This will work.
He took nimble steps. The soil was soft, a mix of ice and tiny stones. He knelt down on the shore, his back to the town and the others who were around. Reaching into his robes, he drew his dagger.
Goodbye, friend.
Tossing the blade into the water, he stood and watched it reflect the sun as it descended into the water, fading from sight. He then pulled the scabbard off his broken sword and threw it in, as well. His trinkets of war were gone.
Chapter 3 Tar Sal Tavern
Sviska turned from the shore .He made a hasty glance to the left and then right as he checked for any who may have seen him.
No one was looking his way. He exhaled and trudged back toward the docks before turning toward the rest of the buildings. A pathway of brown packed snow wound up through the dark buildings of the village. The town seemed to be quite boisterous regardless of the weather and fading sunlight.
Crunching his way up the incline, he walked beside large torches lining the road as he went along the slope of the mountain. He looked around, spotting people who were busy moving goats and chickens into snow-covered stables nestled between each building. There was haste from a nearby log-cutting shack as whole trees were heaved onto a cutting blade and townspeople worked to chop wood and disperse it out. It seemed as darkness fell, people were preparing to assure they had supplies to stay warm, and very little else mattered to them.
Two children playing together, not taking part in any preparations at all, tossed a snowball at Sviska as he passed. He stopped as it hit his back dead center with a surprising amount of sting. He turned to find the two children smiling at him. One was a girl of about seven years. Her hair, braided and blonde, fell down her back as she danced from her left foot to her right. The other child, a boy no more than four, was squatted down, readying another snowball.
"Good evening, sir!" the little girl said, bowing down.
He nodded to her and waved at the little boy, who rushed to complete his next icy ball before Sviska turned away. The boy then laughed, launching the snowball. Sviska ducked and it missed. He smiled and began walking again as the children continued their bout of throwing ice. He jumped as a raspy voice from a doorway to his right shouted at him.
"Unfriendly people bring unfriendly thoughts!" the voice cackled.
Sviska turned. An old woman sat in a rocking chair just inside the doorway to her house. A large fire burned in an iron pit in front of her, and she gripped a mug of steaming drink in a firm hand.
He began to walk again when a book hit him in the arm.
"You can ignore the children, but if you continue to ignore me and act like you have no sense of kindness, I'll begin throwing larger and sharper things."
He stopped, straightened his back, and turned to her with just his head. "I did not ignore the children. I acknowledged them. What can I do for you?"
The older woman set down a small stone statue and turned back to her drink.
"I have been alive longer than most in this village," she said. Her feeble hands gripped the mug from which she took several sips before continuing. "Many pass this road when they are new. They wander upward until they get to the tavern. Most can find what they seek there in that smoky abode. It doesn't hurt that it is one of the warmest places here."
She pointed behind him in the direction he was already going.
Sviska tapped his foot and adjusted his bags on his shoulder. "Well, it is where I should go next, then, ma'am. I thank you for your kindness."
The woman stood, her head hunched down from the ages of wear on her back. "I did not stop you to give you directions, but to warn you. I have read the stars. I have seen your coming. You are not here to do what you think. You do not yet know your task, but it is monumental."
"You do know that reading the stars is forbidden," he told her.
His words, though not in a cruel tone, caused the woman to close her mouth and her eyes.
"I am but an old woman who enjoys the last twinkling of life I have left. You have a good day, sir. Go on to the tavern. I will trouble you no more."
She immediately turned and went into her house, shutting the door with a slam. The snow above the doorway fell in a small pile in front of the door, dousing the fire with a sizzle and rise of steam.
Sviska took a deep breath and looked around, not sure what to take from this encounter. He looked up and noticed the gray skies were darkening more, and behind him, the fog over the water was billowing through the lower regions of the village. Now only the glows of the torch basins lit the way back to the river, but though he desired it, he could not turn back.
It was not much further when he emerged from the rather tightly spaced buildings of the village. He found himself passing a large stable before coming to an even larger building with smoke billowing out of a stone chimney that was nestled between two large branches of a tree that overhung the roof.
He stopped and looked above the door. Suspended by icy chains was a worn down gray wooden sign with the image of a fish holding a tankard and the writing Tar Aval Tavern and Soups. At least he had found the tavern.
Approaching the door, he could hear nothing from the outside. With a firm push, he opened it and found himself facing a set of stairs going downward. He followed them and found another door. With another push, he opened it, and a plume of tobacco smoke burned his eyes. He coughed and stepped forward. Music sounded wildly from a small band atop some barrels in the corner. Sviska looked toward the stacked bar where the barkeep was busy polishing mugs and motioned for him to come forward.
The other patrons stared, but more in curiosity than rudeness. He cared little as he approached the bar.
The barkeep himself had a burly build. He wore a tanned shirt that while clean, was old and partly showed the man’s bare chest and a twist of gray-tinged hair. He had an untrimmed mustache but a demeanor that was inviting. A good quality to have given his profession.
"You look lost, good sir. How 'bout a drink?" he said with a smile, turning over a mug and beginning to turn toward the kegs of ale behind him. "Do you prefer it warm or cold? We drink it both here."
He looked around and then sat on the only open stool. "Warm."
The barkeep turned around, throwing his towel over his shoulder, and poured a drink from a keg that sat just above a stone oven.
"Warm Tar Aval ale, and"—he reached under the bar—"I have a note for you."
He slid a sealed letter to him. "Strange man came in here, dropped it off, and then said I would see some lost southern soul here. Looks like you’re lost, and I know the smell of our own, so you must be from the south! Here you go!"
The barkeep quickly moved on to other guests. As Sviska took the mug in hand, he elbowed himself more room from the patrons at either side, and then he took a sip of the ale. The warm brew gave a slight tinge to the back of the tongue. The taste and feel was heavy and reminded him slightly of the smell of moldy bread.
Looking at the plain parchment covering, he flipped it over and noticed a black unadorned wax seal. He popped the seal with his finger and took a quick glance to his sides. The others around him were almost oblivious to his presence. This was not the first time he had received a message in a tavern, but still, the Order always delivered with a bird. This was strange to him.
The handwriting was harsh and seemed hastily scribbled.
You are to continue to the mountains, and services have been arranged to transport you up. At midnight, be at the warming barn north of town. Do not be late.
He tucked the letter away and then signaled for the barkeep. The man came over with a smile.
"Another?" he asked, gripping the mug from the top.
"No, no. I am good with the one. I thank you for the drink. How much will it cost me?"
"For visitors such as yourself, I will cover. We do not get many here, and the many we have here are here all the time!” The man laughed between them. “Please remember us if you do return. Where do you go from here? I
f you do not mind me asking."
"The mountains. I need to go to a warming barn north of town," Sviska told him, standing from the stool.
"Well, normally trips into the mountains are done in the late part of night. Dusk is a dangerous time around these parts. Best to wait until later hours to travel to the warming barn. If you are leaving tonight and have the time, you may head upstairs and rest. I have a collection of books you may enjoy. Some are quite rare, especially to a visitor not accustomed to our culture here."
He pointed toward a stairwell in the far corner of the tavern to the left of the door. "Just that way," he said. "I don't get many new visitors, but accommodation is my passion."
The music that was playing stopped, and a man shouted from the barrels. "Barkeep! We are gettin' to be thirsty! How 'bouts a drink. You know, something to revive the songs a bit?"
Another patron from a table near the back shouted, "Give him a drink quick. They’re getting sober! I don't much like sober musicians! I'll pay to keep the ale flowing!"
There was an exchange of laughs through the tavern. Sviska smiled and then looked toward the stairwell and then back to the barkeep. Already he had gone back to work, pouring a trio of ale to carry to the band. It was just after dusk now, and he would have to wait a few hours before midnight. He figured time in the warmth would be better than wandering in the cold outside.
The steps leading upward were old and dark. Compared to the other wood finishes in the tavern, it seemed aged. A few steps, a quick turn in a dark corner, four more steps, and he had reached the top. Looking around the second floor, he noticed more stone and what appeared to be an effigy of stained glass. Taking a moment to breathe in the mix of musty air with the smoky air from below, he stepped forward to look at the glass art. A single torch affixed to the stones next to the etching splashed a dim light on the nook. A mermaid lying upon surf-covered stones with green clouds above her head greeted him with a solemn smile. Below the glass, a set of three candles sat unused on a wooden table, thick with melted wax at their bases. Stone shelves built into the wall held rows of books shadowed in the darkened resting place.
The music started up again, and the laughing and shouting continued below. He took the candles and lit each of them before perusing the books, dusty and tattered, their age unknown.
As he started to browse the books, he noticed that they not only were rare, as the barkeep had mentioned, but also forsaken in the lands of the south.
Torchlight and Other Conjured Flames.
Fairies and the Whimsical.
Simple House Magic for the Commoner.
Many more, all of origin from well before he was born, lined the shelves. He glanced up to the very top of the shelf and noticed the spine of a large book hanging over the edge. He could not reach it and began jumping, trying to grab its binding.
"Those who seek knowledge and find it are wise and worthy of that wisdom."
The voice was sudden and from behind him. Sviska felt for his dagger along his belt, and then remembered he did not have it.
He had not seen another person when he came up the stairs. Turning in a circle, he confirmed that. He went to the ledge and looked over, finding no one looking up. Stepping quietly to the right, he went to the stairwell, but there was no one there either. Turning back now toward the nook, he noticed an area he had not spotted before a bit further past the reading area. He approached with a quieted walk. Taking the torch from the wall, he stretched it in front of him. A raised pulpit in a far corner with lines of seats was just visible behind a thin veil of cloth hanging from the rafters. From the shadows, the outline of a man emerged.
Sviska took a step back on his right foot, holding the torch out as far as he could. However, seeing the figure in a better light, he did not fear. The man walk forward slowly with a gimp and it was clear the man was very old. Sviska lowered his torch.
"You startled me, sir," he said to him.
The man's eyes were warm, his hair long and white. As he approached, his garb of a long robe, aged and browned near the edges, still showed raiment of silver etchings along the cuffs of the arms and down the center of his chest.
"Resua, you coming here is of no accident," the man said. His voice was low but smooth.
"My name is Turmin," he said, correcting the old man.
The man passed him and went to the nook.
"Of course. Turmin. Forgive a man of my age." He looked up at the top of the shelf where the book was just out of reach. "Do not just wonder at what you wish to learn."
From within his robes, he grasped a large staff, brown and like the trunk of a tree. He struck the bookshelf. The book fell to the ground, a plum of dust hanging in the air above it.
Sviska followed the man and reached down to pick up the book. The cover was torn, and the bindings were falling apart. He took it to the nearby table and set it down. Then he turned a few pages, finding an annotation.
Knowledge is for the ones who seek it.
Below the words were symbols, harsh, like carved stone. A single set of runes ran along the lower portion of the page.
An etching just after that page showed a large town near the water. He studied the picture but did not recognize the town. In all his travels, he had never seen an image like this. Strange symbols etched in different locations around the town, with peculiar markings at the gates, baffled him. He turned the pages and found that the text was in a strange tongue, not at all the common language and not something he had seen before.
"I am sure you do not understand the wisdom before you," the old man whispered from behind him. "But perhaps for now you should turn to the next page. The text here is not what you need."
Sviska turned to the next page and noticed drawings of buildings. A collage of images filled the pages. Strange standing stones in the woods, more images of green clouds above the sea, and mountains with light radiating from the peaks. He looked to the next page and noticed a building somewhat like the front of the tavern, but different. It was a cathedral. The magnificent building had twin steeples and a large garden before it. He flipped the page and saw a very different image. The cathedral was on fire, and an image of a tearing eye was in the corner of the page, along with the phrase The Weeping Times.
"Was this Tar Aval?" Sviska asked.
There was no answer from the man. Sviska turned to look at him, but the old man was gone. He stood, glancing over to the dark place the man had come from. No one.
He walked over, torch in hand, and did not see any door or other portal of sorts. Feeling the stones for some door or passage, he found nothing. The man was gone.
Shaking his head, he rubbed his hair. Tar Aval had so far been a place of strange happenings, and he was half feeling that he was seeing and hearing things. His sleep for the past week had been nearly none, if he could even claim that much. He had been in his tunic and coats for many days, and now he was warm enough, he felt he was sweating. He took off the tunics and stretched at the lessening of his weight. He could see the barkeep coming up the top of the stairwell, and began back toward the reading area, feeling exhausted.
"I take it you are well?" the barkeep asked.
"Um, yes. I am. You do have a rare collection of books," he said, rubbing his hair.
"That we do. They have been in my family for many years. Time has aged them down, but they do remain. Some of the few items saved from the fires."
Sviska pointed to the image in the book. "I see there is a remembrance of that fire. Did the town burn?"
"No. Just the church. Nevertheless, all the priests were inside and were unable to escape. The rumor is that echoes of them haunt late at night after closing here. If you believe such things and have had adequate amount of drink, that is." He smiled. "The name is Rudin, just so you know."
He bowed and then brought out a bag he had in his coat. "Some Valera Root. Helps with the cold. The least I can do for someone willin' to muse at my books."
Sviska took the bag and opened it. Finely gro
und leaves of a green and blue color filled the bag.
"Just rub it in your hand and then place the herbs in your mouth. It will help soothe your breathin'."
"Thank you."
There was a pause after that. Sviska was still dumbfounded that the old man had just disappeared.
Had he really been there or had the journey affected him so much that he was hallucinating? He thought if he should ask the barkeep of it, but worried that it may be more of a bother and a question of his sanity to ask such a thing, so he refrained.
"If you are tired, take a rest. You have my word no one will come up here," Rudin told him. "Most are afraid of the stairs that lead up to this level. They have been here since the fire, though. One of the few things to survive, other than the room in the back over there."
"Does anything else keep them from coming up here?" he asked, half-hoping Rudin might give him some clue as to the old man’s identity.
"Well, the drinks are down there, and when you've drunk a few, you don't really want to fall up the stairwell, for one!" He laughed, but then his smile quickly faded. "To be frank, the screams at night can be heard from anywhere around the tavern, but seem to be loudest from up here. But, that is, if you believe such things to be true."
Chapter 4 Into The Mountains
Rudin shook his head and smiled again. "If you need anything else, lemme know." He turned and went back down the stairwell.
The sounds of the music and clamor of loud laughing and carrying on went on into the later part of the night.
Sviska dozed off, and in a makeshift bed of two chairs with his own tunic as a blanket, he managed to get a few hours of sleep. His journey had been sleepless until now.
He awoke harshly, a cold chill in the air. Uneasy, he glanced around, wondering why he had awoken when he did. In the air was a sense of foreboding, and the darkness around was gloomy. All but one candle on the table nearby had burned out.
Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, still very dreary. The sweet smell of an herbal tea sitting on a nearby chair beckoned him further awake. He wondered if Rudin had simply just brought it and his mind had only played further tricks, hastily waking him up.
Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content) Page 3
