Forged in Fire

Chapter 3-2

“A shame about the frostbite,” Workman said, passing the mug to Ector. “Shoulda had a mug of grog to keep the chill off, eh?”

“Nah, I was lucky.”

“Lucky, you say?” Tennea prodded.

“I was at the bottom of a ridge on the picket line. During my watch, a couple of assassins snuck into camp from the other side of the ridge. Slit every man’s throat. Me and two others on picket were the only survivors. Might not have lost my foot if we’d been able to find our way back to base, but with that much snow on the ground the trail disappeared. Took us three days to make a six-mile hike. When I got my pension, they said they’d relocate me, they needed cobblers down in the southern provinces. I didn’t know a thing about making shoes, but I lied and said I was an expert. Quam forgive me for the lie, but I was determined never to see snow again.”

Tennea nodded.

“I understand. I expect Quam would understand too. ‘Quam the wise and merciful’, as the priests say.”

“Well, I hope so.”

“Quam is also just,” Tennea added. “And while I’ve never met a spearman who liked the provost company, I need help. I’m in pursuit of justice.”

“Huh,” Ector grunted.

“I’m searching for two deserters,” Tennea said.

“There’s a lot of deserters,” Ector said, sipping from his mug. “And Quam’s truth is, I don’t blame ‘em.”

“These men are evil.”

“Says the provost inspector.”

“No, Ector, I don’t mean they’re evil because they deserted. It’s what they did next. They’ve been on a rampage.”

“A rampage, huh?”

“Looting. Burning. Murder.”

“I wonder where they learned that?” Ector slurred.

The man was bitter, that was plain. Probably a decent man once, but hard and sour now. Tennea would need a stronger tale to stir that old decency. She took a deep breath, looked out across the waves for a few moments, then let the breath out slowly.

“Ector, men do bad things in war. Sometimes it’s because they get carried away. Sometimes it’s under orders. The Orgooth have fought us tooth and nail and brutalized our people. We’ve had to retaliate, to punish them, bring them to heel. But that’s to protect our own people. But these deserters? They just went mad. They’re killers. I have them for a dozen murders and r***s. They’ve burned whole villages. Slaughtered livestock and left them to burn or rot. Horrifying stuff. Children. Pregnant women. They don’t even have the excuse that it’s war.”

Now it was Ector’s turn to stare wordlessly across the water.

“A couple of mad dogs, eh?” he finally said.

“Exactly. Mad dogs with swords. And I’ve finally been able to track them down to this province.”

Ector thought awhile again.

“What do they look like?”

Tennea pulled a little box out of the pouch on her belt and held it in front of him.

“Do you know what a smoke imager is? This one only has a few charges left. There isn’t an enchanter between here and Roundoin, so this may be the last time it works.” She pushed a small button on the side and the box gave a slight hum.

A small stream of grey smoke issued from the imager, drifting up to a height of about a foot. Despite the breeze coming off the sea, the smoke cloud hung in place, then slowly resolved into an image of two men: one tall, the other very short, both armed to the teeth. After a few moments, the little smoke cloud shifted and bunched up, then resolved again into images of two faces: one bearded and shaggy but handsome; the other squint-eyed and heavily scarred. The color of the smoke shifted just a little, giving the bearded man’s skin a brownish tint and the scarred man’s skin a greenish tint. Ector stared at the faces a few moments longer, and then the smoke dissipated, and the images disappeared in the breeze.

“Never seen ‘em,” Ector said and paused for a moment. “But I know the type. Might be able to point you in the right direction.”

“I’m listening.”

“The main road goes south out of town. Two or three miles down there’s a little village, called Straw Hut. There’s a track that goes west from there, way up into the jungle. All kinds of rough types out there. Prospectors, hunters, lumbermen. Mostly men hiding out from one thing or another. Folk get together at jungle dives for rot-gut hooch and maybe a w***e. Some nights there might be a stones and twigs game for the gambling type, which means gold dust and jade chips to draw the throat-cutting type. If I was looking for a couple of mad dog deserters, that’s where I’d start.”

Tennea nodded. “I appreciate your help. And the emperor is grateful as well. Here, take this. If your tip turns out and I find these killers, I’ll double your reward.”

She pulled a little sack out of another pouch on her belt and dropped six silver pennies in Ector’s hand. Ector bobbed his head in thanks. Tennea stood up.

“Sergeant Workman, you heard the man. Sounds like we have some hard riding to do. South two miles to Straw Hut, and then west?”

“That’s the way I’d go,” Ector affirmed.

Tennea and Workman walked away from the tavern, back towards the town square and their hitched horses.

“Sergeant,” Tennea said, “I’m riding ahead to this Straw Hut village. You ride back to the rest of the squad. Tell them to take off their uniforms and put on their plain clothing. Split them into twos and threes and have them travel to this Straw Hut village by different back trails. We’ll gather there by nightfall, and head up into this jungle valley in the morning. I’m afraid Hunter may have friends or informants around here, so secrecy is the watchword.”

“Yes Ma’am. You think they’re close, then?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Anything from the homing stone?”

Tennea fought the urge to touch the amulet she kept hidden under her tunic. It held the homing stone. It worked much like the alarm triggers she’d used to summon Lieutenant Coltan to the tavern a few nights before, but it would only buzz and tug if someone drew Kingmaker from its sheath.

She kept her hands at her side, though, and shook her head.

“No. But look at this Quamforsaken place. This province has only been settled for twenty, maybe thirty years, but everything’s already broken down. The people are just as Quamforsaken. Besides deserters and cripples and degenerates, there’s not much but busted and luckless prospectors, dirt farmers, and ranchers. Like that poor woman and her lost cows.”

“Busted, maybe,” Workman said, “but easy enough to look at. Forlorn and pretty, isn’t that how your brother likes them? She might make good bait.”

Tennea nodded and allowed a tight smile. Soldiers usually lost all ability to think when they were around pretty women, but Workman was a sharp investigator. He could keep his head, and even make use of his manly impulses.

“Good thinking, Sergeant. Something to keep in mind if this tip from Ector Cobbler doesn’t work out. And in case it doesn’t…before you fetch the rest of the troop, swing by the mayor’s again and tell him I want that Ector Cobbler held for more questioning.”

“Yes Ma’am.” Sergeant Workman untethered his mount, swung into the saddle, and rode north at a canter.

Tennea rode south. Once through the town square, the ramshackle huts thinned quickly and soon Dangritown was behind her. She finally allowed herself to touch the amulet through her jacket. Quam, she whispered, let them use the sword, and soon. I don’t know if I can depend on crippled cobblers and pretty ranchers to bring them in.

Quam,let them use the sword, and soon. I don’t know if I can depend on crippled cobblers and pretty ranchers to bring them in.