“I want your coin purse, and that ring you’ve got.” Enaya wore a band of gold with inlaid amethyst on her right ring finger. It was the only jewelry that Sim was certain she wore everyday.
“You may have neither,” Enaya said simply. With her left thumb and forefingers, she began to twist and rub the ring.
“I think you may want to reconsider, my Lady,” he said as his face darkened.
“I’ve made my decision.” Enaya motioned with her hand. “Let’s be on our way.”
“Not so fast.” The man put his hand up to stop them. All along the sides of the road men popped up from hidden burrows in the ground with bows raised and arrows nocked. There were about twenty in all, and every one of them had a triumphant smile on his face.
Bandits, Sim thought, probably from that Cortella. Each man wore the same plain, worn and shabby clothes as the man in the road. Sim also noticed an underlying look of desperation in the eyes of each man he looked at. Some seemed almost feral.
Farrus and Givara drew their swords and closed in around Enaya and Sim. Sim considered drawing his sword as well, but he knew that he would need to use the power to put an end to this conflict. The fingers of his left hand reached up and found the orange gem around his neck. He began to focus. In his mind he formed the image of a wall of air encircling his party and made it hard. It had to be invisible but also strong enough to stop an arrow. The practice earlier during their walk along the road had apparently paid off as it didn’t take Sim more than a few moments to produce the wall of air. The gem became hot, and Sim could see the energy forming around them.
“There are better ways to make a living in this world. Honest professions you might consider.” Enaya didn’t sound worried as she chided the men who surrounded them.
“There’s no honesty in this world,” the man in the road scoffed, drawing a few laughs from the men holding bows.
“I’m sorry you’ve lost faith,” Enaya said quietly.
“Enough of this,” the man barked. “You’re surrounded. Throw all of your weapons down. Then take out anything you’re carrying with any value and place it at your feet.”
Enaya looked at Givara uncertainly. The tall, slender woman looked like a lioness preparing to strike. Her green eyes flared as they darted amongst her attackers. Did she really believe she could defeat all twenty of them by herself?
“I’ve taken care of the arrows,” Sim whispered to Enaya from the corner of his mouth. She looked at him quizzically, wondering what he had done, but nodded her head in understanding.
“I’ll make you an offer,” she announced. “I will give you one gold coin to split any way you wish. Accept this offer, and no blood will be shed here today. Decline and suffer the consequences.”
“I’m not a man to be trifled with, my Lady,” the man in the road called out in challenge. “I won’t tell you again. Throw the weapons and your valuables down, or I will give the order to shoot.”
Enaya pursed her lips and sighed. She looked to Sim again for a last bit of confidence. He nodded reassuringly. “Shoot.”
“What!?” the man asked perplexed.
“I said shoot,” Enaya answered levelly. “You claim to be willing to kill us for our possessions, so do it. Either let us go on our way, or take them by force. Dusk will be upon us soon, and we still have a long ways to walk. I’ve no time left to argue with you.”
The man in the road looked around at his men with a look of confusion. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being called out. Sim began to consider that his threat was nothing more than a bluff, but the man’s eyes suddenly became hard. He looked at Enaya with malice.
“You should have listened to me. None of you needed to die today.”
He raised his right arm above his head. Each of the surrounding men pulled their strings taught and took aim. When he dropped his arm the archers let their arrows fly. Every one of the arrows stopped just a few feet from the party, halting in mid-air and then dropping to the ground soundlessly. Astonished gasps filled the air. The man standing in the road looked at them with a mix of fear and startlement.
“You,” he cried out, pointing a finger at Enaya, “you’re one of them witches. I heard about your kind. They don’t just let you people walk around free.” He rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. “I’ll bet the local infantry would pay a nice price for one of your kind.” Some of the other men nodded in agreement. They looked around at each other, confidence beginning to rise. One at a time, they began to pull out their swords. “That might have worked on the arrows,” the man in the road snarled as his men started to march forward, “but you’ve got to let your guard down sometime.”
Sim shrugged when Enaya glanced at him. He wasn’t actually sure how long the wall of air could last. He could still feel the energy surrounding them, but it had lessened after the arrow strike. Watching the men approach, though, he didn’t feel concerned. They were outnumbered, but he doubted any of them were even close to Farrus, Givara, or himself in sword skill. He let the energy dissipate and pulled both of his swords out.
“Sure you’re up to killing a man?” Farrus whispered from behind. The question made Sim pause, a current of fear coursing through his veins. He’d never killed a man before. It was one thing to imagine a duel with life or death consequences, practicing in a barn in front of the horses and pigs, but being faced with the real choice made his stomach flip. He looked at the face of one of the men approaching. His blue eyes had murder in them, though his young, blonde features spoke of innocence and desperation. Sim didn’t want to kill the man, but he knew he would have to.
“We all do what we must,” he answered through gritted teeth.
Givara moved first. She charged at the two closest men, feinting to the right on the first man, before running him through with her thin curved blade. Using his body for leverage, she heaved up and landed a fierce kick to the side of the next man’s head, dropping him to the ground unconscious. Some of the other men saw the force of her attack and paused, looking at each other to see who would take the coward’s way out.
Farrus took advantage of the hesitation. He ran at a short, thin man coming up behind him and swung his sword up as if to strike at his head. When the man brought his own sword up to block, Farrus drove his boot into the man’s stomach, pitching the man forward. Farrus brought his sword down with a vicious downward thrust, taking the man’s head off. Blood shot out like a fountain, spraying the ground as the body slid to the earth.
Sim felt the need to sick up. He’d never seen a man bleed like that before. The urge to vomit made him bend over reflexively until a man charged at him, sensing a weakness. The impulse for survival brought Sim back to his senses. He caught his attacker’s strike with his right sword and spun to the left, deflecting a blow from a second foe with his left sword. They both countered with jabs which he easily swept away. Givara’s sword suddenly sprouted up through the chest of the man on his left, and suspending the feeling of shock he felt watching the blood stained tip erupt through the man’s coat, Sim spun and drove his own sword through the chest of the man on his right.
The man looked up at Sim with stricken eyes as the sword was pulled free from his chest. He fell to the ground at Sim’s feet, eyes wide open, and died. Sim couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. He hadn’t wanted to kill the man. It made him angry.
Swords flew about in arcs and jabs. Givara was a whirling dervish, lightning fast, felling man after man who stepped up to challenge her. Sim and Farrus fought back to back, besieged by several foes. Twice more Sim had to kill. One man got a sword in the stomach, his entrails spilling out onto the road. The other man, Sim beheaded with a right handed swing as he blocked the man’s attack with his left sword.
The skirmish didn’t last long. With their numbers dwindling and realizing that they had picked a fight with superior sword fighters, the bandits fell back. They took off at a run across the countryside. There were only seven men left. Seven men out of twenty led by the man who had blocked t
he road.
Breathless, Sim surveyed the damage around them. Bodies lay all over the road, blood soaking the dirt. Thirteen in all. The blood of three of them belonging to him. That urge to sick up hit him once again, so he quickly ran to a spot off the road, away from the devastation.
Farrus and Givara laughed as he left the contents of his stomach on a patch of yellow grass.
“Enough of that!” Enaya shouted at them. Still bent at the waist in case there was more in his stomach, Sim turned to look back at her. Farrus looked down at his feet like a wounded puppy as Enaya scolded them. “Were you so unaffected the first time you killed a man, Master Farrus? And you Givara. Did he not fight bravely? Have your concerns been put to rest? He killed because he had to. Don’t expect him to enjoy it.”
Givara fixed her with a hard stare. Sim could tell she didn’t like being dressed down in front of others. Enaya gave the stare right back, and after a tense moment, Givara nodded her head and turned away.
“What should we do about the bodies?” Farrus asked.
“We leave them,” Enaya answered with a bitter taste in her mouth. “We have to get to the inn by nightfall. I don’t want to be roaming unfamiliar streets at night looking for it.”
They all stepped over bodies and continued down the road. Sim stood up and watched them. It didn’t seem right to leave the bodies of these men lying in the road. They may have been trying to kill him, but he couldn’t help his guilt. A man had a right to be buried.
“May the light shelter your souls and carry you into the Creator’s loving embrace,” he whispered. It was a simple prayer Sevin had used whenever they had to bury one of the inn’s livestock. Sim didn’t feel much better about what had happened, but it would have to be enough. Reluctantly, he turned to follow his friends.
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Durg stood on a small rise watching the miserable humans digging a hole, through his specially designed shaded glasses. It was a cool evening in Caramour which was a small relief. The heat on this island was starting to become too much. Paratamians prided themselves on their inherent cultural ardor, but the constant, blistering sunlight was wearing him down. All of the Paratamians he’d brought with him, a fist totaling twenty, were feeling the same. The white cloaks they had to wear to keep the sunlight off their skin were hot and itchy, but necessary. Paratamians were mountain dwellers, not used to sunlight. It burned. Seared the eyes. Once this hole was completed, though, they would finally be able to leave.
One of the men in the hole shouted, and quickly they all started climbing out. Durg walked down to the edge, peering inside. The hole was maybe ten feet deep and the length of a full grown man around. At the bottom, he could see a spring of water bubbling up, and forming a pool. He smiled. Other than the several instances when he’d gotten to whip an uncooperative farmer, Durg had found few reasons to smile since he’d come to this place.
“You’re sure this spring feeds the whole island?” he asked a tall, dark haired man standing close by him.
“I’m certain,” he answered.
“Collo.” Durg called out to a white cloaked Paracles, standing on the other side of the hole. “Empty the cask.”
Collo and his brother Colto picked up the small wooden cask that sat on the ground between them. They held it over the hole and began to pour out its contents. Durg’s smile widened as the thick black liquid emptied down into the spring below. When the cask was empty, Collo and Colto threw it into the hole.
“Fill it in,” Durg ordered the tall, dark haired man, who nodded in compliance.
Durg turned and walked back up the rise. It was time to tell the Blood Lord that they could leave.
Chapter Eleven: The Blue Trellis
There was almost nothing Enaya liked about Nal’Dahara. At one time it may have been a beautiful city, but that time had long since passed. The cobblestone streets were gray, wet, and covered with spots of slimy lichen and fungus, the crevices besotted with weeds. The buildings they passed, row upon row of rectangular stone-carved boxes, were also gray and dreary. There was a gloom in this city, a melancholic vibe that had absorbed into the streets, the buildings, even the people. Enaya hoped they could find what they were looking for quickly and be on their way.
The sky was overcast, as it always tended to be in the northwestern part of Perth. It either rained or snowed, or so it was said. The cloud cover made it difficult to determine the time, but she was fairly certain that darkness would soon be descending.
As with most cities she had visited in her life, the streets on the outer edges were littered with the impoverished and destitute. On every stoop, in every alley, urchins in rags lay about with the same lithe, defeated expression of people that had long since lost hope; hope in their leaders, the creator, and in themselves. It was pitiful and depressing.
Mistress Hisha had advised them to seek out the Blue Trellis, and if the convoluted directions they’d received from the several urchins they had asked could be trusted, then they had to make their way into the inner city. It would be a long walk. She was ready for a warm bath and a soft bed.
Givara led the way, setting a brisk pace. She stalked about, a hand hovering over her sword, ready to strike if provoked. Farrus walked along with Sim. The grizzled old guardsmen had proven himself useful. It was good that Sim had a piece of home to give him comfort, small though that comfort may be. Sim hadn’t said a word since the confrontation back on the road. She had wondered if he had the constitution to kill a man and had received her answer. It was good to know he could answer the call. It also gave her hope that he had been so affected by it. The world needed a savior, not a soldier.
As they made their way into the inner city, the buildings seemed to double in size. The gray stone buildings, with their arches and spires reaching up toward the heavens, were still just as drab and depressing as the smaller structures in the outer city.
Givara grabbed a man leaving the office of a merchant. Judging by his plain, simple clothes, the man was a clerk of some kind. He seemed afraid of Givara and answered her questions quickly, running off up the street as soon as she released her grip on his coat. Givara scowled as he ran off, muttering something about cowardice.
“He believes the inn is seven more cross streets,” she told Enaya.
By the time they had made it to the seventh cross street, though, they saw no sign of the Blue Trellis, and it was becoming dark. A crew of public workers carrying torches, came down the street, lighting lanterns that hung from poles at every crossing. Givara marched right up to them.
“We’re looking for the Blue Trellis. Can one of you help us?” she asked in her demanding aggressive way.
“Aye, the Trellis be down that away,” answered a burly man, holding a torch. He pointed down the cross street. “Better to be off the streets at night, good Lady,” he warned. “Footpads and miscreants. Pretty folk like yourself be easy picking.”
Givara slid back her cloak to reveal her sword hilt. Her eyes flared with murder. A few men in the crew took a step away from her. They hastily lit the pole on the corner, and shuffled away, warily looking back over their shoulders as they went.
They found the Blue Trellis after walking for several minutes. The building, a plain stone construction about five floors high, was the same as every other on the street. It was simple and unadorned. Long rectangular windows, carved into the stone, marked out rooms on each of the five floors. A sign hung out front above the door. It showed a white bird perched atop a length of blue lattice fencing. Enaya noticed the bird’s beak right away. A simple yellow triangle. It provided the first feeling of comfort she’d had all day.
The common room was completely full. Every seat, at every table, held patrons drinking and eating. More people leaned against a long granite bar, talking in low tones. Despite the crowd, the room was very quiet. It seemed everyone was listening to a lone minstrel playing the violin next to a massive stone fire place.
Enaya knew the song he was playing. It was one of her favorites; a sad melody, meant to invoke the listener with a sense of love lost and regret. She had heard the tune many times, but the minstrel’s skill compelled her to stop and listen.
He was remarkably talented for such a simple place. The way he played with his eyes closed, swaying delicately in time to the rhythm, made her feel as though he were playing to sooth his own pain. The very best minstrels were good at making you believe they had an emotional connection to the songs they played.
They all stood silently until he finished, and the room erupted in applause. The minstrel took a long bow and sighed deeply. Several women around the room were weeping visibly.
One of the women moved to tears, stood beside the bar dabbing her eyes with a blue handkerchief. She was elderly, but fit. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun, exposing a weathered, wrinkled face. She looked at Enaya’s group standing by the door, and approached them.
“Good Evening, my Lady,” she said with a slight bow of her head. She spoke directly to Enaya. “I be Fanna Foust. How can I help you?”
“You’re the proprietor of this inn, Mistress Foust?” Enaya asked.
“I am, my Lady, and please, just call me Fanna.” Fanna’s small brown eyes were kind. Enaya instinctively felt she could trust this woman.
“I was told to come here by a friend. She said to ask for Master Foust.”
Fanna smiled and pointed to a middle-aged man tending bar.
“That be my son, Ron,” Fanna said with a proud smile. Ron was watching them and nodded to his mother. “Who be this friend of yours, my Lady?”
“An innkeeper in Carleton. A Mistress Hisha.” Enaya tried to keep her voice low. Fanna’s eyes widened in surprise at the name. She turned and looked back at her son. Enaya sensed a hint of regret in the old woman.
“Yes, yes. I know, Hisha.” Fanna took Enaya’s hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. “Is she well?”
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