The firelight reflected off his hard, pale skin, and he traced a blue vein on one arm with a finger. He felt a pulse and ridiculously felt relief. He knew he was no vampire, but he also knew instinctively that he was no longer entirely human. He wondered how much of his new-found confidence—his changed nature—was due to Silona’s blood. He wanted to be a creature of his own making, based on his own experiences and learning, but could not shake the thought that something of Silona’s single-mindedness and grim need for isolation had been transferred to him.
He watched his companions, crouching for warmth around the fire. Gudon was smiling, head bowed next to Ager’s. The two had become firm friends, and Lynan could see some similarity in their spirits, a combination of cynicism about and acceptance of the way the world was ordered. Next to Ager was Korigan, someone Lynan felt was as torn as he between two natures. Not much older than he, she was already wise in the ways of a monarch. In her was a fierce determination that frightened him a little, but was also something he now recognized in himself. Then there was Jenrosa, who still seemed beautiful to him despite her familiarity. She never snapped at him anymore, nor made fun of him in front of the others. When she looked at him, he saw sadness in her eyes, and guilt at what her actions in saving his life had made him become. He did not know how to tell her that she had done right, and it occurred to him that he did not yet know himself whether in fact she had done right. And beside Jenrosa was Kumul, father-not-father, guardian and bully, adviser and old war horse. There was a tension between them now, and it saddened Lynan.
As Lynan watched, he saw Kumul and Jenrosa hold hands. The contact was brief, but sudden awareness hit him like a blow to the stomach. He stopped breathing.
No. It isn’t possible.
The two quickly glanced at each other, a joining as brief and intimate as their holding hands.
Lynan turned from the fire and walked into the night.
“We have some of the new swords you asked to be made,” Gudon told Ager. “Only a handful so far.”
“Already?” Ager was surprised. The forges had only been working for three days.
“We would have had them yesterday, but the first mold cracked.”
“Can I see them?”
“Of course. We must go to the village.”
The two made their excuses and left. Ager gathered his poncho around him as the warmth of the fire receded. He looked with envy at Gudon, striding along as if it was a balmy summer afternoon. He did not think the cold was something he would ever get used to. His breath frosted in the night air and he had to hurry to keep up with the Chett. Their feet crunching on brittle grass was the only sound except for the distant lowing of the cattle.
They passed between arrow trees, catching glimpses of other campfires. Ager could not see anyone else, but could somehow feel the weight of the thousands of Chetts that surrounded them.
There must be as many people here as there are in the cities of Sparro or Daavis, he thought, but they may as well be ghosts.
As he drew closer to the village, he could hear the sound of the furnace and hammer, of fiery steel hissing as it was poured into molds. Mechanical sounds, and out of place here on the Oceans of Grass. Up ahead he saw the yellow glimmer of molten metal and the angry red of hot coals.
Gudon directed him to a hut before they reached the furnaces. New weapons were stacked neatly against wooden frames. He saw his short swords and eagerly picked up one by its tang.
“When will they be finished?”
“Soon. We are using bone for the hilt, and leather and sinew to finish the grip. What do you think?”
“Hard to tell before the grip’s finished, but the weight feels right.” Ager took it out of the hut and held it up so he could study it under moonlight. The blade was unpolished, and seemed flat and dull. “They need some work, but I think they’ll be fine.”
“If we’d had more time, we would have forged them, but to get the numbers you want we had to use molds.”
Ager grunted. Still holding the tang, he placed the sword point on a large rock and stepped on the blade. The point skidded across the rock, sending sparks into the air. “It’s strong.” He whacked the edge of the blade against the rock and heard a satisfying thwang. “The blade is not brittle at all. This is good work.” He replaced the unfinished sword in the hut.
“Let’s get back to the fire. I’m freezing.”
Gudon grinned at him. “You will have time to get used to it.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I hope not.”
They were halfway back when Gudon stopped. He frowned and cocked his head as if listening for something.
“What’s wrong?” Ager asked.
“Something is not right.”
“What exactly?”
“I don’t—”
Before he could finish, three dark shapes rose from the darkness around them. Ager saw moonlight glimmer off steel. Without shout or cry, their attackers were upon them. Ager had time to draw his saber, but it was knocked out of his hand before he could raise it. He threw himself forward against the legs of his closest assailant and they went down together. Ager clawed for his enemy’s face, found something soft, and gouged as hard as he could. A woman screamed. He rolled off the body and felt on the ground for his sword. He heard a blade whistling through the air and rolled again, heard it bite into the ground where his head had just been. He lashed out with his foot and kicked the sword away, then scrambled to his feet. A fist whacked into his ear. He shouted in pain, ducked, and charged forward, but his attacker had moved and he stumbled back to the ground. He turned onto his back in time to see a dark silhouette looming above him, a sword raised high. Then the figure jerked and fell, and Ager saw Gudon whirl away to meet the surviving attackers.
Cursing, Ager got to his feet for the second time, retrieved the fallen enemy’s sword, and joined Gudon. The pair split apart, forcing the attackers in different directions. The moon swung behind Ager and he gasped in surprised.
“Katan!” he hissed. The Chett tried to retreat, but Ager was furious and redoubled his efforts. Their blades struck sparks into the night. Ager lunged, lunged again, trying to use the point, but Katan was too quick and had learned something from their first bout in front of the two circles. Ager parried a swipe at his neck, crossed his right leg over his left and swung a full circle. He hard Katan’s sword swish past his ear. The edge of his saber sank into the Chett’s flank and shuddered when it hit the rib cage. Katan moaned, his eyes looked up in surprise, and he fell in a heap.
Ager spun around and saw Gudon wiping his blade on the poncho of the dead woman at his feet.
“It was Katan,” Ager said, pointing at the chief’s corpse.
“Katan’s wife,” Gudon said. Together they went to the first enemy Gudon had slain.
“Katan’s son?” Ager asked.
Gudon nodded. “Neither father nor son were that good with the saber. The woman was very good. Better than me.”
“How did you beat her?”
Gudon grunted. “She was bleeding from one eye.”
“Ah.” Ager threw down his borrowed saber and found his own. “Who do you think they were after? You for supporting Korigan, or me for humiliating Katan in front of the two circles?”
“Or was Katan working to whittle away some of Korigan and Lynan’s support?”