Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim)

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by Linus de Beville


  These fellows had little going for them, sandwiched as they were between horseborne raiders and bear-worshiping barbarians. A Journeyman bearing official documentation was sure to be greeted with disdain even if his coin was good.

  As he passed the guard tower the Journeyman caught another whiff of wood smoke, this time mixed with the smell of unwashed human. He spied, through a doorless portal in the side of the tower, another poorly armed soldier reclining in an aged curule chair. This man was old, his beard silvery and his helmet rusted. His eyes were shut and he snored noisily. The Journeyman shook his head.

  Assured that the quality of the soldiery here was as poor as their outpost he made his way over the frozen roadway and down to the ford. Using his quarterstaff to steady himself the Journeyman placed one booted foot on the slick timbers of the clapper bridge. With any luck he would be able to cross without slipping and breaking his neck. Silently he cursed Thane for directing him to this miserable backwater.

  Established a generation ago, the settlements along the Tyrnon had been an attempt to drive a wedge between the Huul clans to the west and the unpredictable Horse Lords to the south and east. The open plains between the southern Erstewald and The Empire’s western border were long disputed and had been the cause of multiple armed campaigns. The outcome of these military ventures had been just dubious enough to warrant even more bloodshed in the years that followed.

  In the brief lulls between the fighting, and with support from the Erstewald in exchange for semi-autonomy, this thin bastion of empire had managed to survive well enough if not flourish. When the Drakkenhuuls had loosed their cascade of black water crippling the Erstewald, the raging river had washed away half the settlements along the Tyrnon. As a result this grand attempt at colonization had ceased to hold any relevance.

  The Hegemony had withdrawn into their capitol, leaving the settlements to rot. The rulers of the Empire had spent the last decade locked in their tower, surrounded by a haze of narcotic incense, and intoning He Who Sees Us All. The pungent smoke held sway over their will and whims. With each year this brought the Empire ever closer to complete collapse. This dilapidated river crossing was yet another example of how the Imperial state had grown too large too swiftly and had nearly fallen in upon itself.

  Now, after years of relative peace, there were again the stirings of Imperial expansionism.

  Thane had his reasons for enlisting the Journeyman’s services. The Journeyman, however, cared little for the games of statecraft. He had been paid and paid well. He would deliver the missive with which he had been charged to the appropriate party and would collect the second half of his payment. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Having navigated the ford the Journeyman made his way up the rutted track on the opposite bank. As he trooped onward he passed potato and barley fields, half fallow and poorly maintained. The path wound its way steadily towards the fells where drifting banks of fog continued to shroud the landscape.

  Halfway to the first ridge the Journeyman stopped and looked back towards the river and the guard tower. He saw the soldier, now joined by his companion, watching his progress. The Journeyman’s smirk was gone as soon as it had crossed his lips. He then turned and slipped into the wall of clouds.

  2. GHUL

  It was not much of an outpost and certainly could not have been called a town. There was a central cluster of buildings arranged along the track the Journeyman had been following, but that did not mean much. These buildings were constructed in a manner that bespoke not only of a complete ignorance of the architectural disciplines but of rampant alcoholism as well. Scattered around this conclave were a smattering of smaller structures comprised of found materials; stone, mud, thatch, and wood where available. A spider web of frozen tracks all leading outwards from the central cluster of buildings connected the network of hovels. To the north was a small pond crusted over by ice from which protruded a half sunken rowboat. This whole affair was situated at the bottom of a spacious valley that would have been quite beautiful if not for the man-made boils at its center.

  As he stood observing the valley below the lazily drifting snow began to fall with increasing heaviness. It blanketed the fells, softening the rugged landscape. Soon the scrub and the jutting clumps of tow-colored grasses would be completely enveloped.

  The Journeyman did not relish having to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary in the hamlet below. In all probability his intended rendezvous would not arrive for several days. Considering the worsening weather, however, he welcomed the prospect of at least having a roof over his head while he waited.

  With twilight fast approaching the Journeyman did not linger on the ridge overlooking the settlement. As he began his descent towards the cluster of buildings below he passed a poorly carved sign clinging to a post. In a deep, uneven script it read simply, Ghul.

  In the surrounding huts and chanteys fires had been lit. As he passed the Journeyman could smell the pungent odour of wood smoke as it mingled with the scent of cooking. His nose told him it was crude fare on which the locals subsisted.

  Probably dog , he thought. His cynicism was rewarded with an angry cavalcade of barking.

  Turning sharply the Journeyman saw, half-hidden under the eaves of a hovel dug from the side of a small hillock, a dog of massive proportions. The beast was a mongrel, shaggy, with drooping lips and eyes. It was covered in a mottled and muddy coat of no specific color. As the monstrous dog vocalized its distrust of the Journeyman long tendrils of spittle flew from its jaws to splatter its muzzle and jowls.

  The Journeyman smoothly swept aside his cloak, reaching one gloved hand to the hilt of the dagger that was sheathed at the small of his back. The weapon was as long as the Journeyman’s forearm, forged from a single piece of crucible steel, razor keen on one edge and saw-toothed on the reverse. He had not needed to use the dagger as more than a tool in recent months, but he remembered well how to wield the instrument in combat. The same fluid grace that showed in his unfaltering stride was easily applied to other disciplines.

  There was a creak and the grating of wood on stone. The Journeyman shifted his gaze to the hovel’s open door. From the flickering interior of that wretched domicile limped a boy of no more than nine or ten. The child was thin, grimy, and dressed in an ill-fitting assortment of stained and threadbare rags. His hair was a sandy blonde, his left leg twisted and withered, ending in a clubbed foot.

  Walking in halting, uneven steps the boy approached the slavering dog. For this small, misshapen lad the beast held no terrors. The boy placed one hand atop the dog’s head and the mongrel ceased its barking. It watched the Journeyman with a wary, mistrusting gaze as drool continued to slip from between its jowls.

  The Journeyman loosed his grip on the dagger and let his cloak fall back into place. He gave the rim of his hood a tug and the boy a slight nod. He then resumed his pace. With deeply sunken eyes the boy watched as the Journeyman passed, the lad’s sallow gaze marking his progress.

  Less than fifty metres away lay the central cluster of buildings. The Journeyman made for the largest of them. Slanting through its windows, shuttered though they were, could be seen firelight. A significant plume of smoke issued from a stone chimney built into one wall. This was not the simple hole in the roof utilized by the other structures in the village, but a brick and mortar funnel that rose skyward teetering at strange, bent angles. The building had two stories, or at least one and a half, and the Journeyman thought the place likely to be an inn or public house.

  Upon reaching this derelict the Journeyman made no attempt at polite knocking; instead, he simply let himself in. Even if it were not a pub, it was his intention to warm himself by the hearth no matter the occupants’ protestations.

  The sight that greeted him was vastly underwhelming, though his supposition about the structure being a public house was indeed correct. The ground floor was a single room with a large fireplace set in the western wall and a bar along the opposite end. Scattered in-betwe
en was a smattering of low tables and a few worn benches. Leading upwards from behind the bar was a narrow stair that disappeared into the darkened second floor. Smoke from guttering oil lamps hung in a haze about the ceiling and the timber cross girders that ran along its length were smudged an inky black.

  Of the pub’s four occupants, three were well into old age. All were possessed of long beards, but few teeth. Their clothing was filthy and heavily patched. The fourth patron was a stocky and greasy man with a snarl of dark hair at his chin. The sides of his head had been shaved smooth, leaving a thick strip of dreadlocks along the crest of his skull. Crude runic tattoos could be seen running up the sides of his neck and along his temples. He was clad in leather and furs over a shirt of rusty mail. As he stood in the doorway taking in his surroundings this fourth man gazed aslant at the Journeyman.

  It was as Thane had said, there would be Huuls. The ursine obsessed barbarians would not take the sort of stirrings the Hegemony had in mind lying down. Seeing one already in place and waiting would have been extremely disconcerting to any other man. The Journeyman, however, took in this fellow’s presence like he took most things well in stride.

  Snoozing behind the counter at the far end of the room was a troll of a women replete with a wide assortment moles. She was possessed of a massive bosom that hung nearly to her waist and a set of jowls to match. The Journeyman made no acknowledgement of the patrons, but gave the door a bit of a shove so that it clattered back into its jam. The dozing woman jerked awake and looked about crossly, her beady eyes eventually coming to rest upon the Journeyman. Aware that all eyes were on him, he made his way over to her, leaned upon the scarred counter, and addressed the woman in a low even tone. “I wish a room for the night. Perhaps two or three. Have you one available?”

  “Yes?” was the large woman’s response.

  “Is that a question?”

  “No. Yes…well, we have a room. We have two. You can have one of them.”

  “Alright,” said the Journeyman, “I will have just the one. Your price?”

  “Half a ” the woman stopped, then started again. “One copper mark.”

  “A whole mark?”

  “Yes, one mark,” said the fat woman, swallowing nervously and licking her lips.

  Considering the state of the place this was a highly inflated price. Still, needs must. Without showing any sign of his irritation at this attempted extortion the Journeyman said, “I assume that will include my dinner for the evening as well?”

  The fat woman’s first instinct was to say no, but she took a moment to look over the man standing before her. His was face impassive, his eyes as cold as the wind that shrieked down from the Drakkenhuuls. She decided to say, “Yes.”

  “Good,” said the Journeyman, and he smiled wanly.

  He left the bar hag muttering to herself and found a table with a minimal draft that was not too far from the fire. Situating himself with his back to a wall the Journeyman closed his eyes and listened to the crackle of the flames and the drip, drip of the ice as it melted from his boots. Behind the bar the fat woman clattered about gathering a trencher and foodstuffs.

  Before him the fire blazed cheerily. Though his surroundings were dreary the warmth of the blaze was homely and reassuring. While awaiting his contact he could at least warm his toes.

  The squeak of a loose board on the stairs leading to the second floor snapped the Journeyman’s eyes from the fire. He turned and watched intently as the pub’s seventh occupant made her entrance.

  The woman swept fluidly down the steps, her emerald gown of green velvet and finely tailored damask trailing behind her. Her flowing tresses, flaming red and utterly alien in such drab surroundings, stood out starkly against the pallor of her flesh. The shawl thrown over her shoulders did little to conceal the low arch of her bodice or the swell of her breasts. As she descended the stairs the woman scanned the room with eyes of tempestuous glasz.

  One of the Journeyman’s eyebrows lifted of its own accord. Here was a lady, a true lady, the likes of which this reeking hamlet had probably not seen in a generation. The presence of this handsome woman, along with the Huul, and the Journeyman, would no doubt make for stories told round the hearth for years to come.

  Upon reaching the foot of the stairs the red-haired woman let her shawl slip from her shoulders. She took a deep, theatrical breath and gazed about the room making a show of not noticing the Journeyman until the very last. Feigning surprise, and blinking rapidly, the red-haired woman made her way to the Journeyman’s table, a smile spreading across her lips.

  Now this was something Thane had not mentioned. No, he had said nothing at all about a woman, especially one so lovely. The one-eyed mercenary played at intrigue daily, but the Journeyman operated in a more straightforward manner. Thane had paid for the Journeyman’s services, and well, but information of this ilk would have been very much appreciated. A woman like this complicated matters.

  The Journeyman shrugged inwardly. She was here, this exotic female, and there was nothing to be done about it.

  The red-haired woman strode confidently across the uneven floor and brazenly situated herself opposite the Journeyman. She leaned forward and pursed her lips ever so slightly, her eyes shining in the lamp light. “I thought I was doomed to spend another cold night without conversation, companionship, or any other form of stimulation.”

  The Journeyman paused for a moment, both eyebrows now raised. At last he said, “You are very direct.”

  “I am,” smiled the red-haired woman. “Directness is, perhaps, the most important part of my profession.”

  The Journeyman doubted that very much. If she was playing at the same game as Thane then directness, let alone honesty, would be an extreme liability. Even if she were simply what she appeared to be then coyness, subtlety, and no small amount of unwarranted flattery is what would bring in her wages.

  “You,” said the Journeyman, “are a prostitute. Directness is not in your nature save where money is concerned.”

  “My dear fellow,” replied the red-haired woman and placed the tips of her fingers against her bosom, her eyes widening with mock exasperation, “I am an Imperial Paramour. I carry a certificate bearing the seal of the Hegemony. I am a woman of high class and good breeding. My services are fit for Lords.” Then with a coy smile she added, “And on occasion, a few Ladies as well.”

  “A paramour, in the common speech, refers to an illicit lover,” said the Journeyman, his gaze steady, his expression impassive.

  “In the new speech, perhaps,” said the red-haired woman. “The definition has been sullied somewhat since the term was coined in antiquity. But if we choose to uphold tradition and honor our past we needn’t bow to the yoke of those who would seek to redefine us.”

  “Well, what can I say to that?” said the Journeyman, his lips pursed. “Tradition is a fine thing. It has served me well. My very livelihood depends on the traditions of my guild and the society that props it up.”

  The red-haired woman leaned forward and took the Journeyman’s hand in her own. Gently, purposefully she slipped off his glove and ran her fingers along his. Her skin was soft incredibly so. The Journeyman felt the beat of his heart quicken.

  “Then we have a meeting of minds,” she smiled. “Tradition has served us both in our respective spheres; Journeyman and Paramour.”

  “So it has.”

  The Journeyman paused. The presence of this lovely young woman might be no more then a coincidence, but it was equally as likely that she was the key to Thane’s little undertaking. Considering her overtures he supposed this was indeed the case. He might as well get to the task at hand. After a short pause the Journeyman asked, “Will a silver mark do?”

  “In these surroundings?” asked the red-haired woman. She smiled, her nose crinkling adorably. “Yes, a silver mark will do.”

  She made to rise but the Journeyman stayed her progress.

  “Why are you here?” he asked abruptly. “A high priced Param
our like you so far from the Capital; there must be a reason.”

  “Let us not upset the bargain we have struck,” said the redhaired woman. “You do not ask why your clients send their messages, only who they are for. I ask only what pleasures are desired. Should we not simply maintain tradition?”

  The Journeyman lifted a small silver coin from his purse and slid it with one finger across the worn surface of the table. Keeping his finger atop the metal disc the Journeyman said flatly, “Humour me. I’m terribly curious.”

  “What else can we cling to but those ways of being that have preserved us and informed our identity? To break custom would be to invite unnecessary vicissitude. Such leads only to strife.” The red-haired woman punctuated her statement by pressing one well manicured nail into the leading edge of the silver coin. She then slid it from under the Journeyman’s long finger.

  The Journeyman did not doubt that men like Thane found this sort of thing to be intriguing in the extreme; verbally jousting with a woman of charm and beauty whose motivations and allegiances were unknown. But the Journeyman was not cut from the same cloth. He found games of intrigue stifling and this particular transaction was beginning to get on his nerves.

  “That,” said the Journeyman, getting to his feet, “is not something I have an answer for.” He extended his hand and the redhaired woman placed her fingers in his.

  “Very well,” she said. “Up we go then.”

  The Journeyman nodded and they moved towards the stairs. At the top of the rickety flight of steps the red-haired woman turned to the Journeyman and flashed another smile. “Not that you asked, but my name is Silke.”

 

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