David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Follow me,” said the foreman.

They walked along a path pounded flat by half a century of carts, feet, and wheelbarrows. A few of the men glanced up, but most ignored them, or did their best to look busy. Mark saw several women wandering about with food and water for the men. A few carried needles and cloth to wrap, stitch, and bandage the day’s toll of blisters and cuts. He saw at least four main entrances to the lower slopes of the mountain. The foreman took him to the largest, where a crowd had gathered.

The two stopped and listened, for a man had come from inside the mine. A young boy stood at his side, his red hair covered with dirt. Mark knew them both.

“I’ve looked it over,” said Arthur as he pulled off a pair of gloves and tossed them aside. “It’s a new vein, all right, the richest we’ve found in ten years. We’ll shift men from mines three and four to help drain the rest of the water, and I’ll send word for more oxen. Hard work is ahead, but tonight, we’ll share a glass to celebrate!”

They cheered and smiled, and even the foreman beside Mark clapped in excitement. Mark kept his arms crossed and watched Nathaniel. He stood beside Arthur, keeping his face passive and his eyes to the ground. Such good behavior from someone barely five…it struck Mark as worrisome. Even when the cheering began, Nathaniel only looked around once, and after a few seconds’ delay, clapped twice.

Mark waited as the rest of the men resumed their duties, cheerfully delving back into the mines or pushing their carts for the smelters and their mills. Arthur saw Mark through the crowd, nodded once, and then approached.

“Lord Tullen, I was not expecting such a pleasant surprise,” he said, but the tone in his voice never matched the honeyed words.

Mark withdrew the letter and handed it over.

“I’ve come for Nathaniel,” he said. “Alyssa wishes his safe return, for she misses him terribly. I must say, I was surprised to find him here instead of with lord Gandrem.”

A smile pulled at the sides of Arthur’s lips. He had a long, oval face, and gray hair trimmed extremely short. Mark had never seen a worse shit-eating grin.

“I often talked with Alyssa about bringing Nathaniel here to learn the duties involved in running the mines. At my last visit, I mentioned doing so should the weather break.”

“Her letter doesn’t say that.”

“Given how great her duties are, I am not surprised such a casual comment by myself went unremembered.”

Mark didn’t believe it for a second, but he tried to act like he did.

“Either way, she wishes him back,” he insisted. “So come, Nathaniel. Let us return to your mother.”

“You can’t take him,” said Arthur. When Mark’s eyes flared, the grin on Arthur’s face only grew. “Not by yourself. You would bring the son of the Trifect along the northern road unprotected? He is far too precious a target for ransom. Let me send you some of my men as escort.”

Mark looked away and muttered. Arthur was testing him, his reactions, and he’d given away his thoughts plain as day. As he looked about, he saw two wagons loading up not far to the south.

“Where are they headed?” he asked.

“They?” asked Arthur. He followed his gaze, and then answered far too quickly, “I’m not sure, but they are of no matter to you. Let me get my men.”

“Veldaren,” said Nathaniel before Arthur could leave. “Every week, they bring gold for Veldaren.”

Mark shot the boy a wink, not caring that Arthur saw.

“Then I will ride with them,” he said. “Surely we will be safe amid a well-guarded caravan.”

Arthur’s grin faded.

“Very well. They will slow you down, so make sure Alyssa knows the reason for your delay falls upon you, and not me. I’ll tell the men you’ll be joining them. Nathaniel, go to the castle and pack your things. Hurry now! Do not keep lord Tullen waiting.”

Nathaniel bowed to both and then ran off. Mark watched him go.

“Not a smart child, but at least he is obedient,” Arthur said, walking away.

*

N athaniel rode in one of the two wagons while Mark trotted beside them on his horse. He’d purchased supplies from the tavern, not wishing to be a burden on the caravan. Though he’d stayed out of their way best he could, he made sure to sneak a glance at the cargo-crates of gold coins, all bearing the symbol of the Gemcroft family. Each wagon had a single crate.

“Why just one crate per wagon?” he asked the leader of the caravan, a fat man named Dave.

“Each wagon has its own driver, own guards, own cargo,” Dave answered. “Makes it harder for someone to get to plotting. That, and we’ll fill both wagons on the way back with supplies. You should see how many tools we run through. I swear, for every pound of gold we dig we break two pounds of iron.”

Come nightfall, they set up camp. Several of the guards had slept during their day ride, and so they wandered about, eating, drinking, and watching the roads. Mark took the time to find Nathaniel. The boy ate by himself, huddled in a blanket with his back to a fire.

“Cold?” Mark asked as he sat down beside him.

Nathaniel shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I can’t be. Arthur says that makes me look weak.”

Mark chuckled. “Even the greatest of leaders needs to wear boots in the snow, Nathaniel. You’re allowed to be human.”

The boy pulled the blanket tighter about him. He looked so similar to his mother, the same soft features, stubby nose, and startling red hair. He glanced back at Mark, and then a smile crept across his trembling lips.

“Maybe I’m a little cold.”

Mark laughed.

“Here then,” he said, wrapping his own blanket around the boy. “This should help. From here on out, anything Arthur told you, you double-check with me, all right?”

“Why?” Nathaniel asked, suddenly looking worried. “You saying he lies?”

“No, no,” Mark said, quicker than he meant. “He just…has a peculiar way of looking at the world. He doesn’t think people get cold, remember? I’d love to see him wander in his skivvies during a snowstorm. I bet he’d look like a blue ogre when he came back inside. What do you think? Or maybe a blue orc. Nah. He’s too skinny to be an orc.”

He yammered on, telling jokes both humorous and terrible. It didn’t matter. He watched Nathaniel slowly warm to him, and it relieved Mark tremendously. He’d worried Arthur’s words had wrapped a spell about the boy, turning him into some mindless stooge believing his every word. But Nathaniel was still a five year old boy, and given the chance, he wanted to laugh and joke as much as any other kid his age. Mark knew he might not be the most charming dinner guest, but at least he knew how to make a kid laugh.

Mark let him keep his blanket, instead borrowing another from the wagons. They slept beside the fire.

Come the next morning, Mark awoke with a chill seeped deep into his bones. When he stirred, he saw a thin layer of snow atop the world, including his blanket.

“About time,” said Dave, who was busy untethering their oxen. “You sleep like the dead, Mark.”

“Better to sleep like them than to be them,” he said, shaking off his blanket and looking for a fire.

“No fire,” said Dave. “We need to save the wood in case the snow picks up. Move about. Help us pack. You’ll warm up soon enough.”

He found Nathaniel sitting in one of the wagons, half-buried in blankets.

“I hate winter,” he said when he saw Mark.

“I hear you,” Mark said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Just try to endure. We’ll be home with your mother soon enough.”

The snowflakes were light as they traveled, just a slight nuisance that wet their skin and occasionally stung their eyes. By midday it had thickened, until at last Dave called a halt.