Part II - A Rise in Fortunes

First Interlude

The Oath

A Year Earlier

A worn oak door creaked shut behind Halada as she bent forward into the haze of smoke and mist of beer. She would rather have stayed out in winter’s quiet. For eyes found her, and followed her, as she waded through the room, stooping below chandeliers.

She had done her best to blend in with Rukkarim’s sellswords, unbraiding her hair in the manner of the horse-folk, and donning a long wool coat. But there was little she could do to conceal her stature, and few of the tavern-goers came up to her chest, none past her shoulders. Even among her own people, she had hated to be the center of attention. Surrounded by gawkers in this strange land, it was far more irksome.

Yet, she wove and pushed her way toward the bar, ignoring the stares that followed her. She caught the barman’s eye and called for a small beer, pushing copper across the board. He soon came with a foaming mug. Meeting the barman’s eyes, Halada withdrew a scrap of leather from her coat and unfolded it toward him. It was etched with a symbol, a man cowering in the open jaws of a beast. “Know this sign?” she asked. The barman set down her tankard with a thump, beer-foam sloshing as he stretched forward.

He shook his head. “Ask around with the hired blades.” He waved toward the room, packed with figures clad in leather, mail, and plate. Before Halada could speak again, he was at the far end of the bar, filling another mug.

The tavern was awash in the ripe odors of sweat and spilled ale. Looking around again, Halada took in the crowd. By her guess, there were a few score drinkers tonight, all talking or laughing, or tromping about. She closed her eyes, recalling the sway of the pines on a hunt-night, the star-threaded dark suffused with cedar. Stuck amid the crowd’s unyielding thrum, she felt like her head was in a beehive, something she had experienced once and did not wish to repeat. That had been Tamrin’s fault. Poor Tamrin...

Anger roused Halada, and she drained her beer. Halada’s people didn’t waste grain on strong drink. But ale wasn’t terrible, and it braced her nerves. She had grown to appreciate it during her weeks traveling south through Rukkarim. She had stopped in every town and city along the way, to ask about the symbol she carried. She found mostly blank stares when she showed it, though some had grown angry and refused to speak further.

The next half-hour’s effort rewarded her with many more shaken heads. None of them knew who wore the symbol cut into the leather scrap. A burly mercenary told her to piss off before he’d even looked at it. Then he dipped his beard back into a heavy tankard. Halada searched the room for a more approachable face, and a strange sight met her eyes.

In the corner, it appeared, sat a family. A man and a woman leaned together, he in rusty chainmail, and she in spattered white robes. Her blonde hair was cropped short. They toasted each other with mugs of ale. A scrawny child sat across from them, back to the wall, sipping something from the smallest cup Halada had ever seen. Having exhausted her other options, Halada pressed toward them.

Coming closer, she saw that the diminutive figure was no child, after all, but a man as small and ancient as Halada was tall and youthful. He was paler than the moon, his face lined deeply as a cart road. He spotted her before his companions did, and waved a cheerful little wave, seeing her approach. The man and woman, whom she had thought the old man’s parents, turned toward her. There was steel glinting beneath the woman’s robes, at her neck and wrists. It looked as though some emblem once had been blazoned on her cloak but was torn away. The man’s tanned head showed a half-moon of stubble around the back, and he had heavy circles beneath his eyes, yet he seemed to be enjoying the evening.

“Dear girl, come, come,” the little old man waved her closer. “I saw you making your rounds. My name is Orin Ffoldd. Would you care to show us that bit of leather?” She knelt beside the table and brought it out again.

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The balding man’s mouth curled with disgust. “Ragnar’s skinners,” he said, and he looked away from the symbol.

“Shebul,” the woman whispered, with an expression of distaste. The two of them glanced at each other, neither seeming to recognize what the other had said.

The balding man spoke again first. “That’s the banner Ragnar’s Skinners carried. Used to be a mercenary company. They were the ones that did Cloving Isle,” he spat onto the floor, “and got the Dragon Lady in the war.”

“Where do they dwell?” Halada demanded. She realized she must have asked loudly, for she had drawn stares from the adjacent tables. “Where are they?” she said more quietly.

He shrugged. “They went brigand after the war, up in the North Passage. I heard they came back south, where exactly, I’ve got no idea. A ferrywoman I was drinking with said she’d seen the banner, carried by a troupe of bandits traveling along the river. People on the Naliir know what that flag means. She didn’t stay to see more.” He gave Halada a piercing look, “What do you want with those bastards?”

Halada found herself unsure what to share of her business. She was spared by the white-robed woman.

“It’s the symbol of Shebul, too,” she told her companion.

“Of who?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“One of the ancient gods, the Flesh Thief,” she said, looking between Halada and her friends for recognition, finding none. “The dwarven books say he was jealous of mortals and their worldly joys, so he stole and inhabited living bodies. Followed by a horde of howling, maddened followers, Shebul made his way from city to city, doing as he willed. They feasted, and murdered, and indulged savage pleasures before moving on, always unsatisfied. Eventually, Geledron cut Shebul down, and the Pantheon banished him from Thindul into the void before time.”

“Sounds like a symbol the Skinners would carry,” said the armored man sourly.

From the corner of her eye, Halada noticed Orin watching her curiously. “So,” he asked when she turned back to him, “what do you want with them? Is this Ragnar friend or foe to you?” If the bigger man’s look had been piercing, Halada felt as though his diminutive friend were staring through her, as if he would know what she meant to say before she did. The little old man looked wholly at ease, sizing her up. She was sure he would know if she lied.

“My foe,” she answered solemnly. “They slew my brother, he and his brigands. They grabbed him while we were hunting. By the time we tracked them to their nest, my brother was already dead. Some we killed, but the rest fled south. I cut this from one of their coats,” she said, raising the scrap of leather. “I took an oath to the Naavu. I will kill the beast who wears this symbol before I return to my family. On my honor, he is my foe.” Her voice grew hoarse and her visage stony as she spoke. There had been so little left of Tamrin when she found him.

The balding man nodded, and he held out his hand, “Then you hate the Skinners more than I do,” he said. “Name’s Vander Creek.” She clasped his arm, her hand engulfing him past the elbow.

“I am Halada,” she said.

“Maggy,” said the woman, and she too clasped Halada’s arm in greeting. As she did, Vander signaled a passing barmaid for another round. She brought them three tankards and a thimble of liquor.

Vander passed one of the mugs to Halada. “Looks like you can handle yourself on the road,” he observed. “And you look like you could use a drink. Sit a minute. I got a proposition.” Halada took the ale and sat on a bench by the table. The seat creaked threateningly but held her.

Vander went on, “No idea where you can find Ragnar and his crew, but assholes like that don’t lay low, not forever.” He spat again, expressively. “We three travel around some. We get work with the caravans.”

He paused for a moment, with a finger on his chin. “If I’m being frank, you’d add a good bit to our troupe’s price, and we can help you keep an ear to the ground. I know a lot of the folks in this business, and we hear things when we go from city to city... You’d get your fair share, ‘course,” he added hastily. “Traveling from tavern to tavern can’t be easy on the purse. What do you say?”

He wasn’t far off, as far as coin was concerned. She’d signed on with a convoy getting down the Passage, but once she was in Rukkarim the sellswords seemed to have their own circles, and they had no interest in a fresh face from the wilds.

“They work for you?” asked Halada, pointing to Vander’s companions. Maggy snorted, and Vander gave a chuckle himself. Orin showed a wry smile.

“Nah, nah,” Vander said, “Nothing like that. I guess I do a lot of the talking, ‘cause I’ve been in the trade a while. It’s an even split though, and we choose our jobs together.”

Halada nodded, half to herself. “I can find my brother’s killers, if I go with you?” she asked.

“Maybe,” said Vander. “Better shot traveling with us than wandering around by yourself. Safer too, and we won’t let you turn pauper.”

“Good,” Halada said. “I will go with you.” Vander knocked his mug into hers, and he flagged down the barmaid for meat and bread. Maggy patted Halada’s broad arm welcomingly before draining a flagon. Orin raised his thimble and tipped it back. As a serving boy set stewed meat and flat barley loaves on the table, Halada realized that she hadn’t broken bread with companions since before her brother died.