“That’s not entirely true. He’s nice enough,” Emlyn shrugs, “but nice isn’t always what is needed when you’re the one in charge. Sometimes you must be the steel fist in a kid glove. It would be more precise to say that I don’t think much of his skill as a leader. He’s got lots of room to grow there. Someone above him should be giving him better guidance, and it’s fairly clear that this either isn’t happening or he’s not acting on it.”
“Just how large was your command?” Argonath asks.
“Between my own troops and quietly taking over for the First Awst in preparation for his retirement the following year, almost a third of our King’s army,” Emlyn says, “Somewhere right around a hundred and fifty thousand.”
Argonath sits back and stares at Emlyn for a long moment, “But you’d take orders from me?”
“No, there is only one being I take orders from, and that’s my Goddess. You don’t order,” Emlyn explains patiently, “You request. That’s the biggest difference. You specify what, and leave the how to me. You’re aware of my other obligations. I’m a paladin. One of our oaths is to commit no act without due consideration. I have to think carefully about things before I act. I doubt Dorak’s capable of that kind of forethought and planning. He’s certainly not that considerate. I don’t think he’d give me that latitude to operate within my oaths, and I won’t do anything that will impair my bond to my Goddess.”
“Did you give due consideration to knocking Rirdec out? Tying him to his saddle?” Argonath frowns, “That seems more like a fit of temper.”
“Of course I did,” Emlyn nods, “Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I allow it to get the best of me. I couldn’t allow those statements, about all four of us, to stand. I won’t have my working relationships with you, the Prince, or Atres bandied about in this fashion. I won’t have my own reputation tarnished by this kind of prurient drivel. That kind of insult had to be answered. He’s not permanently injured. If I have to be more precise, Benger tied him to his saddle. We left a healing potion with them in case he was truly injured. If it were really nothing more than a fit of temper, things would have gone much worse for him.”
Argonath gives her a look with raised eyebrows and gestures for her to continue.
“Had it truly been a fit of temper, I’d have stabbed him and been done with it,” Emlyn says flatly, “I am certain that stabbing him would have put an end to all manner of trouble that he’s going to cause for me later. I might not know him, but I know the type. I was a few years younger than I am now when my grandfather sent me to the conclave to put myself forward as a candidate to become an officer. I was too young and the wrong gender, there as well. As a result, I’m painfully aware of how some men choose to express their opinions about that.” To his credit, Argonath regards her thoughtfully for a long moment.
“I hadn’t considered that,” Argonath nods, “I begin to see why your Temple and your cohort are so protective of you.”
“They’re protective because of my physical condition,” Emlyn replies, “Until I am stronger and more capable of defending myself, it’s possible that someone like Rirdec could overpower me and do me serious injury. You saw my condition when we fought.”
Argonath nods and sighs. “I suppose that some lunch is in order. I may as well have lunch with Kethas and meet your fathers.”
Otrin picks up the saddlebag and heads out to find the traders. The trader’s warehouse is along one of the main arteries of the taig, just off the busy bustle of Deep Market. Its exterior, though modest in size, exudes quiet wealth. A thick granite facade is inlaid with quicksilver-brass veins. The door is reinforced with mithril-bronze hinges and carved with the Clan Rune Axe sigil, with a dwarven trade cart below it, indicating that this group trades outside the Taig. Otrin pushes the door open and brushes past the heavy curtain of iron beads hung just inside the entrance to muffle noise and contain the dry, golden lamplight. Inside, the air carries a mingling of scents, parchment, cured leather, and exotic spices from distant lands.
The front of the shop is a carefully organized chaos. Rows of sturdy, dark wood shelves are filled with goods from across the realms: crates of elven smoke bread sealed in wax cloth, vials of tunnel bloom ink, and bolts of fae-woven spider-silk cloth that shimmer faintly in the lamplight. A wide selection of mining tools hangs from pegboards with embossed price tags, precision-calibrated stone drills, rune-etched chisels, and multipurpose mining bracers. Overhead, pulley baskets creak along ceiling tracks, transporting stock from upper storage lofts down to the main counter, depending on what the customer is requesting or what orders need to be filled.
Behind the stone counter, ledgers lay open in neat, ink-scripted pages, and the wall features a sprawling map of known trade routes, ribbons of copper thread trace tunnels and waystations, with tiny metal runes marking each contact or depot. Nearby, a locked case displays some particularly valuable rarities: a frost-iron helm of ancient make, vials of blue fire resin, and a gilded scepter said to have been bartered from an exiled surface noble.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
To one side, an arched doorway leads to the main work area, and it is here that Otrin heads. This chamber contains a polished stone desk, flanked by crates, scroll tubes, and inventory tablets. A language stone in the corner translates customer speech in real-time when needed. No good dwarven trader allows language to be a barrier to a good trade. A heat-glow brazier crackles beneath a steaming pot of mushroom tea, and above it hangs a wood-carved motto reading “Worth is what’s agreed, value is what’s remembered.”
Otrin chuckles, remembering his own time behind that desk, and gently taps the archway.
“Do you have a few minutes, Hestan?” Otrin asks.
Hestan nods and motions for Otrin to come in.
“I found out my forge-daughter is alive,” Otrin explains to Hestan, “She took this from a bunch of bandits, and I’d like to see if we can get her some good coin for it.”
“When did you get a forge-daughter?” Hestan asks. “Where did you get a forge-daughter? We haven’t had any accidents lately.”
“She’s Cymry, and somehow, she managed to survive the Culling,” Otrin says. “As for when, I found out she survived yesterday. She appeared on Elia in Harito at a temple dedicated to Morrighu. Apparently, this goddess found her somewhere and brought her there.”
“When you get gods involved in something,” Hestan shrugs, “logic leaves the room. Let’s see what you have.”
Otrin dumps out the saddlebag and begins unwrapping each of the small, brightly colored bundles.
“Your girl’s got a good eye,” Hestan nods, “but she might want to keep some of these.”
Hestan pulls out the palm-sized diamond and ruby brooch, setting it aside.
“The diamonds in that should each be good for one resurrection,” Hestan says, “If, and it’s a big if, she can find someone who can cast it. If she’s Cymry, there might be some people she wants to bring back. That’d let her get a few people back.”
“Assuming that their god didn’t eat them,” Otrin says darkly. “That’s what the Culling was about. Their god wanted to devour them all.”
“That’s… gruesome,” Hestan agrees. “I’ll pull the big diamonds out of everything and save them for her. We’ll sell the rest and get as much as we can. There might even be enough platinum here to cast a couple of trade bars.”
“Whatever you can do,” Otrin nods.
“For anyone who survived the Culling… we’ll do our best,” Hestan agrees. “We’ll get as much as we can for all this.”
Pushing open the door, Argonath steps into Kethas’s taproom, followed closely by Atres, Emlyn, and Benger. Loket, Gramin, and Vorlig look to see who’s come in.
“Who’s this then, Girlie?” Gramin says.
“I thought Papa Loket would want to talk to him,” Emlyn grins, “since those uniforms are his idea. Papa Loket, meet Argonath, formerly of Clan Falkur, now of the King’s Guard. I told him what you said about not allowing any daughter of yours to wear them in public, even with war braids.”
“She’s literally covered from the neck down,” Argonath shrugs, “I’m afraid I don’t understand what the problem is. It should be quite modest.”
“It’s not modest at all. It’s too damn suggestive,” Loket snaps, “She’s there to work, not be ogled. Gods above and below! What kind of an outfit are you all running here?”
“Sir... Loket,” Argonath says, “I have the utmost respect for Nia. I’m still waiting for confirmation from the archivists in the capital, Iridon. Still, I believe she is the first and perhaps the only female to have ever joined our ranks anywhere in Tassatung. While I am sure that there will be some difficulties to iron out around her age and gender, I hardly think our uniforms are one of them.”
Loket shoots Argonath a look usually reserved for children who are being deliberately dense.
“Leave off,” Emlyn shrugs, “I don’t think he’s going to understand until he sees for himself. I think I’ll attend a staff meeting or two in them and fight my way through the aftermath. If he sees what the effect is on the King’s Guard, who are generally, Rirdec notwithstanding, better behaved than most, maybe he’ll understand both your and my objections to it.”
Grinning, Kethas starts to serve lunch. Argonath looks to Kethas for help, but Kethas shrugs, “Oh, no. I think she’s right, so you’re on your own.”
"Milvara won’t be done for a bit since she made some fairly significant changes to the coat pattern to replace some of the seams with gussets instead so that I can fight in them without being hampered, if I must,” Emlyn says.
“Milvara?” Argonath asks, “Not our regular tailors?”
“She makes all of my clothing,” Emlyn replies, “I’m not going to your tailors and having a bunch of men fussing over the fit of my pants, or measuring my inseam, or trying to adjust my coat so that it fits over my chest.”
Emlyn waves a hand in the general direction of her bust.
“I hadn’t considered that,” Argonath says slowly, “I can see where that might make you uncomfortable.”
“The King’s Guard never made female versions of the patterns,” Atres says, “Someone had to alter the male patterns to fit her different build. Since Milvara already makes her clothing, I went there.”
“That’s what the bill was for,” Argonath says, “I saw that and wondered, but since Atres signed it, I sent it on. I suppose that the only thing left to do is to wait and see what the finished product looks like.”
“If the real one turns out to be anything like that test,” Loket growls, “No daughter of mine is going out in public in that. Not while there’s still a hair left in my beard.”
“How is it that you’re allowed to sign a contract if you still need parental approval for your wardrobe choices?” Argonath asks.
“She’s semi-adult,” Gramin explains, “She’s also been largely sheltered. Until she came here to Harito, I doubt she’s ever been in a room with men where none of them were her kin.”
“I hadn’t,” Emlyn says, “Even when I was serving as Awst, I had one of my cousins with me. He was essentially my shadow. There were only two places he didn’t go with me – the bathing area and the latrines.”
“So that’s why Elgan’s minions attacked you in the bathing area,” Loket nods.
“Who attacked you?” Argonath frowns.
“My superior officer’s personal bodyguards,” Emlyn says, “As Commander General, he had been assigned bodyguards by our king. Elgan knew I was going to displace him, and he was trying to dissuade me from challenging him and taking his place. Once Bedo retired and I became First Awst, I’d have been allowed to challenge him, and he knew I was going to win. I know it was them because that was the day I discovered that smiting someone doesn’t require a weapon. A punch, a kick, or even a bite works just as well. They were the right number, the right sizes, and the only ones who were much worse for wear the next day.”
Want to binge the future? > I have months of backlog for Order of the Storm Crow waiting for you. Get 50+ chapters ahead of Royal Road today!
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Current Count: 52 "Shadowing Instincts" and 1 "Discreet Uniform Sabotage."
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Observation: "Atres is still acting as her shadow, but now he’s caught in the middle of a dwarven domestic dispute. Loket is screaming that the new uniform is 'too suggestive' , while Argonath is claiming it’s 'modest' because she’s covered to the neck. Atres is just standing there, likely imagining her in the leather version. I’m docking him points for 'unauthorized daydreaming' while four dwarven fathers are literally measuring his life expectancy."
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Official Entry: Incident Report #102: Assault on Paladin Nia by Rirdec of Dorak’s Group.
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Boltir’s Correction: "ANNOTATED: 'The Day Rirdec signed his own death warrant.' I’ve added a drawing of a weasel being flattened by a war-stallion. Also, I’ve crossed out Argonath’s question about why she didn't just stab him. The answer is obvious: a bard needs a living villain to write mean songs about! Dead men don't provide good rhymes."
Bardic Draft: The Suds of War Boltir clears his throat and plays a fast, aggressive tempo on the lute.
Current Jar Total: 365 coppers, a broken sword-hilt, and a very expensive tailor’s bill.
Boltir’s Plea: "She says she would rather take orders from her horse than from Dorak! Jagannath is officially my rival for 'best judge of character.' Toss a coin in the jar, kin! I’m saving up for a 'Scroll of Diplomatic Immunity' for when Loket finds out I’ve been looking at the same uniform patterns as Atres. Leave a review if you think Nia should show up to the next staff meeting in full 'Weeping Skull' face paint just to see Argonath’s head explode!"
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