by Laura R Cole
*
Hunter watched the young girl leave the square, her auburn hair flowing out behind her. He felt a wave of pity wash over him. The scene had dredged up painful memories, and he roughly shoved them aside in his mind. There was no use thinking of things that he couldn’t change.
These events were disquieting, however. Though he was not privy to all of the new laws that the Queen here in Gelendan was passing, he had at least believed that her intentions were good and the proclamations that had been made in her name here today did not seem to follow her same ideals. His uncle lived in the capitol, Naoham, and he always spoke highly of the Queen. Hunter grunted his disproval. Another example of corruption in the government.
He watched the townspeople around him through veiled eyes. They had mostly been civil to him, though he was sure that was in no small part due to the wares he was peddling. But still, there was a prevalent aura of distrust. He had caught more than one of them staring at him. A precarious peace may have been established between the neighboring countries, growing stronger by increased trading, but they weren’t yet allies. Hunter hoped to help change that.
The sun was beginning to dip past the edges of the trees on the horizon, casting a golden glow on the square. The merchants were packing away their carts as people slowly dispersed towards the other festivities and Hunter followed suit, wrapping each of the knives gently, and firmly securing the tarp over the top. He put his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle, and a huge dog instantly stopped sniffing the ground and perked his ears in his direction. He broke into a trot that brought him to Hunter’s side in seconds. Hunter smiled and ruffled the fur on the dog’s head affectionately. “Good boy, Weylyn, what have you been getting yourself into today, hmm?” The dog just cocked its head, licking Hunter’s hand who laughed, “Up to no good, no doubt.”
He finished hooking the latch which secured a wooden slab over the top of the cart to prevent thieves overnight and hooked a lock around the wheel to stop it from being rolled away. It was also protected by several charms, but Hunter felt it was better to be safe than sorry.
He wandered the empty streets for a few minutes before finding the entrance to the tavern. As he opened the door he was accosted with the cacophony of voices and the stench of ale. It seemed as though half the town had squeezed itself into the tavern and Hunter was hard-pressed to find an empty seat, finally settling down at the end of the bar. A pretty barmaid hurried over to take his order and after the usual flirty banter, he ordered ale and watched as she made her way to the back, deftly sweeping out of the way of wandering hands and chiding the culprits with winks.
She returned shortly with his ale and he took a sip, surveying the room. The table in the center of the room was surrounded by several burly gentlemen who were swinging their mugs around and singing in slurring voices to the amusement of those around them.
Hunter was surprised to see quite a few women. Most were hanging around the outsides tittering to each other behind upheld hands, but a few were matching drinks with the men and joining in the animated conversations.
As Hunter’s eyes fell on the corner table, he was also surprised to see Natalya’s father, nursing a beer by himself as the people around him nervously glanced at him and gave him plenty of space. He seemed oblivious to the rest of the room and just sat there staring blankly ahead.
Hunter’s observation was interrupted by a sudden voice beside him, and he saw a red-haired woman slide into the seat next to him, her freckled face flushed prettily from drink.
“You’re that man from Treymayne selling blades at the festival today,” she stated, leaning in so close that Hunter could feel her hot breath, which smelled strongly of spirits, against his face.
He smiled obligingly at her and agreed, “I am indeed, my lady. Hunter Riley, at your service.”
The girl giggled. “Well, Hunter Riley, whatever are you doing in Gelendan?”
“Why, I can’t have your country not have a taste of my fine blades,” he answered, only half in jest, and she went on pelting him with questions about himself and Treymayne. She listened intently despite the appalled looks she got from several of the more conservative women who glared at Hunter if he met their eye, until the door opened and a gangly-looking boy entered. At which time, Hunter was suddenly forgotten completely as she squealed and rushed over to the boy, planting a wet kiss on his cheek.
Hunter watched in amusement, left alone again to observe the room. He saw that another man had entered the tavern, and it was none other than he who had caused the scene earlier. Natalya’s father - who Hunter now knew was Lyam Kelwyn, a local baker, thanks to his overly-talkative, if brief, company - was glaring at the new man with unveiled hatred.
The new arrival, seeing Lyam, smirked and sauntered over to his table. He said something to the man and Lyam snarled a response. Hunter was too far away to hear what the words being exchanged were, but as the conversation grew heated, the volume of the voices increased.
Suddenly Lyam pushed the bench back from the table roughly, leaping to his feet and shouting, “It is NOT an honor! You took my daughter from me!” His previously composed front had vanished with the ale in his mug and he looked to be on the edge of hysterics.
Hunter saw the evil sneer on the other man’s face grow and a hush spread over the crowd of the tavern. The man made a comment, too low for Hunter to hear, but whatever it was sparked anger in Lyam’s eyes and he lunged at the man.
There was a collective gasp from the tavern patrons and Hunter lurched to his feet, his hand flying to his tunic to grasp the cold metal of a knife hidden away within the folds. When he reached the tumult, the man had recomposed himself after the unexpected attack, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth, and was getting ready to reciprocate.
Hunter came up behind the man and threw his arm around the other’s neck, resting the blade gently across the delicate skin above his jugular so that the cold of the metal would reveal its nature.
“This man’s had a hard day, why not give him a break,” he said into the ear of the man, whose cheeks flushed so red that Hunter was afraid he might catch on fire. The man dropped his fist and Hunter relinquished his grip, allowing the man to turn and face him and Hunter received the tongue lashing of his life, ending with, “Do you even have any idea who I am? I ought to have you hanged for this!”
Hunter looked the man over. He was slightly taller than Hunter himself with dark hair tussled from the encounter, and as his gaze fell to the man’s waist, he instantly knew his blunder. Hanging from his belt was a sword and scabbard with a house emblem, a tell-tale sign of highborn, noble’s mercenary, or government official. In Treymayne, commoners and nobles were given more equal status than here in Gelendan, a fact that had temporarily slipped his mind and which could potentially be a costly lapse. He belatedly realized the significance of himself being the only one to come to Lyam’s aid, and decided that this must be the lord of the land – given his haughty attitude and the deference shown to him. Hunter’s earlier assumption that he was just one of those who the Queen supposedly sent to collect talents appeared to be erroneous. Although, had he been thinking more clearly, even one sent by the Queen should have been given wide berth.
“I apologize, my lord, I did not realize. I simply wished to spare this man more pain and quickly put an end to a possible brawl.” Hunter’s practiced hands made the knife disappear back into his tunic as he bowed his head slightly at the man, disgusted at having to show respect towards a man so obviously undeserving of it, but not wanting to create an even larger scene and more trouble for himself.
“And just who do you think you are, that is it your duty to do such things?” the noble demanded, but before Hunter could answer, the young redhead he had been talking to earlier interjected, “He is from Treymayne, my lord, and does not know our ways. And anyway, he will be heading north on the morrow.”
Hunter tried his best to
look contrite. He hadn’t been planning on leaving the market quite so soon, but given the circumstances it probably was the best idea.
The lord narrowed his eyes and scowled, but replied with, “Fine. I’ll let it slide this time, but if I ever see you here again…” he trailed off, his words dripping with malice and loathing and Hunter bowed his head at him again graciously, moving aside so the lord could pass unhindered. The man did so, stalking out of the tavern, with his two brutish men in tow.
The redhead pulled him aside, the adrenaline seeming to have sobered her greatly as she was no longer fumbling over her words. “Morven Venium is a dangerous man to cross,” she informed him, “he’s the son of the Baron and convinced the world should revolve around him. And he holds a wicked grudge, so I suggest you do as I told him you would and depart in the morn.”
“Thank you,” he said to her in earnest and, seeing that Lyam had slipped out, then asked, “Is there bad blood between those two?”
The redhead looked at her feet and seemed reluctant to answer, saying cryptically, “The two have always clashed,” and leaving it at that.
Hunter saw he would get no more answers out of her and the people seemed even less inclined to be around him now, so he took his leave of them. Once safely upstairs, settled somewhat comfortably on his straw bed, he invoked a charm in the hilt of a blade which would alert him to another presence and tucked it under his pillow. Closing his eyes, he let sleep wash over him.
