one had long blond hair, and the other black as pitch. The man sitting across from them was a head shorter. A sharp chin protruded from the confines of his hood, which he kept pulled down. All three wore buckskin instead of wool and carried weapons of a sort. Boar spears leaned against the table beside the larger men; their companion had something hidden under his cloak, maybe a sword or a truncheon. The two larger men looked up with dark, sunken eyes as Caim entered, and just as quick went back to their business.
The canvas sheet was shoved aside, and a man emerged from the back. By the wooden mugs in his hands, he was the proprietor. He had a sagging chin and a dark port-wine stain down the side of his neck. His eyes were deep-set with many folds underneath, but in their depths lay a kernel of toughness, the same as his customers, as though they were all chipped from the same quarry.
When he’d served the drinks, the owner regarded Caim with a sour expression. Caim stood as straight as he could manage and tried not to advertise his injuries. His face itched all of a sudden, but he kept his hands by his sides.
“You the innkeep?” Caim asked.
The man wiped his hands on his shirt, which was covered in grease spots. He glanced at Caim’s torn ear and said, “What do you want?”
“A hot meal and a room for the night if there’s one to be had.”
“We’ve no boarding.” The owner waved a hand at a seat at the end of the table nearest the meager fireplace. “But I’ll bring you something to eat.”
Caim crossed the room and leaned his bundles against the wall. The heat from the fireplace lapped against his back as he sat down. He closed his eyes, imagining the warmth creeping into the marrow of his bones. By his best reckoning, he was roughly twenty leagues north of the Nimean border. If he had succeeded in following a northerly track, and if his injuries allowed him to maintain the pace, that would put him in Liovard, Eregoth’s largest town, in a few days.
The three men sitting together seemed to be arguing, but Caim couldn’t hear their words. Then the larger two stood up. Taking up the spears, they went out the door and left the smaller man alone with a trio of cups. Caim leaned back and closed his eyes, minding his own business. The last thing he wanted was trouble.
The sound of shoes scraping over the floorboards dragged his eyelids open. A woman had come out of the back room to bring him a flattened bread plate covered with brown stew and a wooden mug. She didn’t meet his eyes, but that didn’t surprise him; he knew he looked bad, and probably smelled worse. When she started to turn away, he cleared his throat. She hesitated, but gave no other indication she’d heard.
“I’m heading to Liovard. Can you tell me how far it is?”
The woman shrugged. She was about the same age as the innkeeper, with the same tired features of someone who had been driven hard on the wheel of life.
“Orso!” she yelled over her shoulder. “How far to the city?”
The innkeeper looked over from the table of farmers with a scowl. “Two. Maybe three days on foot.”
Caim nodded to the woman. “I’m trying to find a place.” He dredged the name from the dreams of his earliest years. He wasn’t even sure it was right. “Morrowglen.”
“Soja!”
The innkeeper beckoned her, and the woman shuffled away. Her employer, or husband perhaps, cast an ill look at Caim.
“We’ve no boarding!” he grumbled before following the woman into the back.
Caim settled in his chair, and winced as his sore back rubbed against the slats. The other guests had paused again to watch him. He returned their gazes until, one by one, they went back to their cups. The cloaked man never looked up.
Caim stared at the steaming pile of runt potatoes and carrots on his plate. The heat at his back, so delicious just minutes ago, was oppressive now. He took a sip from the cup and almost spat it out. Pieces of millet floated in the bitter beer. He started to put it down, but then took another slug.
The sound of hoofbeats outside almost caused him to spit it out. On the road, horses meant rich people or soldiers, and either way it spelled trouble. Caim placed his hands on the tabletop. There was only one way out unless the back room had an exit. The other patrons cast glances around at the sounds from outside, but otherwise stayed as they were when the door slammed open. Caim eased his chair back out of the light of the fireplace.
A group of men in damp leather armor and steel caps entered and stamped the snow from their boots. Five in number. No uniforms, but they wore enough hardware to make sure everyone knew they meant business. Then a sixth entered, wearing a steel cuirass over a mail byrnie; his riding boots were muddy from the road.
Soldiers. Just what I don’t need.
Everyone in the room bent farther over their drinks at the sight of the new arrivals. All conversation stopped. The crackle of the fire popped loud in the sudden silence. As the soldiers took seats at the table, pushing the farmers down to make room, the innkeeper hurried through the curtain with fistfuls of foaming mugs. He nodded as he set them down, but by the downward curve of his mouth he was anything but glad to see his new guests.
“Good day, my lords.”
One of the soldiers, the largest, tossed a couple coins on the table. “We need something to eat. And fodder for our mounts. See to it.”
The owner bowed as he collected the money, and then departed back through the curtain. There was a ruckus in the back, accompanied by the sound of breaking clay, and the soldiers laughed to each other. Their captain sat with his back to the wall and minded his cup. He looked younger than the rest. Even without his armor or the expensive cavalry sword with its wire-wrapped hilt at his side, Caim would have guessed him to be the leader. He held himself a little apart from the others and had more of a care for his appearance. Likely he was some minor lord’s fourth son, reduced to serving in the army for self-advancement.
While the soldiers drank and spoke among themselves, the cloaked man at Caim’s table stood up and headed toward the door. It looked like he might make it without incident until one of the soldiers called out.
“Ho there!”
The caller stood up, as did one of his brother soldiers, while the rest watched on. The officer did not stir, but he looked up over the rim of his mug. The cloaked man kept walking.
Big mistake.
The soldiers on their feet moved to intercept him, and the others were rising now, too. The farmers bent over their table as if minding their own business, except for one. Older than the rest, he was downright ancient, with a full white beard that hung down to his navel. Of them all, only he dared to raise his head and watch.
One of the soldiers grabbed the cloaked man’s arm and yanked him to a halt. “Where you off to?”
The other trooper snatched back the hood to reveal a youthful face with a hawkish nose, topped by a mop of unruly black hair. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen or eighteen. The soldiers grinned at each other.
“What’s this?” the first asked. “He looks a little young to be out wandering without his mother.”
The cloaked youth looked away, but said nothing. By this time, the big soldier had come over. Still holding his mug, he grabbed the boy by the hair and forced his head back.
“You with the army, boy?”
The first soldier poked the youth in the kidney. “Speak up, boy. We’re talking to you.”
The big soldier threw back the boy’s cloak and whistled as he reached down. He drew out a sword and held it up. It was a northern short sword called a spatha, with a straight blade and a narrow guard. This one had a bronze hilt and a dull steel blade that showed the dents of a blacksmith’s hammer.
“You better be explaining yourself,” the big soldier said.
The officer came over. “What have you got, Sergeant?”
The sergeant dropped the sword to the floor where it rattled with a hollow clang. “A deserter is my guess.”
“Is that true? Are you a deserter from His Grace’s army?”
“Leave him be!” the oldster sitting at the table yelled. “He ain’t harming nobody.”
The officer gestured, and the other three soldiers hauled the farmers to their feet and shoved them against the wall. The old man protested, and was cuffed across the mouth, which only made him curse them more roundly.
“Shut him up!” the sergeant shouted. “Or tickle his ribs with something sharp.”
One of the soldiers drew a dagger from his belt.
