Jair noted that the last observation seemed to dampen the man’s normally cheerful disposition. Having spent the better part of the past week pestering the older couple with questions about who he was, where they’d found him, what side they thought he had fought on, and who had won, Jair had been forced to concede that for now it was best to lay low, heal, and try to regain his memories.
Tameel and Zynora had taught him all they could about the subtle art of trading as they headed for their eastern coastal routes. Just because he didn’t know who he was didn’t mean he couldn’t pull his own weight. At least, that’s what Tameel had said.
“Jair, come give me a hand with these weapons,” Zynora said from the back of the wagon. “They’re too heavy for an old woman like me to carry.”
Jair laughed. Zynora was as strong as an ox, but he didn’t mind helping wherever he could, especially if it meant a break from the dust and gnats.
“Be right there,” he said. It had taken him a while to get used to the name Jair. Even though he had no memory of his own, the name didn’t feel like his. Zynora figured the memory loss was caused by the trauma and the amount of blood he had lost before they had found him. He hoped it would return in time, but for now, he needed to focus on regaining his strength. What better way to do that than to accompany the only people he knew on their peddling expedition through the five kingdoms?
Other than his lack of strength, his body seemed to be functioning normally. He didn’t think he’d lost any range of movement, and he had no problem speaking and was pleased to discover he still remembered how to read.
When asked, Tameel and Zynora had both refused to take him back to where they had found him, no matter how much he begged. All they would say was they had recovered his body while looking for survivors, but he felt there had to be more to it.
They did eventually tell him that they believed he was one of the Upaka because of the unique lack of color in his eyes. Apparently, his people lived in the uninhabited regions of Keldor and were best known for their killing. Not exactly a great start.
The only possessions he had from his former life were a black stallion they’d found wandering near where he had been discovered, a pair of beautifully designed swords, a long black leather coat—which they had paid a skilled leather worker to patch since it had three holes in the back—and a single black onyx ring with a strange white symbol at the center that they’d found on a chain around his neck.
One thing was clear. He distinctly had an affinity for all things black.
He opened the still-moving wagon’s back door and hopped up on the step. “What do you need moved?”
“Those right there,” she said, pointing to a pile of swords and scabbards in the corner. They had been selling off some of the collected weapons in each new town they rode through.
Jair spent most of his days with Tameel, learning how to make the Sell. “It’s not their job to know if they need it or not,” Tameel kept trying to explain, “it’s yours. They always need it. They just don’t know it yet.”
“Where do you want them?” he asked, stepping inside to lift the weapons.
“In the front.” She pointed to an empty spot behind a large chest where she had cleared out a few rolls of cloth to sell. Clearly, his presence was not a complete waste of rations, since it turned out that warriors with an affinity for black were quite skilled at heavy lifting and manual labor, even while recovering their strength.
Jair spent his evenings studying the ways of the Dar’Rhivanni with Zynora as she educated him on the finer points of what it meant to be one of the nomadic traders. Her first order of business had been to find him a suitable name. After a number of unsuccessful attempts, she finally settled on Jair—one of the Rhivanni’s four founding ancestors, who just so happened to be the father of the Dar clan to which Zynora and Tameel belonged. Jair was said to have possessed a remarkable inner strength and been a man of few words. But according to Dar legend, when those words were uttered, hurricanes formed, rivers dried up, and mountains split in twain.
Jair thought it an honor to be named after such a revered figure.
However, in the quiet confines of the wagon, Zynora enjoyed calling him Grey Eyes. It was a simple label but one that expressed her fondness for their adopted stray.
As Tameel had predicted, it was indeed pushing evening when they caught their first glimpse of the small town of Woodvale. The early-winter sky was a bright tapestry of color as they followed the dirt road leading into town.
Woodvale was good to its name—a small valley cut out of the surrounding forest. The town was quaint, much like the others they had passed through. One- and two-story buildings sided with simple wood planks lined both sides of the street. There were a few shops at the center, interspersed between local residences.
People stopped to stare at the colorful wagon, then went back to whatever they were doing, some shaking their heads. Jair never knew from one town to the next how they would be received. Some were happy to see the tinkers, even friendly—others, not so much.
Tameel kept the wagon rolling, not stopping until they reached the far end of town, where he pulled off the road onto a back trail in a thick grove of trees, which eventually led them to the front of a small inn. By the time Tameel had steered the wagon around to the far side of the stable, the stars had already begun to make their presence known.
“I’m going to see if Blithe has any food to spare,” Tameel said as he climbed down from the front seat and handed Jair the reins. “I might need your help.”
Jair hopped down, tied off the horses, and hurried to catch up.
Zynora stuck her head out of the back and called after them, “Be sure to ask him about some extra oats for the horses.”
Tameel waved in acknowledgement.
The sign over the door read THE SMOKIN’ PIG. Appropriate, Jair decided, since the first scent wafting toward him was that of burnt bacon. The inn was a modest stone-and-cedar two-story structure, with decayed plaster and a steep thatched roof. A narrow balcony lined the face of the second floor, acting as an awning to keep the weather off those sitting on the porch. Horses were tied to both sides of the entrance, signaling a rather large gathering inside.
“Appears quite busy for a Fourthday,” Tameel said as he stepped up on the porch.
After a courtesy whack of their boots on the front side of the entrance, they stepped inside and promptly shut the door to keep the cold air out. As expected, the inn was nearly filled, standing room only. Pipe smoke hung in the air like a thick fog, dulling colors and stinging eyes. At the back of the room, a not-so-talented older gentleman struggled with his langeleik on a makeshift stage. A few of the tipsier patrons sang along to a round of “Bart the Fool” with about as much accuracy as the instrumentalist’s fingers on the strings.
Jair wondered how he had known the instrument’s name. It seemed a strange thing to remember when he couldn’t even recall his own.
He followed Tameel as the old man shuffled along the edge of the room, heading for the kitchen. Jair couldn’t help but notice more than one sideways glance as they passed. Tinkers were never the most celebrated of guests, but there was still a healthy respect for their services, if for no other reason than it was widely believed that to treat a tinker ill would bring a full year’s bad luck.
They stopped just outside the kitchen and waited as the innkeeper—Blithe, Tameel had called him—slaved away in front of a large brick oven. To say Blithe was a big man would be like calling the Sidaran Forest a mere stand of trees, or the Ozrin Sea a good-sized swimming hole. The man was as wide as he was tall, though Tameel said he was as gentle as a lamb, unless of course you messed with his family. Or his cooking.
Again, Jair was left puzzling why he could remember names like the Sidaran Forest or the Ozrin Sea but not the ones that mattered most. He hoped the others came back as well. The sooner the better.
The two watched the innkeeper slice a fresh loaf. Tameel waited for him to finish
laying the cheese garnish around the sides of the platter before clearing his throat. When that didn’t work, he resorted to calling the man’s name.
Blithe looked up from his work, still flipping out the cheese wedges with hands that seemed to act on their own. For a moment, it looked like he was trying to determine who they were, but then recognition settled in and he halted his arranging. He motioned with his head to the far side of the room. “This isn’t a good time, Tameel.”
Jair followed Tameel’s example and slowly turned his head. The last two tables in the far corner were filled with armed men in white mantles, a couple of whom were banging their tankards on their tables and shouting for more ale, taking clear advantage of the young maids trying to serve them.
Some of the armsmen were looking in their direction.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Tameel said. “I’ll find a more appropriate time.” He turned to Jair. “We need to go.”
“Come see me in the morning,” Blithe said. “They should be sleeping off the ale by then.”
Tameel nodded and started retracing his steps, Jair on his heels. They were only halfway across the room when Jair caught movement on his left. Two of the white-robed men had left their seats and were shoving their way through the crowd. “Where are you going, tinkers? Come have a drink with us.”
The room quieted as Tameel made a break for the door. Jair’s stomach knotted as he sensed the old man’s fear. Despite their words, whoever these men were, they didn’t seem to care for the Rhivanni.
Once outside, Tameel hobbled as fast as he could across the lawn toward their wagon, passing the stable on the way.
“Jair. Quick. Untie the horses!”
“Why? What’s going on?” he asked as he ran to obey. “Who were those men?”
“What’s wrong, Tameel?” Zynora asked from the back of the wagon.
“The Black Watch. They’re inside!”
Chapter 10 | Jair
JAIR SCRAMBLED UP INTO the front seat with the reins. “What’s the Black Watch?”
“Later!” Tameel hissed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
A group of men approached from the inn, each wearing a similar white mantle, each with a sword at his waist. Something about them stirred the briefest flash of memory, and he realized his hands were shaking. For some reason, still unknown to him, these men filled him with a deep sense of hatred.
Patrons of The Smokin’ Pig filed out the front door to see what was happening.
Jair stood up in the wagon seat and scanned the grounds, quickly weighing their options. Apart from the road leading back into town, they were surrounded by trees. Even if they managed to get the wagon rolling, how far would they get?
He heard Tameel at the back, ordering Zynora to get inside and hide.
The white-robed guards stopped a few feet shy of the stable.
“We have orders to take all Rhivanni vermin in for questioning,” a man at the front of the group said. His disheveled hair hung over his shoulders, and week-old growth covered his angular face. He took a step forward and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword as if daring them to defy his orders.
“We’ve broken no laws,” Tameel said, keeping his head lowered. “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll just be on our way.”
The guard stepped forward and grabbed Tameel by the arm. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Jair lowered his head as well, but not for the same reason as Tameel. He didn’t want the guards to see his eyes. Zynora had told him that his people were even more disliked than the Rhivanni.
He hopped down and slowly walked to the back of the wagon, stopping in the shadows to keep his face hidden. “Let him go,” he said quietly.
The guard looked up. “What did you say, tinker?”
Tameel looked at him and shook his head. Jair ignored him. “I said, let him go.”
Zynora climbed down from the back of the wagon and stood beside him. “Jair, don’t provoke them,” she whispered. “It’s not worth it.” She put her hand on his arm. “It’ll be all right.”
All right? These men were threatening to take all three of them in for some kind of questioning.
By now, the entire inn had emptied, the patrons murmuring amongst themselves as they watched the proceedings, most still clinging to their drinks.
The guard handed Tameel off to one of the men behind him, then turned to Zynora. “I see by your headdress that you’re a practitioner of the Kojzu. It’s been a long time since we’ve had the pleasure of putting one of you through purging,” he said with a smile that made Jair’s skin crawl.
Jair took a moment to study the men. There were eight guards. The man at the front was obviously the leader. Take him out first and unbalance the rest. They each had a sword strapped to the left side of their waist, except the second man on the right, who had his strapped to the opposite. Left-handed. The white mantles could be intimidating, but in reality, they were also constricting. Limited movement.
The third from the left is missing an eye. The man holding Tameel has a limp in his right leg. And three of them have definitely had too much to drink.
Behind him, the wagon was only a few steps away. He needed to get Zynora inside.
As if hearing Jair’s thoughts, Zynora edged toward the back door.
“Where are you going, wrinkles?” the guard asked. “I have something special I want to show you.” He motioned toward the stable. “Bring it out!”
The barn doors swung open, and two more men in white robes led something out. Whatever it was released a loud shriek that shook Jair to his core. What in the name of darkness is that?
“Sniffer!” Tameel cried in fear.
The onlookers in front of the inn scattered in all directions, some heading back inside, others running into the woods.
The creature in front of the barn was grotesquely misshapen, most of its body mercifully covered by a black hooded cape that had been shredded at the ends. Even hunched, it stood at least two feet over the tallest of them. Its fingers, if you could call them that, were at least three times the length of a normal man’s, with talon-like nails that curved ever so slightly downward. Its body, from what Jair could see at the front opening, was mere sinew wrapped in layers of moist, discolored skin. The arms reaching out from under the folds of the cloak, much like its fingers, were disproportionate to its body, twice the length of a human’s.
It gripped two enormous swords, each blade gradually widening at the end, pulling their balance forward.
The creature pulled its hood back with a disfigured finger, and Jair’s breath caught in his throat. The sniffer’s head was human in shape, though larger and deformed. The back of its skull was covered with moss-like patches of long hair, which hung like rain-soaked willow branches down its back.
Its head lurched upward and convulsed, giving it the distinct appearance of an animal searching for a scent, which was odd, considering it lacked a nose. Where one should have been, there were two gaping holes. It almost looked like the skull of some monster after worms and decay had consumed the soft tissue.
Keeping an eye on the creature, Jair picked up a hand-sized log from the wood pile stacked next to the wagon. He felt like the village idiot, standing against ten armed men and a creature fresh out of his worst nightmare with nothing more than a piece of firewood. It wasn’t like he could ask them to wait while he went inside and grabbed a proper sword.
“Too much of a coward to face me yourself?” Jair asked the guard, hoping to play on the man’s pride and draw him out.
The guard grinned. “Hold your positions,” he said to those behind. “This one’s mine.” He drew his sword, the ring of metal filling the cold evening air. The man didn’t even bother to raise the blade.
Jair shifted his stance, his body twisting slightly to put his strong arm forward. What was he doing? This was insane.
He took a deep breath as he left the wagon to meet the guard. The man lunged, swinging for his head. Jair felt his arm move
as if on its own. Lifting the wood, he caught the blade, showering them both with splintered pieces of kindling. What was that? He reared back to throw what was left of the log at the man, and suddenly everything around him shifted, and he was somehow back beside the wagon, still holding his piece of firewood.
“Hold your positions,” he heard the man saying. “This one’s mine.”
Jair looked around. What just happened?
The man charged all over again, but this time, Jair already knew what he was going to do, and instead of using the wood to block the guard’s blade, he struck the inside of the man’s sword arm before he could complete his swing. The impact violently compressed the guard’s muscle, forcing his hand to open and his sword to fall.
Before the blade hit the ground, Jair snapped the log across the guard’s leg. His left knee shattered with a sickening crunch. The guard opened his mouth to scream, but Jair thrust the butt end of the wood straight up into the man’s jaw with enough force to snap his neck. The guard dropped, twitched, and went still.
Jair looked down at his shaking hands. Where had that cold precision come from? Was this part of his Upakan training coming to the surface?
The remaining guards stared in awe.
Behind him, the wagon door creaked. “Jair, catch!”
Jair turned. He dropped the stick of wood and snatched the two blades out of the air. His blades, or so he’d been told. And he believed it, because right now they felt less like swords and more like extensions of his own arms.
He held the unique weapons out in front of him. It wasn’t their perfect balance in his hands or the exquisitely crafted dragons that embellished the forward crossguards that drew his attention. It was the iridescent blades themselves, each one black as midnight and smooth as wet glass. They were both deadly and beautiful.
Jair turned, realizing the guards’ bewildered expressions had changed to fear . . . even recognition. A few of them murmured something about a “guardian protector.”
Plague of Shadows Page 8
