Book 6: Chapter 34 - A Small Matter (RAW)

“Good fortune smiles on those who are prepared.”

- The Principles of Conflict by General Damien de Savant circa 234 AC.

We reached the foothills at last. We stepped off from the ancient road, leaving it running straight as a spear to the north and through the smoky mountains. The Dragon—just under a thousand men—now marched on roads well-made, if no longer magical. What jungle remained had given way to scrub: hardy brush used to fire’s kiss. The rocky soil beneath our boots was rust-red, the color of dried blood.

I took point with the column, going afoot while my mount, Theodore, leaned into the traces and hauled one of the wagons. It would be good for him, I decided. Later, hungry for a change of pace, I volunteered to range with ten of the scouts and pushed ahead of the train. On such broken ground, mounts could not be relied upon, so we walked.

They were rough men, of voice and manner, but they seemed to be solid. As solid as a mere mortal man could be, of course. While I was with them, they had a relaxed manner as if they wore a cloak of invincibility about their shoulders.

Ranging far ahead until well past twilight, we made a rough camp and kept the fire small. I was on the middle watch when the encounter came quiet as a blade laid to the throat. A whisper in the scrub, the soft creak of wood and cord—and then the brush around our little fire blossomed with hard shapes and darker eyes. Short men, thick through the chest and shoulders, steel-capped and black mail-shirted, stepped out of the shadows with crossbows already spanned. Quarrels like black teeth. Dwarves by the look of them.

“Hands,” one of them rasped. “Empty. Slow.”

“Who are you?” I rasped, swallowing the laugh that bubbled up. At last, something of interest.

“Rangers of Bronzehold,” their leader said. “We were told some humans might nose along this way. If that’s you lot… well, you’re late.”

“You came here seeking death,” I told him, and this time the laugh would not be penned. “And Death, poor courteous thing, found you agreeable despite your manners.”

It was an easy thing to remove his big head. The Saint’s Silver of my sword caught the fire’s light, launching in a bright, hard arc. The dwarf’s head leapt like a startled hare and tumbled into the brush; his body stood a heartbeat longer, uncertain of its fate, then spilled at the knees.

You have slain a Dwarf. 34 experience gained.

Easier still was summoning the fell power of Rust, turning the metal parts of their weapons into hissing, glowing slag. And my, oh my, it felt good—pure vent, clean release. 

This was the first time I had supped on the death of the little folk in this world, and the system paid out richly for the novelty. Inordinately high, yes—but still small in the grand scale of things. A drop. Enough drops make a stream; a stream becomes a river; rivers feed the ocean of my might. More experience for levels. More, I demanded.

Desire guided the blade in my hand; hatred lent it weight. How dare these creatures think to treat me so—skulking up like thieves in the night, daring to threaten me.

They tossed aside their burning crossbows that had turned into so much smouldering wood and drew sidearms—maces, swords, little axes. I could have roasted them in their armor, but what sport was that? Both hands on my sword, I took the chance to practice old lessons from what felt like half a life ago. Proper form, turn of the wrist, placement of the feet; I let the body remember as I flowed through each strike.

I struck with a mountain’s force, but held back from killing—too soon for that. Hands went spinning, severed at the wrist; blades clattered. I let them fall back, let them throw arms around one another and fumble for Health draughts to stopper the crimson leak.

Around me, the scouts were dragging themselves upright—too slow to add their steel to this contest. I barked at them to mind their own defense and not to interfere with my entertainment.

The Dwarves, a score by my rough count, stared as if I were some nightmare. So I took from them like a sculptor takes from stone, carving away slowly but sure—but my medium of flesh screamed and bled. I was glad Larynda was not here. She knew my proclivities, but there are things I still prefer to spare her.

When they finally broke, their stunted legs could not carry them far in the dark. I cut at feet then, savoring the cries and thin little whimpers, until the time came to end them, one by one. And I sang an off-key tune, their struggles nothing more than a brief distraction.

I looked into each pair of eyes and saw only cowardice and fear as Death claimed them, snuffing out their light. Perhaps in their next lives, they would manage a better show of it. They were a disgrace to their ancestors.

Then I took their heads, some while they were still alive. Gently sawing away. What can I say? I am a product of this world.

I flicked the blood off my sword then allowed it to rest in its sheath with a soft whisper.

“Have your Scale put these in a sack. They will serve as a bargaining chip when we reach Bronzegate,” I said. “We will claim compensation for this horrid attack.”

The Scale Leader, a man called Ketta, stared. “But, sir, it was you who attacked them—and killed them to the last.”

I let my gaze pass over the men, cold and hard. “Exactly, Ketta. That is what happened. But the truth is controlled by those who bear witness to it. Those who can give testimony. I say they attacked us and paid for it. It is night; mistakes are made by those who are less. Those that are inferior. Unless you would prefer to be part of that same accident, your lives lost in this pointless little skirmish. Who here dares gainsays me on this, I wonder?”

Not one of them did. Every last man shook his head, knowing full well I did not make threats. I make promises.

***

To keep them afraid of me and willing to obey, I had the scouts lay the dead Dwarves out in pairs, the raw neck-stumps pressed together. A cruel sort of order. I eased it—so far as such things can be eased—by letting the men strip our would-be killers. We left the bodies naked to the weather.

The march back to camp was quiet. Quiet as a funeral march. Hollow faces, no talk. We gave our report to Damien, who did not take it well.

“This is a mess. What do you mean they attacked you?”

Eyes forward, Scale Leader Ketta swallowed. “They hit us in the dark when Gilgamesh and Neven were on watch. Just like that… we had no chance or time to explain, sir.”

I had schooled the men in the tale, each with a small variance so it would sound true. Neven, looking somewhere in the middle distance, echoed Ketta. 

Damien, his eyes hard, went down the line of men. He questioned them each in turn, his voice the crack of a riding crop.

“It is true, de Savant. I have no cause to lie,” I stated simply.

The commander hissed between his teeth, his eyes flashing with anger for a moment.

“Might I add, as a modest suggestion, that you demand recompense for this outrage,” I said, letting the sack of dwarven heads sag against my leg. “It was their folly that birthed this debacle. As the others told you, they struck at us first.”

Charisma was my lowest attribute, yet it had climbed all the same since I had come to this cursed land. Deception, I had learned, paired best with audacity. I pictured the digital dice tumbling, on and on, coming to rest where they would.

“They are our employers,” he snapped, voice sharpening.

“All the more reason.” I kept my tone mild. “Dwarves are greedy and slow to lose a coin. A demand like this says we are not to be toyed with. And it makes one wonder how they mean to treat us once we finish our contract with them. Also, we know nothing of the enemies they will set us against. For all we know, those who assailed us were of their rival faction.”

Damien glared past me at the scouts. “Dismissed, all of you. Gilgamesh, stay please.”

The men filed out of the command tent like guilty boys chastened by their teacher.

I shrugged and stayed. No guilt, no remorse. I had no appetite for a sermon or a lecture.

“Tell me the truth of it,” he said. “All of it.”

Inwardly, I sighed. Not every throw, every check, comes up a success.

“It was dark. The men had it right. They came on with crossbows loaded and cocked. I answered as any man under threat must. When time is as dear as water in a desert, you spend none on the enemy,” I said. “Nor did we hide our presence. By any fair measure, the right is ours.”

He rubbed at his temples, then worried the steel gorget at his throat.

“They could have waited for dawn if they feared a misunderstanding,” I added. “They chose violence.”

“And you had to do… that,” Damien said, pointing at the sack.

“It is a difficult thing, even for me, to carry twenty corpses,” I replied. “I simply made them more portable.”

The tent flap stirred. A shock of red hair. Cordelia. I felt a small chill run down my spine.

“I could not help but overhear,” she said, gliding in all armored grace and poise. “You will forgive me, Lord de Savant, but to my mind the Herald has done no wrong.”

“Lady de Aserac,” Damien answered, deferential but tight, “were this a spiritual quarrel, I would yield to you and your advice. It is not. And the Dwarves, I must add, do not revere the Goddess as we do.”

“That they are infidels is further cause to weigh their lives lightly, is it not? Are you not convinced of the righteousness of the Herald’s hand?” Her smile was as bright as any blade.

Damien clasped his hands behind his back. “With respect, that may persuade in Aranthia. Here, without the Blades of the Goddess, enforcement proves… inconvenient. Inconvenient and difficult. We are a thousand, if that.”

“There is one Blade of the Goddess here, de Savant—and her Herald,” she said, beatific. “I fail to see the difficulty.”

That was zealotry’s trouble: a single light, a single road. Still, I would take allies where I found them.

“The difficulty,” he said, “is that the matter is now very delicate. I can not turn my men away now; they expect pay with the possibility of plunder. They are hungry after missing the opportunity that was the Siege of Al-Lazar.”

“Who are these Dwarves to you, in truth? That you revere them and their ways so?” I asked. “Tell me, Damien, how much treasure do you believe sleeps in their halls? Is it not the mercenary way to hunt fortune with steel?”

“You would have us turn our swords on our patrons?” he protested. “Our name would be less than mud.”

I met his eyes. “I would have us seek recompense more firmly. They attacked us, or threatened it all the same. That is a breach of contract. Of that, I am sure.”

“You stretch it too far…” He wavered.

“He speaks true,” Cordelia said softly.

“And if it is silver and coin that keeps you from your bed, I have more than enough. The interest alone from my holdings in the Exchange of Al-Lazar would pay your men’s wages thrice over,” I said, letting the words slip clean and cold as a dirk.

Damien shut his eyes. “We reach Bronzegate on the morrow, and their laws will bind us. I will press for compensation, if only to cover our fault in this matter, but expect little. The contract we carry is the richer prize.” He drew breath, steadied. “Yet you’ve given me cause to think. Battlefields shift, and so must a man’s counsel.” He turned to Cordelia. “Lady de Aserac, might I beg a boon?”

“If it lies within my power,” she answered.

“Those who bear a Blade of the Goddess cannot lie. Truth is the bedrock of Justice, or so they say. Will you stand with us when we meet with them tomorrow?”

Her knowing smile did not fade. “With pleasure, Lord de Savant.”

Truth, like lies, could be honed and wielded. A weapon either way.