Prologue: The Truth of Legends
Tal Harrenfel is more lie than legend.
This is my conclusion regarding “the Man of a Thousand Names,” and by the flagrant dishonesty of Falcon Sunstring, Harrenfel's minstrel, I must doubt all of the infamous adventurer's purported exploits.
Sunstring's opening ballad would have you believe:
He stole the Impervious Ring from the Queen of Goblins
He killed Yuldor's Demon and saved the Sanguine City of Elendol
He protected the Northern Shores and plumbed the depths of the dwarven mines
He stole the heart of a princess and the tongue from a bard
Ringthief — Devil Killer — Defender of the Westreach
His name harkens back to the deeds of his youth
His legend rings out from every throat in the West…
Yet Sunstring fails to mention the darker stories also attributed to Harrenfel. Magebutcher. Red Reaver. Khuldanaam'defarnaam — or, translated from the Clantongue of the Hardrog Dwarves, “He Who Does Not Fear Death, For He Is Death's Hand.”
The story is at best incomplete, at worst impossible. That one man could be a swordsman, sorcerer, and mercenary as well as an accomplished poet, diplomat — and, if the rumors hold true, lover — stretches the limits of belief.
And how could any of the legend be believed, when Harrenfel himself was recorded saying to His Majesty, Aldric Rexall the Fourth:
“I've never claimed to be more than a man.”
As a historian and a scholar, I will gather the witnesses, collect the accounts, and piece together the true story behind this modern fable. Then, fraud or impossibly true, I will expose Tal Harrenfel for the charlatan I suspect — nay, I know him to be.
— Brother Causticus of the Order of Ataraxis
1: The Call of Constellations
Far from the heart of civilization, cowled in a gloom barely lifted by the moons, rests the town of Hunt's Hollow, all still and shadowed — all save a candle flickering into flame.
A man, hunched over a rough-hewn table in a cramped room, stares at the swaying flame. Dark planes fall over his face, and lines of age and old injury fall into deeper shadow. A beard, tan speckled with red, is barely kept at bay, and long, tawny hair streaked with gray and white falls around his face.
The candle's flame dances in a breeze that claws through the boards, and the light reflects in the man's eyes, black as a devil's heart and wide with a wolf's hunger, as he shifts his gaze down to the object before him.
A book, its pages worn around the edges and yellowed with age, lays open on the table. His gaze does not shift, his eyes do not read the words, but he stares as if to see beyond what the pages can offer.
He is still for a long moment, then his eyes dart up to the swaying flame, and one calloused hand stretches forward. As his hand passes over the candle, the flame sputters and blows out, and the night sweeps into the room once more.
Sleep — sleep is all he dreams of. Sleep that comes as easily as extinguishing a candle, that banishes the thoughts of all he's lost. Only asleep can he lose himself in remembrances of fine wine and unwarranted fame, of palaces with mirror-bright halls and sly-eyed gentlefolk at balls. Even memories of the dark towers filled with murder and fury where he'd been hunted by beasts and black-hearted warlocks — even those nightmares would be preferred.
For, while awake, no dream can be real.
The wind whistles through the cracks, and the tired wood groans. Another mumbled word, and the candle flickers to life again, the hand falling back to the table to rest next to the book's frayed binding.
His eyes wander down to the tome again, and his fingers stretch toward it to brush across the rough, aged paper. He whispers, “Would that you'd reveal the truth of your secrets.”
Then, he might know the face of him named the Enemy of the Westreach. Then, he could end this war, this farce.
Then, he could finally rest.
Far from the heart of civilization, cowled in a gloom barely lifted by the moons, rests the town of Hunt's Hollow, all still and shadowed — all save a man filled with memories of what once was and dreams of what could never be.
* * *
Both near and far away, lost in a solitude of his own, a boy just becoming a man stares up at the ceiling of his shared bedroom, listening to the sounds of his sleeping brothers and remembering the stories of the stars.
The bed, stuffed with straw, is hard and lumpy and scratchy, but he barely feels it. He is strolling down shining rooms with ceilings as high as the sky, and a woman, as lovely as a sunset's glow, holds tightly to his arm. A sword is belted at his hip, and a smile plays on his lips. As they pass a group of people, he hears their whispers: There he strides! Isn't he glorious, the Hero of Avendor?
A brother snores, and the youth jerks back into the dark, stuffy room, the lumpy bed beneath. He shifts, tries to get comfortable, fails, and finally settles back.
He can see and feel it all so clearly. He can taste the wine, sweeter than any freshly picked autumn apple. He can smell the air, perfumed with roses and mysterious spices. He can see the famed bastion of the King of Avendor, salmon-colored towers rising into the clouds. And he can see himself among it all.
But when he breathes in, only the stench of stale sweat and manure fills his nose.
The youth sighs and stretches out on the bed long grown too small for him. He's never seen a castle, never tasted wine, never smelled a perfume the surrounding forest couldn't provide. All he knows of the World, he has learned from stories told around the fire. Every imagining he has, he steals from the tales of the legends.
Markus Bredley, the roguish adventurer who delved into the treasure troves the dwarves keep hidden beneath their mountains and came out a rich man. Gendil of Candor, the warlock who learned the names of the moons and ascended to dwell with the Whispering Gods. General Tussilus, who led the charge that drove back the Eastern Horde during their last incursion two centuries past. And Tal Harrenfel, the Man of a Thousand Names, the living legend who disappeared into the barbaric East seven years before and was never seen again.
But more treasured still are the tales his brothers have told of their father, a captain who left to serve the King and died in his service, so long ago now he can scarcely remember his face.
“I'll earn my own name,” he whispers to the night sky, hidden beyond the thatched roof. “I'll earn my stars.”
One of his brothers mutters, and the youth falls silent. In the darkness, his dreams are safe. Only in silence can he hear the call of the constellations, whispering, beckoning him onward.
2: The Greatest Chicken Farmer
As Garin watched the man dart back and forth across the muddy yard, half-bent like a raccoon, trying over and over to snag one of the hens and failing, he couldn't say he'd ever seen a better chicken farmer.
“Come here, damn you!” the man cursed as he chased the chickens. As they scattered, he made a grab, missed, tried again, and nearly fell face-first into the mud.
“Try approaching slower,” Garin said, a twitch to his lips. “Not that an old man like you could go anything but slow.”
The would-be chicken herder straightened and stretched his back with a groan. “Tried that. Still don't have a chicken roasting on a spit.” He eyed Garin. “Maybe if a certain lad helped me chase them, we might both be chewing on succulent meat before the hour's up.”
Garin pretended not to notice as his gaze wandered up to the sky. “Best hurry about it. Looks set to rain at any moment.”
The man sighed. “Maybe the mud will stop them. Yuldor's prick, but chickens are degenerate birds, aren't they? What kind of bird can't even fly?”
The farmer stalked after the hens, a hand pressed to his side. He often touched that spot, Garin had noticed, like one might pick at a scab that refused to heal.
Garin shook his head and looked off toward the main muddy road through the town. The chicken farmer, incompetent as he might be at his chosen profession, had been the most exciting thing to happen to Hunt's Hollow in the last five years. Little else changed in their village. The seasons came and went; rains fell, and fields dried up; youths coupled against their parents' wishes and established their own farms. Life was trapped in amber, the same cycle repeated for every man, woman, and child in the village. The only thing to change in the last five years was the lack of deaths, for though the Nightkin beasts that came down from the Fringes had still been sighted, none had stayed long enough to attack.
His eyes turned toward the western tree line. Garin had traveled to all the other villages in the East Marsh, taking every opportunity he could get, but found them all the same, and Hunt's Hollow the largest of them, with its own forge and sharing its mill with only one other town. The World, he knew, lay with the rest of the Westreach.
I'll see it all and make my name, he promised himself. Someday.
His unfocused eyes were drawn by a figure approaching down the road. As the man drew closer, it became apparent he wasn't from any of the surrounding towns, or even the East Marsh. No wagon or horse — can't be a peddler. A wandering tradesman? But where he kept the tools of his trade, Garin hadn't the faintest idea, for his pack was small and slight.
As he came closer still, he observed how oddly dressed the traveler was. His hat, made of stiff cloth that was worn and gray and notched on the rim, was pointed and bent at the top. The long braid of hair draped over the front of his shoulder was black as a winter night. His chin was completely smooth and so sharp Garin reckoned he could cut a wheel of cheese with it. His clothes, like his hat, were well-used, but despite the many patches, they spoke of quality not too far gone.
A man of means, Garin wagered. Always best to be polite to a man of means.
“Welcome, traveler!” he called cheerily as the man came within earshot. “Welcome to Hunt's Hollow!”
“I read the sign on the way in.”
He sounded somewhat irritable. But then, Garin reasoned, he must have traveled a long way. Opening his mouth to respond, he found the words caught in his throat. The traveler's eyes were shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, but he could detect a shining quality to them. Like staring into a forge, Garin thought before he could banish the boyish notion.
“Rain's blessing to you this day, stranger,” he finally said. “A lonely corner of the World the roads have taken you to today.”
The man cocked his head, the floppy tip of the hat tilting with it. “Not for long, I hope.”
Garin kept his face carefully smooth. He was quite good at it, having had plenty of practice with Crazy Ean, who drank too much marsh whiskey and said things that could stiffen even an old man's beard.
“You'll be looking for a place to stay, I reckon?”
The stranger's gaze shifted past him, and Garin glanced back to see the chicken farmer approaching them. Somehow, he seemed changed, his shoulders back and posture upright despite his earlier defeat, and an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes.
“No,” the stranger said. “I won't.”
“Garin! Who's this you're keeping inhospitably in the mud?” The chicken farmer had reached his fence and leaned against it, wearing an amicable smile. But that smile… something about it made Garin suddenly feel he'd gotten in the way of two hogs who had their sights on the same sow.
“The boy has been accommodating,” the stranger said before Garin could answer. “Silence pray that others in this town are just as kind.”
“Oh, Hunt's Hollow is a fine town,” the chicken farmer replied. “Peaceful and quiet. We like it to stay that way.”
Garin swallowed and edged back along the fence.
The stranger turned his gaze on him. “Boy, I may yet take you up on your offer. Stay close by.”
“No, that's alright,” the chicken farmer said with his smile wider still. “I'm sure I could put you up if it comes to it. You get along now, boy.”
If nothing else had his hairs on end, the chicken farmer calling him “boy” did. In the five years since he'd settled in Hunt's Hollow, the man had never been anything less than respectful to him, treating him as a man grown — which, at fifteen, he damned well was. A boy would run, he knew, but a man would stay.
“I'll stay. You might need someone to help you chase down chickens, Bran.”
The stranger's eyes seemed more molten than ever as they turned back to the chicken farmer. “Bran, is it?”
“It is.” Bran straightened, one foot still on the fence. “But I must have missed your name.”
“I very much doubt that.”
Man or boy, Garin was starting to think he ought to run for someone. Smith wouldn't be a bad man to have around if this came to blows. Though to look at these two, a bout wouldn't take long to settle.
Bran looked to have forty summers to him, from the crinkles around his eyes, and the dark tan-going-leather of his skin. But he had broad shoulders for a man of his middling height, and a chest and arms to rival Smith's, which Garin guessed he hadn't earned through chasing chickens. Then there were his tattoos, and the scars they covered. Bran always wore long shirts, even in the heat of the day, but Garin had glimpsed them: the bright colors, the strange, scrawling patterns, the puckered skin running beneath them all. The scar on his side looked the worst of them, and he often caught Bran clutching at it as if it pained him still. And his hair was streaked with white and gray so that Garin had occasionally teased him by calling him “Skunk.”
Bran had been a soldier once, Garin had no doubt. Though, if his swordwork was as good as his chicken herding, he wondered how the man had survived.
The stranger, meanwhile, was slight as a scribe, and though tall and weathered, he didn't have a visible weapon. The match, he decided, could only sway in one direction. Except he couldn't quite shake the feeling that things didn't cut as straight as that.
Bran, quick as a snake in the brush, leaped over the fence to stand before the stranger. He tilted his head up to meet the other man's gaze, a slight, crooked smile still on his lips. Garin tensed, waiting for the strike that must come.
“Well, Aelyn Cloudtouched, He-Who-Sees-Fire, I'd hoped I'd never see you again. But since you're here, how 'bout I offer you a glass of marsh whiskey and we talk like old friends?”
“Like old friends,” the stranger replied. “Or old enemies.”
Bran shrugged. “Conversation is only interesting with animosity or amorousness — or so the bards sing. Follow me, it's not far.”
Bran turned his back on the man. From the look in the stranger's eyes, Garin half-expected him to strike at the farmer's back. But instead, he followed him down the fence toward the small house at the end.
“You too, Garin,” Bran called behind him. “If you've seen this much, our guest will want you to witness the rest.”
“As if I'd have done anything else,” Garin muttered as he tailed behind.
* * *
Bran settled in a chair across from his guest and smiled like they were old friends.
The house was nothing to look at, he well knew: two rooms large, with a ragged curtain separating them; a small wood stove settled behind him, and a well-used pot and pan, travel-ready, hanging above it. As rain began to patter against the roof, the usual leaks started up in the corners.
He didn't care to impress folks, not anymore, and this man least of all. But he'd helped his guest over the stoop like a nobleman might usher a lady into his bedroom, and ignored the man's protests that he needed no assistance in a similarly lofty manner.
Gallantry, he'd often found, suited a liar like a cape fit a king.
Garin squirmed in the seat next to them, but Bran paid him no mind as he took his glass and threw it back. He sighed as the liquid burned its way down his throat to settle a steady warmth in his gut. “Say what you want about Crazy Ean, but he makes a damn fine whiskey.”
“So says anyone mad enough to try it,” Garin muttered.
Bran grinned at him. “Life is short and dark as it is. May as well brighten it with a few glorious risks.”
The youth shrugged.
He turned his gaze to the guest again, who hadn't touched his glass. “I know your name, Aelyn, and you know ours. The table is set. Now lay out what you want, or we'll have to settle on beans and roots for dinner.”
Aelyn hadn't removed his hat, but even with his eyes shadowed, they seemed to gleam. “You know what I want. I'm not idly used as a messenger. But I obey my commands.”
He lifted his hand to reveal a small, shining band resting in his palm, then set it on the table. Garin stared at it, mouth open wide. Bran found he was unable to resist looking himself, though he knew its kind well. Not a ring of silver or gold or copper, but milky white crystal, with a steady glow from within its clouded center.
“What is it?” Garin asked, sounding as if he wished he hadn't spoken but was unable to resist.
Aelyn didn't answer but kept his steady, orange gaze on Bran, like a raptor on a hare.
Bran sighed. “It's a Binding Ring. An artifact of oaths that holds the wearer to a promise.”
Garin might be a man grown to the villagers, but he looked a boy at that moment, his eyes wide, his mouth forming a small “o.”
“Like… a magic ring?” the youth ventured.
“Enough of this!” Aelyn snapped. “Take it and put it on. We must be returning immediately.”
“Off so soon? But you haven't touched your drink.”
The man snorted. “If I wished to poison myself, I have a thousand better ways than that human swill. Don that ring. Now.” His fiery eyes slid over to Garin. “Or do you want the boy to know your true name?”
Bran studied him. A feeling, hard as flint, was starting behind his eyes. A feeling familiar as a distant memory. A feeling he'd hoped to have dug a deep grave and buried in the past. As it rose, a warmth unconnected to the whiskey began coursing through his body. Dread? he mocked himself. Or anticipation?
He reached a hand forward, finger brushing the crystal. It was warm to the touch. From past experience, he knew it remained warm most of the time. So long as the wearer kept to what he was bound. If he didn't, a mountain peak in winter would be preferable punishment.
Aelyn's eyes watched. Wary. Waiting.
Bran scooped up the ring, vaulted across the table, and shouted, “Heshidal bauchdid!”
The man jerked, then stiffened in his chair, eyes wide with surprise, hat knocked askew. Bran took his moment, snatching one of the smooth hands and slipping the ring over a long finger.
As Aelyn shivered free of the binding, his mouth stuttered, “Bastard of a pig-blooded whore—!”
“Quiet down!” Bran shouted over him. “This I bind you to: That you will wear this ring until I am safely back in Hunt's Hollow. That you will tell no one that you wear this ring instead of me. That you will tell no one my true name unless I bid it. And that you won't harm the boy Garin or myself in that time.”
The ring shone brightly for a moment, and Aelyn shuddered, eyes squeezed shut, teeth braced in a grimace. A moment later, the ring dimmed, and Bran released his guest's hand. As he settled into his chair, brushing back the hairs that had worked loose of his tail, his blood began to cool again.
“Now,” he said as he reached for the whiskey bottle, which had fallen over in the struggle, and pulled out the stopper. “You sure you don't want any of this human swill?”
The man raised his hand and stared at the crystal ring, horror spreading across his face. “She told you, didn't she? She told you my true name.”
Bran poured a glass, then proffered it to the youth, who stared at him as if he were the stranger. “Feeling mad enough yet?”
Garin took the glass, threw it back, and promptly coughed half of it back up.
“There you are, Garin, there you are,” Bran said, thumping his back. “You'll learn to swallow it all before long.”
3: The Blade That Rusts
“This changes nothing,” the stranger hissed from across the table.
Garin stared at him through watering eyes. His stomach swirled and turned like a basket caught in a river, and not only from the whiskey. The ring, those words, and all this business about Bran's “true name”...
He was beginning to wonder if there were two strangers in the room.
“To the contrary,” Bran said brightly. “This flips the negotiation. Why else would I risk getting blasted across the room?”
“Your binding — it shouldn't have worked. I wore a charm—” The man called Aelyn pulled back his sleeve, then hissed, “It's gone!”
Bran held up a hand, and hanging from his finger was a delicate, silver bracelet that looked as if it had been threaded together from fish scales. “You mean this?”
“When?”
“Helping you over the threshold. Pays to have a pile of dung in front of your door on rare occasion.”
Aelyn's jaw hung open for a moment, then snapped shut. After a long moment, he spoke, “I am bound to your oath — I won't pretend that I can break free of such an artifact. But you said my binding lasts until we return to this hogwash village — which means you intend to come on my errand.”
“Yes, I did say that.” Bran leaned back, hands folded behind his head. “That was the clever bit.”
“I don't see how.”
Bran shrugged. “We can't return to Hunt's Hollow if we never leave, can we?”
Aelyn's eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me you plan to stay in this backwater swamp for the rest of your days?”
Garin finally roused; he didn't know about bindings and magic, but he knew his home. “You don't know what you're talking about. Hunt's Hollow is the finest town east of Halenhol — there's naught a better place to live!”
He looked at Bran, hoping to find the same fire in his eyes, but he saw only calm consideration.
Aelyn stared at him like he were a stinkbug in his bed. “Finest, indeed. How many other towns have you been to, boy?”
Garin could count them on one hand, and he had a feeling that wouldn't impress this strange traveler. “Enough.”
Aelyn raised one thin eyebrow, then looked back at Bran. “So, this is the sort of company you keep these days?”
“Indeed, it is.” Bran hadn't shifted from his easy recline. “After all, it's the finest company east of Halenhol.”
Garin had to grin at that.
“Enough!” Aelyn snapped. “Enough of this charade! I cannot say your real name, but you know it as well as I do. Is this really where your name ends? Forgotten, a failed chicken farmer in a provincial village, meaning nothing to those he'd fought and cared for?”
The smile had slipped from Bran's mouth, and his hands came to rest on the table. “Why not?” he asked quietly. “It's where I began.”
Garin blinked, seeing Bran anew. “You were born here?”
The man stood, not meeting his eyes. “You could say that.” He glanced at the visitor. “There's a fine bit of hay in the barn. Day's winding down, and if the patter on the roof is any indication, the rain won't let up soon.”
Aelyn stood, stiff as a board. “Much as I revile it, I won't leave until you come with me.”
Bran smiled at that, but the joy behind it had dulled. “Then I hope you're not as bad at chicken farming as I am.”
* * *
The traveler had run, muttering under his breath, for the barn through the streaking rain, while Bran watched from within his hovel. Garin stood behind him, scuffing his shoes until he stopped himself. He was a man, not a boy. High time he started acting like one. He cleared his throat.
“All that man said,” he started. “About your 'true name'… what did he mean?”
Bran remained facing the open door and the rain. “You're a man now, Garin, but still young. You can't know how the past, no matter how much you wish it gone, clings to you no matter where you go. Like a phantom fist clenched around your heart, squeezing and choking when you least expect it. But even still, when you've gone astray, there comes a time when you have to try and separate yourself from it. You have to change who you are.”
Garin couldn't help a little snort escaping him.
Bran met his gaze now, his lips twisted. “Something amusing?”
“I may be a young man, but I've seen enough of people to know they don't change, not really. Oh, they put on new faces — sometimes literally, like Aunt Helan with her elven paints. But underneath, they're still the same.”
Bran shook his head and looked back out at the rain. “I hope you're wrong. But I suspect you're not.”
Garin stepped closer. He wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or something else, but his stomach had set to a nervous tumbling, like he was on the verge of something, but didn't yet know what.
“You said to me earlier that life is short and dull, and you have to find the sparks to light the way. Back there, when you tricked that Aelyn fellow — you were more alive than in the five years I've known you. More… you.” He scratched his head. “If that makes any sense.”
“Unfortunately, it does.”
“I don't know you as anyone but Bran. But whoever you were before, I'm guessing those same things are still in you. And I'm guessing you haven't succeeded in cutting away the past.”
Bran studied him in silence for so long Garin started to wonder if he'd gone too far. He'd only known Bran five years, after all, and he had the scars of a soldier and tattoos of wild folk, or hedge mages, or something foreign and strange. He had no idea what he was capable of.
But the man's lips curled into a familiar, lopsided smile. “You know, you're a lot wiser than I was at your age. But I'm going to guess you're not as wise as you should be.”
Garin frowned. “How's that?”
“Because when I ask you to leave Hunt's Hollow, I suspect you'll say yes.”
Garin's pulse quickened. He remembered Aelyn's contempt as he boasted about Hunt's Hollow. He could count the number of villages he'd seen on one hand.
And there was the whole World out there.
Garin shrugged. “What else could I say?”
The chicken farmer threw back his head in a laugh. “We'll let our companion stew for a bit first. But I suspect in a few days' time, the easterly winds will blow in more autumn rain and carry three travelers away.”
Garin smiled uncertainly.
As the mirth left him, Bran eyed Garin. “Go. Think it over carefully. Be sure this is your time. And if it is, be ready to leave at a penny's drop.”
“When?” he asked, hardly believing this was happening, hardly believing he was going along with it.
“Soon. I'll come for you.”
* * *
Bran wiped the rain from his face as he stepped into the barn.
Orange eyes, like the eyes of a stalking cat, gleamed from the shadows. As if he'd been waiting for his approach, Aelyn stepped forward holding a long object wrapped in a sack. In the fading blue light, Bran could see clumps of dirt still clinging to the cloth.
“You found it quickly,” he observed.
“It was shallowly buried. Though I can't see what use a chicken farmer would have for a sword.”
The traveler held out the swaddled item, and Bran stepped forward, took it, then stepped quickly back. Aelyn had been ensorcelled not to harm him, but, as his mother had often lectured him, Only a clod-wit trusts a sure thing.
Aelyn's lips curled in a mocking smile. Even inside the barn, he hadn't taken off his hat.
“You can remove that now,” Bran observed. “Others won't see you in here, though I doubt they'd take offense even if they did. We aren't far from Gladelyl, after all.”
Aelyn flashed a thin smile and ignored him. “I had hoped we would leave sooner rather than later.”
“We'll leave when it's time.”
He scowled, then gestured at the package. “You'll be needing that.”
Bran ignored him, his concentration shifting to the object in his hands. Slowly, he unwound the leather bindings of the package, slipped it free of the sack, then of the oilskin wrappings under. An ornately decorated scabbard rested in his hands, silver-blue script spiraling up the dark leather, slightly blurring before his eyes as he followed their lines. The hilt that protruded from it was plain black steel with a worn leather grip. It was a bastard sword, fitting in one hand, but just long enough for two. The crossguard was straight and short but would catch a blade from sliding down on his hands.
Velori, he thought, and the blade hummed in response, knowing its name even in his thoughts.
He placed a hand on its grip, then pulled it free. The sword vibrated as it whispered free of the scabbard; but in Bran's ears, it carried a reverberating ring that sang of glory and honor and fame. The silver steel gleamed even in the dim light as if it couldn't help but gather light to its polished edge.
But though he heard the glory-song, other murmurs had crept into the sword's hum over the years. Desperate screams. Grunts of hard contests. The song of splattering blood and splintering bone and dying men.
Bran sheathed the blade again, eyes downcast.
“You've kept it sharp,” Aelyn said. Bran could feel his eyes burning into him. “And not a spot of rust on the steel.”
“We're in the far reaches of civilization, close to the East. Here, the war never ends. Besides, it's said the blade that rusts is borne by a fool.”
“A quotation from one of the famed generals?”
Bran glanced up. “From myself.”
Aelyn gave him a smile full of biting knowledge. “How humble you are, Magebutcher.”
Bran winced. “I know we're not on the best of terms right now; I'll take the blame for that. And, unfortunately, I've only oath-bound you to not say my true name and not the rest. But if you could not mention those other titles to the boy…”
Aelyn watched him, the smile remaining. “That depends on your good behavior. But what name do you fear the most, I wonder? Bran the Bastard? The boy fathered by a warlock who seduced his mother and left him to a childhood of loneliness and ridicule? The boy who was forgotten even as he returned as a man?”
Old wounds, he told himself. But Bran knew better than anyone that old wounds could always pull open and bleed.
“Or perhaps Red Reaver,” the traveler continued. “I think there are many sins attached to that epithet that haunt you still.”
Bran looked sharply at Aelyn then. How much does he know? How much could he? His words came too close to the mark to be randomly thrown.
Aelyn only smiled wider. “But that evokes the question — why bring the boy? He can only be a hindrance to us and a danger to himself.”
Hoping only he knew the connection between those thoughts, Bran let the sheathed blade fall to his side and kept his voice even. “Better that he's endangered in my care than left here for whatever comes down from the East. The World is a hard place, and these marshlands some of the hardest. The people here have only had five years of peace, and already they forget that.”
“Five years. Strange — that's as long as you've been here, isn't it?”
Bran smiled despite the horrid memories that came to mind. “I fear they'll remember soon enough. And hopefully, the boy can help them keep the darkness at bay when we return.”
Aelyn held his gaze. “You do not even know why we go.”
Bran shook his head. “Not the details. I trust you'll tell me what I need to know along the way. But I know the important thing: when a king gives a command, you do your damndest to comply.”
It was Aelyn's turn to smile. “Best you'd remember that. And remember it's not Bran the Chicken Farmer he's commanding.”
Bran turned away, wrapping the sword in the oilskin again. “I never let my blade rust, did I?”
4: Easterly Winds
The day had never dragged on for so long.
Garin set down the bucket of slop and leaned against their boundary fence, staring off toward where the sun was setting behind the trees. Next to him, the pigs squealed and jostled each other to knock over the slop bucket and claim their portion of the windfall.
A chance to travel to Halenhol. To leave Hunt's Hollow, to see the World, to make a name for himself.
Isn't this the chance I've always dreamed of? he thought. Shouldn't I be excited, ecstatic?
A breeze rustled his clothes and blew his hair flat against his head. A man wouldn't feel so torn. A man knows his own mind. And, fifteen summers old, wasn't he a man grown?
He snorted, spat to the side, and watched the squall carry it out of sight behind him.
“That nearly hit me.”
As his sister leaned on the fence next to him, Garin tried for a smile and fell short. “Shouldn't sneak up on me then.”
Lenora's gaze was calm and placid. Father's calmness, he recognized. In many ways, she was far more like their father than him. He wondered morosely what that said for him as a man.
Yet as he looked back over to the woods, he couldn't help his thoughts wandering back to all that lay beyond them.
“You've let the pigs get at the leftover slop.”
“Then they'll fatten quicker.”
“Garin. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, he complied. Her eyes were an unremarkable, flat brown, and her features were, while pretty, a bit plain. Yet something about the way his sister held herself was compelling all the same. No wonder Hunt's Hollow's young men are scrambling for the chance to court her, he thought, and despite the weight on his shoulders, he felt a flush of pride.
Lenora looked between his eyes for a long moment. “Did something happen?”
“Not yet. But it could.”
“Bad?”
“Good. I think.”
She frowned. “We've never kept secrets from each other before.”
Garin shrugged. “Might not be anything to tell.”
“Does this have something to do with that stranger visiting Bran yesterday?”
No secrets in a village — he'd always known that. “Something like that.”
Lenora sighed and reached over to put an arm around him, leaning her head on his shoulder, offering in silence what words could never convey.
“I'm trying to decide,” he found himself saying.
“Decide between?”
“Staying or going.”
She went very still. “Leaving Hunt's Hollow, you mean?”
He tried to say it, but the word caught in his throat, so he nodded instead. “Just for a while,” he added quickly. “I don't know how long. But it won't be forever.”
When Lenora remained silent, words pressed out of him once again. “I've always told myself I would see the World, sis. That I wouldn't just be content to stay here and split Father's plot in quarters with our brothers. I've lain awake nights, staring at the stars, imagining my stories will be written in them.”
He stopped just short of the most embarrassing, boyish admittance of them all. I've imagined myself as Markus Bredley stealing into those dwarven vaults. I've pretended I'm Tal Harrenfel in all his deeds. Stealing the Ring of Thalkuun. Killing the northern marauders and burning their black-sailed ships. Kneeling before the King as he heaps praise on my shoulders.
Lenora lifted her head from his shoulder but kept their arms twined together. “The youngest son often flies the coop,” she said quietly. “I guess I always knew you would, too, someday. I just didn't think someday would come so soon.”
“You knew I'd leave?”
She nodded. “Honry has put down deep roots and has a family of his own now. Corbun and Naten both have girls from the surrounding countryside. But you've chosen to spend every free moment you had with a man who moved here from the wide World and barely lived here for five years.”
Garin brushed absentmindedly at his hair, uncomfortable under his sister's sharp scrutiny. “I suppose that's true.”
“But it's not just that. You've a fire in you, Garin. You need to feed it with all the World has to offer. If not, if you stay here without venturing away…” She shrugged. “I'd be afraid of that fire burning you up inside.”
He briefly met her gaze, then looked away again. “So you think I should go.”
“I think you should do whatever is right for you.”
“But is that what Father would have done? Is it a man's decision, or a boy's?”
Lenora rarely snorted, so it took him by surprise when one escaped her. “That's the last thing you should be worried about. Men are often boys, and women are sometimes girls. We are what we are.”
Garin frowned, not sure he agreed, but unable to refute it.
“But if it's us you're worried about,” she continued, “we'll be fine. Corbun and Naten are still around, and even when they start their own families, all three of them will be close by.” She grinned suddenly. “And don't forget that I can take care of myself and Ma both if I need to.”
He sighed. “I suppose so.”
She squeezed him tight. “Take the night; think about it. You can always make the decision tomorrow. And, no matter what you decide, I promise Father would be proud of you.”
She pulled away and headed back toward the house.
His eyes stung for a moment. Wiping at them, he bent to pick up the bucket from among the pigs and followed after her.
* * *
The traveler glared across the table. “You can't keep me bound here forever.”
Bran smiled back at him, all of his teeth on display. By some stroke of luck, he'd managed to keep most of them through the long years. “To the contrary. The terms of the Binding Ring very much say I could.”
Aelyn's eyes narrowed further still. “I can't harm you. But I could bundle you up and transport you across the kingdom if I have to.”
“If you think you could manage it.”
Bran took the bottle and raised an eyebrow. Aelyn's lips curled in a sneer, but he held his glass forward yet again, and Bran splashed in another helping of the marsh whiskey, then refilled his own.
“Say what you will about Hunt's Hollow,” he opined, “but you can't deny we have the finest whiskey in the whole of the Westreach that's made with swamp water.”
Aelyn coughed and dribbled the whiskey he'd been drinking back into his cup.
Bran smiled again and drank his down, sighing as the fire crawled into his belly. His smile was coming looser the further into the bottle he went, and he was almost starting to enjoy his surly company.
“So, my old acquaintance, what brings you to Hunt's Hollow?”
The traveler wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glimmering as he looked up. “You know very well what. I've come to fetch you for King Aldric.”
“Why? You're Gladelysh. You're not his subject. You serve at Queen Geminia's pleasure.”
“It is, shall we say, a convoluted chain of command.”
“It always is in the courts of royals.”
Aelyn exhaled in a sharp huff. “I serve as Gladelyl's emissary to Avendor.”
Bran raised an eyebrow. “That does little to elucidate the present situation. But an emissary — surely that's a waste of your varied talents.”
“Strange to hear you speak of wasted talent.”
Ignoring the barbed comment, Bran drank back his mug of whiskey, then poured himself another. “Hunt's Hollow has a hallowed history,” he said, swirling the golden liquid in his cup. “Do you know how the town earned its name?”
It was Aelyn's turn to raise an eyebrow. “I barely knew what it was called before this journey. But I'd guess a man stumbled upon a meadow and found it adequate for hunting.” He shrugged. “Most names lack artistry.”
“This isn't one of them. There's a tale told by the elders of the times before the village began, before any of the Bloodlines had settled these wildlands. Then, this was only marshland, and considered a place best avoided.”
“As it still is,” the traveler muttered.
“Yet its few visitors told tales of marvelous things, and chief among them, one prey worthy of only the greatest hunter: the Phantom Doe.”
Aelyn snorted. “As likely a folk tale as any I've heard.”
“The Phantom Doe was a legendary beast, said to be as clear a blue as a glacial peak. The hunter was young and eager to prove himself, and he'd tracked the tales across the Westreach to these very swamps. At times, he thought he'd glimpsed his quarry, but mostly, there were only ordinary beasts and the stinking mire.”
“A fact sadly still relevant.”
“But with every mile, he grew nearer to the eastern mountains, and the danger grew. So it was that the hunter wasn't caught unawares when he came upon a clearing and saw the greatest of all beasts the East has to offer.”
“Let me guess,” Aelyn said drily. “A dragon.”
Bran grinned. “The dragon was longer than a seaworthy ship, and its head went higher than the tallest tower. Each talon was as long as a spear and as sharp as a sword. His mane of spikes bristled with each movement of his flat head as he tasted the air with his flickering, forked tongue. Dragons hunt by taste like snakes, and this one had tasted prey on the wind.”
“A dragon.” The traveler shook his head. “As if this tale could grow more unbelievable. The ancients might write of such beasts, but no one has seen one in generations. More likely, our ancestors were having a laugh at their descendants' expense.”
Bran shrugged. “The dragon was real to the hunter. He crouched in the hollow of a tree, quivering and trying to remain still and silent, for a dragon's hearing and sight are almost as keen as its sense of taste. But the dragon knew he was there. Slowly, it crept toward the hunter, and no tree would be able to hide or protect him once the dragon caught wind of him.
“But as the dragon loomed over the hunter's hiding place, something darted through the brush at the other end of the clearing. The hunter watched in amazement as a doe, shining the brilliant blue of a cloudless sky, leaped over the tall grass to dart into the woods. The dragon, hearing the doe, whipped its head around and roared as it set off in pursuit. The hunter yearned to follow the doe himself, but fear kept him behind the tree until long after the beat of the dragon's wings had faded away.
“When both beasts were gone, the hunter exited the hollow and looked around. No longer did he wish to hunt the Phantom Doe, for he had realized it was a spirit sent by Mother World to protect this place. So he decided to settle a town in that clearing, the place that would later become the very town we sit in.” Bran spread his arms and grinned. “Hunt's Hollow.”
Aelyn shook his head. “A diverting tale to explain a backwater town. Now, was there a point to my torment?”
“The point is, you came here seeking a legend and found a man.” Bran held up his hands helplessly. “And sometimes, that's all you get.”
Aelyn leaned close. “Maybe you're just a man. But your name is bigger than you, and it's time you remembered that. The King of Avendor has need of you, not Brannen Cairn.”
“Even kings can be disappointed. And disappointment is nothing I'm not used to.”
The traveler cocked his head, a small smile on his lips. I never liked when he smiled, Bran thought.
“And what of the disappointment of your long-lost lover?” Aelyn asked softly.
He stiffened. “What does she have to do with this?”
The traveler's smile grew, like an angler feeling the hook set in a fish. “Nothing directly. But wouldn't she be sad to hear what you've become? A drunken old chicken farmer, hiding from his name and deeds.”
Bran sat back, staring up through a hole in his roof at the fading light. “The past never dies, does it?” he spoke softly. “It only sleeps, then one day drags you back in.”
Aelyn set his cup down, then withdrew a hand from below the table. Bran's throat tightened, and his body went rigid as the man placed a leather-bound book on the table, just outside of a small puddle of spilled whiskey.
“Only if you let it,” Aelyn said quietly. “And what, pray tell, is this piece of the past you've dredged up?”
He didn't shift his position, but every muscle in his body had tensed. “Hand that to me, Aelyn.”
“Did you not think I would recognize the Darktongue? Did you think my studies in the Gray Tower had faded from my memory?” Aelyn's molten eyes searched his. “Now, tell me: what are you doing with such a fell book?”
“Have you read it?” Bran asked quietly.
“Only the title. A Fable of Song and Blood. Meaningless drivel, from what I can tell.”
“You don't know the half of it. Now, hand it over, or I'll be forced to take it from you.”
Aelyn's eyes narrowed. A long moment passed. One of Bran's hands below the table inched toward his belt knife.
Then Aelyn released the book with a thump and sat back, crossing his arms. “Have you become one of them?”
Bran took up the book and only exhaled as he tucked it under his arm. “You know me better than that, Aelyn. That book is the one weapon we might have against the Enemy. Promise me, if anything should happen to me, that you'll protect it.”
That seemed to take the traveler back. But after a moment, he nodded. “Very well.”
The inevitable had come. Bran rose to his feet, silently cursing his swaying vision. “Make any preparations you still have — we leave in the morning. I just have one more loose end to tie up tonight.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned from the house, taking the book with him.
* * *
Garin was still awake when he heard the tapping at the window. His heart, already racing over the decision, began to pound.
“What's that?” Naten asked sleepily from across their shared room.
“Nothing. Just getting up for a piss.” Garin scrambled out of bed and pulled on his clothes, then half-walked, half-stumbled his way out of the door.
Bran leaned against the fence post of their front gate, only just recognizable by the twin moons' light. Though he wore the same sweat-stained, homespun clothes as usual, something about his stance looked different, more like the man Garin had glimpsed with the traveler. Tucked under one arm was a book, a rare enough sight in Hunt's Hollow, but hardly the strangest thing about Brannen Cairn.
“You were awake still,” Bran observed when Garin was close enough.
“Been thinking.”
“Good. It's time to make a decision.”
Garin's heart was like a prisoner banging on the wall of his cell. “Now?”
The farmer smiled, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Once you decide to do a thing, best to get it over with. So what do you say? Are you ready to see more towns and cities than you can count on both hands?”
Garin found his gaze wandering up. Even with both moons ablaze, the night sky was littered with stars, and his eyes immediately picked out the familiar constellations telling his favorite stories.
Markus Bredley wouldn't hesitate to go, he thought. And Father went when it was time. Not an easy decision to make — but grown men make hard decisions, and it was time Garin made his.
He lowered his gaze to meet Bran's. “I'm ready. When do we go?”
Bran grinned. “I knew you'd come, lad. We depart before first light tomorrow. I'd tell your family before you leave, though. Avoiding farewells is like ignoring an arrow in your side. Best to pull it out and let it bleed now rather than have it fester for a long time yet.”
Garin nodded, though when he imagined his mother's face upon hearing his news, he wasn't sure he agreed. “Before first light then.”
He turned to enter his home for what he knew would be the last time in a long time.
Interlude: Passage 1
I commence this writing in the tongue of the source of all magic, the tongue of Yuldor's Heart itself. But though it may seem arrogance to do so, I do it but from caution. Only those with the iron will required to wield Mother World's treacherous power should be privy to the secrets I herein inscribe. For, if they bear any truth, they have the potential to wrought destruction not only on our Glorious Empire, but all the lands to the West and South.
These secrets I allude to relate to a rare and curious phenomenon. All have heard the tales — of those who, despite giving no supplication to a patron god, nor descending from a race naturally inclined toward witchery, are able to summon magic.
Many have proposed theories for this phenomenon. Even as I compose this treatise, I cannot confirm many of my suspicions. But the ideas alone are evocative enough to threaten sacrosanctity against our Savior, the Peacebringer, that I must exercise all caution.
Perhaps this book will never feel the touch of light. Perhaps I will not have the courage to complete it. Nevertheless, I must write it, and not only for the sake of the truth. If my theory proves correct, there will come those of Song and Blood, whom I will call Founts, powerful enough that they will rip the World asunder as we know it.
And we must be ready.
- A Fable of Song and Blood, by Hellexa Yoreseer of the Blue Moon Obelisk, translated by Tal Harrenfel
5: The Traveler's Home
Before the sun had emerged from the East Marsh's horizon, three figures — two upright, one slumped — walked under the town's welcome archway and down the road leading away from Hunt's Hollow.
Despite the mage's grumblings, they had no horses or mules. King Aldric's constant requisition for their use along the Fringes made them scarce in the East Marsh at the best of times, and all the more since a disease had recently taken many more. Aelyn insisted he had the seal of the King and they could seize any beasts they found, but Bran flatly refused, saying he'd have to drag him if he wanted to ride. And though Aelyn looked perfectly willing to do so, the traveler only huffed and turned away.
Garin kept looking at the two men from the corner of his eye as he battled with his overpacked rucksack. Their packs were smaller except for Bran's weapons. The chicken farmer carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and had tucked a scabbarded sword under his bag.
But it wasn't their possessions that drew his eye; there seemed a brightness to their steps, a liveliness to their faces, that spoke of who they were. This was their home, this winding road. All other places were waystones and resting places, the sojourn the only place they could be at peace.
He looked back as the last of the buildings faded behind him and wondered if he'd become the same as these two travelers.
Then his mother's face came to mind, and he cringed. He hadn't had the courage to say goodbye, no more than leaving a brief note. He hadn't had the courage, either, to tell that to Bran. Though Bran thought Garin was wiser than he'd been at his age, he'd still ignored his advice.
He resolutely put her face from mind, imagining instead all the wonders waiting ahead of them. Halenhol, capital of the Kingdom of Avendor, was said to have buildings that touched the stars, and knights in shining silver armor that rode through the streets, and peoples of every Bloodline, color, and shape. Elves, dwarves, and even goblins living beside humans in the greatest city in all of the Westreach — even the World.
Maybe.
The truth was, he didn't know how much of it was a crock of crap made up by bored old men to entertain young children, and how much was real.
He glanced nervously at Bran, wanting to ask his endless questions, but the look of the man's face stopped him. A solemn expression had claimed his features, and with the morning sun behind them and his hood pulled low, his face was cast in shadow. More and more, he wondered how he'd ever thought Bran a hapless chicken rancher.
“You have a question.”
Garin startled at Bran addressing him, but said with forced calm, “What makes you say that?”
“Because curious young men always have questions.” Bran glanced sidelong at him, and the solemnity had been replaced by fey humor. “And feathers that float alike know their flock.”
Garin glanced at Aelyn on Bran's other side. Even if he was inclined to ask his questions of Bran, Silence knew he wasn't going to ask them in front of that mage.
So he plastered on a crooked smile. “I do have a question. How do you old men expect to keep up with my young legs?”
Bran laughed. “Oh, you need not concern yourself with that. Young or old, a traveler's legs will go further than a farmer's.”
Garin started to retort, then paused. “I suppose I'll be a traveler soon myself.”
“Yes. I suppose you will.”
The day grew brighter as the sun rose, but Garin's thoughts fell into deeper shadows. What had he done? He was no traveler. And now that he thought about it, it had been a damned foolish notion, running off with two strange men he barely knew. A boy's idea of adventure, he saw now all too clearly.
He scrunched up his brow. What would a man do? Would he stay to his word? Or would he think better of it and go home?
As they walked mile after mile, he mulled over his dilemma. The longer he took to decide, the further from home he went. A man should be decisive — his father had always told him that before he'd been conscripted for one of Avendor's endless wars. His older brothers had certainly listened to him.
But Garin had always let others make his choices. His daily chores, his meals, his clothes — his mother and brothers had overshadowed what he thought and said. The decision to leave off his duties early to spend time with Bran had been his one rebellion. And this, going on the journey, had been his first, real resolution. Going back on that now would show them all he wasn't a man after all, but just a boy.
Evening began to fall, and still they walked on, only briefly breaking for food and other necessities. The day had grown late enough that other travelers had thinned out on the road. Ahead, the Winegulch Bridge came into view, the river flowing sluggishly below, never smelling of the fruity sweetness that Garin had been told was wine's aroma, but stinking instead.
Garin's heart began to pound harder like they were approaching a bear's den rather than a bridge. He'd never crossed the Winegulch before, never been so far west of Hunt's Hollow. Even if it made him a boy, he had to speak — to turn back or to seek assurance, he didn't know.
“Bran—” Garin started to say, but he cut off as a sudden whoop filled the air.
“Hold there!”
His companions stopped mid-step onto the bridge, and Garin stumbled to a halt after them. Whipping his head around, he saw three men step out from the brush. A glance forward showed another two stomping across the bridge, hard frowns worked into their faces. His heart began to pound harder, like Smith's hammer working out a particularly tough piece of iron.
Dusk, Garin's mother had well instructed him, was the time of day that brigands liked best.
And these were brigands, without a doubt. Their hair hung in greasy locks. Pimples dotted their skin, and wiry, untamed beards grew from their chins. Most of them looked half-starved, faces gaunt and eyes hollow, but for one big fellow, who was bloated enough for the rest of them, if no less healthy looking. In all of their hands, some manner of weapon was clutched: knives, axes, and in the big man's hands, a warhammer.
It was the large fellow who spoke. “You!” he said, his voice not as deep as Garin had expected, but plenty loud enough to send his legs wobbling like a newborn calf. “You'll give us your coin. Now. And everything that man is wearing.” The big man pointed one sausage-like finger at Aelyn.
The mage narrowed his eyes, and Garin noticed he had delved his hands deep into his mysterious pockets. He wasn't sure if he was more nervous about the highwaymen or whatever his companion had in store for them.
“Now, now, wait a moment.” Bran wore an amiable smile and raised his empty hands. “I can tell from your accent that you're not from around here, and from your clothes, that you were conscripted not long ago.”
Their assailants exchanged glances that Garin would have thought apprehensive if they hadn't had them surrounded with sharp steel.
The big man stared at Bran, unmoved. “Then you know we mean business.”
“I know you're running away,” Bran corrected. “And I know exactly why. I, too, ran from war once. I'm a deserter, as surely as you are.”
Garin stared in astonishment. He'd guessed Bran had been a warrior — but a deserter? The King's wars might be many, but men didn't run from their duty. It put his companion in a new, uneasy light.
“What of it?” the brigand barked. “So people think you're a coward like us. Don't mean we won't rob you!”
“Of course not,” Bran said, speaking as if he were trying to soothe a horse. “We'll give over our gear in just a moment. But I just want you to be fully aware of what you're doing.”
The highwayman took a step forward, and his companions followed his lead. Garin was sure he'd start sweating through his tunic, and jerkin besides. He gripped his belt knife tightly as if the small blade meant for cutting meat would be much help against former soldiers with proper weapons.
“We know what we're doing,” the big man sneered. “Now, I'll give you to the count of five. One—”
“You really don't know what you're doing, I assure you.” Bran, far from seeming uneasy, jabbed a thumb at Aelyn. “For example, did you know he's an elven mage?”
The brigands, ready for blood a moment before, all stumbled back, though their weapons raised higher. Garin was ready to run himself. He'd accepted Aelyn was a mage — but an elf besides?
The big man, however, narrowed his eyes. “Show me your ears!” he commanded Aelyn.
The mage didn't move, his molten eyes leveled at the big man. Under that stare, Garin would have turned tail, but the deserter seemed unmoved. In a swift motion, however, Bran swept the hat from Aelyn's head, and pointed ears sprang up from beneath the ink-black hair.
The mage hissed at him, but Bran hardly seemed to notice. “See?” he said pleasantly. “An elf. And everyone knows elves possess magic.”
The deserters backed away another step, and even the big man seemed to be having second thoughts. Garin recognized him now for a bully. Small as Hunt's Hollow was, it had its fair share of bullies. But as Garin knew from experience, until a bully broke, he didn't back down.
“Then I'll break him first!” the large man growled. “Forget the counting! Hand over the bags now, or I'll smash your head in!”
“But you don't even know who I am yet,” Bran said pleasantly. “See, in addition to a deserter, I'm a bit of a sorcerer myself. I'll warn you once — drop that hammer.”
Far from dropping it, the big man raised the big weapon, and Garin stepped back, wincing as he waited for Bran's head to cave in.
“Kald!”
The hammer's shaft burst into flames.
The brigand stiffened in surprise, then howled and threw his hammer to the ground, staring at his charred hands. “Yuldor's fucking balls!”
Bran shrugged, not seeming the least alarmed. “I warned you, didn't I? Now, I only ever mastered a few cantrips. Imagine what this fellow next to me will do if you stick around. Let's see… How about I give you until five? One—”
The brigands were bolting before he'd finished the first count, disappearing back into the forest. Only the big brigand remained.
“Same goes for you,” Bran reminded him. “Two—”
The man eyed his still-burning hammer on the road, then growled a curse and made for the forest at a lumbering run.
Garin stared, open-mouthed, at his companions. “Who are you?” he whispered.
The chicken farmer — who was no chicken farmer, Garin knew all too well now — had gathered a solemn look again. “Exactly as I said. A deserter. A failed warlock. And many more half-realized roles.” He glanced at Aelyn. “Sorry about the hat.”
The mage had bent to retrieve his pointed hat and was brushing irritably at a bit of horse dung that had crusted onto it. “I very much doubt you are,” he snapped as he fixed the hat back on his head, ears tucked into it.
Bran shrugged. “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't also amused.”
“Why did you let them go?” The question burst from Garin.
Aelyn eyed Bran as well.
The man looked between them. “Many reasons. In my experience, violence should always be a last resort. Men who use it too quickly, like our would-be smith here—” he gestured at the hammer “—get themselves in far more trouble than out of it. But more pertinent here…” He looked off down the road. “Acting the brigand, too, I can claim in my past.”
Something was stirring in Garin's stomach. Hunger, yes, and a bit of the need to relieve himself. But under that, the warm glow of awe, and the cold shiver of fear.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“You'll learn soon enough, and regret that you did.”
“Enough,” Aelyn cut in. “We must walk miles yet before we make camp to be sure we're far from those fools.”
Garin's stomach grumbled, but he followed as the elven mage set a quick pace across the bridge. He was tired, and scared, and still had to piss. But one thing had left, he realized. No longer did he wonder if he should stay or go.
For better or worse, he'd made his decision to follow the road where it willed him. Even if he still didn't know the first thing about those he traveled with.
Thanks for reading these sample chapters of A King’s Bargain! I hope you enjoyed them.
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Whatever your decision, I’m grateful you took the time to check out the story and wish you well!
Josiah, aka J.D.L. Rosell