The Broken Key (02) - Hunter of the Horde (8 page)

“I did find out something though.”

“What?” Riyan asked.

“He has a fascination with history,” he explained. “Probably why he’s in charge of the Archives.”

“How is that going to help?” asked Riyan.

Bart glanced around and produced a rather aged looking tome and handed it over to him. “This should do it,” he said.

Riyan took the tome and glanced at it. The cover was leather and cracked with age.

He opened it and very carefully flipped through the pages but couldn’t understand the writing. “What is it?” he asked.

“Something Allar had in that library under Kevik’s workshop,” replied Bart. He called the third floor of Kevik’s tower his workshop seeing as how he spends so much time there ‘working’ on his staff. “Kevik said it detailed the history of some clan or other and didn’t mind parting with it. Especially after I explained to him what I needed it for.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try,” Riyan said. “Tomorrow during the noon meal.” They usually were given an hour break after they ate so they wouldn’t get a cramp or pull anything while their bodies digested their food.

“I’ll come back in two days to see if it went alright,” he told them.

“What are you planning on doing in the meantime?” Chad asked.

He moved his head closer to Riyan and Chad. Lowering his voice, he said, “Just south of here in Kemmet is where the buyer of the coins lives. I’m going to try and find him.”

“Good luck,” Riyan said.

“You too,” Bart said. Then he stood up. “Better get cleaned up.” Riyan grinned. “Planned on it,” he replied. “See you in two days.”

“In two days,” Bart said. With a quick nod, he turned and headed for the door. Riyan and Chad left for their barrack even before he had left the building.

“Think this is going to work?” Chad asked, referring to the book Riyan was carrying.

“I hope so,” he replied. “Not sure what else we could do.” When they returned to their barrack, Riyan put the book in the chest at the foot of his bed and they each gathered a change of clothes. Then after a short stint in the communal baths that the Guild has, they went to the mess for a quick meal. Another hour was spent talking with their fellows after they finished eating, then it was to bed.

The next day just after finishing his noon meal, Riyan hurried to his barrack and retrieved the tome he received from Bart the day before. Carrying it with him, he went up to the third floor of the Guild where the Archives was located.

He had been thinking about this moment ever since Bart gave him the aged tome.

How was he to start the conversation? How could he ask to look through the tomes and manuscripts located within? He still hadn’t come up with a good strategy by the time he reached the third floor and came to the door behind which lay the Guild Archives.

Riyan took a deep breath to settle himself then went up to the door and knocked. He stood in front of the door in silence for several minutes and began thinking that maybe Stryntner wasn’t within. He reached up his hand and was about to knock again when the door opened.

“Yes?” Stryntner asked when he pulled open the door and saw Riyan standing there.

Riyan was speechless with nervousness. His tongue dried up and he forgot what he was going to say.

“You got something to say boy?” the old man asked him. Then he noticed the tome in his hand and his mood subtly changed. “What do you have there?” He looked in curiosity at the tome.

“I…ahem.” He cleared his throat then said, “I understand you have an interest in the history of things.”

Stryntner just stood there. His gaze had moved from the book and was looking Riyan over.

“I wanted to offer this to you,” he said. Raising the hand holding the tome, he held it out.

“Just like that?” Stryntner asked. “You are going to simply hand it to me?” His eyes narrowed as he grew suspicious.

Riyan nodded. “I too have an interest in such things,” he told him. “I was wondering if perhaps you needed someone to help you out? Organizing, moving things, that sort of things.”

“Can you read?” Stryntner asked.

Riyan began to relax as it seemed the man wasn’t immediately going to send him away. He nodded. “I can read,” he replied. “My village had a school of sorts. We all learned the basics in letters and numbers.”

“Hmm,” he murmured. “You’re a Recruit aren’t you?”

“Yes sir,” he answered. “My name is Riyan Beronson from the village of Quillim.”

“Quillim you say?” he asked. Then he got a far off look as if he wasn’t really there for a moment. Then coming back to himself, his eyes once again focused on him. “Ever heard of Rythor the Fierce?”

Riyan shook his head negatively.

“He came from your village, years ago I think it was.” Then he nodded. “Yes, I believe he did. Brave man, but stupid. He thought that since he had won many battles that he was invulnerable. A black dragon killed him when he tried raiding its hoard.”

“I never heard that,” commented Riyan.

“Hmm?” Stryntner asked as if he forgot what Riyan was referring to. “Oh yes, right.” He reached out and took hold of the tome Riyan still held out to him. Opening it up, he scanned its pages and then looked back to Riyan. “Can you read this?” he asked.

Riyan shook his head. “No. I am not familiar with the language.”

“Not surprising,” Stryntner said. Closing the book, he tucked it under his left arm and said, “Thank you very much.” Then he turned, reentered the Archives and closed the door.

Riyan stood there shocked at the sudden closing of the door. After a moment he brought his hand up to the door and almost knocked. He paused with his hand several inches away, then lowered his hand in indecision. A full minute he stood there, vacillating between whether to leave or knock on the door. Finally, he turned and left to return downstairs. At the landing of the stairs, he paused and glanced back to the Archives’ door. He felt a little put out that Stryntner didn’t accept him as some sort of helper. Shrugging to himself, he went downstairs.

He found Chad relaxing in their room as they still had ten minutes left before they were required to return to the courtyard and resume their drills.

“And?” Chad asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. He explained to Chad what happened and how the old man just up and closed the door on him.

“He sounds like an odd sort of fellow,” Chad commented when he was through.

“That he was,” agreed Riyan. They talked about it for several minutes. Then when the time for their drills to resume drew nigh, they hustled out to the courtyard for another session of sword technique instruction. That was the one thing they both liked the best.

They could do without the sessions with the fat-uglies.

It was midafternoon when Bart arrived in Kemmet. It had once bordered the Ki’ Gyrx Forest off to the east, but extensive foresting over the past decade had pushed its fringe back a mile or so. It was still one of the largest forests in Byrdlon and had a rather unpleasant history.

Kemmet itself was still a small town, barely more than a village really. Its main export was lumber, both raw timber and the more manageable planks for construction.

There were two master woodworkers who have taken up residence in town, and on the outskirts was a charcoal manufacturer who turned timber into charcoal that smiths used in their forges.

The place Thyrr spoke of where he could find Durik was supposed to lie on the southern side of town. It was an estate a mile or so out in the hills. Thyrr also said he could often be found at The Dunderdells, a local tavern where he would spend time drinking and socializing. Bart had decided to stay at the inn and await the coming of night to see if Durik would show at the tavern. If so, he could approach him then.

There was but one inn and it was a rather plain two story structure with a sign depicting a solitary tree standing upon a hill. He pulled up to the post outside and dismounted. Securing his horse, he went through the front door and procured a room for himself and a stall for his horse.

Behind the counter where he made the arrangements, he was surprised to see four of the coins bearing the King’s symbol nailed to the wall. “What are those?” he asked the proprietress.

“You’ve never seen the coins of the King before?” she asked.

He shook his head no.

“They say there’s a cache of them somewhere that’s supposed to hold a king’s ransom,” she told him.

“Do you mean the King’s Horde?” he asked in a manner that spoke of bewilderment and awe.

She flashed him a grin and nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “If you’re interested in such things, you might try over at The Dunderdells an hour or so after dark. Durik at times shows up there. He’s the one who gave me these.”

“He gave them to you?” asked Bart. “From my understanding, they are rare and worth a lot.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. They are a conversation starter though.” Then she handed him his key.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said then returned out front to where his horse was tied. He walked him around to the stable in the back and found the stable boy who helped him get his horse settled in. Once his horse was taken care of, he took his pack and went up to his room where he waited for night to come. Lying on his bed, he thought about what approach to use in wheedling any information out of Durik that he could. He didn’t want to let on that he was more than someone with idle curiosity.

By the time it had grown dark, he had somewhat of a plan worked out. He then went down to the inn’s common room and had dinner. It was roasted venison with a side of spicy tubers and bread. The clientele was the usual sort one would find at an inn. Bart spent the duration of his meal quietly contemplating the different people there. When he was done, he got up, left a couple coppers on the table for the serving girl and headed over to The Dunderdells.

The tavern was down the street past one of the woodworking shops and the chandlers.

Light came from the windows and raucous laughter spilled through the doorway every time someone passed through. Outside of The Dunderdells was an old chap sitting against the wall by the door. When he saw Bart approaching, he held his hand out, begging for a coin.

Bart slowed his steps as he looked the old man over. From his time in Wardean, he could readily tell if the beggars were begging because they had to, or was someone out to cage a few extra coins. This old man was of the former. It looked like half of his right leg was missing and he had an overall miserable appearance. Bart dug into his pouch and flipped him a silver.

When the man caught it, he was surprised at the type of coin he had received. The coin quickly disappeared into his ragged shirt. He nodded his head and mumbled,

“Thanks.”

“No problem old timer,” Bart said. He didn’t mind giving to those who genuinely needed it. But he would just as soon spit on those who did it just for the money as it took coins away from those whose survival depended on the coins they took in.

He reached the door and pushed it open. The noise inside rolled over him like a wave.

The place was packed and he was rather unhappy that the only spot available was on one of the stools at the bar. He didn’t like that for two reasons. First of all, nine times out of ten you’re sitting with your back to the room which makes you vulnerable. Secondly, and from the looks of where the open stool was sitting it’s true tonight as well, you’re usually crammed in between two others.

Having little choice, he went over and took his seat between a couple on his right and a lone drunk on his left. Hardly the best situation.

“What can I get for you?”

He looked up at the large man behind the counter. Not very tall but built muscularly and had a look that said he wasn’t about to tolerate any sort of misbehaving. “An ale would be nice,” Bart said.

The man was quick to place a foaming mug before him. Bart laid down two coppers and the man took the coins. As he began sipping his drink, he turned and gazed out over the people at the tables. He could tell these were primarily locals. Off to one side there was a group of seven older men sitting around a large table. One of them had to be Durik.

All of a sudden, his arm was jostled by the drunk on his left and half of his remaining ale went sloshing to the floor.

“Shory ‘bout that, ol’ chap,” the drunk next to him said.

Bart gave him a dirty look but held his tongue.

“Let ol’ Bunn buys you anuter,” the drunk said, slurring his words.

“That won’t be necessary,” Bart assured him.

Then he felt the drunk’s arm go around his neck. “You’re a nice enough fella,” ol’

Bunn said.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Bart said as he worked to disengage himself from the drunk.

“Is this guy bothering you?”

Bart turned to tell the barkeep that he could handle this when he saw that the barkeep had been addressing ol’ Bunn.

“Naw,” ol’ Bunn replied with a gap toothed grin. “Thish is my new fwiend.” Then he patted Bart on the back and drained his mug in one gulp.

Bart was fuming inside. This was just the sort of thing that always seemed to happen when he had the misfortune to sit at the bar. He sat there and endured ol’ Bunn’s attempts at small talk, all the while trying to avoid the noxious odor he was emitting with every word.

Then to his relief, he saw a couple leave one of the tables and head for the door. True, it was near the middle, but at least it was closer to the table with the seven older gentlemen and away from ol’ Bunn. Getting up from his chair he quickly made a beeline to the table before anyone else could take it.

Bart took the seat that gave him the best view of the seven men. He had no sooner settled in when he heard from the bar, “Hey, what about your ol’ fwiend Bunn?” His ire peaked when he glanced back and saw the drunk staggering across the room towards him.

The freshly filled mug in his hand sloshing its contents on the floor, as well as on other patrons, with every unbalanced step he took. “Go away,” Bart said quietly under his breath.

Working quickly, he reached into his shirt where he had the rolled leather containing his darts. He removed one of the darts as well as the third of the vials in line. Once the dart and vial were in hand he glanced around to see if anyone was paying him any attention and might have seen what he was doing.