Dark Legion (16 page)

I felt the cold running down my spine. The man on the dinghy was naming again. The tree, previously resurrected from death, died once more. Vines sprouted from the dirt and wrapped around the Inquisitors' ankles and legs, pulling them to the ground. The green tendrils continued their work, wrapping the Dark Legion as they hacked at the vines with their blades. The preacher ran. It took another minute for the Inquisitors to free themselves. To say that they were unimpressed would be putting it lightly. They fumed with anger, and I made myself scarce.

 

I did not linger long in the market, quickly finding a stall that sold what I needed. I purchased a number of metal pins, used for sewing. With these in hand, I returned to my room and painted the pinheads with various colors. Next, I folded the sleeves of my coat over, and sewed them in place. This provided a double layer at my wrists. Angus's coat was too long in the arm anyway.

I went through my poisons and selected a few that would be of most benefit in a pinch, then dipped the pins into the poisons and put them aside to dry. When they were ready, I pushed them through the fold of my sleeve. The poisons were strong enough that they would still be effective if I was to jab one into a worthy recipient. I looked at myself in the mirror. The pins did not look out of place, merely a decoration, with only the colored heads visible.

 

I sat around the room for a few minutes but soon grew bored and made my way to the Bleeding Wolf. It was not lunchtime yet, but I was starving and regretted skipping breakfast. Walking in, I saw no one. The place was empty, and Hobart was nowhere to be seen. I sat down at the table by the door and looked across the street to the Shady Oak. The men with the unusual hats were back, and two of them were stumbling more than sober men would. I thought it a bit early to be drunk but reminded myself that I was sitting in a tavern myself.

The men stepped aside as they approached the inn, bowing to Neysa, who was exiting as they arrived. She stared after them as they entered, then turned and looked cautiously down the street to either side. When her eyes locked on mine, she averted her own and darted across the street and out of sight. I did not know what to think of her. I found her attractive, and interesting in a weird sort of way. But I did not kid myself into thinking there was something possible between us. I just hoped that I did not have to kill her.

I heard footsteps and turned to see Hobart coming out of the kitchen with a smile. “Morning,” Hobart said. “How can I help you today?”

“Some ale please, I'll leave it up to you to choose. Also some food. Do you serve anything spicy?” I had craved spicy food since gaining my freedom, but the local tastes leaned toward the bland.

“We do have a chicken dish that has a little zing to it, but it's probably tame compared to what you have in Ubrain.”

“That sounds nice, thanks.”

When Hobart returned from the kitchen, he walked behind the bar and stared at the casks. In the end, he reached under the counter and retrieved a bottle and some wine glasses before sitting down at the table.

“Mind if I share this with you? It's a bit… different,” Hobart said.

“Sure,” I said, shrugging. “Wine?”

Hobart shook his head. “This is called an oud bruin. It's an ale, but it goes through a different, much longer process. You will notice that it's quite sour, and I can assure you that it's by design.” He poured two glasses of a dark amber liquid and placed one in front of me. Hobart held his own glass to the light, swirled it, then brought it up to his nose, breathing deeply. “I do love this ale,” he said, taking a sip.

I swirled my own glass, spilling a drop on my lap. I sniffed at it. It smelled very different from both of the other ales I had tried previously—sour, but there was a depth behind it. I took a sip, and found it quite sour indeed. I took another sip, and I thought I tasted cherry. “I like this, it's very nice. Best ale I've had, though that might not be saying much. Almost tastes like something between ale and wine.”

Hobart seemed pleased with my assessment. “You would be surprised how few people like it.” He swirled the liquid around in his glass again and breathed in the aroma. “Ale is like life. You can make something of what you have, put in the bare minimum of effort. What you get out at the other end won't be great, but you can probably live with the result. On the other hand, you can play the long game,” he said, taking a slow sip. “You go out of your way to find the best ingredients, you work out a recipe, and you take great care as you finally brew it. And then you wait, probably a long time. But when it comes into its own, it's something you can be proud of. Something that makes life worth living,” Hobart said, nodding to himself. “So, you two bring a lot of trouble with you wherever you go?” he asked with a smile. This caught me off guard, so I took another sip, keeping quiet. “Oh, relax, I jest. People get so jumpy when the Dark Legion shows up. I'll tell you, their presence is not helping things with the wife. She was itching to leave before, but now….” Hobart took another sip, staring out the window.

I had come to appreciate why Marcus liked Sagemont. It had a peace about it, and I thought it would have been downright serene without our presence there. It was the type of place one could easily settle in.

Hobart stood to his feet to peer out the window. “Now, what is that girl up to?” he asked.

“The blond girl snooping around?”

“She an admirer of yours?” Hobart asked.

I snorted. “Not likely. I think she is curious about that priest's magic.”

 

We sat and talked for a while longer, discussing the town, his ales, the taxes, the weather, and everything in between, when his wife came out with a large plate of food. She shook her head at Hobart. “What a surprise, you're sitting on your butt while I do the work,” she said.

When she was out of the room, Hobart tugged at his beard and whispered, “The old bat is driving me up the wall. Forever complaining, I can't do anything right by her.” He leaned back in his chair. “I was thinking about closing the place down for an extended holiday, but I can't afford to. As I told you, I'm renting the building, and it's not cheap. I might just have to send her away to live with her parents for a while. I won't have any food to serve, but I might have some peace.”

Two couples came in the door a short while later, and Hobart excused himself. “Nurse that bottle for me, will you?” And so I did, in addition to some wine, and a few tankards of ale. Each time I went to the privy, my legs felt a little less certain. By the time evening came round, I was drinking water. For a while it had felt like I was on a ship at sea. I had not been drunk in a very long time. Probably since my brother and I had snuck into our father's cellar and learned a painful lesson about consequences. Both from father's belt, and the hangover from hells. The unbidden memory choked me up, and I felt a tear slip down my cheek, which I quickly wiped away.

I walked into the cool evening air, my legs having lost most of their rubber. I sat on the bench outside and drank my water. The moon was full, and it had a red hue to it that evening. My father always told stories about those being a bad omen. He had a lot of stories, my father. I leaned my elbows on my knees and sighed. I guessed it was one of those nights, full of bitter sweet memories.

Hobart's anecdote, relating life to brewing, made me think of my situation. I supposed that the previous night's events had required little effort. Sure, we'd planned, and we'd executed our plan. But, it had been a short-term plan, and we'd gone in blind. We were lucky to get out alive. It gave me hope that there might still be a long game. Breaking into the palace and coming out alive would definitely require us to up our game while remaining lucky.

 

Hearing boots scrape on the ground, I looked to the side. Marcus was strolling up. The man had more swagger than a dozen cocksure youths combined. He slumped onto the bench beside me. “The ladies of the Lotus treated you well, then?” I asked. It was a guess, but his smile confirmed it for me.

“Like a king,” Marcus said with a huge grin on his face.

“Thought you said not to wait up?” I asked. “No longer rising to the occasion?”

“Hardly,” Marcus said, poking me in the ribs with his elbow. “The ladies of the Lotus are generous with their skills, but they are stingy with their time. I ran out of money.”

“Just as well I'm the money man, then,” I said.

Marcus sat up and looked at my glass of water. He leaned over to sniff at it and raised an eyebrow. “Water? You know you're at a tavern, right?”

“Yep. This damned-by-Gods ship was in rough waters an hour ago,” I said, stomping a foot on the wooden porch.

“Ah, regrouping,” Marcus said. “I can respect that. Can I persuade you to have one more drink before we head back?”

I thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “So be it, back to sea I go,” I said with a smile.

“Glad to see you smiling again. I apologize for my tone this morning. There were better ways to approach the subject. With everything that happened last night, the unnecessary death of one man, and the unintentional deaths of so many more… it was too much.”

“Last night was a shambles. I should have discussed that matter of the centurion with you before carrying it out,” I said. “So the apology is mine.”

“We call a truce!” Marcus said, jumping to his feet. “Captain, shall we set sail?” he asked, holding a hand out to me. I took it, and Marcus yanked me to my feet. “Have you ever had a whiskey?” Marcus asked as we entered the tavern.

Or, at least, that would have been what he asked, if he had finished the sentence. He was partway through the last word when we were flung off our feet and across the tavern by a huge explosion. Blinded and deafened, we lay sprawled on the floor amid shattered glass and timber. As I regained my wits, the ground was still shaking, and the few glasses still intact rattled behind the bar. I stood up slowly, balancing against a wall. Marcus was rising next to me, and the other patrons seemed mostly uninjured. A few people were caught by flying glass and timber, but their injuries looked superficial. Marcus and I stumbled out and stared at the flaming ruin of what had been the Shady Oak.

“Gods,” Marcus muttered.

 

I sat on the steps of the Bleeding Wolf, watching the embers rise. Marcus stood beside me, his arms crossed. Flames were licking high into the night sky, and it looked as though they were reaching out to the red full moon above. People slowly emerged from buildings around us until most of the townspeople were standing around the burning inn. Some had started to pour water over the surrounding buildings, but none wasted their buckets on the burning shell of the Shady Oak.

Two Inquisitors stood framed by the fire. It made for an iconic image, and the backdrop suited the Dark Legion perfectly. It angered me too. The scene was too familiar, too similar to that from my youth. But that was a different burning building, perhaps different Inquisitors, and this one did not contain the people I loved. Still, I saw the image of my parents embracing through the flames and shook myself to rid me of the unwanted memory.

Four other Inquisitors were doing the rounds in pairs, asking questions. I overheard some of the exchanges and awaited my turn. Running would be considered an admission of guilt in the Dark Legion's eyes. So far, people had pointed the finger at Neysa for her fire tricks and the warden for hating the elf. They also said that Elijah was in debt and owed money, suggesting those he owed may have sabotaged the Shady Oak in revenge. None mentioned Marcus or myself, but I felt uneasy. With my luck, I would be blamed for the one crime I was innocent of.

 

Eventually, our turn came and two Inquisitors approached. The one on the left opened a scroll, and started reading me my rights, which were that I had none. It still took some time for him to go through the formality, and while he droned on in his monotonous voice, I studied the intricate patterns on his robe. What looked like nothing more than fancy stitching at first glance were actually depictions of epic battles. It must have taken a staggering amount of time to complete, all done by the Inquisitor himself as part of his rite of acceptance. I had never had the opportunity to study them that closely. The battles were exaggerated versions of those the man had taken part in before being invited into the order. It was a miracle that Marcus and I had gotten away with using bath robes. Ladies' bathrobes, more to the point.

The Inquisitor's right hand and arm were black with tattoos, at least up to the point where they disappeared into his robe. I knew that in the light of day, they would be as intricate as the stitching on his robe. It was impossible to tell how much of his skin was inked, but his left hand was still clean, and so was his face. The figure on the right, however…

“Answer me you worm!” the Inquisitor bellowed, leaning over me.

“I accept my rights,” I said quickly.

“Good. Now, I understand that you were a guest at the Shady Oak. Where were you when this sabotage of the emperor's property occurred?”

“I was right here, at the Bleeding Wolf,” I answered.

“And in the hours leading up to the incident?”

“Also here. I arrived before lunchtime.”