Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ensconced in a choked coppice of young trees and shrubbery, hidden among the slender stalks of frilly ferns that claimed the forest's fringe, the pair awaited the twilight hour. They had arrived outside Kordava's siege fortified walls earlier that afternoon. Rather than draw unwanted attention to the presence of a large black wolf with yellow-gold eyes, accompanied by a seldom-seen fur-clad barbarian outlander, they had decided to await the twilight hour's arrival. Soon enough Kordava's seafaring inhabitants would behold Barath's sleek shape and Tarn's Asgard mountain bearing.

Once the shimmering transformation completed itself, Tarn passed Barath the extra scabbard and sword off his hip, saying, "Ludvic believed the port taverns a likely location to gather news and gossip. Three attempts have Mahnaz made on my life. Let us tread warily."

"Aye, I've heard tell the Rings of Mahnaz have a magical ability to scry their foe over vast distances," Barath replied, walking at Tarn's side toward Kordava's north gate.

"Then let us travel to the docks under night's mantle."

"When I am a wolf, and they are unable to glean my presence." At Tarn's questioning expression, he explained, "Wolves are endowed with magic, insofar as they are immune to it. My tutor was the keeper of much folklore and ancient legends. Gathered around the hearth-fire on cold winter nights, many a time did he entertain me with adventurous stories a young boy craves to hear. One such tale included a wolf, who befriended a hunter with a geis to slay the white bull. Though an enchanter harried the hunter with dark magic, the wolf was not affected," he finished, a mixture of sadness and warm recollections passing across his calm face.

"If ye be immune to magic as a wolf, how can ye be cursed as a wolf?"

"I have pondered this myself," Barath started, a quirky grin curling one corner of his mouth, "and have reached several conclusions. Which one is the truer of the two, if by chance one conclusion might be true, I can only guess. At the time of the curse, I was a man, thus susceptible to magic. 'Tis the most likely explanation. The second, though not as likely, seems to fit the wizard-priest's personality. Pentath cursed me as a man, and though I assume wolf form, clearly some of the man remains. I'm thinking he desired a slow progression, and that by maintaining a part of my humanness he tortures me that much more. All the better to help me remember my transgression, methinks."

Kordava's front gate loomed ahead, putting a halt to their conversation. Two towers rose on either side of the gate, reaching a modest twenty-five-foot height. Crenulations and parapets topped each tower where defenders could gather to repel besiegers. Windows shaped like crosses let archers fire in all directions without revealing much of themselves. They passed through the heavy portals unchallenged by the guards. The walls were thick, nearly four paces thick, measured Tarn, marvelling at the large blocks of stone, wondering how they had been lifted into position. Each stone must be equal in weight to ten large men. The sheer scope of the engineering endeavour made Tarn speechless. Inside the first gate, Tarn noted the holes in the stone above them and wondered what their purpose was. To the left and right were more cross-shaped slots. The gates seemed impregnable to Tarn.

Not more than a hundred yards beyond the inner gate, Tarn and Barath stopped at the first inn they passed. They ate supper, lingering amicably over mugs of golden ale while the twilight hour spent itself, quietly planning their intent. When Barath exited the inn near full nightfall, Tarn acquired a room. He stowed his pack under the lumpy, bug-infested bed. On the way out, he placed a blond hair between the door and door jam. Who knew if Mahnaz waited for him here. Torrocka was a hard lesson learned. Satisfied he would know if an intruder entered the room in his absence, he went downstairs and stepped out into the night.

He waited beside the corner of the inn for his vision to adapt. Muffled steps grew louder. Two men, who travelled the boardwalk across the street, were briefly spotlighted in the bakery shop's doorway. Raucous laughter, from a lively tavern several doors down the street, spilled out into the night as a trio of men entered. A black form brushed his leg. Barath glanced up, sword and scabbard held tightly between his jaws. His luminous wolf eyes shone amber. Tarn retrieved his hip sword and walked south, along a dimly lit street, toward the docks. A large black wolf padded at his side. The people they passed stared at the large wolf-dog, heeling beside an even larger, heavily armed barbarian. Everyone crossed to the opposite side of the street. None wanted to chance that wolf-dog.

As they neared the ocean, passed the fish markets, and entered the port section of the city, the buildings became shabby, the streets poorly kept, and the odours plentiful. The pervasive odour of fish and fish oil overpowered the ocean's saltwater tang—a freshness that fought to lighten Kordava's heavy and cloying humidity. Only the sickly sweet and exotic bitter spices stored in the better-kept warehouses they passed, successfully masked decades of fish oil that had soaked into the wharves and buildings alike.

Tarn strode confidently along the rough port avenues; Barath's sharp senses keenly alert. Here and there men stood inside dark doorways, speaking in hushed tones. Cowled- and capped heads rose hopefully, slyly at the soft tread of steps. When the pair came into view, shadowed chins plummeted to chests. Mouths muttered blessed oaths of protection; night hunters turned craven at the sight of Barath's black form—all amber eyes and reflected fangs.

Barath growled softly, swinging his head left when they came abreast of the entrance to the Crown & Anchor, a sailor's tavern. Tarn followed his oath-brother's gaze and sighted a silhouette leaning against the tavern's alley wall. A small red glow lit up a long and narrow nose. Blended pipe tobacco wafted out of the alley, a sickly sweet, taint mixed within.

"Ahoy, there mate. Would ye be seeking black lotus powder?" the man called out when Tarn came within four paces. The sailors right hand slid down to the hilt of his dagger. His body straightened.

Tarn edged closer, keeping the stranger between himself and anyone behind him. When he came within two paces of the figure, he discerned the man's garb. Worn pantaloons, faded and stained, ended below the knees, and a tight-fitting shirt without a collar, hugged a lanky, wiry frame. A sailor by the looks of his clothes.

"I be fresh in from Stygia. The lotus capital herself. For half a silver ye win thyself two nights of lotus dreams," pitched the sailor.

"No. But it be worth four silvers if ye hold news about a slave chain of northern mountain folk," Tarn countered, holding his voice low.

The sailor rocked to the side, caught his balance, and took a pull from his pipe. He held the sweet smoke deep in his lungs, scratching his chin in thought.

"Four silvers, aye," the sailor repeated, as if to remind himself of the amount, and released a thick cloud of smoke. "Could be there's scuttlebutt afloat if ye fathom where to drop a line."

"Six, if ye bring news within two turns of the hourglass," Tarn offered, enriching the bounty.

"Where be ye docked?" the sailor probed, gazing forlornly into the empty pipe bowl like a boy lamenting a lost puppy, but not failing to miss Tarn's eagerness. Eagerness belongs to the young and unlearned. The lad was hungry for information, desperate even, thought the sailor.

"Here," Tarn replied, indicating the Crown & Anchor tavern with a nod of his head, "until one turn past the witching hour."

"Furl thy sails, I'll come ahailen' afore ye limber thy sea legs," he promised, steering a wide berth around Barath to walk off in the direction of the pier whistling an old sea chanty.

A subtle signal sent Barath stealthily padding after the sailor, nose to the ground, well back and concealed in pockets of shadows. When Tarn passed through the Crown & Anchor's door, he unhurriedly stepped to the side and peered out across the smoky room, taking short breathes of smoky air that did not hide the sour odours of the room's inhabitants.

Patrons of mixed occupations and heritages occupied over half of the worn tables. Most dressed in seagoing regalia and wore long daggers tucked in sashes tied around their waists. Gaudy earrings pierced a dozen ear lobes, and an assortment of copper, tin, and brass bracelets ringed wrists. The others were hard-looking men, that particular breed of predator who did not appear to be anything other than thieves and cut-throats. Tattoos were plentiful, gracing the arms and faces of most patrons, including the barkeep.

The wooden bar was faded and scarred, like most of the men, Tarn mused. There was an obvious lack of boisterous laughing or loud talking. No musician entertained the surly crowd. Every eye in the seedy tavern turned to appraise him. Tarn scowled at no one in particular, but everyone in general as he approached the barkeeper. By the time he reached the battered bar, the conversations in the room returned to their normal hushed levels. One or two sets of lingering eyes assessed the probable weight of his purse against the inherent danger in relieving him of it.

"A mug of ale," Tarn ordered at the bar, a scowl masking his naivety.

A robust barkeep wearing a dirty apron stained with blood, ale, and fish oil, appraised Tarn and his weapons as he set a chipped pewter mug of watery brew in front of him.

"That'll be five coppers," and held a grubby, ham-sized hand, palm up. His other hand guarded the mug.

Glowering at the barkeep, he paid the requested sum and found a table along the wall that commanded an unobstructed view of both entrances. No one would be able to approach him from behind. Before he drank but a third of his ale, grimacing at the distastefully sour, warm contents, a serving woman approached. A dirty wrap showcased heavy, sagging breasts that jiggled as she walked; a layer of fat from too many pitchers of ale strained its threadbare material around her thick middle. Frayed boots with a hole in one toe peeked out from her skirt. Unwashed hair hung in long greasy tangles, and her long face looked worn and tired, as if her dreams were all gone and her spirit dead. Prematurely aged, and past her prime, all used up after years of pushy ale, her puffy eyes refused to return his gaze.

"What will ye eat?" she asked, staring at the tabletop, uninterested.

"Cheese and fruit," he decided, hoping to remove the sour taste from his mouth.

The serving girl stared at him expectantly, absentmindedly running her tongue through a gap created by two missing front teeth. He grunted, dug out a pile of coppers from his purse, and put them on the table. With an expert flick of her wrist, she scooped up a quantity and walked away. A skinny sailor with a long nose slid a grubby paw up underneath her wrap as she passed, pulling her roughly into his lap.

"Here now, Hilda," he said, "A bit O' oyster wi' our ale. Be a good lass."

Raucous laughter from the sailor's companions greeted his words as Hilda said, "Put enough gold in me hand n' I'll take the time to find that lil' worm ye be so proud of."

"Ye ain't been paid gold in years," said another amidst new laughter.

Twisting out of his grasp and to her feet, Hilda grabbed at several coppers quicker than the sailor who had mauled her could protect his pile. "An' ye ain't had a gold piece for longer than more than a day without gambling it gone, " she answered. "Ten coppers for a tumble. Not a copper less. These will do until then."

Before he could stop her, Hilda spun away with several coppers, straightening her clothes as though she had done so many times before, and would do so again. As the other men jibed their comrade for losing his coppers, and he shrugged it off with finishing his mug and starting another, Hilda disappeared into the kitchen.

When she returned with the food he had ordered, Tarn leaned forward and spoke in a hard whisper, "There be four silvers for ye if ye garner information about a slave ship transporting stolen cargo that resemble my northern looks. The captives be all women and small children. It would have passed through near the thaw, mayhaps late winter, no later."

Hilda leaned closer. Tarn smelled stale smoke on her clothes, and ale on her breath. "Aye. I remember some scuttlebutt 'bout a barbarian wench who wounded two sailors wi' her chains when they tried to git familiar. If ye catch my meaning," she whispered, revealing a missing tooth, the rest stained brown.

"Where be these sailors?"

"One be gone to sea. The other was hurt badly and is holed up near the docks. Word has it he's but half a man since trying to avail himself," Hilda rasped, cackling humorously.

"Know ye where?" The wench held out a dirty-nailed hand, fingernails gnawed to the quick. He pressed four silver pieces into it. Her eyes widened at the small fortune. "If ye show me where this rogue sleeps, there be two more."

Quicker than Tarn's eyes could follow, the silver disappeared into the folds of Hilda's skirt.

"Hilda," yelled the barkeep. "There be other tables, lessen' he's goin' ta tumble ye," he barked, his comment raised a subdued tide of laughter.

"Meet me in four passes of the sand. 'Round back by the lantern," she whispered and departed to comply with the barkeep's order.

Absentmindedly picking at the old fruit and hard cheese, his thoughts raced beneath a stoic expression, vacant of the hope churning in his breast. The news Hilda imparted held a ring of truth. His kin were no placid captives to cry and accept their fate without a struggle. Shaurii least of all.

Before the sandglass turned twice, the sailor Tarn spoke to in the alley entered the tavern. He found the big youth easily among the riffraff and unhurriedly wound his way over to his table. Hilda appeared on his heels, took his order, and then returned with ale, casting Tarn's drinking companion a disparaging look. Wondering if her promised silver had been forfeited, she scooped up five more coppers and walked away wearing a lopsided frown.

When Hilda passed beyond earshot, the sailor leaned in close, and spoke in a low, intimate tone, "I found an old mate of mine willin' to meet with ye for three silvers."

Tarn mentally logged his shifty eyes, the almost imperceptible tremor in the sailor's hand as he raised the mug to his mouth, and asked, "Does thy mate bear recent wounds, or scars?"

The sailor looked at Tarn suspiciously, unsuccessfully attempting to fathom the reason for the question. With furrowed eyebrows, he said, "What do I know of scars or wounds? I gist got landward myself. Whadda ye say, mate, do we have a bargain?"

"Aye, but only when I've spoken to thy comrade, do ye get paid," he stated, knowing that he must follow this lead even if it turned out to be a trap. If it was an ambush, he must discover who laid the snare, and why.

"Fair 'nuff. Forged in iron, ye'll git what ye crave," the sailor conceded. "Bottoms up. He won't wait forever and I got me business to run."

After greedily gulping down his ale, which spilled out around the corners of his mouth and down his closely cropped beard, the rogue wiped his mouth with a hairy forearm, belched loudly, and walked out of the tavern with a sprightly spring in his step.