The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  “Where am I?” he commanded.

  “The Carleton infirmary, my Lord.” She didn’t dare rise from her curtsy or raise her eyes until she was given leave Prianhe noticed with a measure of satisfaction. Too often in this part of the world, proper customs and decorum were ignored.

  “How did I get here?”

  She paused with momentary confusion. “You…were brought here by the local guards.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, my Lord? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  Prianhe was growing tired of looking at the top of her head. “Stand up woman.” She did as she was commanded. Her eyes looked panicked and she smelled of fear. “Why was I brought here? What happened to me?”

  The look of panic intensified. “You were nearly killed, my Lord, by a young trival and his companions. They made off on a trevloc. The local guard brought you here for healing. You were within minutes of death.”

  The memories suddenly flooded into Prianhe’s mind like a dam giving way to a raging current. The young trival. He’d used the power to throw him against a wall. Prianhe remembered the pain of impact. And Bale Farrushaw. He had escaped with the trival. There was a strange silver haired woman with remarkable sword skills. And the blonde. The whole episode replayed in his mind, stoking the flames of his anger, until he burned for revenge. He would not rest until he had ripped open each of their chests and feasted on their hearts.

  He took a deep breath and remembered the rancid smell of lavender. Fixing the woman with a hard stare he asked, “Do you torture all of your patients here, woman?”

  “Torture, my Lord?” she replied perplexed.

  Prianhe nodded to the dish of scented oil. “The smell of lilac is nearly unbearable to Riekkan’s. Remove it.”

  She made another hasty curtsy, took the saucer and left the room as quickly as her fat little legs would carry her. After a few moments she returned, looking more terrified than before.

  “Why am I so weak?” Prianhe asked as she trembled before him.

  “The healing, my Lord. Nearly every bone in your body was broken when you were brought to us. It took the combined efforts of every healer in the building to save you from death. Your body needs time to regain its strength.”

  Prianhe raised his arms above his head, marveling at how difficult it was for him. “When can I expect to feel stronger?”

  “Well my Lord, it’s difficult to say. Everyone is different. If I had to guess, I’d say you’ll need a few more days still. It usually takes a man with such severe injuries a good week.”

  Prianhe’s jaw dropped in shock. “A week? How long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days, my Lord,” she answered meekly.

  Anger again flared in Prianhe’s gut. Two days! He couldn’t believe it. Bale Farrushaw and the trival had two days head start. The master would need to be alerted. Prianhe wondered if he would receive any mercy for his failures.

  “You said they left on a trevloc?”

  She nodded an anxious yes.

  “Do we know where they were heading?”

  The woman swallowed hard as though afraid to speak. She seemed to choke on her words as if her mouth had suddenly gone completely dry. “I don’t know much about it, my Lord. The guard’s chief of Carleton would be better able to inform you.”

  “Then bring him to me,” Prianhe snarled. “And find me someone to help me into my clothes.” He felt his stomach rumble and realized that he was hungry. He inhaled deeply and caught the scent of roasting goat hidden beneath the lingering lavender foulness. “And food. See to it that a plate of that goat is brought to me at once.”

  The trembling woman nodded at each command and backed toward the door, curtsying awkwardly with each step until she left the room. Prianhe lay back down in his bed exhaling in frustration. His mind raced. He thought of Farrushaw and the trival. How had Farrushaw managed to survive, and why was he in league with that mysterious young man? Who was that silver haired woman? Her skill had been nothing short of remarkable. In all of his years of battle, he had never encountered such a strange and effective style. She was clearly guarding the blonde noble. The blonde had looked familiar to him. That was where he would start. He would find out who she was. That would lead him to the trival. And to Farrushaw. Prianhe’s fists clenched into tight knots as he thought of his old friend. He should have eaten the man’s heart twenty-five years ago when he’d first had the chance. He had spared Farrushaw that indecency then only out of respect for the man that had essentially been his mentor. The next time he saw Farrushaw, there would be no mercy.

  A young boy, barely into his teen years knocked feebly on the open door, reeking of fear. Prianhe could also detect the odor of sickness. There was something wrong with the boy, some kind of illness. Prianhe sat up finding the movement easier this time, but still difficult. He motioned for the boy to enter and waited for him to come to the side of his bed. He looked the boy in the eye, enjoying the young lad’s obvious discomfort. Most people that recognized him tended to tremble in fear, and Prianhe relished the reaction. He loved nothing more than watching people cower before him.

  “What’s your name, boy?” he asked with a hard voice.

  “Miles…my Lord,” the boy answered timidly.

  “Do you know who I am, Miles?”

  “Yes,” Miles nodded.

  “Good,” Prianhe said with a smile. “Then you know what will happen to you if you disappoint me.” The boy swallowed hard and nodded. “Fetch me my clothes, Miles.” The boy grabbed his shirt, pants and vest from the hook on the wall and brought them to the bed. “Help me up.” The boy pulled back the blanket and reached out to grab Prianhe’s arm but stopped abruptly and gasped as he looked upon Prianhe’s body. Thick gruesome scars covered Prianhe’s chest, stomach and back like threads woven loosely into a tapestry. Realizing his reaction might be deemed offensive, the boy tried to recover looking away and reaching again to take Prianhe’s arm, but his momentary disgust had been noticed. Ignoring the weakness, Prianhe reached up and grabbed the boy by the throat, squeezing with all of the strength he could find. He choked the boy until his face began to turn blue and his eyes started to roll up into his head. When the boy was on the verge of losing consciousness, Prianhe let go, winded by the effort of choking him. Miles fell to his knees gasping for air, breathing in loud laborious inhalations.

  “That was a warning,” Prianhe snarled, leaning forward to get right in the boy’s face. “If you displease me again, I’ll choke you until your eyes pop out of your head, then I’ll make you pick them off the floor.”

  With tears welling in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks, Miles rose and nodded. He tried bravely to suppress the sobbing and force the tears to stop as he took Prianhe’s arm and pulled him to his feet. With a bit of struggling they were able to get Prianhe’s feet into his pants and his head and arms into his shirt. As Miles helped Prianhe into his vest, a pretty serving girl appeared in the door, holding a tray of food. Prianhe could smell the roasted goat as well as some boiled potatoes, bread and cheese. There was also a tall glass of goat’s milk and some fresh fruit.

  “Is there a dining room downstairs somewhere?” Prianhe asked the girl as his stomach cried out to be filled. When she answered yes, Prianhe told her to set his meal up down there. After he watched her walk away, he turned to the boy. “Miles, I want you to go out into the hall and close the door. Return in ten minutes to help me down to the dining room. If I suspect that you are listening at the door, I’ll find your parents and make them watch me pull your lungs out of your chest. Do you understand?”

  Miles eyes widened with terror, and he vigorously shook his head that he understood before running from the room, pausing only to close the door behind him. Prianhe watched him leave with disgust. The smell of the boy’s sickness had been irritating. He wondered if he should kill the boy anyway. He wasn’t sure if the illness was life threatening, but he imagined it would be enjoyable to watch the pathetic young lad die.
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br />   Prianhe put his desires for blood aside and pulled out a small, oval, polished black stone from his pocket. The stone was a gift from his master, a way to contact him when they were separated by great distances. Frankly, Prianhe hated using it. He hated anything related to the trivarial power. It all seemed unnatural to him. His master, however, was the most powerful wielder in the world, and Prianhe hated disappointing him even more than he hated being touched by the power.

  Using his belt knife, he made a small prick on the tip of his left thumb and squeezed it until a few drops of blood oozed out. He put the stone in the palm of his right hand and rubbed the blood over the flat surface of the black stone. Then he held his right hand out before him and called his master’s name three times.

  “Desirmor. Desirmor. Desirmor.”

  The light drained out of the room, and the sound of gushing wind howled briefly around him. Then a faint green light began to emanate from the stone, and a trace of smoke plumed up within the light. The smoke swirled within the light, spinning like a dervish until it began to slow down and take the shape of a face Prianhe had seen many times. The face that appeared was so pale and greenish you would have thought it belonged to a corpse. It was completely hairless with black eyes like two deep pools of oil. Desirmor’s face seemed startled at first but quickly focused on Prianhe and smiled, baring a set of sickly yellow teeth, framed by thin pallid lips.

  “Navan,” he said in a soft, youthful voice that didn’t at all fit his face. “It’s been long since you’ve called on me. Thorl tells me he has successfully killed the last Harven. I expected to hear from you sooner.”

  Navan Prianhe had never known fear in his life until he had stood in the presence of King Desirmor. His master was known to have little patience for mistakes and failures. The scars that marked his body were proof of Desirmor’s wrath. He was terrified to make his report. “Master…the sailor we identified as the last Harven has indeed been killed.”

  Desirmor looked contemplatively at Prianhe. “Something is bothering you Navan. You should be celebrating our victory. What troubles you?”

  Prianhe swallowed hard. He began to tell Desirmor everything that had happened to him since he had first arrived in Dell, though he chose to leave out the part about The Blood Lord and his Paratamian friends. Desirmor listened to everything with a disaffected stare until Prianhe came to his discovery of Bale Farrushaw. At the mention of the name, Desirmor’s black eyes widened momentarily with shock before his expression became bored once again. Prianhe knew not to read too much into his master’s passive demeanor as Desirmor rarely showed any expression or emotion. The key was to avoid making his master angry. When King Desirmor gave in to anger, the entire world trembled. Finally Prianhe finished his tale, recounting the scene at the resting station and waking in the Carleton infirmary. He held his breath as Desirmor silently considered what he had been told.

  “You believe the girl to be a noblewoman?” Desirmor said after several moments.

  “Yes Master, though I do not recognize her.”

  “The trival, this young man, why did you feel compelled to chase him? Did his talents seem extraordinary?”

  “He did nothing to make me believe he has any real power. I was only intrigued by him because he lived at the inn we’d been told about. I thought it more than mere coincidence.”

  “You’ve done well, Navan,” Desirmor said, surprising Prianhe. “I can tell you consider your defeat a failure, but I must offer reassurance. You have done well, my friend. I want you to continue tracking this young trival for I too am curious about him. I also do not believe it a coincidence. When you find them, I want Farrushaw and the trival taken alive. I will consider their deaths a failure, and you will be disciplined accordingly. Am I clear, Navan?”

  Prianhe thought of the last time he’d been disciplined for failure. To say it was unpleasant would be an understatement. Failing his master was not an option. “I understand perfectly, Master, but what of the girl?”

  “Find out who she is before you kill her. I want make an example of her entire family. I do not accept dissenters, Navan. As soon as you’ve identified her name, send word. Perhaps we can use her family to flush them out. In fact, that is exactly where you should begin your hunt. Identify the girl, and I’m sure it will lead us to Farrushaw and the trival.”

  Prianhe nodded, but there was one more thing bothering him, though he was apprehensive about asking. “Master…there’s just one more thing.” Desirmor arched a hairless eyebrow and waited for his monomach to continue. “Master, I would never question one of your decisions you must know that.” His master’s impassive expression made his mouth go dry and sweat broke out across his brow. “Why did you send Thorl?”

  The corner of Desirmor’s thin mouth quirked into a knowing smile. “Did my son take your glory, Navan? Is that it?” Prianhe bit his tongue. He cursed himself for opening his mouth. What his master did, he did for his own reasons, and it was not his right to ask questions. “Fear not my friend. You have done very well, and your role in the hunt of the last Harven will not go unrecognized. That being said…” Desirmor’s hand suddenly reached out from the stone as real as though he were standing right in the room beside Prianhe and grabbed him by the throat. When he spoke his voice roared like thunder. “YOU WILL NEVER AGAIN QUESTION ME! NEVER AGAIN! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

  Prianhe tried to answer but could not. He feebly tried to nod his head that he understood but couldn’t move. All he could do was hope his master would release him before he suffocated. Prianhe could feel tears leaving his eyes, and the room began to lose focus. Then suddenly it was over. Desirmor’s hand and face had disappeared, leaving Prianhe alone in the room, gratefully drinking in air, looking down at the blood smeared rock that had fallen from his hand to the floor. After a time, he regained his composure and cursed himself again for voicing his questions about Thorl. Blind loyalty, he reminded himself. Everything he had in the world, he owed to his master. Since the day he had been banished from the Reikkan’s and joined the Imperial Army, he had followed the will of his master implicitly. Desirmor had recognized his talents early on and had even viewed some of his particular “tastes” as useful strengths. Without his titles and ranks, Prianhe probably would have been put to death long ago for giving into one of his cravings. Instead he lived a life of luxury, wanting for nothing, feared and respected the world over. Prianhe picked up the stone and put it back in his pocket. He would not fail his master this time.

  Nearly a minute later, a timid knock came from the door. Miles entered, a look of terror still clearly etched on his face. He took Prianhe’s arm and helped him to his feet. With Miles help, Prianhe walked slowly out into the hall and down a carpeted flight of stairs. The smell of the roasted goat filled the air as they slowly descended one stair at a time. They reached the ground floor and Miles led him into a dining room with several square tables, including one in the corner with his plate of food. Three men in plain gray uniforms stood next to the table, watching Prianhe approach apprehensively. Looking them up and down, Prianhe guessed that they represented the local guard of Carleton. Local guards were not affiliated with the Imperial army but they did follow the laws of Fandrall and were expected to show proper deference to a person of rank. Though he wasn’t expecting much useful help from the local guard, to find the trival and Farrushaw, Prianhe was willing to do anything.

  He took a seat and looked down at his meal as his stomach cried out to be filled. The goat looked cold, but at this point he didn’t care. He took up his fork and knife and attacked the plate, inhaling the meat, ignoring its bland flavor. When the meat was gone, he drained the entire glass of milk, and exhaling a deep sigh of satisfaction, he placed the empty glass back down. Prianhe picked up the bread and sat back in his chair. Of the three guardsmen, two seemed young and one had the look of a seasoned veteran. It was to him that Prianhe spoke.

  “Your name, guardsman?” he commanded, as he tore off a chunk of the bread and popped it into
his mouth. Much like the meat, the bread was bland and flavorless.

  The older man shuffled his feet and tried to stand as straight as possible. “Nelson, my Lord, guardschief of Carleton.”

  Prianhe nodded and swallowed a large piece of bread that he’d hardly chewed. He motioned to the serving girl, standing silently in the doorway, to bring him another plate of goat. Bread and cheese were all well and good, but Reikkan on the plains of Altrega ate only meat. Prianhe may have assimilated himself to the lifestyle of humans, but to satiate his hunger, meat was the only food that would do.

  “What do you have to report, Nelson?” Prianhe asked when the girl had left the room.

  “The trevloc they departed on was meant to arrive in Teoulle, but never landed. This morning we received a report that an abandoned trevloc was found on the northeastern coast of Perth, not far from a town called Wyndham. Though it hasn’t been confirmed, we believe this is the trevloc they took.” Nelson paused to judge Prianhe’s reaction, and continued when Prianhe said nothing. “They stayed at an inn called The White Coral. The innkeeper, Mistress Hisha, was questioned but said only that they stayed one night and left in the morning. She says that they kept to themselves, only coming out of their rooms to have dinner in the common room. We did find out from a few of the traeggars in port that they had made the rounds trying to find passage off of the island.”

  Prianhe was silent for several moments, considering Nelson’s report. If they had landed on the eastern end of Perth, they would be nearly impossible to find. Most of Northeastern Perth was dotted with primitive nomadic tribes and small farming and fishing villages. Wyndham was probably the largest town in the whole region, a place that followed Desirmor’s law, but had only a small contingent of Imperial troops. Organizing a manhunt in that region would be hard and in all probability, useless. He would send word to the captain in charge of the local infantry, as well as descriptions of the four criminals, but Prianhe wasn’t feeling hopeful. His best bet was to go to the inn they had stayed at and ask the innkeeper some questions of his own. He was certain the Carleton guards weren’t nearly as enthusiastic as he could be interviewing the innkeeper.