Island Shifters: Book 01 - An Oath of the Blood (35 page)

Rogan cheerfully passed through the stone warrens while reading the names of the establishments and nodding politely to people in the streets. The Dwarven males were all similar in appearance, stout of build and with beards of varying lengths and often decorated with an array of braids and beads. Curiously, almost all were armed with sword, axe or mace. Rogan studied the customs of the different races in the Academy and he knew that, in addition to structural design and mining, the Dwarves were renowned for their metallurgy. The finest horses on the island might come from Haventhal, but the finest weaponry was crafted in Deepstone. And, for the most part, the weapons remained in Deepstone. Only the wealthiest of Massa’s citizens could afford to import the heavily taxed product.

The females were thinner and softer than the males, although just as well armed with an assortment of ornate knives with gem-encrusted hilts.

Nobody paid him the slightest mind as he walked the streets. He was just another Dwarf among many, and this pleased him tremendously. He was used to being in the minority, not one of the majority. Breathing in deeply of the heady smell of freedom, he whistled as he strolled.

Finding an inn that looked satisfactory, he pushed his way into a dimly lit front room that served as a pub where a small number of patrons were quietly enjoying drinks and conversation.

Taking an empty seat at the bar, he was bowled over at the height of the stool. He had lived for so long in a world created for human men, that he was pleasantly surprised to see that all of the furniture in the inn was created to fit the stature of Dwarves. Such a minor detail, but one that touched him deeply. Deepstone was a world made specifically for him and, in his memory, he had never experienced that before.

The barkeep, sporting a bald head and an earring dangling from his left ear, walked over, wiping his hands on his apron. “Whatta ya have?”

“Wine.” As the barkeep complied with his request, Rogan asked if any rooms were available. The man said he did, for a silver groat. Rogan thought the price a bit steep but nodded and handed over one of the coins that King Maximus presented to him. The barkeep put the coin between his teeth and bit down. He then took the coin out of his mouth and examined both sides. Apparently satisfied, he pointed to the stairs in the back of the room and told Rogan to take the third room on the right. Rogan nodded his thanks and sipped his wine in silence.

All at once, a shout of alarm cut into the quiet, and Rogan heard the sound of running footsteps outside of the inn. He toppled his stool as he jumped off and went through the door. Looking in the direction of the running Dwarves, he noticed acrid smoke spilling from the second floor of one of the residences across the street. A woman was hanging out of a window trying to breathe in fresh air around a stream of black smoke billowing out around her head. Citizens on the ground were waving to the woman and encouraging her to jump.

“I cannot!” she screamed, shaking her head back and forth.

“We will break your fall!” assured one of the males below her window. “Now jump!”

Still she refused, her white knuckles grasping the edge of the window in terror. She was so paralyzed with fear that she could not move even though her hair was starting to singe.

Rogan ran to the building. “Move!” he said to the bystanders. Without thinking of anything except saving the woman, he immediately threw his hands in the air and began weaving. Through his magic, he quickly discovered the origin of the fire—a taper that had fallen to the floor and caught the woman’s carpet and draperies on fire. Moving his hands in an intricate pattern, he shifted and massaged the energy of the blaze into a long, sinuous fiery tube. Once contained, he ordered the woman to duck, which, miraculously, she managed to do. As soon as her head disappeared under the window sill, he wrenched his hands over his head and jerked them skyward, sending the flames shooting out of the open window. There were surprised gasps as the stream of fire rocketed into the sky over the bystanders where it exploded into a shower of sparks that drifted harmlessly back down to earth.

Rogan turned to address the crowd, to assure the folks that the danger was over, and was hit hard from the side and slammed to the ground. His arms were roughly pinned behind his back and three soldiers in the blue and maroon of Deepstone hauled him to his feet.

“Is he marked?” asked one of them disbelievingly.

Another tugged Rogan’s shoulder mantle down, exposing his athame.

“Yes.”

“Well, isn’t that something,” said one of the soldiers with a long black beard and a scar down the side of his face. “You are under arrest, shifter. I don’t know what you are doing here or what you thought you were doing using magic, but it is going to cost you.”

Rogan was incensed and struggled against the soldiers. “I was saving a life! A few minutes more and that woman would have burned to death!”

The scarred soldier responded by clenching his hand into a fist and slamming it into Rogan’s stomach in a brutal fashion. He grunted in pain and would have dropped down to the ground if he was not being suspended between two soldiers by his arms.

Blackbeard reached out and yanked him up by his hair. “We don’t use magic to solve our problems in Deepstone,” he hissed. “You can now go to Kondor to spend a nice long time in a cell to think about that. Then, I suspect the King will have you carted back to Pyraan where you belong.” He looked at the other soldiers. “Keep his hands tied so he cannot cause any more trouble.”

The soldiers dragged Rogan back to the wharf, passing the bald-headed innkeeper who had already taken his silver groat and was standing by watching his capture impassively.

When they arrived, the dockworkers noticed the soldiers’ uniforms and, where there was no passage previously, a skiff was immediately secured to take them directly to Kondor. The soldiers hauled him on board the small boat and unceremoniously threw him into the bottom face down. Within moments, the skiff moved away from the dock and they were headed south down the Koda River.

Welcome home, thought Rogan.

Then, he started laughing hysterically into the floorboards of the boat and, despite all effort, could not stop.

It was the fourth day of Kiernan’s disappearance, and Beck still had not uncovered any clues as to her whereabouts. Thoughts of her haunted him. He was living a waking nightmare, not knowing if she was alive or dead, hurt or scared. He agreed with Airron’s assertion that she did not leave under her own volition since all of her belongings, with the exception of her sword, were still in her room.

She had simply vanished.

Beck stalked the streets like a man possessed and entered every tavern, inn, and shop in Iserport inquiring of everyone he met if they had seen a woman of Kiernan’s description. He spoke to men in rough coats and even rougher faces enjoying a game of dice or cards in the taverns, soldiers, innkeepers, barmaids, citizens on the streets. Anyone he thought might have the answers he sought.

Pulling his cloak around his shoulders in a downpour of rain, he looked up at the sign dangling above the door of one of the more seedy taverns he had yet to visit. It was called The Rearing Horse, and had an image of a stallion rearing up on hind legs under the faded script. Thick pipe smoke assaulted him as he entered. Most of the tables were full at this hour, the raucous crowd slapping the tables in crude delight at a young serving girl dancing timidly on one of the tables.

“Do not be shy, lass! Show the good fellows a bit more leg!” yelled one of the patrons drunkenly. Color blossomed in the girl’s face, but she did as she was told and lifted the bottom of her wide skirts to show off her calf.

Beck shook his head. The girl’s eyes had a now familiar desperate cast to them. No doubt, the coin she made at the tavern supported several members of her family, and she would be distressed to lose it. He heard similar stories many times during his hunt for information. The poverty and corruption in the city was rampant.

He threaded his way to the bar easily enough. One glance at his bulk was enough to turn most men aside with ease. He ordered a mug of ale and leaned back on the bar with his elbows to study the clientele. Riffraff mostly. There were no soldiers in sight or women except the barmaids. That was precisely why he was here. The innkeeper at the Queen’s Lair advised him that if he was thinking foul play was involved in the disappearance of his friend, he should go to the Rearing Horse. That lot, he was told, would be aware of the undercurrent of all criminal activity in the city, whether they had a part in it or not. And, of course, coin and drink loosened most tongues.

“Lass, if you do not show more leg, I will get off this chair and show it for you,” came a shout from the same drunken man in a disheveled brown cloak.

The girl visibly blanched and held her skirts tight to her body. She could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen years.

Beck pushed away from the bar and strode to the front of the room. He held his hand out to the girl. “Get down.”

She looked at him suspiciously but then put her small hand in his. Reaching into this pocket, he walked her to the front door and pressed two silver coins into her hand. It was more than she could make in three months dancing at the Rearing Horse. “Take this,” he told her, “and find another job.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up at him gratefully and attempted a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you, my lord,” and she was off, running into the night like a frightened deer.

Beck turned away and went back to his ale at the bar.

“You!” screamed the man in the brown cloak.

Beck looked around slowly. He kept his face impassive, but instantly recognized the man. He was one of the men who came to the defense of the wife beater, Sully, in Janis. “Grab that man! He is a bloody shifter!”

Beck stood motionless as the murmurs of the men around him grew in intensity. One rough ran to the front door of the inn and threw the lock, and Beck noticed the barkeeper duck into the kitchens.

“Do I know you?” Beck asked casually.

“You bloody do know me, shifter,” the man said through clenched teeth and then pointed at him. “You killed my friend, Sully!”

Beck shook his head. Kiernan had told him everything that had happened that night. “Unfortunately, no. Sully’s wife killed him.”

The men in the tavern shifted but held firm. They probably did not know or care who Sully was, but they still had a shifter in their presence. It was silent for a moment as the men sized him up and then with a roar, Sully’s friend charged him.

Idiot.

Beck straightened and when the man was within an arm span from him, he reached out, grabbed him behind the head and slammed his face into the edge of the bar. The man crumpled to the floor. Immediately, the rest of the Rearing Horse patrons swarmed over him. He kept his knees tucked under him as he was driven to the floor to use as leverage. A fist hit him in the jaw with tremendous force, and he twisted his body and kicked out sending three men crashing into the now vacated tables around the bar. Another large hand that held a knife licked out at him, and he managed to yank his head back just enough to avoid a slicing cut. Turning again to protect his face, his back and ribs were pummeled by the string of men who managed to get close enough to his prone body.

Over the grunts of men, he heard the front doors crash open and saw through the gap of assailers that it was Gage Gregaros with two Iserport legionnaires. The men scattered at the sight of the soldiers, and Beck staggered to his feet, his jaw aching painfully.

“You all right?” Gage asked him, and he nodded.

Sully’s friend was still out cold on the floor.

One of the patrons spoke up and addressed the legionnaires. He pointed at Beck. “Arrest that man! He is a shifter!”

There was something very familiar about the features of one of the young legionnaires with Gage, but Beck could not place it. “King’s business,” the legionnaire told the man forcefully. “Go back to your drink.” Before Beck could say a word, he was whisked out of the tavern like so much garbage for the midden heap.

His struggles were half-hearted. “Gage! I didn’t learn anything yet!”

The Saber was furious. “What do you not understand about laying low, Atlan?”

Beck attempted a few more protests but they were ignored, and he was dumped in his room in The Queen’s Lair with an admonishment to stay inside.

Reluctantly, he did as instructed and that evening, he broke down, lying alone in the dark with his torturous thoughts. Whenever he considered that he may never see Kiernan again, his heart raced uncontrollably with panic and he had to take long, deep breaths to calm his dread. He wanted so badly to hold her again, to protect her. They had only just discovered their feelings for each other. They had not yet had a chance to build a life together.