hands. His gold rings sparkled again. “One for each finger! When I have enough for each of my toes, I’ll know it’s time to stop.”
He spoke more about his wives and children until Rowen was thoroughly confused by a seemingly endless series of long, foreign names. Then, the Soroccan changed topics completely.
“I should have mentioned this before. I’ll have to test your mettle first. Nothing serious—just a little sparring to make sure you’re worth your copper. Meet me outside the stables at dawn. And bring your sword!”
Rowen nodded through his confusion. Merchants commonly tested the fighting abilities of sellswords by pitting them in mock combat against one of their best guards, but Rowen had never known a merchant to engage in this combat himself. Then again, if I’m his only guard, what choice does he have?
Rowen sipped his fourth ale and tried to focus well enough to size up his opponent. The Soroccan, despite his padded build, must have been a skilled warrior once. Rowen believed his story about besting the guards who tried to kill him, but for all Hráthbam’s obvious strength, he could not be very fast. And when it came to wielding steel, speed counted for more than strength. Besides, if he keeps drinking like that, he won’t even be able to lift his sword tomorrow!
Rowen finished his fourth ale, paused a moment to comment on the mug’s engraving of a drunken dragon, then nodded when Hráthbam mirthfully insisted on buying another round.
Chapter Four
The Dragon Wakes
M orning sunlight stung Rowen’s eyes as he stood outside the stables and tried to keep his balance. That was not easy, given how the earth rippled like water beneath his boots. “Gods!” Rowen swore, rubbing his eyes. “I’d like to know if that’s spice they use in their ale or—”
A two-foot curve of sharp, naked steel flashed toward Rowen’s neck. Wide-eyed, he ducked then backed away, clumsily unsheathing his own blade. Hráthbam advanced, laughing heartily.
“Come, my pale friend! Surely those chicken limbs can move faster than that!” Hráthbam’s eyes shone clear, and his face looked well rested despite having helped Rowen polish off what he suspected was the Drunken Dragon’s entire stock.
Rowen’s face reddened, but he knew better than to respond with an insult of his own.
Hráthbam darted forward, nimble as a dancer despite his bulk, and swung his scimitar at Rowen’s shoulder. Rowen raised his shortsword to block, barely remembering to keep his grip loose before the force of the Soroccan’s blow sent a raw jolt through his arms. Rowen tried to push the scimitar down, but Hráthbam twisted free and lunged instead. Rowen managed to clumsily chop the blade out of the way, but it took all the strength he had.
I’m going to lose… Rowen shook his head to clear his thoughts.
The two circled each other. Rowen’s face burned. Breccorry’s early-risers stopped in the streets and doorways to watch the fight. Most were farmers; others, young women on their way to the brothel to begin their day’s sordid work. The old innkeeper and his wife watched through the window of the Drunken Dragon. Rowen wondered if they were about to see him get chopped in half.
Hráthbam advanced again. They traded a rapid flurry of blows, then Rowen backpedaled again. This time, Hráthbam followed. The Soroccan gripped his scimitar with one hand while the other held up the hem of his pompous robes to keep him from tripping. Instead of boots, the merchant wore thin silk slippers. Rowen wondered how the man kept himself from yelping in pain whenever he stepped on a rock.
The rest of the merchant’s clothing was just as preposterous. He wore a white turban today. Unlike the black and violet robes he had worn the previous night, his new ones were bright crimson. The color stung Rowen’s eyes as badly as the morning sun.
“Gods, I have a headache! How are you so damned sharp?”
Hráthbam laughed heartily again. “Ten
He spoke more about his wives and children until Rowen was thoroughly confused by a seemingly endless series of long, foreign names. Then, the Soroccan changed topics completely.
“I should have mentioned this before. I’ll have to test your mettle first. Nothing serious—just a little sparring to make sure you’re worth your copper. Meet me outside the stables at dawn. And bring your sword!”
Rowen nodded through his confusion. Merchants commonly tested the fighting abilities of sellswords by pitting them in mock combat against one of their best guards, but Rowen had never known a merchant to engage in this combat himself. Then again, if I’m his only guard, what choice does he have?
Rowen sipped his fourth ale and tried to focus well enough to size up his opponent. The Soroccan, despite his padded build, must have been a skilled warrior once. Rowen believed his story about besting the guards who tried to kill him, but for all Hráthbam’s obvious strength, he could not be very fast. And when it came to wielding steel, speed counted for more than strength. Besides, if he keeps drinking like that, he won’t even be able to lift his sword tomorrow!
Rowen finished his fourth ale, paused a moment to comment on the mug’s engraving of a drunken dragon, then nodded when Hráthbam mirthfully insisted on buying another round.
Chapter Four
The Dragon Wakes
M orning sunlight stung Rowen’s eyes as he stood outside the stables and tried to keep his balance. That was not easy, given how the earth rippled like water beneath his boots. “Gods!” Rowen swore, rubbing his eyes. “I’d like to know if that’s spice they use in their ale or—”
A two-foot curve of sharp, naked steel flashed toward Rowen’s neck. Wide-eyed, he ducked then backed away, clumsily unsheathing his own blade. Hráthbam advanced, laughing heartily.
“Come, my pale friend! Surely those chicken limbs can move faster than that!” Hráthbam’s eyes shone clear, and his face looked well rested despite having helped Rowen polish off what he suspected was the Drunken Dragon’s entire stock.
Rowen’s face reddened, but he knew better than to respond with an insult of his own.
Hráthbam darted forward, nimble as a dancer despite his bulk, and swung his scimitar at Rowen’s shoulder. Rowen raised his shortsword to block, barely remembering to keep his grip loose before the force of the Soroccan’s blow sent a raw jolt through his arms. Rowen tried to push the scimitar down, but Hráthbam twisted free and lunged instead. Rowen managed to clumsily chop the blade out of the way, but it took all the strength he had.
I’m going to lose… Rowen shook his head to clear his thoughts.
The two circled each other. Rowen’s face burned. Breccorry’s early-risers stopped in the streets and doorways to watch the fight. Most were farmers; others, young women on their way to the brothel to begin their day’s sordid work. The old innkeeper and his wife watched through the window of the Drunken Dragon. Rowen wondered if they were about to see him get chopped in half.
Hráthbam advanced again. They traded a rapid flurry of blows, then Rowen backpedaled again. This time, Hráthbam followed. The Soroccan gripped his scimitar with one hand while the other held up the hem of his pompous robes to keep him from tripping. Instead of boots, the merchant wore thin silk slippers. Rowen wondered how the man kept himself from yelping in pain whenever he stepped on a rock.
The rest of the merchant’s clothing was just as preposterous. He wore a white turban today. Unlike the black and violet robes he had worn the previous night, his new ones were bright crimson. The color stung Rowen’s eyes as badly as the morning sun.
“Gods, I have a headache! How are you so damned sharp?”
Hráthbam laughed heartily again. “Ten
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