Dark Legion (6 page)

“It most certainly is,” Marcus said. “The punishment is death.” Emperor Solas had outlawed worship of the seven Gods and proclaimed himself as divinely sanctioned. An intermediary between the mortal and the divine. You worshiped the Gods by worshiping him. The man had some nerve. Most still held to their beliefs in the seven, but it was a thing kept quiet.

A door opened to the side of the bar, and the man who came through it looked surprised to see us. It was still an hour short of lunchtime, and we were the only patrons. “Apologies,” he said. “I did not hear you enter. What can I get you?”

“Some ale would be nice,” Marcus said. “What do you recommend?”

“I have a very nice pale ale,” the tavern keeper said. “It's a bit different from the black gloop most seem to prefer, but you might like it.”

“Two of those,” Marcus said. “Does your wife still make that duck pie?”

“Been here before, then? Yes, she still does. Not for me, mind you, but that's a different story. The ale will be right up. I'll fetch you some bread to tide you over while you wait for your pie.” He walked behind the bar and soon returned with two tankards. “Enjoy.”

Marcus took a sip of ale and nodded his appreciation. I picked up my own and sniffed at it. Now, I'll be honest; I'd never had ale before this point. I did not want to admit this fact to Marcus, however. Silly perhaps, but what sort of man reached his thirties without having tasted ale? Of course, I'd been a slave for a decade, which afforded little opportunity for such trivialities. Still, I decided to act the part of a big manly man who drank ale.

The ale smelled odd. Not unpleasant, mind you—just not how I expected it to. It had a fruitiness, and something else. I took a sip and found it was sweeter than I'd thought it would be. Up front, at least. The sweetness was followed by a bitter taste that seemed to coat my mouth. I ran my tongue around my mouth, but the taste, and somehow the sensation, too, remained. I took another sip.

“What do you think?” Marcus asked.

“I think I like it. It has a bitter… thing going on.”

“Not used to that, huh? That would be the hops. Most in the empire prefer to use spices to preserve their ale, but he uses hops, like up north. A lot of them, too,” Marcus said, peering into his tankard.

“Well, I like it,” I said and took another sip. It was the truth. I really did like it, and I could see the appeal this beverage had. My father had preferred wine, as most in Ubrain did.

“I suggest we relax today,” Marcus said. “It's been a tough week. Tomorrow, we can have a look around the docks and ask a few questions. Find out when the shipment is coming in, and where they will be storing it. Hopefully we can set our genius plan in motion before too long.”

“You have a plan you haven't told me about?”

“Well… no. But I'm sure it will be pure genius. When it exists.” Marcus raised his tankard, “To genius plans!”

“To a plan that may one day exist,” I toasted.

 

The tavern keeper returned with a loaf of bread and some butter. The bread smelled delicious and was obviously fresh. “Like the ale?” he asked.

“Even better than I remembered,” Marcus said.

They both looked at me. “I like it.”

“Good man,” he said. “I am hoping to enter it at the town fair during solstice. My competitors are not very good, but my brews are a bit different from the swill the masses drink. Alas, there is no accounting for taste.”

“Speaking of taste, this seems more bitter than I recall,” Marcus said.

“That it is. The winning ale, as judged by a panel, gets sent to Morwynne where it is entered into a second round. I added the extra hops to keep it from turning before then. I think I overdid it.”

“No, I really like it,” Marcus said.

“What do you win?” I asked.

“At the town fair? Nothing but adoration. If we win at the second round, however, we get to supply all the ale for the following Harvest Festival at the capital. Now, that comes with obvious financial benefits, but it also means I get to be a guest at the palace on the night of the festival. What are the chances of someone like you or me getting in there, eh? Just imagine it. We go to Morwynne often, my wife's family live there, and I always look up at that glorious palace. Ah, well… dreams are free, they say. Anyway, I'm intruding. I'll go see how that pie is coming and let you get to your bread before it cools.” The tavern keeper turned and walked through the door to the kitchen.

I cut a slice of bread. It was hot, and as I spread the butter, it melted, with a drop spilling onto the table. I grunted, took out a handkerchief, and mopped it up. A mark remained on the otherwise unblemished table. Such things bothered me more than they had any right to. I rubbed at it with my finger. I would have scratched it, but I had no fingernails. I moved my tankard, sitting it on top of the stain.

Marcus bit his lip and looked up from his bread. “If he wins, we might be able to hide in his barrels, wait till we are transported to the palace, sneak in and get what we need,” Marcus said.

“Seven hells, you are forever a stowaway. And how would we get out?” I asked. “No, you are hit and miss with that tactic.”

“Oh, come now. It worked the last time.”

I shook my head and ate some bread. When I looked up again, Marcus was staring out the window, and a frown creased his face. “What's wrong?” I asked.

“Those men who tried to rob us on the bridge,” Marcus said. “They were all former rebels.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“That stupid tattoo of the clenched fist. Months ago a few of the men got those. I punished them, but to no avail. Within weeks, most of my men had it. It's stupid. Why make it easy to identify yourself as a rebel? Idiots…”

“Why didn't they recognize you?”

“I can't be everywhere. My efforts were focused elsewhere. There were commanders in each region.” Marcus sighed. “Well… it appears my rebels are no more. No, I trained desperate men and put together a gang that spans the empire. According to Adair, at least, but he has no reason to lie about it.”

We sat in silence for a while, staring out the window.

 

I was taking a sip of ale when a fish flew in through the window and landed on our table. Not a small fish, but one the length of my arm. Judging by the smell, it wasn't fresh either. “Gods! What in the hells is this?” Marcus shouted.

The tavern keeper came running from the kitchen, just in time to receive a pelting as more rotten fish came sailing through the window. Looking out onto the street, I saw half a dozen men standing around a cart of fish. I ducked out of the way just in time to avoid taking some fish to the face. Marcus ran outside, and we followed close behind him.

“What in the hells do you think you're doing?” Marcus yelled at them.

“Teaching this elf-lover a lesson is what,” a bald fellow yelled back.

“And this lesson is what? That he needs more seafood on the menu?” Marcus asked.

“Technically… it's probably from the lake,” I said. Marcus gave me a look that said “Shut your fool mouth.”

“Teach him that this part of the world is for humans, see. And that other types are here at our mercy. He seems to be a bit confused about how things are, so we thought we would enlighten him,” the bald man said.

“These arseholes are bitter about being kicked out of my tavern for being arseholes,” the tavern keeper said.

“Well, they certainly are that,” Marcus said. “And what in the hells does rotten fish have to do with all this?” One of the men picked up a large fish and got ready to throw it through the open window in front of him. “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Marcus said.

The man laughed, and threw the fish. Marcus leapt up, grabbed it out of the air by its tail, and before the man could register what was happening, smashed him in the face with the fish. The man fell into the foul smelling cart. The other men stood for a moment, looking at their friend in the cart. Marcus tossed the fish in after the man, startling them.

“Now, I suggest you fellows get in there and clean the place up,” Marcus said. “Oh, and you will be paying our bill. You ruined some very nice bread, and I think some of your fish landed in my ale.”

Two of the men charged at Marcus. The leading man had his fist pulled back. Marcus stepped to the left of him, putting the man off balance as he tried to punch at Marcus. Marcus grabbed his wrist and used the man's outstretched arm and momentum to swing him around, and let go of him to connect with the second man. Both went sprawling onto the pavement. The remaining three men looked at each other, then took flight down the street, the bald one pushing the cart. The first man was peering over the side of the cart, bits of fish stuck in his hair.

Marcus yelled after them, “Don't let me see you round here again!”

The tavern keeper and I looked at each other. Marcus grabbed the two remaining men by their ankles and dragged them into the tavern kicking and screaming.

“What are you doing?” the tavern keeper asked.

“These two are going to clean the place up,” Marcus said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Something Fishy

 

The two men cleaned up the mess they made with Marcus standing over them. He casually rested a hand on his pommel and made it clear that any funny business would have serious consequences. It took them some time. After they cleaned up their misplaced fish, they were made to mop the floor with a mixture of cleaning fluids, hot water and lime juice. They applied the same to the tables.

 

When they were finished, Marcus held an open hand to them. They looked at it, confused. “As I said, you will be covering our meal and drinks.” Marcus looked at the tavern keeper. “How much do we owe you?”

“Fifteen coppers.”

“Pay the man,” Marcus said. They searched their pockets and came up with twelve coppers between them. Marcus took the coins, passed them to the tavern keeper, and then proceeded to embrace both the men. The men had their backs turned to me, and while embracing them, Marcus pointed at the tattoos on their necks. The clenched fist again.

“Now, I am sure you learned your lesson, right?” Marcus asked. They looked startled, but nodded. “Good. Then off with you.” They made their way out of the tavern, tripping over themselves to get out.

The tavern keeper walked to Marcus and clasped his hand. “Thank you so much! You don't know how much this means to me. My name is Hobart, by the way.”

“Not a problem, Hobart. My name is Marcus, and this is Saul.”

“Sit down, I'll get you some more ale. It's on the house.” He poured two more tankards and set them on our table.

“What was that business with the men about?” I asked.

“Idiots. Racist idiots at that. They were here last week to talk about buying some casks of ale. They run a gambling den on the outskirts of town. Some very unpleasant people there. They have these fierce little reptiles. They starve them, then throw them into a pit with some meat and bet on which will be alive at the end. Savages. The worst part is that they are running it out of the old temple of Eriel.”

“What?” I asked. “I thought the empire got rid of all the temples?”

“They did. It's been empty for a decade, apart from those savages at least. They even emptied the baptismal pool at the center to use as the fighting pit. Those arseholes have turned it into an altar to Svyn,” Hobart spat. I did not much care for the manner in which he addressed my god, but seeing as those who followed him tended to be less than reputable people, I let it slide. “Anyway, they were trying to get some ale for that place. I don't like dealing with them, so I told them that I didn't have any for them. So, they went to that table over there…”— Hobart pointed at a table close to the door—“and they started harassing the elf that runs the inn across the road.” Marcus and I looked at each other, smiling. “They were really ripping into the poor guy, trying to get him to hand over some of the casks he had. So, with the help of a couple of patrons, I threw them out and banned them from coming back. I was afraid it might cause some trouble, and it seems I was right. They are part of some gang called the Clenched Fist.”

I looked over at Marcus, and could see him grinding his teeth. “Did you tell warden Adair?” I asked.

“Of course I did. Fat lot of good that did me. That operation of theirs is not entirely legal. They hand the mayor some money to stay quiet, and he has Adair on a leash. If only my sons were still around the place, I would feel safer. But the lads are in Morwynne, working for my father-in-law,” Hobart said, shaking his head.

“And you don't like the man?” Marcus asked.

“Oh, he's fine, I suppose. He's always disapproved of our marriage, though. I wasn't half noble enough for his liking. They are very well-off. I guess he offered me a job recently, so I suppose he doesn't hate me. But, I turned him down, so now my wife does.” Hobart sighed.