by B. V. Larson
“Master?” he asked quietly.
There was no response, no reaction, not even a twitch. The King was in the grip of exhaustion. It was the sleep of a man who had not known rest for a very long time.
Gruum took one of the two leather cups and went down into the hold with it. He filled it with the last draughts of rum they had aboard. He sipped—then gulped. Soon, he felt less chilled.
Going topside again, he squatted near his master. He gazed thoughtfully at his sleeping lord. He wondered about the Dragon they’d spoken with. Did Therian speak with her still? Perhaps, in Therian’s dream, the Dragon appeared with eyes of crimson. Or did the sorcerer somehow share his dreams with an entirely different being of their ancient kind? Gruum had no way of knowing these things, and doubted he would ever learn the answers.
Watching his master sleep, a strange idea took hold in Gruum’s mind. He had the power to slay the Hyborean at this very moment. How different might the world be if he exercised this option?
It was a painful thought, but one that came to him from time to time in moments like these. So much evil had been done in the name of good. Would it all turn out to be worthwhile in the end? If they failed in their quest to return sunshine to Hyborea, Gruum felt certain all that would be remembered would be their dark deeds, not their high-minded intentions.
Maybe ending his master’s life would prevent much suffering. Therian himself would certainly be relieved of his burdens, and the world would be free of his sorcery. Gruum had these dark thoughts, and many more like them. In the end, however, his hand was stayed by his vow to his lord and his memories of bright days past. He told himself the cause for his somber mood lay in the vestiges of sleep that still clung to his mind. The despair that darkened his heart this night must have been brought on by his meeting with the Dragon. He wanted to see good times returned to his world before he ended their quest. For all he knew, he and his master were the final hope, and to quit their mission was to condemn all humanity to infinite darkness.
Gruum’s hand, which rested upon a worn dirk’s pommel, slid away. Therian would live another day and Gruum’s unease would continue.
Gruum’s thoughts turned to pondering his dream and its meaning. Anduin was not a considerate being. She had power, Gruum believed that. But would she truly bequeath her power to two mortals who scratched about upon the surface of this crude world? Gruum wondered at the arrogance of their quest. It truly bordered upon insanity. They were as ants at the feet of the Dragons.
He asked himself if he would he give a sword to an ant, if the ant had pleased him. And even if he did, he wondered, how would the ant wield it?
-3-
Given free-rein, the Innsmouth drifted to the east toward the distant coast. They eventually found themselves sailing into the ancient port city of Kem. Once a thriving center for trade, Kem had fallen into disrepair since the fracturing of the Empire of Solerov. Now its aging, cobbled streets overflowed with beggars, cutpurses, squinting whores and besotted sailors. A series of warlords had ruled the city in recent decades, interested only in collecting tariffs from the few trade ships that still plied their ancient routes through the port. Duke Strad was the city’s latest ruler. He was a quiet, deadly tyrant who ruled via his fearsome reputation. The blood-red banners of Strad’s House fluttered over every crossroad in Kem.
Kem’s dock district was still highly functional. If there were any institution left in the city that still worked, it was this one. A dozen dark ships swayed at anchor. Each was tied with thick hemp rope to the nearest quay. Each rope was collared by a spiked plate of rusty iron—a precaution required by local ordinance to prevent the egress of rats and other vermin.
Representing the bureaucracy that still functioned in Kem, a knot of men met the Innsmouth the moment she docked. The hooded tax collectors did not shout a greeting to Therian and Gruum, but rather stood waiting, silent. When not enough ships came near, the sneering folk of Kem turned their hands to piracy—commonly, they referred to their adventures as taxation by other means. These particular pirates, however, were land-bound.
Gruum noted the spot upon which the taxmen stood. It was stained dark with what he suspected was the spilled blood of argumentative taxpayers of the past. Therian seemed oblivious to the danger. He threw down the gangplank and walked upon it toward the taxmen, his every step measured and unconcerned. He stood among the men and after a brief conversation, they were sorely disappointed. They pushed past him and verified there was no cargo, nor passengers.
The taxmen snarled and took the thin purse of silver Therian tossed to them. After looking over the two adventurers and no doubt seeing the haunted light in their eyes, the tax collectors gathered their cloaks and their worn cudgels and left them alone. Gruum thought them wise indeed to do so.
As with every city they’d visited, the Therian started off cautiously. They did not openly inquire as to the whereabouts of a woman of Lady Sloan’s description. They’d learned in the past such an approach would only gain them access to a bevy of painted ladies and possibly serve to warn the Queen of their presence. Instead, they drifted about the smoky streets of Kem, seeking to learn why Anduin’s breath had carried them here.
Gruum was impressed by his master’s continuing strength of limb. Therian had not fed a soul to the Dragons for weeks as far as Gruum could tell. But no longer did the King slump over his bed each night, sicking up the night’s excesses into his chamber pot. Instead, he carried himself as a proper lord should, with grace and bearing. He did not have the feral light in his eye that came of a freshly-plucked soul, but neither was he as weak as a mewling kit.
The search, however, was a fruitless as ever. The first month passed into the second, and then slid into a third. They found themselves lacking in coin, and so were forced to move to the Salty Dog. It was an inn of less than top-quality service, even for the ramshackle dock districts of Kem. Therian became less talkative and more dismal of spirit. Worse, Gruum noted that a new winter was fast approaching. The cold weather was weeks early, and blew down from the sharp-peaked mountains that loomed over the city.
“This town should be scraped into the sea from whence it came,” Therian told Gruum one night. An unseasonably bitter wind blew through the streets outside. There was no snow yet, but everyone could sense the stinging flakes might fall at any time.
“Kem is no garden, milord,” Gruum said with false jocularity. His master’s mood left him uneasy. Low on money and spirits, he knew the King was growing more dangerous by the day.
Therian stood suddenly, knocking the three-legged stool of rough-hewn oak he’d been sitting upon onto the floor with a thump. “Come, faithful Gruum. We will win a purse and leave this town.”
Gruum stood and stared at his master. “Win a purse, milord?”
“Yes. You have an affinity for card play—don’t you?”
Gruum opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I do have a certain skill….”
“I want you to employ it fully. In fact, I want you to cheat overmuch. You shall win every pot. And you shall laugh while you do so.”
Gruum stared at him. He realized his lord had a plan, and did not like the sound of it. But as he was the servant, not the master, he nodded.
Therian led the way, and to Gruum’s surprise they didn’t go downstairs to the common room of the Salty Dog. Instead, they marched directly up the street to the highest end of it. There, the cobbles terminated on a hilltop where a large, stone-walled Inn known as the Counting House stood. Once a glorious establishment patronized by the wealthiest of taxmen, the last century or so had seen it fall into a steady decline. For those left in Kem who yet retained wealth and power, the Counting House still held allure.
They had little coin, but their stained clothes remained fine-looking enough to gain them entrance. As was customary, they checked their weapons at the door. The porter’s eyes grew large as he handled Seeker and Succor. Their nature was such that they were clearly valuable, ancient, and well-used
. Gruum suspected the porter usually saw ceremonial weapons for foppish dandies.
Gruum felt oddly naked without his heavy saber at his side, but he understood the requirement. He still had a small dagger in each boot, of course.
The two men joined a table packed with powdered nobles and Gruum began to play. Gruum lost two pots, folding early. He quickly gained a full knowledge of the rules. He also took the opportunity to remove two critical cards from the deck, both cards being trumps from the suit of vines. He caught his master staring at him meaningfully. No doubt, the King wondered why he had not yet begun to win. Gruum tried not to let his master’s impatience rattle him. After all, the King was an amateur in these matters.
The third pot went to Gruum, but it was a small one. He won it by luck, for the most part. The fourth however, offered an opportunity. One of the lords had a good hand, which he revealed with a drunken, leering attitude. Gruum exchanged the cards he’d pocketed earlier for two less fortunate ones in his hand. He won the hand with an amazing stroke of luck. Laughing, he scooped up the money of all present and made a great show of clinking their gold into stacks in front of him.
The night proceeded in this fashion for the next hour. Many quit the table, and Gruum was forced to join another. Soon, regular patrons were glaring and muttering. Gruum’s back crawled as he continued to cheat, win and gloat. He expected at any moment a dagger might sprout from his spine.
A heavy hand did finally fall on Gruum’s shoulder after the first hundred gold crowns had been won. Gruum turned to glare at the man who dared to handle him so roughly. He looked up into the large, round face of a killer.
The man’s lips peeled back from square, yellow teeth. It was the man’s second hand that worried Gruum, however. It held a dagger with a fine steel point like a sharkstooth aimed at Gruum’s back.
“You’re done here,” breathed the killer.
Therian cleared his throat. Somehow, the King’s black-gloved hand had appeared upon the larger man’s wrist. His grip was seemingly casual, but as the killer’s arm bulged and could not pull away, the man’s sneer turned into a look of shock.
“Unhand me, Hyborean,” said the man.
“Unhand my friend first.”
Glaring, the big man did so. Therian released the man’s wrist and he swayed back, clearly fogged by alcohol. He rubbed his thick wrist in vague confusion.
“He’s cheating!” he said, pointing at Gruum.
“You insult him, and therefore me, as I am his master,” Therian said dangerously.
The man’s demeanor suddenly changed. He twisted his head to one side and nodded. Then, oddly, he smiled. He pointed next at Therian, not Gruum.
“It’s you then,” he said. “I will have my satisfaction with you.”
Therian smiled slightly. “I would have it no other way.”
-4-
Therian stood and gestured toward the porter who kept the weapons. “Shall we step outside?”
The big man snorted. “I’m Fareg. I do not fight with swords. I use my hands.”
Therian nodded. “What do you suggest, then?”
“We shall arm-wrestle. I shall break you as I break a pig that escapes the pen.”
Therian wrinkled his nose. “I thought I had detected… something.”
The man’s face darkened further. “We shall do it right here. All shall see.”
Therian hesitated. Gruum watched his master with interest. This was not the situation Therian had been seeking. Gruum felt sure the King wanted to lead Fareg off to an alleyway and steal his soul.
“Gruum, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself,” Therian said.
Gruum jumped up and stepped out of the way. Fareg took his seat. Therian and he now faced one another, with a corner of the table between them.
“Here, here,” said another of the patrons nearby. “I came to gamble, not to watch two ruffians grunt at one another.”
“Perhaps then,” ventured Gruum, “You would like to make a small wager with me sir?”
The man turned a hostile eye toward Gruum. Both knew full well Gruum would be betting with the man’s own gold.
“All right,” said the patron at last.
As Therian and Fareg faced off, the crowded laughed at the thinness of Therian’s arms. Others whispered that Hyboreans had a strange source of strength. Betting began, and soon grew into a firestorm of wagers. Gruum took many bets, gambling on Therian, but they would not let him hold the money. The porter at the door was given the task.
The contest began, and everyone was shocked to see Therian did not lose instantly. The Hyborean struggled and trembled. His arm looked like a stick in the paw of a forest bear. A second round of betting commenced, at which point Gruum began to dig deeply into the gold he had worked all evening to win.
When he had put out as much as he dared, he gave Therian a small nod. The King suddenly snapped his arm forward, forcing Fareg’s bulging muscles back.
“NO!” roared Fareg, throwing his bulk into it. He grunted and strained and caught the smaller man’s onslaught. The two teetered for several seconds. Everyone stared in disbelief.
Then something cracked. For a moment, Gruum thought it was the sound of the table beneath the two straining men—that it had somehow given way. But then Fareg howled, and Gruum knew the truth.
Fareg stood, swaying. His arm hung down at an impossible angle. It was broken at the wrist. Gray-white bone shone through wetly. Blood came up in scarlet bubbles.
“His flesh is not flesh—it is steel,” said Fareg.
Gruum swept the room with his eyes. He met many hostile stares. The others might be too gentlemanly to come at them now—or perhaps not gentlemanly enough. They would send their men after them in a steaming alley, or in the deep of night while they lay in their beds.
Therian stood and nodded cordially to Fareg, who nursed his arm. Fareg did not blubber, but tears ran down the big man’s face.
Gruum, as always, had an excellent sense of timing in matters of exiting an establishment. He was already at the porter’s side, collecting his vast winnings and his weapons. Therian followed him out into the cold night a long minute later.
Therian turned his face up to the sky. “It’s snowing.”
Light flakes were coming down now, and the wind was picking up. Soon the cold night would howl and each flake would sting their faces.
“We’d best be going, sire,” whispered Gruum. He carried a heavy sack full of coins. He was very aware of the many eyes that looked out of the Counting House after them with displeasure.
“We are going.”
“Quickly, sire,” insisted Gruum as Therian adjusted the clasp of his cloak just so.
“They have fear in them now, Gruum,” Therian said. “It is better not to show a growling dog that you even acknowledge its presence.”
Exasperated and casting frequent glances over his shoulder, Gruum followed his master, who strolled at a leisurely pace down the quiet street. The snow began to fill the cracks between the cobbles until it resembled white grout.
Gruum relaxed fractionally when they reached the bottom of the street and turned toward the Salty Dog. There was no sign of pursuit.
“What’s this then?” Therian asked.
Gruum’s head swung around to see there was a group of men standing in front of him. They appeared to be a noble and two men at arms. The men wore chainmail and caps with red plumes. Bits of snow had already caked in the plumes. The tall nobleman between the guards stepped forward. He was taller than the others and wore a fine, blood-red cloak. Even though he appeared to be unarmed except for a finely wrought rapier, he somehow seemed infinitely more menacing than his guardsmen.
“You gentlemen have had quite a night,” said the nobleman in the red cloak.
“Indeed we have,” said Therian. “Perhaps you’ve come to congratulate us?”
“I heard that you’ve mistreated a friend of mine, Fareg.”
Gruum blinked at that. How could this man
have heard the news so quickly? How could he gotten ahead of them—in this snowstorm?
“I hold no quarter,” said Therian. “I ask no quarter.”
For the first time, the man in the red cloak looked annoyed. “You would not break me so easily, Hyborean.”
Therian presented him with a cold smile. “Perhaps not. Would you like to place a wager?”
“Come to my lodge in the mountain passes and we’ll see to a fair contest.”
Therian appeared surprised. Gruum rarely saw such an emotion on his master’s face. “Is that an invitation?”
“It is. You intrigue me. And you should consider that you’ve wore out your welcome in Kem.”
The noble in red retreated with his men-at-arms up a side street. Therian and Gruum headed in the opposite direction toward the Salty Dog.
“We will gather our things and leave before dawn,” Therian said.
“A wise move, milord. We should head straight to the Innsmouth and cast off.”
Therian looked at him in surprise. “I never wish to set foot upon that scow again. No, we’ll buy horses and head into the countryside.”
“But the storm, milord.…”
“You yourself said that we should get out of Kem.”
“Yes, but…” sputtered Gruum. He had the gold sack in both hands now, and he hugged it to his chest like a babe.
Therian glanced at the sack. “Ah, I see. You’re natural predilections have come to the fore. I understand, but the Dragon’s breath did not carry us here to secure a sack of coins for you, Gruum.”
“Yes milord,” said Gruum. Suddenly, he was struck with a thought. “You mean to head to the lodge that nobleman mentioned? Is that it?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“Who was he, sire?”
Therian stopped and stared at him. “You mean you don’t know? That was Duke Strad.”
Gruum almost lost his grip on his money sack. “You mean the warlord—the one who rules this city?”
“The very same.”
Gruum’s mind raced with fresh worries as they reached the Salty Dog and bought a pair of mountain ponies from the sleepy innkeep.
