Author's Note: Hello agan, everyone! Starting this week, I'm sharing the first novella that takes place within my Sword and the Flame universe. Hope you enjoy it. :)
The cold rain pelted against his cloak as Reinhart's leather-gauntleted fist hammered against the wooden gate. A moment after his final strike, a grating sound of metal on metal cut through the night air as the gatekeeper pulled aside a slide cover big enough to reveal a portion of his face.
The gatekeeper had never been one to appreciate being awakened in the dead of night. Irritable at what his life had become, his grizzled face peered through the opening in a sneer towards the stranger. "What in blazes do ya want at such an hour?"
Reinhart lifted the hood of his cloak from his head, allowing his eyes to be seen, and locked them on the gatekeeper's. "Entrance into your city."
The gatekeeper stared at him for a few seconds in an effort to size the man and his profession. Men coming to the gate at such a late hour had a reason for doing so, not that it was his business. He just didn't want to have his job questioned and be put out onto the street like a common beggar. Feeling he was a good judge of character, the gatekeeper nodded and closed the slide cover. Loud clanking noises signaled the locks on the gate were being opened and the door positioned in the center of the massive wooden wall opened enough to allow Reinhart entrance into the small city.
The fact the door opened at all surprised Reinhart, as he expected to be told to move along. Had he been a bandit, this would've been a golden opportunity. Whatever reason the gatekeeper had for allowing him entrance, he wouldn't complain and was pleased to have the opportunity for a dry bed to sleep in for the night. Once inside, the gate closed behind him and he got his first good look at the gatekeeper.
Despite the man's age, he had a burly build with white tousled hair and dirty beard. The sword held in his right hand was steady, telling more about his combat prowess than would've been possible had Reinhart not been deemed worthy of entrance. He wagered the man could've face an Ogre and won when he was younger. The look in the man's eyes told Reinhart his assessment was correct.
"All right, yer in. No trouble from ya, else the Magistrate will have yer skin." There were few duties the man had as gatekeeper, but one of them was to assess anyone entering the city. The new arrival's demeanor showed his knowledge of weaponry, but unless he did something stupid by the gatekeeper's post, his skill wouldn't be tested. With his work done for the moment, the gatekeeper turned towards the small alcove off to the right of the gate. Behind the alcove stood a small stone hut he used as a home when not on duty.
The sight of the man's dwellings reinforced Reinhart's conviction when it came to his life on the road. Being a ranger was anything but easy, but it proved more dignified than being thrust aside and having to work for the bread one already earned. Without owing his loyalty to a man or crown, he was free to do as he pleased. At least, the man that greeted him had a roof over his head; many couldn't claim that much as a benefit to their job following years of service.
Reinhart couldn't help but notice the man's severe limp as he walked. Most people walking in such a manner were either born with the malady or suffered an injury of some sort. The way the man held his sword and the look in his eye when he stared Reinhart down left little doubt as to the man's profession before being "retired." Woe to the warrior forced to survive as that wretch was forced to, with no dignity or respect from any but the occasional passing warrior.
The ranger pulled his cloak tight around his neck while forcing the images and thoughts of his own future away. Was it truly better to live with the possibility of having no one to mourn his death? Was the freedom the life of a ranger offered worth dying in some unknown forest on the blade of some half-assed warrior dreamer? The question never bothered him much, but when it did, it made itself known to him with a vengeance.
He spotted what appeared to be a tavern or inn ahead of him before a crossroads. The chances the owner remained awake were slim, but no man turned away silver for a night's lodging. At least, no sane man. With a chuckle, he continued along his path, allowing his mind to focus on what it wished to. There was nothing for him to be worried about in this small town, as everyone that could pose a threat were either in bed with their loved ones or passed out from drink. Such was the life in the solitary towns in the Wilderness.
He smiled when he drew close enough to make out the sign above the door. The one constant in life, besides death, was the layout of cities and towns. The business areas were easier to spy than the living ones due to their depravity and proximity to the gates. So much the better for him and others of his profession. Without such places, one would need to be part Elf or have a bad time of it.
The walk down the narrow street proved to be an adventure in sidestepping rain puddles more than anything else. Reinhart chose not to bother avoiding them. He was already soaked through and it'd take most of the night to dry out his belongings, assuming he'd find a place with a fire at such a late hour. If it were up to him, the rainy season of the southern Wilderness could go to the Abyss along with most of the people living there. Of all the places on the world of Pyrain, he doubted there was anyplace comparable to the Wilderness so far as the dregs and rapscallions.
Striding up to the door, he refocused his thoughts before grasping the doorknob and entering. Much as he expected, the common room was dark with the exception of a low fire in the hearth behind the bar. As wet as the outside was, the inside wasn't much better, and thoughts of a dry bed and fire to dry his belongings faded. Water poured in through several openings in the roof and where it didn't, the water came down in a constant trickle. In many ways, he would've been better served to find a comfortable tree to stay under for the night. At least, it would cost him less silver.
As far as common rooms went, calling it such was an insult to the name. The two tables looked as though they were thrown together shortly before he entered. Off to his right, the bar added to the depressing feeling of the room. Constructed by setting a flat plank of wood across a pair of chopping blocks, he was surprised it could hold the weight of the man leaning on it.
The man watched him with passionless eyes that were better served to sizing up an opponent than greeting a customer. "What can I do fer ya, stranger?" His voice had a grating quality to it caused by drinking too many Dwarf spirits. His bald head shone in the firelight behind him and his greasy moustache looked as if it held the lice and fleas his head was incapable of anymore.
Reinhart returned the man's expression without flinching. He'd sooner go to the Abyss by the hand of a child than allow himself to be thought of as a mark. "I'd like a room... and what passes for a meal around here."
A cough came from the corner to Reinhart's left where an old man sat, bent over a bowl of cold stew. He could feel the man's eyes watching him as he and the innkeeper discussed business. Reinhart assumed the old man was the innkeeper's father, as the two looked too much alike for there to be any other conclusion to be drawn. Turning his eyes to the old man, he was rewarded by seeing the old man squirm under his gaze. Though half the innkeeper's size, Reinhart had the impression the old man was good with a knife. He made certain to remember the face in the off chance there were any disturbances while he rested. Assuming, of course, he remained there. The tree in his mind's eye was beginning to look more appealing to him by the second.
In an effort to get Reinhart's attention back on him, the innkeeper turned his head to spit on the floor. "Rooms're all gone. All's I got are the stables. Ya don't mind horses and fleas, do ya?" Both the innkeeper and his father burst into laughter at what they were certain would be the ranger's discomfort. Had he not often slept under conditions that would cause both men to stop breathing, their ploy may have had a chance to work.
Continuing to smile, Reinhart reached under his cloak to a hidden pocket for his coin purse. Over the years, he mastered the ability to pull coins out without showing anyone where they were kept. It was a trick he learned from a Halfling, of all people, and it helped save his life several times through intimidation alone. Many of those he met during his travels feared he was a mage due to his sleight of hand. Reaching for his money in such a manner had the desired effect on both the innkeeper and the old man, even more so than the broadsword strapped to his left side. Until then, it had remained hidden under his cloak, but with his subtle movement, its worn handle and chipped scabbard caused the color to drain from both of their faces.
"This should cover it." He tossed three silver coins onto the bar. "Horses'll be better company and have less fleas."
Anger flashed across the innkeeper's face at the implied insult, but at seeing the silver and knowing Reinhart overpaid for the stable by two coins, he let the insult pass. He'd make up the difference another time. He motioned towards the back of the inn with a nod. "Around back; you'll find it easy enough. What name do ya go by?"
Reinhart turned towards the door, pausing before pulling it open and stepping back into the rain. "Death, to those who cross me." Seeing the color drain from the innkeeper's face once more told him he wouldn't have any trouble from him that night. At least, not directly. Before the innkeeper could utter a reply, Reinhart was through the door. The only proof he'd ever been there was the water-soaked floor and the three silver coins on the bar.
To Reinhart's surprise, the stables were as dry and warm as the plains, with a handful of horses lounging in their stalls as comfortable as they could be. Reinhart picked a stall with fresh straw strewn about and began to make himself comfortable. It took a few minutes for him to pile the straw in a corner into a passable bed, but he was pleased with the result. While he couldn't build a fire without a stone or earthen hearth, he could at least lay out his cloak for it to dry and propped his boots upside down against the wood runners next to him. He then draped a majority of his wet clothing over the sides of the stall away from any horses. He wasn't interested in waking up naked with his clothing being chewed on and dragged through horse dung. Just because he had experienced worse, didn't mean he wanted to welcome such an experience. His last act before settling in his straw bed was to light one of the candles he carried with him and place it in one of the lamps left hanging at the opening of the stall by a stable hand. Having it burning around dry straw was dangerous, but it was safer than building a fire and the benefit of it hurting an intruder's night vision was too great an opportunity to pass on.
The idea of the stables being in better condition than the inn brought a smile and laugh from him. The only reason he could think of was someone else owned the stables and allowed the father and son tandem to use it for their guests. Before drifting off to sleep, he wondered if the stable's owner knew the pair was making money off of him. Probably not, he reasoned. Otherwise, the doors would be locked or the two would've been run out of town. As odd as that sounded, it helped him to fall asleep feeling a modicum of safety.
When sleep did embrace him, he welcomed it as if it were a long-lost lover. Despite his life on the road and the physical exertion such a life wrought, he was never one to fall asleep with ease. Raised to be a ranger and to live without a great deal of effort in the wild, he was taught to sleep with one eye open in the most uncomfortable of places. Under his intensive training, he found few people in the world cared about him beyond what he could do for them. It was the law in the Wilderness, away from the kingdoms of man, Elf, and Dwarf. It was his life and he felt no remorse over the direction it'd taken over the years.
With sleep also came the imaginings of his mind and the conjured memories delighted and tormented him. His wet clothing was gone, replaced by their dry counterparts as the sun hung overhead, warm and bright. After a moment, he began to remember the day he left Lucille to find his way in the world. Has it really been ten years? He shook his head to chase the thought away. How could it be so long? He could still see her house as it had always stood. Even the sights and smells were the same.
He paused along the path leading away from the village and looked back over his shoulder. Lucille hadn't come out to see him off after their fight. With a sigh, he turned back to face down the path and take another step when an odd sound caught his attention.
When his eyes opened, he was back in the stable. He was too well-trained to thrash about and make unwarranted noise. Not sure what pulled him from his sleep, Reinhart felt grateful to whatever had caused the sound. Even after ten years, he didn't want to go back to those memories. He remained motionless, listening for what had caused him to wake. While he was grateful to have his dream interrupted, he was even more so in that it prevented his throat from being slit while he slept.
After another few moments, he began to think the sound was a remnant from his dream. As he was about to close his eyes and go back to sleep, the sound of one of the horses shuffling and a quiet shush from someone outside the stall he was in caught his ear.
Reinhart's eyes sparkled with a knowing look, as it appeared the innkeeper hadn't been frightened enough. Without a noticeable movement or sound, his right hand gripped his sword handle. Life in the Wilderness taught one to be ready to fight at a moment's notice, and he was no exception.
When hunting, the key is to have patience and outwait one's prey. So it was with beasts, so it was with the peoples of Pyrain. Reinhart's wait lasted a few more seconds before the old man appeared from behind the wooden post.
With ability defying his age and reason, the old man approached Reinhart without making a sound, as if he were floating above the straw and dirt floor. When he was close enough, the old man reached out a grease-covered hand for the cloak hanging off to the side to dry.
The thought of the old man having some supernatural power flooded Reinhart with dread when he noticed how easily the man moved. Only Elves moved in such a smooth manner, but from what he'd seen, the man was just as human as he was. A former ranger, then? The thought did have some merit, but there would be time to worry about such concerns later. In an instant, Reinhart leapt to his feet, resting the point of the sword below the old man's left armpit.
"If you value your life, you'll not move... friend."
The old man nodded his understanding and swallowed. "I wanted to check on you... thought you was asleep."
Reinhart barely smiled, both of them knew the old man's intention. The fact he may have been a former ranger fled Reinhart's thoughts. He was nothing but a simple thief. "I'm fine. May I suggest you return to your bed before your death catches you." With a snarl, the old man turned and made his way towards the entrance with a stomping sound belying his earlier grace. Reinhart's voice stopped him before he made it three feet. "I expect a good portion of stew in the morning for my trouble. I'm sure you agree." The old man nodded his head, sneering once more before stepping through the stable door and into the night air.
Once he was alone, Reinhart sheathed his sword and began pulling on his cloth undergarments and then his leather armor. While they were still damp, they were better than walking through the town in the nude. He could understand the old man's outrage at being caught in the act and getting chased away. He wasn't certain how the old man would handle being bested by a naked man that was supposed to be sleeping.
With his own protection in mind, he finished dressing and flapped his cloak after taking it from the corner post of the stall. Like the rest of his belongings, the cloak was still damp, but had dried more than the rest of his attire. The stiffness of the cloth was oddly comforting to him.
The dancing shadows his movement made drew his attention to the lamp. He was pleased he decided to keep it lit with a six-hour candle. Otherwise, he may have been forced to kill the old man instead of chasing him off. The candles were a hard commodity to come by as the leaders of the various towns never wanted to part with them. The feeling of protection their soft glow offered was often worth ten times their weight in gold, given the proper circumstances. The candles were often used in street lights for the larger cities, but the men governing them cared little for the populace they ruled. The candles remained with those that could afford them with very few exceptions aside from guard posts and the like. Being one to never rely on creature comforts, the idea he needed or wanted the candles was foreign to him. Until recently, he'd never been one to quibble over such things as material wealth. Those arguments were better served by the local mayors, magistrates, or whatever they chose to call themselves, instead of a ranger like him.
It took several attempts at flapping his cloak, but he was pleased when it became pliable enough to wear and swung it over his shoulders before closing the clasps near the yoke of his throat. Fully dressed, and in ill humor considering the need to wear wet clothing after being warm and comfortable, he blew out the candle and placed it with the others in the small satchel he wore under his cloak. To best keep it out of sight and out of his way, he rested the strap over his left shoulder, allowing the satchel to rest against his right hip. With his sword sheath at his left side, he could get to either of them without inconvenience or hesitation.
Ready to continue his trek through the Wilderness, he made his way to the stable door and the darkness outside. The moment he dropped the three silver coins on the bar he knew his chances of remaining there for a full night were low. Even worse, he couldn't afford to eat any of the stew after his actions for fear of poison. Despite the fact the stew was most likely made from rat or some other vermin the innkeeper and his father managed to capture, the stringy, sour-tasting meat would've been as welcome as the warm broth.
Had the old man found the purse, he would've crept over and slit Reinhart's throat without a second's hesitation and blamed it on some bandit that found his way into town. Reinhart doubted the local constable would do more than a brief investigation before agreeing with the father and son. Hired law men made him nervous. There was something about them that couldn't be trusted. Not by him, at any rate.
Thinking over his entrance at the inn, he now realized he had guaranteed he would be attacked the moment the coins were dropped onto the table. It was a conscious act on his part, trusting in the image he displayed being enough to ward them off.
Reinhart chuckled to himself as he closed the stable door. Despite his internal grumbling about the two men, the real reason he did it was to test them. He wanted a fight, an excuse to kill someone so he had reason to feel as dirty as they were. Few things in life made sense, but the need to impose one's will on a weaker, lesser being had its place in the hierarchy of nature. He stayed his hand to prove he wasn't a cold-blooded killer. Not yet.
With the door closed, he turned back and faced the blackness the few street lamps fought their nightly battle against. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cool, fresh, after-rain air. The sensation of cleanliness would last until the moisture settled since the rain stopped for the night. Satisfied, he opened his eyes and began walking down the street towards the town's gatekeeper to be let out. Keeping his eyes focused in front of him, Reinhart felt heartbroken that the sensation of the cool air would give way to the smell of man and their city within an hour, two at the most. This was the way the world worked, teasing one with something pure and then taking it away without a warning.
He never broke stride through the muddied road as he made his way to the gate and roused the grumpy gatekeeper from his alcove once more. At first, the gatekeeper regarded him with fury in his eyes, but after thinking better of a confrontation, the man hobbled to the large metallic bar that locked the gate.
"I never seen one to sit still less'n ya. Yer business done, I take it." The gatekeeper grunted as he pushed at the heavy steel bar to the left of the gate. Reinhart thought about helping him, but decided against such an action. The man still had his pride, even if it involved a job such as he now had. The large locking arm swung upwards and the gatekeeper's push triggered the counter weight. In less than a heartbeat, the gate was unlocked, allowing the gatekeeper to pull the door open. "Beggin' yer pardon, but would ya get the hell out 'fore ya wake me again."
Reinhart tried to stifle the smile threatening to betray his thoughts as he walked past the man. Before he stepped through the gate, he turned and held his hand out. The gatekeeper eyed his gauntleted hand with suspicion.
"What ya want now?"
"From one warrior to another. Without waiting, Reinhart opened his hand and let six gold pieces fall from his fingers.
The gatekeeper moved with impressive speed, displaying that his agility hadn't left him despite his injury, and caught all the gold pieces before they came close to the ground. "Where'n ya get this? A robbery?"
Reinhart shook his head; there was only one robbery attempt that night. "It was payment... gratitude, for a job well done. I'm passing it on." Without another word, he turned and stepped out of the gate and away from the small town. The gatekeeper watched him for several moments until the night swallowed the ranger.
Not believing his eyes, the gatekeeper looked at the gold in his hands and let out a boisterous laugh. It was a year's salary and he'd make sure no one knew about it. With a grunt, slam, and loud clang the gates were closed and locked. He hobbled to his alcove, pushing the gold pieces into a hidden pocket in his dirty and worn tunic. It was the first time they held anything besides filth in years, and he planned on enjoying it.
The road outside the town's walls was superior in how it handled the rain due to the lack of foot traffic. People only traveled through the Wilderness if they had a necessity, and even then, not without armed guards. Reinhart made good time and after an hour of beginning his journey, he settled under a large willow tree. The ground was warm and soft, offering a thin covering of grass and dirt for him to spend the remainder of the night. As his eyes closed, he thought back to the dream he had earlier and the events that caused it.
*****
Stepping outside, he inhaled the cool, relaxing scent of morning-after-rain air. It was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself to indulge in, as his life was a spartan one. The only deviance was the occasional warm bed and meal, a combination he enjoyed for the previous month in the small village he stumbled upon. That morning was when he planned on leaving the village and her behind forever.
Lucille had been everything he could've asked a woman to be for him. In the short time he knew her, he found himself enamored with her more than anything else in his existence. Had he believed in the Gods, he would've prayed to each of them in turn, thanking them for bringing such a flower into his dreary world. As each day progressed, he found himself becoming more comfortable with Lucille, pleased by her constant company and pleasant smile.
She was so different and wonderful that he thought about staying with her, to forget his choice in life and his vow never to become what his parents had. Thinking of them brought a fresh rush of emotion. Not love or regret at his alienation, but a steadfast anger and determination to follow through on his oath. Lucille was wonderful, but she was a danger to what he was meant to do in his life. Against the many voices and parts of him wishing to remain, he dressed and left her small cottage before she could wake.
Having told her of his plan the night before, she had hurled a wooden bowl at him before breaking into tears. Didn't she know he wanted to stay with her? Didn't she understand what he was meant to do with his life? The power behind his vow? When he woke, he knew the only thing to do was to leave, to give her the opportunity to move on with her life. The village had yet to wake from the previous night's slumber as he made his way along the path. When he paused to look back, he expected her to be at the door watching him. Maybe she'd even come after him. Had she done either of those, he never would've left as seeing her would've broken his resolve. It was the final chance he could give to her when she deserved so much more. When nothing stirred aside from the morning breeze, he turned and continued along the path.
*****
The tranquil sound of a songbird brought Reinhart from the depths of his slumber. Squinting and attempting to blink the sleepiness away, he looked to the east at the rising sun. Judging from its position in the sky, the day was an hour old. Stretching where he sat propped against a willow tree, he let out a low groan. The last time he'd been able to sleep so soundly was ten years earlier. His thoughts trailed off and he shook his head to clear away the memory. It was bad enough he dreamed about Lucille for what could've been all night, he wasn't about to allow himself to suffer through the day as well. In a moment of curiosity, he wondered what he owed it to more, mental or physical fatigue. Neither idea gave him any comfort as he felt lucky he could still breathe. Sleeping too soundly made him a perfect target for thieves and bandits, not to mention any snoring he may have done. Since his throat hadn't been cut, he assumed he hadn't uttered a sound during the night.
He remained under the tree, relaxing and taking in the morning for a few more minutes. His cloak kept him warm through the night despite the dampness of his clothing and armor. Still, the dampness carried its own chill that crept into his body while he slept. The ensuing stiffness meant he had to force himself to move.
Once on his feet, Reinhart inventoried his belongings. He felt by his hip to ensure his sword remained, as well as the dagger hidden in his right boot, and his satchel. The only thing missing were the gold pieces from the inner pocket of his cloak, but he remembered giving those to the gatekeeper the night before.
Pleased a new day was beginning without the intervention of a thief, he stretched once more before readying himself to continue along his path. His stomach began growling at him, but he wanted to put more distance between himself and the town from the previous night. He didn't think the father and son would want to come after him, but he suspected they might lie to their Magistrate and accuse him of stealing. Nothing of consequence would be done, but they'd search at least an hour's trek from their home before giving up. While being outside that limit by a quarter hour, he didn't want to press his luck. Things had been too easy for him over the last few days and he didn't want to be around when things turned sour.
He'd stop and eat some of his dried bread and cheese at mid-afternoon. By then, he thought he'd be far enough away that no one would trouble him. With his first step from the comfortable embrace of the willow, Reinhart thought back to his dreams and decided he did the right thing by leaving Lucille in her village. A solitary life was difficult, but he knew who he could trust and didn't have to worry about someone leaving him like he did back there.
Such things as friends and trusted companions were for fairy tales and legends. Scoffing at his own remark, he wrapped his cloak about him and continued along the road. Although it was mid-spring, the days had been uncommonly cool for the last couple of weeks and he needed to get moving to try to stay warm. To do otherwise with semi-damp clothes and only a cloak to wrap himself in was foolish, and would bring about his death sooner rather than later. A few quick gusts of wind found their way under his cloak, chilling him, but he refused to stop before putting enough distance between him and the town to ensure his safety.