“Call it,” William said.
A coin flipped, flashed a crown to the table, then plunked into his tankard.
“Eagles.”
Lazy curls of smoke wandered around Calem’s head as Sigor coughed and wheezed in laughter. William was less amused, though he hid it behind his usual fake smile.
Calem slumped back into his chair. “Eorik,” he said, addressing their newest partner. “You know that you’re spose to call it in the air, right?”
Unfortunately the lad was quite dim, choosing to fill the silence with awkward muttering about having had too many drinks.
This one won’t last, Calem mused. Sigor would clumsily try to poison him first. Though if he had money to waste on a bet, Calem wagered it’d be William who would slit Eorik’s throat by the end of the week. Nice and simple, that was his style. After they’ve returned from the ruin, of course.
William knows what every lad like Eoriks true weakness is; trust.
The tavern door swung open and Calem’s thought’s froze; wintered by a blast of snow. Groans and complaints were tossed back at an intruder leaning against the threshold. To his right, Eorik fidgeted with a hole in his cuff as frigid wind trailed a man clasped in pelts.
“There’s no stable boy,” this newcomer called out, after shaking the snow from his conical helmet and stomping the ice from leather boots. “What sort of place is this?”
“The kind you find out in the middle of the gods forsaken nowhere,” Calem said. “Which is exactly where Gebeorg is.”
The Southlander’s helmet dropped onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Well I have you know that old Mule is freezing his cock off in that shack of a stable. Artoosh does not ride a mare, mares ride him.” The last he said with a self-satisfied smirk.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” William drawled. “Tell me again why we had to leave Fairhaven in such a hurry?”
Artoosh took a seat next to Calem. “Because your mother was getting clingy. But…” He leaned forward and everyone at the table mirrored the motion. “Let’s keep this a business meeting. The village elder was useless. They keep more records of the goats they sell. He could only wave towards where the castle lay, as if I don’t have eyes. ”
Sigor nodded. “Then have we wasted our last Geld?”
“There’s still time to travel south,” Artoosh said.
Calem groaned. It was the old argument, and a pointless one. Despite their scoutmaster, Artoosh’s insistence, Calem feared this was no longer an option. Summer in Fairhaven passed into Autumn as they had slinked through Horn’s pass. Winter stalked them now. The last week’s rain had hardened and frosted the skirts of Skalduhorn. Could they really leave?
He rubbed his chin. We’d be Geldless, and would have to make that blasted trip again. Dead here, or dead there after a gruelling march. Calem felt a particular bout of laziness was coming on.
“The safest passes out be fouled’n ice,” said Sigor. “Snow soon will close the others anyways.”
“The better for us to leave now.” Artoosh opened his hands and looked to William. “We can sell the horses once we get to Mittlesans, then beg, or steal a ride south. Start over in a place where it’s the wine that is cool, and not the women.”
“Why not stop in Fairhaven?” Calem said.
“Shut it.”
“Boys, boys,” William interjected. “Do we still not have a job to do? What of our reputation?”
“But Alvanomarsh…”
William swatted away Artoosh’s protest with one hand.“Is likely a degeneration. Alvan. Aelfan. Marsh. March. Aelfmarch, or do you think there are true swamps this far north?”
“They call them mires here. Or bogs.”
“Did you stretch that legendary charisma of yours to ask the elder about a graveyard near the castle?” William pressed on. “A tomb?”
Artoosh titled his head. “I did just as you asked, but they are a superstitious bunch. They refuse to speak even about the recent dead…But you know this, I –”
“But what of the ruin,” Sigor interrupted. “What’s to say they haven’t looted everything of value yet. What’s to say this here innkeeper’s great, great, great granddaddy n’found the old book, and used the paper n’wipe his goat shagging bum?”
“Did you forget? They didn’t have this.”
A brass key hung from a chain around William’s neck, and as he pulled it forward Calem could see raised writing on the stem.
“That trinket again,” Calem said. “Remind me, did one of your daughters make that for you?”
William tsked. “You were there when our benefactor gave it to my safekeeping. It will grant us access to their family tombs.” And now it was his smile that glinted in the firelight. “Which, as you know, is likely unmolested by the superstitious folk of the north.”
“Things change,” Calem said, his eyes alighting briefly on each of them. “People change, and desperate people do desperate things.”
Sigor nodded. “Aye, and what if it is looted? Or this…book…what if it’s all a rotten?”
Chatter from the three other tables picked up with a new vistor. Again, cold air was introduced, and It brewed more complaints. Someone at the table coughed. William passed his mug to Sigor.
“I have been assured that we will still get paid, ” he said. “We will just need to bring back some proof that we didn’t just faff off.” He paused and tucked the key back under his tunic. “Besdies, even if they were to leave our debts unsettled, why…an unplundered noble’s tomb? The possibilities are…profitable.”
Calem shrugged. “And how will we find the bugger? Not much in the way of signage around secret tombs..”
“Leave that to Artoosh and me,” William said, the corrected himself. “Artoosh, me, and our new friend. Introduce yourself Eorik.”
When all eyes turned to him Eorik tried to twist the opposite way, but there was no avoiding it. He looked away briefly, then back, and there was a nervous smile on his face then.
“Pleasure to….well.”
“Eorik here will be our guide and local representative,” William said. “Rare amongst his fellows here, he has actually been to the castle.”
“Well, I’ve been –”
“This will be of course, his trial,” William drolled and reached across the table, gripping Sigor and Eorik simulataneously. “He has shown remarkable pluck in seeking us out, we will see this next morn what he is truly made of.”
Meat , bone, blood, and lots of screaming. Calem yawned, while the others still stared on with their usual sternness. Except for Artoosh, who,instead became more interested in the fire and the wench than Eorik’s sheepish attempts to speak. Calem was sure the scoutmaster by now was tired of William’s shit.
Sigor stared down at the king at the bottom of the mug that unexpectedly became his. “Hmm,” he grunted.
“…until then he is of course, paid only the usual retainer. Yes, what’s that Sigor?”
“You tell me this lad is to keep the locals from thumping us, eh?”
“That is what we are paying for, he is related to the elder by blood. It is his uh…uncle?”
“Grand uncle…er great,” Eorik stammered.
“Great uncle,” William said, his smile growing. “The lad has assured me that he will ‘square it away with him’ before we leave.”
Now it was Sigor’s turn to smile, and it was awful, yellow and crooked as the streets after too many pints of ale. But at his shoulder, Artoosh could not keep still. The Southlander, normally so full of patience, appeared to be seething.
Calem looked askance at Eorik as Artoosh dragged a chair to the table. “I would have preffered to have wintered this year in Maiden’s Market at least.”
“It was a very long journey, and with much haste,” Artoosh added.
“Time limits.” William said. “Trust me, this is the best course. Have I ever lead you astray? Intentionally.
The word “intentionally” forstalled Artoosh. Instead he settled back into his chair and eyed William with a neutral face. Calem grunted. “What do we know about our patrons, these…You never told us their names?”
“Safe that you didn’t. As usual,” William shrugged.
“Are they dangerous?” Mugs clattered in the background and weak cheers rolled out from the nearest table, masking the edge of Calem’s voice It was Sigor who spoke next, gesturing with his pipe as if he were trying to skewer a fly.
“Will told me a plenty about em,” he said.
“Not surprising, might as well yell it to the wind,” Calem said. “Or into a horses ass.”
“Sigor is a better confidant than you give him credit for,” William said. “His sage advice was quite helpful.”
“Confidant,” Sigor said his face screwing as if he tasted the word, and liked it none. “What’n you means by that?”
Calem waived off Sigor. “It’s the usual then.”
“Yes, the usual,” William said.
“Whatn I don’t understand, is what’s we to do after, and before we turn this book in,” Sigor said. “Rustle sheep? Because that’s all I see, is sheep, and sheep shit.”
Calem lowered his mug. “That is…a very good point. What do they put I in the ale here in Gebeorg?”
“Calem…” Sigor growled.
“I’m just saying that, as the quartermaster, maybe I should procure a few barrels before we leave.”
Sigor stared blankly. “Shut it. Yeh make it sound like I’m daft. This taint my first go around the bush.”
“A few ales a day,” Calem mused. “Might lead to some better decisions. Or at least less women being bothered.”
Artoosh smiled. “And sheep.”
“That will also be Eorik’s duty; helping us find a market for whatever we…recover,” William said with his usual grin. “Or perhaps other nearby worthy ventures.”
****
An hour passed. The late afternoon drifted into the evening, and the slush had turned into a thick, clumpy, snow, to be dragged in with every new customer. Elsewise, the sound of sleet mixed with the sputtering fire and every so often the clack of a ladder would ring out as someone cut sausages from the rafters. Sigor snored next to his upturned mug. Around him snaked the purple and green twines of pipe smoke.
Eorik had left the tavern with William. Artoosh was here still, recalling exploits old and not so. Calem would nod or smile at all the right moments, but his mind was otherwise occupied. Not on their dwindling funds, or their lack of supplies as one would expect of a quartermaster.
The mug fell away, clattered to the floor. Still, Sigor snored on. Calem used the man’s tabbard to wipe away the enchroaching spill, and now the tale of Westfall had stirred some sad memories of Artoosh’s home, and his comrared looked too often into his own ale. At a nearby table two men were throwing sets of four double-sided sticks and moving their little pawns around the table. That was William’s and Artoosh’s game, Calem never had the flare for it. The last half-hour their voices had gotten louder, and louder.
Outside their banter, it was quieter than earlier. The sausages from their dinner were doing their magic. But neither this, or the warmth from the ebbing fireplace could bed-down Calem’s thoughts.
Things had changed. Their band was once at least respectable, if not well known. Now, they were forced to scrounge. Take cast-off jobs. Caravan duty, and worse – whatever this was.
“Artoosh.”
“In the autumn the air in Ezhde – “ Artoosh choked, his ayes sinking until they once more drowned in his ale. “We’d look at the great city from the roof tops in Zamilon. At sunset then, she’d shine the white –”
“Is this how you thought it’d all end?” Calem interrupted.
“It?” Artoosh said slowly, tasting the word. “Our run of good fortune? Our lives? The latest round of drinks? Or perhaps you mean something as…ahh how does William say it?”
“With big words that probably don’t mean what he thinks they mean,” Calem grumbled.
Artoosh opened his hands.
“We were over twenty,” Calem continued. “Are we even still a band?”
“A fellowship,” Artoosh said.
“We were seven leaving Fairhaven.” Calem leaned back, closing his eyes to paint Thom in Maidenhill. Matt in Edding’s Field. The cold in the night. A farmhand’s dagger in a tavern. “At least Halim had the sense to leave us in Holst.”
“It was easy for him, he was our blacksmith,” Artoosh said.
“I can read.”
Artoosh leaned back, his face falling into shadow. Calem sighed, and stared past at the walls. The ceiling. The thatch needing mending. Mould grew upon the walls, and light shown through several holes, touching upon loose threads in Artoosh’s coat.
“We’re blighted. Manxed. We should bugger off, while the buggering’s good.”
Artoosh tensed as if poked by a burr, then relaxed. “Were you not a part of the conversation earlier? We have no chance, the pass is no longer a pass, it’s –”
“Impassable,” Calem said quickly. “Aye I know, and s’not what I mean. Sides, we’re poor. No.”
“William always comes through,” Artoosh said. “I think we can find enough here to last us through winter, if we are bold enough.”
“Then what,” Calem snapped. “Amble around till another of us takes a walk? We could do that, or we could rightly bugger off. Right now there’s enough, guaranteed, for two.” And he rubbed his neck.
Artoosh stared at him, or through him with an unblinking gaze. Slowly, he settled back into his chair, never breaking eye contact.
As the innkeeper stoked the fire, so too did Calem. He waved away some pipe smoke, saying: “William is no Rogeric. This here old tomb? Lord’s bet that it is trapped, or cursed, or worse…Empty. Now even then, sure as shit somehow he’ll get one of us killed. It’ll hopefully be the boy, but that don’t mean it won’t be someone important.”
Artoosh’s eyes burned at him through the smoke, but Calem continued. “Unless we take what is owed us, and hide abouts until Spring. That’s where a good scout will be very important.”
The door to the tavern opened then, and in stomped more farhhands – Calem was unsure where all these people kept coming from, or could have lived, given the few huts that huddled around the inn. The newcomers hovered around the threshold as the sounds of more people behind came in with the cold.
Out with the flagging door. Out flowed the warmth of the Tavern. In came the storm, blustery and white, and the stark chill arrested his breath while the creak from the door ushered out the last of his toughts on the matter.
Artoosh laughed suddenly. “Did that beast of a mule you call a horse kick you? Did it make you dumb.” A mock look of shock passed over his features. “Dumber?”
As brisk as the chill from an opened tavern door, his mood again changed. Gone was Artoosh’s smile from both his lips and his eyes. “William is not a forgiving man. Even so, I do not fear him. Though I’ll not create an enemy where it’s not needed.” Then in a whisper and a nod towards the sleeping Sigor. “Nor say so in front of his friend.”
Calem blinked, having apparently forgotten the cutthroat. He leaned forward and matched Artoosh’s whisper: “Then when?”
“After,” Artoosh said as he left a copper on the table. Calem tried to interrupt, but the scoutmaster would have none of it. “When we have finished this task he has set, and the wages are settled. We risk what is certain – and certain as I am the most southlander in all of the north, William will not take such betrayal easily. No. I’ll not rob him.”
“Weren’t you earlier looking to faff off back through the closed passes? Was that not a risk?”
“That is different, he’d lose nothing but my glorious presence.”
Calem shook his head. “Yeah. While you are preening and all that, he’ll give you one in the back. One good turn deserves another. Were not William’s slaves.”
“We are indentured to our contract, and our word.”
“We’re freemen here.”
Artoosh tsked. “You Mittesanders use freedom as an excuse to shit everywhere anyways. Like a monkey.” His smile turned and he shook his head. “You’d rob a comrade to make yourself free. I do not think you understand what the word means.”
The Southlander was the company’s, the Wayfarers’, scoutmaster and lieutenant. Men did not trifle with Artoosh. Neither did horses for that matter. His mood could turn as quickly as the weather. The end of the discussion then came when Artoosh made a sweeping motion and took up his helmet as if he were making a bow, and made for the door. Calem walked after.
A shock of white greeted them. Both men shrank into their coats, but the oiled leather did poorly against the snow, and nothing for the sudden brightness. Calem shielded his eyes. By the time the world was anything other than a blur, he was looking up with their irritated scoutmaster.
The man was tall. Staggering so. He did not seem to notice Calem’s discomfirt or his own, and instead took to cracking the ice that had formed in a trough. For that he was a Southlander used to warmer weather, the snow hardly seemed to bother Artoosh. Then again, he had a proper coat, purchased back before money and personel problems had made Calem little more than a quartermaster in name.
“I will spread my wings tomorrow and gawk at these mountains,” Artoosh said. “Tonight, let’s see what we can make of the town.”
Too, he was young. Second only to their newest member, Eorik. Right now his hair stuck out at all sorts of odd angles, as was formed by his helm. Still, it did not change his demeanor. There was something unique about Artoosh that swept folks around. And away.
“If the weather doesn’t ground me,” Artoosh continued with a heavy sigh. The light from the inn cast further shadows that haunted the entranceway around him. He then turned to Calem and said: “up for an evening promenad?”
“If what you means by that is to scope out some hidey holes for our gang before the last light, then yes, yes I think I can manage.”
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