The Viscount and the Witch (2 page)

Thirdly, I wanted to provide a little gift to all my fans for getting me to where I am now. This short will be released for free on my website (
www.michaelsullivan-author.com/free.html
) and through Smashwords. You’ll be able to get DRM free versions (I’m not a fan of digital rights management) in formats such as .epub, .mobi, .lrf, .lit, .pdf, and more). But because not everyone follows my blog, I’ll also release it through online stores such as Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and ibookstore. These venues don’t provide a means for an author to make a book free, but I’ll price it as low as I can, which is $0.99. Sometimes sites like Amazon will price match, so hopefully you’ll find it for free there as well.

Lastly, my hope is that this short will introduce some new readers who are unfamiliar with the series. So please feel free to share this generously with your friends. I often run across people who say, “I’ve heard about your books, but I haven’t had the chance to read them yet.” Well, this might be an easy way to take a look. Most short stories are 3,000 words and this one is almost twice as long (5,400) but it is still small enough to read in a single sitting, perhaps over lunch, or while waiting in a doctor’s office, or at the DMV (shudder).

One last thing, and I promise this
is
the last thing. If you enjoy this little short, please drop me a line at
[email protected]
. Heck, even if you don’t like it go ahead and email me. Your feedback will help determine whether I should write more about these two rogues or whether I should move on to something else. Writing stories that people
want
to read is why I do this, so it’s kinda important for me to know what you all are thinking.

Okay, that’s it. This note has probably way more information than you wanted and demonstrates why I’ve not written an author note before. Still, I hope you found it a little interesting. Now without further adieu, I present to you
The Viscount and the Witch
a short story of the early adventures of Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. I hope that you will enjoy.

Michael

The Viscount and the Witch

A Riyria Chronicles Short: Story #1

A woman wielding a broom charged at them, looking as much like a witch as anyone Hadrian had ever seen. Matted black hair spilled down in brittle locks, leaving only one eye and the tip of her nose visible. The peasant skirt she wore hindered her escape from the thickets, and had enough rips and muddy stains that Hadrian was certain she had tripped on it more than once.

“Stop! I need help!” she cried in desperation as if he and Royce had been racing down the road. In truth the two were riding their horses at a pace just slightly faster than a man could walk. Hadrian pulled his reins, halting while Royce continued for a bit before turning around with a curious look. Over the past year Hadrian had seen the expression often enough. He knew from experience that the puzzlement would turn to irritation as soon as his partner realized Hadrian was stopping to hear what the old woman wanted. Then would come the scowl. Hadrian was not certain what that meant—disappointment perhaps? Next, Royce’s eyes would roll with open contempt and then frustration would display itself in the form of folded arms. Finally anger would rise along with his cloak’s hood. Royce pulling up his hood was always a bad sign, like fur bristling on a wolf’s back. It was a warning and usually the only one anyone ever received.

“You must help me,” the old woman shouted as she plunged through the brush, climbing out of the ditch at the side of the road. “There’s a strange man in my barn, and I’m scared for my life.”

“Your barn?” Hadrian asked while looking over the woman’s head where no barn could be seen.

Royce and Hadrian had been traveling north on the Steward’s Road near the city of Colnora. All morning they had passed numerous farms and cottages, but they had not seen either for some time.

“My husband and I have a farm ’round this bend.” She pointed up the road.

“If you have a husband, why doesn’t he take care of the man?”

“Dear old Danny’s away. Went to Vernes to sell our spring lambs. Won’t be back for a month at least. The man in my barn is a drunken lunatic. He’s naked—violent and cursing. He’s probably been bit by a sick dog and now has the madness. I’m afraid to go near the barn, but I need to feed our livestock. I just don’t know what to do. I’m certain he’ll kill me if I set foot inside.”

“You’ve never seen him before?”

The woman shook her head. “If you help me, if you run him off my land, I’ll see that you get a fine meal for both you and your horses. I’ll even wrap up some extras to take with you. I’m a fine cook, I am.”

Hadrian dismounted and glanced at his friend.

“What are you doing?” Royce asked.

“It will only take a minute,” Hadrian replied.

Royce sighed. The sigh was new. “You don’t know this woman. This isn’t your problem.”

“I know that.”

“So why are you helping her?”

“Because that’s what people do. They help each other. If you saw a man lying in the road with an arrow in him, you’d stop, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Royce replied, “anyone would. A wounded man is easy pickings, unless you could see from your saddle that someone else has already taken his purse.”

“What? No! No one would rob a wounded man and leave him to die.”

Royce nodded. “Well, no. You’re right. If he has a purse and you take it, it’s best to slit his throat afterward. Too many people live through arrow wounds, and you don’t want the bugger recovering and coming after you.”

The old woman looked at Royce aghast.

Now it was Hadrian’s turn to sigh. “Don’t mind him; he was raised by wolves.”

Royce sat with his arms folded and a glare in his eyes.

“It’s a beautiful afternoon and we’re in no hurry. Besides, you’re always complaining about my cooking. I’m sure you’ll be happier with her meal. I’m just going to have a quick talk with this guy.” Hadrian added in a whisper. “He’s probably just some poor fella desperate for shelter. I’ll bet that if I can get the two of them to talk, we can work this all out. I can probably get her to hire the guy to help while her husband is away. The woman will get a helping hand, and he’ll get some food and a place to sleep. What’s more we’ll get a hot meal, so everybody wins.”

“And when this good deed ends in disaster will you listen to me next time and let people take care of their own problems?”

“Sure, but it’ll be fine. He’s just one guy. Even if he’s completely unreasonable, I think we can handle a drunken squatter.”

Being early spring, the road was a muddy mess. Patches of snow still hid in the shadows of rocks and the trees were just beginning to sprout small leaves. Still the birds were back. Hadrian was always surprised by their songs—how much he missed them, and how shocked he was that he never noticed their absence until they returned.

Just as foretold, around the next bend was a farmhouse, if it could be called that. All of the homesteads they previously passed had been neat white-washed cottages with thatch roofs that stood out brightly against the season’s new green. Each had fields already ploughed and sown. The woman’s farm was a dilapidated shack of withered boards and tilting fences. Rising on his stirrups, Hadrian could not see a tilled field anywhere.

“The barn is just down the hill that way,” she pointed. “You can see the roof. If you like, I’ll set your horses to some grain and water and start making your meal.”

“You say it was just the one man?” Hadrian asked as he slipped off his horse and let the woman take the leads.

She nodded.

Hadrian, who already wore two swords hanging from his belt, unstrapped a long spadone blade from the side of his horse. Slipping the baldric over his shoulder, he let the massive sword hang across his back. It was the only way the sword could be carried. The spadone was a knight’s weapon, intended to be used on horseback. If he wore it on his side, the tip dragged.

“That’s a lot of steel for one drunken fool,” the woman said.

“Force of habit,” Hadrian replied.

Royce dismounted alongside him, touching down with his right foot, then more gingerly with his left. He opened his pack and rummaged around for a bit. The woman waited until he finished, then with a final round of gratitude, she took both horses up to the house leaving Royce and Hadrian in the farmyard.

A fieldstone well, formed the centerpiece of the open space between the house and the outbuildings and down a slope stood the barn. The whole place was badly overgrown with knee-high grass and dandelions going to seed. Royce paused a moment and sat on the foundation of what looked to have been a small building—a chicken coop most likely as it was too little for much else. He lifted his left foot and examined it. Hadrian could see a row of puncture marks in the soft leather.

“How's your foot?” Hadrian asked.

“It hurts.”

“He had a good hold.”

“Bit right through my boot.”

“Yeah, that looked painful.”

“So why exactly didn't you help?”

Hadrian shrugged. “It was a dog, Royce. A cute,
little
dog. What did you want me to do, kill an innocent little animal?”

Royce tilted his head, squinting into the light of the late evening sun to focus on his friend. “Is that a joke?”

“It was a puppy.”

“It was
not
a puppy, and it was eating my foot.”

“Yeah, but you were invading his home.”

Royce frowned and let his foot drop. “Let’s go see about this barn-invading ogre of yours.”

The two headed down the grassy slope that was graced with a bounty of white and yellow wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. Honeybees were still out working, droning between the daisies, bishop’s lace, and wild carrots. Hadrian smiled.
At least someone was hard at work farming the land here
. As they approached the barn, they found it in no better shape than the house.

“You know, you didn't have to throw it out the window,” Hadrian said as they walked.

Royce, who was still preoccupied with his foot, looked up. “What did you want me to do with it? Scratch behind the little monster’s ears as it gnawed my toes off? What if it started barking? That would have been a fine mess.”

“It's a good thing there was a moat right under the window.”

Royce stopped. “There was?”

Now was Hadrian’s turn to scowl. At times like this he could never be certain whether Royce was serious or not. They had worked together for almost a year, but he was still trying to understand his new partner. One thing was certain—Royce Melborn was by far the most interesting person he had ever met but also the hardest to get to know.

They reached the barn, which was made of wood and fieldstone and supported a straw roof. The whole structure lurched to the side, its eaves leaning against the trunk of an old maple. Several of the clapboards were gone, and the thatch roof was missing in places. The double doors hung open, but all Hadrian could see inside was darkness.

“Hello?” Hadrian called. He pushed the doors wide and peered in. “Anyone here?”

Royce was no longer behind him. He often disappeared at times like this. Being more adept at stealth, Royce enjoyed using Hadrian for the noisy distraction he was.

There was no answer.

Hadrian drew a sword and stepped inside.

The interior of the barn was much like any other except that this one showed signs of serious neglect and recent occupancy—an odd combination. The sagging loft was filled with old rotting hay. The few visible tools were rusted and wrapped in webs.

Enough light pierced the gaps in the roof and walls to reveal a man lying asleep in a pile of hay. Thin and incredibly filthy, he wore nothing but a nightshirt. Grass littered his hair, and his face was nearly lost in the unruly wreath of a wild beard. Curled in a ball, an old sack acted as his blanket. With his mouth hanging agape, he snored loudly.

Hadrian sheathed his weapon and then gently kicked the man’s bare foot. The only response was a grumble as he resituated himself. Another prod produced a flicker of eyelids. Spotting Hadrian, he abruptly drew himself to a sitting position and squinted. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Hadrian Blackwater.”

“And what is it that you wish, kind sir?” His elocution was more sophisticated than his appearance had suggested.

“I was sent by the lady who owns this farm to inquire why you’re in her barn.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He squinted even more.

Well spoken, but no genius
, Hadrian thought. “Let’s start with your name. Who are you?”

The man got to his feet, brushing hay from his shirt. “I am the Viscount Albert Tyris Winslow, son of Armeter.”

“Viscount?” Hadrian laughed. “Have you been drinking?”

The man looked decidedly sad as if Hadrian had inquired about a dead wife. “If only I had the coin.” A realization dawned and Albert’s expression turned hopeful. He got to his feet and brushed the hay from his nightshirt. “This is really all I have left, but it’s made from the finest linen. I would sell it to you for a fraction of its worth. Just a single silver tenent. One simple coin. Do you have one to spend?”

“I don’t need a nightshirt.”

“Ah, but my good man, you could sell it.” Albert spit on a dirty smudge and scrubbed the material between his fingers. “If given a good wash, this garment would be beautiful. You could easily make two silvers—perhaps three. You’d double your money most certainly.”

“He’s alone.” Royce jumped down from the loft hitting the ground beside them, making only the whisper of a sound.

Albert gasped and jumped backward where he froze staring fearfully at Royce. His reaction was not unusual—most people were frightened of Royce. Shorter than Hadrian and bearing no visible weapons, he still put people on edge. The layers of blacks and grays along with the hood did not help. But the real source of menace that caused all but the bravest to step back was simply that Royce was genuinely dangerous. People sensed it, they smelled death on him the same way they smelled salt on a sailor, or incense on a priest.