A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  “What about the times we begged on the streets of Venton?” Erik asked. “Or the alleys of Waterton?”

  “That was different,” Bryon replied.

  “How so?” Erik asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bryon said. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  “I didn’t know we were taking sides,” Erik replied. “You could come inside the inn. Rory has fresh cheese and bread—and you wouldn’t have to bother with these beggars.”

  “I don’t want to step a foot inside that shit heap unless I have to.”

  “Why?” Erik asked.

  “I don’t trust Rory,” Bryon replied.

  “Why?” Erik asked again.

  “Because,” Bryon replied.

  “That’s not a very good reason to dislike someone,” Erik said.

  “Well, it’s my reason,” Bryon replied, but when Erik gave him an unsatisfied look, he added, “I don’t think a man who is a broken old sailor should be that happy. He owns this building he calls an inn, swarmed by whores and beggars, and he’s that happy? There’s something wrong with that.”

  “I don’t really think he’s all that happy,” Erik said.

  “And you know him so well to say such a thing?”

  “Do you know him well enough to say I’m wrong?” Erik asked.

  “Whatever.” Bryon shrugged. “I don’t want to go inside. I can’t stand Rory. I can’t stand your brother groaning and moaning as he constantly circles his arm.”

  “Those are the exercises the barber has given him,” Erik replied. “He groans because it hurts. You would hold that against him?”

  “Maybe I can’t stand your constant talking,” Bryon said.

  “You think you can just end a conversation by being rude?” Erik shook his head with a laugh.

  “Was I being rude?” Bryon didn’t bother looking at Erik. He went back to brushing Buck.

  “All right, Bryon,” Erik said and turned to walk back inside the inn.

  “He’s a fool,” Bryon said to Buck. “Sometimes I wonder how we are even blood.”

  A short while later, a sharp kick to the boot woke Bryon. He looked up and saw a large man standing over him. Bryon shuffled himself up into a seated position and saw three new horses in the stables.

  “You the stable boy?” the man asked. His voice was deep.

  Bryon shook his head, trying to shake away the sleep that still clung to his mind.

  “You just choose to sleep with the horses?” another man asked, and Bryon blinked as he came into view. He glared down at Bryon with gray eyes. Bryon just shrugged.

  “That’s your thing?” the first man asked, chuckling as Bryon stood. “Animals?”

  “No,” Bryon replied, rubbing his face.

  “You a beggar, boy?” yet a third man asked. “You’re not a stable boy, and you claim you ain’t buggering the horses, so you must be a little, filthy beggar.”

  Bryon felt his face grow hot at the accusation.

  “I’m a soldier,” Bryon shot back.

  All three men laughed.

  “A soldier!” one of them cried. “Well, I won’t say you’re the saddest looking soldier I’ve ever seen, but you’re pretty damn close.”

  “Oh yeah,” Bryon retorted, “and what are you three rat turds supposed to be?”

  All three men stopped laughing. Bryon swallowed hard. The first man he had seen—he was half a head taller than Bryon, quite a bit wider, and with a dark, bushy beard—stepped forward so that his hooked nose was only a fly’s wing away from Bryon’s.

  “He wants to know what we’re supposed to be,” the man said. Bryon could smell brandy and black root on his breath.

  Bryon looked down and saw the man’s hand resting on the top of a wide-bladed ax, rugged and worn.

  “Well, then tell him,” the second man said.

  “We’re killers, boy. For money usually, but certainly for pleasure when some little gutter shit calls us names,” the first man said, his lips cracking into a narrow smile. Then, he stepped back, and his smile widened. “But I suppose you are too, being a soldier and all.”

  “A soldier,” the third man snickered. “Might as well be a dragon slayer. Or a king. If you’re going to pick a fantasy, you should at least pick a good one.”

  “It’s not a fantasy,” Bryon retorted and immediately cursed himself for sounding childish in his reply.

  All three men bellowed with laughter, and as they walked away, a woman approached them. She was tall and thin with a heavily painted face and hair, which looked to be graying at its edges, haphazardly tied into a bun.

  “You look like you could use a good time.”

  “Piss off wench,” the first of the men said. “I stick you, and my cock might fall off.”

  To that, his companions laughed even harder as the whore hissed her disapproval. She made eye contact with Bryon, and he looked away quickly, but saw her shrug and saunter toward him.

  “You look like you could use a friend,” she cooed as she neared him.

  Bryon scrunched his nose when the smell of sweat and pipe smoke and brandy wafted into his nostrils.

  “I’m fine,” Bryon replied, turning his head to alleviate the stench.

  The woman gripped his chin, turning his face, and even through his beard he could feel the roughness of her fingers.

  “Come on,” she insisted. “Surely, you would rather the company of a woman to these horses.”

  Her breath was rancid, and Bryon winced. He slapped her hand away and stepped back, almost knocking over a water bucket.

  “I’d sooner stick my horse,” Bryon spat.

  Bryon expected the whore to back up, run away, but she stood her ground, laughed a little even.

  “Looks like that’s what you prefer,” she chided, looking at Buck, “and the male ones at that.”

  “Piss off, bitch,” Bryon hissed, lifting a hand, “before I beat you bloody.”

  She waited, a wry, condescending smile on her face. When Bryon dropped his hand, she laughed.

  “Don’t have the guts,” she said, then reached out and grabbed Bryon’s crotch, “or the balls, maybe.”

  He swatted her hand away again, and she turned to leave, needlessly pulling up on her ragged, stained dress even as she stepped on a horse apple. She stopped for a moment, looked at Bryon over her shoulder, and blew him a lecherous kiss.

  Chapter 38

  ERIK WOKE EARLY, FINDING THAT Rory was the only one in the bar.

  “Just us?” Erik asked.

  “After the debauchery last night,” Rory replied, “I expect it will be just us for a while.”

  “Good,” Erik muttered.

  “You don’t like my new guests, lad?”

  Erik shook his head.

  “I don’t blame you,” Rory laughed. “Neither do I. It’s a good thing they’re paying me so much.”

  Rory poured Erik a cup of spiced wine and filled a wooden bowl w
ith porridge.

  “What’s the matter?” Rory asked after several moments, looking at an untouched bowl and a cup from which Erik had taken only a single sip.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a bad liar,” Rory said.

  “Just nervous, I guess,” Erik replied.

  “I could see how you would be,” Rory said.

  “Do you think we will be able to sit in on this meeting?” Erik asked.

  Rory shrugged.

  “I suppose,” the old sailor replied. “There’ll be quite a few people here. I think it might be impossible for The Messenger to know the face of every single mercenary he’s invited. If you sit in the back and make yourselves look small.”

  Erik nodded in agreement.

  “It’s a good plan,” Rory said. “If no one here wants your services as a porter—you still have time to make it to the docks and sail east like you originally planned.”

  His breakfast untouched, Erik helped Rory put out chairs and more tables. Apparently, he had never had a need for so many more, at least another half dozen tables and four dozen chairs which he kept in a back room of The Lady’s Inn. As soon as they had set the last chair, men began arriving.

  Some had been staying at Rory’s inn, and Erik had seen them before, but most he had never seen. Tall and short, thin and fat, midnight-black skin and snow-pale skin—all combinations of men showed to this special meeting.

  “Take that table right there,” Rory whispered, pointing to a smaller table in the back of the inn, just a step away from the door. “It’ll be away from everything—very unsuspecting.”

  Erik nodded.

  “Where is your brother?”

  Bryon’s voice startled Erik. He hadn’t noticed him walking in.

  “In the room,” Erik replied, turning. He pointed to the small table in the back. “We’ll sit there. It’s away from everything.”

  Bryon nodded. “Let’s get your brother.”

  “Befel,” Erik said, walking through the door of their room.

  Erik’s brother was sitting at the edge of his bed, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Men are starting to show up,” Erik continued. “We have a table in the . . .”

  “. . . in the back,” Befel said, cutting Erik off. “Aye. It’s a good idea.”

  “Are you all right?” Erik asked.

  “What is taking so long?” Bryon asked, standing behind Erik.

  Erik looked at his brother. He could see the worry on his face and in his eyes. He knew that look. He had seen it before. His father wore the same worried look when their harvest looked to yield less than hoped for.

  “Come on,” Bryon huffed, his impatience evident in his voice.

  “Why don’t you go save us the table,” Erik said, “just in case someone else wants it.”

  “Fine,” Bryon said as he stomped off.

  “He’s like a little child,” Erik muttered. What’s the matter, Befel?”

  “I don’t know.” Befel shook his head. “Just nerves, I suppose.”

  “Aye,” Erik nodded in agreement. “I thought I was going to throw up this morning, my stomach was knotted so badly.”

  “Are we doing the right thing?” Befel asked.

  “Uh . . . well,” Erik stammered. It wasn’t often that Befel asked for his opinion.

  “I mean, part of me feels like this is right,” Befel continued, “but part of me feels like it’s very wrong.”

  Erik looked at his brother and gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

  It’s a little late to be second-guessing ourselves, isn’t it? Two years away from home, from Mother and Father, Beth and Tia, Simone. It’s a little late to wonder whether your conscience has served you well.

  “I think,” Erik started, and then stopped, collecting his thoughts. “I think it is the best decision—the best option—given our current situation.”

  Erik waited a moment longer while Befel stared at the floor, taking in deep, thoughtful breaths.

  “Come, brother,” Erik said, “we don’t want to leave Bryon in a room full of men just like him. That might lead to trouble.”

  Befel looked at him with a smile—almost allowing a laugh to escape—rose from his bed, and followed Erik into the main room of the inn.

  The din of talking and laughter, of cups and dice clinking was so loud Erik could barely hear his brother and cousin as they spoke.

  “Forty, I reckon,” Erik muttered. “Forty men in here. I wonder if The Lady’s Inn has ever held so many souls.”

  They ignored him, and Erik couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see his brother and cousin bickering.

  “Stop it,” Erik said in a whispering hiss. “You two fighting will do nothing but get us kicked out, and we’ll have no choice but to board a ship sailing east. Stop your arguing.”

  Bryon shook his head. Erik could see him scanning the room.

  “They look like the mercenaries,” Bryon said.

  “What does a mercenary look like?” Befel asked.

  “Them,” Bryon replied.

  “It looks like one giant pissing contest to me,” Erik said.

  “Aye,” Bryon agreed.

  Erik saw two men who had the heads of big cats and four dwarves.

  “So many different people,” Erik muttered. And none of them looked like they had any need for Erik, his brother, or his cousin.

  Befel may be right. This may be one huge mistake. Which of these men—mercenaries—would be fool enough to hire us?

  “When is he coming?” Bryon asked in a soft voice. “If he’s any later—and this doesn’t pan out—we’ll miss the ship going east.”

  Just as he spoke, Erik heard the sound of horses and wagons stopping, a deep voice barking inaudible orders, and the shuffling of feet and the jingling of reins. The noise in the bar ceased as if a switch had been thrown, and the sound of a single die sliding off a nearby table resembled something much bigger.

  Within moments, a man clothed all in black linens, cowl low enough to cover his face, walked into the bar, the bottom of his robes brushing the floor. A tall, muscular, bearded bodyguard followed him, head shaved and showing blue-inked tattoos. His heavy knee-high boots thudded against the floor when he walked, and with each step even the toughest of men in the bar seemed to flinch. As he looked from side to side, inspecting the men in the bar, large, gold earrings thumped against his cheeks.

  The cloaked man gave a slight sideways jerk with his cowled head, and the bodyguard stopped, standing in the middle of the bar and resting one forearm on the handle of his long sword. The cloaked man continued to the front of the bar. He retrieved a bag from within his robes and tossed it to Rory. It clanked when it hit the bar, and the old sailor scooped the purse up and escaped to the back of the inn.

  The Messenger of the East. What else had Rory called him? The Herald of Golgolithul, the Steward of Fen-Stévock, the Mouth of Eastern Law, General of the Soldiers of the Eye, Right Hand of the Lord of the East. The second most powerful man in Golgolit
hul. None of those sounded pleasant and seemed to suit.

  The Messenger waggled his fingers as he counted the heads of those in the bar, his gaze alighting on each momentarily. As Erik felt the mysterious man include him, his face invisible under his cowl, Erik’s stomach knotted, and he felt sick as the air around him grew heavy. He felt his throat turn dry and found it hard to breathe. He stared at the floor, not wanting to meet the gaze.

  “Forty of you have come, bidding the call of Fen-Stévock,” the Messenger said. “Forty of you have a chance for glory and greatness in the name of justice and righteousness.”

  As the Messenger began his speech, Erik’s stomach calmed. His breathing slowed, and the air around him seemed to lighten.

  The Messenger captivated the mercenaries. His voice resounded through the bar, and the apprehension in the room seemed to ease with every word. When the Messenger talked about justice and righteousness, Erik felt confident if not courageous. It was as if he suddenly could do anything, and goose pimples rose along his arms. He felt compelled to stare at the Messenger.

  “My Lord has long sought men of good quality for this task. You are of such quality. You need but complete this simple task required of my Lord, and he will not only reward you with riches but with title and favor. Your names will go down in the annals of history as trustworthy servants of the East.

  “In a moment, I will explain the task at hand, and when I have done so I expect that some of you will no longer have a desire to serve my Master. It is a pity, but my Lord, in all his mercy, will honor your decision if that is the case, and you may be on your way.

  “But . . .” the Agent of Fen-Stévock said, his voice even more commanding and powerful, “if you choose to serve the Lord of the East, all his blessings and the blessings of the gods of the east are with you. The courage of the ancients will drive you to victory, and the righteous ones who successfully complete my master’s bidding will find a welcome like no other when they walk through the streets of Fen-Stévock. Those who fail will be best to return from wherever they came. The Lord of the East does not look kindly upon failure.”