“Hold on, stranger!” he heard the captain cry. The rope went taut, and Sorak felt himself pulled through the silt. He swallowed hard. Another second and the boat would have been out of reach. Several of the passengers, including the captain, pulled hard on the rope, drawing him in. Moments later, they were leaning
down and lifting him over the side. He collapsed, coughing, onto the deck and felt several hands on him, raising him to his feet. His body was encrusted with silt and caked with giant’s blood. His hair was thick with it, matted down and plastered to his face and skull.
The passengers gathered around him, patting him on the back and congratulating him. The oarsmen cheered, though without pausing in their rowing. They would not be completely out of danger until they were well past Ledo Island.
Ryana put her arms around him and crushed her lips to his, heedless of the crusty silt covering him from head to toe. “If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you,” she said.
He grinned. “I’d sooner face a dozen giants than a scornful Ryana.”
The passengers around them, both dwarves and mercenaries, laughed. With the danger past, they were all giddy with relief.
The captain stood before him. “That was the most foolhardy thing I’ve ever seen,” the powerfully built dwarf said, “and the bravest. You saved all our lives. What is your name, stranger?”
“Sorak. And thank you for throwing me the rope.”
The captain nodded. “I feared you were lost. We could not have turned around in time, and in truth, I must confess I would not have risked it.”
Sorak nodded. “I understand.”
The captain frowned. “Sorak. Are you by any chance the one they call the Nomad?”
“That is the elvish meaning of my name,” said Sorak.
“Then I have heard of you,” the captain said. I “And I would be pleased if you and your companion would dine with me tonight.”
“The pleasure would be ours,” said Sorak. “But I shall have to find a place to bathe first, and make myself presentable.”
“Then allow me to extend to you the hospitality of my humble home,” the dwarf replied. “Then I’ll treat you to the finest night of entertainment my village has to offer. Now please, sit down and rest. Give him room, the rest of you!”
Sorak gratefully sank to the deck and stretched out.
“Here, rest your head in my lap,” Ryana said, sitting down beside him.
“No,” said Sorak, shaking his head. “I am filthy, and I stink with giant’s blood.”
“Here, take this,” one of the mercenaries said, offering him a waterskin. “You can at least rinse off your hair and face.”
“My thanks,” said Sorak. He leaned over the side while the mercenary poured the water over his head and Ryana helped him scrub the filth off. A few moments later, he was relatively clean from the neck up.
“Are you injured?” the mercenary asked, looking him over.
“No, just a little tired,” Sorak said.
“You were lucky,” said the mercenary. “Either that or very skilled.” He smiled. “Which was it?”
“A bit of both, I think,” Sorak replied with a slight smile.
The mercenary grinned. He had perfect teeth, unusual for a man in his midthirties. The usual remedy for a toothache was to pull out the offending tooth and, if the patient could afford it—which most could not—replace it with an artificial one made of obsidian or silver. Most people took poor care of their teeth and suffered the consequences.
This man was an exception. His teeth and well-muscled physique showed he took good care of himself, and kept well groomed. His skin was clear and tanned, his shoulder-length blond hair clean and glossy, his face clean shaven. Few mercenaries bothered to take such scrupulous care of their appearance. He was a handsome man, and he knew it and took pride in his good looks.
Out of habit, Sorak glanced toward the man’s weapons. Two long, stiletto daggers were tucked into his belt, and he wore a heavy sword in an elegantly crafted and embossed leather scabbard. The crossguards were simple, straight, functional, and made of iron, as were the daggers. The hilts of all three weapons were wrapped with silver wire. Weapons made of iron were uncommon and expensive. This mercenary had not stinted on his equipment.
Neither had he stinted on his wardrobe. His feet were shod in well-made drakeskin boots cuffed at the knee, expensive not only because drakes were dangerous reptiles, but also because their hard black-and-red pebbled hide was extremely tough and difficult to work. A true craftsman had made those boots. The black-and-gray striped kirreskin breeches and the matching forearm bands were equally expensive, as was the mercenary’s sleeveless, laced-up tunic, made from the brown speckled hide of a cloud ray and studded with black onyx.
Everything the man wore was made from highly dangerous game. The only way he could afford such apparel on a mercenary’s salary was if he had provided the skins himself, and that spoke volumes about his prowess as a hunter.
“A bit ostentatious, perhaps,” said the mercenary, noting Sorak’s scrutiny, “but I find that flamboyance makes a strong impression. A poorly dressed mercenary is a poorly paid one. I am called Kieran.”