by David Bokman
Trail of Rifts
David Bokman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © David Bokman 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner.
First paperback edition August 2021
Book design by pixelstudio
Map by snitk5
ISBN 9798514917259
Independently published
⧫ CHAPTER I ⧫
“Look! A silver moon! Didn’t know this soup had coins in it!” someone shouted.
“Quiet, or it won’t for much longer, you dimwit,” came the reply.
Luckily, nobody seemed willing to risk their life for a single silver, and the moment passed as quickly as it had appeared. It had been a calm evening in the tavern so far, and Thim hoped it would stay that way. If my biggest problem is the stench of the cactus soup, it is a good day. In any case, you would be hard pressed to start a fight in here even if you wanted to. The tavern was so cramped for space that a conversation could easily have been held with someone across the building if the endless chatter would stop for a moment. The rectangular, wooden house was barely bigger than a normal abode, which only served to amplify the smells and sounds within it. Even so, the tavern was still a better place to be than most other buildings in Grensby, which meant it was often filled to the brim. Of course, almost all the visitors were locals. Few are stupid or lost enough to visit Grensby, thought Thim. Today, though, he did spot a few faces he was not familiar with. Best to keep an eye on them, just in case. His main priority was keeping the ale flowing, though. For one man alone, this was easier said than done. And according to most, I’m no more than half a man. Thim was small, even for an aeni, standing no more than three feet on a good day. Whereas other men might have found this a hindrance, he had come to realize that his size served him well when trying to negotiate his way through the tavern, dodging and ducking between tables and drunkards. He had been working at The Barrel since… well, since forever, really. He had barely learnt to walk when Alf took him in, and he had barely learnt to talk when Alf employed him. Since then, all he had known was this tavern. Perhaps it’s finally time to find another place, he caught himself thinking for the hundredth time. Just like every other time, he reminded himself of the debt he owed to Alf, the debt he owed to this place. Perhaps adventure could wait a little longer.
Do I knock on the door before I enter? Florianna thought, approaching the tavern. Would anyone even hear that? Probably not. You’re overthinking it, Na, it’s just a tavern, she told herself. But that was precisely what scared her. She had heard so much about these houses of hospice, these points of conversation and connection, yet had never once stepped foot in one. Truth be told, she had barely stepped foot in anything outside the castle grounds. She was a long way from home now, though, and had no plans of turning back. No, two decades in that place had been more than enough, and a simple tavern door would not make her change her mind. I can do this, she told herself, looking at the tavern door. I have to do this.
The first thing that greeted Florianna past the door was the sound. Singing, speaking and shouting formed an unpleasant amalgamation of noise, briefly disorienting her. The second thing was the smell. More like a stench. Na had thought this place was one of food and drink, but if that was the case, things did not bode well. The smell of dirt, sweat, and rotten cacti was not one to raise your appetite. Looking around, she saw all manner of strange folk partaking in all manner of strange activities. To her left, a man the size of a tower was arm-wrestling four men at once, two on each arm. To her right, cloaked figures were rolling dice, playing cards and throwing daggers, seemingly with no consideration for those around them. All around the young girl, people were eating and drinking and behaving as one would at the end of a grand banquet. And in front of her, hard to spot at first, stood a young man barely tall enough to reach her waist. He was perhaps a few years older than she was, but he could not have been older than twenty-five. His tanned skin indicated that he had spent a lot of time out here in this desert landscape, and his worn, stained clothes were those of a tavern worker.
“Welcome to The Barrel! Need a seat, or is that already taken care of?” the young man inquired.
“Oh, I… yes, no, I mean, I need a seat,” said Florianna. “I’m sorry, but you’re—”
“Tiny Thim, at your service miss. And you are..?”
“Florianna.”
“I see! We rarely get visitors out here in the desert, but when we do, they are always most welcome! Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me…” The tiny man set off into the turmoil of the tavern, Florianna close behind.
Too many people, the traveler thought to herself. She had been in the tavern since midday, for taverns, she had learned, were the best places to get information. With how things were looking now, though, the time for information had come and gone. She had asked the questions she normally asked. What is this place? What is its history? Where is the next settlement? She had learned painfully little. Grensby, for that was what they called this place, used to be a bountiful farming village, but there had not been a field worth farming in Grensby for quite some time. Nowadays it was a dry desert hamlet, apparently having dried up because of some failed spell. Different people had told her different things, but the consensus was that an arcanist, who may or may not have been affiliated with The Archive, had used Grensby as a sort of training ground. Probably figured nobody would miss a small farming village. One day, one of his experiments had allegedly gone awry, killing off trees and turning dirt to sand. Nowadays, the few people who had stayed in Grensby survived as best they could from what the desert had to offer. That was all they could tell her. They’re lucky they’ve still got that river to sustain them, otherwise this place would not survive. Fortunately, there was another settlement just a day’s ride further south. I’ll continue in that direc—
“Ah, here we are! Excuse me madam, is this chair available?” interrupted a small man to the left of the traveler. It was the same man who had previously brought food to her table.
“Sorry?”
“Oh, don’t be! I am trying to find a seat for this esteemed guest here,” the small man continued, pointing at the young girl beside him, “and couldn’t help but notice you were sitting alone. Could she join you?”
“Sure.” The traveler was not too fond of company, but a young girl was not likely to cause her any trouble.
“Excellent! It seems our journey is at an end, then, miss. Get yourself acquainted with the menu, and let me know when you have made your decision.” Without waiting for a response, Thim set off once more into the chaos of the tavern, almost dancing past the tables as he went.
The traveler did not need more than a glance to discard the possibility of her new friend being a threat. Lean, seemingly unarmed, and eyes glistening with the naïvety of youth. Not an intimidating recipe. The girl’s extravagant hair and fine silk robes only served to reaffirm the conclusion. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said the young girl, pulling out a chair.
“That’s okay,” replied the traveler. “Means I don’t have to drink alone.”
Her confidence bolstered, Florianna continued, “I’m Florianna, by the way! Most people just call me Na, though.”
The traveler looked up from her mug, revealing a suspicious gaze. “Most people call me The Dart.”
“The… That’s an interesting name!”
“It’s not really a name, but it does the job. What brings you here?”
How muc
h do I tell her? Na thought. “I’m… a traveler of sorts, I suppose.”
“That makes two of us.”
She looks a lot more like a traveler than I do. The Dart’s clothes were worn and torn, her hair was cut short, and her left arm was bandaged from wrist to elbow. She looked a bit too old to be a traveler, though, at least twice as old as Na. Then again, this ‘Dart’ was the first traveler Florianna had ever talked to, so she was no expert on the matter.
“And why did you decide to travel here?”
“Not for the cactus soup, that’s for sure,” scoffed The Dart. “You?”
“I’m from Velema,” said Na, “so this was the first place I came across.”
“Well, we’re not in Velema anymore. No kings or palaces here, so I’d recommend switching those robes for a leather jerkin. Out here, mobility comes—
For the second time tonight, The Dart’s meal was interrupted. This time, the cause was a loud noise, and the tavern door being slammed open. A small, round man was hurled into the tavern, and quickly hit the floor. He sat up, looked at the door, and began crawling backwards into the tavern, stopping only a feet or two away from the table at which Na and The Dart were sitting. “I- I told you! The money’s on the way!” the round man begged, looking at the door. Through it came three men, each bigger than the last, all dressed in studded black leather.
“What’s on it’s way,” the first of the three men, broad-shouldered and bearded, began, “is you losing your arm.” The men had made no effort to conceal their weapons; dirks and quarterstaffs were clearly visible.
“Tell Deston! Tell him I’m working on it! Tell—”
“I’m sorry. It’s about trade. And in this case, in lack of better compensation, you get to pay with your arm. Left or right?”
The three men were now standing in a semicircle around the round man, cutting off his escape. Even the hooded figures to the right appeared to have realized that something was off, and their knife-throwing had come to a halt. “A week!” the round man pleaded.
The men stepped closer.
“Four days! Four days, and it’s all yours, with interest!”
“Doesn’t matter if you’re a day or a year late. This isn’t a negotiation.”
Her mug of ale still in hand, The Dart stood up. “I’d prefer it if you found somewhere other than my table to go about your business.”
Florianna, not having moved a muscle, watched as the three men laughed in unison and stepped ever closer, now close enough for her to smell their breath. She remained frozen. “And I’d prefer it if you were silent while I worked,” the bearded henchman chuckled.
The Dart, too, took a step forward. “More space outside. Less witnesses, too.”
The henchmen seemed to have all but forgotten about the round man. “Oh, you misunderstand,” the bearded man said after a long pause. “The more witnesses, the better.” He eyed The Dart. “And if we were to take care of two wrong-doers instead of one, well—”
“You see my friend here?” asked The Dart, not taking her eyes off the bearded man. “Girl with the fancy hair?” She gave the henchmen a second to examine Florianna. “She’s an archivist. Probably knew two days ago that you were going to come here. Yet she doesn’t appear too concerned, does she?”
This gave the entire tavern pause. The bearded man gave a quick frown, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. “No way. We would have—”
“She’s right.” The bearded man felt a firm, heavy hand on his left shoulder. Behind him stood an old, stout man, half a foot wider and half a foot taller, his bald head covered in scars and strange tattoos.
“Who the hell are you?”
“A friend,” said the old man. He put some additional force on the henchman’s shoulder, and continued, “You’ll have to find someplace else to take care of this.”
“Boss, if she’s—” the second henchman began.
“Quiet. I’ve got a question for our Archivist. Real important question. Which Archive are you from?”
The silence felt like it lasted three eternities. Finally, Na slowly began to rise, keeping her back turned to the assailants. Every eye in the tavern was giving her its full attention. “I—”
With a motion that looked like it had been rehearsed a hundred times, the old man brought his elbow up and struck the bearded man’s temple.
Chaos.
Before the bearded man had hit the floor, his colleagues already had their weapons drawn. One of them lunged towards The Dart, but she quickly stepped out of the way, her reflexes proving quick despite her age. The other went for the old man, and his blade struck true. Cursing loudly, the old man looked at the blade that was now embedded in his shoulder. “Hold on!” The Dart shouted, grabbing a chair. The henchman lunged towards her a second time. Before his dirk had time to strike, she swung the chair. With a loud crack, it hit the man in his side, knocking him to the floor, writhing in pain.
Next to him, the old man tried a jab at his adversary, but missed. His fist went wide, and the henchman took his chance to pull the blade out, preparing to strike again. Before he did, the old man brought his knee up, hitting the smaller man in the abdomen. He gasped for air, but maintained his balance. Bringing his dirk up in a slashing motion, he found contact with the tattooed man’s lower arm, leaving a wound at least three inches long. The old man’s eyes filled with anger, almost seeming energized from the pain. He tensed his muscles and brought his other shoulder up. With a quick step forward, he tackled the man, and...
...an extended foot caught the henchman by surprise and felled him to the floor. He looked up, confused. Behind him, panting, was a small aeni. “You—”
Before he had time to finish his sentence, the old man was upon him. With a well-placed headbutt, the final adversary was taken care of. “I… What’s an Archivist?” Na finished.
“Thank you! Thank you indeed!” said the round man, not knowing who to direct his gratitude towards. “Those scoundrel’s would’ve… Well, I’m very glad they didn’t. They came all the way from Kardh’Ao! Determined bastards. Deston would take my arm over a late payment? I...” The rest of his words were too quiet and incoherent to make out.
Not paying any heed to the rambling, the old man got up, tore a piece of his shirt, and pushed it against his shoulder. “Bluffing about The Archive, huh? Are you always that stupid, or is today a special day?”
“No, it’s like this most days,” replied The Dart. “You need any help with those wounds?”
The old man waved his hand dismissively, almost nonchalantly. “Had worse,” he said, pointing to his scarred face. “I’m Cadwell, by the way.”
“Why did you help us?” asked Na.
“I didn’t do it to help you. Just didn’t want someone maimed while I’m eating my dinner. Meals are sacred.”
“A protector of the common man?”
“Only a coward would take a man’s arm without killing him. I have no sympathy for these people. I’d like to know who they are, though.”
“They’re with The Trade,” said the round man. “Trade. Hmph! Thievery, more like. Brigands and outlaws disguised as merchants, that’s what they are.”
“And who are you?”
The round man, getting up from the floor, said, “My name is Grigor! I am in the housing business, you could say. I buy and sell claims of land, houses, you name it.”
“Out here?”
“There is much land out here! Much land that would go to waste, were it not for me. I own houses all the way from here to Arlsby, a few days that way.” Grigor pointed at the tavern’s eastern wall. “I had taken a small loan from the King of Coin, as they call him. Deston, in Kardh’Ao, perhaps you’ve heard of him? Big fellow. Had I known he was in The Trade, I never would have dealt with him! Them people are worse than wolves, far worse. Speaking of which…” Grigor took a look at the three men on the floor around him.
“Oh,” said Thim, “of course. Would you people be so kind as to lend me a hand?”
; None of The Trade’s henchmen were especially light, but working together, the group managed to first disarm and then drag them out of the establishment. Back inside, Grigor said, “Now, please, allow me to buy you a drink, all four of you!”
Thim threw a look towards the kitchen. “I—”
“No, no, no, I insist. You saved my life, all of you. A few ales is the least I can do.”
“I’ll take a free ale, sure,” said Cadwell, making room at one of the larger tables.
“Why not,” agreed The Dart. Na and Thim conceded as well, and sat down at the table.
“Now, before I buy you your ales, I have a small request. I have given you my name, and I would be remiss not to ask you for yours, considering you saved my life. I need to know who it is I have to thank!”
After a quick round of introductions, Grigor, as promised, brought five ales to the table. After a sip or two, Thim made eye contact with Alf behind the desk. He’ll kill me for this, won’t he? Instead, Alf, his smile as big as ever, gave an approving wave. It seemed a small break would not lose Thim his job, at least not today.
“So,” said Cad, finishing his ale, “how do you intend to solve your problem? I doubt we’ll be around to save you next time they come. And they will come again, but next time it won’t be just three small men.”
Grigor paused for a moment. “I’m not rightly sure. I had almost saved up enough money to repay him, but money won’t cut it anymore. Deston was never really interested in getting his money back, anyway; he has enough of that as it is. No, he’ll want something else. Something… tangible.” The round man took a few more sips of his ale. “A-ha! I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, slamming his tankard down on the table. “The manor, of course. I’ll give him the damn manor. He never gets enough of those.”
“You have a manor to give away?”
“It… It is a somewhat delicate situation.” Grigor leaned in closer. “But it is nothing a few adventurers cannot solve. Speaking of which, are you people interested in some work?”
