Forged in Fire

Chapter 5-3

Dahlia gaped for a heartbeat, then turned to Hunter.

“Is he serious?”

“Of course,” Hunter said. “Please, join us for supper.”

“Is he safe? Is he…sane?”

Hunter shrugged. “Mostly sane. And safe, at least to you. Unless you attack him. But he’s not cruel, so you’d die very quickly.”

Hunter led Dahlia and Paul to the fireside, and they warily joined him cross-legged by the cookpot.

“Tell me about the goblins,” Chekwe demanded.

“Let me ask Quam’s blessing on this pot of beans, then we can eat and talk,” Hunter said. “O Quam, you who rule sprites and devils, man and beast, fish and fowl and every growing thing – bless this pot of beans and, in your mercy, preserve us from the hellish heat of these devil-peppers. There. Help yourselves. Do you have spoons in your daily pouches? Good. Enjoy.”

O Quam, you who rule sprites and devils, man and beast, fish and fowl and every growing thing – bless this pot of beans and, in your mercy, preserve us from the hellish heat of these devil-peppers.“The goblins,” Chekwe said around a mouthful of beans. He had not waited for the blessing. He moved his drinking horn toward his mouth to wash down the beans but stopped just short of his lips. “Did you see them? How many? What kind of weapons?”

“I looked real close at the tracks,” Paul spoke up. “I’d guess there were twenty or so. But no idea what kind of weapons they had.

Chekwe nodded in approval. “Good eye, boy. Twenty. Well, that will make for about thirty heartbeats of fun. Plus the chase, and the plunder. Good enough, I guess.”

“Two of you against twenty goblins?” Dahlia asked.

Chekwe shoveled more beans in his mouth and talked around them. “It’s not really a fair fight, is it? But it’s their own Quamdamn fault. I didn’t ask them to steal your cows. Or steers. You steal the steers; you face your fears. Ha ha! A rhyme!”

“So…you’re going to help us just because you like killing goblins?”

Chekwe paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth and looked at Dahlia from under his shaggy bangs, then shrugged and grinned and kept gobbling beans.

“What do I need to pay you?” Dahlia asked.

“We should pay you,” Chekwe said.

youDahlia looked at Hunter. “You said the decision would be complex. Your friend makes it sound pretty simple.”

Hunter gave Chekwe a hard glance. “Chekwe, a word away from the fire. Excuse us, Dahlia.”

Chekwe gave an exaggerated groan and walked a score of paces away from the fire before rounding on Hunter. “You led her here. She wants goblins killed. I want to kill goblins. We kill goblins for her, and everyone is happy. Don’t you want us to be happy?”

Hunter sighed. “I told you, I didn’t lead them here.”

“We can always slit their throats.”

“No! We can’t slit their throats. They’re innocent, for Quamsake.”

“Well, we can’t let them go.”

“That’s what I’m saying. They found us, so I couldn’t let them walk away. And we can’t kill them. But we can’t leave them in camp while we go chasing goblins.”

Chekwe shrugged. “Hell, Hunter, I don’t care. This was all your idea. I want to use the sword, not hide it. ‘Swords are for killing,’ as the poet said.”

“Not this sword.”

“Well then, nanana, bolabo, nanamu.”

“That’s the stupidest poem in the empire, you know?”

Chekwe shrugged. “You talk to the woman and decide what to do. I want to kill goblins. But I might be a bit tipsy. I’m going down to the creek for a nice long drink and a nap. Leave at first daylight?”

Chekwe went back to the fire and scooped up the sword from where he had been sitting. He belched and stalked off into the dark, cradling the sword in his arms as he went and mumbling his little poem under his breath. Hunter walked back to the campfire and sat down.

“Well?” Dahlia said.

“Chekwe wants to help. I want to help, too. But there’s still a complicating matter that I haven’t decided on yet. Chekwe’s a little too drunk to talk to right now.”

“You have an odd friend,” Dahlia told Hunter.

Hunter shrugged. “Back home we used to say, ‘When storm-winds howl, wear the cloak you’ve got, not the one you want’.”

“How did you meet him?”

Hunter glanced at her, then stared off into the dark for twenty heartbeats. “On a battlefield,” he finally said.

“My Pa went off to the war,” Paul enthused. “I want to hear about a battle.”

“Paul, I don’t think he wants to talk about that…” Dahlia started.

Hunter waved a hand at her. “He’s a lad. We’re all stupid when we’re lads. He might as well hear. Part, at least. Listen,” he turned to Paul. “I was your age, or a bit older. It was the very beginning of the war. We were completely broken and running like wind-driven autumn leaves…”

“What’s autumn?”

Hunter paused. “Uhh. After the hot season in the north. The leaves all dry up and fall off the trees. Now listen. I had dropped my shield and lost my sword and helmet and had shucked my mail to run faster, but I still had a pair of Orgooth wolfmen on my heels. I swear I could feel their slobber splattering my neck, they were that close. And then Chekwe came out of nowhere, threw me on the ground on my face, and by the time I looked up he had butchered the wolfmen with a broken-off spearhead.”

“Are the wolfmen wolf-shaped men, or man-shaped wolves?”

“Neither…”

“Did you run because you’re a coward?”

“Paul!” Dahlia cried.

“No, no,” Hunter said, waving her off again. “I’m braver than some, less than others. But in those days, in the early days, we lost and lost and lost again. If I hadn’t run then, I wouldn’t be here now. I’m not ashamed. Everyone runs, one time or another.”

“My Pa stood and died in battle,” Paul said, chin raised and eyes flashing.

Hunter shrugged. “Is that what they told you?”

“What does that mean?” Dahlia said.

“That’s what they tell everyone. ‘You husband was a hero. Your son was a hero. Your Pa was a hero.’ But more likely than not, Ma’am, your husband died of the bloody flux.”

“That’s not true,” Paul insisted.

Hunter shrugged again. “Believe what you want. Everyone else does. But I’ve seen it a thousand times. Your strength pours out your bowels until you can’t fight, can’t march, can’t even stand. If you’re lucky enough to have friends, they help you roll on your own sword and end it quick. If you’re not…the wolfmen find you and it ends slow. And yes, what you’ve heard about them is true. They do eat man-flesh. If your Pa was lucky, he got rolled in a ditch and covered with a couple spades-worth of dirt and…”

do“Oh, for Quamsake!” Dahlia cried. “Have a little pity! You’re talking about Paul’s pa!”

Hunter looked at her for a moment, his eyes wide and hollow in the firelight, then looked away and mumbled, “I’m sorry. He asked.”

After that they sat by the fire for a long while, silent, watching the flames die to embers. The moon rose, a sickle-shaped sliver in the heavens. The stars danced. Frogs, insects, and night birds made their jungle music.

“I need to talk to you alone,” Hunter said to Dahlia. “I can show Paul a place to sleep. We have two hammocks in our hut. The two of you can sleep there. Chekwe and I will make up beds out here. We do that half the time anyway. Old habits. Not used to having a roof over our heads. Here, Paul, let me show you.”

He took Paul through the dark and showed him the latrine and the hammocks, and the youngster climbed into Hunter’s larger hammock. Hunter left him in the dark and went back to the fire.

Dahlia had found a few twigs, stirred the embers, and was feeding the twigs into the fire one by one. A few tongues of flame licked up to cast a bit of light. Hunter sat down and looked at her. She was studying the fire, so he studied her. Moonlight and firelight softened the crisp lines of her lips and jaw and her high cheekbones, and also smoothed the worry lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her eyes were more like quiet pools than stabs of lightning, but deep and downcast pools. His heart beat faster, and, afraid that she would look up and see him staring, he dropped his gaze to watch her fingers slowly twirl a twig. Before long he was imagining those fingers touching his cheek and running through his hair.

Quamdamn me, he groaned inside. I am the worst monk. How the hell am I going to keep my vow if I’m this weak?

Quamdamn me,I the worst monk. How the hell am I going to keep my vow if I’m this weak?Dahlia shifted a bit, then spoke without looking up.

“You say we have to talk about something. Well let me say this first. My husband’s name was Bert. Back home, in the Kistrill valley, he was called Bert of Shelton. Here, he was Bert Rancher. He liked that better. So did I. It was who he was. He never should have gone to war. He wasn’t like you and Chekwe. He was kind, and gentle. You’re probably right about how he died.”

“I didn’t mean to say those things about the bloody flux. I mean, it is the truth. But I didn’t mean to twist a knife in your soul. I meant to scare the lad. I’m sorry.”

Dahlia gave him a sidelong glance. “I know you meant well. You seem like you might be kind too. In your way. Unlike your friend. He’s a little monster. But anyway, Bert…I know he’s dead. In my mind, I know. My soul is another thing. Some days I can almost feel him. Like he’s there, at the ranch. Sometimes, in the good days, he’d come in from the range and tell me where he was all day, what he’d done, and I’d know already, because I could just feel it during the day. I’d be up to my elbows in laundry, or in the kitchen, or in the garden, but I just knew where he was. Our souls were like that.”

feelfeel“Umm,” Hunter squirmed a bit. “Ma’am. Dahlia. Bert was your man. I have no right to pry about in your memories…”

“You’re not prying, I’m telling. First of all, because there’s no one else to tell, I guess. But more important, I’ve always thought that if you want to get an honest answer to a question, you ought to be honest with the other person about what you’re thinking. Does that make sense to you?”

“Umm,” Hunter squirmed some more, then nearly crawled away when she looked up and fixed him with her dark eyes.