At least their destination didn’t disappoint. Fork Town—it should really be called Fork City—was one of the most-important trading hubs on the continent. Located on the southern side of the only reliable route through the Linden Mountains, it was the primary access point to Trure this side of the badlands. The fork that gave the town its name was a busy roundabout alive with snorting horses and creaking wagons. Dust rose over it, shimmering gold in the setting sun, as they rode in from the north. A brick platform stood at the center bearing an ancient iron statue overlooking the traffic. The main roads branched off to Trure, Pendark via the Darkwood, and the Soolen Peninsula. Inns and taverns lined each fork, eventually giving way to warehouses and tenements farther from the center. Beyond the city boundaries, vast vineyards crept up the slopes of the mountains and edged across the landscape.
Famous as a trading center, Fork Town was infamous for its nighttime activities. Most travelers stayed more than a day to allow for both rest and recreation. With the closure of the Pass, the town nearly overflowed with stranded merchants and restless mercenaries. It promised to be an especially raucous night.
The pen fighters took rooms in an inn just off the main fork called Teall’s Traveler. Kres warned them they’d resume their usual training soon, but he gave them the night and the next day off. They all napped for a few hours and reconvened in the inn’s common room to prepare for a night of proper Fork Town carousing.
For his part, Siv was looking forward to drowning his regret in the famous Fork Town wine. He’d spent restless hours worrying about what was happening back in Rallion City during the journey. Now that Trure had been invaded, it was more important than ever to send word to the royal palace. Even if he couldn’t escape the pen fighters, maybe he could at least let his family know his whereabouts.
But as he debated how to return, he always circled around to the reality that he couldn’t do anything against the Soolen army even if he escaped. He was just one man. His grandfather had a wall and a palace and a world-famous cavalry. The Soolens probably wouldn’t make it halfway to Rallion City before the Trurens stopped them. Selivia and his mother would be fine.
Besides, look what happened to Sora in your care. Siv couldn’t keep the ugly thought from rearing its head like a cullmoran—and he knew firsthand how ugly those were. His shame at failing his most-important task was enough to keep him moving further away from who he used to be. He didn’t much like that fellow anyway.
As he started on the first of what he hoped would be many goblets of wine in the inn’s common room, he couldn’t keep Dara’s image from coming to him. He could walk away from his former self, but he couldn’t walk away from her as easily. He couldn’t drink away the memory of her intense eyes, her proud mouth, her self-assurance, her passion. Sure, he mused about starting fresh and relieving her of the burden of protecting him, but he still missed her. The woman. The friend. Dara had been on his side more than anyone in his life except his father and sisters. Only she could scold him for being immature while still showing far more faith in him than he deserved. She had stayed with him through his darkest moments—and she made it a thousand times harder to walk away.
He was also sure she felt more than loyalty for him. There had been no pretending after that kiss. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her one more time, to tell her she was the most-beautiful woman he had ever known, to offer her every broken shred of the world. Yet he had let the events of the past few weeks carry him away from her. And now he was stuck on the wrong side of the Pass.
Siv scowled into the ripples in his goblet. Dara didn’t need to guard a fallen king. And she probably didn’t even want to be with a man like him.
“Got a girl on the mind?” Gull asked, nudging him with her bony elbow. She’d let down her ale-brown hair, and it fell in a sleek curtain beside her cheek.
“You could say that.”
“Ease up a little,” Gull said. “No woman wants a man who mopes.”
“I’m not moping.”
“Pouting, then.” Gull took a long gulp from her goblet. “Even your sexy lips don’t make a pout like that enticing.”
Siv’s jaw went slack. Sexy lips? Fiz threw his head back and laughed louder than a hecklebird. People at other tables looked over at the sound.
“Close your mouth, pretty boy,” Gull said. “Have another drink, and tell us about your girl.”
“I don’t want to talk about her,” Siv grumbled, his face reddening.
“Don’t turn into Latch,” Gull said. “I had all the first-love sighs and giggles I could take while Shreya was still with us.”
“How long were they together?” Siv asked. Latch hadn’t come down from his room yet. Maybe he could finally get something out of Fiz and Gull about their surly Soolen. He was becoming more and more certain that Latch was the reason they were all so worried about spies.
“A week at most,” Fiz said. “Latch had it bad for her from the first day. And she liked him back, though I can’t imagine why. Watching them spar was like seeing an unlicensed fan show in the Gutter District of Pendark.”
“Speaking of which,” Kres said, coming over from where he’d been chatting with the innkeeper and setting a new pitcher of wine on the table, “there are plenty of girls in Pendark, lad. And men. I’ll show you beauties beyond your most-elaborate and colorful dreams in the great city by the sea.”
Siv poured himself more wine. He didn’t want to see these Pendarkan beauties. He wanted to see Dara. But as Kres launched into a bawdy tale of fan shows and Waterdancers, he tried his hardest to put her from his mind. Firelord knew she should forget about him.
Latch was the last to join them, and he nodded at everyone except Siv. He had bathed more thoroughly than the others and donned a clean shirt and long vest. Even his tall boots had a fresh shine. He looked more like a young lord and less like a rough-and-tumble pen fighter without the grime from the road. Whatever had enticed him to join the pen fighters, it seemed he too was having a hard time giving up his former identity completely.
“Catch up, mate,” Fiz said, pushing the pitcher toward him. “We’re in for a big night.”
Latch poured himself a drink but didn’t take more than two sips. That was no way to enjoy a man’s first night in Fork Town. Siv tried to ignore his crankiest companion as the pen fighters worked their way through more wine. The common room grew hot, packed to the walls with travelers eager to speculate about the closure of Kurn Pass and what it meant for trade. Those transporting goods bound for Trure from Pendark argued over whether to wait it out, try to sell their shipments right there in Fork Town, or even take the southeastern fork road down to Soole itself. They squabbled, loud but festive, and shouted for more wine.
A few people in the common room knew Gull. They called out greetings or bawdy suggestions, and she responded in her usual dulcet tones, apparently not too enthusiastic about reconnecting with anyone in her hometown. When Siv asked if she had any family here, she gave him a flat stare and refused to answer. He returned to his cups. Better to let sleeping velgon bears lie.
The general consensus among the travelers was that Pendark remained safe—or as safe as it ever was—so the gossip didn’t alter the pen fighters’ plans. Before long, Kres stood and banged his goblet on the table.
“Let us make the rounds, friends!” he said. “No wayfarer in Fork Town ought to spend their whole night in a single tavern. It’s bad luck.”
“Hear! Hear!” Fiz called.
They tumbled out of the Teall’s Traveler’s door and tramped through the streets, footsteps already weaving. It was long past dark, but the streets were as lively as if it were high noon. Laughter and multi-accented voices from other revelers filled the air. The crowd was rougher than in the parlors and taverns of King’s Peak where Siv had spent many an evening carousing, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t a prince or a king anymore. He was just another anonymous vagrant lurching through the throng.
Kres, Fiz, and Gull led the way through a
succession of inns (The Laughing Pullturtle, The Waterlord’s End) and taverns (The Sodden Soolen, Kurtle’s Kettle, The Goblet and the Girl). Latch and Siv ambled along after them as the night whirled, confusing their senses.
Revelers milled around the main fork, which was no longer crammed with horses and wagons. The winter chill didn’t dissuade the people from dancing in the streets, clutching at each other as their feet kicked up dust. Three fiddlers, triplets by the looks of them, pranced on the raised brick platform in the center of the roundabout, where the age-darkened statue stood. Decades of scrawled signatures and lewd pictures vandalized every inch of the figure. Its battered head appeared to have more than one face. A pimply boy banged on a kettledrum at its feet. The sound was wild and joyous, the cacophony almost overwhelming. Despite himself, Siv grinned, tapping his feet to the rhythm. He’d always wanted to see this. As king he never would have had a chance except on dull diplomatic excursions. But regular people were free in the Fork. No matter where he came from or what he’d done, a man could strike out in any direction to seek his fortune. He could join a mercenary band, assume a new identity, disappear into the night with the right enticement. Every branch of the fork suggested new possibilities.
Women wearing colorful Truren scarves and wide skirts skipped toward them, beckoning them to join the dance. The youngest among them was short, with auburn hair and dark eyes full of promise. She carried a wineskin under her arm and when she tipped it back, berry-red dripped down her chin like blood. She giggled and wiped it with her sleeve then held the wine out to Siv.
He stared at it for a moment. Maybe it was time he truly left his former self behind. Maybe it was time to forget. The dark-eyed girl nodded encouragingly.
“Come along, Siv, Latch!” called Kres. “We don’t want to lose you to the Fork. It has happened before.”
Siv frowned. That fate was less tempting than it ought to be for a man of his age and physical condition. For some reason, a Fork Town revel with a stranger did not strike him as appealing a diversion as it once might have. He didn’t want to get lost with the dark-eyed girl. He declined the offer of wine. The girl blew him a kiss and disappeared with a toss of her auburn hair. Siv turned away from the dancers and jogged to catch up with his companions. He didn’t look back.
The streets weren’t quite as wild as they meandered away from the main fork. They ended up in a small, less-crowded tavern called The Lightning Bug’s Revenge two blocks from their inn. Fiz informed them the tavern keeper sourced her house wine from the best vineyards in the region. He leaned against the bar to chat with the woman while she poured them another round. The tables were arranged close to the common room wall, leaving an open space in the center with a platform for a fiddler. It was empty now, and Siv spotted the fiddler snuggled in a corner with a buxom woman on his lap.
A retired pen fighter Kres and Gull knew from Pendark waved from another corner, and they went over to greet him while Siv and Latch found a table by the wall opposite the bar. Fiz was still engrossed in his conversation with the tavern keeper. They caught snippets as they took their seats.
“. . . always miss this red.” Fiz banged his goblet on the darkwood bar.
“As you ought.” The tavern keeper chuckled, pouring him another. “It’s better’n anything vined this side of the Bell Sea.”
“I’ve heard that claim more than once tonight,” Siv said. He leaned toward Latch, who had ended up sitting beside him despite his usual efforts to keep a table between them. “My favorite wine is still from the Purlen fields, though.”
“Oh, Purlen is quality,” Latch said with a wistful sigh. “It’s so good it’s almost . . .” He trailed off, staring at Siv with horror.
“Got you again!” Siv said. “Purlen wine is the most-expensive vintage on the continent. And you’ve had it often, have you?”
“You bastard.”
“I’m not out to expose you,” Siv said. He topped up Latch’s wine goblet for him and grinned. “I reckon we have a lot in common. So can you stop being so damn grumpy?”
Latch scowled, but the expression didn’t have its usual wrath. It was hard to be cranky with a belly full of good food and wine, clean clothes, and a warm bed waiting for you at the inn. At last Latch sighed and accepted the refilled goblet. That was progress. Siv might get through to him yet. He raised his own drink in a toast—and the tavern doors crashed open.
With a thunder of footsteps, a dozen armed men poured into the common room. Fiz shouted a warning, but Siv and Latch barely had time to stand up before the first foe reached them.
The man swung a curved blade so fast it whistled through the air. Siv ducked and heaved the table forward to stop the assault. He and Latch scrambled in opposite directions, drawing their swords as they went. Then the rest of the attackers were upon them.
The men had the look of mercenaries: mismatched bits of armor and no colors to signify their allegiance to lord or land. They were a mix of nationalities too, not unlike the team of pen fighters. These men weren’t quite as well trained, but they had the advantage of numbers.
Two enemies converged on each member of the pen-fighting team. Kres uttered a war cry and brandished his knives. Gull fell into her silent, practiced fighting stance, staring down her opponents with a vicious intensity. Fiz had left his broadsword behind at their inn, but he bellowed and swung his fists at anyone that dared get near him.
Siv had his own pair of opponents to worry about. Fortunately, he’d worn his sword when they went out. He drew the knife Kres had given him and wielded both weapons, using every ounce of training he could muster. Despite all the wine he’d consumed, he managed to keep his feet, dancing in and out of his opponents’ range, daring them to strike.
Fighting two men at once required more agility than it took for a morrinvole to cross a bridge line. He finally understood why they called it the Dance of Steel.
His first opponent fell with a deep slice to the wrist. The man scrambled away, desperately trying to hold in his lifeblood with his other hand. The second was tougher, but Siv had been practicing hard over the past few weeks. The fight felt surreal, as if it were taking place underwater. That was probably the wine.
His opponent struck, and Siv moved on instinct, countering the hit with a strong parry—not his most elegant ever—and then he sliced his attacker’s ribs with his knife. He nearly lost an eye to the riposte, the jab missing him by a hair. He leapt back, stumbling over a fallen chair. He kicked the chair forward to deter his opponent and edged around a table near the wall.
He had time for a quick glance around the tavern as his opponent assessed his new position. The common room had emptied of everyone except the pen fighters and their attackers. The pen fighters—who were professionals after all—had already dispatched several of the mercenaries. Kres and Gull moved back to back to combat their remaining two attackers. The clash of steel and a colorful array of curses in several languages filled the air.
Siv had been correct about the two attackers for each pen fighter—except for Latch. Four men had cornered him, and they were trying to force him toward the door.
That was all Siv had time to see before his own opponent closed with him again. This one was better than his companion, but as Siv met his slashes with parry after parry, he got the impression the man wasn’t trying to kill him. He pressed Siv hard, but he didn’t take any risks that might get him close enough to deliver a killing blow. It was almost as if he was trying to distract him. So this was a kidnapping, not a murder, was it?
Siv risked another look at Latch. Why were twice as many men going after him? Siv had assumed the assailants were here for him at first. What mercenaries wouldn’t want a chance to capture the former King of Vertigon? But Latch was the one being herded toward the door.
Well, whatever this was about, Siv wasn’t going to let his new teammate be taken. He bellowed a war cry and threw his knife at his opponent. The man raised his blade in time to block it, giving Siv the opening he needed to
ram his sword straight into the soft flesh of his adversary’s armpit. He let out a bloody gurgle and dropped to the floor.
Siv snatched his knife up from where it had skittered away and hurtled over his fallen opponent, not pausing to watch him die.
Latch was putting up a good fight across the room, but too many men surrounded him. He had taken down one with a stab to the thigh, but the other three edged in and managed to disarm him. Two of them grabbed Latch’s arms and hauled him toward the door.
Siv launched off the fiddler’s platform and hurled himself into one of Latch’s captors at full speed, causing all four of them to tumble to the ground. Siv’s wild hit struck true, and the first man died. Siv shoved his sword into Latch’s newly freed hand and leapt up to deal with the man who’d stayed on his feet.
Latch tangled with his other would-be captor on the ground while Siv faced off against the final foe. Too late, he wished he’d given Latch the knife and kept the sword for himself.
His opponent was armed with a short sword and a dangerous grin. Siv crouched, knife at the ready, and watched for an opening. He took a few swipes to test the man’s defenses. The short sword caught the knife every time. At least the man was biding his time, exercising caution. If he went for a direct attack, Siv wouldn’t be able to stop him without taking a cut or two. Or a gaping wound to the gut.
Siv bounced on the balls of his feet, staying agile just as Kres had taught him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and it occurred to him that he might throw up the night’s libations on the man who was trying to kill him. This was why he should never drink. Why did people always try to kill him when he drank?
Despite the wine distorting his senses, he kept his head. His opponent attacked, and Siv met the short sword with a quick parry, the blow sending vibrations up his arm. Before his opponent could riposte, Siv jumped back. He aimed a kick at the man’s fist, his foot coming up beneath his sword arm. The man grimaced, but he kept his grip on his sword. Damn it. That should have worked.
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