Forged in Fire

Prologue-2

The bouncer came out of the crowd and helped himself to a seat across from Tennea. He nodded briefly at her, then at Workman, giving the barest respect. Up close, Tennea saw he was wearing an old army tunic, the blue so faded it was nearly white. The man’s scars were from an ax. There was a dent an inch under his eye where the ax had gouged into the bone. His ochre hair had a bare streak, too, a heavy scar from temple to crown.

“You’re throwing around a lot of gold,” the man observed. His Imperial was clean, unaccented. “You trying to get your throat cut?

“Oh, dear, no,” Tennea said with exaggerated concern.

“Then quit drawing attention to yourself,” the man growled, ignoring her tone. “You could get knifed for a silver sun in here. A nice lady like you…could get worse than knifed. Even with the hired blade sitting here.” He nodded at Workman.

“I feel safe enough.” Tennea smiled.

The man frowned.

“What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” he asked.

“I’m looking for my brother,” Tennea said. “He’s a sociable chap. I thought that if I bought a few rounds, perhaps he would hear about the festivities and make an appearance.”

“A brother, huh?”

“And Workman’s old army pal,” Tennea explained.

The bouncer darted his eyes towards Workman.

“You wore the blue, did you?”

Workman sipped his rum, nodded, and replied,

“Didn’t we all? Sixth Cavalry. Fought at Rockharbor, Olben’s Stretch, Gory Creek.”

The bouncer stared hard, then nodded.

“I heard of Gory Creek. Hell of a fight, they say.”

Workman nodded back.

“Well,” the bouncer said, “lot of old army lads down in Orzan. Nice change of climate after ten years in the north.”

“My brother, Hunter,” Tennea cut into the old army talk. “Tall, good looking, but odd. Years ago, took to wearing a monk’s robe, though he doesn’t act much the part.”

“Heh! Your brother been a bad boy, eh?” The bouncer let out a big laugh.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” Tennea laughed back.

“Well, I spent enough years wearing the blue, and I been down here for the better part of a year, but I don’t know nobody like that.”

“He’s got a friend,” she said, “by the name of Chekwe.”

The bouncer shook his head.

“A greenie,” Workman put in. “Small, even for them.”

“A greenie? I doubt I’d know him. This province is crawling with them, and I sure can’t tell ‘em apart.”

“You’d know this one,” Tennea said. “He likes to drink, and he likes to fight. But he never liked helmets. Lots of facial scars. A real mess.”

The bouncer’s eyes darted to the side for just a fraction of a heartbeat, then he looked back at Tennea and shrugged.

“Never heard of him.” He lied. His eyes darted again. “What do you want with them, anyway?”

“Well,” Tennea said, putting on the voice of the sweet noblewoman. “My brother and his little friend are deserters, and I’ve come to see them hang.” She pulled a provost marshal’s badge from her right pocket and slammed it on the table. The man stared for a heartbeat at the bronze badge. The sigil of the Imperial falcon clutched a sword in one talon and a rod and shackles in the other, and its staring bronze eye bored up into the bouncer’s face.

The bouncer looked from the badge to Tennea, eyes wide with confusion. She could read his thoughts, like a hundred men she’d arrested before. A woman? With a marshal’s badge? What…?

A woman? With a marshal’s badge? What…?“Show me your discharge tile!” Tennea barked.

“What the Quamdamn business do you…?” The bouncer recoiled.

“Arresting deserters is my business,” Tennea snarled, then thundered across the tavern, “Tennea of Grenvell, provost inspector! Everyone on your knees, now!”

Fear, then rage, flashed across the man’s face as he turned to call for help.

Sergeant Workman came out of his seat like a bull, ramming the table into the bouncer’s chest, shoving him backward to tumble off his bench and onto the floor. Tennea flipped the table, so it crashed on top of the man, then she jumped on it pin him. As she jumped, she whipped her sword from under her duster. There was a terrific grunt from beneath her, and in front of her a bedlam of shouts of fear.

Provost marshal!

Provost marshal!Run!

Run!Get out!

Get out!Two men, braver or drunker than the rest, lurched towards Tennea. The first had a leather-wrapped jack, and he took a clumsy swing at Tennea’s head. Sergeant Workman intercepted the man by driving seventeen inches of dagger steel between the man’s ribs. Tennea handled the other brute, a slow-moving drunk. He came driving with a knife, his arm outstretched and reaching. Tennea grabbed the wrist, yanked the man forward and across her body, kicked him hard in the knee, and as the man buckled, she flattened him by slamming the pommel of her sword on the back of his head.

Four heartbeats and the fight was over.

Most of The Filthy Bucket’s patrons left through the back wall. The wicker walls burst under the stampede and the whole structure shook as one determined drunk knocked out a support pole in his haste. A few of the more drunken men stayed put, sitting and staring in shock or simply flopping on the floor in surrender.

“Everyone on your knees,” Tennea ordered. “Backs to me. Shirts off.”

They knelt and began to obey the order to strip. Tennea stepped back, flipped the table off the fallen bouncer, and pointed her sword at his throat.

“You too. On your knees, and shirt off.”

The bouncer struggled to his knees, pulled his tunic over his head, and wadded it against his bleeding nose. Tennea stepped back again and looked at the man’s muscular back. He had a regimental brand on his right shoulder blade indicating he’d been mustered into the 84th Pike. Every properly discharged man had a tile, stamped with an Imperial seal, and most men kept the tile on a string or chain around their neck for moments just like this. The bouncer had no tile. The other drunks bared their backs too. The same tale was told on their green skin. Mustering brands, but no discharge tiles.

“Deserters. You’re all under arrest,” Tennea spat. She called over to the barmaids and the innkeeper, who stood silent and agog. “Get some rope, or good string. Help the sergeant tie these traitors up.”

“My wall!” the innkeeper groused, waving at the shattered wall and the chaos of overturned tables and broken mugs.

“Have you reported to the governor that most of your custom is from deserters?” Tennea snapped. The innkeeper’s face turned a very light shade of green and he kept his mouth closed.

“I thought not,” Tennea said. “Count yourself blessed that I don’t arrest you too. As for the rest of you,” she waved her sword at the kneeling deserters, “I’ll choose whether you hang or rejoin the regiments. And the way I choose will be determined by who talks first, who talks the most, and who tells the truth. Now. You.”

She put the tip of her sword under the bouncer’s ear and pressed just hard enough to make the man shrink away. The fellow’s eyes bulged, and he began to sweat.

“I heard something,” he stammered. “Don’t know if it’s true. Maybe just a story. I swear to Quam.”

“Talk.”

“The greenie you mentioned. There’s a story going ‘round that some mad greenie killed a bunch of provincial troops down in Nezpot. A fair fight, but he butchered them so fast it might as well have been murder. Sword and ax, fast as an adder. Bloody as hell, and uglier. Scarred face, they say.”

“When? Why?”

The deserter swallowed.

“Months ago? Who knows? The provincials are all rotten, so nobody cared. No, everybody was glad.”

“Glad? Glad that Imperial officers were murdered?” Tennea leaned on the sword a little and the bouncer shrank back further.

“Your pardon, Ma’am. Quam’s mercy. You asked for the truth.”

“Fine. What then? Was he apprehended?”

“No, Ma’am. Fled south, so says one story. Another says he went out to Fourhen, but there’s a small Imperial garrison there. Deserters steer clear of Fourhen.”

“What about my brother? The fake monk?”

“Never heard of him, Ma’am. I swear to Quam.”

Tennea gave a soft sigh and stepped back. The bouncer drew a deep breath.

“Ma’am!” a shout interrupted from behind Tennea. Lieutenant Coltan raced through the entrance, saber drawn, with two troopers on his heels. The three came up short, wide-eyed and panting, scanning the room for enemies.

“You’re safe,” the young officer blurted.

Tennea turned her head and gave Coltan a thin smile.

“You’re late.”

Lieutenant Coltan blinked. He glanced from prisoners to the bloodstained floor to the innkeeper and back to Tennea.

“No Ma’am, we bagged a score or more out back. Are you safe? Wait, Quam! Is that Hunter?”

“I’m fine, and no, it’s not Hunter. Now get these prisoners down to the town jail. It’s on the square. You’ll probably have to roust the mayor out of bed.”

“You heard the Inspector,” Coltan said to his troopers. “Brewer, go get Sergeant Allayn and a guard detail.” He grabbed the kneeling bouncer and hauled him to his feet. The scarred man looked at Tennea with wide eyes.

“I talked,” he blurted. “You said I wouldn’t hang if I talked.”

“I’m not here to hang you,” Tennea sighed. “You’ll go back to the regiments.”

“But your brother? You’re really going to hang your brother for desertion?”

Tennea squinted at him and curled her lip before snarling,

“Desertion is only the beginning of my brother’s crimes.”