Chapter Seven
Kerian stared despondently into his drink and took in the blurred image of the old man staring accusingly back at him. He noted the dishevelled white hair framing the aged face, knowing that even now, the magic spell cast upon him by the crystal dragon Rosalyine, was slowly transforming it into the jet-black hair he had in his youth. The furrowed brow, more from the frustration of his current predicament, rather than his curse inflicted ageing, appeared to frown sternly at Kerian, as if disappointed by his inaction and his abject failure to retrieve his lost pendants.
How could he have allowed himself to get into this mess? The answer was obvious. He had stuck his nose in someone else’s business, got involved when not required. What was wrong with him? The old Styx would have laid waste, roughed up the stallholder, made him eat the damned candles from his stall, piece by piece, until he had begged to tell him the truth. He would have left the other market traders trembling on their knees as he stalked away, not caring about risking the wrath of such insignificant peasants.
Why was he so worried about upsetting a few locals? Was he mellowing in his old age? If so, he did not appreciate this sign of aging at all! Could travelling upon the El Defensor have changed him that much? It was not just the failed market scenario that irked him; something about Wellruff itself, now made him feel uneasy. There was a tension in the air, as if the storm he had been desperately chasing all these months was about to crash down upon him and maroon him battered and bruised here. He had already spent time under the care of the local authorities and Kerian knew that if he caused a scene and he found himself back in jail, he would find little possibility of early release, whilst the pendants slipped further from his grasp.
He clenched his fist in anger, wanting to lash out and punch something but knew such actions were ultimately self-defeating. His impulsive feelings were charging unchecked throughout his mind. He needed to stop, take time to gather the right information and then act, despite his need to charge off into the sunset and lay waste to every pot-selling stallholder on the mainland.
Then there was the strange, exotic woman who had whispered in his ear. He looked back at his elderly reflection and shook his head, chuckling despite himself. Quite clearly, in his present decrepit state, he was simply irresistible to all wandering damsels and mysterious single females. Whom was he kidding? A danger maybe? Maybe she had just felt sorry for him. It was time to get serious, put that pleasant distraction behind him and concentrate on getting back to the woman who really haunted his dreams. He just hoped Colette was safe sailing with Thomas Adams. There was an element of danger to travelling with Thomas on the El Defensor, as if the captain were a magnet to mayhem. Kerian knew Thomas tended to suck others into the whirlwind of chaos he danced around, leaving everyone immersed in the danger and excitement of the El Defensor’s adventures.
Kerian sipped his drink, wetting his lips and allowing his eyes to scan the door of the Lusty Mermaid for what felt like the millionth time since he had settled down in the booth. Despite his vigilance on the coming and goings of several customers, no one from the market stalls had arrived to slake their thirst after a hard day selling turnips or ornate rugs to the discerning citizens of Wellruff. He nursed his drink a moment longer, his feet getting twitchy beneath, him adding to that growing sense he had misread the situation completely. No one from the market was coming in here. It was time to admit he had made a terrible mistake.
A burst of laughter alerted him to a larger alcove where several musicians sat tuning their instruments. Clearly, the evening entertainment had arrived. He watched the players adjusting lutes, blowing into piccolos, tooting flutes and tapping fingers on taut drums. Musical notes matched the frivolity and good nature of the band as they lit upon the evening air. As one man moved aside, shouldered good-naturedly by another band member clearing his throat, Kerian noticed a familiar face sitting against the wall staring at the group with his smiling dark eyes, his curly brown hair now clean and barely a bruise showing on his face.
Kerian moved slowly, trying not to draw attention to himself and settled gently back against the wall to observe the young man he had shared jail time with just a few hours before. More taunts and good-natured jibes followed from the musicians, before one band member offered his guitar over for Octavian to play, despite the obvious unwillingness of the gypsy to do so. Octavian closed his eyes and tentatively played the strings, his fingers lightly moving across the instrument, coaxing tunes from the battered guitar with a skill that suggested he had spent considerable time learning to play in his past. The melody was haunting and despite himself, Kerian became instantly enthralled.
Octavian appeared oblivious to the men and women around him, his fingers picking out notes, chords and harmonies that held his fellow musicians in awe. Then, after a slight pause, the gypsy launched into a melodious foot-tapping beat that prompted the other musicians to join in to the impromptu musical session, drawing yells of appreciation from many in the tavern.
Captivated by the moment and enjoying himself despite his woes, Kerian felt his spirits lifted and his problems lessened. The music cleansed him, soothed his fears and gave him a certain clarity that had been lost in the turmoil of his thoughts and feelings. The answer to his problems sat right in front of him. He needed someone who had knowledge of the market and its comings and goings. So what better individual to discuss this with than the very man who worked there? A slight but enigmatic smile lit Kerian’s features as he settled back to enjoy the show.
* * * * * *
Octavian plucked the last string of the guitar and let the note hang in the air of the tavern. His eyes remained closed as he felt the music wash over him, opening old wounds and reminding him poignantly of his life on the road before coming to Wellruff. The bittersweet memories, the faces of those dear to him, threatened to bring tears to his eyes but he choked them back, promising himself he would soon return to those in need. He forced a smile onto his face before finally allowing himself to welcome reality again and opened his eyes to applause.
Kerian Denaris sat opposite him slowly clapping his musical performance. Octavian froze, a guilty conscious briefly flitting at the edge of his mind like a panicked bird in a cage. What was he doing here? Did he know Octavian’s secret?
“Oh well done.” The old man smiled. “Well done. Why don’t you do this professionally? Surely, it pays better than mucking out stables at the market. Your music was beautiful, such a tragic tale of love. It almost moved me to tears.”
Octavian had lived a long time on the road. He knew that in everyday life, people simply criticised you and the only reason for complements was if they wanted something. His guard instantly came up as he regarded the man before him, his mind debating if he should run or remain seated.
“I leave love to the wandering bards.” Octavian replied cagily. “I get hurt less that way.” He risked flashing his conman smile and tried to settle back against the wall in an effort to look casual. “So what can I do for the richest mad man in town?”
“I doubt you have left love to minstrels, your music has too much feeling for that.” Kerian began, looking around conspiratorially before shuffling forward on the stool he had come by. “I need some information from you.” Octavian’s smile grew wider as relief swept over him. Maybe the old man did not suspect after all.
“Information is expensive.” He teased, feeling his confidence return.
“Even to a fellow cellmate?” Kerian shot back, without missing a beat.
“Especially to one of those.” The gypsy replied. “I mean an ex-convict is not to be trusted.”
“And you are?” Kerian enquired, his verbal fencing skills honed razor sharp. “Look it’s no big thing. I just need to know about a stall holder and his brother on the market. They have something of mine and I want it back but they have packed up and moved on.”
Octavian watched Kerian’s face darken as he said the latter part of the sentence and felt the tem
perature between the two men fall. It appeared Denaris was not a man to cross unless you were in a position of considerable advantage and as Octavian knew of only one stall manned by two brothers, he recognised the advantage was his.
“I have asked the other traders,” Kerian continued, “but I have met with a wall of silence. I know they have something of mine and I need to know where they are so I can retrieve it. It is very important to me.”
“Oops, that puts the price up.” Octavian quipped, “especially now that I know how valuable it is to you.” The gypsy smiled at Kerian’s vulnerability and the conman in him now wanted to see if he could push his advantage further.
Kerian’s face flushed with emotion and Octavian suddenly found himself reconsidering his actions. The conman warily observed his unexpected meal-ticket, noting the internal struggle playing itself out as Kerian’s craggy features struggled to remain calm. Kerian reached into his pocket and withdrew a few small gems that gleamed tantalising in the tavern light.
“I don’t know how much you want.” He confessed but it is all yours if you help me get my belongings back.” Octavian noted the edge to Kerian’s words and weighed them against his own troublesome needs. The gems were worth a small fortune and would help with the ransom he desperately required, yet part of the gypsy conman viewed the old man’s weakness as an opportunity to be even more ruthless. His rational mind said take what was offered and be content, this was a great unexpected haul, however, even as his mouth opened to say those very words, something else decided to edit the script.
“It’s not enough.”
Kerian choked and Octavian started in reaction.
“Not enough!” Kerian yelled, jumping to his feet and sending his stool spinning across the room. “Not enough. Why, I ought to take you outside and finish the job those thugs started.
“Better men have tried.” Octavian jibed, his cocky persona now running fully unchecked. Kerian’s hand shot out, grabbing a handful of tunic and hoisted the gypsy up into the air, leaving Octavian facing a decision. Maybe it was time to back off, take the gems and calm the old man down before someone got hurt? The problem was, he needed this money so badly and he could not risk losing this windfall now.
“If you hit me you get nothing.” Octavian threatened, staring Kerian in the eye as he swung from the old man’s clenched fist. Did he dare go for the big push, double or nothing? “Now put me down gently, laugh like it’s a joke and get me a couple of those large gemstones I have been hearing about.”
If Octavian had thought Kerian’s countenance severe before, it now looked as if the old man was about to explode. The gypsy became aware of how the whole tavern had quietened around them and played on it. He motioned with his eyes, drawing Kerian’s attention to the gathered onlookers and was rewarded as the old man lowered him back to the floor and roughly dusted him down. The laugh from Kerian’s lips painted the picture of a mentally unstable patient stabbing someone and thoroughly enjoying the experience, rather than that of two old friends meeting and sharing a joke. Octavian could almost feel the threatened violence in the deathly gaze sent his way.
“Why don’t you buy us both a drink.” Kerian snarled in a low voice. “I’ll be right back.”
* * * * * *
“Where is Mathius?” Justina asked coolly, her gaze scrutinising the ragged figure sitting before her. The sorceress had no idea who this self-titled Scrave figure was but something about his nonchalant attitude made her believe he was a dangerous man to underestimate.
She took small calculated steps, turning her left side towards the Elf as her right hand moved to a pocket in her robes and carefully drew out an ornate silver wand beset with jewels. The gentle tugging of her robes at her back, also informed the sorceress that her demonic familiar was slowly sliding down her body to the floor. Hamnet was a loyal pet and quite a bonus in a close quarter fight so this was two against one before they even started.
Scrave remained seated, one hand slowly turning the hilt of a warped broadsword at his side, that was studded with small gems. The Elf observed the mage’s pacing before him, his left eye missing nothing, understanding instinctively that this woman meant to attack him as soon as he dropped his guard. The vision from his right eye remained a constant frustration, shot through with annoying green swirls, that painted the vision of the woman’s sultry figure and clinging dark robes with sparkling motes of emerald. To add to this concern, his right eyelid twitched uncontrollably, as if he had a stray eyelash he could not locate and it had been driving him mad for days.
He intuitively knew there was something wrong with his eye and had tried to poke and pry into the socket but the lack of resistance to his probing finger had made him stop in horror. He worried his right eye was missing but how could this be if he could still see?
The serpent dagger was agitated and constricted about his left wrist, its golden head arched; flickering golden tongue tasting the air for a scent of the prey it knew was within reach. Scrave allowed himself a dry rasping chuckle at the dagger’s enthusiasm but he was facing a difficult situation. He knew he could destroy this woman in seconds but killing her was out of the question. Somehow, she had managed to get herself down here, so the likelihood was she also had the means to release him from this cursed place.
When he had awoken from his battle with Kerian Denaris, Scrave had spent days searching the piles of trove, discovering buried magical artefacts that did all manner of wondrous things to enhance his magical combat. Yet not one salvaged trinket bestowed the means to fly up over the ruined staircase and out to freedom. Instead, he found himself wasting valuable magical power trying to heal the toll that starvation, dehydration and constant exposure to the volcano’s heat had levied upon his body.
His skin was constantly rebuilding itself, repairing the damage from his exposure to the incredible heat. Starting awake to find his heat shield failing, his clothing aflame and his skin blistering had become almost a daily battle of wills, leading to desperate spell casting and frayed nerves. At times Scrave had considered giving up and letting the volcanic fires consume him but his hatred burned brighter than the lava beneath him, fuelling his desire to live and gain revenge.
The Elf shuddered, brushing his charred arms to try to remove what felt like a mass of ants crawling across his flesh, biting and burrowing as they moved, his epithelial skin cells forming pink rafts across red sinuous muscle tissue and fat. He shifted slightly in the chair, trying to ignore the discomfort as he mentally plotted the means to bring this sorceress to her knees. Then he spotted the creature climbing down from the woman’s shoulder and suddenly realised he had seen this beast before. Its skeletal tail had once wrapped around his neck awaking him from his sleep back on the El Defensor. Scrave knew he had managed to stab the magical monster with his dagger before it had teleported away. There was more going on here than he had realised.
“We don’t need Mathius.” Scrave rasped, forcing a smile that cracked his parched lips. “I feel I can manage a beautiful woman such as yourself well enough on my own. Mathius is where he belongs, on a ship full of losers. Now are you going to ask me any more stupid questions or can we just get on with it?” Justina smiled and readied her wand.
“I was hoping you would say that.” She replied. A bolt of lightning exploded from her wand, the electrical power jumping and spiking across the space between them. There was a bright flash, an acrid smell of ozone and then, as her eyes cleared from the burst of energy, she noticed the charred figure sitting exactly as before.
Scrave tutted and slowly raised himself to his feet, groaning as he stretched and moved muscles he had not used in hours. He gripped the sword tightly in one hand, the hissing dagger wrapped about the other and took a step forward, the frown on his face saying more than the chilling words he uttered.
“That wasn’t very nice.” He snarled.
Justina replied with actions instead of words, sending another bolt of lightning arcing across the space and
creating another flash of intense white light. Using the blast to hide her actions she cast another spell, manipulating the air around them, slowing time to gain insight into how the Elf had evaded her initial magic attack. The mage watched stunned, as Scrave motioned with his hand and snapped the sword up to intercept the crackling energy. The raw power of the lightning sped along the blade racing to touch the wire wrapped hilt of his gleaming weapon. However, instead of burning the Elf to a crisp and melting the sword, the energy impossibly reversed when it hit the gemstones, flowing back down to the tip of the blade as Scrave snapped the weapon to the floor, earthing it. Golden coins reacted from the electrical jolt to ricochet around the room. His speed was unbelievable!
The sorceress frowned and chose another form of attack. Miniature balls of fire leapt from her wand, crackling in towards her foe. Blistering orbs that would detonate, maim and incinerate the Elf. The fires collided with a protective barrier, their red heat dousing as cool magic leached the destructive power from within them. Scrave lunged towards her, shocking Justina because he appeared to move faster than humanly possible. He struck the sorceress across the face with the flat of his blade and retreated.
Justina staggered back, her teeth snapping in her head, long hair whirling a black curtain across her vision that parted just as golden scales flashed, red ruby eyes glinted and golden fangs snapped together inches from her face. The serpent dagger hissed in frustration as its attack missed, then recoiled and prepared to strike again.
“Really,” Scrave yelled. “Really? I’ve been trapped in this volcano for months. Did you not think I would be used to fire by now? Show me some originality.”
The Labyris Knight Page 13