RoH: Camp Disturbed

The camp was quiet when he returned, but the other guards were out and he stopped just beyond the trees, to call out and wave so he wouldn't get an arrow to the face on his way back in. Tamril was the closest of the guards; he shouted, "It's Remant!" and after that Remant knew that it was safe to approach. 

"Did you kill them?" asked Tamril, as he came within speaking distance. Tamril was young, barely into adulthood, but he had nothing of that sense of invincibility that Remant had once associated with men of his age. He came from a generation that knew that the world would cheerfully kill them if they let down their guard, the ones who had come of age just after the war.

Remant nodded. "It was just a few." 

"Really? With a spell like that, we thought--"

Remant shook his head. "I think they must have prepared it in advance, for whoever came through. I was fortunate to escape it, but beyond that..." He shrugged. 

Tamril nodded, doing is best to look sagely. It was common knowledge, or at least common belief, that spells prepared well in advance could be much stronger than a mage or magister could call forth in the moment. 

Remant had been counting on that; it helped make his story believable. "How is everyone else taking it?" he asked. 

"Ashela said we should leave them asleep," answered Tamril, and Remant nodded. 

He wasn't surprised. The caravan was led by the merchant Varkas and her six drovers, but they'd brought along a wagon belonging to a displaced family and two other wagons owned by puppeteers, for a token fee. If Ashela had awakened everyone, it would have been chaos... or at least a lot of shouting and recriminations, and the camp certainly wouldn't have been quiet when he returned. Also, explaining that the would-be bandits were dead would have been a lot more awkward. 

Ashela was helping him out. 

"Sensible," he said. "I'll go tell her what happened, and then I need to get back to sleep myself." 

"Quiet duties," Tamril said, the well-wish from one caravan guard to another, and Remant smiled and walked the rest of the way into the camp.

RoH: Fraught With Magic

Remant walked out into the woods, slipping between the trees and easing through the underbrush until the camp was well behind him. He was fully dressed now, with his sword on his hip and the dagger in his left boot, his bow across his back and a quiver of arrows arranged beneath it, slung crossways at the small of his back. They were still three days out from Doblim, and the woods here were thick. Whoever and whatever was out here, Remant doubted that they were anything more than rumors to the people of the would-be capital city. 

"You come to us?" asked a voice, soft in the darkness. 

It sounded nearby, almost at his shoulder, but Remant shrugged and disdained to look around. He didn't know what sort of magic had been used to project it, but he knew for a fact that nobody was standing behind him. "It seemed easier."

"Whatever it is you carry, it strains the fabric of this world. No difficulty to sense it, no fault to want it." This time the voice came from ahead and off to his left, but he thought that that too was misdirection. 

"On the contrary," he replied. "There is fault in wanting such things."

"Easy to say when you have them." This time the voice was behind him, but farther back. "Easy to say, when your place is secure." 

Remant sighed, but remained where he was. "There's some truth in that," he admitted. "What is it that you want?"

"A place of our own, safe from those who drove us out. Ascendancy, security. A world in which we make the rules by which we are judged."

"Do you not have that now?" Remant still wasn't sure what he was dealing with, but  it sounded as if these beast-bound had been driven away from Doblim, or possibly some other city, and taken a place out here in the woods. 

The voice moved again, or seemed to: "We do, but the cities rise again. With the power you carry, we could drive them back, separate them, isolate them. We could make the world safe."

Safe for whom? Remant shook his head slowly. "Clearly you have power already. Surely you can work out some way to live beyond the cities, to give them something they need and make them accept you."

"Diplomacy?" scoffed the voice, now somewhere off to his right. "We tried that before. Now, it will be conquest. And the power you carry will show us the way." 

The first attack came from behind him, and Remant met it with a sense of regret: four wolves, their shoulders as high as his own, charging in from separate directions, dodging from side to side as they approached. He cut and stepped back and to the right as one wolf fell, cut back and twisted to the left and rear as the second one reached him, forced his eyes shut as he called for a flash of light, and then stepped forward and cut down the remaining two as they stood, staggered. 

"Did you enjoy that?" he asked. "I didn't. Give up this poisonous dream and let me pass."

"We... do not yield," said the voice, and Remant felt the forces stir as a mist sprang up from the ground and spectral figures rose out of the mist. 

"Leave them to their rest," Remant growled, watching as the ghostly figures approached. Then he launched himself among them, and the blade of his saber cut them apart as if they were flesh. They screamed, fell, dissolved. 

"You do have your surprises," the voice admitted, this time drifting across the back of his neck. "But you will fall, and we will take your power."

"Promises, promises," answered Remant. He knelt, pulled the dagger from his boot, and held it in his left hand. His saber balanced easily in his right. "Come and try it."

They came, finally, from all directions: four men and eight women, pulling beast-forms over their human bodies as they fell on him. His sword cut their beast-flesh as easily as it would have parted human, and the dagger covered wounds with ice wherever it struck. They attacked, fell back, gathered over their wounded and attacked again; at the end of things, they all lay still and much of the forest around Remant was covered in frost. Spears of ice pierced several of the corpses. 

Remant sighed. "It didn't have to be like this," he said, though most of them were too far gone to hear him. "We could have sat and talked. You didn't have to raid the camp. You didn't have to try to murder me."

One of the dying beast-bound coughed and looked up at him. "I would-- I would..." Then there came a rattling sound, and the woman fell back a corpse. 

Remant shook his head and turned back towards the caravan.

RoH: Precautions

"Remant?" asked Ashela. She'd come up with a dagger when he'd touched her shoulder, but he was holding a glowstone in his hand, palm-up so that she could see his face. "What are you doing in my tent?" 

"Someone put a sleep-spell on the camp," he said. "How do you feel?" 

"Shit." She put the dagger away and shrugged out of her blankets. "Is everybody--?" 

"I'm not sure," Remant told her. "You're the first I woke. But I don't think they came for murder. They were looking for something. Maybe for me." 

"For you? Because--" Her eyes flickered to his left hand, and he knew that she knew. He'd thought that she at least suspected, and now he knew he'd been right. 

"Yes. And more will be coming. So I need you to check on everyone here, and make certain the caravan's defended."

"You're going out to meet them?" Ashela didn't sound surprised. She ran a hand through her dark hair, then clipped it back. 

He nodded. "Better than waiting for them to arrive here."

"All right." She reached for her left boot and drew it on. "Be careful. Don't die."

Remant nodded and slipped back out of the tent. Ashela was a skilled warrior and knew something of sorcery as well; he could count on her to keep the others safe.

RoH: Thieves in the Night

Remant came awake with his left hand around someone's throat in an unbreakable grip, while his victim flailed and struck at him with one arm. For a moment he considered commanding his hand to release its grip, but the figure above him wore a cloth over the lower half of its face and strange, dark lenses over its eyes. The lenses were held in some sort of wire frame, the design unfamiliar but the purpose obvious. It was night outside, and the intruder was Vanil, so the lenses most likely allowed their wearer to see in the dark. Which meant...

His hand clenched and twisted, and a cracking sound filled the tent. The intruder slumped, completely limp. Remant sighted and shoved it aside, then looked around. Yes, there was an unfamiliar dagger on the ground beside his bedroll. He slipped out of the blankets and rose into a crouch, then reached down and pulled on his black leather gloves. He didn't bother with his boots; those could wait. 

There were other figures moving in the darkness, but none seemed to have noticed him yet. There should have been guards at the edge of the camp, but none of them were visible. Downed, then, he thought. Hopefully not dead. He did not want to see what would happen if the intruders realized that anyone in the camp was awake and mobile. 

So he reached down and clasped his sword, and then he reached into the depths of his mind. The unwelcome remnants of power were still there; he touched them, and called for darkness. 

There were no sounds as the camp went black, but after a moment of stillness the intruders raised their blades; several of them silently called up spells as well. Remant couldn't see them; not exactly. But this darkness was his and he knew the place of everything in it, while even with their enchanted lenses the intruders couldn't see him. 

It was only a small effort to slip up to the nearest intruder and gut them. The darkness drank noise as well as light; the first death was silent.So were the second and the third. 

The fourth was trickier; that intruder had given up on seeing, and extended a sort of warning-web of magic around him. He turned to meet Remant's blade, and he fought well, trying to move in past Remant's guard with his shorter blade. It might have worked, too, if Remant's left hand hadn't caught the intruder's wrist and held it for the brief moment necessary for Remant to put his blade through the man's heart. 

And these were men, all of them. That was unusual; most bandit troops had some women among them. Remant puzzled over that as he killed and killed again, dispatching the last two intruders. Then, finally, he let his darkness withdraw. It was a relief, more than anything else. The darkness was hungry, and his control of it was limited; much longer, and it might have devoured everyone within reach, friend and foe alike. I really need to learn more of sorcery, he told himself again. Everything I know is either trivial, or dangerously extreme. 

The intruder at his feet coughed out a mouthful of blood. "They said... there was power... here." He drew a shuddering breath. "The beast-bound... will come... for--" There came a soft rattling sound, and his whole body relaxed. Remant wiped his blade on the man's dark tunic, then sheathed it. It was time to see who else had survived.

RoH: An Interruption

This is one of those concepts that I keep coming back to, so take a look through the Remnant of Heroes tag if you're curious about it. I originally began it as a series of short stories, with this guy wandering the world because he didn't really have any place to belong any more, and didn't want to be known for what he'd once been.

"How much farther?" called Master Cailiff as Remant rode past. 

Remant slowed his horse to answer. "Another hour to the next waystation, according to Jorral. Well before dark."

"That's not so bad," muttered Master Cailiff, his words pitched low for the benefit of his wife. She was sitting on the bench of the wagon beside him, a sturdy woman whose hair was just beginning to show some gray. 

Cailiff himself was older, his hair and beard turned to salt and pepper, his bearing dignified despite his corpulence. Remant wasn't bothered by him, but then Remant wasn't bothered by much of anyone. He was just a guard, paid to get the caravan safely to Doblim. What he might do when he arrived there, he wasn't sure. 

Ahead of them, Ikara gave a short, sharp whistle. Remant said, "Later," and rode ahead to see what the trouble was. 

The trouble was a child, unconscious by the side of the road. Darek, the only other male among the caravan guards, was standing several feet back, wrapping a bandage around his arm and muttering curses under his breath. 

"What happened?" called Remant, as he approached. 

"The child is a trap," said Darek, and spat as he tied off the bandage. "Or she's cursed. I tried to awaken her, and her shadow rose up and cut me." 

Ikara, sitting on her domek, nodded. "That's what happened." 

The domek was thick-skinned and heavy, strong and difficult to injure. It couldn't match a horse's speed, but then Ikara's job was to stay steady and call orders, not to charge into battle. She rode at the front of the caravan. 

"You just found her here?" asked Remant.

Ikara nodded. "I'm taking the caravan on," she said. "If you want to risk checking her, you can do that." She sounded as if she knew he wouldn't die, so Remant nodded back. "I'll tell you anything I learn," he said, swinging down off his horse as Darek mounted his and Ikara gave the signal to move along.

Writing Progress: Getting There, I think

So, I haven't made any visible progress on Shadow Academy. Last week was supposed to be the week when I'd regroup, re-evaluate my projects, assign some priorities, and generally just get my feet under me. Instead, well, work just fell on my head like an avalanche of snot. (It's a rare natural phenomenon, found only in the Eastern European nation of Mucosia.) I've spent most of the last couple of days trying to export data files on stored documents -- time-consuming, since some of these document types contain upwards of 65,000 documents -- and work on other projects in between, and listen in on training for a new set of applications that we're in the process of switching over to. 

Work, basically, has eaten my life. 

But I've been thinking about the story, and how it shapes itself from my opening scene, and what the vampire prince Dominic might say upon first meeting Darian, and how Darian might respond. It'll work, I think, and it'll carry the story forward, and as I bring in more characters we'll get some interesting groupings even before we get to the final arrival at the Sunhaven Academy of the Midnight Accord.

I've also had a few oblique thoughts about Remant and a book-length project set in the milieu that I've tentatively been calling A Remnant Of Heroes. But I'm not working on that one now; it was originally intended to be a series of shorts, somewhat like the Conan stories, to occupy me when I needed a break from other projects. Just take the character, throw him into something interesting, and see what he does. 

Only... he needs a longer story arc, and I'm not ready to focus on that right now. Not yet. Someday, time and attention permitting, but first I have to survive June.

Here's hoping your projects are going well, dear readers, and if you want to talk about them in the comments I'd be excited to hear from you.

RoH: Possible Opening?

Remant trudged up the narrow passage, his one remaining hand trailing against the wall. He was cold, he was tired, he was scared, he was weak. He had no idea what he would find when he reached the stairs, when he climbed them and emerged into sunlight. He only knew that if he remained in the darkness, it would consume him.

So he followed the paths that would take him out of Shadowguard, into the the more ordinary caves that bordered it, and eventually back to the surface. He left the high halls and deeper shadows behind him, along with the site of the final battle and the corpses of his friends. He'd taken Darik's armor-gauntlet to seal over the stump of his left arm, and the last of Elendor's healing potions to reduce the throbbing to something he could ignore.

He should have been blind, and lost several times over; there was no light here. Instead, he could see through the darkness itself. The thought of what that might mean terrified him, so he thought on other things instead: the course he had to follow, the things that might have happened on the surface when he'd driven the nightblade into Huoron's back and dealt a mortal blow to the God of Darkness. 

The stairs were ahead, the dim light of the surface far above still visible to his eyes. Would the light burn him? Now that he saw in the dark, would the light of day strike him blind?

It didn't matter. He couldn't remain here; he had to keep going. He touched the metal sheath that covered the stump of his arm, then the dagger that he had slipped into the empty sheath in his boot. Then he set the soft leather of the boot to the first stair, and began to climb.

The ascent seemed endless, until at last it wasn't.

The brightness was uncomfortable, but it didn't burn him. After a time his eyes adjusted, and his flesh, and he came out of the cave and stepped into it.

There were men waiting in bright outside: armored Vanil,with a handful of Aesil and Moril among them. One of the Vanil approached and saluted. "The siege is ended and the beastmen have scattered," he said. "We were ordered to escort the heroes back to the capital."

Remant couldn't help it: he laughed, his voice harsh and strange. "No heroes left," he said after a moment. "Just me."

The man stared at him, and that only made Remant laugh harder; a moment after that he was sobbing. "Help him," said the man, and stepped forward to put an arm under his shoulder. "Barris! Get a carriage up here, or as close you can." One of the other warriors hurried away; Remant didn't see which one.

"You're all that's left?" asked the man, as he helped Remant forward.

Remant sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and did it again until he had himself under control; it was that or stab the man, and he surely didn't deserve that. "Irlin fell while holding off a giant, when we were seeking a way through the Nirgenau peaks. Doverin fell in battle, but I carried him from the field before the Black Knight could steal his blessings. Winstala, Gairlos, and Toverin fell when the shadow-priest Ulis betrayed us, and the rest of us were captured. I escaped, and freed Darik and Elendor, but they both died in the battle against Huoron."

"But you defeated the dark god?" asked the man, as they staggered forward towards the sounds of an approaching carriage. "Huoron is dead?"

Remant shook his head but said, "As dead as a god can be."

"It is good, then," said the armored man, as he helped Remant to the carriage and up the steps.

Remant was too tired to shake his head. Nothing would never be good again. Not for him. Too many things had been destroyed; too many good people had been killed. It should have been him, not any of the companions; he should have been the one to die. Instead, he'd been the one to drive the nightblade into the back of a god, to feel the god's life pour into him, to feel his own flesh swell and burst, unable to contain that much power.

He'd watched the blade drain the last of its creator's divinity, pouring it out into the stone that formed the throne room of Shadowguard. He'd watched the god wither and fall: weakened, divided, transformed. He'd known then, seeing all this in the absence of light, that some of the dark one had gone into him as well.

He didn't bother with the benches, but simply stretched himself out across the floor. "Take me where you like," he said quietly. "It doesn't matter now."

The man swung the door shut, stepping away before he began shouting orders. After a time, the carriage began moving, but Remant didn't care. Aching, frightened, exhausted, he slept.

RoH: The lake-town

"Did you find anything?"

Remant wiped the water from his hair, then reached for the towel that he'd left beside his things. "You could have come with me, you know."

Izra shook her head, looking past him over the surface of the cold mountain lake to the circular, tiered town that rose from its center. "Not into that. Not without a boat, at the very least. Anything could be in that water." She was dark of hair and skin, neatly trim in build and clothing and hairstyle alike, standing a little ways back from the lakeshore in a buff leather coat and trousers. He knew, because he'd looked over all his fellow guards, that the spear she stood with was ensorceled to be more precise in its use and more damaging when it connected, and that her longbow carried a stronger version of both those magics.

Remant toweled himself dry, then said: "Maybe." There were plenty of things that shouldn't be where they were, lost artifacts or unexpected dangers: traps and beasts left behind by the dark god, or his armies, or his worshippers. "I didn't see anything, but maybe."

"So why do you do it?" she asked. "Anywhere we stop, if there's anything unusual around, you immediately head off to explore it."

Remant picked up the waxed leather tube that he'd set aside when he walked out of the lake and opened the cap to remove his pants and the simple cotton shirt within. He put a leg into the pants, then said: "Why not?" Then he added: "Curiosity and caution. I'm curious about anything that's left after the war, and what is says about what was there before. And strange dangers come from strange places."

Izra studied him as he drew on his shirt, jacket, and his gloves. She wasn't looking at his body; her expression was too distant for that. After a moment, she nodded. "So what did this floating city tell you?"

"Not much," he admitted. "I'd like to come back here sometime and look more closely. Mostly, it told me that some people thought they might be safe if they were floating in the middle of the lake — and that they were wrong."

"Were they attacked?"

"I don't think so. It looks abandoned, not destroyed, though I didn't have time to walk through all of it. There are fish in the lake, but I doubt they're enough to support a town of that size by themselves... and the soil up here won't grow much in the way of crops. If I had to guess, I'd say they probably couldn't feed everybody they tried to shelter, and by the time people started to leave they'd stripped most of what they could find." He shrugged as he tugged his gloves on. "I'd love to know how they built the thing, though."

"Sorcery, most like." Izra's voice was even; unlike some, she didn't disdain the art.

Remant smiled. "Yes. I was more wondering what kind of sorcery, and how it was done."

Izra looked out at the city again. "Not easily, I suspect." She turned to look at Remant. "Come on. It's well past dark, and you're on the deep night watch. You won't get much sleep before that even now."

Remant half-shrugged, but it was a fair point. He knew how to get by on less sleep than most, but there was no point in pushing it. "Thank you for coming out to look for me."

"It's nothing," said Izra. "I was curious; that's all."

He considered that. He didn't really want anything from Izra, but there was no point in not repaying a kindness offered. "If you're still curious tomorrow, I'll you what I found once we're on the road."

Legendry

So, from time to time I'll probably be posting bits of lore for Remnant of Heroes here on the Blog o' Doom. I will probably not be including anything from the actual story, which is one of two significant writing projects I'd like to be working on right now. But flavor text and background? Sure.

Like most writing ideas, Remnant of Heroes is not unique. But it's interesting, at least to me, and if it interests me it might interest others as well. And I like the main character, which is always a good start. So we'll see where this goes, and with any luck we'll have fun getting there.

Never trust the gods.

RoH: Tales of the First Days

There are many tales of the First Days: how Sinver was born out of chaos; how they gave birth to the world and the the Firstborn of the Gods; how those newborn gods gave form to land and sea and sky; how their descendents became the first people. We hold those tales for another night.

Here, now, in the light of this fire, we speak of a later time. The Firstborn had given birth to a second generation, and the second generation to a third. There were many gods and goddesses (and some, like Sinver, who were both or neither) and each had their friendships, rivalries, and enmities.

So the Firstborn called them together in the sight of Sinver, and assigned to each a sphere of power. Huoron was was of the third generation, and had made a study of darkness, and crafted magics to suit it; but Skiwel of the second generation petitioned the Firstborn before him, and became the Lord of Night. When Huoron's turn came, all that was left for him were the shadows: temporary, fickle, and easily dispelled by the touch of light.

So Huoron made his home in the shadows beneath the earth, in a place where the sun never ventured and light was only temporary. He called his home Shadowguard, and hid it away from the sight of gods and peoples alike. It was there that his magics grew. It was there that he raised his own descendents, until their numbers were enough that he could send them out into the world. They emerged in small bands, tribes that bred, conquered, and became nations.

At first, neither gods nor rulers knew whence this strange new people had arisen. They surrounded their cities in walls of stone, and worked in things drawn from the dark depths of the earth: iron and copper and coal, making metal tools and metal outfits to protect them.

Huoron kept to himself and offered no explanation, until at last he arranged to meet with Skiwel to discuss them. It was at that meeting that Huoron raised the Shadowblade and slew his uncle, taking his place and his power, and it was then that his children the Vanil poured out of their walled cities with their metal weapons and swept over the neighboring kingdoms.

The war that followed was terrible, but at last the Juris Firstborn, Keeper of Justice, struck down Huoron and cast him into the depths, imprisoning him in the unending darkness of Shadowguard. The Aesil and the Oessil drove the Vanil back, and after a time they became just another nation of people. But the newborn world had seen its first war, and the nations would never live in peace again. And Huoron, wounded almost unto death, lay healing in hidden Shadowguard and plotted his return to his rightful place, this time as chief among the gods.

RoH: Subtlety

Doblim was a hill town, nestled at the nexus of forest and grasslands and mountains; its production was a mix of mining, logging, ranching, and farming, supplemented by a host of local crafters and brewers and artisans. It had survived the war in part due to an active and well-trained militia, but also because it had been small enough to avoid the dark lord's full attention. In the aftermath, with the dark lord dead and its armies defeated, Doblim was well on its way to becoming a city-state, mostly by virtue of having had the luck to come through the Great War intact.

Remant rode in at the back of the caravan, just another guard doing just another job. The wagons split in the merchant's square, with the Mornmith family and the handful of other travelers going their own way, while the four wagons belonging to the merchant Teldis pulled up in front of a large warehouse that bordered the square. Ikara motioned them over, then distributed them around the wagons while Teldis' servants unloaded the wagons. It was tedious, but necessary: the odds of crime were low, but they would increase spectacularly if it looked as if nobody was on guard.

When they were done, Teldis herself emerged. "You're welcome here tonight; there are rooms off the stables, and my cook will have dinner sent down. I have your coins here."

Remant joined the line and collected his pay, adding it to his wallet. It would support him for several days, even if he ignored the offer of food and shelter. He intended to be traveling out on another job well before then.

"You never take those gloves off," Itren observed quietly, sitting beside Remant while he ate the breaded pork and baked vegetables that the cook had sent down.

He shrugged, as if it were merely a quirk of his personality. He had never been a particularly good liar, and that was a problem. Dandris knew his secret, but Dandris was further down the table and didn't seem to have noticed the question. There was no help to be had from them. "I don't want to be caught unprepared."

She chuckled. "It's not the best of table manners," she said, ignoring fork and knife to raise a piece of breaded pork in her bare fingers and bite into it directly.

Remant looked at the fork and knife in his gloved hands, and chuckled. "You mock me."

Itren shrugged. "Not intentionally. I merely think you should know that you aren't as discreet as you hope. Beyond that..." She turned her head, met his eyes with her own piercing pale blue ones. "I'd only wish to thank you. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know."

Remant glanced around the table, but Ikara was absorbed in her food and Javill was asking if she had a line on future jobs.

"I'll keep it in mind," he said. "All of it."

He slept alone, and in the morning he rose and saddled his horse and went out and got arrested.

RoH: Identities

"Two days out," said Dandris, and Remant nodded. They'd come off the high road that crossed above the thress-grass a day earlier, and were following the cruder paved-stone way that led on towards Doblim. The way here was hillier, and the road twisted and curved, rose and fell, while the sky alternated sun and cloud-shade overhead. In addition to the cover of the hills, there was more shelter here: patches of brush and low trees, following the lines of streams and rivers. The grasslands had held their own dangers, but if they were going to be ambushed by bandits it would be here: far enough out from the city to be unnoticed, but near enough that the bandits could sell whatever they took.

Ikara rode up beside them, her domek towering over their horses. "Worried?" she asked, and they both nodded. "I'll take lead. You two scout ahead."

The domek was thick-skinned and heavy, strong and difficult to injure. It couldn't match a horse's speed, but then Ikara's job was to stay steady and call orders, not to charge into battle. Remant checked his weapons, then strung his bow and nodded to Dandris, who had done the same. They nodded back, bow in one hand and reins in the other, ready.

They nudged their horses into a trot, moving up the road and extending their distance from the caravan.

"Ikara expects us to scout and report back," observed Dandris. Their expression was neutral, their voice quiet.

"You have another idea?" asked Remant.

Dandris nodded. "We go forward, draw any trouble to us. We clear the way." Dandris glanced at him. "You may need to do things you don't want the others to see. I may as well."

Remant felt his shoulders tighten. "What is it that you think I'm going to do?"

Dandris raised one shoulder, then let it drop. "When we served under the mage-lord of Kordiva," they said, "we were put into crystals and given new bodies, each with its own crystal. I am Botur, who speaks to you now. When my companions' bodies were slain, I gathered their crystals and added them to my flesh. The mage-lord is dead and her growing-tanks demolished, so here they remain. I am not one; we are many. And we think we recognize you."

Remant said, "Ah." He'd been introduced to Dandris as someone whose gender was fluid; he hadn't realized that it was because they were a collective, their gender varying by which individual had taken the lead in any given situation. He doubted anyone else in the caravan knew either. "One of you is a sensitive."

"Kila was our mage-ensign," Dandris said. "You were... unmistakable."

He would be, to even a half-competent battle-mage, if they were paying attention. And a mage caught in a single body with several other individuals might choose to turn their attentions to the more esoteric aspects of the world around them, rather than trying to assert control over the body or the group inside it. "I'll keep your secret if you'll keep mine," Remant said quietly.

"That," answered Dandris, "was the plan."

They rode in silence for nearly an hour before they came to the place where a tree had been felled across the road. Remant didn't need more than a glance to see that it had been cut; he'd been expecting something of the sort. Stones, perhaps, if the hills had been higher around them. He sighed and raised his bow, picking out targets in the brush. A dozen, two... a handful more than that.

He exchanged a quick glance with Dandris, then lifted his bow and began killing. Dandris was doing the same. Between the two of them, he thought they took down six before the others charged and he had to draw his sword.

Dandris had been right. It was better that they were alone. When the robed figure stood and called forth some horrible shade, Remant was able to throw himself in front of it and let his blade carve into it as if it were ordinary flesh, while Dandris speared the mage with a lance of fire from their hand. When two of the bandits caught him at once, Remant was able to catch a blade in his left hand and wrench it aside so that he could cut its owner in half. Dandris fought behind an odd, blurring effect that made them hard to see and harder to hit. And when the last half-dozen bandits broke and fled, Remant and Dandris were both breathing hard and looking satisfied.

"It's good not to have to hide," Dandris said.

"Dangerous," said Remant.

"But good," said Dandris, and Remant found himself nodding in agreement.

RoH: Away, and Away, and Further Away

Remant made a careful circuit around the edge of the wagons, letting Peregrine choose his own footing and watching the warhorse for signs that he might have missed something. The sun was setting in the west, and the late afternoon winds stirred the thress-grass into waves and currents that could hide almost anything, but the caravan had settled at the midpoint of one of the arches, well back from the points where gentle ramps descended from the raised road to the surface of the grasslands. Overhead, a handful of small clouds stood stubbornly in the empty sky, and birds of various sizes circled nearby. Most were too small to threaten humans or draught-animals.

Nothing seemed out of place, and with the four wagons positioned so that two stood at either end of the small camp, they were about as safe as it was possible to get. And despite the one voice at the back of his head, screaming that this was all a trick and they would be attacked at any moment, the night seemed peaceful. Finishing his course, he swung down from Peregrine's back, patted the warhorse on the shoulder, and let him over to one of the carts where he could tie him in place. The supply cart had grain, and a feeding-muzzle, and while Peregrine ate Remant strolled over to the tailgate of the lead cart, where the merchant Teldis was cooking a bowl of stew over a spirit stove.

"Here," said the older woman, and handed Remant a pewter bowl full of the stuff. "There's more if you need it."

"Thank you." He took the bowl and a spoon and walked away, looking for Ikara.

Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Ikara nodded as he approached. She was in charge of the caravan guards, a good fighter and a competent leader. "Anything?"

Remant shook his head. "Nothing."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," said Ikara, and Remant nodded.

"I plan to." He scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth, found it heavy with grain but also some meat and vegetable, and swallowed. "You want me on early watch, or late?"

"Late," she said. Her eyes narrowed. "Let Lemanth take the early watch."

Remant nodded. Of the six guards who traveled with the caravan, he and Lemanth were the only men. Ikara, Javill, and Itren were women, and Dandris fluid. Lemanth was a war hero, a survivor of the disastrous action at Kol Diurov and -- to hear him tell it -- a leader in the spear-charge that shattered the grey flank at Noribdis. Perhaps not a great hero, he admitted, but a hero still.

That was common, and not; common, because among the living men of fighting age, most had seen battle and survived horrors. Uncommon, because most of those who had seen battle had not survived the horrors. There were women who were war heroes as well, Itren among them, but for the most part they had joined the fighting later and spoke more quietly about it. And those who remained in the world were for the most part the very young and the very old: the one family group in the caravan had a single daughter of marriageable age, and she was sitting with her family while Lemanth regaled them with a tale of his time as a soldier.

Remant looked away, and stepped back out into the darkness at the edge of the raised road.

"You don't look very impressed with the dashing young hero," said a voice, and Remant turned to see Itren standing two paces away. She hadn't turned her head to look at him.

"We're two days into his bragging," said Remant, well aware that neither he nor she was particularly older than Lemanth. "A lot of stories, a lot of details." He shrugged. "Most of the ones who were actually there don't want to talk about it at all."

He hadn't intended to get involved with this at all. Keep the caravan safe until they reached Doblim, then find another job and keep moving: that was all he had signed on for. But Teldris, the merchant, had hired Lemanth as one of her guards, and Remant was increasingly wary of the fellow. Ikara seemed to share his feelings, which was reassuring, but he wished he was more certain that she knew what needed to be done. He wasn't sure he himself did.

"I'll be keeping the early watch," said Itren, and Remant nodded slowly.

"Good," he said.

He wasn't entirely surprised when Lemanth was gone in the morning. They made a search of the camp, then rode out; but his mount was gone, along with his packs and himself. They rode a little ways back along the road, but found no sign. Remant avoided looking down into the thress-grass, and noticed that the other guards did as well.

"Enough," pronounced Ikara at last. "We need to move on." And the caravan broke camp, with Teldis shouting directions and the Mornmith family scurrying to gather their belongings and make sure the smaller children were all accounted for, while the guards patrolled the perimeter and waited for everyone else to be ready.

No, the surprise came in the late morning, when the marriageable daughter Telra hailed him from the back of her family's wagon and beckoned him over. "What do you know about Lemanth?" she asked, when he was close enough that she didn't need to raise her voice.

"Why?" asked Remant, keeping his face expressionless by an act of will.

"Itren says he was a liar." She sounded strained, tired, hurt. "She says she confronted him about his time in the war, and he'd made it all up."

Remant kept his face still. "I didn't know him," he said after a moment. "Itren was there. I would believe her. But more than that... no, I didn't trust him. The ones who lived through those battles don't talk about them -- not willingly, and not like he did, turning them into some grand adventure."

She looked away. "So I was a fool."

Remant shrugged. "You were young, and he told a good story. Did something happen between you?"

Telra shuddered. "I'd come out to give him a kiss. He wanted... more. I wasn't ready." She looked away again. "Itren was. She took care of it."

Remant nodded. "Good."

Telra turned back to study his face. "You were there, for those battles?"

Remant shook his head firmly. "I was elsewhere."

Telra frowned. "But you fought."

Remant felt himself go stiff. "If you can call it that." Then: "Don't pin any ideas on me, child."

"I wasn't," Telra assured him, though he wasn't sure he believed her. "You like her, don't you? Itren, I mean."

Remant tilted his head. "Not the way I think you mean, no. But beyond that, yes." Actually, quite a lot, after all this.

Telra nodded, though she still looked puzzled. "All right. Thank you."

Remant nodded to her and rode on. He had no doubts that Lemanth's corpse was out there feeding the grasses somewhere, but then he hadn't much doubted it before. And he didn't doubt that Itren had made the right decision, either. Keep the caravan safe until we reach Doblim, he reminded himself, then find another job and keep moving. That was what he'd signed on for.

Bladecraft

Remant left his horse tied outside the shop and took a moment to survey the street. It was nearly empty and growing dark; a young woman glanced his way but hurried on, while an old woman pushed a small cart down a side-way. An even older man was moving down the street with a long pole, lighting the oil lamps that hung at regular intervals from the sconces where enchanted crystals had once filled the streets with light. Turning, he opened the door and went into the shop.

The woman inside turned. "I'm sorry, ser. We were just clos--"

Remant pushed his hood back and she stopped, studying him. "...Savior," she muttered, and swallowed. "You've come back for it, then."

Remant nodded. The room around them was carefully divided, with counters running around three sides, wide enough to display the blades inside... and to keep the over-curious from reaching for the longer blades on walls behind them. The counters were open in the back, and held heavy glass windows in the front; Westhill was rich in glassworks. Shelves behind the glass held various sorts of blades: scythes, carving knives, fighting knives, throwing knives. There were other things as well; Tamil was a weaponsmith, but he crafted what was needed, and the war was over now. There were clasps for cloaks, utensils for cooking and eating, hooks and even a couple of pulleys.

"Do you... will you come on back?" Hira. Her name is Hira. Hira was stout, and nearly as heavy through the arms and shoulders as her husband. Her hair was a bundle of neat curls, black touched with the first faint streaks of silver, but her face was young. She stood stiffly, uncertain but determined, and Remant shook his head.

"It's the master-crafter's shop," he said, and thought, and your home, "and this is business. I'm imposing already by coming in so late. I'll wait here."

She stood a moment longer, looking at him. Her expression was unreadable, or perhaps he very badly did not want to read it. "Thank you," she said at last. "I'll tell him you're here."

She turned and went out through a door behind the counters, leaving Remant alone with the weapons and the counters and the bright light of the glow-crystals. Those alone would have marked the shop as prosperous, or its owner as connected, or both; most of the newer crystals weren't so bright, and tended to fade and need to be recharged after an hour or two -- where they could be found at all. These were the old style, bright and perpetual; the only way to dim them was to cover them with something thick.

Uncomfortable at being left alone with his thoughts, Remant went to look at the blades. Even on the walls, not all were martial anymore. Some were clearly meant for chopping brush, or pruning trees. Though as the grey had discovered in attacking the farms, the difference between a pruning tool and a polearm was more a matter of attitude than design.

He blinked away that memory as well, and found himself admiring a slim, straight blade designed for use in a single hand: a courtly sword, a scholar's sword. It looked elegant and balanced, a fine example of Tamil's craftsmanship, and he wondered how it would feel in his hand. It wasn't a sword for the battlefield, but a sword for civilian life; likely it would feel delicate and out of place.

He was still staring at it when Hira returned. She was carrying a tray, with bread and cheese and sliced apples laid out on it along with a trio of pewter tankards. She set it on the counter, then stepped through the narrow hinged gate and put the bar across the door. Remant could have moved to help her, but this was her place and she handled the heavy wooden bar easily by herself; offering assistance would have been awkward.

When she had it in place she stopped, holding herself still for a moment; then, decisively, she turned back to him. Remant hadn't expected to find himself eye-to-eye with her, and stayed still himself as she regarded him.

Then she sighed. "He told me he knew you," she said, and looked away. "He told me, and I believed him. And yet somehow I didn't quite believe him until... well."

Remant nodded. He sometimes felt the same way about himself: as if he couldn't be quite real, as if he couldn't truly be here -- wherever here was -- doing this -- whatever this was. Is this really my life? "I'm sure it seems strange to him as well," he said, as Hira crossed the room again. "Some days it seems strange to me."

She stopped and turned, looked back at him, then shook her head. "Come over here," she said, and went back around behind the counter. "I don't trust myself to lift the tray, and you should have some refreshment while you're waiting. Tamil, he said you'd understand why he couldn't drop everything."

Remant sniffed, amused. "He's right. I've watched him work. It's like juggling, once you see it. Everything has to be in its place, and everything has to happen in its time or it all falls down." He tilted his head slightly, studying Hira's expression. "But you know that. Do you help him with it?" Her expression changed slightly, and a shiver of recognition went through him. "Oh. You do some of it yourself."

Hira tensed... then relaxed with a chuckle. "Yes. I mind the forge when my husband's elsewhere. I do my own projects." She pointed to the pulley. "That was mine. So are most of the carving knives, those awls, and a few of the hammers. And those clasps."

Remant nodded. "Tamil was always versatile, but he never had much interest in those things."

Hira tilted her head, studying him. "You knew my husband during the war," she said. "What was he like?"

"Invaluable," Remant said immediately, and she nodded with a small smile of recognition. "It wasn't just that he was supplying the best quality blades to the army, it was..."He hesitated, fishing for the word. "It was his faith. He had this relentless certainty that we'd all make it through somehow, and in some cases he was right... but even when he wasn't, it kept us going." He wasn't sure that made any sense, but that was how it had always felt to him. "And he was open, and friendly, always with a kind word. He made the things people needed, and he was proud of that; but that was the extent of his pride. He never let it slide into arrogance." He paused. "You know about my Santu?"

Hira nodded.

"There was a time, brief but vital, when your husband was more of a father to me than my Santu ever knew how to be."

Hira nodded again, much more slowly. "I have trouble picturing you as a squire," she admitted.

Remant actually chuckled at that. "Some days, so do I," he admitted. "Other days, I can't see myself as anything but."

Tamil emerged as Remant reached for a slice of apple. "Telling tales again?" he asked, salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. He had new lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, but his dark eyes were still calm and reassuring and faintly amused. He carried a bundle in his arms, and set it on the counter to one side of the tray of food. "I'm glad to see you back."

Remant inclined his head. "I'm glad to see you still here." He felt stiff and formal and awkward, and wished he could find some way to just enjoy seeing the weaponsmith again. Likely that would require three or four days, and he didn't have time to stay in one place for so long. Instead of trying, he asked: "Is it ready?"

"It is," Tamil affirmed. He pulled the cloth back, revealing a blade resting in its sheath, and Remant smiled.

It was exactly what he had asked for: a straight-bladed saber with a hand-and-a-half hilt, the guard forming an abbreviated basket around the fingers. He held a hand out, sensing the enchantments.

"Lady Rexor ensorceled it herself," said Tamil proudly. "Came right down and did it as I worked, standing matter-of-fact beside the forge, despite her being Mordil and all. A good one, that."

Remant nodded. Lady Rexor had never stood on ceremony, and would likely have enjoyed Tamil's company and admired his craftsmanship. "You get any new orders out of it?" he asked.

"Well..." Tamil hesitated, then grinned. "Yes, I'm supplying blades for this order she's putting together. Or putting back together. She tried to explain it, but I was concentrating."

Remant reached down and wrapped his hand around the hilt, then slipped the blade loose. It stretched out from his hand, balanced and deadly, ready. It didn't seem right to hold it still -- this was blade whose design was so elegant that it could only be completed by motion -- but after a moment he slid it back into the sheath. "It feels perfect," he said.

"Remant," said Tamil, "I have to ask: why did you want it? With those things you carry, why would you need my poor work?"

This time Remant grinned. "You work is never poor, old friend. And this sword, for all that it can do, is just a sword. With this, I'm just another warrior, not some legend that everyone has to reckon with."

Tamil was silent for a long moment, then nodded. "It still hurts you, then?"

Remant lifted his left hand, regarded the smooth silvery metal where he'd once had flesh and bone. "Sometimes," he said. "And sometimes I just miss it."

"That wasn't..."

Remant ignored him, dropping his hand back under his cloak. "I know the sword was the extent of the commission," he said, "but I find myself in need of a new clasp for my cloak. Would you add those as well, and total the cost?"

Tamil looked at Hira, and Hira looked at Remant. Then Hira looked back at her husband, expectantly. "Of course," he said, and moved to gather the clasps and fold them into a strip of cloth.

Remant unclipped the purse from his belt and set it on the counter. "It was good to see you," he told Tamil, "and it was good to meet you," he told Hira. "If you ever need anything from me, let me know."

"Remant," said Hira. "...We don't... we don't tell people that I work the forge."

Remant nodded. "I don't tell people about what I've done either."

Tamil put an arm around his wife, and Remant buckled his new blade onto his belt. "I wish you both well," he said, and turned for the door.

"Remant," said Tamil, sharply enough to make the younger man pause. "You take care of yourself."

I can't promise that. Remant offered a tired smile. "Don't worry over me," he said, and went back out the door.