A Sellsword's Valor Page 4

  “Who’s your friend?” he said, trying to see under the stranger’s hood. But he lowered his head further, and Odel noted great heaps of muscle, so large they seemed unnatural shifting beneath the thick cloak the man wore.

  “Oh, him?” the clerk asked, glancing back at the man behind him, that strange smile still in place. “Never mind him,” he said, winking at Odel, “he’s not much of a talker, my companion. Still, he has his uses.”

  Odel grunted, “I imagine so. I guess he could pull a plow smooth enough, if the ox gave out. Now, are we done here?”

  “Done?” the clerk asked, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, Odel, we are barely getting started. Now, aren’t you going to invite us in? I have an interesting prospect to discuss with you, and I believe we will want our privacy.”

  Odel frowned, hesitating. For some reason, he found he didn’t want the two men to follow him into his shop. It wasn’t just the fact that the little bastard was annoying (which he was); it was more than that. There was something about the man’s companion that he didn’t like. Looking at him, even covered as he was, Odel had the same feeling he got when he sometimes saw a dead mongrel lying in the street. A slight twisting of revulsion, not threatening to spill out his guts, not quite, but letting him know that they were still there and that they had their limits.

  It wasn’t that the man was bigger than him; at least, he didn’t believe it was only that. There was something wrong about the silent stranger. Something that felt unnatural, and his mind and heart told him in no uncertain terms not to let the two men into his shop, not under any circumstances.

  But old or not, Odel wasn’t weak or feeble. He’d never let his fear get the better of him, and he wasn’t going to start now. “Come on in then,” he said, swinging the door wide and stepping to the side. “Whatever it is, let’s get it out of the way, so I can get back to work.”

  The clerk moved past him, taking in the shop with a mild look of distaste, like a king visiting a poor tavern. Probably looks too much like a place where a man actually works, Odel thought. After a moment, the stranger followed his companion inside, and as he passed, Odel caught of a whiff of something foul. Odel grimaced, running an arm across his nose.

  He eased the door closed and watched as the light of the sun thinned and finally cut off all together. No way through but through, he told himself, turning. “Alright then, clerk,” he said, determined not to let the uneasiness that was growing in him show, “what is it you feel is important enough to take me away from my duties?”

  The clerk rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t heard a word the blacksmith said. “Odel, Odel. I knew your name, of course, even knew you were a blacksmith and a man who was ridiculously big, almost grotesquely so—no offense, of course.”

  Not yet, Odel thought, but you’re getting close. The old Odel would have already grabbed the thin man by his collar and thrown him against the wall if for no other reason but to feel his own strength and be comforted by it. “Of course not,” Odel said, “and don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know if I get offended.”

  The clerk gave a laugh. “And just the sort of thing I would expect a man known as Stone Fist to say. Why, imagine my surprise when I discovered that one of the blacksmiths whose services I had sought was actually none other than the legendary street brawler. Tell me,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “is it true that you once fought a whole gang of men—ten or more the stories say—and beat them all? They say that several of them never walked right again and another two didn’t have the wits left to remember their own names.”

  Odel sighed. They were old times, times from a past that he’d rather forget. When he’d been young, he’d loved fire the same as he did now, only then it was the fire that burned within him, a rage and anger that could never be quenched. “Eight,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” the clerk said, turning his ear toward the blacksmith as if to hear him better.

  Odel rubbed a thick-fingered hand across his stubbled chin. “There were eight of them. Nine of us fools altogether, and none of us any better off for it. Anyway, that was a long time ago, and I was a different man then.”

  The clerk shook his head. “Oh, surely not so very long ago, Odel—or should I say Stone Fist,” he said with a grin. “As for being a different man …” He hesitated, glancing Odel up and down, studying him. Odel knew well enough what the man would see. A big man, taller and wider than most you were likely to meet. A man with a thick chest and thick arms and a thick head too, though the clerk might not notice that as quickly. Still, he only had to take a closer look to see the scars and the bulbous, misshapen ear to know the truth of it. “I admit that I never had the pleasure of seeing you while you were in your prime—I was just a child then, perhaps not even born—but you still look to me like the type who could send men scurrying for their mother’s skirts.” He laughed at that, a shrill, unpleasant sound, and Odell frowned.

  “I was a fool then. Still am in many ways, but I thank the gods that fighting isn’t one of them. You see, it isn’t just the scars and the wounds that take a little piece of a man every time. They aren’t even the biggest part.”

  The clerk grinned. “You speak of morality then? Is this the wisdom of Stone Fist or the wisdom of a blacksmith?”

  Odel shrugged, tired of remembering and tired of the clerk. “Take it as you like. Now, what do you want of me?”

  The thin man gave him a wink. “Oh, I think you know. I have a certain individual who would be very interested in making use of a talent such as yours.”

  Odel narrowed his eyes. “If this friend of yours has some smithing he needs done, you send him on by. But if it’s got anything to do with my past, you tell him to forget it. The past is behind me, and that’s where I intend to leave it.”

  The clerk shook his head slowly, making a tsking sound. “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t do, Odel. Not at all. I must insist that you hear my employer out. It would be the wisest thing—the safest thing—for everyone involved, I assure you.”

  Odel met the man’s eyes, his own stare cold and hard. “Are you threatening me, clerk? I tell you what, I insist that you and your friend here,” he said, nodding his head to the cloaked man, “get the fuck out of my shop. The king will have his blades, but you tell him to send someone else along the next time. I’m apt to be less patient if I find you at my door again. Do you understand?”

  The thin man sighed theatrically. “Oh, I understand well enough, Odel. I think it’s you who doesn’t truly grasp the situation. You are strong; one of the strongest, but you must be what, fifty years old now? Fifty at least? I would have loved to have seen you in your prime, old man, truly I would have. But time has done to you what it does to us all, I’m afraid. You are not the man you once were.” He glanced meaningfully at his silent companion, the hulking giant having not so much as moved since he came into the shop. “You see, now there are others who have taken the place of the strongest man. There are other legends now, and yours is one that will soon be lost and forgotten. Unless, of course, you take my friend’s offer. I think that, if that were the case, you might very well find yourself a hero to the common folk once more.”

  Odel studied the man for a second, hearing the threat for what it was. When he’d been a child, his father had told him the best way to train a dog. The stick and the sugar, he’d called it. You always started with the sugar, giving the dog a reason to be good, but you kept the stick handy, just in case, for no matter how good of a pup, it would always mess up, would always act up from time to time, and in moments like that the sugar was of little use. Then it was the stick that answered, and the stick that taught. The clerk had shown him the sugar, or at least thought he had.

  The truth was, Odel hadn’t cared much about what people thought of him—legend or not—when he’d been young, and he cared even less now. As for the stick, well, the big bastard was standing as still as a statue a few feet away from him, and although his head was tilted down,
the hood of his cloak obscuring his face, Odel got the distinct impression that the man was studying him. Instead of answering, Odel walked back to the door and swung it open, glad to see the sunlight once more, realizing that for the first time in his life, the darkness of the shop felt stifling. Then he turned back to the two men. “I think it’s time you both left. I’ll make your swords, and I’ll finish the job. Who knows, maybe if you have another few like this fella here, you might even find some people that are able to swing them. But I’m done with fighting, done with hurting and being hurt. I’ll thank ya to leave and take your other offer with you.”

  The clerk sighed again. “There’s nothing I can say to talk you into this?”

  Odel didn’t answer, only stared at the thin man who finally nodded. “Alright,” the clerk said, raising his hands as if conceding, “alright. You’ve convinced me, Odel. I see that you are not at all interested in my friend’s offer, and that you’re not the type of man who can be talked into doing anything he doesn’t want to do. I guess my friend and I will be leaving now.”

  Odel nodded, making sure not to let the relief show on his face. It had gotten strange there, for a moment, with the quiet one’s smell, with his wrongness, but it was alright. Would be alright. Got a little bit of fight left in you after all, old man. “Well,” he said, “sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “So am I,” the clerk said, “so am I.” He motioned with his hand and started for the open doorway, his hulking shadow following after him, the giant’s shoulders scrunched forward in a duck that Odel knew well enough. He thought that, probably, the tallest people had to be the stupidest. They spent enough time knocking their heads on things, anyway.

  The clerk walked to the doorway, and Odel was getting ready to close it behind them—had already started to ease the door shut behind the giant, in fact—when the thin man’s hand shot out, pausing the door in its frame. “There’s just one more thing,” he said, his face full of regret as he turned back to look at Odel.

  “Oh?” Odel said.

  “Yes,” the man said, “you see, my master really doesn’t like to be told no.” He motioned to his companion and suddenly the giant leapt forward, grabbing Odel by the apron he wore and pulling him up. Odel, shocked by the suddenness of the thing, stared down, amazed to find his feet not touching the ground. He was just starting to get over his surprise when the giant shifted and, the next thing he knew, Odel was flying through the air. He struck the desk with a crack and a splintering of wood, and he groaned, shaking his head to clear it before turning back to look at where the clerk and the stranger still stood in the doorway.

  “I would have preferred,” the clerk said, shaking his head sadly, “if you had gone of your own free will, but you will go either way. Such a legend as yourself, a man known for his strength…why, there are many uses my master will find for you.” He crouched down, meeting Odel’s eyes. “And do not worry, Stone Fist. You will get your strength returned to you, and more. My master has his ways.”

  Dazed, Odel ran a hand along his head where it had struck the desk and saw it come back red with blood. Get up old man, he told himself, get up. This isn’t going to be the kind of fight you can run away from. Grunting with the effort and ignoring the dull throb in his head, he grabbed hold of the cracked desk and pulled himself to his feet. “I don’t know what in the fuck you’ve got planned,” he growled, “but if it’s a fight you’re after, you got it.”

  The thin man sighed. “Oh, Stone Fist, this will not be a fight. Not nearly that.” He motioned to the big stranger and the thing—for Odel found himself thinking of it not as a man at all but as some unnatural creature—started forward.

  “Alright then,” Odel said, watching it come. “Alright.” He raised fists that hadn’t been raised in anger in nearly thirty years and found that it felt good to do so. It felt right. He was worried, sure, and he felt uneasy about this thing that towered before him, but mostly he felt relief. He’d heard a story once, a children’s tale, really, about a frog and an alligator. He didn’t remember all of it, just that the frog had helped the alligator with something and, by way of thanks, the alligator had told the frog he’d carry him on his back across the river. Only, before they made it to the other side, the alligator turned that long snout and ate the frog. There had been no malice in it, no anger. The alligator had only done what it was made to do, what was in its nature. Now, squaring off against this man, not knowing whether he’d win or lose, knowing only that the two of them would be matched against one another, Odel felt better, lighter than he had in a long time. Finally, he was doing what was in his nature.

  The giant didn’t speak, only stomped forward, its walk strange and ungainly, and Odel, alive with the thrill of the fight, rushed to meet it. He landed two hard, fast punches on the creature’s stomach before it could react. Two punches that would have been enough to end a fight with almost any man, and send most to a healer or make them piss blood for a week—they hadn’t called him Stone Fist for nothing. But the creature didn’t so much as flinch, and Odel took a step back, shaking his hands where a sharp pain had gone through his knuckles. He told himself that it had been a long time, that the callouses that had once served as padding were no longer there, but that wasn’t all of it. Hitting the thing had been like hitting steel, and he hissed as he flexed his hands and felt fresh waves of agony lance through them.

  The creature moved forward again, swinging one of its massive arms in an awkward, flailing way, and Odel turned, putting both of his forearms in front of him to block. His left was slightly forward from his right and took the brunt of the brutal, terrible impact, and Odel screamed in surprised pain as the bone cracked, and he was thrown back to strike the wall.

  He kept his feet, barely, his left arm hanging useless at his side, feeling as if it was full of shards of glass. “Son of a bitch…” he gasped, “what…what are you?”

  “You’ll have to forgive my friend,” the clerk said, “as I believe I’ve said, he’s really not much of a talker. It’s not one of his…strengths, shall we say? Still, he has other things to recommend him. As for what he is…suffice to say, blacksmith, that he is better. The way that you, too, will be better before long. I would say that you’ll thank me for it, but then, I suspect you won’t be able. Everett here was once quite a talker but the…let’s call it training that my master had him undergo, seemed to rob him of that.”

  Odel gasped, raising his good arm as the creature drew closer, “Nobody’s that strong. Nobody.”

  The creature said nothing as it stalked forward and that, perhaps, was the worst thing of all, that eerie silence in which Odel could hear little else but the harsh, pained sounds of his own breathing. There was a sharp ache in his side that let him know one of his ribs was cracked at best and broken at worst, but he straightened as best he could, bringing himself to his full height. When the creature drew close enough, Odel rushed forward, swinging his arm wide, aiming a fist at the cloaked figure’s head, but the creature reached up almost casually, catching Odel’s fist. The blacksmith struggled with all of his considerable strength to tear his arm free, but even legends can find themselves outmatched. He grunted in pain, fighting back the scream that threatened to come out, as the creature gave his fist a squeeze, and the bones of his hand and fingers shattered.

  He gave one last ditch effort, jerking his body away with a growl and was rewarded by the creature staggering a step forward—but instead of loosening the thing’s grip, it only grew tighter instead. Odel screamed again, some distant part of his mind thinking that he’d never imagined he could scream so loudly or so terribly. Then the creature’s hood, knocked around in the struggle, fell backward, and he surprised himself. It turned out, even legends screamed and in the end, their screams sounded much like those of other men.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  You’re going to be late, Co said. You know that, don’t you?

  Aaron sighed heavily. He stood on the balcony near his room in th
e castle, staring out at the city spread beneath him. The walls of Perennia had taken some damage in the battle against Belgarin’s army, but the work crews were well on their way to bringing the walls back to their former state. At least, almost. It had been a month since the battle, yet neither rain nor the washing rags of men and women assigned to the task had been able to fully clean the blood stains off the white stones. They were still at it down there; he could see many of them scattered about the walls, washing and scrubbing for all they were worth.

  Aaron could have told them, had they asked, that it was pointless. He’d been in enough fights, seen enough death, to know that blood never really came out, not completely. It was one stain that would linger, always. In the stones, seeping into them, on the blades of those who’d spilled it and, most of all, on their hands. On his hands. He saw it there, even now, never mind the fact that he’d washed them dozens of times since the battle. Since he and the other Ghosts had stood their ground at the gate, butchering and killing and dying and reveling in all of it. Blood stained, that was all, and a man could feel its tacky warmth even if he couldn’t see it. Some things never really left, and he thought that that was alright, was as it should be.

  Aaron, they’ll be waiting.

  “I know,” he said. Beyond the city walls, the fields spread out, green and vibrant in the morning light. The corpses had been cleared away—it had taken weeks to do it—but aside from the trampled grass, a man could have been forgiven for not realizing a battle had been fought on that ground at all. Nature, it seemed, was better at forgetting the deaths of men than the things they built, than they were themselves. There was a lesson there, he thought, but he’d learned enough lessons lately and had little patience for more. “He’ll be back, Co,” he said. “I don’t know what happened, but he’ll be back and never mind what the others say.”