Vassal of El

by Gloria Oliver

  Larana’s brows drew together. “Then why did you do it?”

  “Ah, a fair question.” Sal nodded slowly. “To be honest, when I was young, I wanted adventure, to see the world, and mercenary work was the fastest way to get it. No sitting around the blacksmith’s shop for me, no, ma’am. I’ve gotten an eyeful, too, and seen and met a lot of strange folk.

  "But there’s an ugly side to it, too, and not everyone is cut out for that. Killing’s never easy. This, here, is more of what life’s about.” Sal gestured at the room around them. “Instead of going to other places and people, I have them come to me.

  “Now, if I could only get some other people to see that as well.” He sent Torren a pointed look, which he studiously ignored.

  The door opened, setting off the large bell attached to the doorframe. Sal stood up.

  “Welcome! Take a seat, friend, and I’ll be right with you.” He turned back. “Ah, looks as if work is here. Tell you what, when you’re ready, go on up the stairs and take the last room at the end of the hall on the right. Make yourselves comfortable. We can talk again later.”

  He winked at Larana, as if telling her there’d be more fun to come then moved off to deal with the waiting customer.

  Torren watched him go then stood up, grabbing his pack. Larana quickly popped a last piece of meat in her mouth before following suit. They took the stairs to the second-story landing and followed the wide corridor to the last room on the right. He opened the door then stepped aside so Larana could go in.

  The room was neat and clean, with two large straw beds and a sturdy dresser with a basin. A large window looked out onto the slowly darkening street.

  He watched Larana from the door as she inspected the room. They were here, she was safe—it was time for him to do what he’d come here for in the first place.

  “I’ve got to go arrange a couple of things before nightfall. Wait here for me.”

  He tensed as a look of panic crossed her face, though she quickly brought it under control. Did she somehow suspect what he was up to?

  “Will you be long?” she asked.

  Torren couldn’t meet her trusting gaze. “Not long.”

  “All right.”

  He turned away, closing the door, knowing this was the last time they’d see each other. He was actually surprised when he found he was feeling regret at the thought. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he made his way back downstairs.

  Four more people had entered the inn looking for drinks and dinner. The two women who had been in the kitchen were now waiting tables. Sal had taken his place behind the bar, a captain at his ship’s wheel. Torren headed straight for him.

  “Is the room all right?” Sal asked brightly when he saw him.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. “And I don’t have a lot of time.”

  Sal stared at him, taken aback, but nodded. He set down the mug he’d been filling and signaled to one of the girls. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He led Torren through the double doors into the kitchen. They passed a large wood-burning stove, where a man and an older woman tended the food, and went into a storage room. Sal slid the door mostly closed, trapping them in shadow except for a small slit of light. He turned to Torren, his face full of apprehension.

  “What is it? Trouble?”

  Now that the moment was here, Torren found he was at a loss how to begin. “I–I have to go. But I can’t take Larana with me.” He reached into one of the side pockets of his pack and brought out a small bag holding most of the money he had on him. “Her family is dead, killed by bandits.” He handed the bag over. “There should be enough here to pay for your trouble as well as for an intermediary to find her a husband or a home. If anything’s left, you can give it to her or keep it, whatever you see fit.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Torren, why?” Sal reached out, his arm blocking his way. “Taking care of the girl is generous, and I can understand it, but why are you leaving this way? This isn’t like you.”

  He only shook his head. “It can’t be helped, and I can’t explain it now. What time do they close the gates?”

  Sal frowned, examining his face intently. “I doubt you’ll reach them in time. Since the Flyers came, they’ve been more prompt than usual and have been closing the doors as soon as it grows dark. What are you running away from? Does she even know you’re going?”

  He heard a trace of anger building in Sal’s voice. It was prompted by his friend’s strong sense of protectiveness. The same one that had made him help Torren all those years ago, despite the fact his help hadn’t been wanted. It was why he was counting on him to help Larana now.

  “I can’t explain. Just do this for me. Please.” Without waiting for a reply, he slid the storage door open and slipped beneath Sal’s arm to get out. He turned in the opposite direction to the common room and left the inn by the rear exit.

  Torren was short of breath as he stepped out into the cooler air of the alley. He looked up, but stopped himself before he could spot the floating island. He’d done it; he was rid of her. Now all he needed to do was get out of town before the gates closed.

  Chapter Seven

  The streets had thinned of traffic with the coming of darkness, but the press of bodies around the bazaar was heavier than before. His mood growing dark, Torren pushed and shoved, trying to get through as fast as possible. He rushed along the streets once the way was clear again and headed for the southern gate of the city, as it was the closest. He glanced over his shoulder at the island pressing down on him from above. If only they hadn’t been here. He put on a burst of speed.

  He came around the last corner before the gate, and the hope that he’d make it was snuffed out like a candle. Even as he slowed, five guards were dropping the heavy bar into place. No one would be coming in or out of the city tonight, and the city guard would as soon gut you as listen to why you might need to do either.

  Disgusted, and with a growing feeling of unease, he turned away before the soldiers noticed his presence and demanded to know what he was doing there.

  To return to the Wide Brim Inn was out of the question. By now, Larana would have asked after him, and Sal would have been forced to tell her he was gone. Instead, he hunted down one of the cheaper, seedier taverns on this side of the city. He still wasn’t sure what had possessed him to give Sal most of his money to care for the girl, but what was done was done. He’d owed her nothing, had even gone out of his way to help her when it might have been more prudent to do otherwise, yet he’d not been able to help himself in the end. It was good he’d gotten rid of her before the lines became any more blurred.

  The Stag’s Horn was a world apart from the Wide Brim Inn. Smoky and dingy, the interior looked as if it had been years since it’d seen better days. The stink of ale mixed with vomit lingered beneath the smells of sweat and cooking meat fat. Despite all this, the place was already half-full.

  Torren grabbed a small table near the bar, studying the place’s clientele from the corner of his eye. Caravan guards, a few low-end merchants and laborers comprised most of the lot. Here and there even seedier characters sat, either avidly avoiding eye contact with anyone or studying the crowd for future business.

  The woman who eventually brought him some ale and a bowl of fatty stew looked as if for her, too, it’d been years since she’d seen better days. He paid what he owed and also got a space upstairs while he held her fleeting attention. He wasn’t pleased at his current lack of funds, but he’d been worse off before.

  He did have more, not being one to squander his wages as so many others in his business did on women, drinking and gambling; but it was stashed in different cities and investments, all too far away to do him any good at the moment. Perhaps he could speak to some of the men here and hook himself up to a caravan in the morning, earn some pay as he continued north.

  Most of the conversations he could overhear were the usual—grumbling about wages, unfriendly tavern wenches, bets lost i
n local games. Yet another topic seemed to weigh heavily on a lot of their minds, the resentment and anger in the words more pronounced than usual.

  “I’m telling you, someone’s got to do something about them. Just because they have wings and those stupid islands of theirs doesn’t mean they have a right to put the things wherever they want.” A sour-looking blacksmith, still wearing his apron, chugged back a swig of ale. “The sunshine disappears about midway through the day. It’s depressing! The wife is getting moodier than ever. She says they’re keeping her bread from rising.”

  “And just what do you expect anyone to do, Lucius? How are you expecting anyone to get up there?” His companion laughed, yellowed teeth gleaming in the bad light.

  Lucius’s face turned red. “That’s the emperor’s problem, not mine.” He chugged another swallow.

  “But how is he supposed to handle their powers? I know they look normal enough, except for the wings and all, but I heard they can put a spell on you if you meet their eyes…” The new speaker jabbed out two of his fingers like arrows from a bow. “…and make you do their bidding. It’s why they don’t send more goods by caravan—the Flyers bewitched the politicos into choosing them instead of proper men.”

  Torren would have laughed at the last, the concept ludicrous; but unfortunately, a lot worse things were believed of the Chosen—mind control, causing sickness, immortality. A grisly tale heard from some mercenaries during one of his first campaigns told of how Flyers would search for those of great skill and power then claim them in the night to eat them, sucking up those very traits. It was amazing how these tales clashed with others he’d heard proclaiming the Chosen as servants of the gods, their floating cities a kind soul’s ultimate resting place. It was almost eerie how they could be loved, envied and hated, all at the same time.

  He was forcing some of the overcooked fare down his throat with the help of the bitter ale when the door to the tavern opened. Now, these fellows looked out-of-place—a powerful man in black leather armor with two others similarly dressed trailing behind him. The leader’s manner was aloof, as if nothing here could touch him—not the stench, the cheap wine, the worthless customers. Their dark armor looked well-oiled and cared-for. Their scabbards were of obvious quality as well. People like them would never be caught in a place like this, not unless they wanted something.

  With his two companions in tow, the stranger headed straight for the bar. The whole room grew quiet at their entrance. Some must have thought it didn’t bode well, for a couple of patrons were already trying to make their way unobtrusively toward the door.

  “Good people,” the stranger said, turning toward the crowd while flashing them a bright smile, “I’m looking to hire a few good men for a small job this evening.” His cold eyes swept the tavern. “I only need five or six individuals who know how to be discreet.”

  As he spoke, one of his companions took out a pouch and let it land with a heavy jingling of coins on the counter.

  “Might there be any of you here fitting this description?”

  The question couldn’t have been put more sweetly.

  A number of the men in the room stared lustily past him at the pouch.

  “What might this here be about?” asked a voice from the back.

  Torren listened intently as he pretended a lack of interest. Unless his business wasn’t slightly on the shady side, this wouldn’t be the kind of place one of that type would be coming to enlist help.

  At the question, the stranger lost his smile and looked saddened. “I can’t go into a great deal of detail now, but let’s just say I’m looking for some courageous men to help my niece disassociate herself from some, shall we say, disreputable people.”

  Torren’s eyes narrowed. He wanted help to rescue his niece? Help from people like these? That was more the province of the city guard or even well-reputed mercenaries, not riffraff.

  The people in the room exchanged looks, many of their thoughts obviously going down the same road as his. No one made a move toward the bar.

  “Come on. Surely, a few of you would be willing to help her. I fear for her life, so speed and stealth are of the essence. And everyone knows the guard is not very good at either.”

  This elicited a few laughs from the crowd. Whispers ran through the room, but still no takers stepped forward.

  “No one?”

  The man behind the speaker took out another pouch and dropped it down beside the first. This one slipped open, spilling out several gold royals and a platinum. Indrawn breaths whispered across the room.

  “For a piece of that, I’m your man!” What Torren guessed to be a caravan guard stepped forward. His eyes shone with barely restrained greed.

  “That’s the spirit! So, who else is brave enough to join my cause?” Three more men stood and shuffled forward.

  That this group was up to no good was now obvious. Torren had no intention of getting involved. Let this be someone else’s problem, whatever it was.

  Still, as the volunteers gathered about the suspicious men at the end of the bar, he realized his ale cup was empty. Not looking at any of them and putting a slightly drunken swagger to his step, he made his way to the bar as well. Leaning up against it, not looking at the group nearby, he kept his ears open.

  “—she’s young, just a lass. All you have to do is look for her in the guest rooms—“

  “Hey, you!”

  Torren jerked around and pretended to lose his balance as someone tapped him hard on the shoulder.

  “Whoops!” He giggled as if he were having a hard time staying on his feet. Inside, he felt terribly cold.

  The leather-armored man stared at him in disgust. “Go on back to your table. You’re drunk, and we have no need of those who can’t hold their liquor.”

  He gave Torren a push. Hopping on one foot to stay upright, Torren giggled again before making his way back to his table. As soon as the man saw him go, he turned away and returned to the ongoing discussions.

  Torren sat down and giggled once more for effect then went still. He stared at the scarred tabletop, the stew he’d eaten turning to stones in his stomach. It all had to be a coincidence—it had to be! There were hundreds, if not thousands, of young women in this city; and any number of them might be lodged at an inn. Yet something inside him insisted there was no mistake.

  These men were the same ones who’d killed Larana’s aunt and uncle, torched their home and chased her through the forest. And mere bandits they were not. What could they possibly want with a farm girl? How had they even found her again?

  He shook his head. What did it matter? He owed her nothing, nothing at all. But what about Sal? These men were going to raid his inn. Whether he liked it or not, he owed the man his life and more. He’d have to at least warn him they were coming. He could do that without seeing Larana.

  Torren glanced up at the men still piled at the bar. None of them was paying any attention to him, too engrossed in their current conversation. So, he slumped over, picked up his pack and pretended to drag himself upstairs. As soon as he was out of sight, he straightened and put his pack back on.

  At both ends of the narrow hallway were shuttered windows. Seeing no one else about, he headed to the one in the far back. He almost smiled as he discovered the glass had been broken previously and no one had bothered to replace it.

  Swinging open the shutters, he spotted an awning not far below. He suspected it had been used before for the same purpose he was about to put it to now. He slipped his pack out the window then followed it.

  Clinging to the awning’s edge, he dangled for a moment then let go, to be swallowed by the darkness of the alley. His senses primed, he sneaked down to where it opened out into the street, the smell wrapping around him even worse than what he’d found indoors. Looking back toward the tavern, he spotted two men on horses; they wore the same well-cared-for black armor as the others.

  Skirting from shadow to shadow, Torren hid from them as he made his way down the street. A
s soon as he was out of sight, he took off at a full run back toward the Wide Brim Inn and the girl he’d thought he’d not have cause to see again.

  By this time of night, most of the streets were deserted. He stuck to the main roads, not wanting to pick up other kinds of trouble despite the risk he might encounter some of the guard. The street predators would be out in force by now, looking for drunken pickings; and he had no desire or time to deal with them.

  When he reached the back of the inn, he leaned forward with hands on thighs for a moment, trying to catch his breath, his side aching and his pack feeling akin to a mountain on his back. He knew he had only bought a few minutes. The men in armor were probably already on their way. Straightening up again, he took out the knife from his boot and used the pommel to strike the door.

  The old woman he had seen earlier eventually opened it a crack and peered out. He instantly pushed on it, driving her back with a gasp.

  “Get Sal, get him now!”

  The woman gasped again, seeing the steel of his knife glinting in the light, and scurried through the kitchen to the common room. Torren put the knife away and dropped his pack on the floor before leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes for a minute. His heart hammered in his chest, but he knew it was from more than exertion.

  Sal rushed into the kitchen, his expression angry until he got a look at who’d frightened his cook. “Torren!”

  He opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall. “Trouble’s coming.”

  “What?” Sal stared at him, perplexed.

  “At the Stag’s Horn, some military types were using gold to hire anyone willing. They’re coming here.”

  Sal cursed under his breath. “What do they want?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t enjoy keeping things from Sal, but it would be better this way. “All I know is they’re coming here.”

  Sal nodded, never showing any doubt of his word.

  “Kyran,” he shouted over his shoulder.