by JD Hart
Lest Targameer frowned at Bargo’s expected impoliteness, then took a measured sip of the cool brew before speaking over the tavern noise. “They arrived several hours ago, and went immediately to the Defenders station, where they sent an urgent message.” The thin man’s eyes continuously scanned the tavern. Obviously, he was not accustomed to intrigue.
Bargo’s smile broadened. He leaned forward expectantly. “And?” His left eye involuntarily twitched at the man.
Lest cleared his throat, though it was no longer parched. “It cost me three coins to determine the recipient of that message, Bargo. Don’t expect me to give it to you—”
“If me gut is right on this, Lest, yer will be more than adequately repaid for yer troubles. What did yer find out?”
Lest lowered his voice, though Bargo’s foul smell ensured no one would willingly stray within earshot of the two. “The message was sent directly to King Jonath himself,” he muttered over the ruckus of inebriated patrons and bonds.
Bargo sat back in his chair, beaming triumphantly at the news. “I knew it!” Realizing he had nearly shouted, he rocked forward again. “I have never seen the older one before, but the younger one ...” He shook his head to jog his failing memory. “I know that one from somewhere. She is someone important, no doubt from rich nobility.” He took another satisfying gulp from his mug. It was taking the edginess from his mind. He winked at Lest to let him know what he was thinking, but failed to catch that it nearly unhinged the thin man.
Finally, Bargo leaned even closer. “We just need a little surprise party and I can take out the older one before she knows what struck her. The young one won’t even be enough for yer to handle,” he jabbed.
Lest was offended. “My binding spell will have the apprentice tied in a bow quick as a sneeze, so she will be no bother. And I can handle the Ranger. She is nothing—”
Bargo’s face twitched again. He pulled in close and growled. “Yer pseudo-Sorcerer mumbo jumbo might work on these simple town folk to put a few coins in yer purse, but yer are no more than a charlatan. If these folks discovered yer were pretending to be an orderman, they’d have yer hide drying on city hall by first rays. And yer pretty parlor tricks wouldn’t stop them.”
The long silence was all Bargo needed to be sure both knew who was top dog in this partnership. Satisfied, he nodded with pursed lips. “I want yer to go acquire the services of a few locals to help out in case the little one gets too rowdy, and yer can’t find the right spell to tame the lass. I will find out where they’re staying so as to pick an appropriate spot to throw our little reception.” He leaned back, their conversation complete.
After Lest departed, Bargo drummed thick fingers nervously on the table. This was the break he had been waiting for. Nobility were all alike, denying him a reasonable living, tossing him like an unwanted dog into the street. He had been an officer in the Queen’s Defenders. Well, he had suffered long enough. It was time for them to pay their dues. And they would pay dearly.
Testing the weight of his departed colleague’s mug, he washed the remaining contents down his throat. A little luck of the Cosmos, the right backdrop for a party, a little time to acquire a hefty ransom, and he would be living the life he had been meant to have. He studied the exquisite features of the young Ranger from the corner of his eye. And just maybe he could partake in some pleasures he had nearly forgotten existed.
Homage to Mountain and Sky
Morgas listened intently to Pallia as she recounted the events of the previous two days. He sensed her pain as she spoke of finding Carlon nearly dead after the Eastlander’s escape, felt her frustration and shame at losing any hope of finding the boy’s tracks after the storm, and bore her sorrow with their struggles reaching the cave. After she had concluded, he placed his forefinger under her chin, forcing her to look into his exhausted eyes. “There is no reason for your shame. You did everything you could.” He glanced at Johann sitting in the late afternoon rays of Hemera chatting with Carlon, still strapped to the makeshift stretcher. “All of you did. I could not have done more myself. I am glad you are safe.”
Pallia’s eyes hardened at his words. “Maybe you could not have done more, but it is also possible we could have kept this Conner Stonefield captive if your liege had been more forthright in what he knows of this boy.”
Morgas considered his encounter with Lacerus the previous evening and started to pull away. He did not think he could bear to hear her say what tore at his own heart.
But she gripped his shoulders and held his stare. “I do not think you see what I see, Morgas. Lacerus would willingly sacrifice your life, my life, even the lives of all you hold close”—she gestured at the brothers—“just for a slim chance to get what he desires. This Assassin, like all your Anarchist orderman masters who exploit our people, uses your very strength to bind you to his will. He manipulates you by wielding your mountain pride for his personal gain.”
Morgas closed his eyes, unable to speak against her words. He had been taken from his village chieftain father at the age of twelve. Consigned to serve the Anarchists ever since, he had been conditioned to do as commanded, trained to conform to their every wish and demand without question. His whole life had been with that one thought. What meaning would he find in the past twenty years if he tossed all that away?
Pallia’s voice softened, though her hands were steel on his shoulders. “I cannot imagine what you endured in those years away from our home, Morgas. But I also know this Assassin does not understand the true ways of the Alpslander, the source of our strength, or the meaning of our pride. No whip or cage could break that connection. We are an old and rugged people who have survived the hardships of a millennium in these mountains. We will endure them long after the Harmonic Realms and Anarchic Lands have crumbled.”
Finally, he responded. “I know what you wish of me, Pallia, but you are asking me to dishonor myself and my family. I am an indentured servant to Lacerus.”
“You are only speaking the words the Anarchists have taught you to say, not the words etched into your bones, Morgas,” she shot back with growing impatience at his stubbornness. “I am asking you to honor yourself and your family. There is no dishonor in breaking a pact that does not respect the bloodbond.”
Morgas breathed deep to consider her words. When a pact was entered, the two parties began by recognizing each other as equal. Even if it was an agreement for one to be indentured to another, as with the Narkain brothers, the servant held some element of power. The master was as much indentured to the servant for protection, shelter, or food as the servant to the master. This was the bloodbond, an acceptance of mutual kinship. It was the essential basis for all relationships between mountain people.
Pallia confided reverently, “It is time for you to find new honor, Morgas, by taking the reins of leadership your father always wanted for you.” Her voice changed inflection, lovingly. “It is time for you to respect and honor me in the Ceremony of the Pledging, and to take me into your home so that we can add to the numbers of our mountain village.”
She continued, speaking words he had not heard since he was a child. “We are mountain people, born with mountain granite for feet and mountain snow for blood. Just as the long, harsh winter snows harden our resolve, so the spring nourishes our lives and ways with the snow’s melting.” She waited.
Morgas’s mouth opened and long forgotten words flooded from his lips. “The mountains contain the bedrock of our strength, the sky our hopes and dreams.” He smiled lovingly at Pallia. Together they finished the ancient saying. “May we always remember to walk our path in homage to both.”
For the first time in many years, true peace descended upon Morgas, and he released burdens he had endured for far too long. One of four youths taken from his village that day, he had been too young to comprehend the pact his father had made with the Anarchists in payment for saving his village from destruction. He recalled an image of his mother crying while he was bound and tied behind a horse,
his father’s lips quivering on an otherwise stoic face as he was dragged away. He had forgotten those and many other images of his home before he was taken. Fragments of his past slowly returned. And the Anarchic shackles slipped from his heart.
Morgas knew Lacerus. Domination was the only power the Assassin understood. No matter the cost, once he discovered Morgas had broken his pact, his liege would make him an example for others who might also consider defying an Assassin’s authority. Let the Anarchists come. This time, he would stand next to his woman. Together they would let their longswords ring until the mountain streams ran dark with Anarchic blood and the canyons were filled with Anarchic bones. He placed his right palm to Pallia’s cheek, then touched his forehead to hers in a sign of affection. “Let us go home.”
After several minutes, Morgas moved past Valmer stretched out and panting next to Galven. The two wolves had spent the time since their reunion playing and nipping at each other’s legs. He came to stand over Carlon, examining the younger brother’s weak smile, then turned to Johann to speak the customary words. “I declare with an open heart and eyes, brothers of Narkain, that you have paid your debt. We walk in balance now. May your steps go light upon the mountains.”
He started to leave, but Johann’s reply held him fast. “We would stay with you, if you have need of two trappers.” Morgas understood the plainsman’s meaning. Johann knew what the Alpslander was planning. He might someday be in need of men who could fight.
Morgas sniffed the light summer breeze cooled by the snowcaps above. Changes were coming. With the browning of the leaves, there would be war. Johann’s resolute stare and Goose’s gaze with understanding eyes were all he needed. “Pallia and I return home with first light. We would be honored if you chose to travel with us. Carlon will be well tended, and you can stay as long as you desire.”
This pleased the brothers.
That night, the troop would discuss the plans for the coming day. A strong fire would be needed. The mountain extended its dark, shadowy reach across the peaks to the east, so Morgas went in search of dry wood. But thoughts of Conner Stonefield invaded his serenity. The boy had shown him choices he did not know he possessed, ones that changed the path he and Pallia walked. The mystery about the boy was tangible, too many unanswered questions to simply let go. Lacerus would not relent until the boy was in his grip. Morgas made his way back to the cave the boy had led them to, shrugging off the uneasiness. Tonight, he would burn more than the logs weighing him down.
An Offer Too Good Often Is
Hemera’s setting rays were hot on Conner’s face as he stepped from a field of well-tilled peas onto the dirt road leading into the city. He had stopped frequently on the way south to take rests and to ask for directions from traveling yeomen and serfs tilling farm fields, so the journey had taken longer than anticipated. And though the city was not what he expected, he was relieved to be among people to whom he could relate. He pinned back his sweat-soaked hair and washed mud from his leggings and shoes with the last of his water.
For a quarter mile, he passed row after row of single-story thatched-roof homes, all exactly the same, separated by stone walls running along both sides of the road. As he walked, he nodded to the many exhausted merchants and guildsmen with frowning faces making their way out of the city and disappearing with bonds through equally spaced wrought-iron gates. By the time he reached the edge of Pennington Point, the street was nearly void of people.
Ahead, wooden buildings three and four stories tall ran along both sides of the muddy street. His initial thought was that these were similar to the ones in Creeg’s Point, but closer examination proved him wrong. Here, each building was a single shop or store stuffed with supplies reaching to the rafters far above while work benches and equipment stretched fifty paces or more to the back. Black iron bars covered spacious windows across much of the lower face of the buildings. And small white signs attached to the doors simply warned: Closed.
The only sense of friendliness Conner got from the buildings came from uniquely shaped cloth banners dangling from posts high above the doors. The banners were brightly painted in different colors and contained guild crests along with their names in large, flamboyant script—Hostlers, Carpenters, Thatchers, Blacksmiths, Tailors, Armorers, Hawkers, and Metallurgers. The only thing the banners had in common was the emblem of the Warriors Order painted at the bottom of each—a water droplet under two crossed swords.
Conner crossed another side street to the right and picked up his pace until he came to a light-green banner cut into the shape of a cinnamon leaf with the painted image of a thyme plant over the script Apothecaries and the small emblem of the Shamans Order. He stepped to the door, relieved to not find the usual Closed sign. He entered and gently pushed the door closed.
A middle-aged man with gold-rimmed glasses dressed in an oversized brown apron, the only guildsman about, was intently tapping a brown powder from a stone mortar onto a scale. An opossum hanging by its tail from a rod nearby silently studied the intruder. “We’re about to close for the night, so please come back tomorrow,” the guildsman mumbled without looking up.
Conner waited by the door until the guildsman had set the mortar down, then cleared his throat. “I apologize deeply for bothering you, sir, but I am looking for Student Jess Tandoor. I understand he is assigned here.”
The man studied the Eastlander suspiciously with furrowed brows over glasses, not sure what to make of the boy’s disheveled appearance. “And who is looking for Student Tandoor?”
“My name is Conner Stonefield from Creeg’s Point. I am to be Apothecary Guildmaster Merich Cleaverbrook’s new apprentice.”
The man beamed suddenly and, dropping his pestle into the mortar, stepped forward to get a better appraisal of the mud-clad youth. “Ah, yes! Apprentice Stonefield.” After rubbing his fingers across his apron, he slapped Conner’s shoulder repeatedly with one hand while vigorously pumping the boy’s arm with his other.
Conner glowed at the sound of the name.
“Master Cleaverbrook was here recently and told us his intentions. From what I hear, you are quite a smart lad. He has high hopes for you and thinks you better than even Student Tandoor.” The guildsman bit his lip, aware he had said more than intended. Then he continued, giving Conner a wink and smile. “But maybe I should not be telling you this. I am Adept Barclay Anclar, assigned to guide young Tandoor to his next level.”
An apothecary’s life had to be lonely, for an hour passed before Conner extracted enough information from the talkative adept to be confident he could locate Jess Tandoor. By the time Conner exited, the adept chatting about a potion he hoped would cure hiccups, the sky was dark. The town crier had filled and lit the street lamps.
On his way to the place Jess frequented for evening meals, Conner happened upon a grocer’s shop still open, where he succumbed to purchasing the supplies he would need for the journey back. Conner was so engrossed counting his remaining coins that he bumped into a lanky, dark-skinned Sorcerer stepping swiftly up the street.
“Say, be attentive where you are, boy!” The orderman snapped gruffly at the Eastlander’s rudeness. But when the man noticed that Conner had been counting his coins, his thin face shifted into a reassuring smile. “Now, what was I thinking?” The Sorcerer recanted his words with a wave of his hand before Conner could reply. “Say, don’t mind me, boy. I have had a busy day, and have hard work ahead before I can head home for a delicious, hot meal and well deserved rest.” A thin gold chain dangling through three rings in his left ear swung as he gazed skyward while patting his narrow stomach for effect.
Conner decided it best to apologize. “It was my fault, sir. I should have been watching where I was stepping. Please accept my—”
“Well, what a polite, young man you are.” The Sorcerer interrupted in a hurry. “It is seldom these days that I meet such a well-raised lad.” He shook his head sadly, then stuck a bony finger into the air as if he had developed a thought. “Say, it looks
as if you are in need of some coin, and judging by your looks, you most assuredly could use a hot meal and rest. I bet you are a strong lad. How would you like to earn, say, ten coins for a few hours of work?”
Conner forgot about apologizing. Despite the bad vibrations he sensed coming from the orderman, he could deal with such problems for that kind of money. But his experiences in Cravenrock had taught him to be cautious. “What does this work entail?”
The Sorcerer glanced up the street, then stepped into the shadow of the lamp nearby, ushering Conner close, though no one else was about. Conner cautiously stepped near. The orderman suddenly seemed incapable of speaking above a whisper. “Well, boy, I can’t give you any of the details, you understand—at least, not yet. It does involve the most minimal amount of risk on your part, but nothing I am sure you can’t handle.”
The word risk was all Conner needed to know the offer was too good to be real. Minimal or otherwise, he had taken on enough risk of late to last the rest of his life. Hastily, he replied. “I am sorry, sir, but I am on my way to see a friend. Maybe if I am in Pennington Point again soon, I can look you up for some work.”
The orderman stiffened with a huff, his warm smile gone. “Why didn’t you say that earlier and save me from the trouble of wasting my time?” Without another word, he stepped past Conner and turned up a side alley. In a moment, he was gone.
Conner stared down the dark street, the city’s feelings of familiarity vanishing with the odd Sorcerer.
Dorry’s Alehouse
Discovering the most likely place to find his old friend, Jess Tandoor, had required an incredible amount of fortitude on Conner’s part. He had waded patiently through Adept Anclar’s long-winded story about how acquiring living space in Pennington Point involved complex negotiations between the six orders all competing over limited quarters. He had no idea Apothecaries could be so talkative. Like other new guildsmen, Jess had been forced to obtain temporary arrangements at a nearby inn until permanent quarters were available. Conner gazed up at the bright-colored sign of a pewter mug and the words Dorry’s Alehouse. According to the adept, it was here Jess often ate his evening meals. It was time to see if the time had been worth the price.