Harbinger: Fate's Forsaken: Book One (20 page)

The second they
were inside, the watchman signaled again and the doors slammed shut. He propped
his fingers to his head in salute. “Nice to see you back for another season,”
he said to Garron. The light from his torch made his grin look slightly
monstrous. “Sorry for all the extra swords. We’ve had bandits try to break in,
recently.”

“Really?” Garron
said as they followed him through a series of winding streets. “I don’t think
we’ve come across a single outlaw.”

The watchman
snorted. “That’s probably because they’re all busy going after Crow’s Cross.
They’ve been disguising themselves as merchants, you know. Just yesterday a
whole lot of them put black paint on their faces and tried to pass as desert
folk. It nearly worked, too — except one of them wiped the sweat off his
brow and gave himself away. Hard to explain your skin coming off, isn’t it?”

They parked
their carts in a large, open square in the center of Crow’s Cross. Several
other carts and stands were gathered in a ring, illuminated by the fires of the
men guarding them. Kael noticed every one of the guards was wearing a tunic
with a seal on it. He recognized the sun of Whitebone and the crossed sickles
of the Endless Plains. There were a few men with wolf heads on their tunics,
and he tried to stay out of their sight.

“I think you’re
all settled, here,” the watchman said cheerfully, and Kael noticed his armor
was simple leather: there was no emblem on his chest. “Now, do you have rooms
for the night?”

Garron nodded.
“I wrote the inn a week ago.”

“Good, good. A
few years back it would have taken a month in advance to get rooms. Ah, well,
the markets just aren’t as full as they used to be.” He held out his hand. “Got
to be getting back to my post, I’m afraid. Safe journey to you.”

“Yes.” Garron
shook his hand. “And do stop by tomorrow. Get something pretty for your wife.”

The watchman
grinned again. “Will do. Thank you, sir!” He touched his fist to his chest and
marched away.

While a few men
stayed behind to watch the carts, everybody else followed Garron to the inn.
The air was cool and smelled faintly of smoke, in places. Their boots echoed
loudly as their heels struck the cobblestone and bounced off the houses. Kael
marveled at how many people managed to fit in one place: their homes were
crammed so close together that they shared a wall with their neighbors.

Hidden among the
darkened windows and sleepy streets was an extra large, extra tall two-story
house. It sat by itself at the end of a filthy alleyway. The nearby homes had
their windows shuttered tightly against the light that spilled from its dirty
windows, and their doors bolted against the people who staggered from it.

For, while the
rest of Crow’s Cross was sleeping peacefully, the
Rat’s Whiskers Inn
seemed to have just woken up.

The front door
was painted red and hung slightly crooked — as if it had been ripped from
its hinges on more than one occasion, and nailed back by someone who was
already several rounds into his ale. The second Garron pulled it open, a blast
of noise whooshed out. People laughed, shouted, pounded their fists on the
table, cheated each other at cards and sloshed the contents of their tankards
all over the floor. The air smelled of roasted meat and warm bread —
along with a few less-inviting odors. Kael got separated from the group when a
rather fat man bounced into him and knocked him off his feet. He landed in a
suspicious-smelling puddle that immediately soaked into his trousers.

The innkeeper
led them expertly through the noisy crush of people to their quarters. Kael
shared one dingy room with Jonathan, Chaney, and Claude. The only furniture in
it were the four small beds that had been stuffed in the only way they would
fit. Jonathan’s bed kept their door from opening all the way, while Kael’s was
so close to the window that he thought if he rolled over he might tumble out
into the street.

He tried not to
think about the brownish stains on the pillows as he tossed his rucksack down
and followed the others out the door. Back in the main room, Horatio had
managed to grab a large table close to the fire. They fought through the crowd
and squeezed in on the bench across from him.

He waved over a
frazzled-looking girl who balanced a tray packed with tankards. “Five mince
pies, four ales, and I’ll have a wine!” he shouted above the din.

She nodded and
rushed away. When she came back, both of her hands were full. She sat down a
tray of steaming pies — which they emptied immediately — and handed
each of them a tankard. Horatio gave her some coin and she disappeared again,
swallowed up by the crowd.

The inn might’ve
seen cleaner days, but the pies were fantastic. Kael hardly breathed between
forkfuls. When the dough began to dry out his mouth, he reached for his
tankard. Two gulps in, he realized that his throat was on fire.

“Haven’t been
drinking long, have you?” Jonathan said with a grin while Kael tried not to
cough up his lungs.

“No,” he
wheezed. “It’s —
horrible
.”

Jonathan
shrugged. “Nah, you get used to it. I grew up on the stuff. When my mum ran out
of milk, she hitched me to a flagon!” He threw back the rest of his drink and
stood. “I’m going to find some blokes drunker than me to cheat at cards. Any of
you gentlemen want to tag along?”

Chaney and
Claude couldn’t have gotten up faster.

“We have some
business to attend to,” Horatio said, nodding to Kael. “But you boys go along.
And Jonathan! Garron refuses to bail you out again, so see to it that you
behave.”

When the boys
were gone, he turned to Kael. “I want to buy your recipe for the chicken,
m’boy. Will you sell it to me?”

Kael, convinced
that he
could
learn to like ale, had
just swallowed another mouthful of the fiery liquid. He had to cough a few
times before he could answer. “Sure, yeah. It’s all yours.”

“No, I won’t
take it for free. I’ve talked with Garron and we’ve decided that
this
,” he plunked a purse down upon the
table, “is a fair price.”

The sack was
practically bursting with silver. He didn’t think he’d ever seen so much coin
in one place. “That’s far too much,” he said, pushing it back. “It’s only
chicken.”

Horatio
sputtered on his wine. “It’s not
only
chicken — it’s a product! The very beginning of a culinary empire.” He
swiveled on his sizable bottom and glanced around. “Kyleigh! Come here and talk
some sense into this boy.”

She’d been
leaning against the bar, chatting with the frazzled serving girl about
something. But when she heard Horatio, she made her way towards them.

Kyleigh didn’t
have to push or throw elbows to get through the crowd: people bent out of her
way. The shouting died down and laughter caught in throats. Men stared at her
through drunken eyes and ran into things because they weren’t watching where
they were going. One man backed up too far and tripped on an overturned chair.
His tankard went flying and he swore, but everyone was too busy gaping to
notice.

Then someone on
the other side of the inn shouted that one of his mates was going to try to eat
three mince pies in under a minute, and the noise billowed up again as people
trampled over to watch.

Kyleigh seemed
completely unaware of the spectacle she’d caused. “It’s quite a lively place,
isn’t it?” she said as she sat next to Kael. “Now, what are the two of you
arguing about?”

As Horatio
explained the chicken business to her, she weighed the purse in her hand. “This
is a fair price,” she said.

Kael didn’t
think she understood. “How can it possibly be fair? It only takes three coppers
to buy a chicken.”

She inclined her
head. “True. But if Horatio sells a single strip of chicken meat for three
coppers, and he gets twenty strips out of every chicken —”

“Then I’ll be a
very rich man,” he said.

She nodded.
“He’ll make more than this at tomorrow’s market, I can promise you that.”

Horatio sipped
loudly on his wine, his cheeks much redder than they’d been before. “If you had
the means to run your own shop, I’d tell you to keep it for yourself. But since
you don’t, there’s no reason why we can’t share in the profit. So … will you agree
to my price?”

He really didn’t have to think about it. "All right, we have a
deal." And they shook hands.

“Wonderful!” Horatio produced a dirty bit of parchment, a quill and a
well of ink from the folds of his apron. “Now, all you need to do is jot the
recipe down — be specific. You
can
write,
can't you? Good. I wondered how educated you mountain folk were. And while
you're doing that, I'll order us a celebratory round of ale!"

The frazzled serving girl brought more tankards to the table. Horatio
offered Kyleigh a drink, but she politely refused.

"I rarely touch the stuff. I prefer to keep my wits about me.
Here." She took a coin out of Kael’s bag and set it on the table.
"I'll keep the rest of your earnings in my room for the night. We wouldn't
want some light-fingered thief to take advantage of you."

Normally, he would have argued that he could take care of himself, but
tonight he didn’t feel like arguing. He didn't know why he was suddenly being
so agreeable. He also didn’t know why he felt so unusually light and happy. He
took another swig of ale and figured it must have been the general excitement
of the inn wearing off on him.

*******

Eveningwing hated being trapped indoors. The odor of bodies and men’s
filth was so thick that his lungs almost drowned in it. Noise clawed at his
ears and the roof above his head was far too close.

Why did humans always have to travel in flocks? They were much quieter
— and easier to find — when they were alone.

He watched from a corner of the rowdy room, hiding in the shadows. The
tankard in his hand was only a prop — something to help him blend in. He
never once brought it to his lips.

Had anyone been sober enough to look, they might have noticed something
strange about the boy who watched them. His trousers were on backwards, for
one, and the rest of his tattered outfit was far too big. His feet were bare
and dirty. Above his left ankle, an iron shackle rubbed a raw, red line into
his skin. But odd as his attire was, it wasn’t the oddest thing about him.

He kept the front of his hair long to try and shadow them, but there was
still no denying the fact that his eyes weren’t human. Bottomless black pupils
ringed by solid yellow-brown irises stared relentlessly. He captured every
movement of the humans’ teetering bodies, every expression on their swollen
faces. Not a single mole, freckle or scar escaped his notice.

Every face he saw, he ran against a memory. It wasn’t his memory, but one
that had been entrusted to him. All across the Kingdom, his brothers and
sisters waited in towns just like this one, stalking the inns and meeting
places — looking for
her
.

A loud noise drew his eyes to the opposite side of the inn. Someone
knocked over a table and the racket hushed the roar of human revelry for a
moment. Then cheers rang out as the crowd made way for someone to walk through.

A thin young man with bothered reddish hair was the first to appear.
Eveningwing didn’t recognize his straight nose, brown eyes, or the crooked
mouth he wore — but quickly memorized his face, taking note of his
flushed cheeks and the way he slurred his words. The young man had an arm
draped around the shoulders of the person carrying him — a young woman.
When she showed her teeth in a way the humans used to show happiness,
Eveningwing stood straighter. He could hardly believe his luck.

While he didn’t recognize the man, he certainly recognized the woman
carrying him: stark green eyes, hair like night, her mouth as she nodded to the
clapping humans — it mirrored the one in his memory.

The Dragongirl!

No sooner did he think it, than the shackle around his ankle grew hot and
began to hum.

He dropped his tankard. The untouched drink splattered on the floor as it
hit the ground and onto the boots of some nearby revelers. They looked up in
annoyance, but Eveningwing was already gone.

He burst through the back door of the inn. He pushed past a bunch of
slobbering, singing humans and made a dash for the stables. The horses watched
him with curious black eyes as he fell to the floor. He groaned and bit his lip
as the change began, clinging to a single thought:

He must not
scream.

Every bone in
his body cracked at once, as if a giant’s foot stomped him flat. He felt the
broken, jagged edges glance across his muscles, raking fiery lines down his
back and limbs as they slid into place. Needles stabbed into every pore as
thousands of feathers sprouted from his skin, tearing him where they ripped
through.

Bloodfang said
it wouldn’t be much longer — and he comforted himself with this thought.
Soon, Eveningwing’s two bodies would become one. Then the change wouldn’t hurt
so badly. Until then, he must be strong.

When the change
ended, the boy was gone. A hawk lay on the mound of tattered clothes in his
place. His wings were the color of storm clouds, the dark flecks on his chest
looked like interlocking scales of armor. All that remained of the boy were the
yellow-brown eyes beneath the hawk’s feathery brow.

He raised his
wings and, with one powerful beat, shot into the air. Crow’s Cross became
nothing but a smudge as Eveningwing rose. Every few wing beats, he would let
out a screech: a call that only his brothers and sisters would know the meaning
of. He told them of his find, he told them to warn the swordbearers.

He got closer to
Midlan with each stroke, and the King’s orders echoed louder in his head:
Find the Dragongirl, return to me. Find the
Dragongirl, return to me.