“I thought silver was the bane of demons, not iron,” said Pavel as he put on the new armor.
“You’re right. But it stings. The higher the rank, the lesser the effect. A blow from an iron weapon might not dispose of a lowly imp, but it would hurt. Badly. The demonic vermin would be left cross-eyed forever, and that’s a long time,” replied Sheqer. Though from the tone, the Azat couldn’t tell if the demon was joking or not.
Despite their transfer to another location, the man believed he could hear faint echoes of wolf howls. It worried him at first, but stress and tiredness took their toll. He had an undisturbed, deep slumber. It was sleep reinforced by the thought at the back of his mind that the bard was now involved, a situation which made him smile with satisfaction. Pavel was at first extremely annoyed at the gumption of the bard in trying to disassociate himself from the wolf problem. Now, both of them were in the same boat. Whether they’d let the entity the bard feared sink it was another matter.
Now, that’s settled, thought the man. He better shape up and take the punches too.
As the day wore on, they now met travelers on the road on a fairly regular basis. Some were friendly enough to give them a wave or call out greetings. It was a distinct difference from the experience they’d had yesterday.
“We must be nearing a settlement,” ventured the demon. “There’s not much fear among these people.”
Pavel grinned. The absence of terror must have been disappointing the bard. Sheqer positively wallowed in the fearful atmosphere when suspicious and terrified looks greeted them. Then he glimpsed a small hut to which was attached a barrier across the road.
A guardhouse, he mused, the bard was right. We’re nearing civilization.
The structure had a small blue pennant on which an escutcheon was embroidered, enclosing a stylized griffin. It whipped along in the stiff, early afternoon breeze as two armored men with blue tabards came out and waited for them to come closer. Things were clearly not peaceful as one had a drawn sword, while the other held a heavy spear at the ready.
“Let me handle this, Master,” said Sheqer as the demon walked ahead of him.
As he neared, the Azat could hear the queries and answers. The guards wanted to know who they were and their purpose. Sheqer’s response was he was a bard, and his Master was a mercenary out to join whoever was willing to pay for his services.
Now, I am a mercenary, thought Pavel. Not a bad cover story. Complements Sheqer’s role perfectly.
In hindsight, it was the perfect excuse. Being known as a mercenary would discourage troublemakers and allow him to move around without more than the quota of inconvenient questions. Though there was always the chance of a drunk bravo trying to boost his manhood with a challenge. Pavel couldn’t wait for such an opportunity and resolved that the first man to test him in such a manner would be broken in a manner fit for a terrifying tale. That should put a stop to future attempts.
“What brings you to the Kingdom of Farel, strangers?” asked the one with the sword.
“Work. We come from Dagorath. Too much competition there,” Pavel butted in. He doubted if the bard could expound on their story. At least the Azat knew that a region called Dagorath existed. The hermit had mentioned he was going there.
“Or you could be bandits from the Wastes,” said the other guard, who glanced at the demon. “But no, I don’t think so. Those bastards wouldn’t have a bard or have the ear to listen to one.”
“It must have been a long trip, and it takes an experienced warrior to survive such a trek. You’d do. The gods know how much this Kingdom needs good fighting men. If ever you get to the nearest city, Constance, look for the recruiting office in the main square. But I don’t think the army needs bards,” said the guard with the sword. “You may pass, but the toll is two silver eagles, a bird for each.”
The Azat squinted at the bard who had all the money and valuables they took from the destroyed caravan. Sheqer took out a small pouch and rummaged through its contents. The demon had placed their coins into three bags. The smallest one, according to Sheqer, contained spending money. Pavel didn’t have an idea of how the currency worked. The hermit apparently assumed he knew all the ordinary matters expected of an adult in the region, and he couldn’t ask the guards. They would be suspicious of how the pair got the money if they didn’t know the exchange rate and denominations.
Finally, the bard produced two silver coins engraved with eagle motifs. The spear-equipped guard received the money and raised his hand. The Azat noticed two more armed guards at the back of the hut watching them. At the signal, the pair sheathed their swords. Pavel didn’t see any bowmen but thought one or two must be in the surrounding trees.
***
The pair walked past the guardhouse. When they reached some distance from the border watch, the bard turned to the man.
“Have you any idea about the region?”
“Only what the map of Encratas indicated. Constance appears on it. It’s a city some distance away, on the shores of a large lake. The area is marked as Farel, but I didn’t know if it referred to the region or a kingdom,” answered Pavel.
“Now we know it’s a kingdom and from the hints dropped back there, engaged in a war or wars of some kind. You’re serious about that mercenary crap?” inquired the bard.
“Of course not. It’s a decent cover story, and I suppose we should stick to it. Keeps away the riffraff and minor scum,” answered the Azat. “But you’d better practice, Sheqer. A bard might be asked to sing a tune or two wherever we find ourselves.”
“Can I choose what to sing?” asked the demon. Somehow, the question put the man on guard.
“Only happy, lewd, funny, or dancing ones, bard,” warned Pavel. “And no dancing-till-they-die ones, either.”
“Damn. I was so looking forward to performing songs so frightening that they’d all shit and piss in their underwear. The sight of listeners jumping through windows in sheer fright would have been enormously entertaining,” said Sheqer with disappointment, staring at his lute.
If one were to look closely at the musical instrument the demon carried, its yellowish hue and excellent ivory-like material would have raised suspicions about its nature. A magical spell would have revealed that it was made of human bones. Babies, in fact.
***
It took them another day on the road before they sighted a settlement. A small one, but with a tavern located right at the edge of the village and facing the border. It had been a tree-hugging night, but they weren’t in the wild anymore. All they had to worry about were natural predators who had the life-saving instinct to stay away from the pair.
Pavel noticed that curious fact. Animals stayed away, even birds. Nature clearly knew the abnormal when it saw it, and a demon was as unnatural as an intruder could be. But with their provisions, the man didn’t mind, nor was he inclined to go looking for dinner. For all he knew, the woods could be a royal preserve or hunting required a license of some sort.
“Civilization,” Pavel muttered to no one in particular as he looked at the houses. But the bard heard him.
“For humans, yes. Other creatures and beings might look at it differently,” said Sheqer.
“Such as?”
“A food source, if you ask those werewolves. For demons, a hunting ground. Perceptions like that,” smirked the bard.
Pavel shook his head. He had to admit the demon was correct. It all depended on what you were.
The two continued walking toward the village. The tavern was their common and unspoken first choice of place to visit. People occasionally passed the two, but aside from curious glances, nobody bothered them.
As they neared the tavern, Pavel saw a disheveled, tall man mowing the grass beside the establishment. The minute the person saw him, the individual stopped what he was doing and ran toward them, jumping a low fence in the process. The Azat glanced at Sheqer who had an amused look. But Pavel could see the dirty, frothing face as the man neared them.
Insa
ne, thought the Azat, as his hand went to grab the mace. The demented could be harmless individuals, but they could turn out to be eye-gouging madmen. The Azat didn’t want to guess.
The man halted a few paces from them. He was dressed in filthy, tattered clothes, more fit to be called rags. The wild look in the eyes perfectly complemented the mad appearance.
“Ho, bitches! You think you’re badass and strong?” shouted the crazed man, arms swinging wildly in the air. “You got no defiance in those eyes! Learn to take it in the ass like a bitch!”
Pavel stared at the intruder, wondering whether he’d give the man the grace of ending such a miserable, insignificant, and insane life.
“End his life, Master,” whispered the demon. “But make it interesting and entertaining.”
The Azat looked at the madman. It would be doing the crazy fool a favor. Not even a pig deserved to live like that, and at least the animal had a purpose during its fattened existence.
“Stop! Please, stop. Don’t do anything,” came a hurried shout. It came from a portly man running from the tavern. “Whatever he’s done, he didn’t mean it. His mind’s gone, the poor thing!”
Pavel’s hand retreated from the handle of the mace slung on his belt. The madman was dancing in front of them to a tune only he could hear, cackling all the while. The Azat heard a disappointed curse from the bard.
“There, there. Calm down, Bak. Go back to the field and finish your job,” said the newcomer gently to the crazy nitwit.
Somehow, the familiar and calm voice settled Bak, who quietly turned and walked back to the field.
“I apologize, gentlemen. But he reacts like that to newcomers. The unfamiliar triggers something in that addled mind. Fried brains, you see. But he’s useful around the tavern. My thanks for not bashing his skull,” said the portly man. “I am Mihai, by the way. I own the inn and tavern you see down the road.”
Mihai. The friend of Encratas, remembered Pavel.
“Wouldn’t you have a problem with guests with that madman around?” asked the perplexed Pavel. “With that kind of reaction, the fellow wouldn’t live long in a tavern usually full of strangers, armed and touchy to boot. We’re in the border region.”
“We haven’t had guests for some time. All because of the troubles on the road going to the wilds. Travel on this route to Dagorath from Farel has virtually ceased. With all the missing people on this route, people now prefer to use the much longer way up north,” replied the tavern owner. “I usually task Bak with cleaning out the stables during the early hours of the morning.”
“Oh, a horseshit man,” exclaimed the bard.
“Uh, right. Though we prefer the term stable hand,” corrected the flustered innkeeper.
“Why? Does he take care of the horses?” persisted the demon.
“Uh, no? They don’t take to him. Several have kicked him already,” came the reply.
“If his job is principally to shovel shit, then he’s a horseshit man,” emphasized Sheqer, holding his ground.
Pavel stepped in before the discussion got messy.
“Sheqer. Everybody has a role in this world. Even if it’s just to shovel shit,” he admonished the demon.
Mihai told them that Bak was once the local alchemist. He got hold of new recipes for a few devilishly addictive concoctions, tried them, and eventually melted part of his brain. It resulted in convulsions and hallucinations until the local healer tried an old medicinal recipe made from dung beetles and several kinds of wild mushrooms. It got rid of the worst symptoms, but the brain damage was irreversible.
“So, there are available rooms?” asked Pavel.
“Practically the whole inn. All ten rooms,” answered Mihai despondently. “At this rate, the place would have to be closed.”
“We’re friends of Encratas and have been asked to look into the troubles you mentioned. We ran into a wolf pack on the way here. We believe they’re the cause of the disappearances and the ambushes on the caravans,” said Pavel in a low voice.
“Wolves? But that’s not enough to stop trade and journeys along this road. I’ve been told they’ve been driven out of this region long ago,” remarked the mystified innkeeper.
“Not the ordinary kind of wolf,” added Sheqer in a whisper.
“Oh. That kind. A problem indeed. A huge problem. Strange this had to happen with the Moon Wolf festival coming up.”
“The what?” came the simultaneous reaction from the incredulous pair.
14
Dark Restlessness
“For humans, only those with minds already
halfway to the outhouse could be utilized.
Fortunately for mages, Bak is not the only
alchemist with a scrambled and half-cooked brain.”
“Now, tell us about this Moon Wolf festival,” said Pavel, holding a mug of ale. The innkeeper had insisted that they proceed first to the inn before any discussion, something which was most agreeable to both man and demon. Ale and food were welcome after a day of walking along a rough road pockmarked by small craters and deep ruts left by heavy wagons.
Mihai told them that the Moon Wolf Festival had been held to celebrate the ending of a wolf scourge in the region several decades in the past. Wolf packs had been numerous and bold, harassing farmers and hunters alike. Losses mounted, and then humans started to be victims of the beasts.
As a result, the local inhabitants of this border region of the kingdom, reinforced by troops sent from the capital, Farelheim, set out to exterminate the beasts. The campaign was successful, and the last dead wolves were brought in on a full moon by hunters belonging to the three mountain villages nearest Gobesher.
“So, that’s it? A festival to celebrate the end of a wolf plague?” said Sheqer. “Not one to pray for a good harvest? Good weather? Lesser taxes?”
“Ah, you don’t know how bad it was,” answered Mihai.
“I was younger then, but I remember unharvested crops rotting in the fields. Hunters refusing to enter the forest. People fearful of traveling alone or at night. A lot of inhabitants were already making plans to leave, and who could blame them? If the wolf plague went on, people would have to choose between dying of hunger or being torn to pieces by the beasts. By the time the campaign started, the packs were more numerous and the wolves bolder. I heard a lot of men died,” explained the innkeeper. “But the end of the threat marked a new hope for the region. That’s why people come from far and wide to participate and enjoy themselves during the festival.”
“And where exactly is it held?” asked Pavel.
“Up there, near the mountains. Where the last batch of dead wolves was brought. There’s an old ruin there, a circle of huge boulders with strange, ancient engravings. But the mountain villages refused to take part, saying the place was holy ground or such to them. But protests can’t do anything against a royal governor’s decree,” said Mihai.
Further discussions found Mihai explaining to the pair that the three villages were already in the region when the first settlers of Farel arrived. There were other settlements, but no lowlander knew where they were. They kept to themselves and previously engaged in regular trade. During the wolf plague, their assistance had been invaluable in driving out the predators. But relations had soured when the Moon Wolf Festival declaration was issued.
“They never participated?” inquired Pavel.
“Never, as far as I know. Things would have become violent if not for the soldiers the army left behind to guard the borders after the wolf campaign. So far, sporadic trading has resumed, but the mountain settlements have kept to themselves. No lowlanders in recent memory have been to any of the three villages,” said the innkeeper.
After that, Pavel cut short the discussion and requested they be shown to their rooms. He already felt his body asking for payment in terms of the rest it craved. Room rent was at half the rate because of the pair being friends of Encratas. It was outrageous as Pavel thought it should be free, considering that the blasted inn was e
mpty, and they were supposed to look into the problem affecting the inn’s business.
“Don’t worry, Master. We could buy the entire village if you want. That was one rich caravan. I even found some small gold ingots,” confessed the bard when they were alone in Pavel’s room.
“Even so, it doesn’t seem fair,” replied the Azat.
“That’s humans for you. Give them an arm, and they’ll also take a leg,” laughed the bard. “And if you don’t resolve this problem, we’re probably the last guests this inn would ever have. He needed the money.”
***
After an early dinner, the two met in Pavel’s room. The festival was three days away, and the Azat felt something disastrous was going to happen. It could be the werewolf pack, but the area for the celebration would be guarded by armed soldiers, and possibly two or more mages. It wouldn’t be an easy place to attack, but the holding of the festival bothered him.
An assault by the werewolves would be tantamount to suicide. The human defenders would suffer losses, but it would also mean the end of the packs. If ever the weres put up an appearance, the odds would be against them. A force of armed soldiers, mages, and an angry, drunken citizenry was a hard and challenging prospect to defeat.
“That ruin might have something to do with it,” suggested Sheqer. “Wait. They always have something to do with tasks like yours. Ancient ruins, mysterious beings, dangerous quests. They all go together. It must be a cosmic law somewhere. Perilous though, yet extremely entertaining.”
“It’s an idea. Those mountain villages also come under scrutiny, though one has to remember they helped in the elimination of the wolves in this region,” remarked Pavel, ignoring the rest of the demon’s meandering. “But we do have to act sooner rather than later. I have this dreadful feeling that a bloodbath would happen during their festival.”
“I hope you have no intention of standing before a tide of werewolves. I fear there’s more than one were-pack involved,” said the bard with a great deal of concern.
My Name is Ruin Page 13
