Chained By Fear: 2 (23 page)

“Winter isn’t finished yet,” Rathburt said. “It appears this beautiful day will end on a sour note. How far is the inn?”

“Not far, Master Slump,” Ugga said.

“So
 . . .
we hold grudges, do we?”

“Hmmmph!”

More than a thousand paces separated the eighth and seventh walls, creating a much roomier feel than the cramped space that contained the markets. Inns and taverns stood side by side as far as the eye could see. But few had vacancies. Kamupadana was a gathering place for almost everyone and everything that traveled the wilds of the north. Humans were the most numerous visitors, but Torg knew that it wasn’t unusual to see monsters of various shapes and sizes wandering the streets. Some who visited the Whore City were mortal enemies outside the walls, making murder and mayhem a common theme within. But crimes almost always occurred in dark rooms or back alleys. The soldiers treated harshly anyone who disrupted order in plain sight. And if the occasional monster was too difficult for the soldiers to handle, the Warlish witches were more than equal to the task. A single witch was dangerous enough, but when witches fought in groups, they ranked among the deadliest beings on Triken.

How many witches resided in Kamupadana? Only the Warlish knew the exact number, but Torg had heard that as many as one hundred were there. Plus, each witch traveled with as many as a dozen hags as personal servants. The hags were failed witches, born either hideously ugly or wondrously beautiful but without the ability to change appearances. They lacked the magical powers of a full witch but were physically strong and adored their mistresses, fighting to the death in their defense.

Ugga and Bard’s favorite inn was sturdily made out of smooth stone blocks. A turret stood ten cubits above the inn’s flat roof, with an archer serving as lookout. A grated gate protected the front entryway. Ugga rang a bell enthusiastically.

After a short wait, Rathburt impatiently reached for the string, but Bard stepped in front of him.

“She gets mad if ya ring it twice.”

Ever cautious, Rathburt backed away.

Finally, a heavy wooden door inside the gate swung open, and an obese woman eased her way into the foyer.

The crossbreed approached her, his arms spread wide. “Surely ya remembers your good friends Ugga and Bard! Do ya have any rooms to spare? There be five of us needing a turn in your tubs in the worse way.”

The woman tugged on a thick chain and the grated gate rattled inward. At first she glared at Ugga, as if infuriated. But then she surrendered her ruse and laughed good-naturedly.

“It’s so wonderful to see you,” she bellowed. “Do I have rooms to spare? As a matter of fact, I’ve a pair on the third level that will hold all five of you. As for your needing baths, I wholeheartedly agree. Each one of you, except for your hooded companion, smells like a wild beast.”

“Even I crave a hot bath, good lady,” Torg said softly.

“Aaaah! A man with manners. Will wonders never cease? Come in, gentlemen. The comforts of my inn are yours to enjoy—for one gold coin per night.”

Rathburt eyed her suspiciously. “Is that one for all of us? Or apiece?”

“One for all, of course. Do you take me for a thief?”

“My pardon, madam. That’s certainly a fair price for such a fine establishment. It’s just that we’ve dealt with unwholesome characters lately, and I’ve become distrustful.”

The woman wrapped a flabby arm around Rathburt’s shoulder. “Well, it would be one apiece if
you
weren’t so damn handsome.”

“Madam, you honor me. And the feeling is mutual. What’s your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She frowned. “Around here, folks don’t reveal their names. Madam, good lady, missus, or even fatso will suffice.” Then her expression brightened again. “Come in, gentlemen. It’s been a gorgeous day, but I do believe it’s about to rain. Allow me to show you to your rooms. And it just so happens I have five copper tubs sitting vacant. I’ll prepare your baths while my assistant beats the dust out of your cloaks and washes your underclothes. Will you be dining out or in your rooms? This late in the day, I can only provide a cold meal with warm beer. But if you prefer something hot, the tavern next door serves supper past midnight.”

“We’d like to eat in our rooms,” Torg said. “But we may go to the tavern later in the evening.”

Compared to what they had become used to over the past several months, the accommodations were luxurious. They lathered up with the “sweetsy soap,” eventually smelling even better than the Blondies and Brounettos. Afterward, they neatened their hair and beards with wooden combs and metal scissors. Torg examined his face in a polished mirror. Over the winter, his hair had grown past his ears and his teeth to full size. Even his skin had healed, though he was pale by desert standards.

“If you admire yourself too long, you’ll miss dinner,” Rathburt said.

Torg laughed. “Even a Death-Knower is allowed a moment of vanity. Especially after what I’ve been through. I’m not used to being mistaken for an ogre.”

“Don’t worry
 . . .
you’re as handsome as ever, you bastard.”

When the men returned to their rooms, the sun was setting over the mammoth ninth wall. It had rained a bit while they bathed, but the storm had passed quickly, leaving much cooler air in its wake. The nameless innkeeper supplied them with bathrobes, and they wore only those—legs spread unabashedly—as they sat in wooden chairs around a sturdy table, eating cold beef sprinkled with salt and garlic and dark bread slathered with chestnut butter. For dessert, they had ripe cheese and dried berries. The beer, as Ugga had promised, was excellent. By the time darkness arrived, they had eaten all the food and drunk an entire keg. Except for Torg, their spirits were high. Ugga and Bard seemed ready for a party, and even Rathburt and Elu were laughing. The Svakaran, however, was the first to notice Torg’s melancholy mood, and he climbed out of his chair and placed a small hand on Torg’s knee.

“What troubles you,
great one
?”

As if in a trance, Torg took a moment to answer. “It’s the moon,” he finally said. “It affects me in odd ways.”

“The moon is barely a sliver,” Rathburt said. “What does it have to do with anything?”

“It’s always in my dreams.”

“Do the dreams have anything to do with a Brounetto?” Ugga said.

Torg managed a chuckle. “Am I that obvious? Well to be honest, she’s a Blondie. At least, I think she is.” He turned to Bard. “If we ever encounter her, you had better leave her to me.”

They all laughed.

“I has seen the way ya fight,” Bard said. “I is not about to argue with ya over the first pick of the women.”

“Fair enough,” Torg said, smiling. “Thank you, my friends. As always, you lighten my heart.” Then he stood and stretched out his long, muscular frame. “Now that night has arrived, it’s time to wander over to the tavern for more beer. The stories we hear might be enlightening.”

The innkeeper’s assistant, a scrawny man with a pointed nose, entered the room, tossing their cloaks and underclothes onto one of the beds. He left the room without saying a word but quickly returned with a small rolling cart.

“I did the best I could,” he said, huffing and puffing, “but everything was so
filthy
I had to throw some of your clothes away. I hope you’re not offended. I offer you these fine garments at a fair price.”

They were not at all offended, gratefully examining the clothing. For another gold coin, they bought loose-fitting breeches with stirrup bottoms; tunics with dagged edges; tall boots made of black leather; and fur-lined cloaks with drawstring hoods. Undergarments were included at no extra charge. An outfit designed for a young boy fit Elu perfectly. Torg also purchased a black scabbard that matched his sword surprisingly well.

“Don’t we look like a bevy of dandies,” Rathburt proclaimed.

When they stepped outside, the briskness in the air surprised them, especially considering how warm it had been earlier in the day. Torg strapped the Silver Sword to his back, covered it with his cloak, and then pulled his hood over his face. The others carried only daggers. The streets swarmed with people, all of them shouting, laughing or arguing. Torg strode hurriedly to the tavern.

A cave troll guarded the smoky doorway. The beast stood two cubits taller than Torg and Ugga and was far thicker in the chest and legs than even the crossbreed. It stared at the newcomers suspiciously, but its partner—a squint-eyed man with sunken cheeks—waved them in, as if the whole affair bored him.

They entered the common room, which already bustled with activity though it still was early in the evening. The long tables and benches were almost filled, and most of the sofas along the walls also were occupied. A log fire provided the only light, which suited Torg just fine. They found empty seats at the end of a table in the darkest part of the room. So far, so good.

A server greeted them. She had pretty eyes and an impressive cleavage. But her greasy hair and malodorous underarms overpowered her other assets, at least in Torg’s opinion.

“What you be having tonight?” she shouted above the din.

“Double pints of your best dark,” Ugga shouted back.

The server returned with a tray of pewter mugs weighing half a stone apiece. Torg was amazed the girl could carry them all at once. She thrust them down on the table and rushed off to other patrons, snatching several silver coins from Bard before she left. Rathburt, already inebriated from the beer he had drunk at the inn, lifted his mug and offered a toast.

“To my friends—Elu, Ugga, Bard and
Tor-
 . . .
er, Hana
.
May the Blondies and Brounettos spread their legs wide and scream in delight when you present yourselves for their perusal.”

Ugga guffawed and drained the contents of his mug in just a few gulps. Elu stood up on the bench and peered into the empty mug, amazed.

“I has seen Ugga drink twenty of these in one night and still perform his duties with the Brounettos,” Bard said.

“More!” the crossbreed shouted, when the girl passed his way.

Torg paid little attention to his companions. Instead, he scanned the murky room, studying the other patrons. He saw village folk from the Gray Plains, fishermen from the Ogha River, a pair of boat dwellers as small as Elu from Lake Ti-ratana, and white-robed noblemen from Avici. He also saw a sleazy bunch who appeared to be pirates from Duccarita in poor disguise, and even a flirty, pasty-skinned woman whom Torg recognized as a vampire. Who would be tonight’s victim, he wondered?

A fancy gentleman with a thin mustache sat alone on one of the sofas and delicately sipped spiced wine from a pewter cup. Torg had seen his sort before—a wealthy merchant, probably from Senasana, who would risk the journey to Kamupadana only if it involved lucrative dealings. This man would have news from the south, but he would be tight-lipped.

“I need to speak to someone,” Torg said to his friends, but they were on their second mugs of beer (Ugga his third) and didn’t hear him. Torg slipped across the room, blending with the surroundings as he moved. He sat down next to the merchant and waited to be noticed. When the man turned and saw him, he spilled some of his wine.

“This seat is taken,” the merchant said, regaining his composure.

“Yes, it is,” Torg said.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’ve wandered long in the north and would learn what’s happening in the rest of the world.”

“I’m unaccustomed to conversing with strangers who hide their faces and poke about in the darkness. Leave now
 . . .
or I’ll call for protection.”

“You’d be dead before it arrived.”

The merchant’s eyes sprang open, but it was obvious he believed Torg wasn’t bluffing. “What
 . . .
what is it you want?”

“News is all. I’m not a murderer or thief, only a lonely traveler who desires friendly conversation. I mean you no harm.”

The merchant relaxed, but only slightly.

Torg placed his hand on the man’s knee. An imperceptible glow flowed from his fingertips through the fabric of the merchant’s houppelande into his flesh. “How goes it in Senasana?” Torg said.

The man’s body went limp, and he answered in a monotone whisper. “Since the golden soldiers departed last summer, all appears as before. But fewer outsiders come to our city, and business is not what it used to be. The Tugars have returned and wander about in plain sight, but they are angry with us for not helping the Death-Knower. They treat us like enemies.”

“Are you not?”

“We’re not warriors. We obey whoever does not kill us.”

Torg nodded. “How goes it in Jivita?”

“I’ve heard naught from the White City and care little for what occurs west of the mountains.”

“I see
 . . .
and Nissaya?”

The merchant fidgeted. Torg increased the energy flow to compensate.

“I haven’t been to the fortress in several summers, but it’s said Nissaya prepares for war, storing food and supplies and beseeching aid from allies. The black knights fear Avici, it seems.”

“Have you been to Avici?”

The merchant squirmed and tried to stand. The strength of his will impressed Torg, who commanded more energy to flow from his fingertips into the man’s flesh. The merchant sagged.

“I
 . . .
have been there,” he said.

“And?”

“I saw a great city
 . . .
and a great army. Too great. Not even the Tugars can defeat it. They are too many and the Tugars too few.”

“Will Nissaya be attacked?”

“I’m only a merchant. How could I know such a thing?”

Torg nodded again. Then he said, “Why are you in Kamupadana, merchant?”

The man quivered and pressed his hands to his chest. “Please
 . . .
do not force me to answer.”

Torg doubled the flow of energy. The man could not survive much more.

“Your secrets are safe. I will not betray you. Tell me.”

The merchant paused
 . . .
and then: “It’s the witches. They brew a special potion—barrels and barrels of it—and they’ve offered to pay me to bring it back in my caravan to Senasana and dump it into the river about a league north of the city.”

“What kind of potion?”

“I don’t know
 . . .
but I’m worried. Tens of thousands in Senasana depend on the river for their drinking water. And thousands more live along Ogha’s banks as it bends toward Lake Keo.”

“Why you? Why not take it there themselves?”

“I’m known in those parts and would not seem suspicious to prowling eyes.” Then the man whimpered. “They offer chests of golds. With that much wealth, I can follow the ancient road, disappear into the southern infernos, and live like a king. It is that choice—or death.”

“Death is better than betraying innocents.”

The merchant’s voice, though still under Torg’s hypnotic spell, became defensive. “
Am
I betraying them? I don’t know what the potion is supposed to do. Maybe it’s a good thing.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

“No
 . . .
the truth is, I’m a coward.”

“You are one of many, so don’t hate yourself too much.”

“What should I do?”

“For your own sake, you must not perform this deed. An act of bravery performed now will greatly enhance your future—if not here, then elsewhere.”

“An act of bravery? I don’t understand. What can a simple man hope to accomplish against such evil?”

“Bravery comes in many forms.”

“I know none of them.”

Torg chuckled. “Have you seen the barrels?”

“No. But I believe they’re somewhere in the ziggurat where the witches perform their wicked magic. I am to receive them two mornings from now.”

Torg nodded. “You’ve said enough. I’ll release you now, but I want you to return to your room, wherever it might be.”

“Yes.”

“There is one more thing. You bear a weapon. I can sense it.”

“How did you know?” The man looked like he might cry. “I carry a Tugarian dagger, purchased at great expense from a golden soldier who claimed to have slain an Asēkha at the base of Uccheda. The blade is scratched, but it still gleams so bright it hurts my eyes.”

“The soldier was a liar, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed. Give the dagger to me. It belonged to a person I once knew.”

“Yes.”

The man gently placed Sōbhana’s dagger in Torg’s hand. Then he stood and wandered from the room. A hag spy, by far the most beautiful woman in the tavern, stood and followed. She had been watching Torg and the merchant with great interest. But Torg had noticed her too. As she walked toward the door in pursuit of the merchant, the dagger struck her in the back. It took a considerable amount of time for anyone to even notice she was dead. Finally a large man stumbled over her, laughing.

“Get up, you drunken bitch!” he said, nudging her ribs with the toes of his boot. When she didn’t move, he called one of the servers. There was a yelp. Someone screamed, “Blood!” And then the troll and the squint-eyed man were leaning over her.

Torg returned to his friends, who hadn’t even noticed he was gone.

“What’s going on over there?” Bard said to Ugga.