Chapter Nine: Strange Reflections
There was a mirror hanging on the door in Fjord's room. He'd barely looked at it during their time here, but as he pulled on his armor and buckled it in place, it caught his reflection, and Fjord saw himself. Verdant complexion cut through with a few pale lines. Black hair, streaked white. Tawny eyes. As an adult, he'd been called rugged, even handsome. Now when he looked, he saw Talisman.
"You're not like him," he told the image, but doubt slipped into the fertile soil of old insecurities and began putting down roots. All of his life, Fjord's heritage had been a source of trouble to him. It had stripped him of a childhood, literally scarred him, and put him under tremendous pressure to assimilate. By the time he'd reached Vandren, he'd been wound as tight as a slungshot, and it had taken years for him to stop staring at himself in the water and wishing he saw something else.
'I'm past that,' he thought, glaring at the yellow eyes that pierced. 'I know who I am.'
- CONSUME -
The word was huge, filling all the spaces in his mind with a voice that wasn't a voice, at least not one like any he'd ever heard on the mortal plane. It raked his brain, made his fingers prickle with energy, demanded expression. It made him hungry.
Fjord shook his head, desperate to drive those thoughts away. Yet he couldn't escape the truth about who he was. Orcish blood ran through his veins. It granted him things: a robust constitution, eyes that paid no mind to shadow, a fierceness in combat that thrilled instead of recoiled. That was part of who he was, as much (or more?) as his carefully cultivated reason and charm. Moreover, though he liked to think of himself as self-made, the driver of his own destiny, in reality, he had no idea about the origin of the arcane power that was quickly coming to define him. What if, one day, it twisted him into something like Talisman? After all, look at what he'd already done. He called himself a decent person, but he'd abandoned a friend on a whim, and the result was…terrible. Even Caleb's apparent forgiveness had provided only temporary solace. At first, he hadn't known why, but as the headiness of his initial relief faded, he started to understand. It was too easy.
'Maybe if you stop tiptoeing around the truth (he's not okay, and neither are you) and offer more than a half-assed apology and a combat strategy. But, no. You've gotten used to your façade, haven't you, Fjord Tough? Wouldn't want to threaten that with a little emotional availability. Besides, haven't you let him down enough? Better to let water flow under the bridge.' Yet even as this bitter inward rambling attempted justification, another murmured a warning: 'Not everything flows downstream, Fjord. Some rivers choke.'
Before he could spiral any farther down that particular rabbit hole, there was a quiet knock on the door. Fjord drew a hand over his face, bringing his nerves back under control. "Come in."
Hinges whispered, and Caleb peeked through the opening. "Fjord?"
Fjord was so stunned he fumbled for a moment before answering. "Yeah. Yeah, Caleb, come on in. I was just getting geared up. Did you need something?"
The man looked worse than he had that morning. The way he held his leg was awkward, and it gave him a tender-looking limp. There was also a hectic flush to his face, and Fjord suspected he was feverish. That happened sometimes, after a really serious healing. Caleb probably ought to be in bed, sleeping off the effects, but instead they were about to drag him into a situation that might well end in bloodshed.
'Bastard.' Fjord heard Beau and knew she was speaking about Talisman, but it sounded for all the world like it was directed at him.
A leather bag was offered, and Fjord hesitantly took it. "What's this?"
"My component pouch."
It was like having a pan of cold water dumped over him. An image flew through Fjord's mind, of darkness cut by lamplight, the smell of dust and burning oil – (and blood) – and Yasha dragging a barefoot, broken Caleb out of the cramped space where he'd taken refuge. When they found him, he'd been stripped almost entirely of his outer trappings, and yet no one had thought of going back to search for the missing items; Fjord certainly hadn't had the will to face that place again. But Yasha, always so much stronger in so many ways, had slipped away without a word and returned just as quietly with Caleb's coat, belt, and boots. And, apparently, his component pouch. It sat in Fjord's hand, dingy and shapeless, segmented with a thousand pockets. It smelled like bitter herbs and honey.
'Molasses,' Fjord corrected himself. 'He uses molasses for that Slow spell of his.'
"Why are you giving this to me?"
"You aren't allowed a sword during your matches, and that is your focus, is it not?"
Fjord had never discussed his abilities, not in detail. He didn't hash out how they worked and the nature of his bond with his falchion. Didn't like to admit what he could do or how it made him feel (powerful), sometimes even to himself. He should have realized that Caleb, who was so studied in the arcane and so unrepentantly voyeuristic, had made connections of his own. Fjord cleared his throat. "Maybe."
There was an almost inaudible sigh. "You do not have to tell me," Caleb said, and Fjord's conscience seared him like heated metal. Was this really the time to hoard secrets?
"It is," he admitted. "The sword. Or maybe the eye on the sword. I don't really know."
The concession, however small, made a difference. Caleb met his eyes. "If that is the case, you'll need a different approach today."
Fjord realized what he was saying, and his stomach filled with trepidation. For his best spells, Fjord required a focus, in this case, his falchion. However, the rules of the tournament forbade him from wielding it. He looked at the component pouch. "But I won't be able to use this. I don't know how."
Caleb inched closer. "I can show you."
For the next hour, Caleb dissected the pouch, showing Fjord the mechanical properties of his own spells. Fjord listened, fearful that he wouldn't understand this other way of casting, but Caleb was patient, systematic. Slowly, the mystery cleared, and as Fjord rubbed a bit of pitch between his finger and thumb, he became more confident. Maybe he could do this after all.
"Caleb," he said. "Thank you for this. I don't like to admit it, but Talisman –" he fumbled, letting his voice crumple and dissolve, like power in water.
Caleb didn't force him to be more coherent. Instead, he nodded wordlessly. "I suspect he prefers his enemies to be without defense, but you will not be defenseless." And while guilt made jagged lines between them, he added, "You're smart, Fjord. I know you will do well."
Voice low, Fjord said, "Your confidence in me…it means a lot." Like seeping water, the things that were going unsaid accumulated between them with steady persistence. Would it reach the point where bailing did no good and they simply floundered?
Caleb seemed absorbed with a cobweb in the corner. "Of course," he said, and, their business completed, he turned to go.
"Caleb."
Caleb stopped, his hand lingering on the brass doorknob. He looked over his shoulder, eyes heavy with weariness. He waited.
Fjord fought for words. He wanted to say things: 'Forgive me – for being a careless bastard, for claiming I'd be your protector and leaving you to the wolves instead. Forgive me – for wanting a quick resolution to this, even though you're not okay. Because I know you're not okay, even if you say you are, and you can tell me that, Caleb. I'd listen, and I wouldn't judge you, and if you tell me you can't do this thing we're about to do, I wouldn't make you face him, I –'
Pride held him back. Pride and shame. He wouldn't beg for a pardon he didn't deserve. He wouldn't make Caleb responsible for absolving him of guilt. And he wouldn't push the man to reveal the cracks he was working so hard to hide. After all, what would Fjord do if he actually broke?
He lifted the pouch. "Thanks for the…components and stuff."
Caleb nodded. The knob turned, and the man slipped into the corridor as quietly as he came.
Silence echoed in the empty space. The mirror, visible again, caught his face. Fjord looked at it, self-loathing filling his gut. Pride and cowardice, what a combination. Would outright cruelty be next? 'I'm not like him,' his inner-self insisted.
Aloud, he said, "Keep telling yourself that."
Just outside the town of Pamell was a recessed area, the bed of a river that had long since shifted routes. The basin left behind had a floor of petrified clay, with huge piles of smooth stone and steep banks which created a natural protection for the audience seated above. A judges' box had been constructed on the opposite bank, with covered viewing spaces for more affluent spectators. Molly stood surveying the area, keeping an eye out, but no one he recognized caught his eye.
At his elbow stood a nervous human man. He had a peaked, heightened look, the whites of his eyes shining as they darted around the crowd. It was exhausting to watch.
"Caleb," Molly said. Just that, his name. Caleb had never responded well to outright concern, and Molly didn't want a hasty brush-off.
Caleb mumbled. "I don't see –"
"All the competitors are in the waiting area. We won't be running into any of them up here. Besides, you and I are just backup, remember?" In an attempt to divert his attention, Molly pointed toward an outcropping of grassy stone that had gone unclaimed. "Shall we get settled?"
Not long after they were seated, Caleb tilted his head as though listening to something far away. He murmured under his breath, then turned to Molly. "That was Jester. She says that she and Nott are in place and not to worry. Baron Urim's manor appears all but deserted."
That was excellent news. As a group, they'd decided to send Jester and Nott on The Gentleman's errand. Nott, because her clever fingers were the most suited, and Jester because she was known to the baron's people. If something went wrong, she could simply knock on the door. Meanwhile, Fjord, Beau, and Yasha had assumed their roles in the tournament itself, while Molly and Caleb had been placed amongst the bystanders.
"If Talisman decides to step outside the rules," Fjord had explained, "I'd like to have a little firepower on standby."
So decided, they'd taken a moment for shoulder clasps and promises to be careful, and then they'd split up. Molly had walked away from their huddle with a secret, secondary mission. No one had stated it outright, but he'd understood Fjord's silent command, read it in Nott's fierce expression: Look after Caleb.
Of course, the man wasn't stupid. As they sat on the outcropping, Caleb said, "You don't have to stare at me like that."
"I'm hardly staring," Molly retorted, even as he averted his eyes. The worry mark on his forehead stayed, but short of a really strong drink, he wasn't sure he would have any luck erasing that.
"I am fine," Caleb said. "I have told you I am fine."
Something in the clipped tone set him off, and Molly said, "Sure you are. Anyone would be. It's not like a little paranoia wouldn't be totally normal after –"
Caleb turned sharply. "Don't, Mollymauk."
Molly's lips twisted. It didn't normally bother him that Caleb called him by his full name. It came over as a linguistic quirk, the way he called Beau 'Beauregard' or pronounced Fjord's name with an extra vowel. However, in this instant, Molly couldn't help but see it as a censure for approaching too close, and his lips zippered tightly shut in a combination of both annoyance and chagrin. And he called Beau out for her lack of sensitivity. Gods, what was he doing? "I'm sorry."
"You do not need to be. I know how I am, but I still don't want to be treated like I'm broken."
It was hard to suppress a sigh, even an inward one, whenever Caleb let slip these kind of depressive clues about his self-image. He'd mellowed a great deal since they first met him in that dingy tavern in Trostenwald, but when his demons were closer to the surface and there were fewer distractions to bury what laid beneath, the underlying brokenness had a way of slipping out and reminding them that their wizard was a damned mess. And the longer they knew him, it was getting harder to remember it was none of their business. Now was not the time, however, and Molly suppressed all the messy emotions he was feeling in order to focus on the present.
Fortunately, the world threw him a bone in the form of two familiar faces peeking furtively out of the crowd. Mollymauk smiled brightly and waved. "Hey, boys! I hoped we might see you here."
"It's you," the tiefling said. He climbed onto the rock beside Molly. "We were looking."
At ground level, Caleb and the other scamp were gazing at each other with interest. "And who is this?"
The human boy was massaging his hands, a nervous, repetitive gesture. He appeared to be gobbling Caleb up from toe to temple. "I saw you in the square the other day. You used magic on that spellcaster, the one who was going to hurt me. I'm Mica."
"Ah."
Molly grinned. "The boys were wanting to thank you." It seemed like a long time ago, but it had barely been twenty-four hours since the boys first cornered them on their way through the market.
The tiefling, whose name was William, said, "Thanks, okay? That guy was real bad. Everyone is saying so."
Mica nodded in agreement. "Thank you."
"I did not save you," Caleb said. "That was Fjord and my friend Nott."
"But you saved her. You work together, right? Like Will and me."
"Do you 'work' together like Nott was working?" Caleb asked, clearly referring to the hand Nott had down Talisman's belt pouch before she'd been caught. It was what Molly had also suspected; in fact, it was almost inevitable that these two got into a bit of thieving. Not as a form of mischief, but as a matter of survival.
Will made a face. "So what if we do?"
"Nothing, but it can be quite dangerous. If you're caught by the wrong person or if the law decides to make an example of you, you could get hurt. I hope you're very careful and look out for one another. Do you have a safe place to stay?"
Mica crawled up onto the stony seat and tucked his fingers around Caleb's coat sleeve. When he was not rebuffed, he said, "We're alright. Can we watch the tournament with you?"
It was ridiculously precious, watching a kid cuddle up to Caleb. Kind of reminded Molly of Kiri and how she would find one of their laps, fluffing up her feathers and settling in with total certainty of her welcome and their protection. To be fair, these kids looked like they were seriously lacking in a sense of security, and while Molly considered Caleb and himself dubious protection at best, it seemed they'd been adopted all the same. Of course, Molly thought, it wasn't a great day for it. Although... The first few rounds should be okay, right?
"It's fine with me if they stick around awhile. Caleb?"
Caleb's eyes were on the kid, who was gazing at arena floor, the judge's booth, and the armored contestants with boyish awe. His shoulders relaxed by an inch or two. "Ah," he said. "For now, I suppose, that is fine."
The opening match was supposed to set the tone for what was to come. Some clever programmer had made the decision to place a favorite into the first round, namely, Talisman. Their opponents arrived first: two humans and a half-elf in country leathers. They were greeted with provincial rounds of applause and friendly jeering. One of them flexed and blew a kiss. 'Hardly hardened warriors,' Molly thought with a frown. It set a cold stone in his stomach.
William was an observant kid. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Eat your jerky," Molly said. He'd bought them something to eat because, hell, how could he not? He nudged Caleb. "You good?" The man answered with a nod, though he didn't speak. His eyes were fastened on the clay, where the announcer was using a magically amplified voice to announce the second team.
It was impossible not to notice them the moment they set foot on the clay. Molly didn't know how Talisman had spent the hours after he tortured and mutilated another person, but he certainly didn't look any worse for it. His robes were opulent, flowing around him in silky electric blue. His pale skin appeared youthfully supple. He was handsome. Moreover, there was an aura about him. It set Molly's hair rising on end, and he felt Will shiver beside him, a tiny fang peeking out as he sneered through his discomfort.
Caleb was shaking.
Mollymauk pressed a boot into his back, not wanting to make a scene, especially in front of the kids. When he got no immediate response, he began to lean forward. However, before he could, Caleb put an arm around Mica's shoulders. Oh. 'Forest for the trees,' Molly thought, belatedly remembering that Caleb had not been Talisman's only victim of the last two days. Will slid down and held Mica's hand, and the three of them sat in a row, wordlessly watching. Something about it brought back the red-hot rage from earlier, and Molly gritted his teeth. His eyes slid to Talisman like a razor blade, wishing he could cut through air and space to his heart.
Talisman's teammates were the two from the square. The orcish fellow, who carried a huge sword with a handle crafted out of what appeared to be bleached hip bone, and the human, still in his black cloak. He must have been the hand-to-hand fighter, though he hardly looked the type. It made Molly suspicious. It was never good to face an opponent whose fighting style was unknown.
The teams lined up. Then, with a flutter of purple cloth, the official teleported, and the fight began.
Molly wasn't sure what to expect. The rules of the tournament were simple: one unarmed fighter, one swordsman, and one mage in three-on-three combat. Other than that, fighters were not permitted to endanger the crowd, manipulate officials, or leave the arena boundaries. Winning meant rendering a defeat condition to the opposing team, which included being knocked unconsciousness, a wound that required immediate medical attention, or surrender. Death was not mentioned, but the possibility lurked. That had been part of the whispers, the excitement. The stakes were high in more than just a monetary sense.
Talisman could have played within those boundaries. He could even have made a show of it, flaunting his superior ability and that of his companions like a cat playing with a mouse. It would have made the best show. What he actually did was raise his hand. Caleb stiffened. "Scheisse."
Bolts of electricity rained from heaven, raw elemental power. The light was so intense it was blinding, and for a moment, all anyone saw was white. When it faded, Molly saw strands of his hair floating around his horns as though gravity had ceased to affect them. There was an awful tightness in his chest, and his heart was pounding. The entire crowd had gone silent. Out on the clay, the ground was pitted, and lying prostrate were three steaming bodies. Somewhere near the front, there was a heart-wrenching cry. Talisman lowered his hand.
The medics were pelting across the surface. An official haltingly called an end to the match. The winners received one or two sparse claps, but most people seemed too stunned to respond. One of the medics gave a frustrated snarl and began to do chest compressions, his magic weaving green between his fingers. Talisman walked away with a flourish of his immaculate cloak, flanked by his minions, and left the scene behind him.
"Gods," Molly said.
He looked at the others. Mica was sobbing silently, and though William remained stony-faced, he looked no less devastated. Numbly, he said, "That was Hamish and his friends. He lets us sweep up at the mill sometimes. He tugs on my horns and tells me they're too big for my face. He was supposed to get married at Winter's Crest."
"He will still do so," Caleb reassured. He raised bleak eyes to Mollymauk. "Though I am not sure about his half-elf friend."
They cleared the field, and for a time there was little to see. Eventually, the official returned. More soberly than before, he announced that no one had died. A ripple of relief went through everyone, though it did not revive the jovial atmosphere of before. The announcer went on to confirm Talisman's triumph and hesitantly introduced two new teams. They came onto the clay like an anticlimax.
The tournament went on. There were winners and losers. Finally, three familiar faces appeared. Fjord, looking strange without his falchion. Yasha, as formidable as usual with hers. And Beau, who appeared small, though her musculature was clear even from this distance. In an attempt at levity, she flexed a bit and winked. An uneasy ripple of laughter followed this unintentional encore, but it turned real when Beau did a few fancy jumps on the toes of her feet and slipped on a loose stone. She was rubbing her ass and grimacing as she got up, and it should have make her look amateurish, but it didn't. Molly tried to understand why that was, then realized. You could feel it, that thing which was missing from the miller and his friends; Beau and the others moved and breathed and felt like warriors, and that was so recognizable that even Beau's pratfalling couldn't undermine it. It made Molly proud. They'd come a long way from the ragtag group in a circus tent, struggling with a few undead crownsguard. The question was, would it be enough?
In the short term, the answer was a decided 'yes.' Fjord was graceful, reserved with his casting. He made it look easy. Beau took on her fellow unarmed fighter, and it was like an exhibition match. She lead her opponent, trading blows and adjusting to his level. Yasha, meanwhile, remained defensive. Only when her opponent had exhausted his resources did she step neatly around him and clip his ear. He went down like a sack of potatoes, but Molly knew he'd suffered no real harm. A minute later, the match was called. The Mighty Nein shook hands with their opponents, clapped them on the back, and left the field as clear victors. In their wake was admiration and an atmosphere of restored calm.
Mica said, "They're so strong!"
"It is amazing how greatly your abilities improve when you are in constant danger of being killed by gnolls and bandits," Caleb said wryly.
"Hear, hear," Molly agreed with some humor. "And manticores, and sahuagin, and trolls..."
William glared at him. "Are you making stuff up?"
"What do you think?" Molly asked, smirking. Will crossed his arms, seemingly affronted by his own lack of certainty, and Molly knuckled his scalp, which made the boy growl something nasty in infernal. Molly chuckled. "Oh, kid. I like you."
"Yeah?" Will said. His tone had changed to something else. He looked up through overlong bangs that gave Molly a flashback of Toya. To cover his feelings, he gave Will's hair another ruffle. Then he caught Caleb's knowing look and stuck out his tongue at him. The man rolled his eyes and turned back to the tournament, which was down to its final stages. As the sky darkened and sunset began to drape the world in lengthening shadows, torches were lit and the scenery changed. A different mood came over the crowd once more. It was nearly time.
Uneasily, Molly shifted. "Kid," he said to Will. "I think it's time that you and Mica shoved off."
Will looked up sharply. "Why?" They had been sitting together for hours. He could see the kid searching his mind for something he had done to annoy them, but was coming up empty. There was no apparent change that would merit a sendoff. Yet they could not safely stay, not for what came next.
Truth or lies? Molly decided on truth, because as much as he approved of subterfuge as a general rule, it never felt right when it came to kids, especially not ones as world-wise as Will and Mica. "This match with Talisman could get dangerous. And not just for those down there. If it comes down to it, Caleb and I might be forced to intervene, and we wouldn't want you caught in the middle."
Caleb had been listening, and now he drew Mica to his feet and tugged his ragged vest into some semblance of order. Molly had seen Nott do almost exactly the same to Caleb's scarf or lapels when she was feeling especially nervous for him. "You two must find another place to watch. Perhaps toward the back. Or even farther."
Mica seized his hands. "Come with us."
"We cannot do that," Caleb said gently. "Suppose our friends need us and we are too far from them to help."
Will grabbed his friend by the sleeve. "We get it."
"See you after," Molly said. Assuming they weren't dead and they had the ability to stick around. More often than not, the Mighty Nein ended up fleeing their quests under threat of assault or arrest or bleeding from every orifice, but, hey, this could be the time things worked out. He gave a jaunty wave. "Don't be stupid."
Caleb watched them go with a pensive expression. "I hope they will be safe."
"They will be. Kids like that know how to make themselves scarce when the gavel comes down."
"The gavel. An interesting choice of words," Caleb said wryly. Perhaps he was remembering less-than-equitable encounters with the law, maybe something from his past. One way or another, Molly understood what he was thinking; true justice was perilously rare.
"Maybe this time the universe will be fair," he dared say aloud. It was what he most wanted, more even than personal vengeance.
A sigh drifted in his direction, and Caleb closed his eyes. His damaged hands spasmed in his lap. "You have more faith than I, Mollymauk Tealeaf."
Maybe he did, and maybe it was stupid, but Molly made it a point to live his life daringly. He crossed his fingers behind his back and pressed his lips tight around a short, silent supplication to the near-transparent sickle of moon on the horizon line. 'Just this once, Moonweaver,' he prayed fervently, 'let evil get what it deserves.' The words remained fixed in his mind even as Fjord, Yasha, and Beau took the clay for the last time.
The final match began as the sun kissed the horizon. The line of clouds were an ink stroke, final and definitive. As Fjord stepped out, the world smelled purple, and his nose, more sensitive these days to the movement of wind and water, picked up a promise of distant rain. Yasha's chin was tipped toward the sky. "That is not a natural cloud front." Fjord saw the edge of it, tinged black, and knew she was right. He had seen the sky when Talisman and his people took the field the first time, though they hadn't been permitted to watch the fight itself. The restless field overhead now was similar.
"Is he like you?" Beau murmured. She had her arms crossed, a poise associated with discomfort, though to an outsider she might just have looked tough. "Storms and stuff, I mean."
"No," Yasha mused. "There's something, but I don't know what."
Fjord was unnerved. Sorcerers weren't like other spellcasters. They didn't use components like Caleb or share a pact with something more powerful than themselves like a cleric's deity or a warlock's patron. No, sorcerers were powered by lineage, and without knowing Talisman's, it would be hard to understand how his magic worked. Worse still, Fjord was working at a disadvantage. Caleb had prepared him as best he could – 'a twig for lightning, tallow for flames' – but even with this tutoring, Fjord felt slow and clumsy. Now, facing a caster like Talisman, he was afraid his fledgling skills would not be enough.
'If you have to,' he coached himself, 'call on the falchion. None of us really gives a damn about this tournament. Remember that, Fjord.'
It offended his ego to think he might need to break the rules in order to compete seriously, but this was no time for ego. His fellow fighters were counting on him, and somewhere out there Molly and Caleb were watching. He didn't want them to get involved, especially Caleb. Still, a fear lingered. Were they in over their heads?
The time for thinking had expired, for at that moment a familiar figure stepped onto the field. He exuded extreme arrogance. If there was ever any doubt as to who was responsible for what happened to Caleb, it was settled then. His smile was reptilian, and self-satisfaction oozed from him like a waste product. It brined the air between them, put bitterness into Fjord's bones. Quite suddenly, he was furious. Furious for the suffering this man had caused, and for the suffering to which he had made Fjord a party. His blood itched, singing for his sword. Only by great effort did he suppress that urge. Instead, he stood his ground, strengthened by the presence of Beau and Yasha on either side of him and by the invisible presence of his friends in the crowd.
"Fjord of Nothing," Talisman said when he was close enough. They faced one another across the clay.
Fjord felt as though he'd swallowed a flagon of curdled milk. Not for the first time, he wondered what made a man revel in bloodshed. He'd known since childhood he had the potential for it. It crept up on him sometimes; a fascination for the end of life, be it a hawk coming down on a seagull or a sword piercing flesh. A relish for eating his meat rare, so that the taste of iron remained in his mouth. A pleasure in combat that at times bordered on euphoria. Where these trademarks of a bloodline he didn't often claim? Or quirks, coincidences? What would it have taken for him to embrace the orcish side of himself like this brute at Talisman's side, or to delight in suffering as the sorcerer himself so obviously did? If he'd been claimed and not abandoned, would Fjord be a different man?
He didn't know.
"Still so retiring. You can always tell the clanless ones, can't you, Sisk? No father to beat the weakness out of you, no whore mother, even, to sooth the pain of belonging nowhere. Were you left in one of those pitiful human temples? Was there an orphanage rather than a tribe firepit for you to cut your tusks around?"
Talisman's hulking companion grunted, but there was a soberness to his expression that Fjord read not as contempt but as resignation. It made his wonder where Talisman had found Sisk. With his twisted back, he had the look of a monstrous half-formed brute, as though his mixed hereditary had done him no favors. In honesty, he looked more orc than half-orc, and Fjord wondered if he had also been abandoned, easily exploited by a stronger, smarter version of himself. There was certainly nothing of friendship between them. And Bekkit. Even now he stood at the back, a morose shadow leaning away from Talisman as though he were the adversary and not Fjord.
"The way I see it," Fjord said, "you're the one to pity. I have a hard time believing any self-respecting orc would take pride in subduing children and pickpockets, or torturing a blind man. What was your clan again, Talisman? I may want to file away that name for future reference if they're all as bottom-feeding as you."
His words found their mark. Fjord could see the cold anger that flew across Talisman's face, barely restrained behind his clenched jaw. "So it does have teeth."
"There's this thing called restraint," Fjord told him. "It's power under control." It was something his captain had told him once, back when, as a young buck who'd gotten kicked to hell at a dive bar, he'd ended up needing to be bailed out of jail. As Vandren had none-so-gently bound his ribs, he'd said, "If your manhood is so thin it goes to tatter at any insult, you'll have nothing but rags before you grow into those fists of yours." He'd had more to say, that day and in the months and years that followed, and though Fjord had not always taken his advice with good grace, he'd forgotten none of it, and it had changed him. "I don't need to oppress a person to demonstrate strength."
"Warriors conquer."
"You're no warrior," Yasha spoke, and Fjord could feel her sheltered rage behind her back, like unseen wings. She, too, was showing restraint, but the time for that rage to find expression was nearly upon them.
"What, then, am I?" Talisman challenged her.
"A butcher," Beau spat.
"Is that really why you're so upset? Because I took my pound of flesh from that human garbage? I found him nestled away, as pink and helpless as a newborn rat. Yet here you are, with these faces like wrath, to avenge his death."
"He's not dead," Fjord snapped before he could stop himself.
"No?" A spark of interest. "I did put forth some effort into keeping him lingering. I wanted you to find him with a little warmth left in. It seems I took it too far. Tell me, did he weep to find himself a cripple? Or has he already resigned himself?"
Fjord thought of Caleb, sound of mind despite what he'd been through. His willingness to keep fighting beside them, even here, in this place, with the one who hurt him so near at hand. And this in spite of the unintentional treachery of those he called his friends. "Caleb is stronger than you imagine."
"Humans are weak. They're all weak," Talisman said. Behind him, Bekkit flinched.
"I'm starting to think you were the one who missed out on a decent upbringing," Fjord said. "You treat people like garbage, but we'll see if that gets you anything but enemies, chasing behind your back." Talisman had certainly managed to make enemies of them, and they were not good enemies to have.
"Bold claims from one who has not proven himself bold," Talisman said.
Fjord stepped forward. "Let's see, then."
"They're starting," Molly said, up on the embankment.
Caleb leaned in.
On the other side of town, deep inside the baron's manor, Nott shivered in her skin. She had what she came for, but the papers in her hand seemed thin and insubstantial, unimportant. She raised her wrist, with its little coil of wire. "I have the scroll, but something seems...bad. I think we need to go to Caleb and the others."
Three was a pause before Jester's uncharacteristically sober reply. "The sky is weird." And then, "You should hurry, Nott."
