“It is considered a sin for one of my order to enter an establishment of vice such as this one. There was a time when I could never have imagined doing this. But we are beyond the normality of those golden years. In this new age of desperation, those such as I may have to do many things previously forbidden.”
He left the mule with Sorial and went in search of Warburm.
By mid-afternoon, the chilly rain had lessened, but it had done its damage, turning the hard-packed dirt roads and byways of Vantok into quagmires. From the stable doors, Sorial could see three stuck carriages. It was at this time the priest emerged from the inn, approaching the stable on unsteady legs. As he passed close by, the boy could smell the reek of strong spirits. That was unexpected; requirements of the priesthood included vows of chastity and sobriety. Yet considering the man’s earlier despair, perhaps Sorial should have expected it. Loss of faith was said to open the gateway to other sins.
After the stableboy handed the reins to the priest, the man provided an unusual benediction on his way out: “Take care of yourself, my son. None other will.” Then he was gone, trudging through the mud on the way to his next destination, wherever that might be.
With the approach of dusk, Sorial was relieved by The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s other regular stableboy. Just past his Maturity, Visnisk was three years older than Sorial, and he was here by choice, not because of indentureship. He lived in a small cottage with his parents and sisters and came to the inn when it was his turn to work: one hour past dusk until one hour before dawn, six days per week. He often boasted of how good his meager wages were - a claim repeated because he knew it irked Sorial. The two boys were on cordial terms but weren’t friends. Visnisk was a hard worker - when he felt like working - but he didn’t talk much. Upon his arrival, Sorial took the ladder up to the stall where he made his bed and, exhausted, fell immediately to sleep.
He was awakened during the night by noises from one of the stalls. He crawled to the edge and, keeping to the shadows, peered over. The scene below was nothing new - it had been played out numerous times in the past. There was tall, gangly Visnisk, with his tousled red hair and bone-white skin, lying on his back on the damp straw-covered floor. His clothes were carelessly discarded. Some girl - Sorial had seen her a few times before - straddled his naked torso with her backside to the loft. Her long skirts hid their joining, but Sorial knew enough about what went on between men and women to paint an adequate mental picture. Visnisk’s face was twisted in an almost comical expression; his green eyes were screwed shut. He began grunting like a pig at a trough then, with an explosive exhalation of breath, pushed the girl off and reached for his breeches. A coin - Sorial couldn’t tell the denomination from his perch - changed hands. The girl adjusted her knickers under her skirts and vanished into the darkness outside. Sorial never saw her face.
As Visnisk went back to caring for the animals, Sorial rolled onto his back. This was a regular activity for the older boy; Sorial was sure Visnisk spent half his wages on this particular whore. The watching made Sorial curious, and there was a tightness in his breeches. Often, Visnisk didn’t seem to be enjoying himself and the woman was always bored, but he kept bringing her back and she never refused him. When Sorial had approached Visnisk about this seeming contradiction, he was told in a patronizing tone that he’d understand in a year or two.
“Get yourself one,” called Visnisk into the gloom of the rafters as he filled a bucket with oats. “Or use Excela - she’ll do anyone for the coin. That way you won’t always be watching me. If you don’t like the look of her, I can find you another cheap one. Really, though, it don’t matter what they look like as long as they know what they’re doing. And I know you’ve been saving up your tips - leastaways what that skinflint Warburm lets you keep.” When Sorial didn’t reply, the other boy continued his work as if he hadn’t spoken.
Sorial soon dozed off, as he often did after watching Visnisk’s nighttime assignations. Many hours later, with even the first rays of the new day’s sun not yet touching the eastern horizon, he was startled awake when a clod of hardened shit struck him on the right cheek.
“Hey boy, wake up! Get your ass down here!” yelled Visnisk on his way out. By the time Sorial gained his bearings, the other stableboy was gone. He used a wad of straw to wipe clean his cheek then climbed down to piss in a corner and begin the day’s work. The stable was almost empty this morning. With only a single horse and a donkey to care for, Sorial could move slowly and conserve energy. He checked outside several times to make sure the sky was clear. He didn’t want to miss the sunrise.
While he was waiting, a couple members of the Watch wandered by. Sorial knew them by name: Brindig and Darrin. They had been partners for as long as he could remember, but it was hard to think of two more dissimilar men.
Brindig was thin and humorless. His gaunt face made him look a decade older than his actual age. His salt-and-pepper hair, only a few strands of which escaped from beneath his watchman’s steel helmet, was cropped short. He never wore a full beard but rarely was he cleanshaven. His nose was thin and curved, calling to mind a bird’s beak. His mouth seemed frozen in a perpetual scowl.
Darrin, on the other hand, grinned easily. He was a big man in every sense with appetites to match. Unlike Brindig, he wore no helm (which was against regulations, but no one cared). His unruly mane of sawdust-colored hair stuck out in every direction. His face was as plump as the rest of him, but not unpleasant to gaze upon. He had a neatly-trimmed goatee with no mustache. His eyes matched Brindig’s blue, but seemed more lively. Darrin was only a few years his partner’s junior, but he looked young enough to be the other’s son. He was perhaps the most liked man in the whole of Vantok’s Watch.
“Good morn, Sorial,” said Darrin with his customary affability. Brindig nodded somberly, looking like he wanted to be somewhere - anywhere - else.
“Morn, sirs,” replied Sorial, who called most adults “sir.” It was easier than remembering names.
“Should be a nicer day than yesterday,” said Darrin, who was a lover of small talk. Actually, he was a lover of any talk. Few things engaged the jovial guardsman more than hearing the words tumble from his own lips. “Any problems lately?” It was an innocuous inquiry but Sorial couldn’t help but connect it to Warburm’s caution.
There was something happening that he didn’t understand. The wary innkeeper, warning of dangerous times. The despairing priest, saying the gods had turned from man. And now… “Is something going on?”
Darrin appeared surprised by the question. “Not that I’m aware of.”
Brindig spoke for the first time. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
Sorial considered. Aside from Rexall, a stableboy at The Delicious Dancer, these two were the closest things to friends he had, and he wanted to tell someone about the priest’s words.
When he was done, Darrin appeared discomfited. Brindig’s expression hadn’t altered.
“I wouldn’t go spreading that kind of rumor,” said Darrin at last. “I’ll admit I’ve heard similar things, but you never know about the source. Being a priest is a hard life and, if he was drinking, he’s lost his faith. I’ve known a few apostates in my time and they were all miserable people. The more men repeat unwholesome things, the more easily they’re believed.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open, Sorial, and be careful,” said Brindig. Then, echoing Warburm, he added, “We may be entering dangerous times.”
With that, the three of them turned to watch the sun rise.
As the day wore on and Sorial cared for the animals, he found himself gripped by a sense of uneasiness. Normally, conversations with Darrin and Brindig (to the extent that Brindig participated) raised his spirits. Not today, however. Some lads, like Visnisk and Rexall, would have laughed away warnings about “dangerous times.” They would have made sport of a drunk priest. They would have seen today as no different than the hundreds of days to precede it. But Sorial was of a more serious dispositi
on. He took those things to heart. And it weighed him down. “Be careful” was Brindig’s admonition, and Sorial was determined to heed it.
During the morning, he frequently stole outside to scan the grounds in case someone - or something - was lurking there. The dimly remembered scary stories told by his mother when he was a toddler loitered in the recesses of his mind.
What would it mean for him if the gods had abandoned men? He was no longer as sure as he had been when he spoke those careless words to the priest about not caring. Dangerous times - what did that mean? Did anyone know or were they parroting something they had heard?
It was early afternoon when a smartly dressed man entered the building. With barely a glance at the stableboy, he headed for one of the stalls. At first, Sorial thought nothing of it, but a look at the man’s clothing gave him pause. There was something odd... The cloak and shirt were cut from a more expensive cloth than that normally worn by patrons of The Wayfarer’s Comfort. The breeches, however, were old, dirty, and fraying near the ankles - peasants’ attire without a doubt. The boots were mud-caked, scuffed, and ill-fitting. Someone wearing such finery on top would have pants and boots to match.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Sorial, “Can I help you with something?”
The man turned to face the stableboy. He flashed a smile that was too exaggerated to be genuine.
Be careful…
Sorial took note of the newcomer’s features. His long wheaten hair was drawn back in a ponytail. An untrimmed mustache and bushy beard hid his lower face. His gray eyes were cold; the smile didn’t touch them. They radiated indifference, perhaps cruelty.
“Just getting my horse.”
It was a lie. The animal he approached had become skittish. Sorial recognized it as the property of Wickharm, a merchant who visited often and left good tips.
“Sir, I think you may be mistaken. I know whose horse that is.”
“Yes, yes. I was sent to fetch it. He’s in a hurry.”
Another lie.
“Perhaps if you asked him to come out…”
“I told you, he’s in a hurry.” There were traces of irritation in the man’s voice. He was trying to place a saddle on the horse’s back, but the animal was being uncooperative. Sorial looked on, dumbfounded. It was his duty to saddle the animals for their owners. No one ever readied their own beasts.
“Could you tell me whose horse this is?”
Horse thievery was a serious crime in Vantok, punishable in some cases by hanging. But it was usually accomplished in the dark of night. This, a daylight robbery in a public stable, was brazen. Sorial was a witness - the only witness.
The man threw down the saddle in disgust and exited the stall. Any pretense at legitimacy was gone. He turned to Sorial and, when the boy looked into his eyes, he knew he was in trouble.
The man lunged and, as he charged, something metallic glinted in his hand. Although Sorial was no stranger to fighting, this wasn’t a street brawler intent on delivering a beating. This was a methodical thug with murderous purpose. The attacker barreled into him, lowered shoulder impacting sternum, knocking Sorial to the ground. A sharp pain tore his right cheek from brow to ear. Warm liquid seeped from the gash, blurring the vision in one eye.
His boot pressing on Sorial’s chest to limit the boy’s ability to struggle, the man stood above him, his expression unreadable. With maddening slowness, he cleaned his dagger on his breeches, leaving behind two swaths of fresh blood before re-sheathing it at his belt. Then, from under the cloak he withdrew a pistol. It was a simple gun, the kind Sorial had seen before. He felt a rush of fear. Be careful. Dangerous times. Well, he had been warned…
Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, the man went through the process of priming the weapon for shooting. He poured black powder into the muzzle then dropped in a small ball. “Stupid boy,” he muttered under his breath. “All you had to do was ignore me.” The boot’s pressure increased, threatening to crush his chest. He tried to scream but the only sound to emerge was a croak.
Dizzy and slipping toward unconsciousness, Sorial was unsure what happened next. The report of a gunshot echoed through the stable but it didn’t come from the man’s weapon. The thief was in the process of using a small rod to pack in the projectile and powder; his pistol wasn’t yet ready to fire. The intruder staggered and fell, landing half across Sorial and lying still. The smell of spent gunpowder was strong in the boy’s nostrils. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was hearing Warburm’s voice commanding someone, “Get the fucking Watch and summon a healer!”
CHAPTER TWO: VISITORS
Sorial lay in one of the inn’s beds, ordered by a healer to “convalesce” for a minimum of three days before he could return to light duty. The right side of his face was heavily bandaged and the wound had caused his eye to swell shut. His chest hurt where the intruder's boot had held him down, although the healer proclaimed he hadn’t broken any ribs. Warburm was unhappy about the temporary loss of his best stableboy. Visnisk was even less happy since he now had to work double shifts, giving him perhaps six hours off each day. Not having seen the incident or its aftermath, he believed Sorial to be a malingerer.
Sorial’s sick room wasn’t among the inn’s finest. In fact, it hadn’t been used - or cleaned - in weeks before the injured boy was tucked under the discolored sheets. Other than the bed, the room was bare except for a tattered throw rug and a rusted metal washbasin. Dust bunnies of alarming sizes had gathered in the corners. Despite a respectably sized window, gloom pervaded. Not only was the aspect north-facing but the grime was so thick on the inside and outside that even direct sunlight would have had difficulty penetrating. Nevertheless, Sorial wasn’t about to complain. As dingy as his temporary quarters were, they were better than the stable. Mice weren’t nipping at his toes, roaches weren’t swarming over him, and the straw of his mattress wasn’t enhanced by shit and the assorted bugs it attracted. All-in-all, it was an undeniable upgrade.
The door swung open to reveal the smiling features of Annie, The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s most cheerful - and many said “accommodating” - barmaid. Annie was nearly twice Sorial’s age and had taken a big sisterly interest in him. She was pleasingly plump (the “pleasingly” being a phrase Sorial had heard more than one man use to describe her) with wide hips and ample breasts barely contained by her work uniform and smock. Her face was ruddy, as much from working long days in the hot kitchen as from her natural complexion. Her long copper hair was curled into a bun under her cap.
She brought a cold mug of the inn’s finest watered down ale. Sorial suspected Warburm didn’t know she had come bearing gifts.
“How are you today, sweetie?” she asked, handing him the mug and bending over to check his bandages. Sorial’s eyes were drawn to the cleavage revealed by the gap in the front of her blouse. He had seen breasts before but none this close. The tightening between his legs was a welcome reminder that his injury hadn’t damaged certain things.
She straightened, knowing where he had been looking. “When you’re older, maybe I’ll let you get a proper gander. Gods know I ain’t shy about showing them off. But that’s for another time,” she said with a wink. Sorial blushed furiously, although it was too dark in the room for her to notice… he hoped.
“From the look of that, you’ll be back to work in no time. Could be tomorrow, I suppose, but we’ll fool old Warburm into giving you another day or two. Gods know he’s worked you to the bone these last years. You deserve a vacation. Half a day off a week! It’s ridiculous.”
Sorial didn’t mention that he thought it was a good deal. Annie wouldn’t agree with him. She got the best wages of anyone who worked for Warburm and was off two full days each week. She thought everyone should be treated the same. But no one else brought in the customers the way she did. She was one asset Warburm couldn’t afford to lose.
“Put that under the bed when you’re done with it,” she said, indicating the mug. “I’ll pick it up lat
er. Cheer up, sweetie, I’m sure I won’t be your only visitor today.”
In that, she was correct. During the two days he had thus far been here, he had been visited by a stream of well-wishers, including the innkeeper, a priest he had never before met, several of the barmaids, and his friend Rexall, a stableboy at The Delicious Dancer. Visnisk had stopped in as well, but his motive had been to make sure Sorial’s injury was genuine.
No one told Sorial anything about his attacker. When he asked the innkeeper, Warburm grumbled something about a dirty horse thief. Be careful. Dangerous times. In retrospect, the earlier warnings seemed prophetic. Although his injury was more inconvenient than serious, Sorial knew he had barely escaped death. The intervention of luck or providence had saved him. Had Warburm not been there with a pistol, he would be lying on a funeral pyre not an old bed. Apparently, the innkeeper had heeded his own advice about being watchful.
Resting in the near darkness, Sorial had time mull over the events of the past few days. Maybe it was the disruption of a routine that had defined his days and nights for years, but it seemed as if something fundamental had changed. He knew he would never be as comfortable in the stable as he had been in the past. The specter of the attack would loom over him. But it was more than that. The encounter with the priest had unsettled him more than he would have imagined possible. And the attack coming so soon after warnings from Warburm and the watchmen had to be more than coincidence, didn’t it?
Sorial’s next visitors arrived several hours later while he was dozing. Darrin and Brindig made enough noise coming down the hall that he was alert when they entered. Darrin’s expression was one of compassion and sympathy. Brindig’s countenance, as usual, was as implacable as rock.
“You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble,” said Darrin. “A boy knifed and nearly shot in our district - people have been saying we don’t do our jobs. It’s a damned embarrassment, that’s what it is. When you get back to the stable, you’d best make sure nothing like this happens again. Besides, if you get yourself killed, who would we have to gossip with on our rounds?” A smile belied the harshness of his words.
The Last Whisper of the Gods Page 2
