The Screaming Sword

By Bill Fitts

The time of the Thunder Lord draws nigh: a promise fulfilled—or forever denied. In the land that men call Narne, evil is stirring. The battle of dark versus light begins anew.

The fireplace flames billowed up to form the outline of a man—a man made of fire. “Who uses Sokhal’s Star to call me?” The mage’s voice reached every corner of the hall. Beneath the broken furniture, the boy lay motionless. If he stood up, the man with the screaming sword would know that he still lived. But when the Warlock of Miron asks a question, he expects an answer. “It’s Kenrad, Uncle Stefan.” His youthful voice cracked. “And that man killed Mother

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Fitts
• Release date: Nov 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781941387054

Bill Fitts

I used to say that I grew up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, when, in truth, I only started growing older there. After nineteen years I left to go to college and, for the most part, spent the next twenty years aging somewhere else—New Jersey, Florida, Panama Canal Zone, Massachusetts, and Georgia. Then I returned to Tuscaloosa and continued the maturation process for another twenty-six years. In 2015 my wife and I moved to Vero Beach, Florida, where I hope to continue growing older for a good long time.The locations I’ve lived in have had more influence on my mystery novels (the Needed Killing Series) than on the fantasies (Song of Narne). The town of Shelbyville in the NKS is based in large part on Tuscaloosa with some wrinkles from other locations thrown in to keep things interesting—and keep the inhabitants guessing. That’s not to say that the places I’ve been aren’t reflected in the fantasies—but most of the geography of Narne is imaginaryWhile growing older, I’ve tried my hand at a number of jobs—newspaper collator, darkroom technician, farmhand, factory worker, sailor, salesman, underwriter, account executive, accountant, systems administrator, information specialist--and professional writer. As an author I find that those earlier experiences contribute to what happens in my novels—again more in the not-as-fictional mysteries than in the fantasies. There’s just not enough magic in the real worldInterestingly, the event that crystallized my decision to start writing full-time is one that I haven’t used in any of my novels. The tornado that ripped through Tuscaloosa on April 27, 2011, destroying an eighth of the town—including the back half of my house—hasn’t made it into any of my novels. Shelbyville and Narne have both been spared.On the other hand, the support, encouragement, and editorial assistance my wife provides have been part of every novel since the beginning.I hope you enjoy reading my books as much as I enjoy writing them.For more information about my writing, visit my website billfittsauthor.com.

Book preview

The Screaming Sword

Book 1 in Song of Narne

Bill Fitts

Copyright 2016 by Bill Fitts

Smashwords Edition

Excerpt from Sokhals’s Star

Copyright 2016 by Bill Fitts

Excerpt from Two Needed Killing

Copyright 2016 by Bill Fitts

All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, or decompiled in any manner whatsoever, whether electronic or mechanical, without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you did not purchase this ebook or it was not purchased for you, please go to billfittsauthor.com and purchase your own copy.

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ISBN: 978-1-941387-08-5

www.billfittsauthor.com

Again, for Anne;

and for Wayne, who never reads a book twice but asked to reread this one

Characters

Aelenor. The East Wind.

Ajah. A patron of the Drunken Ox.

Akelides. The royal family.

Asties. An officer in the Ivornian Guard.

Bentel. God of liars and tricksters.

Blumgar the Fat. Kenrad’s friend.

Brias. Goddess of trade and commerce.

Caratha. The South Wind.

Coruck. One of Temar’s underlings.

Cruag. The steward of Castle Mizok.

Davi. A young scribe in the Great Library.

Dokar. A thief.

Elkines. An Erramtrix.

Errandra. A young Erramic woman.

Estal. Goddess of assassins and the night.

Fierard. One of Temar’s underlings.

Fotareh. The North Wind.

Fotor. God of winter.

Glenar. A young Erramic boy.

Glohs Jesma. The Voice of Narne; the first Erramtrix.

Grastar. God of thieves, cutpurses, and beggars.

Graydon. The Governor of Mironius.

Gwilyn. A young scribe in the Great Library.

Haragdo. God of beer and ale.

Hoislum the Usurper. A traitor.

Jana. A patron of the Drunken Ox.

Jessamyn. Kenrad's horse.

Josca. Man who reported a dragon attack.

Justin. A soldier in the Army of Mironius.

Kenrad. Son of Kynsa and Margil of the house of Sokhal.

Kynsa. Kenrad's mother.

Lekelia. Errandra’s cousin.

Lira. One of Temar’s employees.

Lofi the Source. A seller of information.

Maccorus. Last Emperor of the Akelides.

Margil. Kenrad's father.

Merkyn. An officer in the Ivornian Guard.

Miron. The West Wind.

Miron’s Warlock. Stefan of the house of Sokhal.

Mosa. A young cat in the Great Library.

Neskan. An Erramic caravanmaster.

Oken. The keeper of the caravan animals.

Ortek. A soldier in the Army of Mironius.

Pondak. Blumgar's horse.

Pratha. A Sand Cat; like a thunderclap out of a cloudless sky.

Rata. Temar's manservant.

Rayh. Errandra's horse.

Regnis the Fell-handed. Long-dead captain in the Ivornian Guard.

Ronah. Queen of the gods.

Sharka. Goddess of luck.

Sklar. Erramic wagon driver.

Stefan of the house of Sokhal. Miron’s warlock.

Stilath. Goddess of reptiles.

Temar. A villain.

Thordan. One of the Freemen of Suluth.

Thranghed. Lead Braken ox.

Urtik. One of Temar’s underlings.

Varna. An elderly armorer on the Street of Swords.

Wilf Thied. An officer in the Army of Mironius.

Worrell. One of Temar’s underlings.

Wysork. The lead torturer at Castle Mizok.

Xarcos. Teacher of the gods.

Yazni. One of Temar's underlings.

Yorma. A Master Scribe in the Great Library.

Ysabelle. A Fellow in the Great Library.

Zenae. A Master Scribe in the Great Library.

1

In Sokhal's Keep

At least the sword had stopped its dreadful screaming. At least there was that. Kenrad lay hidden under broken and shattered pieces of furniture, too scared to cry, and thought of the sword. The awful sword that cried with a tortured voice of its own.

When the man had taken the sword hilt in his hand and drawn the weapon from its scabbard, the boy had heard it begin to keen, then grow louder as it was swung through the air, its voice blending with the screams in the castle, the cries of Kenrad’s mother and her handmaiden, the shouts of the household guard, and the sounds of men and women as they faced their deaths. Those screams had faded, some dying down to whimpers, then nothing; others ending in a hideous gurgle or groan. But the sword had kept on screaming, its cry resounding through the halls, until there were no other sounds and the sword itself fell silent.

A voice boomed out of the darkness, bouncing off the high ceiling and filling the great hall. The boy slipped farther back under the broken chairs, benches, and overturned tables. The nineteen known gods and all the unknown ones damn you, Fierard. Why did you slaughter all these people? I've been all through the castle and I can't find anyone but our own men alive. The man stopped as he entered the room, his eyes sweeping the scene in front of him.

Through the broken legs of an upturned chair, Kenrad watched the speaker and the man he was berating enter the room. The speaker, whose voice had easily filled the hall ahead of his entrance, was immense, a corpulent figure, dressed in bits and pieces of pieced-together fabric—as if no loom was big enough to make a bolt of cloth wide enough to fit him. His colleague, if that was what he was, seemed child size next to him.

For a heartbeat, Kenrad felt that the fat man's eyes had found him in his hiding place. With a quick surge of fear, he edged farther back among the debris of the overturned tables and shattered furniture. As he did so, he realized he was clutching his mother’s pendant. The one made out of khrystal. He must have picked it up when he'd found her body.

The big man, his hands on his hips, surveyed the wreckage of the room. By Grastar, look at this!

With a sigh of relief, Kenrad decided the big man had not seen him. From his new vantage point, Kenrad could see the second man clearly.

Fierard walked over to the fireplace that dominated one wall of the great hall and began wiping the dark blade of that now silent sword. In the light cast by the glowing embers, Kenrad could see his face—could see Fierard smiling to himself. His face was smooth and full, sleepy looking. A small, dreamy smile was on his lips as he continued to wipe the blade with long gentle strokes akin to a caress. Kenrad clenched his hands and the sharp edges of his mother's pendant cut into his flesh.

Listen to me! The big man shook his head in disgust. Do you think I'm talking just to hear myself speak, Fierard? Don't just stand there like some lovestruck loony. Speak to me or I'll shake the words out of you! Angered by his companion's silence, Blumgar reached out and seized his arm.

In a move too quick to follow, Fierard slipped out of the big man's grip and spun around to face him. Speak to me like that again, the words hissed from between his lips, and I'll have your guts spread out on the floor before you know what has happened, too slow and stupid to realize that you are dead. With a snap of his wrist, Fierard shot the bloodstained rag into the fireplace and crouched forward on his toes. His sword appeared between the two men, its gleaming point at Blumgar's throat.

Kenrad felt more than heard the sword begin to keen.

Now, now, Fierard. The fat man's hands were high above his head, too far away from the hilt of his scabbarded broadsword to pose any threat. Perhaps I spoke too hasty. He was frozen in place. It's the fight that caused it. One minute thinking that all I had to look out for was a place to sleep and food to eat, and the next fighting for my life. Why it has made me foolish, that's all.

Fierard stepped back, dropping his sword from Blumgar's throat. The sword's high-pitched cry died away. So you were surprised, were you?

Blumgar frowned and rubbed his broad hand across his face. We'd given them no reason to turn on us; we'd even sworn Ronah's peace. What happened? His hand reaching the end of his face, it stopped and began to tug on one end of his mustache.

Oh, I know the answer to that. I'm no fool, all stomach and no brains. Fierard smiled and slipped his sword into its scabbard. They didn't attack us, we attacked them.

Beneath the broken table, Kenrad swallowed once, tasting the acid bitterness of hate. Kenrad's grip on the pendant tightened. With all his might he wished for some way to strike out at Fierard.

A low rumble of thunder rolled through the room. Hear that? Fierard cocked his head at the sound. I would have sworn it wasn’t going to storm. The young swordsman began to pace up and down in front of the wide fireplace.

Blumgar exploded in an angry roar. You've killed innocent children, men and women who have done us no harm— He caught his breath. I'm telling you, Fierard, this time, this time you've gone too far!

A fire burned in the big man's eyes and he ripped his sword from its scabbard. When the cries of the women and children killed today wake me, I'll have the memory of your death to keep me company through the sleepless night.

With the speed of a snake flicking out its tongue, Fierard's sword was in his hand. You dare to match blades with me? Old and fat as you are? Think before you strike. You may yet live long enough to learn to ignore those dreams.

Still clutching the khrystal pendant, the boy eased forward slightly to get a better view. The hateful sword had started keening. Thankfully, the broadsword showed no inclination to make any noise except a swish when it cut through the air.

From his new vantage point Kenrad could see by the light of the fire the men eyeing each other. The big man, Blumgar was his name, was holding his long broadsword in both hands, its tip making small circles in the air. The wide blade gleamed in the firelight. Fierard was moving to the left, lithely balanced on his toes, his blade seemed almost insignificant compared to the heavy steel that faced it.

The fire in the fireplace was now raging. As Kenrad watched, the fire leapt up again, the flames shooting higher and higher, beginning to dance together. Kenrad's body was vibrating, thrumming, as if the whole castle were trembling. Another clap of thunder resounded within the hall, this one louder and closer than the others, and the flames within the fireplace billowed up to form the outline of a man—a man made of fire.

Who calls me here? The voice came from the fireplace. Though low and even in tone, it reached every corner of the hall.

Fierard, his back to the fireplace, watched Blumgar grow pale, watched Blumgar's sword point drop to the stone flooring, watched his eyes grow bigger and bigger. He snatched a glance over his shoulder, then turned his own fear-strained face back toward Blumgar.

Who calls me here? The voice was louder, gaining in strength. Who uses Sokhal's Star to call me?

He did it, shouted Fierard. He killed them. Fierard, with fear-induced strength, swung and smashed the flat of his blade against Blumgar's temple. The big man slumped to his knees then fell face first onto the floor. Take him, not me, he's the man you want!

The flames within the fireplace fell, coalescing in upon themselves into a glowing ball, then exploding in a burst of pure, white light. With a cry of anguish, Fierard dropped his sword and covered his eyes.

Beneath the broken furniture, Kenrad blinked and rubbed his eyes. In front of the fireplace stood a man, yet not man. His hands and face glowed with light and the stones of the fireplace were visible through the apparition’s image. Only the man's eyes seemed real, piercing gems that searched the hall.

The image stepped into the room, looked around at the destruction in the room, then pointed at Fierard. You there! You did not call me. Was it my sister? Does Kynsa yet live? WHO CALLED! The shout tore through the air.

The boy lay motionless. He had never seen his uncle like this. Never in his power—never in a murderous rage.

Stefan Sokhal turned to Fierard. I'll have answers from you. Speak!

Well, I— Fierard's usually glib tongue found it rough going before the harsh scrutiny of the apparition.

I’ll tell you once. Never lie to a mage who comes to you within his power. Now, man whom I do not know, answer me. What happened here?

The realization that the mage did not already know the facts, freed Fierard's voice. I was riding by and heard the calls for help. So I drew my sword, there it is, the man bent down to pick it up and then continued. The big man there on the floor had led a troop of men into this castle. Once inside, they turned on the people here, slaughtering all they found. I fear I was too late.

This man? The apparition's visage wavered for a heartbeat. This man is responsible for my sister’s death?

If he stood up, Kenrad thought, then the swordsman would know he still lived.

Stefan's image moved forward to look down on the big man. Did you kill him? Is he dead?

Just stunned, I think, Mage. Eagerly, Fierard pulled out his sword. But if you would like him dead—

Once again, the sword began to wail. Kenrad's pain and anger boiled over. He lies! His youthful voice cracked. The big one didn't do it, he did! I heard them talking. With desperate haste he scrambled forward.

Who is that? The mage's image blurred then re-formed. Who carries Sokhal's Star?

It's Kenrad, Uncle Stefan, and that man killed Mother! Crawling on his hands and knees, Kenrad appeared from among the rubble. The fat man didn't know; it was the other. He's the one who killed Mother. Only then did Kenrad realize that the room was now deserted except for his uncle's image, the quiet bulk of an unconscious Blumgar, and himself. Fierard had fled at Kenrad's first shout.

Uncle Stefan, he's escaped. The words tumbled out on top of one another. The one with the screaming sword. The man you were talking to. He killed Mother and now he's escaped. Kenrad could feel tears pricking his eyes. He caught his breath and tried to speak calmly. Shouldn't we go after him?

Let the storm that now rages outside take care of him. This image I have cast has sight, speech, and hearing, but no true power.

Again the tears welled up in Kenrad's eyes and again he fought them back.

Now, the image looked around the room, I must go. Call your people. Let me see you safe, before I leave.

Uncle, you don't understand, there is no one left! They are dead. Mother and all the rest. The boy's voice slid up the scale. That's why we can't let him get away! He's got to be—

All dead? Stefan's face grew grimmer.

Ohhhh, my head. The mountain of flesh that was Blumgar moved, then fell silent. Mmmph, rummpht. Again the body on the floor shifted, grunting as it did.

Slowly, the massive head lifted from the stone paving as the big man used his arms to push himself from the floor. Dazed, clouded eyes stared at Kenrad. Oh, my head. Though he was still lying down, Blumgar seemed to sway and stagger.

The eyes slowly swam into focus. The boy! Blumgar's voice was a low rumble, his lips barely moving. Hist, young fool, get back to your hidey-hole. And keep your green eyes closed this time—leastways, when they're likely to catch light from the fire. Now, scat!

So you knew the lad was there, did you? And now you warn him? Stefan's image considered the big man thoughtfully.

Blumgar jerked his head from the floor, forcing a moan from his lips. You've a man's voice for one so young, now haven't you? He wore a puzzled look under the vivid bruise that was forming across his brow. A streak of drying blood outlined one side of his face.

It is a man's voice you hear; a man's and a mage's.

Magic, croaked Blumgar as he turned his head toward the apparition. I don't want to have anything to do with magic! I've lived that way all my life, and that's the way I want to keep it—as sure as my name's Blumgar the Fat.

Blumgar. Very well. Stefan spoke sharply. If you'll bring my nephew to me in Glenmoth, then, perhaps, I will have no further interest in you.

What has happened to Fierard? Did you see him? Where are the men?

I would guess they decided the storm was a lesser danger than I. At least, Fierard—is that the name?—thought so, and I have seen no others.

Ah, that misbegotten whore's son ran, did he? Then he's taken the rest of the living with him. With the slowness of one who expects every movement to cause pain, the big man sat up. Well, I guess some good has come of this. I'm free of him. But what an evil day this has been.

A frown creased his brow and the blood began to flow again, but more slowly. What did you say about Glenmoth?

That you are to bring the boy to me there. To the Governor’s Palace. As soon as you're fit to travel. You know where Glenmoth is, don't you?

Aye, I know where it is, and it would take more than this bump on my head to make me unfit for travel. But I'm not about to head to where the governor is. Certainly not with a youngster in tow. Blumgar eyed Stefan's image. Me, nursemaid to a boy of noble blood? Why I'm steeped in every vice and tainted by my every action! The list of my doings would cause even the gods to shudder! There’s no telling what harm I could do—

Stefan interrupted. More harm than has been done here?

Blumgar glanced at the silent Kenrad. The big man swallowed and slowly nodded his head. All right. It's a thing I can do. Maybe I'll be able to muffle the midnight screams with that deed. Using his broadsword as a prop, Blumgar pushed himself to his feet. I'll see the lad to Glenmoth. Though what will happen to me there, Grastar knows.

Do Miron’s Warlock this favor, and I will speak to the Governor. The image turned back toward Kenrad. You must go with this man; you cannot stay here. Once you are safely in the Governor's Palace, we will see what must be done. His image grew fainter and fainter.

Bring the pendant with you. I will see you in Glenmoth. The light faded away.

Whew! Blumgar pulled a swatch of cloth out of one of his sleeves and began to pat his wound with it. I've never liked magic, nor had much to do with it. This was more than makes me comfortable. Imagine, him standing here talking and all the while he was down in Glen Valley at the Governor's castle. Makes a man cold in his bones to think on it, doesn't it? He stopped tending his wound long enough to notice how stiff and silent Kenrad was.

Now I know you don't want me, lad. It's plain to see. And, he shrugged, then winced, I can't blame you. But you heard your uncle, and the trip’s not that long. You'll soon be shut of me.

I won't need your help. The boy's lips barely moved. Just tell me the paths to follow and I'll get there myself. I'll tell my uncle that you tried, but I refused your aid. He straightened slightly, trying to speak with the authority he had heard others use. You have my leave to go.

No, no. Though I can see that you want no aid of mine. Blumgar leaned forward, and his deep voice grew soft. Believe me, I wouldn't force myself on you. Forced friends are never fast friends. But you heard me tell your uncle that I'd do it. He smiled hesitantly. I'll get you there as fast as can be. Faster than you could on your own. We'll make shift, lad, and it won't be so bad.

I release you from your promise. My uncle asked you to aid me, and I will not have it. Kenrad turned his back and tucked the pendant into his tunic, next to his chest. I'll not, his voice was choked, I'll not travel with a murderer.

Murder? The big man's face lost all signs of a smile. He took a few shuffling steps toward the boy. That's hard, lad. I’ve killed. Yes. But murder? No.

The boy spun around, tears glistening on his cheeks. With a sweep of his arms, he encompassed all the ruin and rubble, then blurted out, What do you call this then? What else, if not murder?

Folly. Blumgar's face fell into sharp lines of fatigue and pain. Folly to have listened to that zardoc, folly to have believed what he said, and greater folly to have followed him. Listen. He dropped to one knee, bringing his eyes level with Kenrad's. I will rue this day for all the days that are left to me, but I had no part in murder. Oh, aye, aye, he forestalled the boy's comment, I slew men here today, armed men who were ready to kill me if they could. He glanced around the room, and his deep voice grew husky. "What started here, that was murder. Murder and treachery.

But when the treachery spread, when I was attacked outside, unknowing of what happened here? Can you call that murder? Kenrad dropped his head and didn't answer.

Blumgar sighed and got to his feet. Mayhap, in your youth, you can. The man I followed caused this. But I travel with him no longer, and he'll rue the day I meet him again.

But you liked him. Kenrad's head was still bowed and the words were little more than a whisper.

Liked him? The big man snorted. No, I never liked him. There is not much in Fierard to like. I joined him because I was safer with him than without, or so I thought. Now you must go with me since your uncle says you must. You don't have to like it, or me, lad, but it must be done. Blumgar's voice grew coaxing. Can you see that? We can't always do as we want.

I understand. The words escaped with a sob. But I can't leave yet. The boy lifted his head and tears were streaming down his face. I can't leave, he gasped for breath. I can't leave until I've—my mother— He slumped to his knees. The rites. I can't leave her.

There, there, lad, I didn't mean— Hesitantly, Blumgar reached out with one hand and then jerked it back. There's no need for such haste as that! We'll see to what's right. A suspicion of moisture appeared in the corners of his eyes and he sniffed. There ain't that much hurry in the world. We will see to it that she'll rest easy, trust me in that.

I don't even know what to say or do! The final bit of resistance collapsed and Kenrad gave himself over to the tears he had held back for so long.

Blumgar stood, towering over the crumpled figure on the floor, and fumbled for the words he needed. Don't worry about that. I know how to care for the dead. As he spoke, his throat thickened. It's the living that I don't know what to do for. Slowly, tentatively, as if fearing he would offend, the big man crouched down and, ever so gently, patted Kenrad's back.

2

Visitors to Triam

Years later and leagues away…

Kenrad felt the chain pull against his neck for just a heartbeat then heard a cry of surprise and pain. His dagger appeared in his right hand and he dropped into a fighting crouch while slipping the pendant back out of sight beneath his tunic. He saw the back of someone pushing his way through the crowd that filled the Marketplace of Brias. The figure seemed to be hunched over. Nursing his hand, no doubt. The young man smiled faintly.

It’s all right, Blumgar. I’m fine.

Frantically, the thief tried to recall everything he could about his would-be victim; all thoughts of finding some healer to bind his wound disappeared.

He'd been taller than Dokar had expected when he closed in for the grab. The big man he was with had made him look small. Dark brown hair that needed combing—a sign of youth—the shoulders and arms of a promising bowman. And his eyes—any thief knew not to look his target in the eyes, but he'd caught a glimpse of bright green eyes just as he'd struck.

Quick. He must be quick about it. Before the blisters on his palm faded or blurred. He had heard that there were those in Triam who would pay for news of magic. He looked again at the five-sided image burned into his palm. Magic indeed! The thief sprang to his feet, greed giving him new energy. Lofi the Source would know.

There, that should be the fastest way! Quickly he scurried off, hearing in his mind the sound of gold, piece after piece clinking against themselves.

The crowd continued to flow through the marketplace of Brias, the goddess of trade and commerce, but the path it took now split to give a pair of men the room they so clearly desired and then remerged safely out of reach of dagger or broadsword. The pair stood back to back, a slender figure and a mountain of flesh. The smaller one held a dagger, long and sharp and gleaming. Clearly a man to avoid. Even so, the crowd gave his partner an even wider berth. That man was holding a broadsword so large that just his ability to toss it from hand to hand argued that there was muscle hidden beneath the fat—lots of muscle and skill.

What was that? Blumgar spoke just loud enough for Kenrad to hear him.

Petty thief. The younger man straightened up from the fighting crouch he had slipped into once he'd felt the feather-light touch. The thief had tried to disguise himself as a harmless passerby who had accidentally bumped into him—a common enough practice.

The merchants of Brias had noted the abrupt change in traffic as it flowed through and around their part of Triam and had known the cause. The only issue in their minds was whether Dokar had been successful. If he had, then, for today, other customers might be less likely to discover their purses missing when it came time for them to pay. And the merchants themselves might find fewer missing goods at the end of the day. There were bribes, protection money, and other hidden costs to doing business in Brias—in all of Triam—that made the life of honest merchants hard—and challenged them to remain honest.

The big man stood up and sheathed his sword. Pickpockets must love the crowds in Triam.

The pair still held their ground and the crowd split around them but the space they were given was rapidly shrinking.

He try for your wallet?

Pendant. Kenrad slipped his dagger back into its scabbard and wondered if he had made a mistake leaving their rooms without his bow and arrows.

Now, what were you saying about a tavern? Are you looking for ale so early in the day?

I tell you, Kenrad, you just don't understand ale and the good it does a body! Haragdo would be offended by your attitude toward his gifts. Why I'm still trying to recover from our long dry journey, bereft, as it was, of his blessings. It takes a lot of moisture to keep this body going, And going is what we've been doing, ever since we left Mironius. Come on, we've plenty of time to stop for one drink. Why chance offending a god?

Kenrad smiled at his friend. All right, all right. Although I'm not sure how anybody could accuse us of not respecting Haragdo. If there's a tavern between here and the Street of Swords—

With one sweep of his arm, Blumgar pointed across the open square that was the marketplace of Brias. And what do you call that? Outside a low two-story building hung the image of a single-yoked ox, steins of beer hanging from either end of the yoke.

A likely enough spot, agreed Kenrad, in no way surprised that Blumgar would know, without the slightest hesitation, the location of the nearest source of ale. Let's see if they have enough ale to moisten you.

In all of Triam there isn't enough of that good spirit to do more than whet my thirst. With that thought, Blumgar started across the square of Brias. I'm sure I could drain a cask, or two, and still feel the dust in my throat.

Shaking his head in good-natured humor, Kenrad followed, if not so enthusiastically as his friend. Well, let's try one tankard and see if it might settle the dust. You were a long time drying, let's not soak too much up at once.

The young man watched his companion duck his head to fit under the low doorway leading into the tavern, then glanced around the square. No, there was no one here who looked like the man who'd tried to rob him. There was no sign that anyone was paying them any attention. Satisfied, he followed Blumgar's lead.

Stepping through the doorway, Kenrad slid to one side, blinking his eyes to let them adjust to the relative darkness of the room. Blumgar had already trundled his way across the room to the long wooden counter that stretched the length of the back wall.

Ale! Ale! Blumgar's open hand slapped against the wood and the clap it made filled the room. For I'm dying of thirst, and there's nothing for it but ale! The big man turned around to face whatever other inhabitants were in the tavern. Some call it one of the gods' gifts to mankind, and I cannot say them wrong. How can any man resist Haragdo's help? Ale! The golden-hued thirst easer, stomach pleaser, a gift to all who drink it!

So it's ale you want. A man had appeared behind the wooden bar and he eyed Blumgar with the satisfaction that many a taverner had felt upon seeing such a figure come through the door. The largest flagon that I own, and the best brew my cellar holds, I'd guess.

While Blumgar was speaking, Kenrad's eyes had quickly adjusted to the dimness. He stood with his back to a stone wall and scanned the room. It was large, low-ceilinged, with great wooden beams stretching across the span, supporting the floor above. From the beams hung oil lamps, carefully spaced to light open areas, yet give shadow, and privacy, where customers might want it. Kenrad noted the carefully trimmed wick of the lamp nearest him and nodded. The man who ran this tavern knew his business. And paid attention to details.

The floor beneath was packed dirt, as expected, but spread with sand, not damp and musty straw. Two fireplaces flanked the room and a small, neatly burning fire glowed in each. Three long tables filled the center, but in the corners, in the shadows of the lamps, were smaller ones, where people who wanted to sit aside might find a comfortable spot. Several men sat at the long tables, singly or in pairs, looking for company or conversation as they ate and drank.

Kenrad slipped over to one of the smaller tables. Trust Blumgar to be noticed, he thought. And, in drawing the patrons' glances, keep them from noticing me. He sat and judged his position. His back was to an empty corner, and the table held a view of bar and doorway. Is that all to be aware of? No, the young man decided, there must be another door, for deliveries and the like, but, he reasoned, it would be behind the bar, as would the entry to the cellar.

Good. Having done as he had been taught, Kenrad pushed back his chair and waited for Blumgar to find him.

Here, lad, I've brought you some of that cider you say you like—saving wine for the evening. Blumgar's booming voice jerked Kenrad from his thoughts.

Just because I don't care for ale the way you do, doesn't mean—

Oh, aye, I know what it doesn't mean! Blumgar pulled a bench out from beneath the table and eased