The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  “Do us all one favour,” the man said. “Don’t come back this way. Not ever.”

  “That’s a promise I can’t and won’t make, but one thing I will say is that I’ll never set foot in your village. I’d rather enter a city filled with the undead than a backwater hovel filled with misinformed, fear-mongering, murderous peasants.”

  The man glowered, but Dal Ebran placed a hand on his arm and said to Oriken, “You might have the right of it. Aye, you might.”

  One of the other villagers sighed disconsolately as he gazed at the ground. “Only came this way to head north,” he muttered. “An’ I weren’t the only one.”

  “Then you joined the wrong fight,” Oriken said. “Don’t look to me for sympathy.”

  The man said nothing.

  “Hm.” Jalis eyed the villagers, then walked into their midst. “There is no place for any of you beyond Scapa Fell,” she said, casting a pointed glance at each of them before gesturing to Maros. “The northlands are filled with these beasts – these behemoths of war – and I promise you, any man – or woman – who dares to venture beyond this fortress will be captured by the armies of the giants, and their suffering”—she spun to face the bearded villager—“will be legendary.”

  Her words were met with icy silence.

  “Leave,” Ellidar told them. “I will join you momentarily.”

  The four villagers hefted Wymar’s body and, despite their burden, set off at a brisk pace down the pass, eager to leave – a sentiment with which Oriken could whole-heartedly agree.

  “Well then, my friends.” Ellidar rested his longsword over his shoulder. “Time to depart. I’m afraid I must shortly take a brief leave of absence from my otherwise unending watch, and I would like to be as close to the city as possible before that happens. Please try to stay clear of trouble. I have a second death to die, and a third life to begin with clearing a mineshaft, and frankly I’m not sure which I look forward to the least.”

  Oriken hooked a thumb behind his belt. “No offence to you,” he said, “nor to… anyone else down there, but some things ought to stay buried.”

  The knight’s nod was barely perceptible. He locked eyes with each of them in turn, leaving Jalis until last. “My lady.”

  Jalis approached and took him by the shoulders, rose to her tiptoes and gently kissed his cheek. She took a step backwards and affected a brief curtsy. “My knight-paladin.”

  With a sad smile, Ellidar’s eyes lingered on her a moment. Then he turned and walked away, back to the Blighted City.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ONE MAN’S FOLLY

  Oriken looked long at the sign above the Lonely Peddler’s saloon doors, basking in the familiarity of the safe haven he’d called home for the past few years. The pains from his various wounds had faded with each day they’d drawn closer to the Folly, but still he was weary beyond measure and he knew that much of it was not a fatigue of the body but of the soul – or whatever within him passed for one.

  Tracing his eyes from the tavern’s wooden sign to the brass plaque immediately below it, he regarded the crossed blades of the guild crest as it swung gently in the noon breeze, and a leaden feeling squeezed at his core. The skirmish with the villagers was nothing a seasoned freeblade wasn’t accustomed to, but their opponents were usually a gang of morally degenerate bandits, not a gaggle of paranoid peasants. Never had he felt so despised by so many, and for no good reason. Still, what was done was done, and he’d soon be taking his turn at soaking his battle wounds in the tavern’s hot tub.

  He wandered to the fence, leaned against it and regarded his companions: Maros, hunched on his crutches with Jalis standing under his shadow as they talked; Demelza, staring across the way at the surrounding buildings in quiet wonder; and Henwyn, standing alone with his hand clasped over his wounded forearm, a distant and serious look on his face.

  He’s a good man, Oriken thought. And a fine freeblade. I’m not the only one among us who lost a friend out there. I’m just the only one who’s experienced it for the first time. I guess it happens to us all eventually, except for those who die early.

  Noticing Oriken looking his way, Henwyn wandered across to join him. “Boss says the bar’s closed this evening. I’ll be bringing the lads and lasses from the guildhouse to pay our respects to Dagra, and to get pissed in his name. No watered wine for me tonight.” He paused to clear his throat. “I know you were closer to Dagra than the rest of us, and I know how hard it’ll still be hitting you. I don’t know all what went on down there—” He held his hand up as Oriken’s expression changed. “No, and I don’t need to know. I heard enough what was said at the fortress, and truth is I can’t tell whether I missed out on the adventure of a lifetime or skirted the fringes of a nightmare.”

  “Perhaps a little of both,” Oriken said.

  Henwyn lowered his voice. “Jalis told me her decision to hang up her blades, so I reckon it must’ve been the straw to break the mule’s back. Truth be told, I couldn’t blame anyone for making that choice. As for me?” He shrugged. “I can’t imagine another life, so I’d best be getting myself straight to the apothecary to have this wound looked at. But you, I’m guessing you’re considering your own future right now; whatever you choose, you’ll be one of us. Once a freeblade, always a freeblade.”

  Oriken considered the oft-spoken phrase. “I need to figure a few things out, but, whatever I do, these blades are staying right at my sides.”

  Henwyn nodded and clasped Oriken’s arm. “Good man. See you tonight.” Gathering his belongings, he glanced across to Maros and Jalis, touching his fist to his forehead in mock salute as he trudged wearily away.

  The saloon doors creaked open and Luthan stepped through, whipped a towel before him and folded it into two. Several serving girls followed him out and filled their arms with the journey baggage. Watching them filter back into the common room, Luthan folded the towel once more and tucked it into his apron pocket. Turning his ice-blue eyes on the freeblades and Demelza, he regarded each of them, pausing on the girl only briefly before turning a composed look on Maros.

  “I’m pleased to see the three of you return in one piece,” he said, and Oriken noted the tactful acknowledgement of Dagra’s absence; the news had clearly already spread.

  “Luthan,” Maros said, “if the guild handed out medals, I’d be pinning one to your hat right now. If it weren’t for your suggestion, I’d not have found these two in time.” He rested a hand over the chef’s shoulder. “You should join us at Dagra’s send-off this evening. He’d be glad to know you were there.”

  “Ah, boss…” A flicker of hesitation touched Luthan’s features. “I wouldn’t want to presume—”

  “Nonsense. I’ll hear no protestations out of you, man. You may not be a freeblade, but you’re one of us nonetheless. Where it counts.” He touched a fist to his chest. “Any problems while I was gone?”

  Luthan shook his head. “Only Renfrey, once, but young Leaf turfed him out almost as spectacularly as you did.”

  Maros raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Where’s she now?”

  “On her way to see you, I shouldn’t doubt. She has news from headquarters.”

  “Do you know it?”

  “Aye. But I’ll let her be the one to relay it to you.”

  Maros grunted. “As it should be. You’ve done a fine job keeping the place in check in my stead. In the absence of a medal, I might have to promote you to bar supervisor.”

  The chef chuckled. “That wouldn’t be a promotion. Separate a cook from his kitchen and you’ll be witnessing an uprising within three meals.”

  “Hmph. This land don’t need another o’ those any time soon. Listen, there’ll be no patrons tonight, and that means no evening meal. No breakfast neither, other than for the three of us”—he hitched a thumb at Jalis and Oriken—“plus the guests. How many do we have?”

  “I’m sorry to say we’ve none right now, boss.”

  “Good! In that case, I’ll settle for a sim
ple bowl of slop in the morning.”

  “Careful, boss. There’s no slop made here.”

  “There is when I’m making it. Take the rest of the day off, Luth. Full pay. You’ve earned it. Back to business as usual with lunch tomorrow. I’ve no doubt the kitchen’s pristine, and the girls can keep the housekeeping ticking over.”

  Luthan inclined his head in gratitude. “I suppose there’s no harm in neglecting a kitchen of its chef for two meals.” With an amiable look that encompassed all of them, including Demelza, he added, “I’d be honoured to attend tonight.” He stepped to the doors. “I’ll see to a few things before I leave…”

  “Luthan,” Maros rumbled, and the chef paused. “What part of ‘take the rest of the day off’ did you not understand?”

  With his back to them, Luthan quietly chuckled, then he turned and whipped the towel from his apron and shoved it into Maros’s hand. “See you at the send-off, boss.” With a nod to Jalis and Oriken, and a wink to Demelza, he strolled from the tavern grounds and onto the hard-packed dirt of the street.

  Oriken watched him walk away, smiling to himself at the sight of the chef’s apron and hat being the cleanest, whitest parts of the whole damned townscape.

  “He’d have made a fine freeblade,” Maros commented. “Glad he didn’t go that way, though; the world could ruin a man like Luthan if it pushed him in the wrong direction.”

  “Maybe Dagra took the wrong path,” Oriken said distantly. “He could’ve been a priest, wielding a book instead of a blade.”

  “He took the right path,” Jalis said. “Come on, let’s get inside.” As Maros swung a door open for them, Jalis placed an arm around Oriken, the other around Demelza, and they stepped into the tavern.

  Maros stood before the bar, planted the tip of his greatsword between his feet and rested his hands on the pommel. Lifting his eyes to the bastard sword nestled in its housings on the overhand above the service counter, he regarded the empty brackets to either side where, other than the occasional sharpen and polish, the greatsword had hung untouched for almost a year. The bastard sword looked lonely, brooding over its bigger brother’s absence.

  “Time to get you reunited, methinks,” he muttered, hefting the greatsword and setting it in place. Gods, I might one day be crossing my crutches up there as well. Hmm… That gives me an idea. But first things first. He glanced to his ruined leg, now worsened by the hole from the peasant’s arrow. “You’ve given me enough jip for one lifetime,” he told it. “Tomorrow you’re coming off, and I’ll sell the rutting bones; I hear there’s a niche market for ‘em in the Bay.”

  With a sigh, he glanced over to where Jalis sat with Oriken and the little one they’d picked up on their travels. Curious lass. Turned up out of nowhere, did she? Wandering around in the Deadlands, no family, no home? He shook his head and loosed a snort. It was an unlikely story, but not implausible. Still, if the girl had a secret, then that was that; who didn’t, these days?

  The saloon doors swished, and he turned to see Jerrick shuffling into the common room. One of the serving girls stepped out of the kitchen and glanced questioningly to Maros. He nodded. “Aye, Diela, you can serve this one. No others, though.”

  “Redanchor, Jerrick?” Diela called as the elderly fellow made his slow way to the bar.

  “What’s that you say?” Jerrick croaked.

  “Redanchor?”

  “Aye. Aye, that’ll do.”

  “Sit yourself down. I’ll bring it across.”

  He paused in mid-shuffle. “Why so? Someone upset you?”

  Maros bit back a laugh. “You pour, lass. I’ll see to it. Jerrick!” He gave the grizzled old man a cordial smile and motioned to a table along the side wall. Jerrick nodded and wandered over to take a seat, and Maros accepted the freshly-poured cup of ale from Diela. Limping across, he placed it on the table. “There you go, old timer.”

  “Thankin’ ye.” Jerrick smacked his lips. “Thankin’ ye kindly.”

  Returning to the bar, Maros leaned over the counter and grabbed his high-stool, then hobbled across to join Jalis, Oriken and Demelza. As he eased himself onto the seat, Oriken looked up from his ale to meet his gaze.

  “You doing all right, lad?”

  “Yeah. Right enough.”

  Maros regarded him a moment longer, then turned to Jalis. “And you, lass? You sure you won’t change your mind?”

  She shook her head. “It’s made, my friend. I’ve been at this game for long enough, and for one loss too many.”

  He could feel the girl Demelza staring at him. Casting her a sidelong glance in imitation of what he’d seen her do plenty of times over the last days, he completed the motion and turned to face her, his mouth widening to a grin. She recoiled, but only slightly, and gave him a nervous smile in return. “You’re still not used to me, are you?” he said. “You know, halfbloods like me ain’t so unheard of around these parts, they just ain’t all quite so dashing as me.”

  Demelza frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “Reckon it must be a thing down there in the Caerheath sticks”—he eyed her levelly—“since we’ll presume, for the record, that that’s where you’re from. Demelza of Dulèth. How’s that sound to you?” He chuckled quietly at her confused expression. “You think I’m scary, you just wait till you’re in the Arkh and you get your first glimpse of a real jotunn. Them boys are this much bigger’n me”—he stretched his arm to the ceiling, fingers pointing upwards—“and their arms are as thick as an ironwood trunk.” He quirked an eyebrow. “The ladies, too.”

  Demelza blanched and looked worriedly at Jalis.

  “Let her be, Maros,” Jalis laughed. To Demelza she said, “He’s only teasing. He can’t help himself.”

  After a moment, Maros looked pointedly at Jalis and Oriken. With a sigh, he said, “You know, I’m finding it difficult to accept your disinclination to give me any solid details. Someone at Headquarters has dug through historical records about the guild and the Blighted City, and they’re likely to look at my vague and frankly boring report and wonder what all the fuss is about. Now, call me a nosey bastard if you like, but I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me – things you don’t want putting on the records, maybe – and as the Caerheath Guild Official it’s my duty to keep the top dogs happy.”

  “They’ll be happy with their cut of the reward,” Oriken said.

  Jalis took a sip of her drink and set the cup on the table. “What historical records?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough when Leaf arrives. I know you, Jalis, better than I know anyone. If you’re sticking to the story that Dagra just fell ill after fiddling with some fungus, then so be it.” He lowered his voice to say, “I heard plenty of things spoken by them villagers and the knight. Didn’t sound like much to me at the time, but I spent the last days dwelling on it all. I get the secrecy over the details – believe me, I do – but what I don’t get is just who you’re covering it all up for. And don’t say it was for that armoured fellow who don’t seem to know what century it is. I picked up enough to fathom he obviously resides in the Blighted City, and whether with or without the peasants, he’s not alone.” Maros turned a shrewd look on Jalis. “It makes me wonder just who put the death’s head on the map in the first place. But if what you’ve given me is what you’re sticking to…”

  Jalis placed her hand over his. “It is, old friend. And it has to be accepted as the whole story. Please, forget all you heard at Caer Valekha. Let the death’s head stay on the map, and let no one else be tempted to set foot in Scapa Fell. There is nothing good to be found there, except perhaps by those seeking an end to this life.”

  “Fine, fine. My report will be straightforward, with no mention of knights, jewelled swords, some feller who’s outlived his friends by generations while their heads are stuck in a tree – aye, I caught that bit, too – and, perhaps the most curious of all, the complete absence of Oriken’s hat.”

  Oriken cast him a bemused look. “HQ don’t know nothing abo
ut my hat.”

  “They don’t know nothing about your arse-clingers, neither.” Maros commented, flicking a glance at Oriken’s legs. Nice trousers, by the way.”

  “They’re breeches.”

  “Whatever you say. You got a pair in my size?”

  As Oriken took a long pull of ale, the saloon doors swished open and Leaf stepped briskly inside. Spotting Maros, she hurried across and brandished a large, flat leather wallet at him.

  “Papers, boss.”

  “Ah, well done, lass.” He took the wallet and flicked a thumb over the parchments within. “Three sheets? Is that it?”

  The girl nodded. “Job request, contract, and report. One for each.”

  He grunted. “Succinct. I’d expected more. No matter. Did you have any problems at the Bay?”

  “Yeah...” Leaf said carefully, but her eyes shone with confidence. “Nothing I couldn’t handle though.”

  “Good, good,” Maros said distractedly as he riffled through the papers and brought one to his face. “That’s what I like to hear. Hm. Writing’s too faded. Can’t read the damned thing. What’s it say?”

  Leaf took the parchment from him and read it out. “In the year six-four-one of the Fourth Age. Season of Reibhar. Seventh day of the second week of Silspri. Request made by one Cela Chiddari of Balen, age 20 years. Mission accepted by one Elijah of Alder’s Folly, age 28 years. Officiated by—”

  “Skip to the gubbins, lass.”

  She scanned the document. “Blah, blah… to retrieve one heirloom belonging by right to the family of the client… blah, blah… That’s about it. The report’s no better.” Maros handed her the remaining two papers and she trailed a finger down the top sheet. “Mission failed… No return of one Elijah of Alder’s Folly after six months following mission commencement. Reward returned to client minus ten percent, that being eight silver dari.”