by BJ Hanlon
Creeping back to the kitchen he made sure to keep off the floorboards he knew would creak. Edin slipped out the back. The manor was large, two stories tall and twice the size of the Dancing Crane in footprint, but the inn had an extra floor with more rooms to accommodate travelers and merchants who would stop on the north road for a warm meal and bed.
He circled around the side, keeping his body in the shadows of the building. The guard house’s main light was on, though the small barracks room was as silent as the rest of the manor. Edin saw no movement from inside.
Finally, he made it down the long path to the north road and headed west toward town. To the east was the blue Crystalline slicing through his family’s lands. The river was straddled by tenement farmers and their fields. Most of the hands would be up in a few hours plowing and sowing for the upcoming season. For many of them, it was a relief to get out of the small huts they bunkered down in for the winter. The only time most left their homes was for a weekly hike into town to get the newest gossip, companionship, ale, or supplies.
The air was cool and the moon was just about full. Instead of walking on the gravel road, he stayed off to the side in the short grass. Crickets chirped and the reinvigorating scent of spring was upon him as he walked. He’d always enjoyed this time of year. The snow was gone and the world seemed as if had been reborn after the yearly ritual of death.
Edin kept glancing over his shoulders and looking in every direction. What would he say? Who would he need to convince? It took half an hour and now his palms felt clammy; what if they didn’t believe him. What if they already convicted him in their minds?
Edin wiped his brow, when did he start to sweat? The cold air swabbed it giving him a chill as he reached the outskirts of the village proper.
Most of the town was spread out, much different from the larger cities. People had small gardens, their own outhouses and most of the homes had multiple rooms. The only buildings larger than the one-story wooden homes were on this stretch of the North Road—the inn, town hall, and a few apartment buildings that were normally used for migrant workers who’d appear in the town around this time of year then head south for the winter months.
A lute twanged loudly through the night air, a few folks walked off to the side of the street. Jassir the blacksmith was leaving his shop. Edin could smell the burning wood and coal emanating from the man thirty paces away. Edin had been in the shop a few times. Besides making implements for farming and logging, he fixed armor, made swords, steel tips for arrows and spears for hunting. But he also had an eclectic desire to make art, the large metal crane with an elongated beak that stood guard in front of the inn was one of his pieces. He made small metal warriors, legendary beasts, griffons, dragons, wyrms or wyverns. None of these were to scale as they’d have to be gigantic. Edin always thought there was something odd about a man who would make weapons of war, tools for peacetime, and things of beauty under the same roof.
Jassir glanced back and saw Edin coming down the road. Edin bowed his head slightly. “Evening smithy.”
The giant of a man with calloused hands and arms the size of Edin’s waste flashed his eyes then went pale. He turned around and went back into the shop as if he forgot something very important.
Edin stopped in the street. Looking up he saw a carpenter that had given him pointers to make the wooden sword. The man met his eyes and quickly ran across the street. Doors and shutters were closed.
Notes from a baleful woman’s song appeared over the lute chords. From her tone he could tell it wasn’t a heroic story. Reaching the front of the inn he moved past Jassir’s crane that somehow balanced on one foot, its steel beak screaming, and the razor-like wings seemingly ready to carry the animal into the sky.
Pausing by the open window, Edin peered inside. A small raised platform sat in the far corner with the entertainer singing. She was dressed in a red skirt with a white tunic and red vest on top. A bard. Her copper hair swayed as she strummed and sang.
A tithe for the Vestion that protects me
A tear for the matron who watches for thee
Long live the men who fought to save the people
Though I have lost my love ‘cause of human evil
The common room was easily at capacity. Men lined the bar, some facing the woman, others chatting and snickering. Pipe smoke offered a white haze that lingered about head height.
Toward the hearth, Edin spotted Dexal, an obnoxious boy Edin had gone to school with. He began thrusting his hips in the bard’s direction and laughing to his small brood of fools. On numerous occasions, they’d try to provoke Edin, get him to lose his temper. They’d try coarse whispers, throw small stones, and ‘accidently’ ramming their shoulders into him.
Their whispers when he walked by and the jabs at being fatherless hurt. But the mean words they’d say regarding Kesona and Berka, those were the ones that caused him to lose his temper and Dexal to lose a tooth. Edin still had a scar on his knuckles and had to spend a whole month indoors as punishment.
The raven-haired boy laughed again as he sipped his ale, he shouted at the woman who kept playing, ignoring the thug.
Her voice was somber, but Edin could tell even through the window she wasn’t worried about the townsfolk. Edin squeezed his fists as he watched Dexal. The merchant turned councilman’s son who boasted to be of a higher station then everyone else. His father was successful, though there had been many accusations from dishonesty to downright thievery.
If anyone were to be found as an abomination, that boy would be Edin’s first choice. He took a deep breath and rested a hand on the wooden wall.
A few feet from the bard, Edin noticed a man standing statuesque, taller than Berka’s dad with a bald head and budging muscles. Moments later he moved, swiftly through the crowd toward the boys. His gait was that of a warrior and he looked like he could wrestle a bear to submission.
Instantly Dexal shut up, but his smile remained. When the man turned back, he did the thrusting motion again. Hopefully the big man would knock out a few more of the moron’s teeth tonight. The bar seemed sullen; there was no joy in the inn that night, no laughs but Dexal and his cronies. Maybe they were worried about Berka, maybe the talk of magi or crillios in the forests wrested the fun from the Dancing Crane.
Then again, it could just be that the minstrel sucked all the happiness from the room. As he watched, he wondered if the trip here was a good idea.
The front door flung open.
He didn’t know why, but Edin turned away and leaned his head against the wooden wall pretending to drop his trousers.
“Hey drunk, use the trough for that. Out back,” a man called out. He recognized the voice of one of the bouncers though they’d never actually spoken. He only remembered it when the man tried tossing Berka out for falling into another patron. The proprietor had stopped the bouncer with a hand on his arm and a whisper in his ear.
Edin nodded and raised a hand as he moved around the corner of the building, past the water barrel used to sober up the patrons and behind the building.
The effects of the ale had waned with the walk and the cool night air, but the liquid still flowed through his body quickly.
The rear door opened and he spied Dexal exiting with a friend, the squirrely-eyed one with fat cheeks and short hair. Edin couldn’t remember his name. They stumbled down the back-porch steps and turned toward the trough Edin started doing his business at.
Edin tilted his head away, hoping Dexal wouldn’t notice him. After a few seconds he heard the chorus of relief from the boys. Pulling up his trousers, he pretended the ale affected him much more than it had. He was just about at the corner when he heard a slurred call.
“You. Boy. Get over here.” It was clearly Dexal, his gruff tone and scratchy voice were easy enough for him to remember. There was no way Edin would stop.
Edin turned the corner and slid down the side of the inn. He tried to pick up his feet and walk quicker. The pounding of footsteps circled around the
corner of the inn behind him.
Dexal was quick, the squirrely one, not so much. Suddenly a pair of hands reached his shoulders and a quick shove threw him forward. The force caused him to lose balance and stumble. A second later he was on his hands and knees.
“Ah, the noble. It is you, I thought so,” Dexal said in a mocking tone. “Maver, grab him.”
Someone grabbed him by the top of his trousers and lifted. He felt a pinching feeling between his legs.
Edin twisted his body and lashed out with a back fist.
The squirrely kid, Maver, Edin guessed, yelped and released. He was a big boy, but clearly wasn’t used to anyone fighting back. He felt a kick to the back of his calf; the muscle took most of the blow but it still stung.
Edin rolled forward and back to his feet, a move Berka showed him, and turned to face Dexal.
The obnoxious thug came stalking at him, a bloody Maver a few inches behind.
“Always knew you were worthless, a stain on anyone who’d ever befriend you. That little rat girl, your ginger imbecile.”
Edin gritted his teeth as Dexal pulled out a foot-long hunting knife from a sheath. The boy’s movements were slow and staggered. He was clearly drunk. Dexal began circling to Edin’s left, while Maver went right. His heart was racing as the shining steel blade danced in the light.
Edin backed up trying to keep them both in view, two against one. And he was unarmed. His palms began to sweat again and his knees seemed to quake. The stone wall of the inn stood in front of him, the wood shop of the leatherworker was behind him. Dexal cut him off from the road, the fence behind Squirrelly would take too long to climb.
“I just didn’t know you were evil,” Dexal said swaying a little to the right. “But I should have.”
He felt his muscles tense.
“It makes sense with the whore mother of yours. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know who your father is. No wonder she laid down for an abomination.”
Edin clenched his fists and took a breath. He needed to calm himself. Not let the anger or fear take over like the last time.
“I hear she offers money to whatever animal would bed her. It may be time I give her a try.”
Now, he was certain he wanted to cause pain. A lot of it. Edin felt a twisting in his stomach, his eyes went wide. The power in him was rising and Edin felt fear.
The thug grinned as he slashed through the air with the knife making a whooshing sound.
No, don’t, he thought. Not here. Edin swallowed and tried to push the feeling down.
The long blade kept twinkling in the moonlight. Heavy footsteps came from his right. Maver moved, he took a few steps closer to Edin with a fist raised.
With a quick drop of a shoulder, he ducked the punch and held back a leg. Maver tumbled over it slamming heavily to the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glint of the steel blade flashing down at him. Edin twisted away, but felt a burning pain cutting down his ribs.
Edin screamed as he scrambled away and pressed a hand to it. The feeling rose in his stomach again, wanting to come forward, to burst out like that crillio in the cage all those years ago.
He pressed a hand to it and felt the blood, not a lot but it burned. Glancing back to Dexal he saw the boy stumble slightly. He was off balance, but still quick. Dexal closed the distance and tried a horizontal cut. Edin dropped to the ground as the blade flew over his head, missing his scalp by half an inch.
Edin felt a surge in his gut. He thrust a foot up into Dexal’s chest. For a moment, he saw a glowing white light around his boot. Dexal’s eyes bulged in his head for barely a moment. He was lifted off the ground at least five feet and flew backward toward the shadowed side of the inn.
A loud thud and a cracking noise came from that direction.
Edin pushed himself to his feet and looked toward Dexal, in the shadows he couldn’t tell much but it didn’t look like the bully was moving.
Maver was getting back to his feet with a furious look on his face. He pounded a fist into his open hand trying to intimidate Edin. Trying not to think about the pain in his side, Edin settled back into a fighting stance, one he’d practiced with Berka.
Maver let out some animalistic roar and lowered his head. He charged like a bull, his hands groping for Edin. The shoulder hit him in the stomach, he felt the pain erupt and the wind fly out of him. Edin felt his arm wrap around Maver’s head as he toppled backward. Edin landed hard on the ground with the big boy crashing on top of him for a moment before disappearing over Edin’s head.
There was a pained grunt and then nothing.
Edin laid there, unable to move for a long moment. He didn’t hear any more from the boys, but did hear someone come out of the inn and use the trough.
After he caught his breath again, Edin pushed himself to his feet and touched the slash on his ribs. It hurt but was shallow. Only a small trickle of blood seeped from it.
In the light, Edin saw the dagger lying in the grass. He hobbled over to where the knife lay and struggled to pick it up. As he did, he saw the small dabs of blood on the end. Edin wiped it on Dexal’s pants and stood. The bully was so out of it he probably wouldn’t remember a thing.
Edin turned toward Maver and leveled the knife at his neck. The chubby kid was just getting to his feet and breathing heavily. His eyes were wide like he just stuck his hand in a fire.
“Tell your friend, if he talks about my mother again, I will kill him.” Edin slashed the knife through the air. “This is my spoils. Do you have a problem with that?”
He couldn’t see the eyes but the kid shook his head, his jowls wobbling. Edin pressed his tunic to the slice and began the walk home. It may need bandages, but not stitches. Master Horston could do it, but then his mother would know he’d left. Edin sighed. At least he only had a few months until he was eighteen.
A flicker of light caught his notice in the sky to the east. Large gray clouds were forming. Another flicker, this time he saw it came from inside the cloud. Edin walked toward the manor in an almost trance like state. He was staring at the rolling clouds when he heard a voice.
“Edin?” It was Grent. The guard came jogging up the road from the manor. He was nearly home. Then Grent looked at the stain on his tunic. “What happened?” The thunder finally reached them. At least the storm was a few leagues away.
“A fight…” Edin said as if it weren’t anything special.
Grent was a master swordsman, maybe not an actual Master Swordsman, a title that demanded respect, but he was very good. The best Edin had ever seen. He was quick, strong, and clever with the blade. Edin watched him defeat the other three manor guards and four other traveling sellswords at once.
“Damn boy, you’re supposed to stay in the manor.” He quickly grabbed Edin by the collar and pulled him down the road. “After what happened… how stupid do you have to be. You’re a moron aren’t you.”
“I wanted to–” Edin started but Grent cut him off.
“Come with me,” Grent said. “Do you need stiches?”
“Don’t think so…” Edin said then looked at the thick calloused fingers. “You can stitch?”
They went inside the common room of the barracks. It was unadorned and drab, a military like room. There was a table, chairs, and a hearth and four personal quarters. Edin saw playing cards and two mugs on the table. The fire was low and the rest of the room was silent.
The men called it a barracks because that was what they knew. All four had served at one time for a duke, earl or other noble. This job was more of an active retirement with little to do.
“I’ve picked up a few tricks, a beautiful nurse in a different life showed me.”
Inside the common room, he pointed for Edin to sit on a small wooden bench and disappeared. A few moments later he reappeared with a wooden cube about a foot all around. He set it on the table and grabbed a dark bottle.
“Drink,” Grent said handing the bottle to Edin. He took a sniff, it smelled just like pine
needles. “It’s gin, not my favorite either.”
The liquor barely made it down his throat. Grent took the bottle and dumped some on Edin’s side then cut his shirt off with a quick slip of his knife.
“Shallow, just a bandage.”
“I told you…” Edin said as Grent began rummaging through the box. Edin saw needles, thread, a white liquid in a bottle, powders.
“I figured you said that because you’re afraid of needles,” Grent said as he pulled out a jar and took off the lid. Grent stuck his fingers in some mucus colored substance. The viscous sap smelled awful like a flatulent pig and dog breath. Grent slapped it on the cut, letting it ooze down Edin’s side. It was cold and caused him to shiver.
Grent looked up at him and rolled his eyes. “What happened?” Grent said as Edin took another drink from the bottle. Grent tied a cloth bandage around Edin’s torso tight. It constricted his movement and breathing. A last tug made Edin grimace.
They sat for a few moments as Edin described the fight.
“You were lucky not to get pin cushioned. Don’t go looking for trouble again. Got it?” Grent said. His voice was quiet but his eyes and tone said this was not a suggestion. Grent took a drink of the gin. “Now get to bed.”
A dark cloaked man stood in front of him and at a slightly lower elevation. The twisted smirk on his lips seemed to grow behind the flickering flame of a torch. A gold patch on his chest held a serpent twisting around a green dagger with blood dripping from the tip. A broken staff sat below it.
A Por Fen mage hunter, this was a Justicar. Behind the man stood a crowd of fifty odd people, townsfolk he’d known his entire life. He spied torches, clubs, knives, axes, and other mundane implements of farmers, butchers and loggers.
“Kill him quick,” someone yelled, “before he corrupts and murders us.” People cheered, but not like after the skills or strength tests at winter-tide festival. This was a malicious, murderous cheer. Smoke began to rise around him, wisps at first, then it grew thicker.
Edin tried moving, but he was stuck. Glancing down he saw a large pile of chopped logs beneath him.
