THE WAFT OF WARM AIR hit Calen as he walked through the doors of the inn.
The honeyed aroma of mead and the oddly satisfying smell of burning wood filled his nostrils. The inn was far busier than it had been earlier in the day. All the tables were packed with townsfolk, travellers, and merchants, who traded stories and played games of dice and cards. The serving women dashed about, filling their bellies with mead and stew. A bard in the corner of the room played a lute. Well, attempted to play the lute. Failed to play the lute.
As he searched the room for Dann and Rist, Calen heard a triumphant roar erupt from across the room. He looked over to see a group of men huddled together about twenty feet from a thick sheet of wood hanging on the wall. They were dressed in furs and worn leathers, their unkempt beards marking them as strangers to the villages. They smashed their tankards off one another in celebration.
On the sheet of wood were five red circles within each other, each one smaller than the last, until the middle was a solid red dot. There, the head of an axe was buried, its handle protruding outward. Calen watched with curiosity as one of the men strutted over to remove the axe from its rest. As the man turned, Calen's eyes widened in surprise.
Dann?
Just as Calen was about to call out to Dann, a hand jutted above the canopy of heads, waving in his direction. There was a lethargy to the wave, as if the owner of the hand were not aware it was being held up in the air.
Rist was seated at a table in the middle of the room, a book splayed out in front of him. His eyes were glued to the pages, a tankard of mead in his hand. Calen made his way over and pulled out the empty chair beside Rist.
He let his shoulders sag as soon as his ass touched the seat, his heartbeat finally settling to a normal rhythm.
His face must have betrayed him, as Rist raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I'm fine," Calen panted. "Just got a little overexcited is all. There are imperial soldiers at the docks."
Rist looked up, his eyes narrowing at Calen over the edge of his book. He folded over the corner of the page he was reading, then closed the book.
"Here, in Milltown? Why would they be here?"
"I've no idea, but one of them may have caught me staring. I decided not to stick around."
"Isn't Dann supposed to be the one who does stupid things?" Rist suppressed a laugh. He folded his arms and pondered. "I don't think I've ever seen imperial soldiers."
"I have. Once. When Dad brought me along to a trade fair in Camylin.
There were imperial guards outside the house of the Lorian Emissary."
Calen wasn't eager to stay on the topic. He had heard stories of imperial soldiers. The things they did to Southerners – some of them had to be exaggerated. The stories mostly came from the likes of Valtara and Varsund, where the High Lords had rebelled or started wars. But there were a few from Illyanara. The stories made him shiver. "Dann found a few new friends?"
He tried to get the attention of a young serving girl with porcelain skin and fair blonde hair tied in a long braid.
"He's been at that for an hour or so," Rist said. "Of course, he is fantastic at it." A sigh escaped his lips before he took a deep draught of mead.
"You weren't interested in joining him?" Calen asked. He finally managed to grab the attention of the serving girl and order the mead that had been on his mind since he walked in. His throat felt like it had been rubbed with cotton.
Rist let out a soft chuckle as he peeled open his book. "No, I'm perfectly fine here with my book and my mead. A History of Magii. The merchant didn't want to part with it cheaply, but I managed to bargain him down a bit." He licked his finger and used it to turn the page.
"A History of Magii? You spend your time mocking me for believing the legends and fairy tales… and then you buy a book about Magii?"
Rist hesitated. Again, he folded over the corner of the page to mark where he had stopped reading, closed the book, and pushed it to the side. "I was curious – you know, after our conversation in the woods. Then I saw the book at the markets and figured that it would be an interesting read."
Calen only half-heard Rist's reply as the serving girl returned with his tankard of mead. He passed her two copper marks for the drink and turned his attention back towards his friend. "Sorry, Rist. I've just been thirsting for this ever since I walked in."
Calen took a strong mouthful of mead, then let out a satisfied sigh. He sat back in his chair to take a proper look around the busy inn.
Three men sat in the corner of the room. Their calm and introverted behaviour painted a stark contrast to the surrounding revelry. All wore thick black mantles that covered most of their garb, but the glow from a nearby candle caught a glint of metal on a blackened studded leather cuirass on one of the men.
"Who are those guys in the corner?" Calen asked. "They don't look like merchants – or soldiers." Calen turned his eyes back to Rist to make sure he didn't draw any more unwanted attention. Not twice in one night.
"Aye, they do not. They were here when I arrived earlier. Haven't moved much either. They just ate some food and have been sitting there, muttering to each other. None of my business – or yours." Rist stooped his head down to look Calen in the eyes.
Calen rolled his eyes, letting out a mocking sigh. "Yes, Father. Thank you for your wise words."
Rist responded with unimpressed silence, then returned to his book.
Calen stewed in the silence for a moment, then took a drink of his mead.
"I'm going to go see how Dann is getting on. That axe throwing game seems like fun. Sure you don't fancy joining?"
Rist raised his eyes from the book for a moment. "I think I will pass on this one. For the gods, Calen, will you two please try not to cause any trouble? He's already had four meads."
Calen shrugged as he stood up, puffing his cheeks in resignation. "If he's already had four meads, you and I both know that there is no way I'm stopping trouble if he chooses to cause it." Calen slapped his hand down on Rist's shoulder as he passed his chair. Rist rolled his eyes and beckoned over the serving girl for another mead.
There was absolute silence coming from the group of travellers as Calen approached, which worried him a little. Some people should be feared when they are loud, and others when they are silent. This group seemed like the latter.
Without warning, an axe flew out of the middle of the group, soaring through the air in a series of acrobatic flips. It nestled in the target with a thunk, slightly to the left of an axe that had already made its home there, about an inch closer to the centre. The group erupted in a chorus of cheers and shouts.
"Having fun?" Calen asked as he tapped Dann on the shoulder.
Dann turned around, his eyes growing wide. "Calen!" He threw his arms around Calen, pulling him into a tight, slightly painful embrace. "I was beginning to think you had wandered off onto a ship and gotten lost at sea.
What took you so long? I've made some friends. They have come all the way from Drifaien to sell furs and drink. In fact, I think they might just be here to drink – and throw axes." He pondered on his words for a moment, scrunching up his lips in thought. "Yes, I'm pretty sure they are here just to drink and throw axes. Mead?"
Calen was sure that Rist had missed a few meads when he was counting.
This sounded like six mead Dann.
Dann raised his tankard up in the air, clinked it off Calen's own tankard, then took a deep draught.
"Come, I will introduce you." Dann threw his arm around Calen's shoulder, directing him towards the heart of the group. "Friends! Let me introduce to you my companion and brother at heart." Calen rolled his eyes; they always seemed to require a lot of rolling when Dann had been drinking. "This is Calen Bryer! Calen, this is Audun, Baird, Destin, Fell, Kettil, Leif, and Alleron."
Calen held his breath as he tried to match the names to each man. Which was easier said than done. All of them looked almost identical – strong, rugged, and slightly dirty. With thick beards that covered most of their faces, their only distinguishing features were the colours of their eyes and hair. There was not the slightest chance that he would remember their names for longer than five minutes.
Each man responded to Dann's introduction with a hearty, "well met,"
clasping Calen's hand with their own, which Calen repeated in kind. Calen had only met a Drifaienin man once before, a few summers back, but he had dressed as they did, and his accent was the same. Thick and gruff, though with a slight lilt to it.
One of them stepped forward – the one Dann had called Alleron. He was a solidly built young man, no older than Calen. His ice-blue eyes stood in contrast to his dark brown, shoulder-length hair, and full beard. He held an axe by the flat, at the back of the blade, the handle extended towards Calen.
It was just short of two feet in length, with a smooth ash wood handle and a single hatchet blade. It was fine craftsmanship.
"Would you like to try? Dann here has taken to it like a duck takes to water." He smiled. At least, Calen thought he was smiling. It was hard to tell behind all that hair.
"Sure, why not?" Calen took the axe from Alleron. He felt its weight, trying to gauge its balance. "How does it work?"
Alleron put his hand around Calen's shoulder and turned him towards the makeshift target on the wall. "If you land the axe between the outer ring and the next ring inwards, that's one point. Two points for the next ring, and so on. Five points if you land it in the centre, like your friend did. Easy." He smirked at Dann, who laughed it off and took a mouthful of mead.
"Okay." Calen gripped the axe, tossing the weight about in his hand.
"Hopefully, I'm better with this than I am with a bow. Where do I stand?"
"Over here, behind this mark on the floor," Alleron responded. He pointed to an etched line in the floorboards about two feet behind Calen, drawing a frown from the passing mistress Elena. Calen had a feeling that line was a recent addition to the inn's floorboards, courtesy of his new friends.
The group was quiet as Calen stepped behind the line and touched the tip of his left foot right up to its edge. He was going to need all the help he could get.
It was hard to focus with the background noise of the inn droning away in his ear. The click-clack of dice as they bounced off tables. The clinking of tankards as they cracked off each other. The shouts and roars of the drunken townspeople who were drowning the tiredness of a day's work in a bellyful of mead. Whatever pain that bard was inflicting on that poor lute. It seemed like it was getting louder and louder as the seconds passed, like the crow of a rooster in the morning.
"Well, come on then, Calen. You waiting on the damned sun to rise?"
Dann mocked. The rest of the group laughed along with him.
Calen threw Dann a dirty look and then tensed his grip on the axe, his knuckles turning a pale white. He pulled his shoulder back and lifted the axe up over his head. Throwing all his strength forward, he launched the axe at the target.
It seemed to move in slow motion as it twirled through the air. A metallic ringing noise reverberated in Calen's ears as it did. After what felt like an eternity, the axe head buried itself in the target, just outside the outermost ring. Calen's chest sank.
Above all the noise, he heard Dann cackling. "Well, look on the bright side. At least you are better with an axe than you are with a bow. I've never seen him hit a target with a bow before," he said to the group, struggling to keep upright from the laughter.
Calen felt a fire burning in the pit of his stomach. A hand landed softly on his shoulder. "Take a minute. Breathe in and hold it. Don't let the air escape until the exact moment you release the axe and don't let your hand drop after you've thrown it. It will drag the axe off course." Alleron gave him a reassuring smile and handed him another axe.
Calen nodded. He took the axe from Alleron and set his feet behind the line once more. He took a deep breath in and let his muscles loosen.
"Four coppers, he hits dead centre," he heard Alleron say.
"Oh, I'll take that bet. I'll never say no to a free drink," Dann said, raising his tankard in the air. Calen didn't wait for Dann to say anything else. He launched the axe through the air, leaving his hand hanging there after he released it, just as Alleron had said. He closed his eyes just as he threw it. Please, please let Dann lose this bet.
The group erupted in a frenzy of raucous cheers that drowned out all sound from the rest of the inn. Calen felt his heart beating. His nerves pricked at the inside of his stomach like small needles. He peeled open one eye, too nervous to look with both.
The head of the axe was nestled firmly in the centre circle, the handle suspended in mid-air. A surge of energy seared through his body. An unintelligible roar left his throat as he jumped up into the air. He turned to see a despondent look on Dann's face as he stared in disbelief at the axe.
Alleron thrust a tankard of mead into Calen's hand. "For The Warrior!
For Achyron!" he shouted.
"For The Warrior!" came Calen's elated response. They both drained their tankards down to the last drop.
"I knew you had it in you," Alleron said, beaming. "Though, next time, try keeping your eyes open." With a wink, he turned and strode over to Dann to collect his winnings. The rest of the group congratulated Calen the same way Alleron did.
"Not bad," Dann said when Calen walked over to where he stood, half-slouched, leaning against the wall. He raised his tankard up in the air, tipping it off Calen's in the salute that the Drifaienin enjoyed. "I'm going to have to win those four coppers back, though – either off Alleron or you."
Calen felt the mead providing him with some liquid courage. A smirk formed on his face. "Four coppers to whoever gets the best of three axes each?"
The challenge seemed to send a bolt of lightning through Dann. He immediately pushed himself from the wall and stood up straight, his eyes filling with that familiar fire. "Oh, it's on. I'm throwing first."
"Yes!" Calen roared as his axe landed firmly inside the fourth ring, two points clear of Dann's. A mischievous grin spread across his face. "Looks like it's your round."
Dann mimicked him in a mocking voice as he trudged off towards the bar to order the next round of drinks. He accidentally kicked a table and floundered into the arms of Mistress Elena, who simply smiled, patted him on the back, and then pushed him towards the bar a little harder than necessary. Calen just laughed, took a mouthful of his mead, and turned to enjoy the spectacle of Alleron and one of the other Drifaienin – he thought it was Leif, but it was nearly impossible to tell – taking the next match up.
Dann could be an ass when he wanted to be, but Calen was acutely aware of just how lucky he was to have him and Rist as friends. Brothers, even.They never treated him any differently after Haem died. They made fun of him when he deserved it, and they called him out when he was being an ass. Others avoided him like he was a fragile egg shell, never sure of what to say to him, or if they should say anything at all. He only ever felt Haem's loss more keenly when they did that.
Trying to shake the thoughts from his head, Calen patted his hand down on the coin purse in his pocket, which jingled in response. A pang of guilt cut his smile short. He had almost gambled away enough money to buy food for a week. It is just one night. He took a sip of his mead and tried his best to let himself enjoy everything around him.
He peeled his eyes away from the brutal display of sheer strength in front of him to glance back at the table where Rist sat. His face was buried in that new book of his, his fingers wrapped around the handle of a tankard of mead. Rist always was more interested in the intellectual than he ever was with fighting or weapons, but it was strange of him not to join them on a night like tonight. He had been acting strange ever since The Proving.
Calen had been afraid to ask him what actually happened to that Urak. Was there any answer that could possibly make sense?
As Calen decided to drag Rist from the table, he noticed the figure of a man approaching him from the corner of his eye.
"Would you mind if I joined you?" Calen had spotted him sitting in the corner of the room earlier. He was a match for Calen in height and build, which was rare in the villages. Working in the forge with his father had given Calen quite a sturdy frame.
The man's long, black mantle was pulled back, exposing the studded black leather cuirass he wore on his torso. Two silver triangular pommels and black leather handles stuck straight up over either of the man's shoulders. It wasn't uncommon for men in Illyanara to walk around the towns or villages with their swords, but Calen couldn't remember ever seeing someone carry two at the same time, strapped across their back.
Calen wondered how well he could use them, and how difficult it was to put them back in their scabbards. Although, the man walked with the confidence of someone who knew how to wield those weapons.
He was clean-shaven, and his hair was short and dirty blond. There was something warm in his eyes. The closer he looked, the more Calen was sure that the man could not be much older than him.
"Of course." Calen extended his hand. "My name is Calen. And yours, friend?"
"I am Erik Virandr. It is a pleasure to meet you, Calen."
Calen introduced Erik to the rest of the group, who embraced him with the kind of drunken vigour that one would expect after drinking your body weight in mead. Dann arrived back with his and Calen's drinks just as Alleron began to explain the basics of the axe game to Erik.
"Who's that?" Dann asked, eyeing Erik with curiosity as he handed Calen his tankard. He tipped the rim of his own tankard off Calen's, then they both took a long mouthful.
"His name is Erik," Calen replied. "He asked to join us."
Dann's face perked in approval. "I see. Well, hopefully his pockets are lined with coin, and he is not as good with that axe as I think he might be with those swords." Dann had mischief in his eyes.
Erik turned back towards Calen, holding an axe in a tight grip with his right hand. "Well, Calen, care for a bit of friendly competition? Kettil tells me that the common wager is four coppers to the best of three axes each, and that you are so far, unbeaten."
"Only because he is so slow at drinking his mead," Dann murmured.
Calen narrowed his eyes into daggers. Dann avoided his gaze and pretended to be distracted by something floating in his drink. There was a touch of hesitation in the back of Calen's mind as he patted his hand down on his purse again. Just one night.
"That sounds good to me," he said. "Has Alleron explained the rules to you?"
"He has." Erik moved the axe around in his hand, gauging its weight and balance, much like Calen had done earlier.
"Okay, perfect. Would you like the first throw?" Calen asked.
Erik shook his head. "You can throw first. I might pick up a few tips that way." A friendly smile accompanied his words as he passed the axe to Calen. Calen wasn't sure if he was being sincere or trying to put him off his guard. The man carried himself with a confidence that unsettled Calen.
Calen took the axe from Erik and stepped over to the etched line. Once again, the tip of his foot just touching the mark in the floorboards, Calen became acutely aware of all the sounds in the inn that had fallen into the back of his mind. Mistress Elena's high-pitched voice, like the chirp of a bird on a spring morning. The drunken conversations from the surrounding tables, which had started off as intelligent discussions and devolved into unintelligible grunts as the mead continued to flow.
Then there was a sharp tapping noise of steel on steel. He wasn't sure if he had heard it at first, but it began to pierce through the other sounds, like a ray of sunlight on an overcast day. His eyes followed the path of the noise.
Past the serving girl whose acrobatic talents had suddenly abandoned her as she tripped over the outstretched leg of a patron, who had long since fallen asleep, sending her tray of drinks soaring through the air. Past the group of men playing dice at the large table in the middle of the room and the one man who had just pulled a hidden set of dice from up his sleeve, his hand a blur of motion. Calen's eyes moved past these things, and settled on a small knife in the corner of the room, which was tapping off the rim of a steel tankard.
As his eyes moved upwards, his heart almost stopped. The man holding the knife was staring straight at him, watching him the entire time. Calen looked away, snapping his vision back towards the target in front of him, hoping that the man had not caught him staring. He was one of the two men Erik was sitting with when Calen had walked in, but he was alone now.
Watching. Calen glanced over towards Erik, who was chatting with the others and had not seemed to notice anything at all.
Calen took a deep breath. As the air filled his lungs, he felt the din bubbling over, giving way to a sense of calm. He gripped the axe firmly.
The rough wooden handle, cool to the touch, was coarse against his skin.
Going through the motions that Alleron had shown him earlier in the night, Calen launched his first axe at the target.
Thunk.
Three points.
Thunk.
Centre. Yes – five points.
Thunk.
Three points.
The group cheered as he landed his first two axes, but their applause was rather subdued as his last axe sank into its place. Not the worst round that he had thrown all night – eleven points out of fifteen was not a bad score, but it was certainly not a great one. He handed the axe over to Erik, who had been watching intently.
"Not bad at all. It's going to be tough to beat that, I think." Erik took the axe from Calen and placed it down on the table beside him. "I'll just have to take this thing off before I throw. It's only going to get in the way." Erik undid the ties of his mantle, laying it down over a nearby chair. His leather cuirass did not extend over his shoulders or down his arms, leaving them bare, the heavy-set muscle belying his few summers.
He moved over towards the etched mark in the floor. Erik tossed the axe up in the air, letting it complete two or three full rotations before snatching it back. His eyes never left the target. Calen felt the suspense building in the group. The chatter amongst them subsided, bit by bit, until all attention was focused on the newcomer holding the axe.
Erik's chest swelled as he took a deep breath inward. He pulled the axe up over his head and unleashed it with an almighty swing. With a vicious thump, it sank straight into the centre of the target. The group erupted in a cacophony of cheers.
"Beginner's luck," Erik said, shrugging at Calen. Calen could already feel his purse being four coppers lighter. Dann grinned from ear to ear. He leapt over to the axe, grabbing it with one hand to remove it from the target
and return it to Erik for his second swing. Well, Dann has definitelywagered against me.
Absently, Dann turned back towards Erik, his hand still grasping the handle of the axe. A look of surprise coated his face when the axe did not budge, even in the slightest. He placed his free hand beside the other and heaved with all his weight. The axe came loose like water from a spring, sending Dann flying backwards onto the ground. Calen almost felt the impact himself when Dann's backside cracked against the solid wooden floorboards. The entire group broke out in laughter, guffawing wildly at the dumbstruck look on Dann's face. Dann pulled himself to his feet with an expression that only conveyed large amounts of displeasure and handed the axe back to Erik.
"Next time, you're getting it yourself," he said, rubbing his backside tenderly as he walked back to find solace in his mead.
Erik and Calen exchanged glances, both failing to hold back an eruption of laughter.
The group quietened down as Erik readied himself to take his second throw, although Calen could still hear Kettil and Leif mocking Dann in hushed voices.
The metallic ringing sound echoed through the air. The axe landed with a crack, again in the dead centre of the target. Drunken hysteria erupted, like when the first axe landed, and some coin changed hands. This time, though, Erik retrieved his own axe. Dann stared off at the ceiling, pretending to have noticed something in the wooden rafters. Calen was definitely not going to go the night undefeated at this new game.
As Erik took another deep breath in preparation for his final throw, Calen heard that tapping noise again – the knife knocking against the tankard. He noticed Erik's head turn towards the table, but when he looked back over himself, the man was gone. Erik seemed tense, not as confident as he had been before. Without any ceremony, he launched the axe one last time, slicing through the suspense in the air.
Thud.
The flat of the axe connected with the wooden target, bouncing harmlessly onto the ground, leaving the group with stunned expressions. A few of them roared loudly, clapping their friends on the back – the ones who had bet on Calen. Alleron did the same to Dann as Dann dropped a few coppers into Alleron's outstretched hand.
"Well, it looks like you win. Four coppers, was it?" Erik said, not impolitely but with far less enthusiasm and warmth than he had previously shown. His face was unreadable as he rummaged through a small purse that Calen had not noticed before. "It was a good game. I am pleased to have met you, Calen, but I need to be on my way. I wish I could stay for a few more rounds." He passed the coppers to Calen, gave a quick nod to the group, and made his way towards the rear door. Just like that, he was gone.
"Well… that was a bit strange, wasn't it? I mean, I don't like to lose, but at least I don't storm off in a strop when I do. Cost me four coppers—"
Dann shut his mouth as soon as he saw the look on Calen's face. "Sorry. I was just kind of sick of you winning." He shrugged, an apologetic look on his face. "I'm going to go check on Rist. He's had his head buried in that book so long, he's probably turned into one." With that, Dann stumbled through the inn, struggling to keep control of his legs.
Calen made his way back towards the table where he had left his drink.
He had some catching up to do on Dann. He could hear Baird challenging Alleron to the next round of axes. That was a round Calen wanted to see.
Before he enjoyed the spectacle, he needed to put something in his rumbling belly. He had been so distracted he couldn't remember when he last ate. He managed to catch the attention of the serving girl who had tripped over the slumbering patron earlier. Her dress was a little damp from mead, but she was pretty. Short, with auburn hair and an endearing smile.
He asked her if there was any soup and bread left, to which she gave a brisk nod and a curtsy before shuffling back through the crowd. It felt strange to have someone curtsy towards him.
As he waited for his soup, sipping away at his mead, he watched Alleron and Baird play some game with their hands to decide who would throw first. He hoped beyond hope that the bard would suffer some form of sudden, non-life-threatening but still incapacitating injury that would stop him from singing or hurting that poor, defenceless lute. The noise that came from it was almost as bad as the insects in Ölm Forest. Almost.Out of the corner of his eye, Calen noticed that Erik's black mantle was still draped over the back of the chair he had left it on. Calen reached over, rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger. It was a lot heavier than he had expected, built for warmth and comfort over long distances.
Calen placed his tankard down on the table, then pulled the mantle off the back of the chair, doubling it over and draping it across his forearm. It was
good quality and probably worth a fair amount of coin. If he lost something of its likeness, his father would have him in the forge day and night to work back the cost.
Taking one last draught of his mead, Calen made his way towards the stable yard door, trying his best to hold his patience as he pushed his way through the drunken crowd. When he finally reached the other side of the room, he breathed a sigh of relief as he walked down the corridor and out into the fresh air.