The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (56 page)

As the party neared the place, Vaun studied it from habit. He’d grown used to carefully examining places he approached, looking for hidden enemies. The Strom Forest had taught him to never let his guard down, and Landsby had taught him to trust no one he didn’t know.

The waystation was pretty much the same as the others they’d visited. Built more like a fortress than an inn, it was a tall, straight building made of the strong northern hardwood trees and solid mountain stones. This one was a story larger than the others they’d encountered, being six stories instead of the usual four or five. Thorne commented this was probably because this road, if it could be called that, was more well traveled than others.

Windows on every floor gleamed harshly in the sunlight, and a score or more people milled in and out of the building. Also like the other waystations, this one seemed well and solidly built, both against the strong winter and possible attacks. A small patrol of soldiers, probably Nordens or Yardans, mixed with the patrons of the establishment. Each waystation had its own private guard, and these structures were so essential to the trade industry of all the Northern Kingdoms that each country rotated a support force. Northerners in general, Thorne had said, expected an assault almost every day, even though they weren’t a people known for being suspicious.

A one-story, rectangular stable connected to the main building at one side, and the similarity of these two structures to all the others made Vaun wonder if he and his companions had accidentally backtracked their trail. As they rode near enough to read its name, however, Vaun saw that they hadn’t lost their way.
The Winter’s Solstice
, the freshly-painted sign proclaimed, standing by itself some fifty paces or so from the building. The names of all the northern waystations had something to do either with the cold or the king, and sometimes both.

Vaun’s delight in the simple and sometimes creative names of the establishments he’d stayed in throughout his journey had diminished as the weather turned colder and their quest lengthened. He had more pressing matters to concern him, like avoiding death by a sword strike or the cold, than the names people gave to their places of business. This tendency had bothered him at first, but he reconciled it with knowing that he continued to read each name and remember it. Though the novelty had worn off, he still enjoyed the cleverness he often encountered.

The young traveler welcomed the idea of sleeping indoors for a change, so much so that he didn’t truly care what the place was called. They’d been able to find a waystation to sleep in every few nights, but they spent most nights wrapped tightly in their blankets and pressed closely to as large a fire as they dared build. Keeping watch had become a grueling test of discipline and endurance. They still worried about pursuit, even though the Jaga had either killed all of the Mahalian soldiers or driven them back to their corrupt city.

Vaun and Thorne gathered everyone’s reins after they’d all dismounted, and Vaun entered the stable behind the dwarf. The warmth and smell of dozens of mounts came to him immediately after stepping inside the wide double doors. The closeness of the building made the stench almost as strong as that of Landsby. Stalls lined either side of a wide passageway that ran the length of the stable. Two stableboys came shivering up to Thorne and the Swordsman, and after securing a place and good care for their steeds Vaun and Thorne went to join their companions.

Vaun noticed as he entered the main building itself that three of the soldiers watched him closely. He wasn’t sure what could make them suspicious, unless they were staring as everyone did at the sword on his back. The farther north they traveled, the Swordsman gained more attention than he liked because of his Vaulka. People recognized the weapon immediately, but where the youth wore it tended to attract their interest more than his possession of such a rare sword. Most people concluded he was only trying to be different, but others grew instantly suspicious, although none had confronted him. Vaun was glad for that. The soldiers appeared merely curious, but the way they followed him made his side itch a little. Idly scratching at the irritation, he reminded himself to stay alert.

The interior of the waystation, though slightly larger, resembled the others. Vaun wondered if perhaps the same man had been responsible for the design of all of them and wondered why he hadn’t tried to incorporate at least some variety. The sameness was not only boring; it was downright creepy. He kept wondering if he had gotten anywhere the last few days, or if he was just riding in circles.

Tables spread neatly around the common room, with a bar covering the back left corner in a semicircle and a large fireplace to the right. Booths lined the other walls, and travelers packed almost every available seat. Torches and lanterns lit the place well, and various pipes added a pleasant, though somewhat stifling, odor to the air. Thorne spotted the others and grabbed Vaun’s wrist to guide him through the press of tables and bodies.

A large man rose from behind a table beside the door. “Weapons, please.” His voice was as deep as his chest, and he stood close to seven feet tall, with bulging muscles. Dark eyes studied the dwarf and the companion, though from nothing but bland habit. He had his big hands clasped before him, looking both calm to the point of boredom and prepared for war at once. Weapons of all shapes, sizes, and kinds neatly lined the corner behind him, and his demeanor told the two comrades he welcomed no argument.

Astonished at having to surrender his sword, for he’d never had to before, Vaun hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of giving his Vaulka to a stranger, though he felt sure it would be safe.

Thorne readily complied, unbuckling his belt almost before the big man finished speaking. Handing the northman his hammer and daggers, Thorne turned and waited for Vaun. The Swordsman hadn’t moved.

“Weapons, please.” The man didn’t threaten in any way, but the simple repetition of his request told Vaun that he made no exceptions. The youth would either turn his weapons over or leave the establishment.

Thorne elbowed Vaun in the side, breaking the youth’s eye contact with the guard. Glancing briefly at the dwarf and then back at the man towering over him, Vaun slowly complied.

When the Vaulka slid from his back, Vaun almost immediately felt its absence. The Song made a quiet sound like a dirge, then faded away as if going to its room to cry. The Rhythm followed shortly after.

Vaun handed the scabbarded blade to the guard, whose eyes widened when he recognized what kind of sword it was. The big man then nodded knowingly and placed it slightly away from the other weapons behind him. He appeared to understand the hesitation to relinquish such a fine sword, and his nod reassured the youth his blade would be well looked after. Vaun heard the Song, too, echo its faith in the good care it would receive.

After handing over his daggers, Vaun turned to find everyone in the common room watching him anxiously. The owner stood behind the bar, idly drying a cup that didn’t need it. Tavern girls had stopped in midstride, laden trays balanced on one hand. A young boy held three glasses over a dish-filled crate, ignoring the steady trickle of undrunk ale that ran over his arm from the one he held upside down. One man had his tankard raised to his lips, but he hadn’t drunk anything. Another had food halfway to his open mouth. Even the fire seemed to have slowed its dancing as it waited for Vaun’s reaction.

Slightly embarrassed at having silenced the tavern and caught everyone’s attention, Vaun lowered his head and wordlessly followed Thorne to their table. He tried to ignore the one group closest to the door that still appeared ready to bolt from their seats in case trouble started. As the youth sat, movement and conversation slowly returned to the common room, several patrons muttering about the peculiarities of Rameners. Apparently, few people challenged the no-weapons policy of this waystation.

Drath smiled at Vaun as he sat. “What’s the matter, Swordsman? Don’t trust anybody with that instrument of death of yours?”

Vaun glared half-angrily as the tall man and the others laughed good-naturedly. He remained silent, not finding a good enough rebuttal or wanting to spend time explaining how the tall man had insulted his sword.

Merdel patted the Swordsman’s arm. “Don’t worry, Vaun. Weapons-checking is common in the north. Your sword is safe.”

“I hope so.” The youth wasn’t at all pleased at having to surrender his weapon, but there was nothing he could do. If he wanted to avoid trouble, he had to abide by the same rules as everyone else.

When their food came, Vaun turned his attention away from concern for his sword. He was hungry for a decent meal and wanted to savor every bite. His enjoyment of travel rations and the occasional rabbits the elf cousins had caught had declined along with his delight in the simple things. This distressed him, as well, but upon reflection he discovered it meant he was becoming more like someone born to this kind of life, and that pleased him most of all.

With the onset of winter and the farther north the party traveled, fresh meat had become almost a luxury. None of the meals they’d had since Mahal had been of high quality, though Thorne was a surprisingly adept cook, but they had kept the group alive. Eating had become more of a survival necessity than an enjoyment to the young adventurer, and Vaun was anxious to have some decent food. He had discovered that the books he’d read were of little help in coping with all the different hardships of a long journey. Only the loyal guidance of his companions, coupled with his immense desire to live in this place, kept him from falling into despair many times.

They had thick slices of meat, probably bear or buffalo, along with hard bread and ale. Vaun drank water, having given up the bitter drink completely. It made his head hurt too much. He would’ve preferred wine, something he’d developed a taste for, but northerners weren’t too good at making palatable vintages. There were few vegetables available anywhere, and the ones they had this night, while sustaining, were not appetizing. Still, the meat was fresh, a welcome respite from the dried rations they’d consumed for most of their trip.

Vaun ate slowly, allowing his eyes to drift over the expansive common room. He tried to assess the fighting capabilities of each person in the room but found it was more difficult without his Vaulka nearby. He’d discovered the Song gave him this ability shortly before reaching Mahal. The music would play either smooth and rhythmical or harsh and stuttering, depending on the talents of the person observed. The wealth of combat he’d experienced in Mahal had allowed him to trust what the Song predicted about each man. On looking around the room, Vaun grinned at a woman sitting at a table surrounded by overly interested males. She sat casually, probably because the symphony emanating from her dwarfed the clunky tunes of the men. This was one ability Vaun liked.

The place became more and more crowded as darkness fell, and Vaun found himself sitting next to a rather fat man who smelled as if he’d ridden hard for several weeks and hadn’t bathed since long before his journey began. The smell made the youth consider his own long-unbathed body, and he hoped he didn’t reek quite as bad as the person next to him.

The man was dark-skinned and light-haired, making Vaun suspect, from Thorne’s lessons, that he probably hailed from one of the northern kingdoms on the other side of the Midlands. From his accent, a kind of rolling speech set off by clipped consonants, Vaun guessed him to be from Algarad.

According to Thorne, Algaradans were a hard, seafaring folk who preferred the company of others of their own country. This trait made the youth wonder why this particular man, if he was from there, was so far from home. The number of rings on his pudgy fingers and the heavy gold chains around his neck proclaimed him to be possessed of some wealth, and his talk with the men around him named him a merchant. What kind of business a trader from Algarad, which dealt mainly in spices and exotic foods, could do this far north escaped Vaun. Algarad traders usually did most of their trade with the far-off Eastern Realms.

The merchant looked Vaun over briefly, his eyes hiding his thoughts. Vaun wasn’t sure what to think of the man’s scrutiny and was glad when he finally turned away. He didn’t like being stared at, even by someone who was merely curious. The Song didn’t make any sound when Vaun had met the man’s eyes, not even blurting out its contempt for poor or non-fighters as it did when it encountered such. This trader must be below its notice, which meant he was no threat to anyone.

The rest of the patrons appeared to be northerners from this area, with a few families intermixed among weary travelers and rough warriors. Several times a running child bumped Vaun’s chair, and the mother or father promptly scolded the child while giving the Swordsman apologetic looks. Some of the parents appeared apprehensive not because their child had disturbed someone, but because he or she had disturbed
him
. His confrontation with the weapons checker apparently still troubled some people. Vaun tried to look as harmless as possible, even going so far as to smile and laugh at the antics of the children. At that, a couple of the fathers sighed so heavily that Vaun wondered if they had expected him to become enraged and try to kill them. It bothered him that people thought him so dangerous, even though it pleased his imagination. He discovered that perhaps being a terrific warrior wasn’t as grand as he imagined it to be.

A minstrel had started playing some time during the evening, and Vaun at last tuned his ears to his singing. He sang now of Tellek Ull, the only Swordsman to come from the north. Tellek, a staunch pacifist, had considered his Swordsman talents a curse, but nevertheless sought a position among the guard of the Yardan king, his sovereign. After each battle he went to confess his sins and begged the Great God to remove his gifts. The priesthood had tried to convince Tellek that his actions were sanctioned by the Great God, as only He could have given the Swordsman his talents. Tellek, unconvinced, spent his entire life trying to find someone to defeat him so he could expiate his soul.