So it's time for another short story. This is a tie in between SEVEN FORGES and THE BLASTED LANDS. It's fairly short, but hopefully it's fun.
Enjoy.
And in case anyone has forgotten, this is Tuskandu (and also the cover for THE BLASTED LANDS)
SCARS
By James A. Moore
Wollis March
slipped from his furs and breathed a deep and sincere sigh of relief. The feel
of fresh, cool air across his upper body was a blessing and he thanked his gods
for it.
They had been
traveling in the Blasted Lands for longer than he cared to think about. Instead
of focusing on the long days of freezing weather and endless windstorms, he
concentrated on the rewards awaiting them. There would be gold aplenty to share
between the explorers.
Before that,
however, there was the matter of getting back to the capital and presenting the
maps of the area that had been given to them and introducing the Sa’ba Taalor
to their employer.
He looked over his
shoulder as the strangers coming with them followed his example and peeled off
layers of furs, leather cloaks and in many cases armor. The great beasts they
rode on—he could not decide what sort of monsters they might be, but they were
decidedly large and they had claws and fangs—let out a few grunts of approval
and shook their bodies, knocking dust and grit out of their fur.
Wollis dismounted
from his horse and winced at the flare of pain in his thigh. The scars were
deep and the muscles had never quite come back as strong as he’d have liked.
Still he could walk and that was a blessing.
It was time to
stop for the day. The sun was setting and the cliffs facing them were too steep
to attempt in the darkness. There were paths, yes, but they were treacherous
even in the light and the men he traveled with and their guests alike carried
far too many supplies to make the trek easily. They had to find the Temmis
Pass, and that way was nearly perfectly hidden by the surrounding terrain. He
would be able to find it tomorrow, he suspected, but not in the night.
He ordered the men
to prepare for the rest and began the same duties himself. Within the hour
everyone was done with their appointed tasks and the Sa’ba Taalor had several
fires working. The strangers believed in cooking and eating meals together and
they had invited him to join them. Though he did not speak their language they
had done an amazing job of learning the common tongue during the travels, aided
their apparent leader, Drask Silver Hand. Drask had gone ahead now, moving
toward Fellein’s Summer City, Tyrne. According to tradition it was called the “Summer
City” because the Emperors liked to spend the summer there, but the current
ruler had not left his palace there in over seven years. It was the new capitol
as far as Wollis could tell.
Tusk walked his
way with several other members of his people, three women and two additional
men. He barely recognized the giant without his skull-like helmet in place, but
the scars on his arms were as good as the armor for singling him out. Each and
every member of the gray-skinned people wore a veil to hide everything below
their eyes, a demand of their gods, apparently. For whatever reason the Daxar
Taalor did not believe Wollis or the rest of his people worthy of seeing the
faces of their followers. It was best not to question the will of the gods.
That much Wollis knew from his own people. And while most of them wore veils
without any real decoration there were fine rings of metal covering most of the
surface of Tusk’s veil that gave out minuscule ringing notes with each stride
the man took. The Sa’ba Taalor had removed the extra layers and now wore what
seemed the common clothes of their people, at least while traveling, a few wore
tunics but all wore vests over their chests and trousers that they stuffed into
their boots. Male or female didn’t seem to matter. It was oddly refreshing
after a few of the places he’d been in the past.
Less refreshing
were the weapons each of them seemed incapable of walking around without. To
the last they carried swords or axes within easy reach of their hands. On the slim chance that their larger
blades might suddenly fly away, there were spare daggers and a few smaller
swords strapped to thighs or tucked into the edges of their boots. Fifteen
years in the military and he’d never seen any lot more determined to carry
weapons in his life.
Tusk pointed to
the largest of the fires. “Join us for food?”
“I would be
honored.” He smiled at the man. It seemed the safest way not to die a quick and
painful death. Merros Dulver, his leader—now also heading off in a different
direction on a separate mission—spoke clearly with the group and wanted the
relationship they’d started to remain friendly and cordial. Wollis wanted
exactly the same thing. Ehnole and Stastha were among the people with him. He
recognized both of them even past the veils all of their people wore. Traveling
with the Sa’ba Taalor had taught him one thing he had never consciously
understood before: the way a body moves is as distinct as the face it bears.
Tusk walked with a certain strut that stated for one and all that he was
confident. Ehnole swayed her hips in an unconsciously seductive way. Stastha
the younger, harder girl, moved like a phantom, her feet never seeming to touch
the ground solidly so that she appeared to glide just above the surface rather
than touching heavily. Despite her soft tread she managed to move with a
cockiness that he found appealing. After months away from home and his wife, he
found almost all of the females appealing.
Removing their
clothing had revealed one thing about the Sa’ba Taalor above and beyond
everything else. They were scarred. To the last of them they sported the signs
of previous fights and a hard, violent life.
The meal was the
last of the fresh meat the Sa’ba Taalor had provided by killing Pra-Moresh only
a few days earlier. Despite his worries from the first invitation to eat with
the strangers, Ehnole had proven a very capable cook and the heavy aromas of
the spices and herbs she used to season the pungent meat made his stomach
rumble.
They sat in
companionable silence and feasted on meat and a few odd vegetables brought with
them from the valley of the Seven Forges. And when they were done Tusk brought
out a pouch of wine that was deceptively potent and tart enough to make lips
pucker and eyelids squint.
One of the men
around the fire said something in their tongue and made Ehnole chuckle. Wollis
was not foolish. He had every suspicion the comment made had been about him and
he chose to ignore it.
Ehnole looked to
him and spoke softly. “Bromt does not understand the lack of scars on your
body.”
He looked at the
man who’d spoken. His body was heavy with muscle and his skin was heavier with
scars of every sort. There were what looked like tooth marks running along one
shoulder. Wollis could actually see the individual shapes of the teeth that had
cut through the man. He didn’t begin to want to guess what sort of beast had
made those marks in the first place.
Wollis was exactly
drunk enough to answer, even knowing that he should approach all conversations
here with caution. “I have always found the best way to deal with an attack is
to not be where the attacker expects me to be.”
Tusk and the rest
laughed and Bromt joined in when the words were translated. Wollis smiled and
laughed as well, relaxing a bit. When you got right down to it, there were
enough of the Sa’ba Taalor around him that if he accidentally offended them
he’d probably be dead before he could regret it, so best just to enjoy himself.
Tusk spoke next.
“You walk with a very serious limp. How did that happen, Wollis March?”
“I caught a spear
in my leg.” He thought back to the moment so long before. The man with the
spear came off a horse and brought the spear down with plans to drive it
through his skull. He almost made it. “I dodged the worst of the attack. Man
was aiming for my head, you see, but he caught me in the leg and the tip went
through my muscles and bone and pinned me to the ground.”
The strangers
nodded their heads.
“I’d be dead if
not for Merros Dulver. He stood over me and fought off the rest of the
attackers until additional soldiers arrived.”
“Did you kill the
man who did that to you?” Ehnole asked the question.
“No. I was really
very busy screaming. It hurt a great deal, you know.”
They seemed
disappointed. And Wollis frowned. “Have any of you been severely injured?” He
asked the question already knowing that the answer was yes and that he was
being foolish.
Just the same
Ehnole answered, “Yes. All of us.” She opened her tunic and bared her midriff,
showing the light gray of her flesh and the darker gray of several of her
scars. One long scar in particular was impossible to miss. It wrapped itself
around her waist twice and slithered like a serpent.
“What happened
there?”
“I tried to
capture my mount. They must be caught, you see. They are not tame. We must tame
them.” She pointed to the great creature where it lay not far away, looking
toward the fire without moving beyond an occasional sigh or a shuffling of the
enormous body to find a more comfortable spot on the ground. “Toratta did not
want to be tamed. He fought me very hard. I had wrapped the trapping leathers
three times around my waist to let me hold on better.” Her eyes smiled. The
rest of her face, as always, was hidden away. “Some would say I held on too
well, but I won my mount that day.”
“Where do your
mounts come from? Are they in the same valley as your people?” Toratta looked
in his direction the great eyes of the thing like lanterns in the growing
darkness.
For a moment no
one answered, and finally Tusk nodded his head. “They are from the Taalor Valley. But they are not bred by
us. They are gifts from the gods.”
Wollis nodded his
head, suspecting that he was touching against a subject the Sa’ba Taalor
preferred not to discuss. He felt no particular need to push the matter.
Instead he pointed to the scar on Bromt’s shoulder and chest. “And Bromt? Is
that his name? How did that happen?”
Ehnole translated
the question. And then she translated the answer as well. While he spoke, Bromt
ran his finger over each individual tooth mark that permanently marred his
flesh.
“There are things
in the Blasted Lands. We do not see them often and most who do see them do not
live to speak of it. I met one of
them. It killed my first mount and bit most of the way through my arm before I
killed it.”
“How did you kill
it?”
“Well, it bit my
arm as you can see. But it also swallowed my arm.” He mimed a mouth opening
around his arm and swallowing the whole of it. And as he did so, Wollis could
see that the tooth scars ran around the back of his shoulder as well. It had
literally taken his entire arm into its mouth. “When it did that, it also
swallowed my blade. So I cut it open from the inside and watched it bleed out.”
Wollis shook his
head in wonder. The idea was unsettling.
“You really only
have the one scar?” Ehnole seemed endlessly puzzled by the notion.
“Well, no. I have
more scars, but they aren’t really very significant. I mean, I managed to nick
my chin a few times when I was shaving. I’ve a long scar on my finger from when
I cut myself when I was sharpening a sword blade and drinking. I’ve certainly
never managed anything quite as spectacular as Bromt’s scar or yours. I can see
more scars on Tusk than I would have thought possible for any man to survive.”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid in comparison I’m rather disappointing.”
Tusk leaned
forward. “Not at all. You are merely different. You avoid being cut. I can
respect that. The followers of Wrommish use a similar principle in combat.”
“Wrommish is one
of your gods?”
Tusk nodded. “Wrommish
advocates using the body as a weapon. So the idea of not being struck makes
sense. The hands and arms and legs are used to defend against weapons in
combat.”
“How does a thing
like that even work?” He’d seen plenty of brawls in his life but never once
seen one that ended well when the brawler came up against armed men.
Tusk moved his
hand in a back and forth motion. “The ones who don’t learn Wrommish’s ways
early on seldom manage to learn it well.”
“I imagine that
could be a problem, yes.”
He pointed to the
south where several of his people had gone with Merros Dulver a day or so
earlier. “Jost is traveling with your Captain. She is a strong follower of
Wrommish. I have seen her block many weapons with only her hands.” He thought
for a moment. “Drask as well.”
“I should think he
has an advantage there, what with one hand being metal.” The words fairly
jumped past his lips before he could stop them and Wollis had to resist the
urge to slap his own hands over his mouth as soon as he was done speaking.
Tusk studied him
for several moments. All around him the Sa’ba Taalor were deadly silent.
And then Tusk
slapped him on the shoulder with one large hand and roared laughter. The rest
joined in and Wollis relaxed. When they had calmed down a bit Tusk looked at
him and shook his head. “Of course Drask might well kill you for saying that to
him. It would depend on his mood.”
“I didn’t mean to
offend….”
Tusk shook his
head. “I take no offense. But I am not the one who had his hand cut off.”
“How does his hand
work?”
Ehnole answered
that one, “He was gifted by Ydramil.”
“Another of your
gods?”
Ehnole nodded.
“The Daxar Taalor each favor one metal. Well, except for Durhallem. But each
favors one. And if they choose to favor someone who has lost a limb, it will
always be made of that metal. There is no mistaking which god has granted a
favor of that sort.”
“What makes them
decide? I mean, do all of your people get replacements if they are wounded?”
“Not at all,” Tusk
answered. “The Daxar Taalor choose who they reward very carefully. There
are…conditions that must be met. If Drask had not performed to the satisfaction
of Ydramil, he would not have been granted a new hand.”
“How do the gods
decide?”
Tusk shook his
head and leaned in closer. “How do gods decide anything? How do your gods offer
rewards?”
“To be honest I
have never spoken with my gods and they have never spoken with me.” He shrugged
as he answered. “You and your people seem to have a better relationship with your
gods than I have ever had with mine.”
Tusk shook his
head and though little of his face could be seen behind the veil, Wollis sensed
the pity the man felt for him.
To escape that
irritating gaze he asked, “How did Drask lose his hand?”
“It was cut off in
a duel.” Tusk swung one hand through the air in a chopping motion. “Do you have
duels?” he looked closely at Wollis.
“We have formal
challenges. They’re put before the magistrate or, if you’re in the capital city
they are handled before the representatives of the Emperor.”
“We are not so
formal. The man who attacked Drask made his accusations and drew his axe. Then
when Drask stood to defend himself, the man cut his hand off.”
“What did Drask do
to offend him?”
“I do not know.
But Drask killed the man a moment later. The fool was already celebrating his
victory.” Tusk shook his head. “Drask drove a knife through the man’s neck and
finished the fight properly.” The man turned and called to his people in their
own unsettling language—whenever the Sa’ba Taalor talked there was an odd resonance
to their words but when they spoke their native tongue it was worse—and Wollis
looked at the gathered group as they considered his words and finally the other
woman with the group spoke up. Had he learned her name? He couldn’t remember.
Tusk nodded at her
words and spoke again, “I could not remember what Ydramil demands. Drask would
have taken the body of his defeated enemy into the Heart of Ydramil and made
the body an offering. When he was done he would have held his wounded hand to
the fires of Ydramil’s heart and asked for a new hand. The god must have
accepted his offering, or he would not be alive now to carry on.”
Wollis nodded and
considered those words carefully. “The heart of Ydramil, that is in the heart
of the mountain?”
“Of course.”
“How did he get
there?”
“Likely he walked.
If Ydramil was feeling unkind he would have been made to crawl through one of
the tunnels that leads to the heart of the mountain.” He paused for a moment
and then continued. “The Daxar Taalor do not make it easy to ask favors of them,
so he very likely had to crawl and drag his offering along behind him.”
Wollis considered
the maps he’d seen and the mountains of the valley. Ydramil was far to the west
in the valley, if he remembered properly. The mountains were as different from
each other as their names. They were part of the same mountain range but no two
looked at all the same. He imagined the climb would have been over harsh,
broken stone with little by way of plant life along the sides and slopes. Scaling
any part of the thing would be a challenge. Carrying another man’s weight?
While missing a hand and bleeding? He doubted it was possible but chose not to
say anything of the sort.
“When we lose
hands, it is forever.” Wollis shrugged. “When my leg was injured three was no
way to replace it. Nothing as impressive as Drask’s silver hand, so it was
learn to walk with my injuries or sit for the rest of my life.”
Tusk nodded at
him. “I think you made the right choice.” He placed his hands at the small of
his back and bent backward, sighing. “My spine no longer enjoys sitting on my
mount.”
The silence
between them grew longer and Wollis yawned. It had been a long day. “We should
find the Temmis Pass easily enough tomorrow. With good weather another two
weeks will have us at our destination.”
“Your horses are
slow,” Tusk spoke without criticism, merely making an observation. “But I look
forward to seeing your Fellein.”
“Have you ever
been away from the Seven Forges and the Blasted Lands before?”
Tusk looked toward
the north and west, where even at this great a distance the light from the
mountain range could be seen as a faint glow.
“Only once. We
rode to the north of the Taalor Valley.”
“What did you find
there?” Wollis had never considered that there would be anything beyond the
Seven Forges. Really, the mountains had always seemed like the end of the
world.
“Another time,
Wollis March. It’s late. We should rest while we can.”
The man swatted
him amiably on the shoulder one last time and strutted back toward where his
tent was set up.
There would be no
more answers that night.
