“In Westernese, Raktas,” Andragos said.
“As you wish, my lord,” his servant replied.
The scowl on Raktas’ face, however slight, showed his displeasure in speaking the language of the west. He was uncomfortable with it. Terradyn, Andragos’ other manservant, was far more comfortable with the language, and he had long suspected that it was his servant’s first language.
Although he found more satisfaction in actually learning a language, he could ‘speak’ or understand any language he wanted. With the snap of a finger, a man speaking Durathnan sounded as if he spoke Andragos’ native Shengu.
“The people of the west are rather suspicious of the east,” Andragos explained. “Speaking Shengu around them will make them even more uneasy. They will think we are talking about them.”
“Yes, my lord,” Raktas replied, “but don’t they work for the east?”
“Yes,” Andragos nodded.
“They are a backward people, my lord,” Raktas suggested.
“Perhaps,” Andragos agreed. “Simpler I think would be a better word.”
Andragos had heard whispers of him being referred to as the Messenger of the East, the Herald of Golgolithul, the Black Mage. Such mutterings used to make him feel powerful, strong, and important. Now, he just found them comical.
“Are you alright, my lord?” Raktas asked.
“Yes,” Andragos answered, “just tired.”
“Shall I tell Terradyn to send the people away, my lord?” Raktas asked as they heard a commotion outside the carriage.
“No,” Andragos replied. “Open the door.”
Raktas bowed and knocked on the door of the carriage. It opened and swung outwards, revealing Terradyn standing on the other side, holding back a now growing crowd of miners and their families.
With the open door and the sun barely at noon, light should have flooded the inside of the carriage, but Andragos lifted a hand, and the inside darkened, shadowing his face. He didn’t like people seeing him—his face at least—but also didn’t feel like lifting the hood of his robes. He relished the spring air. It was clean, here, in the wilderness of the west, next to the Southern Mountains. The air seemed so . . . so stale in Fen-Stévock.
An older, broad-shouldered man stood next to Terradyn. He looked irritated at being summoned to the carriage. There was a time when Andragos would have bent the man, forced him with an invisible power to kneel and grovel. Defiance would make him rage, but now he found something noble in it, an ant standing up to the spider, a gazelle taunting the lion. He allowed himself a small smile.
“Thank you for letting us stay in your camp,” Andragos said from the shadows.
“Don’t have much choice, do I?” the master of Aga Kona replied.
Bravery. Stupidity, perhaps. Whatever it was, Andragos liked this man. He heard groans coming from both Terradyn and Raktas. The sound of stomping feet meant his troops—the Soldiers of the Eye—his hundred had snapped to attention. Terradyn must have signaled them to do so, his repost to the man’s insubordination. Andragos put up a hand.
“No, you don’t,” he said. “But, nonetheless, your hospitality, although expected, is welcomed and appreciated. Your service to my lord will not go unnoticed.”
The man shifted uneasily at the mention of the Lord of the East, but his stern, defiant visage never changed. He gave a short bow.
“Many thanks, my lord,” he said. “Aga Kona is yours while you are here.”
“I am sure you will be pleased to know we will only be here for the night,” Andragos replied.
“I don’t know if we have enough to feed . . .”
“No need for your people to attend my soldiers,” Andragos said, cutting the man off midsentence. “We have all the provisions we need.”
The master of Aga Kona bowed and turned to leave, but Terradyn stopped him. A wave from Andragos’ hand, and Terradyn let the man go.
Terradyn joined Andragos and Raktas in the carriage, closing the door behind him. As he did, Andragos snapped a finger, and the light brightened as if the whole compartment was luminescent.
“You don’t approve of my interaction with the master of this camp,” Andragos said to Terradyn.
“He is not even worth the dirt on your boots, my lord,” Terradyn replied.
“Not in Shengu,” Andragos commanded, his voice deepening a little. “In Westernese.”
Terradyn repeated himself, this time in the language of Western Háthgolthane.
Andragos chuckled. “I don’t know. I rather liked the man. As for his worth, how can we determine such a thing?”
“Liked him, my lord?” Raktas questioned.
“You think I am getting soft as time passes?” Andragos questioned.
Neither one of his servants replied.
“Come, we can be frank with one another,” Andragos said, “after so many years.”
“Not soft, my lord,” Terradyn said. “But I do think you should be careful with the way you allow Golgolithul’s subjects to deal with you, lest you earn a reputation for being soft.”
“Noted,” Andragos said, sitting back and smiling. “But as the years pass by, I have realized that people are more likely to follow a man who they respect rather than one they fear.”
“Why do we have to stay here, my lord?” Raktas asked.
“Why not?” Andragos replied. “What better way to represent the Lord of the East and spread word of his goodwill and charitable nature?”
Both of his servants gave him an unconvinced look.
“I don’t even understand why we have to travel to Finlo,” Terradyn said. “Couldn’t Shinden or some other errand boy have done this for Our Highness?”
Andragos nodded.
“Yes, but there is something I must see in Finlo,” Andragos said, furling his eyebrows in thought and steepling his fingers. “Someone I must meet. Discover, perhaps.”
“Who?” Terradyn asked.
“I don’t know,” Andragos replied, shaking his head and fully irritated at his admission.
“You know that fool Patûk Al’Banan is there, my lord,” Raktas said.
“I know,” Andragos said matter-of-factly. “His spies have been following us, as well. All the way from Fen Stévock.”
“Shall we kill them, my lord?” Terradyn asked.
“Much easier said than done,” Andragos replied.
The look on Terradyn’s face gave away his hurt. Andragos laughed.
“It is not a slight against you,” Andragos said. “Patûk Al’Banan is an expert tactician and an amazing leader. It is a shame the Lord of the East and he could not come to some resolution. Losing such a general, along with thirteen thousand men, is a devastating loss to our forces. We would not so easily kill his spies, but if we did, we might find our casualties too much to bear.”
“Truly, my lord?” Terradyn asked.
“Truly,” Andragos replied. “But, rest assured, our paths will cross. For now, though, let us rest and prepare to receive our audience in Finlo.”
Chapter 36
Bryon stirred and moaned. He looked up at Befel, his eyes still halfway closed.
“What?” he asked groggily
“I bought some bacon and milk for breakfast tomorrow,” Befel said.
“You couldn’t wait to tell me that tomorrow morning,” Bryon said, squinting at the lantern’s light.
“I guess I could’ve,” Befel said. “Sorry.”
“Idiot,” Bryon replied, and he leaned his back against the post, closing his eyes. Within moments, he began to snore softly again.
Befel walked through the door of the inn and found Erik sitting silently at one of the tables, arms crossed, chin resting on his arms. He turned his head so he could see Befel, his cheek now lying on his crossed arms.
“I have bacon for the morning,” Befel said.
Erik smiled briefly and yawned as he picked his head up and stretched his arms, accidentally knocking over an empty cup once filled with ale.
“Have you been drinking all night?” Befel asked, a scowl creeping across his face.
“No,” Erik replied defensively. “Well, some I guess. I was talking to Rory, and we drank—mostly he drank—while we talked.”
“Who’s Rory?” Befel asked.
“The man who owns this place,” Erik replied, “The Lady’s Inn.”
Befel walked over to Erik, set his bags on the floor, and sat across from his brother, leaning back in his chair. He rubbed his forehead and scratched his cheek before his shoulders slouched a bit as he yawned.
“Are you all right?” Erik asked.
“I found Kevon,” Befel said. “I suppose you could call him a surgeon.”
“Good, and how does your shoulder feel? Is it better?”
“It hurts,” Befel replied, “but it will improve. Of that, I’m sure. There are all sorts of odd characters here, Erik, ones we would never see at home, and creatures far stranger than gnomes.”
“Like what?” Erik asked, intrigued and leaning forward in his chair.
“I went to a tavern to buy some goods and get a pint of ale, and standing right next to me was a giant man with one eye, right in the middle of his forehead,” Befel replied, pointing to his forehead. “There were two other men with the heads of large cats. I saw two creatures with the bodies of men and the legs of a goat.”
“The world is much bigger than we thought, isn’t it?” Erik said.
“That it is,” Befel replied with a nod, “the tales we heard are true.”
Erik nodded in agreement but said nothing.
“I don’t know about sailing east, Erik.”
“I don’t either. It doesn’t seem like a very good idea now.”
“So what then?” Befel asked. “Do we continue to live on the streets? What do we do? Do we go home?”
“Not that I mind the idea of going home,” Erik replied, “but I think I found another way to earn the riches you want, another way to save Father’s farm.”
“What other way is there?” Befel asked.
“The Messenger of the East will be here,” Erik said.
“I heard,” Befel replied, “people on the streets of Finlo were talking about the visit. He’s coming to see us off as we sail east.”
“Why would he care about a bunch of men, half of whom won’t see next year?” Erik asked.
Befel just shrugged.
“Actually, he’s here on other business,” Erik said, then hushed his voice. “Secret business.”
“How do you know about this? What does this have to do with us?”
“Rory told me about the other men coming to his inn,” Erik explained. “They are mercenaries, coming at the bidding of the Lord of the East. That is why the Messenger is coming. Some secret mission, and the reward is large.”
“We’re not mercenaries,” Befel replied. “We’re not even soldiers.”
“No,” Erik agreed, “but we’re strong and used to working hard. Rory said some of these men might need porters, men to carry their things, make camp, things like that. They might be willing to share their reward. They’ll have to feed us. And, if nothing else, a penny or two a day is more than we’re making now. It won’t be long before our money runs out.”
“Can we trust Rory?” Befel asked.
Erik shrugged. “I don’t know, but he was drunk. Brandy tends to bring out honesty.”
“Can we trust some mercenaries?” Befel asked.
“No,” Erik replied, “but the three of us together, I think we will be all right. We can handle our own. We proved that in the Blue Forest.”
I don’t know about that, Befel thought, rubbing his shoulder.
“Maybe . . .” Befel said.
“What choice do we have?” Erik asked and gave Befel a disappointed look. “Listen, the Messenger will be here, sending these sell-swords on their way before he goes to the docks to pretend to see off the men sailing east to join the army. If this doesn’t work out, we can still head to the docks and sail east as originally planned.”
Befel nodded slowly.
“That might work,” he replied. “Now, we just have to convince Bryon.”
The next day, the Eleodums sat at one of the tables in The Lady’s Inn, empty plates in front of them. Rory had been gracious enough to cook up the bacon and eggs and, even though the food the gypsies had fed them was decent, Befel counted the breakfast a welcomed change to meals on the road. It almost felt like back home.
Befel left his brother to the arduous task of explaining this new course to Bryon. His cousin didn’t much care to talk to him anymore, so he figured that Bryon might receive enraging news better from Erik. Of course, Erik didn’t relish the idea. Over the two years they had been away from home, Erik had grown from a boy to a man, which meant Bryon could bully him less and less. But Befel could tell his brother was still wary around their cousin. Erik finally relented as he normally did. Befel was the eldest brother, after all.
Having listened—surprisingly without interruption—Bryon sat still for a while, and Befel couldn’t read his face. His cousin normally laid his emotions bare for everyone to see, either through his body or his face. But not this time.
Bryon finally put his hands on his knees and leaned back in his chair, a small smile creeping across his face.
“All right,” he said. “It seems like a good plan—a well thought out plan. I’m a little surprised you came up with it, Erik, but I’ll go along. Either way, I’m going east.”
Befel let out a silent sigh of relief. The latest step in their destiny had been sealed.
Chapter 37
“THREE DAYS IN THIS SHIT heap,” Bryon muttered, once again sitting against one of the posts of The Lady’s Inn’s stables. He threw a piece of straw to the
ground with a harrumph and reached up to scratch one of the horse’s noses.
“How does this fat fool even stay in business?” he asked the horse. “Just me and my idiot cousins for customers. He must be doing something illegal.”
The horse stamped its foot by way of reply.
“All right, Buck,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. He’d decided that Buck was a good name for the horse he was growing quite accustomed to.
He grabbed the brush and began running it along Buck’s shoulder in long, slow strokes.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asked, but got no further reply.
As Bryon groomed the horse, he heard something behind him and turned to see two men—rather, skin and bones covered in rags—staring at him from just beyond the rickety fence that surrounded the pile of rubbish his cousins called an inn.
“Piss off!” Bryon yelled, throwing a large rock at them.
The rock hit one of the men solid on the shoulder, and the man fell backward with a moaning cry. Bryon laughed as the other man forgot about his friend and scurried away.
“Just like rats,” Bryon spat. “Begging, cursed rats.”
“Who are you yelling at?” Erik asked.
Bryon jumped at Erik’s voice.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
“Sorry,” Erik replied. “I wasn’t trying to sneak. Who are you yelling at? It was so loud; I heard you in the inn.”
“Just filthy beggars,” Bryon explained. “Probably trying to steal our horses.”
“You really think they would be able to steal the horses?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know.” Bryon watched the man who had fallen stumble to his feet. “Maybe not the horses. But something. They’re disgusting. Begging. For what?”
“Some coin to buy food, maybe,” Erik replied.
“For more ale,” Bryon said, shaking his head. “They make me sick. Begging. Scrounging. Slithering like snakes. Why can’t they just work like everyone else?”
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