by Liam Reese
“Boy!” The hiss came from behind him.
The crallcat’s ears jerked toward the sound, her hindquarters lifting and tail twitching as her eyes pierced the gloom just beyond Besmir’s shoulder.
“Back away real slow,” Introna murmured as the cat began to work itself up again.
Insinuating himself into the clearing, Introna held his bow half pulled, his muscles as tense as the crallcat he faced. Step by slow, careful step, he drew level with Besmir as the cat followed him with her rage-filled glare.
Without warning or giving any sign it was about to happen, the crallcat leaped at Introna, one clawed limb swiping at him, knocking the bow from his grip. His arrow swished off into the shadows of the forest as he cradled his injured arm.
“No!” Besmir shouted, putting himself between the cat and Introna. “Go!” he added, flicking his arm at the forest.
Her muscles twitched beneath the golden-brown and cream fur covering her hide as she studied him with curiosity in her eyes. Almost casually, the five-foot beast turned and trotted calmly into the trees, disappearing in the space of a heartbeat.
“I’m telling you,” Introna hissed later to his hunting companions. “It was a crallcat and he told it to go.”
Besmir sat apart from the others as normal, his back to their group as they ignored him but discussed him as if he were somewhere else completely.
“A crallcat?” one of the others asked. “You sure? They usually attack on sight and don’t leave much behind after.”
“I know,” Introna said. “But I swear to the gods when I caught up with the lad it was sitting facing him as calmly as I’m talking to you now.”
Besmir listened as the hunters chatted about him, speculation and guesswork an ample substitute for actually asking him what had happened. Anger simmered low in his belly when he realized these men would never accept him as one of their own. Rejected at the orphanage and now rejected by these hunters, Besmir decided he would be better off living a solitary life. Determination pressed against the back of his skull.
I will learn everything I can from these morons then petition the duke to allow me to venture out alone.
“When he shouted at it, I thought I was dead, but it just looked at him as if it was confused,” Introna said. “Then it ran off into the forest...just like he told it to.”
Besmir felt their eyes on his back as they muttered about curses and demons, his chest tight with suppressed emotions.
I’ll show you. I’ll show you all!
1
Besmir stretched and twisted in his saddle as his gelding snorted, tossing his head and stamping. A scent drifted to the hunter − brine and salt − as the small group headed for the port town of Nirsdon. His keen eyes took in the forest of masts waving gently at the far side of a group of squat, wooden buildings, many of which had been smeared liberally with tar. The whole town looked dark and oppressive, making Besmir glance back at the rolling, verdant hills they had come from.
“Not the most welcoming appearance, is it?” Zaynorth asked when he noticed Besmir’s expression.
Besmir shook his head slowly.
“I never really thought of Tyrington as attractive,” he said. “But this place makes it look like a polished jewel. Is this the best option we have?”
The old mage chuckled and stroked his beard, glancing at the monochrome town before them.
“It might appear unpleasant, yet Nirsdon has some of the most agreeable and welcoming inns in Gravistard, as well as fine wines and spirits.”
Besmir grunted at him and clucked his horse forward.
Lacking any kind of defensive walls, Nirsdon almost grew from the landscape as they approached. Shacks started to appear at the sides of the dirt road, giving way to cheap cabins that, in turn, were replaced by larger buildings of stone and lumber. Smoke from hundreds of fires added to the overall stench assaulting Besmir’s nose, contributing to the odor of rotting fish and human waste. Piles of decaying trash lined both sides of the street, and Besmir looked on in disgust as children as young as two or three played in the filth left by others.
Zaynorth led them through twisting streets that looked to have been laid at random. With space at a premium, businesses crowding the docks, the buildings started to press in, making Besmir feel like an animal in one of his traps. Throngs of people, either on horseback or foot, shoved and jostled each other, shouting and grunting as they tried to complete their various tasks. Besmir tried not to stare at the variety of people swarming around him. His isolated life in Tyrington had shielded him from the mass of cultures that mixed here, and it was as much as he could do not to gawk at the brightly colored feathers and scaled skins of those he had never set eyes on before. He turned to watch an obviously female creature with a plume of red and pink sprouting from her head as she passed. He caught sight of Keluse watching the same creature, squeaking in some language he could never begin to understand, and grinned. Keluse looked as awed as he felt. She turned and caught sight of him, returning his grin with an edge of childlike delight.
Immense warehouses lined the waterfront, some with savage-looking guards posted outside. Opposite these were dozens of taverns and inns, almost all featuring someone outside proclaiming their establishment was the best and almost all full of drunken sailors.
Dusk had fallen as Besmir’s party threaded their way through the town, and a chill breeze nagged at them from the sea. Zaynorth headed for one of the larger buildings, a stone-and-wood place that resembled the prow of a ship, even down to having a large-breasted figurehead without. Three young men materialized from a narrow side alley and approached.
“Take yer mounts mister?” one asked.
Besmir saw he had little in the way of clothing. Most of what he did have was ripped and worn. Dirty, with greasy hair and spots, Besmir thought him around fifteen, the other two younger.
“It’s free if you stay at the Sunken Mermaid,” one of the younger boys chimed.
This was obviously something they had been told to say and made to practice over and over until it was right. Besmir wondered if this might have been his fate if not for the duke, while Zaynorth gave them orders to care for the horses and headed inside.
The Sunken Mermaid featured rough wooden furniture, sailing accoutrements − nets, an anchor − and was populated by the same varied mixture of people as the streets outside. Zaynorth threaded his way through the crowd, most of whom were in the middle of singing a bawdy ballad, and reached the bar.
“Jondras.” A large man thrust his hand out for Zaynorth. “Proud owner of the Sunken Mermaid.”
A grin split the man’s face, far wider and with too many teeth for him to be native. He was squat and round with dark red skin over his angular face and hands. Besmir looked down to see he had six fingers on each hand and five knuckles on each.
“Pitcriss?” Zaynorth asked. “You are a ways from home. Have you rooms for us?”
Besmir watched as the Pitcriss cast his eye over the group, evaluating them for wealth and the potential to cause trouble before smiling again.
“Is the lady with one of you?” he asked.
“No, she’ll need a separate room, the rest of us can share,” Besmir told the creature.
Jondras’s eyes cut to Besmir and he noticed they had oval pupils surrounded by a light green iris.
“I was conducting business with your father,” the Pitcriss said dismissively, misreading their situation. “Younglings should know their place.”
Besmir heard Morcath and Ranyor hiss as they caught the innkeeper’s words.
“Please, allow me to deal with this, Lord,” Zaynorth said to Besmir, declaring his deference publicly. “The Pitcriss is obviously unused to being in the presence of high-born.”
Besmir smirked as he watched Jondras re-evaluate his position in the group.
“No offense meant,” he apologized in his ever so slightly accented voice. “I get all manner of people through here and many of them are less than trustworth
y. I shall order rooms prepared for you all, and please, if there is anything I can do for you, just ask.”
“We require passage across the Wide Green to Gazluth,” Zaynorth stated. “We also have several mounts to sell and obviously want the best price.”
Jondras drummed his fingers against his belly as he thought, producing a hollow sound that set Besmir’s teeth on edge.
“The horses are not a problem, not a problem at all,” he said. “The passage, however, might prove a little more challenging. With the war in Gazluth there are few trading opportunities and little profit to be made, so ships seldom journey there.”
“Still, that is our destination,” Zaynorth said. “So make it known we are seeking passage.”
The Pitcriss folded his long-fingered hands beneath his chin and offered what looked like a small bow to Besmir. It became obvious to the hunter how different Jondras was when he turned and Besmir saw the tail that swung from side to side as he stomped off.
“Let us be seated,” Zaynorth suggested. “And have some food not cooked by Ranyor.”
“If my cooking offends you so much,” Ranyor said with a sniff, “feel free to prepare your own meals.”
Zaynorth chuckled. The week or so it had taken them to get here from his cabin had been spent riding all day and sleeping almost as soon as they had eaten. Although there had been little time for much conversation, Besmir had seen them working as a cohesive unit and knew they could all depend on the others in a crisis.
“You’re dragging me into the middle of a civil war, then?” Besmir asked once they had all settled around a pair of tables. He, Zaynorth, Keluse, Ranyor and Morcath sat beside a large fire pit that glowed with heat, leaving the others to claim a second table. Although they appeared to be relaxed, Besmir noticed their hands were always free to access their weapons and one or another would glance around the Mermaid every so often.
“The war is over,” Zaynorth said. “Tiernon took the throne when your father disappeared and conquered the rest of the populace by force.” He shook his head. “Thousands died, but without a leader, a figurehead for everyone to follow, the rebellion was doomed to fail. Now there is a vast split in Gazluth. Those loyal to, or fearful of Tiernon live their lives to the fullest. Those who opposed him have ended up in the basest of squalor. Wives without husbands and children without fathers are denied the basic essentials for life.” Besmir watched the old man’s face shift, the set of his features becoming angry. “So no, no war, but plenty to put right.” Zaynorth excused himself and left to discuss something with the Pitcriss.
“Zaynorth can be a little touchy when it comes to your da,” a voice rumbled from the other table.
Besmir saw it was Herofic, and the surprise must have shown in his face, as the thickset warrior laughed. Herofic had said almost nothing to Besmir since they had met, showing none of the deference the other warriors did, for which Besmir was grateful. A stout man of around five feet in height, Herofic carried a battle axe that looked as if it could cleave mountains. He had bushy eyebrows with long hairs jutting at odd angles that gave him a stern expression, but the eyes that sat beneath them twinkled with merriment.
“Does he blame him for the war?” Besmir asked.
“Blames your father, blames himself,” Herofic said in a quiet rumble. “Guilt eats at Zaynorth daily, and only healing his homeland will begin to assuage it.”
Besmir grunted, wondering what path he had rashly decided to follow.
“The mix of people here is amazing,” Keluse said. “That fellow who runs this place, did you see his tail?”
“And the one with the feathers earlier?” Besmir said, ignoring his future for now.
“She was a Corbondrasi from the deserts of Boranash,” Ranyor told them. “All have colored plumage. It is an incredible sight to behold.”
“Have you been there, then?” Keluse asked a little self-consciously. The tall man nodded, rubbing his chest.
Besmir nodded to the healing arrow wound he himself had accidentally inflicted.
“How is that?”
“Fine, Lord,” Ranyor said. “I heal at an incredible speed.”
“Still, I am sorry,” Besmir said. “Again.”
Ranyor shrugged. “No matter,” he said amiably. “I am sure you will be as forgiving when I shoot you in the back.”
“When?” Besmir asked with a grin.
“When,” Ranyor said with a smirk. “To answer your question, Keluse, yes I traveled to Boranash to witness their celebrations. Each year, for three days, the entire population ceases normal activities and holds a festival to their god of rebirth, Loranus.”
Keluse stared longingly at Ranyor as he lost himself in the past.
“Men and women dress in the finest of clothes and adorn their plumage with jewels and fine paints. Everyone is included, royalty mixing with peasants without judgment. Everyone donates what they are able, even if it is a single piece of fruit or lone fish, and everything is freely available to all.”
“It sounds beautiful,” Keluse said.
Ranyor nodded, his expression changing subtly.
“It is. Yet some things I find more enchanting.”
Besmir watched as the tall warrior held Keluse’s gaze just long enough to make her realize of whom he was speaking. She blushed and looked away as the information sank in.
“Of course, once the festival is over, they all go back to scheming and back-stabbing each other,” Ranyor said with a chuckle.
Later, once a filling meal of roasted meats and vegetables filled his belly, Besmir watched a man approach them. Cloaked in a ragged yet heavy coat that may have once been blue, his long hair exploded from beneath a floppy hat lying at an angle. Heavy, black boots with wooden soles announced his approach as effectively as a fanfare, and the ballooned trousers he had tucked into them looked well used also. His face had the appearance of tanned leather, the vicious elements having taken their toll, and a scar ran horizontally across his forehead as if someone had attempted to remove his scalp. Mud-water eyes grazed over the group before lighting on Zaynorth. Yellowed teeth formed a nasty smile, and Besmir saw several of his companions’ hands move towards sword and dagger hilts.
“Word has it ye be seeking passage,” the stranger said in a voice like granite splitting.
“Maybe,” Zaynorth said. “For the right price.”
The stranger thrust out a hand as brown and callused as cow hooves. Gold rings adorned the first and middle fingers.
“Toras,” he said. “Captain of the Dawn Singer.” Without invitation, he grabbed a chair and reversed it, folding his arms across the back. “Fleet, she be, sleek and fast as a dolphin.”
“How impressive,” Zaynorth said with as little enthusiasm as he could muster. “We need passage to Gazluth for ten.”
“Ten to Gazluth,” Toras muttered as he grabbed a serving girl and demanded ale. “That be a dangerous place to find port to begin with. And the Singer, she’s not quite large enough to take on ten more people.”
“Oh well, as unfortunate as it is, I am confident we shall find that which we seek. Good day, Captain, please accept the refreshment at our expense.” Zaynorth dismissed him.
The group stayed relatively silent as Toras drained the tarnished mug that was brought to him. Other patrons in the Mermaid were getting progressively louder as the beer flowed, hiding any embarrassing silence from the group.
“Well, good luck to ye,” the captain said, placing the mug before Zaynorth. “Thanks for the drink,” he added as he stood.
Besmir noticed he wore a sword beneath the heavy coat. A serrated, nasty-looking thing with thorn-like sections jutting from the blade’s edge. Turning with a flourish, Captain Toras thudded his way across the room and left the Sunken Mermaid.
“Strange,” Besmir said, frowning.
“At least we have secured passage across the Wide Green,” Zaynorth muttered, sliding the captain’s empty mug across towards him.
“Call me odd, but didn’
t you just tell him to go?” Besmir asked in confusion.
“Sire, you are odd,” Zaynorth whispered.
Dipping two fingers into the empty mug, the mage pulled out a small slip of parchment and unfolded it. Besmir looked at the scrawl there but had no idea what it said.
“Sneaky,” he muttered. “What does it say?”
“It appears he was not inventing the number of passengers he could take,” Zaynorth said, tugging his beard. “This is an inflated price for six.”
“So we’ll have to find another ship,” Besmir said.
“If it were only that easy,” Zaynorth said, pursing his lips. “The Pitcriss was not making things up when he mentioned it being difficult to get passage to Gazluth. Many will not sail unless there is profit, and ships are expensive to run. Plus there is the added danger of having your ship seized.”
“Seized?” Besmir asked. “Why?”
“Trading opportunities are limited due to the aftermath of the war, and Tiernon is in need of vessels to carry troops and supplies. Any captain willing to sail there is either foolhardy or...”
“Or?” Besmir quizzed.
“Or engaged in piracy,” Zaynorth said.
Besmir’s mind flashed to the evil sword the captain had worn. Definitely something a pirate would carry.
“How many crew is this ship likely to have?” Besmir wondered.
“Twenty to thirty depending on the size,” Herofic rumbled from the other table.
“Against six?” Besmir said. “So there could easily be a nasty accident as soon as we’re out at sea?”
Keluse paled at his words, shifting closer to Ranyor unconsciously.
“Possible but unlikely,” Zaynorth said. “If we are to leave four people behind as witnesses, even a pirate would be unlikely to risk throwing us over at sea.”
“Possible. Unlikely,” Besmir muttered.
“I am confident I am able to deflect any unwanted attention, Besmir,” Zaynorth said. “If necessary, I can create the illusion we never existed in the captain’s mind.”