The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (small books to read .TXT) 📗

the King touched me,” he said finally, “he altered something inside me.  Our two magics began to combine in a way which I cannot explain to you other than to say that the process has not yet finished.  Does that satisfy you?”  The Druid’s gaze was sharp, almost threatening.  Simon however appeared not to notice it.

“Yes.  I see.  But what does it mean?”

“It means nothing, Englishman, other than that it causes me pain!  Not everything has to signify something.”

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”  Simon paused, considering what he would say next.  “Do you think we’ll be in time to confront the Steward and the King?”

“I’m not certain,” the Druid said softly.  “It doesn’t look like it.  But we must go anyway.  This might play out in a way we may not expect but it is important that we act as if it will.”

“Can you use the Druid fire?  To find out where the King is now?”

“The blue fire?  I could, but there is no need to do so.  I already sense his presence near or at the city.”

“If we arrive there too late, it might all be over.  The King might have already put an end to the Steward.”

“Yes, however something tells me it will not be as simple as that,” Daaynan said, and lapsed into silence.

They arrived at the edge of town, making their way along a busy thoroughfare filled with traders, dealers, street people and assorted roughnecks. A few looked at them as they passed by, their glances ranging from dull curiosity to an almost casual malevolence that made the hair on the back of the Englishmen’s necks rise.  The body of an old man lay slumped outside the entrance to a tavern, his clothing stripped from around his skin.  He was muttering dark oaths, presumably to whoever had left him in this condition.  As the company passed him he cried out for help but Daaynan gestured to the group to continue walking.  They did so, remembering the sorcerer’s earlier words of caution.  No one bothered to speak to them or to look twice; they just kept on walking, the sound of their voices reaching back to them in the form of murmurings and grunts and high, droning laughter.  Despite the occasional signs of merriment, Daaynan thought, this was a place devoid of life.  A place of the dead lived in by those who had given up on life.  Even the sight of Mereka, striking as she was in the reveal of her broad-cloak, did not attract much attention.

Mereka now leading the way, the Druid fell in behind her, then Simon and behind him Christopher, staying close as per Daaynan’s instructions.  There was a string of taverns at the end of the street they were on and the corner of another with large clusters of people gathered around and inside the buildings.  There were musicians in some, plucking an array of stringed instruments with a quick, lively tempo, and a few songsters.  Daaynan didn’t recognise the words to the songs but he didn’t listen to music in general.  They were upbeat ballads about life in the town sung with bawdy, gallows humour.  He didn’t think they had much to celebrate.  The lyrics were dark and occasionally obscene, which seemed to fit Dhu Nor.

The Axe and Stump was at the epicentre of the general hubbub, a large, sprawling construction that creaked and moaned from the weight of the bodies inside.  It patrons stamped and swayed with the beat of the music, ale glasses swinging wildly, the beer (Simon called it beer, Daaynan remembered) looping perilously out of the glasses and onto the sawdust floor.  Those that had had their fill rolled out of the tavern, lurching and pitching onto the street, uttering bawdy jokes and obscene witticisms.  One of them brushed against Christopher, knocking most of his beer onto the floor.  He began to curse him when he noticed Mereka instead who had drawn back her hood, her ash-blond hair spilling its length onto her shoulders, radiant in the dim light of the ale house.  Ignoring Christopher, he proposed that she might take a room upstairs, maybe stay a few days in town, he could be her guide.  It was alright, he owned the tavern.  Daaynan gave the man a look which was intended to warn him off, yet he was oblivious to it, his eyes never leaving Mereka’s face, not even as Simon forcefully grabbed his arm.

“Get your hands off her, Crol!” came a roar from the other side of the house.  The owner of the voice shortly emerged into view, a hulking brute of a man with a huge, weather worn face and surprisingly gentle eyes.  Tearing Crol away from Mereka with one massive hand, he seized the man’s near empty glass with the other and put it on a nearby table.  Winking at Simon, he said “I’m the only one who currently holds the license for these premises.  Give him enough mead to drink, Crol will tell you he owns half of the Nor but that doesn’t make it true.”

“It’s...nice...very lively,” was all Simon could say.

The man shot him a sardonic look.  “D’you want it, boy?  Place has been a millstone around my neck since the day I bought the license.”  Crol slid to the floor, perhaps in an attempt to escape the other man’s grip.  In one fluid movement the owner of the Axe and Stump got hold of him again, dragged him to his feet and propelled him outside.  Turning back to the group, he said.  “Now, at the risk of sounding nosy, where is it that you’re from?  Because you’re certainly not Nor people, I could tell that the minute you stepped into this establishment.”

“My name is Daaynan,” the Druid said.  We’re from Carasan, or at least my friends are.”  He indicated Mereka and the Englishmen.  The owner looked doubtfully at them.  “We’re searching for a man called Drett Peers who is said to work here.  Do you know where we can find