Jaleigh Johnson - Unbroken Chain - The Darker Road

“Who are these berserkers?” Ashok said.

“The warriors of Rashemen,” Tatigan explained. “When we get there, you’ll likely meet them. They have fangs-battle groups-to protect every village in the country.”

“We?” Ashok said, surprised. “You’ll be on the caravan with us?”

“Leading the caravan, you mean.” Tatigan couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “For years I’ve attached myself to other crews to peddle my goods, but I’m tired of the small scale. I’ve started a venture with three other merchants, a coster caravan that’ll claim the Golden Way trade route as its own. We leave soon to beat the first snows in the North. Uwan tells me that, by happy coincidence, you have business in Rashemen with the wychlaran and need an escort, which I offered to provide.”

Ashok took back his glass from Tatigan. He swirled the liquid and watched it settle, taking in the color and vibrancy of the wine while he tried to take in Tatigan’s words. Firewine, berserkers, fangs-he wanted to know more about these Rashemi, but first, he needed to know how much Tatigan knew about his own mission into their country. “Did Uwan tell you what our business in Rashemen was?” he asked carefully.

“No, and I didn’t ask. As always, I serve the Watching Blade and the city of Ikemmu,” Tatigan said, offering a whimsical half bow. “Besides, it will be good to have as many skilled warriors as possible along for our first outing. Everyone benefits.”

Ashok took another drink-a sip this time-of the jhuild. He shuddered as the poisoned pleasure hit him. “Warriors that brew this drink could understand the shadar-kai,” he murmured.

Tatigan looked at him over the rim of his spectacles. “See now, that’s why I’m glad you stopped by to see me, Ashok. You always say such interesting things.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Tatigan went to his desk and sat on the edge. He lifted one of the parchment sheets. “I make the same observation here in my research.” He read the text aloud. “ ‘Faerun’s native humans are ill-equipped to confront the driven nature of the shadar-kai, their motivations, and goals. Relationships, particularly trade relations, are by no means impossible-we have daily evidence of success-but the discord in their natures creates a barrier in social and cultural interactions. Of all the human peoples in Faerun, the ones most suited to understand the shadar-kai are the Rashemi.’ ” He set the parchment back down.

“The history of Rashemen is fraught with war and strife,” Tatigan went on. He pointed at the map on the wall. “Even their geography works against them. Look: Their southern neighbors, the Thayans, launched countless invasions over hundreds of years. From the East, the Tuigan horde did the same, to say nothing of the lost empires of Narfell and Raumathar-powers that used Rashemi land as a battleground. Despite all this, their people carve home and glory out of a harsh, isolated environment. They submit utterly to the authority of the wychlaran -witches-and reward their warriors for superior skill and fighting prowess. In battle, frenzy consumes their berserker warriors, a force that rivals the ecstasy of pain and suffering embraced by the children of Netheril, the shadar-kai. The great irony is that the isolated natures of both peoples would never allow one to seek out the other for an alliance.”

“Until now,” Ashok said.

“Precisely.”

“Can we expect a fight from these berserkers?” Skagi said. Like Ashok, he’d regained his composure from the jhuild.

“That all depends,” Tatigan said. “They open their lands for trade caravans, though they never welcome outsiders with open arms. Shadar-kai have walked among them before as sellswords on caravan runs out from Ikemmu, so you’re nothing new to them-a curiosity perhaps, but nothing more.”

“This isn’t a trading mission for us. We’re approaching their people directly for aid,” Ashok said quietly. He took another sip of the red liquid. It burned on his lips. “That changes the game.”

“Indeed,” Tatigan said. “Honestly, I’m looking forward to seeing how all the pieces come together.”

“If our relations are poor, you’ll be in the middle of it,” Skagi pointed out.

“He’s right,” Ashok said. “Does your voice carry any weight among the Rashemi? Could you help us secure an audience with the witches?”

“The wychlaran don’t involve themselves with common trade matters,” Tatigan said. “The most I could do is talk to the local folk on your behalf, but it won’t make you less suspicious. No, in this you’re going to be on your own.”

If Ilvani was dreaming about a Rashemi witch, there had to be a reason for it. “We’ll just have to make them understand our need,” Ashok said.

Skagi held up his empty glass. “And get them to share their firewine.”

During the days that followed, Ashok stayed on the fringes of the caravan preparations. Reflecting the dynamic of the races in Ikemmu, there was little for him or the other shadar-kai to do-this stage of the journey belonged to the merchants of the coster caravan.

The plan as Uwan had laid it out with Tatigan was for Ashok, Skagi, Cree, and Ilvani to escort Tatigan, accompanied by three other merchants and their personal guards, through the Underdark side of the city. They and the rest of the crew, including the drovers and the wagons, would then use a portal to transport themselves and the trade cargo to the surface of Faerun.

Tatigan and several other wealthy merchants in Ikemmu paid a bloated sum in coin to maintain the portal in order to transport cargo. Of course, the magic that powered the portal was unstable-all the merchants knew that. More often than not, they lost cargo, and sometimes entire wagons were transported across half of Faerun in the opposite direction from where they intended to go, but most of the merchants felt it was worth the risk to avoid losing half their yearly incomes to drow raiding parties.

In the meantime, though, Ashok did not sit idle. He had his own tasks to complete, his own preparations to make. And though it pained him, the first thing he did was return to the forges and the scene of Olra’s murder.

He found the woman he and Olra had rescued at work alone by the fire. Clerics had healed her wounds, but Ashok noticed a small tattoo of a black snake wound around her arm, just below where the creature had bitten her.

She worked meticulously and with such concentration that she didn’t notice when Ashok entered the hut. She held a length of red-glowing metal in gloved hands, a fiery brand that would become a sword when she finished molding it.

The woman turned and saw him. She had dark hair drawn into a tail away from her face. A pair of silver studs pierced her nose, and across her collarbone was another tattoo-a length of spiked chain not unlike his own.

“I wondered when you’d come back,” she said. Her voice was gentle, at odds with the harsh forge fire and the gleaming brand she held up between them. The red fire reflected in her black eyes.

“I left my weapon behind,” Ashok said.

The unforged weapon drew his gaze. The metal was hot enough to sear flesh, yet she held the brand up close to her face without flinching, studying every curve, each imperfection in the metal.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the forge master said. “I find I like the metal best in this shape-unforged, barely more than a thought.”

“I’d always heard the blacksmith loves the finished weapon best,” Ashok observed.

“Oh, there’s beauty in that, too, and a blood bond between the forger and the blade. But in this breath, the metal is only what we make of it in our thoughts. It’s perfect in a way it never will be again. We bend and shape it, so malleable, even though it has the power to burn us down. There is always the risk that the fire will maim us and master us.”