Orlla cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds like a perilous profession you engage in.”
Erdhan shrugged broad shoulders. “But lucrative. The drums of war grow louder.”
“And will you sign up if war breaks out?”
He gave a raucous chortle. “You really are from the northern backwoods. Haven’t you heard that every able-bodied man is to be conscripted?”
Orlla's pulse drummed against her temples. War was imminent, and an idealistic Samten would answer the call. If she lost track of him now, she would never set eyes on him again. He would die on the battlefield.
“Then I’d better get moving before this war breaks out.” Orlla forced a smile. “How about you keep watch while I retrieve my horse?”
“I’ll circle round to the other side of the camp,” Erdhan replied. “If the horses start whinnying I’ll distract the men. I can mimic any accent and most any bird or animal.” He pulled a cocksure smile. “It’s a crowd pleaser at the fairs—goes well with the knife-juggling.” He made to move off into the brush, but hesitated as if something had just occurred to him. “You’re not going to leave me in the dust after all that talk of helping each other out, are you?”
Orlla rolled her eyes and shooed him off, impatient to be after Samten.
While Erdhan wove a circuitous path to the far side of the campfire, Orlla gathered up a handful of dogwood and grass. She waited until he was in position and then crept forward to the dell where the horses were tethered.
They all looked up this time, mildly interested as she held out her hand and snuck closer. While she distracted them with the food, she deftly untied her mare. But she hadn’t reckoned on how hungry the horses were for the dogwood. Having devoured the handful she split between them, one of them nosed in her pockets for more, whinnying his discontent for all to hear. Orlla stood stock-still, hair on end, listening for any indication that the men were coming her way to investigate. Almost immediately, a loud cackling of turkeys sounded on the far side of the camp. She smiled to herself. Erdhan hadn’t embellished his abilities. If the Pegonian soldiers had any sense at all, they would be more interested in bagging a wild turkey for supper than wondering why one of their horses was whinnying.
Silently, she led her mare away from the dell and back toward the trail. She didn’t have long to wait before Erdhan reappeared grinning from ear to ear. “The fools are happily preoccupied hunting phantom turkeys.”
“Thank you for distracting them,” Orlla said. “And now I must keep my end of the bargain. She swung herself up on her horse and patted a spot behind her. “Make haste.”
Erdhan didn’t wait to be asked a second time. He jumped up and wrapped his arms around her. Orlla glanced down at the large calloused hands interlaced about her waist and tried to concentrate as his warm body pressed tight to hers. She dug in her knees and urged her horse forward. Following Erdhan’s directions, they soon came to the main trading thoroughfare that led north through Macobin. Orlla slowed her steed to a trot.
“We can hide out here for a bit and watch the road,” he said, leaning over her shoulder. “The thief will have to emerge from the forest sooner or later with my satchel.”
She waited for him to dismount, and then followed suit before tethering her horse to a tree. They hunkered down in the brush to wait, shivering beneath a despondent cloud that grew darker by the minute. Orlla tightened her cloak around her. The temperature was dropping quickly. She was hungry too, but thankful she hadn’t brought any jerky with her from the outpost—the unusual taste of the spotted island deer would only have provoked more questions. Exhaustion pulled at her and she longed to lay her head down and rest, but she needed to stay alert. She couldn’t risk giving Erdhan an opportunity to confront Samten alone.
Night had fallen by the time they were willing to admit defeat. “The thief must have hitched a ride with someone,” Erdhan said, morosely. “Unless he’s a dragon rider and flew right over us, and we all know the dragon riders died out a long time ago.”
Orlla looked with grim determination at the packed dirt highway tapering off in the distance. She had planned on catching up with Samten and returning to Akolom and the Protectors by nightfall. But, if Samten was still out there, on his way to Wilefur or beyond, she couldn’t turn back now.
“We should head to the The Leaky Cup and seek shelter for the night,” Erdhan suggested. “It’s an inn not far from here on the road to my home town.”
Orlla frowned. “I … have no coin. I lost my purse when my horse bolted.”
Erdhan rumbled a laugh. “I had a hunch this favor would end up costing me. Very well, I will cover a night’s lodging. It’s the least I can do to repay you for sharing your noble steed with me.”
Orlla nodded her thanks. If Samten had made it to the inn, he may have traded one of Erdhan’s knives for coin and bought himself food and lodging for the night. Even if he had decided to sleep rough and save his coin, he might still have ventured into the inn to buy food. Or someone may have seen him or had dealings with him along the way. Heartened by the prospect of tidings of her brother, she leapt back into the saddle and waited for Erdhan to climb up behind her.
Lanterns flickered inside the stone inn hunched at the first fork they came to in the road. A thin plume of gray spiraled upward from the chimney and a sign that read The Leaky Cup creaked comfortably on its hooks outside the adjoining tavern. Orlla and Erdhan led the horse around to the stables and handed it off to a hulking, cauliflower-eared stable hand. Orlla glanced around the space curiously. Several other steeds were already stabled for the night. It was possible Erdhan had hitched a ride on one of them. “How long ago did the other guests arrive?” she asked.
The stable hand peered down at her. “All within the hour, miss. If they are expecting you, you might still sup with them in the tavern.”
Orlla thanked him and followed Erdhan outside and over to the tavern.
Inside, a warm fire blazed in the hearth. A red-faced, sharp-eyed innkeeper gave them the once over as they came through the door and then resumed wiping down the countertop and conversing in low tones with the flushed patrons swigging from tankards of ale at the bar.
Orlla and Erdhan walked around the noisy room looking for an empty table, and finding none, proceeded back across the straw-covered floor to an empty bench at a corner table just inside the door. They nodded a greeting to the two burly men seated there and pulled out a second bench. The two men avoided their gaze and continued tucking into their steaming pork pies with the efficiency of men who ate but once a day.
The man directly opposite Orlla was a meaty sort, bald with tufts of reddish hair sprouting from his ears. His companion was equally brawny but dark-complexioned with a thick beard and sporting a deep scar that split his left eyebrow in two and disappeared into the brush of black hair that framed his eyes. Both were dressed in the simple homespun of farmers.
Orlla wrinkled her nose at the intense mingling of odors in the packed space—sweat, urine, rotting food scraps, warm ale, and the succulent pork pies only a hand’s breadth across the table from her. She swept a vigilant gaze around the tavern but, to her immense disappointment, there was no sign of Samten anywhere.
A serving wench in a tightly corseted, stained dress called to them from the next table where she was gathering up empty plates and tankards. “What will it be?”
“Pie and ale for us both,” Erdhan called back.
The woman gave a scant nod and moved off in the direction of the kitchen, laden down with dirty dishes.
“Hope you like pork pie,” Erdhan said with a mischievous grin.
Orlla opened her mouth to say she’d never tried it, and then thought better off it. There were no pigs on Efyllsseum, but there were probably pigs in every Macobite village between here and the lost kingdoms in the far north. “I’m hungry enough to eat anything that wench sets before me,” she replied, her stomach growling in confirmation.
The bald man opposite her wiped a hunk of bread around hi
s plate soaking up all the juice, before leaning back with a satisfied look on his face. “The hog pie’s excellent, you won’t regret your choice—not that there is one. That’s all they got tonight.” He sniffed into his sleeve and took a closer look at Orlla and Erdhan. “Where do you hail from?”
“I’m from a tiny village of no consequence way north of here,” Orlla waved a dismissive hand. “Erdhan is from Wilefur, only a day’s journey away.” She made a show of glancing around the room to deflect the man’s attention, but he only peered at her all the more intently. “What’s your name then?”
“Orlla.”
The man’s face betrayed nothing, but he exchanged a look with his companion. “I’m Horace. My friend Arnulf and I hail from Essexmount, the most northerly town in Macobin. Nothing but sinking bogs and the Strylieht mountains bordering the lost kingdoms beyond. I don’t recognize your accent. What’s the name of this northern village you hail from?”
Orlla swallowed the rapidly forming knot in her throat. She cast another frantic glance around the crowded tavern, willing the wench to return with their food and spare her the humiliation of being caught in a lie from which she had no way of extricating herself.
Just as she had resigned herself to inventing some innocuous-sounding village name, the door to the tavern swung wide and a bloodied man stumbled through and collapsed in front of their table.
Chapter 7
Horace and Arnulf slammed down their mugs and jumped into action, Horace going straight to the injured man’s aid, while Arnulf pulled a sword from a scabbard beneath his cloak and peered cautiously around the tavern door that lay ajar, letting in biting gusts of evening air.
Orlla’s attention was riveted on the bloodied man. To her immense relief, it wasn’t Samten, which had been the first terrifying thought that had struck her when the figure dropped like a sack of spilled flour by their table.
The innkeeper barreled across the room and sank to his knees with a heavy grunt at the injured man’s side. He assessed the wounds with a practiced eye, working his lips in and out like a blowfish as he wiped his hands on his filthy apron. “Bring him something strong to drink and rags to bind his wounds!” he yelled to the serving wench who had reappeared in the kitchen doorway, hands splayed on her broad hips and a scowl on her lips that said she’d seen enough bloodied men in tavern brawls to last her a lifetime.
Arnulf closed the door to the frigid night, resheathed his sword, and returned to the table. “He wasn’t followed here.”
The innkeeper got to his feet, huffing and puffing, his face flushed and blotched from the exertion of dashing across the tavern, and gestured to Arnulf and Horace to pick up the injured man. “Take him to a chair by the hearth and get him warmed.”
When the man had been made as comfortable as possible with a woolen blanket draped around his shoulders, the serving wench brought him a stiff drink. He knocked it back and then let out a long shuddering sigh while the wench set about binding up his wounds. The innkeeper, along with Arnulf and Horace, questioned the man in hushed tones, the expressions on their faces grim. After a while, Arnulf and Horace returned to the table and sat back down, just as the serving wench appeared with two more tankards of ale and steaming pies fresh from the oven for Orlla and Erdhan. She refilled Horace’s and Arnulf’s tankards, slopping the ale over the edges. “Compliments of the innkeeper,” she muttered, before whisking off to the next table.
“Is he going to be all right?” Orlla tilted her chin in the direction of the hearth where the stranger sat slumped to one side in a chair.
“He’ll live,” Horace replied with a dismissive grunt. “It’s mostly his companion’s blood splattered over his jerkin.”
Erdhan raised his brows in alarm. “And what news of his companion?”
Arnulf scratched his neck. “Dead. Took a dagger to the neck. A hooded figure jumped them.”
A horrified gasp escaped Orlla’s lips. Her thoughts flew at once to Samten all alone out there in freezing temperatures with a killer on the loose. Inwardly, she berated herself for not trying harder to find him instead of wasting so much time waiting alongside the road, assuming he would pass by, sooner or later.
Erdhan cast a furtive look around the tavern and then beckoned to Horace and Arnulf to lean in closer. “I believe I may have encountered the killer. Earlier today a thief made off with my satchel containing two of my knives—one a bone-handled dagger, intricately carved. It may have been the very weapon he wielded in the attack on this man and his hapless companion.”
The room spun around Orlla, faces blending into one as she came to grips with what Erdhan was insinuating. He suspected the thief who stole his satchel was the same person who had attacked the two men and killed one of them. But, it couldn’t have been Samten. He was slippery-fingered enough to take what he needed to eat and survive without harming his quarry. Why would he murder a man? And not in self-defense, either. It made no sense, but, at the same time, she couldn’t entirely dismiss the notion. She had no way of knowing how desperate Samten had become in his bid to evade capture. He may have perceived the men as a threat. Perhaps they had tried to rob him first, and the injured man had conveniently omitted that part of the story.
Orlla picked at the pork pie crust on the plate in front of her. If Samten hadn’t been involved, then he was in even more danger now with a hooded killer on the prowl. Come first light, she would get back on the road and find him before he went any deeper into Macobite territory and the trail went cold.
“It’s common enough knowledge the roads are becoming more dangerous every day with war looming,” Arnulf remarked, wiping a few drops of ale from his beard. “This man may well have been no ordinary thief. Brufus has spies afoot in Macobin, cutthroats who won’t hesitate to kill any who threaten to expose them.”
Horace grunted his agreement, scowling into his ale. “Brufus’s spies have been gathering intelligence for months now.”
Orlla pulled her brows together in a frown. “Why are Brufus and Hamend threatening war?”
Arnulf choked on a laugh. “Are you sure you don’t hail from the lost kingdoms? You are ill-informed on pressing political matters.”
Horace eyed her with raised brows as if surprised at her dimwittedness. “Same reason as always. Each accuses the other of harboring the Opal of Light, hoarding the dragon stone’s power and blessing for themselves.”
“Hamend doesn’t have it.” Arnulf rubbed his scarred brow and added with a contemplative air. “Macobin is groaning under the weight of poverty and the perpetual gloom that hinders our harvests. That leaves Pegonia, or the lost kingdoms.”
“We have the warring dragons to thank for the mess we’re in,” Erdhan said in a disgruntled tone. “The Opal of Light would still be blessing the whole earth if it weren’t for them.”
“If Brufus has concealed it within his boundaries, then may his greed be cursed.” Horace’s mouth twisted with rage. “The light dragon stone was not designed to be hidden away for the sake of the few.”
Arnulf swallowed a mouthful of ale and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb to the injured man sleeping in front of the fire. “Small wonder Macobites turn on one another and rob and kill to survive.”
Orlla’s cloying breath stuck in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she took a perfunctory sip of ale, struggling to swallow it. She had believed vehemently in her calling as a Keeper up until a few short days ago—had been willing to sacrifice her life to protect the chosen island kingdom if it came down to it. But her convictions had been rooted in lies and deception. King Ferghell’s greed was driving the mainlanders to war.
“Are you all right?” Erdhan asked, eyeing her with concern. “You look a little faint.” He shot her a playful grin. “Not accustomed to southern ale, I take it?”
Orlla gave a wan smile. “It has been a somewhat disturbing night, and I am weary after a day of traveling.”
A flicker of a frown crossed Arnulf’s forehead. “’Tis dangerous for an u
naccompanied woman on the road with a killer on the loose. Are you on foot?”
“Horseback,” Orlla replied tartly. “And I can take care of myself.” She gestured to Erdhan. “And any vagrants I come across.”
He chuckled. “I can attest to that. If it hadn’t been for her, I would have been sleeping rough tonight. Or worse, I might have been the bloodied man bursting through the door and spoiling your appetites.”
Horace sniffed. “Thieves are opportunists. A horse complicates things.” He ran a calculating eye over Orlla’s attire. “By the looks of things, you have no finery that would render the extra risk worth it. You should be safe if you travel by day.” He flicked a meaningful glance at Erdhan. “Still, it would be circumspect to invite your jolly companion to ride on with you tomorrow morn, if you can stand his loose lips for a day’s journey.”
Orlla’s cheeks flushed. She hadn’t planned on traveling any farther with Erdhan. He was a distraction she didn’t need, and besides, she found his manner too far too lighthearted for her liking. No doubt, Samten would be enamored with him. A good-humored knife-juggler was exactly the kind of colorful character her impressionable brother would gravitate toward. She stabbed her spoon into her uneaten pie and chewed on a lukewarm mouthful. Erdhan would most likely want to return to Wilefur tomorrow, believing the thief to be long gone with his satchel. She, on the other hand, wasn’t ready to give up searching for Samten. It would be best if they parted ways in the morning.
“If you will excuse me,” she said, getting to her feet. “It is time I retired for the night.” She inclined her head to Horace and Arnulf. “It was a pleasure to meet you both and I commend you for coming to the aid of the injured traveler.”
Arnulf ploughed a hand through his hair and shrugged. “That’s what you do when a man’s down.”
Orlla blinked, struck by his heartfelt tone. What she had been taught about the insidious hearts of the mainlanders was ringing more and more hollow.
Opal of Light: An epic dragon fantasy (The Keeper Chronicles Book 1) Page 7
