The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

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The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall Page 15

by Jason McWhirter


  Brant was trying to digest all that Angon said but was having a difficult time coming to terms with the size of it, with the vastness of his words. “So do the gods exist?”

  Angon paused for a moment as if he was thinking. “That is a difficult question to answer. But first, let me show you something.” Without waiting for Brant to respond, Angon lifted his right hand and closed his eyes.

  Brant had a sudden flash in his mind as his towd flickered on. He wasn’t sure if he did it himself or if something Angon did triggered it, but suddenly he could see the auras of the two men opposite him glowing beyond the firelight. And Angon’s hand started to glow a subtle blue in contrast to his warm aura made up of a hues of orange, red, and yellow. His lower back began to grow warm and the sudden sensation caused their aura’s to flicker and turn dark, his towd turned off like a switch. Within moments the aching pain in his back disappeared, replaced with a minor tingling sensation that lasted for a few moments before it too vanished. “What did you do?” he asked in wonder, his hand moving to massage his newly healed back, expecting to feel pain. But there was none.

  “I brought forth the power of the earth and healed you. It is not so difficult if one knows what to look for.”

  “So you are an Aurit?”

  “Not really. But the power comes from the same place. Our auras pull energy from the earth, from the source, and when you draw upon it you are drawing forth power from the same source that I just tapped. I do not have the powers of a Merger, or an Aura Mage. My power is more closely aligned to that of a Channeler, but even that would not be accurate. I understand the true power; therefore I have fewer rules in its use and more flexibility in its delivery.”

  “You still have not answered my question. Do the gods exist?”

  Again he paused as he drank from his mug. “Truthfully, I do not know. There are many worlds besides our own, all with many stories about their creation. The one thing they all have in common is that they don’t seem to have a beginning. As a scholar who has traced the many stories back to their creation, all I find are more stories. Inevitably, the only thing I have learned about our creation is that I cannot find a beginning. Do I believe in the old gods? Do I believe in Argon and Felina? Simply put, no. But do gods exist? That is a question that I cannot answer.”

  They sat silent for quite some time, drinking from their mugs, staring into the fire, their thoughts alone. Finally Brant spoke. “Thank you for healing my back. I must admit that you have given me much to think about it. I feel as If my mind is drowning.”

  “It is a lot to…digest,” Angon added. “It is a burden that I carry.”

  “Burden? What do you mean?”

  “Knowing. Knowing things is a burden. What I have told you is just a scratch on the surface of what I know.”

  Brant nodded his head, thinking that perhaps he understood.

  “Brant, I would suggest that you do not mention you have shared a fire with a Kynan,” Tilden said, speaking for the first time in a while. “It may not bode well for you.”

  “You are really that despised?”

  Angon nodded his head. “I’m afraid so. They think us evil…demons who bathe in the blood of their victims. Our knowledge contradicts what many believe, and therefore we are a threat. There is much more to this history, more than can be discussed in one evening. Just be cautious and wary in uttering the name Kynan.”

  They spoke softly and of more trivial subjects for the rest of the evening, sharing food and drink and enjoying the warmth of the fire.

  When the morning came they ate a cold breakfast and parted ways with just a few words. “Friend Brant,” Angon said, sitting forward in his wagon, “If you are ever near the village of Torset on the road to Tanwen, look for the large vylin tree just outside of town. You will see it clearly as it looks as out of place as a field of sallis flowers on a desert plain. Stop by and pay us a visit. I would enjoy talking with you more.” Brant thanked him again and they left; the jostling of the wagon the only thing heard in the stillness of morning. Brant slung his gear over his shoulder and started on his trek once again.

  On the second day, just as the sun was getting low on the horizon, he saw the town. Amorsit was nestled comfortably against a copse of trees. It wasn’t large, typical of the small farming villages that were scattered across the steppes of Dy’ain. As he neared the town’s entrance he saw several clusters of homes flanking a few larger buildings, one of which looked to be the town’s inn. The other buildings appeared to be maybe a blacksmith shop, a pub, and some sort of market. As he got closer, he noticed that the entrance leading into the town was framed by two of the large buildings. One was clearly the town’s inn, while the other had a sign before it that read ‘Jon’s Mercantile’. Each of the buildings along the road was equipped with a small wooden awning extending over the entrance. Lanterns hung from the support columns, their light flickering against the weathered wood of the buildings. To Brant they seemed quaint, but welcoming and comfortable. There were a few people about, some departing the establishments to more than likely head home for the night, while others were working, sweeping the entrances and cleaning horse manure from the tethered locations located all along the store fronts. Brant continued down the street, past the shops of a tailor, a blacksmith, and a tanner. There were also more homes scattered about, some extending along alleys which branched off on both sides of the road. At the far end of town, neatly placed among the trees that edged the small glade, were the larger homes of the more prosperous families of the town. It took him a surprisingly short amount of time to walk through the entire town and find himself back at the entrance to the inn. He knew that this would be the best place to look for work. He still had some coin left, and despite his refusal, Kaan had given him several silvers for helping his family while he recovered from his injuries. It wasn’t much, but Brant knew that it was all he could spare.

  Warm air enveloped Brant as he entered the inn. It was similar to, but larger than, the inn at Bygon. There was a bar directly in front of him and ten to fifteen tables were arranged on the wood plank floor before it. On opposite sides of the room were two large stone fireplaces, their crackling fires casting a warm glow around the room. Just less than two hands of people were seated at tables or leaning against the bar, drinking, eating, and talking. As usual, they turned to glance at the newcomer as Brant made his way to the bar. Suddenly his mind was bombarded by the flashing of the auras of the people around him and he stumbled, keeping himself from falling by placing his right hand on a nearby empty table. He knew he had to focus on something else, so he closed his eyes and again concentrated on his heartbeat, trying his best to control his towd. When he opened his eyes, the auras had diminished, but had not totally disappeared. He stood up straight, noticing the curious looks of some of the patrons. He smiled wanly, hoping to disguise his stumble as a trip, glaring at a nearby chair as if it were the culprit. The auras now appeared as only a subtle glow, and Brant was grateful that he felt no pain in his head. He closed his eyes briefly, one more time, creating a mental picture that he was closing shutters against the daylight sun. He silently thanked Angon for teaching him the mental trick, something he had previously attempted on a traveler he had met on the road just hours before. It had worked then, just as it had now, though it had taken a bit more effort with the larger numbers of auras in the inn. The light of the auras diminished, finally disappearing as his mental shutters closed. He took a deep breath to steady himself and walked to the bar.

  The barkeep was an old man, his browned and weathered face creased with so many wrinkles that he looked as if he had lived in the sun for most of his lengthy life. His silver hair was thinning, and hung ill-kempt to his neckline. “Ho, stranger. What’s your fancy?” he asked, his voice deep and hoarse, as if he had been yelling all day.

  “Just passing through. My name’s Brant. I was hoping to find some work if you know of any. And while I’m here I’d like a warm meal if possible.”

  The
man looked him over briefly. “We have a hot pork stew. I must admit that it might be some of the best stew I’ve ever made. I braised it in wine and it’s been simmering all day.”

  “You’re the chef and the barkeep?”

  The man snorted. “Not really, my wife does most of the cooking. But I cook the meat. It’s sort of a hobby, but I will say that I prepare the finest meat dishes in these parts. My name’s Borgan.” They shook hands across the bar.

  “It does sound good. How much?”

  The old man looked Brant over again, perhaps appraising his wealth.... or the lack thereof. “I’ll sell ya a bowl for two tiggs.”

  That was more than reasonable, and Brant strongly suspected that Borgan had lowered the price for him, clearly aware that he was not a man of means. “I’ll take a bowl and a glass of water.”

  “Coming right up,” he said as he walked through a swinging door behind him.

  Just then Brant heard some commotion at the door and he turned to see four men burst through, laughing boisterously. They looked to be a little older than Brant, and one carried a jug in his hand. Stumbling around the tables they found a vacant one by one of the fires. They had clearly been drinking, and Brant watched them as they continued to pass the jug around, each taking another deep swig.

  Borgan reappeared and set a steaming bowl of stew and a healthy slice of buttered bread before him, along with a large mug of water. Brant noticed his frown when he saw the new arrivals by the fireplace.

  “Looks they are having fun,” Brant said, nodding towards the fire.

  Borgan sighed wearily, his displeasure obvious. “They come in often, usually drunk to start with. And it just gets worse.”

  “Can’t you kick them out?”

  Borgan shook his head in frustration. “Not so easy to do when the big one over there is the magistrate’s son. Stay away from them. They are trouble.”

  Brant looked them over one more time. He didn’t want any trouble so he turned his attention to the food. “Smells good,” he said, digging into the stew. Borgan was right. The stew was the best he had ever had. He smiled through a mouthful as he laughed inwardly, realizing he had sampled so few stews, so by no means was he a reliable critic. But it was delicious. Borgan must have seared the pork over coals before he had braised it. He could actually taste the smoke from the meat and there was a complex flavor of savory herbs he could not identify, along with the subtle taste of the wine infused broth. His taste buds were very happy.

  The boisterous newcomers gradually grew louder as he quickly consumed his meal. Five bites into his stew, a serving girl pushed through the swinging doors, smiled briefly at him, and made her way to the rowdy table. Brant was unaware that he had stopped chewing and was momentarily holding his breath. She was stunningly beautiful, with long lustrous black hair that in the lantern light looked like shimmering oil. Her tan smooth skin glistened with perspiration from her work and her green eyes, surrounded by long black eyelashes, dazzled with an inner light that, despite her obvious busy job, reflected a person who seemed to love her work. Brant liked her immediately.

  Brant finally swallowed, glancing back as she attempted to get orders from the disorderly young patrons. It was obvious that they knew each other, their practiced banter painting a picture that they had all done this before. The magistrate’s son, the largest of the four, attempted to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her onto his lap. She expertly slipped away from him, slapping his arm in the process. Brant heard her say, “Stop it Tage! What do you want to drink?” The young man mumbled something back.

  “She’s quite a sight, isn’t she?”

  Brant turned to see the barkeep looking at him with a smile. Embarrassed, he took a drink of his water.

  “It’s okay, son. She’s not my daughter,” Borgan said laughing. The barkeep looked back at the table, his voice now serious. “Someday though, those boys are going to go too far.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Borgan pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then he looked back at Brant. “I’m a good judge of character, young man. There is something rotten in that boy.”

  “Tage, the magistrate’s son?”

  “Yup, and the others aren’t much better.”

  Brant was about to respond when the young serving girl appeared next to him, laying her tray on the bar. She sighed in frustration, blowing a wisp of hair from her face. “Borgan, can you get me two pitchers of your wheat ale?.” Brant could smell her; subtle hints of rose petals. Suddenly he felt a lump in his throat.

  “Sure thing. Thea, this is Brant, a young traveler hoping to find work in town.”

  Thea flashed Brant a welcoming smile. “Hello, Brant. How did you like the stew?” She was looking at his empty bowl, which he had wiped clean with his last slice of warm bread. Brant, momentarily speechless, was mesmerized by her smile. She laughed, a lyrical melody in Brant’s ears. “Isn’t it good?”

  Finally Brant got his voice back. “It’s the best stew I’ve ever had.” And he wasn’t lying.

  “I’m glad you liked it. So you’re looking for work? What can you do?”

  Brant shrugged. “I’m strong and a quick learner.”

  She thought for a moment as Borgan placed two pitchers of ale on her tray. “Hey, Borgan, what do you think about E’rake?”

  “I was thinking that too. But I hate to introduce anyone to that cantankerous man.”

  Thea looked back at Brant. “There is a man named E’rake that owns a small mine outside of town along the Skeen River. He may need some help. But I warn you, he is an unpleasant man who would rather bark at you than say anything nice.”

  Brant grunted nonchalantly. “If you had met my father you’d know that wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Well then, if you’re interested, there is a path on the north side of town. You’ll see it when you get to the wood line. That path takes you along the Skeen River to his plot. It’s nearly a day’s walk.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thea smiled, picked up the tray, and carried it over to the rowdy table.

  “You need a place to bed down for the night?” Borgan asked.

  “I could use one.”

  “Well, I have rooms out back. I can let you have one for a shike. If that’s too steep I have a storage shed out back. You are more than welcome to bed down there for a tigg. It’s drafty, but I have some blankets in there you could use.”

  Brant thought about it for a moment. He thought it better to conserve his money. “The shed will be fine.”

  “Let me know when you want to retire.” Borgan turned around and grabbed two cups, filling them both from a barrel behind him. He set one in front of Brant and he started drinking from the other.

  Brant pushed the cup away. “I don’t have the coin to waste on ale.”

  “It’s on me. I don’t like to drink alone.”

  Just a few months ago and Brant would have been leery of the gift. This was the second time someone had given him something for nothing, but this time he did not react with suspicion, realizing that not everyone was like his father. Brant smiled. “Thank you.”

  They drank and talked for over an hour. The inn began to fill with more patrons as the evening progressed and Borgan was forced to shorten their conversation as he busied himself with pouring drinks and helping Thea get food from the kitchen. Yet somehow he managed to find time to refill Brant’s cup. After a couple of hours, Brant was feeling pretty good. He was warm, his belly was full and he had an overwhelming urge to talk. Turning around on his stool, he scanned the busy room.

  His eyes were drawn to more commotion from the table where the magistrate’s son and his friends were sitting. Brant had been drinking more than usual, but they had begun drinking even before they came to the inn, becoming louder and more obscene as the night wore on. As Brant glanced at them, Tage, the magistrate’s son, threw a clay jug against the stone of the fireplace, the noise of the shattering clay causing a momentary hush in the room. Once the crowd
saw it was Tage causing the disturbance, they quickly resumed their conversations as if this were a normal evening event. Thea was at their table instantly, berating Tage while his cronies laughed. Brant was disgusted at their behavior, and he felt a flash of anger. But Borgan’s warning rang in his ear and he subdued the urge to rise from his chair and teach the man a lesson.

  Just as he was visualizing his fist crushing Tage’s nose, the big man rose from his chair and stumbled towards the bar next to Brant. Tage was two fingers taller than Brant, with wavy shoulder length brown hair, green eyes, and a rare light complexion dotted with freckles. Brant thought he looked like a pompous aristocrat. He had that arrogant look that he had seen in some of the head wardens.

  “Hey Borgan!” Tage yelled through the swinging doors that went to the kitchen. Brant glared at him with disgust. Tage noticed his stare, and gave him a challenging look. “What are you looking at?”

  Brant could smell his breath, heavy with garlic and ale. He narrowed his eyes. “Nothing.”

  Either he was too drunk, or just stupid, but he didn’t get the insult. “Better not be,” he said, his words slurred.

 

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