by Ryan Cahill
Calen was pulled out of his thoughts when he noticed that the man in the black cape now stood at the siderail of the ship, staring across the docks – directly at him. It was a cold unblinking stare.
Calen averted his gaze as quickly as he could, nearly tripping over a wooden crate as he darted for the nearest side street connected to the docks. His heart beat out of his chest, and he cursed himself for being so stupid. Soldiers of the empire were not known for their patience or their good will, and that was not something he wanted to test. They were none of his business.
He picked up his pace, moving as fast as he could without attracting any undue attention. He weaved his way through the streets, taking as many turns as possible without losing his way, eventually finding himself at the front door of the Two Barges inn. His pulse slowed a little as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coat. He hadn’t realised quite how much of a panic he had been in. He laughed out loud at himself. Sometimes I can be such a fool. He was hardly looking at me.
His heart was still thumping a bit harder than usual as he pushed open the door to the inn.
Farda flicked his coin up in the air, never lifting his gaze from the other side of the docks, where he had seen that boy skulking about.
He heard the metallic whoosh as the coin spun in the air. The flight of the coin did not concern him. He had flipped it enough to know where it would land. On which side it would land was what interested him. His eyes still fixed on the alleyway, he extended his arm out to his side and snatched the coin from mid-air. Finally pulling his gaze from the docks, he opened his palm and looked at the result. Crowns.
“Your lucky day, boy,” he whispered to himself. I don’t usually tolerate people who snoop, but the gods have spoken.
Plodding footsteps approached. The familiar creak of the wooden deck reminded him of how long he spent cooped up on that damned ship. He didn’t turn to face the approaching soldiers.
“Sir, the ship has been checked over, and she is secured fast to the moorings. Inquisitor Rendall has insisted we start the search. Those Southern rats can’t have gotten far.”
There was a metallic clink as the coin flew back up into the air. Farda reached out once more and opened his palm. Lions.
Farda’s black cloak billowed in the breeze as he pondered. He tucked the coin back into his pocket. “Good. I will be joining you.”
CHAPTER 10
Where Two Roads Meet
The waft of warm air hit Calen as he walked through the doors of the inn. The honeyed aroma of mead and the oddly satisfying smell of burning wood filled his nostrils. The inn was far busier than it had been earlier in the day. All the tables were packed with townsfolk, travellers, and merchants, who traded stories and played games of dice and cards. The serving women dashed about, filling their bellies with mead and stew. A bard in the corner of the room played a lute. Well, attempted to play the lute. Failed to play the lute.
As he searched the room for Dann and Rist, Calen heard a triumphant roar erupt from across the room. He looked over to see a group of men huddled together about twenty feet from a thick sheet of wood hanging on the wall. They were dressed in furs and worn leathers, their unkempt beards marking them as strangers to the villages. They smashed their tankards off one another in celebration.
On the sheet of wood were five red circles within each other, each one smaller than the last, until the middle was a solid red dot. There, the head of an axe was buried, its handle protruding outward. Calen watched with curiosity as one of the men strutted over to remove the axe from its rest. As the man turned, Calen’s eyes widened in surprise.
Dann?
Just as Calen was about to call out to Dann, a hand jutted above the canopy of heads, waving in his direction. There was a lethargy to the wave, as if the owner of the hand were not aware it was being held up in the air.
Rist was seated at a table in the middle of the room, a book splayed out in front of him. His eyes were glued to the pages, a tankard of mead in his hand. Calen made his way over and pulled out the empty chair beside Rist. He let his shoulders sag as soon as his ass touched the seat, his heartbeat finally settling to a normal rhythm.
His face must have betrayed him, as Rist raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I’m fine,” Calen panted. “Just got a little overexcited is all. There are imperial soldiers at the docks.”
Rist looked up, his eyes narrowing at Calen over the edge of his book. He folded over the corner of the page he was reading, then closed the book. “Here, in Milltown? Why would they be here?”
“I’ve no idea, but one of them may have caught me staring. I decided not to stick around.”
“Isn’t Dann supposed to be the one who does stupid things?” Rist suppressed a laugh. He folded his arms and pondered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen imperial soldiers.”
“I have. Once. When Dad brought me along to a trade fair in Camylin. There were imperial guards outside the house of the Lorian Emissary.” Calen wasn’t eager to stay on the topic. He had heard stories of imperial soldiers. The things they did to Southerners – some of them had to be exaggerated. The stories mostly came from the likes of Valtara and Varsund, where the High Lords had rebelled or started wars. But there were a few from Illyanara. The stories made him shiver. “Dann found a few new friends?”
He tried to get the attention of a young serving girl with porcelain skin and fair blonde hair tied in a long braid.
“He’s been at that for an hour or so,” Rist said. “Of course, he is fantastic at it.” A sigh escaped his lips before he took a deep draught of mead.
“You weren’t interested in joining him?” Calen asked. He finally managed to grab the attention of the serving girl and order the mead that had been on his mind since he walked in. His throat felt like it had been rubbed with cotton.
Rist let out a soft chuckle as he peeled open his book. “No, I’m perfectly fine here with my book and my mead. A History of Magii. The merchant didn’t want to part with it cheaply, but I managed to bargain him down a bit.” He licked his finger and used it to turn the page.
“A History of Magii? You spend your time mocking me for believing the legends and fairy tales… and then you buy a book about Magii?”
Rist hesitated. Again, he folded over the corner of the page to mark where he had stopped reading, closed the book, and pushed it to the side. “I was curious – you know, after our conversation in the woods. Then I saw the book at the markets and figured that it would be an interesting read.”
Calen only half-heard Rist’s reply as the serving girl returned with his tankard of mead. He passed her two copper marks for the drink and turned his attention back towards his friend. “Sorry, Rist. I’ve just been thirsting for this ever since I walked in.”
Calen took a strong mouthful of mead, then let out a satisfied sigh. He sat back in his chair to take a proper look around the busy inn.
Three men sat in the corner of the room. Their calm and introverted behaviour painted a stark contrast to the surrounding revelry. All wore thick black mantles that covered most of their garb, but the glow from a nearby candle caught a glint of metal on a blackened studded leather cuirass on one of the men.
“Who are those guys in the corner?” Calen asked. “They don’t look like merchants – or soldiers.” Calen turned his eyes back to Rist to make sure he didn’t draw any more unwanted attention. Not twice in one night.
“Aye, they do not. They were here when I arrived earlier. Haven’t moved much either. They just ate some food and have been sitting there, muttering to each other. None of my business – or yours.” Rist stooped his head down to look Calen in the eyes.
Calen rolled his eyes, letting out a mocking sigh. “Yes, Father. Thank you for your wise words.”
Rist responded with unimpressed silence, then returned to his book.
Calen stewed in the silence for a moment, then took a drink of his mead. “I’m going to go see how Dann is getting on. That axe
throwing game seems like fun. Sure you don’t fancy joining?”
Rist raised his eyes from the book for a moment. “I think I will pass on this one. For the gods, Calen, will you two please try not to cause any trouble? He’s already had four meads.”
Calen shrugged as he stood up, puffing his cheeks in resignation. “If he’s already had four meads, you and I both know that there is no way I’m stopping trouble if he chooses to cause it.” Calen slapped his hand down on Rist’s shoulder as he passed his chair. Rist rolled his eyes and beckoned over the serving girl for another mead.
There was absolute silence coming from the group of travellers as Calen approached, which worried him a little. Some people should be feared when they are loud, and others when they are silent. This group seemed like the latter.
Without warning, an axe flew out of the middle of the group, soaring through the air in a series of acrobatic flips. It nestled in the target with a thunk, slightly to the left of an axe that had already made its home there, about an inch closer to the centre. The group erupted in a chorus of cheers and shouts.
“Having fun?” Calen asked as he tapped Dann on the shoulder.
Dann turned around, his eyes growing wide. “Calen!” He threw his arms around Calen, pulling him into a tight, slightly painful embrace. “I was beginning to think you had wandered off onto a ship and gotten lost at sea. What took you so long? I’ve made some friends. They have come all the way from Drifaien to sell furs and drink. In fact, I think they might just be here to drink – and throw axes.” He pondered on his words for a moment, scrunching up his lips in thought. “Yes, I’m pretty sure they are here just to drink and throw axes. Mead?”
Calen was sure that Rist had missed a few meads when he was counting. This sounded like six mead Dann.
Dann raised his tankard up in the air, clinked it off Calen’s own tankard, then took a deep draught.
“Come, I will introduce you.” Dann threw his arm around Calen’s shoulder, directing him towards the heart of the group. “Friends! Let me introduce to you my companion and brother at heart.” Calen rolled his eyes; they always seemed to require a lot of rolling when Dann had been drinking. “This is Calen Bryer! Calen, this is Audun, Baird, Destin, Fell, Kettil, Leif, and Alleron.”
Calen held his breath as he tried to match the names to each man. Which was easier said than done. All of them looked almost identical – strong, rugged, and slightly dirty. With thick beards that covered most of their faces, their only distinguishing features were the colours of their eyes and hair. There was not the slightest chance that he would remember their names for longer than five minutes.
Each man responded to Dann’s introduction with a hearty, “well met,” clasping Calen’s hand with their own, which Calen repeated in kind. Calen had only met a Drifaienin man once before, a few summers back, but he had dressed as they did, and his accent was the same. Thick and gruff, though with a slight lilt to it.
One of them stepped forward – the one Dann had called Alleron. He was a solidly built young man, no older than Calen. His ice-blue eyes stood in contrast to his dark brown, shoulder-length hair, and full beard. He held an axe by the flat, at the back of the blade, the handle extended towards Calen. It was just short of two feet in length, with a smooth ash wood handle and a single hatchet blade. It was fine craftsmanship.
“Would you like to try? Dann here has taken to it like a duck takes to water.” He smiled. At least, Calen thought he was smiling. It was hard to tell behind all that hair.
“Sure, why not?” Calen took the axe from Alleron. He felt its weight, trying to gauge its balance. “How does it work?”
Alleron put his hand around Calen’s shoulder and turned him towards the makeshift target on the wall. “If you land the axe between the outer ring and the next ring inwards, that’s one point. Two points for the next ring, and so on. Five points if you land it in the centre, like your friend did. Easy.” He smirked at Dann, who laughed it off and took a mouthful of mead.
“Okay.” Calen gripped the axe, tossing the weight about in his hand. “Hopefully, I’m better with this than I am with a bow. Where do I stand?”
“Over here, behind this mark on the floor,” Alleron responded. He pointed to an etched line in the floorboards about two feet behind Calen, drawing a frown from the passing mistress Elena. Calen had a feeling that line was a recent addition to the inn’s floorboards, courtesy of his new friends.
The group was quiet as Calen stepped behind the line and touched the tip of his left foot right up to its edge. He was going to need all the help he could get.
It was hard to focus with the background noise of the inn droning away in his ear. The click-clack of dice as they bounced off tables. The clinking of tankards as they cracked off each other. The shouts and roars of the drunken townspeople who were drowning the tiredness of a day’s work in a bellyful of mead. Whatever pain that bard was inflicting on that poor lute. It seemed like it was getting louder and louder as the seconds passed, like the crow of a rooster in the morning.
“Well, come on then, Calen. You waiting on the damned sun to rise?” Dann mocked. The rest of the group laughed along with him.
Calen threw Dann a dirty look and then tensed his grip on the axe, his knuckles turning a pale white. He pulled his shoulder back and lifted the axe up over his head. Throwing all his strength forward, he launched the axe at the target.
It seemed to move in slow motion as it twirled through the air. A metallic ringing noise reverberated in Calen’s ears as it did. After what felt like an eternity, the axe head buried itself in the target, just outside the outermost ring. Calen’s chest sank.
Above all the noise, he heard Dann cackling. “Well, look on the bright side. At least you are better with an axe than you are with a bow. I’ve never seen him hit a target with a bow before,” he said to the group, struggling to keep upright from the laughter.
Calen felt a fire burning in the pit of his stomach. A hand landed softly on his shoulder. “Take a minute. Breathe in and hold it. Don’t let the air escape until the exact moment you release the axe and don’t let your hand drop after you’ve thrown it. It will drag the axe off course.” Alleron gave him a reassuring smile and handed him another axe.
Calen nodded. He took the axe from Alleron and set his feet behind the line once more. He took a deep breath in and let his muscles loosen.
“Four coppers, he hits dead centre,” he heard Alleron say.
“Oh, I’ll take that bet. I’ll never say no to a free drink,” Dann said, raising his tankard in the air. Calen didn’t wait for Dann to say anything else. He launched the axe through the air, leaving his hand hanging there after he released it, just as Alleron had said. He closed his eyes just as he threw it. Please, please let Dann lose this bet.
The group erupted in a frenzy of raucous cheers that drowned out all sound from the rest of the inn. Calen felt his heart beating. His nerves pricked at the inside of his stomach like small needles. He peeled open one eye, too nervous to look with both.
The head of the axe was nestled firmly in the centre circle, the handle suspended in mid-air. A surge of energy seared through his body. An unintelligible roar left his throat as he jumped up into the air. He turned to see a despondent look on Dann’s face as he stared in disbelief at the axe.
Alleron thrust a tankard of mead into Calen’s hand. “For The Warrior! For Achyron!” he shouted.
“For The Warrior!” came Calen’s elated response. They both drained their tankards down to the last drop.
“I knew you had it in you,” Alleron said, beaming. “Though, next time, try keeping your eyes open.” With a wink, he turned and strode over to Dann to collect his winnings. The rest of the group congratulated Calen the same way Alleron did.
“Not bad,” Dann said when Calen walked over to where he stood, half-slouched, leaning against the wall. He raised his tankard up in the air, tipping it off Calen’s in the salute that the Drifaienin enjoyed. “I’m going to have
to win those four coppers back, though – either off Alleron or you.”
Calen felt the mead providing him with some liquid courage. A smirk formed on his face. “Four coppers to whoever gets the best of three axes each?”
The challenge seemed to send a bolt of lightning through Dann. He immediately pushed himself from the wall and stood up straight, his eyes filling with that familiar fire. “Oh, it’s on. I’m throwing first.”
“Yes!” Calen roared as his axe landed firmly inside the fourth ring, two points clear of Dann’s. A mischievous grin spread across his face. “Looks like it’s your round.”
Dann mimicked him in a mocking voice as he trudged off towards the bar to order the next round of drinks. He accidentally kicked a table and floundered into the arms of Mistress Elena, who simply smiled, patted him on the back, and then pushed him towards the bar a little harder than necessary. Calen just laughed, took a mouthful of his mead, and turned to enjoy the spectacle of Alleron and one of the other Drifaienin – he thought it was Leif, but it was nearly impossible to tell – taking the next match up.
Dann could be an ass when he wanted to be, but Calen was acutely aware of just how lucky he was to have him and Rist as friends. Brothers, even.They never treated him any differently after Haem died. They made fun of him when he deserved it, and they called him out when he was being an ass. Others avoided him like he was a fragile egg shell, never sure of what to say to him, or if they should say anything at all. He only ever felt Haem’s loss more keenly when they did that.
Trying to shake the thoughts from his head, Calen patted his hand down on the coin purse in his pocket, which jingled in response. A pang of guilt cut his smile short. He had almost gambled away enough money to buy food for a week. It is just one night. He took a sip of his mead and tried his best to let himself enjoy everything around him.