The Ruens of Fairstone (Aeon of Light Book 2)

by Sethlen, Aron

  “Now do you owe me or are we even?”

  Miles pinches his chin thinking on it and all he’s done for Pard. “Even—hmm?”

  “A tikba’s got to be worth a lot. Maybe now you owe me,” Pard says, teasing.

  Miles relents. “All right, definitely even then.”

  Pard lets out a faint chuckle. “Even it is.”

  Deet suspiciously eyes the man the same way as Miles did as he passes him by, but Deet also continues to aim his pistol at the tikba’s head.

  The man calmly sits, almost in meditation, staring through Pard and the others as if they’re not there.

  “What should we do with him?” Miles says. “Should we drain his blood and sell it? Cray said it’s expensive.”

  “Cray?” the man says, and his eyes open wider.

  “Yeah,” Miles says, “we saw him in a town a few miles away from here last night.”

  The man’s disposition changes, and he scans the woods for any sign of the famed hunter.

  Afraid the man may attack again, Pard holds up the man’s golden hairs. “He told us about the spikes and that it would stop you.”

  “And that your blood is valuable,” Miles adds with a smile. He turns to Deet. “So what do you think? Blood or no blood?”

  “We won’t be taking any blood, Lord Marlow. We just want to be on our way.”

  “That’s a relief,” the man says in his deep, noble-like voice, which is very much unexpected coming from such a ferocious beast. He stands, tall and muscular and wide, he hovers, imposing a shadow over Miles and Pard.

  Deet raises his pistol.

  Now calm enough to appreciate what they are looking at without fear of death, Pard and Miles both stare at the giant and somewhat beautiful man in awe.

  “Dang he’s big,” Miles whispers into Pard’s ear.

  “Uh-huh,” Pard replies.

  The man touches a deep scratch on his arm created from one of Deet’s bullets. “You won’t be needing the Pistol,” he says to Deet. “I told the boy I wouldn’t harm you if you would not do the same to me.”

  Deet looks at Pard for confirmation, and Pard nods.

  “I think he would have stopped,” Pard says, “but you both kept attacking him.”

  Deet lowers his pistol and stuffs it in his belt. “Are you a man of your word?” he says to the tikba.

  “Unfortunately, too much so,” the man says, now sitting on a mossy stump next to the fire and tying a piece of cloth over his gash. He picks up his sweater and slides it over his broad muscular shoulders.

  Deet eyes Pard and Miles and then gestures toward the other side of the campsite in the direction they were headed prior to meeting the tikba. “Let’s leave the man in peace and be on our way. It’s time to get to town and get you your room, Lord Marlow.”

  Deet and Miles walk past the campfire.

  Pard watches Deet and Miles walking away through the center of the camp, and then he turns toward the tikba. He gives the man a kind smile and extends the golden spikes toward him. “You can have your hairs back. I keep my word too, and I have no need for the luck.” He glances away and rolls his eyes. “Well, maybe I need the luck, but I said I wouldn’t harm you either, so here you are, take them.”

  The man curiously scans Pard’s face. His eyes narrow, and it appears as though he is staring through Pard. “Worthy,” the man says with a shallow nod of approval.

  Pard returns a confused look, unsure of what the man’s meaning is. “I don’t follow you.”

  Deet and Miles, realizing Pard isn’t following them and is still talking to the tikba, they turn and double back.

  “What did Cray tell you of the tikba?” the man says.

  “Well, really it was his partner Hawke that told the story. But basically he said that you are rare and strong and ferocious and worth a lot of money.”

  Miles butts in, “And it will pound our heads into a bloody pulp and rip us limb from limb and gnaw on our flesh. Unless we have a rifle.”

  The man chuckles in a deep bellow. “Yes, that happens from time to time, even if they have a rifle.”

  Again, Pard extends the golden hairs toward the man. “He also said if someone can pull the silver or gold hairs from a tikba mane, that they will stop attacking. And you did, so now you can have them back.”

  The man sits up even straighter. “Curious boy you are; and indeed it does inhibit my kind from continuing an attack. But he didn’t tell you anything else?”

  Pard twists his lips and shakes his head no.

  “And yet you still offer me my hairs back, with no condition?”

  Pard shrugs. “Sure.”

  “What is your name, young seeros?”

  “Pard Wenerly.”

  “Then, Pard Wenerly of the seeros, what Hawke failed to tell you, is that he or she who can remove the tikba’s spikes, shall be judged, and if proven worthy, shall have an ally for life onto death.”

  Pard’s eyes narrow. “Huh?”

  The man rises to his feet, tall and proud. He raises his chin with a sense of honor. “I am Tor, tena of the tikba, son of Rin, and grandson of Er, and I pledge my life to you, Pard Wenerly of the seeros.”

  Pard’s mouth drops. “You do?”

  “I do,” Tor says. “He who is found worthy in courage and skill to remove Tor’s spikes, and most of all have a spirit to match his own, is he who Tor shall follow and protect until his last breath.”

  Pard raises his eyebrows and glances at Miles.

  Miles stares at Tor, taking in the imposing man standing before him. “Cool.”

  Pard looks at Deet for an answer.

  “Up to you, kid,” Deet says.

  Tor extends his massive hand toward Pard. “Will you accept this bond of courage and skill and spirit for life, Pard Wenerly? And become esen’er with me?”

  Pard smiles, staring into Tor’s proud eyes. His insides lighten as the excitement grows within. He extends his hand back with the tikba’s golden spikes still in his palm, and Tor grasps it tight. “I accept, Tor, tena of the tikba.” The golden spikes seep out of their embrace and rise in the air in front of them, turn into a single beam of yellow light, and it enters Pard’s chest.

  Tor grins. “And I accept, Pard Wenerly of the seeros.”

  A thin aqua-blue light emerges from Pard’s wrist, circles his and Tor’s hand for a few seconds, then the light absorbs into the back of Tor’s hand and disappears.

  “We are now esen’er, Pard Wenerly of the seeros, bonded for life onto death.”

  A CASE OF THE HICCUPS

  Pard and the others leave the camp and follow Deet through the forest. It is night now, and they exit the trees and enter an open snow-covered field. The moon above is bright with no clouds in sight, the surroundings lighter than normal as the reflection bounces off the calm sheet of white. An icy crystalline snow descends from the sky which stings Pard’s nose and cheeks. Ahead, a farmhouse windows glow a dim orange from the flickering candles, the structure perched on a small hill surrounded by barren trees.

  Deet points at a decrepit barn with holes in the roof and appears to be ready to fall over any day now. “Looks good enough to me for the night.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Miles says in protest not having any of it.

  “To risky,” Tor says, pointing to the surrounding fields. He circles in place, and his oversized dark-grey leather duster coat covering the upper two-thirds of his body and most of his arm flaps. “No escape routes and open fields in all directions. Cray would pluck us off like a flock of birds in the open sky.”

  “Well, Cray isn’t after us,” Deet says.

  “He might not be after you, but the same result will arise when whoever you are running from finds you tucked away in that barn. I say we either make camp deep in the woods, or as a last resort find an inn where we won’t stick out as we are amongst the people.”

  Deet comically eyes Tor from head to toe, taking in this very large man with scars over his eye. Then he glances
at Lord Miles Marlow and his tattoo, then to Pard, the seeros with the uncontrollable light. “What was I thinking? Of course we won’t stick out, a merry band of normal folk like us, we can blend in with anyone, anywhere. To the town it is because the kids will veto any chance of spending the night in the cold.”

  “You got that right,” Miles says. Miles points ahead to a dim glow on the horizon. “Those lights are probably the town we want, so if you guys are done wasting time squabbling about the barn and woods, I’d really like to get out of this damned cold and get some warm food.”

  Pard glances at Deet and Tor both dumbfounded and staring at him. Pard raises his brow and smiles, then takes off after Miles already well away from them and not caring if anyone is following him or not. “Both of you coming?” Pard says.

  Deet grunts.

  Tor grunts.

  They both reluctantly follow Pard and Miles onto the road and into the next town, which the town is much larger and busier compared to Polin Town. The full streets are alive with a gaggle of people and sleighs. The bells attached to the horses jingle with every trot. Large, colorful, thin paper balls with candles in the center hang from the lantern posts and tree branches and on strings strung between buildings. Children skate on a frozen pond and smiling couples stroll along the winding paths and redbrick sidewalks. Bundled up in warm clothes, many gathered in and around the town square and a raised gazebo. A stringed quartet of violins and flutes play on stage while onlookers mingle around small fires to keep warm.

  “What’s this, a festival?” Deet says.

  Pard smiles. “It’s perfect, a winter festival, I love these. My parents used to take me to events like this when I was young, to celebrate the ancient ways and rejoice in the winter coming.”

  Miles walks past the festival as if it’s not even there and makes straight for the first sign that resembles an inn.

  Pard jogs and slides on the ice to catch up to him. “Don’t you want to hang out in the wintery fun?”

  Miles, serious and chattering teeth, his lips blue, he stutters, “No, are you nuts? In the last two days I’ve had more than a lifetime of fun in the cold. I just want to get inside, get warm, eat, and go to sleep.” He steps up onto a stone step and stops underneath a blue sign with a white bed painted on it. Miles eyes the glossy brown door. “I think this is us.”

  Inside, Pard’s body relaxes from the heat radiating out of the central fireplaces.

  Miles makes straight for the front desk.

  An ancient man with a pointy chin and bushy grey eyebrows and sideburns smiles at him. “You look cold, son, what can I do for you?”

  Deet and Tor enter the inn, and the innkeeper stands up a little straighter and eyes them with suspicion.

  “We need two rooms,” Miles says, leaning forward with authority and resting his arms folded on the counter.

  Pard scoots in close to Miles till they are touching side by side and he does the same, resting his forearms on the counter.

  The innkeeper purses his lips and slowly shakes his head. “Sorry, boys, no can do, almost all booked up with the festival and all. Only one room left, and it’s a single bed, very small room.”

  Deet and Tor move toward the counter, and the innkeeper swallows hard as if he has something stuck in his throat.

  The innkeeper stares at Tor, massive and imposing and looking down on him. He quickly glances at Tor’s solid white-bluish eye with no pupil.

  Pard notices the innkeeper’s nervousness, and he smiles and turns around. “These are my two uncles, Uncle Yaz and—umm—Uncle Rot.”

  The man nervously nods, not taking his eyes off of Tor and ignoring Deet. “Yes, I can see the resemblance, it’s truly uncanny. Very nice to meet y-you. Uncle Rot you say? Lovely name.”

  “A pleasure to meet you as well,” Tor says in his deep, noble voice, and he slightly bows his head.

  The man coughs to clear his throat. “Right, so, like I said, I wish I could, but sorry, almost all booked up for the night with the festival—only a single room left.”

  Deet raises his finger. “We’ll take it.”

  “For the four of you? Didn’t I say it was a small room?”

  “You did, and we’ll still take it and make it work.”

  “All right, then that’ll be two silver for the night, it’s usually just one, but, with the festival and all, I got to charge a little extra.”

  Deet pushes between Pard and Miles and sets two silver coins on the counter.

  The innkeeper’s eye gleams at the robbery, and he sweeps the coins off the wood.

  Deet holds up another silver coin. “Extra pillows and blankets.”

  The innkeeper eagerly nods. “Indeed, indeed, most definitely, I’ll bring them right up, Uncle Yaz.”

  Deet sets the coin on the table and then adds another one on top of it. “And, we aren’t to be disturbed for any reason, and, we aren’t here if anyone asks.”

  Tor steps forward next to Deet and his back magically widens even more than normal. He glares at the innkeeper to make sure he understands Deet’s point.

  The innkeeper sucks in a quick breath and holds it in as he leans away from the counter. His shaky hand reluctantly sweeps the extra silver off the wood. “You won’t hear a peep from anyone and no one will bother you. Discretion at the Larin Inn is what we are most famous for.”

  “I like discretion and a peaceful sleep,” Tor says, slowly leaning over the creaking counter and stopping almost nose to nose with the innkeeper. “Real peaceful.”

  “Yes, yes, Uncle Rot, I bet you do. Who doesn’t like peaceful sleep? I’ll make sure you sleep like a baby tonight, I promise.”

  “Good, because sometimes uncontrollable urges overtake me when woken from a peaceful sleep. I have this trick I do with innkeeper’s limbs when I’m disturbed, it’s truly disturbing, you never want to see it, ever.”

  “Yes, yes, well, we all get upset from time to time when awoken from a peaceful sleep, right, Uncle Rot? There will be no need for innkeeper limb tricks tonight.” And the old man tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a wheezy cackle instead.

  Tor grunts and his eyes narrow. He growls. “Ever—”

  The innkeeper gulps and turns away from the counter. “S-so, pillows and blankets, coming right up.”

  “Where can we find dinner at this hour?” Pard says.

  “Next door there is a pub.”

  “No pubs,” Deet says.

  The innkeeper glances at the wooden-framed clock hanging on the wall. “It closes in an hour, but there is a small restaurant at the far end of the town, great food, and cheap, called Khloe’s.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Miles says.

  “Yes,” Tor says.

  The innkeeper smiles and nods excessively. “It is, it is, Uncle Rot.” Though the man speaks while not looking at Tor and doing everything he can to avoid Tor’s gaze. He looks at Deet but addresses Tor. “How about this?” He scrolls a few words and his signature on a piece of paper and slides it across the counter toward Tor. “Give this to Khloe and it should be good for two free meals.”

  Pard smiles and glances at Miles, who returns the same look, impressed that Tor’s presence is already paying dividends for their cause.

  Miles leans into Pard and whispers, “On the house.”

  The innkeeper plucks the last key off a wood pegboard behind him and sets it on the counter. “Room seven, up the stairs and to your right. I’ll have your room all setup for you by the time you get back from your meal.”

  “Good,” Tor says, sweeping the key off the counter and handing it to Deet. He turns and strolls toward the door.

  Pard smiles at the innkeeper. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sure, sure, no problem, enjoy your meal and stay warm.” He waves at Tor as Tor opens the front door and looks back at the innkeeper. “And you’ll have the best, peaceful sleep you’ve ever had, Uncle Rot, that’s the Larin Inn guarantee.”

  With no acknowledgment or emotion, Tor exits the inn.
/>
  They head back out into the dark and well-lit street, and the cold seemingly isn’t affecting any of the festival goers, either to filled with joy or activity or ale to care much.

  Miles moves with purpose, fueled by his belly speaking to him, and the rest of his body wanting to be out of the bitter wind.

  Inside Khloe’s, they sit at a circular wooden table in the center of the restaurant and near the wall. Deet faces the door, and Tor sits to his left with his back against the wall, while Miles sits across from Tor, and Pard across from Deet.

  A middle-aged, jolly, plump woman with rosy cheeks and a sweet demeanor waddles to their table. “Closing in thirty minutes, boys.” She sets a single menu on the table.

  Miles snatches it up faster than anyone can react.

  Tor gazes deep into the woman’s grey eyes, and he slightly nods once in a seductive manner. “Good evening. Khloe, I presume?”

  Khloe smiles back. “Why good evening, sir, well isn’t that a deep voice you have. And yes, I’m Khloe.”

  “The innkeeper gave us a note for you.” Tor extends the piece of paper to the woman.

  “I see, special guests.”

  Miles interjects, “I’ll have the steak, potatoes, bread and butter, hot soup, and water.”

  “Good choice, dear,” Khloe says.

  Miles leans forward and stares at her. “I can’t express to you the meaning of hot soup.”

  Khloe smiles and nods. Then she transitions her attention to Pard. “For you?”

  “Same thing, thanks.”

  Deet nods. “I think we’ll make it easy on you and we’ll all have the same thing.”

  Tor, serious, faintly winks at the woman, and she blushes.

  “All righty then, four steaks and the works coming up in a few minutes. Anything other to drink besides water?”

  Miles leans toward her. “Hot tea, very hot.”

  “Me too,” Pard says.

  Deet nods. “Again same for me.”

  Khloe glances at Tor, and Tor slightly winks at her again. “I only require water, your beautiful presence is enough to warm me on such a bitter night.”

  The woman turns away, embarrassed. “Sweet thing.”