Passion of the Different (7 page)

Chapter Eight - The Threat

The mayor's office was a large chamber close to the center of town and the short pale elderly man hobbled to his feet and bowed to Ryan and Myra as they entered. He gestured them to a large couch, one among three that faced each other so people could sit comfortably and talk.

After they were seated a serving girl arrived with a silver platter filled with half full glasses of sweet pear juice. When they all had one in their hands, the mayor introduced himself.

“I'm Gar'Jarbin Isonates of Ocaza, and I must say I didn't believe the rumors one bit until I laid eyes on you.” The mayor himself had short cropped red hair and bright yellow eyes, almost a match for new minted gold coins. His robes were a dark blue flowing affair with a bright red outline, cinched at the waist. His smile was generous, inviting the audience to enjoy whichever good nature the practiced politician radiated.

“Lord Za'Ryan of House Ven'Krue,” Ryan offered back, feeling his own smile return even though he felt somehow that politicians couldn't be trusted. A mere gut feeling or something more from his distant and hidden memory? Unsure, he didn't let it slow down the rest of his introduction. “My wife, Lady Myra of House Ven'Krue”

She beamed her own brilliant smile to Gar'Jarbin. “Pleased to be here, Mayor,” she replied with a light air to her musical accent. “Thank you for providing breakfast for us and the officers.”

Gar'Jarbin raised his hand and swatted gently at the air, brushing aside the compliment in a good natured way. “Think nothing of it, my dear. Your husband's arrival has been an event this town needed to break the dreary cycle of boredom.” Then his gold eyes focused on Ryan and there was a keen, hidden intelligence in them. “Would you be interested in a job?”

Myra's sudden intake of air didn't change Ryan's reaction. He relaxed, leaned back in the cushioned wooden chair and gestured broadly with his polite question. “What would you want with a big guy like me?”

“Quite a bit,” the mayor explained, suddenly all business. “Your strength is apparent and your size is a bonus. Our guards are all well practiced in combat, but you disarmed one of the best trained men in the area. Avrohom only pays for the best warriors when he trundles around with his collection wagon. I can afford to grant some small rank, armor and a weapon of your choice. You would report to the garrison commander, whom you already know.”

While the mayor had made his case, Ryan could see the ever so slight frown on Myra's face out of the corner of his eye. While he knew that he would have gladly taken the job before he met and married her, but things were way different. He's a farmer now and is truly happy with his home life. Yet he didn't want to disregard offers of any sort, so instead of giving an outright no, he saw his best chance in leaving the offer open.

“I like where I'm at on our farm,” he told Gar'Jarbin evenly, putting his large hand out and taking Myra's in his own. Before the mayor could register disappointment on his features, he continued. “I won't have the time for a full fledged job. But I understand you somewhat, Gar'Jarbin. Having somebody like me to keep the peace would go a long ways in keeping Ocaza feeling safe. How about we worry about my putting on armor and picking up a weapon when and if something serious threatens?”

The mayor drummed his fingers on the desk for a few moments, then nodded. “Less than I expected, more than I had hoped for,” the mayor commented to himself, but loud enough to politely share his musing. Then he nodded. “We'll do it your way, then. I'll order the garrison blacksmith to make the armor and weapon, but we'll keep it in the armory unless raiders hit. Which hopefully is never, but one can never tell anymore.”

“Raiders?” Myra asked, more than satisfied with her husband's choice, but clearly had never heard of this threat before.

“The southern kingdom,” Gar'Jarbin said, then sighed in genuine regret. “The queen there has incited animosity towards our great King Vorjon Zast'Hirame for refusing to erase toll fees on imports. Our merchants are banned from her country and her border patrols have attacked some smaller towns on our side. Nothing like this has happened for over three generations.”

Myra's look of outrage caught Ryan's notice. Three generations of peace meant that none of the current warriors or any of the locals had fought a real enemy before. No wonder he was able to disarm Avrohom's guard so easily. Thinking carefully, Ryan asked, “Have they already attacked close to Ocaza?”

“No,” the mayor admitted, smiled but thinly. “Not yet at any rate. We're not directly on the border but close enough if there's a serious push into our realm. Two days hard riding might get you there, or about a week of easy wagon travel. So the threat is minor. Still, would have been interesting to have you on patrol.”

Ryan shook his head and returned the thin smile, squeezed Myra's hand to reassure her. “Unless I'm told we're going to be attacked, you won't be getting me off our farm. I hope you understand.”

The mayor nodded expansively, spread his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Please see the blacksmith, he is expecting you.” He got up and bowed to indicate the audience was over.

As Myra and Ryan headed outside, his head buzzed with everything he had just learned. He never before heard the king's name, or the fact there were other kingdoms and that they were unhappy with the current government. It bothered him somewhat that these details seemed to be coming to him and he was more inclined to analyze it than react. His mind seized it with a mental hunger to process the information. It was almost like he was seeing things from afar, yet influenced in big ways by being involved with them. If he ever met anybody else who had suffered from memory loss, he would have to ask if that was a common side effect.

Heads started to turn as he passed on the streets, some staring, others mumbling but never loud enough to be heard by the huge man. Myra loved every second of it, again the center of attention where she had something nobody else could have ever imagined.

When they found the blacksmith in the trade quarter, he dropped his hammer and the red hot horseshoe sizzled on his anvil, forgotten. The small dark blue haired man was shirtless and ribboned with muscle, but it hugged his bones under the skin rather than bulge. His eyes were a dull red, though the whites were bright and healthy. When he spoke, his voice was the first low toned native he had heard. Not as deep as Ryan's baritone rumble but about halfway there.

“You must be the giant,” he told Ryan, who chuckled back with good natured humor. After a moment, the blacksmith chuckled with him.

“You must be the blacksmith,” Ryan replied, keeping his grin.

“Agumir Shad'Vato at your service.”

“Lord Za'Ryan Ven'Krue and my wife, Lady Myra.”

Agumir inclined his head in greeting and while Ryan returned the gesture, the hot horseshoe was quickly plucked up by a set of tongs and dropped into a bucket of cool water. It gave a loud hiss. Once the blacksmith was satisfied he had recovered from the initial jolt, he pulled out a tape with symbols on it and approached Ryan.

“I need measurements,” Agumir explained, almost apologetically. While he quickly ran the tape up and down Ryan's thick arms, he continued, “Do you wish a mace, sword or spear?”

The question almost caught Ryan off guard. He hadn't thought about it, but his mouth replied so quickly, he wondered for a moment if the choice came from the black hole in his mind or from a sudden impulse to be highly intimidating. “Can you make a large two handed sword?”

Agumir paused, nodded, then finished his measurements on the outside of his l
eg.
He hadn't been writing the numbers down, years of practice at his trade had him memorizing the numbers the moment he saw them. “Yes, and that means no shield then. Considering your size and strength, such a large sword would have to be strapped across your back. Do you know how much you can lift?”

“I can carry between four and five hundred pounds on my back,” Ryan told him, and the red eyes got big for a moment.

“Can you pick up my anvil?” Agumir asked, tone numb. To prove he could, Ryan snatched up the small anvil with both hands, gave it an easy up and down toss. It weighed only a couple hundred pounds. Light to him but heavy as hell to the locals. He set it back in its original spot carefully with one hand, showing off a little. The blacksmith had been watching Ryan's muscles and his face for the level effort and was mightily impressed. Myra stood there and gave a silent supportive clapping motion. She enjoyed his showing off and he knew it.

“Anything else you want me to pick up?”

“No,” the blacksmith said quickly. “I guess I can make the steel a little thicker than normal for armor penetration. I might have you come by and pick it up a few times to make sure it isn't
too
heavy. We don't need you getting overly tired after three or four dozen swings. Would that be alright?”

“Absolutely,” Ryan told him, then flexed his chest muscles with a wicked grin. Agumir instantly got the idea if his big eyes were any indication of the silent message. Go ahead and make it thick and tiring, it might not matter to the Giant of Ocaza.

Chapter Nine - Meeting The Enemy

Duke Haz'Bolian watched the last corn loaded wagon pull away, his expression laced with approval. Then he turned to Myra and Ryan, took a second to readjust to the sight of the massive man yet again. No wonder the harvest had been so good to her, he must have been able to do the job of three able bodied workers let alone one. They stood there, smiling at the noble in front of their farm, expectant and proud of their accomplishment.

“That was far more produce than I expected,” Haz'Bolian slowly told them both, as if being forced to admit it. “I'm increasing the offer to seven gold, I don't want it said I took advantage of good farmers.”

Myra almost squeaked with joy, “Thank you, Duke Haz'Bolian!” She hugged her husband to show him how proud she was of everything he had accomplished.

Ryan's baritone almost startled the Duke again, who felt he would never get used to such a low voice from a man's throat. “Your generosity speaks well of you. If you like, I can reserve next year's harvest for you alone, for your honesty with us.”

The Duke's lean features lit up as he ran a hand through his short light blue hair, his gold eyes looking over the large field. He nodded and said, “That's a deal, Lord Za'Ryan. I get double the benefit from corn. My men eat it, but the shuck and cob go to our own horses for extra grub. The fee can remain the same as well, it lets me plan better if I know my future expenses.”

“Of course,” Ryan nodded as he replied graciously, respecting the Duke's wits. Then a phrase emerged from somewhere hidden in his mind and he couldn't disagree with it, so he tried it on the wealthy noble. “If you can't measure it, you can't manage it.”

Haz'Bolian's light blue eyebrows climbed his forehead in surprise. “I didn't think I would, but damn it, I like you Lord Za'Ryan. Such foresight is rare among farmers. I feel you may have been more than that at some point in your past.”

Myra had kept his loss of memory a secret, but the Duke had voiced a troubling whisper from the back of Ryan's darkened mind. The analytical thinking, knowledge that seemed to seep from nowhere, his view of the city and people as primitive... yet couldn't recall anything more than that. It bothered him more than he would admit even to himself. He was highly satisfied with making new memories with his wife until moments like this arose.

“You're right,” Ryan heard himself casually reply, hoping his expression matched his verbal manners. It must have, for the Duke grinned as the big man finished his response. “But it's here and now that has my attention and I'm a lucky man with a beautiful woman. Doing anything else would be a waste of my time.” He reached out and pulled Myra against him, arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, blushing slightly while glancing downwards. Her expression was that of pure happiness, she loved his compliments especially when he openly shared them with others.

Haz'Bolian answered by reaching into his robe and pulled out a small sack purse. He counted out seven thick gold coins. Ryan's large hand made them look small in his palm. He bowed and the Duke bowed back. “Good day to you both,” he said, then went and mounted his horse who had been grazing on the green grass by the side of the road. He kicked it into a trot, and as they watched him go another rider was approaching at full gallop from the opposite direction.

The Duke made his horse go to the side and stopped. The rider passed him without hesitation and the Duke turned around and followed. It was a messenger bearing the flag of Ocaza. The rider looked grim and determined. It took only a few minutes for him to rein in before Ryan and Myra.

The messenger handed down a scroll to the big man, then said as Ryan took it, “Lord Gar'Jarbin bids you to report to Lord Vendegal of the Ocaza Garrison. We caught an enemy scout and learned there is a host of raiders three days from town. They are headed this way.”

The Duke had heard and told Ryan, “I'll ride with you.” Then to the messenger, who knew who was addressing him. “Go to my fort, cut through the back fields in the south and you'll beat my wagons there. Alert my guard and tell them to send units three and eight to the Ocaza garrison.”

“Yes sir,” the Messenger replied crisply.

“I don't have a horse,” Ryan stated quickly while Myra hugged him, her smile replaced by a frown. The messenger dismounted and handed the reins to the large man.

“Take mine, I can run the distance to Duke Haz'Bolian's fort.” Without wasting another moment the thin man took off. It was a good thing he was dressed lightly, if he had been wearing armor it would have been impossible for such an exertion.

Ryan stared a moment at the reins, then the horse and finally, the stirrups and saddle. He knew how to mount and ride, he discovered, as he ran through the process in his head a few times. The Duke misunderstood his hesitation.

“I think he'll hold your weight, Lord Za'Ryan,” Haz'Bolian assured him.

Ryan took a deep breath and mounted the horse. It gave a small whinny in complaint but quickly got used to his size. The horse didn't want to drift or do his own thing, well trained into obedience to the rider. That made it easier on him to control it with the reins and the pressure of his knees. He winked at Myra and blew her a kiss which she caught, then tsked the horse into a gallop for Ocaza. Haz'Bolian wasn't far behind him.

They rode hard and fast and it wasn't before long when they stopped at the center of town. Vendegal stood there with a wide wooden collar and iron shackles on a scruffy looking pale fellow with stringy long red hair. He wore strips of hard leather with brass studs on the seams. There were a half dozen armed and armored garrison soldiers surrounding him to foil any misbehavior. One of the captive's high cheek bones had a bruise on it from being handled roughly.

Looking downwards in defeat, the captive failed to notice Ryan. It was when Vendegal started to address him and the Duke did he look up, the defeat vanishing from his amber eyes to be replaced by a startled awe.

“Good to see you both,” Vendegal said to them as they dismounted. “Lord Za'Ryan, I sent for your armor and sword just a little while ago. I know you haven't gotten to test it yet, but that will have to wait. You may end up using them all too soon.” Then to the Duke. “Lordship Haz'Bolian, can you commit two dozen men for the city patrol while I assemble the defense force? You're the closest noble and your men can get here the quickest.”

“I'll commit four dozen,” Haz'Bolian countered, his eyes on the captured enemy scout as he spoke. “I've got the men to spare and then some. My keep has been resupplied and we can stand up to a siege if it comes down to it.”

“Excellent,” Vendegal replied, instantly satisfied with the cooperation.

Ryan stepped close to the captive, gazed down at him and smoothing his large features to be as passive as possible. The imprisoned scout started to shake but couldn't flinch away or cower. He was bound too tightly. His jaw went slack when Ryan spoke in his baritone, a deep sound laced with an out of place compassion.

“Why do you come here with violence in your heart?”

The scout blinked. He muttered a moment, then said carefully, “Wind spirits preserve me, it spoke.”

“Answer him!” Vendegal barked, raised his hand to strike. Ryan stopped him with a gesture of restraint. The blow didn't land even though the captive twitched his features in anticipation. He had gotten used to being slapped around by his jailors.

“Well?” Ryan prompted him carefully and kindly.

“I...” he stammered while slumping his shoulders, unable to tear his eyes away from the ice blue orbs that gazed down kindly at him, almost sad for his situation. This is something the scout never encountered before, could have never been prepared to face. He had gotten used to being brutalized. Used to being threatened and yelled at. But this overwhelming kindness from a living and breathing nightmare was far more terrifying than the childhood creatures that had evaded adult notice in his old bedroom closet.

“It's all right,” Ryan said, soothing as if the scout had actually been a frightened child. He ignored the strange looks he got from Duke Haz'Bolian and Vendegal both, he knew what he was doing, felt the words and tone were right. He was about to pounce in a way they probably never thought or imagined. “I won't hurt you,” said the deep as hell voice of kindness. “I won't kill you, and I certainly won't eat you alive.” Ryan let a beautiful and serene smile pass over his lips, then added. “Yet.”

The scout let out a wail of terror, eyes shutting against his will and the ground growing wet from where he pissed himself. Then he started to babble, “Queen Darya sent many units to hassle the center kingdoms. She wants to hurt the king who refused her trade agreements, she wants to have him come to her and beg her to stop attacking, the whole southern kingdom is mobilizing for war. Please, oh please don't eat me alive!”

Ryan enjoyed the look of admiration for his tactics from Vendegal, but Haz'Bolian gave the huge man a sidelong look and kept his features bland. The Duke did notice the lack of negative reaction from Vendegal, so asked Ryan carefully, “You weren't serious, right?”

Ryan's deep baritone emitted a booming laughter and he held his sides, unable to contain himself any longer. The prisoner was allowed enough slack to press his face into the ground while kneeling, shaking and hiding from the awfully deep voice as best he could. A few moments later, Vendegal joined him with his high tenor, and a few moments after that, the Duke was laughing with them too. Ryan's amusement carried a bit farther than his two comrade's comfort zone however, and he took distinct pleasure in not having directly answered Haz'Bolian's question.

Vendegal mused out loud, prodding the shaken enemy scout with his boot, “What shall we do with this thing?”

“Let him go,” Ryan suggested immediately. That earned a glance up from the ground from the small guy who wondered if he was to be Ryan's food or not.

“You can't be serious,” Haz'Bolian replied quickly, followed with a fast agreement from Vendegal.

“I am,” Ryan explained. “We got what we needed to know, now this poor bastard can take word to his unit what faces them if they come raiding here.” He paused for effect. “Me.”

Instantly seeing the benefits from such a suggestion, Vendegal bent down and unlocked the iron cuffs that had bound the enemy scout's feet and ankles together. Haz'Bolian didn't say anything further or try to stop the Garrison Commander, but his expression showed that he didn't approve. He wasn't about to voice it either, not in front of the enemy.

Noticing he was free once the heavy wooden collar was released, the scout got to his feet slowly, stretching his limbs carefully, watching Ryan and ignoring everything else, his fearful expression dancing with troubled thoughts across his features. He seemed uncertain, jerky.

Ryan leaned towards him slightly, then bellowed from the pit of his stomach up through his thick neck in a shout that rumbled off the walls of nearby buildings. “Flee while you can!”

Even as distant heads turned to the shout and even farther off people flinching, the enemy scout turned and fled with an amazing speed. His high pitched screaming followed him down the road like some unsettled ghost and was quickly out of sight.

“Goodness,” Vendegal commented dryly. “I hope he slows down long enough to report what he found to his commander before he leaves the country.”