The Tuskan Prince (The Caine Mercer Series Book 2)

by Cale Madison

  “No,” I said, regretting my own lie as the words left my mouth, “I did all of that to save you, nothing more.”

  I could tell that she did not believe me as she returned to gaze into the water, scanning the depths for any sign of movement. I began rowing us back to shore, wishing that she would not speak of it again. Fallen autumn leaves gracefully drifted across the water’s surface, disappearing within the reeds by the embankment. Seagulls and pelicans swooped down from above the distant treeline, diving into the water to snatch their breakfast. As Aketa stared into the clouds and became lost in thought, her small hands fiddled with the heart pendant on her neck; she had to know the truth behind my answer.

  We spotted a colorful figure sitting on the docks with one leg dangling over the water, strumming some fashionable brand of stringed instrument. The mysterious character wore bright clothing, which limited my list of possible candidates down to one. I recognized his feather cap, the foreign design of his tunic and his white socks that stretched past his kneecaps. I called out, “Petri?!”

  “Good to see you haven’t yet forgotten me, old friend. Once again, I’ve returned to tell you the illustrious news of the world!” he declared, continuing to play his psaltery while we rode waves onto the beach. Our canoe gently coursed its way through the sand and rested beneath the dock. He had not shaved in months; his black mustache now intertwined with the patchy beard that covered his face.

  “And what news have you brought us?” I asked as I guided our boat to the wooden posts on shore.

  “I will tell you, in time. Do you have anything delicious, preferably roasted or alcoholic that I could help myself to? I have been riding for days to reach you,” the bard asked with a smile, his stomach growling loud enough to hear over the crashing waves, “and I must say, I’m thirsty as a jahcelot in the desert. All I’ve eaten is stale bread and berries for the past few days!”

  “Please help the man before he starts singing.” I whispered to my wife.

  Aketa laughed and walked past me as I fastened the canoe’s rope to the planks of the dock. She patted my friend on the shoulder as she walked past, then asked, “Petri, have you tried Terol Branco? It’s brewed in Arrigon. Caine tells me you’re somewhat of a connoisseur. Branco’s my absolute favorite of all wines. Give me a moment and I’ll fetch you two a bottle. Tell my husband the news of the world and tell him something interesting, please. He’s been rather anxious, as of late.”

  “Anxiety, Caine? At your age?” Petri said, turning to me as my wife ascended the hill towards our cabin. He looked exhausted, not at all the same as our previous encounter. His unsullied cheeks appeared coated in a light layer of dirt, as if he hadn’t bathed in quite some time.

  “These fat legs are just restless, I guess.”

  “I understand, I do. You don’t want to admit that your best days are already behind you, that there’s nothing left now but wasting away as time slowly consumes what’s left. You’re no better than a fat and lazy lap dog now.” said the bard as he tweaked the strings on his psaltery, “You decided to shave that mangy mop of hair on your head, I see. I like it. A shorter cut suits you.”

  I stared into the rolling waters of the sea, searching the depths for sea life.

  “Change. It’s the hard fact of life, especially given what you’ve been through. Time stops for no man...ah, that’s a splendid title for a poem right there! Werewolves and dragons, now, eh, coyotes and seagulls? Any man would relate to how you feel.”

  He always knew the right words to say.

  “What have you been doing since we last saw you?” I asked. Petri Callogahn had come to visit us two months prior to hear the rest of my ventures and how we fared after all of it. He claimed to be writing an ode about me that “generations will never forget”. His curly black hair rustled with the blowing wind as his fingers lightly plucked each string. “The last you saw of me, after we single-handedly despatched that werewolf on North Mountain...ooh, those memories shall haunt me forever.” he answered with a shudder.

  “You and I remember that night differently.” I said, laughing.

  “Well, I stayed a few nights here and there, traveling to Ataman only when I needed to sell my wares. Became overstocked on spruce and elvish herbs so I went to barter them in the Silver City, but I overlooked something. Something of vast importance.”

  “Which was?”

  “Ataman’s new law against witchcraft: spy someone practicing or seeming to practice any kind of magical ritual, any citizen is required to restrain them immediately. If a civilian is caught harboring a sorcerer or a witch, they are publicly flogged or burned at the stake alongside them. Brutal tactics, honestly, but that’s what war does to kings. It started in Villaneuva, Emrich’s great witch hunt, and now the northern cities are starting to gather up any suspicious man, woman or child. They spotted my cart in the capital, practically a druid’s wet dream and alerted the guards. Rather than risk a prison sentence, I left everything behind and rode away.” he answered, strumming his instrument and singing the last seven words in a bouncing melody.

  “All of your potions and vials, Petri? You just abandoned them?”

  “Things can be replaced, Caine but this...this can never be. Not the shirt, I meant

  myself. I could find clothes anywhere. Trust me, I’d rather spend another year collecting potions than live the remainder of my days in a prison cell. I don’t have quite the same manner of luck as you do and I doubt some hero would break me out. I did save my best poems, of course. Would you like to hear some?”

  I laughed and politely shook my head. Aketa brought us two bottles of red wine, gently ran her fingers across my back and returned to our house. I loved to watch her do anything, as funny as that may sound. Her long, blonde hair trailed behind her as she ascended the green hill behind us. She fascinated me in every way possible.

  “Arrigonians are dreadful pricks, but they sure can brew some damned fine wine. So you miss the adventures, do you, Caine?” Petri asked after guzzling nearly half of the bottle in one gulp, “All the perilous realms and monsters.”

  “Somewhat.” I answered, “I can’t lie, I do think about it from time to time. The mountains, the forests. I want to see them again, Petri. That’s the honest truth.”

  “Given any thought to going back out there?”

  “Not after what we’ve been through. Aketa worries when I hunt alone in the woods. Can you imagine how she’d feel if I left her again? Trust me, that’s an argument you wouldn’t want to see.” I told him, sipping my wine, “Besides, what’s left to explore, anyway?”

  “But you’ve barely scratched the surface, my boy! There’s nine kingdoms on our continent alone, Caine. The world is a tad bit bigger than all you’ve seen. Dragons have been spotted south of The Further, giants and trolls are beginning to stir in the Dread Mountains. I’ve even spotted a wight or two in my journeys lately. The world is ever-changing still.” he explained, disappointedly peering into his nearly empty bottle.

  “I’m not interested in such things.” I argued as I rose to my feet. He sighed and shook his head, seeing straight through my lies. Petri knew me better than most after hearing the entirety of my ventures nearly a year ago. He plucked a stray hair from his chin and stared at it for a few moments before allowing the wind to carry it away.

  “Yes you are, stop lying to yourself. One day, you’re going to wake up in your nice, feather bed without a care in the world or a memory in your head.” he began to sing in a soft, melodic tone, “The world outside has changed but you’ve never come to notice. You’ve accepted this life as your fate...bleak, routine and hopeless. A life worth lived is a life that’s full of friends, adventures and battles, not dwelling in the past while the future’s yet to unravel.”

  “Come up with that ballad on the spot, huh? Impressive.” I said as I finished my wine, feeling the effects of the alcohol beginning to ease my stress.

  “I’ll also have you know that I’ve sold dozens of your odes to coun
tless people throughout my travels. Everyone from Ataman to Mocoreta has heard of Caine Mercer, Beast-Slayer of Mercia. You’re a living legend now.” Petri widened his eyes with a smirk, “I’d wager that even the sorceresses of Tavetsche have caught wind of your heroics. You want to taste the wild again, Beast-Slayer. I know you do. It’s in your blood now.”

  “Beast-Slayer of Mercia? They probably bought them, thinking that they were comical works or satires, nothing serious. No Mercian has ever done more than harvest crops and hunt game.”

  “Might be true, but you’re no ordinary Mercian. We both know that. Keep having fun, my boy. You’re my golden goose.”

  “There’s a title for another ballad.” I replied.

  “Not bad, not bad. No credit goes to you, though. Keep laying those golden eggs and I’ll keep writing about it. Now, let’s go up to the house. I have something very interesting I want to show you two. A fun, little game.”

  ***

  Aketa folded her arms, sitting back in her chair as Petri returned from outside with a devilish smile. Something was tucked away beneath a black, wool blanket. I leaned forward, eyeing him suspiciously as he said, “All right, good, you two are wearing the filthiest garb you own, correct? Close your eyes. Close them now.”

  “I don’t know about this, Petri. What did you bring us? Is it going to make a mess of our house? I never know with you.” my wife said as she rubbed her temples, fending off a headache, “Why did we have to wear dirty clothes? Ugh, this better not make a mess. We just tidied up.”

  “I promise this is safe. Now, close your eyes. Both of you.” the bard said calmly, waiting until we covered our eyes with our hands.

  I heard the sound of something heavy landing on the tabletop. Aketa groaned, keeping her eyes closed as instructed. This sound was followed by the metallic snapping of a latch coming undone and the creaking of rusted bolts. I smelled the pungent stench of riverbed mud. Aketa sniffed and warned, “If you’ve brought a clump of dirt from some faraway beach, I’m going to flay you alive, Petri. It better not get everywhere on the table. My grandfather carved this wood himself, I’ll have you know.”

  “It’s a tad more valuable than mud.” he retorted, “I could buy a much nicer table, no offense to your grandpappy. This mahogany looks a bit worn. Now, open your eyes.”

  I opened mine to find that the bard had placed a small, black creature in the center of our table. Aketa gasped at the sight of it, squealing, “What the hell is that thing?! What is it?”

  The organism resembled a mound of pitch-black clay with at least twenty barbs jetting

  from every side. It was merely the size of a watermelon. I leaned closer to notice that, as it breathed, it would push and retract its barbs like a porcupine cornered by a predator. The thing had no eyes, only a shapeless, bulbous body and sharp quills. I turned to find that Petri was now grinning from ear-to-ear like a schoolboy who had just brought home a new pet.

  “What, eh, what is it?” I asked, scratching my head.

  “This, Mercians, is what the maesters in Veines call a ‘black lyrchin’.” he answered, leaning low to study it from up close, “These little black bastards are exclusively found on the southern shores of Moskaul. No human explorer has ever crossed those forests to find one. Each barb is worth up to thirty crowns in Fortaare, if you find the right merchant to barter with, that is. I’m going to be up to my elbows in gold!”

  I watched as the lyrchin hissed and slumped downward, as if preparing to leap from the table. I folded my arms again, “And how did a poet manage to find one? You would be far more proud to be the first human to survive a trek through Moskaul. More of an interesting poem, I’d say. Did you trap it? Where?”

  “Won it in a card game, actually.” Petri replied before playfully flicking one of the lyrchin’s longer barbs, “From this stupid oaf who thought it was some species of giant slug. He’d be kickin’ himself if he knew how much gold he lost. What an opportunity he’s squandered.”

  “So you…” Aketa began to say before the creature’s hissing interrupted her, “you harvest the barbs? How? Are they venomous?”

  “I see you two have many questions. Let me explain, please. Black lyrchins eat the moss from rocks and decayed trees, all right? These barbs protect them from predators, but they are not venomous. Hawks and bears won’t risk taking a bite out of it. If it doesn’t replace its barbs, the new ones that grow in begin to inflict pain and eventually kill it. So what I’m doing is simply charitable.” Petri said, still smiling as he admired the creature, “They’ve also given me several entertaining nights. I mentioned a game earlier, one that I’ve played with at least thirty women in the past month.”

  “A game? With this thing?” Aketa asked, glancing between the two.

  “Yes, a little game.” the bard said and pulled his chair around to the opposite side of the table, “The three of us take turns plucking a quill from the lyrchin’s hide. Only one of them is the one you don’t want to pull. Even I don’t know which is the right one or the wrong one. The unpredictability of the game is what makes it so damned thrilling.”

  I tapped the tip of my pointer finger against the closest quill.

  “Pulling the barbs...does it hurt it?”

  “From what I understand, it’s like squeezing an infected splinter from your toe.” Petri replied before he wiped his glasses on his white shirt, “So, what say you, Mercians? Care to partake?”

  I looked over to Aketa, who was beginning to form a smile. She nodded.

  “Well, looks like we’re in.” I answered for the two of us.

  The bard clapped his hands together and laughed, joyously.

  “Terrific! Ah, all right. I’ll go first, then. Always the best odds with the first pull.” he then reached down and plucked the first quill. The black lyrchin quivered and groaned, repositioning itself in the table’s center. Petri shot Aketa a daring look and whispered, “You’re next.”

  My wife cursed under her breath, grasped one of the trembling barbs and pulled. The creature heaved and spun around, as if turning to face her. Aketa breathed a heavy sigh of relief and tossed the quill onto the table, “What happens when you choose the wrong one? Petri?”

  “You’ll see. All I can say is that we will definitely know who lost.”

  Knowing that my turn had come, I reached down and wrapped my fingers around the slimy quill. With a gentle tug, the protruding spike slid free. I set it aside and said, “I’m sure you’ll find some way to write yourself into the history books for this. Someday, I’ll hear a poem about the bard who saved the last of a dying species.”

  “Keep making jests, Caine, I’m saving lives here.” Petri snapped before pulling his second barb. The black lyrchin squealed, almost as if relieved, “Lyrchins regrow their quills in a week’s time. It isn’t like an infant losing her little teeth for adult ones. If I pace myself, return to Fortaare once every month, I could have myself a steady revenue of income. I could open my own tavern there, play only the music I choose. Oho, what a find this was!”

  “You know, Petri, I have a few friends who adore poetry and men who can play instruments.” Aketa interjected as she carefully chose her next quill, “I could introduce you? Get you off of the road for a few years. Some stability might do you good, you know.”

  She pulled, receiving another groan from the little creature as it rotated in a circle.

  “I appreciate you both looking out for my best interest, I truly do,” the bard said, wincing as the lyrchin turned to face him, “but monogamy is a bland, prosaic choice. The idea of being with one woman seems a tad bit boring, if you ask me. Unless your friend could travel the world with me at the drop of a hat, and possessed the singing prowess of a goddess, then it would never work.”

  “You never know? Some women love spontaneity.”

  “It just wouldn’t work. Whores will always have a special place reserved in my heart.” Petri replied and then wrenched another barb from the lyrchin’s body. This time, the creature
jolted around and began flaring up. The three of us watched nervously as it eventually subsided and relaxed.

  “You would rather pay prostitutes for the rest of your days instead of finding the right woman to raise children with? I don’t understand…” Aketa began to say before cautiously extracting another barb, “...I don’t understand your logic, Petri.”

  “The right woman, she says. You and Caine are one in a million.” the bard replied, looking between the two of us, “I’ll never replicate what you two have and I’ve made peace with that. Every father and his son I’ve ever met hates his wife. Time sours all good things eventually, Aketa. But do you know who doesn’t sour with time? Strumpets and whores. Because they are all interchangeable. I decide when my time will be spent on their feather mattresses, you see. A wife will chase you down the street with a frying pan when you’ve been on a binge all night. Whores could care less. A wife will pester you about fixing that leak in the roof when it rains. A whore only sees your house if you let her through the door. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Aketa shook her head and replied, “That’s because they don’t love you, Petri.”

  “If that’s love, then I don’t want any part of it. I pay for their service, that’s all. I’ve seen...oh, gods, watch out...I’ve seen too many good men become lethargic shells because of a woman. I won’t expose my soul to that. You met Caine when you were young. Want to know how many attractive young women I grew up with in Rotera?” he stopped before silently mouthing, “Zero.”

  Only twelve barbs remained.

  “A considerable number of women appreciate my repertoire of poems. How could I bare to love only one? My heart is too great to narrow its reach. With that instrument in the corner, I can have just about any girl I desire. Two strums on those strings and their hearts melt like putty in my hands.” Petri said, eyeing his psaltery like an assassin watching his weapon, “I would rather take a vow of chastity like some maester or monk than restrict myself to one lass for the rest of my life. I roll out of bed every morning expecting the unexpected, and that’s how I mean to continue, without a ball and chain latched to my ankle.”