Reapers of Souls and Magic: A Rohrland Saga (The Rohrlands Saga Book 1)

by R. E. Fisher

  “Including the tab you owe?”

  “Yes, yes…how much? And could you put me down, please?” Winston replied.

  Grogg put Winston down and began counting using his fingers; then he walked over to the bar, still counting, to where Rosie had retreated. She grabbed the ledger from underneath the bar and opened it to the bookmark. The page she opened it to just happened to have Winston’s name on it with a rather long list of figures underneath. Rosie slid the open book toward Grogg.

  “According to this…” Grogg said as he tapped the ledger, “…you owe me 73 gold, 86 silver, and 4 coppers.”

  Tapping his chin while looking upward at the ceiling, Winston replied, “Yeah, that sounds about right.” The shelfling looked toward Ollie. Grogg then looked at Ollie. It appeared that everyone in the Bloody Talon was now looking at Ollie.

  Ollie hadn’t been in the realm that long, but even he knew that was a substantial amount of money, which he didn’t have. It appeared that Winston had either run up quite the tab or caused quite a bit of damage during his last visit.

  “Well, shit, that television show doesn’t look too bad now, does it?” Ollie mumbled to himself as he stood up. He drank the last of his ale, and though his food was uneaten, he looked at Rosie and asked, “How much do I owe you for the meal?”

  Rosie looked at Grogg, who nodded. She replied, “73 gold, 87 silver, and 92 coppers.”

  Ollie looked at Grogg and asked, “Really? You allow a thief into your tavern and then expect me, who has never been anything but a victim of his, to pay for his mistakes? Well, that’s not going to happen.” Ollie dropped two silver coins onto the table next to his uneaten meal and said, “This will cover what I owe,” and began to walk toward the door.

  Grogg moved toward the door to block his exit; he succeeded, so Ollie stopped, not wishing to anger the knuckle-dragger. Ollie looked down at Winston and said, “You need to tell him the truth, you little shit, and you need to tell him now.”

  Winston looked at Ollie and shrugged, unsure of how to talk everyone out of the seeming confrontation that was developing. To Winston, Ollie looked to be a wealthy merchant. Not one of the perfumed fop sorts, but one who held his coin close and didn’t advertise. His horse and saddle were of the finer type and his clothing was new, although it did reek of balnatharp. That only showed that he had traveled up from the southwest and was just coming off the road. He carried a fine leather pack on his horse, and his coin purse had been heavy, from what little weight Winston had been able to assess before he had gotten caught. Winston walked over to Ollie and slid a chair up next to him, climbing up onto it to speak with him quietly.

  “Look, my friend, please just pay him. I will ensure that you get your funds back, I promise. He is angry, and I’m confident he will let you survive. I’m not positive, but I think so. He has no reason to kill you over coin; me, on the other hand, I know I wouldn’t survive. So, at this point it’s you or me. Nothing personal, but I’m going with you rather than with myself,” he whispered to Ollie.

  “No. He will see reason if you tell him the truth,” Ollie offered.

  “You did notice him counting on his fingers, yes? Have you ever known anyone reasonable who had to do that?” Winston whispered as he climbed down from the chair and slid it back under a table.

  Ollie turned his attention back to Grogg. “Sir, I have no quarrel with you, nor do I owe this Winston character any coin. You, sir, are going to have to get it from him!”

  “Is that so?” Grogg asked.

  “Yes.”

  “OK, then; have it your way,” Grogg answered back. He began rolling up his shirtsleeves and walking toward Ollie. As he passed Winston, he pointed at him and said, “Now don’t you go anywhere, Winston. I don’t want to have you hunted; it costs too much and it’s time consuming. But you know I will.” As he finished his sentence, he threw a right cross at Ollie, who still hadn’t expected violence to ensue. It was the last thought he had before darkness overtook him.

  Ollie awoke in a foul-smelling cell along with several unsavory sorts, including Winston.

  “I told you he would let you live,” Winston stated smugly.

  With growl and a groan, Ollie climbed to his feet and started to move toward the shelfling; however, two brutish louts stood on either side of Winston, blocking him. “No; we can’t have that, sir. I’m pretty sure my new friends would disapprove. What should I call you, since we’re going to be here for a while?”

  Walking over to a bench, Ollie sat down, feeling his face and realizing he must have one hell of a black eye. His eye socket and surrounding area were tender, and his vision in that eye was a bit blurry. “You can call me Ollie, you little turd. Where the hell am I?”

  “We are now guests of the crown. You for failure to pay a debt, and me for causing a disturbance of the violent sort.”

  Incredulous, Ollie exclaimed, “What? I’m in debtor’s prison for a debt I didn’t owe!” Looking at Winston, he asked, “And what did you do? Beat up Grogg to escape?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. After he knocked you out, well, I just had to go after him. He can’t treat my friends that way!”

  “I’m not your friend, dumbass! I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you! And if you went after Grogg, how come you don’t have a mark on you?”

  “Because unlike you, I know how to fight! But I will say this: you do know how to fall in grand fashion.” Winston giggled.

  Ignoring the insult, Ollie asked, “So what happens next?”

  “We wait in here until the magistrate brings us up to answer for our crimes. That could be hours, days, or even weeks, depending on what the guards find out.”

  Being only slightly familiar with the legal system at home, never having been in trouble, he was unsure of how to proceed. But it appeared that he was going to have to plead his own case to the magistrate. He looked for a spot that didn’t look to be stained with urine and sat down, his back against the wall, and stared balefully at Winston. He seemed oblivious to Ollie’s stare, waiting with his new, larger associates who stood to each side of him with their arms crossed.

  The next morning, Dumas and his training patrol rode into the city, returning to the training compound. Laz began to unsaddle his horse and noticed that the mount Ollie had been riding wasn’t within the stable. He put his saddle away, then groomed his horse and placed some hay and grain within its pen. Laz had thought about what to say to Ollie during his ride back, but he was still unsure of what to say or how to begin to assuage his fears. He knew that Ollie was unhappy and wanted to return home—and that he would never be able to adjust until they were making a concentrated effort to get back. That begged the question as to where to start, and the one person he could think of to provide any type of guidance for that was Dumas.

  Before going to see Dumas, he decided to see if Ollie had returned to the barracks. Upon entering the well-organized room that was housing fourteen dwarves, eleven elves, and about thirty humans, he noticed that those who had been on patrol with him were cleaning and returning their used gear into the chests they had been assigned. Several were lying on their bunks attempting to get some rest before beginning the next endeavor Dumas had concocted for them. He looked at Ollie’s bunk but saw no sign that he had returned; everything was as they had left it before their patrol.

  Laz dropped his gear onto the bed and hung his sword over the post at the foot. He pulled fresh clothes from the chest at the end of his rack. He then took a hot bath to successfully remove the remainder of the odor from the balnatharp, which only replaced that stench with the odor of the harsh, heavy-smelling soap. He grimaced as he inhaled while he started to dress, deciding to throw away the clothing he had been wearing in the field. He dressed in a pair of soft, black flax trousers, boots, and a white linen shirt, then proceeded across the compound to Dumas’s office, since he had no idea where the bear resided. He knocked on the door and waited to be told to enter, as they had been taught. Just as he finished k
nocking, Erian, one of the men who had been responsible for teaching them weapons training, shouted across the yard to him. “He’s not there. He went into the city for some reason. Not sure what for, though. He said he would be back in a little while and to give you men who were on patrol a bit of rest until he returned.”

  “Do you know when he will be back?” Laz asked.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Erian stated, “Not sure,” and walked away, toward the armory.

  Unsure of how to locate Ollie while his concern for him kept growing, Laz decided to wait outside the building for Dumas to return. He didn’t notice or sense the incorporeal form across the parade ground, watching him.

  Carion watched Laz, deciding to move closer to find out more about this outworlder and his absent companion. He shifted his form into that of a large-toothed rat and began scurrying in that direction, paying careful attention to any who may be around them. He had been following the one called Laz since his friend had ridden off, but was unable to get too close because he was rarely outside the company of one of the many elves who had been on patrol with them. He also hated that stupid bear, realizing that there was much more to him than he let on, and those elves and their uncanny ability to sense when his kind were near them. He didn’t wish to alert anyone of his presence. He had gotten close while the two humans had been up that tree, and he’d found that their minds were weak. He could gain glimpses of their desires and wants, and so he had probed their spirits and minds while still being cautious. He had discovered that their realm was alien and somewhat unnerving. There was virtually no spiritualism, and the forms of life in their realm were limited to soft, unguarded souls such as their own.

  The pleasure Carion and his kind would have there appealed to him. He could feed on their fears and souls for centuries, making himself virtually immortal, and the power he would gain would make him a rival for even Jeresette. Though he had aligned himself to Jeresette and those who dwelt in the thirteen principalities of Asmordia, he knew that those who served would eventually have to challenge their current masters or some other major demon to gain their positions and be servants no longer. Any demon worth his anger knew one could only do that to increase his power and ability, and that power was only gained through the torture and fear of others. He realized that he was letting his desires get the better of him, but he had gotten lost in them for a moment, knowing that one must always scheme to better one’s rank. He also knew that failing Jeresette might also set him back in his schemes; thus, he returned to the task at hand.

  That task was to find out as much as possible and inform Jeresette, who would arrive when he knew he could capture the outworlders. Carion had felt Jerrous leave the realm, which could only mean that he was waiting for Carion at Ash Keep in Asmordia. Carion crept to within a few feet of Laz, watching him, probing his spirit and thoughts in hopes of finding out why Jeresette thought those two could help him. The weakness that the two outworlders exhibited aroused Carion, which was a new sensation for him. It was akin to his lust to gain power, but it was also so different in that it sent shivers up and down his spine. He wondered if that was what it was like for humans when they were naked, sharing their bodies with one another willingly.

  He had watched humans behave that way many times and he always reveled in how helpless they were while participating in that behavior; he had also fed on their ecstasy. He could anticipate what it would feel like, that gratification, if he could wrest from them any secrets they held before Jeresette could. It would give him an advantage over Jeresette, and he could then challenge Jeresette’s position, taking everything from his overlord. That thought was pleasing to him. Damn it, why could he not concentrate on his task? He returned his attention to spying on Laz, but the fleshbag was just leaning against the building, wasting his time on thoughts of care for his friend. How odd humans were.

  Ollie was awakened the next morning to the clank of the keys opening the cell door, and as it swung open, a jailor holding a large club with a metal sleeve covering the top third of it pointed to him and Winston. “C’mon, Stinky; you, too, Shorty.”

  With a smile, Winston jumped to his feet and was already at the cell door by the time Ollie had even begun to rise. The two men stepped out of the cell as the jailor secured the door behind them. Another of the guards indicated that they should follow him, and they proceeded down a corridor and up several flights of narrow steps out into a courtyard. Upon crossing the courtyard, the guard knocked on a door; a gruff voice stated, “Come,” and the guard and two prisoners entered.

  Inside the room, Ollie saw that there were none of the standard trappings he was accustomed to seeing within a courtroom, only a wooden table with what appeared to be a rather fastidious old man sitting at it, along with several pieces of paper, an inkwell, and quills.

  Ollie noticed Winston staring at a muscular man who was also in chains. Winston was nervous, keeping an eye on him for some reason. He saw that the rather tall, well-built man had long, jet-black hair and sharp blue eyes. Ollie noticed that his nose had been broken several times, but the permanent damage hadn’t been so much that it detracted from his looks. He was dressed in what appeared to be a kilt but without the shoulder blanket and well-worn doeskin boots. What struck Ollie the most was that almost all of the man’s exposed skin was covered with what looked to be tattoos of different men, monsters, and beasts in various states of agony or in the throes of death, all inked in a blood-red color. It was very well-done artwork, some of the best Ollie had ever seen. Having been in the service for several years, he had seen some of the best work from all around the world; this man’s tattoos were of such quality as to rival even those.

  Though the tattooed prisoner was chained, his companion wasn’t, which caused Ollie to wonder why. His companion was wearing what looked to be brown leather trousers and a doeskin shirt and boots. His angular facial features and oddly shaded green eyes made him appear to be an elf, but his long, blonde hair covered his ears so thoroughly, Ollie couldn’t be sure. He didn’t look like the regal elves that were training with Dumas. He looked rather more ordinary.

  Winston, who had been instructed to stand between Ollie and the tattooed prisoner, moved to the other side of Ollie, apparently not wanting to be anywhere close to the tall barbarian. The other two prisoners assessed him and Winston just as thoroughly. The magistrate tapped the table with his knuckles and began. “As the barbarian and the half-elven have already submitted their response, I will now hear those of you two,” he stated as he looked to Winston and Ollie.

  Ollie began to speak, but as usual, Winston managed to get his lips moving before anyone else could. “What am I being charged with, your magistrateness? If that’s what I’m supposed to call you,” Winston began.

  “Disorderly behavior resulting in injury,” the magistrate replied. Ollie’s eyes widened a bit in surprise and puzzlement.

  “Whom was I supposed to have injured, sir?”

  “Grogg Stonefist reported that you broke his arm. I, too, am a bit confused by this. I thought it to be a concocted story, but there are several witnesses who attest that you did, in fact, break his arm. With a single blow? Is this correct?” he asked as he looked to his city guards, questioning them. They nodded their heads in affirmation.

  “I must then ask his magistrateness to release me, as that is obviously impossible. He towers over me. Why, he must be three or four times taller than me! There is no conclusion other than he must have threatened those witnesses who only said what he told them to out of fear,” Winston told the magistrate smugly.

  “I don’t know him, sir,” Ollie added, pointing toward Winston. “He tried to steal my money!”

  “Quiet, both of you,” the magister simply stated. “I need to figure out what to do with you. Tell me about this debt you failed to pay. You,” he directed, looking at Ollie.

  “I never acquired a debt. I paid for my meal after I caught this munchkin trying to steal my money. He concocted a story for that Grogg fellow,
saying I would pay his debt, and Grogg believed him for some reason. Then he knocked me out for refusing to pay his debt,” Ollie replied, pointing to Winston.

  The magister stroked his chin and rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair with his right hand tapping the quill on the table as he thought.

  Shortly his eyes lit up, and he leaned forward while looking at Ollie. “I think you and this wee lad here started a scheme to defraud the proprietor of the Bloody Talon—one who pays his taxes every month, mind you—and when he caught you at it, you both attacked him. You struck Grogg with that mace you were carrying, and then Grogg knocked you senseless in response…” he turned his gaze on Winston and continued, “…and he managed to grab you before you could scamper away, with his broken arm and all. Done. You are both found guilty. Now to sentence you!”

  He again leaned back, looking around the room; grinning, he said, “I’ll give you two a choice. One year of the dungeon, or you can go with these two lads here and retrieve a chest and bring it back to me to give to the city treasury. Your choice, so make it.”

  The man with the tattoos and the half-elf looked incredulously at the magister and kept their mouths shut, but shifted their glares toward Winston and Ollie. Winston stamped his foot, and putting his hands on his hips he nearly shouted, “Injustice! There is no way for me to have been found guilty of this heinous act! But I choose to go help retrieve this…whatever it is.” He figured he stood a better chance of escaping from whatever detail they became part of—he hadn’t really been listening—rather than the trying to escape the dark, unlit dungeons of the king’s guard.

  “And what of you?” the magister asked Ollie.

  “Whatever. I still don’t understand how it has gotten to this point. I didn’t do anything except order a meal!” Ollie exclaimed loudly and angrily.

  “Great; you two said you needed more people to get that chest, so here you go,” the magistrate said as he looked at Helor and Jehosaa. “You leave in an hour. Come back with that chest and your sentences will be considered complete; you will face no further actions by the king’s authorities. Give them their weapons back after they leave the city gates. Remember this, each of you: if any of you don’t come back, you will all serve a minimum of one year in the king’s dungeons. So, if any of you get yourselves killed, the survivors better make sure to bring the dead ones back!”