The Dark Path (16 page)

"What will you have, Sir?" She asked in almost a whisper as if unwilling to break the silence of the room.

"Hot mulled cider," The answering voice said in a tone so low the barmaid had to bend near to hear him. She nodded and walked quickly back into the kitchen, glad to have an excuse to leave, if for only a short while. The man sat calmly, his hood still pulled down low over his face. Steam rose from his robes as the fire began to dry them out. The silence of the room grew long and people began shifting in their seats. The barmaid returned with a steaming mug of deep brown cider. She set the mug before him, spilling a bit. Her hands were visibly shaking.

"That be twenty silver," she said, crossing her arms to hide her shaking hands. A low whistle sounded from the corner and the barmaid threw a cold look that way. An old dwarf received the glare before shaking his head and returning to his ale, grumbling into his beard.

"Here you are," the man said after he reached into a pouch on his belt. He withdrew a heavy gold coin and placed it on the table. "Do you have any rooms?"

The barmaid stared wide-eyed at the coin. It was of Eremian mint, and a fresh one at that. She could feed her family for a year with that coin. Slowly she reached out and grabbed the coin as if doubting it was real. When the reassuring weight of it was in her hand, she looked into the hood trying to meet the man's gaze.

"A, A room?" she stammered. "We have one left. Up the stairs and to the left, third door. Would you like anything else?"

"That will be all, thank you." He looked down at his soaked robes. "Wait. A clean towel if you would, please."

"Right away, Sir!" The barmaid blushed as she rushed back into the kitchen. The man reached out one of those thin white hands and picked up the steaming mug. The top disappeared as it went inside the hood then reappeared and was set back on the table.

"Hope ya aren't planning on staying long," a big man at the bar said more than a little too loudly.

"I am just passing through," the reply a soft whisper that somehow equally carried throughout the silent room.

"Good. Ya see. We don't like your kind here. If'n ya start sumthun, then we'll jes have ta take care of ya like we did them there others." The big man smiled a mostly toothless grin through a black, greasy beard. He was about six foot three inches and looked to be a lumberjack from his build, or maybe a blacksmith.

"And just how did ya take care of them there others?" the replying whisper imitated.

The toothless grin got somehow bigger. "You'll see in the morn. They still out there. Fraid the birds done got to ‘em though. I reckin 'em birds liked a cooked meal for a change." The greasy man's laughter filled the room. "Ya shoulda heard 'em scream. Makes a man rest easier."

The man by the fire sat still for an uncomfortable moment, the tension in the air thickening like burning gravy. Then he slowly reached up with those thin white hands and pulled his hood back and off his head. His black hair hung straight and wet. His face was almost sickly thin, marked here and there with a few scars. Ice blue eyes seemed to burn from their dark ringed sockets. He sat there, calmly staring at the greasy man. The man shifted in his seat and finally dropped his eyes. The man with the cold blue eyes looked to his cider, then back up at the kitchen door, as if willing it to open. Oddly, it did open and the barmaid came through it with a towel draped over her arm, another mug of steaming cider in one hand and a pitcher of ale in the other. She set the second glass on the table before the robed man and handed him the dry towel, then went about filling glasses. Slowly, the people began talking once more. The man took another sip of the hot cider and sighed as he felt its warmth flow through his chest. He methodically sipped till the first glass was empty. Then he wrapped his thin white fingers around the second mug to warm them. He slowly dried his hair with the towel and then reached back for his cane. Setting it on the table before him, he slowly pulled the cane apart. A slightly curved black blade came out of the cane showing that it was a scabbard for his sword as well as his walking stick. The dwarf in the corner let out another low whistle and got up from his table. He limped over to stand across from the pale man by the fire.

"Might I join you?" he asked gruffly, his dwarven accent heavy.

"Pull up a chair," the man responded in perfect, albeit quiet, dwarven. The dwarf looked up with eyebrows raised in shocked response at the thin man then grabbed a chair and sat down.

"That is a fine blade you have there. Though an odd design. Where did you buy it?" the dwarf inquired in his language.

"Thank you. The blade is Nipanguian in style. It is called a katana. I did not buy it though."

"Looks of elven make, or maybe dwarven. Where did you get it?"

"I made it. Long ago." The man reached into a pouch and pulled out a small box made of cherry wood, stained a deep red. He opened it and took out a small hammer and punch. He tapped a place in the handle and a small ebony pin came out. He gently pulled the handle off and began to oil the blade.

"You made it?" The dwarf snorted. "May I see it?" he asked after the man had put the handle back on and replaced the pin. The man turned the blade so the handle was toward the dwarf's left hand and held it out to him. The dwarf took it gently and tested its weight and balance. It was amazingly light and as he tilted it to the light, he saw runes done in gloss black upon the flat onyx blade.

"Is it sharp?"

“I hope so. It's not much good to me if it isn't.” The man chuckled and after a moment the dwarf chuckled as well.

“True enough.” He handed it back and turned his gaze from the katana to the man's cold blue eyes. "Begging your pardon, but you don't look much like a smith."

The man smiled slightly, just a small curling of the corner of his mouth. "I made it when I was younger. It has served me well." He slowly slid the blade back into the straight scabbard. The line between handle and scabbard nearly invisible.

"Ferin Rockbreaker." The dwarf stood and held out his thick calloused hand.

"Gen Hothman." The man shook his hand and the dwarf was surprised at the strength of the grip.

"A pleasure to meet you, Hothman. Not many 'round here know the language of my kin. It's nice to hear it spoken from lips other than my own.” He sat back down roughly, cussing under his breath and rubbing his leg. “Your dwarven is quite good by the way. Where did you learn it?"

"I had the pleasure of visiting the mountain, here on the island, a few years ago. The people there taught me in return for a favor I did them."

"You've visited my home?" Again he let out a low whistle. "I didn't think they let many humans in. At least they didn't when I was there last. It must have been some favor."

"They had a bit of trouble with a creature trying to take over their home. I assisted them in ridding the place of it. Nothing much."

"You from around here?" The dwarf said trying to change the subject. He knew of very few creatures that would be fierce enough for the dwarves to ask for help in removing, not to mention human help. He didn't like to think about that much. A creature like that had taken his family from him before he had left the mountain.

"I grew up not far from here actually. How long has it been since you were home?"

"Been about seventy years now I guess." He shrugged as if he didn't think about it much. "Where around here ya from? I've visited about every village and town on this island."

"Well I jumped from town to town a lot when I was very young. Then I finally came to the Schola near here. They raised me for the most part."

The dwarf's expression grew dark. "Are you planning on going home then?"

"Yes actually. I have a few people there I would like to see again."

"There's something you should be knowing then." The dwarf's expression grew somber. "Been soldiers all over this island. That school of yours, it's closed up. People still in it, but they aren't allowed to leave nor anyone to enter. Damn Eremians." The dwarf spit on the floor drawing a scowl from the barmaid.

"I had heard the Eremians were trying to take over this area. I had no idea they had succeeded so quickly though. I guess that would explain the town idiot over there. What was he talking about earlier? These "others" he referred to?"

The dwarf's expression grew darker still. "There were a few mages came through here the other day. It was storming like tonight and they just wanted a place to stay out of the rain. Drarek there, well he and the others in his group didn't like them staying here. After the rain quit, he told them to leave. When they didn't, he and his group drug em outside and tied them to posts. He had them gagged and then set about burning them to death. Now I don't like them magic users much, beggin your pardon, but killing them just wasn't right. I tried to stop them, but I couldn't do much. Rest of the town is scared of Drarek and his bunch. They won't listen to an old dwarf. When these storms quit, I'm going to pack up and move my forge outta this town. Just wasn't right."

He finished talking and took a big swig of his ale. He looked up at the mage across from him and a chill ran down his spine. Gen's eyes looked as if they were burning with anger but his face wasn't changed at all. The fire in those eyes was cold. Ferin had seen that look in the eyes of another only once before. His father had that look of burning determination before he left their home and went to take on the young black dragon that had been trying to take their mountain. It was the last time he had seen his father alive. They had found his charred body later that night. It was laying beside the corpse of the dragon, his father's battle axe buried deep into its brain. He still had a tooth from that dragon. He carried it on a leather strap round his neck. It always reminded him of that day. Gen wasn't looking at him though, thank the god of smiths, he was looking at Drarek.

"Thank you for telling me this, Ferin. I don't believe I want to sleep right now. I'm remarkably awake. Seems I'm always awake," The last bit was mumbled but Ferin picked it up. "I thought maybe he was just trying to scare me with that talk. Looks like he needs to go away though." The gaze shifted back to Ferin, the fire in them burning less bright but still there. "Does this town need them? Are he and his gang vital to the village?"

"Not hardly, they never pay for the food and drink here. I'm the only one won't give them what they want free. Only reason they haven't burnt me is cause the town needs me. I'm the only smith here. I sell them only the worst blades I have, throw offs from the soldiers around here. Iron so weak I could forge it without heating it." He laughed a bit. "What are you going to do to them?"

"Let us go to your shop and discuss it," he said softly. He slowly stood up and drew his hood back up over his head. One of those thin white hands grabbed his cane and he walked slowly to the door. The dwarf put a few coppers on the table and walked over to his table to retrieve his cloak. He limped after the mage and followed him outside. The storm had let up and the rain was barely coming down now.

"This way," Ferin said gruffly and limped off into the direction of his shop. The mage followed. He kept the dwarf's pace, not hurrying. Ferin didn't like it. This mage was way too calm. Chills ran down his spine once more and he wondered why the name Hothman was familiar to him somehow. He shook the rain out of his eyes as they approached the shop.

He opened the door and they walked inside. The forge fire was banked low. Gen walked up to the fire and looked at it for a moment.

“May I?” Gen pointed to the bucket of fresh coal beside the forge.

“Go ahead.”

“Thank you, it's been a long time.” He reached over to the bucket and placed some new coal on the fire and pumped the bellows till orange and yellow flames lit the room.

"This is a nice shop, Ferin."

"It's a leaky shack!" Ferin said but a large smile was slapped on his face.

“No, really. You have a good layout here. It's a bit low for me but I can see that it would be perfect for you. Everything is within easy reach.” Gen looked to the dwarf. “How many apprentices do you have?”

“Apprentices? Ha!” The dwarf snorted. “I wouldn't let any of these clumsy louts touch my tools!”

“I see. Would you let me use your shop?” Gen stared at the fire, the flames reflecting in contrast with his eyes.

“Depends on what you would be using it for, I suppose.”

“I would use it to make a weapon,” Gen said quietly.

“What kind of weapon?” The dwarf sounded suspicious. Gen stared back to the fire for a moment with his brow furrowed.

"What is your weapon of choice?" Gen turned to look back at the dwarf.

"War-hammer," Ferin said after a few moments thought. "Nice and solid. Goes right through that heavy armor. Breaks through people. Overall good weapon. If you're strong enough to use it."

"Have you ever made one?"

Ferin looked at the mage oddly for a while. "I've made a few. Never been happy with em though, so I sold em."

"I will pay you to help me make one now. The best one you've ever made."

"How much?"

"Two hundred gold," Gen stated. His eyes on the fire. The effect was creepy, the reflection of the hot fire in those cold burning eyes. Ferin swallowed slowly.

"Two hundred? For a war-hammer?"