The meeting place was arranged well in advance, past a rutted dirt road that saw steadily less use as weeks went by with the Blossoms weakened and the Gairnites emboldened. There was yet some terrain to traverse, according to the map Triella inspected every other minute, but they should arrive at the Gairnite camp before the dimming of the sunlight, which was something to be thankful for, as being surrounded by the Host and underneath the dark of night was not a situation Triella wished to find herself in. Even if it was a meeting plotted by Sieglinde. The further east they went, the less confident Triella became in the wisdom of this scheme, of marching towards their enemies. Perhaps it would be safer to turn back, content with the knowledge they’d been able to extract already.
From their questioning of Galm they learned of the delivery schedule for the canisters of liss, how it was traded within the Leatherworkers’ Quarter for materials, and then sold to the addled, while the materials themselves, leather and metals primarily, were sold off within the Host itself. An elaborate arrangement, and not official policy of any of the Sects. Some Gairnites, out of their own initiative, used the Host’s resources to manufacture liss, then traded it for valuable goods in cities around Loclain, and sell those goods among themselves, becoming valuable suppliers as a result.
“Almost makes them seem like civilized people of a sort, with trade and complex workings,” Cecilia had remarked.
That was before the three had departed, together. Stel, Sieglinde, Erika and Yawen would stay behind but at the ready to reinforce them, if necessary. Yawen had given Triella a small iron disk, like a coin, one of twins, the other kept for her own. They respond to one another, she explained, so each one can locate its counterpart. That was the best they could hope for; praying that, if something went awry, their bloom-sisters would arrive in time to save them. Failing that, Triella supposed, they could ensure a decent burial, though knowing Yawen she might try to use bits of their bodies for some queer magic. But is that truly so different from the Red Rose preserving our ashes for magical rituals? Triella decided she’d rather not think about that.
The road from Leyrvallti afforded them a good view of the bridge half a league ahead, where Galm had arranged a meeting between his contacts and the Blossoms. A sturdy enough structure to withstand the crossing of a wide and oft furious river, it was nevertheless a paltry thing from afar, dwarfed in scale by the woodlands on both sides of the river. The western side, closest to Leyrvallti, supplied the milling and carpentry industries of the city, had been at risk of total deforestation until some decades ago, and now the new trees were growing tall, thick and strong, but not quite like their counterparts on the eastern side of the river. The River Aymzumring, though even now the locals referred to it to its old name as often as not. The Druid’s Drink, they called it before the Red Rose saw fit to stifle such superstitions, but the names and the minds of the people were not so easy to change.
“The credulous masses still think something remains of those dead magics,” Yawen had remarked with ridicule, before they set out. “It was always the Rose which shielded Loclain from deviltry, not a rabble of herb-chewers. Still, the average Loclainite fears to fell the trees east of the Aymzumring, and still use the Druidic Path as a road through the woods.”
“Surely some of their magic must have been real, if they could bend the trees, roots and all, to open a path in the middle of the forest,” Stel suggested. Yawen and Erika both scoffed.
“The magic of devils is true for all to see, too,” said Erika, who more than anyone here had an eye for recognizing false, worthless spells. “It matters little that the talk of nature spirits sounds gentler than that of demonic forces. Nature is quite cruel, too, and hungry. The druids sacrificed their fellow man and weaved entrails into wreaths for their nameless gods, or whatever stupid beliefs they had. Small wonder the common folk think the waters and the woods are haunted.”
Haunted enough that they’d not disturb the wood spirits, but not too haunted that they wouldn’t use such a useful road, Triella thought. She wouldn’t say it, but it was more than a little curious how Yawen would mock the beliefs peasants had in spirits and simple rites, but plainly speak of the ghosts that whispered to her as though that demanded no elaboration. And Yawen saw nothing unusual in the most impenetrable magical theory imaginable, but this was a step too far for plausibility. One day, Triella hoped, she might come to understand Yawen’s mind. Then again, perhaps it was best not to.
“Seems like a small outpost,” Cecilia remarked, when they stood at the edge of the jagged mounds that the main roads avoided. Here at least the visibility was favorable. “Though outpost is a most generous word. Seems like a simple camp. If the knights of Loclain were not so preoccupied with larger warbands of the Host, they could liberate the bridge in an instant. These Gairnites must be favored by fortune.”
“More like favored by the guards and patrols,” Triella said. Cecilia was one of the smartest people she’d known, so why was it that she failed to understand the obvious at times? “Galm said they just store some liss in their camp, and shake down passersby now and again. Just as the city watch of Leyrvallti let them act freely, so too do they feign blindness as long as those thugs don’t grow too bold.”
“What unacceptable behavior from men sworn to protect the innocent,” Cecilia remarked. She wasn’t wrong. And yet…
“Far be it from me to justify their deeds, but it is true that those Gairnites have not killed anyone, and their villainy has been of a petty caliber. Sometimes, lawbearers will turn a blind eye in the understanding that if they draw swords they will also summon forth a greater wrath. If you were a captain of guards stretched thin and deprived of resources, would you chance becoming the target of the Host’s aggression?”
“She is right,” said Ise, a rare sequence of words. “Though dishonorable, dishonest, and rightfully deserving of scorn, some wrongs are done for what is believed to be a greater good. They are scared, and wouldn’t you be, when the Gairnites have for centuries raided and killed their enemies? If it were ours to judge, then I would denounce them all and their ways. But we were not asked to pass judgment. So let us just do our duty,” she said, clearly displeased with said duty.
It was good that the meeting had been arranged in advance, for otherwise it would be a simple matter for the Gairnites to melt into the woods and escape justice as soon as they saw that it was Blossoms who came for them and not guards they could bribe with some ryals. The forests were dense enough on the western side, and the eastern woods appeared, from a distance, to be more treacherous still. Here, save for the lone road, the paths between the trees were just wide enough for people to squeeze through, but only if they already had some familiarity with the paths. At first glance, they were too narrow, but here and there the gaps were reamed by time, by wind, by the life that dwelled here.
The way out seemed to appear without warning but for the world brightening ever so slightly, and immediately before their eyes the river was unveiled in its breadth, and so was the bridge that sliced through it. Somehow it seemed smaller from up close than from afar. The makeshift camp over the bridge, however, was exactly as puny as it had seemed to be. Bedrolls and some furs to shield them from rain, a campfire on the west end that was currently extinguished, a scattering of pans by its side, with a scent that Triella couldn’t quite recognize but that was far too strong for her taste. A man washed plates on the river, while four other Gairnites were spread over the bridge, two playing some manner of pebble game, another sharpening his sword, and another reading a small book. Say what you will about the Gairning Host, but they do spread literacy with diligence. Even if it was just to study their blasphemous tomes of sacrilege.
“The ladies are early,” said a Gairnite with greasy hair and a swollen lip, the one with the sword. “That idiot Galm really had to get himself discovered, eh?” He scratched his chin. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about our two comrades who’ve gone to Leyrvallti, would you?”
More than you’d like to know.
“Perhaps they were more discreet than your man in the Shitbucket,” said Triella. The man laughed. “More discreet than you, certainly, as we had no idea there were two more of you in the city. But this isn’t part of our negotiations, I’m afraid, so you’ve offered that information at no cost, as a gesture of good faith, yes?”
“Good faith, heh,” two others stopped tossing pebbles, and came closer. One held a huge dagger, but Triella couldn’t see what weapon the other had. “So they’re sending Blossoms as young as you little girls to do the Rose’s work, is that how far you’ve fallen?”
“Quite unseemly of a grown man to mock young girls, don’t you think?” Cecilia pointed out. “Shall we actually talk rather than exchange insults? If you had no desire to negotiate, you wouldn’t have accepted our offer, so you won’t intimidate us.”
“Quite true, quite true,” said the man with the sword. His was the longest blade, so perhaps that made him their leader? “What do you want? To sell some liss, too, how nasty for a Blossom to even think of that…”
“You are not amusing,” said Ise. “We want your trade halted. We want you to leave this place and cease bothering travelers.”
“You know, when bargaining, both sides must get something.”
Stel had wanted to come with them, but Sieglinde wisely advised her to stay behind and act as reinforcements. That was certainly for the best, because Stelmaria wouldn’t have hesitated to say that all she had to offer was to not paint the cobblestones red with their guts.
“You know the wealth of the Red Rose,” said Cecilia. “We’ve coin to spare. More than you could ever hope to gain from your misdeeds. A trade that favors you, I’m sure you can see.”
“You’re a Blossom, alright,” the man holding a dagger groaned. “Just toss the peasants a sack of ryals and they’ll do whatever you want, right? You are not the only ones who crave higher gains than mere gold.”
“Besides, a trade that favors one side is charity by another name,” said their leader. “We have our pride, ladies. Surely you don’t think this is the first attempt at bribery we have known? It seems to us that there’s five here on our side, and three on yours, and you’re just little girls, no matter how pretty your ribbons or fancy your swords. Tell me, what is it that you can truly offer, when by strength of arms we can take your gold and your pretty little jeweled blades?”
“Five men against three girls, is that how you see it?” Triella asked. She hoped it would not come to this, but her hope was fading.
“Another thing to learn about bargaining,” the man continued, “is the importance of leverage. I’m afraid, my ladies, that you’ve walked into an unfair fight.”
Yes. Three mantled Blossoms and five men… Unfair indeed.
The fool with a dagger was the first to strike, tossing the knife towards the Blossoms, a move easily deflected by Ise’s spear. After that, the man found himself unarmed, and could be safely ignored. Triella drew her sword, and rushed to give battle to her foes. Her first thrust was clumsy, her blade seemingly too small. When she swung it, it struck without force, more a flimsy and thin stick than a proper weapon. A rapier is the sword of heroes, she somehow found herself remembering her own thoughts, right before a huge axe nearly struck her at the chest. After that, little thinking was done.
The rapier fell upon the stones of the bridge. When the axe began to descend again, Triella raised her hands, grabbing the weapon with her huge, heavy gauntlets. She gripped the edge forcefully, and though it could not cut through the thick metal guarding her fingers, she still felt the pressure, and uncomfortable weight that neared pain. Another Gairnite was approaching; acting quickly, she kicked at the man’s leg, and when he lost his balance, her fist struck his groin in a sickening blow. The man fell to his knees at once, and a slap to the side of the head brought him down, scattering a pair of teeth upon the cobblestones. I did not mean to hit him with such force, she thought as the man gripped his crotch with his hands and cried hysterically until he was out of breath. At least he won’t die, I hope.
Her peers were not so shameful. Ise wielded her spear skilfully, though her motions were quite repetitive. The same moves, again and again, a thrust and a sweep, a thrust and a sweep, until she caught her foe’s legs and knocked him on his face. That had to be the plainest way to disarm and defeat an opponent, but it worked well enough. Families of note in Tawarasato tend to have styles of fighting named after them, right? She thought she could recall learning that, but she wasn’t sure. A family as ancient and proud as Ubami would certainly have such a tradition.
Cecilia, however, was the portrait of grace, fighting two foes at once and making it appear effortless. She danced around them with windlike elegance, like a flurry of snowflakes spinning circles in a wintry wind. They were movements of poise that lent itself to poetic thoughts, an admiration not only of mastery but aesthetics. The Gairnite holding the long blade swung with all his might, and for a second it almost looked like Cecilia would fail to deflect this blow, her blade already occupied in disarming her other opponent, but before the steel could touch her, her free hand held a slender and gleaming dirk of crystal—no, not crystal. Ice. Though it appeared frail, it was the iron that shattered when it struck, cracking then breaking apart with a strident keening.
The fifth man, unarmed, knew better than to resist. He didn’t even try to run away. The ease with which he went to his knees was almost shameful, but it was best this way. Though one of these poor devils was still wailing in agony, insensate in his pain, the other four allowed themselves to be restrained, hands tied together with silken strings that were more resilient than steel. If Stel or Yawen were here, she reflected, we’d be looking at a far more grotesque sight.
“I suppose that’s it, then,” Cecilia sheathed her sword. “We’ll dispose of the liss properly. Dumping the contents into the river seems rather thoughtless. As for you,” she turned to the men, “I trust that you will be more courteous now.”
They had no choice. Though the weeping of the wounded Gairnite disturbed her, she couldn’t help but smile. Not at his pain, but at their triumph. This was what the Blossoms were made for. An uncomplicated fight against a clear wrong, against agents of evil. How could they lose, then, when their cause was righteous and their hearts touched by light?
