"This is Ironthorn?" he asked the older guard, trying to make his voice sound calm and casual. He backed off the boulder as he spoke, turned, and started up the steep slope again, fumbling with his gauntlets.
Earlier, tramping through the forest, he'd taken them off and threaded the spiral rings adorning their cuffs through some of the metal loops his belt was studded with, to leave them hanging at his thighs. Now, of course, unthreading the rings wasn't going smoothly.
"I gave you an order, outlander!" the older guard said harshly, sounding very close.
Rod remembered that the closest part of the man would be his sharp swordtip-and then, thank God, he got that left gauntlet unhooked, pulled it on, and wheeled around.
"So you did," he replied sternly, "and I thought it rather a rude way of greeting someone who has aided the Hammerhands so much, over the years."
The guard was close to him and climbing the hill, sharp sword first. Rod's words made him frown in puzzlement, but not slow his pursuit.
The younger guard was farther down the hill, but keeping wide as he climbed, so as to be able to come at Rod almost from behind if Rod dared to stop to talk to the older one.
Rod started backing up the hill, out of the pincers of their closing trap. He had no idea what sort of fanciful lies he'd try to spin about aiding the Hammerhands, if he was asked.
Yet it didn't look as if he was going to be asked. Gods, he missed Taeauna. She always handled the meetings and greetings…
"Stay back!" he ordered, making his voice as stern and heavy as he could-and raised his left hand, gauntlet gleaming, to point at the guard.
The ring tingled, the gage started to tingle, too-and flames spat forth.
Well before the bright stream of fire reached him, the guard sprang back with a startled curse.
And lost his footing, of course, falling heavily and rolling a brief, crashing way back down the hill.
Rod turned to face the younger guard, who had halted, still far away and well below him.
"I'll not warn either of you again," Rod told the man, keeping his voice firm and flat, as he watched that angry face slowly go pale.
He raised his hand again, not sure if he should point at the second guard when the first one was now struggling grimly to his feet and starting to climb again.
Rod retreated a few more steps toward the trees.
"Down him, Urlaun," the older guard commanded, climbing right at Rod with dark, hot anger in his eyes. All trace of coldness had gone from the man; he was angry, and wanted blood.
Rod took one challenging step down the hill to meet him-actually to return to a level spot where he could stand and balance with some confidence-and pointed at the angry guard with his gauntlet-covered hand.
Fire flared from it again, spitting and snarling… and then faded away, exhausted. The gauntlet, and then the ring beneath, lost their tinglings.
Shit. Again.
Rod backed away and spun around, so he could climb the slope back into the trees in real haste.
The two guards were following him grimly, their drawn swords menacing him.
Rod turned his back on them and hurried. He was perhaps two minutes away, if not less, from having to face the fact that he hadn't the faintest idea how to use any of the magic he was carrying. At all.
The price he'd have to pay for that ignorance would be in blood.
A lot of it, and all his own.
"I can't believe the Stormar spat out a 'warlord' who lasted more than one battle doing anything but fleeing," Garfist rumbled, "let alone one who managed to win battle after battle, and take hold after hold! He must have help!"
"He must have a Doom's hand in his head or up his backside, you mean," Iskarra agreed calmly, returning to her seat atop the table and lounging back against the wall. "How else could he take the field with monsters fighting for him, as well as hireswords?"
"But they say he butchers wizards whenever he can catch them," the onetime pirate and former panderer rumbled.
"Well, who would want wizards slain more than a Doom desiring all rivals swept away?"
"Oh. Huh." Garfist's wits had been far swifter in his younger days, but years of seeing unsubtle menace defeat deft cleverness had taken their toll. Swindlers shrieked and died just as quickly as fools when you took a sword and slit them open from chin to shivaroons. "So who's back of him, d'ye think? Malraun or Narmarkoun?"
"Or Arlaghaun standing up in his grave, or the new Lord Arch wizard-"
"Huh. That idiot. Not likely."
"— or Lorontar the Undying?"
Garfist sighed, regarded his nigh-skeletal lover unhappily, and rumbled slowly and bitterly, "As the years pass, I find I like anything to do with magic and wizards less and less. Give me a good sharp knife handy to a foe's throat any day. Or better, night."
"I believe, Old Ox, that many a king, knight, and dung-covered drover has expressed those same sentiments before you," Iskarra said wryly. "Some of them quite forcefully, and more than one of them screaming it as his last words."
"Huh," Garfist said again. "Trying to scare me?"
The woman once infamous as the Viper raised a withering eyebrow. "Why should I try that? 'Tisn't as if it's going to work, after all these years."
The large and shaggy former pirate grinned and nodded. "Heh. That's true." Then he lost his smile in an instant, and asked in a lower, warier voice, "Viper mine, d'ye think the Aumrarr as brought us here might be working for a Doom? Or living all enspelled by one, and not know they were doing his bidding?"
Iskarra frowned. "It's possible, I suppose," she said slowly, "but I… no, I can't believe it. All these years they've fought the Dooms; if one was behind them, he'd have used them on his rival Dooms long since, when he saw a good chance to destroy one."
"But the Lord Archwizard, he's new," Garfist said darkly. "And all that time, none of us knew Lorontar was anything more than a nightscare legend, too. If he was drifting about like a ghost, from one Aumrarr mind to another, all those years…"
Iskarra shuddered. "Do I want to hear this?"
"And another thing," Garfist told her, drawing himself up in grim triumph. "All the tavern-talk we heard in Galath, about who the Aumrarr really are. Those flying lasses have been keeping secrets from us all for years!"
But his longtime lover shook her head, grinned mirthlessly, and waved a scornfully dismissive hand. "Someone's been spreading stories to try and make us mistrust them, more like. Now there I think I see a Doom at work, yes!"
She leaned forward to wag a reproving finger. "Gar, spew it all back out of your head right now, all this about the Aumrarr once ruling us all, starting as the great lords and ladies of some bygone age who shapeshifted themselves all into winged women long, long ago. Did you ever hear talk of it before King Devaer and Arlaghaun were thrown down? Aye? And wouldn't they have hurled such dung into every passing ear, and spread it from end to end of Falconfar, if they'd heard aught of it?"
"Well, aye, uh-"
"You know they would have. Think, my Ox. If the Aumrarr really were seeking to become one with Falconfar, as the tavern-tales said, by finding the right physical form, why'd they end up as women with wings? What's so 'right' about that? Wouldn't they've done better to become men taller and brawnier than all the rest, with manhoods a foot long?"
Garfist snorted, but Iskarra's finger stabbed at him.
"Aye, 'tis funny enough, Ox, but I'm serious. Wouldn't that have been a better shape, to conquer Falconfar? And what better way to 'become one' with the world, than rule it all?"