Bastion of Sun

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Chasing Darkness

Odaren slipped off his stout Cloudfellian pony and landed in a puddle of mud outside the grimy stables. He grimaced, wiping muck from his already dirty clothes—caked with sweat, dirt and dust from days of travel.

He'd traveled hard to get here—one week with no shuteye, save for the few winks he'd snatched beneath a farmhouse's eaves during a storm that had pushed him from the road.

Some men were lucky, but Odaren didn't count himself among them. Nevertheless, only once did he run into trouble, harassed by bandits on the Aster Plains. Despite his plump, ungainly appearance, he was quick with a knife, and the two men, barely more than boys, had run off crying. If he wasn't a servant of the Shadow King that would have unnerved him—the Aster Plains were always rife with bandits and bloodshed, but the world was changing. Thieves were getting younger, good men turning bad and thriving towns where neighbors were once family were shutting their doors, turning inward... a shadow was slowly descending upon the world of Farhaven and it spoke the words "Strength is life, weakness, death."

A stableman came forward from the shadows into the ruddy orange glow of a swinging lamp. "Here for a stay?"

"Just the night," Odaren said, grabbing his heavy saddlebags.

"You pack heavy for one night," the stableman replied. "Heading somewhere?"

Odaren twisted, narrowing his gaze warily. The man was old, teeth likely rotting from his head. His ratty clothes were damp from the rain outside. But age aside, his eyes were keen, taking in his surroundings like a moonorb, a spark-infused object that sucked the light from a room. Odaren knew there were spies in all corners of the world, some with and some without allegiances, simply looking to sell information to the highest bidder. And where Odaren stood now, in a sinister part of Farbs, in a dark back alley called Shadow's Corner, a man would sell his mother for a loaf of bread. The city of fire was dangerous for one with a loose tongue. "My business is my own," he answered, pulling the saddlebags off the rest of the way, throwing them over his narrow shoulder with a grunt.

"Just asking," said the man coolly.

Odaren handed the reins of his mount, Unta over.

"Two silvers," the stableman grumbled.

Odaren laughed in reply. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

"Two silvers," the man repeated, humorless.

"You'd rob a blind man, wouldn't you? This stable is barely fit for a pig."

The man opened up his palm, letting the reins slide out.

Grudgingly, Odaren slapped a small silver into the man's waiting palm. "That's all you get. Treat Unta well or I'll know," he threatened emptily. Though the stablehand was twice his age, he still stood head and shoulders over Odaren.

"Ya?" The man's leathery skin peeled into a sneer and he spat on Odaren's boots. "And if I don't?"

The nearby lamp creaked, swinging from a breeze.

Odaren felt his anger for all the hard days of travel, all the disrespect he'd suffered slowly rise like bile in his throat. "You don't understand, do you? Who I work for doesn't treat those who disrespect his followers kindly. You might have heard of him..." he trailed off with a wicked grin. "The Shadow King." And he spat upon the man's dirty, hay-covered coat. "Understand?"