A heavy rain fell from clouds that were deep grey and black, covering all the sky. That rain pelted all of Umbriel throughout the night, sheets that were thick and cold, filming into rolls of fog as the land soaked it in. That cold rain also fell over the small western island of Dynasty, where the grand cathedral stood as the epicenter of the country's religion for the last two thousand years. It had changed little over the course of time, with its bell tower and stone balconies that wrapped the length of both the front and the sides of it. The entire building was a shade of grey, with off white tiles for the ceiling, multilayered as the ceiling rose from the back to allow room for another floor, the ceremonial church and the chamber of the High Throne. It was in that same chamber that the wisdom of the One God would be given to a man worthy enough to accept the gift. The doors were closed on the cathedral, as they often were, permitting none but the Chosen inside its hallowed halls. It was tradition for the Chosen to be named as the caretakers of the cathedral, with the High Father, the eldest, the most steadfast of all believers of the One, as their headmaster.
On that night when the heavens raged with storms, the sixteenth High Father in a line of holy men that could be traced back to the beginnings of the cathedral stood at the open glass doors of the balcony in the eastern wing. Only a single torch lit the hall that trailed to a vast stairwell, flickering and dancing in the shrieking winds that sailed through the open doors. He had given up his name upon taking the title, no longer needing such trivialities when his entire life was given to the One, heart and soul.
He cast troubled eyes to the storm, harbinger of things to come. A hand cupped around a smooth chin, only a touch of wrinkling marring the almost silken flesh. At the age of ninety eight, he was in remarkable health. He would serve the One God for many years to come, if that was His will. Shuffling in his loafers, the High Father pursed his lips and stared harder into the night, trying to breech the dark of the storm with his eyes. He wondered what he would see there, off in the distance. He knew that Darius Steelbreeze would be coming for the High Throne; that he had set himself on this path, convinced that he was visited in dreams by the High Father, told that he was chosen by the will of the One. The High Father sighed into his hand. It went to show how little a man could know, while thinking at the same time how wise he must be. It was clear in the Testament, the text that the One had given to the very first High Father when the cathedral had risen from the soil of the island, proclaiming it a holy place, that the One God Himself would come to a man in his dreams, informing him that he had proven steadfast and humble enough to be granted the title of High King. The High Father was only mortal, and gladly so. He had no place in the world telling Darius Steelbreeze that the throne was his for the taking. There was no telling what the ramifications were for someone so faithless to place themselves on something that the One God had proclaimed as a holy relic. Bryan Stormfyre was the last, and that had happened nearly three hundred years ago, when the last High Father was a novice still, holding prayer meetings on the Eve of Rest.
"Father?" a voice came from behind him, startling him out of reverie. Gathering himself, the High Father turned to smile upon one of his acolytes, a priest new to the cathedral by only a handful of months. It was still there in his eyes, as it was when any came to this magnificent place. The wonder and awe that the One God had placed here for his chosen to always remember this holy place and keep it as such. It had been, after all, the One God's hand that had erected it with only an errant thought. Such was the majesty of their lord.
"What is it, Brother Harlequin?"
"It is late, Father, and I am making the last rounds of the hall. If you are not otherwise engaged, I would appreciate a walk through the hall with you."
"Of course, Brother Harlequin," the High Father replied, closing the glass doors and barring the wind's path, letting it howl for entry against the panes that stopped it. He stepped down the hall and Brother Harlequin followed him, right off his left. The youth took care not to step ahead of him, keep his pace steady enough for the old man to keep up. The High Father almost laughed to think that this youth might be quite surprised to find just how fast this old man could move.
"Father, I hear terrible things from the land of Umbriel. I hear word that a king has taken it upon himself to march to our doors and pronounce himself the High King. Is there any truth to these rumors, Father?"
The High Father regarded the youth with soft eyes. With a slight shift of his robes he had stopped and Brother Harlequin was quick to stop himself from stepping ahead of him.
"Is something wrong, Father?"
"Where did you hear these things?"
"From brother Liance. He told them as statement of fact, that he had no right to keep this news from our ears because we were part of this as well. Do you think that this man will attack Dynasty?" The question was filled with mortification. The young man considered it unthinkable that any man would have the gall to raise arms against the One God's house. The High Father knew that feeling well, though he did much better in hiding it.
"I will tell you that there shall not be a war on this island. That would be blasphemy to our God. I will not permit bloodshed in these hallowed halls. This man, his name is Darius Steelbreeze and he is the ruler of the kingdom of Dagoth. He is misguided, this man. He believes many things, all of which have proven to be falsehoods; this much the One God has allowed me to see. But they are falsehoods that this man seems he is willing to fight, and kill, for. The One God has his hand on matters, and there will be others aiding from the outside. Each will take up the mantle of defender for his or her own reason, but the gauntlet has been thrown, as the old saying goes."
"What is misguiding this man, Father?"
The High Father pondered the question. In his prayers late at night, when he lost himself to the company of his God, he was told things, information that others could not know. But the One God did not tell him who was responsible for the king's dementia. There was a reason, and the High Father knew better than to question divinity.
"I do not know," he simply said.
"I will bother you no longer, Father," Brother Harlequin said at last, breaking in on the High Father's thoughts. He looked around him to see that they were clear in the north wing of the Cathedral and he hadn't even remembered the walk.
"Sleep well tonight, Brother Harlequin. Tomorrow will bring us a better day. May the One God watch over you in peace."
"And may he grant you a peaceful sleep, Father. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight."
The High Father watched the youth fade into shadows, making sure that windows were secure and snuffing out torches as he went along, a graceful stride in his walk. Harlequin might very well make a fine High Father some day, if only he could banish the intense curiosity that festered in his mind. Such was youth, the High Father mused, and for that he could hardly blame the man. Then he turned on another hall, a line of carpeted steps made from solid marble leading him to the interior of the cathedral and his private study and bedchamber. He knew sleep would be far from him this night. A madman was coming for the High Throne. And he was bound to the grace of his God that he could not prevent the bloodshed that would follow hard on his heels. No, the High Father thought grimly, sleep was far from him this night.
Verion left the boat tied to the end of the docks, following in silence, his dark, brooding eyes taking in every detail of the night. There was a building near the end of the docks, lights spilling out from both front windows and the open doorway. There was the strong stench of sweat and liquor in the air, wafting to him on a stagnant breeze. That must be what the humans referred to as a tavern. Verion stalked by it open door, hearing the drunken laughter and voices coming out and snarled in disgust. He would never understand humans. But he vowed to these humans that he would aid them in any way that he could. The priest had freed him of the curse that doomed him from ever seeing his mate, his Tiar, ever again. The Council of Stone would allow him back into the tribal lands once they discovered this.
There was also this youth. Ferrin. He was drudic, Verion knew this as fact. The scent that the youth carried, the way his keen eyes and ears gave him an edge that humans did not share in. They even came close in matching his own. He heard the man Cameron Reol speak of bringing the children north and if that were true, then Verion would follow surely. Tribes of the drudic lived in strength along the northern mountains, named Canvese in the human tongue. Verion felt the bond that their races had long shared, and was convinced that Ferrin was aware of it as well, even if the youth hadn't divined what it was just yet.
A noise in the shadows of an alley brought him whipping about like a snake, crouching low and narrowing his eyes to better pierce the darkness. Between two crumbling stone buildings there was a small dog near a trickling barrel of water, growling lowly at him, teeth bared. Verion knelt down, putting one thick arm on his knee and called to the dog, speaking in a language that most humans would never hear. The native tongue of the centiant. The dog stopped growling, suddenly becoming quite dormant, panting and wagging its tail at the dark skinned man. Verion gave the animal a smile before hastening to catch up with the others. Cameron Reol had given Verion the position of taking up the rear, making sure that soldiers weren't following them. The centiant hoped that they were not. He didn't relish the thought of spilling blood, even if their king made him a slave with magic. Life was a thing given as a gift and no other should have the right to take another’s. Nature was unbalanced with every unnatural death. That was one of the reasons that Verion sought to avoid humans and the barbarism that they so loved.
Leaving the docks, bare feet never making a sound as he glided over the cobble stone streets of the city, he paused when the others stopped at the steps of a building that stood at least a story higher than the other, more square buildings around it. There was a single light near the back of the oblong building, flickering in a small window. Frowning, Verion bent low and snagged Ferrin's shirt, getting his attention.
"What is this place? Why are we stopping here? Did Cameron Reol not say that we are searching for one that might save Damien Alohm?"
This is a church, Verion. the scrawny youth informed him; Cameron brought him here because the priest here might be able to heal him with the power of the One God. Cameron calls it magic, but I think he just like being stubborn if you know what I mean. I just hope that the good father has some food we can eat. If my stomach growls any louder I think it’s going to run off and look for food on its own.
Verion shook his head at him, "How can you think of nourishment when your companion is so close to death? You must learn that there is a time and place for everything. Food can wait until Damien Alohm is healed and well."
Ferrin shrugged, giving the centiant a wry grin, and crept closer as Cameron began to pound on the door of the church. Kamil and Benmont were right behind him, arms laced on either side of the father, keeping him from falling. Cameron had broken the bolt off the shaft on the boat, tossing it over the edge, and bandaged the wound with the remains of his shirt. It occurred to Ferrin that none of them had much in the way of coin, and their clothes were in tatters. Stains of blood were plainly visible on them. Not to mention that each and every one of them had a weapon at hand. Ferrin nearly doubled over picturing the rich reaction that the priest was going to give them when he opened his door. He hoped that they weren't simply hauled off to the local jail. He had been in a jail in Twin Port once, and he didn't really savor that memory, rather he shuddered from it. Holding his breath, he waited with the rest for the door to open.
The light in the window vanished, bobbing up and down as someone carried it to the door, stumbling over something and nearly falling on their way. Then the door was opening and a kindly looking older man with a thick frame stood there, candle holder crooked in hand, black hair pony tailed down the length of his back.
"What is the meaning of..." the priest began.
"Father, a man here is injured and dying. We need your help or he will bleed to death on these steps."
"Name of the One!" the priest exclaimed, casting the candle's light on Damien's limp form, "Bring him in from the cold so I can see what I can do with him. Hurry up now, it doesn't look like he will last much longer!" The man stepped away from the door and Cameron moved to the rail, allowing Kamil and Benmont to haul him in. Kirstin marched in after them, her face painted with concern. Cameron gave Ferrin an impatient look before the youth realized that he wasn't moving, then doubled his walking pace and scooted into the door.
"I will wait here," Verion told Cameron.
"It may be some time before we come out, Verion. You may as well come in with us."
"I will stay here, Cameron. I have no need of sleep or healing and I can go without food for days without weakening. Besides, there is a storm brewing and I will find the rain refreshing."
Cameron stared blankly at the dark skinned man grinning back at him. Rain? Verion had just been on the ocean for hours and he wanted to see more water? Not trying to understand, Cameron told Verion goodnight and closed the door behind him, leaving the centiant to his own devices.
Kamil and Benmont laid Damien down on the floor where the elder priest instructed them to. Damien moaned in his stupor, fever burning his face, making rivulets of sweat bead down his skin, dampening his cloak and shirt. The two young men took a place on one of the pews, right next to Kirstin. She still looked frightened, her arms folded over her chest, eyes never leaving Damien.
"Who dressed this wound?" the elder priest asked, looking at the three children.
"That would be me, father," Cameron returned, crouching low by Damien, hair spilling over his brow. Ferrin stood just behind Cameron, placing a hand on the warrior's shoulder and leaning over to study the priest like he were a piece of artwork in a museum.
"You do good work, friend. If you hadn't, this man would surely have died from this wound."
"My name is Cameron Reol, father. That man is father Damien Alohm from the village of Hamla. He was injured by...”
"No. There is no need to tell me. So he is a man of the faith, is he?" the elder priest traced a line around the wound where the nub of the bolt still showed, "Cameron," his eyes turned back up to him, "I need you to hold him still while I pull this thing from his back. Can you do that for me?"
Cameron placed both hands palm out on Damien's shoulders and gave the priest a waiting look. Rubbing his hands together, muttering to himself, the priest nodded to the warrior and reached down, taking hold of the bloody shaft. One quick jerk and the bolt head was free of flesh, making Damien moan once again and his body shudder before he fell still. The elder priest dropped the quiver to the floor and held his hands over the gaping wound, trickling fresh blood.
"In the name of the One God, your faithful servant humbly asks to use your mighty strength in healing this man, another of your righteous servants. Please, I ask that you seal this wound and allow this man to carry on his good work in your name, unless you deem that it should be otherwise. In Your name, name of the One, amen." the elder priest held up the Komin that dangled on an iron chain at his neck and sketched the symbol in the air. Cameron watched as the wound pulled at itself, flesh seeking the opposite side of the round hold in Damien's back, sucking blood back into itself until all the fresh blood was in him once more, not running free down his back. In an eye blink there was nothing to mark that there ever was a wound on him.
Damien moaned once more and lay still, breathing already stronger without the metal in his back. Kirstin gave a laugh, her hands cupped over her mouth and her eyes bright with tears. Kamil sighed and leaned against the pew, hand swiping off sweat from his brow. Benmont only studied the priest, hard eyes burning holes into him. The big youth stood from the pew and moved off, arms folded, head hung low.
"Thank you, father. You are a miracle worker," Cameron told him, patting the man's arm. The elder priest smiled paternally and shook his head.
"It was not by my hand that your friend will recover. The One God had plans for him yet, and the man has yet to know what he must truly do. That is all."
"Whatever you say, father," Cameron laughed heartily, "I have one last favor to ask of you. My companions and I have no place in the city to sleep, and little coin. As you can see I don't even have the shirt on my back."
"You may stay here this night. All of you are welcome here. I will find a late dinner for you, you look like you have travelled a long way and might be hungry." Ferrin leapt after the elder priest, placing a thin arm around the man's shoulders and quickening his pace as the priest went into the back, lighting a pair of oil lamps in the process.
"I suggest a good night's sleep tonight, Cameron told them, hoisting Damien up in his arms, "I intend to send Ferrin out tomorrow to fetch us equipment and new clothes. Then were taking a vessel north, possibly all the way to Diez. I intend to get us on that ship by midmorning."
"Diez?" Kamil sounded awed. And he was little from it, with all the talk that he heard of the great bay city in the north. One of the oldest in the land, Diez was nicknamed the golden city because the stone and metal that was worked into the houses and streets glowed gold when the sun set just right. That was what his father told him of the city. He had dreamt sometimes of bringing Sara there when he left Hamla, perhaps marry her there. Thinking of Sara brought a stab to his heart and he fell silent, eyes closed for fear that someone might see the emotion reflected in them. He hoped to the One that he would see Sara again soon. It had been some time since she visited him.
"Why north, Cameron?" Kirstin asked, leaning closer, intent on anything that might take her mind off of how close Damien came to dying.
"I have my reasons for wanting to take you north, Kirstin. The reasons will have to wait until the morning, though. You need rest, as does the father here. Benmont, will you help me with Damien. I'm sure the priest here won't mind if we find him a room to lay him in." Benmont shrugged and paced over to Cameron, scooping up the sleeping priest and cradling him like a child.
"I guess I'll see you in the morning, Grim," Kirstin patted Benmont on the arm and the big man smiled back at her, just barely, before carrying Damien toward an open side hall with doors near the back. Just as Cameron went to follow a flash of lightning split the air and the rumble of thunder made the windows tremble a touch.
"Cursed centiant," Cameron muttered as he trailed after Benmont.
Morning brought the sun through the clouds, forcing the rain and making the wet countryside glisten anew. Ferrin weaved his way through the crowd of people that were congesting the inner city as market day was just beginning. A throng of maids cluttered about the double door Shoppe of a tailor, most carrying wicker baskets with them, or at least sacks that bulged with clothes. He was glad that he had chosen to rise early, beating the crowds and buying or borrowing what Cameron needed from the Shoppe owners before the main streets were too busy for him to even move in. But with the throng of people came the style of shopping that Ferrin loved best.
Without half thinking the scrawny youth removed the coin purse of a haughty young nobleman who was mooning over some hand maid that was trying to sell her pottery wares. Ferrin probably did the poor girl a favor, taking the man's coin purse. He was ugly as an ox and had a way with words that made him want to gag. As fond as he was at the thought of throwing up all over the nobleman's pretty blue vest he hastened on before the dupe realized that he had been robbed. The same unfortunate thing happened to three more people before Ferrin could make his way from the crowd, trailing along an alley that smelled strongly of urine. He didn't worry much. One of the first things that he purchased that day was a pair of daggers to fit under the loose knitted shirt that he favored. The sleeves were baggy and the skirt trailed to his thighs, giving him a lot of maneuvering room in it.
An accidental rub up with a pair of garrison members gave him another dagger for his collection. One that he was fast to tuck into the folds of his new shirt as the garrisons members turned to look at him, their faces dark with suspicion. Ferrin waved them a friendly hello before finding yet another narrow alley to wind down. As soon as he passed the corner he ran for all he was worth, clutching the pack sack of goods to his chest and running all the way to a four crossing before turning right and running even faster. A broad grin was plastered on his face when he found another main road, thick with carts that carried fisherman and their catches into the western market street.
Fool guards, Ferrin wheezed. They never knew what hit them. Not bothering to catch his breath, the thin youth trotted down the walk of the street, stepping past another tailor and a bakery, fighting his way past it despite the smell of fresh apple pies coming straight through the window to him, and entered the armory Shoppe. A bell jingled from above the door as he stepped in, slinging the pack sack across one shoulder and making his way up an aisle, racks of armor lining them on both sides of him. The smell of oiled metal and new leather hung in the air, making him blink heavily as he stepped to the front of the Shoppe. A suit of leather armor was standing near the desk, dark green with studs of iron lining the entire chest plate. The shoulders were also sewn up with iron plates, bulging slightly to make the wearer look larger across the shoulders then he really was.
The leather armor was thick, with a tunic that went low on the belt, splitting on the sides to permit free movement by the wearer. Ferrin grinned, realizing that Cameron had lost his own leather armor in Cromley Tower, along with his horse and the coin that master Telba had paid him.
Ringing the bell at the desk in the back of the room made a clerk appear, a scrawny fellow with wild hair that chose to wear vests that didn't cover the generous amount of chest hair that he was blessed with. Ferrin's eyes bulged at the man but he was fast to recover, pointing with a slender finger to the green armor that hung on the rack.
"Ya like that, eh?" the clerk said through a thick smile and suddenly Ferrin was very glad that he couldn't speak or he would have burst out laughing. Instead he only nodded to the man.
"That armor was only finished a bit ago, and I think it carries a price of seventy five gold pieces. How's that suit ya?"
Ferrin put a hand to his chin and tapped his foot, staring at the ceiling beams in a most interested fashion. He squinted an eye at the clerk and resumed studying the ceiling beams, his foot picking up speed as he did this.
"Well, maybe yer right. I think sixty five gold?" the man swallowed, the grin on his face never wavering, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Ferrin knew he could haggle this simpleton down even more if he stayed here long enough. But he didn't have time for that. Sighing in silence, Ferrin meticulously counted the sixty five coins as fast as he could, shelling out the pieces to the clerk. The man smiled broadly, all teeth, and told Ferrin he hoped the armor would serve him well. The youth shook his head at the man before scooping the armor off the rack and finding a place to hold it before running back out of the Shoppe to the church where the others waited for him. He snickered at the fact that the clerk's smile wasn't going to last long when he found only sixty coins in that pile on his counter.
Cameron was pleased at the sight of new armor, donning the dark green suit right after he put on fresh clothes. Kirstin snatched her bundle from Ferrin, giving him a kiss on his cheek that made him turn a shade of red, and went into the back rooms to change. Kamil followed suit, without the kiss. Benmont had all the modesty of Cameron, changing in the front gathering room just beyond the prayer hall where peasants gathered to give prayer to the One.
"How much coin do we have left, Ferrin?" Cameron asked as he tightened the buckles on his straps, pulling the chest guard tight around him, welcoming an old friend.
Ninety four silvers and sixty three golds in all. Ferrin signed to him. Cameron looked puzzled, then his face became stern and he shook an angry finger at the youth.
"Don't do that, Ferrin. If you get caught pilfering through other people's purses you can stay in that cell the garrison locks you in. I don't have time to pay for your release. Do we understand each other?"
I don't get caught. Ferrin signed, cocking his head to the side like a bird examining him.
"I will never get how you two can talk like that," Benmont commented, rubbing his hands through hair still wet from washing. The bright red looked much darker, his green eyes fresh with sleep. The big youth brought both arms behind his head and stretched, arms bulging as muscle flexed at pulled at the shirt he wore.
"Benmont, try not to tear that shirt, yes?" Cameron shot at him, making Benmont drop his arms to his sides, glowering all the while. Ferrin patted him good naturedly on the arm but stepped back swiftly when Benmont snarled at him. Ferrin signed at the big man, and that only made him even more agitated.
"What's he saying now, or do I even want to know?"
"He said, 'down boy' and I have to agree with him. What in the world is eating you, Benmont?" The brawny youth stared daggers at Ferrin, who gingerly stepped behind Cameron's back. Benmont shook a fist after him, teeth grinding in his mouth.
"Nothing." he fairly growled back, "I just don't like the fact that we run when we should stand and fight."
"Fight? You suggest that fighting Dagoth now would avail us anything? I know what happened to your mother, Benmont, but there is no reason to go running off and dying now. Not until we at least have some reason to die for. Fighting them won't amount to a water drop in a lake right now, and you know that."
"Each soldier of Dagoth that I kill brings me a sense of justice," Benmont replied in a low voice, "His dogs killed my mother in her own house, and it wasn't even her that they were after! She was only in the way, Cameron! In the way! When I think about it, it's all I can do not to scream until my throat burns out."
"Then don't think about it, Benmont," Cameron offered coolly, "There is a difference between justice and vengeance, and I think you seek the latter of them."
"I don't care."
"Well that you should, Benmont Grimnight. I'm going to need your strong arm where we intend to go. I will accept nothing less from you." Benmont spun about to face Damien Alohm, hand on a plain wooden cane for support, thin black beard shaved clean and his dark hair cut even closer to his head, "I will need all of you to aid me. My God has given me a path to follow and only He knows where it shall lead me."
"Father," Benmont nodded to him, "I will follow you. You saved me from the black fever. I owe you that much, if nothing else. But I am tired of these men that try to use or kill us like we're pawns to them, not flesh and blood! In my eyes the Baron of Cromley Tower is no better than the king of Dagoth!"
"Avernus Cromley is a calculating man, but I know that he will not escape the machinations that he set into motion. The One allows freedom to your choices, but also warns sternly of the consequences that evil actions bring. I think that Avernus is beginning to understand this."
"You two can talk over this all you want once we charter a vessel that will take us north," Cameron stepped in-between them, and Benmont stepped away, surprised to see that he was standing almost toe to toe with the priest, his hands clenched in fists that shook with his anger. Pulling back that anger was a task that made him feel cold all about his body, like coals when the last spark of flame had left them. Was anger then the last thing that he had to call his own? He wondered.
"Of course, Cameron," Damien nodded, looking back to the large youth, "I understand what you feel, Benmont. I only ask that you think with your head in this matter, and not with emotions. They will betray you in the end."
"It is good to see you well, father," Cameron smiled at the priest, who returned the gesture, "I will find the lot of you on the docks. There are things that I must tend to while I'm here. Ferrin has the coins on him, and if he plays the innocent just have Benmont shake it out of him." Ferrin looked appalled at the thought of him holding back anything from his companions, and promptly shifted back the coin purse from his pant leg to his belt line. As if they would have missed twenty silvers. Damien watched Cameron go, waited until the man was out the doors of the prayer room before spinning about to look at Ferrin.
"Find Kamil and Kirstin; bring them to the step of the church. Is Verion still with us?" A quick, enthusiastic nod from Ferrin told the priest that he was with them still. Damien grinned at the youth, "Fetch him as well. We will take to the docks before the midmorning is sounded. Alright, Ferrin?"
Whatever you say, father. Good to see you back to your normal pushy self. Here I thought I was going to have to take that attitude from Cameron while you were comatose. Thank you for proving me wrong. Ferrin didn't wait for the good father to sign back, instead bounding on his heels and racing deeper into the back of the church, making no sound as he moved. Benmont glared after him, jaw set firmly as he watched him.
"I hate not knowing what that hand signaling is," Benmont growled aloud, making Damien start. Then the priest faced him and made a quick series of hand gestures that brought another growl from Benmont.
"What in the world did you just do?"
"I signed. That is what it's called, Benmont. I'm not as good at it as Ferrin is, or even Cameron for that matter, but I have been learning it. I could teach it to you on this voyage if you want me to."
"No, thank you." the brawny youth replied curtly, his voice just shy of acidic.
"Let's hurry then. With the way that boy moves he probably has the lot of them out the door already and waiting for us."
Cameron entered the door of the tavern, travel cloak wrapped over his left side where his blade hung on his waist. The door was held open to allow the sea air entry, swirling out the stale smell of old ale and sweating bodies. The tavern was small, with only a dozen tables and a back room in the corner where the keep stored many of his wares. A wooden bar ran the length of its right side, with a burly gentleman in a thick wool vest and tight breeches wiping down the end of it with a wash cloth. Cameron cast a quick, cool eye over the handful of people that were in the tavern before making his way to the bar. Pulling out a stool from the rail, he sat himself at the corner, farthest from the door, and called the keep to him.
"What am I doin for ya?" the keep asked in a friendly manner as he tucked the washcloth into his leather belt, putting both hands on the end of the counter. Cameron leaned forward on his elbows and smiled back at the man. He really should have practiced more at his charming smile, but that would have to wait for now.
"How about helf nog. And then maybe some information after that," Cameron placed down a handful of gleaming silver coins on the table, letting them spill out from either side of his palm.
"Deep God's alive! You and half the people in this city are snooping about! Do you think I can't see a Dagothian lackey when I see one?"
"I am no soldier," Cameron spat out, his tone ice cold. The keep eyed him askance, then muttered and snatched at the silver. Cameron kept it where it was with a strong hand, deep blue eyes fixed on the keep's.
"I don't recall helf nog being that expensive, sir."
"Not the booze, no. But if ya want ta hear anythin bout information, then I think that the price just raised, no?"
"Fair enough," Cameron retorted, letting the silver pieces go and leaning back on his stool. The keep scooped up the coins and pulled out a dented metal tray, letting them clank down into it before placing it back under the bar. He went to the opposite side of the bar and tapped a full mug of helf nog, a foaming white alcohol that was thick and almost creamy in texture but possessed a fire to it that made most queasy to the stomach. Cameron snatched up the mug and drained nearly half the mug in a single drought, bringing it back down to the counter and swiping a hand over his mouth, "Now talk."
"Word from some travelling peddlers is that Cromley Tower is fallen, didn't even take Dagoth a day to make it theirs. The Baron is gone, rumor has it that Captain Jaist of the Honor Guard took him personally to the king of Dagoth. With Dagoth holding the tower, ain't no way the heir is getting his hands on it, know what I mean? That means that Twin Port is lawfully in Dagoth's scummy paws due to the laws of war. Soldiers are already out on the streets, all over the place. Deep Gods alive, one of my friends just got his market taken apart by them!"
"Don't you mean black market?" Cameron sneered at him, and the keep laughed at him.
"And you're what, having to buy this information from me? Instead of walking the road and finding out in the market place? Hey," the keep suddenly grew serious, narrowing hazel eyes, "They're lookin for somethin, they are. And here you are runnin and hidin, buyin information in this place. You what they be lookin for?"
"No," Cameron replied, pushing a hand so his travel coat fell back, letting the keep see the broad sword that held its place on the man's side. His eyes widened with the unspoken threat, then were normal again.
"Suit yourself, stranger," the keep told him, "There is another rumor floatin about. Somethin good about the Silent Brotherhood."
Cameron raised an eyebrow to the man. The Silent Brotherhood? The same band of thieves that had been brought to justice seventy years ago by Gabriel Warrek, warrior king of Southcross? He tried not to laugh.
"What care have I for them? That was nearly a hundred years ago, keep. Try to keep your information line a little more current." The keep scoffed at him, leaning closer to Cameron so no other ears could hear them.
"This is current, man!" the keep whispered hotly, "Rumor places them back in action, and here of all places, with a new guild master. I guess from what a couple of the garrison tell me, they plan on announcing their presence 'gain by killin some fool noble that is high in the eyes of the Eagle."
"Where is this going down?" Cameron demanded, finishing off the last of the helf nog, "What garrison men told you this? Speak, or I might be tempted to take those coins back from you."
"I can't tell you who, stranger, or they won't share words 'gain. The dupe that the guild is after is comin' in by boat to visit an ally or some such. The guild is going to take him in broad daylight, dismorning," the keep chuckled a bit at the last of it, "That poor fool ain't gonna know what hit him."
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