The Lost Son
by
K. R. Sowden
Chapter 1
Starting Out
It was hot and stuffy in the Traveller’s Rest and Borin was beginning to worry. Dannymere was very, very late. The pair had run separate chores that morning and had agreed to meet at midday, give or take an hour either way, but it was now four in the afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. Borin sighed and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Why did he always find himself waiting for the half-elf? Why was it never the other way around? Worry began to change into the suggestion of anger as he silently recalled the other occasions when he had been left waiting, waiting, waiting.
Across the room, the heavy oak door swung open. Borin looked up and was disappointed to see a fair-haired, young man rushing in to join an assembled party of friends. Still no Dannymere. He sighed and cursed the lateness of his companion once more. He forced his eyes away from the door long enough to capture the attention of the serving maid and signal his need of ale.
The girl smiled and took a long, appraising look at the stranger in the black, loose-fitting shirt. His bare arms were muscular and his steely blue eyes had a determined look. He was not the most handsome man she had served that day but there was definitely something attractive about him and the way he held himself. His back was as straight as a board and his shoulders were not at all rounded even though he had been sat there since the start of her shift. She guessed from his bearing that he must be in the army. She wondered at his age and estimated early to mid-twenties. Such a man must already be betrothed, she thought, and with a last regretful shrug, she went to fetch the ale.
Borin scanned the large, rectangular room for what seemed like the thousandth time. The Travellers’ Rest was teeming with customers due to its proximity to the trade route. Wealthy merchants stood alongside the hands they hired and craftsmen of all description lined the bar, sometimes with vital equipment dumped at their feet like forgotten toys. Borin subtly took in their appearances, trying to deduce their trade, and this game helped to pass the time.
The inn itself was one of the best in Balsan. It was spacious and comfortable and it served good, home-made food from ten in the morning until late at night. Round copper pots, baskets and bunches of dried flowers adorned the window sills and shelves, indicative of the harvest season and as the warmth of summer faded, Borin knew all too well the pressing need to earn coin and shelter before the chill winds blew up from the Sea of Knyves in the South.
Borin smiled as the serving girl set the tankard down. He slid the bronze coins in her direction and again pondered the diminishing weight of his moneybag. It was six full weeks since his last job but it had certainly not been for lack of trying. Mercenaries were no longer required in great numbers while the trade routes were so quiet.
Kingdom Lords had recently signed the Treaty of Enna, introducing sheriffs to rural areas. The sheriffs were tough, battle-hardened men who delivered harsh justice to anyone found breaking the laws of the land. This had virtually stamped out the presence of brigands, guaranteeing safe passage to caravans in each of the twelve domains. The treaty profited the merchants who could cut back on the number of swords they hired, but at the same time it put hundreds of mercenaries out of work.
Borin had just drained his tankard when the door to the inn flew open again. Striding in was a handsome man, more than six feet tall. He had deep brown eyes, the colour of chocolate, and perfect white teeth that shone when he grinned. Large, pointed ears were the only sign of his mixed heritage.
“I found us a job!” Dannymere announced proudly as he arrived at the table.
“Well it certainly took you long enough,” Borin replied, barely concealing his annoyance. He saw his friend wince and it made him mellow slightly. “Let’s get you some ale and then you can tell me all about it.”
Dannymere brightened and took the seat opposite. “It’s been a very long day,” he said after his first sip from the heavy pewter tankard. “After I left you, I went straight to the town square. It was much quieter than I’d expected: I only found three merchants looking to hire.” Dannymere shook his head as he recalled the events of the morning and Borin waited for him to elaborate. “It was a total waste of time- all three of the routes were short and the wages even shorter!”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Borin murmured. “So what happened next?”
Dannymere’s eyes twinkled with excitement. “It was fate, Borin! The Gods must have taken pity on me because I was sat on a wall, minding my own business and taking a bite to eat, when I overheard some men talking about a supposedly well-known merchant, parked outside the city gates. So I introduced myself and they told me everything they knew.”
“Everything they knew, huh! That would explain why I’ve been waiting so damned long,” Borin replied drily.
The half-elf waved away his complaints and said, “The men- Fulk and Jed- were headed there themselves and they let me tag along and that’s how I met Fendril Dromak.”
“Dromak! I’ve heard his name often,” Borin said, smiling now. “He works for the Kingdom Lords.”
“Yes. He carries all kinds of treasures around the Kingdom: silks, furs, gems, jewellery... you name it- he’s got it!”
Borin rubbed his hands together. “Expensive cargo means top pay. This sounds like our kind of job.”
“Exactly! And this is the best bit… he’s got eight wagons in his fleet!”
Borin gave a low whistle at the thought of that much wealth winding its way through the land. “No wonder he’s looking for mercenaries! How many does he want?”
“Thirty. He mostly takes men who have worked for him before.”
“And where is he headed?”
Dannymere did not answer immediately and it seemed to his friend that some of the wind had gone out of his sails. “Desea,” said the half-elf after a few beats and he lowered his eyes to the table.
“I knew there’d be a catch,” Borin grumbled. “That’s too far. And you know that crossing the Ivory Peaks is breaking the law.”
“People still do it all the time,” his friend argued. “A bribe here and a bribe there. Everyone knows the sentries on the passes are partial to gold.”
“That doesn’t mean the penalties are any lighter if you’re caught. And you know what people say about the forest at Lenspar. It’s not safe.”
“You don’t believe those rumours any more than I do,” Dannymere reprimanded him, waggling a finger in his face. “They’re just stories to frighten little kids! And thirty experienced mercenaries can look after themselves,” he said, cracking his knuckles suggestively. The two men ordered more ale and lapsed into a comfortable silence until the serving girl arrived.
“There’s not much work out there for men like us at the moment,” Dannymere wheedled as they drank. He looked up to see his friend in quiet contemplation.
“I suppose we could winter with our families if we had to-” Borin began but he was cut off.
“That is not happening!” Dannymere said, more loudly than he had intended and some people on the table behind them looked around. He blushed and whispered, “I’d rather freeze than spend winter with my father!”
Borin sighed. It was not the first time the half-elf had said something like that but he always refused to discuss it further.
“Well, in that case, we’d better take the job. We really don’t have much choice if we want to survive the winter,” Borin conceded.
Dannymere leaned back in his chair, relieved. “That’s my man! I knew you’d see sense. Let’s raise a toast to our new adventure!”
Borin raised his tankard so that it clinked against the other one and he echoed, “To our new adventure!”
Borin decided to spend the last o
f his money on a decent meal for them both, ahead of their long journey. They ate a hearty beef stew with fresh vegetables and garlic dumplings, followed by an apple pie smothered in thick lashings of custard. Exhausted and satisfied, the men lounged in the bar until it was due to close.
“We’re spent out,” Borin said then, shaking his empty moneybag in the air. “I don’t know about you but I would really like a bed for the night. Pass me the reserves.”
Dannymere was responsible for any surplus coins they managed to save but now he looked unhappy at the prospect of spending them.
“Come on,” Borin coaxed. “We won’t have the comfort of a soft bed and a roof over our heads again for a long, long while. The rates here are reasonable enough and won’t use up everything we’ve put aside.”
The half-elf shifted uneasily in his seat. Then he decided there was little choice but to come clean. Tentatively, he lifted his legs to reveal a brand new pair of black, leather riding-boots. They were very good quality leather with shiny silver buckles near the top. “Don’t be cross but I spent the money on these. My old boots were completely worn out. They were so bad that there were actually holes in the holes!”
His attempt at humour found no willing audience. Instead, his companion scraped back his chair, shouldered his small pack of belongings and left without a word. Dannymere, knowing he had some making up to do, hastily pursued him out of the inn, his string of apologies hanging in the air behind him like the tail of a kite.
Unbeknown to the innkeeper and his wife, the friends slept in an empty stable at the back of the inn. They woke at dawn, before anyone else, and left for the city gates.
The men each carried a single canvas bag. Roughly barrel-shaped and strapped with sturdy buckles, the dun-coloured bags contained a standard bedroll; a few items of clothing and important papers identifying them as citizens of the Kingdom. Both men had an army background and were used to travelling light.
The half-elf had quit the army in his fourth year when he discovered that it did little to quell his appetite for adventure. Fancy dreams of armour and valour had dissolved into the day-to-day reality of marching, drilling and polishing boots. A Kingdom at war is what he had wanted; a Kingdom at peace is what he had got.
By the time the two men reached their destination, the sun had risen over the horizon and was promising a hot day despite the lateness of the season. Borin was thankful for his recent visit to the barber which had left him with a very short crop of blonde hair. Dannymere’s shoulder length brown curls bounced as he walked but in true elven tradition, he seemed largely unaffected by the heat.
“Here we are,” Borin murmured, surveying the fleet of wagons before him. “Now what does this merchant of ours look like?”
Fendril Dromak was a tall, stocky man of advancing years. The first thing that Borin noticed was his deeply tanned and wrinkled face; it was the face of a man who had seen extensive travel and exposure to the elements. He could not discern the colour of the merchant’s hair as it was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed, blue hat.
“I hear you’ve done this kind of work before,” Dromak said gruffly, looking Borin straight in the eye.
“Yes sir. We’re both army-trained and know how to handle ourselves.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You look fit enough. No problems I need to know about?”
The friends shook their heads. Dromak checked their papers and the range of weapons they carried and satisfied, he turned to meet another approaching male. “Go find yourselves some horses,” he called back over his shoulder.
Borin and Dannymere were looking for the horses when a shiny, bald head popped into view. The head belonged to a fellow called Bardolph who described himself as the merchant’s right-hand man. Bardolph was a good deal older than the friends but his physique implied that he would be an asset in a fight. His short-sleeved shirt did little to hide his large biceps and massive array of tattoos. The bald man shook hands with the newcomers and led them straight to the horses.
“Our mounts are in great shape,” he said, “but some are more even-tempered than others. Check out the bay.”
Borin followed his gaze and saw the horse in question. She was easily eighteen hands high and she stood with her ears pressed flat against her head. He knew that was a sign of trouble.
“She needs a firm hand but there’s no other horse that can keep up with her at full gallop,” said the older man in grudging admiration.
Dannymere grinned. “I like a feisty female as much as the next man but I like an easy ride far better.”
Borin winced at his friend’s attempt at humour but Bardolph chuckled and clapped the half-elf on the back. “I can tell we’re going to get along!” he roared before they moved on to view the other mounts, tethered to the fence.
Eight additional horses were saddled up and ready to go and Borin took a moment to assess them. Three months on the road was a long time and his choice of mount would have a large impact on the journey.
Dannymere was less discerning and made his choice straight away. He took the reins of a handsome, black thoroughbred and swung into the saddle. The horse responded with a rapid stream of urine and a cloud of steam rose up as the liquid hit the dry-baked earth. “I think he likes me,” Dannymere said, patting the horse on the side of his long neck. The horse snorted as if it was disagreeing with him and the other men laughed.
“Thoroughbreds are known for their speed rather than their stamina so we don’t often use them on long journeys but this fellow’s an exception. He’s blessed with both,” Bardolph explained.
“Unusual,” Dannymere murmured.
“Yes- unusual like his last owner. Fendril won him from a magician in Warnon, six weeks back, in a game of dice.”
“A magician’s horse!” Dannymere clapped his hands together, delighted.
“Not much of a magician if he couldn’t win a simple game of dice,” Borin quipped.
“Indeed!” Bardolph moved away and gestured to a grey who was swatting flies with her tail. “This is Duchess. She’s a beauty.” He lifted the saddle flap, grabbed the girth and quickly tightened it by another two notches.
“She’s perfect,” Borin said, running his hand along her flank. He bent down and tapped her legs in turn. Pleased with his praise, she obediently raised them so that he could inspect her hooves and he was satisfied with what he saw; they were newly shod and in a good condition.
Once Bardolph had gone, the friends introduced themselves to some of the other men around the wagons. They spoke to several in passing before Dannymere’s attention was taken by a group of dwarves who were rounding the corner. The dwarves stood less than four feet tall but they were powerfully built, like boulders. They carried mighty hammers at their belts and the half-elf did not doubt for a second that they could crack skulls.
“Hello!” he called out as they approached. “I’m Dannymere.” He offered his hand and was surprised when it was not immediately accepted. He flushed as he realised the dwarves were staring at his ears.
“Argh you’ve seen elves before!” one dwarf chided the rest, and he stepped forward to accept the proffered hand. “It’s good to meet you, Dannymere. I’m Vascos from the Granite Clan of Daglin.” Then he introduced the others while the friends tried to memorise their names and titles. Before long, they were told to assemble on horseback, in front of the wagons.
“Bardolph, you can mount up now!” Dromak hollered and the bald-headed man saluted with mock formality.
Ten minutes later, the caravan was underway. The friends were positioned at the centre of the column with eight pairs of men in front of them and six pairs behind. The foremost and backmost markers were the most experienced mercenaries who had travelled with the merchant before and proved themselves on the open road.
Although summer was officially coming to a close, it was hot beyond belief and the flies were relentless in their harassment of the horses. The mercenaries were relieved when the signal to stop was passed down the line. They used t
he break to refill their water skins from a barrel provided and stretch their legs to stave off cramping. All too soon they were back in the saddle, riding along the dusty road that wound its way to Warnon.
The day was uneventful and the high temperature, coupled with the stillness of the air, killed any conversation beyond the first few hours. Borin found his mind wandering back to his past. Originally from a small village in Ige, his childhood had been quiet and sheltered. His parents were crop farmers so he had learned the value of hard work and endurance from an early age but he had not enjoyed the solitary nature of toiling the fields. So Borin had rejected a life of farming and chose to join the army just after his sixteenth birthday. The army had showed him that there was a world outside his village and he had enjoyed his expeditions to Ron Caston and Balsan, at the centre of the Kingdom.
For the most part, Borin had been based in the local barracks and allowed to return to the family home every fourth weekend. He had always enjoyed a good relationship with his parents, and then there was Rose, his much younger sister. She lived to reject everything feminine; wearing dungarees instead of dresses and harassing her older brother to teach her the moves and manoeuvres he learned as a soldier, whenever they had time together.
Borin remained lost in his thoughts while the half-elf hummed gently besides him. Both men were blissfully unaware that someone, not too far away, wanted one of them dead.
Chapter 2
A Strange Turn of Events
Fendril Dromak’s team of wagons veered off the dusty road as the light began to fade. A clearing had been spotted and deemed suitable by the scouts.
As the men approached, they could see the space was easily large enough for all eight wagons, the accompanying mules, men and mounts. It was bordered at the far end by a small copse that would provide firewood too.
Dannymere was eager to feel the soil beneath his feet. He dismounted with a thud and started to roll up his stirrups. The thoroughbred angled his well-chiselled head and watched him. “Good boy, Jasper,” the half-elf said, having just decided on a name.
The Lost Son Page 1