Forged in Fire

Chapter 5-2

Besides the weapons that were, to her eye, as well kept as could be, the man was as shaggy as a wild goat. His mop of deep ochre hair was pulled back by a greasy leather band, while his beard was an unkempt mess; just a few streaks of silvery blue in his hair and beard put his age in his thirties, she guessed. His brown skin was deeply tanned, his eyes nearly black. He was dressed in what might have once been a monk’s saffron robe, but whatever the garment had been, now it was tattered and dark with grime, cut off at the knees and cinched at the waist by a worn leather belt that was clearly made for carrying weapons instead of monkish purposes.

“You’re the dangerous brownie monk,” Dahlia said.

The man raised an eyebrow. “I’ve not heard myself described that way before,” he evaded, though the corners of his mouth twitched up in a quick smile.

“Your scarred green friend must be nearby,” Dahlia added. The man’s mouth turned down now, and he shifted his feet and gripped his spear a little tighter.

“Who sent you this way? The Refugees?”

“Refugees?”

“You call them heretics. They call themselves Refugees. A religious detail important to them. But not to us. Not right now. Did they tell you about me?”

“No, they told us not to come this way. We were sent by a man named Ector Cobbler…”

“Quamdammit,” the man blurted, then muttered to himself, “A friend besotted with wine is worse than an enemy, but that’s the only kind I’ve got. Quam curse his rum-pickled mind.”

dammitA friend besotted with wine is worse than an enemy,“You don’t talk like a holy man,” Paul cut in. The man gave him a sharp look, then a wry little smile.

“So I’ve been told,” he said meekly. “My apologies.”

“Well,” Dahlia brought him back, “this Ector was certainly sotted. But he said you might help us.”

“Help you?”

“A pack of goblins came through two nights ago and drove off my market-ready steers. I need them back, as many as I can get. Honestly, I’m a little desperate.”

“Your husband can’t go after them?”

“I’m a war widow,” she said bluntly.

Dahlia watched a strange change pass over the man. He shifted in his tracks, swallowed hard, and licked his lips. He looked her up and down, then blushed and looked off into the forest, and that quickly he went from a shaggy old warrior to a boy at a summer night’s dance, a shy boy sizing up a girl he wanted to swing around the bonfire to the sound of pipes and drum and then steal a kiss or three. Then his eyes flicked back to her body, and she recognized the look of a man who wanted more than a kiss.

She stepped forward and dropped her voice low enough that Paul couldn’t hear.

“Don’t you think for a heartbeat that I’m that desperate, you pig. I swear I will murder you if you think I’ll pay you with that.” She raised her voice. “I thought a retired soldier might honor the widow of another man who wore the blue. I thought maybe a monk would have the pity of Quam…”

thatthat.The man stared hard back at her, his eyes fixed on hers with the determination of a decent man determined not to ogle, but with his lips set in a grim line.

“You ought not have come here,” he said.

“But here I am. Tell me if you’ll help, or not. Either way I need to move, and fast.”

“Come to my camp. My friend is there. He is a greenie, and however dangerous Ector told you he is…he’s more dangerous than that. And blasphemous, obscene, and all-around unpleasant. Just fair warning. On the other hand, he does like killing goblins. We’ll listen to your story over a pot of beans and decide whether or not to help. Our decision will be…complex.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” Dalia said warily.

“If Ector made you a promise, it was a promise he wasn’t authorized to give. If you’re upset, take it out of his hide. But you can’t go back tonight anyway. There’s a jaguar in this valley, to say nothing of the distance.”

Dahlia didn’t move. Instead, she spoke to Hunter in rapid Orzan pidgin instead of Imperial. “How far away is your camp?”

“How far away is your camp?”His face was blank for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a dangerous warrior, how can we trust you?”

“You’re a dangerous warrior, how can we trust you?”“I’m sorry, Ma’am, I haven’t lived here long enough to learn the language,” he apologized. Dahlia turned to Paul and rattled on in pidgin.

“Keep your tone light and friendly but answer me honestly. Do you trust him?”

“Keep your tone light and friendly but answer me honestly. Do you trust him?”“I don’t know,” Paul replied. “But he’s the man we came to find. And like you said, we can’t go back through the jungle at night, can we? It’s follow him or forget about the cattle, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” “But he’s the man we came to find. And like you said, we can’t go back through the jungle at night, can we? It’s follow him or forget about the cattle, isn’t it?”Dahlia gave the man a long, hard stare before deciding at last. “You’re right, it is too late to go back. But I swear to you again, I will stab you if you try to harm us.”

The man’s mouth twitched up again in his little smile and he suddenly sketched a little bow that was utterly out of place.

“Oh, Ma’am, I hope my hospitality won’t come to that. In spite of my appearance and current affairs, I was born Hunter of Grenvell Manor. I think I can recall a bit of my manners.” He sketched the bow again and shocked Dahlia into courtesy.

“Well,” she said. “Hunter of Grenvell, this is Paul, my son, and I’m Dahlia Rancher.”

Hunter’s heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer on a bent plowshare. Sweat streaked down his face, and not from the heat. He could feel his face in continual flush. The woman, the rancher woman, was right behind him. She had a son. But she was a widow. And though her features were thinner and sharper than he might have liked, and careworn too, she was pretty enough to take his breath away like a punch in the gut. And she was here. But that was a problem, because Ector was talking, and if he was telling one person where Hunter and Chekwe were hiding, who knew how many others might know their secret?

And then there was Chekwe.

Chekwe was crouched over the cookfire in front of their little hut, a long spoon in one hand and his drinking horn in the other. The pungent and pleasant odors of beans and peccary fat and peppers wafted from the cookpot, and the pungent and unpleasant odors of rum and sweat wafted from Chekwe. Drunk or not, Chekwe was alert, and his head snapped up as Hunter drew close with his guests.

Quam help me, Hunter breathed as his friend caught sight of Dahlia and Paul.

Quam help me,“What the hell!” Chekwe shrieked. The veins in his neck popped out and the spiderweb of white scars stood out across his mottled-green face, and he stabbed his cooking spoon like a spear at the two newcomers.

“Chekwe, this is Dahlia and her son Paul,” Hunter soothed.

“Quam’s buttocks, Hunter,” Chekwe cried with a gust of rum breath. “Six months of hiding, twenty miles through the mountains to the closest decent tavern, me drinking this goat’s urine most of the time,” he waved his drinking horn so fiercely that half the dram sloshed over the side, “you crying and fussing over your traps like a baby, and now you’re leading people here?”

leading “Ector sent them here,” Hunter explained.

“Ector?” Chekwe screeched. “Quamdammit, Hunter, that old cripple’s as drunk as a monkey in a beer barrel. How many times have I told you, never trust a drunk?”

dammit,never trust a drunk“What are you, then?” Dahlia cut in.

Chekwe rounded on her and sliced the air with his spoon with a couple of dexterous strokes, then feinted a thrust at her nose that made her jump back a pace.

“So, I like a drink,” he snarled. “What the hell is that to you? I’m the most Quamdamn dangerous man in the world. Who the hell are you, woman? You sure aren’t the prettiest. Quamdamn but you’re skinny.”

damn “Chekwe!” Hunter growled.

“I’m Dahlia Rancher,” Dahlia fired at Chekwe. She tossed her head a bit in pride, then flushed at her own sudden vanity.

“Rancher?” Chekwe drawled, suddenly thoughtful. “Wait. From the big place across the ridge?” He jerked his thumb towards the south.

“That’s my ground,” Dahlia affirmed.

Chekwe turned slowly and glared at Hunter. “I knew it,” he spat, shaking his head. “This is her, isn’t it? Your little friend from across the mountain. I hide out here with you for months, bored as hell and twice as thirsty, being a good boy and keeping my hands off that sword, and you actually went and brought your little hussy here.”

“What did you call me?” Dahlia snapped.

“What did you call my Ma?” Paul snarled.

“Chekwe,” Hunter warned, “watch your mouth in front of the lady.”

“He’s been watching you, you know,” Chekwe gave a bark of a laugh at Dahlia. “Snooping around your place, mooning over you, probably trying to get a peek at your…” he glanced at Paul’s face, saw the boy reaching for his knife, and spun on him. “Try it, boy. Just reach for that blade. But before you do, know this, I personally and single-handedly wrecked the whole Imp…”

“Chekwe!” Hunter slapped his friend on the back of the head with the butt of his spear. Chekwe dropped his spoon and looked wide-eyed at Hunter. Hunter lowered his tone. “Don’t brag about killing imps. No one cares.”

Chekwe rubbed the back of his head and stepped back. “Hell, Hunter, that hurt. I’m just upset. I want us to be safe. I don’t want to have to slit these people’s throats to keep them quiet. There’d be no sport and no fun at all.”

Hunter sighed. “Just take another step back and settle down. I didn’t go looking for them. Ector sent them. They need help. Let Dahlia tell you what they need. It might be fun.”

Chekwe pushed his shaggy black hair off his forehead and raised a bushy eyebrow at Dahlia with exaggerated curiosity. “Well?”

“I had a herd of market-fat steers,” Dahlia began. “I needed them to pay the tax to keep Paul from the conscription agents. They were good stock, and the price for beef on the hoof is really pretty good, but then a band of goblins came through and…”

“Goblins?” Chekwe broke in, then shot Hunter a quizzical eye. “Goblins? Why the hell didn’t you say that to begin with? Hell yes, we’ll help the lady. A pretty young thing like her, with a nice boy to take care of? You said their names were Dahlia and Paul? Well, Dahlia and Paul, welcome to our little home. I have beans and peccary belly on the fire, with plenty of peppers. Come, eat!” He moved back toward the fire, beckoning them with his hand.