The Merchant Adventurer (9 page)

After Relan left the city, he followed wolf tracks north for the better part of the day. He ran to the point of exhaustion, trying to put the shame of hitting Sabriella, Shirley–whatever such a woman should be called–behind him. At the time, he had been certain that she was going to stab him. But now, he had doubts. Maybe she had just been scared. Relan knew he was scared, deep down, in that part of him that wasn’t fit to be a Hero. But even if she had tried to kill him, a real Hero would have found a way to deal with it without hitting her.

All in all, Adventure wasn’t turning out like he had expected, that was for sure. It wasn’t excitement or Glory. More than anything, it was sore feet. The fine new boots that had looked so good in Boltac’s store had started to gnaw at him as soon as he made it into the woods.

As the day wore on, Relan’s self-criticism grew sharper, and his pace grew slower. Now he was spending more time resting than limping. Finally, he gave up on the boots, pulled them off, and tossed them in the heavy sack he alternately carried and dragged behind him. Even with feet blistered raw, it hurt less to walk barefoot.

And why not? He had gone barefoot in warm weather ever since he was a boy. The only boots he had ever known were animal hides wrapped around his legs with leather strips to protect him from the deep mountain snow. And today was good weather. A fine day, except for the memory of the sack of Robrecht haunting him. It was bad enough to see the burned-out husks and buildings, the common folk nursing their wounded and wrapping their dead in shrouds. But the memory of how that thing had felt dying on the other end of his sword was worse.

He had wanted a sword so badly. But now that he had one, it hung heavy on his hip, pulling him around to the left. After the day’s walking, he could feel a pain in his left knee and hip. Every time his hand brushed the cold steel of the hilt he shuddered.

But he had saved a man’s life! And the thing he had killed hadn’t even been human. Then why did he still feel awful when he remembered how the Orc’s rattling last breath had felt transmitted through the hilt of the sword? Didn’t saving Boltac make him a Hero? Is this the way that Heroes were supposed to feel?

Relan wanted to give up. He had made little or no progress, other than punching a woman. But he kept going. If there was one thing he thought he knew about this business of Heroism, it was that Heroes didn’t give up. Even when things got hard. No, Heroes pressed on. Saw it through to the bitter end. And sometimes, yes, even died Heroic deaths. But, was he a Hero? Or was he the other kind of man? The ones they didn’t write songs about. The ones who took their boots off.

Relan hung his head and concentrated on putting one bare, calloused foot in front of the other. He didn’t raise his head for a long time. Not even when he heard the rattle of a carriage and the heavy footfalls of draft horses on the road behind him. He just set his jaw and walked on, prepared to walk off the edge of the earth if that’s what it took.

“Climb on, idiot,” said a familiar voice.

Relan turned to see the Merchant, fat and happy, holding the reins of the Duke’s Carriage.

“What? How?”

“Not only am I smart enough not to pick a shitty pair of boots. I’m also smart enough not to walk when I can ride.”

“Unlike you, I am not running away.”

“Sweetheart, you are clearly not running anywhere. At best, you’re limping,” said Boltac

“I mean, I go to face this dread foe who has so wounded our fair city. I mean not to flee, but to revenge this wrong.”

“That’s a lotta big fancy words. You want to be the big Hero? Save the girl, win the Kingdom, all that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s where I’m going.”

“You?” asked Relan, in danger of developing a healthy skepticism in light of recent events.

“I do have to warn you, you’re probably not going to make it through this thing alive.”

“Me? But I’m young and strong. You’re old and fat. You’re the one who’s going to be killed first.”

“En-henh. I’ll give you odds on that. Out of the two of us, who looks more dangerous? Seriously, you got a crossbow, which one of us you gonna shoot first?”

Relan let the question sink in.

“You are young and strong and scary looking. They’ll definitely shoot you first. Me, I’m non-threatening.”

Relan still didn’t climb onto the carriage. “What changed your mind? Isn’t this what you pay taxes for?”

The smile dropped from Boltac’s face. “The Duke ran away. Took his guards with him.”

Relan’s mouth dropped open. “Can he do that?”

“Age and treachery kid. That’s his play, and it’s a good one. For him at least. So it’s just us. Ain’t nobody else. Which is good, because what we are going to do is
very
dangerous and
very
stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. You’re going to rescue the lady, the Love of your Life!” said Relan.

“Something like that. I mean, I eeeeeeeh… like having her around, and I’m going to get her back, but ‘rescue’ is maybe too strong a word to, uh…”

“Stout Merchant, from down here it looks like you are blushing.”

“Oh, uh, it’s just the heat. The sunshine, you see. I’m not used to it on account of I’m in my shop all the time,” said Boltac, mopping at his face with his sleeve.

As Boltac covered his emotion, Relan climbed aboard the coach and sat beside Boltac. “True Love. It is a noble cause. I will lend you my sword, stout Merchant.”

“You mean you’re gonna lend me MY sword!”

“It’s just a figure of speech,” Relan muttered. Boltac hitched the reins, and the heavy draft horses lurched the carriage into motion.

“Ahh, I know kid,” said Boltac. “You got a good heart, but you’re kind of an idiot. No offense. I mean, think about this. What is in this for you?”

“Well, I’ll get to make a name for myself. Be somebody. Maybe get a girl of my own.”

“You know we’re going to get killed, right?
You
are definitely going to get killed. And it’s not even your girl.”

Relan smiled. “Not if you brought any more of those healing potions. I mean that was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like that. I didn’t even know–”

“Kid, I didn’t bring any more potions. Not like that.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because that was the only one I had. Magic,
real
Magic, is very expensive. And it’s tricky. If a plan depends on Magic, it’s probably not gonna work.”

“But it was the most amazing, stupendous, unbelievable thing I have ever…”

“This is what I’m saying. It was
Magic
. But the downside is I’m probably growing an extra liver. Or a lung in the middle of my stomach.”

“It worked out. You’re alive.”

“Yeah, so far it worked out, but next time, ennnh?” Boltac tipped his palm from side to side. “With Magic, there’s always a catch. That’s how they get you.”

“So what did you bring?” Relan asked, looking at the bags on top of the coach.

“A little of this, a little of that, and a shitload of coin.”

“Why money?”

“Why money? WHY MONEY?! Are you serious?”

“There’s not going to be anything to buy.”

“Are you kidding? There’s gonna be all kinds of things to buy. Not least of which, the woman I want to get back.”

“Wait, I thought this was a Daring Rescue!”

“No, it’s just a rescue. If possible, I’d like to keep the ‘daring’ to a minimum.”

“But how am I supposed to make a name for myself?”

“Easy. You lie.”

“Lie? A true Hero would never do that.”

“Okay, how many Heroes do you know kid?”

“Well there’s Uthgar, and Frowen, and C’huhoyle…”

“C’huhoyle my squeaky wagon wheels! Not Heroes from sagas. Not dead guys you heard about in a song someplace. I mean, how many honest to Gods Heroes do you know? Had a beer with?”

“Uh…”

“Take your time. Make sure you count them all,” Boltac said as he let the soothing clip clop of the horse’s hooves and the tranquil beauty of the forest road lull him into a kind of trance.

“None,” interrupted Relan.

“Did you miss any? I mean is that an exact count? Because, as a Merchant, I can tell you, it is important to be precise with figures.”

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.” Relan said, staring off into the trees.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. There are two possible reasons for this, and pay attention, because they are closely linked. One, everybody who sets out to be a Hero gets killed. And two, there’s no such things as Heroes.”

“That’s not true. That can’t be true! Why, there have to be Heroes. Who else would look out for the poor and the unfortunate?”

“The poor and the unfortunate either look out for themselves or… well, or they just keep being really poor and unfortunate.”

“That’s terrible. That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard.”

Boltac shrugged. “Hey, these are dark ages in which we live. I don’t make the rules. I don’t even like the rules.”

“The rules suck. And I think you have it wrong.”

“I wish I did,” said Boltac, “but there’s nothing either of us can do to change it.”

They rode on in silence for a long time. Finally, Boltac grew so bored he decided to try again.

“Kid, do you know why people fight wars?”

“To win?”

“Nobody wins in a war, except the guy selling swords and armor. No, people fight wars to put themselves in a better negotiating position.”

“Not for Love, or Honor, or a Righteous Cause?”

“Not in my experience.”

“But in the songs…”

“Kid, they’re songs.
Songs.
As in, not real.”

“They’re real to me.”

“En-henh. And that’s great, but the point here is that fighting is stupid. Negotiation is power.”

“I don’t think–”

“Yeah, I figured that one out already. Just trust me; if we can bribe our way in and out of this thing, everybody will be a lot happier. And a lot more alive. Hey kid, you mind taking the reins for a while? I’m still a little woozy from that potion.”

“Woozy? But it was Magic!”

“Trust me, the hangover you get from Magic is the worst kind of hangover there is. I’m gonna sleep it off in the back. Don’t go chasing after anybody while I’m asleep.”

Rattick was no Hero. Like all true survivors, he always seemed to find ways to profit from the misfortune of others. So at the first sign of trouble, he slunk into the alleys of Robrecht. While Orcs marauded through the town and fire ravaged the buildings, he kept to the shadows, looting corpses where he could, burgling a store here and there, until finally he reached the north gate. He found a horse in the guard’s stable and was gone into the night without a second thought.

When Rattick reached the forest, he abandoned the horse and worked his way along the road from twenty yards into the woods. When he grew tired, he climbed a tree, wrapped himself in his cloak, and tried to nap. His sleep did not last long, for he was awakened by the sounds of the raiding party returning from Robrecht. Horrible things on wolves crying “Hork, Hork, Hork!” as they rode the unlit roads. Rattick wondered what Treasure they had taken from the town. Probably just people, for food. But just in case, he followed their tracks, looking for dropped baubles by the light of a waning moon.

The raid was bad news for Robrecht, of course, but good news for Rattick. When word got out, Adventurers would come from all parts of the Four Kingdoms. They would see Glory, and loot. And with such a school of fish to draw from, Rattick’s grift was about to go big time. Maybe he needed a partner to handle the additional volume? But the problem with taking a partner in a grift was how could you trust a grifter?

With his careful traveling habits, it took Rattick three days to return to the entrance of the Wizard’s lair. And by that time, it wasn’t there anymore. The once-grassy hill and innocuous-looking wooden door had been blown apart, leaving a smoking hole in the earth.

Wolf tracks led directly over the edge and into the maw of the pit. Evidently, the Wizard had had enough. It was not hard for Rattick to envision the scene. Often enough, he had heard the Wizard’s howls of frustration echoing through lower dark of the dungeon. Of course, Rattick had been amazed and frightened by the mighty Magicks he had seen the Wizard work. But that’s what made it funny now. That one so wise in the ways of power could be so ignorant of patience. That was amusing. And worth remembering.

Had someone made it past the Troll and stolen something of true value from the Wizard? Yes, that would do it. And Rattick wouldn’t be surprised. His grift had been keeping the Troll so well-fed that half the time he brought Adventurers there, he’d had to wake the beast up to get him to eat his marks.

A theft certainly would have pushed the Wizard over the edge. His temper lost, raging against insults real and imagined, his foul creations scurrying for cover… yes, that must have been the way of it. The Wizard throws his hands into the air, says a word of power, and the entire hillside blows outward into the night. With a hue and cry, he lets slip the Orcs of War.

Yes, that’s how it would have happened. Dimsbury had enough power to do it, that was for sure. He was a Wizard more powerful than any BattleMage Rattick had heard of.

It was the kind of scene one would place in a mighty saga to give the Hero time to rally an army and save the town. Except, there was no Hero. And there was no army. Just a wound in the earth and an unsuspecting town that had been sacked. And would be sacked again and again, now that it was defenseless.

So now he would wait for the next party of Adventurers. When they came, he would spin his sad Tale of Love and Life Lost in the fall of Robrecht. He would summon tears to his false eyes and tell how he had come for vengeance, but had realized that to attempt the depths of the fiendish dungeon alone would be surest suicide. Then he would promise to serve his new friends faithfully.

After a while, he grew tired of standing around waiting for the next flock of Heroic lambs. So he climbed into a tree, found a comfortable limb, and went to sleep. But his dreams of blood and fortune were soon interrupted by the sound of horses and, wait, was that a wagon?

He peered down through the leaves and spied a coach fit for a King. A King, or a party of Adventurers so rich that Rattick would only have to run his bloody con one last time before he retired to the warmth and debauchery of the Southron Kingdoms.

He jumped down from the tree so quickly he nearly broke his leg. As he rushed to greet the Adventurers, he saw that the strong-jawed blond lad who drove the carriage was wearing a very, very high grade of armor. A good sign, thought Rattick, expensive armor, even on the servants.

“Hello, hail and welcome, proud Adventurers. Be on your guard, for you have come to the lair of a Wizard most foul and dangerous. Humble as I am, I place at your service my unworthy person, Rattick.” He finished with a low bow.

Before he could raise his head, he heard a familiar and irritating voice say, “Ah, Rattick! Do I have a deal for you!”

He snapped up from his bow. “BOLTAC!?”