A Clash of Honor sr-4

by Morgan Rice

  But in this part of town, he knew, credibility was a rare commodity.

  Gareth and his friends entered the tavern, and several of his old compatriots stopped and looking his way. Their expressions told him that they were surprised to see him alive; they looked as if they were watching a walking ghost. He did not blame them. He also felt certain that he would die the night before, and that it was a miracle he had survived.

  Slowly, the room came back to life, and Godfrey made his way over to the bar, Akorth and Fulton beside him, and they took up their old seats. The barkeep looked at Godfrey warily, then ambled over to them.

  “I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon,” he said in his deep, shaky voice. “In fact, I didn’t expect to see you here at all. You seemed pretty dead last I saw you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Godfrey responded.

  The barkeep looked over, rubbed the stubble on his chin, then broke into a large smile, revealing crooked teeth. He reached out and clasped Godfrey’s forearm, and Godfrey clasped him back.

  “You son of a bitch,” the barkeep said. “You really do have nine lives. I’m glad your back.”

  The barkeep filled mugs for Akorth and Fulton.

  “None for me?” Godfrey asked, surprised.

  The barkeep shook his head.

  “I promised your sister. She’s a tough one, and I’m not keen to break it.”

  Godfrey nodded. He understood. A part of him wanted the drink, but another part of him was glad for the encouragement not to.

  “But you didn’t come to drink, did you?” the barkeep asked, growing serious, looking back and forth between the three men.

  Godfrey shook his head.

  “I’ve come to find the man who killed me.”

  The barkeep leaned back, looking grave, and he cleared his throat.

  “You’re not saying I had anything to do with it?” he asked, suddenly defensive.

  Godfrey shook his head.

  “No. But you see things. You served the drinks. Did you see anyone last night?”

  “Anyone who shouldn’t have been here?” Akorth added.

  The barkeep shook his head vigorously.

  “If I had, don’t you think I would’ve stopped him? Do you think I want you poisoned in my place? It upset me worse than you. And it’s bad for business. Not many people want to come in and get poisoned, do they? Half my clients haven’t returned since you keeled over like a horse.”

  “We’re not accusing you,” Fulton chimed in. “Godfrey is simply asking you if you saw anything different. Anything suspicious.”

  The barkeep leaned back and rubbed his chin.

  “It’s not so easy to say. The place was packed. I can’t remember a stream of faces. They come in and out of here so quick, and half the time, my back is turned. Even if someone snuck up on you, the chances are I would’ve missed it.”

  “You’re forgetting the boy,” came a voice.

  Godfrey turned and saw a drunk old man, hunched over, sitting alone at the end of the bar, who looked over at them warily.

  “Did you say something?” Godfrey asked.

  The man was silent for a while, looked back to the bar, mumbling to himself, and Godfrey thought he would not speak again. Then, finally, he spoke up again, not looking at them.

  “There was a boy. A different boy. He came and left, real quick like.”

  Godfrey recognized the old drunk; he was a regular. He had drank at the same bar with him for years, but had never exchanged words before.

  Godfrey and Akorth and Fulton exchanged a curious glance, then all got up and ambled their way over towards the end of the bar. They took up seats on either side of the old man, and he didn’t bother to look up.

  “Tell us more,” Godfrey said.

  The old man looked up at him and grimaced.

  “Why should I?” he retorted. “Why should I stick my nose in trouble? What good would it do me?”

  Godfrey reached down, pulled out a bag of thick gold coins from his waist, and plopped them down on the bar.

  “It can do you a lot of good,” Godfrey answered.

  The old man raised one finger skeptically, reached over, and pried open the sack. He peeked inside at the stash of gold, far more than he had ever seen in his life, and he whistled.

  “That’s a high price. But it won’t do me much good if I don’t have my head. How do I know your brother’s not going to send his men down here and poison me, too?”

  Godfrey reached down and plunked a second sack of gold beside the first one. The old man’s eyes widened in real surprise, for the first time.

  “That’s enough money to go far from here-farther than my brother’s reach-and to never have a worry again,” Godfrey said. “So now tell me. I won’t ask again.”

  The man cleared his throat, his eyes fixated on the two sacks of gold, then finally, he grabbed them, pulled them close, and turned to Godfrey.

  “He was a commoner,” the old man said. “An errand runner. You know the type. I seen him before, once or twice, over at the gambling den. You pay this boy, he’ll run any kind of errand you want. He was in here that night. He came and went. Never seen him in here before, or since.”

  Godfrey studied the old man carefully, wondering if he was lying. The old man stared back, holding his gaze, and Godfrey concluded that he was not.

  “The gambling den, you say?” Godfrey asked.

  The old man nodded back, and Godfrey, wasting no time, turned and hurried from the tavern, Akorth and Fulton following.

  In a moment they were out the door, hurrying down the street, twisted down the narrow alleyways as they heading towards the gambling den, just a few blocks away. Godfrey knew it was a den of sin, with cretins of all types. Lately the crowd there had grown even worse, and he stayed clear of it, for fear of getting into yet another fight.

  Godfrey and friends pushed open the creaking door to the gambling den, and he was immediately struck by the noise. The small room must have held a hundred people, all busily engaged in gambling, hunched over tables, betting with odd coins, with every sort of currency. Godfrey scanned the crowd for a boy, for anyone under age, but saw no one his age, or younger. They were all older, mostly broken types, lifelong gamblers, all hope lost in their eyes.

  Godfrey hurried over to the manager, a short, fat man, with eyes shifting in his head and who would not look him in the eye.

  “I’m looking for a boy,” Godfrey said, “the errand runner.”

  “And what’s it to you?” the man snapped back at him.

  Godfrey reached down, and pushed a sack of gold coins into the man’s hand. The man weighed them, still not looking into Godfrey’s eyes.

  “Feels light,” the man said.

  Godfrey shoved another sack into the man’s hand, and finally he grinned.

  “Thanks for the gold. The boy’s dead. Found his body washed up last night, in the streets with the rest of the sewage. Someone killed him. Don’t know who. Or why. Means nothing to me.”

  Godfrey exchanged a baffled look with Akorth and Fulton. Someone had killed the boy who was sent to kill him. It was Gareth, no doubt, covering his tracks. Godfrey’s heart fell. That meant yet another dead end. Godfrey racked his brain.

  “Where is the body?” Godfrey asked, wanting to be sure this man wasn’t lying.

  “With the rest of the paupers,” the man said. “Didn’t want the body in front of my place. You can check out back if you like, but you are wasting your time.” The man burst out laughing. “He’s dead as death.”

  They all turned and hurried from the place, Godfrey anxious to get away from that man, from that place, and they hurried out the back door, down the road, until they reached the pauper’s cemetery.

  Godfrey scanned the dozens of mounds of fresh dirt, sticks and markers in the ground in the shapes of all the different gods they prayed to. He looked for the freshest one-but so many of them seemed fresh. Did that many people die in King’s Court each day? It was overwhe
lming.

  As Godfrey walked, turning down a row of graves, he spotted a young boy kneeling before one of them. The grave before him was fresher than most. As Godfrey neared, the boy, maybe eight, turned and looked at him, then suddenly jumped to his feet, fear in his eyes, and ran off.

  Godfrey looked at the others, puzzled. He had no idea who this boy was or what he was doing here, but he knew one thing-if he was running, he had something to hide.

  “Wait!” Godfrey screamed. He broke into a run after the boy, trying to catch up with him as he disappeared around the corner. He had to find him, whatever the cost.

  Somehow, he knew this boy held the key to finding his assassin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Thor sat with his Legion brothers around a roaring bonfire in the center of Sulpa, his muscles weary from a long day of work. They had spent all day helping the villagers rebuild, rolling up their sleeves and getting to work as soon as he had left Selese’s home. Reece was not strong enough yet to join them, and he’d spent the day sleeping and recovering in her cottage-and the tenth Legion member was recovering himself, from his crushed leg. That had left Thor, O’Connor, Elden, the twins and a few others, and they’d labored until the second sun grew long to help reinforce whatever simple defenses this village had, rebuilding walls, patching roofs, clearing rubble, putting out fires, reinforcing gates. To Thor it didn’t seem like much, but to these villagers, he could see that it meant a great deal. Thor felt a great sense of satisfaction as he saw their grateful expressions, many of them finally able to return comfortably to their homes.

  The fire crackled before him, and Thor looked around, and saw all of his brothers looking equally weary. He was thrilled to have Reece back, sitting beside him, looking a little bit weak, but recovering, and in good spirits. His day of recovery had went well, and he seemed back to his old self. It had been a close call.

  “But when I woke, she had already gone,” Reece repeated to Thor. “Do you think that means she doesn’t like me?”

  Thor sighed. Reece had been going on about Selese ever since he had left her cottage. Thor had never seen his friend like this; he was obsessed with this girl, and would talk of nothing else.

  “I can’t say,” Thor said. “She certainly didn’t seem to dislike you. She seemed more…amused by you.”

  “Amused?” Reece asked, defensive. “What is that supposed to mean? That doesn’t sound positive.”

  “No, I don’t mean it like that,” Thor said, trying to back track. “But you have to admit, you were delirious, and you didn’t even know her and you told her that you loved her.”

  Snickers rose up from O’Connor, Elden and the twins, listening in around the fire, and Reece reddened. Thor felt bad. He hadn’t meant to embarrass his friend; he was just telling the truth as he saw it.

  “Listen, my friend,” Thor said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “There is no reason to think that she does not like you. Maybe you just came on a little bit strong and now she’s not sure what to make of it. Maybe she didn’t think you were being genuine. Maybe you should return to her in the morning, and see how she reacts.”

  Reece looked down at the dirt, toeing it.

  “I think I ruined my chances,” he said.

  “It’s never too late,” Thor said.

  “Are you kidding?” Elden asked. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. What country girl wouldn’t want to be taken away from here?”

  “Some people like their villages,” O’Connor said.

  “This place is nice enough,” Conven said, “but it is not King’s Court. I’m sure she’d want to leave with you.”

  “You sure you want to take her?” Conven asked. “That is the question. You don’t even know her.”

  “I know her well enough,” Reece said. “She saved my life. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

  The other boys exchanged wary glances.

  “That was just the drugs,” Elden said. “I’ll bet if you met her under some other circumstance you wouldn’t even look twice at her.”

  “That’s not true,” Reece said, reddening, growing angry, determined.

  The group fell silent, and Thor could see in Reece’s eyes a determination unlike he’d seen before. It surprised him. He thought he had known everything about his friend-but he had never seen this side of him. Then again, they had never really had much of a chance to be around girls, training all the time.

  “Maybe she is involved with someone else,” Reece said softly him to Thor, glum. “Did she say anything else about me? After I fell asleep?”

  Thor couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” Thor said, trying to add a sense of finality in his voice to wrap up the conversation. “I wish I’d asked her more. But I left in a rush to help the rebuilding effort. I haven’t seen her since. Go to her in the morning. I’m sure she will answer all your questions. How can she not? After all, you are royalty. Do you really think she would turn you down?”

  Reece looked at the ground, and shrugged. Thor could see the fear and hesitation in his eyes, and he realized that Reece was nervous. Thor thought back to the first time he had spoken to Gwendolyn, and he understood. He had never seen Reece afraid of anything, but looking at him now, he wondered if Reece would be able to muster the courage to approach her in the morning.

  Thor understood, too well. He was hardly one to talk. He hadn’t been able to muster the courage to ask Gwendolyn to marry him. In some ways, he was realizing, the courage needed to race into battle was nothing compared to the courage needed to face the rejection of a girl you loved.

  More villagers appeared, distributing a fresh round of goko sticks, a red, chewy substance on the end of long sticks, which Thor and the others held over the fire. They hissed as they held them over the flames, burned bright, then burned out quickly. Thor blew on his, and ate. It was sweet and delicious. They had helped these villagers, but these villagers had treated them very well in return. He was still stuffed from the huge meal they had given them earlier.

  As the group drifted off into a content silence, Thor lay back on one elbow and looked up at the night sky, at the sparkling red and yellow stars, so far away. His thoughts returned to Gwendolyn. He thought of their last trip, to the House of Scholars, thought of those books. He watched the distant stars and thought again of his mother, of that map, of the Land of the Druids. He wondered if he would ever make it there. He wondered why there had to be a sea between he and his mother, why he had never met her. He wondered again of his destiny.

  Thor felt there a mystery at his fingertips, just out of reach of his thoughts. His thoughts swirled, as he tried to get to the bottom of it, thinking of his mother, his father, his upbringing, of the Druids. But it had been a long day, too long, and his mind was overcome with exhaustion; although he tried to fight it, the cool fall breezes were lulling him to sleep, and before he knew it, his eyes closed without him.

  *

  Thor walked slowly through the streets of his hometown, which sat desolate, doors opened, each home sitting vacant. The wind ripped through it, sending clouds of dust and huge thorn bushes rolling right at Thor. Thor raised his hands to his eyes and pressed on. He did not know what he was doing here, but he felt he needed to be here for some reason, that there was something he needed to see.

  He turned down the corner of his old block, and in the distance he saw his house, which approached quickly. The door was ajar, and he walked inside.

  Everything was exactly as he had left it. But it was empty now. His father was gone, and Thor sensed that he had left long ago.

  Thor walked out the back door, towards the shed where he used to sleep, and as he did, he was surprised to see a woman standing in the doorway. She wore flowing blue robes and held a long, intricate yellow staff. A blue light shined from her face, so intense that he could not make out her features. He sensed that she was someone important his life. Perhaps, even, he dared to hope, his mother.

  “Thorgrin, my son
,” she said, her voice so gentle, so soothing, “I await you. It is time for you to return home. It is time for you to know who you are.”

  Thor took a step closer to her, so curious to see her face, to know more. Her energy drew him in like a magnet, but the closer he got, the more intense the light became, and he raised his hands and found he could not get any closer.

  “Mother?” he asked. “Is that you?”

  “Come home, Thorgrin,” she said, urgently. “Come home now.”

  She stepped forward and held his shoulders, and Thor felt an intense energy pouring through him, felt his own body infusing with light. He still could not see her face, and he reached up and shielded his eyes from the light, which felt as if it might burn right through him.

  Thor sat up, breathing hard, looking all around him. He was surprised to realize he had been dreaming. It had felt so real.

  Thor lay with the other Legion members on the ground before the dying fire, where he had fallen asleep. The others still slept. He turned to see dawn breaking over the horizon, the first sun flooding the sky with yellow and purple.

  He stood and wiped the sweat from his brow as he pondered his dream. It had been so vivid; his heart was still pounding. He had really felt as if he had just encountered his mother. And her words to him kept repeating in his mind. They felt like a message. More than a message-they felt like a command.

  Come home.

  Thor felt an urgency, felt there was some great message awaiting him in his hometown. Some great secret waiting to be unlocked. The secret of who he was. Of who his mother was.

  He walked over to the gurgling creak, knelt down and splashed cold water on his face, trying to shake it. But he could not. It clung to him, this persistent feeling that he needed to go there. Was he imagining it? Was it wishful thinking? Was it just a fanciful dream? It was so hard to know what was a dream, and what was a message. When did his own unconscious get in the way of his seeing a message clearly?