Forged in Fire

Chapter 1-2

“It’s Kingmaker, the Prince of Swords. Someone ought to use it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

Chekwe ignored him and went on in a sing-song voice. “You say we can’t use it ‘cause your sister has a homing stone that’ll lead her straight to us if we even draw the thing. Fine. Set a couple more traps, like the one that got the goblin. Then draw the sword and bring her right here, on our ground, and kill her. Then we can quit hiding in the Quamdamn jungle and have some good fun. A tavern for me, a brothel for you.”

“No! First of all, we’re not killing Tennea unless we absolutely have to. Second of all, I’m not going to a brothel. When did I ever go to a brothel?”

“Maybe you should.”

“No! Now put that thing away. The more you stare at it and pet it, the more you’re going to want to use it.”

“I already want to use it,” Chekwe pouted. “Besides, wasn’t it one of your own poets that said, ‘The sword unsheathes itself’?”

“Poetry is nonsense set to meter.”

“Maybe your poetry. Ours is lilting and magical! ‘Nanana, bolabo, nanamu’,” he sang, giggling, suddenly childish. His high-pitched drunken voice always struck Hunter as odd. Chekwe was short, even for a greenie, but his scar-ravaged face made him look like he’d be a violent drunk, not a silly one.

“And you call our poetry nonsense?” Hunter sighed and squatted by the fire. “Is this ready?”

Chekwe nodded, then went on about the sword.

“When was the last time someone drew it?”

“Don’t know,” Hunter grunted. He pulled a horn spoon out of his daily pouch. He tried a bite of stew beans. “Hot!” he cried. “Hot as hell!”

“The pot’s been on the fire for hours,” Chekwe said.

“I mean the spices. What the blazes did you put in there?”

“I got some peppers from Quarla last time we were up at her place. I put ‘em all in. I keep forgetting you grew up with butter and cream for every meal. But what do you think Kingmaker does?”

“I dunno,” Hunter mumbled around another mouthful of fiery beans. “Maybe you could use it to cut things? Stab people?”

“No, no. The Prince of Swords has got to have some sort of power. A spell or enchantment or some kind of scary mojo. Why else would anyone keep a bronze sword for three hundred years?”

powersome “All I know is you kiss the pommel when you swear fealty to the emperor, and then you don’t ever want to break your oath. It might be an enchantment. It might just be the oath.”

“So, we stole a bronze sword with no special powers? Unless you count ‘shattering on impact with a steel blade’ as a special power. Hell, we might as well melt it down for belt buckles. Quam’s buttocks.”

“You don’t have to blaspheme,” Hunter said. “I’ve told you a dozen times, it’s not the blade that counts, it’s the symbol. Now, are you going to eat?” He gestured at the stew pot with his spoon.

“No, I’ve got this,” Chekwe raised his drinking horn.

“You’ve been hitting that pretty hard lately,” Hunter said, trying to keep his voice mild.

“It helps me sleep,” Chekwe said. He took a deeper draught of rum to make it clear that he wasn’t laying off.

“If you want to sleep well, you ought to pray instead of getting drunk. Quam gives comfort to those that ask.”

“Is that why you cry out when you have bad dreams?” Chekwe shot back.

“The dreams are getting better,” Hunter claimed.

“I’ll start praying when you’re all the way better,” Chekwe sneered.

“You should at least try,” Hunter said. “It helps me.”

“Heh. You hardly ever meditate.”

“Yes, I do, just not around you.”

“Oh, is that what took you so long up on the mountain after I came back?”

Hunter kept his mouth closed and stared at the fire.

“Huh?” Chekwe prodded. “Is that what you were doing up there? Meditating? Or…or maybe you were staring down at that ranch, trying to decide when you’re going to go meet that woman. That’s why we went after those goblins, isn’t it? You don’t want me to use Kingmaker ‘cause we have to stay hidden, but you can go chasing skirts. Quam’s hairy buttocks.”

Hunter sighed and ignored the blasphemy.

“I’m not chasing skirts,” he said. “We’re going to stay hidden. We’ll scout well to the east. If those two cattle herders tell tales and someone comes up the valley, we can go deeper into the jungle. Or further down the coast. Whichever direction you want.”

Chekwe grunted and sipped his rum. Hunter fell silent and spooned beans methodically into his mouth. It was like eating a scorpion, or one of the horrible plants the locals called cactus. And yet, the peppered beans were good, too. They were, Hunter thought, like so many other things in this strange, sun-scorched southern land. Much of Orzan was beautiful, but if it wasn’t as hot as hell, it was sharp or poisonous or venomous or clawed or tusked or fanged.

Holy Quam, it might be best to not meet that rancher woman, he thought. Then he shook his head and put the unknown woman out of his mind. He had bigger worries, like keeping Chekwe from getting too drunk and doing stupid things. He gulped the last of his beans, burped, and got up to go use the latrine. When he came back Chekwe was still caressing Kingmaker’s scabbard.

Holy Quam, it might be best to meet that rancher woman, “Night, Chekwe,” Hunter said. “Leave the sword in the sheath.”

“You too,” Chekwe leered.

Hunter went into their thatched hut and stripped off his belts in the dark, hanging sword and ax on a peg. He lay down in his hammock and stared into the pitch black above him. He reached out to touch his sword in the dark. It was plain, old iron, but it was trusty and strong and keen. If bounty hunters or soldiers or, Quam forbid, Tennea herself came for him and Kingmaker, plain old iron would have to be enough.

Hunter closed his eyes. Again, he saw broken and bleeding goblins. He pushed away the goblins and reached out for a memory, even a fleeting image, of a woman he’d once had. Ayla. It’s been so long. Most holy Quam, forgive me for asking, but let me dream of Ayla tonight.

Ayla. It’s been so long. Most holy Quam, forgive me for asking,but let me dream of Ayla tonightSometimes Quam granted that prayer and let Hunter catch glimpses of her, glimpses that vanished when he opened his eyes. He could remember her body, though, her kisses and whispers in the dark. He knew her skin had been cream-white, warm, fragrant. He knew that unlike Chekwe’s hellish peppers, she had been soft and smooth, like sweet cream and butter. She’d had no tusks, or claws, or fangs. And not even a hint of venom.