The Ruens of Fairstone (Aeon of Light Book 2) (32 page)

Pard smiles at Miles. “What should I call you, Lord Marlow?”

Miles, in deep thought, pinches his chin. “You can call me—
umm
—Les.”

“Easy enough. Hard to forget that one,” Pard says.

“All right, how about you?”

“You can call me Rad.”

Miles, with a goofy grin, tilts his head to the side and talks in an accent. “It’s very nice to meet you, Rad.”

Pard returns the same goofy smile and accent back to Miles. “As it is very nice to meet you too, Les.”

“All right, Les and Rad,” Deet says, “enough joking around, get serious.”

Pard grins and nudges Miles. “Hey, Les, what should we call Deet in public.”

“I don’t know, Rad, that’s a good question. He looks kinda like an Ed.”

“
Hmm
, I don’t think so, more like an Albert or a Stew.”

Pard and Miles chuckle, and for the first time in two days, Pard feels as if he is halfway normal. The thought of Selby momentarily slips away.

“
Ha, ha, ha,
” Deet says. “While I thank you for your input, I already have a name picked out.”

“What should we call you then?” Pard says.

“You can call me Yaz.”

HAWKE EYE

It’s dusk, and Pard and the others exit the forest and come out onto a small dirt road which is slightly plowed. Ahead, an arched bridge extends over a creek followed by a small town with four stone buildings on either side. A mill with a giant paddlewheel churns and farmhouses dot the hills and fields of the surrounding rolling landscape.

“Polin Town,” Deet says, stopping before the bridge and surveying the buildings and then the mill for any suspicious activity. “I imagine there’s an inn up ahead.”

“I don’t think I’ve walked this far in my whole life,” Miles says with a groan.

Pard stomps his feet to remove the caked snow, and he rubs his mitten-covered hands together to warm them. “Let’s keep moving, I’m freezing.”

They enter Polin Town, and Pard points to two yellow signs hanging over the door of the first building, one sign with a bed on it, the other one with a tilted pint of black ale. “This looks like the place.”

Deet steps in front of Pard. He angles his head back and stares at Miles. “Not a word, either of you. I’ll do the talking. Nod if you understand.”

Pard nods.

“I understand,” Miles says.

Deet scowls at him.

Miles rolls his eyes and reluctantly nods.

“Stay close—here we go.” Deet opens the door, and a blast of warm dry air hits Pard in his lungs.

Pard’s body relaxes as the warmth washes over him like a summer breeze. He stands up straight, reinvigorated. He strides through the door and forgets his numb feet and sore legs. Ahead, a pub half full of patrons. The space is dimly lit by oil lamps and two fireplaces, but it’s a comfortable hue, and the floors and walls seem clean but old and musty. The guests, laid-back, as the noise level is rather low. His smile grows larger. He glances at Miles who has the same smile on his face as the aroma of warm fresh bread and beef stew lingers in the air and enters his nose. Pard’s mouth waters, and he leans forward toward the siren of stew calling his name.

Deet quickly scans the room for danger and turns left and walks toward the inn front desk. “This way, stay close.”

Pard and Miles both sigh and rock backward away from their muse and they pivot and follow Deet.

Behind the wood counter, a pudgy, pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman with course auburn hair and wearing a grey wool garment greets them. “A frigid chill in the air tonight. From the looks of you, I’m guessing travelers like yourselves may need a room and a warm meal.”

“You guessed right,” Deet says, “a warm room and meal on a cold night is exactly what we seek.”

The woman smiles, accentuating her deep dimples in the corners of her mouth. “One room for the three of you?”

“Yes, one room is all we require,” Deet says.

Miles coughs and mumbles, “Two rooms.”

Deet gives the woman a stiff smile as he talks through his clinched teeth, “Like I said, one room is all we require.” He tilts his head behind him and stares at Miles, giving him a dirty look.

Miles glances away.

“Right on, dear,” the innkeeper says, “just scroll your names on the next available line on the ledger and annotate the number of nights you’ll be staying with us.” She turns around and unlatches a brass key off the wall. “Room four is yours, up the stairs and to your right.”

Deet scribes
Yaz Roe
on the first line then writes
Rad Roe
and
Les Roe
underneath his name. “We’ll only be staying one night.”

“As you say, dear. That’ll be two silver.”

“Are meals included?”

“Only breakfast, dinner is not included with the room.”

“Can we have our meals brought up to our room?”

“Sorry, dear, no room service in this establishment. You’ll have to mingle and fend for yourselves with the other guests and locals down here in the pub.”

Deet purses his lips. “All right.” He sets two silver coins on the counter and snatches the key off the wood. “Thank you much.”

“You bet and enjoy your stay and keep warm.”

Deet climbs the stairs with Miles right behind.

Pard glances at the pub and then back to the woman, giving her a smile then runs up the stairs to catch up to the others.

The inn door swings open and a burst of bitter, drafty winter rushes inside and sweeps up the stairs and floods over Pard. At the top of the stairs, Pard peeks back and his eyes narrow focusing on the foyer below.

Two rough men stroll inside and stomp their boots, announcing their entrance to all in the establishment. The first man, elegant, young, blondish hair, mid-twenties, square jaw and stubble, athletic and an aura of a pleasant disposition, he gives off a glow and a large smile. He lifts his light brown wide-brimmed leather hat and takes a few more strides into the inn. His long, newer brown duster coat extends to his knees. The other man, maybe mid-fifties to sixties, grizzled but fit, whitish-grey wiry hair that rests on his shoulders, he scowls and flicks his head toward the innkeeper behind the desk. His worn dark leather duster marked with war and hardship a thousand times over, and might even be older than the man wearing it. The coat flaps and opens as he pivots, revealing two pistols with silver grips, one attached to either hip, and another thick strap extends over his shoulders tethered to something Pard can’t see. Bullets line his belt, and two daggers with gold handles are fixed at a forty-five degree angle on his chest, one over each breast.

 
“Cold night,” the innkeeper says, “I’m guessing travelers like yourselves look to me like you may need a room.”

The grizzled man grunts and plops down a small leather coin purse on the counter. He turns around and eyes the other man. “Hawke, one room or two?”

“I think two tonight, major.”

The grizzled man nods then turns back to the woman. “Two rooms.”

Seeing the weapons and duster coats, Pard slowly crouches in the hallway against the wall, hiding his body from sight, then pokes his head over the edge.
These two guys sure look like Acue
.

“That’ll be four silver, gentlemen.” The woman snatches two brass keys off the wall and sets them on the counter. She pushes forward the register toward the men. “Just need your signature and nights you’ll be staying.”

“Not sure on how many nights yet,” the grizzled man says, and he scribes his name on the line below
Les Roe
. “Names Cray, Cornelius Cray.”

Hawke leans forward on the counter and gives the woman a playful grin on his handsome face. “My name is Hawke—people just call me Hawke.” He winks at her.

The woman blushes and smiles then presses her hand over her mouth. “Cornelius Cray, as in the
famous Cray
?”

Cray grunts and snatches his key off the counter.

Hawke nods at the woman and sweeps the key off the wood in a fluid motion. And then he tosses his key high up in the air and catches it.

Pard, unable to take his eyes off the two men, continues to stare and is obvious about it.
 

Hawke glances up the stairs, eyes Pard, tips the brim of his hat with a nod and winks at him as he strolls behind Cray into the pub.

Pard flinches and snaps his head out of view and back into the hallway.
 

“What part of not staying close don’t you understand?” Deet says, gripping the scruff of Pard’s cloak and pulling him away from the stairs. “I swear, that light thing and not listening must be infectious, just like—” Deet puckers his lips and gestures toward the open door to their room. “Never mind, just get inside.”

Pard lowers his head and ducks into the room.

Miles leans forward close to a mirror and stares at his reflection while poking his cheek where Star tattooed him.

Pard collapses onto the bed. “It’s not that bad, don’t worry.”

“It’s horrible. I look like a circus performer.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Deet says, “it’s just a few black dots—they’re hardly noticeable.”

Miles circles his finger over a small deep-red scrape. “Where he gashed me, it will leave a scar too.”

Deet sits in a wooden chair in front of a small desk, unslings his pack, and sets one of his maps on his lap. “Many people have scars, so get over it, Marlow. I don’t want to hear you whining everyday on our journey.” Deet clicks open his pocket watch and stares at the inside cover.

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one with the scars.”

Deet snaps the case shut and eyes his map. “Not all scars are visible, and most are worse than the little black dots and scratches on your pretty face.”
 

CORNELIUS CRAY

After an hour of warming their numb bodies in the room, and Pard explaining about the two mystery men in the pub, Deet, not recognizing Cray’s or Hawke’s description, decide food is too important, so they make their way down to the pub for a hot meal. They sit at a small square wooden table next to the side wall and away from the patrons sitting at the stools in front of the bar. Around them, ten other tables sporadically placed around the room, all with three candles perched in the center of each table. Oil lamps stick out from the walls and a large chandelier hangs in the center to brighten the space. Though the pub is somewhat muted, as if twilight, unless standing right next to the fireplaces or candles.

Cray and Hawke, both sitting at the table next to theirs, Pard whispers in Deet’s ear, “That’s them.”

“I see, don’t stare, mind your own business.”

Pard glances at Miles over the flickering flame rising from a long precariously perched candle tilted slightly at an angle in a pewter holder. “Not bad—this place. Seems decent enough for the night.”

“I’m so starving,” Miles says, leaning back and rubbing his belly, “any place would do, even a gutter hole in the Badlands that serves rat.”

Pard nods. “Me too.” He scans the room looking for whoever serves the food.

“I hope you both enjoy this meal,” Deet says in a hushed tone. “It may be the last you ever eat.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “Way to break the good mood, party pooper. Just chill out.”

Deet grunts and continues to scan the room and patrons for any signs of danger.

A middle-aged fat man with a thick black beard with occasional strings of white carries a tray filled with large wooden bowls and places one in front of Hawke and Cray. “On the house for you, good sir,” the man says, nodding eagerly at Cray.

Cray snorts. “Much thanks,” he says in a raspy voice, then he picks up his spoon and slurps the stew.

“On the house,” Pard says to Miles, “
nice
.”

“About time we got something to go our way,” Miles says.
 

The fat man wobbles over to their table and slings the dirty towel in his hand over his shoulder. “What’ll it be for you gentlemen tonight?”

Miles pinches his chin. “I think I’ll have a steak.”

The fat man twists his face and makes a sucking noise as he swirls his tongue over his teeth. “Don’t have any steak.”

“Uh, all right, how about a chicken?”

The fat man coughs then another sucking noise. “No chicken.”

Miles scoffs and leans forward. His eyebrows rise. “Pork then?”

The fat man shakes his head. “Nope.”

Miles opens his arms. “Then what do you have?”

“Stew.”

“All right then, the stew. Why didn’t you just say that was all you had before you asked me what I wanted?”

“I asked what you want, boy, as in drink.”

“Oh.”

The fat man looks at Pard. “For you?”

“Stew, bread, and water.”

“Same here,” Deet says.

Miles sits up straight. “Ale.”

Deet’s eyes snap toward Miles, and he glares at him.

Miles backs down. “
Or not
—water then, no ale.”

Deet shifts his gaze, again scanning the room and all in it, on guard like a sheepdog searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Miles gestures toward the fat man. “So stew is on the house tonight?”

The fat man makes a sucking noise and snorts.

“
What
? Did I say something funny?”

“What makes you think your stew is on the house tonight?”

“Well, you said the stew was on the house for those guys sitting next to us.” Miles points at Cray.

The fat man swats Miles’s hand down. “Don’t point, boy, unless you want to lose your hand, or worse. That there is Cornelius Cray.”

“Yeah, so what, am I supposed to know who that is? As a matter of fact, I’m—”

Deet’s glare snaps back at Miles, and he pounds his fist once on the table rattling the silverware and candle.

Miles coughs. “I’m a nobody who has no idea who Cornelius Cray is.”

The fat man leans in over Pard. Beets, barley, and body odor lingers over the table. He whispers, “Cornelius Cray, previously Major of the Iinian Red Guard and holder of the golden daggers of Teane; and the most famous warrior and renowned bounty hunter and creature killer alive in the world today. Not one to be trifled with,” he glances at Miles, “and not one to be pointing a finger at neither if you catch my drift. He may interpret your intentions the wrong way and blow your head off with his famous rifle or six shooters.”