Erdhan rose and led her across the tavern. He pointed to an empty stool by the stone hearth. “Wait there while I make arrangements for our lodgings with our charming innkeeper.” He gave her a broad wink. “Let’s hope he’s partial to bartering for a fine knife.”
Orlla walked across to the fire and eyed the injured man slouched in a chair, his head awkwardly drooped to one side as he dozed. She sat down on a creaky stool next to him and stretched out her hands to the crackling flames, savoring the warmth that seeped through her bones.
“Vicious cold out there tonight,” a voice rasped.
She turned to see the man squinting at her with his one good eye, the other swollen shut.
“Indeed. I am grateful to have made it to the inn,” Orlla replied. “I am sorry about what happened to you.” She bit her lip before adding, “And to your companion.”
He acknowledged her condolences with a slight tilt of his head. To her surprise, a single tear trickled down his bruised cheek. “It was my fault he died.”
Orlla bit her lip. “You must not blame yourself, sire. I’m certain you did your best to save him—you sustained injuries yourself.”
The man gave a grave shake of his head and then groaned as if the action had aggravated his pain. “We were attacked because of a wrongful deed I perpetrated upon an unsuspecting soul. Fate repaid us when that murderer sprang on us.”
Orlla drew her knees closer and leaned her elbows on them, studying his guilt-ridden face. “Why do you say that?”
He leaned his head back and closed his eye with a despairing sigh. “I stole a satchel from a sleeping lad. He was young, but better fed than most in these parts, so it seemed fitting to take it from him rather than steal from some hard-working farmer with babes to feed.” The man grunted and shifted his position in the chair before continuing. “Truth be told, I was only hoping for a loaf of bread to gnaw on, but it turned out he had a pair of woolen socks and two fine knives in the satchel.” A muscle twitched in his neck. “My friend tried to talk me out of leaving the lad destitute, but my greed prevailed upon me. I left him the socks and kept the knives, thinking to trade them in Wilefur.”
Orlla’s heart thudded against her ribs. The searing pain in her chest, together with the roasting heat of the fire, left her breathless. She wet her lips and tried to form a question, but her throat closed over.
The injured man opened his eye again, pinning Orlla with a distraught gaze. “My friend was carrying the satchel over one shoulder when the killer leapt on him from behind and stabbed him in the neck. The brute even yanked down my friend’s hood and studied his face after he’d killed him. That’s when he turned on me. He wanted to know where we found the satchel.”
Orlla’s insides knotted. This was no random murder. The killer had been looking for someone in particular. “Did you tell him where you found it?” she asked, her voice rising in alarm.
The man frowned. “No. I felt guilty enough about robbing the lad—I didn’t want that madman hunting him down and butchering him too. I lied and told him we robbed and killed a man and threw his body in the river.”
“What happened next?” Orlla prompted when the injured man fell silent.
A log snapped amid the flickering flames. “It was the oddest thing,” he said, a faraway look in his eye. “The killer took off with the satchel, leaving me alive. My friend bled to death in front of me.” A harrowing sob escaped him. “Fate has left me here, so I may wrestle with my guilt until the day I die.”
Orlla pressed her knuckles to her lips. What could she possibly say to comfort him? It was too late for him to unwind the steps he had taken and rectify his actions. She tore her gaze from his face and eyed Erdhan in conversation with the innkeeper. She was almost certain the killer was the assassin from Efyllsseum. Someone on the road—maybe a merchant or farmer—likely told him they saw a lad matching Samten’s description with the satchel. But, she needed to be sure.
Tentatively, she reached out a hand and laid it on the injured man’s arm. “This lad you came upon, can you describe him?”
The man rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Dark, curly hair. Seventeen or eighteen. Looked like he hadn’t been sleeping rough for long. His tunic and cloak were clean and unpatched.”
Orlla fought to steady her voice. “Do you remember where you last saw him?”
The man shot her a distrustful look. “Why is he of interest to you? Are you going to report me to the bailiff? I didn’t kill him.”
Orlla hesitated. She wasn’t about to tell the stranger that Samten was her brother. But if she didn’t give him a credible reason for her interest in the matter, he might be wary of helping her, fearing repercussions. She soured her expression and hissed in an angry whisper. “If it eases your conscience any, the wicked lad stole the knives and the satchel from my traveling companion. We spent the better part of this afternoon searching for him, to no avail.”
The injured man looked pensive. “The lad’s the more blessed thief that he didn’t have that satchel on him when the killer struck. He’d have been laid out now instead of my friend.”
“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Orlla said. “Perhaps the lad may yet be brought to justice if my companion and I can catch up with him.”
The man sank back in his chair allowing a thoughtful pause to pass before he added. “It was about five miles back by a small creek. I left the trail to fill my waterskin. That’s when I came upon the sleeping lad.”
Orlla frowned. “I don’t remember passing a creek.”
“It’s set a ways back from the trail,” the man explained. “Unless you knew it was there, you wouldn’t hear it from the road.”
Orlla mulled over the information in her head. Samten couldn’t have made it past the inn before dark. But without the knives to trade, he couldn’t have sought lodging inside either. Was it possible he had taken shelter in the stables? She wrung her hands in her lap. As soon as Erdhan had retired for the night, she would go outside and look around.
“Orlla!” Erdhan waved her over.
She rose and bade the injured man good-night, but he had already fallen asleep again, head flopped to his chest.
Orlla quickly filled Erdhan in on everything the injured man had told her as the innkeeper led them up a creaky flight of stairs. He unlocked a room at the end of the dimly-lit hallway and gestured them inside before shuffling away into the shadows.
Orlla looked around the sparsely-furnished room that housed a row of eight narrow wooden beds with straw mattresses—six of which were already occupied—a dresser with a jug and basin for washing, and a rickety stool.
Erdhan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This doesn’t reflect the quality of my knives or my bartering skills.” He quirked a grin. “These are the only beds he had left.”
Orlla steeled her expression to neutral. She hadn’t anticipated sharing a communal room, but as Erdhan was paying for the lodgings, she was hardly in a position to complain.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him. “It will serve us well for tonight.” She walked briskly back to the door. “I will avail of the privy before I retire for the night.”
As soon as she exited the tavern, she made a beeline for the stables, the silver luster of the moon lighting her way. Horses whinnied softly when she stepped inside and peered around the shadowy stalls. Heavy snores drifted down from the hay loft up above. Quietly, she climbed the wooden ladder until she was eye level with the loft. In the far corner, the cauliflower-eared stable hand lay on his side, the hay beneath his mountainous head fluttering with each exhaled breath. Satisfied there was nowhere else in the loft where Samten could be hiding, she backed down the ladder, stepped nimbly off the bottom rung, and swung around to find herself staring at a large figure in homespun. Fear lanced through her.
Horace!
She pressed a hand to her lips and exhaled in exaggerated relief. “You scared me, Horace!” What are you doing out here?”
He folded brawny arms i
n front of him, eyes hard as frost. “Arnulf and I are bedding down with our steeds for the night as you and your companion got the last beds in the inn. Which prompts me to ask what are you doing out here?”
Orlla’s lips flapped open and closed. “I … left something in my saddlebag.” She made a move to sidestep Horace, but he grabbed her arm in a vice grip and held her tight, staring closely at her hair.
“I have a sister in Dorsching,” he said in a low tone. “She knew a girl had a white streak in her hair like yours. But her and her mother—Enndolynn, I believe she called her—they disappeared years ago, captured by Pegonian slave traders. The girl would have been raised in Pegonia—might even have come to think of herself as Pegonian by now, if you catch my drift.”
Horace leaned down close to Orlla’s face until all she could see were the red hairs flickering in his nostrils and his crooked, amber teeth. “You wouldn’t happen to be a spy now, would you?”
Chapter 8
Orlla’s blood turned to ice in her veins at the mention of her mother and the thinly veiled accusation that accompanied it. She was a spy, of sorts—just not the kind Horace thought she was. Instead of reporting back to Brufus on the size of King Hamend’s army, or the number of villages along the trade route, or the state of Macobin’s crops, she was fabricating runes to keep the mainlanders from discovering Efyllsseum and the one thing they desired more than anything—the Opal of Light.
She attempted to jerk her arm free from Horace’s grasp, but he only tightened his grip until she wilted beneath the pain. “You’re not going anywhere until you give me the name of that village you hail from.”
Orlla swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. Horace must have realized over dinner that something was amiss with her. After mulling it over, he’d connected her unusual hair coloring to the story of her mother’s abduction, believing she too had been taken by the traders and raised as a Pegonian. How could she convince him she was innocent of spying for Brufus? It wouldn’t do any good to deny she was Enndolynn’s daughter. She was already tripping up on her lies and Horace would know if she fabricated a northern village name. As the rhythmic snores of the stable hand filled the tense atmosphere, an idea sprang to mind.
She began thrashing around trying to free herself from Horace’s grip. “How dare you accost me!” she yelled. “Now I have an inkling why you were conversing with me in such a friendly manner in the inn.” Clawing at Horace wildly with her free hand, she shrieked. “You followed me out here, didn’t you? You insufferable cur! Please, save me from this man, somebody!”
“Hush!” Horace growled in frustration, shaking her to force her to stop.
Orlla’s throat burned from screaming at the top of her lungs, but it had the desired effect. A befuddled Arnulf emerged from one of the stalls, straw sticking out of his hair, right about the time the hulking stable hand came flying down the ladder armed with a hefty club.
“Help me! I implore you!” Orlla cried out. “I wished only to retrieve something from my saddlebag. This debased beast has taken hold of me and is threatening all manner of unspeakable evils.”
“Let her go at once, sire!” the stable hand barked, his cauliflower ears red and glowing in the moonlight.
“But—”
“You will release the maiden at once!” the stable hand roared, drawing himself up to his full height and towering over Horace. “And remove yourself from my stable before I fetch the innkeeper. I will not tolerate a lecherous man under my roof.”
Arnulf scratched the back of his head, looking perplexed and red-eyed from too much ale and too little sleep. “Come now, Horace. Let’s not make trouble. We don’t want the whole inn astir.”
“This is not how it seems,” Horace sputtered, releasing his grip slightly on Orlla’s arm.
Seizing her opportunity, she flung him loose and retreated to the stable hand’s side, clinging with both hands to his meaty arm and shaking all over in an exaggerated fashion. “These men consumed copious amounts of ale in the tavern,” she sobbed. “A pox upon their drunkenness!”
“There, there,” the stable hand soothed, patting her shoulder. “These oafs won’t bother you again tonight.” He swung his club at them for good measure. “Begone! Both of you! You can sleep rough and take your chances with a killer at large for the trouble you’ve caused.” He scowled menacingly, legs astride, slapping the end of his club against his open palm.
Horace retreated a step, a thunderous look on his face. “The wench is lying.”
“You were holding her fast when I came down the ladder. Looked to me like you had foul intentions.” The stable hand smacked his lips together in disgust.
Arnulf hurriedly saddled their horses and hauled Horace through the doorway before he could protest any further.
The stable hand turned his attention to Orlla. “Are you all right, miss?”
She nodded, squeezing out a couple of tears. “If you could … walk me back to the inn, I would be most grateful.”
“My pleasure.” He took a step and then hesitated. “Did you say you needed something from your saddlebag?”
Orlla chewed on her lip. “I … was hoping I had some jerky left after my journey. I’m afraid the pork pie didn’t agree with me earlier.”
The stable hand’s broad face brightened. “Not to worry, miss. I have some excellent jerky. Wait right here.” He ambled back up the ladder and returned a moment later, beaming at her as he unwrapped a cloth in his giant palm.
He peeled off a ruby-colored strip from an unidentified hunk of dried meat and held it out to her.
“What is it?” she asked, eyeing it with trepidation.
“Duck jerky.” The stable hand beamed with pride. “I hunt and cure the meat myself.”
“Thank you.” Orlla accepted a strip and pocketed it. “I’ll eat it in my room if you don’t mind. I’m feeling rather faint after everything that’s happened.”
The stable hand grunted with displeasure. “I’ll be sure to report those two to the innkeeper tomorrow, and if I ever see their faces around here again I’ll set the bailiff on them.”
Orlla smiled her thanks at him and made a point of leaning heavily on his arm as he escorted her back to the inn. If Horace was hanging around waiting on another opportunity to interrogate her, he wasn’t going to get it. In the future, she would have to be more wary of mingling with mainlanders. The threat of war had them all on edge and mistrustful of strangers, any of whom could be Brufus’s spies.
Back in the communal room, a bleary-eyed Erdhan lifted his tousled head from his bed. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind and decided to ride on through the night and leave me behind after all.” He yawned loudly and shifted position. “Not that I would have blamed you. Your horse is a sight more comfortable than these straw pallets.”
Orlla pulled off her boots and threw herself down on her bed. “I’m too tired to think about abandoning you tonight. Besides, if I want to get rid of you, I will simply tell you to leave.”
Erdhan laughed and rolled over on his side. “I believe you would. You are far too sensible a person for subterfuge.”
Orlla flinched, wondering briefly if Erdhan was hinting at something, trying to tell her he knew she was hiding secrets. She closed her eyes, dismissing the thought. Horace’s accusation had made her overly cautious. Erdhan was oblivious to any discrepancies in her story, not to mention too busy regaling all and sundry with his own tales.
Moments later, she drifted into a fitful sleep, vague memories of Dorsching stirring somewhere in the fog of her brain. Her mother’s face flitted around in the background, never quite coming into focus, hands outstretched but never able to reach her. Then, Orlla was curled up in the musty tree hollow again, damp seeping through her bones, heart pounding as ants swarmed all over, biting her until she jolted awake, drenched in sweat and scratching up a storm.
At breakfast the next morning she was subdued, exhausted from the restless night she had spent wafting in
and out of troubled dreams of her past. She wasn’t sure if she should mention to Erdhan what had transpired in the stables—mainly because she didn’t want to plant any seeds of doubt in his mind about who she was. The idea of perpetuating the lie that Horace had tried to take advantage of her was somewhat reprehensible to her despite her distaste for the man. But, it was likely the stable hand would broach the subject when she picked up her horse. She would just have to part ways with Erdhan at breakfast and send him on his way before she saddled up her mare.
She chewed absentmindedly on a piece of smoked sausage while Erdhan slathered a dollop of rich, yellow butter on a slab of bread as thick as his wrist and took a large bite. He leaned back in his chair and grinned across at her, munching enthusiastically before wiping the back of his hand across his face. “Sleep good?”
“Like a log,” Orlla lied, swallowing a mouthful of strong tea to wash down the sausage lodged in her throat.
Erdhan gave a satisfied nod. “I owe you my thanks for helping me hunt for that thief yesterday. I don’t expect I’ll catch him—he’s most likely long gone back to whatever hole he crawled out of. And I’m less inclined to pursue him now that he’s lost my knives to a murderer. They’re not worth dying for. I can forge more knives but not more limbs.”
Orlla wrapped her fingers around her steaming mug of tea and contemplated Erdhan’s words. Unbeknownst to him, Samten didn’t have a hole to hide in around these parts. Sooner or later, he would enter a village seeking food, or even a day’s work. “You don’t think you might yet catch up with the thief in Wilefur?”
Erdhan shrugged, raking a hand through his tousled blond curls. “He’s no longer in possession of my knives, or my satchel. At best a pair of woolen socks knit by my mother. I have no way to identify him, and no idea what he looks like.”
Orlla’s stomach clenched. But, I do.
“What about you? Will you head north?” Erdhan asked.
Opal of Light: An epic dragon fantasy (The Keeper Chronicles Book 1) Page 8