“Shouldn’t we give them a decent burial?” asked one of the men, gesturing toward the dead outlaws.
“Didn’t you hear me?” growled Brekka. “They are no more than Ukhs. Leave them for the scavengers.”
The man looked at the coachmen, and the driver said to the footmen, “You heard the Dwarf. Drag them to the side and leave them for the crows.”
As the crew dealt with the bodies, nineteen-year-old Rebecca kissed both Warrows on the cheek, and this seemed to cheer them somewhat, but when she approached Brekka, he held up a hand to stop her and said, “It was nothing more than killing vermin.”
The footmen then cleared the log from the road, and the coach got under way again.
That night, as they lay over at the way station, when the two buccen were alone and making ready for bed, Pipper said, “I did not like the feeling I had when I killed that man.”
Binkton sighed and shucked out of his shirt. “Neither did I. But I’ve been thinking about what Brekka said.”
“That Chakka justice is swift and sure?” asked Pipper, kicking off his boots.
“No. That these foul men were no different from Grg. And you know, I think he’s right.”
“How so?”
“Well, Pip, think of all that we have read and heard about Tipperton and Beau and Rynna, and of Tuck and Danner and Patrel and Merrilee, and Perry and Cotton, or Gwylly and Faeril, as well as Cousin Triss and Danby and Kipley.”
“That’s a lot to think about, Bink.”
Binkton nodded, then said, “And then there is Aravan and Brega and Gildor and Vanidor and Vanidar and Riatha and Urus and a whole host of others, to say nought of the many High Kings.”
“What’s all this leading to, Bink?”
“Just this, Pip: none of them hesitated whatsoever in dealing swift justice to evildoers.”
Pipper digested Binkton’s words for long moments as he and his cousin disrobed. Then he sat on the edge of his man-sized cot, his feet dangling freely. “Yes, but those we killed were just highwaymen, robbers. Who knows, they might have been men who had fallen upon hard times and who had turned to banditry simply to feed their families.”
“Perhaps, Pip, yet there are more honest ways of dealing with hard times. No, I think Brekka is right: they were no better than Rucks.”
“But couldn’t we have simply captured them and turned them over to the King’s justice at the next town? – Oh, wait, perhaps that’s not practical. I mean, hauling prisoners all the way to the next gaol.”
“You’re right, Pip,” said Binkton, yawning and pulling his cover up around his neck. “That would have been impractical. Evildoers they were, and swift and sure justice is what they deserved. And listen: dealing swift justice doesn’t mean you have to like it; only that it must be done. Now blow out the candle and let’s get some sleep.”
Pipper snuffed out the flame and darkness descended, but sleep was a long time coming, as both buccen lay in the gloom and wondered if they were merely making excuses for their killing of those men, be they bandits or no.
Three days afterwards, the Red Coach rolled into Gapton, a town at the junction just beyond the Gunarring Gap, a wide opening in the ringlike spur of the Grimwalls. In Gapton the road split and changed names: the Reach Road faring east to Vanar, the capital city of Valon; the Pendwyr Road running southeasterly, toward the Red Hills and past to the Argon Ferry and on to Caer Pendwyr beyond.
Brekka and the Warrows dropped off in Gapton, the Dwarf to rest and enjoy himself, the buccen to try for an engagement at one of the local inns. Binkton and Pipper found that once again their reputation had preceded them, and they made a commitment to the owner of the Red Foal to perform for the next five days, in exchange for room and board and a bit of the good King’s coin.
Brekka stayed at the same inn, and it was he who arranged for the captain of the city watch to be at the very first performance.
Once again Fire and Iron thrilled the patrons, and here, too, Binkton proved no gaol could hold him.
The days flew by, and as time drew near for the buccen to catch the Red Coach and move onward, they debated whether to travel to Vanar, a city of considerable size, or to stick to their original plans and go on to Argon Ferry Town. They asked Brekka for his advice.
“Certainly in Vanar, the Riders of Valon, the Harlingar, would enjoy your show. And I believe you would make a small fortune there. But what I would ask you to consider instead is to come with me to the Red Hills, and perform for Dalek, DelfLord of my Chakkaholt.”
“Put on a show for a king?” blurted Pipper.
“DelfLords are not kings,” growled Binkton.
“I know that, Bink, but he is the leader of a mighty holt, and putting on our show would be just the same as a royal performance, and if that’s not for a king, there’s hardly a whit’s difference between the two.”
“Yes, but he’s not a king.”
Brekka listened to them quibble for long moments, and then called for quiet between the two and said, “I suppose you could say it’s a choice between fame and fortune: fortune in Vanar, fame in the Red Hills, or at least in the Chakkaholt where I was born.”
Binkton looked at Pipper and asked, “What do you think?”
“We can always go to a large city, Bink, but how often will we get a chance to perform before a king?”
“DelfLord, you mean.”
“Oh, all right, DelfLord. But my question remains the same.”
Binkton turned to Brekka. “The Red Hills it is.”
Eight days later and travelling southeast, the Red Coach stopped at a stone-paved spur leading off to the right and into the ruddy hills looming up alongside Pendwyr Road. A flanking pair of Dwarven realmstones warded the pave, marking the boundary of a Chakkaholt. In the shade of a nearby tree a horse-drawn wain stood waiting, the driver, a Dwarf, sitting with his back to the trunk. Binkton and Pipper and Brekka descended from the coach, and with the aid of the footmen, they unladed the chest and their duffles and set them beside the road. The Red Coach then moved on, even as the wain driver stood and led the horses and waggon toward the trio.
“Brekka,” he called.
“Anvar,” replied Brekka.
As Anvar arrived, Brekka introduced the buccen. Binkton and Pipper eyed the second Dwarf they had ever seen. Nearly identical in stature to Brekka was Anvar, though his hair was ginger and his eyes a pale blue. Too, he seemed a bit younger than Brekka, or so Pipper whispered to Binkton.
The two Dwarves laded the Warrows’ trunk onto the wain, Anvar saying, “This seems a bit heavy for the likes of you two.”
“Oh, it is,” replied Pipper. “When we have to handle it ourselves, we unload it and move things piecemeal.”
“It is full of the equipment used in their act,” said Brekka.
“Act?”
“We are Fire and Iron,” said Binkton. He pointed to Pipper and said, “He’s fire; I’m iron.”
“I invited them to put on a show for Dalek,” said Brekka. “They are quite good: Pip with his acrobatics, Binkton with his escapes.”
“No gaol can hold me,” said Binkton, beaming.
Anvar cocked an eyebrow, and Brekka said, “I would hesitate to claim that in Raudholl if I were you, Bink, for you challenge Chakka locks.”
“Raudholl?” asked Pipper.
“The name of our Chakkaholt,” said Anvar. “Or, if you prefer, Redhall.”
They clambered into the wain, and Anvar clucked his tongue and the horses started forward, and up the paved spur and into the Red Hills they went, in among the tors and crags, ruddy-colored stone rising all ’round. Here it was the Dwarves mined iron-rich ore and smelted fine steel in their furnaces to fashion into arms and armor, thought by many to be the finest in all of Mithgar. They made, as well, superior implements: plow-shares and axes and levers and pry bars and saws and other such tools. Dwarf-crafted was a term of excellence in all of the High King’s realms, and a work of armor or a weapon or a tool bearing the crimson mark of the Red Hills was
