The serving woman simply rolled her eyes and began to turn and walk away, but Erik cleared his throat, elbowing his cousin in the ribs at the same time.
“How much for the ale in the barrel?” Erik asked.
“Do you need cups?” the woman asked, turning back around, her serving tray rested on her hip.
She looked at each one of them, squinted eyes and pursed lips stopping at Bryon. Erik could see, through a sidelong glance, that his cousin was still smiling, and then gave the girl a wink. She tried not to, but as she continued to glare at Erik’s cousin, the slightest of smirks touched the corners of her mouth.
“No,” Erik replied and then wondered how his cousin did it.
“A penny a piece,” she replied.
“A penny?” Bryon asked, almost exasperated. “Surely, a penny is not nearly enough for something as fine as you … I mean, your ale.”
The slight smirk on her mouth disappeared, her faced turned bright red, and the serving girl turned and walked away with heavy feet.
“Bryon,” Turk said, shaking his head. “You bring too much attention to yourself.”
“Not you too,” Bryon said. “I can handle my cousin’s derision, but you as well? It’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman.”
“And it will be even longer,” Erik said, throwing six pennies on the table and grabbing his companions’ wooden cups. “I’ll fill them up for you.”
“Be careful of that minstrel,” Turk said as Erik took his cup.
Erik gave the dwarf a confused look with a cocked eyebrow.
“I’ve been listening to him,” the dwarf said. “He struggles to play the simplest of tunes. And when was the last time you saw a minstrel as muscled as he?”
“A good question,” Erik replied, now as alert as his dwarvish friend, realizing and agreeing with Turk’s observations.
“He is in fine clothing, with a well-crafted instrument, in essentially what is a border town, and he can’t play that well. Just keep an eye on him.”
“That’s why I have you,” Erik said with a half-smile, but Turk didn’t respond.
Erik filled the cups with the liquid from the barrel, presumably ale. It looked dark and frothy, but when Erik sniffed at it, smelled old. He supposed that’s what they would get for a penny a piece and unlimited refills. As he filled the cups, Erik could feel eyes watching him intently. He looked to the swordsman and the fat man talking and drinking. They seemed consumed with their conversation. He then looked to the minstrel. He only paid attention to his lyre, trying to, quite unsuccessfully, plunk through a new song.
He set the cups in front of his companions.
“Keep an eye on mine, Bryon,” Erik said with a smile. “You never know how thirsty Nafer is.”
The dwarf laughed while Erik approached the two men speaking in front of the bar. As Erik approached them, the fat man squinted, and his eyes seemed almost invisible under his bushy eyebrows, causing him to wonder how the man could even see. The other man, the swordsman, didn’t bother to look at Erik, but he caught the armed man looking at him through sidelong glances.
“Can I help you?” the bushy-bearded man asked before Erik could say anything.
“Perhaps,” Erik said.
“Well,” the man said, huffing hard enough that the black hairs of his mustache fluttered.
“We’re getting ready to travel into the Gray Mountains,” Erik replied.
The fat, bushy-bearded man shrugged.
“I am from the free farmlands south of here but am unfamiliar with the Gray Mountains. This is as close as I have ever been.”
“Congratulations,” the rotund man said, rolling his eyes.
“Is there a road that will lead us north of the Fangs?” Erik asked. The tall peaks that rose up like sharp teeth from the Gray Mountains were so large they could be seen from leagues away even though they stood towards the northern borders of the mountain range.
“Why would you want to travel north of the Fangs?” the bushy-bearded man asked.
The armed man turned towards Erik and glared at him, his hand sliding from the pommel to the handle. The hairs on the back of Erik’s neck stiffened, and he felt the gooseflesh along his arms rise. He didn’t mirror the armed man and left his thumbs tucked inside his belt. He didn’t know this man, or how adept he was at the blade, but Erik knew his own hands were quick—quicker than most—so he pretended not to notice the show of force.
“We are traveling with dwarves,” Erik said.
“Don’t they know the way?” the fat man asked.
“They’re southern dwarves,” Erik replied.
“Why are they traveling in the north, then?” the man asked.
“To see distant cousins,” Erik replied.
“Most northern dwarves don’t live that far north,” the fat man said, cocking an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side.
“What’s it matter?” Erik asked.
“We get a lot of adventurers coming through here,” the armed man said. “Most of them are traveling through the Pass of Dundolyothum or into the Gray Mountains, even seeking the dwarves, but no one ever wants to travel that far north.”
Erik looked over his shoulder, to his companions. They pretended to drink their stale ale, but he saw Turk’s eyes, and Bryon’s, staring at him, over the lip of their cups. Then he looked to the two other men sitting, eating and drinking. They paid no attention to him or the two men standing at the bar. He watched the musician, plunking out of tune notes. There was something about this fat man and the armed man in front of him. They were searching for something, a clue or a key word.
“I wish to get lost in the mountains,” Erik said. “My wife left me, and I lost my home to Hámonian nobles. I don’t give a shite about this life anymore, and I just want to die. I figured what better way to go than search the wilds of the Gray Mountains.”
“I think you’re lying,” the armed man said.
Erik looked at him, squinted as his glare bore into the man. He heard the dissonant music behind him. It faltered for a moment and then stopped. He could hear Turk’s warning in the back of his head.
“I am,” Erik replied. “I am supposed to meet a man who can lead me to the hidden keep of Fealmynster.”
The fat man groaned, and the armed man reached across to the handle of his blade with his sword hand. Erik heard the slightest of noises to his left. He felt the air around him move, and he jerked his head back just as a knife passed in front of his face and thudded into the wall. Drawing Ilken’s Blade, he turned to face the musician who no longer held his lyre, but two short swords. He attacked Erik.
Erik grabbed the front of the fat man’s robes and pulled him into his attacker’s path and pushed the other armed man away, just in case he tried to attack as well. Benches and tables flipped as his companions ran to his aide, and the serving woman screamed and ran back into the kitchen from where she had just emerged.
The musician was an adept fighter, moving with precision and speed as he jabbed his short swords at Erik. Erik found himself taking several steps backward, but only for a moment. He blocked one attack with Ilken’s Blade and then swung out with his left fist, catching the man on the jaw before he knocked the other blade from the man’s hand with his own sword. Erik’s would-be attacker stumbled backward into the barrel and knocked it over where it broke, and the beer spilled across the floor. One of the pigs started lapping it up.
Erik saw Bofim and Beldar run to the two men sitting eating and drinking. They didn’t look like they wanted to join the fight, but just in case, the dwarves grabbed the men’s collars and pushed their faces to the table. Turk and Nafer rushed to the kitchen door, making sure no one, not even the serving woman, emerged, ensuring there wouldn’t be some sneak attack. Meanwhile, Bryon drew his magical elvish blade and rushed to Erik’s aid.
The musical assassin picked up his lost short sword and crouched, eyeing Erik as he steeled himself, Erik gripping Ilken’s Blade with both hands. The attacker slas
hed left then right with his blades, Erik jumping backward both times, the last time right into the swordsman from the bar who hadn’t gathered the courage to draw his blade yet. Erik elbowed the man backward and heard him fall, emitting a deep groan. As Bryon came upon the minstrel, he turned, throwing one of his short swords at Erik’s cousin. The blade flew, end over end, but Bryon easily dodged the attack, the would-be assassin drawing a knife at the same time and turning back towards Erik.
Erik blocked one attack and then slashed the attacker’s wrist, causing him to drop his knife. He then brought Ilken’s Blade across the man’s thigh. He faltered, just for a moment, but it was enough. With another angled strike, Erik brought his steel down on the musician, cleaving a deep mortal wound from shoulder to hip.
Before the first would-be assassin hit the ground, Erik turned, the tip of Ilken’s Blade touching the skin of the armed man’s throat.
“Unless you want to end up like your friend,” Erik said, glaring at the armed man, whose eyes were wide and sweat pouring down his brow, “don’t move.”
“He’s not our friend,” the fat man said.
He had fallen when Erik pushed him into the musician and had just climbed back to his feet, breathing heavily.
“Who was he?” Erik asked as his companion came to his side, Beldar and Bofim escorting the other men out of the alehouse.
“I don’t know,” the armed man replied, throwing up his hands in submission and almost crying as he spoke.
“An assassin,” the fat man said.
“Is that so?” Erik asked.
The fat man nodded.
“He showed up a week ago,” he explained. “He said two men and two dwarves would come looking for a road to the cursed city of Fealmynster. He paid me in Durathnan gold to let him stay here. He either sat there and played the lyre or stayed in his room. That’s it. A few days ago, two other men showed up. They also said they were looking for two men and two dwarves, but as soon as they had paid for a room and sat down to drink some ale and eat some stew, that fellow there,” the fat man said pointing to the dead minstrel, “slit their throats and had me bury their bodies out back. When I was done, all he asked of us was to get rid of your bodies as well when he had killed you. Please don’t hurt us. You can have the gold.”
“I don’t want your gold,” Erik said. “Draw your sword and place it on the floor.”
The armed man complied. Erik lowered his blade. The dwarves surrounded the fat man and his companion. Erik looked to the kitchen, seeing the red-headed serving woman peering out, red-eyed.
“You have nothing to fear,” Erik said. “We will not hurt you, or these men, as long as they behave.”
Erik looked at the helmed man.
“Are you going to behave?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied.
“You see,” Erik said to the woman. “Come now, clean up this mess, and we will forget this ever happened.”
The woman slowly emerged from the kitchen and went to standing toppled tables and chairs back on their feet. Her hands shook while she cleaned up, and Bryon went to help her. Erik could hear him whispering to her while he helped, causing a gasp and then a giggle. He rolled his eyes at his cousin.
“We were supposed to meet a man who could lead us into the Gray Mountains,” Erik said again. “I need you to show me where you buried the other bodies.”
“You think this assassin killed the Lord of the East’s man, or men,” Nafer asked in Dwarvish, “the one that was supposed to lead us?”
“I do,” Erik replied.
The fat man led them out a door in the back of the alehouse, all but Bryon, who continued to help the serving woman clean. Behind the alehouse, the man pointed to a small mound covered with hay. Erik nodded to the dwarves, and they all, even the fat man, began digging.
The graves were shallow and, even though there were signs of decay on the two men’s faces, it was cold enough that they were still mostly intact. They had the look of easterners with short-cropped, straight black hair and soft jaws. They both wore breastplates under their clothing, bearing the emblem of a gauntlet clenching an arrow.
“The Lord of the East,” Erik said.
“Aye,” Turk replied.
“These are the men we were supposed to meet then,” Bofim added.
“I think so,” Turk replied.
“Damn,” Erik said, kicking a bit of dirt back onto the dead bodies. “Now what?”
“All we have are half-finished directions,” Nafer said. He pointed to the bodies. “They were supposed to know the way.”
Erik looked back at the fat man who, clearly nervous and shivering, both from the cold and his nerves, just stared at the dead bodies.
“Is there a man in Eldmanor who would know of a road that leads past the Fangs? Is there a man in this town who would know the legend of Fealmynster?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the fat man replied. “As the gods of the north are my witness, I have no idea. I barely leave Eldmanor. I run my bar with Edgar and his sister. We barely make ends meet. When a man comes and gives me ten times what we would make in a year …”
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” Erik said. “There is no one else in Eldmanor or nearby, other than these dead men, that would know how to get to Fealmynster? Someone old who might have been a child when men still traveled that far north?”
“I know of such a man,” the serving girl said. She was standing at the back door, Bryon just behind her.
“Hush, Emma,” the fat man said.
“No, you hush,” Bryon said, pointing an accusatory finger at the fat man. “Speak, Emma. Tell them what you told me.”
“There’s a hut, north of Eldmanor,” the girl said.
“There’re a lot of huts around Eldmanor,” Turk said.
“Not like this one,” she replied. “You’ll recognize it. The old man that lives there raises goats. And it sits north of all the other homes. He’s old … older than my great grandmother who passed when I was just a girl.”
“Maybe that is the person you need,” the fat man said before he led them back inside, where the tables and benches had been set upright and most of the spilled ale had been mopped up.
“You say this man was from Gol-Durathna?” Erik asked, standing over the dead minstrel.
“I don’t know,” the swordsman, Edgar, replied. “He paid with Durathnan coin. That’s all I know.”
“You will dispose of the body,” Erik said. He retrieved a small sack from his belt and handed it to the fat man. It wasn’t heavy, but it had enough coin in it to make any man happy. “What is your name?”
“Hagmer,” the fat man replied.
“If any more Durathnans come, Hagmer, we were never here. Do you understand?”
Hagmer nodded, eyes wide as he stared inside the sack.
“And if any more Golgolithulians come, we were never here,” Erik said.
Hagmer nodded again.
“I will know if you betray me,” Erik said.
After a simple meal, but probably the last served to them for a while, they led their horses through the northern part of the town, past the wooden fence that surrounded Eldmanor, and through a small cluster of huts.
“How will you know if he betrays you?” Bryon asked.
“I won’t,” Erik replied.
“Then why say you would?” his cousin asked.
“He’s a simple man who has converted his home into an alehouse,” Erik explained. “He is scared enough to believe anything I say.”
They walked a little further.
“Was that assassin sent after us?” Beldar asked. “The fat man said two men and two dwarves.”
“That’s all that held audience with the Lord of the East,” Erik replied. “Turk, Nafer, Wrothgard, and me. You two were in hiding, and Bryon was in Thorakest.”
“If Gol-Durathna had spies in the Lord of the East’s court,” Turk said, “which I suspect they do, they would have reported seeing two men and two
dwarves.”
“And this wouldn’t be the first assassin Gol-Durathna has sent after us,” Erik said. “Right Nafer?”
“Aye,” Nafer said, “although, I don’t believe that man and froksman who stole the scroll were assassins.”
“Three years ago, I never would have thought Gol-Durathna was capable of such a thing,” Erik said. “Amentus is the golden city, after all.”
He remembered a tale that an old friend, dead and gone—a gypsy named Marcus—once told, of his time imprisoned in the dungeons of Amentus, the Golden City and Capitol of Gol-Durathna. It was a tale of murder and rape and all sorts of horrible things, and the first time Erik realized that even supposedly noble and righteous countries have dark underbellies.
“While their goal is, I’m sure, to stop the Dragon Sword from reaching the Lord of the East, you have to remember it is ruled by men,” Nafer said. “It is capable of anything. We will need to travel with caution. Who knows which rulers know of our mission?”
“Durathnan assassins are concerning,” Turk said, “but what is more worrying is the men who were supposed to lead us to the key of the Keep of Fealmynster being assassinated. Surely, the Lord of the East and the Black Mage will know of this? Will they see it as failure?”
Erik just shook his head, mounted his horse, and led the way further north.
5
In only a short matter of time, they came to a solitary hut sitting as far north as any structure could sit before being built onto the side of the mountains. Smoke rose from a hole at the center of the hut’s roof, while goats, sheep, chickens, and pigs roamed about the outside of the hut freely.
“He’s not worried about wolves or bears?” Bryon asked.
The entrance to the hut was dark, small rabbit and chicken bones scattered about.
“I’ll stay with the horses,” Beldar said, as there was no place to tie them.
Erik nodded, and as they handed Beldar their reins and stepped towards the dark entrance of the hut, a voice cut into the darkness.
“Only Erik, Friend of Dwarves, may enter.”
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 5
