Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  As the minutes dragged by, Gunner sipped his beer faster than he’d intended, though he could barely lift the mug. When he looked down again—to his and Sevarin’s surprise—he found that nearly half his drink was gone.

  “You better slow down, kid,” Sevarin said, looking genuinely concerned. “That’s high-powered stuff. You gotta have a Sargonaut metabolism to stomach that much of it all at once.”

  Sevarin must have been telling the truth. A few moments later, Gunner’s stomach burned and his bladder felt like it was about to burst.

  “I need a bathroom,” he said.

  “It’s in the back. I’d go with you, but that might look a little strange.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Gunner caught snippets of conversation as he made his way past throngs of boisterous Sargonauts.

  “…pinned him to the ground and knocked his lights out,” bragged one man, to the back-slapping appreciation of his buddies.

  Gunner avoided eye contact with those he passed. Having always been tall for his age, he matched or exceeded the height of at least half the crowd—quite an achievement for a non-Sargonaut—yet his narrow shoulders and skinny limbs made him self-conscious, as if he were a strand of spaghetti lost in a bowl of meatballs.

  The bathroom was a foul-smelling sauna with wooden walls covered in doodles, curse words, and dirty jokes. He passed a series of broad backs standing at the urinals and closed himself inside one of the stalls.

  When he finished peeing in privacy, he emerged from the stall to find a short, stocky man with a shaved head and a bushy mustache swaying near the sink. He seemed to be considering whether to puke all over the mirror.

  Gunner decided against washing his hands and made for the door. Only a foot away from escape, he was abruptly stopped by the drunk man’s massive hand, which clamped around his arm like a steel vise.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Um…”

  His breath caught in his throat. The bones in his arm felt like twigs about to be snapped by the man’s incredible grip. The pain made him unable to speak.

  “Don’t ‘um’ me, you filth. Wash your hands. We’re gentlemen around these parts.”

  The man released him, and Gunner breathed a sigh of relief. He proceeded to the sink, which was crusty with substances he didn’t wish to identify, and went through the embarrassing process of washing his hands under the man’s watchful gaze.

  There was no towel on which to dry them. Gunner wiped them on his shirt instead.

  “Can I go now?”

  The man hiccupped as he peered down at Gunner’s fingers.

  “Your filthy nails look like you dug yourself out of a grave. What the hell’s wrong with you? Clean them out.”

  Gunner felt sick to his stomach now. He swallowed a surge of beer-infused vomit that had lapped against the back of his throat.

  The Sargonaut’s breath stank of whiskey, and as Gunner scrubbed his admittedly dirty fingernails, the man—despite swaying in his drunken state—remained ever vigilant.

  “You filthy rat,” he said.

  “Okay,” Gunner said. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He held up his now pristine fingernails. “Can I go now, sir? Please?”

  “That depends.” The man’s puffy, red face tightened into a grimace. “On if you’re ready to apol—apolergize…” He burped and thumped his chest. “Apolergize to every Sargonaut in this bar for your filthy insult. Not washing your hands.” He scoffed. “Where were you raised? A barn?”

  Gunner took a step back. This could only end badly. The man was a bully, pure and simple. He had no intention of letting Gunner go without some sort of altercation.

  All he could do was stand there, paralyzed by dread as he imagined what a single punch from this man could do to the soft bones of his face.

  “Fine, then,” the man said, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll do it your way.”

  He staggered toward Gunner, who threw up his arms in self-defense, a wild scream rising in his throat.

  The man stopped. He was looking past Gunner at someone new who had entered the bathroom.

  “Gunner. You okay?”

  He almost ran into Sevarin’s arms. Instead, he shook his head and backed up against the sink, watching the drunken Sargonaut as he took stock of what was happening.

  “This don’t concern you,” the man said, squinting as he sized up his new opponent. “You best turn around and mind your business, sonny.”

  Sevarin raised his hands, palms forward, in a gesture meant to calm the man down.

  “You could turn this into a big deal,” he said. “Or you could go back to the bar and get your friends a round of drinks, on me. The best whiskey this fine establishment has to offer.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Gunner slid against the wall toward the exit.

  “Elki piss,” the man bellowed. “I got ten friends back there.”

  “Then make sure they get good and drunk,” Sevarin said. “Tell the bartender to put it on my tab. Name’s Sevarin, by the way.”

  He extended his right hand. The man, his face still red and swollen, broke into a smile suddenly and accepted the handshake.

  “My kinda guy.”

  He slung a beefy arm around Sevarin’s neck and walked him out of the bathroom. Sevarin threw a glance back at Gunner, who could only shrug in bewilderment.

  GUNNER HOPED it would be time to leave soon.

  His hopes were quickly dashed. As usual when he hung out with Sevarin, the opposite of his ideal situation ended up happening.

  Sevarin proudly watched the red-faced, drunken Sargonaut from the bathroom order whiskey shots for his friends. Apparently, this wasn’t enough fun for one night. Strutting back to their table, Sevarin suddenly stopped to engage two women seated nearby.

  “Can I buy you ladies a round of drinks?” he asked in a cheery voice, as if he had already forgotten about Gunner’s near-death experience in the bathroom.

  The women—obviously serious, hard-drinking Sargonauts, judging from the empty mugs lined up against the wall—both gave Sevarin and Gunner steely glares as they approached. Each one was dressed in the simple blue garments of a factory worker, and one had a tattoo of a ship’s anchor on her forearm.

  “Who’s offering?” one of them said.

  The other quickly drained her mug.

  Sevarin shrugged. “Just a spoiled Academy brat who thought you ladies could use another drink after a hard day’s work.”

  Gunner cleared his throat, hoping Sevarin would notice and switch to a different plan of action. Something far less ridiculous than buying two random women drinks when they were supposed to be on a mission to save their friend.

  “Well, then,” one of the women said, raising her eyebrows in approval, “there’s a good boy. Two firewaters for us. With sugar cubes.”

  Sevarin left Gunner standing there—the women studying him with clear amusement—and came back with a tray holding two mugs of frothy beer and four small glasses containing a clear liquid that made Gunner’s eyes sting as he sniffed the one Sevarin handed him.

  “Here’s to hard work, which us Academy brats would never understand,” Sevarin said, plucking a sugar cube off the tray and dropping it into his glass.

  The women dropped their own sugar cubes. Gunner did the same, hoping his drink tasted better than it smelled.

  When they were finished, the women banged the empty glasses on the table. Sevarin did the same and smiled broadly at them, while Gunner could only nudge his empty glass across the table in an attempt to hide the burning pain in his throat.

  “My tab’s open if you want more,” Sevarin said.

  “I got an idea,” one of the women said. “Why don’t you and your skinny friend take a seat here, tell us about yourselves.”

  The women pulled over two more chairs. One threw Gunner a rosy smile as she patted the seat next to her.

  “Sure,” Gunner said. “Why not.”

  He fell into the
chair with a loud thump. Suddenly, this place didn’t seem so bad. At least these two women were being nice to him, unlike most girls, who tended to ignore Gunner in favor of flashier, more confident guys like Owen and Sevarin.

  “My name is Gurtha,” the woman next to Gunner said.

  “Gunner,” he replied, shaking her calloused hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  The one next to Sevarin introduced herself as Helen. For some reason, she found Sevarin’s name incredibly interesting.

  “You look like a Sevarin,” Helen gushed. “There’s something sharp-edged about it, like a sword. Is that what it means?”

  Sevarin shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I like it. From now on, I’m Sevarin the Sword.”

  Gurtha and Helen lifted their beer mugs in approval.

  “Sevarin the Sword,” Gurtha said. “Should be Sevarin the Bigshot, because that’s what you’re gettin’ us—more shots. Big ones!”

  “And another round of beer,” Helen added with a chuckle. “Might as well.”

  “I’ll take one, too,” Gunner said with a grin.

  Sevarin flashed him a disapproving look. Apparently, they weren’t here to get drunk. Who would have thought?

  Sevarin motioned for another round. He must have tipped the bartender well last time, because she came over a minute later with a tray of mugs and shot glasses, each one filled to the brim and sloshing over the edges.

  Gunner leaned across the table. “You sure that’s such a good idea?”

  “Is it ever?” Sevarin said with a chuckle, distributing the drinks. He smiled at Helen and Gurtha, who were all too happy to smile back. “What’s a day like in the factories?”

  As the women readied themselves to speak, Gunner caught a flash of movement, Sevarin dumping his shot onto the floor. He squinted at Gunner, who cautiously did the same. Neither of the women noticed.

  “Well, I’m glad you asked,” Helen said, slurping down her shot. “We start at daybreak, and let me tell you, it is backbreaking work…”

  As they went through a typical day, Sevarin shot covert glances over his shoulder at Kellan and their friends. Gunner took tiny sips from his beer mug and hoped for the best.

  He found himself thinking about Barrel. Was his friend okay? Had he really been kidnapped? The thought of Kellan and Garig beating Barrel up in a lonely section of mountain made him burn with hatred.

  “My son studies at the academy,” Helen said. “Core Studies program. His name’s Joren, son of my idiot ex-husband, Kenneth. The reason I slave away each day is to keep him there. He doesn’t have many friends, but he’s a hard worker.”

  “A quiet boy,” Gurtha said, “but smart.”

  “We’ll look him up,” Sevarin said. “Everyone could use friends at Theus Academy.”

  Helen brightened at that.

  “You’re a pair of good boys,” she said. “This one, though—” she thrust her chin at Gunner, “he seems a bit like a frightened puppy, if you don’t mind my pointin’ it out.”

  “He’s Humankin,” Sevarin said.

  “Ah,” Gurtha nodded. “I’d be nervous in a Sargonaut bar, too. What brings you boys here of all places?”

  Sevarin shrugged. “The bartender’s a friend of mine.”

  As soon as he finished speaking, a loud voice rang across the room.

  “There they are, boys. True champs!”

  The man from the bathroom strode over, his mustache dripping with beer froth. He was followed by a group of his significantly taller friends. He clamped a hand on Sevarin’s shoulder. Sevarin twisted in his chair to get a better look.

  “This is the guy with the gold-lined pockets,” the man said. “Funny thing is, since we started putting drinks on your tab, I’ve never had better service. It’s like the bartender thinks me and my friends are more than the dirty dogs everyone knows we truly are. Right, boys?”

  He barked, and his friends did the same.

  Sevarin grinned up at him. “That’s because I know how to tip, unlike you animals.”

  The men exploded with laughter. Now everyone in the bar was looking at them.

  Gunner grit his teeth against a sudden wave of anxiety. So much for keeping a low profile.

  A jovial burst of music filled the room. Even Gunner recognized it as a traditional melody from Sargos, one passed down over the centuries. It came from three men gathered in the back, next to the Hammer Slammer machine (from which there came another bang, followed by cheers). One of the musicians pounded on a drum between his knees; another played a weird instrument that looked like a trombone and must have weighed several hundred pounds; and the third belted out lyrics about war, honor, drinking, and killing.

  “Ooh, let’s dance,” Helen said.

  “Great idea.” Gurtha practically lifted Gunner out of his seat. “Come on, Bones. Dance with me.”

  Bones?

  Gunner did his best to smile as the woman practically yanked him out of his chair. But behind that fake smile, a tiny voice kept repeating the same thing.

  We have to get out of here. We have to get out of here.

  Soon, they were all dancing, including the man with the mustache, who introduced himself as Frankle and asked Gunner—apologetically, it seemed—if he could get him another drink. Gunner shook his head, even crossing his eyes and filling his cheeks with air to convey the message that he might puke if he drank more. Frankle slapped him hard on the back and went to get him another beer anyway.

  “Get us all a beer.” Sevarin shouted, swirling his index finger to motion for another round. “Put it on my tab!”

  Cheers erupted from the men. Helen and Gurtha, lost in the melody, hopped and skipped and twirled. Thankfully, they mostly ignored Gunner as he awkwardly moved his arms and feet around in a pathetic attempt at dancing. At least he was only pretending, not that he was much better when he tried.

  At one point, Sevarin edged closer to him. He had to shout into Gunner’s ear to be heard.

  “They’re leaving.”

  Gunner stared at him in shock. “Kellan and Garig?”

  Sevarin nodded.

  “We can’t let them.”

  “I know,” Sevarin said. “Follow me.”

  They pushed their way to the bar. The bartender slapped the bill in front of them, and Sevarin signed his name at the bottom. Gunner only caught a flash of the slip of paper, which was about a foot in length to accommodate all the drink orders. The total came out to a staggering amount. Unfazed by the number, Sevarin left a fifty percent tip before heading toward the exit.

  “You boys come back soon, ya’ hear?” the bartender shouted after them.

  They emerged onto the busy sidewalk, right into a trap.

  Kellan, Garig, and their three friends stood waiting for them. They were all bleary eyed and unsteady in their drunkenness—all of them except Kellan, who stood perfectly still and had a sharp, murderous look in his eyes.

  “Did you think I was too drunk to notice you following us?” he said.

  The late hour had thinned the crowd outside the bar. Gunner felt alone and vulnerable, even with Sevarin at his side. He forced himself not to run back into The Tinker’s Bell for safety.

  “Get over yourself,” Sevarin said. “We’re just out for drinks, like you.”

  “He’s lying,” Garig said. “We should waste him.”

  “You’d be expelled before sunrise,” Sevarin said.

  “Maybe,” Kellan said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It would be your word against ours. I could say you attacked us. Who do you think my father, the Archon, would believe? Me, or a couple of entitled outsiders who bring trouble everywhere they go?”

  “Gunner,” Sevarin said. “Run back into the bar. Stay with friends. Call a Wingcab to pick you up.”

  “Sev…”

  “Just do it.”

  Gunner tore himself away from Sevarin and jogged back into the bar, only to crash into Frankle, who stomped his way through the door. He was frowning as if someone had
robbed him.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Frankle said. “You closed the tab.”

  “Sorry, Frankie,” Sevarin said, keeping his eyes on Kellan. “I’ve got a problem here. These guys think I should stay away from The Tinker’s Bell from now on.”

  Frankle crossed his arms over his barrel chest.

  “Is that so?” he said, squinting at Kellan.

  Kellan smiled and nodded at Sevarin in obvious admiration. His friends were not so confident. They shot uncertain glances at each other, then looked in every direction except forward, as if to dissociate themselves from their leader.

  “Well, I’m not sure you got the right to ban anyone from this tavern,” Frankle said. “Especially not my friend Sar-er-ven. Sir-varen.”

  “Sevarin,” Sevarin corrected.

  “Exactly what I said. Sevarin. So you boys better move on, let us get back to our fun.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kellan said. “Garig?”

  He stepped aside to let Garig deal with the situation. Garig, almost a match for Frankle in terms of size and stockiness, approached the red-faced man.

  “You see this guy?” Garig swung his thumb at Kellan. “He’s the Archon’s son. I wouldn’t want you spending your days in prison just because you did something stupid tonight.”

  Frankle’s eye twitched like he was reconsidering. In the end, he either didn’t care about going to jail, or the alcohol had dulled his mind to the point of utter stupidity. He turned around, swung open the door to The Tinker’s Bell, and called to his friends inside.

  “Boys, get out here. Sevarin’s in trouble.”

  Frankle stepped aside as his friends—all ten of them, along with Gurtha and Helen— poured out of the bar, looking bewildered.

  “Sevarin,” Helen said in alarm. “You alright, sonny?”

  “Who’s giving him trouble?” Gurtha said, squinting at all of them and making fists. “No one picks on my buddy, Bones.”

  Gunner was amazed. Sevarin had somehow gotten these strangers to back him up with the fervor of a pack of soldiers defending their general on the battlefield.

  After all those years of thinking his friend was just a cocky numbskull, it turned out Sevarin was a genius.

  Garig’s confidence drained out of him. Gunner could actually see it happening, the change in his posture, the way his shoulders seemed to deflate.