assembled an iron rack over the blaze, atop which he placed the skillet. As a huge dollop of lard skidded and popped over the blackened surface, he added the trout, seasoned them with coarse salt pinched from a small wooden box. With his nervousness focused on a task, his movements became efficient and nimble.
“So what can you tell us of these lands?” Rathe asked.
“What would you know?” Horge asked, stuffing small onions and deep green leaves into the trout bellies.
“The mountains, for instance. Is there a way out of them, or do they go on forever?”
Horge snorted. “Mountains? Hah! These are no mountains, only foothills. If you had ventured into the mountains, those to the north, which gnaw at the stars of night like demon teeth, you would have long since died for want of breath, but not before the frost had blackened your skin.”
“Seem like mountains to me,” Loro said.
Horge looked between Rathe and Loro. “There are some who go so high, seeking things better left to the gods, but they are not those you would want to meet. Do not fret over them, as they would not suffer an audience with you. Or so you should hope.”
“Priests?”
Horge shook his head absently, lost in his cooking. “Monks. Better to carve out your own eyes with a dull stick, or drink molten iron, than to mingle with those who walk the Way of Knowing.”
“I have heard of these men,” Rathe said, doing his best to ignore the rumbling in his belly brought by the scent of cooking trout. “In Trem, along the Sea of Grelar, they are known as healers and mystics—standoffish, but scarcely dangerous.”
“The Way of Knowing leads different men to different paths,” Horge offered. “Perhaps the monks you speak of seek after the nature of peace, or healing, or, for all I know, how to better cultivate seaweed. The monks hereabouts, those of the Iron Marches, are of another breed entire.”
“You’ve had dealings with them?” Rathe asked.
Horge flinched. “Aye, but ours is a bond no man should want. If not for need, I would have looked elsewhere to … earn a living.” His falter at the end made Rathe sure the man was hiding something.
“Why is that, friend?” Loro asked.
Horge gave the skillet a shake, turned the trout with a wooden spatula. In a grim tone belying his easy manner, he said, “Dark roads lead to dark ends. The monks of the Iron Marches are masters of both.”
“Yet you have earned your way with them,” Loro said. “If these monks are so treacherous, you must be a man of many hidden talents, to have come out ahead.”
Horge crowed laughter. “Talents? If not for you two, Tulfa and his shadowkin would even now be picking their teeth with my bones.”
“So, these monks pay?” Rathe asked. At some point, he and Loro would need coin.
Horge flinched. “If you survive their errands, then you are rewarded. Most times, those who seek for the monks perish.”
“I see,” Rathe said, calculating. His was a life defined by surviving where others could not. Loro praised the life of a thief, and Rathe had allowed him to, but that was not a road he wished to travel, unless forced to it.
Horge stood up with a toothy grin. “Supper, my new and dear friends, is ready!”
Among his goods, Horge also carried a set of oblong plates carved from wood. He served the simple meal upon these, handed one each to Rathe and Loro, then took his own. Rathe could scarcely keep himself from scarfing the meal. Loro did not bother to try. Horge separated bones from tender white meat with twitchy fussiness that Rathe did not find the least bit surprising.
After a second serving, Horge took their plates, scrubbed them with snow, and returned them to the panniers. Rathe opened his mouth to ask more about the local monks, but a furtive noise drew his eye to the darkness down the ravine.
“Ho the camp!” came an old man’s wheezy voice.
“Tulfa?” Loro blurted, looking doubtful.
“Didn’t sound like him.” Rathe
“So what can you tell us of these lands?” Rathe asked.
“What would you know?” Horge asked, stuffing small onions and deep green leaves into the trout bellies.
“The mountains, for instance. Is there a way out of them, or do they go on forever?”
Horge snorted. “Mountains? Hah! These are no mountains, only foothills. If you had ventured into the mountains, those to the north, which gnaw at the stars of night like demon teeth, you would have long since died for want of breath, but not before the frost had blackened your skin.”
“Seem like mountains to me,” Loro said.
Horge looked between Rathe and Loro. “There are some who go so high, seeking things better left to the gods, but they are not those you would want to meet. Do not fret over them, as they would not suffer an audience with you. Or so you should hope.”
“Priests?”
Horge shook his head absently, lost in his cooking. “Monks. Better to carve out your own eyes with a dull stick, or drink molten iron, than to mingle with those who walk the Way of Knowing.”
“I have heard of these men,” Rathe said, doing his best to ignore the rumbling in his belly brought by the scent of cooking trout. “In Trem, along the Sea of Grelar, they are known as healers and mystics—standoffish, but scarcely dangerous.”
“The Way of Knowing leads different men to different paths,” Horge offered. “Perhaps the monks you speak of seek after the nature of peace, or healing, or, for all I know, how to better cultivate seaweed. The monks hereabouts, those of the Iron Marches, are of another breed entire.”
“You’ve had dealings with them?” Rathe asked.
Horge flinched. “Aye, but ours is a bond no man should want. If not for need, I would have looked elsewhere to … earn a living.” His falter at the end made Rathe sure the man was hiding something.
“Why is that, friend?” Loro asked.
Horge gave the skillet a shake, turned the trout with a wooden spatula. In a grim tone belying his easy manner, he said, “Dark roads lead to dark ends. The monks of the Iron Marches are masters of both.”
“Yet you have earned your way with them,” Loro said. “If these monks are so treacherous, you must be a man of many hidden talents, to have come out ahead.”
Horge crowed laughter. “Talents? If not for you two, Tulfa and his shadowkin would even now be picking their teeth with my bones.”
“So, these monks pay?” Rathe asked. At some point, he and Loro would need coin.
Horge flinched. “If you survive their errands, then you are rewarded. Most times, those who seek for the monks perish.”
“I see,” Rathe said, calculating. His was a life defined by surviving where others could not. Loro praised the life of a thief, and Rathe had allowed him to, but that was not a road he wished to travel, unless forced to it.
Horge stood up with a toothy grin. “Supper, my new and dear friends, is ready!”
Among his goods, Horge also carried a set of oblong plates carved from wood. He served the simple meal upon these, handed one each to Rathe and Loro, then took his own. Rathe could scarcely keep himself from scarfing the meal. Loro did not bother to try. Horge separated bones from tender white meat with twitchy fussiness that Rathe did not find the least bit surprising.
After a second serving, Horge took their plates, scrubbed them with snow, and returned them to the panniers. Rathe opened his mouth to ask more about the local monks, but a furtive noise drew his eye to the darkness down the ravine.
“Ho the camp!” came an old man’s wheezy voice.
“Tulfa?” Loro blurted, looking doubtful.
“Didn’t sound like him.” Rathe
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