Swords and Salt - the Complete Series Read online

  In that instant, Yanko understood the bucket. The men’s heavy clothing had been drenched in water. The edge of the inferno buffeted Dak, and he would doubtlessly suffer heat burns, but the wool didn’t catch fire.

  The flames faded, leaving nothing but the dark stillness of the cave. The stench of methane seared Yanko’s nostrils. He dared not sniffle, for he stood only a few paces behind the overseer, and the man had placed himself better this time so his lantern remained lit. For the first time, Yanko noticed one of his sleeves was singed. This was dangerous work for anyone in the area, overseer or not.

  Dak climbed to his feet. When he turned to grab the brand, Yanko made out the redness of his face. He might have burns all over his body. The heat had to be intense out there.

  Dak faced the overseer, his jaw set, and his visage particularly fierce. He looked like he wanted to yell, but he took a deep breath and spoke in a calm tone. He spoke a lot, pointing at the ceiling, then making gestures with his hands. Yanko wondered if the overseer understood—men who’d fought during the last major war and had encountered the Turgonians often knew some of the language, but this sounded like a complicated explanation.

  The overseer shook his head and responded in Nurian, “I don’t know half of what you’re saying, gorilla, but we’re not building anything. This is how it’s done here. There’s not enough metal left in the Great Land to spare for making machines for remote holes in the ground like this. If your people weren’t so stingy with trade, we might have some iron, but we don’t. Go. Relight your torch and move to the next chamber. We’re almost to where they broke through to that vent.”

  Dak tried again, this time with more gestures. He definitely wanted to build something. Some contraption that might carry the torch forward ahead of the men? Yanko knew how to levitate an object. He ought to step forward and volunteer his help. Practitioners, like metal, were precious resources in Nuria, and it was unusual that one would be sent to a mine, but as long as he was here…

  Yes, but you’re supposed to be studying. Your uncle won’t be pleased if he learns you wandered down here.

  Better his displeasure than the death of two men.

  Yanko nodded to himself. He couldn’t let these two risk their lives when he could avert some of the danger.

  Dak had relit his brand, and he and the overseer had moved out of the chamber and into the next tunnel, one so new the wooden supports hadn’t been added yet. Yanko strode after them, intending to make his presence known.

  He’d stepped into the tunnel when light flared ahead again. His breath caught. They hadn’t been prepared, had they? They were still in the—

  A cry of surprise—and pain—erupted at the same time as the overseer cursed and started to shout something. A rumble sounded all around, and the ground trembled beneath Yanko’s feet. He skittered backward and glimpsed the overseer and Turgonian running toward him, an inferno of yellow and orange framing them in the tunnel. Then the ceiling dropped in a great waterfall of rubble.

  Heat and shrapnel blasted into Yanko, flinging him to the ground. Another rumble coursed through the mine, and he couldn’t guess which way might be safe. He curled into a ball and protected his head. As more debris struck him, he tried to summon the concentration to generate a layer of dense air to cover his body, but with the earth shaking and his heart in his throat, he couldn’t think about anything except praying to the swan goddess that she might lift her wings over him to protect him from the anger of the heavens.

  But nothing more than the shrapnel hit him. The trembling ceased, and the mine quieted, with the darkness disturbed only by the trickle of dust.

  Yanko lifted his head, then knelt back. He couldn’t see a thing. His hands were shaking, but he managed to channel his concentration. A sphere of light appeared in the air. This time, he chose white, an intensity that would drive back the shadows.

  Everything from boulders to fist-size pieces to granules of salt littered the floor in his chamber, but the ceiling remained in place. The tunnel…

  Yanko stared. He’d been too slow to offer his assistance. The tunnel had collapsed.

  He stumbled toward the rubble, wondering if there was a way either man could have survived.

  “Hello?” he called.

  At first, he didn’t hear anything except his own soft breaths. Then weak scrapes drifted out of the debris.

  “Dak? Honored overseer?”

  The scrapes ceased. Yanko tried calling again and listened for muffled responses, but no sound penetrated the rubble. He leaned against the closest wall and let his light fade, so he could concentrate on sensing living beings. The rock wasn’t a barrier to his mind, and he let out a soft sigh of relief when he detected first the Turgonian’s aura and then that of the overseer’s. They weren’t beneath the rubble, but on the other side of it. The overseer’s aura felt weak, and he seemed to be lying still. Unconscious? Dak was moving around. Doing what, Yanko couldn’t tell. He wondered if the man would take this opportunity to get rid of the person who’d dragged him into this hole.

  “I’ll get you out,” Yanko called. He didn’t know if they could hear him, but thought good behavior might be more likely if Dak knew people were out here.

  With his promise made, Yanko turned his focus to the rubble. “You were just about to show off your levitation skills,” he muttered. With a brand, though, not with tons of salt boulders.

  The method of levitation he had learned, one that complemented his tendency toward nature science, involved gathering a force of air and directing it into the space beneath an object. He would have to do that one rock at a time down here. He imagined there were mages somewhere with the power to more efficiently move the pile—perhaps the sort of thermal mage his father wished him to be could incinerate the rocks—but it was beyond him.

  “I’ll get help,” Yanko amended his promise. They might have a limited air supply over there, especially if more methane was seeping from a vent. More people would make the task faster.

  He had taken his first step toward the lift when a second boom rattled the mine.

  He spun around, gawking. He only had a stunned heartbeat to wonder what in the heavens they were doing—they couldn’t have been foolish enough to light a lamp in an enclosed pocket, surely—before rocks flew out of the tunnel. Large rocks.

  Yanko sprinted for the safety of the tunnel on the far side of the chamber. A boulder glanced off his shoulder, spinning him about. He stumbled into a wall. Salt dust filled the air, and his eyes filled with tears. He feared he’d be pummeled to death, but nothing else slammed into him. The clatter of falling rocks faded.

  After a moment, Yanko found the wherewithal to summon his light sphere again. It highlighted more rubble in the chamber, some of the piles waist high, and also…

  The bedraggled figure that walked out of the tunnel reminded him of a bear. Head bowed, his clothing reduced to rags, his face caked in soot, blood dripping from his chin, the Turgonian carried the overseer over his shoulder.

  Dak halted, his eye widening when he saw Yanko and the light.

  Yanko was certain his own eyes were wide as well. “What did you… How did you…” He shrugged helplessly and waved toward the tunnel that, while not rubble-free, had been cleared sufficiently to walk through.

  Dak didn’t bother looking back. He pointed at his burden, and Yanko flushed in embarrassment. Yes, his first concern should have been inquiring after the man’s health and seeing if he could help. Blood darkened one side of the overseer’s thick robe, and dripped from his fingers as well.

  “Do you have healing skills?” the Turgonian asked in Nurian.

  Yanko stared at him. Dak had an accent, but his sentence structure and pronunciation were correct, and Yanko had no trouble understanding him. And did that mean the Turgonian had no trouble understanding him? And had all along? He stumbled forward, knowing he had to help with the overseer, but this new revelation stunned him almost as much as the cave-in had. Not only did Dak speak Nurian, but
he had a grasp on what could be done with the “magic” his people were so superstitious about.

  Though Yanko’s mind reeled, he managed a vaguely intelligent response. “Rudimentary. I’m not… I haven’t had a lot of formal training.”

  The Turgonian gazed wordlessly at him. Yanko wished he hadn’t admitted to his shortcomings. Was Dak even now wondering if Yanko could control the collar? Did he know that there’d be nothing keeping him from taking the lift to the top? There were security guards in the mines, but rarely in the small shack up above. It would be a simple matter for Uncle Mishnal to call out a force and track Dak down via his collar—and punish him for his wayward actions—but maybe a Turgonian warrior would feel compelled to try anyway.

  “We specialize in certain areas,” Yanko said, wondering if it was too late to correct the impression of weakness he must have given. “I’m better at healing trees.” Erg, that sounded idiotic, but this wasn’t the time to explain the various blights and arboreal fungi that had threatened Nuria’s orchards with increasing regularity this century.

  “I would hope the trees are wise enough to remain in the forest instead of venturing into methane-filled mines,” Dak said.

  “I, uh. Usually.”

  Wolf’s fangs, it wasn’t just that he spoke a few phrases of Nurian; he had full command over the language.

  Yanko touched the overseer and tried to assess his wounds, but he had trouble focusing his mind with the Turgonian watching him. And judging him perhaps?

  “A concussion and broken ribs,” Yanko managed after a moment. Assessing was far easier than treating. “Let’s get him up to the first level. There’s a doctor who’ll have more experience than I do.”

  Dak nodded toward the tunnel. “Light the way.”

  Yanko sent his illumination orb ahead, and they headed down the tunnel in single file.

  “You haven’t let anyone else know you speak Nurian, have you?” Yanko was trying to remember if he had said anything insulting or self-condemning around his “training partner.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Dak said something in Turgonian, his singsong tone suggesting the recitation of some oft-repeated poem or saying. Dak switched to Nurian, “I think the comparable platitude in your language has something to do with foxes, dogs, and chicken coops.”

  “The coop built with the fat hound in mind will not keep out the starving fox,” Yanko said.

  They were nearing the lift, and Dak didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He had just admitted to playing dumb so his captors would underestimate him. The gods knew he looked the part of a mindless thug, with all that brawn and that missing eye. So, what was he, really? Mishnal had mentioned diplomatic importance. Was he a high-ranking officer? More? And why was he being this open with Yanko?

  Because he’s planning to kill you?

  More likely he doesn’t see you as a threat…

  “My uncle believes you’re plotting something,” Yanko said, wincing because his voice sounded petulant.

  “Everyone down here is plotting something,” Dak said.

  True. The peasants made up about a third of the work force, and they were the only voluntary miners. The rest would happily escape if given the opportunity.

  “How did you blow up the tunnel without blowing yourselves up?” Yanko asked.

  A clank sounded in the lift shaft, and he didn’t get a response. The bamboo cage appeared, clunking as it landed on this bottommost level, then the gate flew open. Men in the orange and red robes of security rushed out, crossbows in their hands. Dak halted, and Yanko stopped in front of him, a hand raised. With the overseer’s body draped over his shoulder, nobody should have shot him anyway, but the guards appeared nervous. Twitchy.

  “Yanko,” came Uncle Mishnal’s cool voice from the lift. He stepped out, wearing a frown. “You are not at your studies.”

  “No, I—”

  “I suggest you return to them now. Your father will be here soon.”

  It crossed Yanko’s mind to defy his uncle, but two of the guards had lowered their weapons to take the overseer from Dak. They stepped into the lift. Though the remaining guards kept their bows up, nobody looked like they were planning to skewer a Turgonian. Since the men were waiting for Yanko to enter the lift before taking the overseer up, he sighed and stepped inside. It would be shameful to delay the fellow’s medical attention. He would have time later to find out more about this strange Turgonian—and to decide if he should mention Dak’s linguistic skills to his uncle.

  Part 5

  Yanko wiped his hands on his trousers for the forty-seventh time. He stood in the tunnel outside of the weapons training room, waiting as his uncle had directed. Murmurs drifted from within, the sounds of several voices. Yanko recognized his father’s among them. He couldn’t make out many of the words though.

  Every now and then, a handful of perspiring workers walked toward the lifts, fresh from the lower levels, with sacks of salt balanced on their shoulders. None of them did more than glance into the training room. Whoever had come to visit, it meant nothing to them. Yanko, however, bounced on his toes, tempted to sneak forward and peek around the corner.

  A new figure walked in from the direction of the deeper mines. Dak. He was dressed only in his faded wool trousers and boots, leaving his chest bare. It held scars as garish as the one that had taken his eye, along with racks of muscles that made Yanko feel like a prepubescent boy in comparison. Though he wore his collar, four guards walked behind Dak, each with a crossbow. An overseer—not the one who’d been injured—walked behind. Uncle Mishnal wasn’t taking chances, not with an important guest in the mine.

  Yanko tilted his head curiously, wondering if Dak had fully recovered from the methane ordeal. He wondered, too, if he had any idea who today’s guest might be. Or if he cared. The Turgonian didn’t offer a response to this look of inquiry.

  “Stop,” one of the guards said, and Dak halted several paces down the tunnel on the other side of the door.

  Looks like I get to demonstrate my sword-fighting skills for Father and his friend.

  Yanko supposed it was too much to hope that Dak would make him look good, or at least not entirely inept.

  “Enter,” came Uncle Mishnal’s voice.

  Yanko hesitated, not positive the command was meant for him or the Turgonian. Dak didn’t move, however, nor did the guards push him forward. Yanko straightened his back and told the ants dancing in his stomach to run off. When he stepped inside and saw the people waiting, he kept his step from faltering, but barely.

  His uncle was there, of course, though wearing gold and silver robes instead of his usual overseer oranges. Yanko’s father stood next to him, clad in green and blue silks with his craggy, humorless features unchanged since Yanko had seen him last. The relatives were expected, the fierce warriors in the deep purples reserved for the Great Chief, his kin, and his entourage… were not. They stood along a wall behind a man in his early thirties who wore the accoutrements of a Nurian diplomat, a rek rek pipe and an intricately engraved Enigma Flute that radiated power to Yanko’s sensitive mind. Yanko had never seen the rare musical instrument outside of books, nor had he ever expected to; only those closely related to the Great Chief were allowed to use them.

  The man with the flute smiled. “Good morning, Yanko.”

  Yanko almost pitched over sideways, partly because this relative of the Great Chief was addressing him by name, and partly because he was smiling when everyone else in the room was grimmer than a funeral.

  “Good morning, honored… uhm…” Yanko glanced at his father.

  “Prince Zirabo,” Father growled under his breath, then blew out an irritated huff that made his long black mustachios quiver.

  Erg, yes, he should have known that. The Great Chief’s youngest son didn’t appear in many wall murals, not the way the chief and the heir did, but the flute and the guards should have been clues enough.

  Yet another failure, Yanko. Father
will leave you in these mines forever…

  He pressed his palms together before his chest and bowed his head. “Prince Zirabo. I am most honored to be in your presence. I apologize for my ignorance. It should have been apparent immediately from your Enigma Flute.” He doubted he would win anyone’s favor for recognizing the instrument, but just in case… In truth, it would be fascinating to hear it played—according to the legends, the early models had been infused with power that could pacify ferocious animals. Yanko’s music teacher had implied the chiefs these days used them to pacify humans and sway votes. He supposed it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask a prince if he could play a melody to calm bees protecting their hive. Something about Zirabo’s easy smile made Yanko think he would be more amused than annoyed at the request, but Father and Uncle Mishnal were another matter.

  “I’ve come to see you demonstrate your fighting and Science abilities,” the prince said.

  “You—you’ve come to see me?” Yanko was so surprised he forgot honorifics… and to lower his voice so it didn’t squeak in that unmanly register. He cleared his throat and avoided his father’s eyes, though he could feel their glare from across the room. Why couldn’t he ever do anything right?

  Because you always feel him watching… judging you.

  His brother always said Father had been different before their mother left, and Yanko wished he could remember those days.

  “Well.” Zirabo waved a hand as if he had been caught in some faux pas. “I came to check on the mine—salt is one of the few resources we have in plenty, and we’ll need more of it in the coming months so that we buy… supplies.” His smile vanished for a moment, and he shook his head. “I checked the outposts your father oversees in the mountains as well. While we were speaking, he mentioned that you’ll be applying for Stargrind.”