Forged in Fire

Chapter 2-1

Dahlia Rancher slapped the mayor of Dangritown right across the face. She put her whole arm into it and snapped her wrist and the c***k of her palm hitting his cheek echoed off the garden walls. He was a tall, corpulent man, but he reeled, tripped over his own breakfast table, tried to catch himself on the tablecloth, and went sprawling in a jumble of scattered prawns, slices of beef, and spilled beer. She felt like a dozen hornets had stung her palm all at once, but she wasn’t done, and she pulled her knife out of her daily pouch.

crack“If you ever touch me again…” she snarled and took a step toward the mayor.

ever“Help!” he howled. “Hurry!”

Hurry!”The back gate of the garden burst open and a pair of sturdy men in matching orange tunics dashed into the garden. Then they saw Dahlia and skidded to a stop, confused. They were expecting trouble, but all they saw was a…woman? She could see confusion in their eyes.

woman?“I thought your guards were busy helping the police,” Dahlia spat at the mayor. He sputtered and started to get up, but she made a jabbing motion at him with her knife, and he slumped back down. The guards took a step forward but stopped when she glared at them.

Dahlia heard familiar footsteps behind her.

“Ma? What’s going on, Ma?”

Paul, her son, came up beside her and gawked at the sprawling mayor who had a livid hand-mark on his cheek. Paul saw her knife, saw the guards, and reached for the knife he kept in his own belt.

“It’s alright, Paul,” Dahlia said. She slowly put her knife away, still glowering at the mayor. “This pig tried to put his hands on me, but I guess he won’t do that again. Maybe he won’t lie to me again, either. Guards too busy? Police too busy? Militia too busy? More like he’s too busy taking advantage of widows to do his job. Quam have mercy on his soul, because if he touches me again, I swear I will slit his gizzard,” she lashed. “Come on, Paul, we’re going.”

pigDahlia took Paul’s arm and hauled him away. She stomped back through halls of the villa, fuming at the luxury of its polished tile floors and mosaiced walls. She stormed past a flustered butler, who gasped in horror when Dahlia hawked and spat a gob on the floor before she slammed open the mahogany front door and marched out.

Dahlia paused on the veranda, breathing hard.

“What happened, Ma?” Paul asked.

Dahlia breathed deep and tried to control the trembling in her voice. She was as angry as hell but scared too. She didn’t want Paul to sense either.

“I asked the mayor for help,” she said slowly. “He made excuses. Told me lies. Then he tried to, umm, kiss me.”

“What?” Paul blurted. “Mayor Ednis tried to…what?”

what?Dahlia looked Paul in the eye. She had to look up now to do that. He was growing so fast. He was a good boy, but maybe he had been out on the ranch too long, she thought. Maybe he had been around good, kind folk too much. There was ugliness in the world worse than goblin raiders, and closer to home than the great war up north.

“Some men are ugly, Paul,” she said. “Ugly inside. They never give freely, never help freely, even when it’s their job. They always have to get something in return. When a woman doesn’t have money or power, ugly men like that try to get, umm, physical favors.”

“What?” Paul said, the truth dawning. “He tried…he really…I ought to go cut his gizzard with you,” he snarled and reached for his knife.

“No, son,” Dahlia said. “I slapped him good and hard. There’s nothing more to be done, not without getting arrested, or worse. Come on.”

She took him by the arm again and led him down the palm-lined street that ran downhill towards the lower part of Dangritown.

“What are we going to do now, Ma?” Paul asked. “I thought the mayor was going to help us.”

“I don’t know for sure,” she said.

“We can go after the goblins ourselves,” Paul said eagerly. “Kashus and Ekchol and I all have crossbows. We can get the cattle back ourselves, and the mayor can go to hell!”

“Paul!” she snapped. “He’s a disgusting rat, but I taught you better than to curse like that.”

Paul dropped his head and mumbled an apology. Dahlia let it go and began thinking as they walked. They passed a few homes, the nicer ones in town, as they went down the hill. Stone and brick houses behind gated walls, houses with verandas and high ceilings and tile roofs, gave way to squat brick houses with open yards where chickens scratched for bugs and dogs lazed in the sun and scratched for fleas. At the bottom of the hill the brick houses gave way to houses of wooden planks, most of them built up on stilts in case a hurricane brought storm surges in from the sea.

They had lost a day already, coming into town from the ranch to try to find help. The mayor had put them off for half a day. She had practically had to force her way past the butler this morning to get her ill-fated audience. And they had nothing to show for it.

If it came down to it, they could go after the cattle themselves, like Paul had suggested. They did have crossbows. They could fight. If they could get the drop on the goblin warband that had driven off her cattle and kill a couple with their bows, the rest might panic and run.

But if they didn’t panic? Dahlia would lose far more than her cattle. She shivered despite the heat.

The tree-lined street came to a T at the main road. They turned south to pass by more shacks and occasional shops on their way to the small town square. On the square were more shops, a simple shrine to Quam, the town hall – where the mayor apparently did not preside very often – and the ramshackle hostel where they had spent the night at a price they couldn’t afford. And there, in front of the hostel, was a sight that made Dahlia’s heart leap with fresh hope.

There was a soldier dismounting in front of the hostel. His light blue trousers and deep blue jacket were crisp though dusty from a long ride, and while his broad-brimmed felt hat was also dusty it sported a well-polished bronze cavalry emblem on the crown. Silver spurs and a polished saber and scabbard rounded out his kit. A real, dignified Imperial, not some slouching provincial castoff. And an officer too, Dahlia realized as she spotted the gold piping on his jacket.

And an officer too,Quam, give us favor, she breathed, then called out,

Quam, give us favor,“Sir! Sir!”

The cavalryman finished his hitch knot and turned to watch her dash across the square. His eyes widened, and he swept off his hat. He was short, compact, and powerful, his broad face tanned deep chestnut, his eyes green, his head shaved clean, but his eyebrows and lashes a deep ochre. A mean scar ran from his mouth to his ear, but a smile softened his severe look.

“Ma’am,” he said with a slight bow.

A woman came around a horse that was hitched next to the cavalryman’s.

“Who’s this?” she asked the cavalryman, eyeing Dahlia.

Dahlia eyed the woman right back. She was oddly dressed, in manly blue riding trousers and a tight blue jacket. The jacket was double-breasted with brass buttons and a mass of gold braid across the chest. Long ochre braids spilled from under the woman’s wide-brimmed straw hat. Her face had the mature look of a woman well into her thirties, but her build was tall, wiry, and athletic, more like a strong girl of seventeen or eighteen years. To top it off, she also wore a short infantryman’s sword on her right hip.

Dahlia took in the woman’s strange looks, decided she didn’t like her curt manner, and turned back to the cavalryman.

“Sir,” she panted, still catching her breath from the dash across the town square, “I need your help. Please.”

The cavalryman gave her his soft smile again but nodded towards the strange woman.

“Ma’am,” he said, “Sergeant Workman at your service, but I’m not in command. You’ll have to direct your request to the Chief Inspector. Let me introduce you to Tennea of Grenvell, of the provost marshal’s company.”

“What?” Dahlia blurted, looking back at the strange woman. “Oh. I apologize. I didn’t realize…”

“No one does,” the woman cut her off. “What’s your request, Ma’am? We haven’t got much time.”

“I, uh…” Dahlia stammered, unbalanced by the woman’s sharp tone. “My name is Dahlia Rancher. I am a widow. A war widow. My husband’s been gone four years. He left me a ranch near here – south of town – and goblins have run off with all my market steers. I need your help to get them back.”

The woman, Tennea, frowned.

“Haven’t you appealed to your mayor?”

Dahlia spat in the dust. “The mayor is a slob and a jackass. Says the police are all busy, the militia can’t be called out again this year, and his personal guards are needed for ‘vital service’ in town.”

Tennea’s frown deepened. “Ma’am, I am very sorry to say, but I am here on urgent business for the Crowns…”

“Isn’t protecting the people from goblin raids Crowns business?” Dahlia shot back.

“It is indeed,” Tennea said calmly. “But the provost marshal’s business is first with deserters and traitors. I am on the trail of a pair of the most wicked men in the Empire, and I regret to say I don’t have time for your cows.” She saw Dahlia’s face fall and her tone softened. “Ma’am, if my mission was not so urgent, I would come to your aid immediately. If opportunity arises, I will still do so. Believe me, I hope to Quam my business with the deserters is finished quickly. And I am on my way to see your mayor at this very moment. If he has been rude to you, I will rebuke him in no uncertain terms.”

“As a matter of fact, he tried to get up my skirts,” Dahlia spat.

Tennea’s face clouded with anger. “There will be devils to pay, then,” she rasped. “By Quam, you have my word about that.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Dahlia said. “But if you can’t help me now, I’ve got to go find someone who can. Or else my son and I will have to go after the cattle ourselves.”

“I hope it does not come to that,” Tennea said. “But I must go. Quam be with you.” With that she and the sergeant strode off across the square in a jangle of spurs. Dahlia and Paul watched them go.

“Is the provost marshal in the army?” Paul asked.

“I think so,” Dahlia said. “They don’t fight like the other soldiers, but they round up deserters and do other police work. I guess a chief inspector is a pretty high rank.”