They walked into an echoing hall of wooden beams, tables, and vaulted ceilings. Flickering orange firelight from several fireplaces lit the space, and tall lattice windows misted with frost admitted dim shafts of dust-speckled light into the hall. The air was rich with the scent of ale and gamey meat. Men were clustered in a circle, arms draped over one another, stomping their feet in time to the drums, with mugs of golden ale sloshing over their rims and splattering the floors. There in the center of the crowd Aurelius could just barely make out a pair of gleaming silver blades held aloft. Gabrian wove past overturned chairs and tables, brushing by a hefty barmaid until they reached the counter. Men were clustered to either side of them, placing coins on the counter while a harried barman with a neat ginger goatee scribbled furiously on a pad of brown paper.
“What are they doing?” Aurelius whispered.
“Placing bets.”
“On what?”
Gabrian gestured vaguely over his shoulder to the circle of men. “The outcome of the fight.”
Aurelius cast a quick, but worried glance over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the men holding their swords aloft in the middle of the bar. “They’re going to duel?”
Gabrian’s eyes were closed. “Yes.”
“In here?!”
“Please be quiet.”
Aurelius bit his tongue and waited while the old man uttered a series of strange phrases, almost chanting under his breath.
What is he doing, now? Probably trying to get us free drinks. A smirk lit Aurelius’s face, but he felt a twinge of disquiet that he was already becoming so used to the strange world around him. His smirk faded to a thoughtful frown as he watched Gabrian place a number of coins on the counter and signal to the harried barman. After a number of minutes the barman came to their side of the counter and scooped up Gabrian’s coins. The barman spent a second counting the coins in his palm, then gave his full attention to them.
“Bet?”
“Marcus Thescapian.”
The barman nodded and scribbled on his pad before moving down the counter to the next man in line.
Aurelius grabbed Gabrian’s arm. “You’re betting?”
Gabrian eyed his hand until he removed it. “You don’t appreciate charity, so I thought we could make some honest money. Come, let’s get a look at our contender.”
Aurelius followed Gabrian to the circle of men and they elbowed their way in. Aurelius was surprised when he saw the combatants. They each stood motionless as statues and facing one another, swords held straight above their shoulders in a two-handed grip. One of them was young, very young—perhaps only twenty—while the other had the gray hair and beard of a man as old or older than Gabrian. From the way his arms shook as he held his sword aloft, Aurelius didn’t think he’d last long.
“This is not a fair fight,” Aurelius whispered.
“No, it isn’t,” Gabrian replied.
“The odds can’t be very good. We won’t make much.”
“Ah, that is where you are mistaken, elder.” Gabrian turned to him with a smile, his eyes dancing with reflected tongues of flame from the fireplace in the corner. “The odds are fifteen to one against Marcus Thescapian.”
“What? You bet on the old man?”
“With age comes experience.”
“And frailty.”
Gabrian smiled cryptically and left the circle. “Come, let’s wait outside.”
The men went on shouting to their champion and jeering the contender while stomping their feet in time to the drums. Aurelius gaped for a moment longer at the man they were betting on before turning to follow Gabrian out. He found the old man standing under the entrance to the brewery, gazing off into the distance. Aurelius tapped him sharply on the shoulder.
“What’s wrong with you? Do you know that man? Is he some type of master swordsman?”
“I’m not sure of his skills with a sword, but he is a master with a staff.”
“What good is a staff against a sword? What are we even doing here? Aren’t we looking for this damned relic of yours?”
“Yes, that is our objective. Unfortunately, Malgore has the relic.”
“So how does this help us?”
Gabrian turned to him with a small smile. “Malgore is the man we are betting on.”
* * *
“Why didn’t he recognize you?” Aurelius asked.
“I blinded his eyes. He won’t be able to pick us out of a crowd, unless he is very certain we are there.”
“So why don’t you just walk up to him and steal the relic.”
“You’re assuming he hasn’t hidden it.”
“Well . . .”
“Even if he has it on him, we cannot steal it from him, nor can we kill him and take it. Both crimes would bring all of Dagheim against us. I may be powerful, but I cannot defeat an entire village of Nordic hunters.”
Aurelius let out a long sigh and slowly shook his head. His eyes skipped along the wooden cabins across the street and focused on a drainpipe clogged with hanging tentacles of ice. “So why is Malgore fighting in a petty duel?”
“I suspect he has no choice. When he came to Dagheim, he must have offered some slight against one of the warriors here.”
“And?”
Gabrian turned to regard him curiously. “Surely the rest is self-evident? The man who was offended is fighting for his honor, or the honor of someone he loves. Malgore must defend himself, or submit to be his contender’s slave.”
“But can't the people can see how unfair the fight is? What honor is there in besting a weak old man?”
“Old he is; weak he is not, but the people of Dagheim must not know this. The slight must have been very great for someone to have challenged Malgore to a duel, because there isn't much honor to be gained from the fight.”
“And what if he loses?”
Gabrian’s reply was interrupted as the doors behind them burst open. Raucous cheering split the cool winter air and men poured out of the brewery to either side of them. The crowd was pushing the combatants ahead of them. Once both contenders were standing in the middle of the street and facing each other, the men formed a circle around them to watch. The barman stepped out from the crowd and held his hand up to the waiting combatants. Aurelius noticed that now Malgore had traded his long sword for a shorter, lighter blade, which he now held in an easy one-handed grip. In his other hand, partially concealed by his robes, Aurelius saw that he was leaning heavily on a wooden staff, as if he needed it to support his weight.
Suddenly, the barman’s upraised hand closed into a fist. That seemed to be the cue the fighters were waiting for. The cheering crowd grew still as death, and the young man began circling closer. Malgore didn’t even move, but Aurelius saw that his lips were moving.
The younger man circled into striking distance, and then with an incoherent shout he swung his blade with such force that it whistled as it sliced through the air.
At the last possible instant, Malgore swung his own blade up to parry. A mighty clang of steel on steel rang out, joined by gasps of surprise from the crowd as they realized that the old man had just stopped a two-handed swing from a heavier sword and a younger, stronger man—one-handed. It should have been impossible.
The younger man launched himself backward, parrying a quick set of strikes and jabs from Malgore. He stood panting freezing clouds of condensation and eyeing his opponent thoughtfully. At length, the young man began circling once more, being careful to keep out of range of Malgore’s shorter sword.
Aurelius watched as Malgore’s eyes closed and his lips began moving again. This time someone else noticed.
“He’s using sorcery! Stop him!”
But it was too late. Malgore’s sword began to glow blue, then it appeared to burst into flames with a mighty whoosh of air. Blue tongues of fire began licking off the glinting edges of the blade and Malgore stalked toward his astonished opponent. The young man began backpedaling crazily, but Malgore kept pace with him and cl
osed the gap.
“Your debt is paid, old man!” the younger one screamed, still backpedaling furiously.
Aurelius turned to Gabrian with an urgent whisper, “We can’t let Malgore kill him!”
“It is not our place to interfere.”
“But—”
A crack of steel split the air once more and Aurelius turned to see half of the younger man’s long sword fall to the snowy ground with an ominous clunk.
Malgore continued advancing, and the younger man kept retreating.
“Leave me, wizard! What honor will you find in defeating a mortal man?”
Yet Malgore continued forward. Suddenly, the young man stopped his retreat. His back snapped straight and his chin jutted out to the sky. He held his arms out to either side, palms up.
“What is he doing?” Aurelius asked.
“Embracing death,” Gabrian replied.
“Help him!” Aurelius hissed.
Malgore reared back for a swing, lifting his fiery blue sword high above his shoulder for a decapitating blow. The crowd grew stiff and silent.
The blade hissed through the air, flames trailing behind it like streamers of liquid sapphire. Aurelius closed his eyes, unable to watch.
* * *
Blade and flesh connected soundlessly, drawing another gasp from the waiting crowd. Aurelius peeked one eye half open to see the gruesome result.
Yet Malgore had not decapitated his opponent. He stood plainly before the young man, his sword now extinguished and planted in the snow beside him. The young man’s neck was bleeding in a thin line, but he was otherwise unharmed. Aurelius watched Malgore place a hand on the boy’s shoulder in a reassuring grip before turning to leave.
“Let that be a lesson to all of you,” Malgore said to the crowd. “There is no glory, no honor in death—only in life, lived to its fullest. To die in a petty squabble is to betray the very virtue you seek to defend.” And with that, Malgore pushed back through the crowd to the entrance of the brewery. Aurelius watched Gabrian turn and hide his face in his cowl, but Malgore gave no sign of recognition as he walked by.
Gabrian waited until the rest of the grumbling crowd had filed into the brewery, before turning to follow them.
“He doesn’t seem too bad,” Aurelius said.
“No, he doesn’t, does he?” Gabrian returned. “That’s the problem.”
Back inside the brewery Gabrian found a table in the furthest, darkest corner he could and told Aurelius to wait there. The old man returned a moment later with a pair of golden ales frothing over the rims of their frosted mugs.
“What now?” Aurelius asked as Gabrian sat down across from him.
“We wait.”
“For?”
“Night.”
The evening passed slowly, and Aurelius found Gabrian to be a pensive companion, content to sip his ale through long stretches of brooding silence. For his part, Aurelius was boiling with questions that he daren't ask for fear that the answers would only raise more concerns. The silence gave him an opportunity to listen to the conversations going on around them, however. The Nordic accents were strange and some of the words were unfamiliar, but otherwise he understood them perfectly.
“It be a full moon tonight.”
“Forsooth.”
“Reckon we'll see any wolves?”
“Only if they wanta be seen. Sneaky monsters they be. Pad along behind you on the clearest plain on the brightest night as though it were the darkest thicket. We'll need eyes in the backs of our heads.”
Dry laughter. “Why do they like the cursed moon so much anyway?”
“Reckon it gives ‘em something to howl at.”
“I heard it makes them hungrier and more aggressive to see it out and shining. That's why we see so much of them when the moon’s at its fullest. Why don't they just hunt the Hydrons and leave us alone? More than enough meat to share.”
“Ancient vendettas. They eat us and we skin them; maybe no one remembers who started it, but you can be dracklan sure they don't take kindly to seeing us wearing their friends and family for coats.”
“You think they're that smart? They’re just beasts.”
“No . . . not beasts. Not only. You ever hear of the werewolves?”
“A'course. Everyone has. That don't make them any more real.”
“Oh they be real. Rare enough, but real as you or me. All started when a wolf took a Nordic woman for his mate.”
“Spare me your spook stories. That's just something we tell young maidens to keep them from straying too far from home.”
“Oh, it's no spook story. It happened, many centuries ago. This wolf, he was a sick one. He took the chieftain’s daughter in a battle and dragged her off into the mountains. Everyone thought he meant to save her for a snack, but a fortnight later she was seen again, wild and feral looking, draped in ragged furs and scrabbling around on four legs like a beast. Reckon she didn't last more than a few winters, but she lasted long enough.”
“Long enough for what?”
“To bear a son.”
“Ack. You’re disgusting, Grimsweil. You’re puttin’ me off my food.”
The other man broke into gruff laughter, and Aurelius turned to Gabrian with a horrified look. “Is that true?” he whispered.
The old man’s eyes were closed; he appeared to be in some sort of trance. Aurelius repeated his question, and Gabrian’s eyes opened to impatient slits, seeming for a moment to be yellow rather than blue. “Is what true?”
Aurelius started. “What they were talking about. About werewolves.”
“What about them?”
“Do they exist?”
Gabrian’s lips curved into an ugly smile. “Does that frighten you?”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a warning.”
“A warning?”
“This is not your world. Many things exist here which are beyond your imagining.” With that, Gabrian’s eyes rolled up and he appeared to sink into a trance once more.
Aurelius looked away with a frown and took a hearty sip of his ale. Many things exist here which are beyond your imagining. . . .
Like werewolves?
Chapter 6
Aurelius awoke to the sound of bells crashing, suddenly interrupting the raucous sounds of merriment inside the brewery. He lifted his head from the table and the crude pillow he’d made of his arms to see all the men inside the bar suddenly snapping to attention. Dozens of chairs were pushed back from their tables at once as if it had been rehearsed. The laughter and shouts suddenly died away to a relative hush of heavy footsteps. Every man in the bar quietly made his way to the door and padded out into the snow. Aurelius watched the sudden exodus with bemusement. As the last of the men were filing out, Gabrian rapped him on the head with his staff.
“Ouch!”
“Come.” Gabrian pushed out his chair and stood.
“You could have just asked me.”
“I did.”
“I meant nicely,” Aurelius said, rubbing his head.
They followed the crowds outside and Aurelius shivered as he looked up at the deep, dusky blue sky, already alive with twinkling stars. The moon was a giant yellow eye upon the horizon, hovering just above the snow-covered steeple of a nearby log cabin. There inside that steeple, Aurelius caught a glint of a giant bell swinging back and forth.
“Must I hit you on the head again?”
Aurelius jerked out of his stargazing and hurried after Gabrian. They followed a growing throng of people through the village, snow crunching under hundreds of booted feet in a rhythm of purpose.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just confront him now. What’s the point of all this subterfuge?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand subtlety, elder, but even were I to confront Malgore and defeat him, he would sooner die than part with the relic. Therefore, unless he has it on his person, which I cannot believe is true, we would lose our only way to find that which we seek.”
“Surely you can make him talk?”
“How?” Gabrian shot him a bland look.
Aurelius’s expression twisted uncomfortably beneath the wizard’s gaze. “Torture?”
The old man smiled wryly. “You advocate torture but not stealing?”
“Well . . .”
“Regardless, no matter how much pain I could inflict, I assure you he could endure it and more. He would simply use magic to switch off his senses and I would be left torturing a lifeless doll.”
“Hmmm.”
“We have no choice but to follow him until such a time as he leads us to the relic. If we are patient, he will betray himself.”
“Where is he trying to take the relic?”
Gabrian shrugged. “Who knows. Somewhere safe. For now he just wants to lose his pursuers. I suspect that he plans to blend in here for a while in order to do that, but he underestimates my power if he thinks he can hide for long.”
“If you can track Malgore, why not the relic?”
“Magic can only track living things, and even then it is difficult unless those beings are very familiar—or very powerful. Every time someone uses magic, it’s like a beacon, shining brightly for everyone with eyes to see. The effect lingers and forms a trail that can be followed.”
“Is that why you told me to fly this way?”
“Yes, but it is Destiny’s work that brought you to Dagheim rather than someplace else. Even had I been awake I wouldn’t have been able to guide us so precisely to Malgore’s location.”
Aurelius nodded slowly as if he understood. He had a sick, crawling sensation like he should have stopped asking questions ten questions ago. They rounded a corner in the street and came into view of a broad plaza. People were crowding into it from every side with spears and shields glinting in the moonlight. In the center of the plaza was a podium upon which stood a giant man in blazing red furs with long, curly bronze hair. He held a wickedly glinting spear in one hand, and a heavy round shield in the other. Upon his head sat a furry headpiece with jagged silver spikes rising in a circle around the rim. He was looking out over the crowds, his eyes drawn skyward to the rising moon.
Mrythdom: Game of Time Page 5
