by Marin Landis
The intruder nodded his understanding. The cave was situated relatively close to the eastern edge of the Forest of Eage so she would have come from that way. A warrior and a woman who returned from the dead, though that could mean anything, these pitiful creatures could barely be trusted to know if someone was truly dead. Then again, the Aur was strong here and then no further trace. The source had maybe been depleted or the being who radiated it departed, after resurrecting the woman.
“Where did they go when they left here?”
“I surely don’t know, Lord. We were in disarray when they left, we had our dead to see to.” Sjarcu knew what that meant. Goblins were renowned cannibals.
“No matter.” He turned and walked out, his usual wariness about leaving a room full of enemies absent. No goblin made to attack from the darkness.
Sjarcu wasn’t entirely at home in this forest, but the road was perfectly reasonable, he had met no other travelers and his need for sleep was minimal. Not being able to bathe was bothering him so when he saw the sign for the Forester’s Arms he was sorely tempted. He knew though that he would quite probably be unwelcome. Humans were an odd race, often possessing a squeamishness bordering on the prissy and in other things totally heedless in their approach. He’d met a few and they were pleasant enough, but should his nature have been obvious to them he had no doubt his reception would have been different.
The Tavra looked human and Sjarcu was a typical example of his race. He’d grown to be slightly taller than the average human but not enough for it to be notable. Thin and fine featured, but then so were many humans. Pale skin and black hair; he wore his long and straight, brushed back from his forehead. In fact, he’d pass for a human in any city in the land, should nobody look him directly in the face. Had they done so they would have immediately been drawn to Sjarcu’s unusual eyes. Devoid of any color, a teardrop of black on a white background, an unexpected side effect of the Sundering. It was this that drove Benitus, once High Priest of Mithras to condemn the Tavra as demons whose gaze could mesmerize and enslave unsuspecting humans. Widespread panic, persecution and countless violent acts were the result. Until people realized that for one thing, slight and frail in appearance they may be, the Tavra would not sit back and become victims. That was two centuries ago and things were more civil now, allowing his people to move mostly unmolested amongst the other peoples of the world.
He had been on the road and in unsavory places long enough for him to have become offended by his own smell. In his desperation for cleanliness he threw caution to the wind for the second time that day and took the side path towards the tavern. The day was warm and he appreciated warmth. Much of his life had been spent indoors where cold and warm were immaterial.
The inn itself was twenty yards from the main road. The Forester’s Arms. Once a hunting lodge by the look of it, now a business. Times must have been good for the owner. Sjarcu wondered if that was him portrayed on the sign hanging from a hook on the eaves; smiling and drinking an ale. He himself did not drink alcohol, nor did he see the value in socializing. Inns were a foreign place to him, though he knew their purpose. His plan was to buy a room, a bath and then sleep for the few scant hours that his people required to replenish themselves.
The building itself was well built, wooden logs made up the large two story cabin, next to which were stables enough for two horses. Empty now. The door was open and the sound of alcohol fueled jollity issued from within. He was a little anxious. Not scared for his own safety, of that he was convinced, but for anyone who took exception to him and for the potential time waste that would represent.
He stepped across the threshold and was immediately assailed by the sights and sounds that for many would be most welcome, but for the unworldly Tavra, were confusing and irritating.
The smell of stale beer, sour milk, pipe tobacco and sweat intermingled with cooking meat. It was cloying and he suppressed a cough. The room was dark but he, with his Tavra vision, needed no time to accustom himself to it. It being a warm summer’s day, the fireplace was cold and the only light emanated from dim lanterns on the tables and a couple on the wall. There were lamps every couple of feet but only one in three were lit, giving the room a gloomy appearance.
The hostelry itself wasn’t anything special, a simple room with a bar on the left, four seater tables strewn with no thought to order and in the center of the room a large rectangular table with benches on each side. There was a staircase leading upwards on the far side of the room and a set of double doors at their base. Presumably leading to the bedrooms and kitchen respectively.
The ambiance was made however by the rough and raucous interaction between the patrons of the inn. They sat at the large table. Four of them. Rough, hardy men, tree-fellers by the looks of them and their axes places at their feet. Clad in simple work clothing, their simple peasant faces were red from imbibing the contents of their mugs. Their smiles faded briefly as Sjarcu entered, and when he proved to be of no immediate interest, they turned back to whatever ribald joke they were making.
The barkeep, a bald man with a gray goatee, leaned over the bar, wash rag in hand. He laughed along with the lumberjacks and stood upright when the Tavra entered his establishment, his full height of over six feet revealing itself and although he had long passed his middle age he hadn’t succumbed yet to declining fitness. There was steel present in his muscled forearms, his stance and his strong jaw.
He looked directly at Sjarcu and smiled, “Good day, traveler, what’ll it be?”
He must have seen me, thought the young assassin, he must have seen my eyes and yet he’s not reacting.
“I require a bath, man, and maybe a room. What do you have in the way of food?” came Sjarcu’s almost whispered reply. While a confident man, he did not have the need to make himself heard by shouting as the four drunk men at the table were currently doing.
“Shut yer faces, I can’t hear me customer,” the silver-bearded fellow shouted loudly and unexpectedly. His accent was rough and at odds with the polite fashion in which he had welcomed Sjarcu, and this was well noted. Sjarcu did not turn to see the reaction from the men, not wanting them to return his inspection too closely. They did reduce their volume slightly thought, but not for long.
The barkeep leaned over the bar as if to make himself better heard, but then spoke softly. “Make your way to the first room on the left upstairs and I’ll be with you shortly.
Sjarcu was suspicious, but determined that he could easily extricate himself from this place should the need arise, nodded and walked, without glancing at the rowdy men at the table, to the stairs and walked calmly upwards. Counting his steps as he went. The third and consequent steps creaked and the penultimate step was loose. This sort of information was important to a person in Sjarcu’s profession and he had stopped even consciously paying attention to these small details of which he automatically took notice. These habits had become part of him and should he, for example, need to traverse this staircase rapidly and quietly in the future, he would have a greater chance of success.
He followed the innkeeper’s instruction and entered the first room on the left in a short dimly lit hallway of four doors. The room was basic as expected. A bed on the left, the sheets were white, clean and the bed well made. A nightstand by the bed and a square wooden chest against the right hand wall were the only other furnishings.
Sjarcu sat on the bed, legs together, back straight, hands resting palms-up just above his knee and listened. He focused his mind, entering a semi-conscious state within moments of closing his eyes. Kehan. A meditative trance that allowed pure, transcendental focus. All other senses were numbed but at that moment, Sjarcu had the auditory awareness of a snow wolf. The men around the table in the taproom were of course the loudest, but beyond that, in the room below him, the man with the silver beard spoke.
“…a plate of vegetables. Try to give them some flavor.”
“No meat huh? Fussy bastard,” this voice was gruffer, an older man.
“Cheese and a jug of milk too. I’ll get that.”
Sjarcu opened his eyes, his senses back to normal, his breathing deep to ground him once more.
Who was this fellow? He knew enough about Tavra to understand some of their habits and didn’t bat an eyelid when confronted with one of them. This was both good and bad.
Sjarcu didn’t need enhanced aural abilities to hear the floorboards creak outside the door to the room. He rose and opened the door. His host stood without, holding a tray, the genial smile replaced with an inquisitive and not entirely friendly glare. He didn’t wait for an invitation, walked measuredly into the room and placed the tray on the nightstand.
“That’s four silver pieces for the food, a bath and the room for the night.”
Sjarcu’s assessment of the man was that he was a seasoned fighter, who was alert and ready for something to happen. The way he carried himself, his build, his lack of fear.
“Thank you, innkeep.” Sjarcu reached into a pocket inside his plain sack cloth tunic and pulled out some coins he knew by touch to be silver. He handed over six such coins. “Could I also trouble you for some information?”
“Depends, what do you want to know?” His voice carefully neutral.
“Sometime recently, a man, and a woman, may have passed this way. He would have been dressed in metal armor and she would have acted,” he paused thinking of the correct way to phrase his description, “oddly.”
“Many men come through here, some of them with women. If they ate and drank here, then I have nothing to say about them. The protection of my hearth extends to stray words as well as comfort and solace within these walls. The same hospitality I offer you, dark one.” Silverbeard’s eyes narrowed.
“I see.” He considered his next move carefully. Should he threaten this man? He didn’t look like that would be an easy task. Mayhap he was a seasoned warrior. Mayhap he was Sjarcu’s better in open combat. He also considered that he may owe a debt to the innkeep for forestalling confrontation with the drunk men downstairs. Then there was the matter of the food. He knew that Sjarcu would not eat meat, nor consume alcohol, so he probably knew of the Tavra traditions of hospitality. He would not harm this man, so his threats would be pointless. “I will return this way once my business with the armored man is complete, innkeep.” He saw the man stiffen and was secretly pleased. Petty though the thrill of power was, Sjarcu still enjoyed it. “Maybe you will share some stories with me.” He bowed from the waist. The bow that offered gratitude and friendship. Arms at the side, eyes locked and kept for not less than three seconds.
The man opposite him relaxed visibly and returned the bow, smoothly and without hesitation. Not the first time he’s performed such an action! Turning without a further word, the big man left and closed the door.
Sjarcu didn’t really blame the man for not revealing anything about previous guests, but in a manner of speaking that was a confirmation that they’d stayed here. Or at least visited. Which means they were definitely on their way to Amaranth; a bad sign. Countless thousands of people, no Aur beacon and only a generic description provided by some lower intelligences and nebulously confirmed by a secretive innkeeper.
He sighed, his mind made up. I’ll sleep here, get a good night’s rest and head to the city in the morning. I’ll pick up a trace of the Aur eventually and even if I must be patient, I will put my training into practice, insinuate myself into life in Amaranth, keep my ear to the ground and wait for a sign.
He relished the challenge and expected that the most difficult thing would be to get used to the smell.
CHAPTER FORTY
Prison
“There was always an undercurrent. Something was never quite right with either of them. I knew they were involved in a conspiracy, but I could never put my finger on it.” - Hestallr.
Melvekior struggled at first but there was at least a dozen guards. Accus was no help and Janesca just huddled into a little ball. Melvekior was quickly losing all respect for Kings and Princes. He went limp and they dragged him away. He intended to remember the way to wherever they were taking him but a bag was shoved roughly over his head. It smelled musty and he could see shadows through it but nothing distinct. He co-operated and walked as fast as he could but he was still pushed and fell more than once. While he was angry about his treatment, he knew it wasn’t the fault of the guards, they were just following orders.
After a few minutes he felt the air become colder and the shadows lessened. He heard the squeal of metal against metal and felt himself pushed hard into an even colder place. He fell heavily and twisted to take the brunt of the fall on his shoulder. He heard a grunt and a thud and the air rush from someone’s lungs. Then the clang of a gate, or as he guessed correctly, a cage door. And then the sounds of footsteps, leading away.
He reached up and ripped the bag from his head. He was imprisoned. Accus lay next to him, half on his front, his left arm shielding his head. Melvekior smiled grimly as he stood, Accus probably hadn’t had as many beatings in his life as he’d taken in the past couple of weeks and he was taking it badly. The sneering, arrogant facade had faded and now he was just a small man in a dungeon.
Melvekior on the other hand was finding himself to be enjoying himself. In the back of his mind there lay the small, if tangible, fear that he might have walked into the predator’s lair, but he reasoned that if Sunar had wanted him dead, he’d be dead already. If his own stately education had given him nothing else it was an understanding of battle tactics. Nobody would keep alive prisoners that were of no benefit. The Prince of Maresh-Kar might be angry with them but he still needed the amulet that Melvekior found himself rubbing as he pondered his fate. He let go of it. Stupid thing. He wished his father had never stolen it. Misplaced loyalty to Calra Alpre, but then who could blame him? Loyalty to one’s King was one of the first tenets of knighthood. Melvekior himself had sworn such an oath or by Mithras he’d be swearing a different oath right now, one to cut him and his fellow monarch Sunar down.
“Prepare yourself for a couple of days of terrible food and boredom,” he said to the fallen Necromancer. “Maybe a little light torture,” he added just to twist the knife.
“Wonderful,” Accus spat as he sat up. He had the beginnings of an impressive black eye where he’d tried to remonstrate with one of the Prince’s guards upon being manhandled immediately after stepping through the portal. He looked nowhere near as impressive in his plain peasant breeches and tunic as he did when Melvekior first saw him. In a Necromancer’s library calmly contemplating his next move in a game of strategy while all hell broke loose, wearing black and purple robes, master of all he surveyed. Now he was a fish out of water, a child playing a man’s game. He had no physical presence, couldn’t fight and was quite cowardly. All that Melvekior despised. Accus had, for selfish reasons, tried to help his father when his soul was trapped in Janesca’s body, otherwise he would have sent him on his way. Certainly the weedy Necromancer regretted his continued presence on this particular quest.
The cell they occupied was small, maybe ten feet from the door to the back wall and the same across. There were no windows and only the single door through which they had been shoved. The torch that burned dimly outside the door was their only light source and it provided such a small amount of light through the cracks around the poorly fitted door that Melvekior had resorted to feeling his way around the room. The floor was uneven and much of what was on the floor, he imagined to be dried waste from previous occupants. While this was no time to be squeamish he tried not to think about it. He leapt back with a curse when unexpectedly touching what felt like a hand.
“Was that you?” he demanded of Accus.
“Was what me? I haven’t moved a muscle,” came the acidic reply.
“There is someone else here,” he touched the hand again. It was cold and limp.
“That’s a corpse, dead about a week. Can you not smell it?” he said with distaste.
Melvekior yanked his hand
back again, “The stench in here is unbearable, why would I try to determine from which source it emanates? I’m trying to ignore it.” He paused. “How do you know how long it’s been dead?”
“I’m a Necromancer, remember? It’s my job to know about death. Now shush, I’m trying to formulate a plan of escape.”
“So, you knew it was here? Can you sense corpses?”
“I can see it, Melvekior. I’m a priest of Ain-Ordra and a Mage of the Second Circle. You think all I am is a pathetic little man, I know that, but you don’t act like it and I appreciate that. While my magics are limited in these circumstances, my Gravesight is fully functioning.” He sounded like he was starting to get his confidence back.
“I’m impressed, Accus, and yes I have underestimated you.”
Melvekior decided to swallow his disgust and was feeling the length of the corpse. It was cold and not as stiff as he expected, in fact it was slightly wet and he didn’t want to think what the wetness was. He gagged and turned aside.
“It was a prisoner, Melvekior, it wouldn’t hold anything of use. It will however be our key out.”
“Oh yes? How will that work?” he said, taking deep breaths.
“For the second time in a mere handful of minutes you have forgotten that I,” he paused for effect, “am a Necromancer.”
Melvekior knew that the chances of fighting their way our through dozens of guards, getting out of the palace and then somehow escaping Sunar’s wrath were non-existent. His only hope lay in placating the Prince.
“We need to speak with Sunar, Accus, otherwise we’ll be fugitives forever and my lands forfeit. My ancestral seat confiscated and my friends made homeless.”
“The threat of the undead often works as a negotiating tool,” came the response from the dark. “Now, I’m going to sleep for about two hours, it won’t be a normal sort of sleep, but a deep trance. I cannot be awakened, do not try.”
