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Combat Shopping

Lee Martindale

Horatia waited until the battle was over before trying to dismember the mage.

That she was a professional accounted for a portion of her patience. That she was a trifle busy staying alive accounted for the rest. That the spell which dissolved her armor into a heap of unrecoverable slag around her ankles had come from the hand of a mage supposedly on Horatia’s side of the conflict accounted for the warrior’s less-than-collegial attitude.

Horatia had been dubbed “the Heroic” as much for her impressive dimensions as for her considerable prowess in battle. One look at those heroic, near-naked proportions moving toward her with deadly intent was enough to send the dainty mage scrambling up the nearest hairy, sweat-drenched warrior. Asaria made it to his shoulders and was seeking purchase on his head when Horatia peeled her off. Asaria managed one unladylike squawk before a sword-hardened hand closed around her throat and the arm to which it was attached held her eye-to-eye-level with the considerably taller battle-maid.

As her comrades alternated between laughing at the situation and admiring portions of the warrior they didn’t normally see, Horatia glared. Then she growled, “Give me one reason, bann seighe bait, why I shouldn’t scatter little bits of you from here to the borders of Keldaough.”

The dangling mage opened her mouth to speak—whether spell or supplication is not known. But speech requires breath and taking one proved to be problematic. Next she balled delicate hands into delicate fists and beat an equally delicate—and ineffectual—tattoo against the arm that held her. She was starting to go limp, her usually ruby lips turning an unflattering shade of blue, when the company’s commander arrived and bellowed at Horatia to “put that spellcaster down this minute!” Horatia blinked, came to attention, opened her hand and complied.

An hour later Horatia arrived at the commander’s tent, wearing tunic and breeches and the wary demeanor of a mouse suddenly deposited into a loft full of cats. Asaria arrived shortly thereafter, moving stiffly from the bruises to the underpadded portion of her anatomy on which she’d landed. Both declined the seats offered by the commander.

“Then let us get right to the matter. As I understand it, the attempt by Horatia the Heroic to throttle Asaria Katri a short while ago was precipitated by the destruction of the former’s armor by a misfired spell from the hand of the latter. Is that the way of it?”

“Aye, sir,” Horatia answered, glaring at the other woman.

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘misfire,’ Commander,” Asaria began, her usually sweet voice hoarse and with an upper-register harmonic that made the others wince, “but I can assure you that no ill will was intended. These things happen occasionally; my apprentice has been chastised for his error in calculation. And now that we have that cleared up …”

“Not so fast, madam,” the commander barked. He glanced at Horatia with a look clearly meant to nail her in place, then turned back toward the mage. “The cause may be identified, but the effects still remain to be put right. To a warrior, armor is as necessary a tool of the trade as sword or pike or war hammer. Deprive one of my best warriors of her armor, and you deprive me of one of my best warriors … a situation to which I don’t take kindly. Therefore, it is my order that you, Asaria Katri, will make generous restitution to Horatia the Heroic, in an amount sufficient to replace what has been destroyed with as good or better than she had.” Asaria began to sputter, but the commander ignored it as he continued, “Plus an amount sufficient to serve as recompense for the time she’ll have to take to find that armor or have it made, and the time spent away from my army. All told … I’m thinking a sum of two thousand gold pieces to be a fair one.”

“Two thousand … ?” the mage’s protest came in a voice that was entirely within that annoying upper register.

“Make that three thousand,” the commander cut in, “and more if you continue to ignore the value of swift compliance.”

Asaria’s normally beautiful face twisted into an unflattering mask of rage, but in the end, under the commander’s cool gaze and Horatia’s hot glare, she signaled her begrudging acceptance of the order. The commander turned to Horatia. “And what say you?”

“Begging the commander’s pardon, would that be real earth-drawn gold or spell-spun stuff?”

Asaria started sputtering again and appeared to be at the very beginning of an impressive round of hysterics. The commander cut her off. “Real gold. Four thousand, Asaria?” The mage took a deep, obviously painful, breath and nodded.

“Very well. You will deliver three thousand pieces of non-magical gold to Horatia at first light, along with your personal and sincere apologies. This matter is concluded.”

“And what of her attack on me?” Asaria fairly screamed. “What punishment do you give for her laying rough hands on me, for trying to kill me?”

The commander raised one eyebrow and looked sternly at Horatia. “She has a point. You are fined one copper piece for losing your temper.”

*

Riding into Forgecroft was like entering the afterlife awarded heroes in the tales on which Horatia had been raised. From all directions came the delicate music of small hammers working chain, the flat chime of larger hammers working plate. Everywhere she looked, she saw the spark and glow of the metalworkers’ forges and the glint of sunlight off the finished products of the armorer’s art. The smile that came to the warrior’s lips was one of joy and anticipation.

The commander had given her the name of an inn he favored, along with directions, and in very short order she was installed in one of the private rooms above it. A word with the innkeeper made arrangements for her evening meal, and then it was off to the first name on her list.

Ambyrcryffye y Fyrcche, the sign proclaimed, Purveyor Of Fine Armor Since The Third Year Of The Reign Of King Cryddwhelan The Manly. Whomever and whenever that might have been. But it was, indeed, fine, if the vastness of the space and the quality of the wares on display were any indication. Row after row of spangenhelms, spaulders, chausses and besagues, gorgets and gauntlets and greaves, polished to a mirror’s sheen or covered with intricate engraved decoration. Rack upon rack of mail shirts and coifs and bishop’s collars, supple as linen and dense enough to turn the thinnest bladepoint.

A polite cough behind her caught Horatia’s attention, and she heard a voice say, “Good day to you, my lord, and welcome. May we be of assistance?”

“Yes, indeed,” she replied as she began to turn, “I’m looking …”

The man blinked and looked flustered when presented with unmistakable evidence of his misidentification of Horatia’s gender. But he quickly recovered. “My humble apologies, my lady. How may we serve?”

“I understand you’re the best armorer in town.”

The salesman beamed. “Indeed so, my lady. Voted so in the Forgecroft Observer five years’ running. May I say you’ve come to the right place for a gift for your noble spouse.”

“I’m not married.”

“For your handsome betrothed then.”

“Don’t have one of those either.”

“Then it’s your brother being so honored?”

“I probably have a few running about, but so far, none have made themselves known to me.”

The man was reaching the end of both experience and imagination. Then a thought crossed his mind and he smiled solicitously. “Of course. A tribute of fine armor from a dutiful daughter to her beloved father.”

Horatia barked a laugh. “That would assume I knew who he was. No, the armor I’m looking for is for me.”

The man’s face went the color of milk from which the cream had been skimmed. From his mouth, which had dropped open, came a short series of unintelligible sounds, and his eyes, holding an unreadable mixture of expressions, had returned to Horatia’s impressive bosom. “But … you’re … you’re … female!”

“I thought we’d already established that. So can you help me or not?”

“My lady, I am so terribly sorry, but we cannot. Ambyrcryffye y Fyrcche is an armorer of gentlemen.”

Horatia pointed to a large yet tasteful sign on one wall of the shop. “It says right there, and on one out front, that you specialize in custom work. I assure you I can pay for it.”

“Indeed we do,” came the reply, “and I’m sure you can, but …” There was a pause as he cast through his mind for an acceptable comeback. The patent smile returned, and he continued smoothly. “None of our designs and patterns would take into account your … huh … unique dimensional challenges.” He seemed rather pleased with his delicate turn of phrase. He seemed even more pleased when another idea struck him. In short order, Horatia had been given the name and location of someone who worked exclusively in “designs for women.”

*

Horatia double-checked the address she’d been given; Feddoricce GroveHoly’s looked like many things, but an armorer wasn’t one of them. And the “armor” on display in front of the shop looked like nothing the warrior had ever seen on the battlefield, in either configuration or color.

Take the item identified as a “breastplate,” an intricate interspiraling of what appeared to be hammered gold and silver, displaying fine craftsmanship and an engineer’s eye for cantilevering. But it was plate armor by only the thinnest definition of the term and left more of the titular anatomy exposed than it protected. The idea of having anyone see her in it made Horatia blush; the thought of facing a bare blade with nothing but it between the blade and her was one she put aside quickly.

On the other side of the entrance was something that covered a great deal more of the torso and was made of leather, although she knew of no natural animal that courted predatory attention with a pelt of such a color. It also appeared to be so small in the waist that one would be hard-pressed to breathe in it, much less fight. As to the functionality of the four dangling straps at the bottom, she had not a clue.

She was examining a bit of mail—two bits, actually, tiny triangles of iridescent links strung on a thin chain—when a female voice behind her said, “That doesn’t come in your size.” At first glance, Horatia wondered where the woman who had spoken was hiding. The person she’d turned to face looked like an undernourished preadolescent boy, although why a boy would be wearing a spirally breastplate and a microscopic breechclout that matched the mail in her hands, she couldn’t guess.

She wasn’t given time to try; the hanger was plucked out of her hands and returned to the rack as the woman said, “Actually, you’ll find nothing here in your size. Our artisans design for an elite clientele and,” she looked Horatia up and down, pursed her lips and snorted derisively, “that clientele does not include oversized women.”

“Over whose size?” Horatia queried as she returned the up-and-down appraisal with a raised eyebrow. “From the looks of it, your artisans don’t design for women at all. And they sure don’t design armor, which is what I’m looking for. Any suggestions?”

*

Horatia next found herself looking at full-length wall-portraits of willowy maidens and signs announcing Breastbindings Sale! Buy two, get the third free! and wondering if she’d misremembered the street address. Then she spotted another sign that read, On your way to your ideal size? Wear Llaene Briant on your way down!. And the saleswoman approaching her was considerably more substantial than the women in the portraits. This must be the place.

“Right this way,” the woman replied brightly when Horatia told her what she was looking for. Horatia began to feel hope. It didn’t last long.

Oh, there was plenty of armor there, neat piles of mail shirts, rows of breastplates, stacks of greaves, and racks of helmets. And every single one of them had been painted black, dark brown or olive. It was, to Horatia’s eye, decidedly drab, and so odd that she asked the woman about it.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” came the bubbly reply. “Dark colors are so slimming, don’t you think? A Llaene Briant exclusive, guaranteed to take twenty pounds off your appearance.”

And add twenty gold pieces to the price, Horatia retorted mentally, not to mention making it nearly impossible to tell anything about the metal and workmanship involved. But this was, so far, the closest she’d come to finding what she needed. Which brought her nosefirst into the next obstacle: the question of sizes.

“Another exclusive,” the saleswoman informed her brightly. “Our sizing charts are formulated to promote self-esteem among our customers. For example, a woman who wears Forgecroft Standard 16 is a Size 8 here. And no nasty numbers like 20 or 22; we have 1X. All the way up,” and here she almost squealed in delight, “to 3X!”

Having determined that she had absolutely no idea what size she took in either system, Horatia submitted herself to the saleswoman’s measuring string. Her patience, already weakened, slipped even further as the woman commented on each measurement she took, first with clucking noises, then with a running commentary about the Wizard Simmonius and how his Diminishing Spells would work wonders on the warrior’s “overplump” physique. “Overplump for what?” snapped Horatia.

After much tag-looking and stock-shuffling, Horatia was handed a mail shirt to try on. The shirt’s tail had barely settled around her ankles when the saleswoman trilled, “Ooooh, that looks wonderful on you!” For Horatia, it was the last straw.

“Were you born a twit or was it something for which you had to study? What this looks like is something proportioned for someone at least eight hands taller than me with no bosom and even less muscle. It’s so narrow in the shoulders that raising my sword arm will cut off the circulation to my head. That is, if the shabby materials and shoddy workmanship don’t part like a bargirl’s virtue. Don’t you have any pride in what you offer for sale?”

“I don’t know how it is in whatever barbarous land from which you come, but around here, we big girls have to settle for what we can get. We should feel lucky there’s anything at all like this in our sizes.”

“Where I come from,” Horatia said as she peeled chain mail over her head, “we big girls are called women, and the only luck involving this trash would be in it not getting me killed.”

*

So it was that the evening found Horatia in the common room of her lodgings, nursing a tankard of ale and a bad attitude. The innkeeper’s hearty dinner and commiserations over her plight had had some restorative effects, but she was still thoroughly disgusted, not to mention frustrated, angry and tired, more or less in that order. And a disgusted Horatia the Heroic, not to mention one who was frustrated, angry and tired, more or less in that order, was not a woman to be approached with trivial matters. The one lothario to do so had been shown the error of his ways in devastatingly short order, and the rest had, apparently, taken notes.

Or perhaps not. “Mind if I join you?” asked a deep baritone voice as two tankards slid onto the table.

Horatia looked around and drew breath to say, “Yes, I do mind. Move along.” And was stopped by the merriest blue eyes she’d ever seen. That they were even with her own caused her to refocus and look again. Horatia had heard of people born normal-sized from the waist up and small from the waist down, but until now she’d never seen one.

“I’m Siorce. And I think I may be the solution to the problem the innkeep tells me you have. Your next ale is on me while I tell you how.”

Siorce Halfleg claimed to be an armorer, a claim that Horatia could almost believe. The calloused hands, the muscles in the arms and shoulders, the heat-creased face were, indeed, those of someone who worked with fire and forge. And the story he told wasn’t all that farfetched, either.

Born the only son of a crafter of armor and arms, Siorce’s father had decided to teach him the trade despite his “deformity.” He’d been well into his training, the equivalent of guild-standard journeyman, when slavers had taken him far from his homeland and sold him as a novelty to a nobleman’s retinue. By the time that nobleman had visited Forgecroft, the novelty had worn off, and Siorce was sold again, this time to a blacksmith and farrier who put his background to limited use. With that master’s death had come his freedom, the shop and a decent living. But not the one thing he wanted: the right to call himself a Master Armorer and ply the trade to which his father had trained him.

“For that,” Siorce continued, “I need a thousand gold for the fee and a project so unique, so innovative, that not considering it a masterwork would be unthinkable. And you, madam warrior, are that project.”

*

The next morning, Horatia moved out of the inn and into a tiny but comfortable room behind Siorce’s shop. The armorer wanted her available for fittings and adjustments and offered her room and meals in exchange. And avail he did, frequently and at all hours that he worked, which was—during the next two and a half weeks—closely akin to all hours.

Not that Horatia really minded. Siorce’s wife, a pleasant and intelligent young woman who was nearly as deft a hand at knitting mail as her husband, set a fine table. And the pleasure of watching Siorce measure, mold, fit, adjust, tweak and otherwise sculpt each piece was well worth being nudged out of bed, however frequently.

So it was that on a morning not quite three weeks from her arrival in Forgecroft, Horatia the Heroic went before the Guild Elders wearing armor worthy of her name, armor that fit her like a second skin and felt as strong as dragonscale of legend. Armor that added to the impact of her leaning over the High Table and asking, in a deceptively quiet voice, what exactly it was about the work of Siorce Halfleg that made it ineligible for consideration for Master status. Armor that stood up to the subsequent and remarkably rigorous inspection.

And so it was that Horatia rode out of Forgecroft the following morning with a purse considerably—and voluntarily—lightened and a head hosting a hangover worthy of the celebration she’d enjoyed the night before. Siorce and his wife had been insistent that she owed them no more than the thousand gold pieces paid as fee to the Guild. Only sweet reason—and the steady application of equal parts peatliquor and good-natured threats—had convinced them to take an additional fifteen hundred. As far as Horatia was concerned, she’d gotten the far better of the deal.

One other thing did Horatia carry: a promise to herself and the gods of what would happen to Asaria should anything happen to this armor.

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