A Fistful of Dragons

Part 9: Early One Morning

Nine: Early one morning...

It was because he was on edge and a light sleeper anyway that Ryder was up before dawn, though there was no opportunity to visit the captive Night Fury as it was being heavily guarded by a pair of very disgruntled officers. Quietly, the gunslinger sneaked out of the compound and walked across the plaza, hesitating...then approaching the hostel. Seeing the door closed, he slipped in through the gate to the yard, which was unbolted, and let himself into Red's stable, sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring blankly into the empty space. Unconsciously, his hand slid up to the scales on the cord around his neck.

"Miss yer, bud," he murmured. "I think I've found the others guys who did it...and I could've used you to confirm who they were. I was pretty out of it when they finished but I recalled his voice. And he gave me their names..." He fished the other chain from around his neck, a tiny cheap locket with a little black and white photograph of a very pretty woman with jet hair and bright eyes, her lips tilted in a soft smile that she only meant for him. "And I know it won't bring her back...it won't take away what they did...but it will stop them doing it again..." he said grimly, then rose to his feet. "G'bye, Red," he murmured and left, walking slowly to the kitchen and grabbing the coffee pot. Gobber seemed to have melted some tar in it, but he briskly cleaned it and brewed some coffee, then fried up some bacon and eggs, sitting down to eat at the table as Gobber stumbled down the stairs, wondering who was in his kitchen. His eyes popped in shock at the lean shape, bowed over the plate and staring thoughtfully at the coffee.

"Laddie?" Gobber exclaimed, stumbling over, sitting down heavily and grabbing the mug of coffee. He drained it with a happy sigh. "Gods, where did you find this? Valhalla?"

"Astonishingly, no. Your own kitchen is capable of producing edible food-provided you're banned from the place!" Ryder shot back, rising easily and grabbing a second mug and the pot and sloshing a mug for himself-and refilling Gobber's. As he turned back, the man was already filching his bacon and munching happily.

"If yer ever decide ter give up on being a stone-hearted killer, ye've got a place as my chef any day o' the week!" Gobber told him, starting on the egg. Ryder grabbed the plate he had made for the old blacksmith, slid it under his face and rescued the remains of his own breakfast.

"Wow-that's the warm fuzzy feeling I've been missing," he murmured.

"Aren't Dagur's men as complimentary as me about yer cookin', lad?" Gobber asked, egg dribbling down his big chin. Ryder sighed.

"If I cooked anything, Dagur'd just charge me for the privilege," he muttered bitterly, his tone so dark that Gobber inspected his face carefully.

"Yer knew he were a lunatic," Gobber said thoughtfully, munching through his bacon.

"Hey-lunatic I could handle," Ryder commented with a sigh, "but he's an evil manipulative bastard. I reckon he pulled the legs off one too many flies as a kid...and thinks he can do the same to people."

"But why're ye here, lad?" Gobber asked and for a moment, the younger man's shoulders slumped.

"Needed a few minutes to clear my head, Gobber," he murmured. Then he paused. "Did he suffer?" The blacksmith drained his coffee cup, eyes sweeping over the bowed shape.

"No, it was very peaceful, lad," he murmured. "Ye did everything ye could but he was too old, too worn out. Even Fireworm gel couldn't reignite his flame. It was his time..." Ryder suddenly sat back in the chair, his head dropping back and eyes closing. He was about to speak when he stiffened and shot to his feet, stalking to the window and pushing the recently washed lace curtains aside to peer at the very subdued army convoy trying to sneak out of the town as the sun was rising. He leaned forward, seeing some very hung over and worse-for-wear soldiers. Brow furrowing, Ryder ran his hand through his messy auburn hair.