He fixed her with a look. “I am trying to tell you the story you need, Sun of the family Valgun. Yes, I know your family name as well. I think I know what you need to hear, and I am certain I know how badly you need to hear it. But I am trying, also, to make it a tale worth your time. Have I done a good enough job so far? Do you want to hear more?”
Sun felt many things. She was frightened, uncertain, and more than a little apprehensive about the shadowed wilderness they now rode through.
But above all of that, when she looked deep into her own heart, she had to admit one thing: she did want to hear what happened next.
“Yes,” she said quietly. Then, louder, “Yes. Tell me. Please.”
I told you of Mag fetching her spear from the Reeve. You should know something of that spear, before I continue the tale.
You had heard, before I told you, of Mag’s prowess in battle. But whatever you have heard, and however well I myself describe it, all tales are inadequate. Never have I seen or heard of such a master when it comes to combat. Her mastery extended to any weapon—in the battle of Northwood, she fought with a sword, you remember—but she became truly terrifying when her spear was in her hands.
I was with her when she got that spear, as it happens. We were in the western reaches of Dulmun. I had persuaded her to join the Silver Stirrups for a time, and that company had been summoned there for … sky above, I cannot remember. We were there for months, yet I cannot remember the conflict that brought us. Yet I remember every detail of the moment Mag found her spear. It is often that way when we age, and our memory begins to fail us.
The two of us had been given a day’s leave, and we were spending it in Vaksom, the city that sprang up around the warlight Arod. It was my first time visiting Dulmun, and I found myself uncomfortable—meaning no offense. To an outsider, your people appear quick not only to laugh, but also to anger, and they almost seem to enjoy settling disagreements with their fists. It left me feeling on edge.
But Mag seemed curiously at home in Vaksom. It was strange to see the way she looked at everything, as if she was trying to solve a mystery. Her head was cocked and her eyes were narrowed, and it seemed that half-hidden thoughts swirled around each other in her mind.
“What is it, Mag?” I asked her. “You look pleased to be here, and at the same time confused.”
“I suppose both are true,” she said. “There is something familiar about this place, though I have never been here that I recall.”
“Mayhap you came here as a child?” I said.
“Mayhap,” she murmured.
Suddenly she stopped dead in the street, staring at a shop. I looked it over. It seemed to be the shop of a bladesmith, but a far grander one than I had ever seen. Two stories tall it stood. Its front windows were open, and in them were displayed blades of the highest quality. I saw swords, daggers, and spears, but also many strange weapons that I had never seen the like of. Too, I had never seen a smithy with someone standing guard, but there was one here—a large brute of a man with horribly scarred hands.
“You have good taste,” I told Mag. “But I think your eyes are larger than your purse. Sellswords such as us could not bring the custom a place like this demands.”
Mag did not appear to hear me. She only stepped towards the shop’s door. As she approached, the guard barred her way and held up a hand.
“Stay yourself,” he said, his voice rumbling like an ocean wave. “What business do you have here?”
“What sort of business do you expect?” said Mag. “I wish to buy a weapon.”
The guard eyed her up and down. “You are no customer of this place. Begone.”
“You do not know how much coin I am carrying,” countered Mag.
“You could not carry enough coin on your whole person, and since you do not have a pack horse behind you—”
“Friend,” I said quickly. “You are a hired sword like us, are you not?”
The guard’s mouth twisted. “Not like you.”
I spread my hands wide, giving him a friendly smile. “Oh, not a mercenary, certainly. But we all have something in common: we are paid to fight. You have a greater appreciation for the art of battle than most people could imagine—as do we. And my friend here is special. I swear to you that you have never seen her like in combat.”
The guard arched an eyebrow as he looked down at Mag, who stood a good two heads shorter than he. “If you mean to intimidate me, you are not doing a good job.”
“Not at all,” I said. “But when someone ascends to her lofty heights of skill, they gain a rarefied taste for weapons of war. You may be right: we may not have enough coin to afford your master’s astonishing wares. But can you not understand a desire to simply see them? Let her at least have the dream of fighting with such tools of war, though they may be fit only for the nobility who pay our wages.”
His expression did not change a whit, and I thought my words had been for nothing—and, too, I feared that Mag might escalate matters, for that was a bad habit of hers in those days. But after a moment the guard drew aside, waving an admonishing finger at both of us.
“Disturb nothing,” he said. “Touch nothing. And do not approach my master if she does not speak to you first.”
“You have our word,” I said, nodding my thanks and ushering Mag
