“We are just passing through. No trouble for a man such as you,” Shorn replied, unasked.
“Strangers are not welcome. Leave.” The man drew another knife, unseen, from the small of his back. The blade looked wicked. Worldly.
“Why’s that then?” asked Shorn.
“Because we’re supposed to be afraid.” Drun interjected into his ale.
The man looked down angrily at the back of Drun’s head. “Outsiders always think they’re better than us. Leave this place with life intact or…stay.”
Before Shorn could reply Drun spoke, loudly enough for the tavern to hear.
“I would guess you have decided to look for a fight with someone strange, thinking them weak. Someone from out of town, perhaps. Just in case thoughts of retribution for a mugging or some such were to surface. In reality, you are at a disadvantage. While we are not your enemy, we know you better than you know yourself. And, you, my dim-witted friend, know nothing of us. It is because of this that you would lose.”
Shorn kicked Drun under the table but Drun held up a palm.
Calm yellow eyes turned and looked the man in the eye. Honeyed light was beginning to illuminate the room in places long unaccustomed to it. Few patrons showed any inclination to watch.
The man rested the point of his dagger in the soft wood of the table. He spun the knife while he looked at Drun, ignoring Shorn, who watched and waited. Drun pushed himself up from the rudimentary stump that called itself a bench and faced the man.
“Do you see, you cowardly man?” Drun did not look angry. Shorn’s feet came from their perch atop a stool. In his experience calling bullies cowards was not a good idea.
The change in the bigger man was almost instant (a little slow if anything, Shorn calculated). Drun did not seem bothered in the slightest and did not even rock as the man said, “Mock me not, stranger, I will take no more!”
Without further warning the man pulled back the dagger and thrust it toward Drun’s heart. Drun did not move. Shorn did.
His weight did not shift. He did not stand. In one movement, his sword came to hand and swept out in a perfect lazy arc. The heavier blade sheered the dagger’s steel clean from the handle and the stub tapped ineffectually against Drun’s beard. The broken blade clattered lightly against the table.
The disarmed man was furious. In the next heartbeat his left fist came up to hit Drun in the face. Shorn’s sword came round in a whir and slapped the man on the cheekbone, knocking him away from his travelling companion, bloodied. Only the barman watched, his hand sneaking under the bar for the weapon that no doubt rested there. Drun still had not moved.
The thug now sat on the floor, looking dazed. Shorn moved to finish him but Drun stopped him. He approached the man and spoke quietly. Shorn thought he heard him ask, ‘Now, do you see?’
The man slumped down and passed out before he could reply. Drun sat down calmly with his back to the stunned man. The barman shrugged.
Shorn sat for a moment and looked at the priest as he waited for him to say something. Drun eventually realised that Shorn was waiting for a response of some sort. He rose and said. ‘Well, shall we have another drink then? I’ve missed this.” He held up his mug.
After Drun had ordered two more mugs with Renir’s coin, the barman made his way around the bar and grumbled at the man on the floor until he got up and left. The mercenary helped, apologising with what little coin they had, and as the door closed, the barman’s demeanor lightened considerably. Shorn followed him back to the bar.
Midday turned into mid-afternoon and a third ale as the two waited. Shorn passed the time by asking the barman about the Thane. Apparently he was a mealy-hearted man, not prone to kindness. Not a ruthless man, not by any means – the people of Sturma were a proud people. They would not take to an excessively cruel ruler. He was a reasonably man. The Thane apparently charged an appearance fee, reasoning his time was rare enough to charge for.
They sat unmolested for the remainder of their wait, Drun still having his ongoing argument with Shorn about the journey north, the red wizard and the Protectorate. They careful avoid raising their voices but argued in fierce whispers until Renir returned. Drun periodically glanced at the door, slightly concerned that Renir had run into trouble.
His fears proved founded as Renir burst in, twice. The hinges on the heavy front door bent and the door slammed in his face the first time.
His shirt was ripped at one shoulder. He rushed over to them rubbing a wicked looking bump on his sweaty forehead where his hair was plastered. Drun rose immediately.
Shorn looked into his ale.
“What now?” he muttered under his breath.
The drinkers were conditioned not to look, but despite their best judgement and disinclination to get involved in anything that didn’t already involve them, could not stop themselves turning as Renir said “psst!” far too loudly (and, at this juncture, pointlessly). He motioned to his companions as he did so. Both stayed were they were.
Renir gave a disgruntled huff and approached, casting sidelong glances at the rest of the clientele. Fortunately for Renir they were all used to people eyeing them warily. The patrons of the Gransald went back to their drinks and the steady quiet returned. The barman didn’t even bother to look at the door, which now hung limp against the jam. He just sighed. It was a well-practised sigh.
Shorn shook his head. “In much the same way as a mare cannot tell left from right, you seem to have tact and bluster all confused.”
“Well, it didn’t go quite as planned.” Renir began as he hitched up his trousers under his greaves. “I think it best if we were to leave now.”
“I would guess,” Drun tugged thoughtfully at his beard, “that you did not manage to sell our goods?”
“Not precisely, no. I’m afraid I may have put my foot in it. Nothing to worry about though.” As he said this Renir walked over to one of the broken windows and looked out from behind the rare slats. “It might be wise if we moved along though. You know, slowly. So as not to attract attention.”
Shorn sighed loudly at his beer. “What have you done? We’re here to meet the Thane!”
“Nothing! Nothing! Really. Just a mild misunderstanding. Shall we? Perhaps we can find another way to meet him?” As Renir said this he sidled toward the door.
“I feel obliged to point out, Renir; any attempt at stealth is largely useless.”
Renir said mischievously, in a low voice this time, “I’ve got a plan.”
“What happened to your shirt?” asked Drun, not wishing to hear the answer.
“Well…” Renir looked uncomfortable. “It turns out Gordir was more famous than I had expected. The armourer took one look at me, one look at the breastplate I showed him, and made to call the guard. He grabbed me but I, ah, I broke free.” Renir scratched at his beard, still glancing around. “I may also have knocked him out a bit.”
Drun said, “How do you knock someone out a bit?”
Shorn interrupted them, putting his beer down. “Come on then. If we’re to be bad thieves at the very least we can be free. I assume the guards don’t take kindly to your sort here.”
“What do you mean my sort! I didn’t steal anything!” Attention came their way again.
Shorn held up a hand to the barman, who was just, reluctantly, beginning to take an interest. “Come on, let’s go, before we get hung.”
“I was trying to help!”
“Well. Don’t.”
“Fine.” Renir pushed Drun’s chair in. “I do have a plan, though.”
“Well, it had better be a good one. I feel my warnings about attracting attention failed to get through,” said Drun, opening the door and motioning them outside.
They all said ‘thank you’ as they left.
Thud, still weighed down with armour, waited impatiently next to Harlot. The street was thankfully quiet here at the outskirts – most of the citizenry and visitors were gathered by the river market.
Renir explained
as they marched down the street three abreast, casting furtive glances behind him. Shorn wore a long-suffering look as he hobbled alongside them. “Renir, if you insist on a life of thievery, could you please stop looking so shifty? You may as well tattoo ‘delinquent’ on your forehead.”
“Ah. I forgot.” He started walking normally.
“Don’t mind that. If the guard are after us I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. Now, what happened? You didn’t kill the armourer, did you?”
“No! I just bashed him in the head with the breastplate. Didn’t even make a dent. Not in the armour, leastways.” He glanced at Drun. “Sorry, Drun.”
Drun chuckled. “Nevermind that. It seems like it was the kindest option and we can’t afford to be arrested for criminals here. Besides, I’m no saint, Renir.”
Shorn looked askance at the Priest. “Interesting take on it. I’m not sure being knocked out counts as a kindness, even in my book.”
“Regardless,” said Renir, “we should really get out of town before anyone realises.” He paused for a moment. “The clientele in the Gransald won’t stay quiet for long.”
“Or at all,” said Shorn.
“I think I made enough of a commotion that even the city guards could follow the trail. Now the patron’s of the Gransald think we’re thieves. They’re all thieves. The guard is the enemy, not us. They’ll keep quite and any guards should waste their time there asking questions the patrons won’t answer.”
“I was beginning to think you were slow.”
“Ha! Never slow!” he laughed.
Shorn and Drun stopped and stared at Renir’s back.
Renir turned and looked at them. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Drun saw that Shorn had heard it too.
Renir had been acting strangely since leaving his village. The night terrors. Both Shorn and Drun had heard him screaming in his sleep. But never this before.
A woman’s laugh entirely not his own.
All three smiled widely as they approached the gate. The two guards, wearing armour better suited to battle than guard duty, looked at the three warily as they approached. They stood side on, turning their heads to look into the town and out to the road.
A tattered cart approached from outside the gate, pulled by a mangy donkey.
“Hold there!” one of the guards cried.
Drun stepped forward, placing a hand on Shorn’s arm. Under his breath he said, “It’s alright, Shorn, let me deal with…” then stopped as he saw the donkey-drawn cart coming up to the guard post. The walls were far too high for them to climb, but they dare not try to escape the city through any other means. The guard, seeing anyone leaving the city by untraditional means would just be all the more suspicious. “What are you carrying?” called out one of the metal guards. Drun began to reply, “Hu…” to the guard, but was interrupted by a cry from the driver of the cart.
“Wine. Wine for the market!”
“Approach!” Both guards turned away from the three toward the oncoming cart. The companions smiled at each other and their step got lighter. Renir even nodded at the guard as he walked past and said “Goodday.” The guard, preoccupied, just looked back and replied in kind. He then turned his attention back to a cursory search of the cart.
Renir felt relieved. He turned to Shorn, who nodded back and said quietly, “That was a bit of luck…”
Drun was not beside him. They both looked around at the same time. The old man was still ten yards behind them.
He stood looking at the mule.
“Oh, Brindle’s Goat!” cursed Renir. “The man’s crazy.”
They both stopped. The guards and driver did not seem overly bothered at the old man looking over the donkey. The donkey’s wide eyes looked imploringly at Drun.
One of the guards said to Drun, “Move along, old man.”
Drun looked back at him and replied absentmindedly, “Yes, yes,” and walked toward Thud. Renir could feel the guards' eyes on him now and said to Drun in a harsh whisper; “What are you doing!? We’re all but away.”
“I know.” Drun laid his hand on the haft of Renir’s axe, strapped to Thud’s saddle. He pulled the axe free and turned back to the two guards.
This time Shorn was worried. “Drun! Have you lost your mind?!”
The guards were now definitely alert.
“I won’t be a moment,” he said and continued to walk toward the two soldiers with the axe in hand. The cart driver was now craning his head around in his high seat to see what the commotion was. A skinny old man with an axe. The guards made to move forward but stopped as Drun, not looking threatening in the least, despite the presence of the wicked blade, held up a hand to them and said, “Don’t mind me, go about your business.” The guards threw confused looks to each other.
One of them plucked up enough sense to question Drun. “Old man, I don’t know what your game is, but if you come any closer…”
Drun ignored him and drew the axe back over his head. Both men readied their weapons. Then Drun turned suddenly toward the cart and swung the axe down with all his might. The cart driver shouted and cringed back, falling into his wagon, where his weight pulled the canvas off his load and tumbled one of the barrels onto the cobbles, where it cracked and spilled its contents. Pungent spice spilled out and floated thick in the air. The axe came down on the binding holding the dray donkey to the cart, slicing clean through in one powerful stroke. The power came from the blade, not Drun. The guards were shocked enough to stay still for a moment, they could not have moved even if they wanted to. The donkey bucked and kicked the rest of the binding loose. Then it hopped sideways, turning at the same time, to where Drun was waiting.
“I think you’ll find that is not wine.”
The guards quickly came forward and smelled the powder floating around the cart driver. The cart driver began protesting his innocence as Drun said, “Goodday”, mounted the dray, and rode toward his dumbfounded companions.
“Well,” he ordered under his breath as he rode toward them, “don’t just stand there gawping, get on Harlot and ride, before they change their minds!”
Renir and Shorn both jumped onto Harlot, and the three rode off at a fastening trot.
“What was that!? You could of gotten us killed! What happened to trying not to attract attention!” said Shorn indignantly.
Drun smiled at him. “I found my horse. Now, perhaps we should pick up the pace some? I don’t think it would be wise for us to linger.”
The three started a gallop. ”What about the Thane?” Renir asked.
“I found another way to get the message across, don’t you worry,” said Shorn. “I pushed a message into the guards pocket back there, and I told the barman to get out of town. I told him my name and that I’d seen the Draymar ride again on Sturman lands. The scar was enough to convince him. Trust me, the message will get to the Thane. Although I don’t know if even the Thane can get an army south in time to deter the incursion. Thankfully it’s only a handful of Draymar riding in.”
“If you’re so famous how come nobody recognises you without prodding?”
“Nobody looks at me,” shrugged Shorn.
*
Chapter Sixty-Two
Tirielle and the Sard were making the most of the respite from their travels. Fenore, Roth’s mother, assured them that the rahkens home was sanctuary, that the Protectorate could not follow them their. The other rahkens who called the underground caverns home had been apprised of the situation and had been most welcoming. Tirielle was glad to find any haven from the attentions of her pursuers. Fenore said they would be safe, and Tirielle was happy to believe her. She would stay as long as she was able.
She was walking with Fenore, taking an overdue tour of the caverns. She worried at her broken tooth with her tongue as she tried to concentrate on what Fenore was saying. She had thought Roth was interesting – Fenore was a story all by herself. She had been around for positively eons.
She had been spending time with
Fenore as Roth was training some of the stronghold’s adopted refugees, and to take her mind of the agony of waiting as three rahken healers worked mystic arts on the pitiful seer. They would not let even the Sard observe, whom the rahkens seem to treat more reverentially than the Sard themselves treated Tirielle. Tirelle was allowed in rarely, and even when she was the seer just drifted in and out of the world and cried out insistent, garbled messages.
Tirielle could hardly bear to watch the girl suffer but still she sat with her when she was able.
Sometimes, when Tirielle went to see her, the girl seemed wan.
Fenore brought her back to herself as her booming voice bounced from the cavernous walls. The walls were smooth with age and moisture, making the air itself taste pleasant as it seeped underground. She had expected the air to be stale and warm underground. Instead, the Rahken home was a marvel. Fenore was explaining how their home worked.
“It’s the water you see. Water always contains air. When it hits the heated rocks here, steam gets into the air – this makes it breathable. Underground, the air is released in bubbles, which keep the air moist, and therefore fresh. The lake’s freezing waters are pushed along here – providing a layer to cool the steam and keep our caverns warm or cool – more or less water is all it takes.”
“What happens if there is no rain above? Did you make the underground lake? Does it ever freeze?”
Fenore’s laugh was deep and subtle. “Slow child, one thing at a time. The lake is not of our making. We chose this location in much the same way as your kind would chose a location – it has fresh water. The lake is also fed from above – through the mountains. It has not frozen yet, even during the deep of winter. When the heavy rains come every two years the lake floods and we guide the excess water out under the fields of the local farmers – we live in peace with our neighbours, as we have done for countless years.”
“Just how old are you? Roth said you were five hundred when you gave birth.”
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 25
