Their quarry stood at a large circular table to the right of the main entrance, in the far corner of the building. They had their backs to the bar and appeared to be conversing with several others who sat, largely obscured from view.
Outnumbered two to one at least. Conlan shook his head. He loosened his sword in its scabbard as subtly as he could. Life with Felix Martius was turning out to be interesting, if a little unpredictable.
They reached the bar and Martius lay his hands on the smooth oak surface. A portly barman with a long, drooping moustache moved to stand before him.
“What can I get ya?” the barman asked.
“A flagon of mead and five cups should do the trick,” Martius replied with a broad smile.
The barman turned and busied himself collecting the order.
Martius said, “I see nine so far,” his tone light and conversational.
Conlan nodded. “Me too. The four we followed and five at the table.”
“There may be more, sir,” said Darcus, his voice so deep that it was almost lost in the background chatter that echoed to the rafters. Market day looked to be very lucrative for the inn on the green.
“Maybe so, Darcus, my old friend. Most pressingly though,” Martius turned to his servant and raised an eyebrow, “you did bring some money out, I hope?”
Is that self-mockery or just a hangover from his aristocratic roots? Conlan couldn’t begin to imagine the level of privilege that meant a man didn’t need to carry money. He is still one of them, no matter how enlightened, he reminded himself. Could a man ever really leave behind the traditional prejudices of his class and upbringing? Or is that just a reflection of your own prejudice?
Darcus grinned and revealed huge, crooked teeth. He reached into a purse at his waist and produced a small silver coin. “This should be enough, sir.”
Martius took the coin. “Thank you, Darcus. I knew I could rely on you!”
Is he enjoying himself? It struck Conlan as absurd, but Martius showed no sign of stress and, from the beginning of the chase, had become positively jovial. It’s like he thrives on danger.
Martius gripped the coin between his forefinger and thumb. “Do you think we have enough to buy another flagon?” he asked Conlan. “I am a little out of touch on these things I am afraid.”
A silver penny is enough to buy at least five flagons of mead. Conlan took a moment, and then swallowed his first reply. “I believe so, sir.”
Martius nodded. “Good.”
The barkeep returned with a large clay flagon and five goblets. “Will that be all, sir?” He turned his head to one side as if studying Martius for a moment.
“Yes, but...” Martius leaned across the bar, his manner conspiratorial, “you see the table in the far corner there?” He pointed back over his shoulder. “Do you know any of them?”
The barkeep’s head turned from Martius to the table and back again. “Aye, I know them, General Martius. Same as I know you.”
Martius rocked back from the bar. It was a subtle move, but enough that it might give him traction if he needed it.
I knew he’d be recognised. Conlan took a small step forward.
“And how is it that you know me?” Martius’s tone remained calm.
The barman lifted his sleeve. A legion tattoo adorned his bicep. “I served with you against the hill tribes, sir. We fought together on the front line at Vindum.”
Martius’s shoulders dropped slightly. He leaned forward again, raised a hand and clapped the barman on the shoulder. “Good to see you, brother... Now tell me, what do you know of those men?”
“That’s Jhan Guttel and his gang. They’re a bunch of lowlife scum, but they pays for their drink, so…” The barman shrugged.
Conlan turned towards the table. With a name like Jhan, the leader had to be at least part Farisian. Sure enough, a dark-skinned man with a black beard sat between four others. It wasn’t unusual for foreigners to frequent Adarna, especially Farisians. Guttel was about as nondescript as they came, his skin tone the only indication he might not be local.
“Would you do me a favour, brother?” Martius enquired of the barman.
“Name it, General.”
Martius leaned forward and whispered something to the man.
Conlan strained to listen but could not hear the exchange.
“… and keep the change.” Martius winked conspiratorially at the barman, then turned to face Conlan and the others.
“They haven’t spotted us yet,” Darcus reported to his master.
“What are you planning to do?” Conlan asked. Since leaving the Hole, or maybe since Sothlind, his life seemed to have spun out of control. He stroked the round brass pommel of his sword, drawing reassurance from the promise of protection it offered.
Martius grinned. “Grab your drinks and follow me.” His expression became stern for a moment. “No one is to draw steel unless they draw first. We do not want to cause a scene.” Holding a tankard in one hand and the half-empty flagon in the other, he set off towards the table.
Conlan followed. He didn’t know what else to do. Instinctively, he stuck close to the general. This won’t end well. A small part of him, nonetheless, had to know what Jhan Guttel and his men were up to.
The men at the table, engrossed in conversation, did not notice as Martius and the others approached.
Martius reached the table and thumped his flagon of mead down in the centre.
The men at the table all looked up at Martius. Shock registered quickly as they realised who it was that had disturbed their talk.
Jhan Guttel shot to his feet, horror painted clear on his face. “But…” he spluttered.
Within seconds, all nine men were standing.
By all the gods, I hope he knows what he’s doing.
Martius held both hands up, palms outward, and stepped back from the table. “Gentlemen, please. There is no need to stand for me. We are all friends here, really. I just want to talk.”
The men all turned to their leader. Guttel seemed to inspire loyalty, if nothing else. Some of them reached their hands under cloaks and tunics.
A wave of crimson fury spread up Guttel’s neck and covered his face. However, he remained silent.
“Now... Jhan Guttel, isn’t it?” Martius smiled pleasantly. “I just want to have a chat. Please, don’t do anything rash. Do you mind if I call you Jhan? You are Farisian, if I am not mistaken?”
Guttel moved slowly around the table until he faced Martius. He left a good distance – more than a full arm span – between them. Guttel’s men spread out either side of him, hemming Martius and the others into the corner of the room.
He fears our swords. Guttel’s men did not appear heavily armed and Conlan doubted that they would have much hope against trained, albeit mostly retired, legionaries.
As if reading Conlan’s thoughts, Guttel turned to one of his men and whispered a command. The man nodded and ran to the exit.
“What do you want?” Guttel asked in perfect Adarnan.
Martius shrugged. “I told you, Jhan, we just want to talk. I apologise for my error. You must be half Farisian, am I right? Born in the traders’ quarter, unless I am mistaken.”
Guttel scowled. “My father was a spice merchant. My mother is Adarnan. What is it to you?”
“Oh, nothing really. Just trying to make conversation...” Martius raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering though, as we are exchanging pleasantries, aren’t you going to ask who I am?”
Around the bar, people began to notice the altercation. Some stood and gawped, clearly enjoying the spectacle, but a large number made their way to the exits.
Guttel must have a reputation around here. The man he sent off must have gone for reinforcements. Conlan’s sword hand inched towards his weapon. Remember the general’s orders, his conscience chided. Stay calm.
Guttel snorted. “I know who you are, General Martius.”
“Ah, that is a shame. I was rather hoping you did not, and that your men w
ere following me because they mistook me for someone else.”
Guttel’s bottom lip quivered. His eyes darted left and right and as if in answer, his men fanned out even further.
Conlan counted time with his heartbeat as it thrummed in his ears. Each beat a little faster than the last. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Orders or no orders, I may need to be quick.
Martius seemed content to wait for a reply. He clasped his hands behind his back as if to prove to Guttel that he was not threatened, or perhaps to prove that he was no threat himself.
Conlan’s heart pounded an urgent rhythm as the silence grew.
Guttel’s man sprinted back into the tavern, his footsteps reverberating on the wooden floor. His face was ruddy. His chest heaved with exertion.
“Well?” Guttel called over his shoulder. He didn’t take his eyes off Martius for a moment.
The man nodded. “He’s coming, Jhan!”
Marek Tyll marched into the tavern. Two huge men, who each bore wooden clubs the size of a man’s arm, flanked him. At least a dozen more, all armed, followed behind. He was dressed in the same tattered clothing that he'd worn when he preached to the crowd near Bezel Square. It looked even more threadbare and worn than it had. The man’s beard had grown long and scraggly. He looked every bit the prophet of the gods that he claimed to be.
“General!” Conlan grasped Martius’s shoulder. “That’s Marek Tyll!” As he spoke, he searched Tyll’s face. Did I fight alongside you at Sothlind? Were you a sword brother like poor, dead, Jon Gyren? Like Dylon? But the man remained a stranger, just as before.
The inn erupted into chaos.
Those customers that remained, either recognising Tyll or spotting the weapons that his followers bore, scrambled towards the back door, climbing over tables and each other in their eagerness to escape.
A lack of movement amongst the chaos drew Conlan’s attention to a pair of cloaked and hooded drinkers. They sat at a small table in the opposite corner of the room. Their eyes gleamed at him from under their deep cowls. The smaller of the two stood, as she did, her hood slipped and revealed her hair—blood red, the colour of death.
Syke!
The sight of her shook Conlan like a blow. “Syke!” The shout ripped from his lungs and echoed across the tavern.
She glanced towards him and their eyes locked for one sweet moment. He lost sight of her as a crush of patrons sought the exit. When they had passed, she was gone, like a phantom conjured from the depths of his subconscious to taunt him. Just as she had in his dreams since Sothlind.
Jhan Guttel raised his chin and thrust his shoulders back. His eyes gleamed dangerously. “My men were following you, General, but only because goodman Marek Tyll here paid me, and –”
“Where is my god?” Marek Tyll thundered at Martius as he approached. “You will tell me now, for I am his voice on Earth!”
Conlan thought he spotted a glimmer of indecision in Martius’s eyes.
“You saw them!” Tyll continued. “You saw them too… Why have you not spoken out? Tell me. Tell me now!” Then more quietly, plaintively almost. “Do you know where they are?”
Jhan Guttel slowly backed away. He shrugged his shoulders as if absolving himself of any involvement. He smiled, but he could not hide the relief in his eyes. “Master Tyll,” he addressed the ragged prophet, “my men and I have business elsewhere…”
“Aye, begone.” Tyll waved a hand in casual dismissal.
“No hard feelings I hope, General?” Jhan Guttel smirked, then turned and quickly departed with his men.
The tavern stood all but deserted beyond the ragged half-circle of zealots.
Conlan counted twenty-one men with Marek Tyll. Four against one. Not odds that they were likely to beat, even with swords. He was glad of Jhan Guttel’s departure though; his nine would have turned a difficult task impossible. There will be time to track that one down... If we survive.
Martius cocked his head to one side and glared at Tyll, his eyes unblinking. After a long moment he spoke. “Are you a deserter?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.
Tyll did not seem to notice. He pointed a crooked finger at Martius. “You have seen the gods. They have returned.” His face turned crimson. “Why would you deny them?”
Martius pursed his lips. “I asked you a question.” His voice was pitched low now, but commanding nonetheless. “Are you a deserter?”
“Sir?” Conlan touched Martius’s arm. What in all the hells is he doing? Marek Tyll was clearly beyond reason. Trapped, perhaps, in some warped world of his own making. A deserter, maybe, but he might have been driven mad by the bloody insanity of battle itself.
Conlan glanced towards the corner of the room to where Syke – or the phantom of her – had appeared, but there was no trace of the crimson goddess. The hawk had flown.
Marek Tyll’s eyes took on a lucid cast; just for a moment, they shone bright with the light of understanding. “Pah!” he spat. “Heretic!” Then he turned and walked away, flanked by his two giant bodyguards.
The rest of Tyll’s men charged in a mad scramble to reach the heretics before them. In his eagerness, one man tripped bringing two more down with him.
Martius drew his sword. “Back to back!” he barked.
Conlan needed no further instruction. His blade squeaked against the wood of his scabbard as he drew it. For a heart-stopping moment he thought it had jammed, then it pulled free.
A man swiped a meat cleaver at Conlan’s head. He ducked the blow and sliced his blade into the man’s groin. It was an automatic riposte, drilled into him through years of training. Martius had said that he did not want unnecessary death, but Conlan’s body was trained to slaughter. Now, after weeks of frustration, it jumped eagerly to its task. The man screamed and fell to the floor, his life pumping away onto the dusty planks.
“We cannot hold, sir.” Conlan kicked an attacker’s kneecap; the man howled and leaned forward. Conlan brained him with the pommel of his sword. He, at least, may survive.
“We don’t seem…” Martius dodged a knife blade and ripped his short-sword up in a tight arc. The blade sliced through the attacker’s shoulder and he fell back with a scream. “… to have much choice.” He stabbed forward, his eyes shining with fury or joy and another zealot fell back.
Is he still enjoying it? How can he smile at a time like this?
Conlan barely blocked a club. It grazed his shoulder and glanced off the site of his injury from Sothlind. The old wound twinged. A shock of pain coursed down his arm. For a moment, the vista before him morphed and he was back in the valley battling the horde once more.
However, this rabble of zealots were no warriors. They were not heedless of their own safety as the Wicklanders had been.
A flash of silver caught his eye. A wickedly curved knife aimed at his left side. He turned instinctively, but he knew he could not stop it.
An image of Syke flashed through his mind, her eyes blazing with power and death. He wondered if he would meet her in the afterlife.
A short sword slammed down into the knife wielder, the hand and knife sheared clean off. Darcus didn’t pause. He swept his blade up and severed the zealot’s carotid, dispatching him with cold precision.
Six men lay dead or wounded on the floor. The rabble held back. Some picked up Marek Tyll’s last word and shouted it like a war chant. “Heretic!” They sought to find a gap in the legionaries’ defences.
“It seems this man Tyll is more of a threat than we suspected,” Martius said.
“A fair assessment, sir.” Conlan replied. He turned briefly to Darcus and nodded his thanks. I owe you my life, he wanted to say.
Darcus simply shrugged and returned his attention to the zealots.
“Sir, do you have a plan?” Are we going to die here? It seemed ironic, perhaps, to die in a bar brawl after surviving the horror of Sothlind.
“Always, Father Conlan. A good leader always has a plan.”
“Is the plan for us to d
ie in ignominy?” The words came out before he could stop them. He is your commanding officer! the legionary in him chided.
Martius laughed. “I certainly hope not.”
A whistle blew. The sound of running feet smothered the insane chanting of the zealots.
Conlan saw a red plumed helmet first as dozens of city militiamen poured into the tavern.
“Lay down your weapons!” the captain of the militia shouted over the heads of the rabble. “You are surrounded.”
“Ah,” Martius said. “The reinforcements have arrived.”
Grudgingly, one by one at first, and then en masse, the zealots dropped their weapons.
The innkeeper, who had entered the tavern with the militia, saluted Martius from across the room.
Martius returned the salute. “My thanks to you, brother!”
The innkeeper snapped to attention, revealing something of the soldier that he had once been. His face beamed with pride. “As you command, General.”
“You planned this?” Conlan gasped for breath, sweat dripped from his forehead and down his back. I am out of condition… weak. Daily drill would begin again tomorrow. You need to be prepared for anything. A walk in the park had reminded him of that today.
Martius raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps not so much planned as adapted.”
“You mean you made it up as you went along?” You really should think before you speak. A door to a new world of possibilities had opened for Conlan at Sothlind, but the Hole had served as a painful reminder that, in the Empire, free speech was not always the best course of action.
Martius turned to face him, his eyes black and unfathomable, like the very pits of the netherworld. He did not speak for a long time; finally he said, “A fair assessment, Father Conlan... Such a shame Marek Tyll escaped...”
CHAPTER SIX
Metrotis
METROTIS STARED HARD AT the figure before him. The man was just over six feet tall; lithe but muscular, his glossy black hair was cropped close, thick and lustrous like fur. His eyes were golden brown, a dark ring around the outside giving an illusion of depth that really was quite disconcerting.
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