"Well, and what did I do to earn this fine honor today?"
"Tarlen," Frederick smiled. "Picked clean yet?"
Tarlen gave an easy laugh, adjusting the owlish glasses on his face. He opened the hatch on his cart. "Spiced lamb pie, for the old man," he called below. A moment later a pair of hands reached up through the opening, a small meat pie held in them. Tarlen took the pie, and quick as a snake leaned down to kiss the fingers that held it. Giggles floated up from inside the cart, followed by something Frederick couldn't quite make out. Whatever it was, Tarlen blushed to the roots of his salt-and-pepper hair, beaming all the while.
"I see married life is treating you well," Frederick murmured, handing over a few coins.
"Ah, well enough as anything else," he said, grinning one last time into the cart before shutting it. "Helps she's doing the cooking now. This little window-box is the best thing that we ever found," he said, patting the side of the cart.
"I think we're all glad you're not cooking anymore."
Tarlen sputtered at the jibe, swatting the air in front of the grinning old man. A knocking came from the cart, and he swung the door open again. He leaned down, before beckoning Frederick over. "Jenny wants to say good morning."
"Good morning!" A bright-eyed blonde with freckles and an infectious smile stared out at Frederick. "I see you're still as grumpy as usual."
"And you still as radiant," Frederick called back. "Why you settled for this lump I shall never know."
Jenny frowned and jutted her chin out at him. "The best lump in the world, I'll have you know!"
"Such high praise," Tarlen sighed, leaning next to Frederick. His eyes crinkled as his wife blew him a kiss, before stirring something on the stove. Runes glowed red-hot across the stone's surface, and she held up a spoon through the opening. Frederick darted forward to taste, earning a tap on the nose from it.
"Oi, no free samples!" Jenny said sternly, hand on her hip, and spoon at the ready. She gave a taste to her husband, watching Frederick all the while.
"Another masterpiece," Tarlen swooned. Jenny rolled her eyes, and looked to Frederick.
"Perhaps just a pinch less onion," he admitted. She smiled, and flicked an eyebrow up at Tarlen.
"Thank you for the suggestion."
"I can't help it if everything you make is wonderful," Tarlen protested. Jenny turned her nose up at him, making a shooing motion with her free hand. "Love and kisses!"
"Tarlen, can you afford these new things?" Frederick asked after the latch was shut. "The last time I was here, you had coals in there to keep everything hot. Almost started a fire, I recall."
Tarlen flushed at the memory, and then swelled with pride. "Our Ellie got in. By end of year, she'll be inducted into the Hawksguard."
"That's wonderful!" Frederick's face felt like it'd crack in two from the smile. "Truly, truly outstanding! I suppose it's not much of a surprise though. She's had a bow in her hands since she barely came to my knee."
"Aye," Tarlen said, glowing. "I didn't like it at the time, but she insisted on using part of her wage to help modernize the home a tad." His smile wavered slightly. "Hopefully they'll keep the new recruits at home."
"What?"
"You didn't -- of course you didn't hear." Tarlen blew out a breath. "More 'n more accusations flood in from the other empires."
Frederick spat on the ground. "What of it? People have called us devil-lovers and worse over the years, but they still come to trade with us all the same."
"It's different this time." Tarlen scratched his head in a sharp, nervous gesture. "Hogenhein is massing armies. Word is they're planning to march."
Frederick's right eye twitched; that was...unfortunate. War benefitted no one but gravediggers and coffin-makers. He snorted, despite his misgivings. "Hogenhein can't scratch its ass without a week-long senate meeting," he said, with far more confidence than he felt. "I'll believe it's more than rattled sabres when they're knockin' on the door. How's Luke?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
"He's well," Tarlen said, happy to be off the topic. "He still enjoys meandering about the commons and the market; sometimes I see him, but he's always so busy all he can do is wave."
"And his entourage?"
Tarlen barked a laugh. "The most harried, exhausted, sorry-looking lot you've ever seen. I think he enjoys making them chase after him, papers flying everywhere." The two laughed at the image, Tarlen flailing his arms about like he was chasing after an uncaring employer. "'Sir! Sir! Please! Just a few more signatures! Please -- oh dammit, he got around the corner! Alexei! Cut him off at the jeweler’s!'" Frederick was guffawing at the thought as he finished the last bite of food.
"Ah, it's been good to see you," he said, wiping his eyes. "But I'm afraid I've a long day ahead of me. I must be off, if I ever want to rest."
Tarlen nodded, raising his hand in farewell. "You're always welcome at our house, should you ever want company."
"The offer is appreciated," Frederick said, grabbing hold of his basket again. "But I enjoy the peace and quiet. I'd be like a cat in a thunderstorm, even for a dinner in these walls." With that, he waved, and set off again down the winding streets.
Frederick was please to find they were in better condition than during his last trip. Right after a bitter winter, the cold and wagon wheels had broken up huge parts of the stones, making it even more frustrating than usual. It was clear they'd been repaired though, and not just the holes, he saw; his path ended suddenly when he turned a corner to see a dozen men setting fresh stone into the dirt. They worked quietly together, only slight grunts escaping their lips, and the occasional order from their leader. Some stood off to the side, taking great swallows from waterskins, and taking a moment to rest their aching arms and backs. Frederick watched them for a few moments before turning his cart, and pushed down a side street. It was interesting how you never really forgot a place, he mused; he'd taken the detour without thinking, but as he passed familiar shops and taverns, he realized it was the same street he and Luke took almost every night when they were younger. Younger, and had more time to get into mischief, and more time to recover from it the next day. He smiled quietly to himself as he passed by his old tailor; tall and gaunt, Mirren was one of the oldest in the city. He was also the tightest-lipped, and never asked what the cuts and tears in the young men’s' uniforms were from -- just when would they be able to pay for the repairs.
A commotion in the market just ahead drew him out of the past. He could hear people shouting in alarm, and a few sprinted past him in escape. Leaving his basket behind, Frederick strode curiously to the corner, peering out from around it -- and nearly lost his face as flickering blue fire splashed against the building. He fell backwards into a roll, coming up with his heart hammering against his ribs, and his hands reaching for a sword that hadn't been there for years. Cursing, he edged around the corner again; a few blades and cuffmen were trying to circle around a handful of ragged-looking folk with swords. One was dressed what used to be a fine suit, though it was clear he'd taken a few tumbles in it. Flames licked up his arms, marking him as the careless slinger who'd nearly killed him. Frederick ignored the fight -- one way or the other, it'd be over soon -- and slammed his boot against the burning door next to him.
Mirren was just a thin as he remembered him, if older, and pale from fear. A young dandy with a silly, lopsided hat brandished a rapier at Frederick. A lad that might've been Mirren's apprentice, or grandson (or both) pushed the tailor behind him, and held a pair of fabric scissors like a dagger.
"Come no closer!" hissed the dandy, flourishing his sword to hide how scared he was. "You'll find no safety here, fiend!"
"M'lord, stop!" Mirren pushed past the both of them, a frantic smile on his face.
"Is there anyone else here?" Frederick asked, risking a look outside. The fight seemed to be moving further away. A part of him was thankful; another was guilty of how relieved he was. Wherever it ended, a sick feeling in his gut told him it wouldn't
end well.
"Just us." Mirren grabbed a rod from the wall, pointing it at the rapidly-spreading fire. He muttered something under his breath, and a furious gust of wind shook the walls, and sent paint into the air. The acrid smell of spellfire filled Frederick's nose as whatever Mirren was doing pulled at his clothes. It didn't last long; only a few moments, and the fire had dwindled to nothing. The wealthy youth looked ready to faint in relief, and probably would've, had Mirren's boy not grabbed him by the arm. Frederick led the charge out the door, pushing the others down the street.
"What's going on?" he gasped alongside Mirren as they tried to match pace with the younger folk.
"Don't know." Mirren stopped against a building, still not far enough away from the market for Frederick's liking. "I heard the commotion earlier; thought it was just some thief or some such."
"C'mon, master," the boy with the scissors said. He draped Mirren's arm across his shoulders, and began half-carrying the man further away. Mirren's face clouded with wounded pride, but kept his mouth shut, and accepted the aid. Frederick kept glancing behind them, expecting danger to come charging at them any moment. More people were charging past them now as the fighting moved, and people dared to flee their hiding spots. An explosion tore through the city, followed by screams, and the spitting roar of fire. Frederick spun, and took off back to the market, ignoring Mirren's cry for him to turn back.
The far end of the market was an inferno.
Frederick sprinted across the plaza, his legs and chest screaming at the strain. When he reached the outskirts of the fire, others were already throwing water on the blaze, or pointing strange, black rods at it, only to throw them aside furiously when they had little effect. Frederick grabbed the arms of a woman who was being guided out of a building by a man with cloth around his face; he took her arms, and led her to the grand fountain at the center. She was alright, simply shaken. Frederick turned back to the buildings, taking children, young men and women -- whomever had escaped, or been pulled from the buildings, he took from their rescuers, and brought them to the fountain. Those who were injured, he helped best he could with strips of clothes, and hastily issued orders to those who still had their wits about them. Soon enough mages arrived, the air shimmering in front of them as they cast, their tattoos of blood and power glowing even in the daylight. The flames vanished as quickly as they'd appeared; wood and stone rumbled and cracked as the mages began removing damaged parts of the buildings to reveal even more people trapped within.
Frederick had already moved out of the way by then. He was nothing compared to magic that could knit flesh and mend bone. His wobbling legs and screaming arms reminded him that wasn't the only reason he was sitting on a bench, instead of climbing through the rubble. A hand on his shoulder made him jump; a bladesman with a pair of long, thin swords on either hip offered him a waterskin.
"Save it for --" he tried to refuse, but lapsed into a coughing fit. He nodded his embarrassed thanks as the skin was lifted to his lips. "Thank you," he rasped.
"Don' mention it, Uncle." The helmet's visor slid back into the helmet to reveal a smooth-faced young woman beneath it. The helmet continued to retract, along with the rest of the armor, until she was wearing little more than everyday clothes.
"Raquel," Frederick said with a sad smile. "I heard you'd joined--"
"We apprehended four people. Three others died in the fighting. They'd claimed to be traveling scholars, and had every bit of paper you'd want to prove it." Her lips twitched in apology, but Frederick only nodded. Of course, there was no time to reminisce.
"I...saw very little," he admitted. "I was in Mirren's shop when the explosion occurred."
"Little old to need your uniform stitched up," she said, her eyes twinkling through the stern face. "Anything else?"
Frederick shook his head slowly. "No. Doesn't anyone know why?"
Raquel's teeth clicked, and her thumbs rubbed the hilts of her swords. "Nothing is known for certain, but there are rumors. This incident is certainly well timed. Had they not given themselves' away, His Majesty would've been at considerable risk today."
"Even with such fearsome fighters such as you by his side?"
Her jaw tightened, and without warning, her armor's plates slid from hiding, covering her in a metal carapace in seconds. The visor pulled back to show her reddening face. "I'm glad you're unhurt, but I have to return to duty. It would be best if you returned home." A spasm twisted her face into something ugly and monstrous. "We have questions for the survivors."
As she turned to leave, Frederick hauled himself to his feet and hugged her tightly. "He's just a king. Do an old man a favor; keep yourself safe, eh?" His niece returned the hug quickly, but spun on her heel without reply, and marched back towards the rest of the city's protectors. What little happiness he'd felt at seeing her fled, replaced all too sharply by the sounds of loss. Suddenly he didn't care all that much about shredded drapes, or watering cans.
Frederick had long since removed his shirt by the time he arrived back home. Were it not for the occasional neighbor tending their fields, or heading out for the day, he'd have removed his pants as well. Even with his bare torso, the midday heat still beat relentlessly down on him. It'd been a small blessing from an otherwise terrible day that he'd forgotten his basket back in Verdenhelm; if he hadn't, Frederick was sure he'd have dumped it alongside the road miles back. His belly growled loudly as he pushed past the fence into his yard. Gods and spirits preserve him, and leave him to putter around his garden in peace, perhaps even read a bit before bed.
"No, no, no, no! Back -- get back, damn you!"
"Evan, stop! Don't hurt the poor thing!"
"'Poor thing?'"
"Oh -- move, move!"
A string of curses swam through the air, followed by a soft whoosh, and the smell of burning grass. Smoke billowed up from near the chicken coop, and Frederick loped around the side to see what fresh hell would greet him. He was grateful for his careless self leaving the shovel outdoors a week ago; it'd sunk into the ground from rain, but was still sturdy enough in case of trouble. He held it at his waist, ready to thrust like a spear as he peeked around the side: the chickens were raising a fuss from Tobias perching atop their little home. The beastling's wings were spread wide, and with a tiny roar, he loosed another stream of fire at the folk trying to spread out around him. A tall man with a sturdy-looking stick jumped back as the flames licked at his feet; he hastily slapped at his pants, falling to the ground in panic.
"Any time now!" he yelled to his companions as Tobias reared back to spit fire at his hapless foe. A woman with chestnut hair drew her bow.
Her shot went wide as Frederick's shovel cracked against her shoulder. A blow to the head sent her tumbling to the ground, and with a grunt, Frederick splintered the bow. He stepped back cautiously, lest the woman have a surprise up her sleeve.
"What're you doing?" he asked the remaining trespasser. Curls red as Tobias's fire bounced around a strong, square jaw that dimpled with a wary smile.
"Just looking to fill our bellies," the stranger said, his hands raised slightly. "Not for trouble." Tobias's tail lashed back and forth angrily as he spoke, and Frederick could see the warning glow of embers deep within his scaly mouth. They died down when Frederick let the shovel dip, though not fall, in his hands.
"Try Milligan's down the road," he said, never taking his eyes off any of them. "Old fool hasn't replaced the lock on his barn since the world came about. One good blow ought to do it. Well?" he added, when no one seemed to be in any hurry. The one on the ground pushed himself to his feet, glaring warily at Tobias.
"We came from Milligan's," he huffed, brushing the dirt off his sleeves. He held out a patch of shirt with a few holes. "The loon had attached a repeating crossbow to his window, and let fly as soon as he saw us."
"Isn't that a shame," Frederick drawled. "Take your chances with him, or me. Though," he said, looking at the man's singed leg, "it seems you're not as good dodging dragonfla
me as bolts."
"That's your house, correct?" the redhead interrupted, a frown touching his eyes as he looked at his companions. "The one with the holes in the roof?"
"What of it?"
"Well, none of us are eager to another night on the ground with dried rations and mice for our bellies." He shrugged, and gestured airily at the roof, and about the land. "Perhaps we could earn our keep?"
"And rob me blind at night?"
"Poor robbers we'd make, getting held up by your pet at the henhouse." The man smiled, and dipped slightly. "I'm Joren. These are my companions, Evan, and Sera. We've come to seek our fortunes in the city, as I suspect many others do. If you'll give us a roof for a time, we'll do our best to make ourselves useful."
Frederick pursed his lips. A small voice warned him not to trust Joren, his companions, or his easy smile. Taking in strangers...he'd be lucky if they simply walked off with whatever bits of precious they could find hidden about his little home. The holes in the roof weren't going away anytime soon though, and at his age, climbing up and down ladders had even less thrill for him than it did his younger self. He felt his iron softening; what would it hurt, to have a few extra hands for a while?
9 Tales From Elsewhere 12 Page 11