behind them.
Sometime later he asked Andrasta. “Worried they still might come after us? Or just angry we had to leave the city?”
“Both.”
Rondel chose to distract them all with a suggestion of food.
Still on the dry, dusty road, they ate a meal of bread, dates, and olives, sipping on water between bites.
Once finished, he offered conversation. “Shadya, tell us more about this job.”
“Of course. I suppose I should start at the beginning.” The hint of a smile vanished as she cleared her throat. “My family has always been nomadic. We were traveling through the eastern edge of the Empty-Hand Desert near the Jabal Mountains. One night bandits attacked us.” She paused. “They killed everyone and stole everything of value. They burned the rest. One of the items stolen was of great importance. Something I must get back.”
“Why?”
“The why is not important.”
“It’s all important,” said Andrasta.
“No,” Shadya said quickly, her tone sharp. “It’s not. What. How. Where. Those things are important. My desire for the item is not.”
Rondel could sense Andrasta ready to protest and stepped in. “All right. We can respect that. Let’s start with the ‘what.’ What is this heirloom?”
“It’s a gold mask.”
“Something that can be worn over the face?”
“Yes.”
“At least it’s not something large.”
“When was the mask stolen?” asked Andrasta.
“Several weeks ago,” Shadya said.
“Then how do you know these bandits still have it? It could have been sold whole or melted down and turned into a hundred other items.”
“They still have it. There are wards built within the mask that I can track.”
“That should make things easier,” said Rondel.
“Easier. But not easy,” said Shadya. “They do have sorcerers in their group.”
Great.
Rondel took a deep breath. “Is this mission only about stealing the mask or is revenge also involved? Revenge isn’t something we really do.”
“We’ve killed people before,” said Andrasta.
“No. I’ve killed people before. You’ve slaughtered them.”
She shrugged.
“Besides,” Rondel continued. “There’s a difference between killing as part of a job and killing as the job. One is collateral damage. The other is assassin’s work. We aren’t assassins.”
“You won’t have to worry about that. Though I won’t shed a tear for any that die, I’m not after revenge. I just want the mask,” said Shadya.
“That must be some mask,” said Rondel.
“It is,” she said softly.
Something about distant tone in her voice sent a shiver down his back.
“Who are the bandits?” asked Andrasta.
Shadya hesitated. “They’re called Hubul’s Host.”
Rondel swore. “You’ve got to be joking!”
“As a foreigner, I’m surprised you’ve heard of them.”
“I’ve traveled all over Untan. I know the stories about Hubul’s Host.”
“I don’t,” said Andrasta in a way that meant someone should fill her in.
Rondel sighed. “Bandits don’t really describe them properly. They’re extremists, devoted to the father of the Erban gods named Hubul. Everything they do is done to serve him. They steal, kill, maim, and a whole lot more if you believe the stories—all because they believe it to be his will.”
“Not another cult,” muttered Andrasta.
“No. Not a cult. They’re more like a deranged family that operates as a mercenary company. Except they’re not really mercenaries. They don’t take contracts and everything they do is done only with Hubul in mind. And they are highly skilled.”
“How many?”
“Currently between sixty and eighty, I think,” chimed in Shadya.
“That’s a small mercenary company,” said Andrasta.
“The rumor is that they’ve trimmed the ranks as of late,” said Rondel, growing agitated at the prospect of meeting the group. “Only the best fighters are allowed to join. And that’s after proving their skills and devotion to Hubul are
Sometime later he asked Andrasta. “Worried they still might come after us? Or just angry we had to leave the city?”
“Both.”
Rondel chose to distract them all with a suggestion of food.
Still on the dry, dusty road, they ate a meal of bread, dates, and olives, sipping on water between bites.
Once finished, he offered conversation. “Shadya, tell us more about this job.”
“Of course. I suppose I should start at the beginning.” The hint of a smile vanished as she cleared her throat. “My family has always been nomadic. We were traveling through the eastern edge of the Empty-Hand Desert near the Jabal Mountains. One night bandits attacked us.” She paused. “They killed everyone and stole everything of value. They burned the rest. One of the items stolen was of great importance. Something I must get back.”
“Why?”
“The why is not important.”
“It’s all important,” said Andrasta.
“No,” Shadya said quickly, her tone sharp. “It’s not. What. How. Where. Those things are important. My desire for the item is not.”
Rondel could sense Andrasta ready to protest and stepped in. “All right. We can respect that. Let’s start with the ‘what.’ What is this heirloom?”
“It’s a gold mask.”
“Something that can be worn over the face?”
“Yes.”
“At least it’s not something large.”
“When was the mask stolen?” asked Andrasta.
“Several weeks ago,” Shadya said.
“Then how do you know these bandits still have it? It could have been sold whole or melted down and turned into a hundred other items.”
“They still have it. There are wards built within the mask that I can track.”
“That should make things easier,” said Rondel.
“Easier. But not easy,” said Shadya. “They do have sorcerers in their group.”
Great.
Rondel took a deep breath. “Is this mission only about stealing the mask or is revenge also involved? Revenge isn’t something we really do.”
“We’ve killed people before,” said Andrasta.
“No. I’ve killed people before. You’ve slaughtered them.”
She shrugged.
“Besides,” Rondel continued. “There’s a difference between killing as part of a job and killing as the job. One is collateral damage. The other is assassin’s work. We aren’t assassins.”
“You won’t have to worry about that. Though I won’t shed a tear for any that die, I’m not after revenge. I just want the mask,” said Shadya.
“That must be some mask,” said Rondel.
“It is,” she said softly.
Something about distant tone in her voice sent a shiver down his back.
“Who are the bandits?” asked Andrasta.
Shadya hesitated. “They’re called Hubul’s Host.”
Rondel swore. “You’ve got to be joking!”
“As a foreigner, I’m surprised you’ve heard of them.”
“I’ve traveled all over Untan. I know the stories about Hubul’s Host.”
“I don’t,” said Andrasta in a way that meant someone should fill her in.
Rondel sighed. “Bandits don’t really describe them properly. They’re extremists, devoted to the father of the Erban gods named Hubul. Everything they do is done to serve him. They steal, kill, maim, and a whole lot more if you believe the stories—all because they believe it to be his will.”
“Not another cult,” muttered Andrasta.
“No. Not a cult. They’re more like a deranged family that operates as a mercenary company. Except they’re not really mercenaries. They don’t take contracts and everything they do is done only with Hubul in mind. And they are highly skilled.”
“How many?”
“Currently between sixty and eighty, I think,” chimed in Shadya.
“That’s a small mercenary company,” said Andrasta.
“The rumor is that they’ve trimmed the ranks as of late,” said Rondel, growing agitated at the prospect of meeting the group. “Only the best fighters are allowed to join. And that’s after proving their skills and devotion to Hubul are
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