"Combat Shopping" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martindale Lee)

Combat Shopping

Lee Martindale


Horatia waited until the battle was over before trying to dismember the mage.

That she was a professional accounted for a portion of her patience. That she was a trifle busy staying alive accounted for the rest. That the spell which dissolved her armor into a heap of unrecoverable slag around her ankles had come from the hand of a mage supposedly on Horatia's side of the conflict accounted for the warrior's less-than-collegial attitude.

Horatia had been dubbed "the Heroic" as much for her impressive dimensions as for her considerable prowess in battle. One look at those heroic, near-naked proportions moving toward her with deadly intent was enough to send the dainty mage scrambling up the nearest hairy, sweat-drenched warrior. Asaria made it to his shoulders and was seeking purchase on his head when Horatia peeled her off. Asaria managed one unladylike squawk before a sword-hardened hand closed around her throat and the arm to which it was attached held her eye-to-eye-level with the considerably taller battle-maid.

As her comrades alternated between laughing at the situation and admiring portions of the warrior they didn't normally see, Horatia glared. Then she growled, "Give me one reason, bann seighe bait, why I shouldn't scatter little bits of you from here to the borders of Keldaough."

The dangling mage opened her mouth to speakЧwhether spell or supplication is not known. But speech requires breath and taking one proved to be problematic. Next she balled delicate hands into delicate fists and beat an equally delicateЧand ineffectualЧtattoo against the arm that held her. She was starting to go limp, her usually ruby lips turning an unflattering shade of blue, when the company's commander arrived and bellowed at Horatia to "put that spellcaster down this minute!" Horatia blinked, came to attention, opened her hand and complied.

An hour later Horatia arrived at the commander's tent, wearing tunic and breeches and the wary demeanor of a mouse suddenly deposited into a loft full of cats. Asaria arrived shortly thereafter, moving stiffly from the bruises to the underpadded portion of her anatomy on which she'd landed. Both declined the seats offered by the commander.

"Then let us get right to the matter. As I understand it, the attempt by Horatia the Heroic to throttle Asaria Katri a short while ago was precipitated by the destruction of the former's armor by a misfired spell from the hand of the latter. Is that the way of it?"

"Aye, sir," Horatia answered, glaring at the other woman.

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'misfire,' Commander," Asaria began, her usually sweet voice hoarse and with an upper-register harmonic that made the others wince, "but I can assure you that no ill will was intended. These things happen occasionally; my apprentice has been chastised for his error in calculation. And now that we have that cleared up . . ."

"Not so fast, madam," the commander barked. He glanced at Horatia with a look clearly meant to nail her in place, then turned back toward the mage. "The cause may be identified, but the effects still remain to be put right. To a warrior, armor is as necessary a tool of the trade as sword or pike or war hammer. Deprive one of my best warriors of her armor, and you deprive me of one of my best warriors . . . a situation to which I don't take kindly. Therefore, it is my order that you, Asaria Katri, will make generous restitution to Horatia the Heroic, in an amount sufficient to replace what has been destroyed with as good or better than she had." Asaria began to sputter, but the commander ignored it as he continued, "Plus an amount sufficient to serve as recompense for the time she'll have to take to find that armor or have it made, and the time spent away from my army. All told . . . I'm thinking a sum of two thousand gold pieces to be a fair one."

"Two thousand . . . ?" the mage's protest came in a voice that was entirely within that annoying upper register.

"Make that three thousand," the commander cut in, "and more if you continue to ignore the value of swift compliance."

Asaria's normally beautiful face twisted into an unflattering mask of rage, but in the end, under the commander's cool gaze and Horatia's hot glare, she signaled her begrudging acceptance of the order. The commander turned to Horatia. "And what say you?"

"Begging the commander's pardon, would that be real earth-drawn gold or spell-spun stuff?"

Asaria started sputtering again and appeared to be at the very beginning of an impressive round of hysterics. The commander cut her off. "Real gold. Four thousand, Asaria?" The mage took a deep, obviously painful, breath and nodded.

"Very well. You will deliver three thousand pieces of non-magical gold to Horatia at first light, along with your personal and sincere apologies. This matter is concluded."

"And what of her attack on me?" Asaria fairly screamed. "What punishment do you give for her laying rough hands on me, for trying to kill me?"

The commander raised one eyebrow and looked sternly at Horatia. "She has a point. You are fined one copper piece for losing your temper."

* * *
Riding into Forgecroft was like entering the afterlife awarded heroes in the tales on which Horatia had been raised. From all directions came the delicate music of small hammers working chain, the flat chime of larger hammers working plate. Everywhere she looked, she saw the spark and glow of the metalworkers' forges and the glint of sunlight off the finished products of the armorer's art. The smile that came to the warrior's lips was one of joy and anticipation.

The commander had given her the name of an inn he favored, along with directions, and in very short order she was installed in one of the private rooms above it. A word with the innkeeper made arrangements for her evening meal, and then it was off to the first name on her list.

Ambyrcryffye y Fyrcche, the sign proclaimed, Purveyor Of Fine Armor Since The Third Year Of The Reign Of King Cryddwhelan The Manly. Whomever and whenever that might have been. But it was, indeed, fine, if the vastness of the space and the quality of the wares on display were any indication. Row after row of spangenhelms, spaulders, chausses and besagues, gorgets and gauntlets and greaves, polished to a mirror's sheen or covered with intricate engraved decoration. Rack upon rack of mail shirts and coifs and bishop's collars, supple as linen and dense enough to turn the thinnest bladepoint.

A polite cough behind her caught Horatia's attention, and she heard a voice say, "Good day to you, my lord, and welcome. May we be of assistance?"