Rocalla's Saga: Arrival

20: The Warrior’s Den —

1054 Kyabalaka 4

“So, have you come any closer to making a decision?” Mariyiybha asks us over breakfast. She has prepared a delicious hot cereal for us, spiced and sweetened. I eat it slowly, savoring it. It brings back memories of the Bhayanna Archipelago, even though the specific herbs and spices are different from what we would use at home.

“We’re going to wait until tomorrow, to see what happens at the market square when the church makes their announcement,” I say. “In the meantime, we’re preparing to go to the Duradh Plateau on short notice.”

“I think we should go soon, if we’re going to,” Dierdra says. “I can already see snow on the mountains. If we wait much longer, we may not be able to get through the pass to the plateau.”

“A few more days shouldn’t make a difference,” I say.

“It will only take one good snow to make a difference,” Dierdra says. “I’m not saying that we can’t wait. What I’m saying is that the longer we wait, the greater the chance we’ll be forced to spend the winter in Mandelbroggen.”

“We’ll see how it goes tomorrow. If things go well, we may be able to stay. If they go badly, we’ll be leaving Mandelbroggen, no matter what the weather.”

We remain at Mariyiybha’s house until late in the afternoon. I spend most of that time studying, meditating, and reflecting on what we are doing. Dierdra spends much of it pacing around Mariyiybha’s small house. Dierdra seems anxious to be doing something, and she wastes no time getting ready when we bid farewell to Mariyiybha.

“Mariyiybha, we’ve got to go now and try to recruit some help for our possible journey,” I say.

“The guards are looking for you. You realize that making yourselves known in public is dangerous right now,” she says.

“We know, but we need more than just the two of us to survive out there.”

“Well, possibly. Where do you plan on looking for help?”

“A while ago I met someone who stays at The Warrior’s Den,” I say.

“Do you know the place? It has a reputation for roughness.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Dierdra says.

“That may be. But it’s also outside the city wall to the west, along the trade road. It is likely to be watched,” says Mariyiybha.

“We’ll be careful,” I say. “Thanks for the warning.”

By the time we leave Mariyiybha’s house, the sun is low in the sky. We head toward the West Gate, still carrying no visible weapons. My bruise is fading, and although I favor my left leg just a bit, my limp is not very noticeable.

There are not many people on the streets, and we easily elude the few patrols that we see. The West Gate is on the far side of the city from Mariyiybha’s house, and it takes us nearly an hour to walk there. When we arrive, there are three guardsmen patrolling the portal, just as Mariyiybha had feared. Fortunately, they are engaged in conversation with a trader leading a pack horse laden with goods. I pull my hood tightly around my head, stuff my hands in my pockets, and keep moving, hoping that we will not be noticed. But a soldier with a halberd blocks our way, speaking something in Franhkallan which I do not understand. Dierdra answers for both of us. After an extended discussion, the halberdier is called back over by the men inspecting the trader’s load. Dierdra grabs my sleeve and pulls me along. We pass through the gate, but I can feel the eyes of the guards examining us.

When we get out of earshot, I ask Rocalla, “So what did they want?”

“They wanted to know where we were going and why,” she says.

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth, mostly. That we were going to The Warrior’s Den to meet someone.”

“Do you think that was wise?”

“I couldn’t think of an alternative story to explain our departing the city gate at this hour that would be any less suspicious.”

We walk together in the gathering gloom for about ten minutes before we see the combined inn and tavern up ahead. A pair of open fires light the street in front of the building, where a group of three men are arguing. Strikingly different from The Happy Pilgrim, The Warrior’s Den is a large, low, sprawling complex of connected cottages, shacks, and hovels. None of the walls match, and few parts of the building even appear to be on the same level.

We approach warily, walking up to the tavern’s front door. Just as we are about to enter, a drunken guardsman stumbles out, almost colliding with us. His right arm is gripping the waist of a young woman who is dressed rather sparingly, considering the weather. Hesitating for only a second, we plunge into The Warrior’s Den.

The interior of the tavern is dark, smelly, and filled with a deafening racket. No one takes the slightest notice of us. Every table is occupied; groups of men and an occasional woman sit around drinking, eating, talking, striking deals, and casting sticks in games of chance. In one corner, a young man plays a lute while a woman with hair the color of honey sings loudly. Across the hall, an older woman with mousy brown hair and a soft clear voice is serenading a rapt audience with a long ballad. I can see a few people dancing to the music of flutes and drums in a side room which is just visible down a short hallway.

Dierdra and I start wandering between the tables, looking for Clavius Valerian. Along the way, patrons invite us to sit down and have a drink with them. A few even place their hands on our arms or backsides to get our attention. We ignore them as best we can and move on.

We are near the back wall when we pass a table occupied by a trio of men wearing leather and fur. One of them reaches out and grabs me around the waist with his huge well-muscled arms and pulls me down into his lap.

“Hey, let go of me,” I protest loudly.

The other men at his table chuckle a bit. “Looks like you caught youself a foreigner,” one of them says.

“Get your filthy hands off me,” I say. I try to struggle free, but his arm clamps me tightly in place. One of the other men reaches for Dierdra, but she jumps out of his grasp, bumping into a patron seated at the table behind her.

The big ape holding me attempts to twist me around to face him, but I resist. He instead puts his head next to mine and speaks softly in my ear, “Don’t fight me. You willn’t win.” His breath reeks of stale ale and poor hygiene.

The man who reached for Dierdra starts to get up. “Sit down,” Dierdra says, discretely pulling aside her tunic to reveal her machete. The man hesitates, then sinks back into his seat.

While my captor is distracted, I reach into my left sleeve and pull my dagger from its sheath, holding it up against his bare arm. “Let me go, or I’ll slice you up,” I say.

“I told you not to fight me,” he says, grabbing my right wrist with his free hand.

I whip my head forward and then back into his face, smashing his nose. He howls in pain, loosening his grip around my waist. Quickly twisting around, I free myself from his embrace and pull my right arm, only to find it still held tightly in his iron grip.

“Anhteffalke udluë,” he says, then squeezes my wrist and pushes it down, causing me to go down on one knee. A trickle of blood flows from his left nostril. Dierdra is addressing the men in Franhkallan. The other two study her warily.

Reaching over, I transfer my dagger to my left hand, grasping its cross-shaped handle tightly.

“Korplaak!” says my opponent. He grabs a fistful of my hair with his free hand and pulls my head back. Screaming in pain, I start swinging my dagger wildly.

A giant of a man arrives, towering above both of us. “Take it outside,” he says.

“She’s not worth it,” says my opponent, tossing me roughly onto the floor.

“No weapons allowed in the tavern,” says the giant. “Give me the dagger or get out.”

I reluctantly hand him my dagger. “I’ll collect it later,” I say. Then I pick myself up off the floor and brush the dirt and dust from my clothes as we move on.

Across the room, I notice a tall, thin man in a dark cloak looking at me. He is standing against the wall, alone. As I watch, he slides along the wall, turns, and leaves the tavern.

A moment later, I see Clavius nearby, sitting at a table talking to another man, whose dark brown hair, brown eyes, and olive complexion mark him as a fellow Pyrusian. Dierdra and I walk up to him. “Can we talk to you for a moment?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “Martius, this is a woman I met in the citrona fields. I apologize for not remembering your name.”

“Rocalla,” I say, “and this is Dierdra.”

Martius nods his head in acknowledgment. He looks to be six or seven years older than Clavius, but he is just as muscular. “Would you like to sit down?” Clavius asks.

“We can’t stay here long,” I say.

Clavius glances around. “Perhaps a quieter place?”

“That would help,” I reply.

Clavius looks around again. “Excuse us, Martius,” he says, rising to his feet. “Come,” he tells us.

We follow him out through the back of the tavern, into a dark hallway. Walking along several uneven, narrow passageways and through multiple doors, we come to a small room, barely lit by a low fire in the hearth and a couple of torches along the wall. A half dozen men are sitting around one large table, quietly drinking and talking. A second table is empty. We sit there.

Clavius looks us both over carefully. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you,” he says. “There’s a rumor that you’re wanted by the imperial guard.”

“It’s probably not a rumor,” I say.

“What did you do, murder someone?”

“No,” I say, “we just found someone else who had been murdered.”

“Oh, who’s that?”

“There will be a public announcement in the town square at noon tomorrow,” I say.

“Do I have to wait until then to find out?” Clavius asks.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

A barmaid wanders over to our table and says something in Franhkallan. The torchlight glimmers off of her four golden hoop earrings, and shines from the many necklaces with pendant gems that adorn her chest above her décolletage. Dierdra answers her, handing over a few coins.

As the barmaid walks away, her long skirt swishing as she sways her hips between the tables, I continue the conversation while Dierdra watches her leave the room. “We’re making plans for a possible trip out of Mandelbroggen. We’d like to have you join us. Would you be interested?”

A sparkle appears in his eyes. “A short trip or a long one?”

“A long one,” I say.

“The longer the better,” he says. “When would we leave?”

“Within the next few days.”

“Travel during the winter? That’s a bit unusual.”

“Well, there are complications.”

“Like the fact that you’re wanted?”

“Like that.”

The barmaid returns with three large mugs of dark ale. Clavius shifts back in his seat and strokes his chin.

“Well, you have my attention. I have a weak spot in my heart, and maybe a soft spot in my head, for underdogs. Especially when the other party is the imperial government.”

“Then you’re in?” I ask.

“Not yet. I need to know a few things first.”

Dierdra picks up a mug and takes a deep drink as she watches the barmaid turn and stroll away. After she swallows, she abruptly twists and slams the mug down with a bang on the table. Her face is severely contorted as she shakes her head, her red hair whipping around wildly. I pick up my mug and take a sip. The liquid tastes like rotten fish and I spit it back into the mug.

“What is this swill?” I ask.

“The Warrior’s Den’s special brew,” Clavius says. “If you drink enough of it, it actually tastes like ale.”

“You drink this stuff?”

“Ashamedly so,” he says. “What I need to know is where we are going, who’s coming with us, and what my part will be.”

“You don’t want to know the details of why we are being hunted by the town guardsmen?”

“I’d like to know that, but it’s not vital.”

“Well, Dierdra, what do you think?”

She pushes her mug to the center of the table. “I think that this is the worst tasting excuse for a drink ever to pass my lips.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. But what do you think about Clavius’s request for information?”

“Why not? Here’s the short version. Unless things go remarkably well tomorrow at noon, when the church publicly announces the discovery of Bishop Narvaan Kel’s body, we will be leaving Mandelbroggen within days. It will be the two of us; yourself, if you are willing; and hopefully a naturalist.”

“And likely several Circle Cultists,” I add.

“Circle Cultists? They’re the local underground wizards?” Clavius asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Why are they going?” he asks.

“Because they’re going to get blamed for the murder,” I say.

“Did they do it?”

“We don’t think so.”

“So who did?”

“Someone in the castle is my guess,” I say. We tell Clavius what we found during our excursion into the castle.

“You two are interesting women, not what I would expect. Between the trouble you have found yourself in and the season, it is not likely to be a comfortable journey. What are your skills?” Clavius asks.

“I’m an archer,” Dierdra says. “Rocalla is a priestess.”

“Any weapons talents, Rocalla? I mean to say, if it comes to it, can you defend yourself?”

I tell Clavius about my quarterstaff, and the dagger that was taken in the tavern.

“I still need to know one thing,” Clavius says. “Where are we going?”

Dierdra and I look at each other. Then I turn to face Clavius. “I need your word,” I say. “I need you to promise that you won’t tell anyone where we are going if you decide not to accompany us.”

Clavius nods. “You have my word of honor.”

“We’re planning to head south, over the mountains and onto the Duradh Plateau,” I say.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“How are we planning to deal with the Rhozzhan?”

“Mariyiybha, a fellow Traveler, spent some time there. She’s lending me her language notes so that we will be able to communicate and have some knowledge of what to expect from their culture.”

“It’s going to be a hard winter on the plateau if they decide to be unhelpful.”

“Then we’ll keep moving and head west,” I say.

“Are the passes still clear?”

“Probably, but we don’t know for certain or for how much longer,” Dierdra says.

“Okay,” Clavius says, “I’m with you. Like I said, I have a soft spot for underdogs, and there is nothing for me to do here all winter except drink away what money I’ve saved from working the harvest. When will you decide if and when you’re going?”

“Right after the church’s announcement at noon tomorrow,” I say.

“Good. Now we need to get you out of here.”

“I need to pick up my dagger,” I say.

“No, you need to sneak out the back, so you won’t be noticed,” Clavius says.

Dierdra looks at me, concern on her face. Despite my own misgivings, I nod to her and then say, “Okay, let’s go.”

Clavius leads us out of the small tavern room and down several dim hallways. Then he stops at a door. “There’s a bunk room behind this door. You can crawl out the window. The quieter we are, the less attention you’ll attract.” With that he opens the door.

The room is dark, and I can barely discern bunks on either side near the door. The rest is just inky blackness; there are no lights inside. Clavius motions for us to follow him and steps inside. I take a deep breath, and pray that I am not leading us into an ambush or worse. Then I slowly start walking forward. Dierdra walks behind me, her left hand gripping my cloak at the shoulder.

The air in the room is stale and stinks of unwashed bodies. Heavy snoring comes from the left. Two low voices, a man’s and a woman’s, are whispering and giggling off to the right. As we move forward, my eyes start to adjust to the lack of light. There is another pair of bunks farther ahead, and I can just make out Clavius’s silhouette opening a window at the back of the room.

When we reach the window, I savor the cool fresh air coming through. Clavius stands aside as I walk up and poke my head cautiously through the opening. No one is visible on the other side, although it is hard to see anything in the deep night.

I go first, throwing my right leg over the sill and crawling through the opening. Once both legs are through, I carefully lower myself down on the opposite side. Stepping back to give Dierdra room to exit the building, I keep watch up and down the poorly lit alley.

Once we are both out, Clavius whispers to us. “Go down the alley to the left until you get a couple of blocks down from the inn. Then turn south and cross the main road. Keep in the shadows as much as you can. If you can manage it, avoid West Gate. It’s heavily guarded.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “Thanks.”

“Good luck to you both.” With that he closes the window.