Lorik (The Lorik Trilogy)

by Toby Neighbors

  Lorik (Book One)

  © 2013 Toby Neighbors

  Published by Mythic Adventure Publishing

  Post Falls, Idaho

  All Rights Reserved No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover Designed by Camille Denae

  Copyeditor Jodie Young, Rooftop Copy

  www.rooftopcopy.com

  Books by Toby Neighbors:

  Wizard Rising - 5K Book 1

  Magic Awakening - 5K Book 2

  Hidden Fire - 5K Book 3

  Crying Havoc - 5K Book 4

  Third Prince

  Royal Destiny

  The New World

  The Other Side

  To learn more about Toby Neighbors and his books, visit www.TobyNeighbors.com

  Dedication:

  To Phillip Carnes who battled with me long ago

  across the fabled lands in and around our neighborhood.

  And to the love of my life, Camille Neighbors.

  We are living our very own fairy tale and I love spending every minute of it with you.

  Chapter 1

  Blood dripped from his knuckle. It wasn’t his blood, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away. It was hard to miss, and the patrons in the busy tavern took notice. He wore dark woolen pants with tall, rugged boots that were covered with mud. His shirt was sweat-stained, but that was not uncommon in the marshlands. He had close-cropped hair, and his face was covered with stubble that wasn’t quite a beard. Around his waist was a leather belt that was slung low, and on each hip hung a knife with knuckle guards that arched up and down over his fingers. The weapons were made to be held backward, so that the blade pointed down, and the stranger obviously used them frequently.

  Lorik was alone in a corner of the tavern and watched silently as the stranger made his way toward the bar. He wasn’t surprised to see a man like the stranger in Hassell Point, which was full of pirates and outlaws. The only thing that made the man different was the state of his clothes, which Lorik recognized immediately as riding gear. From the mud on the stranger’s clothes, Lorik determined that he had passed through the marshes, no mean feat for an outsider.

  The stranger ordered a drink at the bar. There was wine and mead available at the tavern, but most of the patrons ordered the strong rice liquor that was a speciality in the Marshlands. The pirates who frequented Hassell Point sometimes traded their rum for the spirit the locals called saka, but it was an acquired taste that most visitors to the area didn’t care for. The locals all watched to see what the stranger would order and how he would drink it.

  Lorik watched Marsdyn as much as the stranger. Marsdyn was the leader of the the local gang known to the Marshland inhabitants as the Riders. Most of the tradesmen in Hassell Point paid the Riders protection money, which made Marsdyn the closest thing to law in the Marshlands. Of course the Earl was the official lord, but the difficulty of crossing the Marshlands made the area a haven for lawless types like Marsdyn’s Riders.

  Marsdyn took special notice of the stranger. He was young, mid-twenties Lorik guessed, but he had a lot of experience. The knives he wore were custom-made. Lorik had seen a lot of weapons, but never any with knuckle guards like the ones on the stranger’s knives. He wore them lower than most weapons as well.

  The stranger ordered saka and was given a very small terra-cotta cup. He picked up the drink and sniffed it. Saka had a very strong aroma that would burn a man’s sinuses if it was inhaled too sharply. The stranger didn’t seem fazed by the saka. He tipped the small cup back, drank it all down, and ordered another.

  Marsdyn looked over at his companions and smiled. They didn’t seem pleased.

  “Go ahead and find out what we’re dealing with here,” he told them.

  “You ever seen blades like that, Mars?”

  “Nope,” Marsdyn said. “He wears ’em low, too. It’s got me curious. I got your back, go ahead and see what he’s made of.”

  Lorik double-checked his path to the door. He wasn’t afraid of a fight, but he didn’t see the need to get involved in the business of strangers. He wanted to finish his drink, and maybe have another. He also wanted to see Vera. She was a wench, but they had the only thing close to a relationship Lorik had time for. He’d been back in Hassell Point only a few hours and would most likely be heading out again soon. If a fight broke out in the tavern he would have to find another place to drink.

  The two men with Marsdyn stood up. The were both big men. Most of the local rice farmers were short and slight of build. The two men with Marsdyn both carried heavy daggers that were shaped like cutlasses but only as long as a man’s forearm. The blades were called Hax knives and were common in the Marshlands. As much a tool as a weapon, the knife was easy to make and sturdy, resisting the oxidation that was so common in the wet conditions of the Marshlands. The men wore leather vests and padded riding pants, which were a badge of honor among the locals. Horses were rare in the Marshlands. Marsdyn’s crew were the only riders in Hassell Point other than Lorik, who was a teamster delivering the rice crops north through the Marshlands to the Earl in Yorick Shire.

  The two Riders approached the bar on either side of the stranger, who acted as if they weren’t there. When the tavern host refilled the stranger’s little cup, Pazel, who was standing on the stranger’s right side, snatched the drink away and drank it down in one scorching swallow. The stranger looked up at Pazel, who was several inches taller, and smirked. The smile made Pazel nervous. He wasn’t accustomed to people being at ease around him. He was an imposing figure and he liked intimidating people.

  “Drinks for my friends here,” the stranger said to the tavern proprietor, “they’re thirsty.”

  Two cups were set on the bar, which was a sturdy structure, made from stone with a long, polished wooden top. More saka was poured and once again Pazel started to take the stranger’s drink, but his hand never reached the small cup. The stranger’s arm shot out, his fingers bent at the middle knuckle so that his hand was flat and rigid. The blow struck Pazel in the throat, and, even though it wasn’t a powerful punch, the big man reeled backwards, clutching at his throat and gagging for breath.

  The man on the stranger’s left was called Oky. He hesitated for just a second, as shocked as the rest of the locals at how quickly Pazel had been taken out of the fight. Then his hand dropped to his Hax, but the stranger’s boot smashed into his knee before he could draw the blade. The leg flexed backward, the bones grinding and the tendons popping. Oky screamed in pain and fell to the floor, clutching his leg.

  The stranger seemed undisturbed. He had barely moved from his spot at the bar. He picked up his small cup of saka and drank it down in one quick gulp that was meant to keep the scorching alcohol from burning his throat.

  “You gonna drink this?” the stranger said to Oky, who was writhing on the floor. “Do you mind if I...?” he gestured at the drink.

  When Oky didn’t reply the stranger picked up the drink and sipped it. Then he turned around to face the locals, leaning back against the bar. There were several wenches in the tavern, some serving drinks, others flirting with the locals. The stranger let his gaze move slowly across the room, taking in the scowls of the locals and the few pirates who were busy drinking in the mid-afternoon.

  Marsdyn stood up. He was every bit as big as Pazel, but older. He had a scar that ran from his hairline down to his jaw. His hair was salted with gray, and pulled back into a long ponytail that was tied with a leather cord. He had a thick sash around his waist instead of a belt, and a delicate-looki
ng dagger was tucked into the sash at an angle. It was the only visible weapon he carried. He walked up to the stranger and smiled.

  “I’m Mars,” he said. “I’m what you might call the local overseer. I make sure that the people here understand what’s expected of them.”

  “Is that right?” the stranger said.

  Marsdyn nodded. He looked at the stranger’s knives.

  “Those are some interesting weapons,” he said.

  The stranger moved his hand slowly down to the knife on his right hip. His fingers slid under the knuckle guard and wrapped around the hilt. His movements were slow and unthreatening. He drew the knife and held it up. The blade was pointed toward his elbow, thick at the spine which angled close to his forearm. There was a fuller groove that ran parallel to the spine to make the blade lighter.

  “They’re useful in a pinch,” the stranger said.

  “I can see that,” Marsdyn said. “Why don’t you put them on the bar and come have a drink?”

  “I’ve got a drink,” the stranger said, lifting up the little cup that was in his left hand. “And I don’t leave my weapons lying around unattended. That’s dangerous.”

  “Marsdyn smiled. “I like you. You say just what’s on your mind, in a fashion, of course.”

  The stranger raised his cup in salute. “I find that people don’t make stupid mistakes about me if I speak my mind.”

  “You aren’t from around here,” Marsdyn said. “Although you drink saka like a local.”

  “I grew up in a coastal dive like this one,” he said. “I’ve drunk much worse.”

  “You planning on sticking around a while?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You kill anyone I know?” Marsdyn said, pointing to the blood on the stranger’s knuckles.

  “Didn’t kill ’em, just bloodied their noses a little.”

  “Locals or sailors?”

  “Sailors,” the stranger said.

  “You ride in?”

  “I did.”

  “We’ve got a stable. Let me offer you a place to keep your horse, and maybe something a little better to drink.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “You have a name?” Marsdyn asked.

  “I’m called Stone.”

  Chapter 2

  “So, what’d you think?” Vera said as she circled around behind Lorik and refilled his drink.

  “He’s efficient,” Lorik said.

  Vera smirked, “Efficient, that’s all you thought, not dangerous or frightening?”

  She poured him more mead. The Marshlands didn’t allow for the growth of many crops, but there were abundant wildflowers, and many of the local farmers kept bees, making mead much more prevalent than ale.

  “Dangerous, yes, frightening, no,” Lorik said.

  “How can you not be afraid of a man like that?”

  “He’s just a man. When you work with large animals who can kill you with one kick, a man doesn’t seem as frightening.”

  “Even one who took out two of Marsdyn’s thugs without breaking a sweat? Men like that make me nervous.”

  “So why don’t you quit?” Lorik suggested. “There’s plenty of other things you could do.”

  “Like what?” she teased. “You looking for someone to ride on your wagon through the bogs?”

  “Come on, Vera, you’ve got skills. You can sew as good as the tailor. You know how to cook, how to brew mead and saka. You’re the best healer in the Point. You could make a living helping people, if you put your mind to it.”

  “But the problem with all those things is that I’m not a man,” she said, trying to hide the disdain in her voice, but failing. She sat down on Lorik’s lap, with one arm draped over his shoulder. “There’s still one thing I can do that no man can,” she said with a smile.

  She traced the outline of his jaw with a finger. His beard was thick and unkept, giving him a scruffy appearance, but Vera knew Lorik well. He had never mistreated her, as some of her other customers had. In her younger days she could have worked at one of the waterside bordellos, but she was a local girl. The men in Hassell Point knew her, knew that her parents had died of the wasting sickness when she was young. She had no one to arrange a marriage or pay a dowry for her; she couldn’t even get an apprenticeship since there were so few trades in the Marshlands. So she had turned to the one occupation that she could do. It was a viable option for a young woman, and many of the locals had begun their adult lives in just the same way. A woman could earn enough money to get out of Hassell Point if she wanted to, but Vera had stayed and kept working long after most wenches had given up the life.

  “Well, you are very good at that,” he said, returning her smile.

  “You should know,” she flirted.

  “You could marry,” he said.

  “Are you offering?”

  Lorik grew uncomfortable. He loved Vera in a fashion, but so did half of the men in Hassell Point. Still, the thought of marrying her seemed wrong. He couldn’t say why. He didn’t think less of her because of her profession, but he couldn’t see her waiting for him at home either. He knew it wasn’t something she wanted, and he was too set in his ways. He liked living on his own. He liked taking his team through the Marshlands and north through the forests and farmlands. There was a wild sense of freedom in his life, and marriage, he feared, might put too many restrictions on him.

  “You don’t want an old man like me,” he said.

  “We’re the same age, Lorik,” she said playfully.

  “In years, yes, but not in experience.”

  “You think traveling through the marsh is more difficult than pleasing a man? Not all my companions are as easy going as you, Lorik.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “I just meant I’m set in my ways. I’m only good in small doses. There are plenty of young men in this town who would marry you.”

  “I don’t want to be a farmer’s wife,” she said, sipping from his cup. “You aren’t the only one who likes a little freedom. I make my own rules here. Quaid doesn’t steal my money and lets me do as I please.”

  “Yes, Quaid is a good man, and I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I’m beginning to notice how glad you are,” she said flirtatiously.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not, I’m just good at what I do. I can tell how many drinks a man needs to get up the courage to pay my price.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it is. And you only need one more drink,” she said, getting back to her feet. “Once you see that Marsdyn’s men are carried out, you’ll want to take me to my room.”

  “It’s more comfortable,” he said.

  “Of course it is, and the company is better, too.”

  She went to refill her pitcher of mead. Lorik watched as she moved among the other patrons. She refilled a mug here and there, never coming too close to the men the other wenches were flirting with. Pazel had recovered on his own, although he still coughed as he helped Oky up and supported the injured man as they hobbled out of the tavern. Lorik watched them go and wondered how long it would take before the stranger joined Marsdyn’s gang. Lorik didn’t care for the Riders and didn’t pay them for protection. He didn’t keep goods, just equipment, and he could take care of himself. His horses were Shire horses, used for pulling heavy wagons. They were too slow for outlaws and too heavy to make it through the Marshlands unless you knew the firm paths. He knew how to stay out of trouble in Hassell Point and how to defend himself if he couldn’t. His preferred weapon was a traditional longbow, but he carried a small axe on his belt which he could easily use in a close fight.

  Lorik was larger than most of the inhabitants of Hassell Point. He was used to loading and unloading his wagons, which was simply a necessary part of moving materials through the Marshlands. Depending on the rainfall, certain paths could grow soft, and he would be forced to remove some of his cargo, sometimes all of the cargo, so that his wagon wouldn’t bog down. He wasn
’t a hulking specimen like Pazel or Oky, but he was stronger than he looked. His father had been a teamster, but once Lorik had gotten old enough he turned the business over to his son. Lorik’s mother had passed away several years ago and his father soon after that. Since then, Lorik had been on his own. He was a solitary person and didn’t mind being alone. He made a comfortable living hauling cargo, mostly large sacks of rice, through the Marshlands and returning with trade goods.

  His team wasn’t as fast as sailing around to Quelton Bay, but it was safer. The pirates who frequented Hassell Point had no qualms about raiding the ships that sailed between the Point and other cities. He also charged much less than the trade ships and would take his payment from the money earned when he sold the rice at market. It was an occupation that kept him busy, and he enjoyed his life, although there were times when he wondered if there was something missing. He tried not to dwell on such thoughts, but long periods of being alone gave him plenty of time for introspection.

  “I’m done drinking,” he said to Vera when she came back around.

  “Ooo, does that mean what I think it means?” she teased.

  He smiled. It wasn’t a broad grin, and his face certainly showed no cheerfulness, but she recognized it for what it was. He stood up and followed her through a small door that led to a set of rooms. In the back was a large room with plush furnishings. When Vera opened the door, she jumped back in surprise.

  “Damn it, Grayson!” she shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  The man in the chair had silver hair, but his face was smooth and wrinkle free. He was clean-shaven, and although he wore riding pants and the leather vest that marked him as a Rider, he also wore a silk shirt with flowing sleeves that tied at the wrists. He had no visible weapons, but he had a long, narrow dagger inside his vest and another in the leg of his right boot.

  “What’s he doing here?” Grayson said.

  “That’s none of your business,” Vera said. “You can’t just come into my rooms whenever you want to.”