Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  The kid—Riddle—looked pained for a brief instant. “He’s a wizard, come to fix up Tort.”

  The reply was short, crude, and forceful.

  “No, thanks,” I said, “ but I’m willing to work on anyone who has an ailment.”

  There was some muttering at that, both for and against. No matter how suspicious you are of somebody, the idea that you might get a toothache to stop is a powerful inducement to trust.

  “Who’re you?” the graybeard demanded.

  “Terribly sorry. I’m Sir Halar the Wizard.”

  “Here, I’ve heard of you,” another man said. “You’re the one what fought off the viksagi and killed the dragon, ain’tcha?”

  “Ah. That bard has been through town. Yes, that would be me.”

  “Y’don’t look like no hero t’me.”

  “I left my armor and shield in my room, along with my pointy hat and staff. Should I go get them? Or can we skip that and move right on to fixing people? I haven’t got all afternoon. Things to do, people to see.”

  “Who says you’re goin’ anywhere?” the graybeard asked, almost sweetly.

  “I do,” I answered. I drew Firebrand and the blade was bathed in flames as quickly as it cleared the scabbard. “Now, I’ve got no interest whatsoever in who you are or why you’re here. I don’t care. This isn’t my town. The only thing I care about right now is putting injured or sick people back to rights. If you’ve got a problem with that, I’ll go away and you’ll never see me again. If you try to stop me, I’ll kill you all and burn the building over your bodies. Any questions?”

  Someone threw a knife at me. I caught it, flipped it, and threw it back at him—a lot harder. He was lucky; there’s an art to throwing a knife so it goes in point-first. I don’t have it. The hilt struck him in the forehead with a sound reminiscent of a thumped melon. He pitched backward and fell heavily, blood streaming from the broken skin of his forehead.

  I pointed Firebrand at a collection of wood scraps that loosely resembled a table. I distinctly heard a mental exclamation of glee as flames shot out. The table began to burn merrily. I swung the jet of fire up and across the room, deliberately missing people and structure. People dove out of the way anyhow.

  Firebrand settled back to a mere flaming sword.

  “Now, shall we try that again?” I asked.

  From behind a broken-down thing that was probably once a divan, a voice said, “Get out.”

  I glanced at Riddle. He looked sick. He impressed me, though; he didn’t run. He stood there and held his ground beside me while I waved flaming metal around. He was about to have a really tough time with his playmates for bringing me in, but what could I do? I glanced out the door and nodded that direction. He shook his head.

  “All right. I’m leaving. Terribly sorry to have intruded. Good day.”

  I backed up a step to the wall, then slid out through the door. Someone inside shut the door.

  I sheathed Firebrand and went to find the Pig and Pony, still feeling a little guilty.

  The Pig and Pony was a sizable place with a lot more parking than it needed. The wagons were drawn up side-by-side and the horses were in a wood-shingled stable. The interior of the inn was a lot more cozy than the external timbers suggested; the floors were raised so hot air from the fireplaces—two of them—could circulate underneath. Roman central heating! I admired it for a while.

  “Lord,” Caedwyl or Caeron said—one of the CC twins. “Welcome. Sir Raeth has your room prepared and her ladyship awaits you.”

  “Good. It’s been a long afternoon and will probably be a long night. I’ll be going out later to see if I can scare up a squire. Do me a favor and ask… what’s her name? Fenethra? Fevira? Something like that. Ask her if I can have some of her boy’s clothes; the kid I have in mind is about his size.”

  “Of course, lord.” He about-faced and dashed off.

  That done, I got one of the Pig & Pony’s staff to show me to my room. Tamara was already in there and waiting. She was in the bed, under the blankets and was curled up into a ball. I shut the door and bolted it before sitting next to her.

  “Something the matter, sweetheart?” I asked, and rubbed her back gently. She looked up; her eyes were puffy and red.

  “Am I still beautiful to you?” she asked, sounding weepy.

  “What a question!” I declared. “Whatever brings that on?”

  She sniffled and moved closer to lay her cheek against my leg. “I looked at myself, and I’ve grown so fat,” she said, and began to cry again.

  “You’re not fat,” I replied. “You’re just making room for someone else. The athletic, slender you is still in there.”

  “I don’t see her!” she sobbed.

  “I do.”

  Her sobbing stopped, diminished to sniffles.

  “You do?” she asked, in a very small voice.

  “Yes,” I answered, moving to sit beside her, hip to hip. “You are very beautiful.”

  She sniffled a little and asked, “Promise?”

  “I promise. The day you look like a fat old cow, I’ll tell you,” I grinned.

  “Oh!” she gasped, then hit me with a pillow. I took it. “You! You…!”

  “Beast?” I supplied, still grinning. I leaned forward and kissed her quickly. She glared at me.

  “Brute. Bastard. And other things. Evil, evil man!” she accused, pushing me away, half-playfully. “I shouldn’t have been so nice earlier.”

  “Nice? What did you do?” I asked.

  “I had a nice bath, so I ordered one for you. Beast. I ordered a bath for a beast. I should have it poured over Bronze.”

  “Yes. I’m a brute. And a beast. And a bunch of other naughty things. But you like me that way, don’t you?” I asked, lying down next to her and hugging her. She resisted for a moment, then snuggled up next to me.

  “Yes. As long as you don’t think I’m a fat old cow.”

  “I don’t. But I should have that bath before we snuggle much. I feel filthy.”

  She sniffed. “A point.” Sometimes, Tamara can be a little too honest. But she curled up with me anyway.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 24TH

  The sunset went well; I hadn’t done anything strenuous during the day. Having Tamara curled up next to me was actually pretty nice; it gave me something to focus on that wasn’t part of the changeover from being alive to being undead. I got up, regretfully, and gathered the clothes and towel she’d laid out for me.

  “Take your time.”

  “If I can. I’ll be right back.”

  She blew me a kiss and I hustled off to bathe. The place only had one tub, and someone beat me to it. I sighed and found a seat to wait.

  I was in a hallway, sitting on a bench by the bathchamber door, and I heard a hush come over the common room of the inn. Then the sound of a stringed instrument—a guitar, maybe—started. It was a lively tune and the singer wasn’t half bad. Pretty soon, people were clapping along in time with the music and joining in on the chorus. I wandered on down to watch.

  The place was hopping; it reminded me of a good night at a private club, but with a medieval theme. People were smiling and stomping their feet while the singer—it was a duo; a guy was playing a guitar-like thing and a lady was singing—encouraged them on the refrain. They were dressed like traveling troubadours, or in a fashion similar to my limited knowledge of the breed; colorful garments on both, puffy sleeves on him, long, draping sleeves on her. He was fairly well-built and had good hands; deep eyes and a strong jaw made him handsome. She was a bit heavier than I usually like, but most of it was top-heavy; black hair flowed down from under a sort of net on her head. She seemed the more exuberant of the two, dancing a few steps while everyone bellowed out the chorus. They never stopped smiling.

  It looked like a good show.

  They finished one tune to great applause, announced another—“The Wedding of the Duck and Goose”—and I slipped down to the bathchamber to check. Nope, still occupied. I slid back into th
e common room to wait and listen.

  They were good, and the song was funny. A duck and a goose fall in love, but the goose is in a pen in a castle. The duck keeps trying to break her out of the pen and a servant keeps interfering; hilarity ensues. Even the ending, when they both wind up on the same serving-platter, is amusing. At least they got together in the end… You really had to be there for the song.

  Once that one was finished, everyone who could speak instead of laughing demanded another. The result was “The Viksagi and the Wall of Blades.”

  I was about to slip down the hall to check on the bath, but that stopped me in my tracks. It also killed every laugh in the room. Everyone—and I mean everyone—was paying close attention to the performers. Even the wait staff and the innkeeper. I would bet hard money the musicians hadn’t had a chance to gossip much with the people they were entertaining; they probably just walked in out of the cold and set up shop.

  The sudden stillness and attention flustered them. You could see it. A few people in the audience spotted me and waved me over toward the stage.

  I went. People murmured.

  “Well?” I asked, looking up. The stage was really a pair of large tables shoved together. “I want to hear the song.”

  She bit her lip and the guy started playing. I smiled my best don’t-worry-I-won’t-bite smile (fangs safely retracted and all my teeth hidden behind my lips) and had a seat.

  The song reminded me strongly of Linnaeus. I think he wrote it. The girl did a fine job of singing it despite her sudden anxiety; once she got going, everyone loosened up. I helped by clapping with the beat. It was a stirring, martial sort of tune, good to march to and with a solid chorus pattern, with a last line of, “…and built a wall of blades (of blades); he built a wall of blades!”

  I was delighted with it, despite the extraordinary liberties Linnaeus had taken with the actual battle. He did get my alias right, at least; I could see why Duke what’s-his-name would want to meet Sir Halar. If the song was right, then I was a one-man regiment. The song did go over very well with the people present, especially since I was clapping and singing along. I suspect we’ll be marching to this tune somewhere along our route.

  When it was over, I stood up and applauded; everyone joined me. I think we embarrassed the singers a little. Maybe it was a reaction to being so nervous at the start. I ordered them food and drink and gave them each a small gold coin—a dektus, the smallest gold coin made—while I spoke to them.

  “A rousing tune,” I said. “I’ve not heard it before. Where did you learn it?”

  The girl seated herself on the edge of the stage, feet on a bench, while her partner folded his legs to sit tailor-fashion next to her. She answered.

  “We traveled for a time with Linnaeus the Bard—he composed it in honor of his patron.”

  “His patron?” I asked. “I did not know that bards had patrons.”

  “Oh yes, lord,” the man answered, “although the patron more often has the bard remain at court.”

  “Linnaeus still travels, I take it?”

  “Indeed. His patron is a powerful wizard and has no court of his own. Although,” he went on, leaning forward conspiratorially, “it is said he will one day be a king of his own lands.”

  I leaned forward with him. “Why do they say that, I wonder?”

  “He is a most powerful wizard, as well as a knight,” the girl replied, leaning into our three-way huddle. “He is the one of whom we sang, the one called the Wall of Blades. He did vanquish the viksagi by force of arms and slay a dragon. More, in but a single night, he enchanted three instruments with such beauty and power that they sing with Linnaeus, or play while he tells stories, and ever the music is perfect!”

  “Remarkable!” said I. “I venture to say it is amazing. Where might one find this paragon of magical and martial prowess?”

  They both shrugged. “None knows,” she said. “Rumor has it he departed Crag Keep on a steed of molten gold after the viksagi were defeated.”

  He added, “Since then, rumor has seen him at all nine corners of the world. He could be anywhere.”

  I nodded. “Quite so. Well, I see the boy who was occupying the bathchamber has finally finished; I will avail myself of it. Please, do remain and entertain my people; I will reward you for it.”

  They made a sketchy bow and curtsey, more a gesture than an actual attempt. He bent at the neck, she flourished her skirts and bobbed her head, still seated.

  “Your people?” she asked, as I rose and gathered my things again.

  “Oh, yes. Did they not tell you?”

  “No. No, lord, they did not.”

  “Ah!” I declared. “My manners. May I ask for an introduction?”

  She made a slight curtsey again; the man said, “This is my wife, Belis.”

  He made a small bow; Belis said, “This is my husband, Pelom.”

  “I am pleased to meet you both,” I acknowledged. “I am Sir Halar. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my bath.” I left them both agape.

  I wasn’t as quick into the bath as I’d hoped. I had the water dumped, the tub scrubbed, and fresh water drawn. Someone—or maybe several someones—had been filthy. Ah, well. I have also learned something very important about taking a bath anywhere but in your own home: Expect to be interrupted.

  Firebrand was leaning against the side of the tub—I’d warmed the water with it until steam started coming up; now that it was awake, it didn’t mind so much—and was in easy reach. I also made use of the soap, which cost an extra milling, or copper coin. My old clothes were away being washed in what passed for the inn’s laundry service. I had just resurfaced after a dunk to rinse out my hair and was thinking about the necessity of another haircut.

  Knocking at the door.

  “It never fails,” I noted.

  It could be worse, Firebrand said. It could be someone kicking it open and trying to kill you.

  “A very good point.”

  I’m a sword. I always have a good point.

  “Oh, ha ha ha,” I replied. “You’re making me edgy.” More loudly, I called, “Come in!”

  One of the CC sergeants stuck his head in. “Lord?”

  “I said come in. Shut the door; you’re letting out the heat.” He stepped inside and saluted. I sloshed one back at him.

  “Lord, the minstrels are asking questions of you. Many of them. They know who you are, lord.”

  “I know. We were introduced to each other. What are they asking?”

  “Where we have been, whither we are bound, why we have sworn to you, and what plans you have for the future. We know little of the future, but all else they may have discovered.”

  “Hmm. Send for them, please.”

  “Yes, sir!” he replied, saluting.

  “Gently,” I added. He nodded and went back out. I scrubbed quickly while he was gone. Me and my big mouth. I was standing in the bathwater and pouring a pitcher of fresh water over myself to rinse when the knocking came again. I stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around me.

  “Come in!”

  Both of the CC sergeants came in, escorting Belis and Pelom.

  “Good to see you again,” I offered. “Please be seated. Caedwyl, Caeron, I believe you may go.” Everyone moved to do as I bid them; in moments, the three of us were alone. “Now answer me and answer me honestly; your lives may well depend on the accuracy of your answers. Are either of you armed?”

  They shook their heads in the negative. I watched their spirits. His flickered with uneasy colors for a moment, but he spoke up.

  “Sir? I have my chekket—” he held up his instrument. “I could hit someone with it…” he began, but the very idea looked like it turned his stomach.

  “Don’t count that as a weapon; you would no more break your instrument than Belis would willingly tear out her own voice.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good. Now, do either of you have any plans to wander abroad, spreading songs and stories abou
t me and where I am going?”

  They nodded. I sighed.

  “Sir? Do you not—stories and songs of your deeds are abroad in the world—why should we not…?” Belis asked.

  “What I’ve done is not much of a concern; tell all the tales you like. But where I am going and what I am doing—that is something to which I must object.”

  “May I ask why?” Pelom asked. Belis looked frightened, but Pelom was merely interested.

  “If I told you, you would know—and you might tell everyone. You are bards; that’s what you do.”

  “We are not,” Pelom corrected me. “We are minstrels.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Oh, yes, sir!” Belis breathed. “A bard has great renown. A bard plays many instruments, sings, writes both music and poetry, knows the great stories and the epics of old—oh, many, many things! We are but minstrels.”

  “And a minstrel…?”

  “We sing,” Pelom replied, “for our supper. We sing and we play, we dance a little. Neither of us can write well, although Belis has a finer hand for it than I. We are but poor players, sir; the play and all its trappings would be crafted by a bard. We are barely fit to read the lines we are given.”

  “Really. I did not know that. Thank you.”

  “At your pleasure, sir.”

  I thought for a moment, then realized I was still dripping. Damn.

  “Pardon me while I dry and dress, please; I have to get back upstairs.” I moved around the tub to my spare clothes and used the towel to dry off. “Very well, I still cannot tell you where I am going or why—but I would imagine you can find out by pumping my people for information. Not so?”

  Pelom fidgeted nervously while Belis looked keenly at a washstand to her left.

  “Yes, sir,” Pelom answered.

  “Good. You’re still being honest. That will save your life. So, I can see only one way to keep you from telling the whole world what I plan.”

  “Swear us to secrecy and then tell us all?” he guessed. I could see the lights of his heart didn’t hold much hope for that.

  “Hardly. I’ll just have to hire you.”