The gradually rolling hills of south-east Radregar were home to scattered forests, secluded forest tribes—human and Primal—and the occasional civilized town that owed its loyalties and taxes to the bustling port of Eastpoint. One such town, a particularly remote village called Velend’s Grove, had recently taken up arms against the city. And so, the rolling hills became a temporary home for yet another group—a full battalion of East Storm Company mercenaries.
Their camp, still some thirty miles out from Velend’s Grove, was presently assembled on the top of one such gentle rise; it was from this vantage that their scouts could assess the surrounding woodlands. There had been only two skirmishes since the Company had been dispatched from Eastpoint into the jungle. The first had been an ambush of their scouts—three mercenaries had died, and they had lost valuable insight into their enemy’s activities. The second had been a retaliatory action by the mercenaries; scouts had apprised the camp of a nearby hideout and ten rebels had been slain.
Among the fifty-odd mercenaries that had pitched their tents in the East Storm camp was a blacksmith of sorts, who ran one of the mobile smithies in the Company. Mavri may not have been able to churn out weapons like the proper smithy in Storm Fort, but, without her, the camp in the Raderan hills would find their weapons dulled and broken, or have a shortage of proper gear for the occasional group of recruits that joined them.
On this particular day, Mavri was repairing some chainmail for one of the squad leaders when her work-tent received a rather unusual visitor. Master Kelren—the senior magician in the East Storm Company—strode under the canopy and paused, examining Mavri’s workspace. It might appear messy to an outsider, but everything was just where she needed it.
Kelren wore a leather tunic around his torso, leaving his lanky, lightly-tattooed arms bare. His dark trousers bunched around the ankles in a traditional style and his nose, ears, and tongue were all pierced with various jewels and studs. He didn’t carry a staff, though a sizeable knife was sheathed at his hip. A light hide satchel hung over one shoulder, resting on the opposing hip. “Mavri. Good day,” Master Kelren said, dryly. They had only spoken a handful of times before. The sorcerer had little reason to call on the services of a metal smith. “Do you have a focal lens? I left mine in the city.”
Mavri did have a focal lens of course; she used it to examine gems, gold, and even impurities in metal. She didn’t use it often, but it was stored with her tools whenever they travelled. “Welcome, Kelren. What do you need a lens for?”
Instead of answering, Kelren lifted the leather flap of his satchel and withdrew a small metal plate. It caught the light from the simmering embers of Mavri’s largest brazier as he held it in front of him. A small emerald in the center of the etched plate caught Mavri’s eye. “I need to check the gemstone for damage,” he explained.
Damage to an emerald? Mavri wondered. It was not unheard of for an angular gem to be chipped under extreme conditions, but it seemed unlikely for a little round pebble like Kelren’s to sustain any. She had no idea what purpose the strange item might serve. It seemed too flat to wear, and too small to decorate. “I’ll check it,” she said. She preferred others not handle her tools—and she was curious about what had Kelren so concerned about his peculiar trinket.
Kelren hesitated. “I’d prefer to examine it myself,” he decided. He pressed his dark moustache with two fingers and regarded her with equally dark eyes.
Mavri wiped her fingers with a rag, cleaning off some of the grease, revealing her contrasting white skin. “I insist,” she said, holding out her hand. Kelren was clearly desperate to analyze the gem, which made Mavri even more curious. As the only trained magician in their camp, what concerned Kelren ought to concern them all.
The magician sighed and passed her the metal plate. “Be exceptionally careful with it, please.”
Mavri looked it over quickly, noting that the etchings seemed purely decorative. The metal itself was common bronze—nothing special about it. Interesting… she thought. The gem was the only thing of note. She procured her focal lens from a small ivory box that was stored in her larger trunk of gear and went to stand by the light. The emerald lit up vibrantly, as any would when held over flame. It appeared to have been rounded by an excellent jeweller, but had no external damage she could see. Mavri looked closer; there was a small circle in the centre of the green stone, like a tiny pocket of air or liquid in its center.
She lifted her eyes to glance at Kelren across the fire. “Should I be looking for anything specific?”
“It should resemble a normal emerald, save a pocket in the centre. If the shape of the gemstone looks recently chipped or if that centre has leaked… then physical damage is the problem.” Kelren paused, folding his arms across his chest. “If not, then something else is.”
“What’s the fluid in the centre?” Mavri questioned. “Where did you get this?”
While Kelren technically outranked her, she was more freelance than most of the mercenaries. Mavri wasn’t technically on the Company payroll and made most of her money from paying warriors in the troop. In a way, she could do whatever she pleased, as long as it was not at odds with Sergeant Cardan or the goals of the Company.
Kelren shrugged. “It’s of no matter. It’s a magical device. The fluid glows in certain conditions. Now is not one of them, unfortunately. May I take a look, now that you’ve sated your curiosity?” he asked, impatiently. His dark hair, slicked back in a no-nonsense way, caught the firelight as he stepped closer.
Mavri tilted her head, but passed him the lens.
The magician peered the device over with lens and intently examined the gemstone in its middle. “Thank you for the lens,” he said after a moment, with a shrug. He passed the glass piece back, then passed her a few coins from a pouch on his waist. “For your trouble.”
“What’s the plate for?” Mavri asked, as she slipped the money into a purse on one of the workbenches under her beige canopy.
“It’s not for me to say,” Kelren said, cryptically. He then smirked and walked away.
Mages… Mavri thought, rolling her eyes. She returned to the table where she had been working on chainmail. It was tedious work, but composed a large portion of her work in a troop like this. She spent the next two hours rejoining various pieces of mail to create a full tunic once more, then set to work on a wobbling knife blade someone had been brought to her. She eventually determined to rebuild the entire handle.
That evening, Mavri locked up her tool trunk as normal and set out from her tent. The setting sun illuminated a cloudy horizon over the tops of the trees. Their camp had sprawled here long enough to clear away several. Mavri’s pace through the muddy paths of the base brought her past a training yard. She went the long way around, avoiding the stretch of camp occupied by the mercenaries’ followers and bed-warmers; though the East Storm Company maintained a strict code and expelled or executed those who broke their laws, it was not a place that Mavri liked to walk—just in case someone made an advance at her.
Instead, she approached the ale tent from the east side. She ordered a drink, paid for by Master Kelren’s visit, and then sought out familiar faces. She found Esevar and Othus sitting at a table by one of the kegs, chatting and laughing. Sitting down, Mavri glanced at Othus and, with a wink, said, “You’re even more whiskery today.”
Othus, who had recently bought a new razor from Mavri, chuckled quietly and rubbed his jaw sheepishly. He was a quiet fellow—so Mavri liked to make jokes at his expense. He quickly went back to his drink.
“I was just telling him about the latest from the scouts,” Esevar said, to catch Mavri up with them. The archer had hair as dark and long as Mavri’s, though she was of a darker complexion than the woman smith. “Supposedly, the rebels have been spreading out more and more, covering the hills along a wide swath. We can’t pinpoint the bulk of their force this way, but it is making it easier for us to march on the Grove.”
“Finally, some action,” Othus said, with a smirk. His prized battle axe rested in a leather loop on his back. It was a heavy weapon—but Mavri had once seen him put it to work on a pirate with a short sword, so it seemed fast enough. “I hope Sergeant Cardan tries a rush. I’d very much like to sleep in a real bed again, and it would force the rebels to make up their mind.”
Mavri had already finished her ale, but it had left her wanting more. Were they watering the stuff down now? She told her friend she would return and went in search of more ale—and more news. At the bar, she overheard word of a “storm a-brewing.” At first, she thought it was a joke about the East Storm itself—or about the war on the Great Isle, which threatened to boil over onto Radregar. Instead, as she listened, she learned that a real storm was on the horizon, as weather patterns shifted and the rainstorms grew more erratic. Some thought it meant a hurricane would approach in the next Moon or two.
She recounted what she had heard to her friends. Esevar seemed perturbed. “Guess that’s what I’ll be looking for with the scouts… rock to hide behind. Exciting.”
It was true, Mavri knew. A hurricane could really damage the camp if they stayed up here on the hill. They drank quietly for a moment, considering the near future. Mavri couldn’t shake her concern from that morning. “Did either of you see Kelren today?”
Othus and Esevar shook their heads.
Narim, a swordsman at the nearest table, leaned back in his chair so he could easily see Mavri. “The mage was sending out a half-dozen letters today. Came by the scribe’s tent earlier to use his birds. Guess it was too important to send by magic.”
“How did he seem: nervous or worried? Did he mention a device?” Mavri asked. “Were the letters long?”
“I didn’t hear him talk—just saw him go in to send them,” Narim explained. “I assumed he was just going about his business—do you think something’s up?”
“I’m just curious,” Mavri explained. She took a sip of her ale. It was definitely watered down. They’d been out in these hills for far too long. “I saw him flustered this morning.”
Narim shrugged and turned back to his own comrades. Othus was getting out his dice, though Mavri and Esevar only rolled their eyes. The man liked games and fighting more than holding up a decent conversation. Still, it would pass the time. As Mavri was distracted from her worries, she began to think about an attack on Velend’s Grove. She’d probably be able to work out of a shop in that case—maybe even a real smithy. She hadn’t had a proper forge since leaving Eastpoint two months earlier, and she hadn’t had her own smithy since High Raena, before joining the Company on this side of Radregar.
Besides, open combat meant more repairs and more commissions—more to keep her preoccupied and more to pay her.