Fifthwind (5 page)

Ben
knew he had made a mistake. No doubt, many men here were once Kingdom
soldiers. There was no shame in that, times were hard and soldiers
who knew little else needed work, but some might question the
intentions of an officer who choose to leave the comforts of the
West. In principle, the Eastern Realm was still part of Kreggoria,
but the Kingdom simply had not yet recovered from the war enough to
resume the responsibility of protecting all of its former lands. Over
time, the East had become lawless and not a place where his rank
would be respected.

A
loud argument erupted on the veranda just beyond the door. Jimmy
visibly wilted and muttered, "Just keep it outside."

Ben
reached for his sword perplexed. "What?"

Jimmy
looked exhausted. "No, not you. It's those savages outside. Every
night, same time. You'd think I'd get use to it after all these
years." He moved Ben's sword to the edge of the counter. He let out
a heavy sigh and added, "Just one more winter, then I can retire."

The
exterior doors exploded inward and two large men crashed to the
floor. More men flowed into the room cheering madly as the two
ruffians stood and squared off.

"Take
it outside!" Jimmy yelled angrily at the group.

They
did not hear him or, more accurately, did not want to. The smaller of
the combatants was a fierce, muscular man with dark skin named
'Kurth', according to the men chanting in his honor. The other was a
large fat man with a braided beard that reached mid-chest. He had
obviously been drinking heavily, so pound for pound, the fight looked
evenly matched.

The
fat man charged forward. He grabbed his opponent and after a brief
struggle, hurled him into a nearby table. He immediately followed
behind, lifted the smaller man off the floor and began striking him
repeatedly in the face. The mass of onlookers cheered appreciatively
at the show of brutality.

The
crowd grew in size and some quickly cleared tables and chairs to make
more room for the two fighting men. Between flurries of fists, the
spectators exchanged promises of coin against the hope of their
preferred man being victorious. Wagering was popular among the
soldiers, and was likely the cause of the fight to begin with.

As
the combatants tired, the fighting gave way to wrestling, but the
crowd continued to cheer encouragement as each man struggled for an
upper hand. The two men rolled back and forth on the floor exchanging
blows and each time one managed to get to his feet the other would
tackle him and the beating would continue. Both were bleeding from
the nose and mouth and yet both seemed to be enjoying the bout.
However, Ben knew from experience, the fun would end soon enough.

On
cue, the man named Kurth drove his foot squarely into the larger
man's chest and pushed him off. He rolled nimbly to one side and
scampered to his feet with fists ready. He saw an immediate
opportunity, and muscled a ferocious uppercut under the fat man's
clenched fists and connected with his jaw. The audible crack of bone
against bone echoed through the room and everyone collectively
winced.

Dazed,
the big man stumbled backward toward Ben who stepped aside
instinctively, letting the man crash instead into the counter. Ben's
sword announced itself with a clamor when it fell to the floor, but
before Ben could do anything, the stunned man reached for it.

He
stood on shaky legs and, with sword in hand, charged his opponent.
There was no mistaking the sheer rage in his eyes. Kurth had already
pulled a dagger from his boot and when the fat man did not slow, he
threw the knife. In the quiet space between heartbeats, an
irreversible course of events had been set into motion.

Anticipating
the inevitable, Ben had already reacted. He jumped forward, rolled
over his right shoulder and came to rest on one knee, almost
instantly positioned in the path of the charging man. He then quickly
sprung up and caught the dagger in mid-flight, and in a single,
seamless movement, pulled his own knife from his belt with his left
hand. With one man still charging forward and the other holding
ground, the space that he occupied between them was rapidly
diminishing. The momentum of the maneuver had propelled him up and
spinning, but in the tightening space, he landed firmly with both
blades at arms length, only inches from each man's neck.

All
motion abruptly halted.

"No
one dies tonight!" He glared at the two men. "No one!"

The
man who held his sword swallowed hard and dropped it. He raised his
hands innocently, smiled a near toothless grin and took a step back.
The other stepped forward.

"Little
man!" he snarled as he stepped forward again, driving Ben's knife
into the base of his own neck. Blood began to trickle down the man's
chest, but Ben held his ground. He had no desire to inflict harm on
him, but was in no position to lower the weapon. It was a standoff.

They
stared at each other in deadlock, neither willing to forfeit an inch.
The room was silent, and many of the bystanders started to quietly
make their way back outside. A good natured brawl was one thing, but
impending death was another. Tension was building as rapidly as the
sweat on Kurth's brow and Ben knew that at any moment, the next phase
of this confrontation would begin.

Suddenly,
Kurth stumbled back, with a look of surprise on his face.

Mason
held the man by the nape and yanked him back as if he was pulling
away a disobedient dog. He slapped him firmly on the chest and said,
"That was some fight! Let me buy you a drink." He wrapped his arm
around the thug's neck and half walked, half dragged the man out the
door. Once outside, another fight instantly erupted.

Ben
made for the door, but a hand restrained him.

Jimmy
laughed, "That's some friend you've got there. Don't worry about
him though, the boys just like to have fun and it looks like he can
take care of himself. As can you, it seems." He bent down and
retrieved Ben's sword. "I've never seen anyone move that fast."

The
compliment came and went quickly.

Within
minutes, the sound of fighting changed to laughter and singing. Ben
arranged for lodging and paid Jimmy in advance for three days,
including meals. He found himself a table in a quiet corner of the
room and flagged down a girl on her way back to the kitchen. Soon,
his table was set with bread, cheese, roasted chicken and ale.

The
inn was now calm. Only a few men remained inside, and by their looks,
they were merchants not mercenaries. Quiet mumblings over business
matters were the prevailing sounds. The older, more refined gentlemen
of trade would give an occasional disapproving glance in Ben's
direction, as if he did not belong in the presence of their company.

Patience
he thought. With a little luck and if things went as planned, how
these men regarded him would change.

In
the opposite corner, at a table situated in a recess beneath the
stairs, William Babbitt caught his eyes and hoisted a cup with a
smile and a nod. Ben briefly acknowledged the gesture, and then
turned back to his own thoughts, only to be interrupted again.

"Whatever
Horace is paying you, I'll double it."

Ben
opened his eyes to a man who had seated himself at his table. He was
well-dressed in a black leather coat with gray fur trim on the collar
and cuffs. His face was pale, and his lips were thin, his eyebrows
were bushy and his jowls flabby. He was the image of a man who had
spent much of his life in luxury. The man had apparently seen him
arrive and drawn the conclusion that he was in the employment of the
Hoff Trading Company. The middle-aged merchant drummed his fingers on
the table as he awaited an answer.

"I
don't work for Horace," Ben answered, but the offer of twice the
nothing he was being paid intrigued him.

"In
that case, name your price. I just saw how you handle yourself. I'd
say you're worth it."

"Before
I answer, tell me why you're willing to pay so much."

The
merchant answered flatly, "They don't even bother to attack if
you've got enough talent with you. It's like they can tell a man's
skill just by looking."

"Who?"

The
merchant looked up surprised and said without hesitation, "The
forest demons—"

Ben
interrupted the man before he could continue, "You mean the thieves
that are controlling the roads."

The
merchant huffed, "There hasn't been a thief in those woods for
months. They've all been killed or have run away."

"So,
I take it you've seen these demons?"

"Well,
no. Not personally, but I've seen their handiwork. There's not a team
that comes through here that hasn't seen the bodies on the roadside.
It's always the smaller companies that had too few men or not enough
talent that end up dead."

Ben
said, "I'm sorry to have taken up your time, but my sword is not
for hire. I've come here for other reasons."

The
merchant pushed away from the table and stood with a glare. "I
should have known you were a coward like the rest."

Ben
watched as the man moved to a table on the other side of the room and
sat with another merchant. The two men took turns casting burning
stares in Ben's direction. He had not intended for the conversation
to end so abruptly, but it was apparent that tensions were running
high and emotions were the ruling behavior. He decided to ignore the
two and return to his meal.

A
moment later Mason joined him, dirty and bruised, but in better shape
than expected. It had been almost an hour since the fights had ended.
In that time, Mason had remained outside in the company of the
soldiers, mercenaries and private caravan guards. The rough cut of
men outside were more to his liking than the more refined men inside.

"I
see you made a new friend," Ben said, "and thanks."

"It's
been a long time. I haven't had that much fun since the patrols at
Farhaven. In fact, a few of those men outside were there on the
mountain two years ago when the Empire pushed through the pass."
Mason had a far off look on his face and he sat up a little
straighter with a proud smile. "Those Tanian dogs didn't even know
we were waiting..."

"I
was talking about His Holiness, William Babbitt." Ben said glancing
toward the chubby missioner in the corner. He quickly reached for the
bread to hide his amusement.

Mason
kept a straight face. "Brother Babbitt is a good man, and harmless.
Most of the men here only understand the hand of fate. They believe
battlefield prayers go unheard by gods who oppose violence. Brother
Babbitt wants to change that and bring a higher faith to these men."

"Faith
in the Great Babbitt?" Ben asked.

"No,
not at all. That's just the way of a field missioner. He has to win
their respect first." He placed his hand over his heart
theatrically, "He must join them in the sour tragedy of a life
behind the sword and show that he understands the plight of their
condemned souls."

Ben
saw the logic in what he was hearing, but couldn't believe it was
coming from the mouth of the man sitting before him. "I've never
heard you talk this way before. I had no idea you were a spiritual
man."

"Not
really. I don't need to justify the things I have done. I have no
inner demons," Mason leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms
and looked back over his shoulder toward the door and the men
outside, "but the same is not true for most of them."

Ben
said, "I guess it's not a bad idea to bring a sense of peace to men
who have known nothing but war."

"Babbitt
says he's a Celebrant of the Two Sisters. That big tower north of
town is his temple."

"The
Two Sisters?" Ben asked. "I don't think I'm familiar with it."

"Me
either. He says it is a little known order representing a basic
respect for all living things. It's perfect for men who have known
nothing but hatred and death for most of their lives."

"Men
like you?" Ben jabbed.

Mason
stuck out his lower lip in his best impression of a pouting child.
"I've never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it." He winked at Ben.
"And you should know that better than anyone."

Ben
nodded. He had been through much with Mason and it was an honor to
call the old soldier friend. "It must feel good to be back," he
said. "I mean among these men, the kind of people you can relate
to."

Mason
downed a tankard of ale in two short gulps and wiped his mouth with
the back of his sleeve. "I wouldn't hold the rough-housing against
them. They're just restless. In the morning they won't even remember
it."

"The
merchants are wound up too, willing to pay just about any price if it
will ease their passage on these roads. Fear and superstition are
running high."

"There's
definitely something going on around here," Mason agreed. "Rumors
are running rampant with the men."

"What
did you learn outside?"

"There's
been too much death. Too many teams are failing to get safely through
the pass to the Western Realm." Mason reached for some bread. "Do
you think it might have something to do with what Gordo's man
encountered? Or maybe whatever it was that you saw out in the
meadow..."

It
was clear that Mason had not seen the same shadowy figure that had
confronted Ben, but the old soldier would never show doubt. Ben
appreciated Mason's complete trust and loyalty. For the moment,
however, Ben dodged the question. "We already know that thieves are
patrolling the trade routes around here. The men should know that,
it's why most of them are here to begin with. They make good money
protecting the caravans, so some risk is to be expected."

Mason
nodded. "But this is different. It's not brigands. They say they
don't even take the wagons or the goods. They just kill for the sake
of killing. What kind of thief would kill a dozen men, only to leave
the goods in the wagons untouched on the roadside?"