Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

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.”