The place smelled like it was the bottom. The kind of stench that permeated tight abodes and active flesh.
They were able to barter two of the gems from Wera’s satchel for a solitary room and drinks and meal for the night. They took up a table at the back end of the tavern away from any unwanted conversation.
His somber companion, Wera, looked worse for wear. He realized she was in the belly of the civilized beast. A people who she had a none too kind history with.
Vegard drank from a tankard the size of a horse’s snout. The liquid within tasted of goat piss but was more alcoholic than it was disgusting. Wera shrunk in her chair, spear in hand by her side, and cast wary looks all about the ruffian sea-scum that were around laughing and throwing dice.
Vegard ordered another tankard and slid it towards the hver girl. “Here. It’ll calm your nerves.” He tried his hand at a warm smile. His face felt funny bending in such a carefree manner but the booze was assisting. Wera looked to say another harsh or snarky comment but dropped it. She took the dented iron tankard in hand, sniffed it, rolling her nose.
“Gods, this smells like stomach fluid!”
“Doesn’t taste much better.” Vegard took another swig from his. “But its not for taste.” He belched.
Wera’s eyebrow rose but she slowly brought the cup to her lips. She drank, coughed into the mug, splashing liquid over her hands, but pushed on. She cleared half of it before slamming it back on the table. Vegard waited for some word but the hver just sat there. Finally, after a few moments, she shook her mane like a wet beast. “There we go! I feel it now.” She almost smiled. “Took a moment but I get it now. It’s like wine. Just shittier.”
“Exactly!” Vegard polished his off and ordered another round.
The pair sat in the bar drinking and watching the denizens of the sailing world come in, drink, fight, bellow with laughter, exchange stories. Occasionally someone would get tossed out by the proprietor, who was himself a rather stout and able bodied older man.
As the time passed Wera had inched herself up from her seat to a more upright position. Her spear finally rested against the table in a notch, more than likely designed for such things.
“This place is not the worst I’ve seen.” She said. It wasn’t an open invitation for a conversation into her past. Vegard sensed it was the closest thing to an apology for freaking out about coming to Dawns Fero to begin with. “It’s a shit hole, yes, but I can sort of see the excitement in sucha place.”
“Hells, I got no love for the cities. But find a dive and people are more than like to leave you be. They got their own problems.” With that said, a large gauntlet-ed hand slapped Vegard on the shoulder. Vegard turned to see three burly looking men standing behind his chair. One, the warlock noted, was Yef’Er, the barbarian practice companion he had back in Dunesmir.
“Vegard Orlo. Why don’ you step outside with us?” The supposed leader said, a smoldering cigar chomped between his tight lips. His mouth gleaming with a mix of rotted teeth mixed with silver. He had a short beard peppered with white, a slightly shaved head, and about fifty pounds on the sinewy warlock, noticeable even under the red leather jacket the man was wearing. Yef’Er, in the back, was bubbling with anticipation.
“Yef’Er!” Vegard cheered. “Seems those daddy issues of yours have come back to haunt me, huh?”
The leader held his hand out to stay his pet barbarian. “In time, Yef’Er. In time. But Lord Jorgen is desperate to ‘ave his prized piece back wer’ it belongs.” His words were slow and enunciated. A voice deep and gravely.
“What about this little dark thing?” The third man said, referring to Wera. The leader looked her over.
“Sorry, wench. ‘opefully you already got your coin from this one. He’s ours naw.” Vegard was lifted from his seat and lead out of the Sweaty Seafarer by the three men. The crowd had become thick enough to not cause any attention to the not so subtle altercation.
Not that any of this lot would come to the warlock’s defense.
The group wheeled itself around one bend in an alley after another. The further they went the darker and more secluded the neighborhoods became. Vegard could hear the bulky Yef’Er’s grunts building and building as they found a safe place to…What? Beat me a little? Surely not murder me. They said as much as Jogen wanting me back.
When they stopped they were in a cramped alleyway, tucked between a dour, closed shop and a support pillar for the second tier. The leader slammed Vegard up against the pillar and wrapped a bag over his head. The same type enchanted with dulling effects to his powers.
“He left his spear in the bar but I feel a sword under this matted cloak o’ his. Come get this thing, Kris.” The third man in the posse moved forward and grabbed at the pommel of Blacktooth. There the man tugged. And tugged. And tugged harder.
“What the hell?” The man grunted.
“Come on, ya woman! Get the damned blade!”
The man shuffled his feet, wedging his heels into the planks beneath for better leverage. “I am god…damn…trying!…” Then Vegard willed Gwerim, the scabbard, to let go of Blacktooth at that moment. The tracker fell backwards in a terrible heap, slamming into the shop behind him.
“Kristun, you lousy…” The leader began, laughing and loosening his grip somewhat on Vegard. Vegard grasped at the mild distraction. He jutted his metal shoulder backwards into the man’s chin. A loud crack echoed through the alley, a silver tooth clattering to the cheap planks of bloated wood that served as a buffer to the stone and mud underneath.
The man stumbled backwards enough for Vegard to pivot around and pull the enchanted bag from his head. The leader recovered and pounced on Vegard in an instant. The man’s thick mitts covered Vegard’s eyes with long, dirt crusted iron fingers attempting to pry their way into his skull. “I’ll tear out yer eyes, warlock! Jogen will just have to take a gimped fool for a slave!” He steamed.
Vegard could hear the other two on the outskirts. Their feet ready and shuffling. Vegard urged his blackened hands to the man’s throat and squeezed. He could feel the pulsing energy through the thick neck of the tracker. I can feel the soul. His energy.
Vegard began to drink. He had normally depended upon his eyes to be the gateway to a man’s soul. Perhaps the Trials had opened in him a new pathway. Maybe he had unlocked new techniques to pull from his victims.
He could feel the energy bathe his frigid insides. The tracker’s soul tasted musky, like a nostril full of dirt and ash. Even so, it gave the warlock power. He could picture the tracker’s memories, like a story told by a third party. It was vague and undefined, but still there underneath the surface of obscurity. With his eyes he would’ve been able to paint a finer picture but this would do under the circumstances.
“Rorak…Kinslayer…” The warlock hissed. Enunciating every syllable into the ears of his attacker. The man, the leader and tracker, Rorak, buckled under the mental assault and stumbled backwards.
“How could you know…?” Rorak felt naked like he hadn’t in years. A man without a shed of armor to protect his fragile skin. His shaved scalp glistened with a sheen of fear induced sweat. His thick hide serving him less than that of a new born babe’s.
Blood trickled from small cuts on the side of Vegard’s eyes. A confidently demonic presence amongst the three would-be assailants. “That is not even the half of my power.” Vegard sneered, raising his hand.
The third man, the one with Blacktooth in hand, went rigid. His body stiffened as he felt his soul burn. At least, what little there was. You are nothing. Less than nothing. Vegard was contemptuous of this petty thug. A goon, a hired thug, a bully. He didn’t even bother to break this one’s defenses. He was parchment held over an open fire. And Vegard was the flame.
The man’s veins darkened, blue, then black, his screams were muffled by his inconsequential existence, before dropping in a back alley on the loneliest tier of Dawns Fero—dead.
Vegard exhal
ed. A mental breaking of the chains that had bound him for so long. As he remembered in the grotto forge; he was no longer powerless. And he hungered for more.
Rorak shook the temporary fear from his shaggy form. His many trinkets and gadgets clinking against one another as he waved an ironed hand at Yef’Er to press on. But the mighty barbarian was bound. Rorak turned to see his mighty champion bent to the floor, his energy being sapped from him by the unrelenting warlock across the way.
“No more o’ this!” Rorak grumbled as he crossed his plated hands in front of his chest. His skin began to discolor and harden. Vegard’s concentration was drawn away from his victim as he looked on at the gruff tracker.
Rorak’s bare skin turned a dark grey, his skin the cracked texture of living stone. The boards beneath the tracker’s feet splintered and snapped as the weight of the man quadrupled overtop the cheap walkway.
“You ain’t the only one wiff tricks, warlock.” Rorak bellowed, his voice taking on an impossibly gruffer tone.
Vegard darted forward and found his ebony blade. Rorak swung a hefty arm at the warlock but it was slow, like a child heaving a mighty battle-club. Vegard easily ducked the blow and slid his blade across the exposed ribs of the man. Blacktooth cut through the leather padded jacket with ease but sparked and bounced away from the tracker’s stone hide.
The ineffectiveness stunned Vegard for a second. Enough time for Rorak to snag the warlock by the scruff, deliver a crushing blow to his stomach, and toss him back into the support beam like he was nothing more than a sack of feathers.
Vegard wiped bile from his mouth. The punch so strong it seemed to shove the undigested solids from out of his body. He summoned his dark powers.
“Enough games!” Vegard bellowed. “Time for you to burn like your friends.” His blackened eyes focused on the stone-skinned tracker, his hand grasping the open air out in front of him. He summoned the siphoned energy boiling inside him and sent it instantaneously at Rorak. Nothing happened. Again Vegard tried to cook him like he had done the other. Yet again, nothing.
Vegard shifted and attempted to pull from the man’s soul, perhaps the energy he had taken from the fallen thug was too weak to affect this one. And still nothing.
Rorak folded his arms and laughed. His crows eyes appearing like fragmented rock splintering across his solid square face. “What’s wrong, slave? Yer demon powers ain’t workin’ wight?” He stalked forward. “Mayhaps cause I’m nothin’ but stone.” He clubbed his chest.
As the tracker closed the distance Vegard swung in desperate arches with Blacktooth. Each strike as ineffectual as the first. Bursts of sparks and bits of pebble flaked off. Rorak finally stopped the assault in mid strike. His grip almost snapping the fleshy wrist of the warlock’s. With his other hand he pressed Vegard up against the stone pillar behind, easily pinning him in place.
“Who’s the healer up in Dunesmir, hmm?” Rorak taunted his prone victim. “Is’it that cranky old bitch? I’m thinkin’ she be skilled nuff to fix some broken ribs.” He began to push Vegard against the stone pillar. Vegard simultaneously surged healing energy through his body. But it was all he could do to keep up with the ever pressing assault. His store would wane before the strength of his foe gave out.
Yef’Er suddenly yelped from behind. Rorak paused to give his companion a lazy look over his stony shoulder. The barbarian was curled on the ground, a long spear jutted from the side of his body. Over top him stood the petite Wera. Her scowl eclipsed her face. Her eyes shone like a hungry mountain cat in the dim lights of the decrepit alley.
“What ya wan…Oh!” A spark of recognition in Rorak’s voice. “The tavern wench! Wow, you’re really goin’ above and beyond for this one.” He laughed. “Ya killed me travel slave. That’s probably gunna ‘ave to cost ya.” Rorak dropped Vegard to the floor. “Stay here, boy.” Kicking Vegard one more time before turning to the girl.
Wera growled and charged at the tracker. One step was lightly padded, another was that of a girl, the last was of that of a three-hundred pound furred beast. Rorak only had the time to register his underestimation before the bear’s mass was upon him.
Vegard slipped to the side as bear and boulder came crashing down upon his previous location. Gods! Vegard thought. Does she mean to save or flatten me!?
The hver and the stone-skinned tracker rolled about on the flimsy walkway. Rorak’s only defense was to shield his face with his forearms. Wera raked with her knife-like claws and snapped with her elongated maw. Not much in the way of damage was being done to the tracker, but he could do nothing under the animalistic barrage.
Rorak managed to lock his legs under the mass of the bear and, kicking out, he launched her a few feet back. Vegard, healed from his wounds, and prepared to fight.
There was a soul buried somewhere in that enchanted, rocky interior, Vegard knew. He filled Blacktooth with all the energy he had left. The blade steamed with the energy of the dead.
Maybe this will be enough to cut through your thick hide.
Rorak pushed himself up against the stone support pillar. If a mountain could sweat, the tracker looked to be doing it. A few minor gouges had appeared around his neck and cheeks where Wera’s claws had dug deep.
“An odd change of circumstances, I’d say.” Rorak laughed, weakly. “I’ll have ta get back to you on dis one, warlock.” With that the tracker began to meld into the very stone of the pillar he was leaning on. The stone engulfing him like a large rock sinking in mud.
Wera, the bear, charged once more with furious intent. She slammed into the pillar just as Rorak vanished from sight. Vegard watched as the girl clawed with abandon. He wasn’t sure how long he should let the hver battle it out with a solid object before intervening.
He cleared his throat. Wera stopped and turned her large, furry head towards him.
“Perhaps we should make ourselves scarce. Before the guards come and find a couple dead bodies here…along with a bear.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Plan and a Visit
Vegard and Wera escaped back to their rented room in the Sweaty Seafarer. The cheap wooden structure gave them some relief against a second attack from the stone traveling Rorak. Even so, Wera laid protective runes by the door and windows. If anyone with ill intent came within feet of their room the companions would be warned.
Vegard relaxed with a small cask of the house mead by his feet.
“Who were those men?” Wera asked. She made a bed for herself in the corner on the floor while she cleaned the gore from her tribal spear. A solitary candle flickering its last bit of life. The two unable to sleep after the excitement of the deadly encounter.
Vegard arched an eyebrow at the girl. It was one thing to complain to himself or his floating soul about his misfortunes. He wasn’t quite as accustomed bearing his soul to a stranger.
“Just my past come to haunt me.”
“Oh, stop being so dark and glum. I’m not some tavern skank impressed by your brooding nature. Those men were intent to take you. What’s the deal?”
Vegard sighed. “You said that my enslavement was not like yours, did you not? You want to yell at me further about it? Those men were my problem. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Wera would not leave it be although she didn’t press with words. She just starred at Vegard, awaiting a response.
“Ugh, gods!” He said, exasperated. “They were trackers hired by the lord that owned me. Guess I just didn’t realize how passionate Jogen was to have me back in his pits.”
“Pits?”
“The fighting pits. Slave combat for the lords to wager on. Fun times had by all.” He scoffed. “Seems he will not leave me be till I’m either back in his fold or I can pay off my servitude.”
“How much?” She crawled on all fours over to the cask of mead. She poured a glass and drank.
“I’d say a hundred or so gold, at this point. Additional for the escape and added expenses of that escapade
. It’s lordly math, so who’s to say, at this point? Another hundred?”
“So…if you can send this mountain lord two hundred gold you would be proper free, then?” She sipped thoughtfully.
Vegard laughed. “If I sent him two hundred gold he would give me my freedom and probably send me a gift basket of booze and ham for the trouble.” He poured himself more of the bitter drink. “But I’m as like to come across that kind of gold as I am to stroll up to this bastard merchant and murder him.”
Wera rolled her cup back and forth in her palm. “Maybe we can accomplish the two tasks at the same time.” Her eyes flickered.
“Go on. What’s floating around in that furry brain of yours?” If this hver girl had concocted a plan then Vegard was all ears.
Wera’s plan was so simple Vegard criticized himself for not having thought it.
Darold Shaw was a merchant of some renown with business that traversed the many continents of Vlero. Her plan was to find the business that existed in Dawns Fero and disrupt it. Find his goods, his merchants, his capital, and pilfer it for themselves. The ransacking would make Shaw look a fool in the public eye and if the two could gain monetarily in the process, well, then that was more the reason to do so.
“And if the greasy little lord found it necessary to travel to the disruption in business…” She mocked a slit across her throat with her long fingernails. “We murder his face. And you’ve appeased your goddess.”
Vegard couldn’t help but be impressed with the simplicity and perfection of the hver’s plan. A genuine smile crept on his face for the first time in quite a while.
“I’ll drink to that! Skel!”
“Brovus!” They toasted, clattering their cups and drowning their beverage.
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 10
