6 – Gathering, Part 2 of 2
Wrensford, Darion’s March
Álfarr, dripping wet, strode over to the bar and planted himself upon a stool. After ordering a cup of mead, he wasted no time in scanning the room.
[New snow, she said. Where is one to find…]
His eyes fell upon Tríona and his breath stopped, her pale, white hair catching his gaze.
[Nothing is coincidental… vyrd is actualized.]
He quaffed the remainder of his drink, dried his mouth on the back of his still wet sleeve, and approached the table where the woman sat. Two of her three companions were in the process of draining their own tankards as they cheerfully conversed. The last, a death priest, sat quietly humming a well-known requiem.
Álfarr nodded to the group and asked if he could join them.
“Of course, friend,” said Lazzaro, gesturing to a chair. “What brings you to Wrensford, Northman?”
“Sne,” the magician said, answering snow in his native tongue. “What about you?”
“Orcs and leaves,” Égun returned. “What is sne?”
“Same thing as orcs and leaves,” he answered. “I am called Álfarr.”
“I’m Égun, the man buying the drinks is Lazzaro, the little one is Aramon, and the woman is my cousin, Tríona, who is already spoken for.”
“You’ve come for orcs and leaves?” Lazzaro interrupted.
“Have you?” Álfarr responded.
“Yes, well I don’t know anything about leaves. But we’re going to try and clear the orcs back from the Great Road.”
“Then so am I,” the magician stated.
“You’re in luck, Lazzaro pays good!” Égun added, to Lazzaro’s horror.
“Excellent!” Álfarr said, happily.
Lazzaro groaned.
Tríona leaned over to her cousin and whispered, “Are you sure we’re with the right kind of men?”
Égun took a long look at the free drink in his hand, smiled, and answered, “Yes…yes I am.”
***
Later That Night, Upstairs
The warm desert sun drove the cold from his body. He laid there, among the pillows and silks, admiring the dark, beautiful woman as she slowly approached. His heart pounded fiercely within his chest as it always did when she was near. He hadn’t known such complete joy in his homeland. The cold northern highlands on Emoria were becoming more and more a distant memory as his days with Ramlah grew. Theirs was a forbidden love. Neither of them cared.
“Wine, my barbarian?” she teased.
[What was that?]
Égun’s eyes snapped open at the sound. It was pitch black in the room and the clansman had been sleeping down near the door, leaving the small bed for Tríona’s use.
[Bah, t’was nothing. If I hurry, I can get back to her before she leaves.]
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Somebody – or something – shuffled past the door, outside in the hallway.
[By the Wells, what is that?]
Égun crept to his feet, found his claimh mhor, and stood waiting to strike at anything that came into the room through the door. Long moments passed as Égun waited, straining to hear anything over the continuous pattering of rain from outside.
[Must be the drink talking.]
He moved over to the bed and groped for Tríona finding her foot. His cousin mumbled something in her sleep and kicked his hand away. Satisfied she was safe, Égun relaxed.
A flash of distant lightning flickered through the room’s small window painting the silhouette of something as it moved by.
The clansman crouched low in the room, eyes wide, waiting to spring upon whatever had stirred him from his dream.
The rain poured on through the night.
***
The Next Morning
Égun, stiff, tired and soar, left Tríona in the room to 'greet the tree' and made his way downstairs for a bit of food. It was going to be a long day for him and he wanted to get something in his belly before he and his newfound companions left town for the hunt.
Coming down the stairs he found, sitting in the common room by herself, a remarkably beautiful young woman. Never being one to miss an opportunity when it came to women, Égun walked over and plopped down at her table before leaning in for a closer look.
Satisfied that she was indeed quite beautiful and his initial impression was not a lingering figment caused by the heroic amounts of ale he had downed the prior night, he smiled at the woman. “Top o’ the morning to you, lass. Me name’s Égun and who might you be?”
Taken back by the barbarian’s lewd behavior, she leaned back away from the table. “My name is Lysette Jardine, not that it is any concern of yours, sir.”
Undeterred, Égun pressed on. “Are you a guest here? I think I’d remember one such as yourself had I seen them, I mean you, last night.”
“As a matter of fact, I am not. My suitor came into town last night and I thought I would pay him a surprise visit. He must have been terribly busy with his business if he was unable to call on me. So I thought I would take the opportunity to share a breakfast with him.” Realizing she was saying far too much to the stranger she ended her conversation there.
“What business could be so important to make a pretty lass wait?” Égun asked. “Who is this suitor of yours? He is more of a fool than most if he was busying himself with coin when there were richer treasures to plunder!”
Wishing to be done with Égun, she attempted, once again, to end the conversation. “Not that you’d know him as he doesn’t deal with your kind, but his name is Lazzaro Balsorano. He is a wealthy and influential gentleman of refinement and an important member of his family’s business. Now if you’d please be kind enough to find a different table he should be along shortly and won’t take kindly to strange men being so forward with me.”
“Now that’s odd because I was up with a Lazzaro drinking all night,” Égun laughed.
At that, Lysette flushed and came to her feet. Starting in something of a squeal before regaining a modicum of control she seethed at the clansman, “Please convey to Lazzaro that I was here.” She then turned and fled from the inn.
It wasn’t long until Aramon came down to join him at the table.
Égun was uncertain what bothered him more, sharing breakfast with the dark-robed priest or his damnable smile. He considered telling him about the noises he had heard or his encounter with Lysette but ultimately decided a little bit of quiet time seemed appropriate.
Shortly thereafter, the Quinterion guardsmen descended from their rooms and made their way out towards the livery in order to prepare for their own hunt.
Within the hour, Álfarr and Tríona had emerged from their rooms to join the others and the four of them had finished their breakfast. Just as they were beginning to discuss who would be the lucky one who was going to wake their late-sleeping employer, a knight, clad in full plate, entered the common room.
Trevier looked about and found only one group of people in the establishment. They were obviously visitors here but he needed information from the road as well as the town. With great helm tucked under arm, he approached the group. The first two he guessed as consanguineous Eduni, the third he marked as a Fjoti outlander and upon seeing the fourth, a priest, he smiled.
“Good morning to you, my friends. My name is Sur Trevier Morneau and I was wondering if I might speak with you of the current events that trouble this scir.”
Égun eyed the charming knight suspiciously and leaned a bit closer to his cousin.
“Of course you may, sur. I am Father Aramon Botan out of Aranarth. These are my companions, Égun and Tríona of Ondria, and Álfarr has come all the way from the Hiemalmark. You’re welcome to take a seat as we find ourselves waiting on another.”
“Thank you, Father,” Trevier replied and sat. “I can only presume that you all know of the orcish raiders in the area of the Great Road. As I am just arrived and seek a means to reopen the way I was hoping that some of you might have some shred of news that would prove useful.”
The Eduni spoke briefly to one another before standing to leave.
“Going somewhere?” Álfarr asked Égun.
The clansman paused long enough to answer, “She needs to go see the trees or dirt or something.” With his cousin already out of sight, he jogged off to catch up with her.
“In truth,” Aramon went on to answer Trevier, “we have only been here a short while ourselves and know little that you probably have not heard already. Though we have been hired to clear the orcs out of the area and reestablish trade by a prominent shipping house from my homeland. Perhaps we could combine our efforts.”
“Perhaps…I understand that there is a local businessman by the name of Ewart Jardine that may have some insight to the matter as well. You don’t happen to know him, do you?”
As the cleric was starting to reply, Lazzaro answered from the bottom of the stairs. How long he had been standing there, none of them were certain. “I know Master Jardine. He and I are good friends and often do business together.” Walking over he extended his hand in friendship to the knight, “My name is Lazzaro Balsorano.”
Trevier stood, formally introduced himself yet again, and shook his hand. With everybody now sitting, Lazzaro continued. “I don’t think that he will know any more than me on this matter, but you can check with him if you’d like.”
“Maybe we could start with what you know.”
Lazzaro went on to recount his encounter with the orcs outside of town answering a few questions along the way as posed by the knight and others.
“I see. It is by Æhü’s Grace that you survived at all, it would seem. Do you think we could speak with Master Jardine and see if he has learned anything in your absence?”
“Absolutely. I have to go there this morning anyway. Why don’t you come along? And I can make an introduction.”
“That is very kind of you.”
The group of them gathered outside only to find Égun literally dripping in mud. While Égun was more than a little irritated, Tríona seemed quite pleased with herself.
“What happened to you?” Lazzaro asked.
Eager to move on, Égun shrugged and only offered, “Druid stuff. She had me in the searching mud pits… Never mind, it is of no matter. Are we ready to kill some orcs?”
Lazzaro shook his head. “No, I need to attend to some business with a friend of mine this morning and introduce Sur Trevier as well. Hopefully we will be able to leave soon after.”
“I am not so sure you will be able to do that, Lazzaro,” Trevier added.
“Pardon?”
“I was with the reeve last eve and he made it rather clear to me that the bridge would remain closed to everybody other than the Quinterions who have come from Tol’Cathul.”
“Why would he do that?” Égun asked.
“I am told it has something to do with leaving additional tracks that would only confound their efforts to locate the orcs,” Trevier replied flatly.
Lazzaro considered the situation a moment before speaking. “Perhaps Master Jardine can put some pressure on the reeve to grant us access to the bridge. At any rate, our course is set, let us go see the man.”
As the group started off, Álfarr noticed the Égun was lagging behind and frowning. “Is something wrong?”
The name, Jardine, sounded vaguely familiar to the clansman, but he couldn’t quite place it. “I just feel like I’m forgetting something. Oh well, I’m sure it’s not important.”
