Dark Legion (5 page)

 

I was just finishing my stitches when Marcus and Elijah returned from clearing the branch. “That should hold,” I said, cutting the thread. “You'll need to have it removed when it's mostly healed. Clean it every day.” Malvin nodded as I tied on a bandage. It felt good to help someone again, it had been many years since I last did, but part of me felt like I was helping a bad man continue on his path. I'd rather have seen him dead.

“I'll go get the warden,” Elijah said. “Mind staying here to explain what happened?”

“Sure thing,” Marcus said. “But you'll have to load Malvin onto that cart of yours.” There was much complaining from Elijah. He refused…—to start with. But Marcus could be a very stubborn man when he set his mind on a thing. Elijah gave up eventually, and Malvin was loaded onto the cart, wincing and swearing. As they set off, Marcus walked to the last man he killed and retrieved his knife, which was still buried in the back of his neck.

“I am pleased to see your skill with the blade was not exaggerated,” I said.

“Hah, and your skill with the poker… it's the stuff of legends,” Marcus said.

Marcus was looking at a tattoo at the base of the dead man's neck. It was a rather crude image of a raised fist. I had seen the tattoo on a number of men in the dungeon—an odd fashion to be sure. “Your display was impressive,” I said.

Marcus snorted and turned his head to me. The frown on his face pulled odd wrinkles over his nose. It looked as though he'd used it to break a hard fall in the past. “That was not impressive,” Marcus said. “I am angry that they brought it about. Just some cocky bandits.” He looked at the tattoo again, then stood to his feet as he shook his head.

“Well, it impressed me,” I said. “You're damn good. Who trained you?”

Marcus sat down on the other side of the road and started cleaning his blades. He sighed and looked at me for a moment. “My father taught me most of what I know. Life, the rest.”

“He must be good,” I said.

“The best.”

“What does he do?”

“These days? I have no idea,” Marcus said. “When I was young, he was adviser and bodyguard to King Leonel.”

“Oh…” I said with a grimace. The former king of Prylea had been one of the first casualties of Solas's ambitions.

“When the king and his family died… it did something to my father. He was with me when it happened. I think he blames himself for not being there. Gods above…” Marcus gripped his blade tightly through the cloth. His muscles strained, and it looked like he was trying to bend it. “I think he blames me as well. But Leonel organized a secret meeting with Solas, when Solas was but a king himself. When the alarm was sounded, my father hid my mother and ordered me to stay with her. He ran to the king's chamber and returned covered in blood, having barely escaped with his own life.”

Marcus sat still for long seconds. “What happened?” I asked.

“My father sent me away with my mother and set off by himself to find answers. That was the last I saw of him.” He looked at his hands as they rubbed at each other, twisting and turning like his thoughts no doubt were. “When my mother died, I went searching for him, to ask why he abandoned us, but each time I tracked him down he was already gone. I gave up years ago, but part of me is always looking.” He sighed. “He's probably made his way to another continent.”

“I doubt it,” I said. The histories showed that travel to other continents had once been commonplace. For reasons that could only be guessed at, it had become increasingly more difficult, and by the time my father was born, only a handful of trips were successful. Now, none were. “If he has, he'd be the first in a long time, I'd wager.”

 

The conversation was halted by the clattering of hooves, and the warden soon arrived on a mottled mare. The man dismounted and surveyed the scene, hands on his hips. He was not what I expected of a warden. He looked more like an accountant than a lawman. He was too well-groomed, his stomach too round, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat that looked out of place. Besides that, he looked awkward, as though he'd just woken up with no memory of how he got there.

“I thought the elf said there were five dead?” the warden asked. “I see two.”

“The others went for a swim,” I said. I went on to explain what happened, and Marcus pitched in to amend Malvin's role in the affair.

The warden introduced himself as Adair and knelt beside the dead leader to search him.

“This bastard has been a thorn in my side for several months,” Adair said. “I am not sad to see him in the dirt.” Adair, too, looked at the tattoo. He snorted. “By the Beloved's balls… I should have known he was of the Clenched Fist.”

“The Clenched Fist?” I asked.

“You've not heard of them?” Adair asked. “Most notorious gang in the empire. They sprung up out of nowhere a few months back. Now you can find them in every town. It's the damnedest thing. I am yet to hear a believable explanation of how they pulled it off.” He shook his head. “No matter, there's five less of them now.” He retrieved six silver coins from the man's pouch and held them in his hand. He looked at Marcus, then the coins, then back to Marcus. He sighed and handed them over. “Call it a reward. I'm surprised you didn't help yourself.”

Marcus stared at the coins in his hand. Did he feel guilty for taking the dead man's coins? I had no such qualms and snatched them from his hand. “We'll need that,” I said.

Adair helped himself to the remaining man's burden, then started dragging him to the river.

“No burial?” Marcus asked.

“I won't waste my efforts on the likes of these,” Adair said. “Take the other one.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

Sagemont

 

Sagemont came into view a few turns of the road past the bridge. From above, it was the very picture of tranquility. The large port lay at its center, as was apt. According to Marcus, Sagemont owed its existence to the port. The rest of the town spread out in both directions from that point, hemmed in by the mountains to its rear and the large lake to its front. The lake stretched into the horizon and beyond. It's hard for me to get across what that much fresh water, just sitting there, looked like to a man who was raised on the dry plains of Ubrain. It struck me as unnatural, made me uneasy. Several ships lay at anchor off the port, with a multitude of smaller vessels closer in. I wondered if any of the ships carried my cargo.

“Now, I have nothing against elves in general. But Elijah is up to no good, I just know he is,” Adair went on as we made our way along the path which meandered its way down the slope.

“I don't suppose you have any proof of this?” Marcus asked.

Adair sighed. “If only I did. I'll find out what he's up to, though—you mark my words. Sneaky elf.”

 

When we finally walked into town, it became clear that, up close, its appearance did not quite hold up to first impressions. It was nice enough, I suppose, but a little run-down. The type of place a lot of money passed through without getting stuck there.

“It's just as I remember it,” Marcus said with a fond smile.

“Do you come here often?” Adair asked.

“Nope, only been here once, but I had a blast. It was after my first and only voyage across White Lake,” Marcus said, nodding his head to the lake. “Rough trip, that.”

“They tend to be,” Adair said. “To be honest, though, Sagemont isn't much of a town.”

“Are you kidding?” Marcus asked. “Great ale, good music, friendly girls—what's not to like?”

Adair shook his head and reined in his horse as we came to a busy intersection. He dismounted awkwardly, again striking me as ill-suited to his job. Like a warhorse pulling a plough. Or perhaps more aptly, a plough horse being ridden into battle. “What's the best inn round here these days?” Marcus asked. Adair sneered, turned his back on us, and led his horse to the warden's office on the corner without answering. “That's a bit rude,” Marcus said.

“I suspect its Elijah's establishment,” I said with a smile. “Did you manage to catch the name of his inn?”

“Wish I did. I tell you what though, I know of a great tavern. Let's go there first. I am fair parched, and it'll get you off your feet for a while.”

I was happy to comply, and Marcus led us down the narrow cobblestone streets. Space between the steep slopes of the mountain and the shore of the lake was at a premium, and the timber buildings were closely spaced. It was a busy town, but I doubted it had more than a few hundred permanent residents. We walked past a group of weather-beaten men—sailors, I presumed. Two overdressed merchants going the opposite direction gave the rough-looking men a wide berth. Three of the sailors were dark-skinned, though fairer than Marcus and not as large. I even noticed a fellow Ubraian in their midst. We wouldn't stick out in this town.

Marcus slowed down to look at two ladies who waved at us from a porch. They were leaning against the wall of what appeared to be an upmarket bordello. The sign above the door bore no name but depicted a blue blossom tucked behind a girl's ear. Marcus waved back with a grin on his face. “The Blue Lotus,” he said. “A pricey establishment, but in a town full of sailors, it pays to be discriminating.” I shook my head. Marcus had told me many stories of his exploits with the opposite sex. More than I'd cared to hear. Whores featured prominently in these tales, and I got the impression that he would not easily be tied down by anything more lasting. I suspected that it had to do with the split in his own family. Don't get me wrong; he was not unkind to these ladies of pleasure. In fact, he respected them quite a bit. They just provided companionship, as he called it, without requiring any ongoing commitment. He nudged me in the ribs. “Want to make a detour? I'll pay.” I shook my head.

 

A short walk later, Marcus pointed at a building beside the lake. “Here we are, the Bleeding Wolf. Damn good ale awaits us.” I noticed a small crowd that was gathered on a patch of grass to the side of the tavern. A man was speaking earnestly to half a dozen people from the top of an upturned dinghy. His face was stern, but he spoke too softly for me to hear. His serious gray eyes fixed on me as I walked up the steps to the door, and I was relieved to be away from them when I entered.

The interior of the tavern was surprisingly nice. Well-crafted tables and chairs sat widely spaced, and they were missing the artwork commonly left by patrons of lesser establishments. The aroma of tobacco met me first, but it was the smell of cooking meat and baking bread that mixed together to make my mouth water. We'd eaten little over the previous week, and when we did it was road food, which was bland to the extreme. Even the slop I ate in the dungeon was better, if barely, and I was more than ready for a proper meal.

Marcus walked to a table by the window and we sat down. Looking out the window, I saw a man and his son drag a small boat to shore. When on dry land, he pulled a fishing net from the boat and laid it on the grass to mend it. When he looked up to see the small crowd beside us, he narrowed his eyes, picked up his net, and led his son away a short distance before sitting down. I leaned my elbow out the window to get a closer look at those gathered.

“Have faith, my children,” I heard the man on the dinghy say in a low voice. “Yessa will tend to your needs, regardless of what Solas would have you believe.”

“Yessa doesn't care for us,” a young man said.

“Of course she does. She cares for all things living.”

“The empire is as dead and soulless as this tree,” the young man said, kicking at the dead tree he was leaning against.

“Yessa can restore life to both, my son,” the man said. He looked to the tree, and his mouth moved around silent words, his brow furrowed in concentration. It was as though he sung a soundless song.

“By Svyn's beard,” I muttered, my eyes wide. A green mist was gathering around the dead tree, swirling about it and through it. I could feel the words he sang coursing through me, though I couldn't hear them. It felt like cold water running down my spine. The young man leapt back when leaves started sprouting from its dead branches. Flowers bloomed, and within moments, it was the healthiest-looking tree in Sagemont. As life returned to the tree, the grass around it withered and died. An older lady cuffed the man about the head, then quickly rushed him away. He was protesting, but she had him by the beard, and they were soon out of sight. The young man stood staring at the tree, much as I was, in wide-eyed astonishment.

“By my hairy balls,” Marcus said. “What just happened?”

“Magic,” I said. “Of a sort.” Magic was a rare thing in the empire. In the whole of Kor, really, but especially in the empire. I recognized what the man had done, even though I did not understand it. He knew how to sing the names of things. Or at least as much as it related to that tree. My experience with naming meant I could feel it when true names were used. “That man is a priest of Yessa. Or if he's not, he was preaching on her behalf. I thought it was forbidden?”