Highlander Honor

By Daishi Prime

Chapter 02 – Northerner's Fury

Looking down on the down on the river-port, Vilskap had to admit, it was just as pathetic as the farmer had promised him. Shaking his head, at his predicament in being here, at his folly for not marching straight north, and at the Living Runes' for sticking him with all these troubles, he settled onto a rock atop the hill, and pulled the loaf of bread the farmer had given him out. Breaking off a piece for lunch, he took the time to study the small collection of buildings, docks and people that huddled around a curve in the River.

Admittedly, he had little to actually compare the place to. The most annoying aspect of the entire situation was that he had no idea how he had come to wash up on that farmer's beach, a few miles east of town, along the greatest river in Théah. He had no idea, really, about anything before waking up to find the old man rolling him over and slapping his face to wake him. He knew he was Vestenmanavnjar, a few personal facts except the most important, and he knew that whatever he was doing here, and that the answer to the massive question that was his identity was in the Vesten Isles. Which knowledge did not particularly help him in figuring out how to get there.

Pausing both his thinking and his eating, he looked at the livid wound on his right wrist. The farmer had not begun to have anything large enough to fit Vilskap's titanic frame, so he was still walking around without a shirt, which gave him a certain barbaric air he was debating the merits of. But that fact also left the half-healed, scabbed over gash quite obvious. He knew from the farmer's comments and his own careful finger-tip explorations that there was another across his forehead, exactly as if someone had started trying to scalp him. Only a Vesten would have done that, been that specific. Someone had tried to forever cut him off from the Living Runes, and done it recently.

Turning his gaze back down at the village, he shook his head to clear it of that depressing thought, and considered the docks. Three ships were in port that he could see, and none of them looked particularly promising. All of them were river boats, and all of them the slow, heavy style the continentals favored. Not that Vilskap was a shipwright, but any Vesten worth the name knew enough to tell the difference between a well-built sea-going raider, and a target. One looked to still be unloading, at least there was more stuff coming off than going on. The other two looked to be in various stages of loading up, one almost done and probably due to sail with cargo piled about the deck, the other still sending cargo straight through the deck and inside the hull.

"Two tubs and a wreck," he muttered, "lovely." The ships were not that bad, but it was quite obvious they would never stand up to his people's standards. But fortunately, his people did not bother sailing so far west and south of their home seas as the River, let alone sailing up it halfway to the Crescent border. "The middle one," he decided as he finished half the bread, "almost ready to sail, and probably in need of a good marine."

Hauling himself upright again, he gave his left arm a shake, re-settling the panzerhand. The action, practiced and familiar, caused him to pause and study the weapon for a minute, opening and closing the articulated metal fingers slowly. The steel extended back up his forearm, another set of articulated half-rings curling around his elbow and a few inches further. He could see the releases for the straps, hidden beneath more steel plates and chainmail, and the weapon was both well used, and felt quite familiar. The shake had been completely unconscious, yet another action so practiced and natural that he had no idea where it came from.

"Bloody fool," he snarled after a second, "wool-gathering like this's probably what got your fool head emptied in the first place."

Getting into town proved easier than it had looked. There had once been a wooden wall around it, at least judging by the ditch where the logs had been dug up. Whatever side of the War of the Cross that did it was immaterial – someone had stripped this town of its defenses, and now no one cared enough to try to control who came and who left. Vilaskap simply strolled down the hill, onto one of the unpaved streets, and made his way towards the docks.

What he saw along the way was more informative than his overview had been. Half the buildings were empty, not even boarded up, just empty. Already it was obvious there were places people were using those empty buildings for materials to repair other structures, places where entire planks had been taken out, doors, windows, all cleanly removed as weather and bandit damage would not be. The people he saw he divided into two categories: toughs and civilians. The members of the second group were of no moment, just people trying to keep themselves alive in a land ravaged by thirty years of the worst religious war Théah had ever seen. The second group concerned him more, not because they were dangerous, but because they were stupid enough to think they were dangerous. Them he kept an eye on, cataloguing and remembering to be sure none of them tried to surprise him.

He found the ship easily enough, and found the captain even more easily. The scruffy little Vodacce was standing on his quarter-deck, leaning over a rail to harangue an Eisen on the dock. The Eisen was giving as good as he got, but before their shaking fists escalated to drawn pistols, the Eisen stalked off. He lasted long enough, however, for Vilskap to get aboard the ship and make his way to the wheel on the quarter-deck, leaning against it. The captain turned around and flinched back, obviously surprised and more than a little frightened.

He recovered quickly enough, scowling mightily and shouting, "Legion's Fangs! Who're you an' wha' the Hell're you doin' on my deck?"

Vilskap grunted, somewhat impressed with the man's guts. He was twice the captain's size, and all muscle where the Vodacce was obviously going to seed. "I'm your new marine," he rumbled easily, "Vilskap."

"I don' need a marine! I don' take passengers, neither. Get your barb hide off my deck!"

"How many fighters you have aboard?"

The captain blinked, then glared, "None of your business!"

"'Cause I can take this ship all by my little lonesome," Vilskap said, lifting up his left hand and slowly flexing it into a fist. The metal ground together in a most intimidating sound, the more so as the resultant blunt object was almost as big as the captain's head. "You need protection, in these troubled times, captain, and I can offer you that protection."

The captain was a little paler now, but still standing his ground, "I've already go' all the passenger's I'm willing to take. And better fighters than you seem to think! Two swordsmen, already."

"Good for them," Vilskap replied, still smiling and leaning on the wheel, "where are they now? And what makes you think they can stand up to what you're going to be facing? Swordsmen are skilled, yes, but they are not invincible, and the dangers you face are experienced, aren't they? I'll make you a deal, Captain. I'll stay out of your way, I'll guard the ship, and I'll keep your crew and passengers happy. In exchange, you don't charge me for passage down river, and nobody gets hurt 'cept the pirates."

Looking him up and down, the captain was quite obviously weighing the pros and cons of refusing. On the one hand, he was the captain of this ship, and his entire crew might be able to get the giant Vesten either in the River or on the dock. On the other hand, doing so would probably result in several of his crew getting injured or killed, which would require replacing them, which would delay his departure. It would also possibly be only a temporary solution, unless one of them got lucky and killed the giant. Finally, the man snarled, "Fine, passage downriver. But for now, get the hell off my boat! We sail a' dawn, an' I don' wan' none of you aboard 'fore then!"

"Good enough," Vilskap agreed, shoving off the wheel and holding out his right hand. "I'll accept your word, captain."

The man shook his hand, quickly but solidly, then started shouting at someone below decks. Vilskap decided to make himself scarce, but not too scarce. He had an agreed upon deal for passage, but the captain would patently try to skate out of it if he could. So staying close to the dock was a good idea, but where to do that? He had no money for the tavern, even the cheap one at the end of the dock, and loitering anywhere else would be both boring and dangerous. Finally, he decided to simply wander the dock and see what he could see. It was not much of a town, but there was always hope for something interesting.

He found 'interesting' in short order, unfortunately. What he at first took to be a group of toughs harassing a dog turned out to be far worse. Fourteen or fifteen men, all of them peasants, all of them armed, were grouped in a circle, tossing a something back and forth. As Vilskap closed, his sense of foreboding grew, and realizing that the 'object' was a book made it worse. When he saw a small hand, lunging up after the airborne book, he sighed and shook his head, muttering to himself, "Soft-hearted fool, gonna get yourself killed, Vilskap."

Despite his misgivings, his step quickened. He may not have been able to remember who he was, but he did remember that he hated bullies, and was not about to stand by and let someone weaker get hurt for some thug's amusement. For a moment, he wondered where the local constable was, since this sort of disturbance really should have been dealt with by someone official. It was happening right on the dock, disturbing the unloading of one ship, and from the catcalls was rapidly descending into violence. Then he remembered that there probably was no such person any longer. The Eisenfurst for this part of the country, Sieger, was too busy trying to keep the Castillians from claiming the land promised them in the recent treaty to bother keeping order in those lands.

Watching the group shift and move as he closed, Vilskap picked out the leader, and moved to approach him from behind. The ones on the far side of the circle had just taken notice of him when he came into arms reach, and the man was just starting to look over his shoulder to see what the worried looks were about.

Vilskap knew he was intimidating, there was not a doubt in his mind. He had a height advantage of a foot or more over most men, shoulders wide enough to challenge any door, and muscles only a strong blacksmith could match. More importantly, he had the wild and dangerous reputation of the Vestenmannavnjar, which stereotype he fit perfectly: long wild hair, dirty blonde and unkempt, face hidden behind mustache and beard pulled into two long braids, the weathered skin of a north-man, and the nearly insane smile of a bearsark. Not that he was, but these fools had no way to know that. Having a massive lightning-shaped scar on his chest, and not bothering to wear a shirt to cover it, just added to the fearsomely barbaric image.

The leader had just gotten his head around, and was just starting to register the usual reaction of fear, when Vilskap reached him. Vilskap's massive left hand, wrapped in iron, clamped down on the smaller man's shoulder, and spun him half around harshly. A moment later, his right hand stopped the man's rotation by the simple expedient of grabbing the hilt of his still-sheathed broadsword. Vilskap moved in close, looking almost straight down at the thug, and asked in a growling voice, "Don't you know it's not polite to harass a lady?"

The thug started to grow a spine, and opened his mouth to speak, but Vilskap did not give him the chance. Shifting back slightly, he put his steel-wrapped fist in the man's chest, gently, then shoved him straight back, past the woman that had been trapped in the circle, causing him to stumble backwards over a chest. The move also incidentally caused the man's sword to come loose from its scabbard, settling oh so gently into Vilskap's free hand.

Lifting the blade to settle lightly on his shoulder, Vilskap glared down at the group of thugs, giving each a few seconds of eye-contact to ensure proper intimidation. The last to meet his gaze was the leader, who was by then struggling back to his feet. Vilskap let him get there, then whipped the heavy blade of his new weapon to point at one thug in particular, "I believe that book belongs to the lady. Why don't you give it back to her? I've heard that generosity lengthens one's life."

The thug in question released his grip on the tome, which the woman, who had been practically hanging off it by then, promptly reclaimed before sinking down onto the chest. She was muttering something he could not follow, flipping the pages and inspecting the book very carefully, totally ignoring the thugs still surrounding her. The man who had the book, however, used his now free hand to draw a heavy knife from his belt, which action seemed to serve as a signal for the others to draw their weapons.

Settling the sword back on his shoulder, Viskap grinned viciously at them, "do you punks really think you can hurt me?"

"Nobody gets in our way," the leader snarled, "and nobody takes my blade!"

"Bring it on, little boys, I'll wash the dock red with your blood."

The bully gang spread from surrounding the woman to surrounding Vilskap, and he chuckled, grinning maniacally at them, head swiveling slowly to check each of them in turn. Before they could lunge, however, there was a clear ring of steel, followed by a second. "Assaulting a priest of the Vaticine church is heresy," a newcomer commented, sounding almost bored, "especially if any of you scum are Vaticines yourself. Given that the lady in question does not seem too bothered, I would be willing to let you depart in peace, but between my comrade and I, none of you will survive if you choose to fight."

The commentary drew everyone's attention, except the woman, who remained muttering over the book. Standing at the entrance to a warehouse, a pair of cavalry sabers in his hands, was a young Vodacce. His black hair was short and slicked back, his skin was dusky and weathered, and his dark eyes were both steady and narrow. He wore the tight pants and tighter shirt of a swordsman, both of good but rugged quality. Only the blades looked used, well-cared for but obviously quite well used.

Having no idea who this interloper was, Vilskap decided to play along, "Ah, come on, I haven't had a good brawl in days. Why do you have to ruin my fun?"

One black eyebrow twitched upward, "because a priest would get caught in the brawl, and I cannot in good conscience allow her to come to harm. Best to let the scum slink away like the cowards they are. If you really must fight someone today, you can track them down later."

"Fine, fine, but if they aren't gone soon, I won't be able to contain myself."

The combination of two fighters, both extremely intimidating, and of an uncertain but probably superior level of skill, the thugs blatantly decided that discretion was the better part of valor. They started inching back, opening the space and sheathing their weapons, muttering among themselves. Only the leader remained, glaring back and forth for a moment, before holding his hand out to Vilskap. "Gimme back my blade."

It was no masterwork blade, just a solid reliable broadsword, obviously a lowly soldier's weapon produced for the War of the Cross, but it was the only sword Vilskap currently had, and something told him he would have need and use for it. "No."

"Damn you, thief, that's my sword!"

The Vodacce reached the thug's side, his own weapons now sheathed. He looked at the sword now resting on Vilskap's shoulder, then at the thug. "He took that sword from you?"

"Yes!"

"Then I'd suggest you give him the scabbard. He can't very well go wandering around town with a naked blade, and you obviously no longer need the scabbard on your hip."

For a second, the man looked like he was going to argue. Then he looked around, realized he was completely alone, and snarled a curse. He wrenched the scabbard off, belt and all, and threw it on the ground, before storming off. The two fighters watched him go, then turned to consider each other for a few minutes, silent contemplation of former ally turned potential enemy.

Finally, the Vodacce bowed slightly, "My thanks, warrior, for your intervention. Dealing with all of them without allowing her to come to harm would have been difficult."

Vilskap laughed, clapping the man once on his shoulder. The 'friendly' gesture sent him stumbling, "No problem, man, just don't like seeing the weak harass the defenseless. Name's Vilskap."

"Léon Scaromene," the Vodacce replied, pulling his shirt back to rights.

"Oh, thank Théus the Beneficient and Enlightened." The heartfelt outburst surprised the two of them, and they looked over to find the woman they had 'rescued' smiling brightly as she clutched the book to her chest. At their looks, one hand caressing the leather cover, she explained with a smile, "It wasn't damaged at all. It's still in perfect condition. Maralan's Treatise on Hydraulics, in the original Théan, with a Numan-era printing date. Priceless."

The worshipful tone in her voice was more appropriate, in Vilskap's opinion, to visions of the Living Runes, not a leather-wrapped sheaf of papers, and he realized she was probably not right in the head. "Ah, are you all right, miss?"

She had a semi-dreamy look on her face, "Oh, I'm fine. They didn't hurt my book. Do you realize how rare this is? I've only ever seen fragments, or translations, never the original."

As Vilskap shook his head, Léon took over asking questions, "Madam, are you here alone?"

She blinked at him, then looked around in dawning confusion. "Now that you mention it, no, I shouldn't be. But I seem to have been misplaced by my bodyguard, sometime in the last couple of days. It's no matter, I'm merely traveling back to my father's lands in Rancho Orduño, escorting some ancient texts rescued from a monastery abandoned during the war. I can arrange passage on one of these ships, once I get around to it."

Vilskap and Léon shared a look, and despite having just met, both of them realized the same thing, saying at the same time, "She won't last a day on her own."

"I've got a post on a boat down-river," Vilskap said, "Captain'll let her aboard, though I'll have to threaten him again, I think."

Léon quirked an eyebrow again, "Leaves at dawn?"

"Yeah."

"The Angelina's Gold. My uncle's boat. Let me talk to him, he won't dare refuse and we won't have to threaten anyone." He turned back to the woman, and bowed, introducing himself again.

She actually noticed this time, and returned his gesture, including some sort of benediction Vilskap did not recognize before introducing herself, "Salorina Aldana de Orduño." Then she looked at him, and the dark brown eyes sharpened. Not being one for effete gestures, Vilskap settled for nodding and introducing himself. To which she immediately asked, in an oddly lilting form of his own native tongue, "You are skjaeren, yes? A user of the Runes? Would you be willing to talk to me about that? I have any number of questions, but have never had opportunity to talk to an actual skjaeren." Taken aback, Vilskap could only stare at her. How in the Wurm's Name had she figured that out just from looking at him? "It's obvious. You have a rune carved in your chest, and it's obvious someone tried to scalp you at some point. I talked to a Vendel once, said the only way to really stop a Skjaeren without killing him was to scalp him and remove a hand. I'm not planning to try that, mind you, but it marks you as a skjaeren, yes? Then there's your name, it's one of the Laerdom Runes, the one on your chest, isn't it?"

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Vilskap nodded, replying in the same tongue, "Aye, lass, I'm a skjaeren, but I'm afraid I'm not the person to talk to about Laerdom sorcery. You're no Vestenmannavnjar, and I won't share that power with just anyone. What say we get you to a boat, and make sure we're all safe before we start this argument though."

Getting her aboard the boat proved simple enough. Vilskap carried the chest, Léon led the way, and Salorina kept reading her book. Vilskap did not much care for looking like a mere proter, but he had to admit that neither of the other two would have been able to lift the locked chest, and Salorina made it abundantly clear that she would not leave it behind. Once at the boat, Léon pulled the captain aside, spoke to him very briefly, very sternly, then waved Salorina and Vilskap aboard.

By the time Salorina was safely ensconced with her chest in the captain's hastily vacated cabin, Vilskap was back on deck, and debating how much to tell the woman. Something told him she would not be easily dissuaded from pestering him about Laerdom, but he was going to have to think of something. Especially after screwing up and admitting he was. But how she had recognized him as one at a glance, and how she had known the signs of an attempted punishment ritual was beyond him.

He was distracted by Léon's return to the deck. The young Vodacce came out, looked around for a moment, then sauntered over to join Vilskap at the dock-side rail. "Thank you again for your assistance, Vilskap," he said, leaning back against the wood, hands on the rail near his swords, "and thank also for not actually killing anyone. Not that I object to it, mind you, but killings tend to stick in people's minds, and I'd rather nobody remembers me or Lady Orduño being in this miserable excuse for a town."

Vilskap nodded, but instead of answering, asked, "What do you make of this, coming down the dock?" A jerk of his chin indicated the subject of his attention, and Léon turned slightly to look as well.

She was a tiny little thing, thin and child-like in overall appearance, but only to first impression. Even from the side of the boat and the length of the dock, it was plainly obvious that the woman was dangerous. The most obvious sign was the oddly structured claymore slung over her back, glittering beautifully against the dingy town, finely built and almost fragile looking. Her clothes were also not those of a child, but, like Léon's, those of a swordswoman – solid boots, short tartan skirt, a tight shirt covered by a tight vest, and a wide-brimmed hat with the right side pinned up to clear the sword. As she marched up the gangplank, Vilskap's interest sharpened. Her face was sharply beautiful, porcelin pale skin over a bone structure almost too fine to be believed, framed by long sea-green hair. The fact that her eyes were a brilliant gold color, and never wavered from him, convinced him that, whatever else she was, 'human' did not enter into it.

She stopped a few yards away, looking over the towering Vesten and the Vodacce beside him. "You boys sailing on this tub tomorrow?"

Vilskap grunted, "Might want to be careful, girl, insulting his uncle's boat."

She smiled slightly, showing frighteningly perfect white teeth, and shook her head, "couldn't care less. This thing's a tub, and should be stripped down. But it's the next boat out of here."

"If you need to book passage," Léon told her, "I'm afraid you'll need another ship. My uncle does not take passengers without a very good reason."

She looked at Léon, and the smile turned into a vicious grin. "I've already got passage. Legion-damned fool thinks he can get into my pants. He won't, but it'll be entertaining to prove him wrong. I take it both of you are sailing aboard as well? With the pretty Castillian who's hiding below-decks?"

"She's not hiding," Léon answered repressively, "and yes, we are sailing aboard this ship. Who are you to ask?"

"Maeve MacCodrum, Highland swordswoman," she replied, sketching an imitation of a bow, "and we have a problem, above and beyond the usual River-pirates. A Montaigne's after part of this ship's cargo. I managed to interrupt his initial plan, something about a powder barrel and longboats tomorrow night. But I'm sure he's got another plan, more thugs, and I'm not interested in being the only one prepared for him."

"Any more word on his plans?"

Maeve shook her head. "Sorry. I pretty thoroughly slaughtered what I thought were the wreckers. This guy showed up afterwards, and I was too busy getting my Lady to go home to run him down. Priorities, I'm afraid."

Léon gave her a searching look, "Your 'Lady'? Where is she now?"

"Never you mind," Maeve told him in a warning tone of voice, "she's no concern of yours, and you'd best hope you never meet her. Focus on the problem at hand – a Montaigne who's willing to turn pirate and wrecker to get at a cargo we're carrying."

"Good thing I scared my way aboard," Vilskap muttered, "sounds like it'll be a fun ride down-river." Scanning the dock, he contemplated what Maeve had told him, and whether or not he could trust her. Looking back down, he decided to test that through the simplest expedient possible, "You aren't human, girl. I can tell by looking at you, you're too fey to be real. Tell me what you are, and I'll believe you know what you're talking about with this Montaigne."

She glared at him for a few moments, then shrugged, "Fine, Vesten. I'm a MacCodrum. Our clan was founded through a union with a Sidhe woman, and I inherited a large dose of her blood. It's a little annoying at times, since people insist on treating me like a child, but it has its compensations. Happy?"

Vilskap glared harder at her for that. He knew something of the Sidhe, all Vesten did just from proximity to the Highlands and Avalon, alien beings that were reputed to be even stronger than the Living Runes, on an individual basis. Unkillable immortals with vast power behind them. Now that she had pointed it out, he could see the signs of myth – the too-refined features, the odd coloring, the perfect smoothness in her every motion. "No," he said after a moment, "but at least you're honest. Léon, what do you know about other fighters on this voyage? Is it just the three of us, or will there be others?"

"There's one other," Léon told him, "at least, one worth mentioning. Don't know where he is right this moment, but I do know he's an Eisen, veteran of some sort but no swordsman. Quick with his hands. No specifics on his combat skills, except they were good enough to scare my uncle."

"Four against an unknown number. Can the crew be relied on to keep watch?"

"Probably," Léon agreed after a moment's thought. "They're peasant sailors, but not stupid. Most of them have been sailing on the River for years, and no merchant sailor wants any pirates aboard. They'll fight if we get attacked, but probably not very well."

"So only one of us needs to be on watch at a time," Maeve decided, "sailor or not, I'd feel better if an actual warrior was keeping an eye on things."

"Agreed," Vilskap muttered, "positions for us if someone does attack? I'll take the bow, I don't need as much room as your swords will, and can make some more if I have to."

"I'll take mid-ships," Léon offered, "it'll give me all the room I need, just don't get too close once I get started."

"I'll take the rigging," Maeve said, grinning again. "I can move up there fairly well, and it'll let me reinforce whoever needs help."

"So the unknown goes on the quarter deck," Vilskap decided, "hope he likes taking tail post."

"Doesn't matter," Léon said, "he wasn't here for the planning, he can complain later. For now, let's move this out of the way and get down to some details."

Vilskap let the other two preceed him, and mentally shook his head again. Fool boy, your soft-hearted, trusting ways are going to get you killed.