by Aaron Bunce
He felt Tusk shift for the first time since they had squared off with the dark creature. Evidently the dog was unharmed, if not a little angry that Roman had banished him during the fight.
“I’m sorry, bud,” he whispered, vowing to better investigate his connection with the spirit dog soon.
The young woman led them to Marna’s tavern, where she tied the horses to the post and motioned for them to dismount. Roman reluctantly pulled his leg up and over the horse’s rump, motioning Dennah to do the same. His boots crunched in the snow just as a breeze blew past, carrying the stomach-tightening aroma of fresh bread. A pang of hunger and nostalgia flooded him, and for a moment, Bardstown felt like it always had, when he and Tusk would make the regular trek into town. But the wind shifted, and the welcoming smell was once again replaced by cold, stinging wind.
Dennah fumbled, her left leg rigid, her boot catching in the stirrup. She pirouetted, her grip on the reins the only thing keeping her from immediately falling ungainly into the snow. Roman heard the door swing open and rapid steps on the porch an instant before someone was at Dennah’s side.
“Let me help you, miss,” the young man said, lifting Dennah upright and untangling her boot.
“Than…thank you,” Dennah stammered, her teeth chattering together loudly. “B…B…Bale, r…r…right?”
The young man nodded, glancing over at Roman, his smile seemingly reaching from ear to ear. His eyes were large and bright, and his cheeks rosy. Roman thought his expression a little strange. It looked almost like he’d been startled.
“They’re not in a sour state anymore,” Bale said, his smile remaining.
“They?” Dennah stammered, her confusion obvious.
Roman smirked, walking behind Freckles to join Dennah and Marna’s son. Bale had always been quiet and a little odd at times, but they’d usually gotten along. He turned to thank the young woman again for her help, but she had disappeared. Roman stepped fully into the road and looked down towards the mill and Frenin’s house, then turned towards his old cabin, but there was no one in sight.
“They? Yes. The drinkers, the crowd…last time you ere’ here, the caravan’s arrival stirred ‘em all up. You were looking for a room,” Bale said behind him, his smile still frozen in place.
“Ah,” Dennah said, nodding in weary understanding.
“No manners! Come in, come in. We’ve been expecting you. There is hot food, drink, and a place for you to rest. Safe, you will be safe here,” the tavern owner’s son said, ushering Dennah up the stairs and into the tavern. Roman followed.
“I’ll just get you two settled inside, and then tend to your horses. Set them up real nice in the stables with fresh hay and oats. Nice and comfy,” Bale continued, settling Dennah into a chair as Roman closed the door behind them.
“Bale. Who was that girl?” Roman asked, grabbing the young man before he could disappear through the door.
Bale turned, still smiling, and nodded.
Roman nodded in return, confused. “The girl that helped us and led us here?” he added, leaning in a little closer.
“Yes,” the ale hand said, nodding again, and then patted Roman on the shoulder and turned, disappearing through the door and into the snow.
Turning, Roman took a single step into the tavern, the anxious, edgy, jumpy feeling seeping from his guts into his legs. Fight or run, his father called it. Did Bale not know the girl’s name? Or did he simply not understand the question? Tusk circled, anxious to be freed again. But Roman didn’t need the spirit dog to tell him. Something felt off, out of place. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, well, save for maybe a mob with shovels and torches, ready to bury him, but definitely not this.
The tavern looked as it always had. A fire roared in the fireplace, the mounted boar head and stag looking out over the dark room like silent guardians. Glowing tapers burned on half the tables, the other half dark, their candles burned down into melted puddles.
Roman looked to the kitchen beyond the bar. Dishes and pots clanged and rattled, but he couldn’t see Marna. He turned, the door slamming shut behind Bale as the young man disappeared to tend the horses, and found Dennah hunched over in her chair, her entire body shaking.
“Come on, let’s get you warm,” he said and helped her from the chair and over to the fire. He pulled a chair close and helped her to sit, then fetched one for himself and joined her.
They sat in front of the fire, greedily soaking up the radiant warmth. Pain flared in Roman’s feet, legs, hands, and arms, but he’d spent enough time hunting in the cold to know it would pass. It felt good just to feel something again.
Bale reappeared through the front door a short time later, but disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a few moments later on his mother’s heels.
The silver-haired tavern keeper approached, a wide tray balanced in her arms. “Just look at you poor things, starved and near frozen from knee to neck! You just sit right there, and let us take care of you!”
The tavern keepers circled the chairs, settling platters into their laps. Steam rose from a wide, wooden bowl of porridge. Next to it sat a thick chunk of fresh bread slathered in honey butter, and a clay mug of what smelled like hot cider. Roman’s mouth instantly started to water. Dennah was already eating.
He grabbed the spoon and scooped it into the porridge and lifted it to his mouth, but froze. Tusk shifted again, his anxiousness quickly filtering into Roman. The last time he’d eaten porridge it was poisoned. The spoon sagged and he looked over to Dennah.
His friend looked up, porridge dribbling down her chin. He’d told her the story several times since escaping Falksgraad Creek, and she made the connection quickly. Before he could stop her, Dennah reached over with her own spoon, scooped a bit out of his bowl, and stuck it in her mouth.
“Wait…” Roman choked, but it was too late. The silence stretched between them, the fire popping merrily.
He wrenched around in his chair and looked towards the kitchen, but Marna and Bale were out of sight. He turned around just as Dennah’s face screwed up.
“Eh. They put too much sugar in yours. It’s way too sweet,” she said, giving him a weary smile, then ripped a chunk of bread free and stuffed it unladylike into her mouth.
Roman chuckled, the tension refusing to let go. He took a bite of porridge, the soft oats cooked with milk, honey, and candied walnuts on top. His stomach rumbled and before he could stifle it, a hungry groan escaped his lips.
Roman tucked into the bowl, scooping the hot food into his mouth before he’d even managed to swallow the last bite. Dennah scraped her bowl clean with her last bite of bread, dropped a hand on her full belly, and sipped the cup of cider.
Finished eating, Roman and Dennah sagged in their chairs, the food in their bellies and fire’s warmth more comfort than they’d experienced in some time. Roman stared into the fire, his vision going blurry as he watched the dancing flames and glowing coals, but snapped up as someone approached. Dennah snorted. She had already fallen asleep.
“Good…ah, good, such a healthy appetite! You poor babies were starving to death out there. Why don’t you two come with us,” Marna said, lifting the platters from their laps.
He couldn’t honestly muster any argument, save for not wanting to leave the warm proximity of the fire. Marna gently shook Dennah awake and then helped her stand. She fussed over his friend, talking in a quiet, cooing voice Roman had never heard her use before. She had always been the steely-eyed, strong-shouldered Marna, who ran her business with a strong grip and never took flak from drunks.
He followed Bale back around the bar and past the rickety door leading to the outhouse. They passed a door to the kitchen and turned left, passing several closed doors before finally entering the room at the end of the hall.
Bale stood aside and nodded, his wide smile firmly in place. Roman returned the smile and walked in. A low, wide bed sat against the wall to their right, heavy blankets and furs covering the mattress. A rocking chair sat in th
e opposite corner, positioned next to a small fireplace, a steaming kettle hanging from a hook.
Dennah tromped in heavy-footed, the dark circles around her eyes even more pronounced now in the low light, bits of porridge still stuck to her chin. She patted him on the shoulder and collapsed face first onto the bed.
“You two rest up now…only friends here. We’ll come and check in on you later,” Marna said, shooing Bale out and closing the door behind her.
Roman set the bow and empty quiver in the corner, and reluctantly removed the sword belt, draping it over the back of the rocking chair before sitting down by the fire. Dennah snored quietly from the bed, her left leg twitching occasionally. Thankfully, he wasn’t tired, so he sat vigilantly by the fire, his attention flitting periodically from the window, to the door, and back to the fire.
His mind worked in tireless circles as he tried to make sense of their flight from the fort, the sell swords, their encounter with the hunter, the young woman who seemed to know him, and the town’s lack of hostility.
They’re all sleeping. It’s still early. When they wake and learn we are here, they will surely knock down the door, he reasoned, his eyes resignedly sliding back to the door. And yet, time ticked by, the fire burning down and the winter sunrise turning the world beyond the window bright with warm light.
Dennah grunted in her sleep and rolled over to face him. Her hand flopped off the side of the bed, her fingertips chalky in the light of the fire. Roman leaned out of the chair, a closer look confirming his suspicion. His father called it “frost’s kiss”. He knew it could lead to a person losing feeling, or worse, fingers, toes, hands or even feet.
Roman’s guilt deepened as he sat there, the events of their escape from Falksgraad replaying in his mind. He worried on it over and over again, his thumb rubbing a soft spot into the chair handle. He wished that his father was there. He’d always had a rare talent of taking complex problems, laying them out, and finding simple answers. Usually ones Roman hadn’t even considered.
What would you do, father? he considered, just as a floorboard beyond the door creaked softly. His hand slid for the sword hanging behind him. He wouldn’t have heard it if the tavern wasn’t so still and quiet. A heartbeat later someone rapped quietly on the door, before cracking it open.
The young woman, their rescuer, poked her head inside, her pale, brown eyes searching the room before finally settling on the dark corner next to the fire.
“Roman, please come!” she said, softly, and motioned him forward.
He pushed forward and stood, the chair creaking under his weight, and tiptoed past the bed and out into the hall. The young woman waited quietly, her heavy furs replaced with a thick, twill shirt tucked into tight fitting trousers. Her brown hair fell in bouncy curls over her shoulders. Roman’s palms grew damp as he struggled not to notice how the clothes hugged her curves, and silently cursed himself for not being able to remember her, or her name.
“You need to come with me. My father very much wants to speak with you,” she said, dimples forming as she spoke.
“I…my friend. I think we need to…” he started to say, motioning back to the room where Dennah slept, but the young woman caught his hand deftly.
“She is safe here. Trust me. You no doubt have questions, and my father is the person to provide you with the answers you need. Besides, she looks to need the rest. You can return and confide in her when she wakes.”
“Who is your father?” Roman asked, suddenly, blurting the question in the hopes that learning her father’s name would jog the truth of her identity loose in his mind. She had plagued his thoughts since returning to town.
The young woman’s smile flattened a bit, her gaze flicking to the ceiling before back to him. “My father avoided town for many thaws, for reasons that are his own. But now, in the elder’s absence, he has come forward to help the town. He sees things with unclouded eyes. Things that many in Bardstown are unable, or unwilling, to see,” she said.
Roman nodded and drew breath, an avalanche of unanswered questions spilling forth, but she reached past him and quietly closed the door. He breathed her in, a complicated mixture of emotions instantly firing inside him and sweeping his innumerable questions away. She smelled sweet, like aromatic wildflowers, mixed with something like…baking spice. It aroused feelings inside him that went well beyond romantic attraction. There was something familiar about her, ringing in the shadowed distance of his mind that he just couldn’t pinpoint.
“Follow me, Roman,” she said, and turned.
They walked back out into the tavern, the space far from empty. A group of men and women sat at the bar, while another group clustered around several tables. Roman almost fell forward when he saw them, his feet tangling in a clumsy attempt to stop.
A woman at the far table stood, threw up her arms, and ran straight at him. Lucilla Hopbarrow wrapped her arms around Roman and pulled him into a crushing hug, the jewelry around her wrist digging into his ribs.
“Ro…Ro! You silly boy! I am so happy, we all are happy you’re all right!” the eccentric, wild-haired healer exclaimed. “I came right away when I heard. Noble wanted to come, but you know, someone has to mind the shop.”
Roman pulled back out to arm’s length, returning Lucilla’s warm greeting with a genuine smile. His urge to run faded as the others crowded around, waving or calling him by name.
Lucilla detached, patting Roman’s arm, her left eye twitching. A moment later her smile returned and she said, “Later you stop by my shop. I want to give you a good looksee. Wherever you’ve been, I can’t imagine they looked after you like I would have. I want to see how that pitchfork wound is healing and anything else you’ve gotten yourself into since!”
“It’s good,” Roman said, patting his side where Garon’s daughter Alina jabbed him with the rusty tines of a pitchfork.
The young woman laughed quietly and pulled him forward. “He can catch up with you all later,” she said, shooing him outside.
Allowed to warm himself, Roman found the cold outside less daunting now. They tromped past a horse drawn cart as a man and young boy scattered fresh straw onto the roadway.
“Town’s glad you’re back,” the man said, tipping his cap before scooping another pitchfork full into the snow. The little boy turned and spotted him, instantly jumping up in the air, and waved, straw raining down from his mittens.
“Heya, Roman!” the boy yelled, his father watching with an amused smile. Roman recognized the boy from the White Crow, when he’d paid his tax. The boy had clung to his mother’s skirt the entire time.
Warmth blossomed inside Roman as he loped forward to catch up to the young woman. He’d never felt so accepted by the people in town before. Save for Frenin, the Hopbarrows, Berg, and Greta, most everyone else just sort of tolerated him.
A man stepped through the front door of Frenin’s house as they approached. He pulled his hat off and held the door open for them, bowing several times in friendly greeting. The young woman closed the door behind them. Frenin’s house smelled as it always did – a rich combination of leather, sage, and old pipe smoke.
Roman didn’t know if it was his imagination, but he swore that he could smell something sour mixed with cinder, as he moved past the stairs. But they would have removed Frenin’s body by now, and the Ifrit was no more.
“He is in the library,” the young woman said, motioning him through the parlor and to a set of double doors. Frenin never used the room, insisting it was a stuffy, intimidating space. He preferred to meet with people outside, or in their own homes. Roman only saw the inside of the library as Frenin insisted on locking Tusk in there when he visited.
The doors opened from within as they approached, and closed behind him as Roman passed through. The young woman walked ahead and stood next to the large desk, rolls of parchment, a white quill and iron fount of ink sitting neatly in place.
“He is here, father!”
Roman heard the floor creak behind him, Tusk
leaping and very nearly forcing his way out of his body. Two figures moved out of the shadowy corners to stand just behind him. He could feel and hear their ragged, muffled breathing.
A large figured stirred behind one of the bookshelves, first one leather-bound tome, and then another, falling to the floor. They grunted, scooped the books off the ground and stood, before stepping out into the open and setting the stack onto the desk. The large man, towering over the desk and the young woman, spread his hands welcoming. His thick, dark hair swept back onto his shoulders, his complexion pale like moonlight, and his nose curved like a hawk’s beak.
“Roman, it pleases me to see you again, and face to face!”
His insides went horribly cold, his legs shaking and feet moving to propel him away. And yet, something solid held him in place.
“Garon,” Roman breathed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Finding Strength
Tanea ran, stumbled, righted herself and caught Father Pallum just as he stumbled, too. She tried to remain quiet, to control her breathing, but she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
Another mound of rubble appeared out of the gloom, the pile of damp rock and debris hidden in the darkness one moment and blocking their path in the next. They scrambled up and slid down the other side, every shift and clatter of rock a violent noise in the confined space. A sharp bark punctuated the gloom behind them, followed by a series of loud, chirps and growls.
“They are hunting us, abomination. They know the darkness better than we do. They were born into it, after all. They need to simply drive us to a dead end where they can slaughter us at their leisure. I hear they prefer their prey terrified, so they might savor the sour tinge of fear in their meat,” the aged priest said as she pushed him forward.