Dhelklew and Einos

“We’re here.”

Instantly I sprang awake. Looking around, I saw that we were approaching the banks of the Abver. Ferries were beached along the strand, waiting for the morning’s passengers. The earthen banks and brick walls of Verdwer were but a bow-shot away.

Oswa lay still, still breathing, still alive.

Keitan steered the boat towards the shore. Arla and I held Oswa down and cushioned her head.

The boat jolted. Rocks ground against the hull. Abruptly we jerked to a stop.

Oswa groaned, but continued breathing.

Arla scooped up Oswa and held her close. I climbed out the boat, then helped Arla do the same. One by one, Keitan passed me the sacks. When they were offloaded, Keitan sank into his seat, his face red and sweating.

“Arla and I will enter the city,” I said, “and I will send a wagon for you.”

A sack in each hand, I trudged towards Verdwer. Arla followed, Oswa cradled at her breast.

A line formed outside the North Gate. We cut past them. Men and women grumbled and shouted at us. A few shook their fists. We ignored them.

The guards at the gate crossed their halberds before us.

“Halt! Return to the line!” the older one said.

“This girl is dying,” I said. “She needs healers.”

The guards looked up at me, then at Oswa, then at each other.

They let us pass.

There was a stable a stone’s throw from the gate. I hired two horse-drawn wagons. The first I sent to the men by the river. The other was for the three of us, and our load. For payment I gave the stablemaster a goodly-sized plate of chitin.

By the gleam in his eye, I wondered if I had given him too large a plate.

Crammed into the back of the wagon, we rushed down the High Road. The driver had a good head on his shoulders. When he saw that the road ahead was jammed with men and beasts and goods, he veered into the Sacred Way and urged his horses along.

Guards yelled at us. I snarled back. The gods did not see fit to complain.

The wagon brought us to the Temple of Hagra. I bade the driver wait for us. Then I unpacked myself from the mound of goods and people, set myself down, and held out a hand for Arla. Together, we entered the temple.

Inside the entry hall, a priestess awaited. It was the same priestess I had seen the last time I was here. She rose to her feet, scowling as she saw me.

“You should not be here.”

“Help her,” I replied.

I stepped aside, revealing Oswa in Arla’s arms.

The Hand of Hagra turned to them. She gasped, and paled.

“Oh! Come here, quickly! We need to get you into the Light of the Goddess!”

She took Arla by the shoulder and led them deeper inside.

The driver was still waiting for me. He lifted his hat as I climbed aboard.

“Where to, poti?” he asked.

“Dhelklew’s forge.”

This time he set off at a more leisurely pace. When we arrived, he helped me offload the sacks. I rewarded him with a bit of hack-silver. He departed with a smile.

The forge was busy as ever. Dhelklew’s apprentices went back and forth, hot and heavy pieces in their gloved hands. Others took turns hammering a piece into shape, every strike building into a hypnotic rhythm. The man himself greeted me at his doorway, his mouth nearly hidden by his dark, bushy hair.

“You’re not dead yet,” he said.

“It seems that way,” I agreed, “which means we can do more business together.”

“What have you brought me?”

I opened the sacks. His eyes boggled.

“Claws and chitin from a mother khonkonghos, slain only last night,” I said.

“Last night?” Dhelklew said. “What happened?”

I spun the tale of the battle of Omosghortos. I spoke of the storm, the pack of khonkongha smashing into the longhouse, the men standing fast and slaying the beasts.

“Your ghosti gave you the choicest of the harvest,” Dhelklew said.

“I know little of the uses of beast parts. But I heard that you have worked many wondrous goods with them.”

He smiled. “May I take a look?”

“Please, help yourself.”

He reached into a sack and pulled out a plate of chitin. Its black surface shone dully under the morning light. He rapped it with a scarred knuckle, then gripped the ends and twisted it back and forth. It barely budged.

“Heavier and stiffer than mail, yet lighter and more flexible than plate,” he said.

“It is as tough as steel, too,” I said.

I told him of how the men of Omosghortos had worked through the night to remove the plates. Dhelklew nodded.

“This is the first time I have seen khonkonghos plate of such thickness, but I have no doubt it will turn a blade.”

“Can it be fashioned into armor?”

He pursed his lips.

“With steel, you can simply melt it down and cast it into the desired shape. But this is chitin. It does not melt. It burns.”

“Is the great Dhelklew saying it cannot be done?”

He snorted.

“I did not say that.”

He turned to his apprentices and bellowed. “Apelos!”

“Yes, poti!” an apprentice replied.

“Fetch Einos the leatherworker! Tell him I have business with him!”

“At once, poti!”

The apprentice hurried away.

Dhelklew set the plate aside, then eyed a claw. It was easily as long as my arm, and weighed a quarter of what I did. He crouched, gripped the yellowed weapon with both hands, and stood back up with a grunt. Hefting it, he ran a knowing eye down its length.

“There is blood on this,” he said.

“The khonkonghos stabbed a girl. She is with the Hands of Hagra now.”

“I pray the Weaver can help her.”

“I, also. And I also wonder if you can turn this into a weapon.”

Dhelklew held out the claw. “Feel the tip.”

I pressed my palm against it.

“It’s round,” I said.

He nodded. “Now feel the inner curve of the claw.”

I ran my hand down its length.

“It’s blunt.”

“Yes. A khonkonghos hunts soft prey with its claws. The force of the blow is concentrated on the tip. That is how it pierces flesh and bone. The claws can also hook prey and pull it into its jaws.

“For the prey it hunts, the claw is superb. You, however, hunt men and beasts with armored shells.”

“The claw is only as good as a club, then.”

“Yes, unless you work it into a useful shape.”

“What kind of shape?”

“Let’s find out.”

He set down the claw, then pulled out a wooden staff from a nearby barrel. He laid them side-by-side, resting the base of the claw against the shaft.

“A scythe?” he wondered.

“I am not a farmer,” I said.

“And you do not cut grain,” he agreed.

He turned the staff about. Now the claw rested against the end of the shaft.

“A glaive,” he said. “Or a bill.”

“It does not seem useful against armored foes.”

“Indeed. Perhaps—”

Apelos came back. Einos was with him.

“Ala!” Einos said. “I heard you have business with me.”

“That we do,” Dhelklew agreed. “Take a look at this. Apelos, get back to work.”

The apprentice returned to the workshop. The master leatherworker examined the chitin.

“This is fine chitin indeed,” Einos said. “Fine enough for use as armor.”

“We thought the same,” Dhelklew replied. “Yet you have the most experience working with chitin armor.”

Einos looked at me, then at the plates, and rubbed his chin.

“Hold up your arms,” he said.

I did.

One by one, the men held up the largest, flattest plates against my breast and back. Some were a better fit than most. None was perfect.

“It is to be expected,” Einos said. “Khonkongha grow plate to cover their own bodies, not the bodies of men.”

“Pity,” Dhelklew said. “It will not be as simple as fashioning a breastplate and backplate.”

“Look at him! A single plate would leave his belly exposed.”

“If you can’t turn this into gear,” I said, “I could always sell it to the Labos House.”

“We did not say that,” Einos said.

The blacksmith cast a knowing glance at the leatherworker.

“Nail coat?” Dhelklew asked.

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“There ought to be enough chitin to guard his neck, arms and legs too.”

“More than enough. The trouble is working with the chitin. It will blunt knives and saws.”

“We’ll have to bring in the priests of Perkaus. They’ll use the Storm to cut and shape the chitin.”

They looked at me, then at each other.

“It could be… difficult,” Einos said.

“But not impossible,” I said.

“No. We don’t have to tell them about our customers or suppliers.”

“They do expect silver for their work,” Dhelklew said.

“Then I will leave the plates and claws with the two of you,” I said. “You may take your payment from them.”

“That is quite generous of you,” Dhelklew said.

“You will be doing me a favor. I cannot haul them around all day. And should you have chitin left over, you can sell them to the Godsworn or the royal ghortos.”

“Even accounting for our costs and labor, it is still too much,” Einos said.

“Then let us trade,” I said. “As it happens, there are other goods I need from you.”

“What do you need?”

“A backpack. A waterskin. A ration bag. Shoes. Spare pouches. Everything a man needs to climb a mountain.”

Einos nodded. “Then it is a fair trade.”

“As for you, Dhelklew, in addition to the armor and the weapon, I wish to ask a dagger of you. One forged from your finest steel, fitted to my hand. Would that be fair?”

“More than fair,” Dhelklew replied.

“Then the deal is sealed and witnessed,” I said.

“Shall we swear on it?” Einos asked.

“You two are men of your word,” I replied, “and there are things the Hallower need not know about.”

Dhelklew laughed. “Indeed.”

“About the claw-weapon,” I said, “what did you have in mind?”

“A striker.”