Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

“Aren't you going to build a fire?”

It would be easy for Gant to build a fire.  He’d spent years starting forge fires for his father who had taught him all the tricks.  But a fire was not a good idea.

“No fire.”

“Okay,” said Chamz glumly.

The two of them pushed through the roadside bushes, thorns stinging and pricking exposed skin.  Once through the thicket, they found themselves in the old forest.  Dead leaves cushioned their footsteps and they both managed to find an area free from sticks to spread out their bedrolls.  Gant shared his food with Chamz and they both drank some water.  They rolled up in their bedrolls and just before falling asleep they heard horses’ hooves pound past at a full gallop.  Soldiers, thought Gant.  It’s a good thing we got off the road.  In the quiet that followed they both fell asleep.

Gant dreamed of sword fights with Wendler, of the king's armies in battle and Gant a knight like his uncle.  Overshadowing it all, he dreamed of an evil that pervaded everything.

Chapter 3

G
ant woke tired and sore.  The ground wasn't nearly as comfortable as dead leaves should be and strange dreams kept him tossing and turning all night. Streaks of sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves.  It was time to get up.

Chamz rolled out of his blanket and sat up.  “What’s for breakfast?”

“I still have some meat, bread and cheese.”

“Good enough.  You planning to share?”

“Sure,” said Gant, rolling up his blanket and tying it to his backpack.  “We can eat while we walk.”

“Yes, the sooner we get to Blasseldune, the sooner we get jobs.”

Finding a job in Blasseldune was not going to be easy, thought Gant.  He wasn't going to work as a blacksmith or weapons maker.  If he had wanted to make swords he would be at home working for his father instead of an outlaw.

Gant wrestled his pack up on his shoulders, fighting with the straps until the pack settled.  Finally, he slung his sword over his shoulder and they started off.  He pulled the last of the meat and cheese from his pack, tore the beef into two pieces, broke the cheese in half and shared with Chamz. He broke the last hunk of bread in two and handed a piece to Chamz.

They ate in silence, both still trying to wake up.  The road wound through the forest, slanting rays of sunshine casting shadows that danced with them as they walked. Gant’s thoughts turned to Blasseldune.  He had the few coins in his pocket that should be enough for food and a room for a night or two.  After that they would have to find work or stop eating.

He also thought about home.  He wondered about his father. Was his father in trouble with the king because of Gant?  That was the last thing he wanted.  From now on Gant promised himself that he would make his father proud, even if his father never knew.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they passed the stone marker set at the eastern boundary of Netherdorf. It might be the border but he wasn’t safe yet.  There was no one to prevent the soldiers from chasing him all the way to Blasseldune. Gant picked up the pace.

Chamz finished his breakfast and said, “You know, if what Uric said is true you're going to be a hero.”

“Some hero.”

“Not now.  But Uric thinks you are the one in the prophecy.  If that's true, the king will have to pardon you.  You'll have saved us all.”

“Uric's a dreamer.  He's filled us with ridiculous stories about dragons, knights and wizards.  Fairy tales for children.  And prophecies are nothing more than the wishful thinking of old, dead men.”

“Then how do you explain Barlon Gorth taking over the Mountain Kingdom?  That’s in the prophecy.”

“It is not.  The prophecy doesn't say anything about Barlon.”

Chamz took a drink from his water skin.  “Not exactly.  But you loved Uric's stories.  You always said you'd grow up to be the best swordsman ever.  That's why you trained so hard with your Uncle Jarlz.  And you are good. You beat Wendler with a stick.”

“I was a little boy listening to those stories.  A lot has changed.  I'm not a knight.  I'm not even a decent commoner anymore.  I'm a criminal.  I have no family, no friends.”

The look in Chamz's eyes stopped Gant.

“I'm your friend,” mumbled Chamz.

“Yes, you are.  And a good friend, too.  I'm sorry.”

Chamz clapped Gant on the back.  “Okay.  But don't ever say anything like that again.”

“Okay.”

They walked on.  Morning turned into afternoon and the forest finally began to thin.  Open spaces appeared, small fields with crops and farmers working to keep out the weeds.  Farmhouses became more frequent and soon they were passing the large estates of wealthy merchants and tradesmen.

“It won't be long now,” said Chamz as they passed another big stone house surrounded by stone walls with heavy iron gates.  “Are you nervous?”

“Not exactly.  Excited I think is more like it.”

“I'm scared.  Remember the stories your uncle told us about Blasseldune?”

Gant certainly remembered sitting in the smithy while his father repaired armor listening to Uncle Jarlz tell adventure stories.  Often Chamz would be there too.  They'd sit and listen instead of playing outside.  Blasseldune had seemed like a fairy tale.  Now those stories seemed more ominous.  He remembered tales about inns that never closed where they served the best mead and ale, about the wild women (a fact Uncle Jarlz left out whenever Gant’s mother was around).  Mostly he remembered the street battles that left men dead. 

“Mostly just stories, I expect,” Gant finally answered.

“Maybe.  But then why did so many travelers who stopped at your father's smithy tell the same stories?”

“Then maybe it is true.  Either way there's no place else to go.”

Chamz thought about that a moment, shrugged his shoulders and said, “So I guess I'm lucky I'm going with you.”

Gant chuckled.  Chamz always looked at the bright side.  “How's going there with me lucky?”

“Because if there's any trouble, you'll take care of it.”

“Let's hope there isn't any trouble. Instead let's hope we can find someone who will give us a job so we continue to eat.”

“Jobs?  Hmm, what kind of job can I get?”  Chamz pursed his lips in serious thought.  Then he said, “You hire on as a guard, soldier, city watch and I'll be your sword polisher.”

“More likely we'll end up loading wagons or something.”

“Hey look, there's Blasseldune,” said Chamz as the pair rounded a bend in the dusty road.

Gant looked up.  Just beyond the last few outlying homes stood the fortified wall surrounding the town proper.  Gant noticed the wealthy homes outside the walls were more like fortresses with guards at the entrances.  Maybe he could hire on as a guard. 

They passed the last house outside the city and reached the archway through the walls. Hinged at either side were huge, wooden gates that stood open.

“Do you think someone will stop us?” asked Chamz.

Gant looked around.  “I don't see any city watch.  I guess this really is a wide open town.”

They walked under the arch and for a moment the thick stone overhead blocked out the sun. No one challenged them.  They entered through the moss-covered stone walls and got their first glimpse of the city.  On the inside, tattered, little wooden hovels piled up against the wall, squeezed there by rough log huts that seemed to push out from the center of town.  Each of the huts had straw-over-log roofs.  Here and there dirty, half-naked children played in the street.  Beside the front door of one of the huts an old woman sat on a tree stump.  Her white hair was matted to her head and soot covered her face and her hair.  She watched without expression as they passed, picking at an open sore on her leg.

“They certainly don’t care who they let in, do they?” noted Chamz, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Uncle Jarlz said it was an open town.  I guess he wasn't kidding.”

They walked deeper into Blasseldune.  The huts disappeared abruptly and shops took their place.  Foodstuffs, armor, tools, weapons, clothing, leather goods, jewelry, furniture, everything could be bought, sold or bartered for in Blasseldune.  In Netherdorf there were only a few craftsmen who plied their trades with the king's blessing.  Here it seemed that anyone and everyone had a shop.  Most of the commercial buildings were hand-hewn logs shaved to present a flat front.  The sloped roofs had slate coverings.  Occasionally a stone building rose massive and haughty over the squat log structures of the less prosperous.

The streets bustled with people.  All kinds of people.  Farmers, merchants, and armed men with grim faces.  The heart of the city clamored with the noise of humanity going about their business.  The few women were all escorted by gruff looking men.

“Hey, look at that bunch,” said Chamz as they passed a grimy tavern.

Gant examined the tough-looking group of men huddled in front of the inn.  They had wild, unkempt black hair down to their shoulders and bushy beards.  All were armed with swords, axes, spiked maces or spears.  Thick leather breastplates covered fur undergarments. 

“Glad we don't need to ask directions,” said Gant.

“We don’t?  Then where are we going?”

“The Drake.”

“The Drake?  What's that?”

Gant chuckled.  He finally had one on Chamz.  “An inn I heard my uncle talk about all the time.  He used to stay there, if I remember right.”

“So where is it?”

“In Blasseldune.”

“You really don't know where we're going?  We better ask for directions.”

“You ask,” said Gant and kept walking.

Chamz didn't stop. They passed several inns but none named the Drake.  They also passed several side streets that were almost as busy as the main street. 

Up ahead, from one of the busy side streets, came several dark skinned elves.  The tightly bunched group hurried past the two young men.  Gant eyed them curiously, noticing the upswept ears that ended in points and their reddish glowing eyes.

“Did you see that?” asked Chamz as the elves hurried through the crowd.

“How could I miss them?”  Gant stopped to stare after the elves as they disappeared toward the gate where he and Chamz had entered.  “I never saw a dark elf before.”

“But you've heard the stories.”

Gant turned and started walking again.  “Which stories?  The ones about how evil they are or the ones about how my great-great-great grandmother was Queen of the Dark Elves?”

“Well yeah, either story, I guess.  Hey, maybe one of those elves is a long lost cousin or something.  You should have asked them for directions.”

“I'm not asking for directions.  We'll find the Drake.”

Gant tried to sound confident but he had doubts.  They seemed to be near the center of town and there had been no sign of the Drake.  Even so, he wasn’t asking dark elves anything.  He'd heard stories about them that included lots of reasons for them to dislike men.  He'd even heard about vicious murders committed by dark elves, though he didn't know anyone who had actually known someone killed by a dark elf.  Still he thought it better not to trouble them.

Now clearly past town center, the people on the streets began to thin out.  The buildings appeared more run down, less prosperous, less likely to be some place Gant's uncle would stay.  Finally he stopped.

“I think we must have passed the Drake,” he admitted.  “I guess we'll have to ask.”

“Fine time to make that decision,” said Chamz looking around at the rough bunch of men on the street.  “Who are you going to ask?”

Gant looked from grim face to grim face.  Nothing friendly about them.  Then he saw a woman dressed in a dark cloak and gown escorted by two burly men-at-arms.  The crest on their breastplates was unfamiliar to Gant but at least they belonged to some kingdom. He decided that they were the best choice.

As the threesome neared, Gant stepped in front of them.  He bowed low trying to look harmless.

Immediately, both men-at-arms had their swords drawn.

“Stand aside,” said the biggest.

Gant held his hands out front away from his sword.  “Begging the lady's pardon, but we are trying to find an inn named the Drake.  Can you tell us where it is?”  He stepped back out of their path.

The woman started ahead, her guards cordoning her off from Gant and Chamz.  She hurried ahead without a word.  As the biggest guard turned to follow he whispered over his shoulder, “Two streets back turn left.”

And they were gone.

“Well,” said Gant, “I guess we'll go back two streets and turn left.”

It didn’t take long to find the Drake, a well-kept, two-story log establishment.  They entered through the front door. The main room was full with men clamoring for food, ale or both.  The patrons were a mixture of economic status and station.  Some wore crests and some had no crest.  All of them carried weapons and Gant guessed they could use them.

They found an empty table off to one side of the main aisle, seated themselves on the rough wooden stools and looked for a server. Their table was unfinished and stained by a multitude of spilled mugs of ale, more than a bit of food and perhaps even a blood stain or two. 

Finally the serving girl made it to their table.

“What'll it be,” she snapped.

“What do you have?” asked Chamz.

“Roast meat, ale, mead, and stew.  Now hurry it up, I've got other customers.”

“Roast meat?” asked Gant.  “What kind of meat?”

“I don't know.  I didn't kill it.  It's meat, that’s all.  Now what do you want before I get in trouble for talking too long.”

Gant wondered why she would get in trouble for talking, but didn't ask.  “Meat,” he said.  “And ale.”

“Me too,” said Chamz.  “And can we get some bread with it?”

“Yes.  I'll be right back.” She whirled around and was off across the room.

“Do you see those guys staring at us?” asked Chamz.

“They're not the only ones. I've a bad feeling about this.”