by Colt, K. J.
“Ah, yes,” Eraekryst murmured, his gaze hardening, “‘Stupid’ is just the word, though I can list several more.”
A slight twinge of anger stirred in Arythan at the Ilangien’s condescending tone. “’Tis not what it seems. Michael says there’s more to it.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Eraekryst said. “Was it not you who first questioned the motives of our hosts?”
“Yes, I—”
“And had you not declared, after having survived our plotted deaths, that we would quit this land once the festival was at an end?” the Ilangien pressed.
Arythan narrowed his eyes. “No, ’twas y’ ‘oo wanted to wait ’til Summerfall was over. I would’ve left before that. Now that I ‘ave reason to stay, y’ want to go.”
Eraekryst fidgeted with the foil in his hand, pacing back and forth. “Just what is your reason for lingering, Durmorth? What sweetened promises have given you cause to forget your rightful wariness?”
“I ‘aven’t forgotten anything,” Arythan said, his voice cold and quiet. “I want to learn their intentions.”
Exasperated, Eraekryst pointed the foil at Arythan’s chest. “You know their intentions, you fool! ’Tis a test of your adequacy for the role they wish you to play. A test of obedience. A test of naivety.” He thrust the weapon at him with emphasis with each line.
Eyes flashing, Arythan grabbed the tip and shoved it away. “’S a bloody job! I can take it or leave it, but isn’t that what I ‘ave to do? Find a bloody job.”
Eraekryst shook his head. “They have already snared you. You will forfeit your freedom for this king and his ambitions.”
“I make my own choices,” the mage snapped. “Not the king, not y’.”
“Are you so certain?” Eraekryst accused.
“I’m certain something ‘appened to make y’ this way.” Arythan was trying to control his temper as best he could. He took a deep breath. “One night y’re playing a game, exposing me for all to see; the next day y’re ready to race the wind out of ‘ere.” He searched the silver-blue eyes for any hint of truth but found only defiance. He took hold of his foil and stood. “I told y’ what I intend to do without secrets or lies. Is there something y’ want to tell me?”
“I am telling you not to accompany the king to Kitrimar.”
Arythan shook his head. “I don’ expect y’ to wait for my return.” He turned and started walking toward the keep.
Eraekryst hesitated, then called to him. “I fear you will face some unknown peril!”
“Tha’s every day. I don’ need y’r protection,” Arythan said over his shoulder, then walked away.
“With you as your enemy, you are beyond my protection,” Eraekryst said quietly and threw down his weapon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE ROAD TO KITRIMAR
AUTUMN was a fickle artist in the Northern Kingdoms. It took but a matter of days to paint the tips of the leaves in shades of yellow and crimson, a few days more to complete an entire palette of color. Then the unhappy artist would tear apart the canvas with unforgiving wind and rain, and the colors would run together to the ground in a muddied mess of brown and faded beige. The destruction required only a night or two—perhaps a bit longer for the more resilient trees. With this ending fell the somber silence of regret as autumn hung its head and retreated beneath winter’s watchful gaze, nothing left of the golden season but a memory of riches brashly squandered.
It may have been that King Garriker II saw himself as a herald of change for his people, for he was not one to sit idle and wait for fortune—favorable or ill—to find him first. He left Cerborath with a small but notable company: Prince Michael, Medoriate Cyrul Frostmeyer and his “assistant,” and his elite force of ruffians known as the B.E.S.T.. In all there were eight in their party, some regal, some ominous, some both, and people crowded the windows and streets for a chance to see their king and his mysterious entourage.
Once the towns and villages were behind them, however, the company shed its formal garb for that of common travelers. Arythan was intrigued to see the faces of the black-clad riders, though their change in attire in no way marked their expressions as approachable. Michael had revealed to Arythan their names in private, as though this knowledge was secret to all but a chosen few. The mage had smirked when he heard them, for they sounded about as real as “Arythan Crow.” He did not understand why they were called the “B.E.S.T.”, and Michael was unable to explain it to him. “They have a code all their own, Crow,” the prince had said, and he had left it at that.
Cyrul Frostmeyer was much less impressive without his wizard’s robes, and he seemed quite unhappy to be so undistinguished. The king, however, was the opposite. Garriker seemed much more at ease in his anonymity, and the same could be said for his son. Where Arythan fit amongst them all, he had not the slightest idea. Michael was the only one who would engage him in conversation, but in truth Arythan did not mind his minimal presence. It gave him the opportunity to observe his company and learn a thing or two about them in the process.
Meals were taken on the road or in a tavern, depending upon their location. Once they reached the Trader’s Ring, accommodations became a frequent option. The Broken Cask was one such inn, and it was Arythan’s first true introduction to the B.E.S.T. and the regent for whom they worked.
He sat at a table with Michael, Garriker, and Cyrul, finding more interest in the remnants of the meal on his trencher than in the politics of which they spoke. More than once, his eyes meandered to the adjacent table where the B.E.S.T. were intent upon their drinks and their cards.
Arythan knew Tigress from previous encounters. Her white hair was bound in a tight braid—tight enough that he wondered if it kept her from smiling. Her expression was as nondescript as her attire, though her dark complexion was enough to set her apart from anyone else in the room. One would never suspect her as the captain of the men who surrounded her, but there were subtle clues to her authority in her movements: a stern look, a well-placed comment, or the way the others regarded her as if waiting to see what her next action would be.
He remembered Hunter, too, from the massacre of the Crimson Dragon. There was no mistaking the giant’s hulking, broad-shouldered form. Without his masque, he was no less intimidating. He had a face chiseled from stone, with characteristic lines that marked his middle-age. His eyes peered from beneath thick brows, and his grim-set mouth was surrounded by an even thicker, auburn beard. For all the hair upon his face, it was a wonder that he had none to boast of atop his head.
Next to him sat the southerner Michael had spoken of on occasion. Arythan could hear Dagger’s boisterous, thick-accented and crude commentary if he was sitting outside the tavern. None of his peers seemed aware of his volume, or if they did, they made no effort to hush him. Burly and brutish, Dagger exuded a different sort of intimidation from his peers. His expression changed with every turn of the game, a quality of his unpredictable nature. One minute he wore a bearded grin, the next had him scowling with a blue-eyed glare. Though he was probably close to Hunter’s age, his composure was like that of a mischievous, impatient boy.
The one man who did not seem to belong at the table was the man named Spider. He was lean and wiry, with silver hair pulled back into a short tail behind his head. He was probably the oldest of the B.E.S.T.; he spoke like an aristocrat and moved with the caution of a cat. He was clean-cut, well-groomed, and surprisingly light-hearted, cracking jokes and smiling like he was enjoying himself.
From what Arythan could gather, Dagger was losing, and he was behaving none too graciously about it. A stream of cussing was followed by the sound of a tankard slamming upon the table. Dagger was on his feet and heading toward the bar, his face red with anger. Spider looked as though he wanted to follow him, but Hunter stayed him with a massive hand.
Arythan watched to see what would transpire, only to find a set of eyes upon him. Tigress gave him a nod that indicated he approach. He looked at his present company to s
ee that he might well have been a crumb on the table. He tapped Michael on the arm, and the prince turned to him with a smile.
“You have a thought on the matter, Crow?” he asked.
“Er…no,” Arythan said, unaware of whatever topic was at hand. He nodded toward the other table. “I think they want me to play.”
Michael’s brow furrowed with confusion for just a moment. “Really?” He looked at the waiting B.E.S.T., then patted Arythan on the shoulder. “Well, then, you best not keep them waiting.”
Arythan hesitated, but Michael withdrew something from his coat and slid his hand across the table. He lowered his voice. “Consider this an advance for your assistance on this journey,” he said with a wink. He pressed the object into Arythan’s hand as discreetly as he could.
It was a coin purse. Arythan looked up at him, surprised. “I—”
“It is not much, but it will take care of any issues—” Michael glanced at the B.E.S.T.—“that arise.” He did not give the mage a chance to protest. “Go on, Crow. I think we will be retiring soon anyway. Have your fun, but do be careful. They are a rough sort.” Then he waved him away.
Arythan stood and awkwardly made his way to the table. Dagger’s chair had been pulled away and was waiting for him. Another nod from Tigress confirmed the invitation. He took the seat but said nothing as the cards were dealt.
“If only we all had friends in high places,” Spider said, indicating he had seen the prince’s sly gesture. The corner of his mouth curved into a wry smile. “Welcome, Medoriate Crow. I trust you know something about us.”
“Some,” Arythan replied, his eyes moving from the cards to the faces around him.
“Only praises, I am sure,” Spider said, and Tigress snorted.
Arythan did not reply. He did not know what to expect from his company other than the fact they wanted what was inside his new purse.
“The game is Four Knives,” Spider said, discerning green eyes upon the mage. “If you do not know it, you best learn quickly.”
Arythan looked at the table and found one card face-down in front of each player. Atop the card was a coin—their bet for the round. He fished a copper piece from his bag and looked up to see his opponents regarding his wager in amusement. It is what it is, he thought, and Spider dealt three more cards as their hand.
They had barely begun when Dagger returned with a brimming tankard and a scowl upon his face. “Oi, what’s the caster doing ‘ere?” he demanded.
“You were carrion,” Hunter said, stroking his thick beard. “There was naught to pick from your bones.”
“I wasn’t drunk yet,” Dagger protested. “Y’ know I play better drunk. So y’ replace me with ‘im?”
“The game takes four,” Tigress said, her voice a monotone. “You left your chair. Since you’re up, why don’t you fetch the medoriate a drink?” When he did not move, she looked up at him and held his gaze.
“But ‘e’s got a bloody scarf over ‘is mug—” Dagger shot Arythan a spiteful look. “I see ‘ow ’tis. Y’ want fresh meat.”
“You were going somewhere,” Tigress reminded him, her eyes upon her hand.
“Right-o, Kitten,” Dagger said with mock enthusiasm. He took a long swig from his tankard and belched. “Don’ worry. This one’s on me.” He stalked off again and left the players intent on their game.
This can’t be that hard to learn, Arythan thought, staring at his hand and wondering what he was to do with it. He watched Hunter draw from the deck and discard a card from his hand. What’s the objective? Even a hint would help….
Arythan sat awaiting his turn with a touch of anxiety. Before he could go, Dagger dragged a chair up next to him and thunked a cup for the mage upon the table.
“Er, thanks,” he said, still staring helplessly at his cards. He started to pull one that seemed as good a candidate as any to discard.
“Y’ don’ wanna do that,” Dagger said, shaking his head. He pointed to another card. “Throw that one in. Y’ want the same suit.”
Tigress, Hunter, and Spider all turned to glare at him.
“Oi, I said ’twas on me.” Dagger grinned malevolently. “Jus’ trying to even the odds.”
“Vengeful bastard,” Tigress growled.
“What? Poor bloke won’t ‘ave a coin left when y’ tear into ‘is pockets,” Dagger said.
Arythan tried to read their expressions before he followed the brute’s advice.
“Just remember, Medoriate, that our sympathetic companion was the loser prior to your arrival,” Spider said.
“Yeah, but I’ll be drunk a’fore ‘e’s broke,” Dagger said.
“He should hope so,” Tigress said, flipping her lone card, “because he’s already losing.” She gathered all the coins from the players without cracking a smile.
They continued to play, and finally Arythan was beginning to learn the game. Dagger was not much help, for apparently strategy and foresight were not his best skills. He wondered if the brute was purposely steering him wrong, but even Dagger seemed surprised at his losing streak. If Arythan was to stop his purse from growing any lighter, he would have to ignore the advice of his tutor.
Michael bid him goodnight and good luck when he, Cyrul, and the king passed by the table to retire for the evening. Now Arythan was completely alone with this group of ruffians, but he was too driven by his determination to win one round to care about the nature of his present company.
At first Dagger tried to warn him about the moves he made, but when it became clear that Arythan was no longer heeding him, he merely shook his head and sat back in his chair. There was one pass around the table, then another. Finally, Arythan flipped his table card and smiled in satisfaction.
“Aw shit,” Dagger murmured, and Arythan waited for them to give him their coins. When they did not, he looked up to find all their eyes upon the tavern door, where a group of distinctly dressed visitors had crossed the threshold. There were five in neat green-and-white uniforms, the emblem of a horse upon their tunics. They surrounded several regally dressed figures and their servants. One older woman in particular had an air of superiority about her, and Arythan could scarcely glimpse her through her entourage.
“I won,” he said weakly, knowing his moment of triumph was lost to this distraction. He could likely capitalize on the situation and swipe the players’ coins from under their noses. He decided to wait and see what was so enthralling about this group of nobility.
Someone from the group went to speak to the innkeeper while the rest of them scanned their surroundings. More than once, some narrowed eyes fell upon the B.E.S.T..
“Oi, Kitten, we gotta take up on this,” Dagger said in a voice Arythan thought too quiet to be possible for him. His tone was not tense so much as eager.
“Patience,” Tigress hushed. She was rapt to every move the newcomers made.
There was some discussion amongst the group when their inquirer returned, and this resulted in the separation between uniformed escorts and their regal charge. One of the uniformed party, a tall, older man with a grim face, led the nobility away, leaving his four counterparts behind to assess the other lodgers.
“They dunno our mugs,” Dagger persisted, trying to sway his captain. He watched as the uniformed group selected a nearby table.
“’Oo are they?” Arythan asked.
Only Spider seemed to have heard his question. “Desnerans, Medoriate. This could become interesting.”
Yes, that explains everything, Arythan thought sarcastically.
Tigress turned to her cohorts. “We want them out, not dead.” She eyed Dagger, and he grinned. “Don’t get carried away.”
“Do I ever?” the brute asked. He pushed his chair away from the table. “C’arn, Crumpet, I’ll buy y’ a drink.”
It took Arythan a second to realize Dagger was talking to him. He looked at his half-full tankard, then back at the brute. “But I—”
“You better go,” Hunter said. “He’s never this generous.”
>
Spider winked at him, and Arythan stood warily. Then he noticed one of the Desnerans at the bar, and his concerns grew. If something was going to happen, he did not particularly want a part in it. But the B.E.S.T. would not put the king’s guest in harm’s way…would they?
At the bar, Dagger clapped Arythan on the shoulder and addressed the barkeeper. “My friend won his first game,” he said proudly, without a trace of his southern accent. “I need to get him something special.”
The barkeeper raised an eyebrow but did not question the brute’s change in attitude and dialogue. “Yes, sir.”
“You know,” Dagger continued, tossing a coin on the counter, “there are some interesting people on the road of late.” He glanced at the Desneran, who was standing close by. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, what with all the business you’re getting.”
“There are always some strange folks,” the barkeeper said with a shrug. He set a cup on the counter for Arythan, the coin vanishing into his hand.
“Yeah, but lately, they seem kind of seedy. Ill-mannered.” Dagger was now staring at the Desneran, and the man stirred uncomfortably beneath the brute’s regard. “You wonder where they get the nerve to show their faces, strutting around like cocks over their hens.”
Arythan stared at his drink, wishing he was back at the table. Or somewhere else entirely.
The Desneran set down his own cup and approached them. He was Dagger’s height but lean and well-groomed. He also had a sword at his side.
Here it comes, Arythan thought, tensing.
“Your pardon, sir, but I can’t help hearing your words and thinking you intend them for me and my party. Please tell me if I am mistaken.”
“Can’t say that you are,” Dagger said evenly.
The man’s brow furrowed. “We’ve done you no wrong, nor anyone else, for that matter.”
“That’s what you say.” Dagger’s eyes never left him.
“Regardless of what you believe,” the Desneran said, “I find your glare offensive, and I would appreciate you looking elsewhere.”
