Rise of the Red Harbinger (36 page)

The man continued laughing and waved his hand at the offer. “No, no dear boys. Knowledge is free. And ze laugh you gave me is enough payment. Good luck viz your travels!” He shook Horatio’s and Baltaszar’s hands vigorously and walked away.

Baltaszar lightly punched Horatio’s shoulder. “You see. They never actually saw him die. Whatever it is you think you know, I am positive that Vitticus Khou is now hidden away in my forgotten little mountain town. Even his age matches the story. Oran Von is a hobbled old man who looks like he’s nearly one hundred years old.”

Horatio shrugged his shoulders. “Looks like you will have to show me one of these days. Now let us go find ze Colored Road, ‘vazzock’.”

***

Marshall had never been to an inn before, so there was no method of comparison. However, the room in which he, Desmond, and Badalao sat was bigger than most houses in the Taurani village. In fact, the number of people in the room could likely account for a small village.

“Lincan and Vasher will arrive any moment.” Badalao said before taking a gulp from his pint glass.

“How do you know that?” Immediately after Marshall asked, Badalao tapped a finger against his head. Marshall felt somewhat silly for not having considered that. “Oh, right. So then have you bonded yourself with everyone at the House of Darian?”

Badalao and Desmond both laughed at the question. “I wish! We haven’t been there long enough for that. I still have to warm up to quite a few people. Many do not trust me enough yet. They think the same way as you-that I only intend to spy on them and play mind games. And the girls, well they are another story.” As Badalao spoke, two more Descendants joined them at the high-top table. Marshall recognized the slightly yellow-skinned one as Lincan, who had been in his recovery room with Adria. The other must have been Vasher, a brown-skinned boy of a height with Lincan and floppy black hair. Badalao continued as he shook hands with the two newcomers, “Now if I could also do what Vasher does, perhaps that would not be a problem.”

Vasher reached across the table and clasped Marshall’s forearm. “Marshall. Vasher. Delighted.” His accent was virtually the same as Marshall’s.

“How did you know my…” Marshall paused before finishing the question. “Oh. Badalao.” Marshall shook his head. “What exactly is it that you can do then, Vasher?”

“Let’s just say…I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

“What does that even mean? Was that intended to impress me?” The others chuckled at Marshall’s challenge.

A hefty woman brought two pints of ale and placed them in front of Vasher and Lincan. Vasher took a drink and then responded with a grin, “Lighten up! We’re all friends here. No need to be too serious, especially with everything that’s going on. But ta answer your question, I have the ability to persuade people through speech. The stronger your mind, the more difficult to persuade.”

Marshall bit his lip for a second. “That sounds like a dangerous thing to control. Very easily corrupted.”

Vasher shrugged, “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I am on your side.”

Lincan cut in, “I don’t mean to ruin the fun, but can we talk about this situation with Gunnar and Adria? Maven Savaiyon didn’t give us much, only that some man kidnapped them simply by vanishing.”

Marshall responded first. “Maqdhuum. His name is Adl Maqdhuum.”

Vasher took another swig and asked, “How do you know?”

“He led the armies that destroyed my village. Lincan, the way you found me, that was his doing. Three of us fought him with swords. He killed Myron, nearly killed me, and who knows what he did to Aric. He told us his name was Maqdhuum. He also said he was one of Jahmash’s generals.”

Lincan scratched the side of his head vigorously. “Exactly what happened with Gunnar and Adria?”

Badalao spoke up, “Simple. We were all talking. Marshall had just reconnected with his shadow. Then, bam. Gunnar was on his knees screaming because his forearm had been cut off. Cleanly off—that blade had to have been incredibly sharp—and maybe a second after we looked at them, Maqdhuum sneered at us and all three of them were gone.”

Vasher leaned forward, “Lao, did he…”

“No Descendant’s Mark. That is the strangest part.” Badalao continued, “Since it happened, I keep going back to that one detail. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Perhaps some of the early Descendants didn’t have a Mark,” Vasher theorized.

Desmond retorted, “We’ve all read Hammersland’s book. He made it clear that every Descendant bore the Mark.”

Marshall attempted to contribute, “What if some of them did not have a Mark and simply kept it private that they were Descendants.”

Desmond shook his head. “Ya don’t understand. Hammersland said that all Descendants bear the Mark because the Orijin told him so. Hammersland didn’t make it up his self. The Mark is part o’ the privilege an’ burden o’ bein a Descendant. Lao, tell ‘em yer theory.”

Vasher and Lincan smirked at one another before simultaneously asking, “What theory?”

Badalao shot Desmond a sideways glance before taking a deep breath. “You all know how I think there are other lands beyond Ashur. I told Desmond that it is quite possible this man came from somewhere else. Who knows what people that from other lands might be capable of?” Vasher rolled his eyes and Badalao held up a hand. “Humor me for a moment. Darian drowned the world. We know that. But why do we all assume that Ashur was the only piece of land that was saved. Seriously, we all believe that Jahmash is trapped somewhere, right? Why is it impossible for other lands to exist far out in the seas if the Red Harbinger is definitely out there somewhere?”

Vasher responded, “People have been exploring the seas for centuries and have yet to find anything. Do you know how many ships I have seen leave the docks of Sundari for the sake of exploration and never returned? Too many.”

Badalao countered, “There are a few cities on the coast of Markos that could say the same. What if that only proves my point? What if even
some
of those ships found places and just never returned?” Vasher did not look convinced. “I am not saying I’m right. As Desmond said, it is only a theory. The man appeared out of nowhere, sliced Gunnar’s arm off like it was a block of cheese, and disappeared again in a matter of seconds. He bore no Mark and told Marshall plainly that he is loyal to Jahmash. By the steel of my blade, I say the man is not from Ashur. Jahmash is recruiting and I highly doubt that he only looks to Ashur for followers. So if you have a better explanation, then please, Vasher, share. But it will take more than your manifestation to convince me.”

Marshall cut in, “Perhaps we can discuss something else? Something that will not lead to quarrels?”

Badalao nodded his head. “Indeed. What did you have in mind, Marshall?”

“I don’t actually have a suggestion. I simply meant that it was getting annoying to listen to you two argue. Surely there are better topics.”

Desmond spoke up as a girl replaced his empty glass with a full one. “I have somethin’. I hope none o’ ya think that this is too soon, considerin’ recent events, but we obviously need ta focus heavily on combat. Who knows if we’ll even see Gunnar again. An’ even if we do, he won’t be the same. We need ta organize a group.” He looked across the table at Vasher. “Maybe convince people that the threat is real an’ that if we don’t prepare, we’ll all be dead.” Vasher, Lincan, and Badalao nodded in agreement. Then, as if rehearsed, they all looked directly at Marshall and smiled.

“What?”
Blood of Taurean, they have got to be joking
. “You cannot be serious. I know nothing of your people or of the House of Darian. Marlowe would likely try to kill me.”

Desmond pursed his lips. “Marlowe is everythin’ that is wrong with the House. Why do ya think we’re even talkin’ about this?” Desmond lowered his voice, “The man can rot in Opprobrium. It’s like he’s settin’ the whole House up ta die. All he talks about is bein’ peaceful an’ lettin’ Ashur see that we’re harmless. I almost wish that damned Prince woulda gotten around ta killin’ him when he was huntin’ down Descendants. Marshall, ya saw fer yerself what’s happenin’ in this world. First yer people, an’ then Adria an’ Gunnar. We can’t waste any more time foolin’ ourselves that nothin’ is happenin’.”

Vasher cut in, “He is right, Marshall. At least Descendants like you and Desmond can use your manifestations in the middle of battle. But what about people like me, Lincan, and Badalao?” Marshall realized Vasher had a point. “Suppose we are in the midst of battle? In a split second, I cannot rely on talking my way out of getting killed. I, no, we, need to know how to fight.”

Marshall found himself nodding in agreement to everything Vasher was saying. Lincan joined the recruiting attempt. “You know he’s right. And Taurani have a reputation as fighters. Of course, I’m partial to the Anonymi, being from Fangh-Haan, but you’ll never find one of them in the House of Darian. That’s beside the point. You obviously have the most fighting experience of any of us and I’ve heard you’re a better fighter than some of us here who have been trained.” Lincan smiled and nodded at Desmond and Badalao, who both rolled their eyes. “So why not?”

Marshall’s brow furrowed. “The Anonymi?”

Lincan explained, “A warrior clan that dates back to the time of the Harbingers. Just as fearsome as you Taurani, but even more secretive. The only clan members that leave Fangh-Haan are those who take up servitude in the Tower of the Blind.”

Marshall put a hand to his head. “This is too much information for me to take in all at once. What is the Tower of the Blind?”

“Forget about it for now, I don’t feel like explaining. We can teach you all of these things back at the House. Back to my question. Will you train us to fight?”

Marshall took a deep breath. “Well, if I agree to this, then it leaves no doubt that I am one of you.”

Badalao smiled, “You were instantly one of us the moment you called me and Desmond faeries.”

“Very well. I suppose if any of you go running to Marlowe or try anything stupid on me, then I can still give you the beating of your lives.” Marshall laughed as Lincan raised his glass to toast everyone at the table. Marshall raised his own and then gulped down the remaining ale in his glass. Through all their talking, Marshall hadn’t noticed a quarrel that had started a few tables away.

***

The moment that Horatio had chosen this particular table, Baltaszar had known it had been a bad idea. The inn had been packed and the two men that previously occupied the table walked away before even finishing their food and drink. But Horatio had insisted on standing at it. The man behind Horatio, who was a foot taller and likely a foot wider, continually bumped into Horatio’s back. Baltaszar assumed it was the ale in Horatio’s veins, though it just as easily could have been the lack of a black line on the other man’s face that gave Horatio the courage to bump the man right back.
This is why we tried so hard to find this place? Our being Descendants means nothing to that man.

“Bump me again, lad. Bump into my back one more time and I’ll beat you so bad, ze road outside zis inn vill be colored viz your blood!” Most of the people around them had backed away. It was clear that nobody wanted to stop a fight. The man turned around, though Horatio’s back was still to him. He liked being ignored even less than the bumping, as he palmed Horatio’s shoulder and spun him around. Horatio simply looked up at the man, but made no indications that he wanted to fight. Baltaszar leapt to his side and stared into the man’s eyes. Baltaszar embraced the melody in his veins, which was becoming easier now, and held his good palm out. A small ball of fire hovered above his hand, high enough that the heat would not burn him. The man, clearly drunk now that Baltaszar was closer, turned to him and glowered. “Put zat out, dog. Fight me like men, viz your fists. I have no magical powers. Let zis be a fair fight.”

Baltaszar let the flame go. As the man nodded his approval, Baltaszar punched him in the chest. Though visibly older, the man’s size compromised nothing in old age. The strike forced him back a step, but didn’t faze him. The man lifted Baltaszar up by the front of his shirt and tossed him into a group of spectators, knocking them all down. Fists, knees, elbows, and feet flailed wildly as Baltaszar freed himself from the tangle of limbs and bodies. He looked back toward the Horatio, who was also on the ground after being smashed through a wooden table.

The man’s friends arose from their table, splitting up to continue their assault on Baltaszar and Horatio. Baltaszar gingerly stood to ready himself for the attack and a wiry man with a thick mustache pounced on him. He had Baltaszar pinned to the ground and cocked his fist. Baltaszar realized at that moment that he’d never been punched in the face before.
Focus, idiot.
The hit never came. In the split-second it had taken Baltaszar to blink, the mustached man had levitated to the ceiling.
What is this?
Baltaszar looked around the room while still on his back. All of the assailants were in the same position, floating in the air and looking dumbfounded. A hand reached down to him and Baltaszar grabbed it, allowing himself to be pulled up. The hand belonged to a light-skinned Descendant with a shaved head. Two more Descendants pulled Horatio from the ground. Five of them now stood before Baltaszar and Horatio. One, whom Baltaszar thought looked peculiarly familiar, like the people he’d met in Vandenar, looked up to the ceiling at the floating men.