Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (24 page)

The man let out a loud laugh, slapping his hands on his corpulent belly. “I am Frar Dareid Ginnar Horbori XXIV, last in the noble line of House Horbori.”

“You are a noble?”

“Was.” Frar grumbled indiscernable words under his breath for a moment. “Until House Ivatholl took hold the throne of Eurig. Now I am but a humble traveling merchant. Right good at it too, if I do say so.”

Gawain remembered Lady Heid Ivatholl from the clansmeet.

“What are you lot doing out on a miserable night such as this?”

“We escort the young master of Helygen to his home,” Garth spoke, motioning to Connor.

“Best be on your guard. There is talk of strange folk…‌this road be thick with ‘em. So I heard.”

“Have you witnessed any in your travels?” Gawain asked, frightened for Connor’s sake.

“None since leavin’ Niseport.”

“You have traveled so far?” Connor finally spoke up, voice noticeably strained.

“Aye.” Frar nodded enthusiastically, tapping the bottom of the lanter with a flick of his forefinger. “I be on my way to Castle Cærwyn now, visitin’ towns along the way.”

“I do not think you will be pleased with your travels,” Connor said. “Until you reach the castle town, most villages will not be able to afford your wares.”

“That’s what I be fearin’.” Frar sighed. “I don’t travel to Cærwyn often. I travel up and down the Astellan Ea, selling Duamor ware in Niseport.”

“I am the nephew of High King Alric II,” Connor proclaimed. “Once you reach Cærwyn, mention my name and you may receive audience with the high king. Whilst the villages of the territory will not afford you accommodations, my uncle shall.”

“Aye? So it is true he does not preference Humes?”

“Very much true.” Connor nodded.

Gawain noticed Connor’s voice grew far hoarser.

Gawain noted Frar did not appear to be particularly large, even by Duamor standards. “I am surprised you travel alone with such talks of strange folk.”

“Ha!” Frar turned around and rustled about in a pack in his covered cart while Gawain and Connor glanced at one another, unsure of what he was doing.

“Just let ‘em try to come at ol’ Frar.”

Frar pulled out a massive maul in one hand and a large broad axe in the other.

Gawain looked in awe at the intricately detailed weaponry. The maul seemed a standard warrior’s hammer, save for its large size, but upon closer inspection, he noticed detailed, Duamor clan patterns carved into the metal of the hammer’s head. While the hammer was detailed, the axe was the quintessence of Duamor design. Almost crescent-shaped, the head was honed to a deadly sharp blade while the tail of the axe was comprised of a long spike, wickedly sharp, with a similar, presumably brass, spike atop the axe, and the same clan patterns which adorned the axe head and the entirety of the shaft. Never in all his time at the battlefront had he seen such finely crafted weaponry.

“You sell Duamor crafted weaponry?” Gawain’s eyes were still transfixed upon the weapons Frar held.

“Amongst other Duamor goods, aye.” Frar put his weapons back in the cart.

“May I see your wares, merchant?” Gawain rode close to the side of Frar’s cart.

“Sure as flies love a horses arse.” Frar shuffled back into his cart and pulled the covering up slightly on the side so Gawain could peruse the merchandise he still carried.

“That one there.” Gawain pointed.

Frar pulled the long sword from its hook on the side of the cart and handed it to Gawain.

Gawain unsheathed it from the finely crafted scabbard. He placed the flat side of the blade on the side of his hand, watching as it balanced perfectly with its full-pommel tang.

“I also take trades,” Frar said, practically salivating over the Gwelian sword on Gawain’s belt.

“I am not interested in a trade. This sword is very valuable to me. How much gold?”

“For that one? Three.”

Gawain nodded, reaching into his money purse and fumbling around for three gold sovereigns.

As he paid Frar, he noticed a rosewood box to the side. “What is in that box?”

Frar lifted the box with an audible groan and set it on the lip of the cart’s side. As he opened the box, Gawain felt his heart jump into his throat.

Starmetal.

One of the rarest of materials, starmetal was a sacred stone which fell from the sky, wreathed in flame. Normally found in small pieces, they were said to be pieces of Dweömer that had ventured into the sky once, long ago, and had returned to their mother, transformed. To have a piece large enough to be honed into a blade had never been heard of, as far as Gawain knew. Such a weapon could come only from the Duamor. Only they knew how to work with the material.

“How much?” Gawain glanced back at Connor.

Frar let out another raucous belly laugh. “How much ya got?”

Gawain unfastened his Gwelian sword and handed it to Frar as well as the entirety of his money purse.

“You must really want it, aye?” Frar counted the coins in the purse. After a moment’s pause, he finally looked back up at Gawain. “I shouldn’t let it go for this much.”

“That is all I have.”

Frar grumbled, looking back into the coin purse. “I don’t suppose I’ma find another buyer. I’ll be glad to get rid of the thing.”

Frar poured the gold coins from the purse into a chest tucked behind his seat before returning the empty pouch to Gawain.

“May our paths cross once again.” Frar’s grin could be made out even beneath the forest of his beard as he closed the covering and returned to his seat at the front of his cart.

“Were you not traveling in opposition to our path, I would invite you to travel with us,” Gawain said as he strapped the large box to his pack.

“I thank ye.” Frar bowed his head in a polite manner before he grabbed the reins of the horses and proceeded on the road to Cærwyn.

“We make camp for tonight,” Gawain announced.

“It’ll be damn near impossible to start a fire,” Garth told him.

“No fire. We do not need to draw attention to ourselves.” Gawain motioned to an outcrop of rocks. “Set up the tents there. We will have shelter from both the rain and the wind.”

Before long, the men had constructed several tents beneath the largest boulder in the outcrop.

“Garth and Ioan, stand guard first,” Gawain ordered as he dismounted. “We shall rotate twice before dawn. I shall guard the Lord Connor.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Garth grumbled.

“Connor?”

“I am all right,” he tried to assure him, but Gawain could tell he was anything but fine.

Víðófnir knelt to the ground and Connor fell forward as he attempted to dismount, falling into Gawain’s arms.

“You have my thanks.” Connor steadied himself.

Gawain led Connor to the tent closest to the back of the rock formation and pulled back the flap for him.

“Here.” Gawain held out a tunic from Connor’s pack. “You are in luck‌—‌it is dry.”

“Thank you.” Connor dropped his cloak on the ground just outside the tent and struggled to remove his vest. “Gawain, might you assist me?”

Gawain nodded, setting his pack on the floor of the tent. He slid his hands beneath the leather vest, lifting it away from Connor’s wound.

“Are your bandages dry?” Gawain tossed the wet vest in the corner.

Connor felt around on his chest apprehensively, shaking his head. “Damp, but nothing too bad it will not dry by morning.”

“There is no sense in sleeping in wet bandages. I can help you put on new ones. Do you have any salve?”

Connor nodded, pulled the container from his pack and looked at its contents. “A little.”

Gawain locked forearms with Connor and helped him kneel on the warm furs which made up the floor of the tent. Before reaching for the salve, he lit a rushlight, setting it nearby.

“How much should I apply?” Gawain, admittedly, knew little of the medicinal ways of Arlais.

“Only a small amount.” Connor took a dab from the crock and put it on Gawain’s finger.

“I shall stay with you throughout the night,” Gawain assured him as he applied the salve.

Connor winced as Gawain touched the wound. “My sleep shall be sound with that knowledge.”

After he had wrapped Connor’s wound in dry linen bandages, Gawain tucked the crock of remaining salve back in Connor’s pack.

Gawain looked down at Connor, who appeared to have already fallen asleep, or passed out, from exhaustion. He hated himself for not insisting they set up camp the night prior, but Connor wanted to continue. He sat his pack down in the corner of the tent and stripped off his soaked clothes.

Chilled, he pulled back the blankets next to Connor and wrapped them firmly around himself. He eyed Connor’s pale face.

“I do not yet slumber,” Connor spoke softly, eyes still shut. “You may speak with me.”

“When we met the merchant‌—”

“Frar Dareid Ginnar Horbori XXIV.” Connor managed a laugh at the ostentatious nature with which the merchant had introduced himself.

“Do you remember me browsing his wares?” Gawain whispered.

Connor nodded ever so slightly, but kept his eyes closed.

“I purchased‌—”

“A sword,” Connor interrupted.

“Yes, but in addition…” Gawain reached for his pack and took out the box. “…this as well.”

“Hm?” Connor opened his eyes, weary.

“It is for you.” Gawain opened the box.

Connor had not the strength to reach for it.

“Here.” Gawain unwrapped the linen, revealing the weapon beneath the wrappings. Slightly longer than a dagger, but not long enough for a short sword, it was polished to a high shine and black as the blackest night. Gold veins shimmered throughout, catching in the glow of the rushlight. It was one solid piece: the blade, hilt, handle and pommel.

Connor had never seen anything like it.

“It is for luck.” Gawain watched Connor’s eyes scan the sword.

“It would seem I cannot refuse a gift which grants luck.” Connor managed a small smile, but kept his eyes on the blade’s gold veins as they shimmered in the light. “I require all the luck the Goddess would bestow upon me.”

“It is sure to protect you.” Gawain slid the weapon into a finely crafted, leather scabbard and placed it between them. “May it protect us both this night and ward off bandits.”

“Agreed.”