“Thanks,” Del Alzon said as he stood.
“Buy me a drink for my troubles,” the man said, looking up at Del Alzon with pitiful eyes.
Del Alzon looked about the table and then at the man.
“It looks like you’ve had enough to drink,” Del Alzon said. “Whatever extra coin you have, use it to clean yourself up. And I meant what I said. When I kill that Samanian, I will bring you his coin . . . unless you are still sitting here drunk.”
After they passed some of the worst areas of the old, ocean-side city, staring at a windswept plain of beach sand and small tufts of grass, they came across a sad looking inn, surrounded by a broken, white fence, and a makeshift stable attached to its northern side.
Del Alzon passed through the opening in the fence and looked to his right. A pile of rags lay there that moaned and moved a little when touched by Del Alzon’s boot. The smell of stale brandy and a malodorous body hit his nose.
“A pleasant place,” Danitus offered, squeezing between the drunk and a fence post.
“My kind of place,” Yager said with smile, waiting for Del Alzon before they entered the inn’s yard.
The weathered steps of the inn creaked with strain under Del Alzon’s weight, and he advanced with caution for fear of the wood actually breaking. Yager and Danitus followed, the rest of the men staying with their horses. Del Alzon stopped at the front door and sighed. He didn’t quite know why.
“This place reminds me of something,” he said, sorrowfully.
“What was that?” Danitus asked.
“I feel like I’ve seen this place before,” Del Alzon clarified. “In some country. Maybe with a girl, or a friend. Maybe I had a fight there.”
“The years have made you forgetful.” Danitus laughed.
“And brandy and spiced wine,” Yager added.
“And tomigus root.”
Del Alzon huffed a quick, insincere laugh as he pushed the door open. Three tables stood in the middle of a modest room, each surrounded by four rickety chairs made of splintered wood and covered in a faded blue paint that had started to chip away long ago. They sat empty. The bar was a slab of wood with too many dings and bruises and cracks to count. A hallway stood to the left of the bar. On the wall behind the bar, a single shelf held just three bottles that all looked to be of the same gray glass, disguising the liquid inside.
A large man—not as large as Del Alzon—stood behind the bar, wiping the same spot repeatedly with a dirty, brown rag. He didn’t bother to look up at the group of three men as they entered the inn. Del Alzon stepped forward, the floor—a mishmash of warped wooden planks that struggled to fit together—creaking with every step.
“What can I do ye for?” the man behind the bar said, never taking his eyes from his cleaning.
Del Alzon recognized his accent. He sounded like a seaman, but not any old sailor. That soft rolling sound suggested a sailor from the east, another Golgolithulian, perhaps.
Del Alzon stopped, put his left hand on the handle of his sword, and straightened his shoulders.
“We’re looking for some young men.” Del Alzon paused. “Them and one other man, really.”
The bartender stopped cleaning but still didn’t look up at the three men.
“Most people don’t come around these parts. Chances are I haven’t seen ’em.”
“I think you have,” Del Alzon replied.
The innkeeper’s sausage-like fingers gripped his rag tightly, and he finally lifted his head, showing a row of yellowed teeth bordered by blackened gums. His bald head turned a deep red and glistened with sweat. The black beard that silhouetted his face, albeit speckled with gray, seemed to deepen the darkness in his thick, eyebrow-laden eyes.
“You’re in the habit of telling people what they have and haven’t seen?” the bartender asked quietly, but his voice was full of menace.
Del Alzon lifted his hand from the handle of his sword and showed the innkeeper his palm.
“I meant nothing by it. I apologize.” Del Alzon took a step back. Yager gave him a crooked sidelong glance. It wasn’t often he saw the big man back down from someone. “You might not think a young man would be noticed in such a big city, but his presence seems to have stood out among some more unsavory company.”
The barkeep’s face seemed to soften, only for a second, then his eyebrows coiled like a black dragon on his forehead and shadowed his hard eyes.
“Go on.” The bartender reached under the bar—slowly, carefully.
“When I first got to town, I heard talk of a southerner, a Samanian, and a group of gypsies and some lads from the west, from Waterton who seemed to be hanging around here. It just so happens that this man I’m looking for is Samanian, following a group of gypsies that had a group of lads from Waterton traveling with them. And, from what I was told, they all passed by here.”
“No idea,” the bartender said with a shrug. “Haven’t seen anything like that.”
“I don’t believe you,” Del Alzon said.
“I don’t care,” the bartender replied. “You can piss off now.”
“Sailor,” Del Alzon said softly in Shengu, the language of Golgolithul. The innkeeper shot him a dirty look. “Could I have your name before we leave?” Del Alzon added.
A wry, crooked smile crept across the innkeeper’s face.
“Shengu, eh?” the bartender said before switching over to the language of the east himself. “Spoken like a true Easterner.”
Del Alzon returned the smile.
“No. I think I might be mistaken,” the sailor added, still speaking in Shengu. “Spoken like an Eastern officer.”
Del Alzon’s smile widened.
It had been a long while since Del Alzon had tasted cheap, salty brandy, let alone three bottles of the stuff. The first few glasses churned his stomach, but he got into it again like it was only the day before. He rubbed his face hard with a callused hand.
“I can’t feel my lips,” Del Alzon said.
“I think maybe you’ve had a bit too much, mate,” Rory the bartender replied.
“Is it hot in here?” Del Alzon asked.
“Aye, a bit warm,” Rory replied. “But we’ve also drunk three bottles of my best brandy.”
“Best?” Del Alzon questioned.
“Aye,” Rory replied with a cocked eyebrow. “You have a problem with my brandy?”
“No,” Del Alzon replied. Then, a smile cracked his lips. “Not if you’re trying to pass hog’s piss off as brandy.”
Rory looked at Del Alzon with hard eyes for a moment, then broke into fits of laughter. He slapped the table hard and slapped Del Alzon’s shoulder even harder.
“If fermented hog piss only tasted this good,” Rory finally said, still chuckling.
“I’d be drunk all the time,” Del Alzon added, lifted his cup, and toasted the old sailor.
They had traded stories about serving Golgolithul for hours, stories of fighting too many men to count and bedding too many women to count. Del Alzon found himself lost in the tales. It had been many years since he had sat and drank with another man who had served. It felt good.
He looked down to see a single strand of sunlight creeping under the crease of the front door and across his boot. It reminded him of blonde hair. It reminded him of Siri, a long lost, fond memory.
“With a smile like that,” Rory said, “you must be thinking about a woman.”
“I didn’t realize I was smiling,” Del Alzon replied.
“Women do that to a man,” Rory said.
“Aye, that they do,” Del Alzon said. “Is it really morning?”
“It looks that way, mate,” Rory replied.
Del Alzon shook his head and rubbed his face again, this time with a heavy sigh. He now just wished he could get the information he came for and go and sleep with the stinking drunk outside. It seemed like Rory had read his thoughts, or perhaps he too had drunk enough.
“So,” Rory said, “the lads you’ve been looking for.”
> “Aye,” Del Alzon said, “the lads I’ve been looking for. They were here?”
Rory took another draught of his brandy and tore off a piece of the loaf of bread sitting in the middle of their table.
“Aye, they were here,” Rory replied.
“Foolish lads,” Del Alzon muttered.
“Foolish indeed,” Rory agreed.
“What makes you say that?” Del Alzon asked.
“Those young fools,” Rory said, “came to Finlo wanting to sail east—to join the armies of Golgolithul.”
“Aye,” Del Alzon said. “I encouraged them to do so. Said service does a man good.”
He decided it would be prudent to leave out mention of his ulterior motives for encouraging the boys to join a gypsy caravan.
“I agree,” Rory said, “the East isn’t the same East we served, Del Alzon. It’s changed, and not for the better in my opinion.”
“Dangerous words,” Del Alzon said, “even in the west.”
“Bah,” Rory snorted. “I’m too old and tired to worry about dangerous words. You and I both know it’s true and burn me if I’m going to worry about speaking truth. Anyways, the stubborn one . . .”
“Bryon,” Del Alzon said.
“Aye, Bryon. Well, he was dead set on sailing east,” Rory explained. “It seemed that Befel had resigned himself to the same fate as well. Although he spent a good deal of time in town, getting his shoulder looked at.”
“Getting his shoulder looked at?” Del Alzon asked.
“Aye,” Rory replied. “Had a hurt shoulder. Took a knife in the joint. It seemed to get better over the week they were here. But that young one . . .”
“Erik,” Del Alzon said with a smile.
“Aye, Erik,” Rory replied with a smile of his own. “He’s a thinker, a follower of his heart. He sat right where you sit, and we talked for a whole night. Brandy loosened my tongue, and I told them The Messenger of the East was due to visit my bar.”
“The Black Mage?” Del Alzon asked in astonishment.
“The very same,” Rory replied. “He was due to come, looking for mercenaries to perform some task in service to the Lord of the East.” “They’re no mercenaries, Rory,” Del Alzon said.
“That they’re not,” Rory agreed, “but they are now porters to a group of mercenaries.”
“You might as well slit their throats.” Del Alzon slammed a fist on the table. Yager stirred, but didn’t wake, and some of Rory’s brandy spilled.
“Hold your temper.” Rory seemed unmoved by Del Alzon’s apparent, sudden concern. That angered Del Alzon even more. “It was either that or sail east in a cramped ship with a bunch of fools, half of which might die of dysentery before they ever reached the western shores of the Giant’s Vein. Do not think I didn’t care for those lads, especially Erik. There’s something about him; he’s a good man, will one day be a great man. It was the best choice for them: Either that or go home, and that didn’t seem to be an option at all.”
Del Alzon sat back. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly. It was a technique he had learned during battle when the blood lust rises and all a man wants to do is remove heads from shoulders, bowels from stomachs, and limbs from joints. It calmed him, allowed him to lead, allowed him to fight with composure.
“Where did they go?” Del Alzon finally asked.
“North,” Rory replied. “I am pretty sure they would’ve stopped in Dûrn Tor. And then, from what I gathered from the Messenger’s meeting, they would go east, and then into the Southern Mountains.”
“Must’ve been serious for the Messenger to find himself away from the walls of Fen-Stévock,” Del Alzon said.
“Aye,” Rory replied. “Something about lost treasure, an heirloom dear to the Stévockians, and a lost dwarvish city.”
“Dwarves,” Del Alzon grumbled.
“There were four here,” Rory said. “Three of them actually agreed to try and find this treasure. They seemed like right fellows. Never had much experience with dwarves, save for the smiths who worked on the ships on which I sailed.”
“I had plenty of experience with them east of the Giant’s Vein,” Del Alzon said. “Dwarves from the Black Hills. They’d sooner crack your skull with a hammer than ask you your name or give a dying man a handful of water.”
“Well, anyway, north they went,” Rory said, “then east.”
“Dûrn Tor?” Del Alzon asked.
“Aye. Dûrn Tor,” Rory repeated.
Rory nodded with finality, and Del Alzon slid back his chair and nudged Yager with the toe of his boot. As Del Alzon stood and threw Rory several silver nickels, the old sailor chuckled. “Here. No need. I had as much fun as you did. If you find those lads, give ’em to them. A present from ole Rory.”
Del Alzon nodded.
“If you go north, watch out for those Samanians,” Rory added, and Del Alzon sat down again. In the brandy haze, he’d forgotten about them.
“You know where they went?” Del Alzon asked.
“Aye. They went north as well,” Rory replied. “They seemed right intent on finding Erik and his cousin and brother, just like you.”
“Slavers,” Del Alzon muttered.
“Come again?” Rory asked.
“They are slavers,” Del Alzon replied, “the Samanian and his crew.”
Rory spat on the floor. He looked completely disgusted.
“Figures,” he said. “Killed a whore that used to hang around here, just for the fun of it. Had a few dealings with Samanians. I suppose, like anyone, there are a few good ones, but didn’t meet many.”
“I hope I meet them,” Del Alzon said.
“I hope you meet ’em, too,” Rory added. “That one is crueler than most.”
Del Alzon nodded and nudged Yager, waking him and then Danitus.
“Time to go,” Del Alzon said and then turned to Rory. “My thanks, sailor, for the brandy, the hospitality, and the information about Erik.”
Del Alzon turned and started for the door to The Lady’s Inn.
“I have to ask, though,” Rory said, just as Del Alzon turned the handle of the door, “why are you so intent on finding those boys? They don’t seem to want to be found. I wish you luck, and I wish ’em good health and safety. Just wondering.”
“Penance,” Del Alzon replied and gathered up the others.
“Where to?” Maktus asked when they were outside.
“Dûrn Tor,” Del Alzon replied.
“Are you still hoping to find those boys?” Yager asked.
Del Alzon shook his head.
“I think we could search all over Háthgolthane and not find them now.”
“Then why not just go home, back to Waterton?” Maktus asked.
“I suppose for one last hope,” Del Alzon replied, “for one last piece of information that will tell me I’m not an unsalvageable bastard and that those boys are still alive.”
“And what of Kehl?” Yager asked.
“What of him?” Del Alzon said.
“What if we should meet him on the way?” Yager asked.
“We kill him,” Del Alzon replied matter-of-factly.
“And what if we miss him?” Yager asked. “What if he goes home to find his brothers dead?”
“I am sure he’ll want revenge,” Del Alzon replied. He knew he would.
“Will he come looking fer you? Fer us?” Yager asked.
“Probably,” Del Alzon said.
“And when he finds us?” Yager queried.
“We kill him.”
Chapter 6
THE HUT WAS STILL DARK when Erik awoke to the smell of cooked oats and bacon. Despite the scratchiness of the straw, he had slept soundly, better than he had in a long while, thank the Creator. He sat up and found a clean shirt neatly folded next to him. It looked new, but it was his.
Someone, probably the old wife, had sewn up the holes and tatters and removed the worst of the stains. It smelled of mint and lavender, but there was still the distant stink of sweat and blood
.
After eating, Erik walked into the sunlight, bright and hot with the constricting muskiness of a day after a heavy rain. Citizens of Stone’s Throw, along with survivors of Aga Kona, bustled about, taking little notice of the young man. He walked to the longhouse where the village housed the wounded and found Vander Bim just outside the door, arm lying across a wooden chair, head resting on his arm. He was asleep. The door opened, and Turk walked out. His shirt lay against his body, soaked in sweat, and he wiped his hands clean with a dirty rag.
When Turk saw Erik, he smiled. “We lost three. Two more are questionable. Another night and An’s will, and we will see.”
“I’m sorry,” Erik said.
“For what?” Turk asked.
“For the three you lost,” Erik replied.
Turk shook his head. “Four dozen women and children, beaten and bruised and burned, and we only lost three, maybe five. I count that as a blessing. I thank An for guiding my hand, and the hands of Demik and Nafer and the sailor here.”
“I’m sorry for not being here to help, then.” Erik had slept soundly, comfortably, and here, all night long, Turk and the sailor and the other dwarves labored over the sickly and the dying.
“I told you to go. No apology is needed. I trust you slept soundly,” Turk replied.
Erik smiled wide. “The best I’ve slept in many months.”
“That is good. I think it is my turn,” Turk said.
“Do you need me to do anything while you rest?” Erik asked.
Turk shook his head.
“Rest. Arynin has agreed to let us stay another night. For that, I am glad.” Turk nudged Vander Bim. “Come, friend, let us find a place to rest.”
With a short cough, Vander Bim woke, blinked hurriedly, smiled at Erik as he stood over him, and fell back asleep.
“Have you seen Switch?” Erik asked.
“No, and I am also glad for that,” Turk replied.
Erik didn’t see Turk or the other dwarves for the rest of the day. As he walked around the village, he saw Drake trying to help, seeking to tend to the wounded however he could—fetching water and food, changing bandages, just talking to people. Erik could understand why Drake wanted to help. These people, in a way, were his people. Certainly, miners were not some different race of people, some different ethnicity like dwarves or Samanians—at least Erik didn’t think so. But it was apparent to Erik that Drake felt a kinship with these survivors. He felt bad for the miner. The man just wanted to help, and all he seemed to do was annoy these people, who just wanted to sit in peace and rest and be left alone.
Dark Winds Page 5