughter, and it is only with the collective permission of High Priestess and all serving Priestesses of that ancient temple that I have dared write of it.

It was learned long ago that the leaf of a particular species of holly had invigorating properties, and among those women that served as scouts and hunters by night, drowsiness had been a known and feared hazard. This posed an even greater problem for the Priestesses, who tended boring duty. At night. Well into their advanced years. The tea was their answer to the pitfalls inherent to the duties of their order, and my own mother had parted with that secret within the first year of my unorthodox service to Their Eminences.

The concentration that I had thought to bring was strong indeed, the leaves blanched and replaced again and again until the flavor was only bearable with the addition of lemon peel and honey. I had only the single flask, and the effects had never lasted longer than a third of a day, so in spite of the strength of that brew I always hesitated to resort to its use.

By the second day abutting Viharthian holdings, and the fifth day of my journey, I still had yet to sleep any longer than my mounts. There had been no safe or concealed campgrounds, and no friendly settlements from the time I'd left the heartland; for lack of options I'd maintained the pace, hoping to fall upon a promising site. In truth, it is likely that I passed many likely spots, though by that time my capacity to recognize them had greatly diminished. I lacked even the presence of mind to turn to the holly tea, instead stubbornly and stupidly riding onward.

It was in that state, on the morning of the sixth day, that Thalia saved my life.

That morning, still predawn, my brilliant mare refused to take the road. She had been the keeper of my precious cargo and essential gear, a lighter chore than required of the geldings, though as it was cargo of a valuable and sensitive nature I thought it best to leave it in her care. All three of the mounts had lightweight saddles, the match for the saddlebags they were required to bear, and while I was cinching them up, shortly after breakfast—theirs, not mine—Thalia took a position about six paces to the left of the road.

No matter how I attempted to move her, even lure her with treats she had not earned, she kept her place. When I finally rode on ahead, as if to leave her, she followed, but maintained her place to the left of the road. As the land along her chosen path was not level with the road, I was eventually forced to take her part, abandoning the beaten track; this had all occurred before dawn, and by midmorning we had strayed even further from the road.

Two hours before noon we were moving at the walk through low underbrush, with a thick stand of trees to the right, cutting us off from the road. All morning I had looked in vain for a gap in the trees through which we might pass, yet even rising in the stirrups to peer ahead I saw no easy passage until noon had come and gone. But by that time I had come to understand the reason behind Thalia's obstinacy.

Less than one furlong ahead I could see the opening through which we would make our exit. I was standing in the stirrups, leaning left with my hand on the pommel to assess the gap's width, when I heard the soft whickering of a horse.

It wasn't one of mine.

I knew their every sound by then. And it was too faint—something near, but muffled. When it happened again I was ready for it.

To the right, through the trees.

We halted. I listened. No longer pressing through the underbrush, the silence was such that the hoofbeats across the way were unmistakable, even deafening, and the pattern was more than the hooves of a single mount could produce. Four? Five? I could not tell, I knew only that their travel plans were eerily similar to our own; not twenty heartbeats after I'd halted, they did the same. Thalia blew an equine fricative, as in exasperation, and I could well understand it; it would be frustrating indeed, for a horse to contend time and again with a less intelligent master.

We'd closed half the distance, leaving about sixty paces between my position and the gap through which I'd intended to pass. I palmed a javelin in my right hand, then took up two more in the left. I was astride Emmett, who was still fresh, for I'd mounted him less than a quarter-hour earlier. Trathnonan horses shadow one another by default, so when I tapped Emmett's barrel three times in rapid succession, the other three followed suit. We were at the gallop at once, and though our racket made it impossible to hear our followers, I saw the road dust rise from their position, and knew they had done the same.

Three quarters of the expanse had vanished, when a sharp whistle and the rise of my right arm brought all four horses to an instant halt. Our unseen companions did not notice immediately, as I knew they could not, and when the noise of their movement finally ceased, we had become the followers, they the followed. I aligned Emmett with the gap in the treeline, leaned backward in the saddle, arm already cocked for the cast; three taps of the stirrups and we were off, the other three thundering behind us.

We cleared the gap, maintained the pace, and I hurled my first javelin the moment my eyes found a target; assessment came with the grasping of the second.

Seven men upon mountain ponies. Short spears. Two bows.

In truth there were now six, for my cast had been launched with the target only a half-dozen paces away. The second cast was for an archer, and he caught my wavy copper-iron point full in the belly. I used the third throwing spear while still in hand, slashing with the undulating edge in passing.

Thalia proved her worth a second time that day, for she had not only unhorsed the second archer—by design or fortune I could not tell—but trampled the weapon carried by his counterpart, leaving us in little fear of attack from a distance. The clattering of hooves, the shouting and confusion and the smell of blood, all were more than any lesser horse could bear, and the remaining mounted men were left with bucking ponies.

I saw this all by contorting in the saddle, and knew that we had made good our escape; I had killed two and possibly three, and the one left injured by Thalia's onslaught would slow the pace of his fellows even further. And at the best of times, their mounts were only ponies.

Chapter Two

Warmth

Thalia had taken an arrow. It had a bone point, and how she'd been hit I could not guess, for I'd seen only the two archers. It had very nearly been a graze, but still she was more lucky than she might have been. It had pierced her rump just beneath the skin, either end of the arrow protruding from beneath a handsbreadth length of flesh. It was on me to dress the wound as soon as we had an hour's lead, but I pulled the arrow straightaway so the wound would bleed clean. When we finally halted, I felt like a wretch.

She was my charge. This was not supposed to happen to her.

My mind was without thought of the danger we had just escaped. I felt no curiosity about the origin and objective of our attackers, nor did I feel any more inclined to peek at the contents of Thalia's parcel. I was troubled by no worry of needful urgency. I did not inwardly bemoan the loss of half my javelins, or scoff at the thought that I might actually find a use for that ridiculous half-leaf sword. I did not even palpate my body for the wounds I might not feel until the thrill of danger had worn off.

But I wept.

Right there, in the middle of the road, out in the open, with dangerous men likely hurrying in pursuit. I hugged Thalia about the muzzle and bawled. I apologized more times than I wish to recount, until the bitter wretched feeling had passed. Thalia was my friend. Thalia was hurt!

A child's thoughts, a child's reasoning and behavior, brought on by fatigue, the threat and thrill of danger, and not least the reality that I was not even slightly wrong. Thalia was my friend. Thalia was hurt.

And damn to the deepest pit of their respective underworld any who finds, in this, a cause for laughter.

I dressed Thalia's wound liberally, using nearly half the dressing vapor in my field kit, then stitched both ends of the puncture with needle and gut. The only dressing balm I had was salted aloe, but in spite of the discomfort, I knew I had no choice but to apply it; the wound was located very near to the preferred meeting place of flies.

Poor Thalia shuddered with pain throughout the procedure, but did not complain, and I was in tears by the time I'd finished. That night, when the time came for rest, I hugged her muzzle and spoke softly.

"Have you ever eaten a pnguo, Thalia?"

I treated her breathing as a suitable response.

They are apples. Only found in Viharth. They make hard cider with them; it sells like wine. Blue rind, pure white flesh, and all tart-sweet, like honeysuckle and black cherries. Even the seeds are flavorful. When we get there, you'll have a whole bushel. I promise.

She nuzzled me back. Their needs tended, I was beyond exhaustion; I made my bed upon hard earth, and tried in vain to sleep.

* * *

For a further two days I maintained a pace that ponies could not hope to match. The ground leveled in that time, so that a brisk pace became easier, though I knew it would not last; looking to the horizon that second morning I had seen the faded outlines of the foothills and steep rises that marked the final quarter of my journey. The stubborn clumps of acacia and ebony had vanished in that time, giving way to lush green undergrowth and tall deciduous forests.

I had searched diligently for signs of pursuit, sacrificing precious hours of rest to range quietly on foot, but found nothing for my trouble. I had made good my escape, that much was certain—by that time, thoroughly exhausted and dulled by lack of sleep, that was the one and only certainty I could boast. Now, much further afield, and approaching much more precarious and totally unfamiliar ground, I found myself in conflict.

There was a village ahead. Having seen signs of civilization I had chosen the path of caution, riding oblique, then turning parallel a quarter-mile west of the road. What I saw at first gave me great hope of a decent night's sleep; oats for the horses, and a hot meal; perhaps even a bath. Afield, I saw neither herd nor flock, but the squash and black barley were ripe for the summer harvest.

Seeing the first sign of human habitation since fatigue had muddied my every thought, I was overcome with relief and fully prepared to ride right in. I would purchase a room, order wash water and food, then stable my mounts and sleep until my strength and wits returned to me. And then, a mere acre from the fenced boundary of the village, it took only a glance to bring us to a halt.

There, nearest the village, some farmer, likely making his home in town, had planted spinach. This was not at all uncommon in summer, and that farmer had shown good reasoning; near to the home place, he could keep close watch—greens are fully as temperamental in summer as that farmer likely was in winter. But to a good planter, one responsible and vigilant, summer greens held an even higher value in trade than grain.

The crop had blackened and withered, and there were flies and gnats in evidence everywhere.

Turning back, I saw that the cereal I had looked on with such approval was not black barley, but rye, sun-scorched and inedible. Knowing the value of a harvest to any small community, I was frozen instantly by the realization. Rul wheeled off to the left at a careful walk, and the others followed. I air-tethered them in the shadows of a copse of elm a quarter-mile west of the mouldering crops, then gathered my gear and made quietly for the village.

* * *

The Onidai was an innovator, none could argue otherwise, and among his many cunning notions, he had designed and commissioned for his retinue, and for His Eminence, swords of ancient Hjarrleth iron, with grips of scaly hide. That leather, taken from the carcass of a Tulakal river monster, covered also their new shields, lending them great resilience. In spite of the density of that hide those shields were no heavier, for in place of bronze they were now hardened by thinner layers of iron.

As I crept from the treeline, I envied Lord Ralph's Brek retainers, and longed to bear their burdens, for my own seemed all too light. In my left hand, I held the leather and wickerwork shield I despised. Through the grip of my shield I clutched one of my two remaining javelins, held point-down in reserve, the other at the ready in my right. The half-leaf sword was across my back, its insubstantial weight offering even less reassurance than my shield. My leaf-bladed dagger, the only weapon that was truly my own, traveled with me at right hip.

I avoided underbrush and placed my feet carefully, then crouched low when I passed beyond the shadows afforded by the trees. Without cover, or that of darkness, any movement would betray me, to any eyes that happened upon my position. But crouching, eyes low to the ground, my assessment of the terrain passed more swiftly. A wind-torn branch here, a tangle of weeds there, a clump of grass over a patch of darkness, indicating a hole or burrow—I needed a safe and quiet path, and rose when I had found it.

I was at the run before I could lose my nerve, and surprised myself with the abruptness of it. The whipping and lashing of the grass at the rise and fall of my legs, the impact of each muffled footfall, my own breathing and the pounding of my heart; to my ears these were loud enough to wake the recently deceased, though I knew that from within the village those sounds would be faint, and far less likely to attract attention than an hour of crouched creeping.

The village was surrounded by a waist-high fence of mortar and chipped stone—at the end of that mad dash I dropped so swiftly to avoid detection that I very nearly collided with it. For a time I followed the stone perimeter in parallel, then vaulted over behind the cover of an outbuilding.

I listened for a while, then crawled to one side upon my belly and peered around the corner to see what could be seen.

To my ears that village held all the clangor and lively chatter of a graveyard, with not even the noise of animals to break it. I heard the wind in the trees, its rhythm kept by the distant banging of some door or shutter left ajar.

All else was silence.

There were no bodies. Odd, for the place had certainly appeared dead. That was my first thought, though even in my wooden, punch-drunk state I had already noted the absence of carrion birds. All three of the doors visible from my position were closed and boarded against entry. At the other corner it was much the same; the only visible interior was the open-air smithy.

My nose was equally at a loss, for I caught not a hint of the aromas I had come to expect; those of baking bread and roasting meat were common to all villages, yet this place lacked even the tang of woodsmoke—neither could I detect the odor of manure, or any other of a dozen stenches one associates with habitation. Whether an effect of cultural hygiene, or merely a hint at its bygone cause, I am still Trathnonan, and have a nose to match.

I listened and watched for a quarter hour, then, very carefully, searched the village for any sign of life.

At first glance, the distance and brightness of the summer's day had cast the smithy in a shadow of contrast, but, lacking door or front wall, it made for the easiest investigation. The shadows persisted within, and that, I decided, was how my eyes had managed to deceive me. I raked the walls with the butt-end of my right-hand javelin, then scuffed the ground all about the perimeter, hoping to stub my toe. I wanted to be wrong.

There was not a single tool remaining, and it was the same for the hardware and impedimenta. The quenching trough, bellows, coal and charcoal bins, all missing; even the anvils had been hauled off, leaving boltholes in the flagstones they had rested on. Only the forge itself, too heavy to carry or cart away, had been left behind.

The tavern door had been boarded shut, and I used my dagger to prise away the boards, fearing the task might snap my dainty new sword.

They had taken the tables.

And they had not been trestle tables, with rude benches to either side, for in the corner nearest the door they had left a broken chair. Had it broken in their haste to cart it away? There was only a thin sheen of dust on the bar, but dust on the bar of any tavern was irregular. The bottles and barrels were absent from the shelves at the rear wall. There were stairs, but I did not linger, for I had nothing on hand to light my way.

That village was wholly empty, vacant buildings the sole proof of former habitation. A few of the finer houses had been stripped bare, the doorknobs and windowpanes conspicuously absent.

I was scared, certainly, but intrigued as well, for though they had abandoned a full and rich harvest, they had apparently sufficient time to haul away everything else of value. And this could not be the work of bandits; they would not cart off a whole village-worth of goods, then carefully board up all the doors and most of the windows.

The animals were missing. Yet no slaughter in evidence anywhere. Bandits steal and bandits kill, often ignoring the true value of livestock to enjoy some easy meat. But there was not a single carcass, no blood or heaps of entrails. Not one errant bone.

For that matter, there were no bandits in residence; with a tavern's worth of drink, easy meat and a whole village of beds and shelter, would they so swiftly take the road?

I pondered these things with eyes still to the terrain, looking all about in fear of missed dangers. I had finished my search, and decided against camping there, though only two hours remained until sunset. I knew I could never sleep in a place others had thought to flee. Where others had fled their homes. I had been at the northeast corner of the village at the ending of my search, so I followed the outer perimeter, thinking to find the southeast corner, then follow my own trail back to the horses.

I had passed the western perimeter of the fence, and had decided to stray from my original path, taking a more direct route to save time. My eyes, I have mentioned, were to the terrain all around, but, forgetting the care I had taken on the approach, I neglected what was nearer to my feet. I missed even that threadbare moment granted those that see disaster approach.

I caught my foot in a tangling of ivy and fell face-first to the ground.

One moment I was walking—briskly, and none will need to wonder at the cause—the next nearly piercing my own throat with the point of my javelin in an attempt to break the fall. I had succeeded instead at nicking my ear. All professionalism and even the mounting apprehension fell away in that one foolish moment. I felt not at all like an Initiate to the Temple of Brek.

To a bystander, lacking context, I was an ill-tempered lush, colliding with his own front door.

I cursed, far too loudly, and rose, much too quickly, then became entangled in my own feet and fell again. This time I managed to break my fall, but with javelin still in hand the hardwood of the shaft managed also to bloody my nose. I cursed again, then flung the offending weapon, gripping by the butt-end so that it would spin away in flight. The copper-iron slashed through the tangling greenery, then stuck in something too hard to sever; the shaft shook against the impact, thrumming dully in the stillness of that empty place.

* * *

It had a roof, a floor of kiln-dried planks upon packed earth, and four sturdy walls of the same construction; the doorway was empty, but with no windows the draft would be minimal. It was abandoned, empty, and the planks—cedar, by the scent—were not without value. By rights, those materials should have been harvested, for this was not the sort of village peopled by those that ignore potential resources; in such isolated places, all things of use were put to use.

I did not bother to complain, for there was ample interior space, enough even to offer a night's rest for four horses and one thoroughly exhausted pigeon. Better, it was hidden by such a tangling of ivy that I had not seen it, even a half-dozen paces from the doorway. I did not wish to surrender such an advantage, and so I cut the vines that covered the doorway, just below ground level, pulling them free where they'd attached themselves to the tangling of weeds and grass; I drew them aside, tying them in a bundle with a severed stalk of the same ivy. Further, I cut a path in the tangling, pulling free much of it and rolling it aside, that the horses might pass without trampling or ripping it away. For that night at least, there would be nothing to betray us.

I backed them inside one-by-one, Thalia first, to show the others they wouldn't come to any harm. I sat their collapsible leather trough and manger as a divider. I had no wish to be trampled. I ate a piece of dried, salted beef, and managed to wash down a hard wafer without choking, then collapsed to the luxury of a sheltered sleep. An hour of daylight still remained by the time I'd finished rearranging the ivy I had cleared; it wasn't perfect, but far superior to hoofprints on bare earth, and equally superior to the trampled, torn, and tangled mess they would have left if I'd done nothing. At the doorway I'd pinned the dangling ivy beneath the weight of one of the saddles, so that even the wind would not betray our position.

I was not fully covered by my blanket. I had not taken off my boots, scrubbed my teeth, or splashed my face with clean water. I'd dressed the nick on my ear with the same stinging balm of salted aloe I had used on Thalia. It burned cruelly. My nose throbbed with a dull heat where I'd bloodied it, keeping cadence with my heart; by morning, it would be well and truly swollen. One of the boards beneath me, unyielding atop packed dirt, rose a bit higher than its neighbors and pinched incessantly at my spine.

But those thoughts did not settle upon me; they were carried away instead, awash in a current of yawning indifference. And I was not far behind. For a time I drifted, knowing nothing of pain; I floated far off into restful darkness, and then was lost to sleep.

* * *

For those who've enjoyed easy, unregimented lives, the concept of half-waking will be familiar. But for those like myself—for whom every hour has its needful task, and the energetic restlessness of childhood has long passed, some explanation will be needed. For those gifted with a life of ease, with nothing pressing upon their minds or filling their waking hours, it is possible to be drawn from the depths of sleep without fully waking. Sounds can be heard, sensations felt, but until the eyes are forced open, a return to those depths is easy, and even pleasant.

My body was in need, as was my mind, so that the gentle whickering in the darkness, so recently a call to rise and ride, was but a bare suggestion. And so I sank, gliding smoothly on familiar currents, until again I was asleep. The second time was louder, and my resting mind rose higher, though I convinced myself I was dreaming, for rather than the gradually increasing chill I'd known in the cold camps I'd kept, it was pleasantly warm in that place. I sank again, much more swiftly than before, enjoying the warmth even as I drifted away.

The third time there was no whickering of horses. No noise at all. Instead, I was shocked awake, pulled from pleasant depths by a sudden chill and a torrent of wetness. My eyes had adjusted to darkness, so that the first thing I saw in the first heartbeat of awareness was the collapsible trough I'd filled from the village well, as it very slowly returned to a standing position. Even then it made no sound. Someone had tipped it.

Thalia was the culprit, of that I have no doubt. The memory of her wounding, those mixed feelings of guilt and tenderness—and also of pride at her surpassing cleverness, the gratitude after she'd saved my life from those mounted men—all was forgotten in those first moments of full awareness. I wanted to leap up, to seize the trough and drench her, to shout and curse and spit, to pursue with thoughtful efficiency all those irrational displays of emotion that follow a rude awakening.

And then I heard a voice.

It was not my own. Nor was it Thalia's, this a voice capable of language. I'd heard that tongue before, many times, though always at a distance. I rose, very slowly and quietly, wiping the trough water from my eyes, and crouched at my hidden doorway, peering between the strands of ivy.

The village was burning.

The blaze was new, not yet roaring; in its growing light I saw many forms crouching in the fields. A few of them moved about nearer to the village perimeter, chastising mules made frantic by the smell of fire; the beasts were held in a halter line, apparently under the charge of the men who were cursing and whipping them. And there were more men still, ranging between field and mule-line—I fixed my eyes upon one of them as he trudged toward the waiting animals.

He balanced a full, lumpy canvas sack on either shoulder. He halted on the other side of the mule-line, and I watched as he affixed one of his burdens to the pack-frame of an already-burdened mule, then hoisted the second and ducked the halter line to cross to my side. He was about to load the same mule yet again, when some loud, swift, guttural words from one of the mule's caretakers—I assume some manner of rebuke—brought him to a halt. In any case, he moved to the next in line, an animal still in the midst of chastisement by one of the other minders. Abuse of skittish animals must have been a business of some import in far Ebria, one that brooked no interruption. The stevedore stood and waited.

They did not use whips of braided leather, or strapped crops to tend their malpractices, preferring instead some manner of switch, a length of braided willow or something of similar make, and the beating of the mule, witnessed by myself and the patient stevedore was exceptionally thorough, as if this was a skill that could only be taught.

Finally, his beast cowed by the beating to the point of quietude, the tormentor stepped back to his previous position at watch; barely half a moment passed before something drew his attention further up the line, and he fairly ran to attend it, shouting harshly, rod raised overhead. Laughing, the loader returned to work.

That poor beast must have feared burning more than abuse, or perhaps the absence of the caretaker had made him bold. As the loader began his work of lifting and cinching up his burden, the mule reared suddenly and violently, screaming in a manner almost human as it tried to bolt. That sound lodges itself in my memory still, for I had not known that mules were capable of such cries. Startled, and in fear of bucking hooves, the loader leapt away, then lost his balance and fell to his back.

The cinch of the sack had torn loose in the fall; it was open upon the ground, much of its contents dislodged on impact. Large, knobby, yellow, and unmistakable, even in the growing glow of a dozen burning buildings. Summer squash.

The mule-men were surrounding the frantic animal, their words slower, harder to hear. One of them held out his left hand in a placating gesture; in his right hand he still clutched the chastening rod, though he had at least the presence of mind to hide it behind his back. Only now, it seemed, when unrelenting abuse had failed to overcome the fear of fire, did those same men trouble themselves with the pretense of even the barest shred of kindness.

My attention was fixed on this scene, and though I was disgusted, and pitied the poor animal immensely, I will admit also to a sort of morbid fascination. Those fellows did not understand animals at all. Had they any grasp of animal behavior, they would have held off the razing of the village until they'd finished their foraging. And even failing that, a few soft words, a gentle touch of the hand—some reassurance that they, their masters, were not afraid—any of these small gestures might still have been enough.

I tried in vain to come to grips with such ineptitude, posing what guesses made the most sense to me for their poor and foolish treatment of animals. A few of my guesses seemed plausible at the time; mass slavery, in particular, seemed a likely cause, for I knew from the intelligences offered by the Ardos that Ebria was vastly overpopulated. In such a place, human lives might become cheaper than those of animals. Certainly humans are more versatile than animals, able to bear burdens and tend menial tasks, and even skilled labor, if trusted and trained for it. Still, the answer did not satisfy me, though I knew not why.

I had not truly given up, certain I could come to an understanding of this absurd folkway, when a bloom of fire and roll of thunder snapped me from contemplation. The mule, still bucking on two legs, convulsed sharply, then fell over on his side. He drew a half-dozen wheezing breaths, then breathed no more.

The caretakers were put-off, to be sure, but not at the slaying of their charge. They shouted at the musketeer, who had apparently approached at sight of the uproar, pointing to the mule, then to him, in a most dramatic and exaggerated manner. Their words were meaningless to me, though when the musketeer approached at the apparent beckoning of the other three, they revealed all by action.

Together they heaved, lifting the poor animal just high enough that they could free the sack still more than half-filled with foraged summer squash. The man holding the sack held it open with both hands, shaking it, shouting yet more words of unintelligible exasperation. The musketeer shouldered his weapon, reached inward, lifted out a squash, now partially flattened, then shrugged and took a bite. He replied through a full mouth, and the others broke into laughter. The third caretaker did not share in the mirth, but ceased his complaining.

But the laughter died swiftly, in time with the approach of a man half a head taller than the four I'd been watching. His breastplate gleamed and glittered. The sheath at his hip was long and narrow, mounted diagonally so that it would not drag the ground. His short cape hung just below his waist, clasped by a large brooch at right shoulder. To my eye, the crest of an Ebrian helm resembles nothing so much as the dorsal fin of a fish, and this fin was overlaid with precious metal, bearing also a curving horizontal line of dark spots; these I took to be gemstones, though I cannot be sure.

In his right hand, he held a tool similar to those the caretakers used, though longer and more robust. He did not shout, or appear to lose his temper. As he spoke, he pointed the business end of his whipping rod, indicating one or another of them, and those to whom he pointed were those who spoke in response. After a time, he left them, and the four resumed speaking, though now they took more care of the volume.

The musketeer returned to whatever duty he'd been about.

The caretakers butchered the mule, then and there, even collecting the internal organs in yet another sack. More Ebrians joined in the task of disjointing, and of packing the harvested meat. They left very little of the carcass upon the ground, sacking and carrying off even the head and hooves; I saw later that they had left the bladder, colon and lower intestines. All else they took with them.

When the mules were loaded, they were led away east, and more were drawn forward from somewhere beyond my vantage point. The work continued, and I watched in perfect stillness, save a single, careful crossing of the room; a word in the ear of each mount was sufficient to keep them silent.

A few hours more saw to the work of harvesting, and when their mules were fully loaded they set fire to the scorched rye; or so I surmised from the glow and smell, for the deeper fields were too far to my left, beyond the range of my vantage point.

The hunger of their soldiers, their preoccupation with raiding and razing may have saved my life, for though the mules and those leading them passed very near to my position, not one of them ranged far enough from fire or field to lay eyes upon our hiding spot.

There were hundreds of them, their complement betrayed by the rate of harvest and number of mules. I saw also many mounted men, of whom perhaps a half-dozen were Ebrian officers; each of these rode alone, surrounded by many men afoot.

The other mounted men traveled in groups, and the mounts were unmistakable. They were mountain ponies, no different than those of the men who'd so recently taken an interest in my well-being. More mercenaries, no doubt hired by the Ebrians, and the rationale for such a tactic was simple enough even for a soldier to comprehend.

If the logistics of supply and transport prevented the fielding of Ebria's millions under arms, they would simply hire anyone capable of violence to aid in their early work. Such people could not have known the fate that would follow final victory, or that such a fate made worthless any promised price, in gold or silver. Such a stratagem was not without its merits, from an amoral perspective, and allowed the continued harassment of their enemies, while buying the time they obviously needed for whatever end they then pursued.

A few hours later I broke my vigil and crept from the shack with no weapon but the dagger at my belt. I fought to control my breathing, and stayed in the shadows, trying to move as silently as the