Free the Darkness (King's Dark Tidings Book 1) (7 page)

Rezkin suddenly yanked on the reins and pulled his charger
to an abrupt halt as a small-man ran right in front of him. The small-man was
chasing a round ball. As soon as he caught up with the ball, he kicked it to
another small-man. Several other small-men and a few small-women were running
along side laughing and calling out for the small-man to kick the ball to one
of them.

Rezkin frowned. These small-men and -women should know
better than to run in front of a battle charger. And, none of them were
carrying weapons, nor did they take note of him or his weapons. They were
completely oblivious to their surroundings. They were currently breaking at least
half a dozen
Rules
, not the least of which were
Rules 6 – Know
your surroundings
and
24 – Never let down your guard
. He could
not see how any of these small-men and -women would live to see the next year
of their lives.

He watched the small-men and -women for a few more moments,
taking special care to keep the rest of his surroundings in mind. He had never
seen other small-men, aside from himself in the looking glass when he was
young. He had not imagined there could be so many small-men together in one
place. He could see the advantage in training them in this way, though.
Learning to fight opponents of similar size would be much easier than having
them fight against big-men as he had. The small-women’s garments were
completely unacceptable, though. He could not see how draping one’s body in so
much loose material could be beneficial. Even now, as the small-women were
running, their legs were tangling in the fabric, and they had to keep their
hands occupied with holding the material out of the way. If their hands were
filled with clothing, how could they hope to carry a weapon at the ready?

Rezkin tore his attention away from the small-men and -women
as he noted that more of the villagers had stopped in their chores to stare at
him. Why were they giving him their attention? He was not moving or making any
threatening gestures. If anything, they should be paying attention to the
movements of the small-men in case they decided to launch a surprise attack
during their chaotic fury. Some of the big-men stepped in front of the
big-women, apparently prepared to serve as guards should Rezkin choose to
attack.

The warrior could not see any advantage to attacking these
people. They did not seem very threatening or hostile. If anything, they looked
terrified. The hidden women must have failed to learn their
Skills
since
they were apparently unable to protect themselves. Considering the fact the
grown women were wearing the same ridiculous garments as the small-women, it was
understandable that they would have difficulty during battle even if they had
the
Skills
.

Noting that several of the villagers were eyeing his horse,
he decided these people might think he had hostile intentions since he was the
only mounted man. Rezkin swung down from the saddle, glad for the chance to
stretch his legs. As he started toward one of the produce stands, an anxious
middle-aged man stepped forward from the crowd. He hesitated a moment,
presumably to gauge Rezkin’s reactions. Rezkin stopped and nodded to the man
politely, waiting for the man to speak, as the masters had taught him.

The stranger let out a pent up breath and said, “Good
afternoon, sir. I am Mayor Jorge. We haven’t seen you around here before. Is
there something I can do for you…sir?”

Rezkin would not have guessed this man was the mayor of the
village. He had been taught that mayors were of elevated station, often pompous
and vain. This man looked no different than any of the other villagers in his
muted, brown homespun tunic and pants. His hair was clean but disheveled, and
he looked to have worked up a sweat. Rezkin held out a hand in polite greeting
by commoner standards and replied, “I am Rezkin. It is a pleasure to meet you.
I seek only to resupply, and then I will be on my way.” Rezkin stretched his
lips into one of his practiced smiles that Master Peider insisted belonged with
the pleasantries.

Rezkin knew he had performed correctly when Mayor Jorge’s
shoulders relaxed, and the man smiled in return as he clasped Rezkin’s hand.
“Well, sir, we have some fine produce just harvested this morning. Carlon,
here, is the butcher,” he explained as he pointed to a man over his shoulder,
“and he can get you some decent cuts of meat. Hay and oats are stored down by
the smithy. Is there anything else you might be needing while you’re here?”
While the man acted pleasant enough, it was obvious from the anxious stares and
fidgeting of the villagers that they would prefer for Rezkin to leave the town
as soon as possible.

The warrior shook his head while maintaining his smile. “No,
that should be fine, thank you. Oh,” he said as though he had just remembered
some minor detail, “I am looking for someone who may have traveled through
here. Has anyone not of the village come around in the past week?”

The mayor’s smile slipped, and his eyes darted around the
gathered crowd in query. People shook their heads, and the mayor turned back to
the young warrior. “N-No, sir. Not that we know of, aside from you, that is.
Should we be looking for someone?” he asked nervously, as though he thought he
might be failing a test.

“No, no worries. If you have not seen him then he has
probably passed on by,” Rezkin replied.

Mayor Jorge eyed Rezkin’s swords and asked, “Is the man
dangerous? Should we be concerned?”

Rezkin pondered the question for only a moment before he
replied, “No, I do not expect he would be any kind of threat to you good
people. He is…a comrade of mine.” That tiny voice in the back of Rezkin’s mind
was whispering, “
Of course he is not a threat to the innocent villagers.
”
He will try to kill me
, he reminded the voice.

“I see,” the mayor said, but he did not look convinced as
his eyes fell once again on Rezkin’s swords. Rezkin nodded his thanks and then
headed toward the produce stalls. By this time, the gathered crowd had finally
attracted the attention of the oblivious small-men, and they were gawking at
the massive battle charger as Rezkin bartered for his goods. The deals seemed a
little
too
good, and the young man was once again reminded that these
people wanted him gone.

Upon leaving the village, Rezkin paid close attention to the
bank along the river just in case Farson
had
left his boat in search of
supplies. Rezkin might have been able to find someone in the village willing to
sell him a boat, but then he would have to abandon the battle charger. There
was also the possibility that Farson had left the river on the other side and
headed west toward Caradon, rather than continuing south to Justain. In truth,
Rezkin knew that he had probably already lost Farson for good.

Rezkin decided to continue south to Justain, and if he found
nothing there, he would continue all the way to the capital city of Kaibain.
Farson was a striker, and while the masters and strikers had never really
explained who the strikers were relative to the rest of the kingdom, Rezkin
always had the impression they were, or had at one time, been soldiers. With
their levels of mastery, it was most likely that these particular soldiers had
belonged to the king, rather than some lord’s estate. If he needed to look for
the king’s soldiers, the best place to do that would be the capital.

That thought made him pause. If the strikers
were
part
of the military, did that mean there would be more strikers than just the ones
he knew? If so, was he supposed to kill
all
of the strikers or just the
ones who had been at the fortress? And, if he was supposed to kill strikers and
they
did
work for the king, did that mean he was a traitor against the
crown? But, if he was a traitor against the crown, why had he been bequeathed
the Sheyalin blades?

Maybe Rezkin was supposed to work for the king, and the king
had found out that the strikers were traitors. Perhaps it was only the small
faction at the fortress that was composed of traitors. But why had the masters
killed each other? And, why would the traitors help to train their own killer
if they had known he was supposed to work for the king?

Rezkin shook his head to clear his thoughts. He was getting
ahead of himself. He did not even know for sure that the strikers actually
worked for the king. It had only been an impression of military bearing on his
part, and truth be told, he was not really familiar with any other style of
bearing. He had learned the facts and all the details of how to discern much
about a person by his or her appearance and behavior, but he had not had much
opportunity to put those skills to use since he had been isolated from the
outworld.

Rezkin decided to follow the road to Justain rather than
continue along the river. The road, pitted and overgrown, was not far from the
river as it was, and he thought it was unlikely Farson would make the mistake
of leaving an obvious trail if he did leave his boat. It took four long days in
the saddle to reach the city. Rezkin was surprised how worn he felt considering
he had done little but ride the entire way. His saddle-soreness was already
dissipating, but his body wanted more action. Rezkin had never gone so many
days without endless hours of training. Whenever he would stop at night or
midday and just before dawn he would work his muscles and go through various
weapons forms. Still, it did not feel like it had been enough.

Justain was supposed to be a large city, strategically
located both on the River Straei and the EastWest Trade Route that stretched
from the western coast all the way to the Kingdom of Channería in the East.
Merchants flocked to the city to sell their wares, and all kinds of unusual
items could be found. At least, that is what the masters had told him. Rezkin,
of course, had never been to a city, so the vision in his mind was based
completely on paintings, the diagrams he had seen when learning the
Siege
Skill
, and the descriptions of items, dress, and customs learned from his
instructors. Absolutely nothing he had learned could have prepared him for the
sight before him.

Standing upon the slight hill just north of the city, Rezkin
could finally behold the might of human ingenuity. Perdony was a speck of dust
compared to this fantastical monolith. On the rise in the center was what once
was an old fort that dated from the days of the Conquering. The fort had been
modified and built upon until it resembled what his masters had called a grand
estate.

The estate was surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall that enclosed
a meandering series of gardens and courtyards. On the far eastern side of the
grounds, a row of hedges towered over the boundary of a sprawling garden as if
to conceal what was hidden beyond. On the other side of the hedges were several
practice fields, two rows of barracks and the stables. Rezkin knew from the
maps that this area also contained an armory, smithy, and healers’ quarters,
but he could not see them from where he stood now. The original towers and
battlements of the old fort no longer stood, having been destroyed during the
Conquering, and all of the additions since were primarily decorative for the
intent of showing off the wealth and success of the city.

Beyond the walls of the estate, the city appeared lopsided
and disjointed to Rezkin’s critical eye. The western end of the city was
limited in its ability to expand by the river, so the buildings closest to the
docks were built one upon the other with no space in between. The warehouses
and merchant halls looked sturdy enough, but some of the residences leaned
precariously. The layout made little sense where a few roads came to an abrupt
end when, in desperation for space, people decided to simply build more
structures across the road. Rezkin mentally grunted at the city planners’
carelessness. The current layout impeded efficient flow of goods and services,
isolated key structures from infrastructure support such as the fire brigade,
and created niches that acted as havens for gangs and thieves’ guilds.

The eastern side of the city, having no landforms limiting
expansion, sprawled quite a way into the countryside with large mansions and
minor estates surrounded by wooded paths and carefully sculpted gardens. The
area between the eastern and western districts was where the average commoners,
craftsmen, merchants, service providers, and anyone else with enough money to
get out of the dockside slums lived and worked. The non-craftsmen and women who
were lucky enough to find employment in a lord’s household would live here as
well.

In line with the northern and southern gates of the city was
a wide boulevard that held the shops, stalls, taverns and inns. While this
certainly made trade and travel for visitors easier, Rezkin thought it was a
strategically bad idea to provide this kind direct route for enemies to access
the main estate. But, since the city’s planning was not up to him, he decided
to push the concerns to the back of his mind.

At least the entire city had a decent wall around it, with
the exception of the break around the docks, of course. It was thirty feet high
and made of stone, but was sparsely manned with guards. The masters had told
him the guards were mostly for show since the kingdom was not at war, and
Rezkin could easily believe it. Rezkin thought he might be able to get an
entire battalion across those walls without anyone noticing. Still, the only
violence the kingdom saw was feuds between lords over boarders or honor or some
such, and those battles never came to the cities.

Upon reaching the northern gate, Rezkin noticed that
everyone who approached did so on foot.  As he dismounted behind the last
person in line, he watched the proceedings ahead. A pair of guards stood at
either side of the gate, which was wide open, and a second set of guards stood
to one side speaking with the people who were entering and making notes on a
scroll. An old man driving a cart pulled by a donkey entered the line behind
him. A very young small-man, with perhaps four or five years, sat on the bench
next to the older man and was chattering excitedly. Rezkin turned so that his
back brushed up against his horse, and he could see the pair in his peripheral.
He did not like having people at his back.

“Gampa,” said the small-man, “what kind of horse it that?”

“Shush,” replied the withered old man. “I don’t rightly
know. I ain’t never seen one like it, myself, but I’d say from the stories it’s
a warhorse of some sort.”

“Squeeee! Does that mean he’s a hero?” asked the small-man
excitedly pointing at Rezkin.

Hero? Why does he think I am a hero? I would have to have
done something notable to be a hero.

“Bah, Braen, not everyone who has a warhorse be a hero. Not
every warrior or soldier be a hero, neither. Don’t you go thinkin’ men with
swords is good men ‘cause most of ‘em ain’t,” replied the old man.

The small-man looked back at Rezkin and caught his eye. He
must have seen something that frightened him because his smile fell, and his
face went a little pale as he clung to the old man. Rezkin frowned at the
small-man’s reaction. He had not done anything to intimidate the small-man. He
had not made any threats or hostile gestures. He just stood there. Rezkin
thought back to his teachings. The small-man would have few
Skills
at
his age and that, combined with the old man’s words, might make Rezkin seem
intimidating. He had no desire to seem intimidating. Neither the old man nor
the small-man had done anything to him, nor were they breaking any laws as far
as he knew. He had not been ordered to kill either of them, so they really had
no reason to fear him.

Rezkin did not think that going around intimidating people
with his sheer presence would help him in his purpose. Fitting in with these
outworlders was going to be more difficult than he originally thought. Based on
the villagers’ reactions and those of the old man and small-man, here, Rezkin
was beginning to think that none of these commoners had bothered to practice
their
Skills
. If they had no
Skills
, then they would be filled
with fear and break many of the
Rules
. How had any of them ever grown
big if they had not learned their
Skills
and
Rules
? Rezkin
brought his attention back to the old man and small-man. He pulled the corners
of his lips up into his practiced smile. The small-man immediately loosened his
grip on the old man and gave him a tentative smile in return. The old man
looked at him speculatively and then nodded in greeting.

Hmmm
, Rezkin thought,
the smile seems to reassure
others that I intend no harm.
Smiling was not a normal facial expression
for Rezkin, and simply holding it for the short time he was in the village had
made his cheeks hurt. He would have to practice it more often.

When Rezkin finally made it near the front of the line, he
listened carefully to what the guards were saying to those in front of him.
They asked for each person’s name, place of origin, and business in the city.
Once the information was provided, the guards waved the people through. Rezkin
frowned. What was the point of this? Anyone could give any name and say
whatever town and purpose he or she chose. The guards would never know the
difference. It seemed like a waste of time and parchment to him. These guards
could be doing something useful like practicing their
Skills
.

Rezkin thought about giving a false name, but he was not
hiding from anybody. If Farson came to find him, that would make his life much
easier. Besides, if the guards noticed his Sheyalins and asked for proof of
ownership, it could create greater problems for him. These guards did not
appear very observant, but perhaps they were both Masters of Deception. If
he
were selecting guards for a city gate, he would definitely post a couple of
Masters of Deception.

The first guard was lean with brown hair peeking from under
his helm and had a wiry mustache. The second was at least a hand shorter than
the first and had a ruddy complexion and bright green eyes. Rezkin stopped
before them and waited to be acknowledged. The first finished his scrawling on
the parchment and then glanced up. His eyes widened for a moment, as though in
recognition, and then he shook his head and continued.

“Name?” the guard barked.

“Rezkin,” he replied. The guard glanced up at him, again,
with a critical eye. He grunted as he took down the name.

“From?” the man asked.

“Perdony,” Rezkin answered calmly.

Both guards’ eyes locked on him as they took in his attire,
weapons, and gear. They examined the magnificent battle charger and then looked
back at him with suspicion and disbelief.

“You don’t look like anyone from Perdony,” the second guard
accused with a hint of hostility.

Rezkin’s icy blue eyes fell on the second guard as he
replied, “I am not from the village proper, but it is the closest named
settlement to my home.”

The first guard grunted and nodded in understanding, “You’re
a wilder, eh? You’d be better off saying you’re a wanderer than claiming
Perdony. No one here will believe you.”

Inclining his head, though still staring the second guard in
the eyes, Rezkin replied, “Very well, then, I am a wanderer.” What was the
point in asking if they were just going to tell him what they wanted to hear?

The first guard grunted again and made a note on his scroll.
The second guard could no longer hold Rezkin’s gaze and looked away quickly as
though he had just seen something interesting on down the line.

The first guard said, “State your business.”

Rezkin, satisfied that the second guard had been cowed,
looked back to the first and replied, “I am just passing through on my way
south. I am expecting a comrade of mine, though. He may have arrived sometime
in the last week. Is there a way I can find out if he has entered the city?”

“You’ll have to go to the main guardhouse for that. The
city’s travel records are public information, but you’ll have to look through
them yourself,” the first guard informed him.

“Thank you, sir,” Rezkin nodded courteously, “you have been
most helpful. May I now enter?”

“Yes, yes, go on. Don’t cause any trouble,” the guard said
as he waved Rezkin through. The second guard was determinedly
not
looking at Rezkin as he studiously examined the old man in the cart, which was
in turn making the old man nervous. Apparently, elderly farmers with noisy
small-men required more scrutiny than a young warrior covered in weapons riding
a battle charger. Rezkin shook his head. What good was a guard who was too
scared to confront a possible threat?

Rezkin guided his horse down the main boulevard taking in
all of the new sights and sounds and smells, all the while developing plans for
quick escape routes and identifying the most defendable positions just in case
people decided to attack him. He had been expecting the foul smell. The masters
had told him that cities, almost in their entirety, smell like a latrine, and
they had been right.

The one thing Rezkin had not been prepared for in his
studies was the noise. The masters had told him that cities were loud, but he
never realized just how loud people could be. Small-men were squealing or
wailing, merchants were shouting out their wares, and men and women alike were
hollering to each other or having boisterous conversations on outside patios.
Carts groaned and clanked over the cobblestones, hooves clopped against the
hard ground, dogs barked, and doors and windows creaked and slammed as people
opened and closed them. Somewhere not far away, Rezkin could hear a
blacksmith’s hammer slamming down on an anvil seemingly in concert with the
clanging of pots and pans from a nearby restaurant overlaid by a woman’s voice,
not quite in tune, singing a bawdy melody. Never had the young warrior thought
to hear so many sounds all at once.

Rezkin had learned of all of the inns in the major cities
and knew which would be best to stay in depending on his need. Today, he
decided to head to the Golden Cockerel. It was supposed to be a moderate
establishment that was clean and well managed. Overall, it was simply average.
It was located near to the market and was one of the closest to the main
guardhouse. Rezkin doubted that Farson would have given his real name upon
entering the city, but he could check the records just to be certain. If he
constantly assumed that Farson would know better, then he would never be able
to catch the striker’s mistakes.