The Sword and The Mountain (Kathardra book 1)
Bridgetown

“Lessa…” Zar’s voice came as a warning. She dropped her eyes to the road again, getting more and more annoyed with this solution for hiding her bright eyes.

She only wanted to look around. But her display of obvious fascination with Kathardrean architecture was at least as much a giveaway as her eyes.

She chewed her lip and tried to peek around Leo’s neck. The buildings here were tall, towering over the narrow street they walked down. They were cut from smooth stone, with intricate carvings around doorways and windows. Stairways were plentiful, leading to the higher levels on the exterior of the buildings, each step encasing embellishments identical to the others in the series.

Even the street was bricked beautifully. A herringbone pattern made with white and dark grays, placed so precisely they scarcely caught dirt between them.

Zar had deliberately taken them down a side road, choosing to avoid higher concentrations of society. Still, Lessa paid close attention to the people they did pass. A group of kids ran and kicked a leather ball. She noted that each of the little girl’s hair was braided into at least two braids down their head.

The supervising woman who washed linens in a bin next to them had her hair down, a single thing braid plaited along her forehead, the length of it holding the rest of her hair loosely behind her.

She wondered how she could have missed the significance of hairstyles until it was pointed out to her.

Lessa’s eyes wandered up when they passed under a bridge that connected the buildings on either side of the road. The underside of the bridge was carved with a series of detailed fish swimming in a river. Each Scale of each fish was depicted with distinct clarity. Every eye so lifelike they seemed to follow Lessa as she passed under them.

It was one of many such bridges.

“I thought ‘Bridgetown’ got its name because of the bridge over the river?” she mumbled to Worran who was walking his horse next to her.

“It was. But they took the name a little too far, don’t you think?”

“It is a theme.”

“Just up here.” Zar turned onto a street just ahead. Lessa heard the street before she saw it. Each side was lined with open-faced shops, several of them had men out front bent over anvils striking metal with a piercing ‘clang clang clang,’ muffled only by the repetitive ‘fwoosh’ of bellows.

Others had men sawing, shaving, or carving into lumber. Their dust or fine curls of wood collected on the ground, releasing the sharp smell of pine into the air.

As they passed, Lessa leaned over and looked at a man perched on a stool, elbows on a workbench carving a stirring spoon out of a block of wood. He was using no knife but dragged his thumb down the wood curling shavings away with magic to release the form drawn on.

His eyes glanced up to hers and met them for a fraction of a second, falling back down to his work.

“Crap,” she thought, snapping her eyes away, out of her peripheral vision she saw him double-take. After just a moment his head fell back down to his work.

With a quick glance, she made sure that Zar hadn’t noticed her minor lack of discretion. He was still turned forward.

“Whoops,” Worran whispered, accusatory.

“Shut up.”

“Lessa.”

“I know.” She told them both.

Storm was watching everything attentively through Lessa's eyes. Ready to fly in if there was even a sniff of a problem.

Off to the left Zar found the shop he was looking for. A man with brown hair was bent over, a horse’s hoof between his knees as he hammered a shoe into its hoof.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” the man said over his shoulder in Zar’s direction.

“Kaven,” was all Zar said.

The smith stiffened. Then he peered over his shoulder. At once he dropped the horse’s hoof and stood to face Zar. A big grin spread on the man’s face under a dark bushy beard.

“Zar, my boy!” He grabbed Zar roughly and slammed him into a fierce hug. Zar solidly patted Kaven’s back in return,

Uncle held nephew at arm's length and looked him up and down. “You’ve grown!” he boomed, “Now look what you’ve done, you’ve gotten taller than me! How’s your mother? She isn’t here is she?” Kaven looked past Zar toward Worran and Lessa.

She wanted to squirm under his scrutiny but managed to stand mostly still.

“No,” Zar shook his head, jovial expression falling from his face, “she isn’t here. But I do have a couple friends with me.”

“Hey there, Worran,” Kaven’s eyes twitched to Worran for a moment, then right back to Lessa’s own.

“Who is this Zar?” Though he talked to Zar his eyes remained locked on Lessa.

“Can we talk inside?”

Finally, Kaven’s eyes shifted back to his nephew. The gravity of the situation sinking in on him.

“Aye, hitch the horses there.” He pointed to a post just outside his shop.

After leaving the horses they all followed Kaven through a door in the very back of his shop.

They entered the kitchen of a home. The walls were stone, the very same as the outside. Wooden cabinets lined the walls, with an iron oven off to the right. A large table took up the majority of the room, matching benches lined each side with a single large chair at the head of the table.

Kaven pulled his heavy leather apron over his head and threw it down on the table before he took his chair, spreading his legs out in front of him he took a large swallow of water from a gleaming wooden mug.

“Sit," he commanded.

Zar sat just in front of Kaven, Lessa sat beside Zar and Worran wandered over to the other side and straddled the bench.

“Now, tell me what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into and who is this?” He thumbed at Lessa, eyebrows slightly raised.

There, Lessa saw Rina in him, in the scrutiny, in the dubious expression.

“This is Lessa. As for the trouble, none... For now.”

“For now?” Kaven shot back.

Zar smirked mischievously, “Let's just say I aim to take what is mine.”

Kaven sucked in a big breath and blew it out at the table. “I can’t imagine my sister is very pleased. After everything that happened with your father.”

Zar shifted uncomfortably, his words were bitter. “No, she isn’t very happy at all. If it were up to her I’d be in Haven for the rest of my life, driving a plow horse.”

“Well after the price your father paid I don’t blame her.”

Zar froze. Every muscle in his body went tight. “What do you mean?”

Disbelief was written on Kaven’s face. “Your mother never told you?”

“Told me what, Kaven?” Gone was the tone a nephew would use with a respected elder. This was a prince talking to his subject.

Pained, Kaven closed his eyes. “I need to speak with my nephew alone, would you two mind waiting outside?”

Both Lessa and Worran glanced at Zar.

“Go sell the wolf pelts.”

They stood without another word.

Just before they left Zar added, “Worran, do not let Lessa out of your sight.”

Lessa followed Worran past the horse in the smithy and out to where their own stood hitched.

“What do you think Kaven is telling him?” she asked quietly.

All of Worran’s normal levity was gone, his gray eyes were fixed on the door to the shop as he untied the wolf pelts from his saddle. “I just know Zar’s dad went missing several years ago. All Rina would ever say is that he died.” Worran started down the street, keeping his voice low.

“Here’s the thing. Zar’s dad was a strong wielder. Not as strong as Zar, but it’s flaming hard to kill a Wielder that strong, Lessa. On top of that, I’ve never seen a swordsman like him. Before or since.”

He could see the question forming on her lips before she asked. “Not even Zar. Not even you. So tell me. How does a man like that just up and die?”

She chewed her lip as she followed Worran around a corner onto a street that must’ve been the main street through town. It was three times wider than any other street they had been down. The buildings had to be four stories tall here.

The bridges periodically connecting each side of the street were long, wide arches, the sides depicting horses rearing in mirrored poses. Dragons with their wings spread wide enough to touch the root of the bridge. Or griffons clawing the air.

Beneath the bridges stalls lined each side of the street. Packed in tight against each other, hawkers yelled their wares at passersby. Shoving fish, broaches, knives, loaves, jarred honey, fruits, roots, spices, stockings, and everything else under the sun at prospective customers.

“There.” It only took Worran a moment to scan the stalls and pick the one he wanted. A woman in a fur cap stood behind a counter laden with furs, hats, gloves, and even a furred stuffed animal.

“How much for two premium gray wolf pelts?” He demanded at once as he dropped them on her table.

“Well that would depend on a number of factors,” she unrolled the first pelt and started her inspection.

Lessa turned her back to the stall and looked out into the street. Suddenly the crowds milling the street flattened to the edges, packing in tight against the stalls. It was easy to see why. A troop of soldiers were stomping in rhythm down the street. They were clad in identical armor, with a tunic draped over the top, a curling stylized black bear rearing on a background so deeply orange it was nearly red.

Being sure to keep her eyes no higher than their chests, Lessa watched them go by. The loitering masses filled in their wake like water around a rock. It was then that Lessa watched a man spit at the heels of the departing regiment.

Head tilted, she studied the man.

“Worran,” she nudged her friend to get his attention, “he’s not Kathardrean.”

The man had deep black hair, it was shaved on the sides and tied back in a ponytail behind his head. His skin was also not the normal golden skin Lessa was used to seeing around Kathardra. This man's was similar, but more olive.

With only a glance behind him, Worran shrugged, “This is a border city, there are a lot of outsiders.” He turned back to haggling with the fur trader.

A Kathardrean man, identifiable by his short rusty red hair and golden skin had also seen the outsider spit at the soldiers. He squared up with the outsider, they glared at each other like their eyes could throw daggers. Too far for Lessa to hear, she watched them argue animatedly. Chests puffed out, they stepped up to each other, mere inches apart.

Guards stepped in, but these were not like the Kathardrean soldiers who had just walked by. These soldiers wore metal plates riveted to leather jerkins, lacquered bright red, and their helmets were topped with a metal fin that ran from forehead to neck, almost like a mohawk.

They flanked the outsider, clearly encouraged by the aid of his men, the outsider’s face worked up to a manic fury.

Six other Kathardrean men observed what was happening, and they moved in to fend off the outsiders.

Lessa gripped the handle of her sword.

“Dooon’t,” Worran cautioned. She hadn’t realized he turned around and was now watching the altercation as well.

“They are going to start a brawl.”

“Look,” he thrust his chin toward the escalating situation.

A fat man had rushed forward, he had some kind of sash along his chest that distinguished him. He put up a hand between each man and shoved them apart. It must have been a magically enhanced shove because the men flew back several feet in opposite directions.

The Kathardrean landed in the arms of his cohorts, the outsider tumbled back until he came against a wall.

“It's handled. We should get out of here.”

Being a little more bold with her gaze she studied the people around them as they made their way back to Kaven’s smithy. Worran was right. There were many women who had jet-black hair braided intricately down their backs. In addition, the outsiders all wore tunics. As opposed to Kathardrean women who exclusively wore dresses that tied off to one side. Only men's clothes were centered.

And there were a lot of men with black ponytails. Now that she knew what to look for she saw the outsiders everywhere. And everywhere she saw them they were accompanied by guards.

All seemed to teeter at the precipice of starting a fight.

“Worran, this city is a powder keg.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means one spark and,” she brought her fists together and then popped her hands apart, fingers splayed, “boom.”

He nodded. “We need to get Zar and get out. I need to pick up a couple of things, then we’ll get back. It should be enough time for Zar to finish his talk with Kaven.”

It only took Worran stopping at one stall, to replace a knife that had been broken. And one store to refill on food they couldn’t forage or hunt.

When they made it back to Kaven’s house Zar was outside. The horse Kaven had been working on was gone.

“Get everything?” His voice gave no hint as to what his uncle had told him. But his expression was too controlled.

“Yes,” Worran confirmed.

Zar grabbed his horse’s reins. “Best be off.”

Lessa caught Worran's eyes for one moment, but they grabbed their reins and followed Zar.

They were just on the far side of the market road when Zar stopped. “Worran, what was left over?” he held out his hand, and Worran dropped a handful of coins into his palm.

“Wait here.” He gave his reins to Worran and jogged away.

“What is he doing?” Lessa asked.

Worran shrugged and adjusted his saddle bags.

Zar came back just moments later.

“Lessa. You said you didn’t even have one... So Here.” He held out a simple silver comb.

She gasped. “Thank you!” She leaped up and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

For one brief, wonderful moment Zar's arms wrapped around her waist and held her tightly against him.

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