Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 3

“In Blasseldune.”

  “You really don't know where we're going? We better ask for directions.”

  “You ask,” said Gant and kept walking.

  Chamz didn't stop. They passed several inns but none named the Drake. They also passed several side streets that were almost as busy as the main street.

  Up ahead, from one of the busy side streets, came several dark skinned elves. The tightly bunched group hurried past the two young men. Gant eyed them curiously, noticing the upswept ears that ended in points and their reddish glowing eyes.

  “Did you see that?” asked Chamz as the elves hurried through the crowd.

  “How could I miss them?” Gant stopped to stare after the elves as they disappeared toward the gate where he and Chamz had entered. “I never saw a dark elf before.”

  “But you've heard the stories.”

  Gant turned and started walking again. “Which stories? The ones about how evil they are or the ones about how my great-great-great grandmother was Queen of the Dark Elves?”

  “Well yeah, either story, I guess. Hey, maybe one of those elves is a long lost cousin or something. You should have asked them for directions.”

  “I'm not asking for directions. We'll find the Drake.”

  Gant tried to sound confident but he had doubts. They seemed to be near the center of town and there had been no sign of the Drake. Even so, he wasn’t asking dark elves anything. He'd heard stories about them that included lots of reasons for them to dislike men. He'd even heard about vicious murders committed by dark elves, though he didn't know anyone who had actually known someone killed by a dark elf. Still he thought it better not to trouble them.

  Now clearly past town center, the people on the streets began to thin out. The buildings appeared more run down, less prosperous, less likely to be some place Gant's uncle would stay. Finally he stopped.

  “I think we must have passed the Drake,” he admitted. “I guess we'll have to ask.”

  “Fine time to make that decision,” said Chamz looking around at the rough bunch of men on the street. “Who are you going to ask?”

  Gant looked from grim face to grim face. Nothing friendly about them. Then he saw a woman dressed in a dark cloak and gown escorted by two burly men-at-arms. The crest on their breastplates was unfamiliar to Gant but at least they belonged to some kingdom. He decided that they were the best choice.

  As the threesome neared, Gant stepped in front of them. He bowed low trying to look harmless.

  Immediately, both men-at-arms had their swords drawn.

  “Stand aside,” said the biggest.

  Gant held his hands out front away from his sword. “Begging the lady's pardon, but we are trying to find an inn named the Drake. Can you tell us where it is?” He stepped back out of their path.

  The woman started ahead, her guards cordoning her off from Gant and Chamz. She hurried ahead without a word. As the biggest guard turned to follow he whispered over his shoulder, “Two streets back turn left.”

  And they were gone.

  “Well,” said Gant, “I guess we'll go back two streets and turn left.”

  It didn’t take long to find the Drake, a well-kept, two-story log establishment. They entered through the front door. The main room was full with men clamoring for food, ale or both. The patrons were a mixture of economic status and station. Some wore crests and some had no crest. All of them carried weapons and Gant guessed they could use them.

  They found an empty table off to one side of the main aisle, seated themselves on the rough wooden stools and looked for a server. Their table was unfinished and stained by a multitude of spilled mugs of ale, more than a bit of food and perhaps even a blood stain or two.

  Finally the serving girl made it to their table.

  “What'll it be,” she snapped.

  “What do you have?” asked Chamz.

  “Roast meat, ale, mead, and stew. Now hurry it up, I've got other customers.”

  “Roast meat?” asked Gant. “What kind of meat?”

  “I don't know. I didn't kill it. It's meat, that’s all. Now what do you want before I get in trouble for talking too long.”

  Gant wondered why she would get in trouble for talking, but didn't ask. “Meat,” he said. “And ale.”

  “Me too,” said Chamz. “And can we get some bread with it?”

  “Yes. I'll be right back.” She whirled around and was off across the room.

  “Do you see those guys staring at us?” asked Chamz.

  “They're not the only ones. I've a bad feeling about this.”

  “Ah, what could happen in the middle of a tavern? If there is trouble, you'll teach them a lesson or two.”

  “I wish you’d stop saying that.”

  The serving woman returned dropping two large bowls of shredded meat on the table. Brown gravy slopped over the edges onto the table. From under her arm she pulled two mugs of ale and set them down. “That'll be six pieces of silver.”

  Gant pulled out his coin purse and pulled out a single gold coin. “Here,” he said handing the coin to her, “keep the rest.”

  For the first time the woman smiled. “Thank you, young sir. If there's anything else I can do for you, just ask.”

  She turned to leave.

  “We need a room for the night,” said Gant.

  She turned back. “Sorry, the Drake is full. The best place for you two is the Hammond House. Respectable, for Blasseldune, and not too expensive. Go back to the main street, turn left, second street go right and you'll see it. It'll be safer for you than staying here. Tell ‘em Anna sent you.”

  With that she hurried off.

  “What do you think she meant by that?” asked Chamz, digging into the food with a wooden spoon he pulled out of his pack.

  “I'd say this could be a rough place. I wonder why my uncle liked it here?” Getting to more immediate matters, Gant searched for something to eat with. He hadn't packed any utensils. And where was the bread? “What I really need right now is a spoon.”

  Chamz stuffed another bite into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Why didn't you say so.” He reached into his pack and pulled out another wooden spoon. “In case I broke one,” he said and went back to eating.

  “Always thinking of your stomach.”

  Gant took the spoon, filled it with the steaming, hot gravy, blew on it to cool it, and shoveled it in his mouth.

  At that moment, the server dropped a loaf of bread on their table as she rushed past. “Enjoy,” she whispered and was gone.

  Gant tore off a chunk of the crusty brown bread and dipped it into the meat juices.

  “Don't look now,” said Chamz between mouthfuls, “but here comes trouble.”

  Gant glanced back over his shoulder. A large, scruffy man pushed his way through the crowd towards Gant and Chamz. He swayed slightly as he walked and Gant guessed he'd been drinking for some time. In one hand he carried a tankard that sloshed foam with each step. His other hand rested on the hilt of a sword hanging at his side.

  Gant turned back to eating.

  “Looks drunk to me. Those kind always caused trouble back home,” said Chamz. “What do you think he wants?”

  “Who knows? I hope he's looking for someone else.”

  “No such luck,” said Chamz.

  “You there,” rumbled the man and poked Gant in the back with his metal tankard.

  “Yes,” said Gant, turning slightly to look over his right shoulder.

  The man was taller and wider than Gant. His eyes were dark, blood shot, wild. He had a scraggly black beard that hadn't seen a comb or wash for a long time, bits of food perched there as witness. He wore rusty armor, inferior quality in Gant’s mind. Whoever made the armor was a poor excuse for a craftsman.

  “Stand up when I'm speaking.”

  He tossed the tankard aside, splashing those at the table next to Gant. None of them complained. The pewter mug clattered loudly in the silence that filled the room.

  The stranger gra
bbed for Gant's shoulder. Gant easily brushed his hand aside.

  “I said stand up,” bellowed the stranger.

  “What for?”

  “So I can chop you down to size,” he growled, pulling out his two-handed sword.

  Chamz jumped to his feet taking his bowl with him. “You don't want to start trouble here. My friend is an accomplished swordsman. He's defeated tougher men than you.”

  “If you’re his friend, then I'll take care of you when I'm finished with him. Draw your sword, if you know how, or die where you sit.”

  With that the stranger inched his sword back preparing to strike. As the two-handed sword started forward, Gant spun around, pulling his sword out as he turned. He parried the bigger man's sword off to the side. Before the stranger could recover, Gant sliced lightly into his exposed forearm. Next Gant spun his blade and struck the man with the flat on the side of the head. The big man staggered. Gant hit him under the chin with the pommel.

  A glaze spread over the stranger's eyes. His sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor, followed a moment later by the resounding crash of his unconscious body. The room took a collective inhale. Then everyone turned back to important business they just remembered and the clamor of drinking men resumed.

  Gant turned around and glared at Chamz. “What was that crack about me defeating tougher men? You trying to get us killed?”

  Through a half smile Chamz said, “No, no. I just thought I'd get him to leave us alone.”

  “Worked well, didn't it.”

  Before Gant could sit back down, the serving woman was at their table. “You'd better get out of here. Talth isn't well liked but he has friends and no doubt they'll be here soon. Go to the Hammond House. Now.”

  Gant scooped in one more spoonful of the juicy meat and gravy, looked longingly at what was left, and decided it was best to avoid more trouble.

  “Come on,” he said and headed for the door.

  Chamz was right behind him, clutching the remains of the loaf of bread.

  Chapter 4

  Miles from Blasseldune, up the mountain road west of Netherdorf, a massive stone castle sat glowering on a steep, barren hilltop. Bright orange fires made the narrow slit windows gleam in the darkness like great reptilian eyes. Neither moon was visible in the night sky and dark clouds hid whatever slivers there might have been.

  In the castle, a foul group gathered in conference with the new Mountain Lord, Barlon Gorth. His dark, shaggy hair and thick black eyebrows framed a face that was even darker. His eyes were catlike, emotionless. He sat wrapped in heavy fur robes at the head of the rough-cut oak table. The cheery fire that blazed in the hearth did little to brighten the ominous mood that hung ugly as a night storm.

  “Captains,” growled Barlon, his voice deep and rasping like the sound of gravel grating on stone. “Report on the military training.”

  “First brigade is doing well. They are nearly ready. We will do m'Lord proud,” answered the man seated to Barlon's left.

  “The second brigade is ready, Sire,” said the next man.

  “And the third.”

  “The fourth also.”

  Around the table it went. Each of the 15 brigade captains reported that the training was on schedule. Then silence. Only three men had not spoken; the gray-haired general, the scar-faced spy and the knight in purple armor.

  “Does General Ecker agree?” Barlon looked directly at the grizzled veteran commander. In Barlon's mind the general's opinion was more important than all the captains. The captains were untested in battle whereas the general knew the burdens war put on a man. “Are they ready?”

  “Very soon. They will be molded into an effective unit in time for our attack.” The general sat upright, proud, his gray hair a symbol of his wisdom. His spotless black and gold uniform sparkled with ribbons and medals on both sides of his broad chest. “By the time we hit Netherdorf, the men will be spoiling for a fight.”

  Barlon scratched his beard for a long moment. It was what he wanted to hear. Could he trust General Ecker to tell him the truth? If not, who could he trust? He decided to move on. “The spies, Shalmuthe, what do you report?”

  The chief of Barlon's espionage corps was a short, stocky man with a livid scar from left cheek to left ear. He wore a tan calfskin tunic that concealed a deadly pair of daggers. On his right index finger a rune-covered ring flashed with a fire of its own. The man rose slowly from his wooden stool, and measured each man in the room. His hard eyes cut through them one at a time. Finally he fixed his gaze on Barlon.

  “Netherdorf is a plum ripe for the picking.” A sneer punctuated his words. “They suspect nothing. Their army is understaffed and the nobles are divided by silly squabbles over a blacksmith's son who escaped punishment for striking a noble’s son. Some of the nobles may side with us. I've been discreet in my inquiries so as not to tip your hand, sire. We have the support of a young warrior named Wendler and likely his father as well. In the end, I doubt we'll need their help.”

  “What about the castle staff? And the gates?”

  “The castle staff will be compromised as you wished. The gates will be opened when needed. Your plan to neutralize the only knight worthy of the title is brilliant. Everything progresses as planned.” With that Shalmuthe settled back onto his stool.

  Barlon’s bushy eyebrows knotted in thought and he looked at the man seated immediately to his right. He was a blond-haired brute with black eyes that burned with an unbridled lust for death. His deep purple armor was unscarred from battle and sucked the light from the fireplace into a living darkness that surrounded the strange metal. A glinting silver triangle crisscrossed by black lightning bolts stood out on his breastplate.

  “Are the Knights of Habichon ready?” asked Barlon.

  “At your command.” The voice was hollow, as if it came from another dimension.

  “Excellent,” Barlon said, nodding his approval. “Netherdorf will fall and the glory that should have been ours in the last war will follow. No one will betray us this time and those that pushed us into this dark corner of the world will pay. Carry out your preparations for the glory of the Mountain Kingdom. We move before the next turning of the Greater Moon.” Barlon stood and waved them toward the door.

  The men rose and the clatter of armor drowned out whatever whispered comments they exchanged. The vast chamber cleared to the ringing of mailed boots except for the massive blond giant in purple armor. He waited quietly at his liege's side. The reverberations of metal on stone died to a soft murmur and then fell silent. At last Barlon turned to the commander of the Knights of Habichon.

  “Lom.”

  “Yes, m’Lord.”

  “You haven't forgotten my special instructions?”

  “No. The king will die.”

  “And the others? The silversmith, the goldsmith, the sword-maker, the gem-cutter and the jeweler?”

  “Will be brought to you as ordered.”

  “Good. Otherwise you may take such spoils as you can carry.”

  “Thank you, m’Lord.”

  It was all Barlon could do to look at those alien eyes, lifeless dots that burned with an animal lust for blood and death. Lom turned and started for the door. His armor soaked up the firelight leaving only darkness. Once Lom passed into the shadows he was virtually invisible.

  Barlon returned to his chair and waited, drumming his fingers on the table. Over and over he reviewed the preparations, scrutinizing each detail for any flaw that would steal his victory. Much was unfinished. One detail in particular held his attention and for that he had to wait on a midnight visitor.

  Chapter 5

  Gant and Chamz dashed into the street. Night had fallen and the streets were a murky sea of dark shadows sprinkled with splotches of yellow light from an occasional oil lamp. Here and there faint light shone through a dusty window. Gant turned toward the main street, warily checking for ambush. Chamz was so close behind he felt like an appendage.

  They reached the ma
in street. It too was sparsely lit.

  “How come they keep it so dark?” asked Chamz. “Do they encourage muggings?”

  “Shh,” said Gant. “Listen.”

  They turned left and hurried along.

  “Listen for what?”

  They reached the second street on the right and turned in. It was so narrow that Gant and Chamz had to go single file.

  “For the man tucked back in the doorway up ahead. I hear him breathing, but I can’t see him. I'm sure he can see us.”

  “What'll we do?”

  Gant started forward. He was tired. His only thought was to find a safe place to sleep. His hand went instinctively to his sword hilt.

  “You there, in the doorway. Step out and show yourself.”

  Feet shuffled in the doorway but no one emerged.

  Gant lurched to a stop, his heart racing. Chamz bumped into his back.

  “Come out now or we will be forced to conclude that you mean us harm.”

  A frail, hunched shape emerged from the darker shadows into the faint light.

  “I meant no harm. Just trying to find a place for the night. This street's usually deserted by this time.” The figure bowed crudely and backed away.

  “Okay, then be off,” said Gant and waved the man down the street the way they'd come.

  The dark figure slid by them, shuffled a little way, and then hunkered into another recessed doorway.

  Gant hurried on. Chamz glanced over his shoulder nervously. Ahead weak light came through shuttered windows allowing them to read the weathered sign hanging in front of a two-story wood building: Hammond House.

  “This is it,” said Gant and turned in.

  He pushed open the heavy door and entered a small, comfortably furnished common room. A heavyset man in a stained apron sat at a corner table. Next to him was a thin woman nearly his age. Both were eating a bowl of something brown, a half loaf of bread sat between them and each had a tankard near their elbow.

  The man rose. “Can I help you?”

  “We need a place to sleep.”

  “Anna sent us,” added Chamz.

  A smile spread over the man’s features. “I am the innkeeper. A room you shall have. Upstairs or main floor?”