by Ryan Cahill
He peeled his eyes away from the brutal display of sheer strength in front of him to glance back at the table where Rist sat. His face was buried in that new book of his, his fingers wrapped around the handle of a tankard of mead. Rist always was more interested in the intellectual than he ever was with fighting or weapons, but it was strange of him not to join them on a night like tonight. He had been acting strange ever since The Proving. Calen had been afraid to ask him what actually happened to that Urak. Was there any answer that could possibly make sense?
As Calen decided to drag Rist from the table, he noticed the figure of a man approaching him from the corner of his eye.
“Would you mind if I joined you?” Calen had spotted him sitting in the corner of the room earlier. He was a match for Calen in height and build, which was rare in the villages. Working in the forge with his father had given Calen quite a sturdy frame.
The man’s long, black mantle was pulled back, exposing the studded black leather cuirass he wore on his torso. Two silver triangular pommels and black leather handles stuck straight up over either of the man’s shoulders. It wasn’t uncommon for men in Illyanara to walk around the towns or villages with their swords, but Calen couldn’t remember ever seeing someone carry two at the same time, strapped across their back. Calen wondered how well he could use them, and how difficult it was to put them back in their scabbards. Although, the man walked with the confidence of someone who knew how to wield those weapons.
He was clean-shaven, and his hair was short and dirty blond. There was something warm in his eyes. The closer he looked, the more Calen was sure that the man could not be much older than him.
“Of course.” Calen extended his hand. “My name is Calen. And yours, friend?”
“I am Erik Virandr. It is a pleasure to meet you, Calen.”
Calen introduced Erik to the rest of the group, who embraced him with the kind of drunken vigour that one would expect after drinking your body weight in mead. Dann arrived back with his and Calen’s drinks just as Alleron began to explain the basics of the axe game to Erik.
“Who’s that?” Dann asked, eyeing Erik with curiosity as he handed Calen his tankard. He tipped the rim of his own tankard off Calen’s, then they both took a long mouthful.
“His name is Erik,” Calen replied. “He asked to join us.”
Dann’s face perked in approval. “I see. Well, hopefully his pockets are lined with coin, and he is not as good with that axe as I think he might be with those swords.” Dann had mischief in his eyes.
Erik turned back towards Calen, holding an axe in a tight grip with his right hand. “Well, Calen, care for a bit of friendly competition? Kettil tells me that the common wager is four coppers to the best of three axes each, and that you are so far, unbeaten.”
“Only because he is so slow at drinking his mead,” Dann murmured.
Calen narrowed his eyes into daggers. Dann avoided his gaze and pretended to be distracted by something floating in his drink. There was a touch of hesitation in the back of Calen’s mind as he patted his hand down on his purse again. Just one night.
“That sounds good to me,” he said. “Has Alleron explained the rules to you?”
“He has.” Erik moved the axe around in his hand, gauging its weight and balance, much like Calen had done earlier.
“Okay, perfect. Would you like the first throw?” Calen asked.
Erik shook his head. “You can throw first. I might pick up a few tips that way.” A friendly smile accompanied his words as he passed the axe to Calen. Calen wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or trying to put him off his guard. The man carried himself with a confidence that unsettled Calen.
Calen took the axe from Erik and stepped over to the etched line. Once again, the tip of his foot just touching the mark in the floorboards, Calen became acutely aware of all the sounds in the inn that had fallen into the back of his mind. Mistress Elena’s high-pitched voice, like the chirp of a bird on a spring morning. The drunken conversations from the surrounding tables, which had started off as intelligent discussions and devolved into unintelligible grunts as the mead continued to flow.
Then there was a sharp tapping noise of steel on steel. He wasn’t sure if he had heard it at first, but it began to pierce through the other sounds, like a ray of sunlight on an overcast day. His eyes followed the path of the noise. Past the serving girl whose acrobatic talents had suddenly abandoned her as she tripped over the outstretched leg of a patron, who had long since fallen asleep, sending her tray of drinks soaring through the air. Past the group of men playing dice at the large table in the middle of the room and the one man who had just pulled a hidden set of dice from up his sleeve, his hand a blur of motion. Calen’s eyes moved past these things, and settled on a small knife in the corner of the room, which was tapping off the rim of a steel tankard.
As his eyes moved upwards, his heart almost stopped. The man holding the knife was staring straight at him, watching him the entire time. Calen looked away, snapping his vision back towards the target in front of him, hoping that the man had not caught him staring. He was one of the two men Erik was sitting with when Calen had walked in, but he was alone now. Watching. Calen glanced over towards Erik, who was chatting with the others and had not seemed to notice anything at all.
Calen took a deep breath. As the air filled his lungs, he felt the din bubbling over, giving way to a sense of calm. He gripped the axe firmly. The rough wooden handle, cool to the touch, was coarse against his skin. Going through the motions that Alleron had shown him earlier in the night, Calen launched his first axe at the target.
Thunk.
Three points.
Thunk.
Centre. Yes – five points.
Thunk.
Three points.
The group cheered as he landed his first two axes, but their applause was rather subdued as his last axe sank into its place. Not the worst round that he had thrown all night – eleven points out of fifteen was not a bad score, but it was certainly not a great one. He handed the axe over to Erik, who had been watching intently.
“Not bad at all. It’s going to be tough to beat that, I think.” Erik took the axe from Calen and placed it down on the table beside him. “I’ll just have to take this thing off before I throw. It’s only going to get in the way.” Erik undid the ties of his mantle, laying it down over a nearby chair. His leather cuirass did not extend over his shoulders or down his arms, leaving them bare, the heavy-set muscle belying his few summers.
He moved over towards the etched mark in the floor. Erik tossed the axe up in the air, letting it complete two or three full rotations before snatching it back. His eyes never left the target. Calen felt the suspense building in the group. The chatter amongst them subsided, bit by bit, until all attention was focused on the newcomer holding the axe.
Erik’s chest swelled as he took a deep breath inward. He pulled the axe up over his head and unleashed it with an almighty swing. With a vicious thump, it sank straight into the centre of the target. The group erupted in a cacophony of cheers.
“Beginner’s luck,” Erik said, shrugging at Calen. Calen could already feel his purse being four coppers lighter. Dann grinned from ear to ear. He leapt over to the axe, grabbing it with one hand to remove it from the target and return it to Erik for his second swing. Well, Dann has definitely wagered against me.
Absently, Dann turned back towards Erik, his hand still grasping the handle of the axe. A look of surprise coated his face when the axe did not budge, even in the slightest. He placed his free hand beside the other and heaved with all his weight. The axe came loose like water from a spring, sending Dann flying backwards onto the ground. Calen almost felt the impact himself when Dann’s backside cracked against the solid wooden floorboards. The entire group broke out in laughter, guffawing wildly at the dumbstruck look on Dann’s face. Dann pulled himself to his feet with an expression that only conveyed large amounts of displeasure and handed the axe back to Erik.
/> “Next time, you’re getting it yourself,” he said, rubbing his backside tenderly as he walked back to find solace in his mead.
Erik and Calen exchanged glances, both failing to hold back an eruption of laughter.
The group quietened down as Erik readied himself to take his second throw, although Calen could still hear Kettil and Leif mocking Dann in hushed voices.
The metallic ringing sound echoed through the air. The axe landed with a crack, again in the dead centre of the target. Drunken hysteria erupted, like when the first axe landed, and some coin changed hands. This time, though, Erik retrieved his own axe. Dann stared off at the ceiling, pretending to have noticed something in the wooden rafters. Calen was definitely not going to go the night undefeated at this new game.
As Erik took another deep breath in preparation for his final throw, Calen heard that tapping noise again – the knife knocking against the tankard. He noticed Erik’s head turn towards the table, but when he looked back over himself, the man was gone. Erik seemed tense, not as confident as he had been before. Without any ceremony, he launched the axe one last time, slicing through the suspense in the air.
Thud.
The flat of the axe connected with the wooden target, bouncing harmlessly onto the ground, leaving the group with stunned expressions. A few of them roared loudly, clapping their friends on the back – the ones who had bet on Calen. Alleron did the same to Dann as Dann dropped a few coppers into Alleron’s outstretched hand.
“Well, it looks like you win. Four coppers, was it?” Erik said, not impolitely but with far less enthusiasm and warmth than he had previously shown. His face was unreadable as he rummaged through a small purse that Calen had not noticed before. “It was a good game. I am pleased to have met you, Calen, but I need to be on my way. I wish I could stay for a few more rounds.” He passed the coppers to Calen, gave a quick nod to the group, and made his way towards the rear door. Just like that, he was gone.
“Well… that was a bit strange, wasn’t it? I mean, I don’t like to lose, but at least I don’t storm off in a strop when I do. Cost me four coppers—” Dann shut his mouth as soon as he saw the look on Calen’s face. “Sorry. I was just kind of sick of you winning.” He shrugged, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m going to go check on Rist. He’s had his head buried in that book so long, he’s probably turned into one.” With that, Dann stumbled through the inn, struggling to keep control of his legs.
Calen made his way back towards the table where he had left his drink. He had some catching up to do on Dann. He could hear Baird challenging Alleron to the next round of axes. That was a round Calen wanted to see.
Before he enjoyed the spectacle, he needed to put something in his rumbling belly. He had been so distracted he couldn’t remember when he last ate. He managed to catch the attention of the serving girl who had tripped over the slumbering patron earlier. Her dress was a little damp from mead, but she was pretty. Short, with auburn hair and an endearing smile. He asked her if there was any soup and bread left, to which she gave a brisk nod and a curtsy before shuffling back through the crowd. It felt strange to have someone curtsy towards him.
As he waited for his soup, sipping away at his mead, he watched Alleron and Baird play some game with their hands to decide who would throw first. He hoped beyond hope that the bard would suffer some form of sudden, non-life-threatening but still incapacitating injury that would stop him from singing or hurting that poor, defenceless lute. The noise that came from it was almost as bad as the insects in Ölm Forest. Almost.
Out of the corner of his eye, Calen noticed that Erik’s black mantle was still draped over the back of the chair he had left it on. Calen reached over, rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger. It was a lot heavier than he had expected, built for warmth and comfort over long distances. Calen placed his tankard down on the table, then pulled the mantle off the back of the chair, doubling it over and draping it across his forearm. It was good quality and probably worth a fair amount of coin. If he lost something of its likeness, his father would have him in the forge day and night to work back the cost.
Taking one last draught of his mead, Calen made his way towards the stable yard door, trying his best to hold his patience as he pushed his way through the drunken crowd. When he finally reached the other side of the room, he breathed a sigh of relief as he walked down the corridor and out into the fresh air.
CHAPTER 11
An Unexpected Journey
“Step away from the cart. It is to be searched, by order of the emperor.”
Erik and his two companions stood to the right of the stable yard door, in front of the bonnet of a horse and cart. His two companions had their mantles drawn about them. Their hoods covered their faces from the shimmering yellow lights of the lanterns hung around the yard. A group of Empire soldiers stood in a semi-circle around them. The two men who Calen had seen on the deck of the ship stood at their fore – the man in the black cloak and the man in the red cloak with the lion breastplate. Red Cloak was nearly half a foot shorter than Black Cloak, with a wiry frame that did not make him any less intimidating. There was a coldness in his eyes.
Erik glanced over at Calen as soon as he had stepped out into the yard. His mouth furrowed into a frown when he noticed him carrying the mantle. Only his eyes moved; his body remained fixed towards the group of soldiers in front of him. Calen wasn’t the only one who noticed Erik’s glance in his direction. Almost half of the soldiers turned to see who their new visitor was, including Red Cloak.
“Get out of here, boy. This does not concern you,” commanded the soldier, slightly tilting his head. “Do not make me tell you twice.”
Calen’s feet were glued to the ground. Every fibre of his being told him that this was not the place that he should be, yet something was stopping him from moving his feet. He simply stood where he was. His expression was the picture of calm, while inside his bones trembled. He wanted to excuse himself, step back inside, and continue drinking with Dann and Rist.
“I…” His words betrayed him.
“That was not a request, boy. That was a command.” The anger in the man’s voice was palpable. He drew his sword and turned, straightened his arm, and pointed it directly at Calen. “Get inside,” he growled.
“He has no part in this. Leave him be. Calen, get back inside,” Erik said, taking a step towards Calen.
“Erik, what are you doing? Get back over here now. He is not our problem,” said one of Erik’s companions. His voice was wrought with impatience. He turned to Red Cloak. “Please, sir. We are just leaving; we don’t want any trouble.”
The man in the black cloak let out a sigh. “I grow tired of this. We are searching all carts and wagons in the village. If you had nothing to hide, then we would already be gone. I have no qualms with spilling blood, but if you step aside now, that will save me cleaning my blade in the morning.” The man’s face looked tired but handsome. A long thin scar ran from just below his hairline, down over his right eye and nearly to the bottom of his cheek. His eyes were a vivid deep green, almost unnaturally so.
“We will not be stepping aside, Farda,” said Erik’s other companion, his voice calm and unwavering. He lifted his hands and drew back the hood of his mantle. He was a slightly older man, probably a few summers more than Vars. Flecks of white and grey peppered his short black hair; the colouring in his beard was much the same. His piercing blue eyes contrasted his leathered skin.
With inhuman speed, Farda’s sword was drawn. He stepped forward, death in his eyes. The other man smiled, flashing his teeth, and pulled both his swords from the scabbards across his back in one smooth motion.
“Aeson Virandr,” hissed Farda. His tone was still cold and unyielding, but his eyes were alight. “I knew it was you on that ship. You got away from me at Ilnaen. I promise you that won’t happen again.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Farda.” Aeson twirled his swords through the air, his eyes never breaking c
ontact with Farda’s. Aeson moved with such effortless confidence that it almost made Erik seem like a timid mouse.
Without warning, Farda launched himself at Aeson, swinging his sword overhead. Their swords met in a crash of ringing steel that reverberated through the courtyard.
Within seconds, the courtyard was enveloped in mayhem. Farda and Aeson exchanged blows back and forth at a frightening speed. Both of their faces were void of expression, conveying no sense of anger or fear as they each attempted to find the chink in the other’s defences. Their blades ricocheted off each other like metallic cracks of thunder.
Erik and his other companion fought four or five soldiers apiece, both wielding almost identical twin short swords. Erik’s hooded companion was ruthless. He moved through his attackers in a whirlwind of whistling steel, weaving in and out, dodging and parrying blows without ever seeming like he was trying. One soldier struck high and charged, only to be left screaming when the hooded man glided out of the way, hamstringing him with the backswing of his blade. Then he drove his second sword through the chest of another.
Erik’s fight was going much the same. He wasn’t so much fighting as dancing with steel in his hands. It didn’t take long for Calen to conclude that these soldiers never stood a chance.
It was at that moment, however, that another handful of Lorian soldiers charged into the stable yard from the side street, swords drawn, yelling indecipherable battle cries. They must have heard the fighting. Distracted by the new arrivals, one of the soldiers took Erik off guard. The smaller man threw all his weight into a shoulder charge that sent Erik stumbling backwards. The back of his heel crashed into the ribcage of a crumpled body, sending him tumbling head over heels onto the well-trodden, dusty ground. The soldier lunged, swinging his blade in a downward arc.
Calen’s hand fell to the thick coin pommel of his sword strapped to his hip. He had forgotten it was even there. Without thinking, he pulled it from its scabbard, with a little more force than necessary, and thrust it out into the space between Erik and the soldier’s plummeting sword. The metallic clang of steel on steel let him know that he had caught the blade mid-swing before it struck its intended target.