Children of Fire (32 page)

“She didn't have an accent,” Keegan pointed out. “Maybe her father was a merchant from this town who married a woman from Callastan, then came back here to settle down.”

“Perhaps,” Jerrod conceded. “But there is something dangerous about her.”

Keegan smiled. “Are you saying she's a spy for the Order?”

“No, probably not,” the monk conceded. “But I sensed a hunger in her. She may have grown bored with the men of this village. She might be looking to share the bed of a young merchant this evening.”

Keegan wasn't sure if he was joking. Truth be told, he found himself strangely drawn to the olive-skinned girl with the dark hair. There had been an unspoken challenge in her gaze and a defiance in her stance that demanded an answer. That had intrigued him as much as the lean, hard beauty of her body.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts Jerrod added, “We are here to rest. Do not do anything foolish. Remember what happened the last time you gave in to your carnal passions.”

This time the young man knew his companion was being gravely serious. He made himself a mental note to always be aware of the witchroot in his blood. He didn't want to do anything he might later regret.

They reached the stables at the back and a tall young lad of maybe fifteen came out to meet them.

“Evening, m'lords,” he said with an earnest, awkward bow.

“Scythe said you would look after our horses for us,” Jerrod said.

“Of course, m'lords. Take what you need and then I'll water and rub them down for you.”

Keegan grabbed a few essentials from the packs. He briefly considered taking everything, but looking at the simple, honest eyes of the stable boy he couldn't imagine that anything he left with the horses would end up missing. He didn't even bother to grab the roll of blankets that hid Rexol's staff, though out of habit he did grab a single vial of the witchroot extract and the small bag containing a few minor charms. Not that he would have any need of them in this place.

“You can go in through the back way here. Just head up to the bar and talk to Gavid to get the keys for your rooms.”

They did just that, and within ten minutes they were standing at the doors of their respective sleeping chambers.

“We can have dinner downstairs,” Jerrod said. “We might as well conserve our supplies. But we can't spend long in the tavern. Early to bed; I want to be gone at daybreak.”

“Give me twenty minutes to clean up and I'll meet you downstairs.”

Jerrod nodded, then opened the door to his room and went inside. Keegan did the same.

As the young woman had promised, the room was clean, if a little small. A single bed, a chair, and a tiny table had been jammed into the tight space. A small washbasin and a pitcher of water rested on the table. There was a small window in the corner, shuttered against the chill of the night.

Keegan splashed some water on his face, the cool liquid washing away the dirt and grime of the road. From the pouch at his belt he withdrew the small vial of witchroot and let a few drops spill onto his tongue, scowling at the bitterness. Hopefully by the time he went down for his meal the aftertaste would be gone.

He went over to the bed and collapsed on it with an audible sigh. The mattress was firm, but compared with the hard ground he was used to it may as well have been stuffed with handpicked down from the geese of the wealthiest lord in all the Seven Capitals.

He lay there for several minutes, struggling against the urge to let himself drift off into blissful sleep despite his rumbling stomach. His eyelids fluttered and suddenly he was dreaming in a fitful doze. Not a vision, but a simple, ordinary dream of the young, olive-skinned woman they had first met sitting naked astride him.

Her taut muscles flex in rhythm to his own as she rides him, her skin sheened with sweat; soft moans of passion escape her lips. Her back arches, her moans rise in pitch, she bucks and grinds against him …

And suddenly he was awake again. He laughed and forced himself to sit up before he drifted off again. The witchroot was to blame, of course; it stirred up the passions. But though the witchroot had caused it, there was no significance to the dream. It was nothing but a lustful fantasy … and as close as he would get to a woman tonight.

He took a deep breath, savoring one last time the erotic mental image of her naked body against his own bare flesh, then got to his feet. He couldn't have slept long—a few minutes at most. Any more and Jerrod would have come to check up on him. But if he didn't hurry down the monk might come up to see what was taking so long, and Keegan had no desire to get on his bad side tonight.

He briefly considered taking the leather pouch with his charms, then decided against it. Rexol had taught him that a wizard should never go anywhere without something that could augment the power of a hastily formed spell, but he had a small bit of giant's bone on a necklace beneath his shirt in the unlikely event he needed to summon Chaos. He also decided against taking the vial of witchroot he had with him. He placed it in with the charms, then stuffed the small bag beneath his pillow, left, and locked his room.

The monk was already seated at a table in the corner; he could just make him out through the crowd. As he crossed the room he caught sight of an enormous man with ruddy, sunburned skin, flaming red hair, and a thick, red beard, but his mind was too tired to care what an Eastern savage would be doing here, of all places.

He took his seat next to Jerrod. “I don't see the young woman we met at the door,” he said casually.

“I saw her earlier speaking with that rather large barbarian,” Jerrod informed him. “I believe they are more than just friends. Yet another reason to be suspicious.”

Jerrod was obviously on edge. The line of his jaw was set hard, as if he was expecting trouble.

“You worry too much,” Keegan said, hoping to calm him.

It didn't seem to help. He supposed it was inevitable the monk would see conspiracies and treachery everywhere he looked; it was part and parcel of being a fanatic. That didn't mean they both had to worry about it, though.

Even so, he couldn't help but cast a quick glance over at the giant savage. His arms were as big around as Keegan's thigh. The lingering images of his erotic dream were swept away by a vivid picture of the barbarian catching Keegan and his lover in the act, then ripping Keegan's limbs from his torso in a jealous rage.

Even the haze of the witchroot wasn't enough to make him risk the wrath of the living mountain leaning against the bar, and he quickly pushed all thoughts of the Island girl from his mind as he raised his hand to call the waitress over.

Scythe wiggled and twisted and turned until she finally managed to slip her small form through the tiny window of the second-story room. She stood in the darkness for a minute, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom and trying to catch her breath. Scaling the wall had been easy, but the tight squeeze through the window had been a struggle.

But there was no need to rush. The merchants were in the tavern downstairs enjoying their supper, giving her plenty of time to search their stuff for anything worth stealing. And if they should unexpectedly try to return to their rooms Norr would create a compelling diversion. It was a tactic the two of them had used many times in towns other than Praeton, and it hadn't failed them yet.

It was just like old times—except for the disappointment in Norr's eyes when she had quickly whispered to him what she planned to do. Had they been alone he might have tried to talk her out of it, but in the crowded confines of the Singing Dragon's tavern he could only give her the disapproving stare. Then at last, he had nodded.

The older of the two men had already been down in the tavern when she spoke to Norr. She could sense him staring at her and Norr, but she quickly dismissed it as idle curiosity—Islanders and Easterners were unfamiliar sights this deep into the Southlands. When she heard the young man coming down the stairs to join his companion, she had quickly slipped out the door, then made her way around to the back of the inn.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness of her surroundings, so she began a methodical and thorough search of the first room. It was hardly worth the effort. They had left their saddlebags with the horses, and what had been brought up wasn't worth stealing. She turned her attention to all the usual spots people tried to hide their wealth—under the mattress, stuffed beneath the pillow, tucked away above the doorjamb—but her search turned up nothing save dust and a few dead insects.

When she saw the men it was obvious they weren't carrying much in the way of actual goods, but the extra pack horses had given her some hope that they were wealthier than they appeared. She'd guessed they were traveling merchants looking to purchase inventory they could bring back home and sell at a profit. If that were true, they'd be carrying substantial portable wealth in order to purchase enough stock to make their journey worthwhile. So where were the gems, jewelry, and gold coins she had expected to find?

She bit her lip in frustration then smiled when a sudden hope hit her. There were two men; maybe they had stored all their valuables in the second room. With some difficulty she wriggled out through the tiny window and back onto the second-story ledge, then shuffled her way along to the next room's window.

Here, she thought to herself, she'd find something more interesting.

Norr was only half listening to Gil's out-of-tune singing. He had to keep an eye on the two strangers, to make sure they didn't head up to their rooms until Scythe was done. He dreaded to imagine what might happen if they caught her going through their things.

He wasn't worried about Scythe; she could look after herself with the razor-sharp knives she always kept hidden somewhere on her person. But if she overreacted—an all-too-common occurrence with his hot-blooded love—one of the merchants might end up lying in a pool of blood on the floor. And that would be it for their life in Praeton.

Norr now wished he hadn't agreed to her plan. But Scythe needed this; the simple life in Praeton was unbearable to her. She hadn't said anything, but Norr could see it in her eyes. She endured Praeton for him and him alone. The least he could do was allow her a chance to play the cat burglar from time to time.

And it wasn't like these men were friends or people who knew them. These travelers weren't like the rare folk of Praeton who welcomed Norr into their fold despite his foreign ways and appearance. These were strangers, the kind of people who hated and despised him because of his Eastern heritage. Or so the barbarian kept telling himself over and over.

He kept one eye on the table; the other's focus was split between Gil and the door he kept praying Scythe would stroll in through. He hoped the men wouldn't get up to leave before she came back. He hoped they wouldn't force him into a confrontation. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. But of course it did.

Not twenty minutes after they had sat down to eat the strangers were done. Leaving a few coins on the table to pay for their meal, they rose from their chairs and began to cross the room. Fortunately, their path would bring them right past the main bar where Norr and his companions were gathered.

The big barbarian turned his back to the strangers and raised his half-full flagon in one massive hand. He picked up the reflection of the advancing pair in the polished ornamental shield that hung on the wall behind the bar and waited until they were right beside him.

He spun suddenly, an overexaggerated turn with the arm holding his drink extended far out in front of him while loudly asking, “Where's Scythe?” to make it appear as if he was turning to scan the crowd for his lover. His arm slammed into the chest of the younger of the two men, and Norr made certain the entire contents of his ale poured down the front of his shirt.

The man gave a cry of surprise as the cold, foamy liquid drenched his clothes and the skin beneath. His shout drew every eye in the tavern, which was suddenly and shockingly silent.

Herrick good-naturedly bellowed, “Damn clumsy barbarians!” and the patrons laughed, dispelling the tense silence.

Norr silently cursed his friend. It was hard for him to start a bar brawl at the best of times—for some reason people were reluctant to take a swing at a man a foot taller and several hundred pounds heavier than they were. And if the good-natured Herrick was going to defuse the situation, provoking these merchants would be all but impossible.

But there were other ways to keep them from reaching the top of the stairs.

“I'm so sorry,” Norr exclaimed, reaching out to paw at the dripping clothes of the young man in a futile attempt to mop up the stain.

The young man didn't react, he just stared at Norr with wide, slightly terrified eyes. It was obvious he wasn't about to start anything.

Fortunately his companion reached out and slapped the meaty paw away.

“Don't touch him,” the older man said quietly. The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

His eyes weren't angry, but there was something definitely dangerous in them. This one wasn't about to back down from anyone.

“I'm such an oaf,” Norr apologized, letting a sheepish grin spread across his face. He turned his attention to the older man now, placing a beefy hand on his head and tousling his hair: a seemingly friendly gesture that was at once humiliating and often enraging.

“Let me buy you both a drink to make it up to you.”

“Just leave us alone,” the older man insisted, snapping his head away and trying to shove past the barbarian blocking his path.

The merchant could have taken a full run directly into Norr's mountain of flesh and not budged him an inch, but at the slight shove Norr stumbled back and pinwheeled his arms as if to keep his balance.

“Hey!” Gil exclaimed, quickly jumping to Norr's defense. “It was just an accident! He said he was sorry!”

He might have said more, but the man turned his cold gaze on him, instantly killing any further words in the would-be bard's throat.

“Look,” Herrick said, playing peacemaker once more, “nobody wants any trouble. If you don't want to accept our apology, you're free to go.”

Norr would have none of that. He reached out a huge paw and dropped it—hard—onto the younger man's shoulder.

“No hard feelings, buddy!” he loudly declared, even as the merchant's knees crumpled beneath the enormous weight of the barbarian's mitt and he gasped in pain.

As he had hoped, the older man jumped in to intervene, moving much more quickly than Norr expected. Even more quickly than he would have thought possible. He seized Norr's wrist with both hands, twisting it back and away from his younger companion's shoulder. And then the brawl the barbarian had been looking for finally began.

The man lashed out with a kick to Norr's calf, knocking the big man off balance. Without breaking his grip on Norr's wrist, he turned his body, stepped in close, and tossed him over his hip. The move yanked the barbarian from his feet, flipping his body high in the air to land with a crashing thud on his back, the force of his impact cracking the wooden floorboards beneath him.

Norr stared up at the ceiling with stars in his eyes, gasping for breath and trying desperately not to laugh. He had seen Scythe use a similar move on her opponents, but she had assured him he need never worry about it. “Even with leverage, size makes a difference,” she had explained, “You're too big to flip.” He'd have to tell her how wrong she was.

The sound of screams and crashing furniture jarred him back to the present, and he managed to half sit up so he could see what was happening. Herrick was lying dazed on his back amid the splintered remains of one of the tavern tables, likely the victim of the same move used against Norr. Gil was crumpled on the floor clutching at his groin, his face an ugly shade of purple. Standing in the middle of the carnage in a fighting crouch was the older man. The other had retreated off to the side, hiding himself in a corner while he let his companion—probably his paid bodyguard—deal with the angry crowd.

The barbarian struggled to his hands and knees as Petr, one of the men Norr had worked with in the smithy, rushed the stranger. A flurry of fists and elbows staggered the burly laborer and a jumping back round kick to the chin finished him off. Petr's eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped to the ground.

The barbarian opened his mouth to warn his friends not to interfere. He knew he himself was in no danger—he was too big and too experienced to get seriously hurt in a fistfight, even against a foe as obviously skilled as this. But before the words left his mouth the man took a quick shuffle step back and delivered a sharp kick to Norr's windpipe, somehow aware the big man had managed to get to his knees even though he was facing in the complete opposite direction.

Norr fell forward, choking and gasping for air as his hands reflexively clutched at his throat. His unprotected nose slammed against the hard floor beams; he heard the crunch of cartilage as it broke. He tried to scream a warning to the others but only managed a faint rasping caw, further muffled by the gurgling blood gushing from his nose.

Still lying facedown on the floor, he wretched and coughed, hacking out a shower of thick crimson fluid—but he was rewarded by a rush of welcome air into his lungs. He began to pant heavily, drawing in oxygen until he had the strength to push himself up to his knees once more.

He blinked and wiped away the blinding tears welling up from the blow to his nose. Including Herrick, Petr, and Gil, half a dozen townsmen were incapacitated on the barroom floor. But there were a dozen more encircling their common foe, just gathering up the courage to rush their opponent in unison. A few of them would fall beneath a storm of savage punches and kicks, but the rest would inevitably drag him down beneath the sheer mass of their numbers.

It was impossible for one unarmed man to overcome such overwhelming odds, no matter how skilled. Norr forced himself to stand. When the rush of humanity came he wanted to be in on it, to use his massive bulk to bowl the man over and pin him helplessly to the ground. And to shield him from the angry blows of the villagers once he was down. Norr had provoked this fight; he didn't want to see his opponent get seriously beaten.

The younger man was still standing in the corner; from the corner of his eye Norr saw his lips moving rapidly and his hands weaving strange patterns in the air.

There was a shout from one of the townsmen and the charge began. Norr took a single step forward just as a fist-sized ball of blue light launched itself from the younger man's hand, hurtling toward the fray. And then the room exploded.

Scythe chewed her lip, uncertain what to make of the leather pouch she had found tucked beneath the pillow in the second room. She'd felt a brief satisfaction when she discovered it, but it turned to dismay when she poured the contents out into her hand. No gold, no gems, no expensive jewelry—only a small vial of brownish liquid and a few dozen strange trinkets carved from what appeared to be bone and crystal.

She had seen such objects before; you could buy them on every corner in Callastan. Men and women proclaiming themselves magicians or witches hawked such charms, promising love, luck, fortune, and good health to any who bought them. Scythe was smart enough to recognize a scam when she heard one. If the charms really delivered on their promise, they would cost a lot more than a single piece of silver.

But maybe these were different? Maybe the merchants were heading toward the Free Cities and beyond. Maybe they planned to take one of the trade routes into the North Forest, to deal with the Danaan. It was said the Danaan people had strange and ancient magic, real magic from a time before the Cataclysm. Was it possible these seemingly worthless trinkets actually had magical properties?

And if they did, did she really want to steal them? Scythe was an expert in the cons and swindles of magicians, but she knew almost nothing about true wizards. How much was this stash worth? And if she did take something, where would she even sell it?

There were other concerns, as well. Were these relics safe to take? What kind of power did they possess, and what effects would it have on her if she took them? What if there were some strange protective magic guarding them against theft? She hated to walk away empty-handed, but she wanted to be sure the payoff was worth the risk.

Her deliberations were cut short by a thunderclap from the tavern downstairs. The blast rocked the room, bowing the floor beneath her feet upward. The concussive shock slammed Scythe against the wall and she collapsed on the bed, stunned.