Chapter Six. I think. I lose count easily
Nov. 14th, 2005 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
f4f32,000 words, because I'm playing catch up. Talk, talk, talk, but I promise slaughter in the next chapter!
Chapter 6
Of the disadvantages of mountains, of mounting problems and of how far sound travels in the night
Erik straightened up as well as he was able, and, in lieu of daggers, hurled some words at the new arrival.
“You have one hell of a way of enlisting to the cause. Normally I like spirit in a recruit, but there are limits.”
“You're just sore, old man,” said BloodRaven, stuck halfway between sympathy for Erik and obvious admiration at the woman who still hovered at the edge of the firelight.
“Come closer, girl, and tell us your story.”
“I suppose I do owe you an explanation. But know now that you are covered by two most deadly archers, and that you do make an exceptionally good target, silhouetted against the flames. Well, at least you do - the other two don't quite have your…size…” Her voice trailed off, suggestively.
Erik groaned. “Yes, yes, he's a strapping lad all right, you're a lovely figure of a woman, we're covered by deadly archers… can we skip the next bit and go straight to your reasons for hating Darkholme? Who did he kill? Your father? Brother? Lover? Although I'd say you were more than capable of that yourself…”
The woman walked out of the dark. Now that she was better lit they could see that she was dressed mostly in well-stitched buckskin, and carried a long stave on her back, of some dark wood or metal shod at either end with black iron. She seated herself with her back against one of the stones and answered.
“Well, a more polite host might have asked my name first, or at least told me theirs.”
BloodRaven grinned. “Well, you know me: BloodRaven - breaker of legends, curse of the dark, bearer of the blades of Diamond and of Ruby.”
“Yes, I do know you - breaker of wind, curse of tavern owners and bearer of an invisible blade. But who are your friends?”
“The sprat is called cum-bu..” BloodRaven noticed that the sprat was tossing a small rock from hand to hand and thought better of it, “Well, he likes to be called Han.” The boy grinned and chucked the rock over his shoulder. “The would-be farmer with the couple of achers, well, he won't tell me his name, but he likes to be called The Man With The Map.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't want him to know my real name.”
“He says that a lot. It's because he has a map, funnily enough.”
Erik came to his feet smoothly, showing no signs of anything aching, and said formally “You are welcome in our camp. Any evil that hunts you, you can leave at its bounds, any evil you carry, you'd best do the same. “
The woman stood also, returned his bow, “I am a stranger in your camp, any evil that hunts you hunts me also, any bounty I bring I share.” With those words she reached to her belt and detached a small leather pouch, slinging it to Erik.
Han's eyes sparked. “What is it? Gold? Diamonds?”
Erik loosened the draw-strings and smiled. “No, better than that. Salt. You are welcome in our camp, stranger.”
The woman returned his smile.
“As to who I am, well, that's no great secret. I like to be called The Woman With the Big Stick.”
BloodRaven fell off his rock, Han ducked his head to hide a grin, and Erik said “You can go off people, you know.”
“Sorry”, she said, looking anything but. “My name is Ruth. And yes, I have my reasons for hating the one called Darkholme.”
“Just who is this Darkholme? I'd never heard the name until you mentioned him with your dramatic entrance.”
“Your friend didn't seem too surprised.”
“Well, his bloody map has the name of seven hundred giants and a thousand brigands, and names every stone in my sandals. Still can't find a decent tavern, though.”
“You mock, Red, but still you follow.”
BloodRaven nodded. “I follow. For now. Unless I find a better guide. So, Ruth, who is this Darkholme?”
“I have no idea who he is, or where he came from. I was raised in the fastness of Masada. No doubt the Man With the Map knows all about it, but for those of you less blessed, it can be described briefly, even if it takes a lifetime to know. Think of an eagles eyrie built in black stone and iron, perched over the only pass through the Mountains of Twilight. The location is no mystery - whoever controls that pass controls the trade through it, and can grow rich on, well, I suppose the polite term is tolls, from the merchants who pass through. Even the most heavily guarded caravans know that avalanches are sudden in the Pass of Ghosts, that they can take months to clear by those who survive the falling rocks, and that the survivors would have to deal with the wolves of Masada. And the four legged wolves too. Some say that avalanches can ber caused by such a small thing as the pulling out of a wooden wedge.
“Small parties are encouraged by our toll keepers. They aren't the gentlest of men - ruffians, to be honest, bar-room scum who can't hold down a real job and prefer to pick on the weak and the easily cowed. I almost too you for one of them, Red.”
“Ha, and indeed ha. Who rules this fouled nest of stone?”
“Whoever is most fit to - the strongest, the most ruthless. Almost all the powers have tried to establish their own garrisons there, but none of them last for long. It's a long way from any civilised lands, and the soldiers sent there are never the cream of their armies. They find out, sooner or later, that they have more in common with the bandits outside the walls than with their officers within. There is an unguarded wall to the rear of the citadel. It was originally called the Southside, but you'll never hear it called that anymore. It is not often attacked - not because of its sheer height, which is considerable, but because it's hard to place ladders on the rotting corpses and stripped skeletons of officers. Those officers who don't leave by the Last Drop are often worse than the scum they commanded - more intelligent, which makes them more deadly, and with even fewer morals, since the oaths they've foresworn are generally of a better class.
“Aidan Ben Driech was one of them, and he was Masada's chief for twenty years. He had been a general in the army of the Last Emperor. He was unusual in that he'd worked his way through the ranks. Well, killed his way through them, actually. Because he was untutored, his superiors tended to underestimate him. Only once, but that was generally enough. He was not made General in the usual way, however, by killing one of his superiors. The Emperor made him General by special decree, and appointed him to lead 500 warriors to Masada that same day. The Emperor was heard to mutter to one of his aids, as he took the salute from the pitiful army that he'd just sent to their doom: “That one I'd rather have outside, pissing in.” I think he considered my father as a warning to anyone else who might have threatened him, that he thought further than any of them, and that if they were ever to be depose him, that there was a wolf outside the walls they would have to deal with too. A clever man, the Emperor.”
“Yes”, said Erik, interrupting, “And he would probably have lived forever if he had spent less time in his harem. Now about this Darkholme.”
“You can probably guess… A bandy legged Northerner came riding through the Pass of Ghosts alone one morning, mounted on a swaybacked nag and singing a foul song about nuns and an exploding donkey. My father laughed and sent six men to kill him. Five of the men died, one saw the diamond blade chop down his fellows and fell to his knees at Darkholme's feet. I think it was the fluency of that one's decapitation that encouraged my father to let him in instead of dropping a boulder on him from the gates... My father didn't make many mistakes, but he saw something he could use in Darkholme He made him Captain, and Darkholme used to stride the walls of Masada, taking inventory of its strengths wherever he walked. Darkholme, too, saw something he could use. Masada, and its garrison of brigands and thieves. They were too few to conquer, but they would make good troops for anyone who had destruction in mind. Enough to sack a city, he said, but not to hold it. And one other thing seemed to fascinate him. The first time he saw Masada's smiddy his eyes lit up, and that light was echoed in the diamond glare of his blade. Masada relies for its survival on strength of arms - the blades of the city, and the men who wield them. It has been said that the Smiths of Masada are the finest in this part of the world.”
Erik spoke, and everyone started, woven as they had been in Ruth's words. “That's not strictly speaking true. They aren't the best in this part of the world. They are the best that remain in the world.” He unsheathed his plain, undecorated sword, balanced it on a fingertip. “The swords of Masada are the finest weapons man can make. They are priceless as they are, but if they come to hold the soul of… to be enchanted, I mean, they are the most deadly weapons in the world.”
BloodRaven's hand moved to the pommel of his own blade, and he seemed about to ask something, but Erik went on as if he hadn't noticed.
“Let me guess the rest. Darkholme wanted your father's men, and he wanted his city,”
Ruth nodded.
“And there's one thing you've left out - he wanted you, too?”
The girl started this time, looking her years for the first time.
“Yes, how did you…”
“There are only so many ways this story can go, Ruth, and believe me, I've seen them all.”
She dropped her eyes, shook her head.
“By the time he confronted my father, most of the scum of the citadel had given him their loyalty, or what passed for it. Aidan knew he was facing a younger man, carrying an unmatchable blade and driven by whatever it is that makes someone darker than human, stronger than just a man. And he knew that Darkholme would be happy with nothing less than everything - including me.”
“What happened?”
“He waited until one of our frequent feasts reached it's height, kicked over the table, spat in front of Aidan's throne and called him a pock-marked whoreson who was only fit to lead his Hounds. He told him that if he gave him his command, his men and his daughter then he would give him his life and make him his Captain. But he was laughing as he said it, and his sword was in his hand. My father laughed as well - maybe he was remembering how sets of dead men's shoes he'd worn to get there. He laughed in Darkholme's face.”
“And he died?”, asked Erik, softly.
The fire had faded to almost to embers. Ruth's head was bowed, and they could all see the tears running down her face. And then the pain in her eyes turned to panic, as raucous laughter burst from the dark.
“No you old fool, I took the job!” Aidan Ben Driech waved his band of Hounds forward, his laughter echoed in fifty throats. “Kill them all, but save my daughter for the Master!”
Chapter 6
Of the disadvantages of mountains, of mounting problems and of how far sound travels in the night
Erik straightened up as well as he was able, and, in lieu of daggers, hurled some words at the new arrival.
“You have one hell of a way of enlisting to the cause. Normally I like spirit in a recruit, but there are limits.”
“You're just sore, old man,” said BloodRaven, stuck halfway between sympathy for Erik and obvious admiration at the woman who still hovered at the edge of the firelight.
“Come closer, girl, and tell us your story.”
“I suppose I do owe you an explanation. But know now that you are covered by two most deadly archers, and that you do make an exceptionally good target, silhouetted against the flames. Well, at least you do - the other two don't quite have your…size…” Her voice trailed off, suggestively.
Erik groaned. “Yes, yes, he's a strapping lad all right, you're a lovely figure of a woman, we're covered by deadly archers… can we skip the next bit and go straight to your reasons for hating Darkholme? Who did he kill? Your father? Brother? Lover? Although I'd say you were more than capable of that yourself…”
The woman walked out of the dark. Now that she was better lit they could see that she was dressed mostly in well-stitched buckskin, and carried a long stave on her back, of some dark wood or metal shod at either end with black iron. She seated herself with her back against one of the stones and answered.
“Well, a more polite host might have asked my name first, or at least told me theirs.”
BloodRaven grinned. “Well, you know me: BloodRaven - breaker of legends, curse of the dark, bearer of the blades of Diamond and of Ruby.”
“Yes, I do know you - breaker of wind, curse of tavern owners and bearer of an invisible blade. But who are your friends?”
“The sprat is called cum-bu..” BloodRaven noticed that the sprat was tossing a small rock from hand to hand and thought better of it, “Well, he likes to be called Han.” The boy grinned and chucked the rock over his shoulder. “The would-be farmer with the couple of achers, well, he won't tell me his name, but he likes to be called The Man With The Map.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't want him to know my real name.”
“He says that a lot. It's because he has a map, funnily enough.”
Erik came to his feet smoothly, showing no signs of anything aching, and said formally “You are welcome in our camp. Any evil that hunts you, you can leave at its bounds, any evil you carry, you'd best do the same. “
The woman stood also, returned his bow, “I am a stranger in your camp, any evil that hunts you hunts me also, any bounty I bring I share.” With those words she reached to her belt and detached a small leather pouch, slinging it to Erik.
Han's eyes sparked. “What is it? Gold? Diamonds?”
Erik loosened the draw-strings and smiled. “No, better than that. Salt. You are welcome in our camp, stranger.”
The woman returned his smile.
“As to who I am, well, that's no great secret. I like to be called The Woman With the Big Stick.”
BloodRaven fell off his rock, Han ducked his head to hide a grin, and Erik said “You can go off people, you know.”
“Sorry”, she said, looking anything but. “My name is Ruth. And yes, I have my reasons for hating the one called Darkholme.”
“Just who is this Darkholme? I'd never heard the name until you mentioned him with your dramatic entrance.”
“Your friend didn't seem too surprised.”
“Well, his bloody map has the name of seven hundred giants and a thousand brigands, and names every stone in my sandals. Still can't find a decent tavern, though.”
“You mock, Red, but still you follow.”
BloodRaven nodded. “I follow. For now. Unless I find a better guide. So, Ruth, who is this Darkholme?”
“I have no idea who he is, or where he came from. I was raised in the fastness of Masada. No doubt the Man With the Map knows all about it, but for those of you less blessed, it can be described briefly, even if it takes a lifetime to know. Think of an eagles eyrie built in black stone and iron, perched over the only pass through the Mountains of Twilight. The location is no mystery - whoever controls that pass controls the trade through it, and can grow rich on, well, I suppose the polite term is tolls, from the merchants who pass through. Even the most heavily guarded caravans know that avalanches are sudden in the Pass of Ghosts, that they can take months to clear by those who survive the falling rocks, and that the survivors would have to deal with the wolves of Masada. And the four legged wolves too. Some say that avalanches can ber caused by such a small thing as the pulling out of a wooden wedge.
“Small parties are encouraged by our toll keepers. They aren't the gentlest of men - ruffians, to be honest, bar-room scum who can't hold down a real job and prefer to pick on the weak and the easily cowed. I almost too you for one of them, Red.”
“Ha, and indeed ha. Who rules this fouled nest of stone?”
“Whoever is most fit to - the strongest, the most ruthless. Almost all the powers have tried to establish their own garrisons there, but none of them last for long. It's a long way from any civilised lands, and the soldiers sent there are never the cream of their armies. They find out, sooner or later, that they have more in common with the bandits outside the walls than with their officers within. There is an unguarded wall to the rear of the citadel. It was originally called the Southside, but you'll never hear it called that anymore. It is not often attacked - not because of its sheer height, which is considerable, but because it's hard to place ladders on the rotting corpses and stripped skeletons of officers. Those officers who don't leave by the Last Drop are often worse than the scum they commanded - more intelligent, which makes them more deadly, and with even fewer morals, since the oaths they've foresworn are generally of a better class.
“Aidan Ben Driech was one of them, and he was Masada's chief for twenty years. He had been a general in the army of the Last Emperor. He was unusual in that he'd worked his way through the ranks. Well, killed his way through them, actually. Because he was untutored, his superiors tended to underestimate him. Only once, but that was generally enough. He was not made General in the usual way, however, by killing one of his superiors. The Emperor made him General by special decree, and appointed him to lead 500 warriors to Masada that same day. The Emperor was heard to mutter to one of his aids, as he took the salute from the pitiful army that he'd just sent to their doom: “That one I'd rather have outside, pissing in.” I think he considered my father as a warning to anyone else who might have threatened him, that he thought further than any of them, and that if they were ever to be depose him, that there was a wolf outside the walls they would have to deal with too. A clever man, the Emperor.”
“Yes”, said Erik, interrupting, “And he would probably have lived forever if he had spent less time in his harem. Now about this Darkholme.”
“You can probably guess… A bandy legged Northerner came riding through the Pass of Ghosts alone one morning, mounted on a swaybacked nag and singing a foul song about nuns and an exploding donkey. My father laughed and sent six men to kill him. Five of the men died, one saw the diamond blade chop down his fellows and fell to his knees at Darkholme's feet. I think it was the fluency of that one's decapitation that encouraged my father to let him in instead of dropping a boulder on him from the gates... My father didn't make many mistakes, but he saw something he could use in Darkholme He made him Captain, and Darkholme used to stride the walls of Masada, taking inventory of its strengths wherever he walked. Darkholme, too, saw something he could use. Masada, and its garrison of brigands and thieves. They were too few to conquer, but they would make good troops for anyone who had destruction in mind. Enough to sack a city, he said, but not to hold it. And one other thing seemed to fascinate him. The first time he saw Masada's smiddy his eyes lit up, and that light was echoed in the diamond glare of his blade. Masada relies for its survival on strength of arms - the blades of the city, and the men who wield them. It has been said that the Smiths of Masada are the finest in this part of the world.”
Erik spoke, and everyone started, woven as they had been in Ruth's words. “That's not strictly speaking true. They aren't the best in this part of the world. They are the best that remain in the world.” He unsheathed his plain, undecorated sword, balanced it on a fingertip. “The swords of Masada are the finest weapons man can make. They are priceless as they are, but if they come to hold the soul of… to be enchanted, I mean, they are the most deadly weapons in the world.”
BloodRaven's hand moved to the pommel of his own blade, and he seemed about to ask something, but Erik went on as if he hadn't noticed.
“Let me guess the rest. Darkholme wanted your father's men, and he wanted his city,”
Ruth nodded.
“And there's one thing you've left out - he wanted you, too?”
The girl started this time, looking her years for the first time.
“Yes, how did you…”
“There are only so many ways this story can go, Ruth, and believe me, I've seen them all.”
She dropped her eyes, shook her head.
“By the time he confronted my father, most of the scum of the citadel had given him their loyalty, or what passed for it. Aidan knew he was facing a younger man, carrying an unmatchable blade and driven by whatever it is that makes someone darker than human, stronger than just a man. And he knew that Darkholme would be happy with nothing less than everything - including me.”
“What happened?”
“He waited until one of our frequent feasts reached it's height, kicked over the table, spat in front of Aidan's throne and called him a pock-marked whoreson who was only fit to lead his Hounds. He told him that if he gave him his command, his men and his daughter then he would give him his life and make him his Captain. But he was laughing as he said it, and his sword was in his hand. My father laughed as well - maybe he was remembering how sets of dead men's shoes he'd worn to get there. He laughed in Darkholme's face.”
“And he died?”, asked Erik, softly.
The fire had faded to almost to embers. Ruth's head was bowed, and they could all see the tears running down her face. And then the pain in her eyes turned to panic, as raucous laughter burst from the dark.
“No you old fool, I took the job!” Aidan Ben Driech waved his band of Hounds forward, his laughter echoed in fifty throats. “Kill them all, but save my daughter for the Master!”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-11-14 10:12 pm (UTC)"Smiddy"?
no subject
Date: 2005-11-15 09:47 am (UTC)As for the names, part mischief and part a knock on from using Masada as the name of the fort (although I named Ruth before the fort, strangely).