Shadow Of The Mountain (28 page)

Slim chance for him to make pay tonight, Tenlon knew, or any other night really. Sooner or later this would be an occupied city. Tenlon hoped that if it were sooner, he and Desik would be long gone.

A weather-worn man with long silver hair held a seat near the end of the bar on their left, but aside from speaking quietly with Brock, the old sailor said little else. Returning his eyes to the long mirror above the bar, Tenlon saw himself and Desik occupying a dimly lit tavern of empty tables. He was glad to notice the reflection that looked back at him this time wasn’t as depressing as the one hiding within his ale.

Sad little boy
, he thought idly, looking down into the well-like depths of his drink.
Trapped within a mug, his life measured only by my thirst
. Tenlon laughed.

“Enjoying yourself?” Desik asked next to him, lifting a forkful of fried potatoes into his mouth.

The warrior was leaning against the bar, still in his ankle-length jacket, with a short sword and who knew what else hidden from view. Not one for sitting, that man. Liked to be on his feet.

Tenlon smiled, beginning to tell him about the little boy held prisoner within his mug. It sounded even funnier out loud and he laughed a good deal just trying to get the whole story out.

Desik took another bite of potatoes, thinking his words over. Reaching across the bar, he wrapped his hands around Tenlon’s mug and slowly slid it away. The empty space was soon filled by the warrior’s half-eaten plate.

“Splendid,” Tenlon said, eyes growing wide with hunger.

He interlaced his fingers and stretched them over the plate, cracking the knuckles.

Forgoing the fork, he dove in with his hands, picking up a seasoned wedge and taking a bite. Fried in fat, still warm and crispy, they were tiny wedges of perfection. It was true that ale made everything better, especially food.

Brock’s skeletal wife came through the swinging doors, followed by her ox of a husband. She carried a tray of unlit candles in glass jars and nearly dropped everything when Brock’s massive hand slapped her on the ass.

“Gather yourself, you fool!” she snapped.

Brock laughed, the tone of it deep and rumbling like the waves against the cliffs from earlier.

Tenlon saw the wife in the mirror’s reflection moving about the tavern, placing a candled jar on each empty table.

“Another?” the bartender asked.

Desik tilted his mug back and finished, settling it back on the polished bar. “Sure.”

“And the boy?”

Tenlon was struggling with a mouthful of potatoes.

“What do you think, boy?” Desik asked, slapping him on the shoulder. “Another? Yeah, let’s get him another.”

Brock filled their mugs, sliding both into place before them with practiced ease.

“You come from anywhere special?” he asked, wiping the other side of the bar down.

“No,” Desik told him flatly, taking another sip from his mug.

“Going anywhere special?”

“Not too sure yet,” Desik admitted. “We’re looking for a ship, if you know of any. Don’t matter where it’s heading, long as it’s going to put some land behind it.”

“Sorry, gents,” Brock winced apologetically, returning the bar towel to a hip pocket on his apron. “Most of the sailors I know pulled anchor and headed out the last day or so, bouncing down the eastern ports. Varishna, Hurandor, Tesiria. You’ll have a hard time booking passage now and even if you can, it’ll cost you some heavy coin.”

“Payment isn’t an issue,” Desik assured him, curling a hand around his mug. “But thanks anyway.”

The bartender glanced at the old sailor. “You know of any ships, Hagart?”

The silver-haired man thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “Shit no.”

Brock smiled and fell quiet, turning around to polish a row of mugs and hang them upside down from a bar rack.

The silence was making Tenlon’s ears ring. Or maybe it was the ale.

“Is that what you use if people get too rowdy in your place?” he suddenly asked, pointing up to the sword on the wall. Even as the words came out, he knew it was stupid.

Brock snorted a laugh, looking up at the weapon. “Nah, that’s for splitting plate armor. This,” he said, reaching below and bringing up a polished, black three-foot-long club that he slammed onto the bar. “This is for busting skulls! It’s got some lead running through the center so it’ll dole out a proper headache.”

“Where were you splitting plate armor?”

“Tenlon…” Desik began in a tone of warning.

“It’s all right,” Brock said easily. “It was…damn near thirty years ago now, I suppose. Well before Gerta here and I bought this place and little Gemma came along. I spent some time with the Trade Legion. They were having trouble crossing the Verdan Pass with wares from Den Prazi. Northern Varishna had been robbing them blind, playing it like bandits was doing the dirty business. Took us two years and a whole lot of ugly to get straightened out.”

“You’re boring them,” Gerta chirped from behind, lighting a thin stick in the fireplace coals and moving to the candles. The purple flutist began to follow her around on the tips of his toes in a comical fashion, playing a gentle melody.

“Of course I’m boring them!” Brock gave Tenlon a friendly wink. “These is young men here, in a battle-torn land! What care they for the tales of the old, am I right?”

“You are certainly right,” Gerta said with a sigh. Tenlon watched the purple flutist as he spun and danced around her, the tempo of his song slowly increasing.

“I really think that Lanard might be queer in the head,” Brock said with a touch of pity, watching the musician follow his wife around. “When I found him a few years ago, he was playing his flute and dancing in the rain. I guess he wanted to earn a few extra coins, but people were just standing there throwing garbage at him.”

Tenlon didn’t know what to make of this and kept to his potatoes. Once finished, he pushed the plate away and pulled in his full mug.

Brock placed a thick hand on the side of the plate and flicked his wrist, sending the dish to the end of the bar. Tenlon watched its momentum, hearing it slide across the smooth wood. Brock leaned to the side as if to stop it from traveling too far by sheer will or possibly his own shifting weight.

Instead of sailing off the bar, the plate came to a stop at the last second, hanging precariously off the edge.

The bartender held a meaty fist up in triumph. “Ha! You see that? I bet you thought it’d shatter to pieces, didn’t you? You see, the trick of it is to--”

“Brock!” Gerta’s voice cracked like a whip, snapping his head up. “What did I tell you about that?”

“Have I ever dropped a dish, woman?” he demanded. “Have I?”

The swinging kitchen doors opened and a slender blonde figure stepped into the bar. Tenlon looked upon her and felt as though he’d been kicked in the chest by a horse. All at once he grew hot and lightheaded. His breath vanished from his lungs and his heartbeat turned erratic.

She grabbed the plate from the bar’s edge and spun it atop her finger. “I’ve seen you break a few,” she said with a knowing smile. “Although you clean it up right quick before anyone knows about it.”

“I thought we wasn’t going to talk about those times, Gemma?” Brock said in a hurtful tone. “You know how your mum is with her dishes.”

“Oh, you’ll still miss me when I’m gone.”

“Every day,” Brock agreed with a sad smile.

Tenlon was still trying to catch his breath, to regain some control over his tumbling, jumbled thoughts, but it was impossible.

There was so much he was uncertain of in the world. He had so many questions and reservations, so many suspicions and doubts about life and purpose, happiness. But here in this moment there was no question, no doubt, and no uncertainty. A glowing truth walked through that swinging door and never before in his life, not once, had he ever been so sure of what he knew now:

This was the most dizzyingly beautiful girl in the world.

***

Her hair was the flawless blonde of summer sunlight, long and beautiful, with most of it pulled back save for a few tendrils that hung down to frame her face. Not much taller than Tenlon himself, he watched as she returned the plate to the bar and gave Brock a kiss on the cheek. The girl had a slight resemblance to her mother, but was far more striking than he would have ever dreamt the two parents could produce. Her slim body was held beneath a fitted gown of deep blue emblazoned with golden designs that twisted up the front and back. She looked to be the same year as Tenlon, but beyond that they were about as far removed from each other as a purebred mare and a plow pony.

After kissing her father, she turned and moved away from him, her ankle-length dress spinning behind her. Tenlon could swear their eyes had met. His, dull and brown, situated above an awkward nose and dumb grin, and hers, large and blue, above the most beautiful mouth in the world. The mouth of an angel.

Did she smile at him? Or had he only wished she had? Tenlon followed her reflection in the mirror, struggling to watch each step, every movement, not wanting to miss a solitary inch of her loveliness.

“Gemma, my sweet child!” the flutist cried in a dramatic fashion. Removing his hat and swinging it to the side, he bowed deeply to her. Without the hat he looked much older, with delicate features, thinning light hair, and a sharply hooked nose. “You grow more beautiful with each passing breath!”

She took a light hold of her dress and curtsied in return, her lips spreading in an amused smile. “Lanard, coastal prince of song and dance, you are far too kind.”

“Skies above, child, you couldn’t be more wrong!” He laid his silver flute on the table and pulled his hat back over his head, sliding a gentle hand over the feather.

“Even my kindest words do you the greatest injustice. Please, allow me to redeem my boorish tongue,” he said, holding up an elbow to her, face turning serious, “through dance.”

Gemma giggled and took his arm. Instantly they both set off spinning around the empty tables.

“Do you see what I mean?” Brock asked them as he cleaned a mug, nodding in Lanard’s direction. “Queer…in the head.”

Desik offered a crooked grin but kept silent. Tenlon couldn’t pull his eyes from the girl in the mirror if his life depended on it.

“Whoa there, friend!” Brock exclaimed, the concern in his voice snapping Tenlon from his trance. “I think you may be bleeding.”

Desik looked to his hands and saw a streak of blood running down the side of his right little finger.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling at the cuff of his jacket and peeking down. “Probably pulled a stitch. We’d better head to the room for a minute.”

“Nonsense!” Brock said, bringing a worn wooden box up from behind the bar with a fresh towel. “Got my kit. Let’s have a look at it right here.”

“Really?”

“I like to take care of my customers,” Brock told them with a smile so wide it made his mustache twitch.

Removing his coat and draping it over the stool, Desik sat back down and rolled up the sleeve of his gray tunic. The colorful arm he exposed was wired over with veins and muscle, the underside of his forearm spotted with blood smears. When the bandage wrapped around his bicep appeared, Tenlon could see that it was indeed stained dark red.

Removing the bandage, Brock examined the wound and let out a low whistle. “Looks like you’ve been chewed on by a lion.”

“Dog,” Desik corrected.

“Must have been a big dog.” Brock dampened the white towel and dabbed the wound. “You pulled five, maybe six of the stitches out, I think. Should be an easy fix.”

Suddenly Brock stopped and peered closer at Desik’s arm. Letting go of the towel, his face changed somehow, eyes widening. Slowly he stared up at the warrior.

There was something wrong with the way the bartender was looking at Desik.

“What?” Tenlon asked, the nerves of his belly twisting up in a bunch. That look had frightened him. He needed Desik. He needed Desik healthy, he needed him safe. But above all else, he needed Desik by his side. “What is it?”

“I know who you are,” Brock said breathlessly, taking half a step back.

Desik took the towel from the bar, ripping in half. “No,” he said icily, wrapping his arm and pulling the knot tight with his teeth. “You don’t know who I am.”

“You’re one of those boys, aren’t you?” Brock went on, the excitement in his voice almost childlike. “Your barracks was attacked when you was younger. But you fought them off, didn’t you? Then you all got the dragons on your arms. It was against the army’s rules back then, but they let you do it. You’re Amorian.”

Desik slid his jacket back on, his face emotionless, words low. “I think you may be speaking out of turn, tavern keeper.”

“No,” Brock shook his head, wading deeper into a pool Desik clearly didn’t want him swimming in. “No, no, no. You got the mark on your arm, I’m certain of that. It’s buried beneath all them other colors and scales for some reason, but I know that mark. Is it true they sent you boys across the realm afterwards? To learn from different sword masters? What was it, eight of you? Ten? Talk was that they made you the best the world’s ever seen. What are you even doing here? I would’ve thought that Goridai…”

Desik leaned across the bar and Brock fell quiet as the warrior whispered something to him. Tenlon strained to hear but it was over too quick, drowned out in Gemma’s laughter as she and the musician continued to dance.

Once Desik sat back down, Brock’s face changed from gushing appreciation back to bartender with a stiff and sudden nod. He’d turned flush and seemed quite nervous for such a large man.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Why don’t you let me stitch that wound up? It’ll just keep bleeding.”

“The wound will be fine for now.”

“Would you boys like some of Gerta’s fruit tarts?” he asked nervously.

“Just ale,” Desik raised his empty mug, hanging it by the handle from his finger. Brock took the mug and turned away from them to the tap. Tenlon suddenly felt uneasy. What had Desik said to the man, and what had Brock meant?

Was he talking about those Amorian students that were attacked at their academy years back? Tenlon knew the story, or legend as it were. Prince Healianos had been in the common barracks when the assassins came for him in the night. Many of those boys had fought and died just to wrestle a sword free for one of their brothers to use. It was a tale Amoria’s future soldiers were told before bedtime.