The Silver Claw

by Erik Williamson

  He pulled on his own breeches: yes, lightening up did feel good. And yes, as much of a spot as they were in, having Emmie with him made it more than bearable. He tried to suppress what was surely a goofy smile. But with a glance at Emmie’s retreating figure, still swaying along singing a Khuulie fishing song, he really couldn’t help himself.

  Relishing the familiar feel of sand between her toes, Emmie sauntered across the beach. The light breeze blowing across her bare arms and legs was refreshing beyond measure. Emmie laughed to herself. In all his earnestness, Renn was just too easy a target for her to resist getting in a few digs. She sat in the wet sand, checking over the supplies she’d dragged out of the hull. Short swords, hard biscuits, dried meat, woolen blankets. Good rummaging, she congratulated herself. Gave them something to survive on for starters, at least.

  Emmie sifted through her bag, hoping nothing had been ruined or was rotting in bilge water. After checking over what few belongings she’d packed, she came across a sealed letter in the small interior folds of the bag, her name written in beautiful scribal calligraphy. Nose scrunched in confusion, she tore off the string and folded the letter open to find carefully stenciled words on the inside:

  Emmidawn, daughter of Ben, of Khuul Duvar: By request of your father, in agreement with the parents of the other party, you are authorized to enter into the Courting Process of the Betrothal Rite with Rennwinn, son of Urwen and Jesticka, of Drennich. Sanctioned: Briesana, Drennich Town Advocate.

  At the bottom was a scribbled note: So excited! All my love! Brie.

  Emmie stared open-mouthed at Renn picking his way down from the rock. Blindsided, she read it again before grabbing her cloak and clambering off to hide under a small grove of willows draped over the river.

  Dad! I can’t believe. . . why didn’t you. . .

  Then she recalled Dad insisting they needed to talk about her future, and her shutting him down again and again. Her hands shook.

  Oh, my. This is what he wanted to talk about?

  Emmie ran her hands through her hair. And Brie had sent Renn down to the river with candy and flowers, championed the idea of him escorting her to Longardin. Her head drooped, feeling as though she’d been set-up by the few people she’d ever allowed herself to trust. Emmie felt herself reeling.

  Oh, Renn, not you too?

  She peered through the willow branches at him, her heart stinging with betrayal. Renn stood, bewildered, among their supplies. He scratched his head, surveying the beach dumbly. Seeing his earnest befuddlement, Emmie tried to force her emotions to behave.

  Dad loved her more than life itself. Had tried to involve her in this. Though had she let him talk, she had no clue what she would’ve said.

  Brie had opened her home to her, been her emotional crutch after Dad’s death. Brie was simply carrying out Dad’s wishes. Apparently with gusto. And, Emmie perceived, allowing them time and space to get to know each other without heaping even more pressure and awkwardness on them. That sneaky Brie, she snorted despite herself.

  “Emmie! Where’re you hiding?” Renn called. “You can come out now. Please?”

  Renn knew nothing about this either, she guessed. He was genuine to the core, his friendship sincere and dedicated. That was the most important conclusion Emmie reached hiding under the willows. Their whole time together thus far, he had been a loyal friend, no agenda, no strings attached. Emmie allowed herself a giddy thought. What if. . . what if they. . .?

  Suddenly she heard voices echoing from down the coast. She bolted from her hiding spot, carefully covering her bare arms and legs under her big cloak. Not even realizing, she pulled the hooded visor down close to her eyes—as she did whenever she didn’t know quite where she stood with somebody—and rushed out towards Renn.

  XXVI - North of the Longarvale Border

  Emmie and Renn scooped up their rummaged supplies and scuttled out of sight mere seconds before a dozen disorderly men tromped out of the brush. The men shouted at the barge, groused about the wet cargo, and fumed that the boat had grounded so far from its destination. Renn was relieved to not hear any comments about the vomit.

  “Those Longars should pay for this mess,” yelled a man with a braided beard, as he knotted a rope around one of the barge’s tips.

  “You waltz up there and demand that!” another responded, as he grunted to pull. “Can’t climb those mountains. Hence, the barge, dummy. C’mon, let’s tow this thing to town.”

  Renn and Emmie exchanged disheartened glances. Getting back home sounded doubtful. They guessed their best bet was to follow the men to their town. . . at a safe distance. They padded along silently behind them for the better part of the day. Their first view of the town did little to lift their spirits. It bore no resemblance to a proper Longar village with well-organized streets and clean, orderly houses and shops. This was nothing but a jumble of buildings and piers, what looked like mining equipment, a market, and what appeared to be a big inn. They opted against bumbling into town, instead trudging up a hillside. They lay down side-by-side in a grassy clearing.

  “How can this be happening?” Emmie stared into the gloomy sky.

  “Don’t know. And getting home sounds—” Renn swallowed. “No. Don’t think about it, Emmie. We’re going to be okay.”

  Emmie pulled at some long grass and studied Renn’s face. He was right. Panicking would be pointless and unproductive. They’d done little besides fret about their situation all day. She thought about her elegant calligraphic card and took a long, deep breath. “Rennwinn, what do you want out of life?”

  “What?” Renn was startled by the bright look in her expressive eyes; not a shade he could recall seeing before, but so warm. “You, uh, trying to lighten the mood again?”

  “Just asking.” Emmie shrugged. “Curious.”

  “Well. . .” Renn started slowly. “Dren’ll inherit the goat-meadows and Berg the farm. So, me, oddball third son. . . maybe sign on as a hand, try to get a clerk-apprenticeship in town or something?”

  “That’s not what I asked at all.” Emmie laughed at his pragmatic answer. She arched her eyebrows. “What do you want.”

  “What, you angling to take Brie’s place as town advocate someday?”

  Emmie looked away, staring at the sky with melancholy eyes. Renn imagined she probably thought that sounded wonderful, but that sort of future would never be afforded her. As much as he was an outcast, she was more of one. He was practically reading Emmie’s mind.

  “I’m sorry. Honest. It’s just, you sound like Brie. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay.” Emmie’s voice was soft and sad. “I believe you.”

  But Renn knew she was hurt. The least he could do was answer her question honestly. “So, all the old stories I like? I’d love to collect them, write them down. Travel. Find out why our world is the way it is.”

  Emmie peeked at him. Renn had gone red.

  “It’s silly, I know. No use to anyone. But what if understanding where we’ve been could maybe. . . make life better for. . .” He shrugged, turned redder. “I’ve never told anyone that. But nobody’s asked like you, like you really wanted to know. And, well, you made me feel like I wanted to tell you.” He waved a hand. “Forget I said anything. It’s silly.”

  “I don’t think that’s silly at all.” Emmie touched his shoulder. She loved Renn’s answer. It was so Renn: earnest and sincere, yet unexpectedly adventurous. “It’s a dream. Whether dreams ever come true or not, they’re worth chasing.” She cleared her throat and removed her hand, then said brightly, “I suppose it’s nice enough up here to spend the night, if need be. Couldn’t get worse, right?”

  It started sprinkling. Within minutes the sprinkling turned to a downpour.

  “Care to make any more bold statements?” Renn asked. “Maybe how there’s no bears or wolves up here?”

  “You and the wolves again. . .” Emmie grimaced as the rain began stinging her face. “So . . . town it is, I guess. The inn at the far end?”
<
br />   They trudged down the hill, shoulders stooped under the driving rain. They picked their way between buildings of all shapes and sizes, unsure of what many were designed for. Though nobody else was traipsing around in the downpour, they tried to stay out of sight, until they found themselves standing at the inn’s big barn doors.

  “Hey, no more of this sneaking and skulking.” Emmie clapped her hands. “We go in looking defeated, pathetic: we’re asking for trouble. Straighten up. Confident. Enthusiastic!”

  She gave Renn an exaggerated wide grin, shook him by the shoulders.

  “This is me enthusiastic.” Renn put his chin up. “Guys don’t do bubbly. Works for a cute girl, but a guy like me? I’d just be asking to get pummeled.”

  “We may get pummeled anyway.” Emmie strode confidently to the door. “But let’s at least walk into that inn not looking like fresh meat.”

  Baerdron’s Tavern was dark and smelly and filled with tables jammed with clusters of ill-mannered men. The high-ceilinged main room was ringed with doors, which Emmie and Renn hoped were guest rooms, on both the ground floor and upper balcony. They tried to enter discreetly, but when they opened the door, rain and wind blew into the big room. Every head turned their way.

  They looked like fresh meat.

  Hoping to quickly escape the discomfiting gazes of the tavern they made straight for the bar to inquire after a room for the night—preferably on the second floor, preferably deep in a corner, and preferably with a lock the size of a pumpkin. They were told they’d have to wait; the innkeeper was in the kitchen. Renn and Emmie hunched over the bar, trying to avoid attention.

  “Little lady. . .” A lumpy man with bloodshot eyes stumbled up to them, throwing an arm around Emmie and leering hungrily at her. “Don’t often enjoy the company of a pretty young thing round here. You’re with me tonight.”

  Emmie’s nostrils filled with his alcohol-drenched breath. Renn shouldered his way around her and wedged himself in between Emmie and the large man. “We’re just passing through. We’re not looking for any trouble, sir.”

  “Buy you a drink?” Emmie offered. She tapped on the bar, hoping for service. Hoping for anything really.

  “Got plenty o’them, Wheat-head.” The man’s grin revealed two rows of grimy teeth. “Want something else. Thinks I found it, I have.”

  “Now hold on. . .” Renn shifted towards him.

  The drunk belched at him. The nearby patrons chuckled in amusement, not showing the slightest inclination of disrupting the entertainment.

  “You sure?” Emmie’s voice wavered. “Buy you a drink?”

  He grabbed them and pulled them to his face. He fixed his eyes on Emmie and bellowed his rank breath all over her. “I’ll take from you whatever I please, skinny wheat-headed trash!”

  In the shadowed far corner of the tavern, a solitary figure watched. Never one to intervene, and generally unfazed by the usual brawling in the bar, the taciturn figure sighed and took a calm, slow drink from a shot glass. Then lazily stood.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. . .” The big man pinned Emmie against the high bar. “I’m taking you home with me, Missy, and—”

  “Thrace,” a cool voice sang out. “You vile old maggot, leave that girl be.”

  Out of the shadows stepped a lean, muscular young woman with white-blonde hair, dressed in tight-fitting ranger’s garb and tall green boots. She rolled a shot glass between the long fingers on her left hand, while her right hand rested casually on the hilt of a sheathed sword. She fixed her icy grey eyes on Thrace. The clacking of her boots on the wood floor were suddenly the only sound in the room.

  “Shove off, woman.” Thrace blinked stupidly. “S’none of your business.”

  “What I choose to make my business,” the woman replied with a flick of her eyebrow. “Is none of yours.”

  “She kin?” Thrace snorted. “Didn’t think you had no family. Thought you was forged in some Bandu fire pit out of bile and hatred and spare parts.”

  “So clever. But, thinking, Thrace? Never your forte.” The woman heaved a bored sigh, inspected her fingernails. “We all look the same to you, that it? Drop the kid.”

  Thrace heaved Renn into the wall.

  “Dropped ‘im.” Thrace grinned. He gripped Emmie’s collar so tight she gasped. “Cause this one? She ain’t no kid, she’s a right lovely thing.” Thrace turned back to the woman. “Or, you offering?”

  He slobbered a rough, sloppy, and thoroughly unwanted kiss on Emmie, then thrust her aside. She slammed into Renn just as he was scrambling to get up, both of them toppling back into the bar. What Thrace’s next intended move was, they’d never know.

  The woman was a blur. In one motion, she kicked him in the chest and pinned him against the bar with the heel of her boot. They hadn’t even noticed her pulling her sword, but there it was: the tip of the intricately designed blade dancing high over her head. With a menacing smile, she pushed her left fist up against the man’s face, exposing a thick leather bracelet adorned with black stones that sparkled like fire in the candlelight.

  “You want me?” she snarled, her eyes blazing with even more dazzle than the exquisite black stones. “I’d like to see you try, you miserable pig.”

  “Put it away,” a voice boomed from the kitchen doorway. A burly bartender stomped into the room. He jerked Thrace back by the hair and eased the young woman a couple steps in the other direction.

  “Get out,” he growled, half-hurling Thrace towards the door. He shook a large hand at the woman. “No blood on the bar. I don’t ask much by way of standards, but you know that one.”

  “Seriously, Baerd? I’m a professional.” The woman smiled as calmly as if she was watching a sunset. “Don’t get all fussed up. You know I don’t get the blood any place except where I wish it. Won’t happen again.”

  “Not until tomorrow maybe.” He walked away, pointing one meaty finger towards the far end of the room. “Take your friends to your booth.”

  “They’re no friends of mine!” she yelled, then scanned the room making sure everyone understood that. With an exasperated huff, she grabbed a half-empty bottle of bourbon and stalked off to the back booth.

  Renn and Emmie scooped up their belongings and hurried after her. Renn doubted this violent woman would prove any safer than Thrace, but she was the only one who’d shown any inclination to help.

  “Well, friends, what are you two silly children doing out here along the basins?” She slammed her fist on the table. “Cause this is no place for kids, hear me?” She pointed one long finger at Emmie. “Thrace had his eyes on you the second you stumbled in, looking like a lost sheep. A very enticing lost little sheep to filth like Thrace. Or any of the other ‘Thrace’s’ you’ll see, if you look around.

  “And don’t!” she added as Renn started to turn his head, as though she had instructed him to check the place out. She turned her piercing grey eyes back on Emmie. “A man like Thrace, all liquored up? He’d kill your sorry boyfriend like that.” She snapped her fingers. They both jumped. “And then you, my honey-haired little sheep, would be his for the feasting.”

  She slowly drained her glass, balefully shook her head at them, then concluded. “You cannot flounce into a dump like this, flash a cutesy smile, and expect to walk away clean.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Renn mumbled. “And the advice.”

  Renn moved to get up, and hopefully get out.

  “Sit.” The woman’s lip twitched.

  Renn sat.

  “So. . . what brings a ridiculous pair like you to these parts?” She knocked back another shot glass of bourbon. “Oh, and by the by, friends? Name’s Alixa.”

  XXVII - The Inn in the Bersteg Basin

  “Alixa. Right. . .” Renn began, but what were they doing here anyway? “We didn’t mean to end up here.”

  “Maybe now that we are, though,” Emmie quickly interrupted, sounding unexpectedly confident. “It’s because we came looking for you.”

  Alixa snorted, t
hen eyed Emmie keenly. “And why, lost little Sheep, is that?”

  “We need a guide—an excellent one.”

  “Ha!” Alixa threw her head back and laughed. “That’s rich.”

  “So, uh, would you help us?” Emmie bit her lip. Her ‘plan’ of enlisting this woman’s assistance to get home had popped into her head just then. She knew it was a horrible idea, but they were desperate. And her gut said that behind Alixa’s unpleasant exterior lay much more, though Emmie wasn’t quite sure how she could possibly feel that way. “Please?”

  “I don’t even know your names, friends, or your sad tale of woe.” Alixa flashed a vicious smile. “Oh, and by the by, Sheep? Answer’s a big NO.”

  “Fair enough.” Renn didn’t mind a big NO one bit. “I’m Rennwinn. This is Emmidawn. We came down the river from Longardin. We’ll be on our way now.”

  “You. . .” Alixa thrust a finger inches from his face. “Bleeding obvious you’re a Longar. Not from Longardin, though. You got hick written all over you. But you. . .” She pointed at Emmie. “. . .are not from the Vale.”

  “I grew up in Khuul Duvar,” Emmie said matter-of-factly. “Work brought my. . . my family. . . to Drennich. Renn’s from Drennich, too.”

  “Drennich, sure.” Alixa rubbed her chin. “You both got that fresh rube shine to you—no offense, of course.” The way she waved her hand dismissively conveyed a good deal of offense. “You’re a long way from home for a couple ruddy bumpkin kids.”

  “We thought there was a man in Longardin who may be able to answer some questions about. . . my family,” Emmie said. “Dead end.”

  “So ‘ride the river!’ eh?” Alixa slumped back, swirling more bourbon into her little glass. “Figured, ‘let’s do the basins’! Great place. Great people. Your most popular vacation destination: Bersteg Basin.” She raised her glass in a toast, then slammed it down.