Seeking the Veil, Part 1

Falling

Two days passed as Hestea learned the art and drudgery of peeling potatoes and the Band of Orangebeard traveled into the mountains that were the low hills of the Scale. Snow covered the ground and the night before, Hestea had counted his furs, wondering if he could barter for another.

He had joined with Amott and the other cooks in their tent with a couple men Hestea was unsure he ever wanted to speak to, that snored like lions and smelled like wet dog. When he had asked Amott why he had been given a tent all his own on the first night, the gap-toothed cook smiled and replied, "Had to be sure ya didn't have fleas."

It was a reason, but Hestea wondered when he looked over at the sleeping forms of Hack and Durtle, each monstrous breath rattling the tent. Neither man had said more than two words to Hestea and as far as he was concerned it could stay that way. Their breath was enough to make a man want to sleep in the snow.

Gunter was nowhere to be seen, except as he fetched a meal at the mess tent, nodded at Hestea and left to his own devices. It was for the best, Hestea supposed as he ripped the skin from another tuber, nearly taking his thumb off in the process.

He worked alongside Amott as they packed up the kitchen, morning light cresting the hills. Clouds scudded by overhead as they threw pots and pans into crates, loaded them on wagons that had been turned into sleds, and collapsed the tent. One wall had a new stain, a brown splotch that spread out like a starburst. Someone had ridiculed Smallhands and his small head. The normally calm giant had stood up from the table, knocking two men down in the process, picked the drunk fool up by his trousers and tossed him over two tables. The man's gravy coated beans had hit the canvas with an explosion of grease.

Two days of travel, two days wasted. Hestea turned to Amott as he lifted a giant pot still crusted in blackened grease. "Where are we going, Amott? Orangebeard seems intent on something, but he won't tell me a thing."

Amott ran a finger along his scraggly little lip hairs, looked around and shrugged. "Yer new. Not like it's a secret. We're hunting a force of Sordin."

Hestea's breath caught. "You mean Saeordin?"

"'Course, but Orangebeard can't say it, so..." Amott raised his hands. "We're under contract with Graf van Wagner. The good and noble graf ran afoul of some Sordin, so he paid us some gold to go and rub them off the Scale. He's short men, but not gold. Had to commit some of his own to the Bremen border to fight under the konig. Probably grumbles every other day thinking on it when he looks over his burned village and keep."

Amott smiled, and lifted another crate into the wagon.

All the years, all those miles, leaving home and everything he knew, and the enemy was in reach. An enemy to fear as a child, an enemy to understand as he grew, and an enemy to dream of one day fighting — of doing something.

And here he was, peeling potatoes, chopping onions and his people's very purpose, the reason for their existence lay somewhere over the next ridge, perhaps across the next valley, or down this very slope.

Hestea dropped the pot he was holding and grabbed Amott's shoulder with a grease-covered hand. "Who can teach me how to fight?"

Amott tilted his head, mouth open, the gap between his teeth like some glaring hole as he considered. "Yer a persistent fella, aren't ya?"

Hestea nodded emphatically. "Please."

"Very well, you already know Smallhands?"

"Of a sort."

"Start there. He's a good man. Just don't say anything about his head."

Hestea glanced to the soiled tent canvas and shook his head. "Never."