Bound by Iron

Chapter TWO

A Mutual Acquaintance

Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998

The dwarf struck an overhand blow. Still reeling from the punch, Cimozjen barely raised his shield arm in time. The other arm still propped him upright where he sat. The blow wracked his forearm with pain.

The dwarf swung again, and Cimozjen managed to angle his arm. The club slid down his forearm and off, causing no harm to his body but bringing a new burning pain to the length of his arm bone. In that brief moment, Cimozjen managed to push himself up so that he was sitting on his heel. The other leg was still in front of him, drawn in defensively, and he thanked the Host that the dwarf didn’t think of striking his exposed knee.

The dwarf struck again and again-rapid overhand blows-slowly beating down Cimozjen’s defense. Every strike made his arm throb all the more. Then one of the blows struck Cimozjen’s head, just above the left temple. He felt two or three spikes tear his scalp, and his ears rang from the impact.

Abruptly his opponent changed tactics, and the next attack came with a snapping sidearm swing, catching Cimozjen full in the ribs. With his sagging arm guarding his bleeding head, his side was completely unprotected, and again he felt blunt iron spikes jab into his flesh.

Cimozjen reflexively dropped his arm, and for his troubles he got several more cuts on the inside of his arm as the dwarf pulled the spiked club back.

The dwarf paused, wheezing through his teeth. Cimozjen couldn’t quite tell if his panting utterances were an attempt at laughter, or just an expression of extreme exertion.

Now that he was sitting on his heel and, for the moment, stable, Cimozjen whipped up his right arm and snared his fingers through the dwarf’s thick beard. He closed his fist around a hefty handful of coarse hairs and pulled, simultaneously pushing up with his leg and whipping his head forward. He aimed the heavy part of his brow at the dwarf’s nose, and was rewarded with a loud crunching sound and the spray of the dwarf’s spittle in his eyes.

The dwarf flailed at him, succeeding only in hitting Cimozjen weakly on the back of the head with the handle of his club.

Cimozjen dropped back to a sitting position, then yanked the dwarf forward and head butted each of the dwarf’s cheekbones. He paused for a second to ensure the dwarf’s nose was bleeding profusely, then he butted it once more for good measure. The grinding sound was at once appalling and satisfying.

Cimozjen sat back, whipped the dwarf’s head to the left and right to disorient him, then twisted to the side and yanked the dwarf forward by the beard, throwing him over his shoulder. The dwarf landed flat on his back with a heavy, meaty thud. The club skittered along the ground with a string of hollow-sounding thunks and dull metal pings.

“So be it,” panted Cimozjen, wincing at his pain, “I gave you the chance to walk free. But now I must tell the town watch. And then your nose will be the least of your troubles.” He paused as he inspected the dwarf’s damaged face. “Well, perhaps not. But look on the bright side. You can fall on your face with impunity now.”

He rose to his feet and lurched over to the young woman. He kneeled beside her, wincing as he did so.

“Are you badly hurt?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“I am well enough, I suppose,” grumbled Cimozjen. He hissed an intake of breath. “Though I wrenched my neck butting his face. Not as limber as I used to be.” He rubbed the base of his neck and grumbled. “Nor as fleet. How do you fare, miss?” he asked at last, looking down at her with longsuffering eyes.

“He struck my head,” she said. “And my basket of food …”

“I cannot help your groceries,” said Cimozjen, “save to help you find them before the rats do. But let me see to your head.” He reached out his left hand and gingerly ran it along her scalp, at last settling on a knot on the back of her skull. “Right, that’s a good one. Feels as large as a wood nut.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” she said bravely. “I’ll be fine.”

“I tell you the truth, you’ll be better than fine. Allow me.” He cupped his hand over the bruise, bowed his head, and held his right hand fisted to his breast. Whispered words flew from his tongue, a barely audible litany.

She gasped. “It tingles … it …” Then her tone turned sour. “What are you doing? You didn’t use a leech, did you? I don’t want one of those things in my hair!” She put her hand to the back of her head and felt around. “Where-hey, where did-” She paused, looking at Cimozjen in confusion. “Magic?” She smiled in amazement, then her look faltered. “But … but I’ve no coin, good man. I can’t afford …”

“Do not trouble your heart, young miss,” said Cimozjen. He bowed his head. “I am sworn by oaths to Dol Dorn, the Puissant and Powerful. The Sovereign Host rewards my faith and humble service with a few blessings to share with others, and for that I am grateful.”

“An acolyte of Dol Dorn, eh?” said the woman, as if she fully understood the deeper secrets that implied. “Still, I am surprised that you could defeat a member of the Iron Band. They’re said to be the best warriors we’ve ever fielded. Outside of the Order of Rekkenmark, of course.”

“You’re sure you’re well enough now?” asked Cimozjen, trying to change the subject. “You’re not injured elsewhere?”

The young woman pulled her hood back over her head and started to rise. “What I mean to say is, well, over the years I’ve seen their sigil armband in a place of honor on several family mantles, and the tales they told … well, I suppose maybe those stories were exaggerated. But I hope not overmuch.”

Cimozjen smiled as he, too, stood. “Rest assured, young miss, he was not a fellow of the Iron Band.”

Confusion clouded her brow. “But he showed me the armband. There’s nothing else quite like them.”

“Whatever he may-pardon me, young miss, would you repeat that?”

“He showed me the armband.”

Cimozjen held up one finger and marshaled his thoughts. “I must beg you to forgive me my poor manners, if you please, young miss,” he said.

He turned to the dwarf, who lay on his back, rocking back and forth with both hands over his nose. The unfortunate thief groaned more or less constantly, the sound muffled by his callused palms.

Cimozjen stalked over, kneeled down, and felt along the dwarf’s left arm, then along the other. Just above his right elbow he felt a metal ring. Gripping the dwarf’s ragged cuff in both hands, he roughly tore the shirt to expose the armband. It glinted slightly.

“Ass!” yelled Cimozjen. He punched the dwarf solidly in the stomach. “It’s worn on the left arm!”

He grabbed the dwarf’s scalp and yanked, raising him to a sitting position. The dwarf whimpered behind his hands, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. Cimozjen reached one hand beneath the rear of his tunic and drew a long, heavy dagger. The keen blade sang as he freed it from the scabbard.

The dwarf’s eyes popped open.

Cimozjen held up his blade and turned it side to side. “Remove that band from your wrist, or I’ll pull it off the stump of your shoulder,” he hissed.

The dwarf pulled his hands away from his ruined face and, fumbling, took the armband off. He tried to offer it to Cimozjen, but his hands, bloody and trembling, let it drop to the damp ground.

Keeping tight hold of the thief’s hair, Cimozjen picked up the armband using the blade of his dagger. He inspected it closely in what little light remained. He turned back to the dwarf. The pain he felt twisting his neck added gravity to his stare.

He smiled mirthlessly. “Perhaps you’d care to show me where you found this?” he said. His cold tone carried the dire consequences of the dwarf’s alternative.

“H-happy to,” stammered the dwarf through his hands.

“Good.” He used his blade to open the flap of his haversack. He let the armband slide off the dagger and into safekeeping, then spun his weapon expertly. “Otherwise, to find out, I would have to resort to measures that I find … distasteful. And if you were to cause me to break my vows like that-”

“You don’t need to be getting into explanations now, if’n that’s fine by you.” The thief rummaged one hand around inside his cloak and found a rag, which he put to his nose.

“I am glad that we agree on this,” said Cimozjen. He stood, his injuries protesting every motion. “Let’s bid the good woman a fair evening, shall we?”

“Of course,” the dwarf said, his tone rather nasal. “Good night, woman.”

Cimozjen twisted his hair and whispered something in his ear.

“I, uh, I’m sorry for, uh, what I did, you know,” said the dwarf in a voice pitched rather higher.

The woman stamped her foot. “I should give you a good whacking for what you did,” she said. She picked up the dwarf’s spiked club and began unwrapping it.

“Here now, there’ll be none of that, miss,” said Cimozjen.

“Oh, no,” said the woman. “Just words. Though I thought you might want your coat back, brave man.”

“Of course. My thanks,” said Cimozjen as he took the proffered garment. “Please forgive our abrupt departure,” he added, touching his dagger to his brow, “but we’ve some business to attend to immediately. May you find your basket and goods, and make it home safely. I shall pray for you.” Cimozjen looked back at the dwarf. “Well?”

“Hm? Oh, uh, King’s Bay. The, uh, piers. At the west end of the Low District.”

“We’re off, then,” said Cimozjen with feigned joviality. He recovered his staff, holding it in his hand with his dagger, and the two left the young woman behind.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” said the dwarf as they walked along, “where in the woods did you pull that dagger from?”

“This? My father-Sovereigns keep his soul-gave it to me when I was thirteen. I always carry it.”

“Don’t take this as a complaint, because it’s not, I mean I’d just as soon not have got myself stabbed dead back there, but why didn’t you pull it out in, um, you know …”

“Why did I not knife you?” Cimozjen clucked his tongue. “I’ve taken enough lives in my nigh-on fifty years that I prefer to work things out peaceably when I can. I feel no need to notch my reputation with further bloodshed. I stopped your crime. We both lived. That’s a fine enough outcome for me, and hopefully one to please the Sovereigns, as well.”

The two walked through the darkened streets for some time before the dwarf finally broke the silence.

“Begging your pardon, and not that I want to be contrary, but you don’t really need to keep hold of the hair on my head any more. Truly you don’t.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” said Cimozjen wearily.

“And why would that be?”

“Just in case I need to yank your head back and slit your throat.”

“I thought you said you didn’t need any more bloodshed.”

“I’m willing to make an exception tonight.”

The dwarf tried to think of a reply, but failed. Then, several blocks later, he said, “If you think you might see such an exception coming upon us, I’d be very grateful if you’d be sure and let me know beforehand, right?”

The two walked the cobbled streets. The cold had turned bitter after sunset, and those few others still in the streets were only too happy to ignore the pair. Cimozjen, his ruined longcoat draped over his shoulders, marked the paces with the clacking of his metal-shod staff, his dagger held concealed against the wood, just in case. His other hand seemed to rest easily on the dwarf’s shoulder, but was tightly wound into his hair. Just in case.

The dwarf led Cimozjen through the Community Ward to King’s Bay, an elongated backwater carved ages ago from the banks of the Karrn River. It was one of the few operable portages along that stretch of the river. For dozens of miles in each direction steep bluffs prevented any craft larger than a canoe from making a decent landing.

King’s Bay was also cold and very, very deep, which gave cause for some to wonder whether or not it had been formed by a sinkhole that went all the way down to Khyber. Superstitious sailors would make an offering to the Devourer every year that the whole of the port would not drop into the abyss, at least not while they were sailing on it.

The piers that reached into the bay were by and large the same-aged, weatherworn planks strung between pilings made of heavy Karrnathi pine trunks. A few piers were new, rebuilt or in the process thereof with the arrival of peace, and one, the King’s Pier, was a veritable causeway made of stone that reached farther into the dark waters than any other.

Though the wharfs remained largely unchanged as one walked the length of King’s Bay, the surroundings most certainly did not. Cimozjen and his guide turned left as they reached the bayside, and as they walked, the buildings gradually became smaller, denser, and less presentable. Bawdy dockside alehouses and brothels plied a steady trade in the cold weather, offering warmth and companionship, or at least the illusion of it. Gambling houses and the so-called smokehouses found other, more direct means to part people from their silver.

Together Cimozjen and his prisoner paced the length of the waterfront, coming at last to the westernmost of the piers, sited in the lee of a bluff that rose rather abruptly from the ground just to the west. There, the dwarf stopped.

“I trust that you did not find this armband lying here dockside in this ramshackle ward,” said Cimozjen.

“No,” said the dwarf, a tremor in his voice. “I got it from that man, over there.” He pointed to a small pale patch that lay at the water’s edge, barely visible from the wan glow of a nearby establishment. “I hoped maybe he’d have a small purse or something, but that was all he had on him. Weren’t ’til I got somewhere private and had a chance to look it over careful that I figured out what it really was.”

“You mean to tell me that driftwood is a body?”

“It’s the sovereign truth.”

“Show me.”

“You’re the one with the dagger.”

They stepped off the edge of the cobbled waterfront and made their way down a weed-infested slope to the water’s edge. The dwarf slipped on the wet ground, and, because Cimozjen still held his hair, he lost his balance and landed heavily on one hip. This in turn pulled Cimozjen after him. He stumbled into the dwarf and knocked him further, forcing the thief to slide into the water, though by some miracle he recovered his feet as he splashed in.

“Blunted, that’s cold!” cursed the dwarf. “Could you please let go of my hair now? Argh, I can’t see a cursed thing!”

Cimozjen released his locks. With a miserable whine, the dwarf climbed up the bank a bit, plopped down, and started removing his dripping footwear with one hand. The other continued to staunch the bleeding remnants of his nose.

Cimozjen looked at the water’s edge. The dim shape was definitely a body, the shoulders apparently run aground in the shallows. Little more could be seen, as the rest of the body was submerged. Cimozjen pulled a braided leather necklace from beneath his collar and grasped the holy Octogram that hung from it. “Dol Arrah, favor your brother’s servant this day,” he intoned, and the symbol began to glow with a radiance of ethereal beauty, “and grant my prayer that you make your perfect face to shine upon my duty.”

“All that, and he orders the gods around, too,” said the dwarf, tittering nervously. A glare from Cimozjen killed his joviality, and he mumbled an apology.

Cimozjen sheathed his blade and set his staff down. Stepping into the cold water, he gently pulled the body out and laid it to rest on the sloping shore. He bent down to inspect it.

The corpse was tall and unnaturally thin. His bones spoke that he’d once been a more robust man. He was pale blue, but how pale he’d been before dying and being left in frigid water, Cimozjen couldn’t tell. He had long, scraggly hair and an unkempt beard, originally brown, but both shot through with strands of white and gray. His dilated pupils were surrounded by a corona of ice blue, unnaturally suited to his newfound skin tone. And his scant attire-pants and a vest-was, at best, ratty and filthy.

The cause of death was obvious. A heavy blow across the chest had broken ribs and split his breastbone.

“Did you kill him?” asked Cimozjen.

“No, I didn’t,” said the dwarf. “Even if I had an axe, which I don’t, I don’t think I could hit a man like he’s done been hit.”

“Go on.”

“I found him like that this afternoon. Well, he was just kind of under the water, like a dead fish. I used a stick to pull him to shore. Figured drifting in the water like that odds were he hadn’t been picked over yet. That’s the sovereign truth, the whole of it, I swear.”

“And he stayed here undisturbed all day?”

“Well, it looks like he kind of slid back in, because I left him half ashore. Or maybe someone else picked him over and gave him a shove. But sure, no one has really bothered with him since. In this part of town, that’s no surprise. When the watch comes down here, which don’t happen overmuch, they’re mostly concerned about them as still moves.”

Cimozjen nodded. “I thank you for your assistance. And you should thank the Host that I only broke your nose. If the city watch had caught you, you’d find the Code of Kaius a lot less compassionate than I have been. Instead, you’re getting a second chance this night. Make the most of it. Now go.”

Cimozjen turned his attention back to the corpse, ignoring the scuffling and grunting as the dwarf tugged on his sodden shoes and beat a hasty retreat. Cimozjen pulled the hair out of the dead man’s face, trying to recognize his features. The arc of the dimpled chin, the angled eyes, the exaggerated curve of his upper lip-they were hauntingly familiar, yet unrecognizable, inanimate and emaciated as they were.

He started scanning the rest of the body, looking for telltale marks, scars …

And then he saw the tattoo.

Twenty-nine years earlier:

“Do you like it?” The soldier-a tall, robust man with dark, oiled hair and a well-muscled torso-threw his tunic aside and proudly displayed the intricate tattoo on his bare chest. The skin it covered was raw and sore, and glistened with an ointment to speed healing.

Several others around made approving grunts and murmurs, so Cimozjen could hardly resist interfering. He sauntered over and neatly sliced his way through the small knot of soldiers.

Cimozjen leaned forward and peered at the tattoo closely. It was exquisitely rendered, with excellent detail and a good depth of color. “Mm. It’s a bit off center,” he said in an underwhelmed tone of voice.

“It’s drawn over the heart!” snapped the soldier.

“Ah, I see. In that case, it’s right on target.” He straightened and held out a hand. “Cimozjen Hellekanus at your service. Welcome to the Iron Band.”

The soldier took his hand in a grip as tight as sailor’s knot. “Torval Ellinger, recruited out of the Rekkenmark.”

“Truly?” said Cimozjen. “I spent two years there myself, before I volunteered to go to battle.”

“Tired of mucking the stables, were you?” asked Torval. The others snickered.

“No,” said Cimozjen. “Tired of mucking your bunk.”

The other soldiers hooted at his riposte.

“But I have a question, good Torval. If you’ve been to the Academy, why did you feel the need for a chipmunk tattoo?”

“It’s a wolf!” snarled Torval, irritated. Then, with a calm pride, he added, “It’s rendered in the old heraldry style, a wolf rampant-the traditional symbol of our land.”

“Eating an acorn?”

“Grabbing the crown of Galifar!” roared Torval.

“Ah. Well, it’s a very nice tattoo, now that you’ve explained it,” said Cimozjen suppressing a wry smile.

“You may not think it’s much, but you’re the lone arrow on that. Right, boys?” He looked at the other soldiers, hands out, and the others murmured their assent. “They’ll be even more impressed when they see this,” he bellowed. He flexed his muscles, hunching forward and bowing his arms to display his entire upper body to best advantage.

“Perhaps I’m missing the point,” said Cimozjen. “They’ll be even more impressed when you’re constipated?”

Torval drew himself up and stalked slowly over to Cimozjen, until the latter found his nose all but touching the top of Torval’s breastbone. “Look me in the eyes and say that,” he growled.

“I would look up,” said Cimozjen, “but think the view would be underwhelming.”

“Coward,” said Torval. “All talk until a real threat comes, hm?” He chest-bumped Cimozjen, knocking him a step back, and closed the distance to loom over him once more. “So are you going to fight me like a man, or run crying to the commander?”

Cimozjen looked up to lock eyes with Torval. “I am your commander,” he said.

Torval’s face did not merely fall. It collapsed. “Uhh …” he said.

Cimozjen thumped him on the chest. “And if a soldier like you falls for that feint, maybe I should try it against the Thranes, hm? What do you think?”

“What?” roared Torval. “You-you-” Anger flushing his face, he cocked his fists, ready to smash down on Cimozjen like a sledge. His torso once more knotted into a rock-hard formation more reminiscent of masonry than muscle.

Cimozjen raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “Wow,” he said as he thumped Torval’s chest again. “Never mind that. When the Thranes come, I’ll just take cover behind you and your chipmunk.”