Oath of the Outcast

by C M Banschbach

  The Baron could stab him whenever he felt like it.

  “I don’t trust anyone anymore. And you might as well give up trying to befriend me again. You know the laws.”

  “To flames with the laws.” Alan clenched his fists in sudden anger. “I don’t believe you killed the prince.”

  The Baron’s expression turned hollow, his eyes sad, as he stared down at his mug. “Believe as you like. There’s no way to prove I didn’t.”

  A serving maid came and set down two plates of food for them. They received generous portions of meat, potatoes, and bread for three coppers. They ate in silence, more than happy to apply themselves wholly to the task of eating.

  The innkeeper came by to top off their drinks and inquire after their meal. Alan assured him that all was well on that count.

  “My boy took your saddlebags up to the room prepared for you.” The innkeeper wrung his hands as he looked at the Baron and inched closer to Alan as he continued. “But if you’d like to stay, Balic will be singing this evening. He’s as close to famous as you can be in this area.”

  “I think we could stay for a song or two.” The Baron said amiably, something like a smile flickering across his face. Alan blinked at him in momentary shock at the sudden change. He’s playing at something.

  But the innkeeper beamed, pleased to have won him over, and returned to the bar.

  “We’re deep into Adam’s lands now. A few songs can get people to relax, open up and talk about their lives. Let’s see how popular Lord Adam is.” The Baron rested his elbows on the table.

  “Trust you to have a reason like that,” Alan murmured with a roll of his eyes.

  The Baron scowled.

  That particular expression appeared on his face more than any other. Alan decided that it must be the Baron’s equivalent of a smile--and even if that weren’t the case, Alan would believe it anyway.

  True to the manager’s word, a man shortly took a seat on a raised stool to the accompaniment of cheers from the patrons. Alan leaned back more comfortably in his chair and propped an arm on the table to better watch the minstrel. Balic, the minstrel, strummed his brightly painted lute and filled the tavern air with a strong, unwavering voice.

  He began with a few well-known folk tunes that had everyone tapping along. Alan hummed under his breath as a few others began to sing along to the tongue-twisting “Riordan’s Riddles.” He shook his head slightly as the Baron studied the room with no indication he even heard the music.

  Balic stood and pointed to Alan’s blue-and-yellow checkered cloak in the back corner, and with a nod to Alan, began a jovial song from the Clans, “The Maiden and the Mountain Round.”

  A few chords into the song, the Baron’s grip on his ale mug turned white-knuckled, and he stared at the fire on the hearth without blinking, almost as if he didn’t see it. Maybe he didn’t. They’d heard these songs before, with ale in their hands, surrounded by comrades and family. Maybe his mind was lost to those years before the war when life had been so much happier and so much simpler.

  He’d never thought he’d share another pitcher of ale with Rhys again. The privilege of doing so felt like a missing stone had been returned to its empty spot in the fence, like something that was broken had been made whole again. But the Baron didn’t act as though he shared the feeling.

  Why would he? After all he’d been through, he had no reason to trust Clan MacDuffy or anyone representing them.

  As the song ended, Alan finished his mug of ale and pretended he didn’t see the Baron unclench his shaking hands.

  The doors flung open with unneeded force, and a group of six soldiers trooped in. The merchants who occupied the best seats by the fire instantly retreated without protest, scurrying to tables farther away as all conversation died to barely a murmur. The soldiers took the seats by the fire, stripping off gloves and helmets in a clattering chorus. Those closest to those seats edged away as surreptitiously as they could. The soldiers called loudly for ale and the innkeeper hurried to serve them with none of his previous cheeriness.

  A green-robed figure ghosted inside the tavern behind the soldiers, and as the people in the room noticed his presence, an appalling silence descended, as though a woolen blanket had muffled everyone in the room. Even the soldiers shifted in vague unease when the man came closer to their table.

  Alan sipped at his brew, studying the change in the room with interest. Guess this is what the Baron was waiting for. He lifted his mug and the innkeeper hurried over to refill it. The Baron’s gaze flicked rapidly around the room before settling on the newcomer.

  “Don’t stare!” The man hissed at him. “Haven’t you seen those druids before?”

  “I haven’t,” the Baron replied in the same tone. “What are they doing here?”

  “They are here to speak of a new god, Deronis. They’ve converted Lord Adam and half the court. Ilan save me, but I’ve seen some of the things they can do. It’s not natural!” The man’s voice rose, and he clutched at his apron as if to regain control of himself.

  “What kind of things?” Alan leaned forward. He’d heard some rumors of a new religion rising outside the Clan lands, but he hadn’t given it much thought.

  “Magic, divine power, call it what you will.” The man shook his head. “They can control fire, beasts, some can claim to see the future. I even saw one rise up off the ground!”

  “Seeing the future is not unheard of,” Alan remarked in mild amusement. He sometimes forgot that people didn’t grow up knowing a Seer.

  “Not in the ways of your Seers.” The man shook his head vigorously. “They chant and throw bones and sacrifice animals. I heard in one village that spoke against the druids, all the dogs went wild and attacked their owners. Tell me that’s not natural!”

  “I’d have to say not,” Alan agreed. “What of the Brothers?”

  “They’re all but driven out. A few have been killed, others in hiding, and the rest fled to safer counties.”

  “He’d kill the Brothers?” Alan asked in shock.

  “A necessary sacrifice to appease Deronis.” A new voice said.

  The innkeeper jerked to see the druid standing behind him. Alan’s hand automatically fell to his knife. The Baron tensed as well but remained still, sipping his mug of ale.

  “Blood has always been required to appease the most powerful spirits.” The druid straightened the collar of his green robe, the flickering firelight shining in his long beard.

  “Your god demands blood sacrifice?” The Baron adjusted his position to better regard the newcomer. The manager shuddered and turned to leave, but the druid blocked his path.

  “Deronis demands the extinction of false beliefs that would oppose his glory.” The druid folded his hands into his wide sleeves with the placid assurance of a man who knew he was in the right. “He is willing to confer riches on all those who follow him.”

  “A god of riches then? Convenient for rich men.”

  “Riches are not always silver and gold. Wisdom, understanding, power, these Deronis also promises.”

  “What happens when all men have what they want?” The Baron tilted back in his chair, a mocking smile on his lips. “Or does this Deronis just bestow these riches on the favored few?”

  Alan nearly kicked him under the table in a warning to tread more carefully.

  The druid arched one eyebrow. “I see you are an unbeliever.”

  “Your god tell you that?” The Baron’s lip curled in derision.

  “Allow me to show you what my god can tell me.” The druid twitched the sleeves of his robe back.

  Alan reached for his knife.

  The Baron gave him a flat stare. “Save your breath. I don’t believe in anything, and a few paltry tricks won’t convince me.”

  The druid returned his hands to his robe. “I sense you are on a long journey. Perhaps you will be enlightened on the way.” He turned and made his way over to the men-at-arms.

  Alan watched the druid, not relaxing until the ma
n sat down at the table.

  “How’d he know that about you?” The innkeeper’s eyes were wide in fear.

  “Anyone could tell that by looking at us,” the Baron said. “Cloaks, swords, our clothes; we’re in an inn and clearly not from here.”

  The man subsided with some reassurance and hurried back to the bar to pour himself a glass of his own brew.

  The Baron scoffed under his breath as he took another drink of his ale.

  Alan scooted his chair closer to the Baron. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Tales told out of proportion most likely.”

  “He didn’t look to be bluffing. And to kill the Brothers?” Alan faltered.

  “How do you know the Brothers aren’t fakes, too?” The Baron tossed back the last sip of his ale.

  “Surely you can’t mean that?” Alan jerked in shock.

  The Baron had gradually stopped going to the Brothers’ services during the war, as his duties always seemed to get in the way. But this was something different. Defiant disbelief.

  “I can say that, and I will,” the Baron returned. “You see how frightened that man is? People like him are held in place by intimidation and imagination. Half his stories of the druids have undergone several versions since the original event. The rest are ghost stories to frighten children and the superstitious.”

  Alan shrugged, not quite as willing to dismiss the stories, even if they were told by a man who made a living off gossip. “So you think he’s not dangerous?”

  The Baron sent the druid another quick glance, his mouth tightening on one side. Rhys MacDuffy might have died, but his expressions hadn’t.

  Not so unconcerned after all then, are you, Baron?

  The soldiers called for more music, and Balic reluctantly picked up his lute again. He played a few more songs with none of his previous energy before the other patrons began slipping out into the rain or up to their rooms.

  Somewhere in the third song, the Baron stood and gathered his weapon and his cloak. Alan did the same and motioned to the innkeeper, who escorted them up the stairs, a single candle flame illuminating the worn oak walls of the inn.

  The second floor of the tavern smelled less like ale and roasting meats and more like dust and oil lamps. The innkeeper showed them to a room and lit the lamp on the small table against the wall before he bowed and retreated into the darkness of the hallway, shutting the door behind them.

  The Baron took a chair from the table and set it by the door so to announce anyone who tried to enter uninvited.

  “Clever.” Alan pointed to the chair.

  The Baron ignored him and lay down on the cot, only removing his sword from its belt and pulling his boots from his feet.

  Alan did the same and stretched out on his own sturdy cot, staring at the darkened ceiling overhead. He needed to sleep as well as he could. Something told him that nights under an actual roof would be few and far between as long as he traveled with the Mountain Baron.

  Chapter 7

  The innkeeper served them steaming bowls of porridge, great hunks of sharp cheese, and a fresh loaf of crusty bread when they arrived in the dining area the following morning. Another few coins bought them another loaf of bread, which Alan wrapped in a cloth and stored in his saddlebag.

  The Baron said nothing as they ate, nothing as they saddled their horses, nothing as they started off down the road toward Lord Adam’s lands. The skies had cleared, but the rain left a residual coolness that filtered through on a light breeze. Their mounts sloshed through mud and deeper puddles on the road.

  Alan rubbed his chin, still unable to shake the uneasiness he’d felt when the druid had approached their table. “That innkeeper said that the druids claim to see the future. Do you think that’s part of the reason Sean was taken?”

  “Maybe.” The Baron’s voice rasped in the early morning air. “But if they’ve laid a hand on Sean, I’ll kill them all.”

  They said no more until the Baron pulled his mountain horse to a halt a few miles later. Alan frowned.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  The Baron didn’t answer.

  Alan cast a look up the road and down. He could see no reason to stop in the middle of the path, but the Baron calmly waited astride Draco, hands loose on the saddle horn.

  After a few minutes, Draco pricked up his ears and lifted his nose to take in a new scent. Alan’s mount shifted, and gave a curious rumble as it turned to look the same direction as Draco.

  Moments later, hoofbeats announced three other riders who emerged onto the road from a screen of oak trees. All three rode mountain horses, the same shaggy, hardy breed as Draco, but the men were outfitted as if they had stepped off a mercenary ship.

  A Highlander reached them first, his head shaved and tattooed in an intricate pattern of blue spirals and swirls. The small tattooed line under the corner of his left eye marked him an outcast of his people. He carried a heavy broadsword across his back, and his plain jerkin showed off muscular arms.

  The second had the olive skin and narrowed eyes of Gedrin, the country just east of the Cardic Mountains. Long black hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck with a leather band. He carried a short sword on his hip and a Gedrinian recurve bow decorated with etchings and colorful braided leather straps.

  The third’s plain leather tunic stretched across broad shoulders, his stockier build contrasting with his companions. He carried a plain short sword at his hip, and multiple knives sheathed in belts across his chest. Leather gloves covered both hands.

  Alan clutched his reins, tense and ready to spur his horse into a gallop if they needed to escape quickly, but the Baron remained loose and calm in his saddle, his expression neutral except for the ever-present scowl.

  Unsurprised.

  The mercenaries halted a few paces away and saluted the Baron, and Alan blinked in surprise. Were these the Baron’s men?

  The Highlander gave Alan an openly curious look.

  “You were almost late,” the Baron addressed them.

  “Sorry, Baron.” The third man—the plain, stocky one—rested a hand on one of his knives. “Someone thought they recognized me. We had to persuade them otherwise.”

  “Any other trouble?”

  “No, Baron.” The stocky man flicked a knife in and out of its sheath with his thumb, sizing up Alan in thoughtful consideration. Alan stared back evenly. It appeared that he wasn’t the only one to be surprised by a new addition to the mission.

  “This is Alan MacDuffy.” The Baron gestured to him. “The Clans wanted him along to represent their case.”

  “They didn’t trust you, Baron?” The Highlander smirked. “I see the Clans still think they know best.”

  “I think Laird Brogan wanted someone who appreciated the meaning of tact,” Alan broke in.

  The Baron regarded Alan with a peeved raise of an eyebrow but didn’t deny it as the most likely truth.

  The Highlander gave a snort of laughter. “Rorie is my name.” He extended a hand to Alan at the Baron’s slight nod of permission.

  “You cannot pronounce my name, I think.” The Gedrinian touched his hand to his heart in the traditional greeting of his country. “You may call me Jes.”

  “I won’t know until you tell me what it is,” Alan smiled, instantly curious.

  “Jessimalan Brovinisti.”

  The words flowed in a ripple with a lilting accent that Alan couldn’t hope to master with his tongue trained to the harsher consonants of the Highlands.

  “Jes it is,” Alan agreed.

  He picked up a faint bit of smugness from the Baron. No doubt he could pronounce the Gedrinian name, but he’d always been better with accents and languages. Alan refrained from an eye roll. He needed some more time to figure out the Baron before determining how far to push him.

  Rorie flashed another smile.

  The stocky man nudged his horse forward and reached out to Alan.

  “I’m Bryn.” His firm handshake held cautious a
pproval, but a clear warning that Alan wasn’t accepted yet.

  “How are your horses?” the Baron asked.

  “Still fresh,” Bryn replied.

  “Good, then let’s be on our way.” The Baron spurred Draco forward and the others fell in behind him. Bryn not-so-subtly took the position closest to the Baron.

  Alan fell back, allowing the men to move around the Baron in a preordained pattern which still allowed them to keep an eye on him.

  It wasn’t surprising that the Baron had not told him about the men. It made sense: Alan was Laird Brogan’s insurance, and the Baron had brought along his own. Rhys MacDuffy wouldn’t have bothered with that sort of forethought in the war. But Rhys MacDuffy and the Baron were very different men.

  Alan lost track of how long and how far they rode that day, but by the time they stopped, he was sore and achy and ready to stand on his own two feet. They made camp or the night in the shelter of a small wood. It looked to be the source of timber for the surrounding area but was still private enough to hide their fire.

  Jes ground-tied his horse and volunteered to collect firewood. “I would not want Rorie to get lost again.” A faint smirk played across his angular face as he headed into the trees.

  Rorie flicked a handful of grass after him. “Don’t overexert yourself, little man.” But he laid out Jes’s bedroll along with his own.

  “You have trouble down in Darrow?” The Baron dumped his own pack on the ground near Bryn.

  Bryn nodded. “Nothing we didn’t handle calmly.”

  The Baron looked to Rorie for confirmation. The Highlander raised his hands in a gesture of affronted surprise. “Of course we kept level heads about it, Baron.”

  Bryn snorted. He took off his gloves, revealing the X burned into his right hand.

  He’s taking a big risk. Alan placed his saddle on the ground and rubbed down his stallion.

  Somehow Bryn didn’t seem like the type of man to have the mark burned into his skin, not like the rougher men at the bridge.

  “But how could we keep such level heads when we were pursued by no less than thirty men?” Jes emerged from the woods on soundless feet and knelt to stack wood he’d gathered, every movement fluid and purposeful.