by J. W. Webb
All Corin’s blades weighed him down today. A long stiff walk and him a rider too. Still, it felt good to stretch the legs.
And he was coming home. Actually Corin had mixed feelings about that. Fourteen years and he hadn’t left with the best grace.
Ahead a high ridge showed dark through a gap in the woods. Eagerly Corin crested it and gazed down past the trees at the distant smoky dwellings of his childhood home. Finnehalle.
There it lay as it always had, framed by tall bluffs; its harbor washed by the fathomless waters of the Western Ocean. Corin drew a deep breath and soaked in the sight. Finnehalle, his village, scarce more than a chaotic scattering of stone dwellings. Rain-washed houses and wooden fishing huts clustered around the old granite harbor.
Finnehalle, a place of crowded taverns and wind-swept markets, where local tradesmen plied their wares and days followed nights without event. Beyond the confines of the Four Kingdoms, few of its folk paid heed to what happened elsewhere.
Corin’s eyes followed the course of a familiar stream spilling out beneath the trees and disappearing in the tangle of smoke-veiled roofs below. Beyond these the stone arm of the harbor jutted forth. Past that, the ocean’s green-grey expanse sparkled and danced ever westward until it embraced the autumn sky.
Corin felt a sudden pang of loneliness seeing the storm lanterns swaying in the breeze at the harbor’s end. Come back ...they called to him. Come home!
Corin shrugged away his melancholy thoughts. This was proving a peculiar day—he was a fighter not a bloody philosopher. He liked things simple and straightforward. Didn’t go with moping much.
Besides, he needed to press on. The taverns would be filling by now. They’d all want to hear his story—not that Corin was much of a talker. But if they provided the ale he would happily comply.
Corin increased his pace as his thirst demanded, soon losing sight of the town in the autumnal canopy of trees. No bird song nor squirrel chatter? Odd that.
Corin stopped by an old oak. He didn’t know how he knew, but someone was watching him. He turned, looked back up toward the ridge.
Silhouetted between the trees was the stooped figure of an old man, bearded features buried beneath a wide-brimmed hat. His cloak hung limp despite the keen breeze. Weird. He was a way off, but Corin could see the old fellow clearly.
The greybeard leant heavily on a long spear, its tip blazing suddenly when a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds.
Corin slowly inched the fingers of his left hand toward Biter’s bone hilt. No room to swing Clouter here. His mind was working fast, trying to recall where he’d seen this stranger before. Friend or enemy? He dare not take the chance. That hat was familiar and so was the spear.
A soft sound to his left. Corin turned sharply, sliding the sax free of its scabbard. He let out a slow breath, watched the rabbit scurry beneath a clutch of briar. Reluctantly Corin returned his gaze to the high ridge.
The old man had vanished. Gone. Disappeared in murky autumn air. There was no sound save the wind and restless sighing of trees. Corin slammed Biter back in its leather, cursed profusely, and then resumed his pace, swifter than before. He needed a drink and fast.
Something fluttered to his left. Corin saw a raven settle silent on a branch. An evil-looking bird, it glared at him in accusation.
“Sod off,” Corin told it and swiftly resumed his pace. The raven croaked at him and took wing again. Corin cleared the woods. Open fields led down to the town. These he took at a trot. He reached a gate. Finnehalle—he was home.
Pushing open the gate, Corin entered the town. Slate-dressed houses loomed over him as he hastened by in long eager strides. Gulls weaved high above, their white shapes ghostlike in the fading light. Corin hadn’t known what to expect really, but the town seemed quieter than it should be, despite the lateness of the hour.
Where was everybody? Corin nodded whilst passing a burley figure shouldering a sack of grain. The man glanced in his direction before disappearing behind a house. Corin frowned at the open hostility of the gaze.
Miserable bugger.
Corin shrugged off his misgivings and hastened down the main track, cursing as a dog snarled, making him jump. He needed that drink badly and sincerely hoped the taverns were still the same, the patrons happier than that grump had been.
Corin shivered, unrolled his woolen cloak, until now stowed on his back alongside Clouter. He threw the cloak over his shoulders, stopping in a doorway to clasp it with his golden wolfs-head broach. Nearly there—hearth and brew.
It was almost dark when Corin reached the harbor. At least the wind had eased. He took to strolling along the quay, not quite ready to enter the busy taverns (he hoped they were busy) despite his urgent need for ale.
Corin passed fishing huts and stinking piles of nets and ropes. There didn’t seem to be anyone about. They must all be in the taverns. Maybe something bad had happened.
Despite not wanting to, Corin pictured that old man in the woods leaning on his spear. He recalled the strange girl’s warning and frowned. Behind him the sun sank crimson over western water, and the sea murmured its timeless incantation, luring him to gaze into its fathomless depths.
Corin tugged his cloak close to keep out the chill. He leaned idle on the harbor wall, letting his eyes follow the moonlit waves toward the darkening horizon.
He spied movement at the far end of the harbor’s arm. Someone stood there watching the water as he did. Corin wondered who it was.
He stared closer. The stranger seemed unaware of Corin’s scrutiny in his silent vigil of the waves. There was something familiar about the way the man was standing. Silon? Corin grinned, imagining the wealthy merchant leaving his beloved vineyards and moving north to rain-washed Finnehalle. No chance.
Enough nonsense. Corin drank in the briny air one last time. He felt ready to confront his past. With a final curious glance at the distant stranger, Corin turned and briskly strode toward the nearest inn, his favorite.
A faded sign swung creaking above the well-used door, announcing the establishment: The Last Ship. Corin grunted as he pushed the door inwards and entered inside. This had better be the same.
***
Inside the inn a sudden welcome rush of heat greeted Corin, together with the rich smell of roasting flesh. A roaring fire cast dancing shadows across the busy room, sending bellows of smoke backwards to hang in foggy clusters beneath darkened oak beams. Shabbily dressed men glanced up warily from their mugs of ale, muttering as the rangy newcomer shouldered his way moodily to the taproom. A bald, sweating man greeted him in friendly fashion.
Corin grinned, recognizing Burmon, whose family had always managed matters behind these stout walls. The innkeeper was a merry soul and had been a friend to the young Corin. Back then he’d spent most of his time in Burmon’s fine hostelry.
The Landlord looked at him askance, clearly not recognizing this hard-faced, scarred longswordsman, currently looming over the ale counter and grinning evilly at him.
“Can I be of assistance, sir?” Burmon asked, glancing nervously to the corner by the fire, where three shaggy men were seated around a table, playing dice. “Have you come far?” Burmon was evidently worried about the huge sword slung low across Corin’s shoulders (Corin had loosened Clouter’s harness to move through the inn.) Corin felt uneasy. Something was clearly amiss in Finnehalle if a jovial fellow like Burmon looked so strained.
“Far enough to need a large ale,” Corin responded, softening his smile. “Don’t you recognize me, old friend? I know it’s been a while, but well I hoped that—”
“Corin!” blurted the innkeeper and then covered his mouth as the three strangers turned to glower in their direction. “Elanion bless us,” he whispered, “but it is good to see you again, lad. It must be ten years!”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen, you don’t say. Where does the time go?”
Corin waited with eager anticipation as Burmon poured him a large mug of ale. “Where hav
e you been lad? By the Goddess you’ve changed. I must tell Holly. She’ll be delighted!”
Corin smiled. He hadn’t forgotten the innkeeper’s comely daughter. Ale wasn’t the only reason he’d chosen The Last Ship. Corin had shared many a happy hour with Holly in gentler times. Warmed by ale and hearth, Corin’s mood brightened anticipating an enjoyable evening ahead. Draining his tankard, he requested another before the busy landlord slipped away to serve other customers. Corin’s eyes smarted as he glanced about the smoke-filled room.
The atmosphere of the inn was reserved, considering the number of folk seated at tables and propping the walls. Corin frowned. A few faces were familiar, farmers mostly and fishermen he remembered from his boyhood. None appeared overly cheerful.
Corin studied them from his half-drained ale mug. They kept their voices low as if worried to speak out loud. Corin’s eyes drifted toward the tough-looking men by the fire. Mercenaries by the look of them, or else brigands like those shiteheads at the smithy.
Strangers to Finnehalle, of that much he was certain. Corin suspected these outlanders were the sole cause of the taught atmosphere. He resented their presence at his favorite inn. Corin had come home to get away from bastards like this. The nearest man caught his eye, glanced at the longsword and dropped his gaze. He turned to whisper to his friends. Corin smiled and sipped his ale, anticipating confrontation.
The innkeeper returned, accompanied by a young woman who laughed eagerly when she saw who it was visited their taproom.
“I don’t believe you’ve come back!” Holly grinned, pushing blonde tresses behind her left ear with a well-scrubbed hand. She stretched up on tip-toes, placing a wet kiss on Corin’s grinning lips.
Corin recalled how fond he’d been of Holly back then; almost she had quelled his wildness. She still looked good. A bit worn round the edges, maybe, and a nonce thicker in waist. She still had that smile, though, and big cornflower eyes. Corin grinned visualizing good times in the days ahead. But then a swift glance at Burmon sobered him.
“What is it, my friend?” Corin asked, seeing the worry on the landlord’s face. “What troubles you?”
“Those strangers,” muttered the innkeeper. “They’re Morwellan cutthroats and seasoned fighters, too. They worry me, Corin. I don’t know why they came here. Some trouble back east, I expect. There is always trouble back east.”
“What about them?” Corin casually turned to stare at the three. They were watching him carefully, their faces far from friendly. Corin remembered a man called Hagan, a Morwellan killer, a man from Corin’s bloodstained past. His mood darkened, and a shadow fell across him, recalling bleak days he intended to bury forever. Hagan Delmorier: lethal killer with sword and knife. Cunning fox, wily card cheat, Corin’s former comrade at arms.
If ever I see you again, Hagan, one of us will die.
These three Morwellans had a similar look to them. They reminded Corin of all the things he despised in himself. Unlike those clowns who had molested poor Kyssa, these three were professionals.
Burmon handed Corin a plate of steaming fish and refilled his glass. “They frighten my customers,” he continued. “There was trouble the other night with some farmers from across the valley. You remember the Breen brothers?” Corin nodded. “Well those three set about them and almost beat them to pulp in this very room. Since then, folk have been afraid to speak out. Now things are worse, for one has taken a fancy to Holly.”
“If he comes near me, he’ll get a kitchen knife in his ribs.” The woman’s blue eyes flashed angrily. Corin raised a brow at the lass, admiring her spirit. Her father was looking more worried by the minute. Burmon noted Corin’s hostile stare and placed a sweaty hand on the longswordsman’s shoulder.
“Have a care with your expression, my friend. Those rogues are watching, and they’re always spoiling for a fight.”
Corin shrugged nonchalantly, then waded into his fish with hearty relish. The girl and her father left him to his meal as they saw to their guests. Corin wolfed his supper down and drained his tankard a third time. He felt much better. Burmon’s strong brew soon banished the chill. From his bench in the corner, Corin could see the Morwellans still watching him with dark expressions. He locked eyes with the nearest and scowled. They didn’t belong here. Well then, that settled it. Time for a bit of gentle persuasion.
Yes, ugly, I’m looking at you.
Corin unfastened his cloak, allowing it to drop to the rush-strewn floor. He unslung his harness and rested Clouter against an adjacent bench. Then he stood up flush-faced, savagely kicking his own bench out from under his feet. The room was suddenly silent. Eyes gaped and nerves tautened like bowstrings. Corin confronted the three, glancing warily at the broad blades hanging at their waists.
“Have you got a problem with my face?” Corin growled at the nearest and biggest. The inn was deathly quiet. From over at the bar, the landlord and his daughter looked on, worry creasing their brows. “I said do you have a problem, shite for brains?” Corin rested a lean hand on Biter’s hilt. There was no room to swing Clouter in here.
The big one turned toward his companions and laughed. “I think he wants to die,” he said. This Morwellan was even uglier than Ulf had been, a scarred, round-faced brute with shaggy beard and missing front teeth. His friends chuckled at his words, lowering their hands and reaching slyly for their blades.
“So, you are a longswordsman,” spat the leader. “Can you use that bloody great thing over there, or is it just for show.” He leered across to where Clouter leaned redundant. “Maybe I’ll try it out on your skinny arse before I keep it as a trophy.”
“Sirs, please I beg no trouble!” Burmon’s plea drew more laughter from the three Morwellans.
“Be silent, porky, and pour us more ale.” The leader wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve and spat green phlegm on the straw-covered floor. “Our lanky friend here demands our full attention.” He turned to the others. “I can always use another sword, however unwieldy, and those leathers would look good on me, though that mail shirt looks a bit knackered. What say you, Balian?”
“Aye,” muttered the one-eyed, grizzled fellow to his left. “That sword belt would fit my waist,” he grinned. “Are those studs real silver?” The third man said nothing, eying their confronter with eager loathing.
Corin stifled a yawn. “Typical bloody Morwellans,” he said, “always yabbing instead of stabbing.” Panther quick Corin leaped onto their table, kicked the quiet one hard in the face with his left boot, splitting the Morwellan’s nose with a sickening crack.
Bearded moon-face grabbed his leg, but Corin brought his right steel-girded boot down hard on the man’s hand, snapping his fingers and making him howl in pain.
The Morwellan with the eye patch had his sword out. He lunged at Corin’s thighs. Corin grinned, deftly leaping back off the table. He seized a vacant stool and hurled it into One-eye’s face, sending him crashing into the crowd watching open jawed from behind.
“Come on!” Corin snarled, grabbing the bearded leader’s sword arm, preventing him from freeing his blade. Corin, after winking at Big-Ugly, rammed his head hard into the leader’s chin. Crack! The Morwellan’s eyes glazed over and he sank groaning to the floor.
The quiet one with the broken nose stabbed out at Corin with an evil-looking sax. Corin blocked the thrust with his forearm, knocking the flat of the blade aside. He leaped forward, jammed his fingers into his antagonist’s neck, and squeezed. Number three crumpled unconscious to the ground. Corin grinned. The Morwellans were a mess of groans and broken bones. The day was getting better.
Corin gulped deep breaths, then laughed. A great movement of feet announced the town folk had unanimously decided to be rid of the troublemakers once and for all.
“Found your courage at last,” Corin jeered as they clustered like hornets around the Morwellans, kicking and cursing, stomping and spitting. They dragged the battered three out into the street, and then kicked and punched them some more amid hoots of gl
eeful laughter. Finally tiring of their sport, the vengeful posse returned to the taproom to replenish mugs and congratulate themselves on their victory. The Morwellans slunk away like mangy curs to lick their wounds.
And plot revenge.
Corin wiped the sweat from his brow. He winked at the shiny-eyed Holly and held his mug out for her to replenish. She obliged with a grin and a moist kiss in his left ear, Corin having just turned his head. Corin stooped, fastidiously removed the fresh bloodstain from his faded leather jerkin. It was nice being center of attention for a change. Or would have been if he’d had the chance to reflect on it. But someone had nudged him from behind, interrupting his reverie.
“Greeting, Corin an Fol,” said someone with a foreign accent. “I see that you retain your subtle ways.”
I know that voice. Corin turned, found himself staring gormlessly into the canny black eyes of Silon, his former employer.
“So it was you on the quay. What do you want?”
“Your assistance.”
“Bugger off.”
“Does the word gold interest you?” Silon rolled a coin between his fingers.
“It might.” Corin eyed the coin as if it were a snake.
“Well then, I suggest you listen,” the merchant said. And Corin did.
Chapter 4: Outcast
Jen recognized Prince Tarin instantly. She had seen him just last spring whilst she and Cullan were making their annual trip to Kella City. But the Prince looked very different now. His apparel was torn and disheveled, and his young face a mask of dried tears and cuts.
Jen turned and yelled back at the cottage. “Cullan, quick! A rider in need!” Moments later her husband loomed blearily above his wife. Big Cullan rubbed his sleep-filled eyes in disbelief at what looked to be young Prince Tarin swaying in exhaustion on his lathered, filthy horse.
