Chapter 6: Bargains

Jace “Quickshot” Leál

I gritted my teeth against the pain that pulsed in my arm like a living, breathing thing. Ayla’s hands moved deftly, tearing strips from her robe, the fabric parting with a harsh, ripping sound. Her eyes were focused, determined, and despite the agony, I couldn’t help but be impressed by her composure.

I’d say that I’ve suffered worse injuries—I have—but pretending that made having my arm mauled any less painful would be a lie.

“Looks like you saved me this time,” I said through clenched teeth. It was worth giving credit where it was due. The memory of Ayla in that moment, stabbing furiously at the creature’s head, flashed vividly in my mind. Her eyes had burned with a warrior's fire.

“You saved me first,” Ayla replied, her voice steady as she worked to clean the wound with our meager water supply and bandage it.

“That’s right. I’d say three times by my count,” I added with a faint, teasing smile.

That was the wrong thing to say. Her hands, which had been gentle, suddenly pressed harder, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from me. Then she looked up at me, eyes sharp. “Why?”

“Why what?” I muttered, though I knew exactly what she meant.

“Don’t be daft. Why did you save me? If you’d left me for the Reavers, your Lóke would still be alive. If you hadn’t pushed me out of the way, your arm wouldn’t be in this shape. You could die.”

“Meh. Probably not, though.”

“Do you mean to sell me? Am I that valuable to you that it’s worth dying for?”

“Not going to sell you. I already told you I mean to take you to your people…or, at least as close as you’ll let me.” I winced as she tightened another bandage. “As for why, I guess it’s because I don’t hate elves.”

Ayla froze, her hands pausing in their work. I could see the suspicion in her eyes. I continued, forgetting my pain for a moment, realizing that I meant exactly what I said. “I figure I did enough killing in the war to last lifetimes. ‘Bout time I did some saving.”

Ayla resumed her work, a thoughtful silence settling between us. The wound was bandaged as best as our limited supplies allowed and tied in a makeshift sling against my chest. She had offered to cast a higher working of healing if only I’d let her use one of the crystals on my broken dagger, but did not bring it up again at my vehement refusal.

I noticed how much of her robe she’d cut up and torn to treat my wounds. Her robe now reached only a short way down her hips, maybe six inches above her knees. She’d sacrificed modesty and sunburned legs for my sake, had she? At least she still had my cloak.

Ayla slung my rifle over her own shoulder and helped me to my feet. We were ready to trudge the last few kilometers to the outpost I hoped was still there.

The sun dipped lower, casting long, menacing shadows over the desert landscape. The land seemed to slope forever downward, leading us to what felt like the edge of the world. We stumbled, half-carrying each other, exhausted and out of water by the time the outpost finally came into view.

It was a ragtag collection of what might have once been colorful but were now worn-out tents and dilapidated buildings, the fabric of the tents flapping weakly in the wind, and the wooden structures creaking with age. A watchtower that looked like it had fallen apart and been patched up dozens of times leaned precariously into the wind.

At first glance, one might have thought it was deserted, but the closer we got, my keen eyes spotted red eyes and shuffling cloaked figures that blended into the washed-out environs.

“Guard up,” I whispered.

Ayla noticed them as well and kept one hand on the black knife she’d tucked into her belt.

When we crossed through the outpost’s boundary, where the desert seemed to stop suddenly and become solid, gray ground that almost looked paved, I sensed the slightest hint of magic that had something to do with it. The air was noticeably cooler inside. Though I couldn’t, I imagined I could smell the water at the center of the settlement, where the well would have been dug.

As we made our way to the center, I noticed several of the cloaked figures closing the distance and surrounding us. They weren’t sporting weapons that I could see—but that didn’t mean anything if their steel was hiding under their cloaks—and I counted a shit ton, which was more than I had bullets. Anyway, with one hand I’d be slow to reload in the first place. Which meant if they attacked, we’d be in trouble.

These kinds of situations called for unwarranted bravado. I leaned in and whispered in Ayla’s ear, “They know we’re aware of their presence. So walk like you’re such a crack shot with that rifle that you could take ‘em all out on your own.”

Ayla gave me her signature raised eyebrow. Yeah, who were we kidding? We looked half in the grave already with my bloodied arm, our sunburned bodies, and filthy clothes. At least there was enough black blood on us that it was clear not all of it was human. Actually, on second thought, we made quite the grizzly pair.

When we finally arrived at the center and I saw the well, it was all I could do not to jump into it headfirst. Then I noticed the bright red and white canopy-covered wagon and the Striders hitched to it. It wasn’t as ratty as the town, long and wide, with modified wheels designed for both sandy and rocky terrain. It was clearly well maintained. The wagon was clearly a recent arrival.

“Traveler.” The voice behind me was a low, grating rasp, like rocks scraping together at the bottom of a dry riverbed.

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I turned to regard the cloaked figure who’d stepped forward from the rest, who were all encircling us. Now they were close, I realized that not one of them was very tall. All of them shorter than Ayla by a hand.

The lead cloaked figure lowered his hood, revealing dusty green skin and a hooked, knobbed nose. His irises were red and sclera black. He was a goblin. And so were all the others.

Reflexively, my hand went to my gun, fingers curling around the grip. Goblins had been vicious skirmishers during the war, their reputation for ruthless ambushes well-earned.

“Peace, traveler.” The goblin raised both hands in a sign of peace. There was no weapon in them, but I had no doubt now all the goblins behind him were armed and ready. I was reminded of the very similar situation I’d been in with the Reavers. “This is the first time you have set foot in our domain, so your rudeness will be excused. Once.”

The goblin eyed my hand on my weapon. This situation was different than the one with the Reavers. Fighting or intimidating my way out was unlikely.

I removed my hand from the sandalwood grip. The goblin nodded as if he expected nothing less. There was none of the mocking smile I’d grown familiar with goblins.

“We are the keepers of this trading waystation. So long as you agree to fair trade and to abstain from violence, I Bey Grak’nar, swear no violence nor harm from me and mine, so may it be said and bound.”

For a moment I was speechless. That was a fairy deal. Before I could react, however, Ayla spoke quickly. She knew the significance of such an oath better than anyone, being Fair Folk herself. “Agreed, and so it has been said and bound.”

Then she shot me a scathing glare that said I better agree or else. For good reason. The goblin had lumped us together and so the contract could not be sealed without my agreement as well. But he’d also promised no harm, which in our present circumstances was needed reassurance.

I nodded. “Aye, and so may it be said and bound, so long as it is said without guile nor deceit.” Mine was a little known additional guarantee to the seal that the goblin was required to agree to close the deal. It could be considered an insult among the fey, who believed if you wished not to be deceived then it ought be done with more ‘accurate phrasing’, but it would ensure the goblin kept to the spirit of the agreement, and if he was indeed their bey—their leader—then the magic that followed such an agreement, that was many of the higher fey creatures’ way, would be ironclad.

“Without guile nor intent to deceive.” The goblin said, which was not the precise phrasing I wanted, but acceptable, as it meant that he would not intentionally seek to deceive me himself, but made no guarantees of his goblin kin. And not all forms of deceit caused immediate harm.

“Then we are agreed.” I said. A subtle magic, ancient and binding, settled over me like a slight chill, the air around us seeming to hum with an unspoken pact.

The cloaked goblins who had surrounded the area removed their hoods and dispersed, and began entering the random buildings. The dilapidated outpost suddenly felt much livelier—though not by much—and I felt that a subtle pressure I’d felt since entering the area was suddenly lifted.

The building seemed less dilapidated and the tents sturdier. There must be powerful illusion magic at work here. Likely powered by some relic in possession of the goblins.

“Bey Grak’nar, you and yours are traders here? What are your wares?” I asked. It wasn’t unheard of for goblins to trade, but it was strange to see them in human territory. Then I realized suddenly that these weren’t human lands at all; they were the Wastes. The Wastes belonged to no one.

The goblin nodded. “We trade in water, foodstuff, relics and other miscellany.”

I figured. The water was the most valuable resource in the desert. They wouldn’t just let us use it for free.

“We’ll be needing all those things.”

“What do you have to trade?” the bey asked. I could feel his eyes scan me and linger on my revolver, the rifle, and briefly on the black knife tucked into Ayla’s waist.

I only had one thing that could interest the goblins beside the weapons. It should interest them quite a bit. Especially if the goblins used relics to power the enchantments around their camp. They probably used them for other things as well.

I reached into a pocket and unbuttoned it. Then withdrew the charged beast core I’d retrieved from the jackaloth alpha when I rescued Ayla. I’d hoped to save it for something special. Like upgrading and recharging the enchantment on my cloak. A small token to keep with me in honor of that fine beast. But if it could buy our lives, I supposed that was perhaps even more special.

A life for a life. The poetic cycle of death and life continues.

I held up the beast core. It shimmered green, then red, then rainbow. There was no doubt it was a beast core, and while not the highest quality—had it been the core of an evolved jackaloth, it would be worth much more—it was still much more than enough to buy everything we needed.

The goblin’s eyes widened and I sensed the greed in his eyes. He began dry washing his hands. “May I see it?”

I hadn’t shown the beast core to Ayla yet, and she narrowed her eyes when she saw it. I didn’t know how much of the Old Ways she followed. Once it had been a great strain on the relations between humans and elves. They believed hunting for cores was evil and disrupted the natural order. According to their beliefs, the mana that died with a creature ought to be buried with them and returned to the planet.

I don’t know how many elves kept to those principles during the height of the war. Though they never adopted human technology—their pride would never fall so low—quite a few enemies we’d faced had adopted their own ways of refining cores and adapting them to power spells.

The process was something our technomancers adopted and enhanced to create the very jewels encrusted on my broken dagger.

If it bothered her I had a core, Ayla said nothing.

The goblin ran it between his fingers and sniffed it. Then his eyes flickered to my gun and rifle once more. Then slowly, he assessed us as a whole. And by his words, I knew he had been taking in our measure of desperation. “This will be suitable for unlimited access to water. Food and other supplies will require additional trade.”

It would appear that the goblins' concept of ‘fair trade’ was different than I expected. In a twisted way, it made perfect sense. Water for one who needs it little, costs little. For one whose life depends on it, well, it costs all they have. That’s only fair.

The goblin was out for all he could take from us.

“Oy! Don’t let that gobbo rip you off. That beast core’s worth more than a bucket of drink.” A tall, muscular man with a winning smile and bright blue eyes stepped out of a nearby building with a sack of feed over each shoulder. Behind him, four other men followed, all weather-worn, but hale. All of them were armed.

I recognized the tall man, though it’d been close to twenty years since I last saw him. Marcus Turner. “Marcus?”

Marcus’s smile widened and he dropped both feed sacks right at his feet, one of them bursting. He didn’t care one bit. “Fuck a pixie’s tits. Jace!” Marcus jogged up to me and gripped me by the shoulders, not much caring for my grunt of pain when he touched my wounds. “You’re alive, mate. Or barely, it looks like! Ha!”

Of course, when he realized that his hand was getting covered in blood, he released me, pulled a kerchief from his back pocket, and started wiping it off.

“Good to see you too, friend.” I gritted my teeth, but I couldn’t keep a smile from my face.