He had expended more than two weeks now in his search for Emi and he had lost the trail of the darkings that had taken her – time had become his enemy. Whether she yet lived – and where she now dwelled if she yet lived – was utterly unknown, perhaps, at this point, undiscoverable.
If the darkings had taken her eastward, travelling along that lonely, desolate highway, she was now far, far away, undoubtedly far beyond any chance of recovery. The same was true if they had taken her south and west, into Braddia or Thayn, into that region of unending conflict. In fact, whatever direction Brenyn decided to take now, seeking her, it was just as likely that the darkings had taken another.
The truth, Brenyn realized – no matter how heartbreaking and hideous – must now be faced and addressed.
He finally admitted to himself, despite the anguish it caused him, that he might never learn what had become of the woman he loved. Traveling south of Marta’s market and turning east upon the track that led to the mercenaries’ stronghold, Brenyn made an oath to himself – if Emi was truly lost, if he never discovered what had happened to her, this he determined – he would wreak terrible vengeance upon every darking that he found for the rest of his life.
Vengeance was a very poor substitute for happiness, but if vengeance was all that was left to him, then Brenyn would practice it without mercy. He forded the small river and went toward the hills. When the sun was but an hour in the sky, behind him to the west, Brenyn came to where the track turned toward the south and went up into the foothills. A mile further on, and he entered a town – small, with few structures, dingy and dark.
No one challenged him; nonetheless, he felt the pricking of warning, as if he was observed and examined by unseen eyes.
He had found the mercenary hideout.
Dozens of horses were picketed in corrals upon the grassy slope to the right that angled down toward the valley floor. More were stabled in barns beside the road.
There was but one avenue, paved with dirt, that dissected the hamlet, lined with a few houses and, toward the center, larger buildings that appeared to be rundown places of business, such as hotels and the like. Children played in the yard before one of the houses, and a slim young woman watched him ride by from the doorway of another.
To the west, the sun wheeled below the horizon.
18.
Brenyn slowed as he approached the larger buildings at the center of the village. The buildings sat back from the street, tucked among the trees of the forest. Again, no one appeared to challenge him; no arresting voice called out to him. Indeed, no one was about in the streets, though sound and lamplight spilled into the twilight from a large, two-storied building about the middle of the town.
Brenyn moved toward this building, which was apparently a public house of some sort, and cautiously dismounted, tying Noris to the railing. Gathering up all his weaponry, including the shield, he stepped up onto the wooden walkway that ran along the front of the place. Coming near the door, he peered inside.
The place was dimly lit by a scattering of several lamps and was filled with tables and chairs. Booths lined the walls. At the far end, near the back, a long wooden counter or bar ran nearly across the width of the place. There were men inside, many more than a few, seated about the establishment or standing in groups at the bar, laughing and talking.
All were armed with swords or daggers, many with both.
After considering, Brenyn returned to Noris and affixed the shield onto the back of the saddle, but he kept his sword sheathed upon his back, his bow and quiver in his hand, and the dagger stuck in his belt. Then he returned to the open door of the public house.
He stepped through the doorway.
Almost at once, all conversation inside the room began to die away, and every eye in the place turned toward him. He halted, meeting the many pairs of eyes that stared at him and wondering whether he was about to be assaulted.
No one moved. The silence thickened and lengthened but no one spoke to him, and none of them moved his way.
Then, gradually, most of the men turned away and resumed their conversations. Brenyn examined every man in the place but could not decide which of them might be Captain Murlet, and he had no desire to simply shout out his reason for being there. At the last, he crossed the room and found an empty place at the bar along the back. After a moment, the proprietor, a stout, balding man with an immense beard and dark, narrow gaze came up, eyeing him with a decided lack of interest.
“Help you, friend?” He asked.
“I am looking for a man named Captain Murlet,” Brenyn told him. “Marta sent me.”
The man watched him without obvious expression. “Marta sent you, did she? – did she indeed?”
“Do you know the captain?” Brenyn asked.
“Oh, aye, I know ‘im,” the stout barman replied. “But why do you wish to make his acquaintance?”
“I want to join his company,” Brenyn answered. He decided to forgo any mention of his interest in darkings.
“Well, I don’t believe Captain Murlet is in the place right at the moment,” the man said.
Brenyn fought down annoyance. “Would you mind looking to see if he is here?”
“I don’t need to look – I know every man in this place.” The man’s mouth smiled, though his eyes remained cold and hard. “I don’t know you, though,” he stated pointedly.
“No,” Brenyn agreed, “I expect you wouldn’t, for I just came here from a far land.” Any trepidation he had felt upon entering the place evaporated, and irritation at his treatment by the man began to rise. “Do you perhaps know where I might find Captain Murlet?”
The man didn’t reply but turned away and found a tankard, which he filled with a yellowish-brown liquid that foamed up and over the side of the mug. Then, turning back, he set this in front of Brenyn and tapped the surface of the bar. “Two coppers,” he said.
“I did not order a drink.” Brenyn told him. “Nor do I want a drink.”
The man did not budge or blink. “Everyone drinks in here, friend.” He tapped the bar once more. “Two coppers.”
Brenyn watched him for another moment and then reached into his belt and produced the money.
The barman scooped the coppers into his apron and then pointed to an empty booth along the side wall of the place. “Go and sit there,” he told Brenyn, indicating the booth. “Take your drink. I will see if anyone knows where Captain Murlet may be found.”
Brenyn met his gaze for a long moment and then lifted the tankard and went to the booth. He sat, setting the drink down in front of him and leaning his bow against the wall, placing his quiver upon the seat beside him. His sword, he kept upon his back.
Time passed and Brenyn decided to taste of the liquid in the tankard. It was bitter and sour, though not entirely unpleasant. An hour perhaps, went by with no one, apparently, taking any further notice of him, or interest in him. He continued to sip at the bitter drink while he waited, wondering if he had been forgotten.
Then, two men approached the booth where he sat. One, a tall, lean man with dark hair, a short beard, and sharp brown eyes halted by the seat at the opposite side of the booth, though he did not sit but remained standing. The other, a huge, hulking fellow with rippling muscles, a broad nose, small green eyes, and a great reddish beard, halted one step to Brenyn’s left, blocking his egress from the booth.
The tall, lean man with the sharp eyes spoke. “What do you want with Captain Murlet, stranger?”
Brenyn met his gaze, glanced up at the large man, and then answered. “I want to join his company.”
The man shook his head. “It’s called a band, not a company.”
Brenyn shrugged. “Alright – his band, then.”
The man’s gaze took in Brenyn’s bow and quiver of arrows, and the hilt of the sword that rose above Brenyn’s shoulder. “Do you know how to use those?”
“The sword, not so much,” Brenyn replied, “but I will pit my skill against anyone with the bow.”
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The tall man looked into Brenyn’s eyes for a while and then, slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t think we need any more men at the moment.” His gaze roved over the weaponry once more. “But we always need good weapons.”
The big man to Brenyn’s left shifted his huge feet, inching closer. “Shall I kill him, then, Cap’n?”
At that statement, the bar went silent, the noise of laughter and conversation ceased.
Brenyn realized that the men meant to slay him and take the weapons that his father had bequeathed to him, that Captain Grizeo had traveled many miles to bring to him, and that bore the imprint of his mother’s cleverness.
He tensed, gauging the situation. Neither of the men that stood over him was armed, except for a dagger that each had in his belt. At the moment, both men’s arms hung at their sides. Despite the big man’s words, neither had made a menacing move.
The man with the sharp eyes did not speak.
After another moment, the enormous man shifted his feet yet again, though he still made no move for his dagger. “Cap’n?”
Brenyn felt his heart begin to race, pounding wildly against the walls of his chest. Every eye in the bar, apparently, was fixed upon the tableau at this booth that sat along the side wall. How, Brenyn wondered, could he escape so many? He dropped his hand to his belt and looked at the dagger in the belt of the big man to his left.
It was then that he decided upon his course of action. If he was to die here, then at least one of these men would die as well.
His heart sped up, his mind went cold and hard, his hand closed about the hilt of his dagger and he drew it forth.
“Hey!” The big man exclaimed.
And then that thing that had happened on the day that Emi fell into the river, happened again.
The world about Brenyn changed, the light from the lamps dimmed, time slowed, and all motion around him ceased.
All sound faded away.
Time stopped.
Brenyn, his dagger in his hand, stood, reached out with his other hand and took possession of the big man’s dagger as he came to his feet. Then he slid past the man, slipping between him and the table of the booth. Here, he turned and held his own dagger to the big man’s throat and the big man’s dagger to the throat of the tall, lean man. But he did not push the sharp steel into flesh.
After considering, he decided not to kill unless necessary.
He stood still and quiet, waiting for time to start again.
And then, time roused itself and lurched forward, catching up to the moment. On either side of Brenyn, the two men, each with the cold steel of a dagger upon his throat, stiffened.
“What the –?” The big man breathed out in sudden fear.
The tall, lean man did not speak, nor did he move to retrieve his own blade, but his eyes were wide with shock.
“No one slays me and takes what is mine,” Brenyn stated in cold tones. “Now,” he went on, “I will take my things and leave.”
The lean man swallowed against the steel of the blade. “I wish you wouldn’t, young man,” he said. “I would rather that you stay. I am Captain Johan Murlet and I intend no malice.”
Brenyn moved the dagger slightly, releasing the pressure on the man’s throat. “Why threaten to kill me and take my weapons?”
On the other side, the large man, his composure returning after the shock of Brenyn’s action, laughed, low and harsh, his belly shaking. “How else we going to find if you can use ‘em?” He asked. He stepped back, rubbing at his throat. “Though there be no call for you to threaten us.” He frowned at Brenyn, his eyes bright with astonishment. “How did you do that?”
Brenyn ignored him and turned to the lean man. “You are Captain Murlet?”
“I am.”
Brenyn indicated the big man with his hand, though he kept hold of the dagger. “This was some sort of test?”
Murlet smiled slightly. “As Sergeant Kristo states – how else do we know that you can fight?” He studied Brenyn for a moment. “Why did you not kill us?”
“I only kill at need.”
Murlet studied him. “You truly wish to join our band?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Brenyn hesitated. “I am alone in the world,” he said then. “I am looking for a reason to be.”
Murlet frowned and shook his head. “That is not what we do here, lad – we don’t help lost souls find their way. We fight wars – for money.”
Brenyn nodded. “That is reason enough.”
Murlet glanced down toward the seat of the booth and then looked closely at Brenyn. “How did you do that?” He asked. “It was like you… disappeared for a moment – and then, suddenly, you were here, with a knife to my throat. Was it magic?”
Brenyn shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Murlet frowned in puzzlement. “You don’t know? – because – if you could do that in battle…”
“I do not know how I am able to do it,” Brenyn admitted. “It just – happens – when I am threatened.”
“Well, it’s a fine trick,” Kristo, the big man said, and he held out his hand. “Wish I could do it. May I have my dagger now?”
Brenyn handed Kristo his dagger and then turned back to Murlet, who was watching him with narrowed eyes. “I’ve never seen such a thing,” Murlet said. “Darkings do magic; sorcerers, so I hear, can do magic, but I have never seen a soldier work magic.”
Brenyn shook his head. “I don’t know that it’s magic – I told you, I don’t know how it happens.”
“And you can’t make it happen?”
“No,” Brenyn confirmed.
“Have you tried?”
Brenyn shook his head. “I have not.”
“Perhaps you should try sometime,” Murlet suggested. “You still want to join my band?”
Brenyn nodded. “Yes.”
“Do you have a horse?”
“I do.”
“What is your name?”
“Brenyn Vagus,” Brenyn answered.
“Vagus,” Kristo repeated, and the huge man frowned. “I’ve heard that name.”
“I have heard it as well,” Murlet agreed, “though I know not where.” He inclined his head. “Welcome, Brenyn Vagus, to the mercenary band of Johan Murlet. We share equally in all monies, though we keep a bit back for the families of those as have families, in the event of death, and a bit for the box. Do you have family?”
Brenyn shook his head. “None.”
Murlet turned and addressed the men gathered there. “This is Brenyn,” he told them. “He will be joining us.” The men silently lifted their glasses to him, but none spoke. Murlet turned back to him. “Go, Brenyn, and get to know those with whom you will fight. They are good men, generally, though there are a few scoundrels amongst us – but we know them as are.” He pointed toward a door at the back. “The armory is there. Choose a place and store your weapons until they are needed. None will touch them, I swear.”
He looked toward the front. “Your horse is outside?”
Brenyn nodded. “Tied to the railing.”
Murlet looked around until he spied a young man.
“Erek – go and put Brenyn’s horse in the stable, will you? Give him a good brushing down and some water and hay.”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
Murlet looked back at Brenyn. “When you’re ready, find you a bed somewhere. We own the whole of the place. The barracks are the bigger buildings here at the center of town. We took some casualties in the last battle, so there will be space.”
Brenyn nodded and turned to follow the young man. “I must retrieve my shield from my mount,” he explained.
Later, when Brenyn had stored his weapons and returned to the room, he retrieved the empty tankard from the booth where he had sat and took it up to the bar. The stout proprietor with the immense beard came over. This time, his face bore a smile. Brenyn produced two coppers. “May I have another?”
The barman laughed and found the two
coppers Brenyn had paid him earlier. “Did you not hear the captain?” He asked. “We own the whole of the town. None of us pays. There are no women here that aren’t the wives of men already, Cap’n won’t allow it, so all we have to do when we are here is drink.” He slid the coppers toward Brenyn and then extended his meaty hand. “Name’s Echols – Clef Echols. Welcome, Brenyn.”
Brenyn returned the smile and shook Echols’ hand. “Thank you.”
Instantly, Clef flinched and drew his hand away, rubbing at it with his other hand. He frowned at Brenyn. “What in hell –?”
Brenyn winced. He had forgotten about the “tingle”.
He shook his head in apology. “I am sorry, sir – sometimes, when I am – when that thing happens, it takes a while to fade.”
“You mean when you disappeared for a moment?”
Brenyn nodded again.
Clef’s frown deepened. “I heard what you told the captain – you really don’t know what it is? – how it happens?”
“I don’t.”
Clef studied him carefully. “Sure looked like magic to me,” he said.
“If it is,” Brenyn replied, “I don’t know how it works.”
“Strange.” Clef studied him for a moment longer and then reached for the tankard. “Alright, lad; I’ll get you a another.”
While Clef was refilling his tankard, a young man standing a pace away from Brenyn on his right, a sturdy fellow with dark eyes, short black hair, and a clean-shaven face, turned toward him and nodded a greeting. “I am Jed Millen.” He glanced over toward the booth where Brenyn had sat earlier. “That was some trick.”
Brenyn shook his head. “Was no trick,” he said.
Jed nodded. “I also heard what you told the captain. Still, it will come in handy, I think, when steel meets steel.”
Brenyn smiled a wry smile. “It would,” he admitted, “if only I could make it happen when I want.” Just then Clef returned with his drink and Brenyn nodded his thanks. Then he looked back at Jed. “You’re a mercenary?”
A Plague of Ruin: Book One: Son of Two Bloods Page 17