The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns (63 page)

Lord Marcel looked to his town, then up to the weather, and then a look around the small army that was behind this capitan of Harlaheim and the well spoken elven lady. His mind withdrew for a moment to his meeting with Katrina, the Lady of Willborne who held the greatest army and most of the power in
this
kingdom of free cities. She had told him earlier this week to be on guard for a group that held a scroll stolen from Prince Johnas of Chazzrynn and that they had also stolen a key to a very important place from the dwarves of Boraduum. She had mentioned a minotaur also, and Marcel realized that these were the very folk that had been described. Lord
Marcel Keervinn
smiled, rarely having anything of worth travel through his dismal and secretive little domain in Willborne.
Her orders were well remembered in his head, and he bowed to the elf from atop his stallion.

“I may have room for five or six at the
Bordermark Inn, we
could probably use som
e distraction tonight anyway.” a
ll three men looked to one another and laughed heartily at some joke or inside jest that no one else could have understood. “The rest of your men and horses can st
ay as my guests
at the keep. The stable
is stoned in, dry, and even has a fireplace to keep your men warm. Follow me.”

“You are most gracious my Lord Keervinn of Bailey, I am in your debt.” Shinayne bowed, her golden hair drenched from the sporadic rains that interrupted the constant mist from gray clouds above.

Saberrak waited until the men had turned to lead the company into Bailey then spoke quietly to Shinayne. “That was easy, finally a town that did not
stare at me in terror or try and kill
us
upon entering. Nicely done, elf.”

“Too easy I am afraid, my horned friend. It took little to get what we needed this late, and he has not even asked for payment. I sense something dark and wicked about this place. A land with few laws could hold a number of problems when---“

“Let us get out of the rain first, and get warm before you begin with these feelings you have again, shall we?” Saberrak snorted, steam issuing from his bovine nostrils as he walked Shinayne’s horse into the dreary town.
Saberrak marched forward behind the three horsemen and turned to see the rest following. His eyes turned back to the front, watching the cloud covered mountain as if it were staring back at him.

LCMVXI
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James had not spoken in days
of travel
, had not prayed, and felt not the urge to do either. His confusion over religion, the
divine messages from the
scroll, all that had happened, and what he was even doing this far from Chazzrynn had nearly taken over his every waking thought.
He sat at a small round table inside
the small keep that housed the rural nobility of Bailey. The fireplace was lit, his friends were unloading their gear and getting dry, yet the knight of Chazzrynn felt nothing but confused emptiness. He had wished to stay and fight beside Cristoff to whatever end. He had wanted to return home and serve his king and redeem his lost honor throughout Chazzrynn. The promise he had made to Azenairk upon Soujan Mountain now seemed foolish and rash. His mind could not fathom traveling so far to the west, so far to a place that may not exist, and his mind began to convince him that it did not and c
ould not be. He
stared down at
the broadsword with the griffon hilt and thought again of the late Lord Arlinne of Southwind Keep. A cloud of doubt and isolation surrounded him and
prevented
any chance of faith he may have held.

“James? You are awfully quiet. What troubles you?” Zen placed a hand on his shoulder in hopes that his friend of the feathered cross would
snap out of whatever held him hostage at the moment. He had not seen James pray with him in the mornings, and despite being of different races and religions, Azenairk knew that lost feeling across the face of a man anywhere.

“I need to get some air, I will return.” Sir Andellis stood up, sheathed his blade, and walked out of the large stone common room. Down the torchlit halls to the foyer, the guards stepped aside with a slight bow of recognition. James barely noticed them as he walked past and out the aging double doors and into the open rains of Bailey. He walked across the weathered cobblestone roads that ran with mud and water. He walked past closed homes and shops and the occasional citizen that kept their distance late at night.
Dark buildings, quiet stables, stormy skies and rain, and a thick hum
id fog to breath
e
were all that J
a
mes held company with
.

He looked up at the sound of a door opening with a loud creak. He could smell the wine, ale, and pipe smoke from several city blocks away. The perceived warmth called to his mind, the closeness of people drinking in misery sent him false security. And his nose guided his bootsteps toward the lit tavern. James looked up, straightening his long white tunic and blue sash on instinct.

“The Floating Goblet. Sounds and looks like the place to be this time of evening
in the grand metropolis of Bailey
.” h
e read the sign and told himself outloud that he should enter.
His humor was false, his body moved against the better judgement of his conscience, and he convinced himself that all would be fine.

The aroma hit him square in the face, his eyes dialated to adjust to the darkened room and lanternlight that threw more sh
adow than illumination
. Three women drank from cups as they cleaned and caroused, one of them very young and dressed in white garments. Five men, including the man behind the mahagony plank of a bar, sat staring at James as they smoked
pipe
and drank from wine in steel goblets. The goblets behind the bar were indeed floating about three feet in the air, dozens of them, enticing one to
want to reach out and take them
.
Chuckles from unknown reaches of inebriation littered the thick air from man and woman alike as James approached the bartop. Their rough
features, unkempt hair of blondes and light browns, and more than a few missing teeth on the men
,
all drew the knight of Chazzrynn closer for reasons unknown.

“What an honor we have here this rainy night, a soldier of Chazzrynn graces the Floating Goblet for so
me whiskey or ale from Baily?” t
he man behind the wooden stretch spoke with an old Agarian accent that seemed to sing as much as speak from the curls of dirty blonde beard and mustache. His hair was braided and knotted past his shoulders, his hazel mottled eyes winced from the smoke that chased his words from the pipe in his hand, and his other hand waved toward the steel and silver chalices afloat behind him. His dirty tunic, once white for certain, allowed a wipe of a hand before he reached out to shake the hand of James Andellis with an inviting and curious smile across his grizzly jaw. “I’m
Darcy Loghmann, friend, what can I pass yer way then?”

The words hung in the air forever, James had not thought of an answer, did not want to say the words for
it seem
ed
something was stopping him from speaking.
The words and thoughts of
wine, finest bottle, Caberran if you have it sir,
and many others
fired into his mind, into his throat, but his mouth would not move.

“Ahh, vow of silence I suppose
then? How about you help old D
arcy out and point at your poison the
n, brave knight of the south?” h
e laughed, followed by the men and women that sat and stood in the quaint little tavern room. Rain battered the glass in the windows, wind pushed the roof to moan, the fireplace crackled with anticipation, and James raised his hand to shoulder level. His eyes quivered, his stomach turned with anxiety, sweat rolled down his temples into his trimmed beard, and finally his finger pointed out to one of the bottles on the top shelf
near the ceiling. The rack held hundreds of bottles, but the veteran soldier knew the label of a Caberran red wine, knew the elongated neck meant it was Mellenas, and saw that there were a few others just like it should he be in need.

“Mellenas? Fine choice there…” t
he tavern owner and innkeeper waited before he reached for the bottle, wanted a name, that personal closeness, and the three
or
four silvers for the bottle in advance from this stranger that did not speak.

“James, Sir James Andellis, knight of Chazzrynn. The
bottle please, and one glass.” h
is mind drown out by visions, just snippets really, of Lord Christoff, the late Lord Arlinne, and the late Sir Savanno Lisario. He saw them all, brave and lordly men, men he could not help, could not save, and his guilt and shame impacted his heart, wave after unseen wave.
The
goblet floated toward
him with a simple gesture from D
arcy, a minor magical trick that was likely the only reason this run down inn and tavern still survived.

The young girl in dressed in white gowns fit for sleep on a cold night glanced at James, the only thing that took his mind away from the bottle and the past for a moment. She went from a dirty table with a rag and tray full of glasses, two trying to float away as she walked. Her long dark blonde waves hung with the humidity and smoke, barely moving from her shoulders and face. Just enough though, for James to see her blue eyes fixate upon his for a long moment as she reached for the hovering goblets in midair and pulled them close to her serving tray. Young, perhaps twenty if that even, she glided like an angel through a room far from sacred or holy. His eyes wondered what she was doing here, the look apparent
in both of their stares, then J
ames returned to the matter at hand as his conscience battled with his demons, the latter winning the current challenge.

“Four silvers, Sir James, and keep yer southern eyes
off me neice there, understood?
She is leaving tomorrow, won’t be back, and ye got no business with her on account o me.” Darcy caught the stare, knew that she had been chosen last month to be the bringer of a good season
by Lord Marcell and his priest, Veuric
.
He would be damned before he let some vagabond foreigner, knight or no, get her attentions or vice versa. The barkeep put his hand out on the mahagony, waiting for the coins to make their appearance.
Darcy suspected something was not all in line with this southern man, his silence and disconcerted mind mad
e
it very apparent. He glanced behind his mahagony workspace to the loaded hand crossbow and shortsword that lay at the ready, just in case.

James pulled out four silver coins from his ragged leather pouch, struggling with his trembling fingers to avoid the mass of copper bits that held the majority inside. They fell to the bartop and jingled in the heavy silence of the Floating Goblet Inn and Taverne. All eyes
and ears seemed to wait as if J
ames would stop breathing or the worl
d would end any moment
. Not only his own conscience at war here, the veteran knight felt the weight of those he did not even know upon his will and spirit. His guilt began to turn little nothings into treacher
ous and tangible threats
. The cross stare from the man on the left, the woman cleaning dishes in the back had stopped, even the grizzled barkeep and owner seemed a danger to him for no obvious reason.
The goblets floated still, the wine bottle looked immense and grand as if he were a young boy in a giant cathedral
with too many sins
, and as the barkeep slid the coins across the wood with his weathered hand, time stood still.
James was in
awe of a moment that seemed to call and haunt his waking mind, a powerless moment in which he had no control over the outcome.

The moment passed, breath returned to the world after the knights’ lungs released it from capture, and noise returned to the small shack of a tavern in Bailey
. The dark green glass bottle
had many words painted on it, yet he only felt the weight as he carried it, his shame would not permit his eyes to view the object of his sin. James walked to a table in the corner, one that had been recently cleaned by the young neice of Darcy Loghmann, and sat down with his conscience weighing more than he and his armor combined. Then and only then, did he realize that he had forgotten to take a goblet or wait for the barkeep to present him one. He sighed, wondering if that was God working his will,
Annar perhaps waiting outside again,
or his own nerves and idiocy at the stressful moment of knowing he was doing something wrong, but continuing regardless. Tears filled his eyes, for what purpose he knew not. A gentle hand graced his armored shoulder and tabard, a woman’s hand. With a floating goblet
trailing her
, James looked upon the young girl whose eyes seemed to be moist as well.

“A gobl
et, Sir knight…for your wine.” h
er voice was frail, meek, softspoken in the essence of a young girl and the body of a woman.