The Last Whisper of the Gods (2 page)

He left the mule with Sorial and went in search of Warburm.

By mid-afternoon, the chilly rain had lessened, but it had done its damage, turning the hard-packed dirt roads and byways of Vantok into quagmires. From the stable doors, Sorial could see three stuck carriages. It was at this time the priest emerged from the inn, approaching the stable on unsteady legs. As he passed close by, the boy could smell the reek of strong spirits. That was unexpected; requirements of the priesthood included vows of chastity and sobriety. Yet considering the man’s earlier despair, perhaps Sorial should have expected it. Loss of faith was said to open the gateway to other sins.

After the stableboy handed the reins to the priest, the man provided an unusual benediction on his way out: “Take care of yourself, my son. None other will.” Then he was gone, trudging through the mud on the way to his next destination, wherever that might be.

With the approach of dusk, Sorial was relieved by The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s other regular stableboy. Just past his Maturity, Visnisk was three years older than Sorial, and he was here by choice, not because of indentureship. He lived in a small cottage with his parents and sisters and came to the inn when it was his turn to work: one hour past dusk until one hour before dawn, six days per week. He often boasted of how good his meager wages were - a claim repeated because he knew it irked Sorial. The two boys were on cordial terms but weren’t friends. Visnisk was a hard worker - when he felt like working - but he didn’t talk much. Upon his arrival, Sorial took the ladder up to the stall where he made his bed and, exhausted, fell immediately to sleep.

He was awakened during the night by noises from one of the stalls. He crawled to the edge and, keeping to the shadows, peered over. The scene below was nothing new - it had been played out numerous times in the past. There was tall, gangly Visnisk, with his tousled red hair and bone-white skin, lying on his back on the damp straw-covered floor. His clothes were carelessly discarded. Some girl - Sorial had seen her a few times before - straddled his naked torso with her backside to the loft. Her long skirts hid their joining, but Sorial knew enough about what went on between men and women to paint an adequate mental picture. Visnisk’s face was twisted in an almost comical expression; his green eyes were screwed shut. He began grunting like a pig at a trough then, with an explosive exhalation of breath, pushed the girl off and reached for his breeches. A coin - Sorial couldn’t tell the denomination from his perch - changed hands. The girl adjusted her knickers under her skirts and vanished into the darkness outside. Sorial never saw her face.

As Visnisk went back to caring for the animals, Sorial rolled onto his back. This was a regular activity for the older boy; Sorial was sure Visnisk spent half his wages on this particular whore. The watching made Sorial curious, and there was a tightness in his breeches. Often, Visnisk didn’t seem to be enjoying himself and the woman was always bored, but he kept bringing her back and she never refused him. When Sorial had approached Visnisk about this seeming contradiction, he was told in a patronizing tone that he’d understand in a year or two.

“Get yourself one,” called Visnisk into the gloom of the rafters as he filled a bucket with oats. “Or use Excela - she’ll do anyone for the coin. That way you won’t always be watching me. If you don’t like the look of her, I can find you another cheap one. Really, though, it don’t matter what they look like as long as they know what they’re doing. And I know you’ve been saving up your tips - leastaways what that skinflint Warburm lets you keep.” When Sorial didn’t reply, the other boy continued his work as if he hadn’t spoken.

Sorial soon dozed off, as he often did after watching Visnisk’s nighttime assignations. Many hours later, with even the first rays of the new day’s sun not yet touching the eastern horizon, he was startled awake when a clod of hardened shit struck him on the right cheek.

“Hey boy, wake up! Get your ass down here!” yelled Visnisk on his way out. By the time Sorial gained his bearings, the other stableboy was gone. He used a wad of straw to wipe clean his cheek then climbed down to piss in a corner and begin the day’s work. The stable was almost empty this morning. With only a single horse and a donkey to care for, Sorial could move slowly and conserve energy. He checked outside several times to make sure the sky was clear. He didn’t want to miss the sunrise.

While he was waiting, a couple members of the Watch wandered by. Sorial knew them by name: Brindig and Darrin. They had been partners for as long as he could remember, but it was hard to think of two more dissimilar men.

Brindig was thin and humorless. His gaunt face made him look a decade older than his actual age. His salt-and-pepper hair, only a few strands of which escaped from beneath his watchman’s steel helmet, was cropped short. He never wore a full beard but rarely was he cleanshaven. His nose was thin and curved, calling to mind a bird’s beak. His mouth seemed frozen in a perpetual scowl.

Darrin, on the other hand, grinned easily. He was a big man in every sense with appetites to match. Unlike Brindig, he wore no helm (which was against regulations, but no one cared). His unruly mane of sawdust-colored hair stuck out in every direction. His face was as plump as the rest of him, but not unpleasant to gaze upon. He had a neatly-trimmed goatee with no mustache. His eyes matched Brindig’s blue, but seemed more lively. Darrin was only a few years his partner’s junior, but he looked young enough to be the other’s son. He was perhaps the most liked man in the whole of Vantok’s Watch.

“Good morn, Sorial,” said Darrin with his customary affability. Brindig nodded somberly, looking like he wanted to be somewhere - anywhere - else.

“Morn, sirs,” replied Sorial, who called most adults “sir.” It was easier than remembering names.

“Should be a nicer day than yesterday,” said Darrin, who was a lover of small talk. Actually, he was a lover of any talk. Few things engaged the jovial guardsman more than hearing the words tumble from his own lips. “Any problems lately?” It was an innocuous inquiry but Sorial couldn’t help but connect it to Warburm’s caution.

There was something happening that he didn’t understand. The wary innkeeper, warning of dangerous times. The despairing priest, saying the gods had turned from man. And now… “Is something going on?”

Darrin appeared surprised by the question. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Brindig spoke for the first time. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

Sorial considered. Aside from Rexall, a stableboy at The Delicious Dancer, these two were the closest things to friends he had, and he wanted to tell someone about the priest’s words.

When he was done, Darrin appeared discomfited. Brindig’s expression hadn’t altered.

“I wouldn’t go spreading that kind of rumor,” said Darrin at last. “I’ll admit I’ve heard similar things, but you never know about the source. Being a priest is a hard life and, if he was drinking, he’s lost his faith. I’ve known a few apostates in my time and they were all miserable people. The more men repeat unwholesome things, the more easily they’re believed.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open, Sorial, and be careful,” said Brindig. Then, echoing Warburm, he added, “We may be entering dangerous times.”

With that, the three of them turned to watch the sun rise.

As the day wore on and Sorial cared for the animals, he found himself gripped by a sense of uneasiness. Normally, conversations with Darrin and Brindig (to the extent that Brindig participated) raised his spirits. Not today, however. Some lads, like Visnisk and Rexall, would have laughed away warnings about “dangerous times.” They would have made sport of a drunk priest. They would have seen today as no different than the hundreds of days to precede it. But Sorial was of a more serious disposition. He took those things to heart. And it weighed him down. “Be careful” was Brindig’s admonition, and Sorial was determined to heed it.

During the morning, he frequently stole outside to scan the grounds in case someone - or something - was lurking there. The dimly remembered scary stories told by his mother when he was a toddler loitered in the recesses of his mind.

What would it mean for him if the gods had abandoned men? He was no longer as sure as he had been when he spoke those careless words to the priest about not caring. Dangerous times - what did that mean? Did anyone know or were they parroting something they had heard?

It was early afternoon when a smartly dressed man entered the building. With barely a glance at the stableboy, he headed for one of the stalls. At first, Sorial thought nothing of it, but a look at the man’s clothing gave him pause. There was something odd... The cloak and shirt were cut from a more expensive cloth than that normally worn by patrons of The Wayfarer’s Comfort. The breeches, however, were old, dirty, and fraying near the ankles - peasants’ attire without a doubt. The boots were mud-caked, scuffed, and ill-fitting. Someone wearing such finery on top would have pants and boots to match.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Sorial, “Can I help you with something?”

The man turned to face the stableboy. He flashed a smile that was too exaggerated to be genuine.

Be careful
…

Sorial took note of the newcomer’s features. His long wheaten hair was drawn back in a ponytail. An untrimmed mustache and bushy beard hid his lower face. His gray eyes were cold; the smile didn’t touch them. They radiated indifference, perhaps cruelty.

“Just getting my horse.”

It was a lie. The animal he approached had become skittish. Sorial recognized it as the property of Wickharm, a merchant who visited often and left good tips.

“Sir, I think you may be mistaken. I know whose horse that is.”

“Yes, yes. I was sent to fetch it. He’s in a hurry.”

Another lie.

“Perhaps if you asked him to come out…”

“I told you, he’s in a hurry.” There were traces of irritation in the man’s voice. He was trying to place a saddle on the horse’s back, but the animal was being uncooperative. Sorial looked on, dumbfounded. It was his duty to saddle the animals for their owners. No one ever readied their own beasts.

“Could you tell me whose horse this is?”

Horse thievery was a serious crime in Vantok, punishable in some cases by hanging. But it was usually accomplished in the dark of night. This, a daylight robbery in a public stable, was brazen. Sorial was a witness - the only witness.

The man threw down the saddle in disgust and exited the stall. Any pretense at legitimacy was gone. He turned to Sorial and, when the boy looked into his eyes, he knew he was in trouble.

The man lunged and, as he charged, something metallic glinted in his hand. Although Sorial was no stranger to fighting, this wasn’t a street brawler intent on delivering a beating. This was a methodical thug with murderous purpose. The attacker barreled into him, lowered shoulder impacting sternum, knocking Sorial to the ground. A sharp pain tore his right cheek from brow to ear. Warm liquid seeped from the gash, blurring the vision in one eye.

His boot pressing on Sorial’s chest to limit the boy’s ability to struggle, the man stood above him, his expression unreadable. With maddening slowness, he cleaned his dagger on his breeches, leaving behind two swaths of fresh blood before re-sheathing it at his belt. Then, from under the cloak he withdrew a pistol. It was a simple gun, the kind Sorial had seen before. He felt a rush of fear.
Be careful. Dangerous times.
Well, he had been warned…

Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, the man went through the process of priming the weapon for shooting. He poured black powder into the muzzle then dropped in a small ball. “Stupid boy,” he muttered under his breath. “All you had to do was ignore me.” The boot’s pressure increased, threatening to crush his chest. He tried to scream but the only sound to emerge was a croak.

Dizzy and slipping toward unconsciousness, Sorial was unsure what happened next. The report of a gunshot echoed through the stable but it didn’t come from the man’s weapon. The thief was in the process of using a small rod to pack in the projectile and powder; his pistol wasn’t yet ready to fire. The intruder staggered and fell, landing half across Sorial and lying still. The smell of spent gunpowder was strong in the boy’s nostrils. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was hearing Warburm’s voice commanding someone, “Get the fucking Watch and summon a healer!”

              Sorial lay in one of the inn’s beds, ordered by a healer to “convalesce” for a minimum of three days before he could return to light duty. The right side of his face was heavily bandaged and the wound had caused his eye to swell shut. His chest hurt where the intruder's boot had held him down, although the healer proclaimed he hadn’t broken any ribs. Warburm was unhappy about the temporary loss of his best stableboy. Visnisk was even less happy since he now had to work double shifts, giving him perhaps six hours off each day. Not having seen the incident or its aftermath, he believed Sorial to be a malingerer.

Sorial’s sick room wasn’t among the inn’s finest. In fact, it hadn’t been used - or cleaned - in weeks before the injured boy was tucked under the discolored sheets. Other than the bed, the room was bare except for a tattered throw rug and a rusted metal washbasin. Dust bunnies of alarming sizes had gathered in the corners. Despite a respectably sized window, gloom pervaded. Not only was the aspect north-facing but the grime was so thick on the inside and outside that even direct sunlight would have had difficulty penetrating. Nevertheless, Sorial wasn’t about to complain. As dingy as his temporary quarters were, they were better than the stable. Mice weren’t nipping at his toes, roaches weren’t swarming over him, and the straw of his mattress wasn’t enhanced by shit and the assorted bugs it attracted. All-in-all, it was an undeniable upgrade.

The door swung open to reveal the smiling features of Annie, The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s most cheerful - and many said “accommodating” - barmaid. Annie was nearly twice Sorial’s age and had taken a big sisterly interest in him. She was pleasingly plump (the “pleasingly” being a phrase Sorial had heard more than one man use to describe her) with wide hips and ample breasts barely contained by her work uniform and smock. Her face was ruddy, as much from working long days in the hot kitchen as from her natural complexion. Her long copper hair was curled into a bun under her cap.

She brought a cold mug of the inn’s finest watered down ale. Sorial suspected Warburm didn’t know she had come bearing gifts.

“How are you today, sweetie?” she asked, handing him the mug and bending over to check his bandages. Sorial’s eyes were drawn to the cleavage revealed by the gap in the front of her blouse. He had seen breasts before but none this close. The tightening between his legs was a welcome reminder that his injury hadn’t damaged certain things.

She straightened, knowing where he had been looking. “When you’re older, maybe I’ll let you get a proper gander. Gods know I ain’t shy about showing them off. But that’s for another time,” she said with a wink. Sorial blushed furiously, although it was too dark in the room for her to notice… he hoped.

“From the look of that, you’ll be back to work in no time. Could be tomorrow, I suppose, but we’ll fool old Warburm into giving you another day or two. Gods know he’s worked you to the bone these last years. You deserve a vacation. Half a day off a week! It’s ridiculous.”

Sorial didn’t mention that he thought it was a good deal. Annie wouldn’t agree with him. She got the best wages of anyone who worked for Warburm and was off two full days each week. She thought everyone should be treated the same. But no one else brought in the customers the way she did. She was one asset Warburm couldn’t afford to lose.

“Put that under the bed when you’re done with it,” she said, indicating the mug. “I’ll pick it up later. Cheer up, sweetie, I’m sure I won’t be your only visitor today.”

In that, she was correct. During the two days he had thus far been here, he had been visited by a stream of well-wishers, including the innkeeper, a priest he had never before met, several of the barmaids, and his friend Rexall, a stableboy at The Delicious Dancer. Visnisk had stopped in as well, but his motive had been to make sure Sorial’s injury was genuine.

No one told Sorial anything about his attacker. When he asked the innkeeper, Warburm grumbled something about a dirty horse thief.
Be careful. Dangerous times.
In retrospect, the earlier warnings seemed prophetic. Although his injury was more inconvenient than serious, Sorial knew he had barely escaped death. The intervention of luck or providence had saved him. Had Warburm not been there with a pistol, he would be lying on a funeral pyre not an old bed. Apparently, the innkeeper had heeded his own advice about being watchful.

Resting in the near darkness, Sorial had time mull over the events of the past few days. Maybe it was the disruption of a routine that had defined his days and nights for years, but it seemed as if something fundamental had changed. He knew he would never be as comfortable in the stable as he had been in the past. The specter of the attack would loom over him. But it was more than that. The encounter with the priest had unsettled him more than he would have imagined possible. And the attack coming so soon after warnings from Warburm and the watchmen had to be more than coincidence, didn’t it?

Sorial’s next visitors arrived several hours later while he was dozing. Darrin and Brindig made enough noise coming down the hall that he was alert when they entered. Darrin’s expression was one of compassion and sympathy. Brindig’s countenance, as usual, was as implacable as rock.

“You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble,” said Darrin. “A boy knifed and nearly shot in our district - people have been saying we don’t do our jobs. It’s a damned embarrassment, that’s what it is. When you get back to the stable, you’d best make sure nothing like this happens again. Besides, if you get yourself killed, who would we have to gossip with on our rounds?” A smile belied the harshness of his words.

“We do not ‘gossip’,” countered Brindig. “We are members of the Watch. We accumulate and dispense information.”

“Look, Sorial, I hate to get all professional, but there’s a couple of questions we needs to ask you. Routine things. You up to it?”

Sorial nodded, wondering what they could possibly be interested in since the thief was dead.

“Did you notice anything odd about your attacker?”

“He didn’t belong in the stable. He wore a gentleman’s cloak and a peasant’s breeches and boots. The horse didn’t trust him and I knew he didn’t work for Mr. Wickharm.”

“Did you recognize the man? Had you seen him before, or someone like him?”

Sorial shrugged. “Thieves, you mean? A few but never with a gun. I nearly pissed in my breeches when I saw that. Don’t think he’s been around before though it’s tough to say with all the people who go in and out of here.”

“It’s the pistol that disturbs us,” said Brindig. “We don’t see a lot of common thugs with them. Normally the weapon of wealthy ex-adventurers like your innkeeper. But since you were attacked, seven people have been shot dead within the city limits. Most were disreputable rogues loitering in back alleys where people sometimes end up face down, but two respectable merchants have been killed as well.”

“We’re concerned it could be part of a pattern - maybe a new gang in possession of pistols has moved into Vantok. We examined the body of the man who attacked you and couldn’t find any distinguishing marks or indications where he came from. We hoped you might have seen him before,” said Darrin. “Think hard.”

Sorial shook his head, although he couldn’t be sure. What if the man had been lurking around the stable, waiting for an opportunity? And if it was a gang, might they try again?

As if reading his mind, Darrin said, “We don’t think they’ll target this inn a second time but, in case, we’ll keep a closer watch.”

“We also advise that you be more vigilant than usual. These are dangerous times,” said Brindig. Those words again:
dangerous times
. “But you know that.”

“We don’t mean to frighten you,” said Darrin, noting Sorial’s unsettled expression. “We just want to prepare you.” Changing the subject, he added, “We understand you’re about to become a rich young man.”

“I am?” That was news to Sorial. Welcome news, if true.

“There’s been talk of a reward for saving Wickharm’s horse from the thief.”

“Oh, that. One of the barmaids told me. She also said Warburm took it as payment for my using one of his rooms for three days and on account of my not being able to work in the stable.”

“Skinflint,” muttered Darrin. “When you’re of age, leave this place. Come and join the Watch. They pay good wages, provide you with a warm place to sleep, and give you a day to your own every week.”

“Until then, keep your eyes and ears open, and let us know if you see or hear anything,” said Brindig. With that, the guards departed, leaving Sorial alone in the dark with a host of uneasy thoughts, most focused on how dangerous the times had become and whether there might be worse ahead.

That evening, Warburm arrived in the company of the healer, who changed Sorial’s bandages and pronounced him fit to return to work.

Warburm considered. “Because you be a good worker and don’t give me no trouble, I’m going to let you spend one more night inside. But as of sunrise tomorrow, I expect you back at your post. Visnisk’s complaining be getting on my nerves and some of the customers don’t like his attitude. Yesterday, one of my regulars, a spice trader from up north, went to get his horse and found Visnisk rutting with a whore up in your loft. Clambered down with his breeches off, saddled the horse, then went right back up there. We all need a good fuck now and again, but that lad needs to wait till he be off duty.” On his way out, he announced, “You got another visitor.” To Sorial’s surprise, his mother entered.

Kara bet Lamanar would have been a great beauty had circumstances favored her with a less harsh life. Even as things were, her natural grace and loveliness shone through the tarnish. Physically, she bore the characteristics of her Syrene heritage. She was short in stature, a full handspan under five feet, with a slim build. Her long, unstyled hair was jet-black and, despite her age of nearly five decades, there were no traces of gray or white. Her features were delicate - the kind a sculptor might delight in replicating. But there was a hardness to her ebony eyes that bespoke of a lifetime’s tribulations and her skin had been darkened to umber by long hours spent in the fields of Sorial’s father’s farm.

Throughout his life, Sorial and his mother had experienced an uneven relationship, although it was more harmonious than the one between the boy and his father, Lamanar. Sorial’s memories of the time spent living with his parents were hazy and neither Kara nor Lamanar had answered basic questions about his family, such as whether he had brothers or sisters. They were equally mute to queries about their pasts. His father told him such things didn’t concern him. His mother said he would learn the answers when he needed them, whatever that meant.

While Lamanar tended his fields throughout the year except during the coldest, darkest parts of Winter, Kara worked many jobs. During the busy Planting and Harvest seasons, she helped her husband on the farm. In between, she would do other things, including working in the market as a whore. In Syre, prostitution was considered to be an honorable profession. This gave Sorial cause to wonder whether Lamanar was his true father - something that would explain the man’s coldness toward him. Sorial had taken to visiting his mother when his father was unlikely to be around. Encounters between them were often unpleasant.

Had Kara’s desire been the only consideration, Sorial would have lived on the farm and worked beside her and Lamanar in the fields. That was not to be. As a result, she saw her son only on those occasions when he visited the farm. In any given year, that might be three or four times, comprising a handful of hours. They were like strangers, their conversations forced and filled with uncomfortable silences. Sorial had tried his best to reconnect with her, and he knew she was desperate to build a lasting bond, but circumstances were against them. After those awkward encounters, he sometimes wondered if a clean break might be best for all involved. He was sure Lamanar would agree.

“Sorial… are you all right? I didn’t hear about the attack until today or I would have come sooner.”

He was surprised she had learned about the incident at all; knifings of stableboys typically didn’t reach the town criers’ lips nor did such news filter through the city’s most effective way of transmitting information: word-of-mouth. If a noblewoman muddied the hem of her dress, the gossip would spread like wildfire, but there was considerably less interest in the misfortunes of peasants.

“It still hurts, but I’m getting better. The healer says I can go back to work tomorrow.”

“I wish…” she began. Sorial thought he saw tears pooling in her eyes but he couldn’t be sure in the gloom. There was no doubt that her voice caught. “I asked your father if he would consider buying out your final years here. He’s getting old and it's becoming more difficult for him to work the land by himself. You could make a difference. You like farming. You’re good with the earth. I remember that was true even when you were little, always covered in mud and dirt.”

“What did he say?” Sorial didn’t know how to feel about the prospect of returning to live at home. The stable was familiar; the farm wasn’t. And there was no thrill about the possibility of living with Kara and Lamanar, although it was something his mother obviously wanted. Still, he couldn’t deny there was something appealing about the idea of farming. Sunshine and bright skies. The smell of dirt. The feel of it between his fingers. No more being trapped within the confines of a stable. From now on, he knew he would be wary of every customer he didn’t know. There would be no such worries on a farm, where visitors were few and far between.