by Mel Odom
Tilting his head, he glanced briefly at the four men playing dice at the table next to his. Three of them were fishermen, he knew that from their clothing, but the fourth man was dressed a little better, like someone who was putting on his best and hoping to impress. It came off as someone down on his luck and getting desperate. That appearance, Darrick knew, was an illusion.
He ate hungrily, trying not to act as if he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Or perhaps it was the day before. He was no longer certain of time passing. However few meals he’d had, he’d always managed to make enough money to drink. Drinking was the only way to keep distanced from the fears and nightmares that plagued him. Almost every night, he dreamed of the cliffside in Tauruk’s Port, dreamed that he almost saved Mat from the skeleton’s clutches, from the awful thump against the cliffside that had broken Mat’s skull.
The tavern was a dive, another in a long string of them. They all looked alike to him. When he finished with his work, wherever he was, he ate a meal, drank until he could hardly walk, then hired a room or bedded down in a stable if the money hadn’t been enough to provide drink and a proper bed.
The clientele was mostly fishermen, hard-faced men with callused hands and scars from nets, hooks, fish, the weather, and years of disappointment that ran bone-deep. They talked of tomorrows that sounded much better than the morning would bring, and what they would do if someday they escaped the need to climb aboard a boat every day and pray the Light was generous.
Merchants sat among the fishermen and other townspeople, discussing shipments and fortunes and the lack of protection in the northern part of the Great Ocean since Westmarch was keeping its navy so close to home these days still. There still had been no sign of the demon whom the Westmarch sailors had seen at Tauruk’s Port, and many of the merchants and sailors north of Westmarch believed that the pirates had made up the story to lure the king into pulling his navy back.
Dissent grew among the northern ports and cities because they depended on Westmarch to help defend them. With the Westmarch Navy out of the way, men turned to piracy when they couldn’t make the sea pay any other way. Although most pirates weren’t acting together, their combined raiding had hurt the economies of several independent ports and even cities farther inland. Westmarch diplomacy, once a feared and treasured and expansive thing, had become weak and ineffective. Northern cities no longer curried favor with Westmarch as much.
Darrick sopped a biscuit through the stew and popped it into his mouth. The stew was thick and oily, seasoned with grease and spices that made it cloying and hot, a meal that finished off a hardworking man’s day. Over the last months, he’d lost weight, but his fighting ability had stayed sharp. For the most part, he stayed away from the docks for fear that someone might recognize him. Although the Westmarch Navy and guardsmen hadn’t made a strong effort to find him, or other sailors who had intentionally jumped ship, he remained leery of possible apprehension. Some days death seemed preferable to living, but he couldn’t make that step. He hadn’t died as he’d grown up under his father’s fierce hands, and he didn’t intend to die willingly now.
But it was hard to live willingly.
He glanced across the room, watching Dahni as she talked and flirted with a young man. Part of him longed for the companionship of a woman, but it was only a small part. Women talked, and they dug at the things that bothered a man, most of them wanting only to help, but Darrick didn’t want to deal with that.
The big man sitting at the end of the bar crossed the floor to Darrick. The man was tall and broad, with a nose flattened and misshapen from fights. Scars, some freshly pink and webbed with tiny scabs, covered his knuckles and the heels of his palms. An old knife scar showed at his throat.
Uninvited, he sat across from Darrick, his truncheon lying across his knees. “You’re working,” the man said.
Darrick kept his right hand in his lap where his cutlass was. He gazed at the man. “I’m here with a friend.”
To his right, the gambler who had hired Darrick for an evening’s protection after they had come in on the trade caravan together praised the Light for yet another good turn. He was an older man, thin and white-haired. During an attack by bandits only yesterday, Darrick had learned that the man could handle himself and carried a number of small knives secreted on his person.
“Your friend’s awfully lucky tonight,” the big man said.
“He’s due,” Darrick said in a level voice.
The big man eyed Darrick levelly. “It’s my job to keep the peace in the tavern.”
Darrick nodded.
“If I catch your friend cheating, I’m throwing you both out.”
Darrick nodded again, and he hoped the gambler didn’t cheat or was good at it. The man had gamed with others on the caravan as they had wound their way back from Aranoch and trading with a port city that supplied the Amazon Islands.
“And you might have a care when you step out of here tonight,” the bouncer warned, nodding at the gambler. “You got a demon’s fog that’s rolled up outside that won’t burn off till morning. This town isn’t well lighted, and some folks that gamble with your friend might not take kindly to losing.”
“Thank you,” Darrick said.
“Don’t thank me,” the bouncer said. “I just don’t want either of you dying in here or anywhere near here.” He stood and resumed his position at the end of the bar.
The serving wench returned with a pitcher of wine, a hopeful smile on her face.
Darrick covered his tankard with a hand.
“You’ve had enough?” she asked.
“For now,” he answered. “But I’ll take a bottle with me when I leave if you’ll have one ready.”
She nodded, hesitated, smiled briefly, then turned to walk away. The bracelet at her wrist flashed and caught Darrick’s eye.
“Wait,” Darrick whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“Yes?” she asked hopefully.
Darrick pointed at her wrist. “What is that bracelet you wear?”
“A charm,” Dahni replied. “It represents Dien-Ap-Sten, the Prophet of the Way of Dreams.”
The bracelet was constructed of interlinked ovals separated by carved amber and rough iron so that none of the ovals touched another. The sight of it sparked memory in Darrick’s mind. “Where did you get it?”
“From a trader who liked me,” Dahni answered. It was a cheap attempt to make him jealous.
“Who is Dien-Ap-Sten?” That name didn’t ring a bell in Darrick’s memory.
“He’s a prophet of luck and destiny,” Dahni said. “They’re building a church down in Bramwell. The man who gave me this told me that anyone who had the courage and the need to walk the Way of Dreams would get whatever his or her heart desires.” She smiled at him. “Don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched?”
“Aye,” Darrick agreed, but the story troubled him. Bramwell wasn’t far from Westmarch, and that was a place he’d promised himself he wouldn’t be any time too soon.
“Have you ever been there?” Dahni asked.
“Aye, but it was a long time ago.”
“Have you ever thought of returning there?”
“No.”
The serving wench pouted. “Pity.” She shook her wrist, making the bracelet spin and catch the lantern light. “I should like to go there someday and see that church for myself. They say that when it is finished, it will be a work of art, the most beautiful thing that has ever been built.”
“It’s probably worth seeing, then,” Darrick said.
Dahni leaned on the table, exposing the tops of her breasts for his inspection. “A lot of things are worth seeing. But I know I won’t get to see them as long as I stay in this town. Perhaps you should think about returning to Bramwell soon.”
“Perhaps,” Darrick said, trying not to offer any offense.
One of the fishermen called Dahni away, raising his voice impatiently. She gave Darrick a last, lingering look, then turned in a swirl of her sho
rt skirt and walked away.
At the next table, the gambler had another bit of good fortune, praising the Light while the other men grumbled.
Pushing thoughts of the strange bracelet from his mind, Darrick returned his attention to his meal. Swearing off wine for the rest of the gambler’s turn at the gaming table meant the nightmares would be waiting on Darrick when he returned to his rented room. But the caravan would be in town for another day before the merchants finished their trading. He could drink until he was sure he wouldn’t be able to dream.
Fog rolled through the streets and made the night’s shadows seem darker and deeper as Darrick followed the gambler from the tavern two hours later. He tried to remember the man’s name but wasn’t surprised to find that he couldn’t. Life was simpler when he didn’t try to remember everything or everyone. On the different caravans he hired onto as a sellsword, there were people in charge, and they had a direction in which they wanted to go. Darrick went along with that.
“I had a good night at the table tonight,” the gambler confessed as they walked through the street. “As soon as I get back to my room, I’ll pay you what we agreed on.”
“Aye,” Darrick said, though he couldn’t remember what amount they had agreed on. Usually it was a percentage against a small advance because a true gambler could never guarantee that he would win, and those who could were cheats and would guarantee a fight afterward.
Darrick gazed around at the street. As the tavern bouncer had said, the town had poor lighting. Only a few lamps, staggered haphazardly and primarily centered near the more successful taverns and inns as well as the small dock lit the way. The heavy fog left a wet gleam on the cobblestones. He looked for a sign, some way of knowing where he’d ended on this journey, not really surprised that he didn’t know where he was, and not truly caring, either. Many of the towns he’d been to in the last few months had tended to blur into each other.
The sound of the gambler’s in-drawn breath warned Darrick that something was wrong. He jerked his head around to the alley they’d just passed. Three men bolted from the alley, hurling themselves at Darrick and the gambler. Their blades gleamed even in the fog-dulled moonlight.
Darrick drew his cutlass, dropping the jug of wine he carried under one arm. By the time the ceramic jug shattered across the poorly fit cobblestones, he had his cutlass in hand and parried a blow aimed to take off his head. Fatigued as he was, with the wine working within him, it was all Darrick could do to stay alive. He stumbled over the uneven street, never seeing the fourth man step out behind him until it was too late.
The fourth man swung a weighted shark’s billy that caught Darrick over his left ear and dropped him to his knees. Almost unconscious from the blow, he smashed his face against the cobblestones, and the sharp pain brought him back around. He fought to get to his knees. From there, he felt certain that he could make it to his feet. After that, perhaps he’d even be able to fight. Or at least earn the money the gambler had paid to protect him.
“Damn!” one of the thieves shouted. “He cut me with a hide-out knife.”
“Watch out,” another man said.
“It’s okay. I got him. I got him. He won’t be sticking anybody else ever again.”
Warm liquid poured down the side of Darrick’s neck. His vision blurred, but he saw two men taking the gambler’s purse.
“Stop!” Darrick ordered, finding his cutlass loose on the cobblestones and picking it up. He lurched toward them, lifting the blade and following it toward one of the men. Before he reached his intended target, the other man whirled around and drove a hobnailed boot into Darrick’s jaw. Pain blinded him as he fell again.
Struggling against the blackness that waited to take him, Darrick pushed his feet, trying in vain to find purchase that would allow him to stand. He watched in helpless frustration as the men vanished back into the shadows of the alley.
Using the cutlass as a crutch to keep his feet, Darrick made his way to the gambler. Darrick peered through his tearing eyes, listening to the thundering pain inside his head, and stared at the gambler.
A bone-hilted knife jutted from the gambler’s chest. A crimson flower blossomed around the blade where it was sunk into flesh to the cross-guard.
The man’s face was filled with fear. “Help me, Darrick. Please. For the Light’s sake, I can’t stop the bleeding.”
How can he remember my name when I can’t remember his? Darrick wondered. Then he saw all the blood streaming between the man’s hands, threading through his fingers.
“It’s okay,” Darrick said, kneeling beside the stricken gambler. He knew it wasn’t going to be okay. While serving aboard Lonesome Star, he’d seen too many fatal wounds not to know that this one was fatal as well.
“I’m dying,” the gambler said.
“No,” Darrick croaked, pressing his hands over the gambler’s hands in an attempt to stem the tide of his life’s blood. Turning his head, Darrick shouted over his shoulder. “Help! I need help here! I’ve got an injured man!”
“You were supposed to be there,” the gambler accused. “You were supposed to look out for this kind of thing for me. That’s what I paid you for.” He coughed, and bright blood flecked his lips.
From the blood on the gambler’s lips, Darrick knew the knife had penetrated one of his lungs as well. He pressed his hands against the gambler’s chest, willing the blood to stop.
But it didn’t.
Darrick heard footsteps slap against the cobblestones just as the gambler gave a final convulsive shiver. The gambler’s breath locked in his throat, and his eyes stared sightlessly upward.
“No,” Darrick croaked in disbelief. The man couldn’t be dead; he’d been hired to protect him, still had a meal he’d paid for from his advance in his belly.
A strong hand gripped Darrick’s shoulder. He tried to fight it off, then gazed up into the eyes of the tavern bouncer.
“By the merciful Light,” the bouncer swore. “Did you see who did it?”
Darrick shook his head. Even if he saw the men responsible for the gambler’s murder, he doubted that he could identify them.
“Some bodyguard,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere behind Darrick.
Looking at the dead gambler, Darrick had to agree. Some bodyguard. His senses fled, making his aching head too heavy to hold upright. He fell forward and didn’t even know if he hit the street.
The silver peal of the bells in the three towers called the citizens of Bramwell to worship at the Church of Dien-Ap-Sten. Most were already inside the warren of buildings that had been erected over the last year since the caravan’s arrival in the city. Foundations for still more buildings had been laid, and as soon as they were completed, they would be added to the central cathedral. Beautiful statuary, crafted by some of the best artisans in Bramwell as well as other artists in Westmarch, Lut Gholein, and Kurast and beyond the Sea of Light, sat at the top of the buildings.
Buyard Cholik, called Master Sayes now, stood on one of the rooftop gardens that decorated the church. Staring down at the intersection near the church, he watched as wagons carrying families and friends arrived. In the beginning, he remembered, the poorer families were the first to begin worship at the church. They’d come for the healing and in hopes of having a lifelong dream of riches or comfort answered.
And they came wishing to be chosen that day to walk on the Way of Dreams. Only a few were allowed to walk the Way of Dreams, generally only those afflicted with physical deformities or mental problems. People with arthritis and poorly mended broken limbs were nearly always admitted. Kabraxis achieved those miracles of healing with no difficulty. Every now and again, the demon rewarded someone with riches, but there was always a hidden cost none of the population could know about. As the Church of Dien-Ap-Sten had grown, so had the secrets it kept.
The church had been built high on a hill overlooking the city of Bramwell proper. Quarried from some of the best limestone in the area, which was generally shipped off to othe
r cities while plain stone was used for the local buildings, the church gleamed in the morning light like bone laid clean from under the kiss of a knife. No one in the city could look southeast toward Westmarch and not see the church first.
The forest had been cleared on two sides of the church to accommodate the wagons and coaches that arrived during the twice-a-week services. All the believers in Bramwell came to both services, knowing the way would be made clear to the Way of Dreams where the miracles could take place.
Special, decorated boats tied up in front of the church at the newly built pilings. Boatmen in the service of the church brought captains and sailors from the ships that anchored out in the harbor. Word of the Church of Dien-Ap-Sten had started spreading across all of Westmarch, and it brought the curious as well as those seeking salvation.
High in their towers, the three bells rang again. They would ring only once more before the service began. Cholik glanced down in front of the church and saw that, as usual, only a few would be late to the service.
Cholik paced through the rooftop garden. Fruit trees and flowering plants, bushes, and vines occupied the rooftop, leaving a winding trail over the large building. Pausing beside a strawberry plant, Cholik stripped two succulent fruits from it, then popped them into his mouth. The berries tasted clean and fresh. No matter how many he took, there were always more.
“Did you ever think it would be this big?” Kabraxis asked.
Turning, the taste of the berries still sweet in his mouth, Cholik faced the demon.
Kabraxis stood beside a trellis of tomato vines. The fruits were bright cherry red, and more tiny yellow flowers bloomed on the vines, promising an even greater harvest to come. An illusion spell, made strong by binding it to the limestone of the building, kept him from being seen by anyone below. The spell had been crafted so intricately that he didn’t even leave a shadow to see for anyone not meant to see him.
