The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (50 page)

He offered no apology. He did not even look at them as he climbed atop his horse, huffing with the effort.

“We’re to find our man at the Giant’s Tongue. This way.”

The ordeal finally ceased after following a nearby crossroad up a steep hill and arriving at an angular, two-story building jutting forth at yet another intersection. White paint peeled in tiny strips from the outer walls, one of which held a plaque of wood with branded lettering:
THE GIANT
’
S TONGUE
.

Yet another inn and tavern, Torin decided, though judging by the smells wafting through the open doorway, this one was more meathouse than alehouse. His stomach growled, stirred by the aroma of roasted steaks, seasoned stews, and fresh-baked breads.

When all had dismounted, Warrlun handed Torin his reins. “Tether the horses on the north side,” the soldier instructed. Without waiting for a reply, he then climbed the inn’s stoop and strode into the murky depths beyond.

Torin had half a mind to abandon their guide then and there. Instead, he swallowed his pride and followed orders, leading his companions around to where a long line of steeds had been picketed beneath a sagging awning, watched over by a pair of young grooms. Torin balked at the requested holding fee, particularly since he was now penniless. But Saena came to his aid before he could cause a stir, with funds provided her by Lord Lorre. After paying for each of their mounts—including Warrlun’s—the company shuffled quickly out of the rain.

They paused upon entering, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and for their bodies to shudder through a series of escaping chills. Water dripped and pooled from their cloaks and onto the thick animal rug laid down across the entry. Directly ahead, a long serving bar split the lodge down its center, leading back toward the kitchens. Booths and tables filled the open areas to either side, along with staircases climbing to the upper levels. Antlers and pelts and other hunting trophies hung upon the walls, as well as from every rafter and corner and crude chandelier.

A serving girl strolled forward to greet them. “Need help finding a seat?”

Torin only barely acknowledged the woman, his gaze shifting about in search of Warrlun. “We’re supposed to be meeting someone.”

“Well, ya ain’t likely to find him stood here. Come on in; take a look around. There’s a cloakroom behind ya, should ya choose. Give a holler when you’re ready for me.”

Her suggestive tone finally drew his full attention—though by that time, he was able to catch just a sly smirk and a twitch of her hips as she spun about and headed off with a drink tray toward one of the nearby tables.

Saena started around the opposite side of the bar, giving him a nudge in that direction. Torin forgot about the serving girl and scooted after his companion, only to soon find himself again in the lead. With the girls on his heels, he proceeded deeper into the Tongue’s smoky bowels, edging past stools and tables crammed with noontime patrons. Few bothered to take notice of him, involved as they were in their own affairs. Whistles rang out, but might as easily have been calls to the various serving girls as invitations to the lovely ladies who followed him.

At last he spotted Warrlun, down at the end of the bar, standing head and shoulders above those around him. The soldier was conversing with one of the barkeeps, who was pointing farther back toward a distant table. By the time Torin came upon them, the barkeep had gone back to work and Warrlun was starting off in the direction indicated.

“Secure that booth,” the commander ordered.

Weary of being bossed around like some grunt in the other’s army, Torin nevertheless did as instructed, veering toward a secluded corner in which server visibility gave way to customer privacy. As he did so, their guide strode toward the table pointed out by the barkeep, a table fighting to withstand a riotous brood in the midst of what appeared to be some manner of game. Six burly men were taking turns pounding their lidded tankards upon the table’s surface. Suddenly, all stopped and bellowed in laughter before drinking heartily. The last to finish tossed a coin onto a growing pile in the center of the table, amid the jeers of his fellows. A server stood by with a cask, used to fill the empty mugs. The pounding began again.

Torin continued to watch as the girls slid into the bench seats of their own booth. Warrlun, he noticed, had stopped to observe from a distance, focusing on a dark-haired man who sat among the others but did not appear to be participating in their revelry. When another round had ended, the commander stepped forward, tapping this individual on the shoulder.

The stranger glanced at him, seeming more concerned with the mound of coins. A moment later, his head whipped back, eyes wide in startled recognition. The eyes narrowed, then widened again, and a greasy smirk slid forth. Warrlun said something, though Torin could not begin to hear the man’s words over the surrounding clamor. Whatever it was caused the dark-haired stranger to excuse himself from the others and rise to his feet. Following the sweep of Warrlun’s arm, he made his way over to the newcomers’ booth.

For a moment, the stranger’s gaze found Torin’s. His expression was that of a man who had not only lost his way, but no longer recalled what he was looking for. Then he caught sight of the women—Saena and the pair of Nymphs. All of a sudden, he seemed to remember himself, and that greasy smirk widened into a cunning, almost predatory smile.

“These yours?” the stranger asked, turning to Warrlun as the soldier came up behind him.

“Have a seat.”

The stranger bowed to Dyanne and Holly, who occupied one side of the booth. “With the ladies’ leave?”

Before either could respond, he slid in next to them—putting Holly in the middle. Across the table, Torin found himself in much the same position, scooting closer to Saena to make room for Warrlun beside him.

“I’m surprised to see you here again, my friend,” the stranger began, focusing on the broad-backed soldier across from him. “How many years has it been?”

Despite his obvious bravado, he seemed to Torin shifty and tentative. His dark eyes were hollow and red-rimmed, and darted continually to the open side of the booth—as if the man himself were contemplating escape. Warrlun’s presence here had unnerved him, whatever else he would have them think.

“You look well, Traver,” the old soldier responded.

Fitter than the commander, anyway, Torin agreed silently. This Traver’s size and shape was not all that different from his own, though the man’s age was no doubt much closer to Warrlun’s.

“Mountain air,” Traver said, winking at Saena. “Keeps a man young.”

Warrlun leaned forward. “Ethric tells me you’re heading up the hunts these days.”

Again, that hint of buried nervousness from Traver. He was trying to determine, Torin thought, if Warrlun’s visit here meant trouble for him. If that was the case, then it was reasonable to assume he had something to hide.

At that moment, one of the servers found them—the girl who had greeted them, Torin saw.

“What’ll it be?”

Traver appeared much relieved by the interruption. “A rack of Jaecy would be delicious, right about now.”

“Hands to yourself, Traver,” the woman snapped, “else the next hide you tan will be your own.”

Traver shrank back in apology. “Forgive me, my lady. I am not myself when enraptured by your beauty.”

Jaecy scoffed. She would have been pretty, Torin decided, had she not looked as if she’d lived her entire life in this frontier environment. Her hair was brightly colored, yet dirty and tousled. Her skin was fair, though pitted in areas with rashlike scars. Her tavern rags and serving apron were patched and stained, though her body beneath was shapely enough.

“What’ll you have, stranger?” she asked, fixing Torin with a judging eye.

Torin was embarrassed to have been caught scrutinizing her so carefully. “I don’t…What’s good?”

Jaecy scoffed again, though with more amusement than disgust this time. “Outlander, ain’t ya? Place ain’t named the Goblin’s Ears, ya know.”

“Lamb and potatoes for all,” Warrlun resolved impatiently. “Ale to wash it down.”

“You his father?” Jaecy asked.

“And some privacy,” the soldier replied sternly.

Jaecy scowled, but managed another smile for Torin before striding away in her tight leather breeches. Traver stared after her before turning back, seeming now a little more at ease.

“’Round here, a man doesn’t buy another a meal unless he wants something.” He sat back, trying to judge Warrlun’s response. “So, to what do I owe this kindness?”

“If you’re leading Ethric’s team, that makes you His Lordship’s foremost bounty hunter, does it not?”

Traver snickered. “Whatever keeps me out of the army.”

“I need to know what you’ve seen.”

“The Finlorians? Come, my friend, it’s been twenty years. The elves are long gone, and His Lordship would do better to accept that.”

“Mind your tongue, rogue.”

“No disrespect intended,” Traver assured the other. “I only mean, seems to me like a waste of good coin to keep funding our excursions.”

“And yet you continue to accept those funds,” Warrlun reminded him. “Time now to report.”

Jaecy returned then, bearing a tray of mugs and a pitcher of ale. Torin managed to avoid her gaze as she filled those cups, catching only a sidelong glance as she spun the empty tray on her fingers and slipped away.

Traver was the first to drink. “Reports are what they have been for the past two decades. Not a sign. Not one that can be followed, anyway.”

Warrlun studied the other carefully, as if measuring the veracity of his claim. “We mean to go up.”

Traver nearly spat a mouthful of ale. “Bit late in the season, ain’t it? After all this time, why the sudden urgency?”

“Ask this one here,” Warrlun said, giving Torin a shove.

Traver’s eyes narrowed. “Who is he?”

“Name’s Torin,” Warrlun replied before the young king could speak for himself.

“
The
Torin?” Traver asked, his interest piqued.

“You’ve heard of him?” Warrlun did not seem surprised.

“Of course. Been a favorite tale in the taverns of late. Figured it was just one of them meant to help while away the winter.”

Torin didn’t care for the way in which Traver was eyeing him. He was about to say so when the bounty hunter turned back to Warrlun.

“And what’s he got to do with the elves?”

“It’s a long story. But that talisman he recovered, the Sword of Asahiel, was once theirs. His Lordship believes it just might be the key we need to draw them forth.”

Traver went back to staring at Torin, thoughts whirring behind those darkened eyes. Finally, he shook his head. “My friend, we had us some good hunts. But there ain’t nothing to find up there. As long as His Lordship’s payments keep coming, rest assured, I’ll keep working toward that big score. But me and Ethric, we’ve got a legitimate business to run as trappers and furriers. I can’t be spending every waking moment in the pursuit of ghosts.”

Warrlun leaned in toward the center of the table, bearing down upon the shifty bounty hunter. “You speak as if you have a choice. I’m not some soft-skinned desk clerk asking to join one of your leisure excursions. I’ve
come on behalf of His Lordship to commission your services, in collection of a debt.”

Traver looked again as if he might flee. His smooth features showed neither fear nor anger, but Torin sensed it nonetheless. He might have trusted the stranger more, in fact, were he to display some sign of hostility or offense. Instead, the man just sat there, smooth as a lake at sunrise, taking it all in.

“Commission, you say?”

“Has cost ever been an object with regard to this venture?”

The bounty hunter took another drink. “Very well, you shall have your expedition—though I’ll not have you say I didn’t warn you. When were you thinking of leaving?”

“Today.”

Traver laughed. “Come, my friend. It would normally take me three days to prepare my team for a trip into the Dragontails this time of year.”

“We don’t need your team,” Warrlun argued. “Just you. A pair of stout hands, if you must, to help carry supplies. But no more.”

“And am I to assume the ladies will be joining us?”

“This is our company,” Warrlun confirmed. “Approved by His Lordship.”

Traver’s smirk slipped free. “You leave a man little room to bargain. But I do have one condition. Tonight, the city holds a dance to begin its celebration of the winter harvest. I would have the ladies attend as my guests.” He gave them all a princely grin.

Torin looked immediately for Dyanne’s reaction, but as usual could read nothing of what she might be feeling. Beside her, Holly scowled with suspicion.

“We do not have time for festivities,” Warrlun grumbled.

“Oh but we do,” Traver assured him. “I’ll have Ethric begin preparations. But it’ll take at least the rest of the day to make things ready for the morrow. An evening of merriment is all I ask. If that’s too much, then you can drag me back to His Lordship in chains.”

Torin could not have been more skeptical of what he was hearing. To his thinking, this bounty hunter had agreed to Warrlun’s request far too easily. And to make use of the girls as some kind of bargaining chip set his teeth on edge. What was the man truly after?

“We leave at dawn,” Warrlun insisted. “So long as everyone can agree to that, I care not how this evening is spent.”

Torin wasn’t so ready to concur. “I don’t think—”

“The entire city will be there,” Traver pressed, speaking only to the girls. “It will be great fun—perhaps the last you’ll have for some time.”

Holly turned to Dyanne, and Torin was horrified to see that they were actually considering the charlatan’s proposal.

“Sure,” the smaller Nymph said. “What can it hurt?”

Traver looked to Saena, who shrugged sheepishly. “Then it’s settled,” he declared, slithering from the booth and rising to his feet. “If you’ll forgive me, I will see to all necessary arrangements at once. Warrlun, my friend, I thank you for the drink and the offer of food, but in truth, I have already eaten. I
trust you’ll have no great difficulty disposing of my portion. To the lovely ladies, I bid a good afternoon. I’ll see you all tonight.”