The Legacy Builder (The Chronicles Of Lincoln Hart Book 1)

by Ember Lane

  “Aye,” said Ozmic. “Very ominous, like the clouds are gathered over its roof.”

  Lincoln stood back up and stretched. Something about Morag’s manner, her constant indicating toward the outside irked him. Was she mad, or trying to tell him something? He walked up to the front door and opened it, stepping outside. The weather had closed with dusk’s arrival. Rain now pelted down and turned The Silver Road into mush. He pulled the collar of his deadman’s coat up, and wandered out onto the road. In the moonlight, The Silver Road truly did resemble its name, glistening like a magical path between the pressing black of the thick forest all around them. A slash of warm gray above lent him a pitiful light, but enough to look over the road and spy one of the deserted houses. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the jerk of a hasty movement. Without thinking, he crossed the road and approached the house, determined to put thoughts of a maniacal murderer and the ghosts of her victims aside.

  He pushed the dwelling’s front door and it slowly creaked open. Peering inside, he could see little in the gloom, but what he did see lent him the impression that it was far from abandoned. He could make out a table, mugs, and plates on top. He saw an old chair pulled up to a hearth. Taking a step inside, his eyes began to get used to the dark. A notification flashed up.

  Congratulations! You have opened the skill, Night vision. You have level 1 night vision.

  The room came into focus, becoming lighter, but revealing little more to him. He felt a sharp tug on his pants.

  “Oih!” Crags said. “Whaddya doin'?”

  Lincoln stifled a scream. “Sssh!”

  “Why? What is it? There’s five of us an’ one of her. What’s the problem? Why’s everyone so fearful and tiptoeing around?”

  Crags walked into the room, skipping around its meager furniture. “Smell that?” he asked.

  “What?” Lincoln replied, sniffing at the air.

  “Blood, I can smell it a mile away.” Crags sniffed around the room, creeping away from the hearth and toward a narrow set of wooden stairs that led upward. He skipped up them two at a time. Lincoln stayed downstairs and waited. Crags soon appeared at the top. “Yep, two old 'uns stiff as a hundred-year-old hinge.”

  “Recent?”

  “Can still smell the blood. A day at most.”

  Lincoln stopped dead still. It suddenly dawned on him that Morag was scared, scared witless by something unseen. “She’s being held hostage,” he said softly as the true realization of what was going on dawned on him. “Thick, I’m am bloody thick.” He made to leave the house, to run across the road and warn his friends.

  “What is it?” Crags asked, the gnome’s voice holding him back, and Lincoln whispered his suspicions.

  “Follow me,” said Crags, and he slipped out the door, sidling along the front of the dwelling, hugging the shadows.

  Lincoln followed, and they slid around the corner of the building and into the beginnings of the forest. Crouching behind the first trunk, they watched the tavern. An eruption of silhouettes appeared in the window where they’d been sitting, where Aezal, Ozmic, and Grimble were sitting. Lincoln strained to burst forward and help, but Crags held his leg back.

  “What are you thinking, big man?” the gnome hissed. “We have the advantage.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “A hamlet with everyone murdered. A hamlet set like a trap, just waiting for the prey to walk in. We’ve been setup. Question is who are they trying to catch?” Crags dashed across the road. Lincoln crouched and loped after him. The gnome flattened himself against the tavern’s outside wall. Lincoln followed suit.

  “What’s going on?” Crags asked, not tall enough reach the window. Lincoln peered in.

  “Fawkes,” he muttered. Standing behind the bar, looking straight out at the window. The weasel from Brokenford stared at Lincoln as though he could see him in the dark. “I never expected to see him again,” Lincoln muttered under his breath, but he remembered Fawkes’ threats, and knew his words were lies.

  “Upset him, did you?” Crags asked.

  “A little at first, but not enough for all this.”

  Fawkes was leaning on the counter, sword in hand. Aezal, Ozmic, and Grimble were nowhere to be seen.

  “What are they doing?” Crags asked.

  “I reckon they’ve got the others. They’ll still be alive. It’s me they’ll be after.”

  Morag had tried to tell him, to warn him. Heck, Fawkes had probably been lying behind the bar, sword pressed up against her… It didn’t bear thinking about. What else had she tried to tell him? Her constant twitching should have told him there were bandits hiding out in the back of the tavern, but Lincoln had a niggling feeling there was more than that. He slapped his palm on his forehead. That was it, there was one out front too…

  “It’s you the king is after,” a deep voice rang out behind him, and Lincoln felt a cold steel point on the back of his neck. “In you go.”

  Crags’ eyes darted around, and suddenly, he was gone, scarpering up the road.

  “Why you little—” Lincoln made to say.

  “Now,” growled the man.

  Fawkes’ eyes lit up when he saw Lincoln enter. “Well, if it isn’t my old, light-fingered friend.” He walked up to Lincoln, eyeing him up and down. Lincoln saw the tied bodies of his friends lying in front of the counter. Fawkes grinned from greasy ear to greasy ear and jabbed Lincoln hard in the stomach.

  Damage! Fawkes has winded you. You have received 9 damage and your health has been reduced. You have 71/80 health left.

  Lincoln crumbled to his knees. Fawkes’ fist smashed into his cheek.

  Damage! You have received 11 damage and your health has been reduced. You have 60/80 health left.

  Lincoln keeled over. Fawkes kicked him straight in the gut.

  Damage! You have received 9 damage and your health has been reduced. You have 51/80 health left.

  “King wants him in one piece,” one of the bandits pointed out.

  “Still got a bit of leeway.” Fawkes sneered and he kicked Lincoln square on his jaw.

  Damage! You have received 23 damage and your health has been reduced. You have 28/80 health left.

  Lincoln groaned. Blood flooded into his mouth and spilled out of a vicious cut on his face. He heard Grimble and Ozmic growl, and through a crimson veil, he saw that Aezal was out cold.

  “Twenty three left. I wonder how close I can get it to zero.” Fawkes knelt down and Lincoln could smell the man’s sweat. He could feel his breath on his open cheek. Lincoln saw the glint of a knife, and felt its bitter blade open the skin on his cheek farther.

  Damage! You have received 2 damage and your health has been reduced. You have 26/80 health left.

  “See,” Fawkes hissed. “I can reduce it bit by bit until it’s just one. Then I could sit back, have a smoke or something, and go again. I could keep you on one health for the rest of your time in this land. Years,” he said, his voice now raised in triumph. “I can keep you suffering for years.”

  Lincoln felt his hands grabbed and tied, his feet bound too. Fawkes gave him one last kick for good measure and Lincoln blacked out. When he came too, he’d been dragged beside Aezal, Grimble and Ozmic.

  “Ahh, you’re awake,” Fawkes said. Lincoln looked up to see his captors crowded around their old table, all tucking into steaming bowls of broth. “You don’t know King Muscat yet, but I can tell you he’s not the most patient man in the land. If the king wants good ale, the king gets good ale. It’s simple. In Irydia there are no variations to that rule.” Fawkes shrugged. “Except maybe Quislaine and Zybond; they can test him at times. You should thank the king, because I wanted you dead.”

  “I left your gold with Finequill,” Lincoln groaned.

  “Ah, Finequill. I fear that little arrangement is over. I’ll be a king’s man after this. One who caught his eye, and I’ll have you to thank.”

  Lincoln felt his rage grow. He tested his bonds, but they held fast. Checking his he
alth, he saw it had recovered and was now mid twenties. Then he remembered the chaos spell Digberts had granted him. Useless, he'd decided. There were too many of them and as far as he knew, it only worked on one person. He still had his sack, but the weapons inside it were useless too. Would all his good fortune be undone by this single man?

  “What’s that?” Lincoln heard one of Fawkes’ men shout. Lincoln craned his neck to try and see, but could spy nothing but boots and knees.

  “Fire?” Fawkes asked. “In this rain? Sketcher, go see what’s up.”

  “It’s tha gnome!” said one of them, presumably Sketcher.

  “The gnome is three feet high. Run him through if you see him. Go see what it is!” Fawkes barked.

  Sketcher reluctantly got up. Lincoln heard the front door open and swing shut.

  “Not the gnome,” he told Fawkes.

  Lincoln felt a jab in his side and knew Aezal had woken.

  “Then who?” said Fawkes.

  Lincoln saw Fawkes get up and amble over as if he had all the time in the world. Fawkes crouched beside him. “You forget, player, this is our land. There’s nothing out there anymore. Gnomes run from danger. I am curious about one thing though. We’ve watched you all the while you’ve been on The Silver Road. Where did you pick up the gnome? Did you know it’s against the king’s decree to let them live? How about I go out there and slit its throat right now?”

  The thring of his knife rang out.

  “No!” Lincoln shouted. Call Digberts, he thought, just say the word three times.

  “Why?” asked Fawkes, then he leaned over. “Have you become attached to the little man? Treason, that is treason.”

  Lincoln struggled, but his bonds still held tight. He wanted to say the words, but for some reason they wouldn’t spill out. Then Stretcher screamed at the top of his voice; a scream abruptly cut off.

  “Boss?” one of Fawkes' henchmen cried.

  “Just go out there and see what’s going on.” Fawkes leaned in farther, pulling Lincoln up. “Maybe I’ll just kill you now.” Fawkes put his knife against Lincoln’s exposed throat.

  And then the door to the tavern exploded in.

  Splinters of wood flew everywhere followed by a shout so fierce that Fawkes appeared to freeze in the act of slitting Lincoln’s throat. Fawkes suddenly jerked up as he was pulled away from Lincoln and tossed aside as if he was a mere matchstick. He crashed into the bar counter sending the mugs and bowls flying. Lincoln saw fighting in front of him and watched in satisfied horror as one bandit, then two, crashed to the floor with their throats slit.

  Aezal sat up shirking his bonds as if they were nothing and was on his feet in an instant. “Allaise?” he cried. “Pete?”

  Lincoln struggled, felt his hands being untied as the brawl in the bar ended as abruptly as it had begun.

  “Fawkes!” Lincoln cried.

  Pete hurdled the bar, dashing out the back. Allaise pulled Lincoln to his feet, slitting the ropes binding his feet.

  “You really should be careful who you upset. Fawkes is no ordinary rogue.”

  Pete came back from the depths of the tavern. “Gone,” he said.

  Allaise nodded. “Looks like we got here in the nick of time.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Finequill,” she said, as if that one word was enough. “He had a fit of conscious just in the nick of time. Finequill told us that they’d sold you out—set Fawkes on your trail. So we set out after you. Then as we were approaching this place, a gnome jumped out of the woods and told us what was going on. Shall we drag the dead bodies out of here and get comfortable for the night? Looks like Fawkes has taken off.”

  “But?” Lincoln scratched his head.

  It took them awhile to clear the place up. They found Morag’s body in the stables. It seemed she and Fawkes had fought as he made his escape. Allaise draped a blanket over the broken door, and Pete manned the bar.

  Despite everything that had happened, Lincoln couldn’t keep a smile from his face. Sitting at the bar with Allaise on one side and Aezal on the other, he felt the best he had since he’d been in the land. His health had recovered, and with it, so had his cuts and bruises.

  “So you died?” Allaise asked.

  “Yep,” said Lincoln. “Troll hammer right on my head.”

  “Ouch! And the map Spillwhistle sold you works?”

  “I think it’s all tied up with a few things that are happening.”

  “So, you’re still going to seek out this place in the shade of the mountain? Why not start here? There’s a few buildings, a tavern…”

  Lincoln wondered how he could tell her that his new place would be sacred. It felt like a secret that only Aezal should know, but that didn’t make any sense. He’d known Allaise longer, technically Ozmic and Grimble too. Something about Aezal elicited his trust more. It was almost like he understood that Aezal would be his companion for a long time.

  “My village lies west of here, I can feel it,” he told Allaise. “You?”

  She smiled, but it was full of reticence. “I…I don’t know. I doubt…I doubt I’ll go back to Brokenford. The ale kinda ruined my business.”

  “Ruined it, how?”

  “The tavern was noticed. A king’s man looked in and saw it was busy. He petitioned the king.”

  “And then just took it?”

  “Not yet, well maybe by now. A half-elf and a half-giant, or a friend of the king; who do you think will win out?”

  Lincoln grunted.

  “Good job you came,” Aezal said, finally rousing himself from the silence he’d dwelled in since Fawkes had captured him. “I’ll pay better attention to what’s going on. Getting bested by those frog spawn has hurt my pride.”

  “How did they get you?”

  “We think Morag drugged our last ale. You never touched your last one, you went out for some air.”

  “Luck,” Crags said. “He got lucky, and then not so lucky. Looks like your luck’s not without end. What did you do to that man anyway?”

  “Long story, Crags,” Lincoln muttered, not wanting to dwell on Fawkes.

  “So, why don’t you come with us, Allaise?”

  “And make a town out of logs? Remember, I’m a city girl now.”

  “But there’ll be no half-elf, half-giant talk, and we’ll need you—you and Pete. Imagine it.”

  “Or I could stay here,” Allaise said. “I could clean this place up, attract a couple of settlers. Send word back to the city.”

  “Why?” Lincoln asked. “Why not come with us?”

  Allaise held his gaze for a long time before she answered. “Because I believe in you, Lincoln Hart. I see something in you. So does Pete, and Aezal, and Ozmic, Grimble—hell, even the gnome. None of us, none of us are sure what, but we all know its there.”

  Aezal was nodding, as was Pete and the dwarves. Crags had gone upstairs to snag the best bed. “But what?” Lincoln asked.

  “Mandrake?” Allaise asked. “You doubt you're something special and yet the land has given you an alignment never spoken, rarely whispered. It has given you a guild that sleeps for now, but promises much. It is her guild.” Allaise’s eyes were wide, her voice, soft. “No, Lincoln, you need to become a man of secrets, even as you are keeping some from me now.”

  “Concealment,” Aezal scoffed.

  “If Fawkes noticed it, which I don’t doubt. He’ll use that knowledge to gain favor, and like as not with someone worse than the king.” Allaise had her hand on Lincoln’s leg, squeezing it reassuringly. “Someone needs to stay out, to be your eyes and ears. Someone needs to be your marketplace, to enable you to trade with the outside world while you grow.”

  “Someone needs to vet the refugees as they come. Someone needs to take them to sanctuary,” Aezal added.

  “And you’d do that for me?” Lincoln asked her.

  “You say you’re venturing west. Say it’s a few days travel, what more fortunate place than this to feed it? Isn’t it like everything el
se that’s happened to you? Isn’t it just another of fate’s helping hand? I, we, me and Pete can be your link to the outside world, until such time as you’re found out or big enough not to care.”

  Lincoln nodded. Her offer was too much, her words too kind, her soul true, and her loyalty without question. Having her here, so close, would be a boon indeed. He could trade with the outside world and not be seen. What Allaise was offering was beyond priceless to him.

  “I’d rather have you with me,” he said, trying to turn down her offer, to protect her from the danger.

  “And I’d rather be with you, but for now, this is as close as I can be.”

  Lincoln got out the map, but Allaise put her hand over the rolled scroll. “No,” she said. “Don’t show me. Don’t show Pete. No one. If they come for me, I can’t tell them what I don’t know. Go find your village, your sanctuary, and when you need to, send word, and we will arrange a halfway point. Not one in a straight line, but a random point where goods can be dropped and collected. I only need one thing.”

  “Name it,” Lincoln whispered.

  Allaise looked deeply into his eyes. “You’ll need to send me some ale from time to time—but not your best stuff, eh? I’ll settle for slops else it’ll give the game away. That’ll get me a loyal community, and when the time comes, we’ll all come.”

  “Then it’s a deal,” Lincoln said, and lit his pipe.

  “When did you get a pipe?”

  “Between killing a troll and adopting a gnome,” Lincoln said simply, and Allaise laughed at that.

  Ozmic and Grimble sloped off to snag a bed each, and Pete made his up out of the tavern’s benches. Aezal decided he should sleep in the barn and keep an eye on the back entrance, and so Lincoln and Allaise poured another drink and talked some more. They decided to give it a day before Lincoln would go. Lincoln insisted on sorting out the back of the tavern and planting what Allaise would need to make the visitor’s beer at least palatable. They looked over the tavern from head to foot, and made a plan for each and every part. And they found that the dwarves and Crags had left a room spare, and so they stayed the night together, and Lincoln hoped that Joan would forgive him.