The warlock, now having acquired his cloak again from the hver, kept it tight about him with, hood obscuring his face.
He lined the inner pockets with a few runic stones—ones meant to keep his shadowed identity to himself. He couldn’t be sure what cut-throats or bounty hunters could be searching out the doomed bandits of the west.
Vegard pushed his way through the various shops that lined the stunningly busy market places. It appeared to him that the whole of the city must be one enormous shopping plaza.
Where do these people sleep!? He scoffed frustratingly as he made his way across one of the sky bridges—one that linked the Dyn tower to the Ken Far ‘district’.
His eyes scanned every cart that passed by, looking for the familiar, obnoxious crimson of Shaw’s goods.
He had a very simple and ‘northman’ style plan—find a merchant that sells Shaw’s wares, rough them up for information on his whereabouts, and then go there.
But as the sun’s light became less and less, Vegard realized he would have to take up this endeavor the following day.
He trekked back across the skybridge and wandered into a pub, figuring a few pints might help a restive sleep come to him in such a chaotic place.
The ‘Oasis’ was as high scale a pub as Vegard had ever seen. Soft pillows were set around low sitting tables. Men and women lounged about having orderly and elegant conversations. The back area, divided by a hanging velvet curtain, was serving something of a smokier variety. From the few glimpses the warlock got, he noticed long brass pipes stuffed with red leaves and a sort of black tar substance that was burned and taken through a mouthpiece at the end.
Even with the divider in place the entirety of the Oasis smelled of fresh soil and burnt, dry spices.
A woman, as far as Vegard could tell, silently placed a menu before him, bowed and left. She was covered head to toe in fantastic silks. Her face was covered but slightly visible behind the meshed fabric. She had deep purple hair that was pinned in an ornate bun atop her head.
“I think I could get used to this lack of attention.” He thought aloud. He lazily perused the menu. The amount of choices were absurd. It was not so simple as a: light ale, dark ale, red wine, white wine. Most of the drinks served were a concoction of several spirits and topped with colorful fruits, or lighted aflame before the customer.
The girl came back and stood patiently. Silently.
“By the gods!” Vegard jumped when he saw her. He had become so immersed in the menu he hadn’t noticed the waitress return. “You know, if you ever want to quit this servant job…I know a fair number of assassins less quiet than yourself.”
She looked confused by his words but amused, none the less, by his reaction.
“Ale. Whatever you have.” He pantomimed a large glass. The girl giggled once more and returned with a pitcher of ale and two chilled, brass cups.
“There we go!” He cheered, slamming a gold piece on the lacquered table and gesturing for another serving just like it.
Vegard didn’t notice the curious looks he was getting from the other clientele. Again, he was too enraptured by this drink menu. His finger slid down the page, flipped the menu over, and examined it more. “Mayhaps I should get one. Just for the experience. Apples!? In a drink?” He scoffed as he took a deep pull from his glass pitcher, ignoring the weird spitting cups, or whatever they were, that the waitress brought with it.
He was halfway done with his second pitcher when something on the menu caught his eye. In the description of one of the drinks was a wine from “Shaw’s Estate”. Vegard called the serving girl over and ordered a bottle of the expensive wine. “Yes, yes, the whole thing!”
When he got it he knew for sure; this was one of Darold Shaw’s products. The blatantly obnoxious crimson DS stamped on the back, the cheap wax adorning the top giving the impression of a ‘personal touch’, the gentle hardworking craftsman on the front of the label. “Wow, just on pure ego alone this man deserves a punch to the throat…” He hiccuped.
Vegard shuffled awkwardly from his pillowed seat and asked for the owner. An older man came out from the back, greeting the shrouded warlock. He was skinny and bald and wore a long black garb not unlike the ones the waitresses were wearing, although his head was fully exposed.
“Where do you get this stuff?” Vegard asked, holding the bottle a little too close to the owner’s face.
“Do you like? We have a few more bottles in the back. Let me get them for you.” He about turned to leave.
“No, no. Where is the supplier? I have some business with them.”
“Oh, I am not sure where the actual winery is. But our shipment of these particular goods comes every second day of the second week.” The owner crossed his arms in front of himself. “Not just the shade wine you have there. The supplier comes with a Shaw Estate robust red, a Shaw Estate mountain brandy, and a wonderfully sweet blueberry…”
Vegard held his hands up to stop the audible version of the long menu. “Second day of second…?” He shook the drunk from his head. “When will you see this supplier next?”
“Three days from now. He comes right before the store opens.” He said with stark assurance. Obviously a man that knew every nook of his business. Vegard placed a couple gold pieces in the owner’s hand.
“I’d very much like to speak with this individual. Three days from now, ya?”
The old man nodded. “Oh, of course!” He beamed. “Yes! I will await your return, Sir…”
“Err…Tumblestone. Erron Tumblestone.” Vegard spouted. It was the second time the young man’s name would be used to help Vegard along his quest. First, during his escape from Dunesmir and now here in KaHari. The boy will make a bigger legend of himself postmortem.
“Ah, yes, Sir Tumblestone. I look forward to seeing you three days hence.” The owner smiled and took his leave.
“Sir Tumblestone!?” Vegard laughed to himself. “Ya hear that, Erron? You’re movin’ up in the world.”
Vegard spent the next two days lounging about in the suite of the nameless inn. He found the busy city life suited him very little, only bothering to walk Chenway and buy food and drink. Although, he made sure to avoid the pervasive ‘DS’ labeled spirits that were prevalent in every pub he went to. “Not getting my money, you greedy bastard.” He said to the bottom of his bottle.
“Ah ha!” Wera came bursting through the door. Chenway began yapping, as he did, running around the heels of the hver. “Get, Chenway! Get!” She shoed him away with her bare feet.
“What now, girl!?” Vegard replied, bored and annoyed out of his mind.
“I’ll ignore your dour mood, northman, merely because of my excitement.” She grinned. “Look!” She twirled uncharacteristically in place. The commotion brought Fulvia from her planted spot out on the warm and sunny terrace.
“What?” Vegard looked unimpressed. “You got a new spear?”
“Yes! But no—my outfit, you dense, soul-sucker!”
“What a fascinatin’ find, ye got there, Wera.” Fulvia expressed. “So well done.” The druid floated about Wera, inspecting the lay of, what appeared to Vegard to be a regular leather tunic.
“I’m missing something. I mean, it has more padding than the other but…what?”
“Don’cha feel it, Vegard?” The druid began. “The sorcery that teems from it.”
Vegard reached to the floor and popped the cap off another ale. “So, it shoots fire balls or something?”
“No. It doesn’t shoot fireballs. Although, at the moment, I kinda wish it did.” She threatened. “It is enchanted to seep under my skin when I change forms. Least that’s how the ladies put it. That way I’m not blasting my clothes away when I am bigger. Or losing them when I’m smaller.”
“Well, that’s one less bill to worry about.”
“Yes. And I no longer have to worry about your debauched eyes during a fight.” Wera raised an eyebrow.
“Aaaand I’
m going to jump off the balcony now.” Vegard quipped as he swiveled around and walked outside to the waning sunlight.
Wera and Fulvia continued about the make of the tunic. There was a House in KaHari called the Kjenn o’ Hver; a coalition of the hver. Their enchanters had bewitched a padded tunic Wera had brought in. The cost was not cheap but they had money to burn, as it were. Vegard at least found it amusing that it was with the wealth of the lord merchant that their group was able to equip themselves so. A dark and profound irony.
He sighed as he took in the last bit of the day’s warmth. They were a queer lot, this party, he thought. Between him, the bear, the nature woman, and a dog…he couldn’t help but wonder what chance they really had at accomplishing a damn thing. Or what god would be so crazy as to set their hopes so firmly on their shoulders.
We’ve made it this far. He reasoned. Perhaps we will stumble our way to success, after all.
Vegard awoke in the dim hours of the morning. He figured Wera and Fulvia could use this time to rest. It would only take one to meet with a lowly supplier, anyways.
He geared himself up, donned his cloak, and set out into the abandoned streets of early morning KaHari. He found it much less tedious to be out before the crowds and the merchants set up shop. The streets were bare of even the beggars. His trek to the Oasis took a quarter of the time he had expected. Vegard knocked at the door but to no avail. He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes, at least using the time to take in a few more minutes of sleep.
“‘ell, what we got here, hmm?” A deep and familiar gravely voice spoke from the alley across the way.
Vegard whipped Blacktooth from its scabbard before his eyes had even opened. The sleek, black blade shinning with readied death at the darkness beyond. The warlock’s mind too primed for combat to allow conjecture on who his opponent may be.
Out of the shadows, with heavy, slow steps, came the grinning visage of Rorak Kinslayer. The tracker sent by the mountain lord, Jogen. Rorak puffed at his ever present cigar. The embers illuminating the cracked stone skin of his facial features.
“Member’ how well dat blade of yer’s faired ya last time, right boy?” He rubbed a plated hand across his head as if showcasing his petrified beauty. “An’ that beast o’ yer’s ain’t here to save ya. Not this time.”
“Thinkin’ I am the same as I was—that’s a mistake you’re about to regret.” Vegard’s eyes filled to black voids. His breath matching that of the cigar smoking tracker. The smug look of Rorak falling away as his hidden minions toppled from behind him. He picked up his foot to let one fall flat to the sidewalk. The tracker peered up at a window to see one of his archer’s slouching and dangling from the cut stone. Rorak’s eyes scrunched up. He spit his stubby cigar to the curb.
“Touché, kid. Guess it’ll be the ol’ one verse one, eh?” His heavy stalking footsteps stopping as a bag clanged next to his boots. He glared at Vegard. “What’s this, then?” He asked suspiciously.
“A payoff. For Jogen. It’s not what’s owed but it’s all that bastard is like to get.” Vegard grinned deeply. “Unless, of course, he’d like to debate the terms?” Blacktooth shifted in the warlock’s hand. It’s point drawing the glare from the early morning sun.
The purse was in Rorak’s hand. He fingered at the coins inside. “Where’d ya get all this? Robbin’ people?”
“Would that offend your sensibilities, slave-herder?” Vegard countered.
“Nah.” He returned a big silvery smile. “Jus’ wonderin’ if I’m in the wrong business, is all.” The money was pocketed almost faster than Vegard could see. “Guess my contract is all wrapped up. I’m sure he’ll be acceptin’ them terms.” The burly tracker paused. “And here I was awaitin’ some epic showdown. Ah, well.”
He was about to turn and leave when Vegard shouted, “How’d you find me?”
Rorak turned and shrugged, his many trinkets clattering together. “My job.” His skin had returned to its rough leathery wear. “Traveled wif that religious fella on his ship. He had yer bear wench wif em. Figured that’d be the best way to find ya. An’ I was right. Although, the rest o’ what happened…” He shuddered. “Wouldn’t have caught me dead out there in the seas if’in I knew there’d be giants. Usually don’t find me in da water, anyhow. Stones don’t swim so well.”
“You were on the ship!? Did the paladin follow you here? How’d you escape?”
The tracker scratched at his salty beard. “I’m a lucky bastard, I’m guessin’. When the shiny fella and the giant were tradin’ blows, I snatched up one of their side boats and rowed like the hells were under foot.” He laughed. “How the other faired…don’ know. Don’ care.”
Vegard didn’t doubt any of the what the tracker had told him. He knew their type. Once a contract was closed, it was closed. Rorak wasn’t here out of some personal vendetta. It was a job. Trackers were a simple breed.
“Where do you go now?” Vegard asked as he suppressed his dark powers. The vapor of his breathe fading away and the whites returning to his eyes.
“Imma ‘play it by ear’ kinda guy.” The tracker replied with a wry smile. “If I caught ya, I was gunna drag your soul eating ass back to Dunesmir. But nows I got some time. May just take up a couple jobs whilst I’m here. See what dis desert ‘as for work before crossin’ the Mior.”
“Lookin’ for work, you say?” A mischievous smile grew on the warlock’s face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Unlikely Ally
Vegard and Rorak met together with the supplier of Shaw’s goods at the Oasis. He was a young thing. Shaky and nervous like a small dog.
Vegard could understand this suppliers trepidations. The rise in robberies had all these lot on edge. The supplier had a few guards with him, but the wines were already unloaded and stocked away in the cellars of the Oasis.
Goods had been signed and paid for. It was no longer this boy’s responsibility. He could breath easy and was more than happy to accept an early morning drink from the two curious merchants.
“The Lord Shaw is always lookin’ for strong men to accompany his property.” The boy fidgeted awkwardly in his seat. “But things have been a fair bit slower since news of the burglars. Dark figures that come out at night and ransack his caravans.” He added sullenly.
“I’ve heard.” Vegard hide his smile. “But we’re not looking to play mercenary. We want goods. In bulk.” He slid a few gold coins across the table. The boy’s eyes lighted up. “We supply our own guards.”
Rorak grunted affirmation. Vegard read the boy’s soul and could see that the supplier didn’t doubt the might of the two strangers before him.
“I’d have to wager, in all honesty, that the lord merchant is definitely lookin’ for people of your type.”
“Our type? How’ya figure?” Rorak purred.
The boy gulped down a bit of his drink. “Well I mean by saying that it’s been a hard time finding men that wanna guard his things, ya know? With the talk, across the seas—that demons will come and drag your eternal soul down to the lands of the jarro.” He took another fumbling drink.
“That maybe the lord has been cursed by the gods.” The boy shrugged. “Or could jus’ be the talk of sailors. You know them sort.”
Rorak laughed aloud and rapped the table with his thick gauntlets. The boy almost stumbled backwards in his chair. A twitchy thing, if Vegard had ever seen one.
“That sounds ta be the talk of sailors! Ain’t no concern for that, though. Where could we find this lord? To be talkin’ business?” The tracker’s formed loomed over the young man. Vegard had to appreciate the affect Rorak had on others. How easily information just spilled out.
“It’s been said that he left his tower quarters in Prispin and retired to his vineyard estate out in the country. Beautiful plot of land, definitely. I’ve made the trek many of times. Not too far from here, really. Few days by cart, I’d say.”
“Ya’d say?” Rorak pressed.
“All the evidence points to such, yes sir.” The boy piped. “Harassing words in the streets. The Lord Shaw left the city many days ago with his religious fellas in tow. Probably just waitin’ for this whole demon business to settle.”
The tracker and the warlock exchanged looks. Vegard nodded.
“Aight. How’s about tellin’ us about this estate.”
The boy began to babble about the estate. Any detail he could muster. Rorak made the little thing nervous, understandably so.
The supplier went on and on about the beauty of the rolling hills, the ever constant stream of caravans coming and going from the property, the great warehouses, the thousands of servants, and, of course, the great estate of the lord’s that centered itself on the property.
The boy’s information of the armed forces on the property was slim at best, though. There were checkpoints that he could confirm. Guard towers and outposts.
But he couldn’t account for how many or exactly where they were stationed. Information that Vegard understood any ‘law-abiding’ citizen wouldn’t be privy to.
If you’re not intending to do anything illegal then the presence, or lack thereof, of soldiers was irrelevant to you.
The warlock thought to peer into the boy’s soul. Rummage around in his memories and pull the exact layout of this estate from his head—but Rorak was doing fine with his subtle interrogation, and Vegard didn’t want to go raising alarms that a warlock was afoot in the east.
Gods…doing things the long way is so taxing, he snorted.
One thing the boy was neglecting to mention—and surely would if he had any experience of such—was the presence of creatures in the vain of Asmundr the Havan, or Hannah Bloodfist.
Vegard didn’t imagine that the skittish boy would omit their type if he had seen them. The lack of any forthcoming information of that sort put the warlock somewhat at ease.
Vegard finally relinquished the supplier from their questioning. The young man took off, accompanied by his meager band of mercenary guards.
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 20
