Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  “Aye, I’m here.” De Varin shouldered his way in from a back door. When his eyes found Mykel, they took on a searching glare. “Aye, you look old enough for ale. What do you want?”

  “I don’t drink ale. You know that.” There was something strange about the bartender. He looked fuller, somehow, more vital.

  “Oh. How am I supposed to know that, young one? I’ve never laid mine eyes upon you until today.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s me.” When the barkeep’s brows didn’t lessen in their furrowing he added, “Mykel LeKym. The librarian in the castle?” Still nothing. “Lazarus’ apprentice?”

  “Aye. I know him.” I don’t know you, the tone clearly said, but Mykel ignored the reference.

  “Yes. Uh, look sir. I have something to tell you. Could we perhaps move into the back room there?”

  “No.” The burly man’s face furrowed slightly. “Whatever you have to say to me will be said here. Or else you won’t say it all.”

  Mykel didn’t remember the barkeep as being this twisted in spirit, but he brushed it aside. “Ummm...I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but I...I’m afraid Lazarus is uh...he’s dead, sir.”

  This time the burly man frowned; in his anguish, he looked like an angry bear. “Now look you, Lord Lazarus is a dear friend of mine. I’ll have no one toss around his name for the sake of an ale.”

  “I told you I don’t drink ale!”

  “Next you’ll be telling me my Layna’s a whore.” The narrowed black eyes dared him to protest the words. “When I was your age I never made jests of my elders. At least I’ve heard better ones. Death while they were still alive. Damn stupid of you boy.”

  Something clicked. “He’s alive?” Suddenly a shadow fell over him, and he glanced up to find two younger giants of de Varin staring down at him. “Bodyguards? When did you afford bodyguards?”

  The barkeep ignored him and wiped his hands on a rag. “Bel, Ted, take care of this poor fool, will you?”

  “No, wait!” Mykel was almost plucked from the ground as each giant took him under one arm. “De Varin, wait! I’m not lying! Don’t you recognize meeee –” A thud followed the last word as the bouncers threw him out on the street. The door slammed shut as Mykel picked himself weakly to his feet. “See if I come back here again!” Stupid, stupid idiot! You just said you don’t drink ale! Why would you come here then?

  Dusting himself off Mykel rose, biting back a shiver that came not from the cold. De Varin had a right to be angry, he supposed. For all his bravado Varin tended to shelter his employees as though they were his own blood. After the misunderstanding with the singer it was a wonder the man provided such patience as he did. But to pretend that he had never seen Mykel before...perhaps age was catching up to him. Lazarus, alive? The librarian had seen the Khatari’s severed head. There could be no mistake.

  But where to go now? The answer came almost immediately. Wyndei Darteria. Lazarus’ manor? The servants knew him, could help him with further transportation. Without coin or horse it was going to be a day’s walk, but the librarian didn’t have much choice. Mykel turned towards the city gates, then glanced over his shoulder to behold the inn’s red roof one last time. How did Varin get the money for...No import, he reminded himself.

  The wind whispering across the plaza held a chilling bite. Mykel tugged his cloak tighter within the first steps and found himself doing the same seemingly every minute and a half. I just don’t get it. It was colder than fall had a right to be. This feels like winter. Even the sky disagreed today, drowned in the misery of pallid gray when by all rights, it still should be clinging to its blue coat. Tugging his cloak tighter, he moved on, towards the city gates.

  “Hey!” The guardsmen on duty had griffin-shaped helms and arms, complete with the metal beak cresting over their grid-barred facemasks, and their gold-enameled swords hanging on their hips, the hilts tasseled in long golden threads. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

  Mykel started and muttered an apology. He had been too busy staring at what the soldiers had in their hands: shovels, their crude iron rims still damp with crusted snow. What in the...“I am leaving for Wyndei Darteria. If you could please open the doors?”

  “You hear that, Koden?” the second soldier snickered. “He wants the doors opened.”

  “I hear him, Dokon.” The man’s smile was twin rows of yellow teeth. “I hear him, but I don’t believe him. He doesn’t look that stupid. But maybe he is a half-wit. Is that the case, little boy? Are you a fucking moron?”

  Mykel ached to kill the stupid bastard. No. Calm was the way here. “Is there...something wrong, officers?”

  “You could say that,” Dokon replied. Tossing the snow into a nearby sewer drain he laid it against the stone wall. He grinned as though he enjoyed a private joke. “It’s the dead of winter. The roads are blocked.”

  Okay. I’ve had enough. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here. When I woke this morning, it was fall. I came into the city not a day past.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Koden grunted. “We’ve been here for the past few days, and we never laid eyes on you till now.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mykel said, then fumed when the guardsmen exchanged knowing glances again. They think I’m playing something! “Fine then. At least you’ve seen my master. He’ll vouch for me.” They just stared at him. “Old man, dressed in wolf sigils?” At their continued silence, he exploded, “For gods’ sake, he’s the one with the scar on his face!” Are you two idiots blind? It’s not as if you can miss him! That, at least, he kept to himself. Just barely.

  “Sonny, I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about, master or no.” The guardsman’s eyes narrowed, and suddenly the beak-crested helm took on an intimidating cast. “And if you don’t get the hell out of here I’ll have Dokon here lay the whips on your scrawny behind.”

  You can’t tell me what to do, you filthy bastard. Yet Mykel found his boots moving him away from the gate, away from the smug grins and lewd whispers. It would do no good to have steel in his stomach. They are just doing their job. One comment about the condition of his mother last night caught his ear, and his khatar sprang out with a sharp crack that cut through the banter surely as if it were parchment. He glanced behind and grinned at their fear, however brief; soon their eyes were narrowing again, and their fingers twitching towards their blade-hilts. They are not worth it.

  Suddenly three knocks rattled the gates like a heartbeat. Trailing almost immediately after, a broad voice called out from behind the gates. “Open the gates!”

  Dokon grimaced up to a small watchtower directly above him. “Hey, Klothos! Wake up you filthy son of a pig!” Grumbling when a gaunt stick-like man pulled himself out he continued, “There’s some pigs outside wanting in.”

  Klothos glanced down and nodded. “They look like rangers, sir.”

  Dokon spat as though he’d chewed something vile. “For whom, Klothos?”

  Klothos relayed the message, and soon came, “We are from the 14th Frontier Division.”

  “Scum rangers,” Koden grumbled, then threw up a hand for Klothos, who cranked back the windlass that held the doors tight. Mykel watched the doors grind back warily.

  There were four of them, riding horses meant for war. They varied from armor to age to skin; yet they all wore black, fringed by the white fox-felt cloaks fitted on their shoulders. They also wore grimness in every line of flesh, as if they had been trapped in a mine for months. The leader offered a slight nod to Dokon before nodding the party forward.

  “Good riddance,” Koden grumbled as soon as they were out of earshot. “Didn’t even pay us. What does the King have need of rangers? The regular army’s always been good enough for me.” His fingers rubbed
for a coin that wasn’t there. “Damn flea-ridden dogs. Nodding like they were above us or something.”

  “What do you expect? They’re grunts.”

  “I guess. It just burns me something fierce.”

  Mykel listened with half an ear. Impossible. He’s dead. Black-cowled shadows flashed in his mind, shrouding a sunken eye the dark of a dying sunset. The flat emptiness was alone, now, without the core of loathing that permeated every glance with dark, hunting daggers. Impossible. Impossible. Drunkenly he followed the procession, the guardsman’s sharp cries clotted to flies’ buzzing.

  There was little trouble following them. The crowd parting before them remained so, muttered whispers chasing after lingering eyes, both asking questions. Did the battle go well? Was the Horn of Dylin captured? Mykel stumbled after the dead man. Horn of Dylin? That battle was a decade old, the hill withered and abandoned by human construction. Everybody’s insane. The thought flogged him forward. I’m following a dead man, and everyone’s insane.

  Suddenly the Red Boar Inn towered over him again. A glance towards the stables revealed the four black warhorses hitched and roped. Oh no. A shred of common sense told him it wasn’t prudent to enter an establishment that had thrown a resident out barely an hour past. Especially with the two bull-necked bouncers that had done the tossing were poised at the door as if bound to it. The stables themselves were clear, however, and from this angle Mykel saw the glint of reflecting glass wink at him. It can’t be him. It can’t. It’s impossible. Instead of going back Mykel found himself sneaking around the building, quiet as a whore in a library, until he was at the window. It can’t be him. He’s dead. The words still sounded hollow to his ears. Taking a deep breath, he peered in.

  They were sitting in a booth, cloistered away from the rest of the crowd. Not that there was much of one to begin with. The masons and farmers had not yet quit the day’s work, so the silence was golden while it lasted. The rangers seemed to know it too, swigging their drinks amidst idle chatter. The shortest of them was but a boy, with a wisp of gold-brown hair curving down between his brows; half-hiding the jagged scar that cut from nose to chin. He was a little on the beefy side, yet his fingers moved fast enough when it came to the woman of the group: fawn-haired and heart-faced, with a body like a knife, sharp and slender. The first three advances she brushed off with needle-eyed stares; the last she produced a dagger from a hidden sheath and slammed it into the table. The boy had his hand nearly pinned to the wood. He smiled anyway, as though it was a common occurrence.

  If the boy was beef and the woman was a knife, then the third man was a whip with sticks for limbs. Mykel had thought no one else as long and stark in the arms as him. Certainly not one to sport twin swords crossed along his back. But there he was, standing like a tree amidst the storm, only sipping his ale. The only one missing was the leader. Where...

  Tap-tap. Mykel froze, then glanced over to see the flat edge of a sword resting at his shoulder. Great. Just great. Slowly he rose, arm raised. “The left arm’s dead,” he said in as much confidence he could muster. Just in case he thought there was some hidden weapon on his arm. Well, there is. There just wasn’t enough skill to use it. A dead man had proved that well enough. “I’m a cripple.” The sword wavered and finally withdrew. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir. I swear I meant no—” he trailed off suddenly as everything came crashing down in his mind.

  The swordsman was obviously a ranger. There was nothing unusual marking his snug black garb. What was unusual was the weathered look to his face, a rock worn away by a thousand years of the elements. Fresh-shaven black hair hung over dank brown eyes, so dark they were almost almond, and within those eyes were reflected weariness only a dying man could understand. The scars he bore, some old and stitched, some still fresh, creased under eyes and nose and chin, standing as a testament to strife-torn years. The way the sword whispered, sliding into the sheath at his hip, comfortable as only steel could have comfort, sleeping the sleep of a loyal dog. The way he balanced the tension within him; the soldier’s tension, so often loosed quickly in war to split seconds from life and death.

  “You...” He was real. Alive. “You’re John Jekai.”

  “Stromgald.”

  “What?”

  The ranger did not answer. Perhaps he was a man who enjoyed silence, who saved words as other men saved coins, waiting for the right time to lend them out. That was minor, unimportant. The very fact Jekai – Stromgald – was standing in front of him made everything else tiny in comparison. He was a walking paradox. “I killed you.”

  John Stromgald shrugged as if the statement was an everyday occurrence, then tapped on the window three times. Moments later the nearby stable doors creaked open and out came the rest of his band. “This the one who’s been following us?” asked the plump one. He too was dressed in black, but had a commoner’s red-rimmed vest over it, something any accountant or clerk might wear. His hands rubbed together constantly as he smiled, a faint grin that hinted of mischief. “He must be a green one. Jonos knows better than to hire farmboys.”

  Stromgald nodded, and the woman stepped forward. “Well, what should we do with him? I’m getting tired of Jonos sending spies.” She paused at Stromgald’s head-shake, her brown eyes ill-set with the confusion thrust upon them. “What? He’s not a spy?”

  “What do you mean, Boss? If not a spy, then what?”

  Stromgald shrugged. When he spoke, his voice was soft, a blade slipping free from greased leather. “He says he killed me.”

  “Him?” The whip-man stepped from the shadows with a ghost’s grace, almost as if he weren’t there at all. The black he wore was thick with dust and grime, topped with a blueblood’s arrogance. “This whelp doesn’t look like he could kill a fly if he fell on it.”

  “Quiet.” Stromgald said. The wind was louder than he was. To Mykel he said, “This is Orson, Sylver, and Raptor,” gesturing to the swordsman, boy and woman in turn, then helped Mykel up to his feet. “As you see, I am not dead.” To the others, he nodded, then started back into the inn.

  “Hmph.” Raptor gave him a chuckle and slap on the shoulder. “Boss must be in a good mood. Spoke seventeen words today.” The others didn’t as much as glance at him. Sylver gave him the once over as if considering a stallion at the market, and Orson spit tobacco through his teeth.

  “Wait! Wait a minute!” He followed them back to the booth. “Seriously, I kil—” He trailed off as four pairs of hot-edged eyes bore into him, and finally common sense kicked in and suggested that perhaps parading about the event wasn’t the best course. “Listen, I—” He bent as to sit and froze when Orson snarled. The man wasn’t even sitting, just leaning against the booth. He flashed a dirt-greased smile when they locked gazes.

  “Oh, c’mon Orson.” Raptor said. “Let the boy sit. He obviously knows talent when he sees it.” The swordsman gave a look as if he was enjoying spoiled steak, then turned his back on the booth. “Well, what are you waiting for, kid? An invitation? Sit down.”

  Boy? Kid? He’s younger than I am. He also had a pair of daggers at his hip, so Mykel decided it would be prudent not to show irritation. “Um...sorry about the confusion. Um...when did de Varin get the money to fix the roof?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Raptor laughed, and Sylver arched an eyebrow. “The roof? When it was broken?”

  “Ten years ago. You know what they call this place. Luck’s Outhouse.” Blank stares all around, and in Stromgald’s case a raised eyebrow. “Oh, come on. You must know what I’m saying. An enshou came down here and uh...you know...accidentally burned...the roof. Down.” The stares were quickly becoming the gazes of those confronting the village idiot. Or the village drunk. Or both rolled up into one person.

  “Kid, whatever you’ve been having, I want it.” Raptor laughe
d and upturned his tankard, a near universal sign for refilling. “A full round for the table.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m telling the truth.”

  Sylver gave a grunt that edged on a belch. “Look, kid. I know you farmboys like to tell these tall tales. Gods knows it gets boring enough over there. But they aren’t gonna work on us, so you’d better stop right there. We’ve been around a couple of times, and we—” She froze as Stromgald raised his hand. “What?”

  “Look.”

  All five glanced over to the stage. The singer had been replaced by a short, stocky young man that looked ill at ease with being ignored by a handful of drunks, and equally ill with the prospect of their coming attention. A robe of flaming shade hung on his frame, red and yellow bleeding to orange and back again, so large it almost billowed about his form. Whatever he was narrow of the limbs that could not tell, for his hands were folded into opposing sleeves, but his face was normal enough. Round and bright-eyed, glazed with nervous sweat, he looked greener than Mykel—or at least he would if the world had Raptor’s eyes—with each passing moment looking like he might vomit. A street mage. Weirwynd blood had been watered down through the centuries, and what was once been majestic bloodlines became pittances so small the mage-hunters didn’t deem them worth the effort to kill. Lucky, thought the librarian. The boy didn’t have to deal with a crazed Geo-wielder who came back from the dead. Luck all abound.

  When finally the street mage wrestled control over his own body, he clapped his hands to wrest attention, and when the clamor refused to die down he clapped again. This time twin flames sprouted from the contact, twisting upward and away, leaving a small shower of sparks behind.