The Warriors' Bane

Chapter 5: The Visitors

Outside stands a group of five strangers, all wearing green tunics and tan pants. Their hair is a silvery gray, though they all appear to still be young, and pulled up off of their necks. They're dust-stained and rumpled from travel, and Selmas groans when he sees them. They're clearly from the closest neighboring clan, Wister, whose people often come to the Alyrisin village to trade and purchase supplies. The Chieftain encourages trade with the Wisterin only because their clan is too small to ever have a hope of conquering the Alyrisin and taking the Bloodstone, but the Wisterin still think themselves to be very important because they are let in at all.

Selmas hasn't seen this particular group before, but the way they call out to him makes his blood boil, and he has half a mind to ignore them.

“Hello?" the one at the front of the group calls. “We're waiting."

Selmas scoffs and goes up to the front. “We're closed."

“Then why is your storefront open?" the Wisterin asks. “It's not good business to be closed in the middle of the day."

“We have other orders to fill," Selmas says.

“You're about to have one more," the man tells him. “I need some flying needles. The thinner, the better. Under the name Hundyr."

Oh. Selmas knows that name. Hundyr is one of the best warriors from Wister, which isn't saying much, because the Wister aren't very good fighters in general. Hundyr has been a name that is passed around through the area for a while, however, because while he isn't very good at hand-to-hand combat, he's good with poisons, which is where the flying needles come in; thin slivers of metal that blaze through the air and can be filled with special toxins, rendering an enemy immobile without ever having to get near them.

It's a coward's way of fighting, in Selmas' opinion.

“We don't make those," he says flatly.

Hundyr rolls his eyes, and the lackeys behind him laugh. He reaches into the front of his tunic and comes out with a thin, silver needle that glints in the light, held between his index and middle fingers. “Want to rethink that?"

Selmas side-eyes the needle. “No. I don't need to. I won't make any for you."

Hundyr frowns. He flips the needle forward so that it's pointed at the space between Selmas' eyes. “Do you even know how these work?"

“Yes," Selmas says, “You poison people from a distance and don't even get close until they're already dead. Frankly, I'm surprised you even had the nerve to come up to me."

Hundyr glares at him. “Why not? You're not a Warrior. I could take you on with just one needle. One."

“Even an Alyrisin smith could beat a Wisterin in battle," Selmas says, crossing his arms. “Your clan is pathetic. It's a wonder you haven't died out already."

Hundyr's nostrils flare. “Why, you little—"

“Hundyr, what are you doing?" someone says.

Selmas, Hundyr, and the other Wisterin turn to see Gwynfor standing nearby, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression murderous. She's bruised across the bridge of her nose, and has a bandage tied around her upper arm, but she still looks as though she could take all of them at once and barely wrinkle her shirt.

“Gwynfor," Hundyr says, his voice suddenly sweet. Selmas looks at him in disgust. “How was the fight?"

Gwynfor looks at him flatly. “I killed fourteen people."

“Right," Hundyr says, and Selmas notes with vindictive pleasure that there's some hesitance in his voice now. “That's good."

Gwynfor looks between the needle in Hundyr's fingers to Selmas in his apron. “Get your own smith to make you needles. Ours doesn't."

Hundyr pouts. “His needles always come out crooked. I need precision in order to throw correctly."

“Don't care," Gwynfor tells him. “Maybe you'll learn to fight with a real weapon, then."

Hundyr laughs, uneasily. “That's a… good joke."

“It's not a joke," Gwynfor says flatly. “Go home."

Hundyr frowns. “You can't just kick us out, no matter who you are. The Wisterin are your allies! We're supposed to—"

“Allies doesn't mean you're one of us," Gwynfor says. “Besides, you were here for grain reports, not weaponry. You've done your business, so stop harassing Selm-an, and leave."

“Alright, alright!" Hundyr says, holding his hands up. He glances at the needle in his hand and quickly stowes it. “I don't want to disturb our families' agreement, Gwynfor. I'll see you in two weeks. At the Ceremony." He gestures to the other Wisterin following him. “We'll go, then."

He gives Selmas a final look, and then the group strolls away from the shop, down the path toward the edge of the village.

“I had it handled," Selmas says.

“No, you didn't," Gwynfor says, unimpressed.

“I'm not useless."

“Didn't say you were." Gwynfor holds out a scrap of paper. “You're a weaponsmith. Here's all the things we're going to need replaced from today."

“Is that why you're here?" Selmas asks, taking the paper from her and looking it over. “Wait, how did you break so many spears?"

“Rin-an stepped on two," Gwynfor says. “Okay. Bye."

“Wait!" Selmas says, scrambling out from behind the counter to catch Gwynfor as she turns to walk away. “What did Hundyr mean about your 'families' agreement?'"

It's apparently the wrong question to ask, because the next thing he knows, he's pinned up against the shop wall, arm twisted behind his back, Gwynfor's breath hot in his ear.

“It means that you shouldn't repeat things you know nothing about," Gwynfor growls at him. “So if I find out you've said anything to anyone, I'll be taking your arm with me next time."

“I won't!" Selmas yelps. “I won't, I promise! Ow!"

Gwynfor presses his arm into his back a bit more to make sure her point has been made, and then releases him.

Selmas rubs his shoulder. “But they're coming to the Ceremony? The Wisterin?"

“Bye," Gwynfor says emotionlessly and stalks away, almost bumping into Byrin as he rounds the corner, holding five snapped spear shafts.

“Hi, Gwynfor!" he says. “Bye, Gwynfor!"

Gwynfor ignores him.

Byrin brings the spears to Selmas, dumping them onto the counter. “I broke these." He frowns. “Well, not all of them. Just… uh, those two. And that one."

“It's a wonder they still let you be a Warrior," Selmas mutters, still frowning after Gwynfor in confusion. “Do you know anything about the Wisterin coming to the Ceremony?"

“The Wisterin are coming to the Ceremony?"

“At least Hundyr is."

“Oh." Byrin's face pulls into something uncomfortable. “I don't like him."

“I'd be worried if you did," Selmas mutters. He examines the broken weapons, decides that most of them are beyond repair, and tosses them to the side. He'll remove the spear heads later and reattach them to new, unbroken shafts.

“I like the Ceremony," Byrin sighs happily. “The food is good." He punches Selmas' upper arm playfully. “And after this year, you'll be able to join our ranks! No more sweating next to a forge."

Selmas sighs. “We don't know that."

“Oh, come on, Selmas," Byrin says. “The Stone has to accept you this time. Otherwise, why would you be getting a second chance?"

“I'm getting a second chance because I'm too stupid to give up," Selmas mutters. “I don't think that's necessarily a good characteristic."

Byrin shrugs. “Whatever it is, it's going to make you a Warrior. I can feel it."

Selmas kicks a broken spear. “I hope you're right."

Despite Byrin's words, the pit of his stomach still feels hollow and empty, a foreboding chasm, like it knows something he doesn't.