ONE
Separate Ways
Gulth poked his snout out of the alley, quickly looked down the street, then snarled and drew back into the shadows.
"The sun has set, priest, and there’s no sign of them.’’ He hissed and dug the ball of a clawed foot into the ground. “The light is leaving, and I should be leaving with it. I’ll not wait much longer.” Much softer: “I can’t afford to.”
The early autumn wind that whipped down the street and found its way into the alley was chill and carried with it the promise that the coming winter would be harsh. It spun the dust around Gulth’s feet and nudged the debris discarded at the back door of an inn halfway down the alley, stirring up the scents of rotten cabbage, spoiled curds, and strong, bitter ale. He made a gagging sound when the wind gusted more strongly and uncomfortably settled all those scents on his tongue. He spat, which did nothing to help matters, and wrapped his cloak tightly about his bulky frame.
“I do not like this city, priest. Any city. The growing darkness makes this place slightly more palatable. But the dark only hides the sins and ugliness. It can do nothing about the stench of men and their greed and — ”
“Patience, Gulth, I’m certain our friends will be here soon. Let’s give them a little more time.” The speaker stood near the inn’s back door, illuminated by a lantern that hung from the jamb swinging slightly in the wind, causing the shadows to dance as if they were living things. He was a tall man, dressed in white, though the dust had turned his robes the color of sand and streaked his long face. “An hour, perhaps two if need be, Gulth, and — ”
“One hour. Two. Three. Time. You know I don’t have a lot of that, priest . . . Deav Dyne.”
The man nodded. “I know, Gulth.”
Gulth shuffled away from the street and toward the priest, the cloak billowing behind him flapping loudly. The lantern light showed him to be a lizardman, covered with coin-shaped scales so dense they looked like armor. Once, in the recent past, the scales had been as vibrant green as forest moss, supple and snake-smooth. Now they were drab and tinged with gray, cracked and curled in places like thick, chipped paint. He had the shape of a man, but his hands ended in talons, and his limbs were muscular, as was his tail, which twitched nervously, tracing and erasing patterns in the dirt. Though his shoulders were broad, they were hunched, a neardefeated posture.
“Deav Dyne, we’ve seen nothing of them since we came to this wretched, hell-darkened place a week past.”
“And promptly went our separate ways.”
"Yes.”
‘ You’ve not seen them because you’ve kept to the alleys, Gulth.” “Necessary, priest, especially now. Look at me! I don’t understand why they wanted to come here.”
“It’s the largest city around, Gulth, so it makes a certain amount of sense to — ”
“Cities make no sense to me, priest. . . Deav Dyne. Too many people. All the crowds with their schemes, blood, filth.” Again he dug at the ground with his foot. “Easy to get lost in a city this big.”
Deav Dyne shrugged. “I found Yevele easily enough to arrange this meeting.”
“But will they find us in this alley easily enough?"
“Patience,” Deav Dyne repeated. "Patience, Gulth. They will come.”
The lizardman cocked his head quizzically. “Will they? Or perhaps they’ve forgotten about this meeting and found some grand adventure to pursue instead. Certainly something more interesting than talking with us.” A pause. “With me. You call them friends, Deav Dyne. I doubt any of them would call me that.”
“Patience,” Deav Dyne suggested once more. This time the word was a drawn out purr that made the lizardman relax slightly. “They’ll come, Gulth, that I promise you.”
The priest stepped away from the lantern’s glare so he couldn’t be seen by anyone who might open the inn’s back door. Gulth stamped through the dirt to hunch at the mouth of the alley, occasionally poking his snout out for a quick glance at the street beyond. "Patience. Patience. Patience,” he hissed.
Night had thoroughly claimed the city by the time three figures did close on the alley. The tallest was a woman, nearly six feet and clad in a worn leather surcoat. The crude and battered armor was too big lor her frame, but not too bulky to conceal all of her curves. A long sword in a battered scabbard hung trom her waist, and a sheathed dagger was strapped to her right leg. Thick auburn curls spilled out from beneath a bowl-like metal helmet and were harshly teased by the chill wind. She blinked when an errant strand whipped at her eyes.
“Yevele,” the lizardman growled at her.
She stepped past him and into the alley, nodded, and offered him a weak smile. Her gaze met his for a brief moment, then wandered over him and narrowed when she picked through the shadows and noted his condition.
“Gulth, when we parted a week ago you did not look quite so . . .” Yevele left the thought unfinished.
Behind her were two young men, one an elf in dark green leggings and a tunic, the clothes so soiled from the road and time that they looked nearly black. The elf glided gracefully and silently past Yevele and the lizardman and headed toward the inn’s back door and Deav Dyne.
Her other companion was colorfully dressed in far better clothes. (Gulth suspected he stole the outfit.) His face and hands were as dirty as his fellows’ and he looked every bit as tired. He adjusted a lute slung over his back and reached out, trying to shake Gulth’s hand. Instead, the lizardman turned and withdrew farther down the alley to join the elf and the priest.
“We’re late, I know,” Yevele said as she followed the lizardman. "I offer no apology for that, Gulth, as we’ve been looking for work these past few days. That’s why all of us came here, you know.”
“And we finally have a line on something.” This from the elf. "Ingrge,” the lizardman said in acknowledgment. The elf’s name sounded like a growl. “Ingrge, you are — ”
“Filthy. Aye, the lot of us are as dirty as any urchin. It hasn’t rained in all these days, and our surroundings have been. . . . Well, let’s just say a good downpour would make us all a little more presentable and less . . . pungent.”
Gulth wrinkled his nose in agreement and looked over his shoulder at the colorfully dressed man. “Wymarc. Good of you to come, even if you are late.”
The light spilling from the lantern confirmed Gulth’s suspicion about the bard’s clothes. The leggings were too short and tight, not something the man would have purchased by choice. And the tunic was tight across the shoulders, seams threatening to give at the next movement. Perhaps a tall boy’s outfit that had been washed, hung out to dry, and subsequently “borrowed” by Wymarc. Gulth remembered that the bard’s previous change of clothes fit better, but had more holes than fabric.
A door slammed somewhere out on the street, and two men laughed. One of them was stomping across a wooden walkway that connected the businesses in this part of the city and kept the citizens
from slogging through mud when it rained. The other man shuffled, sounding as if he dragged one foot. From their irregular steps and loud guffaws, it was likely that they’d come from one of the many taverns in this neighborhood and were drunk. They paused at the end of the alley, staring at the gathering, then after a few moments they laughed again and moved along.
“Milo and Naile . . . where are they?” The lizardman directed this to the elf. "They were to meet us here, too.”
“That line on employment I mentioned,” Ingrge began. “They’re following it as we speak. We’ve learned of a place where mercenaries are hired. Not just anyone would hire the lot of us, you know. Not so many of
us all in one place. And working in a stables or smithy won’t pay enough to suit us.”
“And isn’t at all challenging,” Yevele added softly. “That kind of work is beneath us, Gulth.”
“Boring, she means,” Wymarc said. "And none ol us know how to do it.”
“Mercenaries,” Gulth said. “Soyou’re mercenaries now.”
“We’re mercenaries, Gulth. You’re one of us.” Ingrge pointed to a bracelet on the lizardman’s wrist. It was copper, and gems of varying cuts and colors dangled from it. The lizardman’s bracelet matched Ingrge’s, matched Yevele s, matched. . . . They each had one. "We’ll all be mercenaries, Gulth, if that’s what it takes ...”
". . . to get a decent amount of money,” Yevele finished. “Our last coin was spent two days ago. We don’t have a single copper for a kettle of soup, never mind coins for a room or decent boots or . . .” She tucked her chin into her neck and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. "... a hot bath, something new to wear.” She met the lizardman’s gaze again. "But you know all of that, Gulth. As Ingrge said, you’re one of us. You’re in the same sorry boat we’re — ’’
“A worse boat, I’m afraid.” All heads turned to the priest. “Gulth is dying, Yevele.”
“Dying? I’ll admit he looks rough, worsened a bit during this week. But you’re a healer, can’t you — ”
“Yes, I’m a healer, but I haven’t a clue to his malady. Nothing I’ve tried has worked. The shops I’ve visited, the other healers I’ve talked to, they have nothing to help. I spent all of my coins trying. I don’t know what’s — ”
“It’s this city,” the lizardman cut in. “It’s this man’s hole. That’s what’s killing me. The crowds and noise and filth. So dry. Too cold. No rain and ...” His voice trailed off to a rasping whisper, and he looked past the assembly and to the dark street beyond the alley, watching another drunken man stumble along. “I need to go home, Yevele, Ingrge. Wymarc, you understand.”
The bard’s face grew pale. “Dying? Gulth? You’re truly dying?” Wymarc tentatively touched one of the lizardman’s larger scales, scowling when an edge broke off. “You did not look so bad a week ago. We shouldn’t have tugged you here with us. We should have left you out in the woods, came to get you after we’d found work and got some money, and — ”
“Home,” Yevele interrupted. “That would be Toledo, right Gulth? Ohio?”
The lizardman stared at a ceramic shard embedded in the alley dirt. “Used to be,” he said after a moment. “In another lifetime. When we played the game around my Aunt Beth’s dining room table. But that was before we were spirited away here lor some unknown reason. We thought there was some grand purpose to our coming here. We fought our way across a desert, lived through meeting a dragon, made our way to Quag Keep. But we still have these bracelets, and we still have these forms. And we’re still here. And if there was a grand purpose to it all, we missed finding it somewhere along the way.”
“You can’t give up,” Yevele stressed. “We’ll all get home. Somehow.” “But Toledo’s not home now. And I’m no longer that person who played the game at Aunt Beth’s.”
The priest cleared his throat. “We’re going south to the swamp, Yevele. His people . . . other lizardmen . . . are there. I pray they can help him. Maybe just being in the swamp will help. Gulth seems to think that’s the key. Being away from the city. Being someplace warm and humid and thoroughly sodden.”
“And you’re going with him?” Yevele gave the priest a disapproving glare. “We need you, Deav Dyne.”
“For what? Why do you possibly need me?"
The priest’s question was met with silence and blank faces.
“None of us know how to get home ... to our real homes, ’’ Deav Dyne finally said. “We’re stuck in this place, as far as I’m concerned. You see that, too, Yevele. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be looking for mercenary work. And so Gulth and I are simply marking time here.” She shook her head, her eyes flashing angrily. “We’ll find a way home, Deav Dyne. Maybe find a clue in this very city. But first we need work so we can get some money and
“And those things will not help Gulth.” Deav Dyne cupped her chin with his hands. “Yevele, you don ’t need me. None of you need me, at least not at the moment. But Gulth needs someone with him. So I'm going with him to the swamp. Then, when I know he’s safe and healing, I’ll come back here and look for you. ”
She shook off his hands and sucked in a deep breath. “We might not be here when you get back. Who knows where the fates will take us! Maybe home ... to our real homes. Maybe we’ll find the way home while you’re trudging through the swamp.”
“Maybe,” the priest returned. His tone sounded skeptical. “I hope you do. And so, if you re not here when I return, I will look for my own way home. Or I will make my own way in this backward, medieval world.” He nodded to Yevele, Ingrge, and Wymarc. “Tell Milo and Naile we wish them well. And we hope they find a good mercenary contract for the lot of you.”
“Priest . . . Deav Dyne.” Gulth gestured to the opposite end of the alley, where a road led to the edge of town. “Time to leave.”
“Then there is no more to say, save good-bye.” Yevele made a fist and brought it forward, meeting Gulth's fist. “Good luck to you.” She turned and retraced her steps, the wind whipping her hair and fluttering her threadbare cloak. She waited at the end of the alley.
Ingrge took one of Gulth’s hands in both of his and bowed. “May you find what you need in the swamp.” To the priest: “And if the fates are kind, may we meet again in this city.” Then he headed toward Yevele.
Wymarc was the last to leave. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t like this, splitting the company. Not a good idea.”
“Company?” Gulth raised what amounted to an eyebrow. “You accepted me, bard, but you never considered me a . . .”
“. . . friend? Probably not,” he admitted. “Prejudice is thick even in this world.” He thrust his fingers into a narrow pocket and pulled out two copper coins. He cupped them close to his chest. “Look, be quiet about this, ’kay?” He pushed the coins at Deav Dyne, careful to keep his body turned so his fellows couldn’t see the glint of the money. “It’s all I have. Came with the outfit. Maybe you can buy something to eat along the way.” Then Wymarc turned and bounded toward his companions. He looked once over his shoulder before he reached the end of the alley.
Gulth and Deav Dyne were already gone.
“Let’s go tell Milo and Naile that we’re down two,” Wymarc said.
Yevele brushed the hair away from her eyes. “And let’s hope they’ve found a way to earn some money or we’ll be down more. Starved to death, all of us. We haven’t a single coin for a loaf of stale bread. ”
Pain And Ale
The ale tasted faintly of oats and warmed Milo’s throat. But it went down too quickly, and he found himself staring morosely at the bottom of an empty mug. Wrapping his long fingers around the base, he thumped it soundly against the table, a signal for a refill.
Though Milo thumped the mug again and again, the sound didn’t carry far enough through the noise of the packed Golden Tankard. No empty seats tonight, as patrons crowded shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar. Conversations were a rough buzz . . . politics, wives, lame horses, the weather.
The patrons were a sampling of this part of the city. This tavern was one of the most popular, Milo had heard, because the music was good. But what music? he wondered. He and Naile had been here a while, and there was only the infernal roar of chatter, the clank of mugs and plates, and the occasional outburst of laughter.
There were common laborers, who likely came here before going home to their families, the grime of the day thick on their hands. Merchantmen, some of whom Milo recognized during his week in the city, clustered together and discussed business. A few men had the look of
miners, with coal-dust smeared on their cheeks. A handful of what Milo would consider men of a higher class sat around the largest table, out
of place and pointedly trying to avoid their lower-class neighbors. There were two priests in a corner, hunched over sheets of parchment and sharing a bottle of dark wine. Near them sat a black-robed man, at a table by himself. The cowl pulled over the man’s head, Milo couldn’t see his face, and thereby was instantly suspicious of him.
The only other patron who sat alone was dressed in clothes the shade of cold ashes, cloak pulled close despite the heat from the fireplace and the crowded bodies, hood partially concealing a narrow face. Milo couldn’t see the patron’s eyes, but from the nose down, the skin was pale and smooth, indicating a young man ... or perhaps a woman. Milo couldn’t tell who or what either of the cloaked strangers was looking at, though he suspected himself and Naile were as likely candidates as any.
“I’m still thirsty,” Milo told his companion. “Can’t get any service here.” He thought about going to the bar, but he’d drunk the first two ales much too quickly — on an empty stomach, and he knew his feet would be unsteady. So he tried another tact, waving the mug in his sword-calloused fist. At the same time, he strained to pick through the conversations to hear a lanky skald who had just perched himself on a makeshift stage. “Ah, finally the music this place is known for.” A pause: “Some music.’’ The skald was singing something about castles and courtly dancers, neither of which was appealing to this crowd or to Milo.
Finally, Milo got the attention of one of the tavern wenches. The stout young woman nodded and awkwardly threaded her way toward him. She was saying something as she squeezed between the seats, but he couldn’t hear her and didn’t know if she was talking to him anyway.
The skald sensibly ended the first song and started another, this one louder and livelier, about a king who hunted goblins. The conversations hushed a bit, and a few of the patrons joined in, evidence the song was a well-known favorite.
“Hie. Now, that's music,’’ Milo observed. He started tapping his foot.
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