He packed for a long journey, taking with him all the coin in the house and enough provisions to last several weeks if properly rationed. Water wasn’t a problem; snow melt offered a good, clean source and saved him the difficulty of lugging around heavily laden skins. He put on snow shoes; they would enable him to travel faster. When he set out not that many hours after entering his home, he had no clear destination in mind. His thoughts were still full of Justine and, as Ostabel vanished behind him, obscured from his vision by trees and terrain, he regretted not giving her cold lips one last kiss before allowing the fire to consume her.
Vagrum could have directed his path toward Obis. He knew King Rangarak would be only too happy to restore his commission. There was some appeal in that - the life of a soldier was, after all, regimented. There was no need to think. But his time in Ostabel had accustomed Vagrum to freedom and he didn’t know how well he would be able to return to taking orders and doing as he was told. Additionally, the thirst for blood had dried up. Justine had taught him there was more to life than killing and his responsibility for her death made him long for something else. He wasn’t sure he’d find it but rejoining Obis’ army didn’t seem to be a likely starting place. He needed a future not a reunion with the past.
A more appealing option was Syre. While Obis was devoted to war, Syre was a place of pleasure and learning. Its soldiers were no less fierce than those who fought for King Rangarak but its army was smaller, designed to defend not pursue conquest. In fact, an unwritten agreement between the two cities ensured that Syre would go unmolested. In exchange for an annual tribute, a combination of gold and women, Obis would not only refrain from aggression against its eastern neighbor but would also come to its defense in the unlikely situation that Syre was attacked by a force it couldn’t repel. The mutually advantageous agreement worked for all parties, including the women, who were volunteers not conscripts. For courtesans, Syre’s most famous export, more coin could be made in Obis than if they had remained home - the competition in a foreign city, after all, was less stiff.
A lifelong skinflint, Vagrum didn’t lack for funds and he was able to afford one of Syre’s more upscale inns for his stay. Nights allowed him to forget. It was a welcome distraction to spend hours in taprooms buying rounds for temporary friends before retiring in the arms of a paid companion. He intentionally chose women who were nothing like Justine, preferring robust, statuesque courtesans - those who could respond to his sexual aggression in kind. In the heat of the moment, he didn’t want to be reminded of Justine. The days were the worst, however. Vagrum had never been the kind of man to linger abed past dawn and the hours before his personal code permitted him to start the night’s drinking were long and empty. Unlike the Southern locales, which were replete with amusements for travelers, Syre was primarily functional, as befitted a city encroached on by snow and cold for half the year. For those who, like Vagrum, were there without a particular purpose, the rhythms of daily existence became monotonous and it was during those dead times when the unwanted memories washed over him like a flood.
The Planting thaw couldn’t come soon enough for Vagrum. Ten weeks in Syre felt like an eternity. The charms of the women dwindled and Vagrum soon found that he preferred sleeping alone than with a paid partner. Most nights when he stumbled into his room, he was so drunk that he could barely stand let alone engage in the kind of activity a courtesan would expect. As one woman explained: “Dear, I know this be your coin, but I’m in this line of work cause I always got an itch between my legs that needs scratching and in your condition you ain’t never gonna get hard enough to scratch anything.”
After Syre, where? That was the question. Not back to Obis. He wanted somewhere new. Somewhere free of memories. Somewhere he could re-invent himself. That meant going south. It meant crossing the Broken Crags. It meant traveling to the warmer lands where he should have insisted Justine go. If he had been adamant, if he had overruled her objections, she would be alive today. Then again, if he hadn’t gone on that damn fool stag hunt, the same would be true. She was dead because of him, because of decisions he had made and chosen not to make. It was the same as if he had unsheathed his sword and driven it through her breast. That was a realization he would carry with him for the rest of his days and, although it might not always haunt him the way it did now, he was sure it would shape his every action.
Vantok was the obvious destination, the city where all Northerners dreamed about going. It was called The Jewel of the South. No walls, no standing army - all was peaceful down there. Just the place for a weary warrior to find rest and maybe escape a few of his ghosts. And if the answer wasn’t in Vantok, there was always Basingham or one of a hundred small settlements strewn across the land like seashells on a beach. Vagrum didn’t doubt he’d be able to find work. Not only was he proficient with weapons but, in his youth, he had tilled fields, mucked stables, and done a dozen other honest, hardworking jobs. There was always a place for someone like him.
He decided to use Widow’s Path to make the mountain crossing. Although the route was no shorter - and considerably more dangerous - than the coastline road down to Earlford, Vagrum was familiar with the westerly approach, having made the passage several times. He had never been as far south as Vantok but he knew the terrain for several hundred miles beyond The Broken Crags. There were bandits in that area but he doubted they would bother one such as him. The average outlaw waylaid targets that were soft and rich, neither or which applied to Vagrum, especially after he had squandered nearly all of his small fortune on the spirits and women of Syre. He wasn’t the first wanderer to have entered that city with a fat purse and left it with only a few lonely coins scraping together.
In the end, circumstances smiled favorably on Vagrum and he wasn’t forced to undertake the journey alone. He applied for a job protecting a Vantok-bound merchants’ caravan and was accepted on sight. There were eight wagons, all of the tall thin type designed to traverse the pass with its narrow, treacherous road, six sellers, six guards, and ten whores. The entire 1600 mile journey was expected to take between 11 and 14 weeks. The merchants were hoping to reach Vantok around Midsummer’s Day, although they would have to set an aggressive pace to make that goal.
The trip through Widow’s Pass was almost without incident, although one of the wagons was nearly lost due to the incompetence of the merchant driving it. South of The Broken Crags, they encountered a spate of bad weather and one of the wagons tipped over in a gale. The damage, including a broken axel and smashed wheel, was so great that the wagon had to be abandoned. This necessitated redistributing its contents to the surviving vehicles, overburdening them and forcing the whores to walk. That slowed the southward pace to a crawl (beleaguered peasants were passing them on the road) making a Midsummer arrival impossible. But no bandits attacked and there were no signs of any threat that required the employ of six strong, able-bodied men. Of course, it was likely that those six strong, able-bodied men were the reason why no dangers arose.
Vantok was much different from any city Vagrum had visited. It was more like an overgrown village. It sprawled. There were no walls to constrain its expansion. The surrounding farms seemed more like extensions to the city’s footprint than disconnected locales. Vantok was welcoming although a small part of Vagrum’s mind noted how nightmarish it would be shielding the place in the event of a military conflict. The only defensible buildings were the palace and the temple - the two most imposing structures in the city.
With a few extra coins now in his pouch as compensation for the protection he provided to the caravan on the road south, Vagrum could afford drinks and a cheap room for at least a week. He had that long to find permanent employment or he’d end up sleeping in a back ally - not that Vantok had many of those. He chose an inn called The Wayfarer’s Comfort because it was both welcoming and inexpensive. As he approached the front door just after dusk on a day two weeks past Midsummer, he could hear snatches of familiar tavern songs. In Obis, no one sang in tap
rooms. In Syre, only professionals hired by the establishment did so. In The Wayfarer’s Comfort, everyone sang. Vagrum found that strangely comforting.
He was sitting at a table nursing a mug of watered-down ale and watching the attractive woman behind the bar when he heard a familiar voice: “As I live an’ breathe, it can’t be Crags!”
He turned to face the speaker, a wide smile on his face. “Been a long time, Dauphin!”
“That it has been, my friend. Gotta confess, though, I never thought to see your ugly mug again. Get tired of all that snow and ice?”
“Something like that.” Vagrum didn’t feel like going into details about the reason for his journey. The wound was still too raw.
“Ain’t no place in the world quite like Vantok. Got myself a new life here and even a new name.” He sat down in a chair across from his old friend.
Vagrum raised an eyebrow at that.
“They calls me ‘Rotgut.’”
The big man laughed. “Doesn’t sound very appealing. Spent a lot of time rolling around in the mud, have you?”
“It’s meant kindly. Coupla the men I work with in the duke’s militia gave it to me as a joke. It stuck. Doubt you’d find one man in all of Vantok who knows my given name is Dauphin.”
“Hey, Rotgut.” Vagrum turned to find the handsome woman from behind the bar standing next to him. Her smooth features wore an appealing smile. She was a little younger than she looked from across the room. Although Vagrum was notoriously bad at guessing women’s ages, he thought she might be close to thirty.
“Evening to ya, darling,” said Rotgut. “Lemme introduce a good friend of mine from up North. Vagrum, this is Ponari, the wife of the innkeeper. Ponari, this is an even rougher scoundrel than me.”
Ponari smiled. “You’re a liar, Rotgut. The only rougher scoundrel than you in The Wayfarer’s Comfort is my good-for-nothing husband.”
“I see you’ve made a reputation for yourself, ‘Rotgut.’”
“Aye. Worked hard at it too. Defender of the wicked. Despoiler of virgins. Then there’s all my great feats in battle, most of which I borrowed from you.”
“While I have no desire to interrupt a reunion of friends, I’ve got an issue with you, Rotgut.” Ponari’s tone was sweet but Vagrum could tell by the flashing of her eyes that she wasn’t pleased. “My husband tells me you offered to obtain a kitten for our daughter.”
“Only a little one, to catch the mice.”
“You know how I feel about cats.”
“I thought you might make an exception in this case. Little girl, little cat.”
“You thought wrong. No cats in the inn. None in the stable. None anywhere in my sight. If you bring a cat here, you won’t like what I’ll do to you or it. You know I got plenty of knives and know how to use ’em.”
Rotgut smiled but it was an uneasy expression.
After Ponari returned to her customary position behind the bar, Vagrum noted, “I’d advise not giving her daughter a cat.”
“Can’t figure that woman. I’d love to know why she don’t like cats. That stable especially could use them. It’s infested with those rodents.”
“Who’s her husband, anyway?”
“See that big guy over in the corner flapping his mouth?” Vagrum glanced in the direction indicated by Rotgut’s thumb and saw a rotund man wearing a dirty apron regaling his listeners with tales of derring-do. “Warburm, the great adventurer. He and Ponari got to Vantok round the same time I did, bought this inn, and settled in good’n proper. Damn, I’d like to spend some time rolling in the stable’s hay with her but she don’t offer it up the way some of the serving wenches do. Heard tell she ain’t never been with a man other than Warburm. A dozen years they been married.”
The name “Warburm” tickled something in Vagrum’s memory. Ain’t there stories in the North about an adventurer named Warburm? This couldn’t be the same man, could it? The more he looked, the more convinced he was that it could be. The innkeeper had a sizeable midsection but that fat could easily have once been muscle, softened as a result of several years’ inactivity. Maybe Vantok was where warriors, tired of shedding blood, came to retire.
“What now?” asked Rotgut. “You stayin’ or just passin’ through?”
“Tell me if there’s anything here for me. There ain’t nothing up North no more.” Nothing but a cold, empty cabin. He wondered whether someone had moved into it or whether the men and women of Ostabel had left it empty as a monument to Justine.
Perhaps sensing that it was a sore subject, Rotgut omitted asking about the girl for whom his friend had remained behind. “You lookin’ for a position?”
“I might be,” conceded Vagrum. Vantok might not be a bad place to stay, at least for a while.
“Come round Duke Carannan’s estate tomorrow morning. I’ll bring you ta him. He’s lookin’ for someone just like you. Post like that might suit if ya don’t mind babysitting. But I gotta warn ya: Carannan’s a decent sort to work for but you won’t be breakin’ any skulls or guttin’ any bandits. Being a warrior means something different in these parts.”
The next day, true to his word, Rotgut introduced Vagrum to the duke, a handsome man in his late twenties with dark hair and intensely green eyes. With him was a toddler new to walking, a little girl of about two years of age. Unlike Carannan, she was small and fair with light blond hair, but the startling emerald of her eyes marked her as his offspring. The duke introduced her as Alicia. Vagrum was surprised the girl didn’t run shrieking from him - his rough, scarred appearance often frightened children. Instead, she regarded him solemnly for a moment before approaching him and extending her hand for him to kiss. The maturity of that action touched something deep in Vagrum. This was no ordinary child - of that he was certain.
The job was straightforward. “I’m looking for someone to protect Alicia. Oh, my guards do their duty and I trust them with all our lives but I want someone dedicated to my daughter. She’s more precious than you can imagine and I want her to have a bodyguard and companion - someone who’ll be with her all her waking hours and will watch over her when she sleeps. It’s a demanding post; you wouldn’t have much time to yourself - just a few hours each day. Wages are good, rooms and meals are free. But I expect nothing less than complete devotion. And I require a 13-year commitment. You must stay with her until she reaches Maturity. Can you do that?”
Could he? He looked at Alicia. So tiny, so dainty, with eyes that hinted at a mischievous nature. She returned his gaze, those piercing green eyes meeting his. Then, ever-so-slightly, her lips curled upward. In that smile, Vagrum’s fate was sealed. So soon after losing everything, the gods had given him a chance to once again mean something to someone.
“I’m your man, Your Grace.” And so began Vagrum’s second life.
The King’s Man
My goal in developing a backstory for Langashin, the man who tortured Sorial in the late chapters of the first book, was to explore the kinds of things that might shape a man for a vocation devoted almost exclusively to human misery. Nature or nurture? “The Last Whisper of the Gods” doesn’t answer the question (in fact, it doesn’t ask it) and I’m not sure “The King’s Man” does, either. But at least it provides fodder for thought. This story begins approximately 15 years prior to Chapter One of the first book and continues from there. I think the last paragraph makes it apparent where the story ends in relationship to the trilogy.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was destined for greatness. The sensation had pursued him for nigh on two decades with the tenacity of a hound with the hare’s scent. There was nothing about his current circumstances that led him to believe he was closer than he had been during his years as The King’s Man, but he had long since learned not to ignore his intuition. In an era when the gods no longer ruled in the heavens, that was all men had left.
His childhood had been unusual. From his earliest days, he had been a big lad with a thick midsection and arms and legs to match. People had l
ooked at him and assigned to him a stereotype based on his appearance without recognition that his intellect equaled his physical prowess. He had fought in many fights and won nearly all of them but he had derived his greatest satisfaction when the victories came not as a result of pummeling an opponent into submission but outsmarting him. Those who had perceived him as a witless dullard because his biceps were twice the size of a normal child’s had learned their mistake too late. Gambling had been where he had made his biggest mark. People, seeing him as an easy target, had been left scratching their heads in bewilderment after he had walked away with their week’s pay. That had gone on for some time… until he had crossed the wrong man.
That was the day his life had changed, when he had ceased being a street urchin and gained a sense of urgency.
Langashin never cheated at gambling. There was no need. He calculated the odds and played in a way where they favored him. There were times when he lost but his losings were never as great as his winnings. His favorite haunt for gaming, a run-down inn in Vantok called The Drunk Doxy, was always a good place to play but the stakes were rarely higher than a mug of stale, watered-down ale. Coins weren’t a commodity possessed in great numbers by the Doxy’s clientele. Langashin didn’t have the rank or status to get into the silver-and-gold games (as they were called) so, in order for him play for more than a piddling payout, he had to go to poorly lit rooms with back-alley entrances. Not the kinds of places where respectable people would be found, but Langashin was anything but respectable. He was cunning but not nearly as hard or worldly as he fancied himself to be. Intellectual superiority had bred arrogance. Although not yet having reached his Maturity, he had no parents (at least that he knew of) and was sufficiently physically developed to pass for someone three or four years older than he was. Depending on how much money he had at any given time, he might spend his nights in a rented room, a stable, or the fields.
The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia Page 8
