It was the foulest establishment he’d ever been in, barring none. The room was tiny; it housed only four tables, assorted chairs, and a short counter. A film of smoke hung in the air, making the tavern seem even more cramped and closed in. But the rain had started coming down hard, and he didn’t have a place to stay tonight. The Elder Tavern seemed as likely a place as any to wait out the storm.
Besides, he might be able to shake the youth who’d been following him the better part of the day. He took another swallow of the bitter ale and grimaced.
The only other customers in the place were two old men. They were rolling and smoking some filthy weed as they played a game of stones. The stench of the smoke was overwhelming. Every now and then, one of the geezers would go into a hacking cough and spit phlegm onto the floor. Although a layer of sawdust covered the hard-packed dirt, the sawdust hadn’t been changed since the day it had been laid out. Someone had added extra layers of sawdust and rushes throughout the years, and the floor had developed a strange, rolling appearance. One of the ancient men coughed again, this time spitting up blood as well as mucus. From some dark corner a scraggly dog came out of the shadows, wandered over to the bloody pile, and began snuffling.
The only woman in the place looked the man’s way and caught his eye. He gave her a bold appraisal. Once truly a serving “girl,” the woman was now a little mature for his tastes. She was also a trifle overblown, like a rose that had passed its perfection. He met the woman’s eyes, and she smiled coyly. A little dimple played in her plump cheek, and she swayed back and forth ever so slightly.
It’s been a while, he thought. Too long, in fact. He downed the rest of his ale and held up his mug, an inviting leer creeping to his lips. The woman smiled back readily. She slowly wiped her hands across her stained apron, pressing her short, fat fingers into the cloth to outline her bodily curves. She winked and smiled once more, then turned around seductively and picked up a small ale cask from behind the bar.
Come on, come on! the man thought. I don’t want to be at the courting stage all night. Suddenly his attention was captured by the sound of the door scraping open and rain splashing on the threshold. Through the obscuring haze of smoke, he saw someone enter and close the door. The two old men never looked up from their game. The serving woman frowned, then put down the cask she’d picked up and began searching for the cleanest tankard.
He watched the figure enter the tiny tavern room, hesitate, then walk toward him. His eyes widened. It was the youth who’d been following him. Casually he moved his hand to the knife at his belt.
The thin, dirty urchin held out a slip of paper and said, “Here, this is for you. I was told to deliver it by a quarter of ten bells.” When the man made no move to take the note, the boy placed it on the table. He turned around and, shying away from the serving woman, left the tavern.
The man stared at the stained slip of paper, lying crumpled on the coarse table before him. Should I? he wondered. How brave am I?
The woman retrieved the cask and walked over to the man, her hips swaying languorously. He glared at her, and she stopped walking. Her beaming face fell into lines of discontent and disillusion. The mans lip curled into a sneer. Another five years for you, woman, and that expression you wear will be habitual, he thought. Maybe three.
He turned his attention back to the paper, wondering if it could be magically trapped. It was so blotched and sodden, so crumpled by the waif’s grip, that he thought it unlikely. Gingerly, he reached out and picked up the paper. It was folded into fourths. The man bent back the first fold and braced himself. He half expected some sort of explosion, but nothing of the sort happened. He stared at the paper and wondered if the next fold was trapped. If he hadn’t been so damned curious, he might have never known.
With a cautious breath, he gently bent back the second fold. He winced as he did so and closed his eyes. Still no explosion, no trap of any kind. Using the surface of the table, he blindly smoothed the rough paper flat. Drawing another deep breath, he opened his eyes.
It was a simple note, and not the scroll-casted spell he had feared.
Come to the alley behind the rendering hall, just after ten bells. There, I will meet you.
The note was signed with a sigil reminiscent of a wild bull’s horns. The man snarled. Then somewhere, faintly, he heard the first chime marking ten bells.
Waves of searing heat passed through him, purging every tissue of his unearthly body. Still his feet bore him across that place of flame, still he kept his mirrorlike eyes on the Immortal that guided him. And in place of the constant, dull thudding of his mortal heart, he felt the insistent words resound and repeat in his breast: have faith, have faith, have faith. …
With solid, reverent steps, Flinn followed on the heels of his patron, Diulanna. In life she had been his inspiration, and he had followed her immortal path. Now, in death, she led his soul across the tumbled, stony ground of this netherworld, led him through the cleansing fire. He had seen visions of others along the way, other Immortals he knew were the friends of his patron—Thor, the Thunderer, and Odin, known as the All Father. They had saluted Flinn on the path and he had saluted them back, remembering how he had called for their blessings on the battlefield. Now he knew his call had been answered.
It would not be long before he reached his final destination. It would not be long before he would again feel the earth of the mortal plane beneath his feet.
Chapter VIII
“I tell you, we’re lost,” grumbled Braddoc as he and Jo turned down yet another alley in the town surrounding Castle Kelvin. “And I don’t know why we had to hostel the animals at the stable instead of the inn. We wouldn’t have gotten lost like this if we had—” Braddoc pulled his cape’s hood a little farther down his face “—and we wouldn’t have gotten so soaked!”
“We aren’t lost,” Jo countered as she skirted a puddle and then stepped quickly through a veil of dripping water to get under an overhang. The streets of Kelvin were poorly lit in this part of town, and the late night and the rain added to the gloom. Jo suppressed a shudder. They had found a reputable hostel for Carsig and Onyx on the far side of Kelvin and then taken this shortcut back to their inn. The buildings surrounding her and Braddoc had deteriorated from pleasant, well-kept establishments to progressively harsher and seedier hovels. Gone were brightly painted signs proclaiming a business’s name. Many of these buildings looked abandoned, and only one in every four or so boasted a number or name.
The smoke-darkened windows of the district glowed with only faint glimmers of candlelight, if any light at all. Jo felt fear grow inside her as the number of windows with candles decreased until the streets were utterly dark. She stretched her long legs a little more, hoping to find their way back faster. She tried to keep under roof overhangs as best she could. Braddoc followed close behind her, and she felt a measure of comfort at the dwarf’s presence and low, continuous grumbles. Suddenly she stopped and gave him a brief hug, to his consternation. “I know how cities are laid out,” Jo said reassuringly. “We re going to get back to the inn quicker this way. Trust me.”
Tower chimes rang ten bells, their peals sounding tinny and hollow in this forsaken side of town. Jo wished they were back in the snug little inn Sir Graybow had recommended to them. She wanted to be clean and dry and sipping honey wine before a roaring fire.
Just beyond the glow of the next street lamp, Jo saw someone moving—the first living soul they’d seen for a long while. The mans shoulders were hunched over, and he was hurrying. Jo wondered if Kelvin had a curfew and whether they enforced it. She grimaced. Specularum had a curfew for the part of the city Jo had lived in. Of course, Jo thought wryly, no one willingly entered the slums to make certain it was kept.