Legend of the Ravenstone (35 page)

He smacked his hand upon his forehead and fastened his belt with the scabbard. Already he felt a surge in confidence. He gave a grunt for good measure and headed for the door. The corridor was dark and silent, and it took a moment for him to get his bearings. His boots echoed with his heavy footfalls; noisy thieves did not make good thieves. Fortunately, he was Rourke—Freeland Enforcer...or whatever Hale had called him.

He wound up in the great hall where Rashir and his brothers had gathered with Argamus, Hale, and him. It was empty now, though the remains of a fire still hissed and smoked in the hearth. Rourke stood there a moment, uncertain which way to go. Would he be able to find the cellar if he tried? Hale thought it would be the ideal place to keep prisoners. Cellars were usually near kitchens... He sniffed the air, but all he could scent was the spent hearth and traces of the evening’s incense.

He continued on, spying the foyer into which they had first come. Just past the entrance, he detected a savory aroma—the smell of breakfast. The alluring scent guided him down a set of stairs and to the smoky kitchen, where one of Rashir’s brothers was stoking the coals beneath a grand fire. The young Jornoan looked up, and their eyes met. For a second, Rourke thought he had been caught.

The Jornoan smiled and straightened. “Freeland Enforcer,” he greeted. “You are the first to rise.”

“Really?” Rourke bit his tongue and corrected himself with a grunt.

“Rashir and the others will waken soon. I am in charge of the morning meal.” He waved Rourke in. “Please, join me. It is a lonely duty.”

Rourke hesitated before approaching the young man and taking a seat on a stool.

“Do you have a title by which I should call you?” the Jornoan asked.

“Just Rourke,” he said. “You....”

“Arshod.  There are seven of us, Rourke. I take no insult that you do not recall my name.” He began pulling herbs from an assortment of small bags on the counter. “Do you drink tea?”

“Yeah.” Short answers. That was what Hale told him.

“I will make you some, then. We brought these from our homeland,” Arshod said, holding up a bag. “It is, at times, a comfort to have a familiarity here. You are not so far from your home, no? Though I suppose distance is relative.”

Rourke nodded.

“You do not say much, but every man has a key. Every man has something to say, but you must find what it is to get him to speak.” Arshod tied the herbs in a cloth bag and dropped it into a pot of steaming water. “You must have many stories as an Enforcer. You have apprehended many criminals, no?”

“A lot, yeah.” Rourke rubbed his beard, trying to seem indifferent.

“It is difficult job, I am certain. But it must also be quite exciting. Tell me of the most dangerous criminal you apprehended.” Arshod stopped what he had been doing to stare at Rourke with expectant, dark eyes.

Rourke’s mouth opened, and a word fell out. “Jack.”

Arshod raised an eyebrow.

“Jack the Knife. Heard of ‘im?”

Arshod shook his head.

“Well, he was the most dangerous guy in the Freelands. He was a killer. Killed lots o’ folks.”
Tell a story like Hawkwing would tell
, Rourke thought, struggling to make a start.

“I assume he was adept at using his weapon,” Arshod said, awaiting more.

“He was good at knives,” Rourke confirmed, “but he also had a club. A club with spikes at the end. It was how he killed people.” He pretended to slam a heavy club against the table. “Wham!”

“How did you apprehend him?”

“Ya mean, how’d I catch ‘im?”

Arshod nodded.

“By surprise. Waited outside his favorite tavern, in the dark. Waited ‘til he came out, and then I took my sword, and
sliiik
!” Rourke made a low swipe with his imaginary sword.

Arshod’s eyes had rounded. “You cut off his legs?”

Rourke settled back on his stool with a satisfied smile. “Yeah.”

“That was not much of a fight.”

Rourke frowned; his audience was clearly disappointed. “He still fought back.”

“With both his legs severed?”

“Yeah. His arms still worked. He had his club, and he swung it at my legs.”

“And?”

“I moved and cut off his arm.”

Arshod exclaimed a phrase in his own tongue, and Rourke nodded. “With the killers, you can’t think. You just gotta act. You don’t get a second chance.”
That sounded good—real good. Gotta remember that one later.

“I, too, have had experience with a criminal,” Arshod said, growing a smile of his own. “Asmat and I, we are responsible for detaining the White Demon.”

“You?”

Arshod nodded and set back to his task. “It was not as difficult as one might believe.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The Jornoan froze. “Why would you doubt me?”

“That’s what guys do. Try to make a better story,” Rourke said. “What would you want the White Demon for anyway?”

“For its power, of course,” Arshod said, insulted. “It is a creature of magic. Rashir can control it.”

“You mean you didn’t turn it in for money?”

“Money.” Arshod snorted and shook his head. “Money is such a short-sighted ambition. You will see. When the time is right, Rashir will show you.”

“So the Demon is here?” Rourke tried not to sound too eager.

“Of course. It was responsible for the storm you endured.”

Rourke held up his hands. “Sorry, but this is all a little hard to believe.”

“No more than Jack the Knife,” Arshod protested. “I have no cause to doubt you; I would think you would grant me the same faith.”

“Just the way I am,” Rourke said. “I ain’t so trusting. ‘S how I got to where I am. Don’t trust nobody.”

Arshod mumbled in his language.

“So show ‘im to me, then.”

The Jornoan looked up.

“Lemme see the Demon.”

Arshod shook his head.

“You said yourself we’re gonna see him. Lemme have a peek; I won’t tell no one.”

“I cannot.”

“Who’s gonna know?” Rourke pushed. “You were brave enough to catch it, so why’re you scared to show it to me?”

“I am not afraid,” Arshod said, folding his arms. They stared at each other, and at last the Jornoan relaxed. “You must maintain our secret.”

“I swear it.”

Arshod frowned but waved him through the kitchen. “Follow me.” He paused to look over his shoulder. “There is a price.”

“What?”

“We must fight. I want to say I have fought an Enforcer.”

“To the death?” Rourke asked, taken aback.

“Certainly not!”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He shrugged, and they went down another flight of stairs, Rourke’s heart slamming against his chest. Arshod grabbed a torch and approached the door. Rourke was surprised to find that it was unlocked. The darkness beyond was shattered by the torchlight as Arshod held it high.

“You see, Rourke? I do not lie.”

Rourke nodded, his regard alternating between the two huddled forms at opposite corners of the small cellar. One was an old man bound in rope and chains; he glared into the light but said nothing. The other was obscured by the shredded hood and cloak it wore. It glanced at them, a glint of violet eyeshine confirming the identity of the prisoner before it turned away.

Not really how I imagined them,
Rourke thought.
But they’re here, in the dark, tied up. Guess I wouldn’t look much different, if I was them.
He took a step forward, wanting a closer look, but a hand restrained him.

“Now we go,” Arshod said quietly. He nodded for the door, and reluctantly, Rourke turned away.

“Cowards.”

Both Arshod and Rourke froze.

“Y’are cowards,” rasped the old man. “Turn y’r backs, but I know what awaits y’. Y’r blackened ‘earts will rot inside y’. I ‘ave seen it,” the Prophet promised. “I ‘ave seen it!”

Arshod urged Rourke outside and shut the door. The old man began to shout from inside, and they climbed the stairs back into the kitchen.

“The old one is crazy,” Arshod said with a weak smile. “He has been so since he was brought here.”

“But he is the Prophet, ain’t he?” Rourke asked.

“So they call him. Perhaps he is both.” Arshod busied himself with the meal, and Rourke sat and watched him absently, responding shortly to whatever light questions the Jornoan tossed his way. He could not, however, shake the image of the prisoners from his mind, and worse still were the cries of the Prophet that promised their fate.
So much for me being a hero. I feel more like the bad guy.

~*~

O
nce the sun had risen, so, too, had the other occupants of the manor. The air had warmed enough to entice the Priagent outside, and he invited his guests to dine alongside his brothers. Argamus accepted the invitation on behalf of his leader, who was curiously absent at the onset of the meal. He and Rourke exchanged an uncertain glance, and as if on cue, Rashir asked the inevitable question.

Argamus hesitated. “He was a touch under the weather last night. I think, perhaps, he will be joining us shortly.”

“‘Under the weather,’” Rashir repeated. “This is a new expression for me.”

“Such an expression is used when one is not feeling well,” Argamus said, taking a sip of his tea. “This is a rather unusual blend of herbs.”

“They are from our homeland,” Arshod said with a hint of pride.

“Lord Hale seems inclined to a certain fragility,” Rashir said. “I hope that he is hearty enough to endure our journey northward.”

“I would say he has more strength than he exhibits,” Argamus defended, then wondered if he should not have spoken at all. He found himself second-guessing most everything he said, uncertain if he would help or hinder Hale’s plans.

As if summoned by the conversation, Sebastian Hale appeared at the door to the veranda. He looked pale—even for his pasty guise. Shadows had settled beneath his eyes, and his hair was in slight disarray. He did not smile or nod but uttered a hasty apology for his tardiness.

“Think naught of it,” Rashir said. “We have the day to plan our course, and I would prefer everyone be well-rested and clear in thought.”

Hale glanced at Argamus, then held Rashir’s gaze. “If you do not expect to depart today, I would like to make the trip into Orecir to purchase some supplies for the journey.”

Rashir nodded. “I will send Hesun and Arshod with you. I can think of more than a few items we will need as well. The cart is at your disposal.”

Hale’s bland expression never altered. “Thank you. I hope to leave after breakfast.”

“Do not feel you must hurry,” Rashir said. “My intention is to leave tomorrow morning. There is little to prepare aside from gathering our provisions.” He poured a cup of tea and passed it to Hale. “This may ease that which ails you.”

Hale accepted the cup. “At worst I am unaccustomed to the climate. I suffer no malady.”

“From where do you hail?” Rashir asked. “Further north, I would imagine.”

“Caspernyanne.”

“Do you travel much?”

“When it is required of me,” Hale said. Conversation waned as he directed his attention to his meal, which he picked at like a crow plucking grapes from the vine. Every motion was meticulous and decided, and whatever morsels he disfavored were left in a neat heap upon his plate.

Once the meal had finished, the diners dispersed, and Rourke, Argamus, and Hale started for the stables. Argamus folded his arms. “I was not certain you would join us.”

“There is a situation,” Hale said, his mask of indifference slipping down with the weight of grim tidings.

Argamus stopped walking, forcing Hale to turn. Rourke rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the ground.

“Snowfire was uneasy,” Hale said. “I went scouting early this morning.”

“I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it,” Rourke blurted. “I couldn’t sleep, so I—” He glanced up to find both his companions staring at him.

“Let us allow our leader to finish before you make your confession,” Argamus said, his frown deepening.

Hale’s gaze alternated between the two of them. “There was an encampment east of Orecir. Five men; two I recognized. The Seroko are on their way.”

“The
real
Seroko?” Rourke asked. “Whadda we do?”

Argamus thumped his staff. “We have not been here a day, and our mission is in jeopardy.”

“There is a chance,” Hale said, “that we can dispel the threat before we need confront it.” He gestured for them to continue walking. “We are in the Freelands, and Freelanders do not take kindly to encroachment upon their land. Once we reach Orecir, I will attempt to rally support against the Merchants’ Guild representatives.”

“You mean you’re gonna start a fight?” Rourke asked, eyes wide.

“How many ways can this end poorly?” Argamus asked.

“It is our only chance,” Hale said. “I sent a letter with Snowfire to alert Othenis. I instructed him to meet me in the city.”

“I notice you have only mentioned your involvement,” Argamus said. “What role do you expect us to play in this ludicrous scheme?”

Hale opened the door to the stable and waited for them to file inside. “You are buying supplies for our journey,” he said simply.

Rourke looked down at his sword and sighed. “So we ain’t fightin.’”

“That is not our purpose,” Argamus said, agitated. “As it is, we seem unable to avoid trouble.” He tugged at his lengthy beard. “How many ways can this end poorly?” he repeated.

Hale patted the neck of his horse. “You must trust in me.”

Argamus snorted.

Hale began fastening the bridle. “What have you done, Rourke?”

“Me? Oh—I... I just went for a walk. Nuthin’ happened.”

“‘Nothing’ could be important later,” Hale said. “What happened?”

Rourke twisted his foot in the straw. “I just saw—” He froze when he heard a sound from behind him.

“I am pleased we will be joining you,” said a voice from the stable door. Arshod stepped inside, followed by Hesun. They advanced toward the cart, and Arshod gave Rourke a knowing nod. Hale raised an eyebrow.

“As are we,” Argamus said, forcing a smile.

~*~

T
he purse was considerably lighter, and Argamus hefted what remained in his hand. There was a grunt as Rourke placed the final bag in the bed of the wagon. “That all?” the brute asked.