Escana (14 page)

The
hooded figure stayed silent as Ruben reluctantly joined Lucas's side,
the rest of the men formed a menacing circle around their victim.

'I
don't like this,' Ruben muttered to himself, Lucas shot a glare at
him but spoke no further of his insubordination.

'So
we've got ourselves a quiet one then boys,' the bandit said,
addressing the circle as if they were a captivated audience. 'What
would you say to us lot taking what's under your cloak then? Consider
it a road tax if you will.'

The
sighing sound Ruben heard was accompanied by the strangest sensation
he'd ever felt, it seemed to come from within his own head and
outward into his ears. It was like a violation of his body to have
this alien sound emanating from him, more importantly it was met with
an almost overpowering desire to run. Looking around at his partners
he could see that once again he wasn't alone in feeling this way.

'So
very disappointing,' the cloaked figure said, turning to survey each
member of the group. 'What was I expecting? An intellectual behemoth
to stride forth and debate with me on existential matters? No, I find
before me exactly what my mission portended. A group of small and
fragile minds huddled together in the hopes of picking scraps to lose
in turn to their betters.'

If
Lucas had been effected by the cloaked figure's words he didn't let
it show. 'So you do have a fucking mouth on you then. Hand over your
belongings and we might just let you live in spite of your tongue.'

Ruben
knew in his heart of hearts that this was a grievous error, he had
learnt long ago to trust his gut instinct on matters like this and
before Lucas goaded the 'victim' further he took off like a scolded
dog up the pathway.

The
rain beat him mercilessly into blindness as he lunged through it,
running purely on adrenaline and waiting for his muscles to cramp up
in protest. Just as he felt like halting to check for pursuit a
scream from behind sent him sprawling onto the road. It seemed to
linger a sickeningly long time, scaling upward toward the end before
cutting out entirely. A second lower scream followed just as he was
finding his feet, then after a third Ruben curled up into a foetal
position, gibbering to himself.

He
lost count of the number of screams, they didn't even sound human.
The hackles on his neck stood on end and a chill rushed down his
spine each time he heard it. It was more like an animal in distress,
a pig being butchered perhaps. He had no other reference with which
to compare the noise and his body had shut down entirely in response.

He
had known the risks, he desperately needed the coin and in taking
action he had found escape from a place he could never return. Yet as
terrible as the squalor had been, as slavish and unforgiving the
work, it now seemed preferable to being at the mercy of whatever that
thing was in the forest.

The
final scream died off, the rain seemed to ease into a light patter on
his soaking body, he mastered himself and gained his feet, not daring
to look behind him.

A
cloaked figure stood before him. Ruben let out a shriek and turned
heel in one last desperate attempt to escape. His legs had long
passed the point of exhaustion and chose to betray him, sending him
sprawling into the muck once more.

He
didn't know why it was he decided to look up then, maybe to take in
one final glimpse at the sky before whatever it was caught up with
him. Instead he saw the same cloaked figure standing in front of him.

A
hand reached out of the cloak and placed itself on his forehead, it
was surprisingly soft and delicate. 'Luck favours you this day,' the
voice said. 'Your mind has just the right amount of fear that you
would choose to forget everything about this.'

Ruben
thought he caught the glimpse of a smile under the hood.

'Yes,
you are a good man fallen on hard times, good men are very hard to
come by in this day and age. You will forget everything about this
encounter and return to your family.'

The
hand lifted off Ruben's brow and he found his feet a second time, he
was going to offer a thousand thanks to this strange creature for
sparing him but all thoughts seemed to wash away.

He
had to go home and return to his family. Yes, he had to go home.

T
he
three men sat behind a large steaming bowl of spiced potatoes with
mugs firmly planted on either side. Gossip and scandal flowed forth
thickly into the smoky inn air, eliciting a sneering laugh from
Harold Gooseman, the owner of The Chipped Flagon. He had returned
from his dispute that morning and was full of tales.

He
nursed the wound on his left leg where a wayward arrow had scored it.
It was nothing that a lot of drink and a few tales couldn't make him
forget. When a fighting man got to his age you were essentially a
series of old wounds patched together into the shape of a man. What
was one more to add to the collection? He wouldn't have a lived it
down had he been stuck by a mere farmer after everything he had been
through but there you had it, anyone could kill you at any time given
the right opportunity no matter how battle-hardened you were.

It
was his duty as a good citizen to regale the inn with tales of his
doings, it was something that the entire area had come to expect from
the Warden in order to pad out the gossip that spawned from the
drudgery of their own lives. At times it would be a tale of action or
adventure, embellishment of the highest calibre in order to further
cement his reputation. Then there were nights like this.

'So
then old Olford himself comes down knocking on my door saying
“there's a storm brewing up between young Miranda and her boy”
and he stands there with his hands on his hips blowing hot air all
over the place. He starts working himself up into a right fuss so I
ask him why he's telling me this and he says he expects
me
to
do something about it! Me!'

Garth
cracked a laugh, goading him on, the big smith knew that a Warden
made a poor babysitter. 'What then Thom, what did you do to the poor
bastard this time?'

He
smiled back as he played along. 'I went all quiet on the filth and
told him if he can't educate his own lass I'll do it for him.'

A
roar of laughter rose from the surrounding patrons, with more than a
few knowing nods at the false gleam in Thom's eye. 'You dirty scum
Thom you would and all!' and renditions on the theme were cheered at
him.

Garth
interrupted with further questioning, drawing the tale out of him
word by word. 'Did you go see the boy then, settle the matter?'

He
nodded. 'That I did, s'my job after all. Turned up at the young lad's
place and asked him what was amiss and out he trots with a young lass
half his age. Methinks Miranda may have inherited a little too much
of Olford's hot air to keep him.' The beer-sodden laughter erupted
again.

The
locals always congregated at The Chipped Flagon as regularly as they
could. The inn was steeped in a mirthful and ribald atmosphere whilst
also sporting the finest selection of food and drink local coin could
buy.

When
the curiously named Harold Gooseman had first arrived in Escana
twenty years ago there was distrust in the sleepy farming community.
An outsider flush with cash was nothing but bad news, especially one
that challenged their local Golden Rat pub with such vast opulence.
He spoke loftily of bringing business and commerce to the area and
won few hearts and minds with his tone. But for the consultations of
Thom and Garth his establishment would still be seen as a dangerous
and foreign land, nobody wanted an invasion of strangers destroying
the spirit of their community with their odd ways. In spite of this
the construction of the inn had aroused a cautious interest in the
neighbouring hamlet, it was but a short walk from the centre and the
increasing size of the project filled many with awe amidst their
fear. Few folk this far from the cities had seen such vast houses
being created.

Due
to the monumental task of erecting a four story building, the site
was placed directly beside the main trading road. The best decision
of Gooseman's career was to then hire the local craftsmen and various
hands nearby to help create the structure. In that one act it was
transformed from a looming presence of change into a community
project and an extension of the surroundings. Tongues wagged and
prestige and attention came from working on the local wonder, much to
the chagrin of the owner of the Golden Rat. Gooseman's pleasant
demeanour during his supervision of the project helped foster respect
and then friendship with many important local figures. He was always
open to new ideas and suggestions from those that offered to help and
regularly deviated from the plans on a whim. What once had brought
the divisive community together in fear now brought them together in
a common purpose. This was their inn. When it finally opened for
business the entire area to a man was there to celebrate and from day
one it had become a mainstay in the fabric of the land.

A
young whip of man breathlessly burst through the door calling for the
Warden, sending a tray of drinks flying into the air and crashing
onto the floor with them. Thom fixed the newcomer with an unkind
glare, he recognised him from the farm. 'What's wrong with you? Spit
it out son.'

'Solomon...
the riverbank... he's dead.' A deathly silence seized the room, then
uproar broke its hold.

Chairs
went flying, glasses shattered, tables were upturned and even
Gooseman seemed too dismayed at the news to fear for his property.

'When
did you find the body?' demanded Thom, after Garth had halted the
cacophony with an earful of expletives.

The
man now looked a boy as he wilted under the intense gaze of the
crowded room. 'I was going down to fish and I smelt...'

Thom's
glare hardened somewhat. 'Out with it lad.'

A
wide-eyed look of terror passed across the boy's face. 'The smell was
terrible, I crept closer and I found an arm, all lined up neat-like
with the rest of the body. Next thing I know he's got me over the
back of the head.'

'Did
you see what he looked like?' he asked, his tone encouraging the lad.

The
boy nodded vigorously, 'Oh yes, big chap he was, dark hair and fists
the size of hams.'

Thom
arched an eyebrow and rose to his feet, motioning to a few men
nearby. The boy had no idea who had knocked him clean out. 'Show me
where the poor bastard's body is.'

Garth
offered to join him, as did any number of the young bucks who thought
a pair of muscular arms gave them the right to aid a Warden. Others
were just nosy, wanting to see a dead body so they could chatter
about it later to their friends from afar.

Thom
rejected all aid, it was something that a warden had to do alone and
he suspected that most of the people trying to get involved knew that
already.

The
old cart that he used to get about clattered its way down into the
forest as the bean pole of a youth sat next to him, shivering more in
fear than cold as the rain lashed at both of them. He sincerely hoped
that the wheels didn't get stuck again, it had taken him hours to
remedy that situation last time.

'You're
away from the crowds now, boy. You can tell me what you really saw,'
he prompted the youth sat next to him.

The
young man let out an involuntary shiver that sent Thom's right arm
reaching for his sword hilt before stilling. 'It was as I said Mr.
Warden sir, I was out minding my own business and fishing and I
caught the smell of that there body. Ran off to your place as soon as
I woke and was told you were up in the Flagon so I made my way up
there.'

Thom
nodded, there was no point in trying to draw out any more information
from this boy, he clearly knew nothing. He just had to hope that the
tracks would enlighten him further instead.

'Don't
mind me asking sir, but how does you gets to be a Warden and all?'

A
slight smirk crawled across his face. 'Why? Are you looking to take
this old man's place, boy?'

The
youth's eyes bulged wide in fear. 'No sir! No, I was just curious!
Forgive me!'

Thom
nodded. 'Forgiven. Remember that you can't go about asking people
about their past and expect them to just cough it up for your
entertainment. Some folk don't fancy talking about themselves that
much, understood?'

A
gulping was all the response he got. It was satisfactory. Let him
keep his threatening mystique, he owed nobody any explanation of his
history or life no matter how shiny and new he was as an attraction
to the younger locals.

Thom
chuckled to himself as he stared down at his threadbare clothes that
had already been soaked through by the rain. Oh yes, the glorious
life of a Warden in some shitty backwater where the locals assumed
you made as much from the Empire as the Justices in their big towns
and cities. Still, Kelgrimm was a brave age now, perhaps it wouldn't
be too long before the man retired and a certain someone took his
place.

He
shook his head to himself, making the boy stare nervously at him.
Justice Kelgrimm had to have been the Justice for Urial going on
thirty years now. Quite the nice job to have when you had others to
be your muscle as age robbed you of yours. He flexed his leg
painfully and wondered how many good years he had left before the
same thing would befall him.