For a long while they waited near the entryway trying not to look nervous or suspicious. The Highwander soldiers looked as out of place as Mikahl felt. Their fidgeting and pacing seemed to betray them as impostors. The truth was it made them appear angry and impatient. This wasn’t the section of the city where idle sell-swords were welcome, and a nearby candlemaker soon started complaining.
From down the street a sarzard grumbled something in his tongue to a human underling who translated the question to the candlemaker. “What is the issue? These men are obviously waiting for their employer who is inside the inn.”
“They’re scaring away my custom is what they’re doing!” the man responded indignantly.
Mikahl heard the man’s voice over the din and saw the sarzard, and the others gathering around him, staring back at them curiously. Instinctively, his hand reached over his shoulder and fingered Ironspike’s hilt. He didn’t dare pull the sword here. Its powerful magic would draw unwelcome attention to him and his men. Casually, he moved his hand to his hip where Lord Gregory’s sword hung in its scabbard. It was all he could do to keep from drawing it to try and fight his way out of this predicament. The Highwander men were alert now too, but none drew steel. Mikahl’s only comfort was that he knew all it would take was a word for these men to follow his lead.
As the sarzard, and his group, approached, a few possibilities ran through Mikahl’s mind. If they were forced to fight, he thought they could make quick work of the zard-man and his troop. Hopefully they could do it without attracting much attention. They would have to silence the loud merchant who was now pointing and gesturing angrily, pulling passersby into the ordeal. They could make a run for it, but there really was no safe place to run. A human wearing a guard uniform similar to the sarzard listened to the lizard-man hiss and growl something that none of them could understand. He then stepped forward and spoke.
“Sarzard Askolzz said you have to wait somewhere else,” the man said with more than a little uneasiness in his voice. “You’re scaring away the custom.”
Mikahl was relieved that none of his men had drawn a weapon. “But our captain is inside,” Mikahl replied, easing his hand away from Lord Gregory’s weapon. “He should be along soon.”
The man gave him an odd look. Mikahl realized that his accent wasn’t even close to Dakaneese. If anything, it gave him away as a Westlander. The man spoke to the sarzard in a growling series of hisses and spurts. The lizard-man shook his head and replied. The man translated. “He says there are several taverns in the immediate area. One of you can stay and wait for your captain. The others must get out of the street.” The man looked to the sarzard as he clicked and hissed some more. “He says that if you were not here on business he would take your weapons.” The translator swallowed hard then looked Mikahl directly in the eyes. “I would go to the Otter’s Den if I were you. It’s just around the corner there.” The man pointed up the street away from the candle maker’s shop.
Mikahl noticed a crowd gathering at the other end of the block. He nodded and asked one of the soldiers to stay, and then with a nod to the guardsmen, and the sarzard, he led the others up the road to find the Otter’s Den.
The guardsmen had recognized him as a Westlander, he knew, and the look they’d shared conveyed that it was all right. There was something more to the look, and for the first time since being back in Westland, Mikahl got the sense that not everything was going as smoothly as it appeared in the city.
Maybe the people were just bustling along as usual, or maybe they were just pretending to.
The looks they received from the customers at the Otter’s Den showed that their presence was both surprising, and unwelcome. Apparently, Dakaneese sell-swords had the favor of the zard, but not the Westland men. Mikahl could imagine that many of these people’s liege lords, and maybe some of their family members, had been captured for ransom, or sold to Dakahn as slaves. Mikahl took a chance and loudly ordered a round for him and his men. His obviously Westland accent threw the people staring at them out of kilter, but not for long. A pair of intoxicated men started toward the bar with a look of ill-intent in their eyes. Mikahl cursed Maxrell Tyne under his breath. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a brawl with his own people.
“There you are, my lumps!” a loud Dakaneese voice blared out angrily from the open door of the tavern. Mikahl gave a sigh of relief. “There you are searching for the bottom of a cup when we’ve a package to retrieve from Lake Bottom.” The gleam in Tyne’s eyes told Mikahl that his statement wasn’t just intended for the customers of the Otters Den. The man had found out something, and Mikahl felt a glimmer of hope surge through his body.
Grommen couldn’t believe he allowed the Lion Lord to talk him into breaking into the old stronghold at Lake Bottom. Yet here he was, in the late of the afternoon, standing in a darkened chapel, waiting on Lord Gregory to finish a search of his former home’s interior. To Grommen’s surprise, it hadn’t been hard to get in. There was a secret door hidden behind a section of wall that ran double for a short way.
Footsteps sounded outside the chapel and Grommen dropped between a pair of pews and lay still. The door opened and a harsh orange glare shone in for a moment. The torchlight receded as the door closed.
Grommen feared they were already looking for the Lion Lord. His golden cow was probably hiding in an attic, or scooted up under a bed awaiting capture. No, he decided. He had to give the broken down brawler a little more repute. This had been his home since birth. No doubt he knew every crack and cranny of the place. He-
“Hey,” a voice whispered, just above Grommen’s head, causing him to jolt.
The door hadn’t opened again had it? No, not since the torch-light had come through. He would have known by the shadows if someone came in then. His heart was hammering in his chest as he quietly reached for his dagger.
“Where did you go?” the voice whispered again.
Grommen relaxed, it was the Lion Lord, but how had he gotten back into the chapel without alerting him? “I’m here,” he groaned as he got back to his feet. “How did you get back-”
The Lion Lord shushed him. “Follow me.”
They exited the way they came in and, to Grommen’s surprise, two horses waited patiently outside the hidden entry. He could hear shouts and hisses of alarm around the building. A feeling of dread came over him. “What did you do?” he asked.
“I set the barn on fire,” Lord Gregory laughed.
He was in such high spirits that Grommen thought he might have gone mad. “What would you do that for?”
“To cover the escape of a few old friends,” Lord Gregory grinned. “She escaped them Grommen,” he laughed out loud. “She, and Lady Zasha, got away.”
“We’re likely not to get away, man,” Grommen grumbled. “We need to move.”
“Aye,” Lord Gregory nodded. “Follow me.”
To Grommen’s disappointment, instead of going back south into the woods, the Lion Lord headed around the wall toward the front of the keep. Reluctantly, Grommen spurred his horse to keep up with the Mad Lion. He wasn’t about to let a bunch of skeeks kill or capture his monetary future. His blood ran cold when he saw Lord Gregory stop in front of the main gate tower and begin yelling and screaming up at the zard-men posted there. He could tell by the surprise on his companion’s face that Lord Gregory hadn’t expected the gate to open so quickly. The two of them had to dance their horses around the crossbow bolts that were suddenly flying at them. Grommen heeled his horse and caught up with the Lion Lord. He whacked Lord Gregory’s mount on the rump with this meaty hand, but the horse reared up instead of bolting, nearly flinging the Lion Lord to the ground. Lord Gregory’s experience showed through as he held on and soon they were in a headlong gallop that seemed futile at best.
A pair of zards riding one of their huge geka mounts was almost on them, and another geka with four zard- men on its long scaly back wasn’t far behind. Grommen was glad that they ended up fleeing southward. The last thing he wanted to do was go farther into Westland. They ran the horses as fast as they could gallop for a long time and managed to put the scene behind them. Only then did they stop and walk the animals for a while.
The road they took led toward a town called Midway. It edged the western coast of the continent. On their left side was a line of a dense sea-blown forest; on the right, a vast expanse of cobalt and gray that smelled of brine. They stopped and rested in the darkness, but eventually they heard the shouts of the pursuing zard-men calling and they were forced to mount up again. The horses were tired, and the gekas were gaining on them. When dawn finally broke, a glance behind told Grommen they would soon be overrun. Already an errant crossbow bolt had
