Lorik (The Lorik Trilogy) (4 page)

“Do I ever forget?”

“No, I can’t say you ever have. Thank you, Lorik, this is one of life’s small pleasures.”

He went to the fireplace, where a small fire was burning brightly. He retrieved one of the long, thin marsh reeds that were used as kindling. He lit it in the fire, then lit his cigar. He brought the burning reed back to Lorik, who used it to light his own cigar.

“What were we talking about?” Chancy asked.

“Nothing important.”

“No, it was important. My aging mind has trouble remembering things. Oh, wait, now I have it. The silver-haired Rider, that’s what we were talking about.”

“It’s not worth mentioning,” Lorik said, exhaling a puff of thick, white smoke.

“I’d say it is. That one would sooner slide a blade between your ribs as look at you. And he can’t quit staring at you tonight. What’d you do to set him off?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Lorik said.

“That wouldn’t happen to be at the Boggy Peat visiting a certain young lady, would it?”

“Maybe,” Lorik said.

“Ha, there’s no maybe about it. Why don’t you just marry Vera and have it done with?”

“I’ve tried, she isn’t interested.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Chancy said. “Why wouldn’t she want to marry you?”

“Doesn’t love me, I guess.”

“What’s love got to do with anything?”

“She’s a woman,” Lorik said, as if that were explanation enough.

“So, she’s smart enough to know a good thing when she sees it. It’s a shame she’s had to live so long entertaining men. You should have married her years ago.”

“I told you, she isn’t interested in marrying me. I’m not a prize catch, you know. I’m never home. That’s not much of a life for a woman.”

“Oh, I think most women would enjoy it if their husbands left home more often.”

Lorik looked at his friend through the cigar smoke.

“Look around, my boy, this inn is full of men who have wives at home, and yet here they are, spending their evenings in idle talk and drink.”

“That’s...” Lorik wasn’t sure what to say. He’d never thought of that before, but the inn was full of married men.

“That’s what?” Chancy asked. “The ruddy truth, that’s what it is.”

“Well, Vera turned me down. I talked to her about it again today. She doesn’t love me.”

“Love simply has nothing to do with it. How many times do I have to tell you that? She just needs someone she can live with and fuss over. You’re as good a candidate as anyone in the Point for that.”

“Well, apparently not, she turned me down, remember?”

“You’re saying you proposed?”

“Well...” Lorik said, going over his discussion of marriage with Vera.

“That’s what I thought,” Chancy said cynically. “A woman needs a little romance, not just a roll in the hay. You need to let her know how you feel.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about her,” Lorik said truthfully. “I mean, we’re friends. We’ve always been friends, since we were young, but I can’t honestly say that I love her. I don’t know that I’ve ever loved any woman.”

“Why do you keep talking about love? I’m not talking about love, and I’m not talking about your feelings. So what if you don’t love her? You can protect her and provide a reasonably good life for her. A little security, that’s what a woman needs.”

“How much security would it be when I’m gone all the time?”

“She’d have a home, a certain amount of respect in the community that comes from being a married woman. She could have children and get out of that filthy tavern.”

“She likes the Boggy Peat,” Lorik said. “That’s what she told me. Besides, I think she has other plans.”

“What other plans?”

“I don’t know, that’s just the impression I got.”

“I think you’re blind, my boy. You just see what you want to see.”

They spent a while after that smoking quietly. They watched the fire burn down and occasionally studied the Riders. Others had joined the small group, all wearing their distinctive riding gear. Chancy’s wife served the men. There were no wenches working at Chancy’s Inn, not even young serving girls. Chancy and his wife had always served their customers, at least as long as Lorik could remember.

When their cigars were smoked down and the sweet smoke began to scorch Lorik’s mouth he tossed the small butt of tobacco into the fire.

“I think I’ll turn in,” he told Chancy.

“You making another run tomorrow?”

“No, the day after,” he said.

“Good, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Count on it,” Lorik said.

He turned from his friend to find Grayson standing up from the group of Riders. Lorik tried to ignore the silver-haired assassin, but the Rider called out to him.

“Teamster!” he shouted. “I have business with you.”

“You need something hauled out of the Marshlands?” Lorik asked.

“I need you dead and thrown into the mud bogs where you belong.”

“You’re drunk,” Lorik said coldly.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Grayson said loudly, causing Lorik to turn and face him.

Lorik didn’t want to fight. He was tired, and his head was a little dizzy from the combination of too much mead and the rich cigar smoke. But Grayson had drawn the long dagger from inside his vest and the other Riders were watching curiously.

“I have no desire to fight you,” Lorik said. “I’m going home.”

“Coward,” Grayson said, smirking and drawing a laugh from the other Riders around him. “Run home and hide.”

“It’s nothing,” Chancy said, pushing Lorik toward the door. “Go home, my friend, all is well.”

“Your time is coming, coward!” Grayson shouted.

It was the last straw for Lorik. He didn’t enjoy hurting people; in fact, it turned his stomach, and he knew that starting a feud with the Riders was stupid. But he couldn’t stand to be called a coward. He spun back toward the assassin and drew his small axe. It was a short tool, the handle only as long as a man’s forearm, the head the size of Lorik’s fist, sharpened on one side and blunt on the other.

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you,” he said angrily.

Chancy was standing in front of Lorik, between him and the group of Riders. Lorik pushed him gently aside. The innkeeper was short and thin, with thick hair around the crown of his head and a shiny, bald pate on top. He moved over against the wall of the common room, as did the other locals, none of whom wanted to get caught up in a fight with the Riders.

“You’ve stuck your nose in my business for the last time, mud walker.”

Lorik didn’t answer. He just walked forward, toward the group of Riders. Several stood up and drew weapons, but Marsdyn waved them down.

“I want to see this,” he said to the others.

One by one the other Riders sat down, and Lorik saw doubt flash in Grayson’s eyes. He had been working up the courage to confront Lorik all evening and had obviously been counting on having several of his fellow Riders backing him up. Now it was just the assassin and the teamster, and Lorik liked his odds.

Lorik was almost within striking distance when Grayson lashed out. He dove forward, thrusting his dagger straight at Lorik’s heart. The burly teamster twisted and batted the dagger off line, but it still gouged through the fabric of his shirt sleeve and sliced a fiery gash along Lorik’s shoulder.

The Riders cheered for their man, expecting Lorik to stagger back in pain and dismay, but Lorik kept moving forward, throwing his weight against the assassin, who grunted as he backpedaled, trying to stay on his feet. As Grayson slashed out wildly for Lorik’s face with the long dagger the assassin favored, Lorik ducked down and swung his axe at Grayson’s knee.

When the axe struck, it bit deep, slicing through the leather pants and crunching between the bones of the knee, shattering the kneecap. The scream Grayson made chilled everyone’s blood. He fell the ground, writhing in agony as Lorik pulled his weapon free. His blood lust was gone and his stomach was twisting at the sight of what he’d done.

“You might as well finish him,” Marsdyn said in disgust. “Put him out of his misery.”

“No,” Lorik said, turning for the door.

Chancy was giving Lorik a nod of sympathy when Marsdyn spoke.

“Mert,” was all he said, but it was enough.

Chancy’s wife was hurrying forward with a bandage for Lorik’s shoulder. Mert stood up from his place at the table and quietly took hold of Grayson by his silver hair. He smiled and then slid the assassin’s own dagger into the groaning man’s eye. The blade sank deep. Grayson twitched several times, then lay still. The smell from his bladder and bowels, which had released when he died, began to fill the room.

“This place needs a major clean-up,” Marsdyn said, rising from the table.

The other Riders followed their leader, although most shot hate-filled stares at Lorik.

“It was a fair fight,” said Stone, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“That’s right,” Marsdyn said, “so what?”

“I’m just saying, Grayson had it coming. No need for retaliation, not the way I see it.”

Marsdyn looked at Stone for a moment and then over at Lorik, who was being helped by Chancy’s wife, Opal. Then he nodded and said, “You’re right, no need to get even. You got lucky this time, teamster. I hope your luck holds out.”

They filed past Lorik as they left. The Riders either stared hatefully or looked away, but Stone nodded as he past by. He looked almost friendly.

“Good riddance, I say,” said Opal. “One less thief to worry about.”

“I’ll help you clean up,” Lorik said.

“Oh, no, there’s no need for that,” said Chancy. “You need your rest. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

“No, I’ll be fine at home. Besides, if there is trouble, I don’t want it coming down on you or your inn.”

“We aren’t afraid,” said Opal. She was a stout little woman, with bright eyes in a round face.

“No, I can see that. But I’d feel better at home. I’ll rest better,” he explained.

“You shouldn’t be alone all the time,” Opal chided. “It isn’t good for you. You need a wife to go home to.”

Lorik knew then that Chancy and his wife had been talking about him. She was obviously hinting about Vera. He was thinking about what she had said when there was a commotion outside the inn. They went to investigate. It was late, and most of the locals were asleep, but they could see the Riders sitting on their horses in the middle of the road. They were quiet, but the crew of pirates coming down the street with torches and cutlasses weren’t.

Marsdyn’s Riders drew weapons but didn’t make a sound and didn’t move their horses. The commotion was from a few townsfolk shouting as they ran to get out of harm’s way. Stone urged his horse forward just a little and then climbed down from the saddle. He looked over at Lorik and smiled.

“Teamster, would you mind looking out for my horse? She’s a bit skittish.”

Lorik’s arm was throbbing, but he walked out into the street and took the horse’s reins. Stone nodded in thanks, and Lorik looked up at Marsdyn as he turned the animal away and led it back toward the inn. The outlaw looked grim, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

The pirates hesitated for only a few moments, gauging the Riders, deciding they had enough men to press the attack. When it came, it was brutal. The pirates wore ragtag clothing, their pants loose and short, their hair plastered with oil. They were hard men, strong but not big, each one scarred from countless fights. They ran forward all at once, without an order and seemingly without fear. If they had simply converged on the stranger, he would have been quickly overcome, but only a few moved toward Stone, the rest spread out to attack the Riders. Normally, Marsdyn would have stayed away from the action. Stone wasn’t a Rider and didn’t require protection from the gang, but Marsdyn was angry, and the opportunity to release his frustration was too good to pass up.

Lorik watched Stone. The stranger stood still as the pirates barreled forward, screaming at the tops of their lungs. It was a terrifying sight, but Stone seemed unfazed. Just before the pirates reached him, Stone drew his knives. They were polished and honed, the steel glinting in the light of torches and lanterns. He spun so quickly it was hard to keep up with his movement. He held the knives with the points angling backward and out from his forearms, instead of the blades pointing up and forward like a sword. He held out the blades, slashing as he spun. The pirates were unprepared for Stone’s speed or precision. He opened the bellies of three sailors so fast it shocked everyone present. Men watched as their own entrails spilled out onto the ground in front of them; then they toppled.

Stone didn’t stop, his dance of death cutting through the pirates like a farmer harvesting wheat. He sliced with his knives, never stabbing, so that his blade didn’t lodge in bone. The pirates had no armor, and their cutlasses were clumsy defensive weapons. The motley crew parted before Stone, preferring to face the Riders on horseback than to venture too close to the stranger. Stone punched out with the knuckle guards of his knives, and the brass splintered bone, opening thick gashes in his targets with every impact.