by Scott Kaelen
“…that amount of dari…”
“…wouldn’t have taken it, myself…”
“Maros says…”
“What if there’s truth to it?”
“Fucking freeblades,” Renfrey drawled. “Good for fucking nothing.”
One of them, a bearded fellow a little younger than Renfrey, glanced over but continued to talk with his companions.
“Aye, go on,” Renfrey said, his voice rising. “Talking nothing but shit is what ye’re doing!” That got their attention.
“Begging your pardon, Ren,” the one with the beard said. “Are we offending you somehow?”
Renfrey didn’t know the bastard’s name. Didn’t like that the prick knew his, though. “Offending me?” He smacked his cup onto the table, teetered on his stool and steadied himself. “Aye, I’d say y’are.”
“How are we doing that, Master Renfrey?” the young girl beside beardy-face said.
Master? Fucking Master now, am I? Ain’t seen that ripe little bitch around before. “Well now, girl, I reckon we could start with ye not calling me Master.” He glanced to the bearded one beside her. “Or Ren, for that matter. How’s that sound?”
As the freeblades exchanged glances, a rumbling voice echoed from behind the bar. “You keep your voice down now, Renfrey. You know the rules.”
He turned his attention to the ugly brute that loomed like an oak behind the service counter. “Ain’t no business o’ yours, barkeep. Let me and this lot talk it out, why don’t ye?”
“Ah.” The halfblood folded his arms. “So it’d be barkeep now, would it? Demoted me, have you?”
“You what?” Renfrey frowned as the idiot’s grin split his scarred face wide open. Maros, he thought. Aye, that’s his name. Never much cared as long as he kept pouring the ale.
“I’ll tell you what,” Maros said, and Renfrey realised that the babble of conversation in the room had hushed, “I’ll let you call me tavernmaster, just once. How about it, big feller?”
Renfrey burst into laughter, spittle flicking from his mouth. “How about I stick to calling ye barkeep? How’s that sound, barkeep? Heard they once called ye the Mountain. Don’t look so mighty now, do ye? Reckon ye toppled, is what I reckon.”
Maros narrowed his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his full height. “Aye, the Mountain’s toppled,” he said in a controlled voice, “but I ain’t finished falling yet.”
Renfrey sneered. “Heard it was a critter what felled ye, like the ox what raped your ma.” He reached for his cup, but his knuckles caught the rim. The bronze receptacle tipped, spilling its contents into a frothy pool on the table. He watched as the cup rolled from the edge and clattered upon the floor.
BOOM. Scrape. BOOM. Scrape…
He looked up to find the source of the commotion. The barkeep lifted the hatch at the end of the service counter, limped out into the common room and headed straight towards Renfrey.
“Shit.”
“Do you know what happens to soft, squishy little gobshites who get in the way of a falling Mountain?” Scrape. BOOM. Maros towered over Renfrey. “They break.”
Two huge hands lifted him into the air. He dug his fingers into the tree-trunk forearms. His head swam and the monster beneath him blurred into two. “Fucking ogre!” he squawked. “Help!” The contents of his stomach threatened to evacuate as he was swung one way, then the other.
“You’re out!” the ogre boomed in his ear.
He was flying. He was actually flying. Bright light burst into his vision, and he dimly realised he was staring up at the sun.
“Sweet, blessed Aveia!” he cried. Then he struck the dirt, gurgled a spume of ale, and fell into unconsciousness.
Frustration welled in Maros with each passing minute. The Peddler had been cleared of the remaining patrons and he’d pulled the latch over the saloon doors to stop any further intrusions. The only people in the common room were Henwyn and Leaf, both of whom had suffered Renfrey’s abuse, sat with Luthan on one of his rare breaks from the kitchen.
He grabbed his stool and limped across to join them. “Finish this phrase,” he said to Leaf. “When a freeblade’s got a hunch…”
With a smile, Leaf flicked a glance across the four men. “She’s usually right.”
Henwyn chuckled. To Maros, he said, “You’re talking about Jalis and the others again.”
Maros nodded. “
“Look,” Henwyn said, “I’ve got no open jobs, and I’ll be without Leaf while she’s off to Brancosi Bay. If it’ll put you at ease, I can go find them. Cost you a small cut, of course.”
Luthan leaned his elbows on the table. “If you hired a wagon, you’d catch them up in just a few days.”
Maros mulled it over. “I put them into this by accepting the contract in the first place. If bringing them back is on anyone’s shoulders, it’s mine. I made it to Balen and back, I can damn well venture into the Deadlands.” He caught Henwyn exchange glances with Luthan, while Leaf turned nonchalantly to gaze across the room. “Oh, I know what the three of you are thinking. You’re thinking there’s not a chance in the Pit I could catch them up.”
“If you’ll allow me to be blunt,” Luthan said, “I think it’ll be good for you to, ah, stretch your legs, as it were. I’d rather that than watch you sit around here and stress about our friends until you put a man in the ground.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, boss. You know you could have handled Renfrey with a little more decorum. The man might be a streak of verbal diarrhoea and a waste of good ale, but he’s a regular customer and his pockets are deep.”
“Hmph. That arsehole’s lot was long overdue.”
“Maybe so, but the likelihood remains – you won’t rest until you know Jalis and the others are safe, and a tavern’s not the place to be hanging around with a hot head. I’m telling you this as a friend. When you requested me to join you as your chef, I came here all the way from Aster because I had faith in you as a tavernmaster, even though you’d never turned your hand to the task before. Likewise, I’ve got faith in you now.”
Maros grunted. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
Henwyn raised his hand. “At least let me join you. I’d rather be on the road than hanging around here waiting for a job to turn up.”
“Ha! Hen, you’re the longest-serving of all of us. I’d be glad to have you tag along. Besides, I reckon I do need a bowman if I stand any chance of putting meat on the fire. Best I can offer you though is one tenth of the ten percent non-retrieval.”
Henwyn shrugged. “That’s a more than fair cut. If it were Fenn instead of Jalis though, I’d insist on a lot more.”
Maros grinned tightly. “If it were Fenn, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”
“If that’s settled,” Luthan said, “then I don’t want you worrying about the tavern while you’re gone. I’ll look after her in your stead – aye, even on top of my kitchen duties.”
Henwyn sipped the last of his wine and stood up. “I’ll ask around town for a wagon. If none o’ those what’s got one are willing to help, I’ll pick the one I like the least and make it happen. Leaf here’s got your request form for headquarters. She’ll be setting off soon enough. Right, lass?”
Leaf rose to stand beside him. “My bag’s already packed. Just need to grab it from the guildhouse.”
“Good luck,” Maros told her. “And don’t tarry.”
Leaf grinned. “I never do.” With a wink to Henwyn, she strode across the room and slipped through the saloon doors.
“She’s got more potential than most novices, that one,” Maros said. “And a fine teacher in you, Henwyn. I couldn’t ask for a better bunch. That includes you, Luthan.”
“Hey, now.” The chef pushed his chair back and straightened his apron. “Don’t go getting soft on me, not when I’ve got pots to clean.”
Jalis crouched, aimed and squeezed the trigger of the crossbow. A moment later, the distant balukha let out a
pained squawk and took several faltering steps to the side, then slumped over.
She gave the men a satisfied grin. “Got it!”
“Good shot, lass,” Dagra said.
Jalis grinned. “I live for your praise, Bearded One.” She rose and affected a curtsy, fully aware that the gesture was out of place with her weapons and travel-worn gear.
As she jogged to claim the flightless bird, Oriken called after her, “That’ll fill us tonight. Makes a change from scrawny rabbits and bogberries. May as well take a break here. What do you say?”
Jalis’s stomach growled in agreement. “Do it,” she called over her shoulder as she reached the dying balukha. “I made the kill, you men can argue over who builds the fire and who prepares the carcass.” She took Silverspire from its scabbard at her thigh and slid the thin blade into the creature’s heart. Hefting it by its legs, she returned to the men and dropped it to the ground.
Stepping to a grassy mound, she slouched down against it and placed Silverspire in the grass beside her. She rummaged inside her backpack in search of a rag and a leather strop, watching as Oriken unsheathed his hunting knife and knelt before the carcass, and Dagra wandered away to gather firewood from the edge of a nearby thicket. There were still many hours before nightfall, but now was as good a time to eat as any.
With a frustrated sigh, she called across to the men, “I can’t find my strop. Have either of you borrowed it?”
“The strop’s yours.” Oriken paused in his work to pat the sabre at his hip. “You know I never polish this pitted old thing.”
“The whetstone’s in Oriken’s pack,” Dagra called as he stooped to gather wood.
“I’d get it for you,” Oriken said, “but I’m wrist-deep in guts right now.”
“Forget it. It’ll turn up.” Balling the rag, Jalis wiped it over the dagger and gazed idly along the Kingdom Road they’d rejoined after traversing the marsh. The wetlands were far behind them now, though small patches of swamp still dotted the unfarmable landscape. Why anyone would choose to live here was a mystery, unless the area had once been a gentler habitat for farms and pastures. It was obvious the colossal swamp hadn’t always covered the road, and Jalis wondered if somebody had created it, perhaps trenching the land from the coast inwards, a deliberate attempt to dissuade travellers from continuing south. If so, it was an impressive deterrent.
She finished cleaning Silverspire and sheathed the blade, then rested her head against the grass. She quickly dozed off, stirring some time later to the crackle of the fire and the aroma of roasting meat.
“Ah, the princess awakens,” Oriken said with a wink as Jalis stretched against the mound. “Good timing. Dag’s nearly done with the bird.”
The fire burned to embers as they tucked into the sizzling white flesh of the balukha. With full stomachs, they repacked their gear and resumed their journey, following the remnants of the road. The hours stretched by, the golden orb of Banael coursing across the blue sky.
As they walked, Jalis hoisted the weight of the pack at her back, then pinched her chemise and pulled the material from her clammy skin. “I should be used to this warmth,” she muttered. “I’ve been in Himaera for too long. I spent over twenty years in the Arkh, most of those in Sardaya. Compared to there, the temperature here is nothing.”
“Bah.” Ahead of her, Oriken shared a glance with Dagra and grinned over his shoulder. “There’s no such thing as spending too much time in Himaera.”
Jalis scoffed. “This coming from a man who’s never set foot outside of his birthland? Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”
“Hey, we all took the ferry to the Isle of Carrados, remember?”
“How could we forget?” Dagra said. “You threw up all over the deckhand.”
“That wasn’t my fault! No one warned me. You won’t get me on a boat again, that’s for sure.”
Jalis shook her head. “Carrados doesn’t count. It’s still part of Himaera. Nice try, though, Hat Boy.”
Oriken clasped the crown of his hat and lifted it to wipe his brow. “Truth is, I enjoyed our time with the monks on that island. If it wasn’t for the ocean, I wouldn’t mind leaving Himaera one day for a bit of recreation. Jalis makes Sardaya sound kind of sexy.”
“Sexy?” Jalis burst out laughing. “I wouldn’t go that far. The scenery is beautiful. The men and women are attractive, for the most part. The culture is rich. But there’s also the constant presence of reivers, and Ashcloak troops passing from town to town collecting taxes. Plus, although the wildlife is much more varied in the Arkh, so are the monsters. And then there’s the—Hey!” She stumbled into Dagra as he stopped in his tracks. “Dag, watch yourself! Don’t tell me you need another break already?”
Dagra touched her shoulder and pointed ahead. In a sombre voice, he said, “I think we’ve reached our destination.”
They had topped a low rise in the land, and before them a shallow valley opened the view in all directions, its far rim climbing into the distance. To the right, the almost indiscernible hush of the ocean drifted in on the warm easterly breeze, and ahead of them…
Oriken blew a whistle. “Now that’s a wall.”
A dark line dissected the heathland above the valley, stretching almost from the western coast to disappear behind rolling hills far to the east. The sun-bleached tops of the battlements, like crooked teeth jutting from the jawbone of an impossible giant, reminded Jalis of Cherak, the ancient god of stone. “Okay,” she said, her voice hushed in awe, “I admit it; that wall is longer and altogether uglier than any in my homeland. You boys have me beat on that score.”
Dagra clenched his pendant. “Never mind the wall,” he said, hoarsely. “Look further back. It’s the city.” He turned a pale face from the view to look back the way they had come.
Jalis shielded her eyes from the sun. Her gaze drifted beyond the wall into the extreme distance, roving across the nebulous vista. “Oh,” she whispered.
Above and far beyond the jagged ramparts, the grim buttresses of the last vestige of civilization from the Days of Kings sprawled, barely visible amid the hazy horizon.
“The legendary city of Lachyla. Impressive.” Oriken tore his eyes from the view to glance at Jalis. “Sort of puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” She kept her eyes on the towers and spires, the rounded roofs that pockmarked the landscape like swollen blisters. The city of Lachyla was impressive, but knowing that the place had been dead and empty for centuries sent a chill through her.
“What I mean,” Oriken said, “is that our contract for a little trinket pales in comparison to…” He stretched his arm to gesture at the distant city. “To that.”
Dagra turned back around to face them. “I was convinced that the place must be a myth,” he said. “Just a fable for the old’uns to scare the kids with.”
“And for Taleweavers to scare everyone with,” Oriken said.
“Well, it worked. The legend of Lachyla scared the wits out of me whenever Grandma told it when we were boys.” Dagra drew a shaky breath.
“You okay?” Oriken asked.
Jalis caught Dagra’s gaze. “Hey,” she said softly.
“I know. I’ll keep it in check.” He cleared his throat. His expression set into a resolute mask. He glanced from Jalis to Oriken and gave a tight smile. “Well? Are we going to retrieve that rutting heirloom or not? Yes? Let’s go then!”
Dagra strode away along the Kingdom Road. Oriken shared a serious glance with Jalis before following him. He always hid his emotions beneath an outward casual demeanour, but Jalis knew that Oriken was battling something inside almost as much as Dagra, and it wasn’t merely that they’d come face-to-face with a ghost story. From the nuggets of information she’d gleaned during their journey, the legend of Lachyla was so fanciful that neither Oriken nor Dagra could be certain whether the place truly existed. The thing about people was that they tended to lack the imagination to conjure a legend from nothing. E
very legend had a source, no matter how small or, in this case, how large. The sprawling city before her came as no surprise, but time had a way of exaggerating history’s finer details.
Jalis glanced back to the north, and for a moment an undercurrent of loneliness washed over her. Being so far from civilisation, and in the presence of such antiquity, stirred an unexpected longing to revisit her own past. But that desire was dulled by the melancholic atmosphere emanating from Lachyla. With a sigh, she followed her friends towards the Blighted City.
The hard-packed dirt of the roads and pathways was already beginning to dry after the recent shower, with the warm orb of Banael half-way through its downward journey. Maros stood outside the Lonely Peddler, his hands atop the timber fence. He brooded as he looked out at the familiar scene of stone and wooden houses and shops, all haphazardly positioned with no thought for symmetry. Such was the way of flockers and settlers.
He looked between the buildings to the hills and woodland. His thoughts returned to Jalis, Oriken and Dagra, his companions before he was forced to hang up his blades. Maros’s certainty that something wasn’t right had grown considerably since hearing Jerrick’s story. And then there was the added complication of Cela Chiddari curling her toes up…
“Boss.”
“Gah!” Maros swung about to see Henwyn standing beside him. “Banael’s burning balls, man! Are you trying to send me to an early afterlife?”
The veteran freeblade repressed a grin, but inclined his head apologetically. “Good news,” he said. “Leaf is well on her way to the headquarters, and I’ve secured us a wagon and a driver. Can’t say as two mules will get us anywhere fast, but I’d rather that than me carrying you on my back if you get tired. No offence, boss, but you’re likely a touch heavy even for my legendary strength.”