The Telastrian Song

C
opyright © Duncan
M. Hamilton 2014

All Rights Reserved

The right of Duncan M. Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

A
ll of the
characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

S
oren ran
his fingers through one of the seed bins in the general store. It looked good—as it had the previous year when he bought some. Less than half of that had grown, and what did was stunted, twisted and ill looking. A quarter of the yield he was hoping for, which brought in less than he had paid for it.
Bound to make mistakes during my first season farming
, he thought. No point in expecting to make a profit. He had prepared himself for disappointment, just not the level he had experienced.

‘Gonna buy some of that, or do you just plan on playin’ with it?’ the storekeeper said.

‘Depends,’ Soren said. ‘Is it going to produce the same scraggy weeds the crap you sold me last year grew into?’

‘That’s your land. Anyone around here will tell you the land along the river’s too sandy for crops.’

Soren and Alessandra had bought the land at harvest time, and the crops being taken in were plentiful and rich. The animals were fat and the soil was dark. There was no way the former owner could have faked that. The storekeeper was full of shit.

‘Tell me, Agustin. Do you try and screw all of your customers, or is it just me?’

The storekeeper smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Seed costs what it costs. Sometimes it grows. Sometimes it doesn’t. That’s for the Gods to decide.’

Soren needed the seed if he had any desire to have a crop to harvest next year. His own harvest was barely good enough to use for animal feed; putting it back in the ground in the hope of something better next harvest was beyond wishful thinking. He didn’t need to buy it that day though; perhaps something better would come along before he did.

‘No sale for you today, Agustin.’

The storekeeper shrugged again, but said nothing. He didn’t care, confident that Soren would be back sooner rather than later. His was the only store for miles. Where else would Soren get the seed?

Soren left the store and went to the tavern on the other side of the rutted dirt road. The tavern keeper’s wife made lemonade that Alessandra adored, and he wanted to buy a few bottles. Sejura was a small town, where nothing much of interest happened. A battle had been fought a few miles away over a hundred years before and it was still discussed in excited tones.

Other than the general store and the tavern, there was little else of note. The Prince of Estranza’s magistrate occupied the only other building of significance in the town. The rest were houses, or small businesses with which Soren rarely had any dealings. It wasn’t that the people of the town were hostile to newcomers, it just took them a very long time to come to terms with anything, or anyone, new. A year certainly hadn’t been sufficient to change that.

Although he needed no reminder of the villagers’ frosty welcome, Soren was greeted by it as soon as he walked into the cool shade of the tavern. For once, the coolness was not directed at him. There was someone else there, a stranger leaning against the bar. He was wearing dusty travelling clothes and Soren took him for a traveller passing through, for few came to Sejura with the intention of staying. It was why Soren had chosen the place.

The stranger glanced at Soren when he entered. He looked as though he had been trying to engage the tavern keeper in conversation before Soren’s arrival. Soren knew it was a wasted effort; he had never gotten more than a few words out of the tavern keeper, Suro, despite calling in nearly every week since they had moved to the area. The newcomer didn’t have a chance, if socialising was his intention.

‘Five bottles of lemonade, Suro,’ Soren said.

Suro nodded in acknowledgement and went into a back room. The stranger turned his attention to Soren.

‘Hello there,’ he said.

‘Hello there, yourself,’ Soren said, not meaning to be rude, but in keeping with the local habits.

‘Friendly bunch in this town,’ the man said.

Soren shrugged, still clinging to the disguise of a rural countryman leaning against the bar as he waited for his lemonade. The stranger hadn’t done anything to give Soren concern, but the look of him was unsettling. He carried himself with a bearing that Soren had seen many times in the past: straight, confident, proud. Coupled with his clothes, there could be no doubt that he had done some soldiering, and despite him not carrying a sword at his waist, Soren suspected he was a swordsman—a banneret. They were always easy to spot, and the stranger was a perfect example. Just like Soren. And just like Soren, he was not the type of man one expected to see in an out of the way place like Sejura.

Soren tried to maintain his disguise of a farmer and unfriendly local. He feared his own appearance was as much a giveaway as the stranger’s and forced himself to slouch a little more. Mercenaries and sell-swords on the job always had a sharp expression, and this fellow was no different. He was assessing everything that was going on. It was the look of a predator, but conversely it was also a look carried by prey—not a description Soren liked to apply to himself, but it was accurate—as they watched for threats. He tried to adopt the appearance of suspicious disinterest. If the man was hunting someone, possibly Soren himself, he didn’t want to look like a man expecting trouble.

Soren’s was a hard-cultivated fictional persona, but it still didn’t come easily to him. He had been called Ramiro ever since arriving in Sejura. Before Sejura, there had been another town and a different name, and before that another. Each time, both he and Alessandra had sunk a little deeper into their new lives—finally becoming Ramiro and Aldonya, a young couple from the other side of Estranza seeking a new life for themselves beyond the interference of their families. The habits of a lifetime were difficult to discard though. There were still times when it took him a moment to remember that he was Ramiro, the farmer from Estranza, not Soren, Banneret Swordsman who had spent much of his life in danger.

‘Many strangers pass through here?’ the man said.

Soren shrugged. ‘A few.’

‘Any recently?’

Soren shrugged again, but said nothing.

The man sighed. ‘Never mind, then.’ He muttered something under his breath that Soren couldn’t hear, but said nothing else.

Suro reappeared with Soren’s bottles of lemonade. He set them down on the bar one at a time, six in total, while Soren rooted around in his coin purse.

‘Beatriz said there was enough left to fill another bottle. Just pay for five,’ Suro said.

Soren nodded and smiled. It was the first friendly gesture that had been made toward him since he arrived in the region, and he suspected it was due to the stranger. Soren might be new, but he was more welcome than this blow-in. He paid for the bottles and put them in his leather satchel, all under the stranger’s scrutiny.

‘Enjoy your lemonade,’ the stranger said.

Soren gave him a curt nod and left him to Suro’s suspicious stare.

S
oren urged
his two carthorses on. They always became less enthusiastic when they left the main road to join the rougher track that led back to his farm. Ordinarily he would be happy to allow them to plod along at their own pace; the lower speed made the bumpier ride easier to bear, but he was unsettled by the stranger in the tavern and eager to get home. The horses reluctantly increased the pace, and Soren bounced uncomfortably on the cart’s wooden bench.

He liked Estranza. It was drier and hotter than Ostia, but while the landscape was hilly, and beige for much of the year, it was dotted with dark green trees and bushes that would be laden with fruit when the season was right. It was a land of plenty, and there was a good life to be had there if he could just get his crops to grow properly. It was far from the life he had dreamt of as a child, but as the distance between him, his farmhouse and Alessandra grew ever less, he had to admit that he had never felt quite as content. He had all but pushed thoughts of the stranger from his head when he heard a voice.

‘Hello there, again.’

Soren felt a shiver down his spine at the sound of the voice. There was no reason to infer the worst just yet, but his farm was the only place that track led to. The odds had taken an unpleasant swing toward his worst fear. No matter how much he wanted to avoid it, he felt certain he knew how this would end.

‘Leaving town already? You’re on the wrong road if you are,’ Soren said, still with the gruff, disinterested tone the villagers used.

‘I am. It’s not the most welcoming of places, is it?’ the man said.

‘It warms up eventually.’

The stranger drew level with the cart and rode alongside. ‘You’re not from around here either, are you?’

‘Nope. Come from the other side of Estranza.’ There was no point in lying. The man could already have found out that Soren had not been living in the region for long, as tight-lipped as the villagers were. Lies would draw further suspicion; better to obfuscate with a half-truth. ‘You took the wrong turn off the main road. There’s even less out this way than there is in Sejura.’

‘What brought you all the way out here?’ the man said, ignoring Soren’s directions.

‘Long story. Not an interesting one either. You’ll be able to reach the next town before nightfall if you get back to the main road quickly.’

‘Really? Not an interesting story? That isn’t what I was told.’

Soren rolled to his right, grabbing the rapier he kept covered by a woollen blanket behind the cart’s bench as he dived to the ground. He heard the sound of metal splintering wood with the satisfaction of knowing he had been correct, mixed with the disappointment of knowing he had been found.

‘Don’t worry,’ the man said, his voice coming from the other side of the cart. ‘You didn’t give yourself away in the tavern. Your act was quite convincing. I knew you were here before I arrived in that poxy little village.’

Soren’s blood ran cold. Had the stranger been out at the farmhouse after Soren left?

‘It’s a nice setup you have, that little farm. Peaceful. Scenic. Wouldn’t mind something like that myself one day.’

Soren’s heart raced and he felt panic seize hold of him. Had the stranger done anything to Alessandra?

The man came around the back of the cart, rapier in one hand, dagger in the other. He gave a respectful nod when he saw Soren had a sword in hand also. He noticed the look of concern on Soren’s face and smiled. ‘You don’t need to be concerned about your woman. I’m only here for you; I’m not in the business of killing women. There’s no money for her, in any event. You have my word as a banneret that I’ll be riding directly for the coast as soon as I’m done with you.’

It was a relief, but only a small one, assuming the stranger could be believed. It had been some time since Soren had fought with a sword. He had practiced over the past months, but going through the positions was little substitute for the real thing—and even that had suffered under the burden of working his farm.

The man came at him quickly with two probing attacks, one high and one low. Soren parried each, taking a step back between them. The attacks were neat and precise. Soren couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. It was the first time in over a year that his blade had struck another, and despite the tingle of excitement that ran across his skin, he was only too aware of how rusty he was. He feared what the consequence of that neglect would be.

He lunged forward, testing himself. It was untidy and wild, bearing all the hallmarks of a man unaccustomed to swordplay. The stranger parried Soren with ease.

‘I was told you’re a dangerous man,’ the stranger said. ‘I do have the right person?’

A talker. Soren had come across one or two in his time, but he had never worked out if it was designed to distract their opponent or bolster their own confidence.

The man lunged, leading with his arm and executing a technically perfect attack. Soren had faced faster, but few with as much proficiency. The stranger fought like he was a fencing master giving instruction. As exciting as it was to be facing an opponent for the gravest of stakes, Soren started to feel a twist of doubt in his gut. Movement that had once come easily and without thought now felt forced and clumsy. He thought of the Gift, and reached out for it with his mind.

Two men and three horses in an open, dusty plain. There were orchards of fruit trees dotted about, but they were too far away to be of any use. The Fount was weak there, and Soren was too out of practice for what there was to be of much use. When he opened his mind to it, he could see some wisps of glowing blue energy, around the horses for the most part, but as far as his skill with the Gift had advanced, regular practice was what made it strong.

The stranger came at him again, more confident now. He feinted twice, right and left, engaging and disengaging Soren’s blade like a true artisan giving a master class. Soren skipped backward, refusing to be drawn into parrying one of the feints and exposing himself to the true attack.

‘Not bad,’ the man said, smiling. ‘It seems to be coming back to you.’

Soren said nothing. Were it not for the fact that the stranger was trying to kill him, Soren reckoned he would have found him a nice enough fellow. He had a pleasant, cavalier attitude about him—and for a hired killer he displayed a surprising amount of honour. It was an odd internal conflict to resolve, but one of them would die there.