Blood Tempered: Book 1 of the Sword Monk Saga

Blood Tempered: Part 12

Mung smelled the wizard before he heard or saw him. Mung didn't have a sharp mind, but he did have a sharp nose, and Stench hadn't been mis-named.

"That's my beer, you vomit lickers!" Stench had found them.

"We're getting out of here, Stench, before the witch gets us all killed. We want to know if you're in." Korbo said, plain as day. Mung liked it when things were plain.

"You stole my beer!" the smelly wizard replied.

"Have some, then. Mung, give him a mug."

Mung poured the mage a mug and handed it over, pretending not to notice the eye-wateringly foul odor that rolled off him in waves. Mung sat back on his cot in the empty barracks room. Mung knew he was not a smart man. Not as clever as Augin, and not as wise or experienced as Korbo. But he knew that the witch was dangerous, and that being anywhere near her was like being locked in a dark room with a starving heatch snake. You wouldn't feel the bite, and you wouldn't know you were dead until you felt your own flesh began to slough off your bones.

Mung didn't care if the mage went along with them or not, just as long as he kept his mouth shut about their plans. Magic had its uses, but he was damned if he trusted it. He didn't trust what he didn't understand, which he would admit was a fair bit. Mung understood steel. He'd understood the earth, as well, but a farmer's lot just didn't pay and so he'd become a warrior. It was at times like this that he sometimes regretted leaving the family farm all those years before.

Stench had settled down some, once he had a filthy hand around something with alcohol in it, and instead of screeching threats and imprecations, he contented himself with mumbling them in between swallows.

"I don't know what sort of deal you made with her," Korbo continued, "but I doubt you're any more satisfied with it than Jaga is with his. This whole situation has the stench of failure about it. Failure and imminent death."

"For you, perhaps. I'm as safe as a baby in a cradle, Dogrun." He thrust his mug forward for a refill. When nobody responded, he bent down to fill the mug for himself

"Really?" said Augin, his knife tip suddenly pricking the nape of Stench's neck. The wizard froze.

"She's already paid us to stick you when the time comes, Stench," Korbo lied easily, "but we like you. Augin, let him up."

Stench rose, and there was a glint in his eye as he looked at Augin. "That, you soon-to-be pile of ash, was an incredibly stupid thing to do," he growled.

"Don't get your feathers in a flap," said Korbo. "Sometimes you mages just need reminding that you bleed like anyone else. We have no intention of harming you—and before you start your bluster about it being impossible, think about how that knife felt against your skin. If it isn't us—and it won't be—it'll be somebody else when the time comes. Which is why we wanted to talk to you. So sit down, Stench, and let's talk. Augin, pour our friend another mug, will you?"

Augin smiled, and took the mug from Stench's trembling fist.

Stench glared at Augin. But he sat.