The
Song of Steel
Book
One - Chapter 23
By W.R. Logan
Copyright 2004 W.R. Logan
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Sylvia
The dagger would be her only clue to the assassin’s
identity. A magic weapon of this sort would be a very rare work crafted by some
famous mage. She had no intention of finding the one who crafted the piece.
Her band would not have the muscle to squeeze any information from such a foe.
But the merchant that sold the item was a different story.
In all the kingdoms only one place came to mind for buying
this type of dagger. Most of the kingdoms had banded mages from making this
sort of enchanted weapons. Too many foolish nobles died from their own blades.
Just a nick from the weapon could kill. Kings found it easier to ban the magic
all together than to explain to a new widow her dead husband was an idiot.
In the seven kingdoms only Vale still allowed the weapons
to be made. There was the chance that this one had come from the free cities
where nothing was illegal but she would stake her gold on Vale. Her course was
set for Toth, Vale’s capital; from the moment she left the inn. Even if the
dagger was made in the free cities, chances were good it came into Toth first.
Her two companions, Tomment and Bigsby, rode a few yards
behind her. Sylvia had thought to have left the men behind fighting their
little war. The two had returned with some story about all three armies being
gone from the valley. She had barely paid enough attention to the tale to
retain that much information. The fate of Kings Overlook was not her concern
and never had been. The girl would have done her duty for King G’Leaze if Ser
Larkel were alive. Not for any loyalty she felt for the king but for the sake
of her friend. Her only friend.
Ser Larkel’s memory made a lump form in her throat and
tears to well. He was the only person she had trusted in life. The only one
she could rely on to back her. Even when she was wrong, the knight was by her
side. He would scold her soundly after but never spurn her for the error.
There was no character that she had to play for him, no alternate ego to put on
to win his attention. She could just be Sylvia.
The knight must have discovered her secret and left it
where he had found it, in the dark. The price on her head would be a temptation
that would turn most allies into informants. It had made her friend into a
guardian. He had been true to her till the end and she would return that
allegiance. The killer would pay life for life.
Bigsby and Tomment had taken to making conversation between
each other. Sylvia had not been much company since Ser Larkel’s death. Her
unstable temperament had driven the men to riding as far as they dared away from
her. The separation suited Sylvia fine and looked to have improved the
relationship between the two men. They spoke in low voices and occasionally
chuckled at a joke unheard by the girl.
The notion of how she was going to cross over the border of
a kingdom preparing for war had not crossed her mind until they neared it. The
only thing that ever brought the scattered forces of Vale together was the call
for war. The warlords of the provinces jumped at the chance to reap the rewards
of pillaging the cities of other kingdoms. By the looks of their boarders the
call had been answered diligently.
A large force of Vale knights pulled up camp at the border
to Kings Overlook. The fires of the previous night still smoldered in the mist
of the morning. The clanging of war armor being strapped onto the knight’s
mounts drowned the noise of Sylvia’s approach. She quickly brought her horse to
a full stop and dismounted to take cover in a crop of trees. The girl motioned
for Bigsby and Tomment to do the same. The three of travelers crowded into the
small crop of trees hoping not to have been seen. They began to feel safe when
no cry of alarm went up.
The host looked to be ready to move. It would make sense
for Vale not to be worried about their borders, Kings Overlook would have no
army to attack them. The thugs would want every man available to loot the towns
of their victims and bring the booty back home. Sylvia would have to be on her
guard on the way to Toth. More Vale knights were sure to be bringing up the
rear. This group was only the vanguard.
“Why are they heading in the direction of the Kingdom of
Tides,” questioned Tomment.
“Maybe they are going to use the Great wood to get around
the ork,” suggested Bigsby.
“Most likely going to flank them as they engage the Steel
Tide,” Sylvia added. It had been the most she had said to the men in two days.
The lines of knights rode off into the distance fading from
their view. They lay still and silent for many minutes after the legion was
gone. When the ground had stopped the vibrations caused by the hooves of
warhorses, the three felt safe to resume their journey. Sylvia kept a watchful
eye in every direction for any stragglers.
The road ahead of them would be a harsh one. The terrain
of Vale was a treacherous as the men who lived there. The loose rock that ruled
the ground from one end of Vale to the other made farming an impossible chore.
What little food could be produced off the land was just enough to feed the one
who grew it. The trees had been harvested to extinction by the paper mills and
never replanted. The mountains in the north stood barren as a reminder of the
greed of man.
The only thing of value to anyone in Vale was its port in
Toth. The port was ill kept and as dangerous to visit as it was to sail through
the numerous reefs that embraced the coast. Only captains with nerves of steel
dared to venture into Toth. This had made the city a safe haven for criminals
and killers alike.
The girl was sure to find Ser Larkel’s killer there. With
the rest of the kingdoms in open war, where else could he be. Sylvia looked at
the glove on her hand. The delicate flowers of the hemlock plant ran from her
middle finger and up to the clasp on the top of the garment. It was so
beautiful.
The design of the glove made her wonder if it were a man
that she hunted at all. It fit her hand like it had been made for her, or a
woman her size. Whatever gender the killer may be did not matter to Sylvia. A
woman would die just as well as a man.
They found Lake Targa and followed the river that connected
with it toward the sea. The lake had been further north than they had to travel
but it would keep them out of the more populated areas of Vale. Plus it would
be the only food source in the desolate land.
Bigsby Littlefoot took his new sword from the scabbard and
hacked at some overhanging brush. The hairfoot had refused the sword when
Sylvia had bid him to take it. She had to force the issue more than once. The
girl knew how Ser Larkel felt about the Red Tide. He would not want the blade
wasting away beneath the earth.
Sylvia took great care showing the hairfoot all the magic
of the sword. She touched it lightly to one of Bigsby’s old swords. The Red
Tide instantly took on the form of the blade. It adjusted even more as the
little knight practiced with it, conforming to fit his every need. Soon the
same love that Ser Larkel had for the weapon gripped the hairfoot as well. She
was happy to see the sword would be well cared for.
When night found them, they were still following the
winding river. The party set up camp just as the sun dropped over the horizon
to blanket the land in darkness. Sylvia had a light dinner of dried fruit and
meat dreaming it was a bowl of steaming hot stew with large chunks of meat.
Then she bed down in the driest place she could find to sleep.
She took the pouch of powder from her belt. The dust that
had helped her sleep for so many years felt useless without Ser Larkel to
sprinkle it on her. The girl wasn’t sure if the powder had ever had any magic
or if it had been the comfort of the old knight watching over her that chased
away the night terrors. Either way, she couldn’t use the powder again till the
assassin was dead. Her mind had to stay sharp. Sylvia tucked the powder back
into her belt.
By the time the sun lit the sky above them, the party had
broken their camp and been on the go for two hours. Sylvia wanted to be in Toth
by mid-sun. Bigsby took the lead, being the only one who had ever been to the
city made him the most favorable choice.
The hairfoot veered south of the river shortly after sun
up. The trail was rocky and rough on the horses. They in return, made it just
as bumpy on their riders. Only Bigsby was unbothered by the craggy terrain.
His Windstrider sailed gracefully above the obstacles.
When a small town was spotted in the general direction of
their sally, Tomment and Sylvia cast the vote to take the detour. As bad as
Sylvia wanted to find her prey a relief from the jarring of her saddle was
foremost on her mind. They had traveled far enough into Vale not to fear a
gathering host. Any warlord this far behind the vanguard would know his chances
for spoils lost and returned home.
The town was not much to see. It had a few tagrag
buildings in the middle of a few run-down houses. The storefronts in the Podunk
boasted “the best in town” on every window. Being only four stores in the hick
town and none of them selling the same service, Sylvia came to the conclusion
that all the signs were truth.
All four of the proprietors of the businesses hurried to
their doors in hopes of tasting the adventurer’s gold. Smells of fresh hot food
drew them passed the lusting merchants and into the inn at the end of the
street. The tradesmen remained at their doorways in hopes of a second chance
after the party had eaten.
The inn had no menu. If patrons wanted to eat, they ate
what to old woman that owned the inn served them. But it was the best, if not
the only inn, in the one horse town. The main room had few seats and the
regulars of the inn had taken most. Sylvia and her party had to sit at
different spots of the room. Bigsby and Tomment were able to find seats across
from each other, while Sylvia took a seat in the far corner between two maids of
questionable morals.
“We work this room, girl,” one of the harlots threatened.
The woman’s face was the attestation of her hard life.
Layers of make-up were insufficient to hide the age lines on her wrinkled face.
Her green dress was made of light cotton and sewn in a pattern clearly designed
for silks. The drab had long outgrown the attire but used a tight girdle to
slither inside. The steel buttons on the bosom just made it to the adjoining
holes. Others would have taken pity on a used up old whore. Others but not
Sylvia.
She drew her dagger and placed it at the drab’s belly. The
magically poisoned edge glowed red in the shadow of the table. The harlot
sucked in her plump middle as far as gravity would allow and sat frozen in
place.
“I’m no whore, bitch,” Sylvia informed her.
The woman’s face filled with fear. Then the fear faded
away. She took her hand and placed it on top of Sylvia’s gently pushing it away
from her.
“Oh Hemlock,” she purred. “Why do you insist on scaring me
with that every time you pass by?”
Sylvia had replaced her ire with confusion. Why had this
tramp called her Hemlock? She knew the name. The woman decided to try and
bleed the tramp for more information.
“Why my dear, must you spoil my fun every time I pass by,”
Sylvia questioned.
“You may have a better chance if you were to take those
gloves off,” she suggested.
The flowers on the glove, Sylvia thought.
Hemlock flowers.
Her head began to spin. Someone had hired Hemlock to kill
her. By all rights she should already be dead. No one had ever survived a
contract taken by Hemlock not even the queen of Tural. Every bard in the
kingdoms could fill a whole day and night singing the ballads of his kills.
Sylvia cleared her head fearful she had blown her cover.
“If you ladies would be so kind,” she cooed, “I am in need
of a place to conduct some business and need the use of this table.”
The two tramps scattered without question looking to be
relieved to escape the assassin’s company. Sylvia waved to Bigsby and Tomment
to join her. The men hurried over to her bringing their bowls of stew and one
for her as well. Sylvia noticed as the two whores made their rounds, the
patrons of the inn all averted their eyes from her. Even the scraggly man by
the door that had taken a swipe at her behind when she entered, dared not meet
her gaze.
“I know who the assassin is,” Sylvia told them.
The men had returned to wolfing down the thick stew. There was very little meat
in the mixture and what specs there were couldn’t be recognized. The emptiness
in Sylvia’s stomach had been filled with knots that drove hunger far away. She
had a feeling that her companions’ hunger would soon come to the same fate.
“It is the Hemlock,” she informed to the sound of spoons falling from her
friends’ hands.
Continued
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