Huron considered the butchering of women and children, or even young menfolk on the cusp of adulthood as the lord Sigourd now was, to be beneath a warrior of his standing.
Although in truth, he had committed many abhorrent acts in the course and the conduct of his services to The Baron Mortaron and others like him. Huron was loathe to undertake such acts. Each time he had done so, he cursed anew a world that was capable of manufacturing monsters such as himself to loose upon decent folk.
But there was more to his disposition toward the young heir to the realm of Atos. Something that had been growing at the centre of his soul far deeper than any unresolved self loathing concerning his lifetime of heinous acts.
A feeling that during the entire course of his life he had oft heard talked about by others, and had occasionally even read a little about. A strange feeling that fired his soul and lit up the darker corners of his heart like the rising sun whenever he had cause to think about the root of this most alien of emotions. Love. Love for the Lady Veronique.
Huron had come into The Barons service nearly five years previously. Discharged from his knightly order after the end of a particularly long and gruesome campaign for crimes that he no longer cared to reminisce over.
Mortaron had brought the wandering knight into his household, deciding that there was a place for his talents as The Baron’s brutal right hand, and from the first time Huron had laid eyes on the Lady Veronique he’d fallen madly in love with her.
He had decided long ago, after struggling with his strange feelings for some time, that the situation was absurd. That a man of his savage character had no business loving anything but the clamor and the bloodletting of fierce battle.
Yet he could not help himself. Something about the Lady had enthralled him, stirred some deep emotion within that could not be denied. Was it the color of her fair skin, the way it glowed softly in the radiance of the light of day like clouds before the sunset. Or perhaps the gentle curve of her bosom, the pleasing lines of her figure, concealed so teasingly behind cloth and corset. Maybe it was the sparkle in her clear blue eyes, the light of keen intelligence and fierce passion twinkling therein.
Never before had Huron experienced anything like this in all his years. Of course, like any man of the sword he’d taken his fair share of joy from fireside whores and from the captured wives and daughters of the villages he’d burned and the men he’d butchered. But all that had been just exercise. A physical necessity like eating or sleeping. He’d never before had cause to second guess his own motivations in the prosecution of such acts.
But the Lady Veronique was beyond his reach. She belonged to, of all people, the lord of the realm in which he now resided. Secondly, she was sister to his current employer, and Huron was not so big a fool as to cross a line that would undoubtedly cost him both his position and his life, and not necessarily in that order.
Besides, there was something so otherworldly about the lady that Huron would not sully her great beauty by daring to touch her even if he was at liberty to do so. She was something that must be admired and treasured from afar, secretly. She was not for the likes of him, grubby and soiled and fresh from the slaughter. He would content himself with the sluts dwelling in the city slums, if he could but occasionally look upon the lady and bask in her unattainable beauty.
And therein lay the root of his significant reluctance to do harm to the young lord Sigourd. For to do so would break the heart of the Lady Veronique. It would bring tears to eyes meant only for smiling and this was something that he was not certain he could do. Even in the face of countermanding the orders of his baron.
High above in the open sky over the forest canopy, the hawk cried out, its piercing shriek bringing Huron back to the leafy shade of the Velvet Forest. He watched the distant pair of the prince and the wild man crest the horizon, before they disappeared out of sight over a small hillock of the endlessly rolling grass. With a gentle clinking of brass, he spurred his horse forward toward the horizon too.
CHAPTER 10
Yarneth Vardis...
The city seemed to sit atop the open plains like a fresh mound of dung. It steamed with chimney smoke and other more noxious gasses and odors typically associated with an urban sprawl the size of the one that lay before them. Rising unexpectedly out of the flat lands it was a wretched contrast to its verdant setting. It seemed so out of place against the surrounding grasses with its tall walls of dark stone and crooked piles of ramshackle buildings.
Sigourd had never seen the like before. He was used to the grand splendor of Corrinth Vardis. A city which had its less attractive areas certainly, but on the whole was possessed of an elegance that spoke of its status as a regional seat of governance and commerce.
This place however, reminded Sigourd of sick animals he’d seen that were in need of putting down.
‘What is that?’ he asked Jonn Grumble.
‘That is Yarneth Vardis. A place so wretched you’ll have to scrub for a week to get its stink off ya,’ said Jonn.
‘So remind me why we’re stopping here?’
‘Supplies lad, supplies. And if there was ever a place to inquire about this mysterious Brodus Klay character, or your missing lady, then this city is it.’
Sigourd nodded, looking once more toward the brooding sprawl before him.
‘You believe there will be folk there who will know something of what happened to Isolde?’ said Sigourd.
‘I believe that there are people there who have their grubby little fingers in all sorts of underhand wickedness, and in places such as these, whispers travel quickly.’
The pair set off once more, and were soon swallowed up amongst the grimy outskirts of Yarneth Vardis.
The city itself lay on the most south easterly region of Atos, and was the last significant settlement one would encounter before crossing the border into Fulstarn to the north east, ruled by the Morays, and Sovisland to the south east, ruled by the Makkarat House.
By virtue of its close proximity to the bordering lands, only a hundred or so miles as the crow flew to the markers of both neighboring territories, Yarneth Vardis enjoyed the privilege of being not only incredibly militarized, but prospered greatly from trade across those borders, bringing into Atos goods that were not otherwise available, and exporting many of its own uniquely native produce.
Trade between the nations was of course illegal, and the merchant cartels that powered the economics of the city had seen fit to install their own puppet governor to ensure that the underground trade in everything from the beautiful fabrics of the northern cities of Sovisland, or the pungent spice powders from the coastal lands of Atos , to the fine blades of the central reserves of Fulstarn were moved freely through Yarneth Vardis.
It was something that had gone on for hundreds of years, and was an established, if officially denied factor to the economic stability of the region. The illegal trade was something that the capital Corrinth Vardis was well aware of, and tolerated as a necessary part of day to day business down on the south eastern frontier.
Of course as is often the way with corrupt systems, the bulk of the wealth that such activity brought into the city was kept near the top of the food chain while everybody else could go to hell. The merchant cartels lived in luxury and opulence, while the common citizenry starved and died. Crime amongst the populace was rampant, and there was a mortality rate from disease that beggared belief, as one plague or another moved through the city unchecked, spread by the twin sins of poverty and neglect.
It was in such a place, a crossroads between three titanic nations, that information traveled in the same way as might one of those festering diseases that frequently ravaged the benighted populace. It was through such a place that those wishing to buy or sell illicit property, be they stolen artifacts or stolen people, might travel. It was into such a place that Sigourd and the wild man now descended.
After passing through the shoddy looking settlements scattered around the foot print of Yarneth Vardis, mo
ving between tattered dwellings where men and women shuffled morosely about the business of scraping together enough to simply exist, and hollow eyed children didn’t so much as play amongst the filth as they did occupy the same space as it. Sigourd and Jonn Grumble passed into the mouth of a tunnel that was ringed with massive barbed hoops between which lank canvas was stretched like flayed skin. The tunnel soon disappeared into the thickness of the massive black stone walls that ringed the city, the blocks used in their construction so gargantuan surely titans must have placed them amongst the plains to mark the way to their never kingdom, only to have scurrilous mankind steal them away to build his monuments and fortifications here on the grass lands of southern Atos.
Sigourd and Jonn Grumble braved the oppressive murk of the tunnel, passing streams of folk wending their way to or from the city, their faces rendered oddly indistinct in the gloom.
Sigourd could not help the feeling of an ill omen that had settled upon his heart. Something about the place made him uneasy, but when finally he made his way from the gloom of the long tunnel after several minutes trek, all his apprehensions were swept away in an instant as a visceral deluge flooded his senses.
They emerged from the tunnel into the city proper, a mad press of people of all creeds and colors, hurrying too and from with an energy that had been absent beyond the walls. They filled an area hundreds of meters across and just as many deep. Ramshackle buildings, the soundness of their structural integrity questionable, crowded in upon the courtyard. They seemed to lean like the listing trees of the Velvet Forest, towering above the teeming populace beyond the tunnel mouth.
Sigourd saw peoples that he recognized as being from Atos or Fulstag or Sovisland, and more besides. Men and women whose faces were painted blue or red or yellow, bodies that were garbed in the finest silks and the most ornate armor or the most tattered of rags or even next to nothing at all.
He saw several men who were so dark of skin as to be almost black, their lustrous, smoky shade giving them the appearance of having been dipped in molten volcanic glass, and set aside to cool solid.
He saw beggars pleading for alms, traders flogging their wares from rickety stalls that lined the interior square in rows consisting of dozens of such set-ups. Each one selling a variety of exotic fruit, or cured meats, or pungent spices or perfumes or potions.
The assault on his nostrils was as urgent as the assault on his eyes. The smells of cooking meats and baked goods, the sickly sweet bouquet of flowers fresh and rotting, the stench of human and animal ordure. Everywhere he looked there was some new fascination to be absorbed.
Even the markets of Corrinth Vardis during high spring paled in comparison to this wonder, both in scope and variety.
‘Not seen its like before, eh?’ remarked Jonn Grumble, who had taken an amused interest in Sigourd’s obvious bewilderment at the scene that lay before him.
Sigourd slowly shook his head by way of response, his eyes still darting hither and to around the great interior space within the walls.
The press of bodies around them was almost stifling, and between the masses and the teetering crooked buildings that leaned ominously over the proceedings, Jonn Grumble was in no mood to dally.
He elbowed and shouldered his way through the crowd, cursing and grunting at those who bumped and jostled the pair as they progressed.
‘Hello sweet treat..’ called out a young lady wearing entirely too much face paint and not much else, ‘looking for favors are you?’
Sigourd turned to see whom she was addressing, realizing quickly that she was winking at him, beckoning suggestively for him to come to her.
‘We’ll give you the grand tour of the city,’ said another, ‘and the rest...’
Sigourd looked away, his cheeks flushing red.
‘Did you see those girls?’ he said as he hurried along behind Jonn Grumble, ‘the people here are so friendly!’
‘Those aren’t girls,’ muttered Jonn without looking back.
Confused, Sigourd stole a backwards glance at the two painted ladies, taking horrified note of their large hands and overly broad shoulders. He quickened his pace to catch up with his companion, who was busy shouldering his way through the crowd.
‘Where are we going?’ Sigourd asked.
‘I know a place where the tongues of men like to wag over a little tipple. It’s as good a spot as any to gather a bit of knowledge about what we might be up against.’
Jonn Grumble quickened his pace, much to the annoyance of the people around them who shouted all manner of foul expletives at the pair as they made their way.
‘There...’ mumbled Jonn Grumble, who was pointing in the direction of a particularly run down establishment at the end of the narrow street through which they were headed, ‘The Inn Of The Dirty Dog. I’ve had a few rowdy nights in that dung pit I can tell ya.’
Looking up, Sigourd could not help but frown at the state of the wretched looking tavern.
‘I can well imagine,’ he said under his breath as they reached the doorway.
Barring their way was a man, presumably a patron of the tavern, who had either fallen asleep or passed out slumped up against the door. He was sitting in a foul smelling puddle of his own making, and Jonn Grumble had to gingerly push him aside with the handle of his sword staff. The man’s only response was to belch loudly, before tipping sideways into the cobbled street where he continued to slumber peacefully.
‘It’s a bit of a colorful crowd,’ he said, winking at Sigourd, before pushing open the heavy wooden door of the tavern and stepping into the darkness beyond.
Inside the the tavern was almost as noisy as the street outside. Men caroused and drank themselves insensate. Working girls moved amongst them, some pouring drinks or serving food, while others offered a more hands on experience, haggling with the rowdy patrons over a reasonable price for their tender ministrations.
Hardly anyone seemed to notice the pair as they entered, all too lost in their own dealings. Besides, in a tavern like The Dirty Dog, in a city of trade like Yarneth Vardis, new faces coming and going was nothing remarkable.
Only one person actually took note of their arrival. An old man, hunched and withered under a thick cloak made of coarse dark wool. He was positioned out of the way of the rest of the rabble in a quieter corner of the establishment, hidden amongst the shadows where none would pay him any mind. Despite his frail appearance and apparent great age, his eyes shone with a keen interest. Those eyes were now fixed intensely upon Sigourd and his feral companion.
Jonn Grumble looked about himself in self satisfaction, ‘Did I mention I’m partial to a little drink before dinner?’ he said to Sigourd with a knowing smile on his lips. With that he moved over to the bar, signaling to the barkeep for a pair of ales.
The surly looking barkeep took a pair of glass mugs down from a rack on the wall, spat into and began to polish the vessels before pouring the ales. He placed both glasses upon the counter with a loud thunk, Sigourd, eying the creamy dark contents of those glasses with undisguised suspicion.
‘Not for me,’ he said to Jonn Grumble. ‘I prefer to keep a clear head.’
Jonn Grumble took up both mugs, holding them close to his chest as if guarding them jealously, ‘Huh, a prince can afford to buy his own sodding drinks.’ With that he proceeded to gulp back the contents of first one mug and then the other, finishing off the contents in a matter of seconds. He belched loudly as if to emphasize the point, smiling broadly at Sigourd.
Sigourd rolled his eyes, was about to make comment on Jonn Grumble’s tremendous thirst when a commotion from across the bar suddenly drew his attention.
A large and oafish looking man was laughing loudly as he roughly manhandled one of the serving girls. With tears in her eyes she tried to fend the brute off in complete futility, admonishing with every colorful adjective she probably knew. All the while he looked on laughing, pulling her hither and to teasingly as a group of loutish looking men sitting nearby cheered him on.
The serving girl beat at the brute’s chest as he pulled her onto his lap, groping at her in a most offensive manner and cooing drunkenly into her ear.
As Sigourd looked on, he could feel his blood begin to simmer at the scene before him.
‘Like I said, colorful crowd,’ added Jonn Grumble as he sipped on his third ale.
Sigourd looked on, expecting one of the nearby patrons to come to the girl’s aid, but all he could see where timid men looking straight into their ales, too afraid to stand up and do what needed to be done.
In his minds eye, as Sigourd watched the scene play out before him with mounting frustration, he was reminded viscerally of Isolde, helpless as she was manhandled across the floor of the catacombs by those mysterious brigands who had stolen her away. Sigourd had tried and failed to save the woman he loved in that moment, but he would not be found wanting a second time.
His blood finally boiling over he stood up from his stool suddenly, the fire of indignation burning righteously in him. He made to stalk over to the brute when something held him back.
‘This isn’t the sort of attention we’re looking for,’ Jonn warned. Sigourd snatched his arm away, and stalked across the floor of the tavern to where the serving girl still struggled with the brutish oaf.
Reaching out Sigourd grabbed the arm of the girl and pulled her to her feet before spinning her out of harm’s way behind him. There was an audible gasp from the assembled patrons, who now looked up cautiously from their ales.
The brute blinked in surprise, hardly able to believe his own eyes. Behind Sigourd, the brute’s cohorts, three of them all told, rose slowly to surround Sigourd, who now stood brazenly before the leader of the pack, his eyes blazing challenge at the man sitting before of him.
‘You need a lesson in how to treat women it seems,’ said Sigourd.
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