And she would be no drunker unless she did. Only a few drops remained in her flask—and those tasted only of rainwater.
Groaning, she shoved the cork into the neck. A fine day this was. Such a very fine day.
Whatever day it might be. The last she remembered, her flask had been full. Usually at least two or three evenings passed before she had to fill it again.
Idly, she unsheathed her sword. No blood stained the shining blade. So she had likely not killed anyone in the time unremembered, or the blood would still remain. Lizzan was not the tidiest of warriors when drunk.
And now she was here. In the jungle. She had the vaguest recollection of a man with a gray curling beard saying that a group of bandits were plaguing travelers along the road between the villages of Dornan and Vares. Perhaps she had set out to hunt them.
If so, then a fool she was. Gladly would Lizzan collect bandits’ heads. But she had no money and no horse—and now, no drink. Better to have waited until someone offered to pay for those heads.
A look through the rest of her belongings told Lizzan that at least her only foolishness had been chasing after brigands. Still in her possession was her purse—empty though it was—and her sword, which would fill the purse with coins again. She had not sold any more of her armor. Even with the sigil of the Kothan army scratched away, each piece was fine enough to fetch a fair price—her chain mail tunic alone could buy a horse and a year’s worth of drink. But she was not yet so desperate. Or so thirsty.
A sniff told her that she also had a rather unpleasant odor. But the rain would take care of that.
Mostly.
Her leathers and boots were soaked through when the storm finally passed. Made from a northern falt’s water-shedding fur, her bedroll had been spared the soaking, but it was so muddied that nothing of the white pelt could be seen under the brown. The cursed heat in this realm would dry them all soon enough, but still she stripped down to her linens and boots before starting out in search of the road, so that her squelching would not draw predators, whether human or animal—and to spare herself the chafing.
Some days it seemed that everything she touched immediately began to chafe her skin. Everything rubbed the wrong way.
It was not skill that led her to the road, but the noise of the travelers already upon it. Out of sight amid a heavy growth of ferns, Lizzan studied the procession. A few dozen families—men and women, young and old. A few carts drawn by oxen carried supplies and the weaker among them. But most walked and carried their belongings upon their backs.
Except for the mounted figure at their head. Lizzan could only see her back, but the red cloak she wore identified her well enough. A Nyrae warrior—or so she would have everyone believe by wearing that cloak. Once, those roaming warriors guaranteed the safe passage of anyone who traveled the road with them, for only a fool would attack one of the goddess Vela’s chosen. But few Nyrae warriors had survived Anumith the Destroyer’s deadly march a generation past. Now, it was more likely to be a woman from one of these families—and that she had donned a red cloak in hope that bandits would not risk attacking a party led by a true Nyrae warrior.
But the deceptive practice had become so common that there was little protection in it anymore. Instead those who could afford the cost hired guards—which was how Lizzan earned most of her coin. Of late, she had escorted merchants and nobles fleeing east, as rumors spread of the Destroyer’s return from the west. From the east, she had escorted merchants and nobles fleeing west to escape the tyranny of the warlords in Lith. And from the north came those fleeing unnamed terrors that stalked through the ice and snow.
This was the first party she’d seen fleeing north—usually the only escort in that direction was for merchants’ goods, which were a prime target for bandits. More than all else, the destitution of these travelers might be better protection than any red cloak. For they had little to tempt thieves.
But brigands were often tempted by very little.
A few stragglers made up the tail of the party—likely those who had joined the primary group after it had already started out, for it was Vela’s law that no one would be denied a Nyrae warrior’s protection upon the road. Even if that warrior was truly only a farmer.
Lizzan waited for the entire procession to pass, then began to straggle after the stragglers. With her wet hair hanging lankly over the left side of her face, her armor and leathers wrapped up in her bedroll, she received little more than a curious glance or two from the others, and she remained far enough behind to escape any attempts at conversation.
But she did not escape notice. Lizzan had barely settled into the procession’s slow pace when the quick tempo of hoofbeats announced the approach of the red-cloaked figure.
Oh, and no farmer was she. Not on a horse so fine. Sheer envy struck Lizzan’s chest. Perhaps she would part with her chain mail tunic, after all.
Except this woman did not likely need it. A thick braid swept her black hair away from the proud set of her face. She was not a large woman—shorter than Lizzan and more finely boned—yet the eyetooth-studded belt she wore left little doubt of her skill.
There was also little doubt of her identity, for one could not step into an inn without hearing of how Krimathe’s future queen had set out on the quest that would earn her the Ivory Throne. And all who quested for the goddess Vela also wore a red cloak.
Not a Nyrae warrior, but a Krimathean. So there was little difference.
And although Lizzan had little use for royals, the woman eyeing her now was no mere queen. For legend was that Hanan had fucked one of her foremothers, and that god’s silver blood ran through her veins—and his strength through her limbs.
So Lizzan felt a little bit of a fool when she told the woman, “I have heard that bandits are preying the length of this road. I offer my sword and assistance if we happen upon them.”
The woman’s dark eyes swept Lizzan from drenched head to wet toe, and Lizzan did not think that piercing gaze overlooked a single scar or battle-hardened muscle.
No response did she give, except to cock her head—as if waiting for more.
Lizzan sighed and scratched the side of her neck. “And I would not ask these people for payment, but if the bandits are mounted, I would like first pick of their horses.”
The Krimathean’s eyes narrowed. As if she knew there was more.
And so there was. “Also their flasks.”
The woman’s lips twitched. Then she swept her forefinger over her left eyebrow.
Lizzan’s chest tightened. Yet she could see no way around it. Had she still been in the north, or if it were winter, no one would think anything if she’d covered much of her face. Yet if she’d joined this procession wearing the mask she often used while working, she’d have immediately been thought a bandit. But her hair had not concealed her well enough.