Penny

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Emmaline was in a considerably better mood as she bit into the slice of watermelon Amal provided her. She tried not to think about the fact that she had seen him gut a man with the same knife he used to slice through the rind of the fruit, he DID clean it afterwards of course. There were more people in the hillfort than Emmaline had seen from the road, perhaps a score or more. Mostly they were busy building fires and preparing the evening meal. The sun was just beginning to sink and it wouldn't be dark for another hour or so, but Emmaline knew well that the cold in the pass at night could be as ferocious as the heat during the day, the whipping wind carrying the smell of snow down of the high peaks. The fires were, for the most part, pitiful things. Firewood was in short supply in the pass and most of it had to be brought in, which added expense in both purchasing timber at one end, which the locals of course steeply marked up, and wasted wagon space. The dwarves seemed to be doing business selling animal dung to feed the fires of those guards or merchants willing to shell out a few coins for a bit of extra warmth. Emmaline, fortunately, did not have that problem. It was a simple spell to heat a few rocks till they radiated nicely, a trick she had pulled a few times since they set out for the price of a few coins. It smelled better than the dung fires, but most of the caravanners preferred the stink to magic.

"Poor bastards wont make it till well after nightfall," Heisenbach remarked, walking over towards them with a pair of recently filled waterskins over his shoulder. Emmaline looked up in confusion, wiping juice from her lips with the back of her hand to follow the merchants gesture. Down the pass, a caravan was making its dusty way along the road, coming up from the Border Princes in the opposite direction to their own. Half a dozen wagons struggled over the rough terrain, kicking up a pall of grit, little more than specs at this distance. Emmaline nodded judiciously, as though she were in any way interested, but said nothing to encourage Heisenbach to stay. The swarthy teamster seemed to spend a fair amount of time around the two of them. Though he obviously enjoyed looking at a woman for a change, Emmaline suspected it went deeper than that. Heisenbach viewed himself as an educated man, and viewed Emmaline, if not Amal in a similar light. She supposed she was educated after a fashion, she could read afterall, and her frequent brushes with the nobility and high merchants in Altdorf gave her the barest veneer of culture. He was lonely, and not just in the physical sense.

"These are bad roads after dark," he continued, undeterred by the lack of response.

"Are there roads anywhere that get better after dark?" Amal asked, pausing to spit a stream of seeds onto the steaming rocks with a sizzle. Heisenbach gave an avuncular chuckle.

"You have some wits about you, if you decide you want to make a living as a caravan guard let me know," he told the thief, his eyes slipping, surreptitiously he probably imagined, to Emmaline's bosom.

"Was talking to old Gerd, he says there is fighting back west, an army of beast men besieging Nuln..." Emmaline's eyes swam out of focus and she was suddenly looking up at a grand house with fluted columns and darkened windows, at the same time she was staring out over an expanse of ocean from the deck of a ship. Her stomach lurched vertiginously as the hillfort, the house and the ship tried to simultaneously superimpose on one another. Something hard hit her across the face and when she blinked her eyes clear of tears. She was back in the hillfort, Amal and Heisenbach staring at her in shock. She looked down at her hand in surprise. What had happened, she had been on a ship and... smack!

"Ow!!" she exclaimed, looking at her hand in shock, she had slapped herself, her memory informed her. The snake bracelet on her wrist didn't move, but one of the wood carved eyes gave her a disapproving look.

"Ahh are you ok?" Heisenbach asked, clearly uncomfortable with watching her slap herself. The snake bracelet continued to stare at her sternly. Amal shifted slightly, his posture somewhere between moving to help her or moving to take out Heisenbach . Why he thought that might be necessary she wasn't sure but she pushed thoughts of boats and houses out of her mind.

"Just ahhh.. trying to keep myself awake," she lied, "you know with the..." she nodded towards the fire. Heisenbach nodded, apparently willing to believe that the spell might be draining her. Maybe it was, she was seeing things afterall. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands.

"Well, I should see to the men," Heisenbach said after a moment. "It can get mighty cold here at night, you might want to think about sleeping under one of the wagons incase there is a frost.

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

It was funny how you never regretted having a sword even when you didn’t need it. The thought floated lazily through a detached part of Inez mind as she watched the sailor level the crossbow. Things seemed to move very slowly. The door banged against its stop and began to swing back to. Alrik’s eyes widened with shock. The crewman’s face blanched with panic at finding two targets instead of one. The sound of a gull cawed through the gallery window. The twitch of muscle preparatory to the trigger pull. The slow decent of Alrik’s glass, dropped in shock, the last few drops of liquor sloshing inside. Sunlight glinted off the razor sharp barb of the quarrel. People though to Inez as brave, but she felt her bowels tighten with fear. She was always afraid in battle, the trick, her father had taught her when she tearfully confessed to feeling afraid, was to channel it into action. Adrenaline surged through her veins like fire. Inez had once been called The Hellcat, and she lived up to that sobriquet now. Without any conscious thought her booted foot lashed out, kicking Alrik’s legs from under him. The tradefarer gave an undignified squawk and crashed to the deck, the bolt passing close enough to pluck a puff of stuffing from his coat. Inez’s heart was pounding now, the familiar clarity settling over her like a comfortable pair of boots. The assassin should have shot her and taken his chances at finishing Alrik off with the heavy knife that hung at his belt. Well he wouldn’t get a second chance if she had anything to say about it. All this had passed in a frozen half instant, the illusion broken as the bolt thudded into the bulkhead on the far side of the room, splitting the timber with a crack. Time seemed to leap back to full speed and Inez was ready for it, hurtling across the room at the would be assassin. The sailor, his face a mask of chagrin, took a staggering step back and overbalanced. He grabbed for the door and succeeded only in throwing it half closed into Inez’ path. She struck the door awkwardly, pain flaring in her side, distant and academic, to be worried about later once her blood had cooled. Ricocheting back, she caught herself against the desk and sprang forward again, catching the door and throwing it open. The sailor was on his feet now, mostly so at any rate, lurching down the hallway in a staggering shamble. Inez was through the door, her foot kicking out at the discarded crossbow, sending it spinning after its owner like a missile. It hit him below the knees, knocking him sprawling onto the companionway that led up to the main deck. Inez lunged after him, springing onto his back, fingernails digging at his neck for want of any other weapon. She didn’t even have a knife for the Black Lady’s sake! The sailor screamed and bucked, trying to throw Inez off. She scratched at his face and bit down hard on his ear, tasting the oils from his hair and the products of his poor hygiene. The sailor roared in agony and spun hard, driving her powerfully into the bulkhead with teeth rattling force. Howling in pain he thrust her away and she lost her grip. He turned to run, making it up two stairs before Inez’ lunge caught his ankles and tangled them. He tumbled forward into the door hitting it with a crash and flinging it open to the bright sunlight. Inez was after him, on her hands and knees for a step and then on her feet. She burst out onto the deck, taking in the shocked faces of a dozen sailors, frozen in their duties like an oil painting as their fellow, bleeding from the ear and screaming, staggered onto the deck, pursued by a wild eyed woman they had seen only moments ago with their master. One particularly full witted boy was in the middle of tarring a line, gaped open mouthed, oblivious to the hot tar he was dripping onto his bare foot.

“Help me for the God’s sake!” the sailors screamed, but his fellows were too shocked and confused to do any such thing. He ran across the deck, sure footed, leaping over a low hanging line, weaving between the nest of ropes and cables with the ease of long practice. Home ground advantage or not there was no way he was going to outrun her. The same thought evidently occurred to him because, with a desperate yell, he finally pulled the knife from his belt and whirled to face her, eight inches of steel gleaming in his fist, eyes so wide that the white went all the way around.



“Never a bloody sword when I need one,” she groused to herself, noticing for the first time the taste of blood on her lips. “Never a bloody…” He came at her with an awkward lunge, his entire weight on his front foot. Doubtless he had been in a few tavern brawls, but he was no knife fighter. There were bravas in the south who made it an art, Carmen Sanchez wouldn’t have been caught dead making a lunge like that, not in a thousand Black Days. Inez twisted sideways and caught the sailors wrist twisting hard. He clubbed at her with his other hand, but he was overbalanced and the blow merely bounced off her shoulder. She drove her elbow back into the pit of his stomach, turning her body into it as she had been taught. Breath exploded from his lungs and he staggered backwards, mewling like a beast. Inez turned and opened her mouth to call for him to surrender. Before the words could come, a foot of bloody steel burst from the would be assassin's chest. He stared down at it in obvious shock for a moment, blood welling up around the blade and pouring down his shirt to spatter the immaculate deck below. He lifted a hand as though to touch the blade, stiffened, and slumped sideways, head lolling, a gout of blood erupting from his lips. Inez stared in shock as the captain she had met earlier shoved the body forward, sliding it off his crusader hilted blade like offal.



“Are you hurt milady?” he asked, stooping to wipe the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt.

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Inez shrugged her shoulders and took a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. The bottles were placed in odd little wells in the wood and then surrounded by cloth, apparently to prevent them spilling or breaking in rough weather. These northerners thought of everything it seemed. She took a pair of brass cups and poured a measure into each cup, setting on down before Alrik.

"It's your ducat," she told him with a grin and took a belt of the liquor. There were worse jobs than bodyguard work and it didn't seem like this would be particularly onerous. It was easier if she told herself she wasn't working for the same kind of money grubbing merchants who bankrolled Salazar. Alrik moved to pick up his own liquor but Inez slapped her hand down atop the cup. The tradesfarer looked confused and a little angry. Inez made a choking noise and grabbed at her throat, staggering back eyes bulging, face contorting into a rictus of pain. Alrik jumped to his feet eyes wide, only for Inez to snicker, her face returning to normal and her feet stabilizing.

"Just getting in the mood, you know in case one of the crew decided to poison you," she grinned.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Blackfire Pass was a mass of gentle undulations framed by the majestic mountains that rose high into the clear spring skies. White snowcaps still clung to the mountains, so high and so cold that they only disappeared briefly around midsummer, if at all. The road was literally beaten into the rock, worn smooth by generations of marching feet and clattering wagons. Little grew besides occasional patches of grass and the odd scrubby bush that clung tenatiously to the rocky ground. Here and there streams had been cut into the rock by water running down from the mountains, though they were never deep enough to require bridging. To Emmaline the pass was a place out of legend, she just wished that most of those legends didn't end with 'and so they fought heroically to the last man'.

Heisenbach grunted irritably at the draught horses, shaking his reigns to encourage them to pick up the pace. As a piece of horsemanship this singularly failed, the two shaggy coated browns continuing to tramp on at the same dogged pace they had maintained all day. Johanas Heisenbach had been a handsome man once, but a combination of years of rough living had worn his face down like a bluff beaten by the wind. He was heavy set though muscular, the result of the feast or famine lifestyle of a seasoned caravanner. His lank brown hair was greying at the temples and his jaw was slightly misshapen, the result of either a greenskin mace to the face or an irritated frau with a rolling pin depending on how drunk he was. He had been overjoyed when Emmaline asked to accompany his caravan back in Averland, somewhat less so when she mentioned she was traveling with Amal. In the three weeks they had been on the road she had managed to make herself useful, concocting balms and salves for saddlesores, restorative tinctures for the horses, and even improving some of the gunpowder that formed part of their cargo. Imperial arms, powder and textiles formed the bulk of the cargo carried in their four wagons, though there was an amount of wine, some books, and other small items for sale also.

"Killing orcs is part of our religion," Emmaline responded, speaking Arabyian as Amal had. Heisenbach's head snapped up as there was no word she knew for Orc in that tongue and she had spoken that word in Reikspiel. She made a calming guesture and waved a hand at the skeletons in explanations. The merchant nodded and relaxed.

"Better not to speak of them, name the Daemon and all that," he grumbled. Emmaline pulled her traveling cloak around her shoulders and scanned the hills. There was a sear majesty to it all that combined to make her feel very small and insignificant.

"If they were coming through in strength we would know it," Heisenbach expanded, doubtlessly picking up on Emmaline's sudden discomfort. He drew a pipe from a pouch and began to pack tabac into the bowl.

"There are always raiders though, and not just green skins either," he muttered. A chill wind gusted from the mouth of the pass and the skeletons hung in the trees began to clatter like grotesque windchimes. Privately Emmaline thought it would be a desperate band indeed that attacked two ogres and a trio of the most savage looking dwarves she had yet to see. Far from her shifty dwarven fence back in Altdorf, these three were slabs of corded muscle, their shaven heads surmounted by vast shocks of orange hair held in place by animal fat. Emmaline thought she could probably whip up something that did the job better and smelt a deal less foul, but the Dwarven antipathy too well known for her to risk offending them. Torvin, the most senior of the slayers Emmaline had gleaned, hawked a wad of phlem in the directions of the green skins, growling to himself in his own language and patting the hilt of a massive warhammer with a fist that could have encircled Emmaline's head. The Ogres, Gnawer and Ripper, as they were referred to for lack of any better names, ignored the sight completely, continuing to gnaw on the haunches of a dead donkey they had found a few miles back and quickly dismembered.

"This is the heart of the pass," Heisenbach explained as the caravan turned southward, axles grinding and wheels clattering. The trail split not far beyond the statue, one road, less used, continuing to the east while they took the more traveled route south. A particularly savage jolt slapped through the cart, jarring Emmaline's teeth and bruising even her well padded rump.

"Are we going to break for a midday meal?" Emmaline asked, thinking more of her battered bottom than her growling stomach. Heisenbach was attempting to get his pipe lit without much success, sparking at a flint with a steel that had almost been worn away to nothing. Emmaline concentrated for a moment and the tabac lit of its own accord.

"My thanks," the caravan master muttered, taking several long puffs and then blowing out the fragrant smoke. If he was bothered by wizards and magic he hid it well, though Emmaline in her travelling cloak and threadbare Reikland costume looked more like a milkmaid than a mage.

"And no, not yet. There is a wayfort not far ahead, we will stop early and spend the night, better to lose a little time and sleep in a defensible spot than on the open road this far east."

By the time the reached the wayfort the sun was begining to sink, even though it wouldn't fully set for several more hours. It was one of the places that dwarven traders used to exchange goods with their human partners. The term 'fort' might have been a bit of a misnomer. It was merely a small hilltop that had been topped with a wall of unmortared stone that rarely exceeded waist height. The sides of the hill were studded with rotting timber stakes that seemed unlikely to deter any very serious assault. As the wagons clattered through the gate Emmaline realised that there was a well and that several lean toos had been built against the far wall, which was somewhat taller than the ones she had seen on the way in. A half dozen dwarves, were already inside. Some appeared to be hunters and were busily dressing a side of what must have been mountain goat, while a trio appeared to be merchants, sitting around a wagon that looked to contain pelts and iron mongery. All had weapons to hand and looked tough enough to mount at least some defense if raiders showed up. Emmaline stood up and climbed down out of the wagon, rubbing at her bottom as she did so. If she ever made a trip like this she was going to invest in a cushion.

"Lets see what we can find to eat," she told Amal as the guards began to set their own camp and Heisenbach strode over to the dwarven trader to being whatever business he might be able to conduct.

Penny's Pencils

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Since she was a girl Inez had liked ships. She had spent many hours sitting in the orange groves on the bluff that overlooked the Bay of Calavria, watching them drift in on their majestic sails. When she had grown older she had sailed on them herself, though as a passenger rather than a sea farer. In the south where the tides were slight, the favor was for oared galleys rather than these high sided cogs. She could well remember coming ashore at Angira in the dead of night, wading ashore with weapons held high over head, or slipping out of the bay of Biantoro against the teeth of the storm, the day before the great city fell. She supposed she would have been greatful for a ship like this then, rather than trembling in terror as the waves washed over the shallow freeboard, hauling for all she was worth with bucket and pump to keep the ship afloat.

The crew seemed a decent enough group as far as sailors went. There had been the usual covert leers of course, but that was more or less par for the course. They had kept their mouths mostly shut other than token offers of deference to their new tradesfarer. The captain seemed a little more reserved, probably less than pleased to have to take orders from a man a decade or more his junior. As yet Inez was unsure as to why Alrik would even need a bodyguard, perhaps when they reached their destination it would be helpful to show status by the show of a hired sword. The cabin assigned to her was roomy and well appointed, surprisingly so for a bodyguard. Perhaps the League felt it necessary to keep some kind of seperation between her and the crew, and the small resentment of a large cabin would go along way towards that. It made a certain kind of sense, if part of her job was to head off potential mutiny, though in all likelyhood it just made certain she would be the first victim of any such attempt. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth, well if you wanted a safe life you didn't become a Condottieri. Having no possessions beyond the sword and two uniforms she had been given by the League when they had inducted her, it didn't take more than a moment to get settled in. It also meant it didn't take more than a minute or two for her natural restlessness to kick in, and after a moment she headed across the hall to Alrik's cabin.

"So," she said pressing herself through the door, gripping at her belted sword to stop it from clattering against the bulkhead.

"Where are we headed first, o illustrious employer?"

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Taya looked sick at Saxon’s brutal dispatch of the villager. Junebug could remember a time when such a thing would have shocked her, but that was many years and many plasma bolts ago now. She felt a kind of hollowness inside of her as her mind ran through the possibilities of taking children hostage to guarantee safe passage to the ship. It hardly seemed necessary. These people were beaten and broken. There was a grim calculus to it all, the lives they had taken would be very difficult to replace.

“I can’t believe you slept with him,” Taya muttered, eyes locked on Saxon.

“Watch your sector,” Junebug snapped, it was merc slang for mind your own business, but it was practical advice in this context also. The villagers were running but it only took one sniper to ruin your whole life. Junebug didn’t glance at Neil but she hoped he hadn’t heard that. The last thing she needed was for him to get all mopy about something that was long over and done with.

“Move out,” Junebug ordered and the trio broke into a jog heading back west towards where the Highlander lay waiting.





The cathedral tower smoked sullenly, a quarter of its height sheared away by three precisely placed plasma bolts from the Highlander’s main battery, the mass of plasteel and masonry had crushed several more houses. Smoke drifted up from several smaller fires where flying debris had set fire to houses but Sayeeda had permitted the locals to form bucket brigades to extinguish them. Even if she decided to ice the lot of them afterwards, it kept them occupied for the moment. The Highlander itself had been shifted to a ridge with a line of sight on the village, its heavy guns able to bear on the whole area. Runners had been sent to the other villages along the valley, warning them that any attempt to intervene would result in complete obliteration. Sayeeda hoped that they would take the warning seriously. She wouldn’t take any pleasure in slaughtering a bunch of hapless peasants if they were stupid, but she had done worse, and more than once.

“You must understand our perspective,” Brother Gerome bleated. The priest looked pale, waxy and unhealthy, eyes sunken and with the slight tremble common to poorly preformed cryostasis proccedures. Junebug was kitted out in her full battle dress, battered breastplate and combat helmet with visor down. The boxy brutal form of her disruptor rifle hung from a patrol sling, pointed forward but not aimed anywhere in particular. If the villagers had rushed her all at once, it was possible they might have overwhelmed her, but Junebug didn’t think there was much chance of that. Several of the young men were in the process of heaving they cryopods out of the cathedral on hover dollies, sweating and muttering from fighting with the inertia of the things.



“For gods sake at least leave the ones who are with child, those children have fathers here and…” Gerome’s entreaty ended in a grunt as Junebug swung the butt of her rifle into his face, sending him reeling back in a spray of blood from a broken nose. She followed him, kicked his legs out from under him and gave him another blow across the back of his head, dropping him senseless to the dirt. Cries of alarms went up and she drew her pistol from her belt and turned so that her rifle covered the villagers while the side arm pointed at the unconscious priests head.



“Keep moving,” she said in a tone that was so without inflection it seemed to come from a robot rather than a woman. The pods resumed moving, heading down the road towards the distant highlander.



“That is the last of them,” Taya reported, glaring down at Gerome with hatred as hot as Sayeeda’s was cold. That was understandable given how close she had come to joining his little breeding program. Junebug lifted the pistol and offered to to Taya, nodding her chin towards Gerome. The blonde woman shook her head.

“Your loss,” Junebug said, tucking the weapon back into her belt.



“My father said that revenge is rarely good business,” she said quietly, eyes following a cart loaded with bolts of shimmer cloth as it rumbled down the road following the pods. None of them saw any sense in leaving the villagers with any valuables, though they hadn’t bothered to search individual houses. Junebug grinned and though the expression was vicious it at least had a hint of humanity to it.

“I suppose that rather depends on the business you are in,” she replied philosophically.

“Lets get out of here, I think I have all the bucolic pastoral scenery I need for the moment,” she told Taya. As she turned and began walking down the track, her mind turned to Neil and their next destination, thoughts of burning villages dwindling away in her mind.

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

It was amazing how rapidly ones fortunes could change if one kept ones head. This morning, Inez had been in prison, penniless and with few prospects. Now she stood bathed and dressed in better clothing than she had seen in many months. Her hair had been brushed and tied back and she had a sword belted at her hip. A fine piece, if simple and unadorned, with a comforting weight at her hip. She felt more like her old self than she had in months. That wasn't an entirely unmixed blessing of course but she supposed she would have to take what she could get. A small brass badge depicting a sword beneath a sail had been pinned to her doublet, representing her new found rank as an apprentice armsman of the league. There had been some kind of signing bouns apparently, but it had been taken in payment of her debt. While better than prison this too was something of a mixed blessing. She certainly wouldn't have chosen to become a lackey of these League coin counters, but work was work, and it beat the alternatives of brigandage or selling her sword to the reeking swine that passed for lords in this pine tree infested hell.

As contracts went, the one she had signed was fairly generous. Given that she hadn't had much in the way of a choice about signing it, she did not feel that her honor was truly committed to the venture, but being on the move would probably be healthier for her than waiting for an assassin to find her and take her head back to that dog Salazar. Her apparent charge was also something of a surprise. She had expected, as was the way of things, to be assigned to some jowly old fool hauling herring from port to port. This merchant seemed young and vigrous, out of place among the merchants she had so far seen.

"I am Inez de Calavria," she responded, hesitating a moment at the unfamiliar custom before reaching and and shaking his hand firmly.

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Damn potato farmers couldn't even do a trial at arms right, Inez thought as her guards helped her down out of the wagon that had been commandeered to bring her to the practice yard. By the stink of cow dung, the dusty yard catered more to live stock than training. Despite the miasma that hung over the place, the idle and bored of Argethafen had turned out for some free entertainment. They crowded the split railed fence, calling out bets, insults and advice to the two men circling each other in the center. One was a scarred looking veteran with a short grey beard, the other a strippling youth with lank greasy blonde hair. The swatted at each other with wooden practice swords. The veteran's blade cracking hard against the boys wrist and raising a yelp and a cheer from the crowd. The veteran said something and shoved the boy towards a group of men, mostly young, leaning against the fence. A line of men, some sullen and hunched, some bright eyed and hopeful, waited for their turn to be tested.

"Those are the men who have been picked for the city watch," one of the guards told Inez helpfully. They seemed decent sorts, at least they had made no attempt to grope or assault her.

"You put criminals in your city watch?" she asked, intrigued. The guard snorted.

"Some of our best baliffs started off as thieves, the inside line and all," he snickered. Inez shrugged, these Northerners were a strange lot and no mistake.

"What about that one?" Inez asked as she took her place in line, her sex attracting snickers and leers. She was a fine looking woman she knew, and young enough, even if she had packed alot into her twenty six summers. She met approving glances with haughty disdain. Her eyes fell upon a fit looking man sitting apart from the would be guardsmen. He had a red welt across his forehead but was grinning broadly regardless.

"Who is that?" she asked, nodding with her chin towards the happy man.

"The best fighters get guild apprenticeships, more money, travel, sign on bonus," the guard explained. Inez nodded thoughtfully at that considering her options.

It took a quarter of an hour for Inez to reach the front of the line. Most of the bouts she had seen ended quickly, disappointed country lads getting a whack across the shoulders and being sent on their way. A few of them were chosen to be guardsmen but no others joined the smiling man on his barrel. Inez curled her lip in disdain, a handful of Estainian lads would have shown them a thing or to in short orders.

"You havin' a fuckin' laugh?" the swordsmaster asked as Inez stepped into the dusty yard. She took one of the practice swords from the rack and made a few experimental swipes to get the weight. It was a little shorter than she was used to, but the weight was just right.

"Why don't you run off home sweetheart, your liable to get hurt if you stay here," he sneered, eliciting laughter and cat calls from the onlookers. Inez was careful to appear inept, gripping the sword loosely with a limp wrist.

"Its too far to run, and who would want to leave all this. The stinking shit... and then there is the dung as well," she mocked taking a deep breath of shit smelling air and giving him a mocking smile. The swordmaster spat a gob of spit into the dirt and took up his stance.

"Reckon I'm gonna enjoy this," he snickered. Inez doubted that very much. He took a step towards her raising his sword. There were a lot of ways to use a sword, and Inez should know, her father had employed a half dozen swordmasters, each with a different technique. He had spent a fortune dotting on his daughter and her passion for swordplay and it had paid for itself time and again over the years. Transforming instantly, her grip hardened into a proper fighting stance and she leaped forward, catching his blade between the guard and blade of her own weapon and twisting into him like a dancer. He was tired, even if beating up farm boys took little effort, but Inez was quick as lightning. She twisted her blade hard, wrenching at his sword and lashing out with her elbow, cracking him on the point of the chin. He reeled back, spitting blood, the sword clattering to the dirt. With a dramatic flourish she tapped him on the head with the training blade for good measure, raising a chorus of cheers and groans from the crowd. The division was more or less along wagering lines, but there seemed a general feeling that the swordsman was a little too full of himself.

"You poxy bitch!" the swordmaster cried in shock, he stepped forward and picked up his sword, coming at her for real this time, launching a series of cuts at her head. Inez hadn't earned a reputation on cheap tricks alone though. There were those who called her Black Inez and Inez the Hellcat, though those people were hundreds of miles away and most of them wanted her dead. She parried his first few strokes with a left right series of downward parries, allowing her shorter stride to foul her opponents footwork. He over balanced slightly and then she was on him, all blazing speed and precise strikes, each blow pushing her opponent into a wider guard, keeping her point inside his arc. The swordmaster backed away, off-balance, panicked by the fury of her assault. She feinted left, cracked her blade down on his wrist then struck his blade from his hand with casual ease.

"Bitch!" he cursed clutching his wrist the swordmaster growled and reached for the sword.

"Enough!" A richly dressed man was crossing the field, expensive robes glittering with gold thread.

"Your eminence, we are still conducting..." but the new comer was having none of it.

"I think our young lady has shown enough of her mettle, certainly any more and we might need to find a new swordmaster," he chuckled as though the joke were hillarious.

"Come with me young lady, we will take you to the guildhall," he explained, then paused wrinkling his nose and taking in her overall disheveled condition. "After we visit the baths I think."

SANDSTRIDERS: A Lost Land

The cerulean waves lapped at the breakwater without enthusiasm. The settlement glinted white as the blazing sun shone of the sandstone. Kashvi Singh stood on the prow of the trading dhow as it coasted in on a gurgling wake, it long lateen sail billowing in the fitful winds. Desert coasts were notoriously fickle for winds, but Jaseem knew his business. He might be a reeking black toothed old sea dog, and odds were he turned corsair whenever he liked his odds, but he was a fine seaman. That worthy worked his way forward to where Kashvi stood, arm wrapped around a spanker stanchion.

"It is a beautiful sight Jaseem," she said, gesturing expansively to the the town with her free hands. It was true, green palms waving across white washed walls. The familiar domes, a hallmark of Banegorhan architeture put her in mind of her homeland, though not as much as the scents of spices and curry simmering and goat roasting. It had been a long time since she had seen Banegorha and this little piece of it tugged at her soul.

"From here perhaps," Jaseem said, his voice sour and bringing with a blast of arak scented hallatosis. Well, if the worst threat she faced on a voyage was a fragrant companion, she could do worse.

"Up close we will be treated to the aromas of rotting fish, mixed with dung of all varieties and an undertone of trash baking in the sun."

Kashvi leaned back and laughed as the dhow cleared the breakwater. There was no guard ship and no customs launch, though a variety of dug out canoes were already pulling hard for the oncoming ship, oars digging at the calm waters of the harbor like irritated water beetles. Dirty ragged vendors held up fresh fruit, stale fish and clay pots filled with arak and honey, screaming the quality of their wares at the top of their lungs. Some of the boats contained whole families, ragged children hawking wares while sibblings gripped weather worn tillers with calloused hands. Sex partners were on display also, drab and dejected creatures in faded and stained finery. They did not look particularly appealing to Kashvi, but hope, apparently, sprang eternal.

"No booze or boobs till we are tied up you curs!" Jaseem roared back along the length of the deck. His crew, many of which had been drifting to the towards the railings.

"Besides," the captain went on in more conversational tone, "I haven't paid anyone yet, and if anyone has a sheckle to scrape together my name is not Jassem al Hassan. Kashvi snickered, she didn't doubt it, but then they weren't her crew.

_____

The world lurched beneath Kashvi's feet as she stepped off the gangplank. Landsickness was an occupational hazard, after three months at sea, it would take her a couple of hours for the lack of a rolling deck to become normal again. She waved to Jassem, touching her purse by reflex to make sure the old pirate hadn't taken her last sheckle as a parting gift. Pirate or not he had been right about the smell. Up close it was all beggars, sewage and rotting fish. All the world was beauty Kashvi had been taught and she truly believed it. Admittedly it was a little more difficult to see that beauty while stepping over shit, but it was there.

Without conscious direction she began to climb towards the palace, the atmosphere improved markedly as spice shops replaced fishmongers and the quality of inns rose. Market stalls gave way to neat cool shops selling brassware, sweat meats and all manner of other items that cost more than the pitiful handful of coins that the Jaseem's of the world left in a sailors pocket. There was a surprising amount of greenery, mostly palms and a few sick looking figs. Unexpectedly they made Kashvi think of tamarin trees, and her mouth puckered at remembered sour snacks in her youth. A broad smile began to creep across her face. Truly the world was a wonder if one looked at it the right way. Before to very long she found herself standing before the palace. A pair of guards leaned against the gate, halberds propped against the wall. The stonework looked none to new and the ancient limewash was flaking away giving the place a pocked unhealthy look. The guards themselves were not impressive specimens of the breed, leaning listlessly as they swatted at flies that buzzed around their sweat stained uninforms in a monument to optimism.

"Peace be upon you," Kashvi called pleasantly, holding out her palms in the ancient benediction. Both guards straightened momentarily before slumping back into bored inattention.

"Here to see the Zeminda?" one of the guards called as she approached. Kashvi had no idea what they were talking about, but it was too pleasant a day to allow a thing like that to upset her.

"I suppose I must be," she smiled.