Runespeaker

Chapter Five

The Reindeer was one of the seediest taverns Elevar had ever visited—and, in the past, he had visited some very seedy places. Nonetheless, the tavern's wine, he quickly discovered, was actually decent (a rare quality in alcohol purchased from such a place). Perhaps because of the cheap but not terrible drinks to be had, the place seemed to be fairly popular. Even now, early in the evening, it was nearly full of people whose many conversations nearly drowned out the off-key playing of the musician standing in the back corner.

Once Elevar had purchased the first round, Brekulf said, "I'll tell you how I got the book, but, first, I need to know who I'm dealing with."

"We've already made our introductions, have we not?"

"A name is a word and nothing more. I've learned the hard way not to trust a man until I know his story."

Elevar shrugged. "Well, there's not much to my story. I was raised in the Winter Plains, King Edrik's territory. I've always loved books, especially books about magic. So I left home when I was fifteen to search for books and work as a travelling magician. I've had an interesting life, I suppose, but it's not been one to which I'd apply the term story."

"You have a scar on your face," Brekulf said.

"Yes," said Elevar. "Yes I do. It's been there since I was a child."

"You're holding back."

"No, I'm not." That was a lie, but Brekulf shrugged it off.

"Whatever you're hiding," said Brekulf, "it better not be anything of concern to me. Anyway, I guess you're here for my story. Buy us another round, and I'll start talking."

So Elevar bought another round—wine for himself and ale for Brekulf—and, as promised, Brekulf started talking.

***

I was a pirate, you see. I guess I look the type, eye-patch, rotted teeth, and all. I'm the image of a pirate you'd get out of a child's storybook, except that my eyepatch isn't a decoration—nor did I earn it in battle. Its loss was the result of torture, once when I was imprisoned by the damned Imperials in the south. But I escaped, of course, and that was precisely the sort of swashbuckling tale you'd expect from those same books that taught you to expect a pirate to have only one eye. You don't care about that, though, do you, spellmaker?

My crew and I were patrolling the waters off the northern coast when we saw a small vessel in the distance. Looked like a trader's ship, unimposing, built fat to hold cargo. Of course, we had to go after it. That is how we pirates make our coin, after all—oh, don't judge me, spellmaker. We all have our own paths we're compelled to follow. No one ever gets a choice—not really.

So we chased her down. My ship, Serpent, was a lean girl, built like a knife. She cut through the water as though it were nothing. Merchant vessels don't do that, and they seldom outrun a ship like mine. Well, this one was no different. We caught the trader—except that she wasn't a trader. As soon as we got close, they started throwing hex rocks at us. The stones burst into flame on the wooden floor of my ship. She burned quick, bright, and hot. I and a few others leapt overboard to be fished out of the water by the magicians we'd taken for traders.

They tied us up, and we traveled with them for a few days before they set ashore to the west of Heraal. One by one, my crewmen disappeared. I still don't know what happened to them, though, once, I thought I saw one wandering about the camp, his eyes aglow, a rune carved into his forehead. I like to think I imagined that.

Well, one night, one of my guards got careless. Walked off to take a piss or something and left his seax lying near me. I was alone with his weapon, so I took a hold of it and managed to cut my bindings. And I ran.

I thought I was free. Thought there was nothing more they could do to me...

But I ran into one of my captors about a mile away from the camp. His eyes glowed orange in the night. He reached for a pouch on his belt—full of hex rocks, I guess—but he was too slow. I drove my stolen seax between his ribs. Just to make sure he was dead, I took a good swing at his throat too.

I took your book off his corpse. I can read, but not very well, and not whatever language the book was written in, so I sold it here in Tirne and started selling fish for an old man who spends his time on the banks of the Baraan. And that, I guess, is where your path crossed mine, isn't it?

***

His story told, Brekulf leaned back in his chair and took a great gulp of ale. "So, what are you going to do, now, spellmaker?"

Elevar frowned. "Any idea where their ship came from?"

"An island," Brekulf said, "just north of Sija. Least, that's my guess, from conversations I overhead."

"Do you know anything else about them? Did you hear any names? Like who they were working for?"

Brekulf shook his head. "No," he said. "They didn't talk much in front of me. Just heard bits and pieces of conversation. I suppose I was lucky just to hear about the island."

Elevar nodded. "If only we had a ship, we could look for that island."

In answer, Brekulf furrowed his eyebrows. "North of Sija could be just about anywhere in the Northern Sea. We'd need to listen for rumors in the port towns. See if anyone's heard anything about a strange island up in those waters. As far as a ship goes, I know a captain who owes me a favor. He spends most of his time in Heraal, if he's not at sea."

It seemed Brekulf planned to tag along with Elevar. The runespeaker hadn't planned on having company, but he was in no position to turn down help.

"So we start there, then," said Elevar. "Talk to the sailors in Heraal to see if they know anything, and hopefully your friend will show up sooner or later."

"Most likely later," said Brekulf. "If he's at sea—and he probably is—he could be gone for quite some time."

But Elevar merely shrugged. "I'm open for other ideas."

With a sigh, Brekulf took another sip of ale. "Heraal it is. And, if my friend doesn't show up, I suppose there are other ways of getting hold of a ship, provided you're not squeamish about breaking laws."

Squeamish? Elevar liked to think he wasn't squeamish about anything. Soon enough, he figured, he'd find out just how little—or how much—he really was squeamish about.