Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 4

  “Which is less?” asked Gant, mindful that his purse was already considerably lighter.

  “Upstairs. It'll be eight silvers for the night, and for Anna's friends, I'll throw in breakfast in the morning.”

  Gant opened his purse, sorted through until he found eight silver pieces and handed them to the innkeeper. “We'll take it.”

  The innkeeper hefted the coins, and then dropped them in the front pocket of his apron. “Up the stairs,” he said, pointing to a narrow set of wooden stairs that were so steep they were more like a ladder, “down the hall, second room on the left. Breakfast is soon after first light and lasts until the foods gone. And be quiet. I've got other guests already asleep.”

  “We're always quiet,” whispered Chamz, “aren't we, Gant?”

  Gant nodded and headed for the stairs. He heard the innkeeper lock the main door behind them.

  They struggled up the steep stairs carrying their gear and soon were in their room. It was small, hardly large enough for one, let alone two, but the thick mattress was soft and wide enough for them both. Gant stacked his equipment in one corner near the door. Chamz put his gear in the opposite corner.

  “Didn't it seem strange that the innkeeper would lock the door?” asked Chamz.

  “I was wondering about that myself? How do they stay in business if they lock out potential customers?”

  “Anna did say this is a more respectable place. Maybe they don't encourage late night visitors.”

  “I hope not. There’s no lock on our door.”

  They looked at each other and immediately slid their gear in front of the door. Once that was done, they pulled off their garments, lay down and wrapped up in their trail blankets. Gant fell asleep dreaming about wild-eyed swordsmen attacking him.

  #

  A faint tap at the door disturbed Gant's sleep. Was it a dream?

  “Gant,” whispered Chamz from under his blanket, “someone’s at the door.”

  It was pitch black. Gant couldn’t tell how much of the night had passed but he was certain it was no honest citizen at the door.

  The tap came again, a little louder. Gant slid off the mattress and fumbled for his sword, making a mental note to never let it out of reach again. His fingers found the hilt and as quietly as he could he withdrew it.

  “Gant,” came a soft voice from outside, “you don't need your sword, just open the door.”

  “Uric?” asked Chamz as surprised as Gant to recognize the voice.

  “Correct,” was the hushed response. “Now open the door before I wake up everyone in the inn.”

  Gant pulled the door open. Standing in the hall, holding a flickering candle, dressed in his usual, floor-length, thick purple robe, was King Tirmus' sage, Uric. The royal schoolmaster was tall, stately, with soft blond hair that hung to his shoulder. A powerful presence showed in green eyes so alive and strong that it was difficult to look directly into them. His face was devoid of facial hair and despite being older than anyone Gant knew, Uric showed no signs of age. Gant liked the sage and had marveled at the knowledge Uric willingly imparted to his students.

  “May I come in?” Uric asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet hallway.

  “Yes, of course,” said Gant, lowering his sword and backing up.

  Uric stepped gingerly over the pile of equipment and pushed the door shut behind him.

  “I'm sorry I could not come sooner but things are a bit troubled in Netherdorf.”

  “How'd you find us?” asked Chamz.

  “I knew your uncle favored the Drake so I went there first. They're still buzzing about the way you stopped Talth. A pity you had such trouble on your first day here.”

  “Anna told you we came here,” guessed Gant. “What about Netherdorf?”

  “Political unrest. Your uncle Jarlz wanted to come himself, but the king needs all the support he can get right now. Some of nobles think the king is weak. They are using your fight with Wendler as an excuse to stir up trouble. Some have started rumors that the king and your mother have been lovers.”

  “That's a lie,” snapped Gant.

  “Of course. Castle rumors are hardly ever based on truth. People would rather hear ugly lies than the truth so rumors travel with a life of their own. In this case, nobles with their own agenda are looking to fuel their fires, doesn't matter where they get it. And worse is the new mountain king. He's using this to entice nobles to his cause, which is of course to conquer Netherdorf and use our resources to further his ambitions. In any case, the king needs all his loyal supporters around to pull things back together.”

  “If the king needs your support so much, what are you doing here?” asked Chamz.

  “I needed to talk with Gant. There may be important things in your future. If I am reading the signs correctly, Gant, you will need to train with your sword like never before. When possible I'm sure your uncle will come to work with you but that won't be until things have calmed down in Netherdorf. Eventually, you must enter the Devonshield games. It is crucial.”

  “Crucial to what?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Just train hard.”

  “Okay, fine,” said Gant. “What am I supposed to do for a job? We need to eat.”

  “I've taken care of that. Tomorrow, take this note,” Uric handed Gant a small, neatly folded piece of parchment sealed with wax, “to the freightmaster at the Eagle Freight Company. His name is Brawnson. They are at the end of the North Road on the edge of Blasseldune. He is looking for trustworthy men-at-arms to help protect his wagons. My recommendation should be sufficient.”

  “Fine, now we eat,” said Chamz. “How about a job for me?”

  “That you will have to work out for yourself.”

  Gant took the parchment and carefully placed it atop his pack. “If things are so unsettled in Netherdorf, why are you here now? Even riding a fast horse it will take a full day to get back. Almost anything can happen in a day.”

  “Fortunately, I do not depend on horses. But you are correct. I need to go least I am missed. Remember what I said, keep up your training. Working as a guard will probably give you some experience though likely only against men of lesser ability so you will not improve other than tasting real combat. Jarlz will be here when he can. And Chamz, you see that Gant stays out of trouble.”

  “Yeah, sure,” grumbled Chamz.

  Uric turned and in a swirl of violet robes was gone down the hall. Gant closed the door and sat down on his bedroll.

  “It would have been nice if he could have gotten me a job too,” said Chamz.

  “Shh.”

  “Shh, what?”

  Gant held one finger up to his mouth for silence. Long minutes went by but he heard not the slightest sound.

  “What are you listening for?” asked Chamz.

  “I was waiting to hear how Uric got out of the inn. Did you hear a door open, a lock turn, anything?”

  “No.”

  “So, how did he get in and out?”

  “How should I know? He's a sage. He probably knows lots of tricks.”

  “I guess,” said Gant and lay back down. “Let's get some sleep. I want to be up early and get over to the Eagle Freight Company.”

  #

  Barlon sat alone in the main room. His mind wandered over his plans, searching for holes that would cost them their victory. He couldn’t see any but he knew from experience that there were always unknowns that could not be prepared for and thus plans had to be flexible with options. And yet he saw no flaws.

  Finally, in the darkness before the dawn, there came the soft rustle of robes. Barlon looked up from dozing. The newcomer stood at the end of the long table, twisting his boney fingers nervously in front of him. His sandy hair was wild, unkempt, and his gray eyes held a frightened sheen. Charcoal robes hung softly around him leaving only his hands and head exposed. He was young for a wizard, barely a wrinkle on his face. At times Barlon wished he could have found someone more experienced.

  “Well, Razgoth,” said
Barlon. “Did the summoning work?”

  “Yes, Master,” said the wizard, shifting his gaze to the floor.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh no, Lord. The spell went perfectly. It was just. . . a bit exhausting.”

  “And this lesser demon, the one you chose to test your spell on, what will keep it from running amuck and announcing to the world that someone is calling demons from the Dark Realms? What will keep it from giving away our plans before the next night of darkness when both moons are new and we can summon the Demon-Prince Varg?”

  Here the wizard smiled for the first time, a half smile betraying his satisfaction. “Don't worry, sire. I have called up Egog, a minor demon of the night. He cannot enter daylight or even strong moonlight. The cave where I summoned him is his prison. Only on the darkest nights will he be able to venture out, and even then he won’t be able to travel far before sunrise sends him scurrying back into hiding. I pity anyone who enters that cavern seeking shelter.”

  “Pity is for fools. You have done well.”

  Barlon rose and slapped the mage on the shoulder roughly, and then started for the door. “Sleep well. Soon we leave for Netherdorf.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Razgoth. The wizard cleared his throat and stood unmoving.

  “Is there something else?” asked Barlon, stopping after only a few steps.

  “Sire, I wouldn't question your wisdom, but the smith's son, Gant. I am worried about him. What if he is the one of the prophecy? Even if I can summon Varg and the amulet controls him, this Gant may be able to destroy him.”

  “A worthy question but of no concern. The prophecy warns us of a warrior who has won at Devonshield. Has this Gant won anything?”

  “No.”

  “Does it seem likely he will enter the games at Devonshield?”

  “No.”

  “Rest assured we are watching him. If he enters the games, we may move to prevent it. Perhaps even this Egog you've summoned will be useful. Now off with you. We all have work to do.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Razgoth and hurried out the door ahead of Barlon.

  Barlon Gorth stood in the doorway and watched his wizard disappear down the hallway. Once Razgoth was out of sight, Barlon twisted the peculiar ring on his left hand. The magic in the ring bent the light unnaturally around the Mountain Lord and he became invisible. He passed unseen down the sparsely decorated halls, up the narrow tower steps to the uppermost room. There a bald, rotund little man sat morosely at a heavy wooden table. At the sound of the lock turning, the man slumped over the table as if a terrible weight pressed on his shoulders, shoulders ill suited for such a load.

  Barlon entered the isolated tower chamber, twisted the ring until he was visible again and approached the trembling captive.

  “Have you finished?” asked Barlon, a false sweetness in his voice.

  The man shrank away from Barlon cradling a gold medallion in his soft, chubby hands.

  “You will let us go once it's done?”

  “Master Figgins, I've given my word. Once you provide me with the charm no more harm will come to you or your good wife. It is unfortunate that I had to demonstrate on her the consequences of disobeying my wishes. She waits for you now.”

  Figgins stared up at Barlon shaking with fear. Hesitantly, Figgins' trembling hand held out a blazing trinket. Barlon took it by the chain, inspected it, careful not to touch the medallion itself.

  “You are sure it will bind Sir Jarlz' loyalties to me?”

  “Of course. I'm a man of my word. Please don't handle it any more than necessary. Each touch uses a little of the magic. The amulet must examine the handler's identity, searching for the one who will trigger it. In this case, only Sir Jarlz will activate the charm. Still, it takes a bit of the power each time someone handles it.”

  Barlon twirled the round metal coin on its chain. A strange inscription glittered there and as Barlon swung the medallion, magical reflections twinkled across the stone walls seeking someone not present.

  “Please, now can I rejoin my wife? You promised our freedom.”

  “And you shall have it.”

  Barlon Gorth yanked his sword from its scabbard beneath his fur robe. In one clean slice he severed the bald head from its pudgy body. A torrent of blood surged from the neck and the wizard fell with a thud.

  “You have joined her as promised and I'm sure no more harm will befall either of you. Your weakness is intolerable,” said Barlon. Without looking back he turned and left by the single door. There was a lot yet undone and time was running short. Now he had the medallion to give to his spy, Shalmuthe, who would see that it was presented as a gift to Sir Jarlz. Once around the knight's neck, it would guarantee Sir Jarlz' aid against King Tirmus.

  Chapter 6

  Gant and Chamz were up the next day before the sun. Hammond House was already astir with hot breakfast on the table. Guests were enjoying eggs, hash and bacon. As they entered the main room, the proprietor approached them.

  “Will you be back tonight?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” said Gant. “I am going to see about a job at Eagle Freight. If that works out we would like to get a longer term arrangement.”

  “When will you know if you are staying?”

  “Within the hour, I should think. I have a recommendation to Mr. Brawnson at the Freight Company.”

  “Good. Then I'll hold one of the better rooms for you as I have several being vacated this morning. What about your friend?”

  “I'm going to get a job, too.”

  The innkeeper's brow wrinkled. “Do you have something lined up?”

  “No.”

  The innkeeper smiled. “You look trustworthy,” he said. “How about working here? I need someone to unload and stack supplies, clean stables, things like that. I can't pay much, but room and board is included.”

  “For both of us?” asked Chamz.

  “That's not what I had in mind. But,” and he looked at Gant again, “I suppose it might be handy to have a man staying here that can handle a sword and has the good judgment to use it wisely.”

  “What do you know about my swordsmanship?”

  “Word gets around. Enjoy your breakfast,” and he nodded at Chamz, “I've got work that needs done.”

  They finished breakfast and Chamz went to find the innkeeper. Gant hustled down the street to the Eagle Freight Company.

  Soon Gant stood in front of the bustling warehouses, freight loading area and stables of the Eagle Freight Company. Crossing the dirt yard, Gant saw men loading, unloading or hitching horses to wagons. As he approached the log building that was the main office, a burly, armored man with dark eyes and a grim disposition held up one hand motioning Gant to halt.

  “Stop. What do you want?” he asked Gant, his right hand on his sword.

  “I've come to see Mr. Brawnson.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “I don't know. I've a letter of recommendation and came to apply for a job.”

  “He's not hiring. Be on your way.”

  “Could you ask him first? I've come a long way and I really need a job.”

  “No, I won't ask him. We don't need troublemakers here.”

  “What does that mean? I didn't start any trouble.”

  “That's not the way I heard it. We all know what you did to Talth last night and we don't want trouble here.”

  “Did?” Gant's temper was rising. “He came over to my table. I didn’t start anything.”

  Others were gathering around and Gant realized he was shouting. It rankled him to think people believed he'd been the instigator.

  “Besides, I barely hurt him. If I wasn't such a nice guy, I would have killed him.”

  “Oh, now you're so good with your sword you could have killed Talth. Not likely. I think you're just another kid come to make a name for himself. Enough. Clear out.”

  Gant studied the men circled around him. They were burly, working men, anxious to see a fight. What could he do? He wasn'
t starting anything, that would only prove the idiot right, and then he probably would never get a job.

  Gant turned toward the North Road gate when the main office door opened and a gangly man with light hair and flour-white skin stepped out.

  “What's the ruckus?” asked the newcomer, staring at the guard who'd stopped Gant.

  “Nothing, Mr. Brawnson. Nothing we can't handle.”

  “Mr. Brawnson,” said Gant stepping closer, retrieving Uric's note from his belt. “I'm here to see about a job. I brought a note of recommendation from Uric of Netherdorf.”

  “Ah, Gant. I was wondering when you’d show up.” Mr. Brawnson took the note, examined the wax seal, and then waved Gant into the office. “It's okay, Bork, I've been expecting him.”

  In the office, Mr. Brawnson read Uric’s letter and explained to Gant that he was going to be working security in and around the freight yard. He had full authority to stop theft, break up arguments or remove undesirables from the property. After that, they went out into the freight yard and Mr. Brawnson introduced Gant to the others. When it became clear that Gant had been recommended by Uric and was also Jarlz's nephew Bork’s attitude changed noticeably.

  #

  Gant began his duties as a freight company employee and the days passed quickly. During the day Gant guarded valuable goods for the freight company while Chamz worked at the Hammond House, which turned out to have more business interests than just the inn. Occasionally Gant was forced to use his sword, mostly against unskilled thugs and the confrontations were quick knockouts. Gant and Chamz began training behind the Hammond House in the evening. Though Chamz showed a natural ability with the sword he was no match for Gant. For safety, they trained with wooden sticks that approximated the length and heft of swords. Their swordplay, though rudimentary as far as Gant was concerned, was intense. Often inn patrons filed outside to watch as if it were a major sporting event. Chamz did his best but for Gant it was a step backward. Gant’s father had promised to send Uncle Jarlz to Blasseldune. Where was he? Gant needed coaching. He forgot about Talth and threats of revenge.