Beginnings: Five Heroic Fantasy Adventure Novels

by Lindsay Buroker

  “You’re telling me it’s not wrecked every night?” Dak asked. His Nurian accent had smoothed around the edges in the six months since Yanko had seen him, but he still sounded very guttural. Very Turgonian. And that one eye glared even more effectively than two.

  “Not... every night,” the bartender said weakly, his tone and attitude almost meek when it had been fierce before.

  Yanko wondered if Dak had done something to earn a reputation here that went beyond simple assumptions made based on his appearance. Although when he pinned Yanko with his gaze, Yanko had to try hard not to squirm too.

  “You find us passage yet?”

  “No, I was working on that.”

  “I saw.”

  Yanko flushed. Again. He wished he could stop doing that. Surely, he would grow up enough to stop being embarrassed by his mistakes someday? Maybe that would be the same day when he could learn how to call upon his mental talents when he was nervous and flustered. It almost amazed him that he had managed to survive that fight in the mines. Maybe because there hadn’t been time to think and grow flustered.

  Dak tossed the bartender a gold coin. The man flailed and almost dropped it. He must have been expecting a dagger or something more dangerous.

  “Drinks,” Dak said blandly, with a wave inclusive of Yanko, Lakeo, and himself.

  She had finished her mug. Yanko’s had been knocked off the table. He wasn’t that disappointed when the bartender shook his head and said, “We don’t serve your kind here.”

  The man’s courage seemed bolstered now that he had put some space between Dak and himself. One of the bouncers had also walked over to join him. He pocketed the coin. “That’s a start toward repairs.”

  Dak’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t run over and pummel the man.

  “Sorry,” Yanko said. “I’ll pay you back.”

  A waitress walked by, one of the first daring to return to the floor, now that the upturned-but-not-broken tables had been righted. The broken ones were being moved to a back door where they might make nice firewood. Dak plucked three mugs off her tray, his hands moving too quickly for the woman to object. She stopped and stared at him. He glared at her, then at the bartender, who was watching it all. After a short staring contest, the bartender grunted in disgust and turned away. Yanko wished he could give off that much menace without actually doing anything.

  “Are you really a diplomat?” Yanko asked, before he could think better of prying. It was hard to imagine that glare winning him many international allies.

  “Who told you that?”

  “A mutual acquaintance,” Yanko said, not wanting to mention Zirabo’s name out loud, not in public, anyway. He wasn’t even sure he should tell Dak the prince had assigned him this mission.

  “Go talk to Baldie,” Lakeo said. “He’s over there brooding. Looks lonely. Like a man wanting to break through a blockade.”

  “You sure you don’t want to talk to him?” Yanko asked.

  “He is handsome, despite the lack of hair. The beard and mustache are well trimmed. Fingernails too. He takes care of himself.”

  “Which is exactly what one expects from a smuggler captain, right?”

  Despite his argument, Yanko left his loathsome drink and walked to the man’s table. The sooner he found someone, the better. The bouncers were squinting at him. They had probably been ordered to toss him out the door when Dak wasn’t looking. Well, they could try. Yanko rehearsed his fire-creation ability in his mind a few times as he crossed the room. If necessary, he would be ready to set some nostril hair aflame.

  As Yanko approached the bald man—he and his table had somehow avoided the fight—a shadow looming over his shoulder made him jump. Dak. It seemed he was going to take his favor redemption seriously.

  Since the bald man didn’t move his feet or invite either of them to sit, Yanko pulled over a stool from another table. Dak remained standing, looming impressively behind him. Yanko would have felt smug about finding such an imposing bodyguard, but the fact that Dak had been smuggling people—Turgonian criminals, most likely—out of Nuria two hours ago dulled the emotion. He had best remember that his new ally was working for the other side and might decide his “favor” had been redeemed at any time.

  “Greetings. Shark, wasn’t it?” Yanko said.

  The man stared at him. Even from across the table, he smelled of the alcoholic sludge that had once occupied the empty mugs. Yanko wasn’t sure why Lakeo believed he might be the solution to their problem—one of their problems, anyway—but his ploy hadn’t resulted in any greater leads.

  “Evening, Muscles.” Shark smirked and raised his mug toward Dak and then toward Lakeo, who had walked over to join them. “Which one of you is the kid’s bodyguard and which one is the nanny?”

  Dak didn’t react. Lakeo frowned, perhaps finding the man less handsome now.

  “A more interesting question is whether you got your name because you’re deadly like a shark, or because you’re as bald as a fish,” she said.

  “Was that supposed to be witty? Maybe you should try your jokes on Chuckles there—” Shark flicked his fingers toward Dak, “—before unloading them in public.”

  “Shark, my name is Yanko.” Time to steer this conversation in a more pertinent direction. “I’m looking for someone with a fast ship.”

  Shark snorted, his breath stirring the hairs on his mustache. “No kidding.”

  “Do you own such a ship? My comrades and I are in need of transportation to the Kyatt Islands,” Yanko finished.

  “There’s a blockade across the harbor, kid.”

  Not exactly an invitation to come aboard, but the man hadn’t denied that he had a ship. That was promising. He had also promoted Yanko from snotty brat to kid. Progress?

  “I can create a fog to hide us, so we can slip past without the warships noticing.” So long as the watchmen didn’t wonder why the weather phenomenon was so localized. Yanko doubted he could drop a blanket of fog over the whole harbor.

  “Really.”

  Apparently, a demonstration was in order. Yanko lowered his eyelids, focusing on the sticky wooden table. This would be easier out on the water, but there was enough moisture in the air for him to manipulate. Using a variation of the method he had learned to create flames, he heated the water particles, creating a fog by vaporizing them. Cloudy wisps formed over the table.

  Shark watched. His expression didn’t change, but he did utter a, “Huh.” He looked at Yanko’s topknot, then scrutinized his face.

  Yanko tried not to feel self-conscious.

  “You were one of the kids trying out for that mage school last week, weren’t you?” Shark asked.

  “Yes.” Yanko didn’t expound. He hadn’t expected to be recognized—maybe Shark had been among those watching from the docked ships—and he hoped the man had seen the obstacle course, rather than that final test. Yanko did not want Dak to know he had failed. His new bodyguard might change his mind about coming along if he knew how unlikely it was that Yanko was someone who would be chosen for a special mission. Dak couldn’t know that the failure only made Yanko more determined to succeed.

  “Kyatt Islands are nice,” Shark said. “Friendly people, warm insurrection-free beaches, and they serve those fruity drinks in the coconut cups.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “How much you paying for passage?”

  “One hundred zekris.” Yanko had more than that, but figured he should start lower so he could go up. Unfortunately, he couldn’t go up that much.

  Shark grunted. “That’s it? I can’t pay my crew and buy supplies for the trip on that.”

  “Maybe we could help you find a cargo to take,” Lakeo added, stepping closer. “Must be a lot of people who want to ship things out but can’t right now.”

  “Problem’s more people who want things delivered.”

  “One hundred and fifty zekris,” Yanko said, “but that needs to include food for us.” He would rather not help the man find a car
go, since it might be an illicit one. As much as he wanted to succeed on this quest, he didn’t want to become a criminal to do so.

  “Shrimp food, kid. That’s shrimp food.” Shark swiped his fingers through the remains of the fog. “But it doesn’t matter. Most of my crew is currently unavailable.”

  “Oh? Maybe we can be your crew. We don’t mind working for our passage.”

  “You have experience sailing?”

  “Lakeo and I are maritime novices, but my large comrade here, ah, rode on a boat to get here.” Yanko glanced back at Dak, hoping he might explain that he actually had extensive sailing experience. He only stared back, his expression cool.

  “Uh huh,” Shark said. “Listen, I’ll make a deal with you. If you can get my crew, we’ll take you where you want to go.”

  “Of course,” Yanko said, imagining trotting around town, rousting men from various hostels, but he immediately realized they must be more permanently indisposed. “Where are they?”

  “You know those caves down the coast a few miles?”

  “Uh.” Yanko knew there were caves up and down the coast, but he didn’t know of any specific ones Shark might be referencing.

  “Red Sky Regional Detention Facility,” Dak said.

  “A prison?” Lakeo asked.

  “There might be a prison in the caves, sure.” Shark shrugged. “And it might be my crew is being held there indefinitely. For no good reason. Until I show up with a wheelbarrow full of money to pay the government’s reparation fees. And in case you were wondering, one-fifty wouldn’t come anywhere close to filling that particular wheelbarrow.”

  “So... you want us to break them out of jail?” Yanko asked bleakly. He hadn’t wanted to do anything criminal, and this sounded far worse than putting together an illicit cargo.

  “Soon as I have them all back, we can leave.”

  “Would our passage be free? Given the risk we’d be taking to get your people?”

  “One-fifty is practically free already,” Shark said.

  Yanko rubbed his chin. “How would I find your crew? How many are there? Is there a roster?”

  Shark stared. “A what?”

  Lakeo leaned close to Yanko and whispered loudly, “He probably doesn’t know how to write.”

  Shark glared at her. “Just find Arayevo, kid. She can point out the others.”

  It was Yanko’s turn to stare in stunned surprise. “Arayevo?” he breathed.

  It couldn’t be his Arayevo. What would she be doing here? Of course, she had been looking for a way to go to sea. To find his mother. Had she signed on with a freighter, hoping she might one day find passage to the waters Captain Snake Heart Pey Lu occupied? Or was this just someone else with the same first name? That made more sense. His Arayevo wouldn’t choose to become a smuggler. Why would she do that? Just because she romanticized pirates and had wanted to find Yanko’s mother...

  “That’s her name, yes. Pretty. Young. Spunky. There won’t be many like her in there.” Shark’s fist tightened around the handle of his mug. “And they better not have hurt her.”

  “I...” Yanko didn’t know what to say. Young. Spunky. It did sound like the Arayevo he had known his entire life, the one who had babysat him, the one he had fallen in love with as soon as he was old enough to know what love was... If she was stuck in the prison here, how could he say no to finding a way to get her out? And he couldn’t help but muse that maybe if he was the one to rescue her, she might see him differently, as a heroic figure rather than as the boy who had tagged around after her as a toddler, calling her “Yevro” because he couldn’t pronounce her name. “All right. If—”

  A hand clamped onto Yanko’s shoulder—hard. “A word,” Dak said, his expression even darker than usual.

  Yanko kept from wincing at the grip on his shoulder and held up a finger. “We’ll be right back.”

  Shark hefted his mug. “Take your time.”

  “Find another ship owner,” Dak said as soon as Yanko turned around. He didn’t seem to care if Shark overheard them or not. “That’s a ludicrous tradeoff, and if his crew is in prison, they probably deserve to be there.”

  “Much as you and your Turgonian friends deserved to be in my uncle’s mine?” Yanko met Dak’s eye. Even if he had been worrying over the same subject himself, he believed he had a valid point.

  Dak’s eye closed to a slit. “We can find another ship, one that can leave tonight. If you get caught and thrown in prison, whatever your mission is will fail.”

  “I have considered that.” Or at least, Yanko was considering it now. “But I know the woman he mentioned. Arayevo. We’re from the same village. She left a few months ago because she longed for adventure at sea.”

  “Looks like she found it.”

  “She’s a vibrant and free soul. To leave her trapped in some dank cave would be a crime.”

  Dak’s face hadn’t changed at all. Apparently, he wasn’t one to be swayed by arguments of vibrant and free souls.

  “And,” Yanko said, “she used to be apprenticed to a forest master. She can make healing salves and other potions with ingredients from the woods. Does your, uhm, socket ever hurt? Maybe she can pick up a few herbs here before we leave and make a nice soothing poultice for you.”

  If anything, Dak’s expression grew more dour.

  Lakeo must have gotten tired of exchanging barbs with Shark, because she was standing next to them now, listening to their exchange. “Amazing someone gave him a mission to help the nation, isn’t it?”

  Yanko sighed. “She’s my friend, Dak. I have to go. If you want to stay here and enjoy the pleasure of a woman, I’ll understand.”

  Dak grumbled something in Turgonian and walked out the door.

  “What does that mean?” Lakeo asked. “That he doesn’t like the pleasures of women?”

  “I think he said you’re going to be the death of his other eye,” Shark called. The man had perked up and gave them a salute with his mug. Sure, he had others who were willing to risk their lives to free his crew. Why wouldn’t he be perky?

  “Don’t worry, Yanko.” Lakeo thumped him on the back. “I’m sure your Turgonian is bolstered by the fact that you know someone who can make a poultice.”

  From the way Lakeo rolled her eyes and walked out, Yanko had a feeling she hadn’t been impressed by his sales tactics. Probably not by anything he had done this night.

  “This mission is off to an auspicious start.” He sighed and walked out, the cold gaze of the bartender following him.

  8

  “I’m not sure whether to be more or less alarmed that you have a plan,” Lakeo said.

  Yanko frowned as the sea breeze whipped at the piece of paper he was trying to write on. He should have done this back at the pub in town, rather than while sitting cross-legged in front of a flat rock alongside the road a mile north of the prison caves. But the idea—the plan, as Lakeo said—had only come to him while he, she, and Dak had been walking out of town.

  Another fierce gust came, nearly knocking over the compact travel lantern perched on the edge of the rock. He caught it, but lost his quill in the tufts of razor grass growing alongside the road. The sharp edges scraped his skin as he hunted for the lost quill. He took a moment to send a few tendrils of earth magic into the plants, inviting the leaves to part and flatten down for him. They did so, and he found the quill, only to knock over the small bottle of ink with his elbow.

  “Stoat’s teats,” he growled, lunging and trying to catch it before all the ink flowed out. Even without the others watching, he would have felt like an incompetent idiot. Maybe he should have gone with his first thought, using his earth magic to burrow a hole in the back of the cave system. The problem with that was that he could easily start a rockfall—or earthquake. Earthquakes weren’t the sneakiest way to enter an underground complex.

  “Careful, Yanko, you’ll make my ears burn with such profanity,” Lakeo said.

  Yanko found the ink jar, sighing at how much had dribbl
ed out. If they hadn’t already walked four miles, he would suggest returning to town. How was he supposed to forge a letter on a rock?

  Dak lowered a slender stick. No, not a stick.

  “Is that a pen?” Yanko accepted it and examined it in the shaky light of the lantern. “I’ve heard of them.” He scribbled experimentally on his scrap paper. “Huh. The inkwell is inside the stick? Simple, but ingenious.”

  “Yes,” Dak said dryly. “It’s advanced Turgonian technology. Don’t share it with your government.”

  “Was that... a joke?” Yanko looked up at him, his towering form outlined against the stars. “Dak, I wouldn’t have guessed you had a sense of humor.”

  “My superiors never encouraged it.”

  “Superiors? Like officers over you in the military?” Yanko supposed he had more important things to worry about than prying into his new bodyguard’s background, but he wouldn’t be wise to ignore opportunities to learn more about him either.

  “Finish your letter,” Dak said.

  So much for opportunities. Yanko should simply be pleased that Dak had come along. When he had stalked out of the pub, Yanko had doubted whether he would.

  He turned his focus back to his impromptu writing desk and examined Prince Zirabo’s penmanship under the lantern light, careful not to let the wind sweep those pages away—he had been keeping them in the inside pocket in his leather tunic. At times, he had wondered if he should memorize the words and burn the message, but he had a fear that he might show up at the Golden City one day and need the prince’s seal in order to get an appointment to talk to him. His family name would not earn him an invitation to the chief’s council room, not these days.

  “The letters are swoopie, aren’t they? Even when he’s in a hurry.” Yanko clamped the original message between his teeth and did his best to emulate the style in the new letter. He hoped that Zirabo wouldn’t mind someone forging a letter in his name to further his mission. Actually, he hoped Zirabo never found out about it.