available.”
Arian shook his head. “I’d never stand the life of a sailor, I’m afraid. Even our cold rations are better.”
“There’s that,” Trellan nodded. “You don’t eat good or sleep dry aboard a ship on the whole, that’s for certain.”
“Then why do so many choose that life? It is as dangerous as any profession, and far harder in terms of living conditions than nearly any.”
“The sea is a special place,” Trellan stirred his oatmeal absently. “It’ll kill you given the chance, or make you rich; coming back to port’s like being born again, and going out to sea is like riding out to do battle.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s something you have to experience.”
The monk nodded. “That I understand, although it would take a bolder man than I to try it.”
“Now that’s a strange attitude from a man who spent years hunting cults; a sailor can smell a storm coming and set the sails accordingly, but an assassin’s blade can come out of anywhere”
“Ah, but cults are a simpler thing than you might imagine. Once you learn what they are about, it is far easier to find them than you would expect. The Void draws the petty— minded, the grudge-bearers, and the wanton, none of whom are particularly adept at hiding their actions. As for assassins, they are usually puffed-up bully boys who are about as subtle as a brick. Only the Direthrell have professional killers, and they hardly bother with the hunters of cults.”
Both men refilled their bowls at the cook fire in the sure knowledge that leaner days lay ahead. The little meadow was growing lighter as they finished their meal, the darkness fading to a washed out grayness that thinned to near-normal light by the time the utensils and bowls were washed and stowed.
Although the frost was beginning to melt on the leaves and undisturbed grass in the clearing, Arian’s chainmail tunic was still cold enough to produce a series of gasps and muffled curses as he crawled into the heavy, cold garment. Settling its weight evenly, he buckled the wrist straps and the waist-cinch that held the flowing mail tight against his body so that the violent actions of combat wouldn’t cause the mail to shift, throwing him off balance. His wide leather belt went over the mail, which hung just past his groin, the belt supporting his sword, dagger, belt pouch (which hung below his belt over the dagger scabbard), and medical kit (on the back of his belt). His canteen and ration bag he tied to the back of his blanket roll, which he stacked next to the fire with his shield and helm.
He lent a hand getting the pack saddles onto the two war pig mounts, an effort which took the combined strength of se ven Badgers. The war pigs, or komad as the Dwarves called them, stood three feet tall at the shoulder and weighed an average of five hundred pounds, huge, fearless beasts whose bristle-covered hide and subsurface fat was nearly as tough as chainmail. Raised by the Dwarves as war mounts, the komad were bred for size, toughness, courage, and intelligence, and finely trained both for riding and pack animals, above ground or below, in war or peace. These two animals, a massive, scarred female named Iron Tusk and a smaller male named Brown Axe, were prime examples of the breed, having served the Badgers loyally for many years. The struggle today was no failure of training, the obnoxious beasts were simply in the mood for a fight and spoiling for trouble. Iron Tusk in particular was an evil-minded creature, having attacked every Badger save her riders and Janna (Iron Tusk was intelligent even for a komad ) and bullied every other beast owned by the Badgers over the years of her service.
When the pack saddles were in place, both komad placidly stood and allowed themselves to be loaded, the morning’s entertainment having been satisfactorily concluded in their eyes. While the goods were being loaded Durek gave each animal a bucket of ale brought for this very purpose, a
Arian shook his head. “I’d never stand the life of a sailor, I’m afraid. Even our cold rations are better.”
“There’s that,” Trellan nodded. “You don’t eat good or sleep dry aboard a ship on the whole, that’s for certain.”
“Then why do so many choose that life? It is as dangerous as any profession, and far harder in terms of living conditions than nearly any.”
“The sea is a special place,” Trellan stirred his oatmeal absently. “It’ll kill you given the chance, or make you rich; coming back to port’s like being born again, and going out to sea is like riding out to do battle.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s something you have to experience.”
The monk nodded. “That I understand, although it would take a bolder man than I to try it.”
“Now that’s a strange attitude from a man who spent years hunting cults; a sailor can smell a storm coming and set the sails accordingly, but an assassin’s blade can come out of anywhere”
“Ah, but cults are a simpler thing than you might imagine. Once you learn what they are about, it is far easier to find them than you would expect. The Void draws the petty— minded, the grudge-bearers, and the wanton, none of whom are particularly adept at hiding their actions. As for assassins, they are usually puffed-up bully boys who are about as subtle as a brick. Only the Direthrell have professional killers, and they hardly bother with the hunters of cults.”
Both men refilled their bowls at the cook fire in the sure knowledge that leaner days lay ahead. The little meadow was growing lighter as they finished their meal, the darkness fading to a washed out grayness that thinned to near-normal light by the time the utensils and bowls were washed and stowed.
Although the frost was beginning to melt on the leaves and undisturbed grass in the clearing, Arian’s chainmail tunic was still cold enough to produce a series of gasps and muffled curses as he crawled into the heavy, cold garment. Settling its weight evenly, he buckled the wrist straps and the waist-cinch that held the flowing mail tight against his body so that the violent actions of combat wouldn’t cause the mail to shift, throwing him off balance. His wide leather belt went over the mail, which hung just past his groin, the belt supporting his sword, dagger, belt pouch (which hung below his belt over the dagger scabbard), and medical kit (on the back of his belt). His canteen and ration bag he tied to the back of his blanket roll, which he stacked next to the fire with his shield and helm.
He lent a hand getting the pack saddles onto the two war pig mounts, an effort which took the combined strength of se ven Badgers. The war pigs, or komad as the Dwarves called them, stood three feet tall at the shoulder and weighed an average of five hundred pounds, huge, fearless beasts whose bristle-covered hide and subsurface fat was nearly as tough as chainmail. Raised by the Dwarves as war mounts, the komad were bred for size, toughness, courage, and intelligence, and finely trained both for riding and pack animals, above ground or below, in war or peace. These two animals, a massive, scarred female named Iron Tusk and a smaller male named Brown Axe, were prime examples of the breed, having served the Badgers loyally for many years. The struggle today was no failure of training, the obnoxious beasts were simply in the mood for a fight and spoiling for trouble. Iron Tusk in particular was an evil-minded creature, having attacked every Badger save her riders and Janna (Iron Tusk was intelligent even for a komad ) and bullied every other beast owned by the Badgers over the years of her service.
When the pack saddles were in place, both komad placidly stood and allowed themselves to be loaded, the morning’s entertainment having been satisfactorily concluded in their eyes. While the goods were being loaded Durek gave each animal a bucket of ale brought for this very purpose, a
Similar Books
