“We have nothing to fear from Quinn Gracin,” Givara replied. “He will honor…”
Givara trailed off as she looked up the street. Her eyes became dangerous. Enaya looked ahead and saw a fist of at least twenty guardsmen in burnished breastplates approaching them. Every one of their eyes was focused on her. A man at the head of the group with a maroon feather plume rising from the side of his rimmed, burnished helmet pointed in their direction and called out an order. The men began to fan out in a circle, approaching with hands fingering their sword hilts.
“Stay your hand, Givara,” Enaya whispered. “They are local guardsmen, not Imperial soldiers. This has to do with the Governor.”
They stopped and waited for the soldiers to approach. The man at the lead came before her. His graying hair and soft blue eyes made him seem more a kindly grandfather than a hardened soldier. He eyed Givara cautiously, noting her sword hand.
“Lady Enaya Relador?” he asked in a level tone.
“What is the meaning of this?” Enaya replied, purposely trying to be haughty. Best they see her as a spoiled noblewoman than someone who could pose a threat.
“I am Captain Davold of the Governor’s Guard. I have orders to escort you to the Governor’s palace.” He was commanding, but not trying to antagonize.
“Have I committed a crime, Captain?”
“The Governor has requested your presence for dinner tonight, Lady Relador.”
“Dinner?” she said, raising her voice. What was Cantor playing at? “Is it customary in Nal’Dahara to send a fist of guardsmen to escort a lady to dinner? Would not a simple invitation have sufficed?”
Captain Davold grimaced uncomfortably. Even he knew that this was unusual. But he was just following orders, regardless of how he might feel about it.
“I have my orders, Lady Relador. I am to escort you to dinner.” He looked right at Givara. “Alone.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to travel anywhere without my guardswoman?” she said with shock.
“You are to come alone, Lady Relador,” he answered firmly. His eyes never left Givara.
Enaya looked around at the guardsmen. Something was terribly wrong about this. No-one but Desirmor would dare to treat a noblewoman with such blatant disrespect. She tried to think of a way out but saw nothing. They had two more days in the city. She would just have to see where this road led.
“May I have a moment to speak with my guardswoman, Captain?”
He inclined his head and Enaya pulled Givara back several steps. They put their heads together.
“I don’t like this,” Givara said through gritted teeth. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t like it either, but what choice do we have. Go back to the inn. Tell Sim and Farrus what’s happening. If I don’t make it back by morning, come to the palace and ask after me.” She was worried, but she tried to appear in control.
“What if something happens to you? How am I to know?” Givara was seething.
“I trust you Givara. I have always trusted you.” She put her hand over Givara’s, feeling the tension of her grip on the sword hilt. “If anything happens, do what you must. Just make sure nothing happens to Sim. You may be my guardian, but his life matters far more than mine.”
Givara stared at Captain Davold, her green eyes blazing with fury. It was possible she could cut down all twenty men, but what good would that do?
Enaya steeled herself, fighting down the fear that coursed in her veins. She walked up to Captain Davold and forced herself to smile gracefully.
“Lead the way, Captain,” she found the courage to say.
Captain Davold nodded and motioned for her to follow him. The fist closed in around them as they walked quickly toward the palace. Enaya turned to look over her shoulder at Givara standing stoically in the road, watching them leave. When they finally turned a corner and started up a new street, Enaya’s hands began to shake. She was truly alone, and that same feeling came over her more strongly than ever -- a lamb being led to the slaughterhouse.
Chapter thirteen: City of Horses
The city of Nal’Dahara slept, but Sim could not put his mind to rest. He sat in the chair staring out the window at the stone buildings, lit only by the soft moonlight. He was tired. He wanted to lie down and fall asleep, but his thoughts were relentless. So much had happened. So much had changed. Sim needed to find a way to accept this strange new world.
The deafening echo of Farrus’ loud snores filled the room. His friend lay on his back, a trail of spittle escaping from the corner of his mouth, safe in a world of dreams. Sim wished he could sleep as peacefully. Would he ever sleep peacefully again?
It was the faces of the three men he had killed that day. They haunted him. Their eyes floated across his mind, accusing him, condemning him. What kind of men were they? Did they have wives? Children? Loved ones? He could imagine a son awaiting his father’s return at a tent in the Cortella. Would that boy swear revenge on the man who had murdered his father? The thought tore Sim apart.
He wanted to run. Farrus was sound asleep. He could sneak away, head out on his own, and forget about all of this. Somewhere, he would find an inn in a faraway village and spend his days living as he always had. Sevin had been right all along. There was nothing wrong with the safe, simple life of an innkeeper. There was nothing wrong with living a simple life. You didn’t get killed living a simple life. You didn’t have to kill anyone either.
When he finally fell asleep, slumped back in the chair with his feet propped up on the window’s enclave, his dreams were troubled. Images swirled together blending into a long inescapable nightmare. The Blood Lord stood over his fallen parents drinking a strange black liquid from a wine glass. Prianhe crouched over a torn apart carcass, feasting on flesh, blood staining his face, clothes, and hands. Maehril, her face a mask of terror, ran through a forest as the long, towering shadow of some nameless beast followed closely behind. Enaya locked in a naked embrace with a man he had never seen before, a single tear trailing from her sad blue eyes. Givara strung up by her feet, bloodied and beaten, as Farrus and a disfigured man lay dead beneath her. All of these images played over and over again with the faces of the three men he had killed that day floating in the background like silent, ghostly judges.
“Time to get up,” Farrus grunted, as he shook Sim awake.
Sim opened his eyes and looked around. He was still in the chair by the window. The light of early morning spilled into the room making it difficult for him to focus. His bare feet were freezing and his back ached from sleeping in the chair. Farrus studied him with a concerned frown as he sat up and rubbed his stiff neck.
“You should’ve gotten into bed,” Farrus scolded him. “We’re men on the run, Sim. You have to take advantage of a warm soft bed when you can get one.”
Sim looked up at the gruff, old guardsman and nodded. He stood up and stretched. His neck and back screamed in pain. The bed he should have slept in was still made and looked cozy and warm. He would have been better off lying in that bed, not sleeping, rather than dozing off in a hard wooden chair.
The smell of eggs and biscuits filled the air. There were two trays on the table and a pitcher of milk. His clothes hung on a hook by the fire, his shirt looking whiter than it had in a long time.
They sat down and had their meal. Just as they were finishing a knock came at the door. Before Farrus could get to his feet to answer it, Enaya burst in followed closely by Givara. Both women surveyed the room, then looked disapprovingly upon the two men.
“Smells foul in here,” Enaya exclaimed with a distasteful shake of her head.
“Men,” Givara added, though she had a fond smile for Farrus.
“Givara and I are off to see to our errands,” Enaya announced. She placed her left fist on her hip and waved her pointed right finger in both of their faces. She certainly loved to scold men, Sim thought. “You two stay out of trouble, do you hear me.” They both looked at her blankly. It seemed to infuriate her. �
��Barber, tailor, supplies. That’s it. No carousing. No sight-seeing. Don’t stray far from the inn. Understood?”
Neither answered her. Sim was beginning to enjoy getting under her skin. Nothing seemed to irritate her more than a man who didn’t follow her orders. She looked both of them in their expressionless faces and her cheeks began to redden. Enaya looked as though she intended to shout at them, but kept her anger under control.
“When we return this evening we will have dinner together, in my room. With luck we will find the Librarian today. The less time we have to spend in this city the better.” With that she turned on her heels, her blonde tresses whipping around for emphasis, and she strode out of the room.
“Use an alias. We don’t want any unwanted attention,” Givara added. Her eyes stayed on Farrus a moment longer than was necessary. Then she turned and followed Enaya out of the room, closing the door as she left.
Farrus turned and looked at Sim with a raised eyebrow. Sim tried to return a serious expression but couldn’t hold it. He burst out in laughter, causing Farrus to chuckle along loudly.
“Women,” Farrus said with a shake of his head. Letting the laughter die down Farrus pointed to Sim’s clothes hanging by the hearth. “How about you get dressed? We’ve got plenty to do today.”
Sim did as Farrus asked. His clothes were cleanly laundered and warm from hanging next to the lit fireplace. It felt good to wear a clean shirt and trousers. The inn’s maids had even darned his socks, patching up the holes at his toes and heels. After he pulled on his boots, he went to pull on his scabbard, but Farrus stopped him.
“Time for some secrets,” Farrus told him with a solemn expression. He pulled out his own sword and placed it on his bed. Sim came and stood beside him, looking down at the sword. It was unremarkable. The long double edged shaft was meticulously polished and sharp. The pommel was plain and curved, the hilt was laced with thin leather cords to provide more grip. The only thing about the sword that even merited notice was a faint blue line that ran through the center of the pommel.
Farrus pulled both of Sim’s swords free from the scabbard and placed them on the bed next to his. Sim’s swords weren’t as long or heavy as Farrus’ broadsword. His hilt was short and the blades, though double-edged, were thin and not nearly as polished and sharp. One of his swords' had the same curved pommel with a faint blue line as Farrus’ sword. The other had a straight pommel. Farrus pointed to the similar swords.
“Notice anything about these two swords,” he asked studying Sim’s face.
“They look the same. Except mine is shorter,” he answered pointing to his blade.
“The only thing these swords have in common is the pommel.” Farrus traced a finger along the blue line of his pommel. “Do this, Sim,” he told him, pointing to the pommel of Sim’s sword.
Sim touched the blue line on his sword’s pommel. His finger found that the blue line sat in a barely noticeable groove. As he traced his finger along the groove, the blue began to glow faintly. That hadn’t happened when Farrus touched his own sword. Sim looked up at his friend quizzically. He reached over and ran his finger along the groove in Farrus’ pommel, and the blue light responded to his touch with the same faint glow.
“What does it mean, Farrus?” he asked. The orange gem against his chest suddenly felt warm.
“These swords were given to me by Sarimus when I came to live in Dell. They have survived from the time of the Harven civilization. According to Sarimus, they’re about a thousand years old.” Sim’s eyes widened, and as he looked down at his sword, it was as if he had never seen it before. Farrus pointed to the pommels again. “These pommels are made of terralium, and they are two of four pieces we need.”
“Four pieces?” Sim asked, mesmerized by the blue glow as he continued to trace his finger along the groove. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, soft whispering voices beckoned.
“Four swords with the same pommels. We have two. We need to find the other two.”
“Where are they?”
“One belongs to a man named Cassell. He’s a sailor. Cassell was once a close friend of Sarimus. Many years ago they had a falling out. Cassell stole one of the swords and disappeared. Sarimus spent years looking, but never found him.”
Sim looked up from the sword. The voices stopped. “If Sarimus couldn’t find him, how will we?”
“Because we have to Sim. There is no other way,” Farrus answered with determination.
“Why? What’s so special about these swords?”
Farrus looked Sim squarely in his eyes. His friend looked haunted. “Somewhere, deep in the Harven Mountains, lays the remnants of your past. Ruins of a civilization that once protected the world from darkness. After Desirmor finished his assault on the Alexidus Empire, he turned his attentions to the Harven Mountains. The leaders of the Harvens knew that they would be destroyed. Thalson Harvenstrong was the last Voice of the Mountain, the last leader of your ancestors. He ordered that the most recent newborn, an infant boy named Sorus Harvencott, be taken from the mountains and hidden away in secret. Together with the Council of Elders, Thalson led some sort of ritual or spell that preserved all of the knowledge and history of the Harven civilization. They placed it beneath a mountain and locked it with a magic seal. The four swords and that gem around your neck are the keys to unlocking that seal. We must find the other two swords so that you can claim your birthright.”
Sim listened solemnly. He found a surge of hope and excitement growing within. All along, he had felt that his task was impossible. How was he ever supposed to defeat a sorcerer who had lived a thousand years and killed every last one of his ancestors? If an entire civilization of Harvens had been unable to defeat Desirmor, how could anyone possibly expect him to succeed? At least if he had the knowledge of his ancestors, there might be a chance, however slim. It was better than trying to figure it out on his own.
“You said there were four swords. Where is the last?”
Farrus smiled faintly. “Sheila’s sister, Madelyn.”
“Sheila? You mean Sarimus’ wife?” Sim asked, remembering the tale of Maehril’s birth.
Farrus nodded. “That’s right. Madelyn lives somewhere in the Kal’ Treddin Ice Lands. We’ll have to find her.”
“Are the Ice Lands as bad as they say?” Sim asked. He had heard stories around the common room at the Kelmor Inn. The Ice Lands were a terrible place, filled with gruesome beasts and wild violent storms. The air was cold enough to freeze a man where he stood.
“I’ve never been,” Farrus said gravely, “but I’ve heard the stories. It won’t be easy, but it must be done.”
Sim picked up his sword and examined the pommel one last time, before sliding it into his scabbard. “Doesn’t look like terralium,” he said matter of factly.
“It’s terralium,” Farrus said, putting his own sword away. He looked at Sim and grinned. “What do you know about terralium?”
“It’s expensive,” Sim shrugged.
“Do you know why it's so expensive?” Farrus prodded.
“It's rare.”
“It’s extremely rare, actually. In fact no terralium has been found in a thousand years. Most people think there isn’t any left. Some say that it's all mined out.”
“But that’s not the reason, is it Farrus?” Sim was beginning to figure it out.
“No,” Farrus said with a proud look in his gray eyes. “Terralium was made by the Harvens. Forged with the power from a mixture of different metal ores. The art of making terralium died with the Harvens.” He pointed to the pommel on Sim’s sword. “There’s enough terralium between our two swords to buy this whole city.”
Sim raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Shame we have this whole saving the world business to take care of first. Might be nice to relax and live a life of luxury.”
Farrus patted him on the back and snorted, “Damn shame.” He motioned to the door. “Let’s get going.”
Sim grabbed his other sword and followed him out the door.<
br />
He followed Farrus through the hallway and down the long flights of stairs to the common room. There were a few people scattered around the room, quietly enjoying breakfast. It was a far departure from the crowded room he had seen the night before. Before they could leave, the innkeeper, seated at a table next to the hearth, called them over.
Ron Foust was a large man. He was tall, thick, and doughy through the middle, with sparse wafts of ginger hair encircling a bald, freckled dome. Hard lines creased the skin on his forehead and around his hazel eyes. He asked them to sit, waving a large, freckled hand to the empty chairs across the table from him. When they sat, he smiled warmly.
“I be Ron Foust,” he told them in a low, soft baritone. “My mother tells me you be friends of Hisha? Is she well?”
“Mistress Hisha is quite well, Master Foust,” Farrus answered in his customary gruff monotone.
“Please call me Ron. When did you see her last?” he asked eagerly.
“Just a few days ago,” Sim answered. “We stayed with her in Carleton. She recommended your inn to us.”
Ron nodded. He seemed conflicted. He leaned forward rubbing his hands together and looking around the room. “If Hisha sent you to me, then one of you must be a trival,” he whispered seriously. “I’m happy to help you in anyway that I can, but you need to be understanding something.” He pointed a thick calloused finger at each of them. “Don’t be bringing any trouble back to this inn. Do you hear me?”
Sim was about to give him reassurances, but Farrus cut him off. “I’m an honest man, Ron, so I’m going to level with you. We can’t make that promise.” Ron raised a suspicious brow. “What we are involved in is dangerous. Our lady friends are out today trying to finish our business in the city so that we can be on our way as soon as possible. With luck, we can slip away as though we were never here at all. But I can’t make you any promises.”
The Innkeeper's Son Page 27