Seeker of Secrets

by Deck Davis

  Just ten words and a few strums of the lute - that was all it took to cast Joshua back to his village, back to the Quarryman’s Inn where he and Benjen had spent many drunken nights.

  This was one of his best friend’s favorite songs, one he would belt out at the top of his voice when he was drunk, and he’d stomp his feet at the chorus and try to get everyone in the tavern to join in.

  Hearing it now, Joshua wanted to crawl under the table. Or, failing that option, he wanted to leave. But he knew he couldn’t; he knew he damned well wouldn’t. Instead, he’d sit and listen to his best friend’s favorite song, and he’d think of him.

  Well, if he was going to do that, he needed more than beer. He went to the bar.

  The ex-warlock nodded at him. “You’re a quiet one. You from Ardglass?”

  “Just moved here,” said Joshua. “I’m from the west originally.”

  “Yeah? Never been there. Could have, when I was younger, but then I got married and gave up my old class and bought this place with my darlin’, course she’s gone now. But you didn’t come ‘ere to listen to me. Get you somethin’?”

  “Something strong,” said Joshua. “The worse-tasting the better.”

  “One shot of Goblin Firespit comin’ up.”

  When he grabbed his new drink, which was pond-green with a red blob floating in the middle which he hoped wasn’t actually goblin spit, he got a shock.

  The older man, the muscled one with the sword and metal breastplate, had moved over to his table.

  Joshua paused now. He wasn’t sure if the man wanted to talk to him or if this was a display of tavern dominance by the older warrior. People were weird about their local taverns; some of them didn’t like strangers drinking there.

  But the man wore a gentle smile, and Joshua knew it wasn’t fake from the way it carried through to his eyes. His forehead was creased and his wrinkles were worn hard into his face, but there was no hostility in his expression.

  The man raised his right hand. His index and middle fingers were missing, which must have made it difficult for him to grip a sword. His index finger looked like it had been taken off in one swift slice, while his middle finger looked like half of it had dissolved away. Looking at it made Joshua shudder.

  “Sadler, can I get four amber shots over here for me and my friend,” the man said, looking at the warlock behind Joshua.

  “The lad is drinking firespits,” said Sadler the innkeeper.

  “Oh? He’s brave. Four more of them, then. Put it on my tab.”

  “Which tab? The third, or the fourth? Are you planning on paying them any time soon?”

  “The beauty of tabs is you can always start another one.”

  “Not in my place you can’t. You’re lucky I like you, Keate.”

  Rain began to pelt the roof and walls of the tavern. Joshua heard its little taps as it hit, and he hoped that the stable girl had led Roebuck into a sheltered stable. Not only that, but he hoped it didn’t turn into a storm, and that the rain stopped before he left the tavern.

  Joshua pulled out a chair and sat across from the old man, who leaned forward and dragged his arm through beer and offered his hand for a shake.

  “They call me Keate,” he said, squeezing Joshua’s hand. After his handshake with Razlag the goblin, Joshua had learned to squeeze back as good as he got. “Keate Greengood. At least, when they’re being nice to me. Some of the vendors in Ardglass, they call me ‘Oh No, Not You Again.’ Some of the mountain trolls up north, the really mean ones, they call me the same thing, but for a different reason. They probably still tell their little troll children all about me, like I’m a nightmare.”

  “I’m Joshua Crest.”

  “Nice to meet you, Joshua.”

  Keate was definitely a warrior. An old warrior, but no less dangerous for his age judging from the look of him. His skin was a fleshy pink color in places but grey in others, which Joshua knew was a symptom of rock poisoning and which gave credence to Keate bragging about being the bane of the rock troll clans in the mountains.

  His hair, curly and thick, and beard, also curly and thick, matched the color of his grey rock poison patches. Although he’d taken off his breastplate, he still wore his metal shoulder pads. His arms were bare, and his biceps were huge and were lined with veins that stuck out against his skin.

  The tavern owner came over and put four shots of firespit on the table, adding to their growing collection of drinks which included Keate’s two ales, and the shot Joshua had already bought.

  “I’ll put it on the tab this last time,” said the owner. “I know you have tabs in every tavern this side of Isleyarn. I can’t keep doing this.” Then he spoke in a hushed voice. “You know I’ll always be grateful for what you did…but I’ve got a business to run.”

  Keate gave a nod and he wrapped his giant hand around the tavern owner’s fist and squeezed. “I know. I know.”

  Joshua opened his coin pouch and took out three bronze coins. “This one’s on me,” he said.

  “Thanks. I don’t want Keate here to leave, but business is business, and taverns are a dying industry, believe it or not,” said Sadler.

  Once they were alone again, Keate tipped a shot of firespit into his mouth and then urged Joshua to do the same by gesturing with his eyes.

  Joshua grabbed the little glass and stared at the red blob floating in the pond-green water.

  “It’s not real spit, and it didn’t come from a goblin,” said Keate.

  “I know.”

  Across the tavern, the wickerman, satyr, and scarred man were setting their runto board up for another game. From the looks of things, the satyr as still playing as healer, the wickerman as arcane mage, and the scarred man as a rogue.

  Close by, the bard was deep into the fifth verse, out of forty, of the Ballad of the Crimson Fields. Benjen had known every single verse off by heart, even when he was drunker than any man had any right to be. His renditions usually lasted an hour.

  Joshua felt the twangy lute notes and the bard’s baritone voice move him inside himself. It threatened to take him out of the tavern and hurtle him years into the past, to happy times that he’d never get back.

  He shook the thought away and he drank one of his firespit shots, feeling the alcohol burn his throat.

  Keate had a brown satchel by his feet, next to his chair. He opened it and took something out, and then he spread three square cards out on the table.

  “Let’s cut down to it,” he said. “This is the Mark of Mending. This is the Mark of Speed. This last one’s the Mark of Smithing.”

  He tapped each card in turn. Rather than being made of paper they were made of a bone-like material but were thin, and each of the card-like bones were a tree-trunk brown color and had symbols on them. The mark of mending had a needle symbol on it, speed had a series of dashes, and smithing had a crudely-drawn hammer.

  “Now, you’re wondering why I’ve invaded your table and shown you these. Well, I can see your breastplate. A nice-looking piece of gear, that. Course, a light-weight metal is better than leather almost all of the time, except if you’re fighting something that produces heat. Tip; never take on a fire imp or a dragon when you’re wearing metal. In fact, never take on a dragon, ever.”

  “Great advice…” said Joshua, and his perception kicked in, and he knew what was going on. “You’re trying to sell me something?”

  “You can stick these marks into the leather breastplate, and they’ll give you a boost as long as you keep them on. I got them from a mage in the Serpal Isles as a reward for taking care of one of his delicate problems. A succubus-shaped problem, if you get what I mean.”

  Joshua had to admit that he was tempted by the enchanted bone cards. Not by the mark of smithing, but the mark of speed could be useful. Without proficiency in a fighting class, any boost at all would help him out. Maybe with the breastplate, his new dagger, and a mark of speed, he’d be able to defend himself better.

  “How much for the mark of spe
ed?”

  “A silver.”

  “That seems a little expensive.”

  Keate nodded. “Maybe it is, but I’ll be straight with you – I need the money. No guild will take me on given my age. I might have lost a little of my speed, but I can still cleave a troll’s head in two. Or a goblin’s.”

  “People don’t really fight goblins or trolls anymore. Not since the decree.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m not some old geezer stuck in the past. When you’ve seen as much of the world as I have, and you’ll learn that there are good and bad groups of every race,” said Keate. “I’ve been a hero for forty-five years, and in that time, I’ve fought everything. Goblins, trolls, orcs, brigands. Yep, humans aren’t exempt; plenty of people can be evil.”

  “And you were with a guild?”

  “Aye. First, I was with the Greysleeve Adventurers Guild, then the Serpal Heroes’ Guild, and then I went to Isleyarn. I stayed there for a few decades, and then one night the guildmaster came to see me and told me they were letting me go. No severance pay for long service, nothing. Said they were having a re-think of the direction of the guild and they wanted younger faces.”

  “That’s gratitude for you,” said Joshua.

  Keate drank his second shot of firespit. Joshua did the same, and combined with the beer he’d already had, he felt a slight haze wrap around his thoughts.

  Meanwhile, the bard was into the tenth verse of the Ballad of the Crimson Fields, and the runto players were impatiently waiting for him to finish. Sadler was behind the bar, and the orange-haired serving girl, who Joshua now saw was a stunning half-elf, whispered in his ear and then went back into the kitchen and picked up her broom.

  “Everyone gets old,” said Keate. “You gotta do your best to stay useful. I never stopped training, and I never stopped learning, either. Had to keep my brain as sharp as my body. I’ve seen too many guys take too many club blows to the head, and when they get to my age they’ve forgotten their own names.”

  “And no guild will take you on?”

  “That’s how cutthroat the guilds are getting. They want the youngest, freshest heroes, and they don’t need a washed-up warrior like me. What about you, lad? What are you doing here? Hope you don’t mind me saying, but I noticed the look on your face when the bard started playing. You looked like you were about to cry.”

  Joshua ran his hand through his hair, brushing his long fringe back over his head. “Yeah, well…”

  “Nothing to be ashamed about, son. Music has power, and the best bards know that. Never be ashamed about your emotions. They say that Heruth the Silver Sword cried in the caves of Islillith because he-”

  “He missed his sister,” said Joshua.

  “Ah, so you’ve read ‘Tales of Gold, Guts, and Glory?”

  “My best friend did. He used to love stuff like that.”

  “It’s escapism at its best, which might sound strange, since I’m a hero. You’d think I wouldn’t like to read books about other heroes. It’s like a farmer trying to escape from his worries by reading a catalogue of seed prices. But there’s something about books like that. They’re nothing like the real hero’s life; they don’t talk about all the grim bits like needing to use the latrine in the middle of a demon-infested dungeon, or putting a friend out of his misery because he took a sword in his chest and you know he won’t make it.”

  Joshua looked at Keate now, and he saw the wrinkles etched around the old man’s eyes and he saw his stare. His eyes were a dark blue and they had depths, they looked like they had seen a lot.

  “This song was my best friend’s favorite,” said Joshua. “And this was his breastplate. I don’t know why I’m wearing it, really. I’m not a fighter. It just seemed right.”

  “He’s dead, your friend?”

  Joshua nodded.

  Keate reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve seen more death than I can even remember. Most people spend their early lives tryin’ to learn how to live. Then you get to a point where the balance shifts, and you start learning how to die. That’s me, though. I’m old. How old was your friend?”

  “Twenty.”

  “So, he won’t have even thought about that. Guessing you didn’t, either.”

  “I guess it was in the back of my mind that coming out here was dangerous. I never really thought something would happen, though.”

  “Well, you’re learning a lesson some people never do, Joshua. The earlier you learn how to die and how to watch the people around you die, too, the more complete you’ll be. Run from death and it’ll always be something you’re scared of.”

  As Joshua tried to process Keate’s words, his perception dragged distractions into his thoughts.

  First, he heard hundreds of tapping sounds on the outside walls and the roof of the tavern.

  Next, something smashed into the outside of the tavern door, but didn’t open it.

  Last, the orange-haired serving elf screamed from the kitchen, and she ran into the tavern waving her broom in the air, her face paler than milk.

  “Monsters!” she shouted.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In less than two seconds, Keate got to his feet, fastened his metal breastplate and grabbed his sword. In the same amount of time Joshua stood up, felt the alcohol hit him, and stumbled back into his chair. It was quite a difference in instincts.

  Keate steadied him. He grabbed a flask from his lather satchel and handed it to Joshua. The stench hit him straight away; sharp and earthy.

  “Take a swig,” said Keate.

  “I’ve had enough to drink.”

  “This is the opposite. It’ll sharpen your mind.”

  He drank a little. The rancid taste made his throat tighten involuntarily, and it was a battle to keep the thick liquid down. Once he won the battle he felt the drunken haze in his mind get blasted away.

  “What is this stuff?”

  “Get a bunch of heroes around a camp fire and sooner or later, the whiskey and the shots will come out. We need a way to freshen our minds instantly if we get ambushed while drunk.”

  “Monsters!” shouted a voice.

  It was the orange-haired serving elf again. She was standing in front of the window that looked out onto the traveler road, but it was pitch black outside. Joshua couldn’t see anything, not even the glow of the moon.

  Had he been in the Iron Whip that long? Was it nighttime already?

  Keate walked over to the window. “Hells,” he said.

  Joshua joined him and he pressed his face against the window and tried to see the monsters outside, but all he could see was a complete, utter darkness.

  And then the darkness winked at him.

  He saw a flash of white and an iris and pupil. The eye closed and he picked out more details; this wasn’t the dark of night pressing in on the window; it was a body. A black, furry body with a giant eye set in the middle of it. He saw the starts of legs protruding from the body, but it was so close to the window that he couldn’t make them out fully. He could just see the leg joints, and he counted them. Eight.

  Eight legs, and a black, furry body with an eye set in the middle.

  He shuddered. His thigh scar began to sting, almost as if the wound was fresh again. He knew what these creatures were, because one had hurt him years ago.

  It was a loneeye stalker. It had to be.

  They were one of the only deadly insects who lived near his village. Loneeyes were known for their placidity unless provoked, but once provoked they’d pursue their victim for miles and miles, never tiring.

  Then they’d catch them and they’d bite them and pump paralyzing venom into them, and then they’d crawl over their bodies and set their giant body eyes over their victim’s faces, and they’d watch their victim, unblinking, while they slowly ate them, inch by inch. Finally, they laid eggs in their victim’s stomach.

  Course, that was only if you messed with them. They didn’t seek out danger, and Joshua’s brush with one of them had been an acciden
t while studying for his zoologist class.

  Here, though, there were two problems. No, three problems.

  One, the loneeye stalker covering the window was a worry, since it had sought out somewhere filled with people. That went completely against their natures.

  Two, these creatures were native to the west. They never settled out east, so their presence here was a mystery.

  Three, one loneeye was bad enough; but from the sound of tapping and pattering from the walls and roof, there must have been a few of them, maybe more. Perhaps that was the problem; loneeyes were solitary creatures, and maybe gathering into a cluster had changed their behavior and made them seek out human buildings they would otherwise have avoided.

  A piece of thatching fell from the roof and landed on the floor right next to the bard, who jumped out of his seat, almost dropping his lute.

  Sadler went into the kitchen and came out with a meat cleaver, while Keate held his sword with the lion head hilt. The weapon looked too heavy for most people to lift, and the blade reached higher than his head. His missing index and middle fingers didn’t seem to affect his grip of the blade, so he must have trained to get used to it.

  The wickerman walked to the window, his wooden feet clacking on the floor. “What the hell is that?”

  “A loneeye stalker,” said Joshua.

  “Loneeye what?”

  “A kind of giant spider. We have them back home in the west. This doesn’t make any sense; they shouldn’t be any within a hundred miles of here, and they never live in clusters, and they never, ever come near humans if they can help it.”

  “You’re going to have to learn something, lad,” said Keate. “Never is a word that will get you killed if you make assumptions based on it.”

  Dozens of scratching sounds came from the wall at the far end of the tavern. More of the thatched roof fell down, and something heavy crashed into the tavern door.

  The serving elf, her face flushing with color now, held her broom and walked beyond the counter, but Sadler grabbed her. “Stay back,” said the ex-warlock.

  “Are they trying to get in?”