“I think I bruised my butt,” Sari whimpers, sitting on an unconscious guard. The other two guards struggle to their feet, but the orc violently pushes them out of her way as she barrels toward Sari.
“You should learn not to mess with orcs,” the woman says, reaching out to grab Sari by the throat. She bares her large, polished incisors and growls.
“Gypsies are slow learners,” Sari claims, hearing the click of a distant lock.
Reaching under her skirt, Sari draws her stiletto and swiftly slices up the front of the orc’s dress. The fabric opens and the orc drops the smaller woman in order to keep her destroyed dress from falling to the ground. She tries to punch Sari, but the gypsy flips out of reach and makes a dash for Kayn. He is beginning to close the door when Sari whistles to get his attention. He pauses long enough for her to dive into the cage, her momentum carrying her into the wall.
“Close the door!” she shouts, watching the charging orc and guards.
Kayn slams the door shut and waves his hand over the lock, which snaps shut and fuses in a small burst of heat. He jumps away from the cage as the guards stab their swords through the bars. Fighting the temptation to slash their exposed wrists, Kayn uses his dagger to stab them in the meaty part of their hands. They drop their weapons into the cage and yank their hands back to nurse their shallow wounds.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Sari says to the orc while Kayn searches for the book. “We needed a distraction and you were the only patron who could be considered as beautiful as me. I’m sure you’re not a whore.”
“Thanks?” the woman says, unsure how to take Sari’s apology and compliment.
“Time to go,” Kayn whispers, tucking a small book into his shirt.
Sari follows Kayn up the bookcase as the guards hurry to call for reinforcements. Kayn breaks the stained glass window and peers down to see twenty guards gathering below. He looks across the alley and considers trying to jump the thirteen feet, but he is not sure he can do it without a running start. A shuffling noise causes him to turn to his left where he sees Sari pulling a grappling hook and long rope out from under her skirts.
“Where are you keeping all of that?” he asks in amazement.
“That’s a very rude question,” Sari replies, shoving the grappling hook and rope into his hands. “I can give you a few seconds to hook the library’s roof. Just hang onto me and aim.”
“You have your mother’s boots,” Kayn says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
They step off the ledge to begin a gradual descent toward the waiting guards. Swords and spears rise into the air as the gypsies sink, but Kayn expertly throws the grappling hook onto a distant gargoyle. When the rope goes taut, they scramble up the rope with Sari in the lead. They flip over the ledge and race across the flat rooftop to jump to another building. As soon as they land and roll, they make a sprinting leap to the next building.
“How are we going to lose them?” Sari asks, listening to the shouts and yells from the street below. “This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.”
“Now it’s my turn to surprise you,” Kayn replies as he pulls a gray pouch out of his shirt pocket.
Grabbing Sari by the arm, Kayn skids to a stop and pulls her tightly against him. He throws the pouch into the air where it explodes into a narrow rain of rainbow dust, covering the gypsies as the guards climb into view. Sari is scared when the guards stare directly at them, but they make no call for an arrest. The guards search the rooftop, Sari and Kayn silently spinning out of the way if the guards get too close. After several minutes of fruitless hunting, the guards give up and climb back down to the street. The gypsies wait until the armored footsteps of the guards have been gone for a while before they let go of each other.
“Invisibility dust,” Sari says with a smile. “I’m very impressed.”
“I learned how to make it a few days before our clan was murdered,” Kayn admits. He pulls the small book out of his shirt, tenderly caressing the cover. “I was going to surprise you with a bag of dust during the celebration, but we were . . . busy.”
Sari blushes at the memory and clears her throat. “So, that book will show you to the shawl and then we can get your sword?”
“I lied to you, Sari,” Kayn quietly mentions. “This book has nothing to do with the shawl or my reflector blade.”
“You’re really making our reunion hard to enjoy, Kayn,” she says, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “Does that book have anything to do with our clan?”
“It’s a bloodline diary that I learned about two weeks ago,” Kayn answers, avoiding Sari’s piercing gaze. “Several diaries were taken from the wreckage of our caravan after the attack and sent to this library for research by the Gar scholars. The idea was to preserve our clan’s history since the sages didn’t know we survived. It was a nice thought and I have no problem letting them hold onto most of them, but this diary shouldn’t be locked up.”
“I remember those diaries,” Sari says as her curiosity grows. She walks up to Kayn and places her hand on the small book. “The matriarchs of each bloodline would keep a history in the magic diary. These books never ran out of pages and the destruction of a magic diary was equivalent to the death of a bloodline.”
Kayn flips the book over as he hands it to Sari. She immediately recognizes the swirling blue flower on the cover as her bloodline’s matriarchal crest. She silently takes the book and gives Kayn a kiss on the cheek. Hugging the book to her chest, she turns away before he can see her cry.
“I knew something was off about this job,” Sari swears with a small chuckle. “What do we do now?”
“Now, we get to work on our revenge,” Kayn whispers, kissing her on the top of the head.
*****
Timoran is jolted awake by his chair being kicked out from underneath him. His solid head bangs off the table as he falls to his knees. With a low groan, he gets back to his feet and stares at the three guards sitting at his table. The female guard is grinning while she drinks the last of her ale and the two male guards quietly finish their meals. Timoran nods to them as he sits down and promptly dozes off again. He is faintly aware of one of the guards calling over to the bartender, but he is unable to make out the words. The barbarian’s eyes are completely closed when one of the waitresses dumps a bowl of ice water on his head. He looks at the laughing guards and wipes the cold water from his face.
“I am used to freezing water,” Timoran politely reminds them. “Still, I thank you for attempting to revive me.”
“We’re worried about you, sir,” the younger guard admits. “You’ve been looking rather ill the last few days.”
“It’s because that caster has taken over his room, Jackson,” the grizzled male guard says states to the young man. “Back in my day, women weren’t allowed anywhere near the barracks. They stayed at the house.”
“You’re not even close to that old, William,” the female guard contends, kicking the old man’s chair. “Women have been in the guard for over fifty years.”
“As cooks and healers, but it was only the last ten years they were allowed to carry a weapon bigger than a meat cleaver,” William emphatically argues. He grins at the female guard and leans back in his chair. “You should be thankful that there are open-minded men like me who supported the idea. If it wasn’t for me, Kelda, you wouldn’t be wearing that armor or have those rank stripes.”
“None of this has anything to do with Sir Wrath’s problem,” Jackson timidly points out.
Timoran finishes his ale in a single gulp and wipes his mouth on his forearm. “Lady Nyx is not a problem. It was I who offered for her to use my room and she has tried to give it back on multiple occasions. Unfortunately, she has nowhere else to go. If she stays at an inn then she is in danger of being attacked by the remaining angry citizens. If she stays with the mercenaries, she gets into fights with Tzefira. Her taking my room is the easiest way to handle the situation.”
“You’re far too nice for your own good,” Wi
lliam says, patting Timoran on the arm. “Did you ever think of trying to secure her one of the empty rooms on your floor?”
“There is also the option of asking one of the female guards to bunk with her,” Kelda chimes in with a smile.
“Another idea would have been to ask Lord Highrider to rent a suite at the dockside inn, so you and Nyx could both stay there,” Jackson suggests, cowering when Timoran slowly turns toward him. “The suites have two bedrooms, so you would both have your privacy. I’m sure Lord Highrider would have paid the bill.”
“All good ideas,” Timoran kindly agrees. “I only wish I thought of them a week ago. To make any of those suggestions now could make Nyx think I am trying to get rid of her. I do not want to insult her.”
A gauntlet-covered hand grips Timoran’s shoulder and he looks up into the face of one of the local knights. The black-haired man grins at the barbarian while reaching out to take Jackson’s unfinished ale. All of them recognize the knight as Sir Bloodcore, a man who has made it publicly known that he does not like Timoran. The decorated knight considers the barbarian an intruder and the guards calling him Sir Wrath infuriates the pompous warrior. Sir Bloodcore’s insults and threats have been easily ignored by the mild-mannered Timoran, but today the knight is playing with a tiger.
“We all know why Timoran wants the caster in his room,” Sir Bloodcore states, stealing some potatoes off Kelda’s plate. “After all, the young woman is rather attractive and her power is immense. If Timoran can take advantage of her when her defenses are down then he can earn himself a barbarian bride. I mean, forcing yourself upon women is what you savages do, right?”
“No,” Timoran says in a cold, stern voice. “I recommend you depart from this tavern and never say such things to me again.”
“You dare threaten a knight?” the armored warrior asks in amusement.
“I do not threaten a knight. I threaten the man who insulted my honor,” Timoran calmly answers. He stands up, so he is face to face with the heavily armored knight. “I do not think a man who accuses another of such a crime should be considered a knight. I will let you leave without an apology, but this is your only warning on the subject.”
Sir Bloodcore leans forward, forcing Timoran to bend backwards. “You can keep your warning, savage. I’ll be watching you and waiting for you to make your move on that young woman. The moment I hear her scream for help, I’ll be there to send you back to the wilderness in pieces.”
Timoran growls and rams his forehead into Sir Bloodcore’s face, shattering the knight’s wide nose. The other guards quickly move to stop the rowdier patrons from joining the fight. Timoran grabs the stunned knight, his large hand easily able to palm the other man’s head. Using a fraction of his strength, the barbarian slams the knight’s head onto the cluttered table. One of the wooden legs snaps and Timoran grabs the table’s edge, pressing the ale-soaked wood against the knight’s face. As Sir Bloodcore feebly struggles, Timoran bends down to place his mouth next to the man’s ear.
“It is in your best interest to listen carefully, good knight,” Timoran whispers, his voice a predatory snarl. “Be aware that since I arrived in your city, I have never fought with my true rage. Try to imagine what I would be like if I decided to fuel my prowess with my primal fury. Now, imagine what I would do to you if you were the person who made me that angry.”
Sir Bloodcore’s eyes bulge with fear before he passes out and slumps to the floor. The guards laugh at the sight of the proud knight sprawled on the ground. Timoran releases the table, which falls onto the unconscious knight, covering him in food and ale. Timoran reaches down to pick the knight up by his collar and roughly hands him to the three guards.
“Bring him home,” Timoran demands, trying to calm down. “I trust that you will defend me if he decides to press charges.”
“You can count on us,” Jackson happily declares. He bends down to take Sir Bloodcore by the ankles. Kelda and William nod as they help Jackson drag the groaning knight out the door. They try to hide their snickering when Sir Bloodcore’s head gently bounces off the bottom of the door frame.
“This should cover the expense,” Timoran says, placing three diamond spheres on the bar. “I apologize for the scene.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the bartender replies with a flash of his fangs. He hands the barbarian a fresh mug of ale and gestures to a corner table. “You did what you had to do and I’m thankful that you try to avoid big fights, Sir Wrath. The next couple of rounds are on the house.”
Timoran raises his mug to the bartender and takes a seat at the corner table. He is surprised to see he is not alone. A stocky figure with black scales and a red robe glances up from his stew. The fireskin leans back in his chair and grins at the barbarian, who nervously sips at his ale. It takes a few minutes of silence for Timoran to build up the courage to speak.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Mr. Isaiah,” the barbarian whispers, putting his elbows on the table. “I do not have Nyx with me, but I can bring you to her if you wish.”
“I’m not a mister,” Isaiah politely insists with a chuckle. “As for our mutual friend, I’ll find her when I wish to speak with her again. Today, my interest is in you.”
“I have no magical ability to interest someone like you,” Timoran nervously claims.
Isaiah laughs and smiles at the red-headed barbarian. “What do you think of our mutual friend?”
“Nyx is a very powerful caster and a stubborn woman,” Timoran carefully answers. He eyes the smiling fireskin and drinks more of his ale. “I believe she covers her weaknesses with threatening displays of power and an air of confidence. She uses intimidation and bluster to weaken her enemy’s resolve. Beyond her combat ability, I think she is a kind and considerate person who cares deeply about others. She is currently preoccupied with the opinions of others, but I believe that is caused by the current tension in Hero’s Gate. She has become more relaxed ever since the citizens took down the scarecrows.”
“Very astute observations,” the fireskin agrees. He waves to the bartender and holds up two clawed fingers. “She’s a very special woman who needs to be protected. I would like you to be her shield when she leaves the city. It would make me feel better knowing she is under your protection.”
“Nyx has her friends to protect her,” Timoran states as a waitress puts two plates of smoked beef on the table. “Luke is a highly skilled warrior with amazing abilities and Sari is a cunning gypsy. I do not see why Nyx would need me.”
“Humility is a noble trait, but it makes my task difficult,” Isaiah says, his eyes staring at the wooden beams above his head. “Let me explain your purpose, Timoran. More important than your impressive physical strengths is your wisdom and common sense, which Nyx and her friends currently lack. They are young and prone to fits of recklessness, which I believe you can help them overcome. I assure you that it won’t be easy, but you’re greatly needed.”
As he considers Isaiah’s words, Timoran picks up a long, tender piece of beef from the nearest plate. He greedily devours the meat and wipes his chin clean before taking a deep swig of ale, draining it of every drop. Isaiah calmly skewers some of the beef on his claws and pops the juicy meat into his mouth. They eat their meal in silence, each man keeping a cautious eye on the other. When the waitress comes to take the empty plates and refill Timoran’s mug, Isaiah finally decides that it is time for him to speak.
“Normally, I would allow you to find your way to the path, but my charges have left you behind once before,” Isaiah explains with a toothy grin. “I had hoped that you would have continued with them, but Nyx’s genocide spell made a mess of everything that day. So, I’ve decided to take a more forceful tactic with you and the next one. Though, I’m sure you will be the easier one to convince.”
“You speak in riddles to gain my interest,” Timoran says, covering his mouth when he belches. “I am interested, but I do not have unlimited patience. I wish to know why you want me to travel with
Nyx and her friends.”
“Would traveling with them be so bad?”
“I am not saying that, but I do not believe they need me.”
“You are wrong, young barbarian,” Isaiah whispers, beckoning for Timoran to lean closer. “You would be a trusted ally and a loyal friend. You would become the source of wisdom they need to survive the challenges of the future. These are challenges you are destined to face alongside them whether you like it or not.”
Timoran nods as he considers what Isaiah is talking about. “You are suggesting that Gabriel the Destiny Weaver has chosen me to travel with these young adventurers. I find that strange because he has never taken an interest in my people before. Kerr the Tribe Lord and Ehre the Loyal are the gods I follow. Do they have a hand in this?”
“They are working with Gabriel and have pledged your services to him,” the fireskin replies, impatiently tapping his claws on the table. “You have been chosen as a champion of Windemere. Nyx, Luke, and Sari are other champions who have had several encounters with the agents of the coming darkness. Nyx, in particular, has been training for her destiny since she was a child. Truthfully, I fear her path has consumed her and she needs close friends to remind her that she has a future behind this battle. You have the wisdom to guide her beyond her destiny and the strength to protect her when her magic fails her.”
“Is she truly that special?” the barbarian softly asks.
“All of you are special, Timoran Wrath,” Isaiah assures him with a toothy smile. “Nyx has been singled out because of her magic. She will become the strongest caster Windemere has seen since the time of the ancient Race War. Her enemies know this and have taken great measures to destroy her. Luke and Sari have proven to be capable allies, but she needs more than they can provide.”
Legends of Windemere: 03 - Family of the Tri-Rune Page 26