*****
After a few minutes of wandering around, he found Honmour’s home. It was a modest stone inn. They had well-stitched rugs rolled up in the corner for cold mornings, and even a few silk tapestries, a sure sign of financial compensation from the king for their son’s service.
"Can I help you?" a middle aged man asked, sitting behind the counter on his left, the wall behind him full of small pockets for each room’s messages or keys. He was riffling through a large book and comparing it to a smaller one on his right.
Kaltor bit his lip nervously. How, exactly, do I go about explaining this? he thought. Finally he said, "I believe you can, sir," Pulling his leather tunic aside, he exposed the brand of the Battleborn on his left collar bone. "I bring a message from Honmour."
The innkeeper gasped, his face turning from shock to joy in the space of a single heartbeat. "You know my son?" he leapt around the counter, spilling ink all over a page, but he shut the book carelessly as he hobbled in Kaltor’s direction before grabbing his cane. "How is his training coming?"
The last twenty four hours flashed in Kaltor’s mind, but he had not the heart to speak of it in the wake of the man’s eager smile. "He’s exceptionally skilled with a short sword and his fists," he replied honestly. "For good reason. That sense of humor of his has caused more scuffles than a gold coin thrown into a band of thieves."
"Gets that sense of humor from me, he does!" Marnin huffed with pride. "The fists he gets from his mother. Come, she’s preparing lunch in the kitchen," Ignoring Kaltor’s attempts to explain his need for haste, the innkeeper caught Kaltor’s hand with a surprisingly firm grip and hauled him into the back room. The smell of roasting meat and boiling herbs set his stomach
aflame with the desire for sustenance.
They rounded the corner in time to see a large, silver-haired cook sever a chunk of meat in two, the bones within snapping apart under the weight of a cleaver large enough to use as a plate. Marnin tapped her on the shoulder. "My dear Agatha, a Battleborn is here with word of Honmour!"
The cleaver clattered against the table top, giving Kaltor enough time to gasp in shock before Agatha’s thickly muscled arms caught him in a thankful embrace, lifting him into the air, his feet kicking uselessly in search of sound footing. Her high-pitched squeals of delight seemed quite out of place with her tall, muscular build.
So much for Battleborn being feared and respected, he thought. Just as he considered using Varadour strength to break free, she released him and took a step back, flustered at her overly bold welcome. "I’m sorry, sir," Agatha apologized shyly. "It’s been over a year since we’ve heard from our son. How does he fare?"
"The lad says our boy still has my sense of humor and your fists!" Marnin repeated proudly, both hands on his cane like a general reporting the success of his troops in battle. "I told you he would do well there!"
"Yes, you did," Agatha admitted, waving toward a large table at the end of the room. "You Battleborn are always famished."
She has a point there, he thought, his stomach gurgling threateningly.
"A quick meal, then," Kaltor agreed, putting some distance between himself and Agatha’s steel embrace as he took a seat at the farthest chair at the end of the table. Marnin accompanied him, oblivious to their guest’s discomfort at being lifted like a doll into the air.
"I’ll also need to wash up and purchase some clothes," Kaltor continued, gesturing toward his leather armor, covered in dirt, sweat, and a few flecks of blood. "I’m afraid there’s still much to do today."
With impressive speed Agatha had a modest meal of well-seasoned steak, vegetable soup, and home-baked bread with honey laid on the table. Kaltor consumed the meal with equal haste, both due to the seriousness of his errand and the hunger from refueling his power. Marnin and Agatha waited patiently as he tore through his meal.
"I apologize for eating so much of your wares," Kaltor said sheepishly. "The last day has been very grueling," He decided to tell half of the truth. "Honmour and I are tracking a fugitive," he explained. "I lost him somewhere in the city. Honmour is only a day behind me."
"He’s dangerous, then?" Agatha asked.
"Ha!" Marnin laughed. "Not nearly as dangerous as my wife here with a cleaver! Perhaps we should help them on the hunt, eh Agatha?" His wife’s poignant stare silenced his attempts at humor as they both soaked in their guest’s reaction.
Kaltor’s eyes lost their warmth and his gaze sank to his plate. "Yes," he answered, numbly. "He’s very dangerous," Agatha pursed her lips, recognizing the pain in his eyes. She reached forward and patted his arm with her hand, her palm alone engulfing most of his forearm. "What’s the real reason you’re here?"
"Honmour made me promise that before things got bad here I would come and warn you," Kaltor explained, still not finding the strength to lift his eyes. "Things could get very— bloody, in the next few days. He wants you to leave town. As soon as possible."
Agatha and Marnin looked at each other, an entire silent conversation taking place between them in the space of a few short breaths. Jealousy gnawed on Kaltor’s mind. They were both separated from their families, but Honmour, at least, had a whole family to return to. Each of his parents relied on the other for both survival and love, but there was a unity here and a complete honesty he wished his family could enjoy more fully.
"My sister runs a small farm just a day south of here," Agatha replied, chewing thoughtfully on a spoonful of herbs. "We’ll close the inn for a few days. Can you tell Honmour I said as much?"
"Of course," Kaltor answered, standing from the table. "Thank you so much for your hospitality. Is there anything I can do for you before I clean up and get on my way?"
"Actually—" Marnin said, raising a finger. "One thing? Could you stop by the garden up top before you leave? I was late planting my strangle-beans this year."
"I’d be glad to," Kaltor said with a smile. "Where can I change when I’m done?"
"Room 206," Agatha said. "Up the stairs at the end of the hall. We always keep a room handy for travelers in a hurry. Even has a change of clothing. Since this is an emergency, check the floorboards under the bed."
"Thank you," Kaltor replied.
"No, thank you," Agatha answered. "You’re the first messenger we’ve received with word of Honmour. Master Taneth keeps you on a tight leash. This must be a troubling issue indeed, for him to send you so far from the camp."
Kaltor could only nod and grit his teeth against the memory of Jensai’s open, unseeing eyes. With a much lighter hug farewell, Agatha returned to her work in the kitchen. A small group of patrons stood waiting at Marnin’s desk, so the man tossed the needed keys Kaltor’s way and let the Battleborn find his own way around the inn.
Kaltor first headed toward the roof, following the stairs until he reached the final door, unlocked it, and let himself onto the roof. A dozen large containers of earth, some rectangular, others circular, filled the open space. Most were well cared for, but as Marnin had mentioned, the strangle-beans growing in their tell-tale tangles had obviously been planted late. A full bucket of water sat nearby, as if his arrival had been expected.
Four thick poles, tied together horizontally by four strings, left the plants with ample room to grow. Kaltor stood before the plants, poured the nearby bucket of water onto the earth at their base, and released a more unusual form of Varadour power. He felt the pouch situated atop his heart eject its liquid into his blood stream, flowing along his extremities until it reached his hands.
The fluid broke down there, generating energy through his flesh. The breeze around him warped and pulled like still air over a stone road on a hot day. The distorted air, full of life, seeped into the plants before him. Their systems accelerated, drawing nutrients from the fresh water and earth much faster than normal, using his energy to accelerate their growth. In a matter of minutes the four poles were full of new, young shoots, nearly two months older than before.
At least I was able to compensa
te them for the large meal, he thought contently. Honmour would never cease to mock me if I ate all his parents’ food in a single day. He locked the door to the roof as he passed back inside and let himself into room 206.
It did not take long to locate a pair of simple trousers, a tunic, and a cloak. These clothes were those of a man with moderate means, but not quite equal with the nobility. I’ll stop by Melshek’s estate again tonight, he decided. Perhaps he only hid for a few hours to throw me off. Making sure the door was locked, he stripped off his armor. A fresh basin of water was already prepared for him, so he grabbed a rag and quickly rid himself of nature’s scents and grime.
Now to manage another kind of jungle entirely, he thought. The image of Hassan’s attack flashed in his mind. One just as dangerous. He picked up a hat from the top of the wardrobe and then thought better of it.
I hate how it blocks my skin vision. Even a Battleborn’s leather armor had narrow gaps at the joints to allow their skin vision to peek through. Removing the cloak, he strapped on his daggers and throwing weapons, just in case. His eyes caught on the bed next to the window.
Oh, almost forgot, he reminded himself. Giving the furniture a quick shove, he found a loose floorboard and pulled it aside. Within the small compartment lay a sturdy oak cane with a silver handle, a map, and a letter. Curious, he opened the message and, upon reading it, rolled his eyes.
Battleborn,
I arranged for these supplies to be hidden throughout the city should an emergency arise in Shaylis. Just show them your mark and they will give you what you need to traverse the city easily and perform your duty quickly. Should you fail, you will spend another year as a Stunt. Good luck.
P.S. The cane is not just for walking.
Sincerely,
Master Taneth
"Sometimes I think that man is truly prepared for anything," Kaltor said with a smile, pocketing the map and examining the cane. It was about four feet long, made of smooth, black oak, but its handle did not consist of just a pommel to grip. The silver progressed another six inches down the shaft as if— he pulled and twisted on it a bit.
With a snap the pommel rose from the wood, revealing its true identity as the hilt of a well-crafted sword hidden beneath the smooth craftsmanship. Very nice, Kaltor thought. Dependable but well concealed. Everything a Battleborn should be. He locked the room as he left, returning the key to Marnin with a grateful wave.
"Thanks again!" the innkeeper answered. "Come back whenever you can."
Kaltor left the inn dressed in the typical fashion of the middle class. Prying eyes no longer gauged him at every corner. He maintained a hurried pace regardless, but tried his best to keep his path along the fringes of the crowd where he could see those passing him clearly before they got close. Following the map, he passed an elderly merchant’s cart, revealed his brand on his collarbone, and received a strong length of rope along with a gold coin.
Kaltor proceeded to the next shop. Another flash of his brand got him a quiver full of arrows. Recalling Melshek’s healing and his habit of pulling out the projectiles that pierced him, Kaltor selected the hooked variety known for doing more damage on their way out than in.
At the last cart he received a large fishing hook, earning an odd look from the boy in charge not much older than himself. "Fishing for something big," Kaltor explained as nonchalantly as possible.
If only I were sure I could bring him down at all, he thought with a shudder. Still, it’s better I finish this before Honmour returns. I may need to use my Remnant powers. I don’t want to do that with him at my side. I can’t risk exposing my secret.
Ducking down into the next alley, he removed his cloak and organized his equipment. He tied the large fishing hook to the strong cord, wrapping the rope around his arm a dozen times to reduce the cumbersome length of rope into a more manageable bundle.
The bow and quiver he slung over his shoulder, covering the entire arsenal with his cloak, then walked out again with his new sword-cane in hand. Maybe the nobles in charge will take me seriously now, Kaltor thought. If Melshek is hiding at his estate, though, I can kill him before this gets any worse.
Moving to the back of an alley, Kaltor swung his hooked rope into the air, latching onto the edge of the roof on the second try. Got to hurry, he urged himself, drawing on a bit of extra endurance from his heart glands to maintain his quick pace up the wall. Melshek could already have a quarter of the city infected by now. What could he possibly be planning?
When his feet hit the rooftop, the tension in his chest and hands receded. I can find him from here, he assured himself. With a little luck I might be able to shoot him in the head through a window and stop him before anyone else dies.
For a few uneventful minutes he perched upon the roof of the mansion opposite Melshek’s estate. The main living quarters, gardens, and servant’s homes were separated from the rest of the city by tall, crenellated walls.
This should be easy, Kaltor thought, recalling the tracks from the chilling scene in the inn. Wherever he’s hiding, he’ll start by gathering people, which means a large number entering but few leaving. He’ll need somewhere either loud or private, where he can capture and pervert his victims without attracting attention.
The setting sun threw long shadows against the building he knelt upon, adding to his sense of urgency as he counted the number of people entering and leaving the estate. Soon his dagger slipped into view again, digging small holes in the mortar alongside him as he counted, grateful Master Taneth was not there to chastise him for letting his anxiety show.
He’s not here! Kaltor realized with a groan. The numbers going in and out are equal.
With another groan of frustration, he sheathed his dagger and continued his search of the city at an accelerated pace. Poorly maintained tiles and occupied rooftops made drawing on his power for stealth and stability a necessity, but still far superior to traveling along the ground. His next two locations proved equally typical of Shaylis during the late afternoon. This time Kaltor plunged his dagger into the roof of his last hiding place across from the many warehouses larger scale merchants or nobles used to store their wares.
Where could he be hiding? he thought, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Somewhere in the city he’s gathering victims with the black blood we fought against at the camp.
Holding his head in his hands, he closed his eyes and tried to reason it out in his mind. Think. Somewhere many people can enter but not leave without raising suspicion. Somewhere either large enough or loud enough people can be taken by force without drawing attention. Some place you haven’t checked yet.
A horn sounded in the night as the town watchmen walking the street called out the hour. Similar watchers throughout the city announced night’s arrival as the sun finally sank beneath the mountains which stood like frozen waves in a sea of stone. A few stars fought their way through the dark blue sky and the moon started its ascent in the east.
He’ll probably strike tonight, then, Kaltor thought. I’d better at least try to warn the — he paused. The castle stood like a powerful sentinel overlooking the city, the people’s strongest defensive position should the town itself meet with some kind of military struggle.
By the Gods! Kaltor cursed. I’ve been avoiding the best location where Melshek could be hiding! Wrenching his dagger free he took off across the warehouses’ wide roofs. In his mind he could already see Melshek’s entry into the castle grounds, claiming assault by thieves as the cause of his lost retinue and seeking safety.
He pictured the creature overpowering the first maid sent to attend to him, slowly working his way through the servants and leaders of the city. The images ended with a variation of the altar at the vault and Jensai’s motionless corpse, eyes open but unseeing.
Such thoughts added to his pace, pushing Kaltor through the cool night air which helped him stave off the fatigue gradually enveloping him with each additional step. Even a Varadour could only go so long without rest, and
he’d been drawing on his powers non-stop since before dawn.
The half-moon had already cleared the mountains to the east when Kaltor reached the castle. He paused at a roof opposite the front gate, taking in the torch-bearing guards and horn-blowing watchmen. Traffic here seems normal, he thought. But Melshek could be pulling people in through other entrances. Perhaps the Gods are with me after all, and the creature only recently recovered from this morning’s attack. Perhaps he’s just started assaulting the castle from the inside.
Withdrawing his hooked rope, Kaltor let himself down the nearest alley wall. Time to make the most of these clothes, he thought, approaching the guards at the front gate. His stomach gnawed hungrily at him, having already burned through the small feast at Honmour’s inn.
"You are looking well," he said aloud. "Good evening," Both men turned toward him, their ceremonial armor glistening in the torch light. They tapped the ground with the butts of their tall halberds as they saluted in return to Kaltor’s greeting.
I wonder if they’ve ever actually fought in that armor, Kaltor thought. But perhaps I can get in without leaving any unconscious bodies lying around. Such things tended to hamper royalty’s trust in an informant trying to save the city. The drive flaring in his stomach, however, suggested a more direct approach would be more appropriate. He resisted the urge.
"A fugitive has snuck into the city," he said. "He’s already killed one of my comrades this morning," His voice cracked as Jensai’s open eyes stared back at him in his mind. "I need to discuss the proper counter measures with his majesty, Prince Tyran."
The guards eyed him suspiciously. One lowered his halberd toward him while the other stepped forward. "May we see your papers for identification?"
Kaltor glared at the guard dangerously, pulling back his tunic as he had so many times that day, exposing the brand at the base of his collar. Both guards paused briefly. "We can’t allow you passage simply because you’ve branded yourself as a Battleborn," the man elaborated. "After all, you could be a cast off from their society, for all we know."
Oh, Kaltor thought. If only I had time to put you both in your place and deal with the repercussions!
Rolling his eyes at the delay he stepped forward, putting his arm around the first solider to keep the pedestrians in the street from seeing the exchange. "The only men who leave our society do so in death," Kaltor whispered in his ear. "And any foolish enough to try to impersonate one of us never lives to see old age."
He reached for his coin pouch and froze. His fingers grasped at only empty air. "Perhaps you and your friend could discuss it with a barkeep tonight?" he offered hesitantly, realizing how empty his suggestion would be without a bribe to enforce it. "There is a wealth of information here in the city and you hear it all first in a tavern, after all."
Miserable urchins, Kaltor thought, feeling the heat rise to his face as his lack of funds registered on the soldiers’ faces. He recalled the pick-pocket he’d caught that day, surrounded by friends at the time. They’d planned for one of their own to get caught so I’d drop my guard over my coin purse and focus on that little imp of a child. No wonder Master Taneth keeps insisting we aren’t ready for field duty!
Then both soldiers glanced at his brand again and back to each other. "I’m sorry, sir," the second guard said, lowering his halberd toward Kaltor. "Without the proper identification I can’t admit you into the castle."
His friend nodded, lowering his spear hesitantly, then added, "Any man could have robbed a merchant to dress as you and try to enter unimpeded. If you have no money it must mean you have illegitimate reasons for entering at this late hour."
"If I had stolen these clothes from a merchant," Kaltor growled threateningly, "wouldn’t I have taken his money as well?" The soldiers glanced toward each other uncertainly.
That was their mistake.
Kaltor lunged forward, catching both halberds by the shafts just beneath the blades and jerking them forward. As their training dictated, they released the large, cumbersome weapons and reached for their swords.
Casting one weapon aside, Kaltor grasped the neck of the other halberd and swung its wooden base into the side of the first soldier’s head, guiding it like a spear-point into his face. The force of the blow knocked the man to the ground, spraying blood as his nose shattered.
The second soldier brandished his sword angrily, rushing forward in an attempt to get alongside his opponent’s makeshift spear. Kaltor tossed the halberd toward the soldier and reached for the throwing blades at his shoulder.
The man saw the glint of metal, raised his sword high in an instinctive attempt to protect his face, and knocked the projectile aside with his other arm. This counter left both arms high in the air, which he failed to lower in time to block Kaltor’s body as the assassin’s shoulder rammed the man into the ground.
The force of their landing knocked the wind from the soldier. Kaltor didn’t even bother disarming him, just forced his arms apart enough to smash his forehead into the man’s unprotected face, introducing him to unconsciousness. Hope you’re watching this, Jensai, he thought with a grin. You taught me that trick well. He jumped up off his knees, gathered his own blades, and moved quickly to the gate.
Kaltor threw the iron doors open and quickly crossed the courtyard, heading toward the castle’s inner keep. Torches and candles lit every wall and window with the sun’s decline behind the western mountains. The wounded guards finally awakened enough to shout the alarm.
Great, he thought sarcastically. Would it have been so difficult to stay quiet just a few more minutes?
Two more guards stood at the keep’s inner entryway. They looked rather bored until the cries of alarm from the gate brought their weapons to the ready. I’ve had enough of these delays, Kaltor thought. I’ve already wasted the day combing the city when I should have been warning the prince so he could put the proper defenses in motion.
Drawing his hooked rope, he crept from one bush or tree to the next, moving toward the far side of the keep. Only the guards on the walls could see him, but they were assigned to watch outside the castle for trouble, and the soldiers screaming at the gate guaranteed their attention would stay pointed in that direction.
Drawing on his Varadour power, he Blended the colors around him. They shifted, merging with his body to hide him from the perceptions of the naked eye. He was careful to keep the camouflage partial, exposing an arm here and a foot there. No one had been able to maintain total invisibility since the Crippling. Doing so now would risk revealing his true identity to any who discovered him.
Counting the top story windows along the back of the keep, Kaltor recalled the castle map they’d memorized with Master Taneth, made his choice, and threw his hook. Thankfully, color blending could disguise clothes and equipment too, though hiding something as long as a hook-rope took practice.
Metal clawed on stone as he pulled the rope taut and worked his way quickly up the wall, hand over hand with his feet on stone as if walking straight up the side of the wall. Pulling himself over the edge of the window, he found Prince Tyran sitting at a small table in his chamber, munching on a roast duck.
"You know, Battleb—," he did not have time to comment further, as the hunger in Kaltor’s stomach finally reached a powerful crescendo, sending him sprinting forward. The guards cried in alarm, they and Tyran drawing their swords as the prince rolled aside with the ease of a fellow warrior. Tensions paused when Kaltor hit the table with both hands, ravaging a thick slice of lamb like a feral animal.
About half-way through his fourth bite Kaltor paused, realizing where he stood and exactly how skilled each swordsman pointing their weapons his way actually was. He licked his lips, pulling away from the meal with a visible effort. He grabbed a napkin on the table and dabbed at the grease and fat dribbling down his chin as calmly as possible. There was little he could do about the sleeves and collar of his tunic, however.
"I could have you thrown into a dungeon for slipping pas
t my guards," Prince Tyran said with a chuckle, sheathing his sword. "But since you’ve given me a wonderful scene to relate to Taneth, I will let him decide your punishment."
Kaltor’s heart sank. Master Taneth always said the hunger pangs could strike suddenly like that, he recalled. But I never thought they could be so strong.
Heat rose in his face as he surveyed the scene, half the Prince’s dinner scattered across the floor in his desperate rush to eat meat. He imagined his teacher’s reaction when he heard the news of this slip up. Oh, imprisonment in the Abyss itself might be more pleasant than Master Taneth’s punishment for this! he thought with a shudder.
With a gulp he turned toward Prince Tyran in an attempt to maintain some dignity. The royal Varadour was in his early twenties, tall and lean. His body was built and trained to favor speed over power—a good representative for ruling the region where Battleborn were trained.
"Apologies, Prince Tryan," Kaltor said as respectfully as possible, coiling his hooked-rope and releasing his body from its partial camouflage. "You sensed me coming, I assume?"
As he emerged into view two of the prince’s attendants, who Kaltor hadn’t noticed standing in the corner of the small room, muttered in surprise. Battleborn, those in training at least, were not common within the city. The guards smiled at his naïve mistake but did not lower their weapons just yet.
Prince Tyran smiled. "I can recognize one of Taneth’s students from across the courtyards— more so when they are scaling my walls. I used to be one, after all!"
Wow, Kaltor thought. Master Taneth must be very good friends with him for them to not use their titles when they talk of each other. The rumors must be true, he realized. He was personally trained by Master Taneth! He felt something of a kinship with this man. They shared the same teacher, who had occasionally taught them exclusively. Granted, Kaltor had yet to speak to his teacher so candidly. His spine cringed at the thought.
Tyran returned to his former position at his table. "Bring an extra plate for my friend," he called to his servants. With a smirk he added, "It seems he hasn’t eaten much today and has important news to discuss with me in private." The servants nodded, leaving immediately. With an extra wave of his hand he convinced the guards to wait outside the doors as well.
"Thank you, Prince Tyran," Kaltor said, taking a spare chair by the wall and pulling it alongside Tyran’s desk. "I am hungry, but we have a lot to discuss. The city is in danger. I am the first messenger of many you will likely receive. We must act quickly."
"What’s wrong?" Tyran asked, pausing in between mouthfuls of potatoes fried in oil. "Is there a foreign invader? Should I mobilize the armies?" Two regiments were always standing guard this close to the borders of the kingdom’s neighbors to the north and west.
"No, but mobilize them anyway," Kaltor answered, spearing a chunk of chicken with his dagger. "The city could be in ruins by the end of the week."
Chapter 12
Decoy Page 13