Fifthwind (4 page)

"Gordo
knows something more but isn't talking."

"I
think you're right," Mason said. "But if he's keeping quiet, then
there's no use questioning him. Dogs like him are a stubborn bunch."

"Thoughts?"

"It
wasn't a bear," Mason said cynically, "that much is certain. And
I've never met a man that can leave teeth marks like that. I don't
like the looks of it at all."

The
small group of travelers came upon the first structures outside of
town as they made their way along the road. They moved cautiously
through the half-tents and stalls of the improvised open market. The
sprawling market district outside the walled town appeared completely
abandoned though it showed all the signs of recent activity, from
still-smoldering fires to some forgotten wares. A dog tied to the
side post of an empty stall growled as the small group moved by.

"Where
is everyone?" Ben turned to ask Gordo who rode not far behind.

Gordo
reined in closer, his horse kicking up dust in swirls around its
massive hooves. "They are quick to move into town after dark. It's
not safe out here at night."

The
gates of Kishell Springs were an ineffective formality. The wall on
one side had fallen and the entrance was wide and unguarded allowing
them to enter unnoticed. And when they did, the transition from the
quiet countryside was abrupt.

Kishell
Springs seethed with activity despite the late hour. Men loitered in
the street, drinks in hand, with songs and fists equally at the
ready. Many of the key structures on the main thoroughfare were large
inns complete with stables and gated stockyards. It was instantly
apparent that size was not the measure of this town. It was small,
but it was no sleepy mountain village.

"This
is where we part company," Gordo said. "Good luck to you Mason, I
hope you can make a place for yourself here."

Horace
nodded slightly and added, "It was a pleasure meeting you
Lieutenant. If you're looking for work, I'd suggest starting at the
two largest inns. You can't miss them."

The
trade wagons pulled away and Ben and Mason found themselves alone in
the middle of a bustling town. If there had been any doubt about the
liveliness of the place, it had eroded since their arrival. Perhaps
their initial assessment had been wrong after all.

The
streets bore deep grooves, scars caused by ages of wear from laden
wagons. Merchants who had just arrived were putting up their teams
and gear for the night while rugged, well-armed men watched over the
goods in the stockyards. The brutes were toughened killers, sure to
be loyal to employers who understood the value of well-paid
protection. It was unlikely that any thief would be able to afford
the cost of buying their eyes shut.

A
variety of workshops were scattered throughout the main district.
Everything from weapons and armor to fabrics and finery were readily
available, as well as other establishments that provided for the more
immediate leisure needs of the men. Most impressive were the inns
that seemed capable of housing scores of travelers. A number of these
structures lined the street on either side. Each had a stockyard with
ample room to store several trade wagons, and stables to care for
horses.

The
evening's focus centered on the taverns that made up the ground level
of the larger inns. Mercenaries and teamsters enjoyed the relaxing
atmosphere after a long day on the road while merchants and trade
brokers appreciated the opportunity to plan their engagements. The
new day would present another long and treacherous road and the men
had earned their relaxation.

The
whirlwind of sights, sounds and smells overpowered the senses, but
two things immediately caught Ben's attention. First, no uniformed
soldiers or city guards patrolled the street. Next, and more
importantly, was the heavenly smell of roasting meat.

"I'm
hungry," said Ben.

Mason
seemed distant, immersed in his own thoughts, his senses on high
alert. The well-lit street was not a concern, but the alleys between
the buildings led into a murky darkness and the fields and forest
beyond concealed the unknown.

He
grunted agreement, and then added, "Rough folk here, watch your
back." He studied the crowd for signs of danger. Armed men milled
about in great numbers. Youngsters, begging or thieving ran about
untethered, and ladies of the street mingled among the men looking
for those with heavy pockets and a lonely heart. Mason was not
lonely... or stupid.

The
faintest hint of a smile touched the corners of Mason's mouth. "I
think I might like it here after all," he chuckled. His stern face
had melted away revealing boyish excitement. "It reminds me of
home."

"You
must've been born in a snake's den," replied Ben.

They
moved past a forge with three iron smiths still hard at work. The
oven glowed white and the smell of burnt iron permeated the air with
each rhythmic stroke of hammer against anvil. An array of weapons and
armor hung in display along the front of the workshop, but the
current task was more mundane. Two of the workers were engaged in
shaping bands for a cart's wheel while the third prepared the rivets.

Ben
scanned the street and picked out a large inn that seemed a little
less popular and a bit worn down. It had three levels of rooms, and a
stone-paved veranda that ran the entire length of the front and along
one side. The inn was sturdy and clearly well built, but told a tale
of incessant occupation and abuse. The building looked just plain
tired.

A
dozen or so men were outside, laughing loudly and as Ben got closer,
he heard the recognizable last lines of a story about the misfortunes
of a man in a brothel. The tale could be told in many ways, with many
outcomes and was an old favorite among drinking men. This most recent
rendition met with the howling approval of an audience comprised of
fat-bellied old soldiers who exchanged friendly slaps as they belched
forth their laughter.

Servers
moved through the crowd with astounding expertise, delivering an
endless supply of food, which consisted of a basic fare of roasted
meat and potatoes. Hardened young women soon followed, serving trays
of ale in impressive quantities to men who behaved like animals, and
likely smelled worse.

Tables
and chairs had been moved outside in the open air, which was
undoubtedly more refreshing than the stale interior. In fact, as Ben
approached, he could see very little activity within the inn's common
room.

The
sign above the door read:
The Masked Pig
.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Hold!"
said a large man whose breath reeked of cheese and ale. He pointed to
the sword at Ben's side. "No weapons are allowed inside. You can
keep a knife, but I'll have to hold that pig-sticker for you."

Ben
pulled a parchment from a small pocket on the back of his glove,
unfolded it and presented it to the man. "My name is Bennick Karr,
and I'm here at the personal request of Taddus Haddaway." He
thumbed toward his companion, "This is Mr. Mason Corde. He's with
me."

The
man promptly folded the paper without looking at it and gave it back
to Ben. "Sorry, but the rules are for everyone." He leaned in
close and quietly added, "Tad doesn't carry much weight around here
anymore. Between you and me, I wouldn't try that again."

Ben
had expected a warmer welcome, and didn't quite know how to react. He
found himself stumbling over his tongue, searching for a rebuttal,
"But, we—"

The
doorkeeper swatted Ben playfully on the shoulder. "In this den of
dogs, nobody cares who you are. Now, hand over those swords."

Ben
looked at the barrel next to the entrance that held dozens of
weapons, from broad-headed axes, to light rapiers and at least one
menacing looking flail. He glanced back at the door guard who looked
all too eager to punish those who rejected the rules -and
judging by his build, there was little doubt that he could do a lot
of damage in short order. Ben was not normally one to put material
possessions above his own safety, but his sword was one of a kind and
of uncommon value.

"Is
there another option? It's valuable to me." He pulled the blade
from its scabbard so the doorkeeper could examine it, but kept his
hand over the seal of the Royal Kreggorian Guard that was on the
pommel.

The
man looked over the polished, two-edged longsword and nodded. "Nice
piece of work. Take it inside to Old Jimmy and he'll hold it for you.
But if I find out you didn't..." the door guard cracked his
knuckles, "I'll be seeing you again."

Mason
dropped his sword in the barrel, shrugged his shoulders and said, "My
pig-sticker is just a sharp piece of metal. You can keep it if you
want."

The
same worn-out look that vitiated the exterior of the old
establishment, lent character and appeal to the inside. Ancient beams
arched high overhead while smooth wood floors covered the expanse
from wall to wall. Two huge hearths faced the room from opposite
sides, filling the space with warmth and a radiant orange glow. An
entire history of weapons and shields covered the walls along with a
hodgepodge of trophies, ornaments, and artwork. There was a heavy oak
sign hanging above the stairway that led to the upper levels.

"Welcome
to Holton House," Mason read aloud.

Ben
looked back toward the main door and said, "I thought this was The
Masked Pig."

A
serving girl, carrying a tray loaded with tankards of ale, pushed by
him on her way to a table in the back corner. "The tavern is the
Masked Pig. The inn is Holton House. If there is anything I can get
you boys, my name is Kyla." She scurried away as quickly as she had
come.

"Thank
you," Mason said too late, but watched appreciatively the sway of
her dress as she hipped her way through the maze of men, tables, and
chairs. "Nice girl."

A
middle-aged man wearing a simple green robe stood from a nearby table
and approached Ben. He looked different than the other guests of the
tavern; he was older and clearly not a soldier, though Ben thought he
could possibly be a merchant or trade broker. He was shorter than Ben
and heavyset to the point of being round in the gut. Not the image of
a man who had seen combat in years, if ever.

He
cleared his throat and said, "The world is changing. Are you
prepared to choose your path?"

"What?"
Ben stammered.

"When
the days grow dark with distrust, it is important to know who your
friends are." The man pulled his hood from his head to reveal a
friendly round face. He had curly brown hair and clear blue eyes. He
seemed nice enough, but his good-natured image was contrived and
overemphasized. Like a merchant forcing his wares on an unprepared
passerby, he offered his hand. "My name is William Babbitt."

"Can
I help you?" Ben asked, not immediately accepting the proffered
hand.

"If
you are weak of spirit or in need of a greater understanding of your
place in this world, then the Divine House of Babbitt is at your
service."

"The
Divine House of Babbitt?" Ben almost laughed. "You named a faith
after yourself?"

"I
offer only wisdom and solace to those who choose the path of
conflict."

"A
field missioner," Mason interrupted. "Brother
Babbitt are you familiar with the Battle-prayers of the Watonbie sand
tribes? They carried me through some tough times during the
desert raids of Farhaven." He stepped in front of Ben and gave the
holy man his full attention, but more importantly, creating a chance
for Ben to escape the unwanted conversation.

Ben
made a mental note to thank Mason later. He was well aware of the
various wartime philosophies practiced by even the most seasoned
swordsmen. Words of wisdom could ease the burden of unfortunate deeds
committed in the course of war. Battlefield horrors can haunt a man's
dreams, and even a soldier needed to sleep at night.

Ben
took the opportunity to step away. He spotted a long counter
situated between two doors that apparently led back into the kitchen.
An elderly man sat behind the counter, which served double duty as a
staging area for the servers and a check-in for the inn. The man was
barking out orders to servants who noticeably needed no instruction
and went about their assigned tasks as if he wasn't there.

When
Ben approached the counter, the old man sat up straight, dusted off
his shirt with one hand, and combed back his wispy white hair with
the other.

"Welcome
to Holton House," he beamed with a broad, but clearly faked smile.
"The name's James Holton, but you can call me Old Jimmy like the
rest. What can I do for you?"

Now
closer, Ben could see that Old Jimmy was not as old as he had first
appeared. Like the tavern itself, he had lived a harsh life that
showed in the lines of his face. Easily sixty years old, but far less
than the eighty or ninety Ben had originally suspected.

Displayed
on the wall behind Jimmy was a pair of crossed Tanian War-Cleaves,
the preferred weapon of the Empire. The two-headed axes were quite
large and undoubtedly heavy. Ben considered the massive weapons for a
moment, and couldn't imagine who could have wielded them in life.
With such an imposing backdrop, Old Jimmy looked like a judge doling
out executions... and Ben was next in line.

Ben
unbuckled his scabbard and placed his sheathed sword on the counter.
"I was told that you'd hold this for me."

Jimmy's
eyes went wide. "That's a kingdom sword, officer blade of the Royal
Kreggorian Guard if I'm not mistaken." He stroked the hilt admiring
the emblem. "How did you come by this?"

"It's
mine," Ben said, and immediately regretted the fumble.

Jimmy
paused, looked around the room, and then whispered. "You're far
from home, young man. If anyone else asks, just tell them you killed
some poor, overweight bastard and took it. The kind of men we get
around here won't be impressed. Nice blade or not, I doubt you can
use it half good enough to save your skin."