by Jon Kiln
Rothar furrowed his brow. “Condolences? For what?”
“Your… your horse was lost last night… I am very sorry. The King is also very sorry. He knows you cared for that horse.” The servant seemed beside himself with regret.
Rothar fought off a smile and thought about King Heldar, mortified that he had lost his most trusted man’s horse. He hoped that the stable boy had not already been disciplined.
“Do you mean that horse over there?” Rothar asked, pointing to the place where Stormbringer stood, untethered beneath a small tree. The horse was staring back at the bewildered servant, as though he was enjoying the humor of the moment as well.
The servant’s face slowly transformed from a look of surreal worry to one of ecstatic relief.
“Oh, thank the gods!” he rejoiced. “We were certain that he had been burned with all of the others!”
“Burned?” asked Rothar, now very serious.
“Yes, oh yes,” replied the servant. “A terrible thing indeed. The whole stable is in ashes and we know not why. Every horse is dead… except yours, of course. The stable boy is gone too.”
Rothar opened the door to his house and walked in, calling over his shoulder to the servant.
“Tell King Heldar I will meet him there.”
Chapter 10
King Heldar was not in especially good spirits.
“I do not understand why I need to be out here, Rothar,” he complained.
“Your personal stable burned to the ground. Do you not want to know why?” retorted Rothar.
Heldar sighed. “Do you know why?”
“I have an idea why, and I am going to find out for sure, shortly.”
A dozen armed guards stood around the ashen remains, more for protection of the King and Queen than anything else. Queen Amelia herself paced around the rubble, her hand over her mouth, dabbing occasionally at tears in her eyes.
Amelia had been especially fond of the palace horses, and often spent much of a day out in the stables, petting and brushing the animals. As a result, she had become quite close with the young stable boy. Heldar and Amelia were still without children, and Rothar imagined that the stable boy had been as much like a son to Amelia as anyone could have been.
Rothar trudged about between the ruins of the crumbled stone walls, sifting through the gray ashes, looking for bits and pieces to show him what had fallen where. After a time, he was able to locate the fallen hay loft. He moved some partially burned boards and uncovered the charred bodies of the stable boy and his two friends.
Someone cried out behind Rothar. It was Queen Amelia.
“Get her back, please!” he shouted at the guards. Two of the sentries approached and helped the distraught Queen out of the debris.
Carefully, Rothar felt around by the bodies. He retrieved the long pipe that the boys had been smoking and he held it up to the King, who scowled in confusion and dismay. Gingerly, Rothar rolled over the body of the stable boy. His face and chest were less charred than his back. Feeling through the boy’s pockets, Rothar eventually found what he was afraid of finding. He walked over to King Heldar and handed him the small, round card. The King looked at the picture of the black star with the menacing eye.
“What does it all mean?” he asked Rothar.
“I am not yet sure, but I feel certain that what was in that pipe was more potent than mere tobacco. And that card has something to do with it.”
The King shook his head and grunted.
“It is no good, Rothar, people acting so dangerously,” he said. “We can not have it. I must apologize, for I know you just returned from a great ordeal, but I need you to look into this for me, old friend.”
Rothar took the black star back from the King and placed it in his pocket with the other two. He tucked the long pipe into his satchel.
“I will report to you when I have learned anything new,” he told the King. Nearby, Queen Amelia stood beneath a tree, stroking Stormbringer and weeping softly.
“Have a good funeral for the boy,” Rothar said to Heldar. “Amelia needs it.”
King Heldar looked over at his wife, and then back at Rothar.
“Of course, it shall be done.”
***
Rothar went straight from Castle Staghorn to the home of Ariswold, the apothecary. As he approached the home, he saw Harwin coming out of the door.
“Friend,” Rothar greeted the blacksmith. “You must be fetching something for Esme?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Harwin, looking weary. “Last night was another bad one. Hopefully, with the help of Ariswold’s herbs, she can finally get some earnest rest tonight.”
Rothar nodded. “Ariswold is a wise man. You are in good hands.”
Harwin looked at Rothar uncertainly. “I always have trusted your judgment, Rothar, but I must tell you, I think that the old man may be losing some of his senses.”
With that, Harwin said goodbye.
Inside the home of Ariswold, it was dark as usual, but the air seemed especially stale and dank. Cobwebs were collecting on the normally immaculate shelves that held a variety of herbs and concoctions for which Ariswold had become known the whole kingdom over.
Rothar called out for the old man, and a clattering from the back announced his approach. Ariswold’s white hair stuck out from his scalp in every direction, and his long eyebrows cast shadows over wild eyes that seemed glassier than before. Maybe age was taking it’s toll on the man, Rothar thought.
“Rothar, is that you?” Ariswold asked, squinting through the shadows from only an arm’s length away.
“It is, Ariswold. Can I have a moment with you?”
The apothecary hesitated, eyes darting around the room, before he answered. “Of course, of course… how can I be of assistance?”
The two men sat down in a pair of wooden chairs in the corner of the study.
“Can we have some light?” Rothar asked.
Ariswold seemed reluctant, but drew back the curtains on one of the large windows. The sunlight seemed to cause the old man physical pain, and he hurried back to his chair, turning his back on the light and pulling up his cloak to shield his face.
Rothar looked at him questioningly before withdrawing the round cards from his pocket and laying them out on the small table between them.
“Do you know this symbol?” he asked the old man.
Ariswold cast a glance down at the scraps of paper and gave a hasty answer.
“No, I do not recognize that mark.”
Ariswold scratched at his arms and shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Is there something you need, Rothar? For pain perhaps?”
“No, I have no need of medicine, Ariswold, only information.”
Withdrawing the long pipe from his bag, Rothar held it out to the apothecary.
“Smell this,” he said.
Hesitantly, Ariswold sniffed at the end of the pipe. His eyes fluttered momentarily and he suddenly stood.
“Can you excuse me for just a moment?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Ariswold disappeared into the back rooms and Rothar rose and began to look around. As many books as Rothar had in his home, Ariswold owned ten times as much. Shelves reaching from floor to ceiling lined two large walls of the study. Rothar picked up a cloth rag from a table and began to wipe dust from the spines of some of the books. Ariswold had been leaving his windows open at night, and the strong south winds carried red dust inside, coating everything that it touched.
The red dust made Rothar think of Taria, and he wondered what she was doing now, in the Banewood with the huntsmen. He hoped he would be able to go to her soon and bring her to the King’s City. He was to prepare a place for her, somewhere where she would feel safe and comfortable. He wondered if leaving windows open and letting Southern sand ride in on the wind could make a house feel more like a home for a woman of the desert.
Suddenly, Ariswold was back in the room. The old man knocked over a stack of books as he r
ushed into the study, cursing as the tomes tumbled all over on the floor.
“I apologize, Rothar, but I have just recalled that I have an important appointment that I must keep,” Ariswold said. “We will have to continue this inquiry at another time.”
The apothecary herded Rothar towards the door, murmuring further apologies and knocking over more items the whole way.
When he was finally outside, Rothar watched the old man close him out. He led Stormbringer a short ways away and waited, watching the home. An hour passed, but the old man never left.
Ariswold certainly was not acting like himself, and he had barely looked at the papers that Rothar had shown him. Frustrated, Rothar resolved to pay the apothecary another visit the next day, and hopefully he would be feeling better.
Riding back through town, Rothar turned the events of the past two days over and over in his mind. It seemed as though, overnight, people were being dragged down into a depth of depravity and wretchedness that was unknown even in the darkest hovels of Witherington.
There was truly no way of knowing how bad things could become if this wickedness spread out of hand. Rothar knew that he had to uncover what exactly it was that was driving people to crime, to begging for alms, to burning themselves alive. What sort of mind numbing substance could create such darkness? And where was it coming from?
Suddenly, Rothar had a thought.
He spurred Stormbringer hard and bolted off towards Harwin’s home.
Chapter 11
The evening sun was beginning to set as Rothar rode up to Harwin’s place. He jumped off Stormbringer and ran to the door, knocking urgently. Harwin answered quickly.
“Harwin! The herbs that Ariswold gave you, did you give them to Esme yet?”
Harwin looked confused. “No, not yet, why?”
“Can I see the pouch?” Rothar asked, relieved.
“Of course.” Harwin retrieved the small leather bag. “I was wary about giving it to her. Ariswold said to dissolve it in water… or smoke it like tobacco. It did not seem right to me, Esme being as little as she is.”
Rothar dumped some of the contents of the pouch out into his hand. It was a coarse powder, black as night. He rubbed it between his fingers, and it broke down like dried leaves. He sniffed it. It had the same odor as the pipe that he had pulled from the charred devastation of the castle stables.
“What is going on, Rothar?” asked Harwin.
Rothar caught Harwin up on all that had happened since he had left Taria in the Banewood. At the end of the story, he had to physically restrain the big blacksmith from heading straight to the apothecary’s house.
Once Harwin was calmed, Rothar began to head home. There was no point in trying to ply Ariswold for more information today. Rothar was now convinced that the old man was actively using whatever herb it was that he had prescribed for Esme, and speaking to him now would be fruitless. He would head back to see Ariswold in the morning, and if necessary, dunk him in the river.
Night was falling and normally the shops along market street would be closing down and dousing their lights for the evening, but something was wrong. Everywhere there were people arguing, men and women lay on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs, with low ranking soldiers standing over them.
“What is the meaning of all this?” Rothar asked one of the soldiers.
“Gang of thieves, I suppose,” he answered. “They’ve been looting shops all afternoon.”
Rothar dismounted and began walking the chaotic streets. At least one shop was on fire, and it’s owners were working frantically to douse the flames. People were running everywhere. Crazed looking villagers darted out of shops, carrying as much as their arms could hold, merchants chasing behind them.
Looking at the apprehended thieves, Rothar found that many of them were bedraggled and dirty, but some of them were villagers that he knew, farmers and tradesmen. Some of the thieves were even shopkeepers themselves.
Rothar reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the scraps of paper. He began walking down the line of bound villagers, holding out the card to show the people the black star and eye.
The sight of the symbol drew an instant response from each looter. Their eyes lit up at the sight of the star. Many tried to stand, only to be pushed back down by the watching soldiers. Some were unable to speak, but the one’s that could cried out, “Please!” or “Where do you have it?”
When Rothar reached the end of the market street he turned to survey the scene in it’s entirety. In spite of the people’s best efforts, the flames were spreading, jumping from shop to shop down the crowded merchant lane. The apprehended looters had begun to realize that they far outnumbered their captors, and they began to run. Some loosed their bindings and began to fight the soldiers.
On the hill above Witherington, rioters were beginning to ascend towards Castle Staghorn. Before night had fully fallen, the King’s City would be in a state of complete disruption and chaos, and Castle Staghorn would be locked down and ringed with sentries.
The city was unraveling.
Chapter 12
Ariswold sat in his chambers, gazing blankly out the window. The dawn had arrived and he was not sure if he had slept or not throughout the night. The sunrise was a peculiar shade of murky red.
It must be foggy this morn, thought Ariswold, though it was hard to tell the weather, as hazy as the room itself was. Tendrils of smoke drifted lazily about the chandelier and meandered across the ceiling, chased about by drafts. A pipe by the apothecary’s chair side still smoldered with an acrid smell.
Ariswold wondered if he should open up shop or go to bed… or smoke some more. There was a small sound behind him, but before he could look around his world was turned upside down. The old man crashed painfully to the floor and cried out. He rolled and tried to get to his feet, but a booted foot pressed into the middle of his back, holding him down.
“Take whatever you want, just please do not kill an old man!” Ariswold pleaded.
The voice that responded was grave and familiar.
“I am not hear to rob you, old man.”
Ariswold closed his eyes. For a moment he wished that he really was being robbed.
Rothar took his boot off of Ariswold’s back and jabbed it into his ribs. The apothecary rolled over reluctantly. The darkly clad man knelt over him, his clothes reeked of wood smoke.
Ariswold had always liked Rothar. The mysterious man had given him quite a bit of business over the years. He never knew for sure what Rothar did, but there were always whispers that he was aligned with Castle Staghorn, and could be seen coming and going from there at all hours of the day and night. If he truly had connections with the crown then it was a right good thing to be on his good side, and Ariswold had always maintained a congenial relationship with him, until now.
Rothar was holding a pouch in front of Ariswold’s face, right beneath his nose.
“What is this?” Rothar asked.
Ariswold sniffed at the pouch. His eyes widened but he said nothing.
“What is it?!” Rothar shouted, shaking the old man with his free hand.
“Where did you get that?”
The room was silent for a long moment as Rothar stared into Ariswold’s eyes. Ariswold felt as though the man was staring directly into his thoughts.
“You gave it to Harwin, for Esme.”
A look of horror and realization spread over Ariswold’s face.
“What? No… I did not… I… Oh heavens…”
Rothar lifted the old man by the neck of his tunic and planted him back in his chair. Ariswold was shaking and wringing his hands, staring again out the window at the menacing morning light. Rothar set another chair directly in front of him and sat down, leaning forward, staying very close to the apothecary. He removed one of the scraps of paper from his pocket and held it again in front of Ariswold.
“It is time for you to tell me what this means,” Rothar said gravely.
Ariswold looked do
wn at the star and the eye. The image was blurred by tears that he wiped away before taking a shaky breath and forcing himself to meet Rothar’s gaze.
“I… I do know that mark,” he began. Ariswold rose and walked unsteadily to his large wooden desk. He took a key from a string around his neck and unlocked a drawer, removing a wooden box. He returned to his seat and set the box in front of Rothar.
The top of the box was emblazoned with the same star and eye as the note. Rothar cracked open the box and looked inside.
“The most powerful herb I have ever encountered,” Ariswold said. “It has the pain killing abilities of Silver Coral and twice the euphoric sensation of Fire Lily, not to mention it is mildly paralytic and causes the user to have visions.”
Rothar raised his eyebrows. “Anything else?”
“Yes… it is very addictive I am afraid.”
Ariswold was eyeing the pipe, still smoking next to him. He began to reach for it, but Rothar snatched it up and tossed it across the room. It landed in Ariswold’s chamber pot with a plunk.
Ariswold looked at Rothar with fire in his eyes, but he checked himself when he saw the look that he was getting in return.
“Why would you give this to Esme?” Rothar demanded.
“I did not mean to, I intended to give her Sparrow Root, to help her sleep,” Ariswold replied. “I must have… made a mistake… gotten confused…”
“I should say so. It is a good thing I got there before Harwin gave her any of it,” Rothar snapped. “By the looks of you, this foul weed may have killed the poor girl.”
Ariswold closed his eyes and felt himself begin to tremble again.
“Is it you who has spread this scourge throughout the city?!” Rothar demanded.
The old man looked up, confused.
“The city?” he asked. “I have given this to no one… not until Esme…”
It was true, the apothecary had been quite greedy with the herb, ever since he first sampled it.
“Well, someone has,” said Rothar. “And it is taking a dreadful toll.”
