Chapter 3

Daynin opened the huge doors of the inn very cautiously and peeked inside. A roaring, poorly vented fire filled the top third of the room with light smoke. Blackened lanterns cast eerily dancing shadows from the dozen or so figures moving about within. In one corner stood a large harp, seemingly out of place in the hazy den of iniquity.

“Close the gate, you weedy little dolt!” the barkeeper growled from across the room. “Leave the cold outside where it’ll do the most good.”

Sheepishly Daynin entered the room, quickly shutting the great doors behind him. He felt a flush of embarrassment coming over him as he made his way to the bar. Off to his left, he caught just the swirl of a long skirt moving across the darkened side of the room.

“Some cheese, and, and bread, and a tankard of ale,” he stuttered, holding out the coins in his hand.

“A tankard says he!” one of the bar’s scruffy patrons scoffed. “And would ye be needin’ a room for the night, Sir Puke?” he added, bringing a round of heavy, raucous laughter from the small crowd.

“Leave him alone, you crowbeat blaggards!” came a resounding rebuke from the shadowy corner.

Daynin turned to see from whence his honor had been defended. “Who are you?” he asked of the mysterious figure.

“Never mind, boy,” the shadow answered. “You just get your goods and be off. The Never Inn’s no place for the likes of you. Especially at this time of night.”

Daynin realized the voice, though deep and somewhat hardened, was that of a young woman. He stepped toward the corner and was stopped in his tracks by another strong rebuke. “Get thee hence, swineboy, before I lose my patience and let these blaggards have their turn with you.”

“I just wanted to thank you for—for, uhh, helping me. I’m Daynin McKinnon of Hafdeway. My friend and I are on the way to . . .”

“To hell, sooner or later, as are most of us! That is, if you’re lucky and don’t get that scrawny little throat slit right here, tonight. Now be off with you!” the woman warned. “You’ve no business in a place like this.”

Daynin backed up to the bar, still facing his mysterious benefactor. He tried desperately to see some semblance of a face, but the smoke and darkness made that impossible. He did make out some detail, along with one shapely ankle that protruded into the light, and he liked what he saw. He was at a loss as to what course to take then, as his curiosity had completely overcome his fear of the situation.

The tavern’s doors swung open just then, and in marched the Boozer, looking for all the world like a deranged demon in the hunt for its prey. The room fell coldly silent for several seconds while the magician sized up the situation. “What’s keepin’ ya boy?” he roared. “Time’s a wastin’. We got no time for the dillydally. Did you get my ale?”

“Uhh, not yet, m’lord,” Daynin responded, attempting to cast the manly image of himself as servant rather than plowboy for the benefit of the shadowy female enchantress. “Ale, innkeeper!” he ordered loudly.

The heavy clump of metal on the spiral wood stairs above the room announced the arrival of a new player to the scene. “Play, woman!” a harsh, gruff voice demanded from the stairs. “I didn’t bring that harp here for an ornament, you know. Get over there and earn yer keep.”

Daynin swirled about to catch a glimpse of the woman, but was attracted instead to the thump of riding boots on the floor of the inn. He saw the long black hauberk first, its tiny, intricate rings of iron a flowing masterpiece of smithwork. Then his eyes met the heavily gold inlaid belt with a magnificent silver dirk protruding angrily at the man’s waist. He had not yet gotten to the stranger’s face when his inspection got interrupted.

“What’re you lookin’ at, pup?” the black hauberk growled. He pushed a chair out of his way and strode rapidly toward the corner where the woman had yet to move.

Before Daynin could answer, the magician intervened. “He looks at nothing, my lord,” he said apologetically. “He is but a foolish boy. May I buy you a tankard of ale for your trouble?”

The hauberk roared, “Woman! I told you to play! Now make that harp sing, or there’ll be the devil to pay for you this night.” With that, he stormed into the darkened corner and shoved the woman out into the light. “Do what I tell ye, now, or the lash’ll be your reward.”

Young McKinnon was instantly struck through by the woman’s beauty. The bodice front of her dress fell away from her as she attempted to get up from the floor. Even in the poor light of the inn, he could see the round fullness of her breasts heaving with each breath. Her long black hair glistened from the sparkle of firelight, her skin reflecting the yellow glow of the room’s lanterns. She was a dream come true for Daynin. He had never before seen such a beautiful woman.

“Let’s go, boy,” the Boozer urged, so as not to intervene further.

“No!” Daynin replied. “He can’t treat her that way! It’s not . . .”

“It’s none of your business, lad. We’ve a trek to make, remember?” the old magician urged again, this time jerking on Daynin’s leather frock sleeve.

Daynin jerked his arm free and took two steps to where the woman had just come to her knees. He held out his hand and asked, “Are you all right? I mean, are you hurt? Can I help you?”

“Help her at your peril, boy,” the innkeeper snapped. “She belongs to the Marquis, there, and he’s as apt to break your head as look at you.”

The woman pushed herself to her feet, her eyes meeting briefly with Daynin’s. He realized she was no woman, at least not in years. The marks on her face and hands belied her true age, but he knew her eyes were those of a very frightened young girl, not much older than was he. He smiled, and received the barest hint of a smile in return.

The Marquis’ great shadow descended upon them like a demon’s breath. Daynin’s eyes flashed from the woman’s face to the black hauberk just as the blow fell upon her. The Marquis struck her in the back of her head with his heavy studded gauntlet, stunning the woman and splattering blood on Daynin’s face and arms.

In a heartbeat the boy reacted in anger for the first time in his life. Perhaps the memory of his family’s fate at the hands of black-armored slayers had done it. Or perhaps the passion of a young man long held in abeyance to the harsh injustices of the Duke’s realm came to the fore.

Regardless the cause, the result was the same. He grabbed blindly at the Marquis to stop the assault. His hands found the hilt of the man’s dirk. With the precision of a trained assassin, he pulled the blade free and jammed it to its limit into the seam of the hauberk. Instantly, blood gushed from the deep wound, the Marquis toppling forward onto the boy like a great oak felled by lightning.

Pandemonium reigned in the room. The innkeeper climbed over the bar with a short, studded board in his hands. Several of the patrons drew their dirks in anticipation of more bloodletting. Everywhere there was confusion. The woman screamed, then swooned as a scarlet river of blood she must have thought to be her own, spread rapidly on the barroom floor.

Boozer jumped between the innkeeper and the boy’s unprotected back. He, too, drew a large dirk from under his cloak, and that, combined with his naturally fearsome features, served to stem the tide of the others. They stopped in their spots or backed away quickly, preferring not to be added to the casualty lists for the inn that night.

“You best be takin’ your leave, afore the Duke’s men hear of this,” the innkeeper warned. “The Marquis was the Duke’s cousin, you know and he’ll not take lightly to his kinsman’s murder, bastard that the Marquis was. Take that wench with ye as well. She’s been nothin’ but trouble since she’s been here. Good riddance to ye all!”

“Help the woman to the wagon, Daynin,” the magician ordered. “We’ll be headin’ back to Hafdeway now. Be quick with ye, boy!”

The magician’s wagon was thundering down the track toward Tendalfief before Daynin came to fully realize what had happened. The woman lay stunned in the bottom of the wagon next to the Scythian Stone, still bleeding from the gash in the back of her head. All Daynin could hear was the Boozer lashing out at Abaddon, urging the old horse onward through the gloomy darkness.

The heavy jostling of the wagon finally broke through the stupor where Daynin’s senses had gone. He reached over to touch the girl’s fine black hair, now lightly matted with blood at the base of her skull. She moaned slightly as she tried to turn her head.

“Best be still,” Daynin cautioned. “You’ve a bad knot on your head.”

“Owhhhh,” she said, after running her fingers across the bump. “That bastard! I’ll strangle him with his own lash the next chance I get.”

“Then you’ll need a spade to do it. He’ll be feedin’ the worms ‘ere you see him again,” Daynin said, somewhat boastfully.

She sat up, holding her head as if it were a melon balanced on a fence post. “Owwww! Charon’s Cross! I’ll make that felon pay,” she swore.

“I’m trying to tell you,” Daynin insisted, “the Marquis crossed over to the other side this night. He’ll not be bothering you nor you, him, ever again. At least not as a mortal man.”

“The Marquis is dead?” she begged. “By whose hand, and for what price was this deed of heaven’s justice done?”

“Is that important?” Daynin evaded. “Isn’t it enough that the man is dead? He paid the ultimate price for his misdeeds, that’s for sure.”

“You killed him!” she said with a finality of recognition. “You’ve condemned yourself to the gallows and me in the bargain. Damn you!”

“The man gave me no choice. He would have killed you if I hadn’t . . .”

She pulled up her sleeve and snapped, “Do you not see these bruises and scratches? He’s beaten me before, but I’ve lived to tell of it. Besides, he owns me. It’s his right. I’m indentured to him for life.”

“Not any more,” Daynin scoffed with a large sigh. “Might I at least know the name of the person I’ve chosen to share the gallows with?”

“Sabritha, if it matters. And after this night, I doubt it will. We’ll all be hanging from an oak tree before the cock crows twice. And who might you be, sir knight of the barroom?”

Daynin could feel the flush of embarrassment flooding his face again. “I already told you. I’m Daynin McKinnon of Hafdeway. That’s the Boozer, a magician. We’re on our way to . . .”

“I don’t give a render’s puke where you’re going!” she growled. “If we don’t head for the border of Scotia, right now, we’re going to be crow’s food when the Duke’s men catch us. The Marquis was Duke Harold’s cousin, you know. Not a liked man, to be sure, but a Marquis . . .”

Daynin interrupted. “Are those lights in Hafdeway, Boozer?”

“Tendalfief,” he replied. “We can’t go back to Hafdeway just yet.”

“Tendalfief!” Sabritha cried out, then shuddered with the pain echoing in her head. “The Al Cazar is the sheriff of Anglia. You’ve saved ‘em the trouble of looking for us, you old fool! Turn around now, before it’s too late!”

Daynin pointed toward the back of the wagon. “It’s already too late,” he whispered. “There are soldiers behind us!”