Chapter 8|The Six
It was all wrong. The thought tickled at the back of Lerryn’s consciousness like an itch he could not reach. Plans that had been years in the making had unraveled. Or had they? He shook his head, seeking to brush away the web of questions that clung to his thoughts. He just didn’t know.
He sat in one of the inn’s two rooms. The floors were of rough-hewn boards, worn smooth by the passage of time. The wood plank walls were unpainted and without ornamentation. His furnishings included a bed with a goose-down mattress, doubtless borrowed from Mistress Van Derin, a small wooden table, and two chairs. His own tent would have afforded more luxurious accommodations, but he had no desire to offend these kind, if provincial, people.
He swirled his cup of wine, trying to decide if his need for a drink outweighed his distaste for this provincial vintage. He held it up to the light, and noted with disappointment the murky lack of clarity. The bouquet was not much better, cloyingly sweet, almost oppressively heavy. He sighed. He had exhausted his personal store, and bad wine was better than none at all. Two gulps and the cup was almost drained. He shuddered at the taste, but the warmth that spread through his middle was comforting. If nothing else, the wine was strong.
“Highness?” Xaver, his vizier, poked his head through the door. “All is ready.”
“Is it?” Lerryn posed the question to no one in particular. “It doesn’t feel ready, Xaver. It feels…off.” The word hung there as he searched for something more to say. Finding nothing, he remained silent.
With a deep sigh, Xaver bustled past him. Reaching the table in the room’s center, the gaunt, graying man replaced the stopper in Lerryn’s wine decanter. He picked up the nearly empty cup, and strode to the open window. He threw a challenging stare at the prince and pitched the dregs out the window. If the vizier heard the angry cry from below, his face did not show it.
“Truly Highness,” he intoned, absently dragging his palms across the folds of his purple cloak, “this conversation has become most tedious. And this,” he pointed to the decanter, “helps you not at all. I have told you that all is in readiness, and I meant all!”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t think so?” Xaver’s condescending tone would have sent any other man to the headsman. “I shall explain it once more. Do you agree that we have chosen the correct place and time?” Lerryn nodded grudgingly as Xaver continued. “Do you agree that we are six?”
“I number them five.”
“Five?” Xaver began to count on long, claw-like fingers. “You and I, the victor…”
“We do not have a victor!” Lerryn shouted, no longer able to hold his tongue. “There was no final match. There can be no victor.” He pulled a chair away from the table, spun it around, and straddled the seat. He folded his arms across the chair’s back, and rested his chin on the back of a hand. Freeze it all!
The Malan girl had vanished prior to the final match, along with the Van Derin boy and two other locals. The body of one of his Guard, a drunkard named Borram, had been found in the forest. It had taken very little investigation to get to the bottom of the matter.
According to Squad Leader Khattre, Borram had had wandered away from his post during the latter rounds of the previous day’s tournament, declaring his intent to ‘have a bit of fun with one of the farm girls’. One of Borram’s friends, a guard named Arric, had found him dead in the forest, reeking of ale, hose around his knees, his own knife buried in his side. Arric had spotted a red-haired girl running away, along with several others. Probably scared out of their wits, Lerryn mused.
Scouts were turned out in search of the four, with no success. Their tracks led to a farm some distance from the village, and disappeared. Both sides of the river were scoured, but to no avail. The owners of the farm, parents of one of the missing boys, had been at the tournament all day, and were of no help. Mistress Van Derin had followed them, and had seemed oddly put out over the condition of the farm. Strange, he thought, it seemed to be quite a nice place as farms go.
“Highness?” Xaver’s voice snatched him from his reverie.
“Do you truly believe that Karst is the one?” Lerryn had lain awake half the night trying to accept that Pedric Karst could be the one. It did not fit.
Xaver’s face did not change. “It matters not what I believe. He is the one.”
“He is arrogant, deceitful. I don’t care for the boy one bit.” Karst was entirely not what he had envisioned when he began this search. How could this boy be the one?
“I did not realize that was a requirement.” Xaver sat down opposite Lerryn. “We have a task before us. A task too sacred to be held back by your reservations.”
“If conditions are not met, your sacred task cannot succeed.” Why did Xaver not see what was wrong?
“Your Highness, I have dedicated my life to this quest. You know the sacrifices I have made. And you may believe me when I say that conditions have been met.”
Lerryn gazed into Xaver’s eyes. They were a dark violet, almost black. “You are not the only one who has sacrificed, Xaver. You’re just the only one to whom it came easily.”
“Need I remind you that it was you who came to me, Your Highness?” When Lerryn did not answer, Xaver chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that reminded Lerryn of the closing of a crypt door. “It is of no importance. We have a victor. Perhaps not one of your liking, but a victor none the less. Pedric Karst is your tournament champion. No one defeated him.”
“No one defeated the Malan girl either,” Lerryn stubbornly insisted. “Did we ever find her father?”
“He is gone.” Xaver shook his head. “Hauling something or other for his Lord Hiram.”
“Don’t be so hard on Van Derin. You’ve met his wife.” Lerryn forced a smile. “Wonder how long it took our friend Hiram to realize the mistake he’d made in marrying her?”
Xaver actually smiled in return. “I believe he got exactly what he deserved.” The wizened man stood and returned to the window. He looked out and shook his head.
Lerryn could see past Xaver’s rail-thin body and out the window. Across the green, Faun Van Derin stood on the porch of her home, gesticulating wildly to a group of workers who were attempting to erect a statue of some sort. While the Prince and his advisor watched, the statue teetered, and fell to the ground with a resounding crash. Despite the distance, he heard Faun’s shrill cries quite clearly.
“She plays a dangerous game, that one.” Xaver stroked his chin whiskers and smiled, a predatory baring of teeth.
“Pretending to be nobility, you mean?”
Xaver did not answer. He strode to the door. “Your party is waiting, Highness. Your destiny is waiting.”
“Destiny has waited a long time. It can wait while I have another drink.”
“We all have our priorities, Highness,” Xaver sighed. “If you will be so kind as to join us once you have finished your bottle of courage.” The gaunt man slipped from the room with wraithlike silence.
With a shrug, Lerryn put the bottle of wine to his lips, and downed it in a series of loud gulps. Finished, he slammed the bottle to the table, belched loudly, and threw a look of comic defiance at the empty doorway. Standing, he belted on his sword and proceeded down the stairs and out onto the front steps of the inn.
The innkeeper and his wife waited on the porch. Lerryn couldn’t remember their names. “You have honored our home with your presence, Highness,” the stocky man said with a bow. Lerryn inclined his head in return.
“You will find our daughter, won’t you, your Highness?” The innkeeper’s wife, an attractive woman, wrung her hands. Lerryn paused to think.
“We are certain that your daughter will return home soon,” Xaver interrupted. “But we, as well as Captain Tabars and his men, will continue the search.”
Of course! Their daughter was one of the three who had run away with the Malan girl. Perhaps Xaver was right about Lerryn’s drinking.
“Thank you, your
Highness. Thank you.” Though it had been Xaver who answered, the woman knelt before Lerryn. “We are so worried.”
Lerryn placed a hand on her shoulder. “Worry no more. She will be returned to you. I am certain of it.” Lerryn groaned inside at the look of complete trust in the woman’s eyes. He was only a man, yet a word from him, and she believed that all would be made right. He just didn’t understand.
He turned away from his hosts, and stepped out onto the steps of the broad porch. The bright morning sun stung his eyes. Squinting against the glare, he made his way down to the street.
Captain Tabars stood at the foot of the steps. “I don’t like leaving you, your Highness.” The burly soldier stood with his arms folded across his chest, his face twisted in a disapproving scowl.
“You have your instructions, Tabars. Take the new recruits to Archstone, and then place yourself at my father’s disposal.”
“Khattre can take the recruits back. You need me and the men with you.”
“Tabars,” Lerryn’s voice held a note of warning. “You have been given your orders.”
“Highness, you didn’t give me these,” Tabars raised a muscular arm to Lerryn’s face. His three silver bands of command reflected the sunlight in Lerryn’s eyes, making him flinch, “because I meekly follow orders. You have always relied on me. Now you are leaving, the Gods only know to where, and your only escort is these…boys. Of course I question your orders.”
“You are a good man and a good officer.” Lerryn clapped a hand on Tabars’ mailed shoulder. “I know that what I do is a poor repayment for the loyalty you have shown me. But I can tell you only that we must be six, or we will fail. When our task is complete, I will send for you and the men. Until that time, I must insist on your obedience.” He met his underling with a level gaze.
Tabars stared intently at Lerryn for a long moment before nodding his acquiescence. “We’ll be waiting for you, Highness. May the Gods smile on you.” The two men clasped hands.
“And on you as well, my friend,” Lerryn replied.
Tabars rejoined the rest of the White Fang, now numbering forty-eight. The veteran soldier mounted his horse with ease, and shouted a terse command to the Guard. With a clatter of hoofs, the white-cloaked soldiers set off, Lerryn’s new recruits following behind. “Keep up, or be left behind,” Tabars called to the bewildered-looking farm boys. Lerryn watched until his men had circled the green and disappeared down the east road.
Sighing, he turned to the five men who waited for him. He used the term “men” rather loosely. Xaver sat upon his gray gelding, holding the reins of Kreege, Lerryn’s warhorse. Behind him, the archery champion, Edrin something-or-other, sat astride the plainest-looking brown horse Lerryn had ever seen. Next to him, riding equally nondescript mounts of varying shades of brown, were the wrestlers. Lerryn had not bothered to learn their names. ‘Bull’ and ‘Hair’ suited him fine. Hair! Lerryn chuckled. What a wonder it had been finding him!
“Why aren’t we going with the others?” Several paces away from the others, Pedric Karst sat upon a skittish black stallion. He looked down at Lerryn with ill-concealed impatience.
Lerryn took a deep breath and held it. Must everyone be so impertinent today? “You’ll have your answer very soon, Master Karst.” Accepting Kreege’s reins from Xaver, he nimbly mounted the white horse. “And if you ever address me in that tone again, you will find yourself looking up at me from the flat of your back.” He touched his heels to the horses’ flanks, and the powerful creature set off at a trot. The others followed behind.
“Gentlemen,” Lerryn began, “I have a long story to tell you.”