by Aaron Hodges
Quinn gritted his teeth. He didn’t need to hear the words to know what the hammerman was saying.
Better luck next time, sonny!
Clenching his reins in one gloved hand, Quinn turned to his men.
“Watch the river,” he snapped. “We cross as soon as the waters are low enough to ford.”
With that, he tugged on his reins, pointing his mount back towards the camp, and kicked the beast into a gallop.
Chapter 20
Devon swore loudly as a wagon rumbled past on the busy street, its iron-rimmed wheels just inches from his feet. The driver did not so much as glance back as Devon’s curses chased after him. Muttering under his breath, Devon pressed on through the crowd, doing his best to keep his head down. He kept watch on the city guard from the corner of his eye. They lined the marketplace, their wary eyes hunting for pickpockets and trouble. He doubted Quinn had managed to send word to Lon so quickly, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.
He was close to the port now, and quickly losing patience. This would be the third tavern he’d visited—and there was still no sign of his contact. He had left Alana and her brother in the room they’d rented, while he sought a ship to carry them north. For now, it was best to keep them as far from this business as possible—he doubted there’d be many ship captains willing to help a Magicker.
Around him, the streets of Lon were packed to bursting. He had never liked the city, where people scurried along the rutted streets like flies on a corpse. Long ago, Lon had been the quiet capital of the farming nation, but those days were long gone now. With Lonians fleeing the impoverished countryside, its population was now twice that of Ardath, with half the wealth.
Devon wrinkled his nose as he walked past an alleyway choked with human refuse. He had long since given up walking around the animal dung lying thick in the streets. Amidst the press of humanity, emaciated sheep wandered freely, while stray dogs darted amongst the legs of pedestrians, seeking their next meal. Broken glass and pottery lay discarded in corners, and he saw more than one barefooted beggar with a limp. In another alley, he glimpsed a figure lying in the shadows—either sleeping or dead. No one stopped to check.
Ahead, the streets opened out, the three storey buildings finally giving way to the docks. This was an older section of Lon, its streets at least cobbled, with a raised sidewalk to protect pedestrians from the overburdened wagons rumbling up from the harbour. As the closest remaining city to Northland, Lon was still the centre of trade between the north and south. That alone should have made the city rich—if not for the Tsar’s taxes.
At the end of the street, the cobbled road turned to wooden planks where it reached the docks. No longer penned in by the narrow streets, Devon took a deep breath, savouring the sudden tang of salt in the air. A cool breeze blew across his face, carrying with it the stench of rotting fish. Smiling wryly, he shook his head and pressed on.
Out on the harbour, hundreds of ships sat at anchor, while dozens more came and went from the docks lining the city front. Men and women moved quickly across the wharf, unloading wagons and carrying heavy crates up gangplanks onto waiting ships. The neighing of horses mingled with the shouts of men, punctuated by the odd crash as something was dropped. Gulls cawed as they circled overhead, their beady eyes on the lookout for food.
Shouldering his way through the crowd, Devon made his way along the docks until he spotted the inn he had been directed to. He breathed a sigh of relief as he caught a glimpse of the Black Seagull and steered his way towards it. Manoeuvring his way around a pile of cages filled with wriggling lobsters, he found himself outside the heavy wooden doors, and pushed his way inside.
Warm air billowed out to greet him, banishing the cold. This close to the coast, the snowstorm had not reached the city, but there was still ice in the air and he was wearing several woollen layers. Stripping off his coat, he hung it beside the door, before looking around to appraise the inn’s occupants. It was still early in the afternoon and the bar room was reasonably quiet—although in this case that meant there were only twenty revellers crammed into the tiny tables. His eyes swept the room, seeking out his contact, but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. Muttering under his breath, he forced his way to the bar and ordered a pint of ale.
When the bartender returned, Devon handed him several copper Austral for the drink and then caught him by the hand. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a friend of mine? Goes by Julian.”
The bartender eyed him closely. “Who’s asking?”
“A friend.”
The man nodded, eyes still suspicious, and moved away without answering. Shaking his head, Devon gulped down a mouthful of ale and turned to give the patrons of the bar another look-over. Most of the men were sailors, their beards long and grizzled, faces tanned by the constant sun. They would be enjoying their brief time ashore before their next voyage. More than a few women sat amongst them, looking just as rough, their hair dry and split, heavy knives on their belts. Devon grinned as he saw one sailor get too friendly, only to have his head slammed into the table top. The men around him boomed with laughter as one of the bar’s minders quickly dragged the man outside.
“Sailors,” Devon muttered, turning back to his drink.
“I know a ship in need of some muscle, if you’re looking to join the lifestyle, Devon,” a man said with a laugh as he sat on the neighbouring stool.
Unlike the sailors in the bar, the man’s beard was neatly trimmed, though a few grey hairs had appeared amongst the black. His hair remained the same jet-black as during the war, but it was starting to recede at the brow. Wrinkles had appeared around his hazel eyes. He wore a clean white tunic and sleek black pants, along with a slim rapier strapped at his waist.
Devon flashed Julian a grin. “I’ve no taste for the sea, old friend.”
“No, now that you mention it, I seem to recall you growing rather green on that last voyage.”
Devon snorted. “Not sure how, since you spent most of your time huddling below deck.”
Julian held up his hands, the ale sloshing from his mug. “What can I say? One must know his strengths! I never had your talent with death, Devon.”
“Ay,” Devon replied, his amusement falling from him like water. “Few do.”
An awkward silence followed, punctuated by a man’s yell as one of the fisherwomen hurled him across a table.
“So, what brings you to Lon, old friend?” Julian asked finally. “Not like you to be skulking around these parts.”
“Business,” Devon replied with a grunt. “Got a client who needs a ride.”
“I see.” Julian’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing to do with that spot of trouble you got yourself into in Ardath, then? Heard you’ve got a bit of a bounty on your head.”
Devon tensed at his friend’s words, his heart beating faster. “What did you hear?”
Julian raised an eyebrow. “So serious, Devon? Didn’t think a few royal guards would worry you overly much.”
Devon let out a long breath and forced himself to smile. “Oh, it’s not that greenboy and his friends who worry me. It’s the bloody bounty on my head!”
“The bounty?” his friend guffawed. “Well, you need not worry about that. The fool put out a bounty alright, but it’s hardly worth the paper it’s written on. Half a gold libra, if you can believe that? And he wants you alive! Not a hunter in the Three Nations foolish enough to take on a legend like you for such a piddling sum.”
Devon feigned anger. “It’s almost insulting,” he replied. Knocking back his ale, he hailed the bartender for another. He turned back to his friend and went on. “I’ve half a mind to go back and hit him again.”
Julian grinned. “So, these clients of yours, where are they headed?”
“Northland.”
Sitting back in his chair, Julian eyed Devon. “Sounds like a dangerous client.” He paused. Licking his fat lips, he eyed Devon, as though seeing him for the first time. “Are you sure these are clients you want to get in bed with
, Devon?”
Devon stared back, jaw clenched. “Do you have a ship or not, Julian?”
Julian was silent for a moment longer, before offering a quick nod. “It just so happens the Songbird is sailing on the morning tide. She’s a Northland ship, heading for Duskenville. How many passengers we talking?”
“Five,” Devon replied. Duskenville was the closest Northland port. Nestled at the foot of the coastal cliffs, the colourful town was only a few days’ sailing from Lon.
“You wouldn’t be one of those five, would you?”
“Could be I am,” Devon said with a shrug. “Let’s just say my recent troubles have opened my eyes to new adventures.”
“It’ll be costly,” Julian shot back, eyes alight.
“My clients can pay,” Devon replied with an easy grin.
Julian raised an eyebrow. “I should hope so.” There was open scepticism in his voice.
Devon laughed. “What, you don’t trust me, old friend?”
Julian relaxed at Devon’s laughter. He shook his head. “Forgive an aging man his distrust. Course I trust you!” He trailed off, then added quickly, “Only, you do still owe me a gold libra for that business back in Coral.”
“You do have a long memory, don’t you?” Devon muttered. “Well, you can add that to the tab for our passage tomorrow. I take it ten libra per passenger is still the going rate?”
“Ten!” Julian exclaimed, spilling more of his ale. “You have been gone a while. The price is now twenty!”
“Ha! You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Julian? It can’t be more than twelve.”
The exchange continued for a few more minutes before Devon finally settled on fifteen gold apiece. He winced at the cost, though he had no doubt Kellian would have the coin. At least they’d managed to get a decent price for the horses they’d taken from the Stalkers. Their branding meant they’d been forced to sell them on the black market, but they’d still been able to use the profits to pay for their lodging and supplies.
He spent another hour talking with Julian, going over details for the journey, which eventually turned to tales of one another’s exploits during the war. Despite his regrets, Devon felt a touch of nostalgia as Julian regaled him of his heroics during their march through the Branei Pass into Trola. Those had been the early days of the war, simpler times when the Trolans had been evil aggressors, the Plorsean army the noble defenders of the innocent.
Finally, Devon knocked back his ale and stood. Bidding his old friend farewell, he promised to meet at the fourth dock the next morning at daybreak. There was plenty more to do before the day ended, and outside he could already see the light beginning to fade. He threaded his way through the crowd and claimed his coat from the rack, before stepping back out into the cold.
Chapter 21
Alana shivered as she stepped back from the window and slammed the shutters closed. The sky was thick with clouds, the air untouched by the sun’s heat. Inside their room was little better. The ceiling was thick with mould and its only window faced north, allowing in a thin breath of cold whenever the wind blew. There had been no other lodging available though, and it was better than sleeping in the gutters.
Earlier, Kellian had headed out to collect his funds from a local merchant. Devon was organising them a ship for Northland, leaving Alana and her brother to stew in the tiny room with the old priest.
She was sitting now in a chair before the fire, her blue eyes distant. Braidon sat opposite the opposite chair, his knees pulled up to his chest, his face still lined with exhaustion. They had ridden hard through the Lonian foothills yesterday, reaching the city only as the last light was fading from the sky. It had taken all her brother’s strength just to make it up the stairs to their room. Food and a full night’s sleep had done them all good, but it would be days before Braidon was fully recovered.
The room consisted of a fireplace, a wooden table and stools, the two chairs near the fire, and three beds—Devon and Kellian were bunked next door. Taking a stool from the table, Alana dragged it across the moth-eaten carpet and joined the others at the fireplace.
Her brother smiled and held out a plate of chocolate biscuits. Seating herself, Alana took one with a smile.
“Do you think they’ll be back soon?” Braidon asked quietly.
“Patience, young one,” Tillie answered for Alana. “They will be back when they’re done—and not a moment sooner.”
Alana wondered for a moment whether she’d made the wrong decision in trusting the men. At this moment they could be fetching the city watch, or a squadron of Stalkers, while she and her brother sat here in blissful ignorance. Even now the hunters might be closing around them. Shivering, she shook her head to rid herself of the thought, and turned to the priest.
“Tillie, during the storm you told me my brother’s magic could be controlled by…what did you call it, meditation?”
The priest nodded, her eyes dancing. “Of course. Meditation is how Magickers have controlled their power for centuries.”
Alana shared a glance with her brother. “Can you teach him?”
“I could, if he wished to learn,” Tillie replied, turning her eyes to Braidon.
Her brother nodded quickly, his blue eyes alive with excitement. “Yes, please!”
The old woman laughed. “Very well, would you like to start now?”
Braidon nodded. Moving from her chair, Tillie seated herself on the rug before the fire and nodded for Braidon to join her. Then her eyes looked up at Alana. “You may join us if you wish, Alana.”
Alana blinked. “It’s not just for Magickers?”
“Or course not. Anyone can take part—though only with dedication and practice can you truly master the art.”
Alana looked from the priest to her brother and then joined them on the rug. Copying the old woman, she folded her legs beneath her, then looked to Tillie in question.
“Do we have to sit like this?” her brother asked suddenly, already wriggling.
Alana sighed—her brother had never been good at sitting still. No wonder he had never excelled in his studies…
“You may sit however you wish, young Braidon, but…” Tillie trailed off as Braidon quickly flopped onto his side. Shaking her head, Tillie continued with an amused smile. “But sitting with your legs crossed will prove most comfortable over long periods, I assure you.”
Alana’s backside was already aching but she kept her mouth shut, trusting the old woman was right. “Okay then,” she said, glancing at her brother. “Should we give this meditation thing a go?”
Braidon rolled his eyes. “It’s only breathing, how hard can it be?” He let out a long breath. “But I suppose I’ll give it a go.”
“Very good,” Tillie replied. “But first, what do you know of your power, young Braidon?”
Her brother shrugged. “Not much. That was only the second time its appeared. The first was…on my birthday.”
Tillie nodded. “Yes, magic always awakens on the anniversary of a birth. That is why we sometimes call it the Gift.”
Braidon looked away at that. “Some gift,” he muttered.
“Perhaps not now, but I have seen Magickers do wonderful, incredible things.” She paused, her eyes taking on a distant look. “How else do you think the drought around Chole was broken?”
“That drought was created by magic in the first place, wasn’t it?” Alana cut in.
“Dark magic,” Tillie replied, “is an altogether different beast.”
“How so?” Braidon questioned.
Tillie sighed. “Dark magic sits outside the natural order of our world. It is capable of incredible feats, but always there is corruption, a perversion of the wielder’s original intent.”
“What makes my magic different then?”
“Your magic stems from one of the Three Elements, and so operates within the natural world. A true Magicker can manipulate part or the entirety of one Element, but never more than that. For instance, your magic, while I don’t ye
t understand all of its nature, comes from the Light. Your power may be able to manipulate fire, or light, or magic itself, but you will never control the weather, nor speak with plants, since those abilities come under the Elements of Earth and Sky.”
“So his power could start a fire once he gets control of it?” Alana asked, her curiosity growing.
Tillie smiled. “Perhaps. As I said, from the brief display back in Sitton, I couldn’t discern Braidon’s true power – only that it came from the Light. Now, enough of this! The others will return soon, so if you want to practice, young Braidon, we had best start. To begin, we must close our eyes.”
Alana nodded, remembering the old woman’s instructions from the night in the grove, and did as she was bid. Idly, she wondered how ridiculous they must look, the three of them sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. She hoped Devon and Kellian did not return while they sat there.
“Now, we begin by exhaling until our lungs are completely empty,” the old priest said. “When you can breathe out no longer, inhale, and allow the air to fill your chest.”
Alana did as she was told, exhaling until the longing for air grew too much, and she was forced to suck in a fresh breath. Across from her, she could hear her brother giggling as he did the same, and struggled to keep from laughing herself.
“Keep your mind focused on your breath,” Tillie continued, ignoring the laughter. “It may feel strange at first, uncomfortable or, yes, amusing, but trust me. There is purpose in this madness.”
Smiling to herself, Alana continued the exercise. For a while she concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest, the swelling of her stomach with each inhalation. But after a time, she noticed her mind drifting, her thoughts turning to the Arbor, to Quinn and Devon, to their voyage across the lake…