The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (25 page)

Instead, he made his way toward the bar, built at an angle in the northeast corner of the room. It was decorated primarily with articles from the sea—nets and buoys, shells and driftwood, and the like—some of which, Torin noticed, would make for excellent weapons in a brawl, such as fish clubs and gaff hooks. Most were stained with use, though whether in a former life at sea or right here in this room, he couldn’t discern. He wondered how often a man came here to drink only to leave blood—his or another’s—on the floor.

He sighted an empty stool, wedged between a bare-armed figure with skeletal limbs and another so draped in heavy furs as to appear an animal himself. Torin looked for another, but it seemed to be his only option. Groaning inwardly, he moved to claim it.

No sooner had he sat down than the first man—the scrawny one—turned on him with a sneer.

“Who told you to sit your dripping ass there?”

Torin regarded the other through the corner of one eye. A pimpled face hid behind an oily veil of long black hair, while curled lips revealed a crooked set of browning teeth. Hoping the man might leave off if his challenge were ignored, Torin turned away, motioning to the barkeep.

“Water, please.”

The barkeep scowled.

“If it’s water you want,” said the larger man to Torin’s left, “try ordering an ale.”

The barkeep snatched up the nearest tankard, but paused to jab a meaty finger in the other’s face. “Eat your slop ’fore I shove it up your dunghole,” he snapped, then turned to one of several barrels lining his racks.

“I asked you a question,” the scrawny man spat, his fetid breath on Torin’s cheek. “Or do I need to break that stool over your head to get your attention?”

Torin gritted his teeth. He was beginning to think he’d be better off seeking his answers from the orcs and trolls said to roam these untamed lands.

“Ah, let him be, Tahnos,” the fur-wearer mumbled through a mouthful of food. Torin glanced over as the speaker’s gaze came away from the Sword’s hilt, freshly disguised in leather wrappings and tucked inside his cloak. “It’s obvious he ain’t interested in your advances. Find yourself some other lass.”

Tahnos sneered and took a drink.

“That was an insult to you,” the big man explained, giving Torin a nudge.

“I’ll be offended in a moment,” Torin muttered, eyes forward as he accepted his drink. “My thanks,” he told the barkeep.

As he lifted the cup to his lips, the barkeep’s massive hand slapped down upon the counter. “Hey, your thanks don’t pay my debts.”

“You charge for water?” Torin asked, with a half-turn to the open doorway and the sheets of rain cascading outside.

“Don’t get smart, lad. There’s only one drink comes free ’round here, and that’s to be found in my privy.”

Again Tahnos snickered. Torin glared, unsure yet if he was being had, before deciding his pride was of small issue here. Reaching into the coin purse given him by Raven, he withdrew a silver half-piece and watched the barkeep’s eyes light up.

“I could do with some information as well,” he said, holding back at the last instant.

An outburst of hails and jeers arose from those competing in the corner. Money exchanged hands, a fresh contestant was brought forth, and the process began anew.

The barkeep’s scowl returned. “You pay for the drink, then ask me what you want to know.”

Torin started to withdraw, then dropped his coin to the counter. The barkeep snatched it up on the second bounce. He examined it under a lantern’s flame before pocketing it in his apron with a smirk.

“Make it quick.”

“Hargenfeld,” Torin replied.

“Old Rags?” It was not the barkeep, but the fur-wearer who responded, drawing Torin’s attention.

“What about him?” the barkeep asked.

“I was told you’d know where I might find him.”

“And who told you that?”

Torin started to answer, but thought better of it. Raven had neglected to mention how word of his name might be received around here. He’d led Torin to believe this was a lawless land, making slim the possibility of arrest. Still, pirates had a way of making enemies, and he had no intention of drawing Raven’s to him.

“An acquaintance,” he said finally. “Do you know him or not?”

“Well as anyone, I’d guess,” replied the furs man. “And better than most.”

Again Torin glanced the other’s way, unsure now who he should be speaking to. “Rumor is, he runs expeditions through the mountains west.”

The barkeep snorted, his smile cruel. “Interesting rumor.”

A man farther down the bar shouted for a refill. That same request was taken up by the gang across the room. Sniffing out the greater profit, the barkeep pushed himself away.

“Talk to this one then,” he said, gesturing toward the furs man. “I’ve customers to attend.”

Perhaps I should give him my silver as well,
Torin thought snidely, but elected to forgo that argument.

As the barkeep trundled off, so too did the sneering Tahnos, as if seeking better entertainment. That left Torin more or less alone with the furs man, who licked his greasy fingers before offering Torin his hand.

“Name’s Gavrin,” he offered with a grin. “Friends call me Moss.”

Though it was difficult to tell beneath that mountain of furs, he appeared a portly man, only slightly less hunched than his garments made him look. His hair was sandy in color, and ruffled as such. A cropped beard, patchy below the ears, clung to his chin. The gleam in his cobalt eyes hinted of a past steeped in mischief.

“Gavrin,” Torin acknowledged, declining the saliva-smeared hand. “I’m not looking to make friends.”

“Too bad.” The big man shrugged, without offense. “’Round here, friends can be useful.”

“How’s that?”

“Well,” Gavrin said, scraping up a final mouthful of what looked like mutton and potatoes, “first off, they can watch your back.”

“Or stab you in it.”

Gavrin chuckled. “For a newcomer to these parts, you seem to have grasped hold of things pretty quick.” He swallowed his bite with a swig from his mug. “It ain’t companionship you’re here for. So what is it you want?”

Torin’s response was automatic. “To conduct my business and return home as soon as possible.”

“Business, is it?” Gavrin looked him over. “What kind?”

“The kind I’d rather not discuss with the first drunken stranger I meet.”

“Well, that there would be Tahnos,” Gavrin replied, leaning back and pushing aside his empty plate. “So I guess you ain’t got nothing to worry about.”

The man was disarming. Torin would give him that. But the young king was not about to be taken in so easily.

“You’re looking for something,” Gavrin surmised.

“Some
one,
” Torin amended. “I thought I’d made that plain.”

“Rags,” the other recalled, picking at his teeth and giving a contemplative squint. “Was it
him
you needed? Or a guide in general you’re looking for?”

“A guide. But I was told he’s the one to ask.”

“And where is it you’re going?”

Another outburst from the corner. Some form of dice, Torin now realized, as he watched one skitter to the floor, dancing away from those who gave chase.

“If it’s all the same, Gavrin, I think I’d prefer to talk to Hargenfeld.”

“Call me Moss. Gavrin was my father’s name.” Upon Torin’s look, he added quickly, “It don’t have to make us friends.”

“Fine. Moss. Any chance you could take me to him?”

Moss seemed to consider. “It would be my great pleasure. Only, I don’t think he can help you.”

“No? And why is that?”

“Because the man’s a ghost; that’s why.”

“What?” Torin frowned. “You’re sure?”

Moss snorted with laughter. “Now, boy, I may look like a mule, and smell about the same, but I ain’t dumb as one. Don’t take no sage to recognize a dead man.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Buried him myself just last winter. Yep, I’m sure.”

Moss took a drink. Uncertain he should believe what he was being told, Torin searched his own tankard as if the truth might be found within.

“But me and Rags,” Moss went on, “we was associates. If it’s a guide you need, look no further.”

Torin studied the man, searching for any sign of a lie. “You’ve crossed the Dragontails?”

“Crossed ’em? Shades of mercy, from east to west, north to south, I’ve been all over.”

“And what is it, exactly, that you do?”

“Hmm, now there’s a question. I’m not one to limit myself to any single talent, you see. I’ve been me a trapper, hunter, merchant, scout, tracker, miner, explorer—”

“In other words, a rogue.”

Moss flashed a toothy grin. “Born and raised, right here in the Southland.”

It was as Raven and Autumn had warned him. Wylddeor, the Southland of Yawacor, had also been dubbed Land of the Rogues, having long been home to a lawless rabble of independent, free-roving men and women whose only common interest was a life free of moral and governmental restraint. There were no rulers, and few towns—most of which were little more than trading camps grown up around a handful of brave merchants, and which served the basic needs of those who trekked this savage wilderness as packs and individuals. As a whole, these people despised authority, using their freedom to cheat, steal, and kill—whatever it took to get by. A man had to be fit, savvy, or downright lucky to survive.

“Although,” Moss added, lowering his voice and leaning near, “I wouldn’t go ’round calling everyone a rogue. Doesn’t bother me, you see, but these days, most prefer to be called Wylddeans.”

“Wyl-what?”

“Wylddeans, the people of the Southland. Rogues is what the Northlanders call us—among other things.”

And then there was Lorrehaim, the Northland, domain of Lord Lorre, who had been carving up the land for nearly two decades and bringing it under his personal control. The man’s armies were said to consist not only of men, but of orcs, trolls, and giants—the dregs of these ancient races. By all accounts, Lorre was a slave master. Those who lived under his thumb believed in law and order, because to believe otherwise was to defy their ruler. As a result, his people looked down upon their southern neighbors as barbaric, uncivilized. Though such views might, Raven had suggested, have more to do with envy of the freedoms these so-called rogues enjoyed.

“It don’t make us a people, you see, in terms of a nation, because we Wyld
deans reject all such notions. Fundamental code of our existence. But then, I can tell you all about that. If it’s the Resistance you’re interested in, or—”

“I’m not interested in your resistance,” Torin assured him. “Or your theories on how a people should or shouldn’t be ruled.”

“Well, what
are
you interested in?”

Torin glanced toward the door as another troop of angry-looking men entered the room, heading directly for the bar.

“I don’t suppose we could finish this someplace a little less public?”

“Sure. I keep me a cabin on the outskirts of town. Buy me supper, and I’ll answer any questions you have.”

“You just finished eating.”

Moss gripped his teeming waistline. “There’s always room for more.”

Torin did not return the other’s grin. The man appeared harmless enough, but that was part of the problem. And yet, of those he’d encountered, this was his most promising lead by far. When the leader of the new pack shoved his way onto the stool vacated by Tahnos and claimed his spot by stabbing a dagger into the top of the bar, Torin made up his mind.

After waiting for the new arrivals to receive their first round, he gave Moss the go-ahead to order. A rack of seasoned beef, a wedge of cheese, some day-old vegetables, a loaf of hard-baked bread, and a cask of the barkeep’s darkest ale were added to the tab. On top of that, the proprietor demanded from Torin a finder’s fee for having introduced him to Moss. Torin balked, but paid the requested amount, careful to do so in small coins. He was quite conscious of those at the bar who looked on. Most, thankfully, were more interested in the gaming going on across the room.

When finally the order had been put together, Moss wrapped it up, bade those nearest him a pleasant and entertaining evening, and swaggered from the room. Doing his best to ignore an array of feral stares and crooked smiles, Torin followed after, into the rain.

T
HOSE RAINS CONTINUED WITHOUT SLACKENING
as Torin trudged westward along rutted avenues of mud in the wake of the rogue named Moss. The weather alone was enough to make him second-guess his decision to leave the tavern, but the big man’s pace brooked no hesitation. He could only hope that the damp and the chills would be the extent of his distress.

Moss, he noticed, wore no hood, and did not seem bothered in the least.

“Does it always rain around here?” Torin asked.

“Always,” Moss replied, his lower lip bulging with a wad of ground tobacco leaf. “You’ll never see it snow though. Not at these lower elevations anyway.”

At last,
Torin groaned inwardly,
something positive to look forward to.

“As I was saying,” Moss added, resuming their conversation from the tavern once they had left the last of the ramshackle booths and buildings behind them and started up along a narrow forest trail, “these days, anyone found roaming the Southland is considered Wylddean—even an outlander such as yourself. Means ‘Wild Ones.’ Name was first brought about by those who banded together at Neak-Thur to defend against invaders from the north, but has since been adopted by everyone south of the Bastion, since they prefer this to being called rogues, barbarians, or outlaws—as they’re known to Northlanders like Lorre.”

“Lorre. Can you tell me about him?”

“Dragon’s furrows, anyone could tell you about Lorre.”

“I’m asking you.”

Moss turned to smirk at his surliness. “So you are. But it don’t do a man good to talk about him. Riles the blood. A villain, sure as the rain. His subjects live only to serve him. The farther south he gets, the less resistance he finds. Tough to organize a collective force among those who care only about themselves. Rumors are, he’s turned eye at last to Neak-Thur, which has finally got folks down here startled enough that some are suggesting action to slow his advance. As if the northern recruiters ain’t been preaching it for years.”

The big man spat and shook his head. “But you ain’t interested in any of that, you said.”

“He can have it all,” Torin agreed. “What I need to know is, how does one get in to see him?”

Moss laughed. “There’s a notion!” But when Torin failed to return his laughter, the big man stopped. “Now hold on. You saying what I think you’re saying?”

“My business is with Lord Lorre. I’m on my way to see him.”

Moss’s ruddy face pinched with suspicion. “Who are you?”

“Who I am is of no concern. But you owe me for that food. So answer my question. Can you help me or not?”

The man looked to the bundle he carried as if considering handing it back over. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know you,” Torin clarified.

“And yet, you expect me to trust you.”

“Your trust I’ll have to earn. As you will mine. That’s how it works, in this land or any other.”

Moss chewed as if his tobacco had gone tasteless. “Wise words. But if you’re half as wise as you let on, you won’t go anywhere near Lord Lorre.”

“You said if I needed a guide, to look no further.”

“That was before you made mention of the most ruthless warlord in all of Yawacor.”

“Are you saying now you can’t help me?”

Moss turned to spit. “I’m already helping you, by telling you it would mean your death and mine if we was to go anywhere near that man.”

Torin spun around and started back into town.

“Where are you going?”

“To start all over, it seems.”

“If you and Lorre are allies—”

“We’re not allies,” Torin snapped. “We’re not enemies. The man is said to have information I need, information that could save the lives of those back in my homeland, maybe even your own. I’ve come a long way already, but I need someone who can take me north, near enough to beg an audience with him. If that man isn’t you, then my search continues.”

Moss considered him carefully. “You’ve got quite a critter gnawing at your withers, don’t you?”

Torin frowned and turned away.

“Wait,” Moss called. When finally Torin rounded again, he found the big man shaking his head. “By grace, you may be the least sociable fellow I’ve ever met. But at the moment, you’re the only company I’ve got.”

“You’ll take me north, then?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. But I can get you through the mountains, at least.”

“Fair enough,” Torin agreed, taking a few return strides.

“For a price,” Moss qualified, raising a hand in due caution.

Torin returned the warning. “I don’t have much.”

Moss chuckled. “If I believed that, we wouldn’t be here now.”

This time, Torin shared the man’s amusement. “I have no horse, and no possessions save those that fit in a single sack. What makes you think I have money?”

Moss’s smile turned predatory. “You came from overseas, for one. That
takes means. Your face is bruised and I’ve seen you limp, so you’ve been in a scuffle of late. You come creeping into a tavern, speaking the name of a guide known to peddle stolen wares, and seeking passage west. That makes you a thief, I’m guessing. But then, that there’s always a safe bet, with or without the evidence. Then there’s your sword.”

Torin felt his own gaze narrow, recalling suddenly how he had caught the other stealing a glimpse of the hidden blade back in the tavern. “What about it?”

Again his companion chuckled. “That trick with the leather bindings might fool thieves where you come from, but ’round here, you might as well be carrying a golden scepter in plain view.”

“So you think a leather-wrapped hilt makes me wealthy.”

Moss shrugged. “Men with nothing ain’t got nothing to hide. Stolen, or maybe not. Makes no difference to me.”

“And were you planning on setting a price in advance, or just looting me while I slept?”

“Now, now, ain’t no cause for that. I won’t say the thought never crossed my mind, but if Lord Lorre’s in any way mixed up in this, I’m keeping my hands to myself. I just want you to know that I ain’t fooled, and that if you want my help, it’ll cost you a fair and reasonable sum.”

Torin smiled wryly. “All right, Gavrin. Name your price.”

“Twenty gildrons, plus rations and supplies.”

“I can pay you half that to take me clear to the border. Neak-Thur.”

The big man scoffed. “That there’s a five-day journey, and ten gildrons don’t pay for that
and
the return trip.”

“We’ll discuss my return if and when I make it that far.”

Moss snickered. “I wasn’t talking about
your
return. I was talking about mine. Fifteen.”

“Ten. Take it or leave it,” Torin said firmly.

His companion scowled, rivers of rainwater washing down his face.

“I’d offer more, but it would seem I spent too much on supper.”

The big man cracked a smile, but remained silent.

“Perhaps I should try my offer back in town?” Torin suggested, with a half-turn down the trail.

“Oh, all right,” Moss groaned. “I’ll do it for the ten.”

“To Neak-Thur.”

“Yes, yes, to Neak-Thur. But I want half up front.”

“You’ll get two now, and another for every day of completed travel.”

Moss’s jaw worked back and forth, sawing and sluicing on his tobacco. “Deal. When would you want to leave?”

“How about now?”

But the rogue shook his head. “Would be tomorrow at the earliest. I gather speed is of the essence?”

“It is.”

“Won’t nobody be following us, will there? Looking to take back their property?” He cast about for the imagined pursuers.

“No,” Torin assured him. “Of that you have my promise.”

Moss squinted, as if determining what that might be worth. “Bah, have to risk it, I guess. Even so, we’ll need to equip for the road, particularly the Cleft. If we wait to do so until we reach Latymir, we’ll end up paying twice as much, and will save no time either way. Might as well do so here and now.”

“What about horses?” Torin wanted to know.

“We can get those here, trade ’em in at Latymir. That’ll buy us a day. But ain’t nothing but mules and mountain goats going to make it through the pass this time of year.”

“So we prepare tonight, set forth at dawn?”

“Dawn comes awful early,” Moss grumbled, then smirked at Torin’s frown. “But dawn it is.”

A fair compromise, Torin decided. Although he chafed at the idea of spending one more moment than he had to on this forsaken continent, he saw little to gain in questioning his new guide’s every opinion.

“We’ll be spending the night in town, then?” he asked.

Moss snorted. “Only if you care to lose half the night fighting off rats and brigands.” He grinned jovially. Torin did not. “Come,” the rogue offered. “I’ll show you my cabin. If it don’t look safe to you, we’ll find you someplace else when we come back to make fit for tomorrow.”

Torin agreed, and so fell back into step alongside the other.

A good half-mile farther on, they reached what Moss claimed was one of several temporary shelters he kept throughout the Southland. More shack than cabin, it was all but overgrown by the surrounding forest, with a caving roof and walls that leaned dangerously down the slope to which it clung. Before they reached its rotted stoop, Moss dashed ahead with a growl. Torin’s hand flew to the hilt of his weapon as the rogue bashed in the front door, roaring like a wild bear. The young king realized why a moment later, when a family of five went racing out into the rain-slicked woods, scattering in separate directions.

“Filthy buggers,” Moss vented, reappearing in the drooping doorway. “Can’t turn my back but what they fill the place like roaches. And stay out!” he shouted after the fleeing squatters.

It occurred to Torin to ask whose home this really was, but it seemed already too late for that. Its former occupants might as well have been startled deer. And Moss had already gone back inside.

Stepping in after, Torin made a quick and cautious survey. The place appeared even smaller within than it had without, a single-room affair consisting of a single large bed, closet, heating stove, and a line of cupboards above and beneath a nicked counter. A stepstool was the only other furniture, and creaked now beneath Moss’s weight as the rogue inspected the upper shelves. If it wasn’t his place, then he had borrowed it before, Torin decided, for he seemed to know his way around. Then again, Torin thought with a second survey, how long might that take?

His host came down from the cupboard with a clay jar from which he shook forth a small leather pouch. Finding it empty, he muttered in angry
disappointment. “Damn buggers.” The rogue spied Torin looking at him and shrugged. “Made off with my reserve coin stash.”

“What of your travel supplies?” Torin asked. “Surely you don’t go around with just the furs on your back.”

“I don’t carry much. Keep places like this so I don’t have to.” Moss sighed. “But yeah, I got me some of what you’re talking about. Stow it with my mule there in town at a livery stable. Costs to have it held, but it’s safer than leaving it to the vermin out here.”

Torin nodded, withholding judgment.

“What do you think? Closet full of blankets here—spun wool and fur. You’ll be plenty warm, and more or less dry,” Moss said, taking a rusted kettle from the counter and moving it beneath a drip in the ceiling. “We’d have to share the bed, but she’s plenty big enough. You ain’t got lice, do you?”

Torin looked glumly at the arrangements.

“That be a yes or a no?”

“This will be fine,” Torin said. “I’m your guest, Gavrin.”

“Moss,” the big man reminded him. “Well then, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you here to guard the food while I head back into town to set a few provisions for tomorrow. Any of them vermin come skulking back, just shoo ’em off, you hear?”

Torin started to decline, preferring that he be there for any “provisions” Moss intended to set, then decided otherwise. He could use some time to himself, to rest comfortably, before standing guard all night against whatever violent designs his host might have for him.

“Go on,” he said to the rogue. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Make yourself cozy. Be gone an hour or so. After that, don’t be shy about preparing some of that grub so it’s ready when I get back.” Moss snickered. “Damn, it’s like I went and found myself a housewife.” Then, before shutting the door, he added, “Don’t fret. You’re safe with me. You’ll see.”

Surprisingly, the man proved good on his word. No one troubled Torin while Moss was in town. Upon his return, they spent the evening talking mostly of their plans for the westward trek. Torin did not sleep, but that had more to do with his anxieties concerning those he’d left behind—Marisha, Allion, Nevik, and others—than any he had for himself. With the Sword in hand as he lay there, tucked in at the edge of the bed, listening to the endless thrumming of rainfall, he feared no threat to his own well-being. Only the strangeness of a land to which he did not belong, and the dread uncertainty of a dark and clouded future.

He arose at the first hint of a brightening sky, weary of listening to Moss’s resonating snore. He woke the big man, who grumbled and snorted and then finally rolled to his feet. Belching and scratching, the rogue headed outdoors to attend his morning’s business. Torin, meanwhile, checked his outer garments, which had been left overnight on a line above the heating stove to dry. They remained damp and chill, but he had no others, and so gritted his teeth and slipped them back on.

The rains had slowed to a drizzle, making room for moments of sunshine
beneath a patchy gray sky as they headed back into town. But the light would not be coaxed from its cocoon, and the gloom would not be dispelled. By the time they had paid for and collected the possessions that would carry them through the mountains, the gaps in the clouds had filled, and the rain had summoned reinforcements on a westerly wind.

Despite pushing headlong into this mix, Torin and his guide made good time on their rented mounts. They reached the town of Latymir, on the eastern edge of the Dragonscale Cleft, just before midday. As Moss had warned, Latymir was smaller than Razorport, an outpost serving as the eastern gateway to the true wilderness that was Wylddeor, the Southland of Yawacor. Its denizens appeared even less friendly than those Torin had encountered on the coast, but restrained themselves to wicked sneers and guarded looks. Strength in numbers, Moss explained. Had Torin elected to travel here alone, he might have received a much different welcome.