Trik - Betrayal in Rule

The window shutters hung open at the Inn of the Firehound, lighting the parlor room of the small establishment. Above the fireplace was a painting of a black hound with flames in its mouth. Durben and Trik were seated across from each other at a table beside the fireplace. Durben was staring at the painting above the fireplace. He turned from the painting and faced Trik. “I should never have come,” he said. “I should have stayed home.”

Trik was not looking at Durben. He was studying the mountain peaks through the window over the table. He scratched his chin, but still he said nothing.

“Did you hear me?” asked Durben. His eyes narrowed on the elf. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Still Trik remained expressionless, his eyes set on the peaks north of the inn. At last he turned to Durben. “Don’t think for a moment that Mortimer will stop at Rule,” he said. “If Rule falls, he will march next on Linden and your father.”

“At least in Linden I would have my father’s army,” said Durben. “Here there is nothing.”

“I promised your father,” said Trik. “I promised him that I would deliver his message.”

Durben nodded. “Oh,” he said, “and what a fine job you’ve done. If you had done any better, we would be dead.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand nervously on the table. “I must get home,” he said. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go myself.”

Trik glared at him. “Mortimer’s men will find you,” he said, “just as they did before.”

Durben shook his head. “How did I get mixed up in this?” he asked, his expression turning to grief. “I’m a farm boy, not a fighter.”

“You’re a Lord,” said Trik, “like your father before you. Act like it. What would your father say if he could see you now?”

Durben sighed. “Probably that I am disappointing him,” he said.

“Your father,” said Trik, “the tactician. Remember,” he said, “it was your father who discovered the truth of Mortimer. It was your father who sent us to Rule.”

“Perhaps,” said Durben, “Mortimer will forgive me. I’ve only just become a man. He would show mercy.”

Trik shook his head. “He would kill you,” he said. “You know that. Whether he wanted to or not, he no longer has a choice in the matter. Mortimer has turned against the Emperor, and his men have taken the city.” He turned toward the window again. “He would certainly kill me.”

“But what can we do now?” asked Durben. “Mortimer’s men will be looking for us. We can’t go back to Linden, and we can’t stay in Rule.”

Trik scratched his chin. “There is someone I know,” he said.

Durben glanced over his shoulder. A group of men were walking over to the table behind them. He looked back at Trik, and whisepered, “We should go now.”

Trik nodded. “I know a place,” he whispered.

“Then why do we sit here?” asked Durben.

“Come,” said Trik. He got to his feet.

“Well,” asked Durben, standing, “where is it?”

“You won’t like it,” said Trik, walking away from the table.

“I hate when you say that,” said Durben.

They stepped outside together. The sun was low in the west, and soon it would be dusk. The mountains loomed before them, cold and gray and with peaks white with snow. “Come,” said Trik, and he marched toward the mountains.

“Where are you going?” asked Durben, running to catch up with him.

“To see an old friend,” said Trik.