Chapter Thirty-Five

The sound of a door softly clicking shut woke Tarn. Yellow-gold rays of sunlight streamed into the room through the small and dirt-smeared window. His head hurt, but not even in the same realm as it had the first time. No doubt the attention he paid Becka played a major role in his decision not to indulge himself excessively in wine. Where was the lass? A quick check of his purse found it all of his gold accounted for, minus the gold piece he had gifted her before they tumbled again. The closing door must have been her leaving. A twinge of first love's regret lanced his heart. Wasn't there some way to take her from tavern life? Gold was easily come by. Reality crashed upon him. What was he thinking? They would be departing Galpernia shortly, and Becka did not need saving. She was doing exactly what she wanted to and earned more gold for less time than he did by risking his neck.

Lowlanders were a strange breed. Their ways were not his, though he had enjoyed last night immensely. Tarn rose from the lumpy, straw-filled bed to splash cool water on his face and rinse his mouth free of the glue that adhered to his tongue. Against better judgement, he used the chamber pot to empty his bladder. Feeling like a living and breathing individual, he strapped on his swords and went downstairs to eat. Torrocka sat alone, consuming the day's first meal when Tarn joined him and ordered a hardy spread.

"Ye appear quite pleased with thyself lad. That auburn-haired young lady must have nested in thy chamber last night?" he offered conversationally.

"Aye. She did," Tarn answered sheepishly, then more seriously. "Did Yakuth impart worthy news?"

"No. He didn't expect to learn anything earlier than tonight, possibly by the seventh bell. In the meantime, we require supplies."

"Well said. Let us be on the trail ere sunrise on the morrow," Tarn agreed, eager to fulfil his sword-oath. "Another night within these walls is not to my taste."

"If I may render an observation," Torrocka said, leaning inward. "Imaran fathomed ye weren't present in thy village after he cast his spell, otherwise he'd not have left those beasts. Also, he suspected ye would quest the caverns and laid another trap. Why abduct the children unless it is to learn about ye, or perhaps to lure ye to him? Doesn't it stand to reason that he might have expected ye here as well?"

Tarn nodded his head to everything Torrocka said. He was a fool. In his impulsive pursuit for manhood privileges, he placed himself, his oath, and the abducted children of his village, at risk for one night of drunken carousing. Were he to fall slain, who would affect their release?

The Sword Chamber priest watched Tarn's mood darken as the meaning of his words sunk in. So much responsibility for one so young, he thought, and said, "'Tis not all bad if ye learned anything. Abide good sense first, and then follow thy heart." Attempting levity to lift the heaviness that had fallen over his companion, he added, "Why, if I was but ten summers younger, I'd have entertained that attractive young lady myself."

"Ye never told me ye knew how to play dice, ancient one," Tarn quipped. A twinkle of life lifted the sombre darkness from his emerald-green eyes.

The serving wench who carried Tarn's considerable meal, interrupted any reply Torrocka might have offered. He paid the girl the extra, not covered by the lodging agreement, and a few coppers for her smile. Three gold pieces remained of his bonus, as well as a week's wage with which to purchase supplies. Gold meant little to Tarn, but he was beginning to understand its necessity as his purse grew lighter.

"That should be plenty and then some if we barter well. Few goods cost as much as the first price declared," Torrocka decided, eyeing the leather bag.

While Tarn dug into his meal, Torrocka outlined the finer points of bartering successfully. Tarn listened carefully, thankful to put his mistake behind him. When he finished his plate, they departed the inn for the Galpernia's thriving market square.

They spent the remainder of the morning, and all of the afternoon, haggling with vendors over large and small items alike. By the end of the day, they had acquired their supplies, and Tarn still held three gold pieces, some silver, and many coppers. Tarn replaced the boots he wore with a pair of comfortable travelling boots that tied off just below his knees. In place of his fur leggings, a seamstress fashioned a pair of double-thick buckskin pants that tucked into his boot tops. No matter what Torrocka said, he refused to surrender the vest Marta had fashioned for him, or give up his snow leopard cloak that he made from the cat whose vivid remembrances scarred his shoulder.

Tarn and Torrocka transferred their supplies to their new packs, balancing the weight between them, and then went downstairs to eat supper. Once they had spoken to Yakuth, they planned to leave before first light the next morning. Ludvic was nowhere to be seen among those who gathered for supper and had not left word. While Tarn took a deep draught of ale, he let his eyes roam over the room. For the most part, the patrons were a combination of travellers, merchants, and a few locals. Two men drinking ale across the room occasionally glanced their way. While they never stared, they were out of place. They refrained from eating and tried not to be noticed as they observed him. Refusing to acknowledge them, Tarn let his eyes rove past the men and return to ale.

"We are being watched," Tarn said, his hunter's alarm ringing shrilly.

"By whom?" asked Torrocka, not taking his eyes from Tarn.

"Two men near the door," he clarified, setting his ale down.

"Be they fighting men?" Torrocka queried casually.

"Aye. Both have swords and one wears leather armour."

"Hmm, it seems we have admirers." Just then the serving wench arrived with their meals. Tarn ripped off a drumstick and stripped it to the bone. After the girl departed, Torrocka said, "They will wait for us to leave if they intend anything. I suggest we bring our packs and travel the well-lit streets. We might want to depart tonight instead."

"Better to greet them with steel—but I suppose we should find out if they have friends, or if they are simply reporting our movements to another. And if so, who that person is and what their instructions are. Perhaps they are simply robbers and think us an easy target."

"Smart lad. Ye can always play with them later," Torrocka chided. "Given the blades ye carry, and that Ludvic usually accompanies ye, I'd no think ye easy game. Nay lad, sure as sure someone has hired them."

Grunting approval, Tarn stripped the meat from the hens as though he owned not a care in the world. Their watchers ordered another round while Tarn and Torrocka kept their conversation on lighter matters. Having finished eating, Tarn went to their rooms where he listened outside the doors. Seeing no obvious signs of entry, he retrieved their packs and returned downstairs. Torrocka rose from the table and accepted his pack with a nod.

They exited the tavern without glancing at either man. As soon as Tarn entered the Galpernia's city streets, he slung his travel pack over his right shoulder to free up his sword hand. Torrocka walked a pace ahead of him, keeping to the lamp-lit avenues. Rather than taking a direct route along which others might have been posted to wait in ambush, Torrocka circled around to the west, approaching the stables from the opposite end of the city. As they neared the merchant stables from the backside, the street lighting became poor and the area less populated. Warehouses and the like dominated this section. Despite the absence of light, Tarn tracked the two men following them as surely as if they wore cowbells around their necks. Their arrogance or inexperience, their overconfidence perhaps, underestimated one old man and one young barbarian. They followed too close: made too much noise.

Hobnailed boots broke into a run when Tarn and Torrocka turned onto a side street adjacent to the stables.

"Stand wide," Tarn said in a whisper-hard voice. As Torrocka complied, he dropped his pack and drew his waist sword, flattening his back against the brick wall of the building.

Seconds later the pair rushed around the corner with drawn steel. Without warning, Tarn jumped forward, jungle-cat quick, and dropped the man on his left with a thrust through his midriff. The unwary pursuer crumpled to his knees. Bright-red blood gurgled out of his mouth.

The second assassin shouted, "Now! The game's afoot," and lunged at Tarn, who parried one, and then another thrust.

Footsteps ran toward him from the rear. Others had been waiting in ambush. The assassin was quick with his light rapier; too quick for Tarn to take his eyes off him, even for a darting glance in the direction of the pounding feet. After Tarn parried another thrust, he delivered a powerful overhand swing that shattered his opponent's light blade. His new sword bit deeply into his attacker's shoulder. Tarn kicked the would-be assassin away, and ripped his sword free, pivoting on his hind foot to meet the foe whose heavy footsteps grew dangerously loud.

As he spun round to face the assailant, Torrocka fell into his arms, having thrown himself in front of the thrust. The assassin's narrow blade passed through Torrocka's pack, piercing his lungs. Already lung blood flecked his lips. When the hired killer pulled his blade free, Tarn lowered Torrocka to the ground. Crouched over Torrocka's body, he eyed the cowardly backstabber fiercely while reaching into his back boot. A heartbeat later he leapt at the lout issuing his battle-cry.

As he rose from his crouch, his right hand flung forward and up. Shiny steel spun silver through the air, sinking up the hilt in the assassin's throat. Shock showed on the ambusher's expression. The mortally injured man did not expect the barbarian youth to go on the offence. They had outnumbered him. He should have gone defensive. He should have run to save his own life. The last thought to pass through his mind was how unschooled the outlander fought.

Before his opponent hit the ground, dead, Tarn knelt at Torrocka's side, gently raising his head, enquiring softly, "Ancient one?"

Torrocka's eyelids flickered open to behold worried eyes. "Aye son. I'm still here," he managed before a painful fit of coughing wracked his body. Blood flecks darkened his lips with each additional cough.

"Thee need a healer," Tarn said, easy lifting Torrocka off the ground, pack and all.

A weak hand clenched Tarn's wrist, urging him to stop, to lower him back to the ground. In between coughing spasms, where more and more lung blood peppered his pressed lips with ruby droplets, he said, "I miscalculated. Never thought—that fellow's sword would pierce—my pack. Always thought I was meant to be at your side. Thy oath—lad. Take the scroll. Give me—that—barbarian oath!" More coughing shook the body in Tarn's arms.

Looking into Torrocka's fading eyes, he nodded compliance. "Thee have it, my friend."

"Friend? Stubborn—lad. About time." Torrocka squeezed Tarn's hand. Another fit of spasms assaulted his aged frame. "Much promise in—thee. Last warrior—of—Atlantis. She lives only in you now. Remember her—always. Go, soldiers come—think first," he gasped with his dying breath.

Uncurling to his full height, head thrown back, a deep rumble built within his chest, culminating in a bellow of eerie, medieval grief that he loosed into the heavens. Tarn reverently brushed Torrocka's eyelids closed, saying with deep conviction, "Rejoice, ancient one. Be welcome in Valhalla. Thee perished saving kin, the noblest death of all. Thy sacrifice will no go unavenged," he vowed, and retrieved his dagger out of the throat of the slain assassin.

The sound of not too distant shouting, perhaps from as close as several streets over, alerted Tarn. Perhaps his scream had mobilized the night watch. He removed Torrocka's pack and picked up his before hurrying down a dark alley. Many blocks later, certain that no one pursued him, he crouched in a doorway of a dimly lit alley and opened Torrocka's pack. The sword that had killed Torrocka had missed the Song of Steel Scroll. It lay undamaged. Tarn transferred it and the other supplies he required. He repacked them in his and threw Torrocka's backpack in the street. By morning it and what remained of its contents would be gone. As he placed the Sword Chamber pendant around his neck, an image of Torrocka battling the snow leopard flared into memory. Another life was added to his list. "Many more deaths will thee be witness to," echoed his father's voice, now many winters past. Tarn gazed thoughtfully at the Song of Steel Scroll, and then placed it in his waterproof script, and shouldered his pack. Yakuth awaited his arrival at the caravan stables.

* * * * * * *

Full night darkened the Galpernia sky when he gained the stables. The oxen moved restlessly in their pens under the star-sprinkled sky. Horses whuffled softly, settling into sleep. A lone wagon, a canvas cover pulled over U-shaped ribs, stood off to the side near the stable entrance. A lantern shone through the dome of Yakuth's wagon, making it glow. Something felt wrong. The wagon sat too still, too quiet. No movement changed the shadows within. No sound came forth. He approached it silently, his eyes swinging back and forth. With his back pressed flat against the canvas-domed wagon, he carefully drew a corner of the canvas to the side. A narrow sliver of lantern light shone out.

Yakuth lay in the wagon on his stomach reaching for the tailgate latch. His face was slack. His eyes were dull. A bone handle protruded from his fleshy back. The bloodstain around the knife wound felt sticky. It showed cherry-red. The master merchant had died within the hour. He let go of the canvas to search the ground for tracks, only to discover that there were too many sets to distinguish recent ones from others.

Tarn departed the merchant stables by a different route, taking care to move silently, to remain aware of each doorway, each alley entrance, each dark space where an assassin might hide. Several blocks away from the wagon, he increased his pace. What had Yakuth learned that was worth dying for? From whom did he receive the intelligence? As he skirted the edge of the market square heading toward the rear of the city, the odorous scent of fish, combined with the faint aroma of saltwater, filled his nostrils. The stink of fish was unmistakable. The odour had not been present when he and Torrocka had haggled for supplies. Yakuth told Torrocka that he awaited word from an outside source. Where did Galpernia acquire its supply of saltwater fish? Kordava? It was the closest port. Was it the outside source?

Did a caravan from Kordava arrive today? Who hired the assassins? Was Yakuth's death related to the assassins? Had Yakuth spoken to his fellow caravanner? Had he paid with his life for asking questions about Asgard slaves? He failed to detect the odour at the stables previously. Perhaps the fish merchant sold his quota and continued his route. Fish spoiled rapidly. A slim lead at best, with more questions than answers. Too many coincidences led to Kordava. Ludvic had mentioned Kordava as well. If not Kordava, then where else? He had no other leads. Tarn moved away from the square with added intent in his step.

Circling east, careful to remain out of sight from city guards manning other gates and roaming night watches, Tarn followed Galpernia's outer wall. In an older part of the city, at the edge of the commercial district, a single storey building stood close to the wall. Climbing atop a barrel, he reached for the roof edge and pulled himself up, struggling only slightly when his scabbard caught an edge before pulling free. Stepping back several strides from the edge, he ran forward. Jumping gigantic, he soared through the air to land easily on the catwalk on one knee. Checking left and right to ensure that he remained unseen, Tarn dropped his pack to the ground and climbed over the wall so that he hung over the outside edge by his hands. Letting go, he fell a short distance to land rolling, away from the wall. Once he ascertained that his exodus went unseen, he shouldered his fallen pack and turned southward. With the North Star over his right shoulder, he loped south, south-west.