Chapter 1: The Expedition

Note from the Author:  The first chapter is attempting to set the economic and socio-cast system of the Kingdom, introduce the primary characters with background and set the expections of future chapter regarding the use of magic.  I am looking for reviews that provide insight on general flow, how solid these ideas are delivered to the reader and any recommendation about the concepts introduced.





Chapter 1 – The Expedition



The largest moon of Pandomia hung heavy the southern sky precariously speared by the temple’s spiral dome jutting above the shops lining Dorling Lane.  Skyline shadows knifed across the rain soaked cobblestones falling short of the path taken by Devlin Adair.  Purposeful strides sent shimmering ripples cascading through puddles reflecting beams from the orange orb.  A light seaward breeze carried the pungent odor of the discarded day’s catch waiting the cleansing offered by the morning tide.  The night’s detour kept feet chilled by sodden boots from enjoying the blazing fire that even now warmed his hearth.  Instead, he must trudge through the submerged streets in search of a wilderness guide to offset the ruling handed down from the Council of Coins.  A ruling guaranteed to disrupt months of careful planning.

Devlin thought himself prepared for the day’s trial after months of studying his father’s journals.  Eleven bells of pointless discussion revolving around trade routes, boundaries, monopolies and even the weather convinced him otherwise.  Every issue subjected to relentless debate spurred on by the same underlying contention, money.  The self-serving nature of the Lords ensured tabling the vast majority of contested points for additional discussion.  Alliances constantly shifted depending on the proposal.  One such dispute lasted most of the day without resolution, a simple matter of lowering the cost of cloth.  The Tailor Guild requested a reduce price for cloth to allow the common people to purchase clothing for the forth-coming winter.  A straightforward question or so Devlin had thought.  The Weaver Guild would not acquiesce without a reduced price for dye and looms.  The ranchers required a reduction in the cost of feed, carpenters’ cheaper lumber, the mill closer trees, the Traders a reduced tariff and everyone agreeing labor costs must shrink but no one willing to foot the bill.  Adding hundreds of possible crises from outlaws to uncooperative weather made you wondered how any proposal reached a consensus with the Lords perpetually shifting self-serving interests.  The issue tabled pending an inventory because of a possible surplus of clothing that did not correlate to Tailors request.  Of the eighteen out of thirty-four matters discussed, Devlin’s proposal was one of four receiving approval.

Fortunately, there were no interests vested in the distant provinces of the Kingdom.  The smattering of isolated villages boasted no wealth for buyer or seller, held no representation from any Guild and remained obscured from the rule of Lords except as a location fixed on ancient maps.  Never the less, Devlin’s victory rang hollow.  Assured that no other Trader, free or clan had any designs on the secluded communities, the Council had approved the proposal but refused to grant passage on the King’s Highway meaning no trade along the route to offset the journey’s expenses.  Lord Osling’s grant of passage through his remote wilderness lands allowed Devlin to reach the otherwise inaccessible villages but even the use of animal trails came at a price.  Nothing in the Kingdom was free even a trade route meant as a ruse.

Devlin grimaced at the coins already disappearing from his shallow coffers.  The twenty silver proposal fees were a pittance compare to the deposit of two hundred gold crown guaranteeing there would be no deviation from the approved agreement.  The expenses were quickly out weighting any profits he might garner from the completion of a perfect trip.  Tomorrow he would negotiate the hiring of a Mage and the cost of outfitting the caravan, tonight he must hire a guide to blaze a trail through vaguely mapped territories showing no charted roads.  An arduous journey made more difficult by swollen rivers and uneven terrain still saturated from the torrential rains inflected at the end of every growing season.  Worse, he would be traveling through the outlaw frontiers likely to claim not only his goods but his life as well.  The council undoubtedly thought him a fool for considering the course even without the restrictions imposed, attempting the journey before the snows fell definitely qualified him as insane.  Too many things could go wrong if he waited until the thaw, he must be ready to travel in three days to have any chance at returning on the wings of a prayer.

Late nights pouring through his father’s journals provided many hopeful answers including the identity of a man Devlin hoped to hire as a guide.  His father used the man on many occasions explicitly trusting to the other’s judgment in the backcountry.  Devlin wondered at the man’s suspicious absence during the last expedition that had claimed his father’s life, perhaps a falling out concealed in the pages of the missing journal.  Perhaps the man could satisfy the mysteries plaguing his dreams.  Passing into the shadow cast by his destination, Devlin looked up to see the two-story inn known as the Owl’s Nest.  The tavern held an abundance of youthful memories from his last years at the Academy of Coins, exploits even now bringing a smile to an otherwise stoic face.  Stepping to the boardwalk, he became aware of the waves of revelry emanating from the common room and the presence of same doorman that had promised a knot on his head for drunken adolescent indiscretions.  Odors of stale ale and soured wine permeated the air seeking a smoky escape through the double doors.  Devlin’s curt nod went unacknowledged as he stepped past the man to survey what could have been the same crowd from the previous year.

The Owl’s Nest remained perfectly situated to draw a mixed clientele, close enough to the docks to attract the exotic sea goers, an easy walk from the barracks of the night guard and within sight of the sale barns frequented by farmer and rancher.  Nestled among higher class merchant shops meant a better vintage of drink with reasonably proportioned meals.  The common room was a long rectangle sporting a stage on one end with the bar on the opposing wall.  The ceiling gave the impression of standing inside a barrel with its curved supporting beams arching from the short walls running the length of the room.  Rough hewed tables crowded together barely leaving room for chairs, poorly repaired from the nightly fights.  Before stepping into the mêlée, Devlin turned to Benate “Have you seen Holbart tonight?” hoping the use of the man’s name would draw forth an unqualified answer.

A deadly appraisal issue from squinting eyes assessed Devlin’s intent before the answer came “Aye he passed into the room earlier has not left but may not be found at the moment.”  From the cryptic response, Devlin could only conclude that suspicion still clouded the man’s judgment.  As if reading his thoughts, Benate continued, “Make your presence known to Cassandra when you are seated.  If you are friend, Holbart may grace you with his attention.  If you are not, he will undoubtedly grace you with his sword.”  As the man turned his head back to continue his surveillance of the room, Devlin could make out the mercenary chop inked into his thick neck revealing a life of service before an injured leg had force the giant’s retirement to his stool at the inn.  The leg stiffly extended before the man would not alter the outcome of any struggle that drew his attention.  Devlin sheltered no doubts as about the man’s abilities as he stepped down to the sawdust-covered floor calling his thanks by name, hoping to earn an ounce of recognition from the man he had passed hundreds of times.  He could hardly expect to evoke recollection from among the thousands of patrons the man had seen but perhaps the name would belay the other’s suspicion, winning an introduction to Holbart.

The off duty night guard formed a crowded half circle surrounding the stage currently occupied by two musician strumming instruments in accompaniment of a female whose singing was dubious at best.  They cheered exuberantly for her lack of clothing not the bawdy song she was butchering forcing Devlin towards the center of the room.  Passing up the first table due to the strong smell of sweaty bodies and animal stench, he took a seat next to a half dozen brightly clothed men and women.  Unlike the other patrons, they did not stink, paid little attention to anyone but their own, talking quietly among themselves.  All wore multiple golden hoops piecing ears and a few lips with dangling blood red gem attached, rubies Devlin guessed.  Their shaved heads held a top knot producing a long braid laced with silver or gold threads draping over darkly tanned shoulders only partially exposed under their puffy sleeved blouses tied off at the waist.  They did not seem to mind the dust beneath their bare feet protruding from ballooning trousers cut tight below the knee.  A thought drawing Devlin’s attention back to his own sawdust-crusted boots still drying from the long walk.

Devlin settled his cloak over the back of a chair facing half way between the door and stage, hoping to spy a familiar face from the academy but the room lacked the youthful aura offered by the students.  Either the hour was too early or the window bars too tight.  Turning around to gaze at the bar, he missed the approach of the serving girl.

“What be your need tonight?” slurred her southern nasal drawl.  Never looking up, she bent wiping spills from the last occupant showing most of her abundant cleavage.  Loose auburn hair framed a not unattractive face displaying a crooked nose poorly mended from too many breaks.

“I am looking for a man.” Was all he completed before she tossed her head back spewing a chortled laugh as though she were drowning from lack of air.

“Aye, arn’tn we all” came the cliché retort. “I won’t have you for one liking the company of men.  Not to worry lad, Bailey keeps all type.  Man, woman or child for the right price. Name me your vice an’ I’ll be passing it along since the evening maiden train will not begin for some time yet, you’ll need to order entertainment this early.”  Bent over the table, she never look up from the bar towel. “Surely you’ll be wanting something to drink before you take an hour up stairs.”

“No.  I am looking for a certain man.  Are you Cassandra?”  The look in her eyes as she straightened said that she was. “Benate said you might be able to help.  I need to talk to Holbart.” , He quickly averted his eyes from her heaving chest, hoping his use of names would win some measure of trust this time

“Not meaning to mar your lordship honor” cackled the barmaid. “Why you be wanting the Holy B cur of the night that he is?  And you still be needing that drink if ye wish to be staying long at this table.”

“My reasons for asking are my own and I will add two coppers to your charge just to deliver my invitation.  As for my order –“, looking at the adjoining table of merchants all he could see was a greasy mound pilled on a plate, hardly appetizing.  Seeing him swallow hard at the discovery, she offered friendly advice.

“You’d no be wanting the mutton left over three nights now.  The fowl is fresh if overly spiced for my taste.  The wine smells like me own ma’s vinegar and the ale is strong brown bitters.”  Seeing his search broaden to the table seating the Sea Folk, “That be brought by them that be eating it not shared among the common.”

Overhearing the exchange, the bearded man at his back lean over to engage them both “Me mates and me have done with the galley.  If the lad would like to try our fish, he may have whatever is left.”  Glancing at the plate before the man showed a lightly grilled fillet, certainly better than anything previously offered, he confirmed the order adding a tankard of ale.  She spun expertly balancing her tray held high to avoid reaching hands and heads alike, weaving through the crowd with practiced abandon, disappearing into the kitchen.

A crowd gathered along the wall between bar and entrance.  Men jostled to get a better view of the action ringed at the center.  Devlin could not tell if the game was dice or tests of strength. The crowd waved tightly gripped coins calling wagers, voices suddenly stretched spanning time.  Musicians took leave of stage. Sea Folk rose from tables.  Guards quietly gaze at the departing entertainment.  The hairs on Devlin’s arm stood on end as the room seemed to teeter phasing seconds into minutes blanketing the room in temporal silence.  The déjà vu lightheaded feeling was nothing new leaving him pondering where the violence would erupt.  The answer was forth coming as a chair scrapped the floor behind him snapping the room back to the present.

Evidenced by clothes fashioned from his flock, an inebriated sheepherder grabbed for one of the brightly clad women hoping to catch her braid.  As his hand missed its mark, she promptly backhanded the man spinning him into the table he had left.  Thinking it done, she turned to join her companions heading for the door.  A scream of rage filled the room still rebounding from the silence carried into the sudden turn of events.  He spun, coat flailing, pulling a knife from his belt, preparing to run her through.  Rather than slashing the woman, he pushed the blade forward extending it toward her heart.  The blade never met its mark.  Taking his wrist in her left hand, hefting it at the ceiling, caused his hand to convulse open sending the blade clattering to the floor without any detectable pressure.  Stepping inside his reach, she grabbed a hand full of hair shifting her weight to propel his head toward the table.  The sickening crunch of bone pierced the muffled silence of the room, broken moments later by a loud cheer from onlookers.  With a flick of her head, the braid sought by the man went sailing to the opposite shoulder bringing the cheers to a crescendo.  Devlin caught her pale blue eyes just before she looked down to aim a kick to the unconscious body blood pooling from the crushed nose.  Seeing Devlin’s interest, the benefactor of his meal absently remarked.

“Aye, there be no better catch on land or sea than our first mate.  Warned you be though, she is harder to handle than a shark in a bloody feeding frenzy.” Sensing Devlin puzzlement over his lack of help, he continued. “You wondering, why we did not help?  As you can see, Jolene takes care of herself without anyone’s help.  To be honest, she would have considered our interference, as much a crime as his, sides he was drunk enough to miss water if he fell overboard.”  Reaching into a hidden pocket, he asked, “Have you a timber to strike my pipe?”

Devlin could not pull his eyes away from the short warrior as he reached to his vest pocket to retrieve the box of sticks he still carried for his father’s pipe, a promise he continued from his youth.  As she turned to leave with her companions, she winked.  His honest confusion brought a huge smile to an exquisitely feminine face that did not conform to the violence just performed.  Before he could decide to speak, the deadly combatant walk past, headed for door, never looking back until just before passing into the night she locked eyes once more before she disappeared.  With the pipe issuing a steady stream of smoke, the seaman handed the box back with a note of thanks, following his mates into the darkness just beyond the double doors.  Devlin, cutting his stare short, returned to his table finding his meal and drink laid out.  He was shocked to see Listain Grodin now sitting to one side of his table.

The youth looked as though he had come straight from bed, uncombed brown hair hanging in disarray, clothes rumpled from sleep.  His lanky frame spoke of uncoordinated limbs grown too long for his thin short torso.  A hawked face boasted round eyes too large for his head cracking a smile  that split the stubble of two days growth as he greeted Devlin who sat back down to his plate.

“You are lucky the cook was willing to give up his hoard of the Sea Folk fish.  Little doubt he is still grumbling about the loss.  Imagine my surprise to see you standing among the brawl.  The last time I saw you . . . you were out back, praying to any God that would listen to relieve you from the disease of ‘ale sick up’.  I am sure your prayers went unanswered but here you are, will you be found kneeling over the stones once more wishing for a quick death?”

“What about you?  The last I remember, you were ensnared by a serving wench sitting snugly on your lap, grinning from ear to ear not another thought in the world, is she the reason you have returned?”  Looking about, “Well now I don’t see her tonight.  Have you worn her so she cannot work or have you set sights on another?”

Both let loose youthful laughs followed by a warm embrace of friends.  They had been bunkmates at the Academy, Listain on top from their beginning since Devlin began his early years with a fear of falling to the floor.  The sleeping arrangement carried forward long after the fear faded, the boys quickly becoming confidants for late night whispers.  Their last night at the Owl had been a gift of father’s for their children’s successful completion of studies at the Coin.  Liquor and ale ran freely leaving no celebrant capable of standing, let alone walking.  The memory of waking sun baked back of the alley caused his stomach to clinch as the smell of soured wine awakened the night’s deeds.  Physically shaking off the image, he could only grin as Listain continued.

“Ah, no doubt you don’t remember her name.  Megan was the beginning of my end.  I had best not find her serving the room as she should be home tending the fire and waiting to present me my slippers after another hard day.  I married her three months to the day after that night.” He proclaimed with that sheepish grin he had worn for all the years at the academy.

“You married?  Now that I would not have dreamed and to the same maiden who had taken your virginity.” As an afterthought “And pray tell me, what does your father think of you marrying a barmaid?”

“Unlike you I would never have worn the mantle having two older brothers.  So da was almost happy to see me go and now I am part owner of the Owl.  You see Meg is the daughter of Bailey and now I run the tavern by night.”  The shock on his face must have been apparent as his friend began to laugh. “I now trade in drunks and information.  And I might add that I do it very well.” 

The two had attended the Coin together as students even though coming from radically opposite positions in life they had quickly become friends.  Listain descended from traders know as Clans where the profession passed onto the next generation.  The Adair family had only recently climbed from peddler to the status of trader, all part of the Free Trade Proclamation drafted by the King before Devlin’s birth.  A dream many thought destined to change the economic face of the Kingdom forever.  His father and grandfather had worked with endless dedication to attain a minor free trader position.  His father had paid with his life only two years earlier trying to establish a new route into the remote parts of Kingdom.  His body never recovered leaving Devlin foolishly hoping that his father would return one day boasting of newly found wealth.  The fantasies of a child had given way to the reality of a man forcing Devlin to acknowledge that his father was not lost but dead.  His grandfather continued to schedule the trade supporting Devlin’s education but procuring little in the way of profits.  Coming to hold the reins of the family business, he knew the false promises of the idealist decree.  Any man could climb above his station with hard work and dedication, promises only found in the written words not the reality of the world.  Any person could better his position, hardly the financial windfall many believed.  The truth, the same people controlled the same merchants and the same traders making it impossible to create a thriving business.  Old alliances or agreements had weathered the years to remain unchanged under the vision of free trade.  There were few exceptions, the majority of those made between the families recently elevated.  Many returned to their meager beginnings as time left them broken and penniless after waging economic suicide with the more established competition.  The lack of a level playing field never offered a chance at success since the Lords held strong rein over everything that transpired in their provinces.  They were as much to blame as the Clans for the true failure of free enterprise.  They cast the final Council votes determining who pursued new or kept old trade.  Their votes remained shrouded in protective dedication for the fragile agreements that were the lifeblood of their own provincial economies.  The stark truth no one wished to concede served interests boasting greed as an anthem over equality.  The clans and merchants paid for their safety through expensive bribes and the high cost of moral corruption.

Listain carried on about schoolboy pranks landing them both in the kitchen scrubbing pots.  Devlin snatched his attention back to his present surrounding with some effort as his friend proclaimed, “Same old Devlin listening to some other while I talk.  Still replaying your meeting of the Council?”

“So you know about that?” Wincing at the thought of his friend’s knowledge but not understanding why.

“I can but wonder if this has anything to do with a new trade route I overheard my brothers and father speaking of.  They spoke of a young merchant recently come to the Mantle taking his place on the Council.  Still wet behind the ears and fresh from the strings of his nanny asking for the rights to the rim trade.  To hear them, this fellow was asking for the right to die.  Now you asking about the B, I can but wonder if you are that suicidal youth.”  The seriousness of his expression offered no smile to the banter.  Mistaking Devlin’s look for puzzlement, “As I said, I trade in information so naturally I know of your inquiries.”

Sliding his short coat back to reveal the heavy gold medallion hanging from his neck “Grandfather is too old to wear the weight and I am the fool who thought he could do what no other merchant has done since my father.  I am sure to make my fortune taking trade to the east.  I plan to trade with the Bell and Crow among others.”

List was not about to let it pass so easily “You are a fool.  There has been a flood of refugees from the east all claiming sanctuary from the King.  There is talk of raids from the horse clans and brigands on the King’s own Highway.  There are wraiths and demons walking the land at the foot of the Mist Mountains stealing the souls of children.  There is a long shadow taking the entire east with no good word for any who would travel that way.  Even the King’s Swords have returned with heavy causalities, never having taken a single prisoner and you want to trade in this land of evil times.  I cannot believe the Council of Coin would even condone your request by giving it consideration.”  Taking a long draw on the bottle of brandy he had kept secreted away in his coat, he took a deep breath before continuing, “To tell the truth, I know only of your place on the agenda, not of how you faired.  Perhaps you will enlighten me for I know nothing of the details only that you paid to present a new route.”

Wondering if his friend actually cared about his narrow win or asked to gain knowledge to help his family, his reply cut more than he meant. “I did win in a manner of speaking.” Suddenly feeling guilty over the suspicion that crowded his mind, he added. “I have the approval of the council for the route. The roads I will travel to claim the trade will be near on to impossible to achieve.  I am granted trade only if I can get the caravan to arrive.”  Without thought, he added a hushed, “safely”, to the end of his sentence.  Not wanting to say more, Devlin quickly shoveled a fork of the succulent fish into his mouth.

“This new route has no road?  Then exactly where will you be going?”

Not want to reveal any more than necessary to quiet his friend “The Gangue Province.” Quickly taking another bite, he lower his eyes as though in concentration on the aromatic dinner occupying the space directly in front of him.

A look of dismay crossed Listain’s face before being replaced by outrage. “You cannot be serious.  That is the same area that killed your father.  No wonder the council tried to squash your ridiculous plans.  What few settlements that exist on the rim would not pay for the feed required to get your mounts there.  The entire way riddled with bandits with no place to re-outfit replacement mounts for those you will undoubtedly lose.  You must be crazy.”  He continued to stare as though seeking conformation of his accusations shaking his head sending hair madly to punctuate each sentence.  Stopping in mid shake he suddenly took on a more serious look if that were even possible.  “That is not where you are going to trade, is it?  I remember the fantasies you used to talk about late at night from your bunk about magical people and beasts that have never existed outside the stories told by our nanas to scare us.  You are in the world of men not children.  Your fantasies have no place in this world.  There will be no magic rescue to take you from the point of some sword.  What can possess you to think you can even turn a profit…”  Listain obviously reaching the point of stuttering thought became silent with a grave look on his face.

“Quiet!” Fearing his plans becoming common knowledge passed around the tavern for a good laugh.  After bearing the Council, Devlin had lost all patience with the label of fool.  All the anger he was unable to put forth in days debate came bursting out in a huge onslaught of verbal intensities. “You are right but I have been planning this for months. I have poured over my father’s journals for every scrap of information I could wring from the pages.  I have studied the maps left from grandfather’s days on the road. Compared them to the maps at the academy and those in the King’s library to make sure I know every detail of the terrain.  I have calculated the entire trip to within a week and provisions to within a day.  I know every commodity there is to buy and every need of the settlements along the way.  I know the dangers and I am taking every precaution.” Finding himself suddenly out of breath, he stopped talking only to realize that he was shaking.  He could feel the anger in his checks.  He gripped the fork as though it were a dagger to stab his friend.  Why had he become so angry?  Leftovers from his battle with the council only to be brandished at his friend?  Felling ashamed, he tried to continue in a more subdued tone. “Look there is a lot more at stake here than you know.  If the council had any notion what I am planning they would probably lock me up and ruin my business.”

“Lock you up, that would be a courtesy compared to letting you continue with this fool’s errand.  You and all those you take will die. For what?  A chance to find your father?  A chance you may find some magical people that never existed?  A chance you will strike it rich where no one has ventured ?  I repeat you are a fool on a fool’s errand.”  Realizing he had been shouting, Listain quickly sat down, looking around to see who was listening.  Devlin leaned forward to calm his friend bursting with the desire to share the secrets he had held for months.  If anyone would hold his confidence, it was Listain.

“My father left me more than his journals.  I found another set of hidden books, diaries really, telling tales of mystery and adventure.  I am sure they are the key to my father’s disappearance.  After I read a few of hundred pages it all begins to make sense, my father’s new explorations about the rim, giving up stable trade routes for those untried and always going to frontiers.  He was always searching for something and I think he found it the last time he went out.” Lowering his voice, “And that is where I am going to find my fortune, among the elves.”

“Great, not only magical creature, you are going to chase after some grand adventure.  That makes perfect sense then.”  The indignant accusations made Devlin wince as the pain passed across his friend’s face.  The reality should the council come to realize his intentions, there would be no new route with a high probability of finding the King’s dungeon for even considering what his friend thought was a fantasy.

“Look I apologize, I know you would not give me away on purpose but do be careful should you decide to discuss my plans.  Wait until I am long gone.  Besides if I don’t find Holbart all my planning will be for naught and my family’s business will return to peddling pot and pans.”  The mention of the mercenaries name drew his friends hawkish attention.  His eyes bulged to the point of popping out of his head and eyebrows were drawn tight pulling the lines from his forehead.  His friend gave a quizzical look but other than that did not offer any acknowledgement of the conversation preferring to begin another line of less stressful conversation. 

“Do you remember…” so began another round of reminiscence about pranks, nights of sneaking out and the days of scrubbing pots in the kitchen.  After two more rounds of drink, his friend announced, “Time I was doing my duty or I will never hear the end of my failures.  The years of working sums at the Coin pays good dividends in the back room.  I won’t be long so drink and enjoy my hospitality.”  With a slap to the back jostling the tankard in hand, his friend headed for a door behind the bar.  The change of topic had been good talking of times without the pressures of life.  When the fear of being caught and sent to the headmaster for a sentence of kitchen duty was the worst thing ahead of them.  With a light head and memories of childhood pranks, he failed to notice the shadow moving across the table. As he looked up from his drink, he knew the man standing opposite was Holbart the key to his plans.

Holbart was a mystery shrouded in outrageous stories of exploits boarding on implausible making the man larger than life.  He was the youngest man to make captain in the King’s Shield, decorated no less than ten times as a member of the King’s Sword.  A legend among the mercenaries he had fought alongside and against. Respected among the outlaws he had hunted, Holbart remained known to all who lived their lives by violence.  Here at the Owl, best known as a drunkard.  Holbart stood a full head taller than anyone in the room with shoulders wide enough to support an oxen yoke.  The baldric drew your attention first with the two handed sword grip extending above his left shoulder.  His belt held two knives with the promise of more hidden within the worn heavy cloak.  Nothing compared to the face that seemed chiseled from stone or the ice-cold eyes penetrating through the smoky expanse between them.  Those eyes locked with Dev refusing to release the youth from their stare. “You have asked of me.” More a statement than a question was all the mountain of a man said.

Taken a back, his tongue felt thick from the ale as he tried to recover from the man’s sudden appearance, he began “My name is . . .”

With a voice meant to shake wall or man, “I know who you are and what you desire.  My answer is NO.”  With that, he began to turn to take his leave.

Angered with the courage of drink “You worked for my father and my coin will be no less.” Gathering more courage from the ale “The least you can do is listen to my offer.  Then decide if you will accept the post with my caravan.” 

Without turning back, the hard man called over his shoulder “A friend of your father who will not help you to die that is my service to him.”  Never looking back ,the crowd parted to make way for his departure.  There was no comprehending the short conversation.  To think he had been working on his speech for days and in less than a minute his hopes had been dashed with no explanation for his troubles.  Still wondering what to make of the event, he did not notice the return of his friend.

  “A hard man that one.  I hope you will have no business with him?”

Shaking his head, “Not likely after that.”, still unsure of the events that had taken place so quickly he stared into the almost empty tankard wondering what he would do next.  He had pinned his hope on the man.  A guide that had taken his father on the same journey years past had turned him down flat leaving no hope to his dreams.

“Just as good, he stays drunk day and night never sober long enough to find his way from the tavern.”

“I will just have to find another but for now it is best I leave.”  Grabbing his cloak, he rose unsteadily to his feet refusing to give into the fog revealed through by his eyes.  Not bothering to done the long coat, he pushed his way to the door hearing the call of his friend but not registering the words.  Stumbling from the steps of the inn, he quickly wrapped the cloak against the chill of the night and wove his way down the lane, unsure of bed or stables as a destination.

  Peering at the cobblestone, mulling over the last twelve hours, he never saw the men who suddenly blocked his path.  Drawing up short, “I beg your pardon”, veering to pass. 

The two men wore scruffy beards and tattered clothes.  Rather than moving aside, they began to laugh pulling long knives from the wide belts at their waist.  The larger of the two remarked off handedly “You have misjudged us and will now forfeit your life for it.”  Devlin’s inner sight had not registered the attack.

As the shorter man lunged knife extended, Devlin gave no thought only reacted if somewhat delayed by the ale he had recently consumed.  Spinning to his left, he caught an arm pulling forward to place his left elbow to the back of the man’s head.  Congratulating himself for a move his mentor would have been proud of, he was completing the spin as the man fell to the cobblestones knife clattering before him.  The celebration was short live as moon light glinted off the blade making its way towards his chest.  To think he would die alone in the streets like a common criminal never to see the adventure he had planned before him.  When the blade was but seconds away from taking his life, the air suddenly whistled from a sword cutting cleanly through the forearm.  The cutpurse had time for one scream of pain as the sword reversed direction faster than the eye could follow removing the man’s head.  As it continued its arch, there was little doubt the wielder meant to remove another head.  It was not to be his as the other thief had risen halfway form the stone to feel the blade slash his throat.  Head still spinning as he complete the spin he had begun but seconds before he saw his savior for the first time.

“You” as he recognized Holbart from the Owl’s common room.  “They were going to rob me.” Shaking his head in denial, he could not believe what had transpired.

“No cutpurses were these. I followed another pair on your heals as you left.  They rest in thirty steps back, alive unlike theses two.” Offered the big man as though stating a fact that left no room for dispute.  Not understanding what seemed so apparent, Devlin began to object but fell silent under the stare of the one they called the B.

“Home with you now.  I will see you at the stockyard in the morning.  See that you do not die before then.” 

“I thought you were not taking my employment?”

“Best none know of my involvement, least your plans be compromised.  Yes, I know what you seek and where to find that which eluded your father even in death.  Now off with you.  I will find you on the ‘morrow, you’ll not be likely to recognize me.”   

“How did you know of my plans for an early departure?”

“You are your father’s son.  No more questions, we will have time on the road for the answers you seek.”  Without further explanation, he simply turned and disappearing into the night.  As Devlin made his way up street, he heard a scream as someone found the dead men. 

“Two days and I must be ready.” He mumbled under his breath as he lengthened his stride wondering how Holbart was going to go unnoticed or did he mean Devlin’s head was too soaked with ale to remember him.



                                                      *********************************



The room too dark to see those gathered in the deepest shadow heard only words spoken from cowls pulled tight to hide identities.  Only one held power, asking all the questions, expecting all the answers. 

“Are you sure the boy is the one we seek?”

“Yes.  There is little doubt.  The prophecy of the mirrors makes it clear that he is descended from the Karthan dynasty.  Although we have yet to discover how he has gone undetected until now”, came the response from the shadows.

“Yet he is not dead?”

“No, there was an intervention by one we have faced before.” Words filled with dread.

“The king will die within nights.  Can you assure me the rest of our plans will remain unhindered?”

“Yes”

“The boy will be no problem then.  I have already set a spy to follow his progress and slip a knife into his back.”

The meeting ended without adjourning.