Kingspass

The night was still. The only sounds that broke the heavy silence were the creaking of sails and time-worn wood, along with the gentle crash of the black waters against the hull of The Enchantress. To the west, the eldritch woodland of the Darkwood flowed endlessly into the horizon, thunderclouds of etched charcoal dominating the skies above. To the east, the forest of Lynalion sprawled for hundreds of miles, hemmed in on either side by the coastline and the jagged peaks of Mar Dorul. Ahead, the lanterns that hung in the port and along the walls of Kingspass shone in stark contrast to the sheer blackness that surrounded them. An eeriness in the air set an uneasy feeling in Calen's stomach.

"'Tis a place that knows nothing but death." A deckhand stood by Calen's side. The man wore a sleeveless vest of vibrant yellow, along with thick billowy trousers tucked into his boots. His hair was long and scraggy, with a beard to match, and a large brass hoop hung from his right ear.

"And why is that?" Erik asked, a slightly mocking tone in his voice.

The deckhand turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing at Erik for a moment before returning his gaze to the city ahead. "Kingspass lies in the no-man's-land. Edged by the Darkwood on one side, elves on the other. It sits within touching distance of the foothills of Mar Dorul and lies at the mercy of whatever creatures emerge from the Burnt Lands. There be no joke in my words. More dangerous a place in Epheria there does not be."

"Well," Erik said, leaning in close enough so only Calen could hear him, "now I feel much better."

"Faust has a penchant for the dramatic," Captain Kiron said, stepping up beside Calen, nodding towards his deckhand. "But he speaks only the truth. Keep your wits about you. Kingspass and the lands surrounding it are not to be taken lightly. Despite the name, it is not a pass fit for kings, nor is it a pass owned by a king, nor is it a pass that a king has taken in the last four centuries."

Calen looked out at the horizon of blackness that lay in front of them, the swinging lanterns of the port the only beacons in the night. A shiver ran the length of his spine.

He could feel Valerys drifting through the skies above, flitting between the clouds. If there is an island, or somewhere for you to rest that is off the coast, stay there tonight.

A rumble of recognition touched the back of Calen's mind. Valerys shared Calen's uneasiness.

By the time the deckhands had begun scurrying about the ship, readying to dock, Tarmon emerged from below deck, his arm draped around Vaeril's shoulders, keeping the elf upright.

"How is he?" Calen asked, his mouth twisting into a frown.

"I've been better," Vaeril answered, lifting his head. Even then, the elf's face was contorted as though he were one lurch away from emptying the contents of his stomach onto the deck. "I will be happy if I never see another ship again."

"He'll live," Tarmon said, throwing Vaeril an amused look.

The sound of voices and clinking mail cut through the silent night as the deckhands lowered the gangplank down onto the dock.

"Let me do the talking," Captain Kiron said as two soldiers in black and red leather armour over coats of black riveted mail strode up the gangplank.

"What business have you in Kingspass?" one of the soldiers asked, his shoulders pulled back, his chest puffed out, and his eyes scanning the deck of the ship. The man's hair was thick and greasy, slicked back over his head. He stood about a match for Calen in height, though it was impossible to determine his build with the amount of armour he wore. The soldier's eyes told Calen all he needed to know. They were dark, cold, and shrewd.

"Simply seeking to trade," Captain Kiron said, holding his hands out wide.

"There's a tariff around here on all that's to be traded." The second soldier was smaller than the first, his bulky mail and leathers making him look a little strange. His blonde hair was cut short, and his skin was leathered bronze.

"Of course." Captain Kiron gave a slight bow at the waist, producing a small pouch from his coat pocket. He held out the pouch, dropping it into the smaller soldier's outstretched hand with a clink.

The soldier hefted the purse in his hand for a moment, gauging the weight, then pulled back the drawstrings and peeked inside. "You're light."

"I assure you, I most certainly am not."

The man took a deep phlegm-filled sniff of his nostrils, eyed the captain with a hard glare, then stuffed the purse into his trouser pocket. His eyes fell on Calen, then each of his companions in turn, finally setting on Vaeril. "There's an extra tariff when the goods are alive. Especially when one of them is a dirty fucking elf. If you gut him now, I'll waive the extra fee, otherwise pay up."

Calen clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. He could feel his subconscious reaching out for the Spark, anger rumbling through Valerys's mind. Even as the dragon alighted on a patch of rock about two miles off the coast, his anger flowed like a river.

Captain Kiron coughed, throwing a glance towards Vaeril, then over to Calen, raising a questioning eyebrow and shrugging.

Calen stared back at the captain, tilting his head to the side. Surely there was no way the man was even considering taking the soldier's first option.

The captain rolled his eyes, then reached into the pocket of his doublet, producing another purse, slightly larger, and handed it to the soldier with a very evident reluctance.

"That should do nicely," the man said, hefting the purse in his hand. "Though I still recommend covering the filth's ears or taking them off entirely. They won't do you any good, especially not here." With that, the two soldiers turned and made their way back down the gangplank, the taller man throwing one more cursory glance at the ship before they strode off back down the docks.

"Please, don't tell me—"

"Of course not," Kiron said, cutting Calen off. "Well, maybe for a second."

Calen glared at the captain, shaking his head, his eyes narrowed.

Kiron shrugged. "It was only a second. Look, either way, the soldier did not tell a lie. If you want to stay out of trouble, I would keep the elf's hood up. His kind have not done right by the people in this city. The elves of Lynalion kill as many as the Uraks and the other creatures of the Burnt Lan—"

"They are not my kind," Vaeril said, cutting across Kiron, his hand still held against his stomach.

The captain looked over at Vaeril, his eyebrow raised in confusion. "Well, ignoring that strange denial of his elven heritage, my advice remains the same. Many people in this city have lost family to the raids from Lynalion. Keep his ears covered. Also, if you're looking for a place to stay, Madame Olmira down at The Cosy Daisy – believe me, the irony of calling an inn by that name in this city is not lost on me – is about as welcoming as they come around here. Tell her Longhorn sent you. She'll know what you mean."

Calen shuddered involuntarily at the captain's words. There was not a single piece of him that wanted to know what that sentence meant. "I'll look for The Cosy Daisy."

"It's just through the archway with the black lion carved into it, not far from the docks. Can't miss it."

Calen nodded. "Thank you, Captain, for getting us this far."

"Not a problem." Captain Kiron tipped the front of his hat, an acknowledging smile on his face. "After all, you did pay me a lot of money."

After ensuring they had not left anything behind, Calen, Vaeril, Tarmon, and Erik said their last goodbyes to the captain and made their way down the gangplank.

Calen shivered a little as he stepped out onto the dock, pulling his cloak around himself for warmth. At the end of the long jetty, the docks opened into a large empty square that looked as though it was used for fishmongers and traders during the day. But at that moment, the only two souls that inhabited it were the two soldiers who had boarded the ship only minutes before. The two men cast sidelong glances at Calen and his companions as they crossed the square, their eyes narrowing.

Despite himself, Calen did look back to check that Vaeril had in fact pulled his hood up, feeling a sense of relief when he saw the black hood covering the majority of the elf's head. This city did not seem like the kind of place they wanted to draw any unwanted attention.

As they reached the opposite side of the square, Calen noticed a large stone archway with a lion carved across its front, painted black. He tilted his head towards it wordlessly, signalling the others to follow him. Regardless of Calen's disinclination to stay anywhere Captain Kiron was known as 'Longhorn', they needed a place to sleep. The city gates would be closed at this time, and even if they were not, it would do them no good to set off at night. A few hours of sleep in a bed that did not tip to and fro would do them all a world of good, particularly Vaeril. The elf looked more himself with every step he took on solid ground, but he was still a bit wobbly.

One night, then we will set on our way. We're coming for you, Rist. Please be all right.

The streets of Kingspass were so narrow that Calen could stretch out his arms and run his fingertips along the coarse stone walls on either side. Multi-storey stone buildings loomed over the cracked paths, blocking out a vast majority of the pale moonlight that drifted down from the star-speckled sky above. While some windows gave off a dim orange glow, indicating someone within was still awake, most held nothing but darkness, curtains drawn.

The low whistle of the wind was the dominant sound as it streaked through the narrow streets, sweeping up spirals of dust and dried, crumpled leaves. The occasional clinking of mail and heavy steel boots against stone echoed through the city around them, drifting down from the walls. Up ahead, Calen could see silhouettes floating across the battlements like ghosts; he was only able to make out the true forms of the soldiers when they passed through the light of the lanterns that hung at regular intervals along the walls.

It was difficult to tell at night, but Kingspass looked as though it could easily match Camylin for size, and the walls seemed twice again as thick and over a half again as tall. Whatever it was the walls were trying to keep out, Calen did not want to know.

"Anybody else not like this place?" Erik said in a half whisper. "Something about it just feels…"

"Wrong?" Calen suggested.

"Yeah, wrong."

Calen couldn't shake that feeling from his bones. He hadn't quite settled on what it was, but Erik hit the nail on the head. The city felt wrong, as though the very air itself held a certain darkness.

"We need to keep our wits about us," Tarmon said, his hand resting on the pommel of the short sword at his waist.

"Here," Calen said, his eyes catching sight of a building just up to the right with a large rectangular sign hanging from its front that read, 'The Cosy Daisy'. The building had a thatched roof that looked as though it hadn't been tended to in years, and a porch that was held upright by beams of rotting timber.

The wooden door at the front of The Cosy Daisy looked as though it had seen far better days. Rot had set into the wood at multiple points, and the large swathes of rust along the iron bands that held everything together were a clear sign that the metal had not seen even a drop of oil or wax in quite some time.

A shiver ran through Calen's arm as he rested his finger on the iron door handle. He had always hated the texture of rust. With a push, the door creaked inward. It took Calen all of five seconds to decide that the name 'The Cosy Daisy' was the furthest thing from suitable.

The common room of the inn was wide and sweeping, with a miserable looking hearth at the far end that held a small fire which looked as though it was moments from dying. A staircase, close to collapse, was built into the wall just beside where Calen and the others had entered, and small rickety tables were scattered about the floor in such a haphazard manner it looked as though they had been arranged with some strange form of particularity. Two older men sat at a table by the wall near the lumps of crumbled wood that pretended to be a fire, huddled together in deep conversation. Another man sat on his own at a lopsided table in the centre of the room, his face buried in the back of his hands, his empty cup tipped on its side, its contents half-dried into the wood.

"May I be helpin' ya?" a creaky voice said from behind the bar that was set into the wall opposite the entrance. A small, thin woman emerged from the door at the back of the bar that must have led into the kitchen.

'Emerged', Calen decided, was a strong word. The woman was barely five feet tall, with a hooked nose and a scraggy head of white-grey hair. Her eyes seemed to be perpetually narrow, forced down into a glare by years of hard-earned wrinkles. She hobbled along, a walking stick with a fox head handle in her right hand. "Well, don't just stand there starin'. Do ya be needing a room or not?"

"We do," Calen said in as assured a voice as he could muster. "Do you have any?"

"Does it look like I be beatin' away customers with a stick?" The woman's eyes unsettled Calen. He got the feeling she didn't miss much. "Enough babblin'. Follow me."

Without even giving Calen the chance to enquire about price, the woman turned on her heels more spryly than he would have thought possible. She called over her shoulder as she gripped onto the handrail of the dilapidated staircase. "There's no supper left, so you'll have to go hungry till mornin'. And I don't wanna be hearing no complaints about that neither. It is what it is."

Erik looked at Calen, puffing out his cheeks and shaking his head as the woman hobbled up the staircase on her own, talking to herself.

"I suppose she is the 'cosy' part of the daisy?" Tarmon whispered.

Erik burst out laughing. "Did you… did you just make a joke? I didn't know you made jokes!" He patted Tarmon on the shoulder before following the woman up the stairs. "That was actually pretty funny."

Tarmon went to speak, but then shook his head and followed Erik up the staircase.

"How are you feeling now?" Calen asked Vaeril as they followed the others, the rickety old staircase creaking beneath their feet. Calen recoiled as some of the rotting wood along the banister came away at his touch. The place was falling apart.

"Better," the elf said with a sigh, though there was as an intensity in his eyes that made Calen curious.

"What is it?"

"I don't like this place. It's not safe for you here."

"I'll be all right, Vaeril. We will take turns on watch, and Valerys isn't far away. He can be here in minutes." Calen stopped at the top of the staircase, placing his hand on Vaeril's shoulder. "Thank you."

"For what, Draleid?"

"For not trying to stop me when I said I was going after Rist. For being here." Calen had just about given up on trying to get Vaeril to stop referring to him as 'Draleid'.

"I swore to protect you, to go with you wherever you may lead, to the void or beyond. I meant what I said. But I would have come even without the oath."

Calen gave a weak smile as something unspoken passed between him and Vaeril. An understanding.

"Will you two come on?" Erik called from down the hall.

The room was in no better condition than the rest of the inn. The wooden floorboards looked as though they were centuries old, and dark patches of mould clung to every crack, crevice, and corner. A long crack ran through the windowpane, allowing a shivering draft to creep its way into the room. Four beds, two on either side, were set against the walls in an alternating pattern.

"This will do nicely," Calen said, tossing his satchel down on the bed, producing an unexpectedly brittle sound as it crunched against the paper-thin bedsheets. Calen had the feeling that no matter how hard they looked, they wouldn't be finding any better accommodation. "How much for the night?"

"Three silvers – each." The words left the woman's mouth like rusty nails drawn over stone. A lifetime of smoking tabbac and drinking spirits would do that to a person.

"Three silvers?" Erik's eyes widened in disbelief as he sat on the bed beside Tarmon's, at the end of the room. "We could buy a horse and cart for that!"

"Three silvers is the price. No hagglin'. Go sleep in the street if you have a problem with that."

"Here." Calen reached into his pocket, before Erik could say anything else, and produced the purse Alleron had left with Tarmon. His stomach turned at handing the woman twelve pieces of silver. His mind couldn't even begin to process how much food that would have bought back home. But still, he plucked the coins from the pouch and dropped them into the woman's bony, liver-spotted hand.

The woman gave a near toothless grin as she finished counting the coins, then stuck them into her pocket, quick as a flash. "The washroom is down the end of the hall. Breakfast is served from sunrise until it's gone. Oat porridge and goat's milk. Other than that, don't bother me."

"I will take first watch," Tarmon said as soon as the woman had left the room and closed the door behind her.

"No," Vaeril shook his head, tossing his leather sack down on the bed closest to the doorway. "You rest. I don't need as much sleep as you do, and if there are any mages here, I will sense them. You can't. I will wake you in a few hours."

Judging by the look on Tarmon's face, he was about to argue, but then thought better of it. Vaeril and Dann might have been very different in almost every facet of their personalities, but they were similar in one way: when they made a decision, they both stuck to it, come void or high water.

With the decision agreed upon, Vaeril sat cross-legged on top of his bed, laying his bow down beside him and his sword across his lap, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

Calen tossed from side to side as he set himself into the bed, rolling his shoulders as the rough grate of the old bedsheets sent shivers across his skin. Sleep had once been a safe haven. The land of dreams had been a place he could escape to when the weight of the world grew too heavy. But he didn't dream any more. Artim Valdock had stripped him of that ability, torn it from him like strips of flesh. Now, every time he closed his eyes he was brought back to that cell. The hunger, the agony, the emptiness. Sleep was nothing more than a necessity now.

Closing his eyes, Calen let his mind drift to Valerys. The dragon was nestled on a patch of rock that jutted up from the water a few miles from Kingspass, just off the coast. The patch of rock was small enough to go unnoticed by any passing ships, but large enough for him to curl up comfortably, his tail pulled in towards his chest and his wings folded over himself. Still, Calen always hated the idea of Valerys sleeping alone, as he had done many times as they travelled along the coast. This would be the last time for a while, which did help to add a bit of comfort.

Calen stayed like that a while longer until his tired body begged him for rest and he pulled himself from Valerys's mind. The touch of the dragon's consciousness was the only thing that gave him enough courage to face his nightmares.

Idyn väe, Valerys. Rest well.