The knight had heard of the magical cult known as The Black Hand, but he had never come across them on his patrols, a fact that he was thankful for having heard Faylen’s tale.
The early afternoon saw the tavern filled with patrons and visitors from other lands. Doran and Glaide were sat on the far side, surrounded by a gathering of wide-eyed drinkers listening to tales of their joint adventures. Nathaniel looked around for familiar faces and wondered where Hadavad and Atharia had disappeared off to. After stealing the crystals, the mages had mysteriously vanished, no doubt discussing The Black Hand. Asher had told of their offer to assist them in retrieving Paldora’s gem and defeating Valanis; it was a bold offer, but Nathaniel was more than happy to have some more magic users on their side, providing they returned from wherever they were.
“Mr Galfrey…” Russell Maybury’s yellow eyes flashed from behind the bar, as he placed a tankard of ale down for the knight.
Nathaniel gladly took the stool beside Asher and tentatively held the frothing ale. “It’s a little early for me.”
Russell stared blankly at the knight before walking further down the bar to serve another customer. Nathaniel had faced many monsters in his time on the road, but Russell’s unnatural yellow eyes still managed to make the hairs on his neck freeze.
“Don’t worry,” Asher said with a coy smile, “he has that effect on everyone.”
“What is he?” Nathaniel asked quietly. He wasn’t novice enough to miss the supernatural aura that Russell gave off.
“You can’t tell?” Asher replied through a stifled laugh. “What were they teaching you at West Fellion?”
Nathaniel refused to rise to the jest. “I have my suspicions…”
Asher finished the last of his ale and dragged Nathaniel’s tankard over. “What are you Russell?” the ranger asked in hushed tones.
Before Nathaniel could ask why the ranger had whispered the question into his drink, Russell Maybury walked back up the bar to stand before them, his yellow eyes boring into Nathaniel.
“I’m a wolf.” The barkeeper took Asher’s empty tankard and wandered off.
Nathaniel tried to keep his expression neutral, but could feel himself going red. He had never met a werewolf he hadn’t been forced to kill. Three nights of the month they were among the deadliest of creatures to stalk the night, but even in their human form, people afflicted with lycanthropy were violent and prone to episodes of wild aggression.
“He has a good ear,” the knight commented, unable to think of anything else to say. “How is he so…?”
“Human?” Asher offered. “I took a job in Kelp Town, years ago. A werewolf had been seen dragging the local butcher into the woods; typical job. By the time I tracked the beastie down the full moon had passed, leaving Russell behind. Found him covered in blood, trying to hang himself. I thought, ‘great, I’ll still get paid either way’. But I wasn’t the only one to track him down…” Asher looked down the bar, to Russell. “A small mob came across him in the woods and decided a hanging was too easy. Rus pleaded with them to leave him alone, but when they attacked… instincts kicked in. With his bare hands he beat them back until it was just the two of us.”
“You didn’t kill him,” Nathaniel stated.
“I thought his strength could be put to better use.” Asher nodded with his chin to the notched pickaxe, mounted on the wall. “It took a while, but we managed to find a few techniques that helped to keep his aggression in check.”
“What about during a full moon?”
Asher licked the froth from his top lip. “There’s nothing to keep that in check…”
“You travelled together?” Nathaniel asked, surprised.
“For a while. I’ve travelled with most of them for some time or another.” Asher turned around to look at Glaide and Doran.
“I bet there are a few stories there,” Nathaniel replied, eager to hear any of them.
“Yeah…” Asher stood up from his stool, distracted.
Nathaniel followed his gaze to the corner of the tavern, where the southerner, Salim Al-Anan, was sitting, sipping hot tea.
“What is it?” the knight asked before the ranger could walk away.
“Where we’re going, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have a native on our side, especially one who knows his way around a sword.”
“You mean to have him join us as well?” Nathaniel eyed the mysterious black-clad warrior with new interest.
“I’m going to try…” Asher didn’t look very hopeful as he walked away.
Nathaniel remained at the bar, tugging at his cloak to get comfortable. He reminded himself to get rid of the ridiculous cape as soon as he could. The knight didn’t understand how Asher could live with one on his back, let alone fight in it. After convincing Russell to serve him some water, Nathaniel began his search anew. There had been one particular ranger that he wanted to talk to.
“Russell,” he called. “Where is Kaleb Jordain?”
“By this hour?” Russell surveyed the tavern. “If he’s not passed out in a ditch he’ll be in the locker.”
“Locker?”
“Downstairs, beyond all the rooms.” Russell’s thick arms pumped as he dried tankard after tankard.
“I still don’t follow…” Nathaniel said.
Russell’s laugh was closer to a snort, though it quickly turned to anger when the high-pitched squeal of a notorious wart-hog burst into the tavern. The pig knocked one of the patrons over and immediately went for his tankard of ale.
“Doran!” Russell yelled at the dwarf.
Nathaniel slipped away amid the chaos and descended back into the secret chambers beneath The Pick-Axe. As directed, the knight continued past the doors of the sleeping chambers and through the door at the end of the stone corridor. With no windows, everywhere under the tavern was illuminated by mounted torches and small hearths.
A partially opened door, leading to a room he had never seen before, caught Nathaniel’s attention. He hesitated but found his curiosity overwhelming, as he opened the door and peered inside. The chamber was bare with a single cage situated in the centre. The bars of the cage were thick and covered in scratches, along with the stone floor inside. Here and there, some of the bars were bent, as if something had tried to push between them.
It didn’t take long for Nathaniel realise what the room had been designed for. Russell Maybury spent three nights of every month inside that cage. The knight closed the door behind him and tried not to think about the werewolf and his subconscious desire to slay the monster.
As Nathaniel approached the so-called locker, he could hear the clean swipes of a sword, cutting rhythmically through the air. As quietly as he could, Nathaniel opened the door and crept into the new room. It only took a cursory glance around the chamber to realise what it really was, and it was certainly one of the better armories he had seen, and he had grown up in West Fellion. All four walls of the rectangular room were lined with swords of all sizes, axes, both single and double bladed, clubs, spears, daggers, staffs and shields. Some appeared to be antiques, while others looked newly forged and polished. Padded mats filled the majority of the floor, with thick wooden mannequins situated in the corners, all lined with scars.
Kaleb Jordain was adorned in his usual tattered, long coat and miss-matched armour and his bristly cheeks were in danger of catching up with his bushy white moustache. Nathaniel could smell the alcohol mixing in the air with his sweat as he hefted his sword through familiar techniques. The knight recognised most of movements, though it appeared Kaleb had adjusted a few swings as he got older.
“Come to see your future have you, boy?” Kaleb didn’t stop his routine to talk.
“Not quite…” Nathaniel walked further into the armoury to see a small annex built into the wall.
The alcove was home to a variety of armour and clothes. The knight resisted the urge to look through it all and focused on the old Graycoat. Kaleb ended his routine with a strong swipe that left his sword buri
ed in the side of a mannequin. He finished with a few sips from a small flask on his belt.
“You think that old age is just something that happens in our line of work?” Kaleb held his arms out. “If you haven’t got my skill, boy, you’re going to need a whole bucket of luck!”
“You have good form,” Nathaniel nodded along, agreeing with the grumpy ranger rather than starting an argument, “and your swing is strong too.” Kaleb’s sword wobbled in the wooden mannequin.
“Don’t butter my arse, knight!” Kaleb shook the flask in his hand. “I might have a little in me, but I can still see that arrogant face of yours. You think you can best me…” The ranger held his arms out, inviting Nathaniel to take a shot.
“I didn’t come down here to start a fight.” Nathaniel held up his hands. “I don’t doubt your skill; I know too well where you were trained.”
“You mean you know who I trained alongside…” Kaleb replied knowingly.
Nathaniel had assumed that was how Kaleb knew his father. They would have been roughly the same age, had he still been alive. In a way he envied people like Kaleb for having clearer memories of the man. With every year his childhood memories faded.
“So what did you come down here for?” Kaleb retrieved his sword and took a seat on one of the low benches, where he proceeded to clean the blade.
“I’m not even sure I know where here is. I thought I was in a tavern, then I found out there was a tavern within the tavern, and now there’s an armoury to boot…”
“They call it the locker, the other rangers. I wasn’t acquainted with the establishment back then, but I hear this was his locker, Asher’s that is. Russell allowed him to keep weapons and supplies here, but as you can see, the other rangers had ideas of their own.”
Nathaniel nodded along and glanced back at the alcove, realising that the line of swords in the corner were all double-handed and adorned with a spiked pommel, each identical to the one Asher had lost in the battle of West Fellion. Beside them was a rack lined with dark green cloaks; it appeared Asher was a creature of habit.
“So…” Kaleb continued to clean his sword. “What do you want, boy?”
Nathaniel threw a small bag of coins taken from the Stowhold pouch. Kaleb stopped cleaning and surprisingly caught the bag mid-air.
“To remind you of the old oaths you once took. And to offer you a job.”
As the warthog dashed by with a triumphant squeal and an empty tankard hanging off one of its tusks, Asher ignored Russell’s complaints and sat back in his chair, having laid it all out for Salim and observed the concern spread across the southerner’s face.
“You helped me when I needed it most, Asher, and you gave me purpose when I could only see despair. For that you will always have my sword… but you know I cannot enter The Arid Lands. I am exiled.”
“I’m not asking you to settle down and find a job in Ameeraska, but when we get to Karath we’re going to need a guide who knows how to get us in and out with fresh supplies and no noise.” Asher didn’t like asking for help and found the whole experience to be very foreign to him, but he continued to think of the dangers that lay ahead of them, and he knew better than most that they would need numbers if they were to survive.
Salim didn’t look convinced. “You can speak every language in the south, and you are far more accustomed to such…” the foreign ranger struggled to find the correct word, “…sneakiness.”
Asher looked around before leaning closer to Salim. “There have been rumours coming out of the south for years, but over the last few months those rumours have quickly become fact. What started as a rebellion has grown into a not-so-secret civil war over slavery.”
“What is your point, Asher?”
“War doesn’t make a country easier to sneak in and out of. There will be checkpoints at every entrance to Karath, everyone’s looking for a fight, and foreigners are considered a complication. A former member of the Emperor’s honour guard could help with that...”
Salim looked away upon hearing his former title. “I am exiled for a reason, Asher. The Emperor and his wife were killed on my watch. Not only was I banished for my failure, but the people of Karath consider me a disgrace. There are no… how do you say… palms I can grease to get us in and out of the city, let alone grant you safe passage inside the city walls.”
“Then perhaps the son of a former honour guard can help, one who’s now the second-in-command of Karath’s forces…?” Asher watched the surprise consume Salim’s expression. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know. You might be exiled but you’re sure as hell still keeping an eye out for your boy. How is Halion?”
Salim’s look of surprise slid from his face. “It seems your ear is never far from the ground, old friend.” The southerner’s tone turned grave. “Halion fights with his heart amid a nest of vipers. Like me, he has always disagreed with the idea of slavery, but felt called to serve his Emperor and people. In truth I do not know how he fares in the current state. I cannot imagine him fighting to keep slaves, but I cannot imagine him standing against his superiors. Alas, it has been a long time since I have embraced him. He could be a very different man by now…” Salim’s sombre gaze found Asher. “I am sorry, old friend. I dream of walking in my land again and conversing in my native tongue with my son. But I am exiled.”
Asher wanted to protest and continue to pressure Salim into joining them, but he could see that it was futile. The old honour guard had made up his mind and there was nothing the ranger could say to change it.
“If I see Halion, I will tell him his father is well and perhaps share one or two of your tales.” With a strong pat on Salim’s shoulder, Asher stood up and left.
Kaleb Jordain rocked back on his heels with laughter until it turned into a coughing fit.
“Now why would I want to go and do a thing like that?” the ranger finally managed after hearing Nathaniel’s proposition.
“You made an oath –”
“The Graycoats branded me an oath-breaker when they banished me from the order!” Kaleb waved away Nathaniel’s attempts to inspire honour.
“That’s why I brought the coin.” Nathaniel nodded at the bag of coins in Kaleb’s hand.
“Hmm. It is a nice bag of coins,” the old Graycoat mused, “but it’s not a great bag of coins!”
Nathaniel blinked slowly, starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake. “I will give you more upon completion of the task.”
Kaleb laughed again. “I might have been drunk but I still heard your master plan. There’s no way any of you are returning from that! This here bag of coins is all I’ll ever see from you, unless I go looking for your corpse.”
Nathaniel sighed at his error in judgement and made for the door.
“Wait…” Kaleb called out. “You know why I’m not interested, but why do you care?”
Nathaniel considered his answer. “For peace of mind.”
Kaleb laughed again. “Peace of mind? What could you possibly worry about? West Fellion got hit pretty hard but hundreds of Graycoats are gathering in Darkwell. You think the Arakesh will attack them again?”
“I want you to go and keep an eye on them, that’s all. I have an uneasy feeling about King Tion’s invitation. The men who attacked us in Velia had been seen in his escort out of Namdhor. I’m paying you to go to Darkwell and ensure that nothing is going on behind the scenes. The Graycoats won’t be looking for trouble; you will. If you discover anything report it.”
“But why?” Kaleb asked again.
Nathaniel looked at the sword on Kaleb’s hip and knew there was a part of the ranger that clung to the order. “You and I might not be Graycoats anymore, but those are still good men and women who stand up for the realm, not the kingdoms. I don’t want to see an Illian without them.” Nathaniel could see the old ranger’s expression softening as he took in his words. “It’ll be the easiest coin you ever make.”
“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that?” Kaleb stood up, fingering the ind
ividual coins in the bag as he considered the job. “Fine. Consider the job accepted, though I expect another bag of coins when we next meet.”
Nathaniel had no choice but to accept the terms and worry about the second payment later, should he live long enough to give it thought. They clasped forearms, marking the job as accepted.
“I will leave at once.” Kaleb made for the door, only stopping to help himself to a new curved dagger off the wall. “That’ll do…” the ranger said, inspecting the edge of the blade.
Nathaniel was left wondering what the arrangement was regarding the weapons and armour. With a last look at the alcove, the knight returned to the tavern above.
The rest of the day slowly drifted by and Nathaniel found himself becoming restless. He wanted to check on Reyna and Faylen but didn’t want to disturb them. Faylen had stressed how much energy would be required to transport them all through one portal and over such a distance. It was easy to forget how old the young-looking elf was, and the wisdom that accompanied such age. Nathaniel trusted her judgment and left the elves to their meditation.
Asher had sat with Glaide for most of the afternoon, talking about old times on the road together. Nathaniel was content to sit and eat and drink as Doran and Salim took turns telling of their adventures and hunts. Most of Doran’s brought Nathaniel to tears with laughter, while Salim’s accent made for intriguing story-telling of the kind he could sit and listen to all day. When the big man, Bale, stood up to regale his time on the road, Nathaniel often found himself put off his food by the gruesome details.
Then dusk settled over Lirian and the tops of The Evermoore took on an orange hue, Hadavad and Atharia returned to the Axe. Nathaniel picked up his drink and joined them at their table.
“Well met…” the knight greeted them.
“Mr Galfrey.” Hadavad nodded with a warm smile. Atharia remained as passive as ever.
“We missed you today,” Nathaniel commented.
“Forgive our absence,” Hadavad replied, placing his staff against the wall. “We have been in council with Queen Isabella. I felt it prudent to inform her of the Black Hand’s presence, as well as apologise for the tower’s untimely destruction.”
Empire of Dirt: (Echoes of Fate: Book 2) Page 19