His twitching fingers assured honesty, and no one argued. They merely accepted the coin and placed them in their own pouches, but not before blowing thrice upon the chinking pieces and kissing the fabric for luck.
Let this not be the final payment.
“Was it as we suspected?” Cherrie asked.
She was flush, and Heygar thought her beautiful even though she was almost forty years in age. Old for a goddess without a ring upon her finger. She was taller than most, but she met Heygar at just the right height. When a rare smile left her perfect lips, it was enough to quell a storm. When she laughed, Heygar swore it was the actions of a deity within the source, and when she stripped naked, he felt he was never adequate enough to writhe with her. But she loved him. They were fine true lovers for five whole years. It was time to step into betrothal, regardless of their fears for it.
“This Mallum has to have fine tricks to have attained power in a place like Venistra,” Eralorien said, running his fingers through his greying yet unmistakably healthy-looking hair. His other hand fell upon his temple, which he massaged gently. His eyes watching Cherrie as she played with her dark amber hair.
As the only real weaver of the source among them, it was no surprise he was more cautious than the rest. Some said Mallum could weave pure flame of death. It was hard to face something like that with a few enchantments of healing or concealment. Well, at least Denan had his sword, which would cut through anything the source could muster.
“Any man’ll fall to an arrow,” Silvious hissed. If he had a tail, Heygar imagined it would twitch wildly. One drunken night, the little beastie had confessed that he had cut it off as a little fledgling. Heygar had laughed and assumed him jesting. They hadn’t spoken of it since.
“Well, if the rat’s not scared, what do we have to fear?” Iaculous muttered, and Arielle slapped him across the back of the head. He grinned devilishly and feigned terrible hurt.
Iaculous was a delicate little whelp of a pup with an unremarkable face. Perhaps as he grew beyond his nineteen years, he might earn a little charm or develop a deep stare to set himself apart from his averageness. As it was, he was an apprentice weaver of the source, and Eralorien suggested him unremarkable. He was brave and followed orders to the letter though, so he was worthy of his place among them.
“Don’t call him that,” Arielle mocked, and then she reached across to the offended thief and stroked his face lovingly.
The rodenerack laughed and accepted the jest as camaraderie. All he wanted was acceptance and a family. In Heygar’s Hounds, he had nearly both. Nearly, but not quite.
Arielle drank from the nearest abandoned goblet without shame. She was no beauty like her older sister, but her blonde hair was elegant enough, and with rosy cheeks and youthful laugh lines already appearing on her face, she was a pleasure to be around. She could silence a room with her smile like Cherrie, but her constant laughter was infectious and could rouse any man from dreariness. Iaculous was probably a fine enough fit. Perhaps in a year or two, they could both escape the mundanity of the close friendship both hung their banners upon.
“I’ve never liked Venistra,” said Cherrie. She played with her hair a little more, eyeing Denan for a sign of offence. She was harder than the rest, earning her steel through a life of struggle before she earned her place as a master tracker, master of the bow, master of the blade, and master of killing when he thought of it. He thought her the finest mercenary of them all, but he would never let her know such a thing. Caution followed almost every move she ever took. A lifetime protecting her sister would do that to anyone, he supposed. Her age dictated that she was closer to being Arielle’s mother and often behaved as so. Their actual mother was dead long ago. He had never met her.
“A hundred gold would earn us quite an adventure in the pleasure nests of Castra,” Denan said. “Just you and me, eh, Heygar?” He eyed Cherrie for the reaction of her own. She slapped him across the back of the head.
“We could bring little Iaculous and make a man out of him,” agreed Heygar, wondering if the lure was taking place. Deep down, he felt a warmth in his stomach.
Someone placed a full tray of chinking ales down in front of the group, and enthusiastic hands reached out and retrieved the mugs without offering payment. The innkeeper bowed and left a little poorer. Still, The Seven as locals was worth its weight in gold. It was a small matter. Soon enough, they would pay him in full.
“Ooh, can I come and watch Iaculous lose his innocence?” Arielle asked excitedly.
“The more, the merrier. We might even reserve a few boys for you,” suggested Denan.
“Oh, no. My first with a boy needs to be with roses, candles, and silken sheets. Keep that in mind, Iaculous,” Arielle said. The apprentice’s face reddened, and he hid himself in his ale. “I’ll take a few girls though. They would know where everything goes.”
“That is very much something I would like to see,” said Silvious.
“I’d only charge you half-price, my little pet. The rest would need to cough up all the coin in advance,” Arielle pledged, and the table laughed.
“Will you join us blowing our wealth in paradise?” Heygar asked of Eralorien, who shrugged noncommittally and stared at his drink.
“I’m adequate enough to attain female companionship without the need to pay for it,” the old weaver sniffed. He drained his drink as though it were an antidote to a dreadful disease. He slipped his bag of coin into one of the many hidden pockets underneath his cloak and wiped the hairs in his long beard around his mouth.
Unlike the rest of The Seven, he carried no armour or blade, instead relying on his luck and wards to keep him safe. Of all The Seven, he brought little to the table, but to walk into battle without a weaver of any skill was folly. Weavers were a rare thing in Dellerin, and perhaps because Eralorien had replaced Bereziel, he had never fully warmed to the man.
“Eralorien and myself shall have a fine time ourselves while the rest of you furrow until poor,” Cherrie jested coldly. Talk of prostitution was always a touchy subject with the girl.
“Are you charging again?” Arielle asked, and the table exploded into laughter.
“Well, if you are charging…” Eralorien said. More laughter.
“We’ll talk about it when they’re off in Castra,” Cherrie muttered through clenched teeth.
Heygar saw her feelings were almost hurt, but she was as tough as deyrawn leather. Though they laughed, there was uneasiness at the table. It was the same feeling when cracking wit at learning of a rival mercenary’s untimely demise. Before a task, there was always the fear. So, they ordered another round.
Soon, that apprehension seemed to dissipate, and Heygar wondered if it was the beverage. Reassuring thoughts flooded his mind and drowned suggestions of Venistra’s hazards mercilessly. They were The Seven. They would know victory. Why did he even need to have a lure cast, anyway? They were fierce, and they would follow him regardless. This Mallum was no great threat at all. They only needed to be as clever and composed as usual.
He looked across the table and found the group had fallen silent. Each one of them was brave and exquisite. Each one of them stared blankly into nothingness as a collective realisation came upon them.
“We have to kill Mallum extravagantly,” Heygar declared and felt just fine about it.
“We’ll take his thurken head,” Denan suggested and sighed contentedly.
“We’ll lance it on a stake for the rest of Venistra to see,” Cherrie said, daring a smirk.
“Then we’ll return it to King Lemier on a silver platter,” Eralorien said, nodding in approval.
“Wherein he can shower us with all the gold in the land,” Iaculous declared and licked his lips greedily.
“So, we can buy all the shiny,” said Arielle giddily.
“And then we go out and do it all over again,” whispered Silvious, counting his riches for the third time.
They drank with good cheer for a few hours more until, at midni
ght, Heygar declared their tab needed repayment. They stripped their armour and sent Silvious to cover the debt.
The creature downed his ale and stumbled through the crowd, eager to find the sturdiest bunch of troublemakers. He quickly found his quarry in a corner by the door. Heygar watched his thief trip and crash wonderfully into a dozen other mercenaries at their table. Feigning apology and awe, he swiped a couple of money pouches from unsuspecting belts before brazenly marching to the bar to clear the debt.
Denan cracked his fingers loudly. “Here we go.”
Silvious returned the pouches to the mercenaries by dropping the empty pieces of cloth on the table. “Thanks, lads,” was all he managed before the aggrieved brutes fell on him as one enraged unit.
Within a pulse, Arielle was beside him. A pulse after that, five other comrades were at war. Two fiends grabbed Silvious and flung him through a window. “Get out of here, rat!” one of them screamed as glass and mostly human waste was removed into the cold street outside.
“Don’t call him that!” Iaculous roared and swung a chair on both assailants. Arielle leapt at both men and took one through another window while Iaculous finished the other. Denan surged into the main body of aggrieved men and destroyed all in his path. With a grinning face, he struck without prejudice while at his flank, the tall legs of Cherrie kicked and pinned any fools unlucky to strike a girl. With her green dress flowing out behind her, she was a tempest, and the melee soon grew beyond both parties.
There was a simple rule to a bar fight. It didn’t matter who you struck as long as you struck ferociously with the foot or fist.
As mayhem erupted all around them, only Eralorien avoided the brutality. With a faint blue glow emanating from his fingers, he weaved healing where appropriate. Not enough to drain himself, but enough to stem Cherrie’s bleeding nose or lessen the swelling around Denan’s eye. He would take care of any deep cuts at the end, and only those of his comrades.
“Woo!” cried Heygar, ducking away from a larger opponent. He countered the weak left with a swift knee to the groin and delivered a quick combination to the falling man. All was fair in a decent brawl. Though Heygar’s Hounds were a group to be respected, few mercenaries would pass up the opportunity to say they manhandled a legend without paying too severe a price.
Heygar spun among the skirmish and turned into a swinging strike from the young man he had gazed upon before. It caught him under the chin, but it did little more than irritate. It was a fine technique though, and the youth had seen a fight or two. In the blink of an eye, Heygar spotted his assailant’s potential mate looking on. She was fearful as her man took on the most famous warrior in the world, but beneath the fear, he spotted primal pride. Heygar swayed and stumbled backwards and crashed into a table, sending drinks, splinters and cards into the air. Seeing her man dethrone Heygar was likely to do the youth no harm removing the damsels clothing, he imagined.
After a moment, he climbed to his feet and watched the couple make their hasty escape out into the cool night beyond. Task done and feeling good about the world, he clicked his neck loudly. Then he joined the rest of his comrades in finishing the traditional fight before embarking on their undertaking.
4
Delicate Words And Unlit Candles
“My divine goddess, will you do me the honour of pledging myself to you for … No, no, that doesn’t sound right. That’s no good at all.” Heygar looked hopefully into the mirror as though the battered man staring back could suggest something finer to say.
Try harder, Heygar, you idiot.
“Cherrie, I love you. I always have because you’re the most … the most … ah, thurk it anyway.”
He dropped to the seat of his bedroom, cursing his lack of a silver tongue. He sighed miserably, wiped his brow, and discovered blood and perspiration had left its mark upon his shaking hand. Wonderful. Where was Eralorien to heal his after-fight injuries when he needed him most?
A hundred candles flickered all around him, and he thought them perfect for setting the mood. His fingers still stung from melted wax and ash-eaten matches, but love always hurt and stung. He felt a sudden breeze up his back, and to his dismay, a few little flames blew out in front of his helpless eyes. He listened to the whistling wind outside as it thrashed the single window behind him and thought it lonely, ominous, and perfect for distraction.
Proposing a pledge was to be an exciting time for lovers, but Heygar feared the unknown. The wind gusted again, and more candles flickered to darkness. It had taken a painful span of time to light each one with fingers as arthritic and clumsy as his, but keeping them all burning until she arrived was proving the harder task. As was the actual pledge, but the saga of the lighting of candles was something he might accomplish with success. All in the name of romance.
What was taking her so long, anyway?
“Listen, woman, I’m pledging myself to you, and you will accept,” he hissed and dared a chuckle. She would probably prefer that direct approach anyway. She had never been one to hold back on her words or actions.
He knew he should have spoken with Denan before all of this. Denan was the poet among this group, at least with women. The cur could make a faithful woman beg for adulterous play with a few whispered words of wooing.
Heygar spread the rose petals along the bed. They would cost a pretty fortune for this time of the year, but where he might fail with delicate words, he would succeed with passionate gestures. Three of the fragile red petals stuck to his hand.
“She loves me,” he flicked one away.
“She loves me a lot,” he flicked another.
“She loves me until we rot.” He stared at the last one before flicking it away too.
Heygar picked up a candle and returned to the process of illuminating the room in a way befitting her magnificence while ignoring the real question in his mind: was he making the right decision?
A heavy knock drew him from childish rhymes and melancholic worries. He tapped his breast pocket, caught a glance of himself in the mirror one more time, and reasoned there was little he could do at this late hour. She already knew him at his best and worst.
There was a second knock. Why would Cherrie knock a second time? Why would she even knock at all? Heygar opened the door and met the euphoric gaze of Eralorien. The man had been hitting the cuttings of snakewood harder and harder these days. A man his age should have known better.
“I was walking by and felt the sudden urge to speak with you,” the older man whispered.
For a pulse, Heygar wondered if Eralorien was more skilled in perception than he had led him to believe. Probably not. Eralorien had never struck him as a great deceiver. Without warning, the weaver waved his hand slowly across Heygar’s head. A faint blue trail of source power followed his fingers, and immediately, Heygar felt the healing in his body. He blinked a few times and allowed the bruising to lessen in his aching bones.
“Thank you.”
“Some things I can heal just fine.” Eralorien blinked a few times and touched his temple. He bowed and wavered slightly as the enchantment took from his soul. It was not enough to age the man but just enough to take his breath for a moment or two. Heygar always thought it strange that healing, though so important in war, spent so little use of the soul while others, such as a lure cast or enchanting concealment, would take so much more. Perhaps a soul’s exact purpose in this world was the divine act of healing. As with their history, any weaver was unlikely to reveal their thoughts on the matter if he asked. Perhaps they didn’t even know themselves, he wondered. Man was young, but weaving was even younger.
“Just earning my place within the group, General.” He looked into the room, raising an eyebrow.
“Was there anything else?” Heygar asked as politely as any general could with life-altering choices on his mind. He could tell that the weaver was worried, and it was nothing to do with their task. A fine general could press matters until those under his command were satisfied, but not tonight. Tonight was
his only chance to win himself a bride before they finished their mission. It would only be a week before they returned, but could he hold a ring that long? Could he hold the excitement? Could he even hold his nerve?
“I wanted to …” Eralorien started but fell silent. He had a strained expression, as though struggling with two separate desires, as if something lured him to a different path. He looked far more haggard and sicklier than normal. Such was the appearance of natural age, Heygar supposed. He looked out the door to the large iron gate at the stairs separating the top floor from the rest of the building’s levels. Somewhere below, his love was unaware of the question awaiting her.
“You wanted to?” He had hoped for a little peace and quiet. He had bought the entire top floor of the inn to avoid these interruptions. It was also to have one more sleep in comfort and safety before facing the perils of the march.
Eralorien said nothing for a few moments before sighing sadly as if he sensed Heygar’s hesitation. “Nothing that cannot wait until after we return,” he said, glancing at Heygar’s breast pocket, where the ring nestled. “I find it strange to imagine settling down with a female. I would have expected you and Cherrie would feel similar, but still settling with her might be…nice?” He turned away leaving Heygar even more nervous than before. Surely, the weaver wasn’t subtly warning him from commitment.
“My love, keep my heat close … and … and warm my bed.” Heygar groaned and banged his head on the wall. Another candle blew out. After a few more attempts at discovering his poetic nature, Heygar heard another knock.
“May I speak with you?” Iaculous hissed through the door, and Heygar bade him entry. “I like the candles,” the apprentice said, slipping into the room. He looked to the rose petals on the bed and said nothing more. Heygar thought him a nice enough young man, if not a little dim. “You missed a few.” He nodded to the many that had blown out.
The Seven Page 4