Shadow Of The Mountain

by D. A. Stone

  “Going anywhere special?”

  “Not too sure yet,” Desik admitted. “We’re looking for a ship, if you know of any. Don’t matter where it’s heading, long as it’s going to put some land behind it.”

  “Sorry, gents,” Brock winced apologetically, returning the bar towel to a hip pocket on his apron. “Most of the sailors I know pulled anchor and headed out the last day or so, bouncing down the eastern ports. Varishna, Hurandor, Tesiria. You’ll have a hard time booking passage now and even if you can, it’ll cost you some heavy coin.”

  “Payment isn’t an issue,” Desik assured him, curling a hand around his mug. “But thanks anyway.”

  The bartender glanced at the old sailor. “You know of any ships, Hagart?”

  The silver-haired man thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “Shit no.”

  Brock smiled and fell quiet, turning around to polish a row of mugs and hang them upside down from a bar rack.

  The silence was making Tenlon’s ears ring. Or maybe it was the ale.

  “Is that what you use if people get too rowdy in your place?” he suddenly asked, pointing up to the sword on the wall. Even as the words came out, he knew it was stupid.

  Brock snorted a laugh, looking up at the weapon. “Nah, that’s for splitting plate armor. This,” he said, reaching below and bringing up a polished, black three-foot-long club that he slammed onto the bar. “This is for busting skulls! It’s got some lead running through the center so it’ll dole out a proper headache.”

  “Where were you splitting plate armor?”

  “Tenlon…” Desik began in a tone of warning.

  “It’s all right,” Brock said easily. “It was…damn near thirty years ago now, I suppose. Well before Gerta here and I bought this place and little Gemma came along. I spent some time with the Trade Legion. They were having trouble crossing the Verdan Pass with wares from Den Prazi. Northern Varishna had been robbing them blind, playing it like bandits was doing the dirty business. Took us two years and a whole lot of ugly to get straightened out.”

  “You’re boring them,” Gerta chirped from behind, lighting a thin stick in the fireplace coals and moving to the candles. The purple flutist began to follow her around on the tips of his toes in a comical fashion, playing a gentle melody.

  “Of course I’m boring them!” Brock gave Tenlon a friendly wink. “These is young men here, in a battle-torn land! What care they for the tales of the old, am I right?”

  “You are certainly right,” Gerta said with a sigh. Tenlon watched the purple flutist as he spun and danced around her, the tempo of his song slowly increasing.

  “I really think that Lanard might be queer in the head,” Brock said with a touch of pity, watching the musician follow his wife around. “When I found him a few years ago, he was playing his flute and dancing in the rain. I guess he wanted to earn a few extra coins, but people were just standing there throwing garbage at him.”

  Tenlon didn’t know what to make of this and kept to his potatoes. Once finished, he pushed the plate away and pulled in his full mug.

  Brock placed a thick hand on the side of the plate and flicked his wrist, sending the dish to the end of the bar. Tenlon watched its momentum, hearing it slide across the smooth wood. Brock leaned to the side as if to stop it from traveling too far by sheer will or possibly his own shifting weight.

  Instead of sailing off the bar, the plate came to a stop at the last second, hanging precariously off the edge.

  The bartender held a meaty fist up in triumph. “Ha! You see that? I bet you thought it’d shatter to pieces, didn’t you? You see, the trick of it is to--”

  “Brock!” Gerta’s voice cracked like a whip, snapping his head up. “What did I tell you about that?”

  “Have I ever dropped a dish, woman?” he demanded. “Have I?”

  The swinging kitchen doors opened and a slender blonde figure stepped into the bar. Tenlon looked upon her and felt as though he’d been kicked in the chest by a horse. All at once he grew hot and lightheaded. His breath vanished from his lungs and his heartbeat turned erratic.

  She grabbed the plate from the bar’s edge and spun it atop her finger. “I’ve seen you break a few,” she said with a knowing smile. “Although you clean it up right quick before anyone knows about it.”

  “I thought we wasn’t going to talk about those times, Gemma?” Brock said in a hurtful tone. “You know how your mum is with her dishes.”

  “Oh, you’ll still miss me when I’m gone.”

  “Every day,” Brock agreed with a sad smile.

  Tenlon was still trying to catch his breath, to regain some control over his tumbling, jumbled thoughts, but it was impossible.

  There was so much he was uncertain of in the world. He had so many questions and reservations, so many suspicions and doubts about life and purpose, happiness. But here in this moment there was no question, no doubt, and no uncertainty. A glowing truth walked through that swinging door and never before in his life, not once, had he ever been so sure of what he knew now:

  This was the most dizzyingly beautiful girl in the world.

  ***

  Her hair was the flawless blonde of summer sunlight, long and beautiful, with most of it pulled back save for a few tendrils that hung down to frame her face. Not much taller than Tenlon himself, he watched as she returned the plate to the bar and gave Brock a kiss on the cheek. The girl had a slight resemblance to her mother, but was far more striking than he would have ever dreamt the two parents could produce. Her slim body was held beneath a fitted gown of deep blue emblazoned with golden designs that twisted up the front and back. She looked to be the same year as Tenlon, but beyond that they were about as far removed from each other as a purebred mare and a plow pony.

  After kissing her father, she turned and moved away from him, her ankle-length dress spinning behind her. Tenlon could swear their eyes had met. His, dull and brown, situated above an awkward nose and dumb grin, and hers, large and blue, above the most beautiful mouth in the world. The mouth of an angel.

  Did she smile at him? Or had he only wished she had? Tenlon followed her reflection in the mirror, struggling to watch each step, every movement, not wanting to miss a solitary inch of her loveliness.

  “Gemma, my sweet child!” the flutist cried in a dramatic fashion. Removing his hat and swinging it to the side, he bowed deeply to her. Without the hat he looked much older, with delicate features, thinning light hair, and a sharply hooked nose. “You grow more beautiful with each passing breath!”

  She took a light hold of her dress and curtsied in return, her lips spreading in an amused smile. “Lanard, coastal prince of song and dance, you are far too kind.”

  “Skies above, child, you couldn’t be more wrong!” He laid his silver flute on the table and pulled his hat back over his head, sliding a gentle hand over the feather.

  “Even my kindest words do you the greatest injustice. Please, allow me to redeem my boorish tongue,” he said, holding up an elbow to her, face turning serious, “through dance.”

  Gemma giggled and took his arm. Instantly they both set off spinning around the empty tables.

  “Do you see what I mean?” Brock asked them as he cleaned a mug, nodding in Lanard’s direction. “Queer…in the head.”

  Desik offered a crooked grin but kept silent. Tenlon couldn’t pull his eyes from the girl in the mirror if his life depended on it.

  “Whoa there, friend!” Brock exclaimed, the concern in his voice snapping Tenlon from his trance. “I think you may be bleeding.”

  Desik looked to his hands and saw a streak of blood running down the side of his right little finger.

  “Shit,” he muttered, pulling at the cuff of his jacket and peeking down. “Probably pulled a stitch. We’d better head to the room for a minute.”

  “Nonsense!” Brock said, bringing a worn wooden box up from behind the bar with a fresh towel. “Got my kit. Let’s have a look at it right here.”

  �
�Really?”

  “I like to take care of my customers,” Brock told them with a smile so wide it made his mustache twitch.

  Removing his coat and draping it over the stool, Desik sat back down and rolled up the sleeve of his gray tunic. The colorful arm he exposed was wired over with veins and muscle, the underside of his forearm spotted with blood smears. When the bandage wrapped around his bicep appeared, Tenlon could see that it was indeed stained dark red.

  Removing the bandage, Brock examined the wound and let out a low whistle. “Looks like you’ve been chewed on by a lion.”

  “Dog,” Desik corrected.

  “Must have been a big dog.” Brock dampened the white towel and dabbed the wound. “You pulled five, maybe six of the stitches out, I think. Should be an easy fix.”

  Suddenly Brock stopped and peered closer at Desik’s arm. Letting go of the towel, his face changed somehow, eyes widening. Slowly he stared up at the warrior.

  There was something wrong with the way the bartender was looking at Desik.

  “What?” Tenlon asked, the nerves of his belly twisting up in a bunch. That look had frightened him. He needed Desik. He needed Desik healthy, he needed him safe. But above all else, he needed Desik by his side. “What is it?”

  “I know who you are,” Brock said breathlessly, taking half a step back.

  Desik took the towel from the bar, ripping in half. “No,” he said icily, wrapping his arm and pulling the knot tight with his teeth. “You don’t know who I am.”

  “You’re one of those boys, aren’t you?” Brock went on, the excitement in his voice almost childlike. “Your barracks was attacked when you was younger. But you fought them off, didn’t you? Then you all got the dragons on your arms. It was against the army’s rules back then, but they let you do it. You’re Amorian.”

  Desik slid his jacket back on, his face emotionless, words low. “I think you may be speaking out of turn, tavern keeper.”

  “No,” Brock shook his head, wading deeper into a pool Desik clearly didn’t want him swimming in. “No, no, no. You got the mark on your arm, I’m certain of that. It’s buried beneath all them other colors and scales for some reason, but I know that mark. Is it true they sent you boys across the realm afterwards? To learn from different sword masters? What was it, eight of you? Ten? Talk was that they made you the best the world’s ever seen. What are you even doing here? I would’ve thought that Goridai…”

  Desik leaned across the bar and Brock fell quiet as the warrior whispered something to him. Tenlon strained to hear but it was over too quick, drowned out in Gemma’s laughter as she and the musician continued to dance.

  Once Desik sat back down, Brock’s face changed from gushing appreciation back to bartender with a stiff and sudden nod. He’d turned flush and seemed quite nervous for such a large man.

  He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Why don’t you let me stitch that wound up? It’ll just keep bleeding.”

  “The wound will be fine for now.”

  “Would you boys like some of Gerta’s fruit tarts?” he asked nervously.

  “Just ale,” Desik raised his empty mug, hanging it by the handle from his finger. Brock took the mug and turned away from them to the tap. Tenlon suddenly felt uneasy. What had Desik said to the man, and what had Brock meant?

  Was he talking about those Amorian students that were attacked at their academy years back? Tenlon knew the story, or legend as it were. Prince Healianos had been in the common barracks when the assassins came for him in the night. Many of those boys had fought and died just to wrestle a sword free for one of their brothers to use. It was a tale Amoria’s future soldiers were told before bedtime.

  But what was he saying about the markings on Desik’s arm? Something about a dragon? Tenlon had seen the markings and couldn’t really discern much in the way of individual images. It was more of a blended collection of colors and patterns.

  After filling Desik’s mug, Brock moved out from behind the bar to have a seat at one of the round tables. Hagart followed with his ale, and the two began to speak in low tones. Tenlon thought that perhaps they were discussing he and Desik, but then the bartender handed over a small purse of coins, which the old sailor emptied on the table to count.

  Leaving the men to their business, Tenlon watched Desik in the mirror. The warrior’s elbows rested against the bar, his shoulders hunched up around his mug. There was so much he didn’t know about him, except of course that he was a man of violence.

  “Well?” Desik asked sourly, turning to him.

  “Well what?”

  “We’re partners now, I suppose,” he continued. “So if there’s anything you might want to ask me, now’s the time. I imagine Brock’s little display of whimsy has fired the boilers of your scholar’s curiosity. Might not get another chance.”

  Tenlon thought about where to begin. Desik was a mystery, and who knew when these gates would open again?

  “Are you one of those academy students that survived the attempt on the King’s life?” he finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was turning fifteen in the fall. Old for the class.”

  “What happened in there? During the attack?”

  “Next question.”

  Tenlon stumbled forward, not wanting to waste any time. “What did Brock mean, about the marks on your arm?”

  Desik sighed, neatly spinning his mug on its edge with a fingertip. “Not everyone dies clean in a fight. After the attack was put down and the surgeons came, we sat with each other. Drank, talked…waited.” Desik seemed to lose himself as he gazed at his rotating mug. Tenlon had never seen that look on him before.

  “You were waiting for your friends to pass,” he said softly.

  The warrior pulled his hand away and the mug spun to a stop. “Healianos brought in men to give us all the dragon tattoo, even the boys we had to bury. Said it’d link us together, no matter where we went or what we did.” He shook his head, the edge of a smirk on his face. “Seems foolish now, but I think he felt he had to do something. Anything. We weren’t in control that night, none of us were.”

  Desik lifted his mug, arching an eyebrow. “Scary shit,” he muttered before taking a sip.

  “I can’t even imagine,” Tenlon exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “Can I…Can I see it? The dragon?”

  Desik pushed against the bar with his foot, sliding his stool back. Unbuttoning the cuff of his jacket, he slid the sleeve up to his elbow, extending his arm.

  Tenlon looked into the twisting patterns of forest green and shining scales of blue, red, silver, and gold. He could just barely see the outline of a curled bronze dragon on the inside of his forearm, but it was there, looking back at him with one stern eye. It was a fierce and lean dragon, born in dark times.

  “It’s almost completely hidden.”

  “Aye. That’s the point.”

  “Why would you want to hide it? You’re heroes.”

  Desik scoffed at the notion. “Hardly. And it suited me during my youth, but as I grew older the king needed me for certain…tasks. Ones that would best not be traced back to the Amorian banner.”

  “What kind of tasks?”

  “Menial things mostly.” He waved the question off, rolling his sleeve back down.

  Tenlon decided not to probe any deeper. He hadn’t known Desik long, but whatever a man of his talents had done for the King, it wouldn’t have been menial.

  He could still see the warrior riding hard into the Blackwolves as the sun set over that final ridgeline, his sword driving through them like a relentless scythe. The creatures came at him and died as if it were written in the stars. Numbers didn’t matter to him and he was the only one of their escort to ride out of Killian Forest alive. And then there was the giant whose boots Tenlon had scuffed when they’d first arrived in Ebnan, dropped to the ground faster than a fluttering eyelid.

  Desik had never backed away from any
of it.

  “You’re good, aren’t you?” he asked in all seriousness. “I mean, you’re really good.”

  The man shrugged but said nothing of it.

  “Did they actually send the lot of you around the realm, to learn the sword?”

  “We traveled a bit,” Desik said thoughtfully, scratching his growing beard. “Picked up a few techniques abroad. Nothing too exciting though.”

  Tenlon couldn’t help but smile. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not exactly the most spellbinding of storytellers?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”

  “I’ve heard that on occasion,” Tenlon admitted. “Tell me, what did you say to Brock that made him back off so? He looked alarmed.”

  Desik lifted his shoulders. “I politely asked him to change the subject.”

  “No you didn’t,” Tenlon replied with certainty. “…Did you?”

  Suddenly the tavern’s entrance swung open behind them.

  Tenlon knew the Lonely Fox was open for business to the public, but he’d been enjoying their time alone. Secretly he hoped that whoever it was, they wouldn’t be staying long.

  Eyes returning to the mirror, he saw a tall figure in the doorway behind them, silhouetted against the glow of early sunset.

  Clean-shaven and handsome, the newcomer appeared to be in his mid-twenties with thick black hair cut along the jaw line. He walked in with an arrogant strut, both hands stuffed into the pockets of a knee-length hooded jacket of charcoal-dyed leather. He paused as Gemma moved past, his eyes following her until she disappeared behind the kitchen door. After she was gone, he tilted his head, smiling to himself.

  Tenlon watched the man approach the bar in the mirror’s reflection, seeing him take a seat two empty stools away from Desik. The stranger’s arrival seemed to have put a halt to their discussion, for the warrior now sipped quietly from his mug with a vacant gaze. After a moment the young man spread his hands at the apparently empty bar.

  “Is this a tavern with no tender?” he asked amiably, looking back across the open dining area.

  “I do apologize,” Brock declared as he stood. Shaking hands with Hagart, the old sailor tightened the coin pouch and headed for the exit. Brock slid behind the bar. “We have golden ale from Aranport, though the bite on it is a bit mild for most. The Thoran Brown seems to be the favored choice around here. More copper than brown, really. Thick head, bitter at first, but it’ll make you a believer after a few pulls.”