by Matthew Wolf
Gray laughed, scratching his head. “Is that so? Why don’t I remember that?”
“Mind like a steel trap,” Darius said, tapping his temple.
Ayva snorted. “Exactly. Nothing going in or out.”
Darius grumbled, hiding a smile, “Bah, just follow my lead.” He prodded Mirkal forward just as Gray spoke.
“Wrong way,” he announced.
Looking back, Gray was grinning like a man with a rigged set of dice, and Darius sighed. “I’m not sure if your returning memory is going to be annoying or a relief,” he replied.
“Both, probably,” Gray answered.
With that, they sifted through the dusty streets, and Darius took in the sights.
Inns and taverns littered the main thoroughfare. Their swinging signs held strange names like The Flute and Tarsk, Reaver’s Rest, Blind Marksman, Silveroot’s Sap, Caverns of Mendari, and a few he couldn’t even pronounce. He whisked down a narrow alley and found darker buildings. People still moved about, but fewer now, and they wore hooded expressions despite their bright attires. Darius heard the scurry of rats in some of the darker alleys between the buildings. He was getting closer.
Gray was silent, merely eyeing the shadows as they rode. Their white, silken haired cormacs seemed out of place in the murky alleys. “I’m afraid I won’t be of much help here. It seems my memory is a bit fogged when it comes to the darker warrens of Farbs.”
“Is there one you’re looking for in particular?” Ayva asked him.
Darius replied, “A good inn is neither too nice, nor too dingy. Information lingers somewhere in the middle.” He nodded to a sign that read, The Blue Boar. It had a painted image of what he guessed was supposed to be a boar. Noise and laughter emanated from behind the closed door. He heard a splintering crash and the breaking of bottles from an erupting fight. “Well then…” Darius hiked up his belt and glanced to the others. “Let’s start here.”
A Ronin’s Luck
GRAY WAS GROWING FRUSTRATED. SIX INNS and two taverns later, they still had nothing. He wished he could help Darius more, but he was useless. This place was completely unfamiliar. Besides, he admitted, he wasn’t used to digging for information. He didn’t seem to have the skills for this sort of thing. He took it as a good sign, hoping it meant his previous self wasn’t of the nefarious ilk, but still… It didn’t explain Kirin’s maniacal laughter and the feeling of death clinging like residue upon his hands… Gray shook the thoughts free like a dog shaking off water.
More to the point, they were no closer to finding his grandfather.
Darius had done his best, but no one wanted to talk. As soon as the Citadel was mentioned, all grew predictably silent. True to Darius’ word, they were now in a dark hovel called The Drowned Rat. They had quickly realized that the deeper and darker they went into Farbs, the more they would find, but still no one was willing to talk.
He sat at a bar with Ayva at his side and pretended to drink his frothing ale. Gray sniffed it again. It smelled sour like milk gone bad. He didn’t know much about ale, but he presumed sour wasn’t a good thing.
On a rickety stage, a woman plucked at a strange, seven-stringed instrument and sang. It was an odd up and down melody, though enchanting, and he listened half-heartedly.
“The rusty trail of time,
It passes on and on,
Till we forget what’s come an’ gone:
Of battles fought
Of love lost and won,
Of heroes gained and villains made,
But bards, they do remember—
In moonlit taverns they spin their tales,
A history that winds, left and right it goes,
But always back it comes, to tell of fabled foes:
Those legends, myths, and enchanted men
Who fight for what was right,
But all were lost to darkness,
And Kingdoms retreated to lofty walls
To stow away their hatred.
And the rusty trail of time
Continues on and on—
Till we forget what’s come an’ gone… ”
Her voice drifted on, and despite the intriguing subject matter—he knew what legends the song was referring to and which name it was pointedly avoiding—Gray’s attention turned. Even with the time of day, the tables were packed. Men, big and small, sat huddled over their drinks, wearing dingy clothes and even dirtier faces. They cast wary glances. A few of their eyes lingered, but not on him. Ayva ignored it mostly, but Gray felt anger brewing at those looks. Casually, he touched Morrowil, reassuring himself.
“How’s he doing?” Ayva asked.
Gray glanced over his shoulder to see Darius chatting with a man twice his size, both in width and height. The man leaned forward, his chair straining as he listened to the rogue talk. Gray reached into his mind, drawing upon the nexus. It wavered and sputtered—that black cavity was still there, as if someone had taken a bite out of it. Tentatively, Gray extracted a thread, praying it wouldn’t shatter. The thread came, but slowly, and he twisted it into a familiar spell and reached out. He cupped the air before their mouths and pulled it toward himself.
Words floated, sifting into his ear.
“Well, I can tell you one thing for certain. I’d wager all my coin that a procession like that is hiding something. And trust me, I know a thing or two about hiding.”
“Is that so…” the large man said dubiously. “How do you figure?”
“Obvious, ain’t it? It’s the oldest trick in the book! Make a flashy show to keep the dull-eyed crowds smiling, all to conceal the rabbit under the hat. The buried treasure. But I just wonder where they would try to hole up something like that,” Darius said.
Gray knew what he was talking about. Among other unusual rumors, they’d heard of a strange procession, more grand than anything the citizens had ever seen before. It had everyone in a buzz, questioning: What was it about? Were they hiding something? Who was the man with the black coat? Gray didn’t care about any of that. He continued to listen, knowing the rogue was leading the conversation towards information.
“Better to not wonder,” the big man hissed, suddenly nervous. “I don’t want to know what Reavers be hiding.”
“No?” Darius asked. “I suppose that’s smart, avoiding danger and all. But I can’t help but think… something they’d take all that effort to hide must be worth its weight in gold. Dice, a man could buy Eldas itself and still have more than a few coins to rub together.” Darius rubbed his chin as if pondering. “I only wonder where something like that would be held…”
At last, the man looked thoughtful. “You’re clever, friend. Too clever for these parts. Now cut to the chase. I’ll help you if I can. What do you want?”
Darius took a sip of his beer and his mouth twisted from the sour taste. I wasn’t wrong, Gray thought. “The Citadel,” the rogue said softly.
The man’s face darkened. “Better face a Devari in a duel than answer questions about the Citadel,” the man said. “Sorry friend, you’ll have no help from me, or from anyone else if they’ve got half a brain.”
Darius grumbled and rose. “Thanks, friend.”
“Bit of advice, if I might,” the man said, gripping Darius’ arm. The rogue gestured for him to speak, but Gray knew that look. It was the same one he had before Darius had pinned a snake in the desert in the blink of an eye. “Word on the street is that the Citadel is not right of late. Something is happening. Dark events, I tell you. Whispers of Reavers turning to the dark, and the Citadel is…”
“Is what?”
“War is coming,” the man breathed. Raising a ponderous brow, the big man let the words linger, then pushed his girth away from the table and stalked to the tavern’s door, letting in a flurry of cold wind, before it swung close with a thud.
“Gray?” Ayva asked, touching his arm. “You have that look again…”
Gray shook his head, returning.
Darius neared as he downed the rest of his ale, and
then slammed the flagon on the bar. “Another please,” he said, gesturing to the lanky tavern owner.
“I don’t know how you can manage to drink any of this swill,” Ayva said, brushing imaginary dirt upon the bar. “It’s a shame this place is even allowed to exist. Really, it’s a disgrace on the name of inns and taverns everywhere. My father would never allow such a thing in The Golden Horn.”
Darius merely shivered. “Honestly, after news like I just heard, I’m willing to drink anything.”
“What’d he say? Does he know where Gray’s grandfather is being kept?”
“No,” Gray answered.
Darius choked mid-gulp, spitting out his new drink. “Gah! Will you cut it with the eavesdropping, Gray? Dice, it’s uncomfortable as is. Not to mention, your leering is going to make these fools suspicious. And as for what he said, it was the same as before, only worse. The Citadel seems to be stirring. People are afraid.”
Gray cleared his throat.
“Is that all?” Ayva asked.
“He mentioned war,” Darius admitted.
Ayva swallowed. “Could it be true?”
Gray was silent. War… Part of him thought Farhaven would be different, that a land of magic would have evolved beyond such things. But he knew it was a silly notion. There would always be war where greed and power flourished.
“I’m not sure,” the rogue said, “I’m as likely to trust a newt as I am anyone in this gutter. Now come on, we’re getting a few too many looks, and this place has served its purpose. Let’s find another.” Darius was right. The leering men were now openly staring, and several of them rose to finger daggers at their waists and flash hungry grins—revealing missing or rotting teeth. Gray moved for his sword when he felt a hand on his wrist. He turned to see Darius. “It’s not worth it,” said the rogue with a furrowed brow. “Your grandfather, remember Gray? Not Ayva’s honor.”
Gray released his breath, pulling his hand away. “You’re right. No use dying over fools.” Were the words Kirin’s or his? It was becoming difficult to tell.
“Precisely!” Darius said. “Or better yet, how about just no dying?” Ayva looked at them curious, but was too far to hear. Darius threw an arm around Gray’s shoulders, then flung a few coins he’d gambled for on the bar. With his other arm, he grabbed Ayva jovially. But as they left, Gray put himself between the men and Ayva, hand resting heavily on Morrowil’s hilt.
Outside, light blinded Gray and he shielded his eyes.
It was still midday, but after the dimly lit tavern, it felt like they’d just stepped out onto the surface of the sun. Upon Darius’ advice, they’d found a stable for their cormacs at a nicer part of town a while back, paid for it with Darius’ gambling winnings, and had resorted to walking. Whatever helped them blend in, he thought, as a pair of men cast them sidelong glances.
They entered a dark red building with white letters that spelled The Bloody Axe. Again, they found nothing. There were fearful whispers, but the woman’s mouth shut as soon as the word “Citadel” passed Darius’ mouth.
The Swine’s Tale.
Nothing.
The Beggar’s Hand.
Again, nothing save for the threat of a dagger in Darius’ back.
As they left a rickety building with barred windows and a sign that read The Giant’s Gizzard, Gray grabbed Darius’ arm, pulling them to a halt. Frustration boiled inside of him. It was now nearly night time. Hours wasted and we’ve gotten nowhere, he thought. His other hand was a fist in his pocket, clutching the dust from the former pendant. He watched as a few men and women wearing black and red rag-like clothing moved around them.
“What is it?” Darius asked, looking worn and equally frustrated, and more than a little drunk.
“You’ve done better than Ayva or I could ever do, but this isn’t working,” Gray whispered fiercely.
“No, you’re right,” the rogue agreed.
“Time is wearing thin, and thus far we’ve only found out that he’s being kept in the Citadel. We’ve still no blasted idea where he is inside the keep, or even how to get in… Let’s face it, this is turning into a lost cause.” He felt a thread of despair weave its way into his voice.
“What do we do?” Ayva asked.
Darius gripped Gray’s forearm. “We can’t give up yet,” he said. “We have to keep trying.”
He held the rogue’s gaze and felt some of the mantle of darkness slough from his mind. He heaved a sigh of relief. The look of perseverance and confidence on Darius’ visage gave him hope. Gray remembered Morrowil as well. He could not give into despair or the sword would feed upon it—I will never be Kail. “All right,” he said. “Though there has to be a better way. At this point, we are more likely to get stabbed than to get information.”
“I’ve got one last idea,” Darius said. “The darker the establishment, the more they seem to be willing to reveal about the Citadel. But we’ve been far too tame.”
“What are you proposing?” Ayva asked hesitantly.
Darius didn’t smile, but his eyes took on a wild look and he answered, “I’m saying it’s time we find the most foul, most ruthless inn in all of Farhaven and hope someone has the guts to speak.”
“I don’t like the sound of this. That just sounds like an easier, faster way to get stabbed,” Ayva replied.
“No, he’s right,” Gray said. “It’s a long shot, but it’s our best bet. One last chance, but if we’re doing this, let’s not go halfway. It’ll have to be the darkest, deepest hole we can find.”
Darius gripped his arm with a mischievous grin. “Deal.”
“This is a fool’s plan,” Ayva said fearfully.
“Well, then it’s perfect,” Darius answered and started forward.
* * *
They wove deeper and deeper, night settling in around them. They passed buildings that only seemed to stand because they leaned against one another for support, most of their windows boarded or shattered like a brawler’s broken teeth. Darius’ eyes flashed, watching every shadow in every nook. He saw Gray was doing the same, but he didn’t know where to look, not like Darius. His fist was white-knuckled around Morrowil’s hilt.
The man’s white-knight routine is going to get us killed! And yet… He felt a goofy smile crease his face. He admired, no, he liked that about Gray! That sense of honor and morality was reassuring in a world gone mad. And the world was mad. But not to Gray. To Gray the world was black and white, good and bad—a comforting thought to the truth of an uncaring world full of gray-matter.
Gray-mattered. He giggled at his own inner pun, feeling light-headed and drunk once more. Trying to sound sober, Darius touched Gray’s hand, pulling it away once more. “Careful. A threat of a fire could burn the whole house down.” He wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. He was drunk, but it sounded reasonable. A spark could cause an inferno? Maybe that was the phrase. Regardless, Gray understood and removed his hand, but he still watched the shadows.
He was right too. Threats were everywhere, but not where they expected. Gray’s eyes passed over a bald man with a toothless grin—but Darius saw the man’s stumble lead him purposively towards Ayva.
Faster than an adder, Darius slipped his dagger free and pressed it to the man’s side. Their gazes met in a flash and Darius shook his head. The man sneered, but his hand slunk back into his smelly, threadbare coat—a hand that clearly gripped a shank or some other crude weapon—before stumbling on.
“What was that about?” Ayva questioned. “You just ran straight into that man, Darius. How drunk are you?”
Gray merely squinted.
“A little,” Darius lied. The world was beginning to spin. He felt the ground lurch beneath him, and he gripped Gray’s arm for balance. “I probably shouldn’t have tried to outdrink that man at The Giant’s Gizzard. Or—” he burped “—perhaps it was spiked.” The thought sent a cold flush across his skin, and he hoped he was wrong.
“We can call this off,” Gray said.
Darius shook h
is head. “No.”
A group of men approached.
Ayva nervously walked closer to Darius. She assumed the air of indifference—a necessary mask he assumed she’d learned from working in her dad’s inn. Still, the men were making a straight line towards them. As if he’d feigned his drunkenness, Darius lunged. He snatched Gray’s collar suddenly and shoved him against the nearest wall. In the corner of his vision, he saw the men pause.
Gray cursed. “What in the—”
With an overly extravagant flourish, Darius whipped out his dagger. His fingers felt fat, nearly dropping the blade. Sweat flashed across his skin in panic, but he held on, spun the dagger in the air then put it to Gray’s throat. “Enough!” he shouted, loud enough for all to hear.
“Darius!” Ayva shouted.
“You’re leading me nowhere! Give me all the coin you promised and now, or I’ll do it!” His grip loosened just enough, and Gray’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. Darius belched, and it made his throat and mouth taste like bile. He suppressed a grimace, hoping Gray didn’t smell what he’d issued.
Gray recoiled, as if in fear, but more likely in disgust. “Please, I promise!” he shouted, voice quaking. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you.”
Darius snorted. “I knew you would. ’Course the band won’t be happy with just your coin. They wanted your life too. Lucky for you I’m the merciful sort. But you try anything foolish or hero-like, and the street will drink your blood. Quickly now, or I’ll tell the others! They’ll be coming soon, and they’re thirsty for violence.” He sneered and Gray feigned horror. He was shaking! Dice, he was good.
“I…”
He felt a tap on his shoulder and he spun, but his boot caught on something and he tripped, falling upon his rear. Through his blurred vision, he saw Ayva with an amused smile.
“I was just going to say, they’re gone.”
The alley they were in was now completely empty. It was without a doubt the darkest spot they’d been in so far. The only life he saw was a scurrying rat, and even it seemed to be running away. Even the occasional mangy dog or feral cat they’d seen before were nowhere to be seen. The buildings around them crowded close, blotting out the sky above as if casting a perpetual moonless night. The dirt beneath Darius felt wet and grimy. A stale smell hung in the air, like moldy water mixed with something rotten.