Shadow Of The Mountain (29 page)

But what was he saying about the markings on Desik’s arm? Something about a dragon? Tenlon had seen the markings and couldn’t really discern much in the way of individual images. It was more of a blended collection of colors and patterns.

After filling Desik’s mug, Brock moved out from behind the bar to have a seat at one of the round tables. Hagart followed with his ale, and the two began to speak in low tones. Tenlon thought that perhaps they were discussing he and Desik, but then the bartender handed over a small purse of coins, which the old sailor emptied on the table to count.

Leaving the men to their business, Tenlon watched Desik in the mirror. The warrior’s elbows rested against the bar, his shoulders hunched up around his mug. There was so much he didn’t know about him, except of course that he was a man of violence.

“Well?” Desik asked sourly, turning to him.

“Well what?”

“We’re partners now, I suppose,” he continued. “So if there’s anything you might want to ask me, now’s the time. I imagine Brock’s little display of whimsy has fired the boilers of your scholar’s curiosity. Might not get another chance.”

Tenlon thought about where to begin. Desik was a mystery, and who knew when these gates would open again?

“Are you one of those academy students that survived the attempt on the King’s life?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

“How old were you?”

“I was turning fifteen in the fall. Old for the class.”

“What happened in there? During the attack?”

“Next question.”

Tenlon stumbled forward, not wanting to waste any time. “What did Brock mean, about the marks on your arm?”

Desik sighed, neatly spinning his mug on its edge with a fingertip. “Not everyone dies clean in a fight. After the attack was put down and the surgeons came, we sat with each other. Drank, talked…waited.” Desik seemed to lose himself as he gazed at his rotating mug. Tenlon had never seen that look on him before.

“You were waiting for your friends to pass,” he said softly.

The warrior pulled his hand away and the mug spun to a stop. “Healianos brought in men to give us all the dragon tattoo, even the boys we had to bury. Said it’d link us together, no matter where we went or what we did.” He shook his head, the edge of a smirk on his face. “Seems foolish now, but I think he felt he had to do something. Anything. We weren’t in control that night, none of us were.”

Desik lifted his mug, arching an eyebrow. “Scary shit,” he muttered before taking a sip.

“I can’t even imagine,” Tenlon exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “Can I…Can I see it? The dragon?”

Desik pushed against the bar with his foot, sliding his stool back. Unbuttoning the cuff of his jacket, he slid the sleeve up to his elbow, extending his arm.

Tenlon looked into the twisting patterns of forest green and shining scales of blue, red, silver, and gold. He could just barely see the outline of a curled bronze dragon on the inside of his forearm, but it was there, looking back at him with one stern eye. It was a fierce and lean dragon, born in dark times.

“It’s almost completely hidden.”

“Aye. That’s the point.”

“Why would you want to hide it? You’re heroes.”

Desik scoffed at the notion. “Hardly. And it suited me during my youth, but as I grew older the king needed me for certain…tasks. Ones that would best not be traced back to the Amorian banner.”

“What kind of tasks?”

“Menial things mostly.” He waved the question off, rolling his sleeve back down.

Tenlon decided not to probe any deeper. He hadn’t known Desik long, but whatever a man of his talents had done for the King, it wouldn’t have been menial.

He could still see the warrior riding hard into the Blackwolves as the sun set over that final ridgeline, his sword driving through them like a relentless scythe. The creatures came at him and died as if it were written in the stars. Numbers didn’t matter to him and he was the only one of their escort to ride out of Killian Forest alive. And then there was the giant whose boots Tenlon had scuffed when they’d first arrived in Ebnan, dropped to the ground faster than a fluttering eyelid.

Desik had never backed away from any of it.

“You’re good, aren’t you?” he asked in all seriousness. “I mean, you’re
really
good.”

The man shrugged but said nothing of it.

“Did they actually send the lot of you around the realm, to learn the sword?”

“We traveled a bit,” Desik said thoughtfully, scratching his growing beard. “Picked up a few techniques abroad. Nothing too exciting though.”

Tenlon couldn’t help but smile. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not exactly the most spellbinding of storytellers?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”

“I’ve heard that on occasion,” Tenlon admitted. “Tell me, what did you say to Brock that made him back off so? He looked alarmed.”

Desik lifted his shoulders. “I politely asked him to change the subject.”

“No you didn’t,” Tenlon replied with certainty. “…Did you?”

Suddenly the tavern’s entrance swung open behind them.

Tenlon knew the Lonely Fox was open for business to the public, but he’d been enjoying their time alone. Secretly he hoped that whoever it was, they wouldn’t be staying long.

Eyes returning to the mirror, he saw a tall figure in the doorway behind them, silhouetted against the glow of early sunset.

Clean-shaven and handsome, the newcomer appeared to be in his mid-twenties with thick black hair cut along the jaw line. He walked in with an arrogant strut, both hands stuffed into the pockets of a knee-length hooded jacket of charcoal-dyed leather. He paused as Gemma moved past, his eyes following her until she disappeared behind the kitchen door. After she was gone, he tilted his head, smiling to himself.

Tenlon watched the man approach the bar in the mirror’s reflection, seeing him take a seat two empty stools away from Desik. The stranger’s arrival seemed to have put a halt to their discussion, for the warrior now sipped quietly from his mug with a vacant gaze. After a moment the young man spread his hands at the apparently empty bar.

“Is this a tavern with no tender?” he asked amiably, looking back across the open dining area.

“I do apologize,” Brock declared as he stood. Shaking hands with Hagart, the old sailor tightened the coin pouch and headed for the exit. Brock slid behind the bar. “We have golden ale from Aranport, though the bite on it is a bit mild for most. The Thoran Brown seems to be the favored choice around here. More copper than brown, really. Thick head, bitter at first, but it’ll make you a believer after a few pulls.”

The newcomer looked over in their direction. “And is that what they’re drinking?”

“Sure is,” Brock said.

Lanard’s flute still played, filling the air with a fluid melody.

“The brown will be perfect. Many thanks,” he said, motioning to Tenlon and Desik. “And another round for these two travelers, on me.”

Brock looked to Desik, eyebrow raised in question. The warrior refused the drinks with a subtle shake of his head.

The bartender smiled politely. “A kind gesture, but I think they’re content for the moment. Just the brown then?”

“Yes, please and thank you,” the man said, placing a silver coin on the bar.

Brock took a mug from the counter beneath the mirror and filled it with dark ale before placing it in front of the man. Picking up the ale, the young stranger examined the mug’s glaze work in the lantern light. Looking to Desik once more, he raised the drink to him before taking a long sip.

The air was tight with tension. Tenlon felt as though he should remain silent, though he couldn’t explain why. He didn’t think the man was a threat, certainly not to someone of Desik’s skill, but his companion’s mood had shifted at his arrival.

Desik still stood next to his stool, leaning one elbow against the bar and slowly spinning the mug on its bottom edge with his free hand.

“Where are you from?” the stranger asked them, running a hand through his hair to tuck it behind an ear.

Desik slowly brought the spinning mug to a stop. The words were left to hang open in the air so long that Tenlon wasn’t even sure he would answer.

“We’re not looking to make any new friends,” the warrior soon said.

The young man tilted his head back in laughter. “One should always be open to making new friends. Besides, I only wanted to buy you a drink.” He slid over onto a stool closer to the both of them. “Tell me, is it just the two of you here or…”

“If you don’t stand up right now and walk out of here,” Desik calmly told the man, fastening eyes on him, “I’m going to break your fucking jaw.”

The man smiled oddly, holding Desik’s stare.

Lanard changed tunes then, slipping into something more lively, completely oblivious to the hostility simmering within the tavern. Tenlon felt his limbs start to shake, but he still didn’t know if they were actually in danger.

“Well,” the younger man finally said, draining his mug with several gulps before placing it back on the bar. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

Sliding his stool back, he stood. After thanking Brock for the drink, he pulled the hood of his jacket up, slid his hands back into his pockets, and made for the exit. Pushing the heavy door open to the golden light of evening, he stopped, allowing it to close.

Walking over to Lanard near the fireplace, he dropped a few coins into the musician’s jar on the mantle.

Lanard continued to play, nodding his head in appreciation.

Before the man exited, he turned towards Desik again. “I’ll see you around,” he smiled.

The door closed slowly behind him. Desik rose to follow him out, and Tenlon leapt up in pursuit.

They were only paces behind the man, yet upon exiting the tavern found that he was nowhere to be seen. A cool wind blew swirls of dust across the street and a few vendors were boarding up their carts for the night, but the stranger was gone. It was as if he had vanished.

Desik stood out there for a time, dagger in hand. Sheathing the blade, he turned to head back inside.

“What was that about?” Tenlon asked.

“I’m sure it was nothing,” the warrior said, holding the door open and guiding him in. “Back inside, little mage.”

Tenlon was beginning to understand Desik’s reservations about their meeting. These were indeed dangerous times to be expected by strangers, and it was just the two of them. Their next moves forward must be walked with care. Should
they
vanish, no one would come looking for them and the egg would be lost. They were alone in this city, he thought, returning to the warmth of the tavern. And careful was better than dead any way you sliced it.

Chapter 16

Draz bent over the dying fire, gently blowing the coals to flame. Beside him sat a pile of leaves and a small pile of twigs and branches. The trick to restarting a fire, he knew, was long, even breaths. The inexperienced blew too hard and only fools used leaves to feed a blaze. The key to it was like so many other things in life: patience. Don’t drop the larger pieces on too soon, but work up to them, letting the fire grow until the blaze burns bright and hot. Then you’ll have a fire that lasts the night, instead of what happened here.

And this night was in need of a good fire, for it was both cold and dark with passing clouds that hung above them like shifting black cloaks. Looking up, Draz still could not see the stars or moon, but it bothered him little. He’d have the fire back to life shortly and knew exactly where he was.

The forest around him felt alive. The trees swayed softly in the wind, rubbing their leaves together in the brittle and rustling songs of coming winter. After a few more breaths, he saw thin flames rise from the glowing embers to dance across the edges of an already charred hunk of wood. Leaning a few dry pieces over the flame, he continued to blow.

The fire crackled to life, illuminating a disheveled campsite around its glow.

Eight silent forms lay around him in their blankets—on their backs, sides or stomachs, lying however men of such filth find sleep.

Draz tried to remain calm, but it was pointless. His thoughts were in a fury, his muscles twitching. He was in trouble. No sense denying it.

Maybe not this day or even this week, but soon they’d have to answer for their actions. What they did here would not go unnoticed for long. And when that day came, Trobe would be the least of their worries.

Patience. The word sat on his mind like an open sore.

There was a time for recklessness in battle, for haste and daring acts, a bit of risk mixed in with the safe and secure. Perhaps that’s what had kept him going forward with all of this. Risks had to be taken in war, so long as the reward was worthy of it.

Risk and caution. The two held seats at opposite ends of the table, but they weren’t completely separate. Both were connected by a common thread. For either to be successful— both the risky ploy and the cautious stratagem—patience was paramount. Timing was everything. Push anything too hard, move anywhere too fast, or reach for anything too high, and you run the risk of falling on your face. War rarely favored the impetuous for long.

Draz pushed a few glowing coals closer to the flame, wondering where this little venture would rank in the days to come. He grew nauseated just thinking about it.

He knew they were safe for the moment, that he and his brothers held the advantage, but still there was fear. Whether it was fear of what was to come in the next few minutes or fear of the repercussions for what had already been done, he could not say. Both maybe.

So now this sense of panic sat on his shoulders and chest like an iron breastplate left out in winter—heavy and cold, uncomfortable. He could feel its bite sinking into his limbs, chilling his blood.

Fear.

They shouldn’t have come looking for these men. He knew that now. This was a mistake. He was the leader, and his first decision in the field was that of a hotheaded recruit. Go after them? With a handful of boys, without telling anyone of their intentions? It was idiocy of the most magnificent measure. So much could’ve gone wrong, so many variables could have changed to put their lives in peril.