Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) (8 page)

He leaned his head back and yawned—eyeing the light—and brought his hand to the right side of his head. He held the small knife tightly between his thumb and index finger, and with his other three fingers scratched his head. But he wasn’t at all tired, and his head didn’t itch.

He shot his hand out straight towards the light, releasing his knife at that minute orange glow. The angle was bad, and he had a better view of the flame from a standing position, like the earlier throw, but he would make do. He cast his knife lower than the point he sighted to be sure that he hit the wick. From his downward angle it would be easy to make the mistake of throwing too high.

No sound was heard from his knife striking the wood, the reveling of the patrons had completely muffled it, but the severed wick fell from above and landed on the messenger’s right boot, still smoldering. Valak had hit his mark, though a little bit low, and had taken off quite a bit of the tip of the candle as well. One patron perked his head up as he eyed the smoldering wick that lay upon the dead man’s boot. He stretched his head forward to get a better look, but the smoke soon vanished among the cool tavern floor, and the amber wax was hardly visible against the man’s brown leather boot. The man quickly looked to his friends after the smoke disappeared, but finding them completely engaged in conversation and not minding anything in the room, he simply shrugged his shoulders and lifted his mug.

Valak’s mark lay dead in the dark. Someone would go to wake him and find him dead. Either tonight after Valak had already retired—but he would no longer be in the room—or if the barkeeps chose to let him “sleep” he would be found in the morning and Valak would no longer be in the town.

9

“
Good Sir, has anything happen
ed
here of note lately?” Zar dismounted from Asha’s back, and rubbed his hand across her golden snout until she took a seat beside him.

“This is
Sin
doth,” the old man replied. “Things are always happening here.”

Zar smiled. It was a clever adjustment to the name, and one he had heard before. The old fellow sat on a large rock at the edge of town, enjoying a flask of wine in the evening sun. He had no shoes, and his garments looked like oddly-colored, mismatched rags. His tunic, appearing to have been sewn from several different pieces of cloth, boasted patches of blue, green, and red fabric, all sewn together with bold yellow stitches that were large and comically crooked as if they’d been mended by a small child. His pants were tattered and of a muddy color, though it was obvious they were once white.

“It’s worth two gold pieces if you gossip with me for a while,” said Zar, reaching into his coin purse.

He finally had the man’s attention.

The old fellow reached out his hand to receive the gold. “What would you know?”

Zar seated himself on the ground beside him. “Who here is in need of help?”

The old man looked Zar up and down before taking a drink from his flask. “A sword for hire?”

“Aye.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the man replied, chuckling.

“I know that I have,” agreed Zar. “What do you know?”

“I know there’s two lads running about who want that newcomer dead.”

“Newcomer?”

“Aye,” the man answered. “They call him Lawless Tuskin and he’s caused nothin’ but trouble since he came. Two strange men are on the prowl for him.”

“Who is this Tuskin?”

“He’s a warrior, a wild and wicked one, too! Not two days ago he killed three men outside of town.”

“Interesting,” said Zar, his face fixed with a smile.

“Lindoth never fails.”

“Ah, so you’ve been here before?” asked the old fellow, looking a bit closer at Zar.

“Too many times,” Zar replied with a sigh. “These two men you speak of, you called them strange, why so?”

“Well, because they don’t look like townspeople, but they’re always in the town, plottin’ and sneakin’ around. I never see them out in the morning or in the day—only at dusk. Bunch of strange lads they are.”

“Will they be here tonight?”

“I’m sure of it,” the old man answered, “and I can show you who they are for two more gold pieces.”

“Or I can find them myself and keep my gold,” Zar replied with a grin. “I think the description you’ve given me is more than adequate.”

The old man laughed. “Ah, a sharp lad you are. Very good, very good. You must forgive me, son, you see my flask is almost empty and the wine I like is quite expensive.”

“Lolia red, I’m guessing.”

“Aye.”

“You have good taste in wine, old man,” said Zar, standing up. “But I’m afraid you may have to settle for the Durnam gold tonight.”

“That I will,” the man replied. “That I will.”

“Well, I must be going.”

“Farewell,” the old man called. “Take care not to get killed.”

Zar made his way into town and passed his time at the Red Camel Inn until the sun had fallen. After dawdling in front of the place for a while, he decided to visit the tavern on the opposite side of town, then, having seen no one suspicious, ambled through the village. Mischievous eyes gleamed through the dusk as Zar passed through, their cunning eyes fixed upon him, his mount, the quality of his chainmail armor, and the very boots on his feet. Anyone who remained on the streets of Lindoth after the setting of the sun remained only for one reason.

“Come now, Asha, don’t fall behind,” Zar called to Asha who was walking by herself not far behind him. “I know they’re giving you looks, but you must ignore them.”

Asha quickened her step a bit until she walked beside Zar.

“Come, let us move through quickly, or I’ll certainly have to kill someone here.”

Zar tugged down lightly on Asha’s bridle until she stopped and kneeled, allowing him to mount. The two trotted off away from the town and toward the hills.

“Asha, look,” said Zar, pointing into the eastern hills.

“Do you see those two?”

Two men on the outskirts of the village moved forward with such purpose that they hadn’t even noticed his presence. Off they went into the hills with their bodies cloaked and hooded, marching into the dusk.

“They haven’t minded us at all,” said Zar with a grin. “It’s because they’re busy with their own affairs, no doubt. Asha, I’m quite certain those are the two the old man spoke of. Let us be after them.”

So Asha followed them through the hills, her every movement guided by Zar who saw that they stayed at just the right distance—not too close to them so the two men didn’t feel threatened upon noticing them and make off into the oncoming darkness, nor too far behind. They followed quietly until the two men stopped in the woods and began talking.

The sun had just disappeared beyond the hills when Zar called out after them. The hooded men turned quickly around, both of them reaching for their sword hilts. One of the cloaked men darted off into the shadow and was gone. The other held his ground, facing Zar.

“Wait!” Zar called out. “I am no bandit or robber, and I haven’t come to fight!”

Zar couldn’t make out where the other man had gone, but he was quite certain he hadn’t fled, for Asha was uneasy, and that meant he was still among the trees, perhaps making his way around to attack them from the rear. Zar had to be quick to assure these men he wanted no trouble or there would surely be a fight.

“I am here upon instruction of an old villager who said you were in need of a sword. I’m a mercenary.”

Asha grunted, and turned, and fidgeted around, and Zar knew that the other cloaked man was approaching his flank. He quickly dismounted, bid Asha sit, and brought his hand over his shoulder to his sword hilt.

“Karnan, come out,” the hooded figure called. “He’s a sword for hire!”

“Is he, brother?” a voice called from the shadows.

The voice had come from Zar’s left flank in the direction that, even before it had sounded, Asha had been looking as she groaned and grumbled.

“Well, you discuss it with him, brother,” the same voice said, “and I’ll remain here in case he’s about anything funny.”

The man still hadn’t shown himself, but had spoken enough that Zar had an idea of his general position. And Asha, whose senses were even better than Zar’s, would make sure he came no closer without them knowing it.

“Very well, brother,” the other agreed as he approached Zar. “I’m Milaf,” he said. “There is a wicked man in town that must be killed at once. He is called Lawless Tuskin. Is a hundred gold pieces a fair price?”

Zar smiled.

°

Milaf and Karnan as well as the old man from town had all spoken of this Tuskin fellow as being evil, but Zar didn’t usually count the testimonies of other men as accurate. He never truly made his decision about an assassination until he was face to face with the person, and Asha, who was an excellent judge of character, usually helped him decide. In some situations the decision was all too easy, like in the case of the blood drinker Groviia who was more beast than man, and would have bled the town of Bruuda dry had he not been slain; or the Witch of Wyndor who with her minions had kidnapped nearly half of the town’s children to sacrifice to her dark gods. But many he stood before were just men. Men who had done wrong, no doubt, but perhaps men who were once like him, swinging his sword for the wrong purpose. Who was he to judge their righteousness? Who was any man?

As for this Tuskin fellow, there was only one man’s word in Lindoth that he could trust regarding this newcomer and how he should be dealt with. Though he had already accepted half of the gold, if the old abbot, Naiam, had anything good to say about the fellow he would have to reconsider.

The temple of the prophet, Vyere, stood out like a diamond against a dunghill on the outskirts of Lindoth, shinning its light through the darkness like a full moon on a starless night. Among the harlots and rapers and thieves that filled Lindoth, this beacon of light was an odd sight indeed Zar used to find it amusing that a temple of Vyere would be in a place like this, but he was now beginning to believe it was the only thing keeping the town from turning into the likes of the towns in Xhaka. Even now it was hard to tell if Lindoth sat in the mainreach or in that deranged, murderous place. One didn’t need a map to tell it was the last town before entering Xhaka, where just a league farther to the east brought you from the order of the mainreach, however imperfect it was, to the chaos and lawlessness of Xhaka that was spoken of ominously in the old tales.

Zar made his way up the stairs and stopped a moment between the two grand pillars.

“Look at that, Asha, the only elegant structure in Lindoth.”

Zar laughed at his own words as he led Asha to the side and bid her sit beside one of the front pillars. He was then approached and greeted by all the monks who were outside, some of which knew him, and was told to enter. He left Asha in the front yard and entered the temple, guided ever so cheerfully by two monks, their heads bowed in the honor of servitude—the one teaching of Vyere that held precedence above the rest.

He was led into the court of Vyere where he was told that the abbot would be summoned, and took his time to reacquaint himself with the temple’s beauty. Inscriptions covered the walls of the court, most of which Zar believed to be praises to the god, Daan, who they regarded as the creator of the world. The writing was too old for Zar to understand— an ancient tongue that was so beautiful to look at that the words themselves were enough to make a man stand in awe, even without knowing their meaning. Every structure was perfectly laid stone; the walls, the pillars, even the floor where the visage of the prophet had been carved in a massive slab of stone and laid directly in the center of the court. If Zar remembered correctly, that elegant stone carving was placed in the ground to signify humility, a trait that a man must have in order to follow after Vyere. Though it had been placed on the floor it looked as if not one person had ever stepped on it. There it was shinning curiously, glistening as if it had been polished over and over with oil and a silk cloth.

Zar stepped toward the center of the court to get a closer look at the carving, but didn’t dare step on it. He stopped where the stone carving began and peered down on it in awe. There was so much detail in the portrait. Every time he stood before it he was reminded that it was possibly the most beautiful stone carving he had ever seen. Vyere’s face held so much emotion. He hadn’t the look of a noble or lord, but of a common man—one with a purpose. His expression was one of urgency. Sincere and pleading, he challenged men to change their world. His features were soft, his eyes gentle and kind. His head was shaved, for as he taught, hair was a vanity, and vanity corrupted the soul. Zar had grabbed a handful of his own locks the first time the abbot told him that, cringing at the notion of wearing a shaved head, and he was left to wonder just how true the words were as he tried to remember the last time his hair wasn’t at least touching his shoulders.

“Often times, by putting ourselves below others we can make the most difference,” the old abbot’s voice sounded, awakening Zar from his wonder. “To achieve a position of greatness one must first be humbled.”

“Wise and true words” said Zar, looking up to his bald and white-bearded friend. He had been so absorbed in the carving that he hadn’t even noticed his approach. Shining eyes peeked from under bushy brows, a pleasant smile fixed in place. His right hand gripped firmly to his staff, a polished pole of orewood fixed at the top with an iron piece shaped in the semblance of Vyere’s clasped hands, the famous memento of the prophet that adorned all the monks’ staves and turned the wooden poles from decorative scepters to capable weapons.

“It has been years, my son.” The abbot gave Zar a firm embrace.

“Abbot Naiam, I’m glad to see you are well.”

“And it’s good to see Daan has kept you, lad. Come, let us go up.” The abbot motioned toward the stairs in the northeast corner of the court.

Zar followed Naiam up the old temple stairs and into one of the high chambers with an open balcony where they often talked. Leaning against the wall, they looked off into the hills.

“So, I hear there’s a newcomer in town,” said Zar, still staring off into the northern hills.

“Aye,” replied the abbot with a smile. “An interesting fellow, and I’m rather glad I met him.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye,” old Naiam answered. “He’s been a big help to me, my son, and I thank Daan for sending him to us.”

“Abbot, are you certain?” Zar turned to Naiam, making no effort to hide the surprise in his face. “I’ve only heard bad things about this man.”

The abbot turned to Zar bearing a gentle smile and knowing eyes. “Well, who have you been speaking to? Ah, I see. You’ve been given a job.”

Zar turned his eyes back towards the hills. “I will not kill a good man.”

“But the bad ones you will kill?” The abbot held his gaze on Zar.

“I know what you would say—that only Daan may pass judgment—but I judge no man. I’ve only drawn my sword that good men like you might live. If this land wasn’t so rotten I wouldn’t have to do it so much.”

“Good men like me? You are too kind, my son, too kind.” The abbot placed his hand on Zar’s shoulder. “But I’m not the only good man in this room.”

“I am no good man,” Zar said quickly.

The abbot chuckled softly and patted Zar a few times on the back. “You’re one of the best lads I know.”

Zar had never known abbot Naiam to be insincere about anything, and he was comforted for a few brief moments, but the thought wouldn’t leave his head that if the old abbot knew the extent of his past evils he would no longer look at him so graciously. It was time for a change in topic.

“Abbot, you said the newcomer has helped you?”