by Aldrea Alien
“Forgive me,” Katarina said. “But I thought Demarn spellsters weren’t allowed to use alternative means of fighting.”
“They aren’t,” Authril replied.
The hound gave a noncommittal grunt. “There may be some truth in that, but I see no harm in him learning. Of course, you would have to make some adjustments to your attire. I do not recall seeing any splits in either robe or undertunic.”
Dylan drew his legs closer together, just on the off chance that the man decided to attempt such alterations then and there. “That won’t be happening,” he mumbled. “I’ve only my smallclothes underneath.”
“Truly?” Tracker shuffled closer. “No trousers? Are they not part of the uniform?”
Dylan nodded.
“And you refused?” A low chuckle creased the corners of the man’s eyes. “We are quite the rebel, yes?”
Authril snorted. “An idiot, more like. They have you wearing them for a reason.”
“I don’t like them.” Much to his chagrin, they’d attempted to have him don the clothing. It lasted all of a few minutes before he dumped the trousers amongst the piles of rags. But the robes originally fell to his ankles, meaning no one could tell unless he lifted the skirts of his robe and undertunic. He doubted it was evident even with the slightly higher hem. “I find them rather confining.”
A mischievous spark flickered to life in Tracker’s eyes. His gaze dropped to Dylan’s waist. “I do believe something else would be just as confining. If not more so.”
“Well, I—” He jumped as Authril slammed the shield between them.
“So sorry,” the warrior said, the sweetness dripping from her voice just as false as the overly toothy grin. “Hold this,” she demanded of the hound.
Tracker complied, grasping the shield before it could fall, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Rather than explain herself, she grabbed Dylan’s collar and, before he’d time to register what was happening, hauled him to his feet. “Tent,” Authril growled into his ear. “Now.”
“I haven’t finished eating,” he protested as she towed him towards their tent. A quick glance over his shoulder told him much of his meal was now scattered all over the ground.
“If you’re that hungry,” Authril grumbled. “I’ll fix you something later. Now, get in.” She gave him a gentle push towards the tent flap.
Dylan obeyed, his face burning hotter as their exit was followed by the hound’s rich laughter.
They reached Oldmarsh without complication or even a hint of bandits. Although, the armed men in the uniform of the city guard marching along the road leading to the city might’ve had something to do with that.
He’d only vague memories of the first time he passed through the city. The sun had gotten to him for perhaps the second time, leaving him terribly burnt and delirious. He recalled Fetcher grumbling as she gave him the necessary sanction to use his magic to heal the damage, but not much else.
There were obvious differences between this city and the village of Toptower. The latter had been built around an old fortification and huddled inside the walls like a timid kitten. But in Oldmarsh, somewhere along the line, the residents had forsaken the town’s original walls in favour of expansion, making the town sprawl across the land much like a drunken spider trying to build a web in a storm.
If he were to describe the layout of the buildings, then haphazard would certainly place high on the list. Navigating the outer parts of the city was a matter of trailing after Tracker whilst the man wove through endless narrow streets. The buildings themselves seemed to be built in a hodgepodge of materials with boards nailed across most of the windows. Clothes and sheets of cloth hung wherever there was space, whether that was from lines running between the buildings or an open window.
After the first misstep into a puddle of what he sincerely hoped was muddied water, Dylan found himself paying more attention to his feet than their surroundings. The streets might’ve once had cobblestones, and there was still the odd bit of evidence speaking of a time when they paved the roads, but the vast majority had been buried beneath a thick layer of muck and mud.
Although the sunny days had hardened much of the road’s surface dirt, there seemed to be a perpetual dankness to the dull greyish brown crud they walked upon. Perhaps it was due to the uncaring nature of animal and people alike to add to the street muck.
Unlike Toptower, where the people seemed to move along with purpose, these folk shuffled through their duties as if in a daze. If the residents acknowledged the passage of five newcomers, it was fleeting and lacklustre before continuing with their tasks. Several pushed carts clearly more suited for animals to pull, others carried loads that looked almost as heavy as themselves.
The deeper they got, the more rubble crowded the streets. Wooden crates, broken cartwheels and piles of shattered bricks interspersed with rotting straw. A few spots had the look of people attempting to clean up the refuse, but they mostly spilt onto the street and all but blocked off a number of alleyways.
“Spare us a little coin, sirs?” a thin voice piped up from one such pile of rubble.
Dylan slowed. That had sounded like a child.
A mud-encrusted plank moved aside to reveal the grubby face of a small human boy. The child tumbled out of his hole and scrambled towards them. “Please, sirs?” He fidgeted with his tunic, a raggedy thing that was more hole than linen and far too big for his scrawny frame. “I haven’t eaten in three days.”
Snorting, Authril made a shooing motion with her hand. “Get lost, kid. Go back to your gang.”
The boy shuffled closer, his huge brown eyes welling. He grabbed Dylan’s robe, blinking the tears free. “I’ve sisters, sir. We’re all so very hungry.”
Dylan swallowed, trying to convince himself that there was no lump in his throat. “I don’t have—” He might not have any coin, but there were a few strips of the jerked pork left in his pack. It’d be better than nothing.
“Come here,” Tracker said, crooking his finger and crouching when the boy scampered to his side. “I hope you are good at remembering faces, child, because I am and this is something I will only do the once. You understand this, yes?” Tracker opened his hand as the boy nodded, revealing a silver coin nestled in his palm.
The boy snatched up the coin as if believing the hound would change his mind at any sign of hesitation and scampered off into an alleyway.
Authril watched the boy. She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have given him money.”
With his mouth twisting into a half smile, Tracker stood. “Ah, consider it as the bandits donating to the unfortunate with me has their middle man. What was that you said about a gang?”
The warrior shrugged. “It’s nothing new. I grew up here. Pulled the same tricks as a girl, too. The inner city doesn’t care about the slums, so we used to shaft them as often as we could.” She sneered at the now-vacant alleyway. “Not that sloppily, though.”
Tracker’s brows lifted. “You were a slummer?” Those honey-coloured eyes ran over the woman as if truly seeing her for the first time. “It would seem fate was far kinder to you than these people.”
“Only because I worked for it,” she muttered.
“Do you feel no kinship to your home? Or those still living here?”
“This place stopped being my home the second I could leave it. Why should I care about it?” Authril marched past the man. “There’s a small gate into the city this way.” She indicated a narrow street veering off the main way. “Just don’t stop for any more beggars. If word gets around, they’ll send the big boys.”
Dylan lengthened his stride to catch up with her. “What happens when they send them?”
“If you’re lucky, you’ll get left for dead and naked as the day you were born.” Chuckling, she patted his arm. “Don’t worry, they mostly come out at night and we’ll be out of here soon.”
Sure enough, the passage Authril led them through opened out on a pair of guarded gates. Judging
by the thick walls stretching either side, this had once been the town’s outer defence.
Tracker retook the lead, speaking to the guards as the rest of them walked through the gates.
Such an act was almost akin to stepping into a completely different place. The cobblestones underfoot were uneven in places, but discernible. Carts rumbled by to the slow, rhythmic clop of a cow or draught horse instead of the guttural groans of men. Stalls took place of rubble. Merchants filled the streets with their calls.
The deeper into the town they went, the more the buildings loomed over them, most of them two and three storey’s high. Wooden bridges connected some like open-air corridors. Like in the slums, lines of sheets ran from rooftop to rooftop. Although, these had a little more order and less tears in the fabric.
Dylan glanced back the way they’d come. He could no longer make out the walls sealing the poorer people from the town. Did anyone here wonder what was beyond their little streets or the walls? Did they know that people just like them lingered on the other side, begging for whatever they could get and stealing when they could not?
Eventually, their group came to a street where the entrance was barred by thick iron gates and guards in burnished armour. Again, Tracker spoke with one of the men, pressing obscenely close. Dylan caught the flash of silver exchanged between their hands and the man waved them through.
His gaze returned to their surroundings with renewed interest. This had to be the rich sector of the city. Where the buildings at his back crowded each other, those they now walked by had small gardens and elaborately carved fronts. Stores with large signs over even larger windows appeared to replace the common stalls.
There were still plenty of people on the streets, carts still carried goods and there seemed to be even more guards patrolling than beyond the iron gates. The one thing that stood out the most was how everyone’s attire appeared rather less ragged. Those people watched them as they trailed the hound, the myriad of faces uniform in curiosity and disdain.
He shrugged his pack higher, very much aware of how worn his robe looked. Perhaps that was what drew everyone’s eye. At least the tower would be able to give him new ones.
The hound veered off towards a hulking building. The place sprawled across its allotted section, stables and smaller buildings tucked off to the side. On the opposite side sat a tower, three-storeys high that had an air of exclusivity about it. A large, carved sign running along the front declared it as The Silver Flagon.
The lushness of the front continued inside. Where the inn at Toptower had been dark and unkempt, this place was bright and so clean that the wood practically shone. Amber light streamed through the massive windows, washing the interior with a warm haziness.
And it wasn’t the only thing filling the room.
Even though the brassy glow of twilight had barely begun to spill across the tables, the tavern already had a fair number of patrons. Some seemed engrossed in the task of stuffing their bellies, a few others were involved in a game of dice and there was a pair in the corner playing chess, but most appeared to be here for the sole purpose of drinking. They were by and large the rowdiest of the bunch.
Men and women carrying trays and tankards walked between the tables. One of the patrons tried to get a little friendly with a serving woman and was swiftly dealt with by her dumping the contents of a drink over his head before a hulk of a man hefted him none too gently out the door.
Soft music reached Dylan’s ears as they strode deeper into the room. He stretched onto the balls of his feet, peering over people to find the source.
A woman was perched on a stool near the fire, strumming a small harp. Flanking her, stood a man with a flute and another seated near a small drum. Both looked rather bored.
Authril shook her head, her baleful gaze fixed firmly on Tracker. “If you think we can afford to stay in a place like this—”
“Then it is fortunate you travel with someone who has that sort of coin upon their person, yes?” Tracker jingled his belt pouch. “Whatever would you have done if I had not found your dear spellster?”
“Slept in the forest?” Marin replied.
“You are welcome to do so if that is your wish, my dear hunter. I, however, would vastly prefer to take the opportunity to sleep in a bed whilst I can. The relatively free of unexpected guests sort.” He swaggered up to the bar and tapped on the stained bench top with a gold coin.
“Ah, Master Tracker,” the innkeeper said as he waddled to their side. “Brought along your own entertainment, I see.” The man stroked his thick black beard. “Although, I’m not sure if our beds have recovered from the last workout you gave them.”
A small, slightly wavering, laugh shook the hound’s shoulders. “In all fairness, I did not expect it to break so easily. You would think wood that thick could withstand such weight.”
Dylan tore his gaze from the tavern interior to stare at the hound. Just what had Tracker been doing to break a bed?
The man’s grin rather suggested that whatever had happened last time wasn’t a first for the elf. “It’s not like they were made for that many people.”
Tracker smiled. “My mistake. However, I do recall paying for the damages.”
The innkeeper laughed. “That you did.”
“And I promise this stay will be a little more sedate.”
The man winked. “Better not let Annalise find that out. Poor girl will be heartbroken.”
Dylan eyed the elf. After the man’s attempt in removing Dylan’s smallclothes and Katarina’s observations, he thought for sure that Tracker was interested in men. But if his assumptions on what the innkeeper meant were right, then perhaps the hound had merely been teasing him.
Tracker grunted. “I am certain she will find herself other amusement.”
“So, the usual room it is, then?” Wiping his hands on his apron, he went to take the money, stopping when Tracker laid a finger on top of the coin.
“Not quite, my dear man. I require two rooms for the night. One for these dear women and another for myself and him.” He jerked his thumb, indicating Dylan. “Separate beds, if you please, and whatever you have cooking back there.”
The innkeeper’s black brows shot up. The man eyed Dylan. He’d expected that, just not with the curious glint the man’s gaze carried. There was a particular smugness about his face, too. He nodded and took the gold. “Why don’t you all find a seat and I’ll fetch one of the girls to serve you.”
The suggestion was easier said than done. More people had entered whilst they talked, spreading themselves around most of the tables. Some of the more inebriated patrons had passed out, sprawling across their tables or slumped in chairs.
The harpist had been replaced by a man with a fiddle and, as a lively tune streamed from the sawing bow, a woman danced on one of the long benches to the cheers and whistles of her adoring viewers. The steady and quick thump of the drummer had Dylan tapping his toes as they sought out a table.
They settled near a group of rowdy dicers who periodically jeered and thumped the table. Dylan peered around the shoulder of one such man as their group waited for food to be brought to them. He’d never been all that interested, or good, at dice, but the game looked familiar.
The dancing woman had drawn others who were also cavorting around the floor in a mess of limbs and laughter. Dylan leant back to watch the crowd. Would the women amongst them object if he asked to join in?
He caught Authril watching them. The elf bounced her leg in time with the beat. Surely, she’d permit him a dance.
Grinning, Dylan quietly slid from his stool to slip his arms beneath those of the warrior. “Care to dance, my lady?” he whispered into her ear.
She stiffened in his grasp. A soft hitch of her breath preceded a hurried, “Yes.” The woman sprang to her feet, all but knocking him to the ground. She grabbed his hand and led him into the whirling throng.
Someone in the crowd had started clapping out a beat. The dancers mimicked the claps with
the stamp of their feet. Dylan lifted the skirts of his robes higher and followed suit, allowing Authril to take the lead as they twirled and kicked up their legs. He fast lost himself to the beat of the music and the raucous of those watching.
Their dinner had arrived by the time they collapsed back at the table, both puffing and altogether hot.
Authril beamed up at him. Her skin carried a particularly rosy hint around the ears. “I didn’t think you’d know how to dance.”
“They encouraged such activity at the tower. Helps burn energy.” And the guardians knew that an exhausted spellster child was less likely to sneak off and attempt unsupervised magic.
“Well, dancing with a bean pole certainly has its advantages.”
Dylan chuckled, recalling the other women having to duck to go under their partner’s arm at certain parts of the dance. He had barely needed to raise his arm level with his shoulder to let the elf past.
His gaze dropped to the food laid before them. A whole leg of what his nose told him was mutton and glazed root vegetables graced the middle of the table. Trays of dark bread, cheese and fruit sat to one side, as did several tankards of beer. Compared to the meagre camp side fare of jerked pork and travel biscuits, it was a feast.
Authril wasted no time in grabbing the carving knife and hacking off several chunks of mutton for herself. Dylan carefully piled some of the vegetables onto a plate before grabbing a hunk of bread and biting into it. He groaned around the mouthful. In all his life, he didn’t think he’d ever miss bread or that it would taste this good. Nutty and slightly sweet.
“Can we afford all this?” Katarina asked whilst the other two women tucked in.
Tracker laughed. “Relax, my dear hedgewitch. You are travelling with a hound. You would be amazed what I can buy. Eat up, now. We will be back to chewy strips of meat and lumps of chalky baking in no time.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Marin mumbled over her mountain of food.
Unlike the campfire, where meals were eaten swiftly and in relative silence before people separated to sleep or patrol, everyone seemed content to linger in the tavern. Dylan stuffed his face with copious amounts of vegetables and bread, leaving the greater portion of meat for the elves to devour, much to the apparent amusement of the hound, who easily packed away twice a human’s consumption of food.
