Clutching his head, Durakel groaned. His eyes creaked open. The previous night’s torches had burned out, saving his eyes from discomfort. Shegara lay sprawled out on one of the couches with Relad snoring in a chair, still clutching his mug. Durakel battled his way into a seated position and snorted as he caught sight of the other two. Another groan slipped out as he rose to his feet. He waddled over to the ladder and hauled himself up to the main floor.
The tantalizing scent of cooked meat grabbed Durakel’s attention as he pushed open the trapdoor. Closing his eyes, he paused to savor the aroma. Howls of laughter made him open his eyes and he glanced into the kitchen to see Murago and another farmhand with wide grins plastered on their faces. Sighing, the flustered mountain lord clambered off the ladder and strode into the kitchen. His cousin handed him a plate piled with fresh bread and cheese and a thick chunk of seared boar.
Three other farmhands sat at a table, tucking into their breakfast and washing it down with mugs of ale. Durakel and Murago joined them and demolished their food. Nodding at the two cousins, the laborers stood up and walked out the front door. Murago watched them leave and then leaned back in his chair. He rested one leg atop the other and sipped on his ale.
“If you told me last night why you’re here in Westhill, I’m not sure I remember, Dura.”
Durakel grunted and eyed his empty plate for a few moments before turning to answer the question, “I’ve got a warband that I’m taking up north.”
The farmer blinked and set his mug on the table, “What are ya going north for? I thought most of the patrols were headed south these days.”
Finishing off his drink, Durakel stared into the cup and fiddled with it. Murago frowned and studied the grim look on his cousin’s face.
“There’s a village and some farmsteads up north, by the river. I guess they’ve had some thugs from West River strong-arming them. West River wants the farmers to grow violet water lilies in exchange for protection.”
A scowl crept onto Murago’s face, “Bastards. Protection from what? Bunch of inbred backwater goat-lovers up there. Doesn’t Ironhill patrol those farms anyway?”
“We do. West River is saying they’re gonna give those farms a need to be protected if they don’t give in.”
Durakel sighed and looked around the farmhouse, inspecting the mounted animal heads and cracking his knuckles. His cousin uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, pausing with his mouth open as he looked at Durakel.
“So you’re headed north to stop this?”
“I am. We can’t let the greedy cowards steal our farms.”
“How many men do ya have?”
Biting his lip, Durakel looked at the floor for a moment before meeting his cousin’s gaze, “I’ve got ten warriors, plus two more meeting me this evening.”
“Twelve? Who are you hoping to defeat with only twelve behind you?”
“I was hoping I’d be able to ask you and some other warriors in the village to join me.”
Murago’s eyes opened wider and he sat back in his chair. He sighed and finished off his flagon, mulling over his cousin’s request. Durakel ran his fingers through his beard and watched Murago stew.
The farmer sighed and rubbed his eyes, “I can’t leave Ma now, not with Da just gone, and if I leave and don’t come back, who takes care of Ma, takes care of the farm?”
Durakel nodded. He rested a hand on his cousin’s shoulder and squeezed, “I swear to Ospra, I will bring you home.”
“Ah, don’t say that, Dura. You can’t make that promise.”
Taking a deep breath, Durakel squared his shoulders and leveled his green eyes at his cousin, “I will bring you home, Murago.”
Turning to the table, Murago shrugged off Durakel’s hand and reached for the pitcher of ale in the center of the table. He poured some into his empty flagon and stood up. Inhaling half the cup, he set it back down and grimaced.
“’ll see if I can spare any workers that might know how to swing a blade.”
Grunting, Durakel eyed the floor for a moment before standing. He wrapped his arms around his cousin and squeezed tight.
“You have my thanks, Murago. For the hospitality and for your men. I can understand wanting to stay by your mother’s side.”
“Check the tavern. Might be some men passing through town that know how to use a blade. If I can spare anyone, I’ll send them down there to join you.”
Durakel smiled and nodded. He grabbed Murago’s forearm and shook it. Casting another glance around the hunting trophies and weaponry decorating the walls, he turned and headed outside. Breathing in, he paused to enjoy the fresh breeze as it soothed his lingering headache. The sun warmed his back as he started the walk into the village square. He rolled his shoulders, looking at the low hills and crop fields surrounding Westhill, smiling to himself as he remembered summers spent chasing Murago through those fields.
His reverie sputtered to a close as he caught sight of the tavern and steeled himself for an afternoon persuading warriors to risk their lives and follow him. Durakel stood outside the tavern for a few moments, gritting his teeth and staring at the iron door handle. Pushing inside, he took a deep breath and strode over to the bar, plopping down on a stool and resting his elbows on the counter. Sunlight filtered in through a handful of windows and smoke drifted up to the rooftop from a pair of older men sporting long braided beards and polished wooden pipes. Ordering a mug of ale, Durakel turned to survey the rest of the tavern. He watched the other man sitting at the bar shovel stew into his mouth. The man wore a fitted leather jerkin and pants with a long knife strapped to his thigh.
The tavern’s two other occupants sat together at a table on the right wall. A middle aged man and woman sat across from each other, leaning in and talking in low voices. The man wore a dirty robe and had a bald head and short, scruffy beard. Durakel watched him smack the table and lean back in his chair, shaking his head at his companion. She sighed and took a long drink from her flagon before stretching and standing up. Meeting Durakel’s gaze, she ambled over to the bar with her empty mug.
A tight braid restrained her auburn hair and she wore weathered leathers with a well stocked quiver on her back. Her mug hit the bar and the tavern keeper filled it with a pitcher. Looking Durakel up and down, she asked, “Gonna say something or just stare at me and Agarn?”
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“I haven’t decided yet.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. Durakel scratched his beard and took a sip of ale, studying her sturdy quiver and scratched leather armor.
“I’m Durakel. You?”
Draining half the mug, she set it back on the bar and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow as she watched Durakel inspect her armor, “Kinsa. Like what you see?”
He chuckled, “Just eyeing your quiver. How well can you handle a bow?”
“Keep staring at me like that and you’ll find out.”
Laughing, Durakel raised his hands in surrender and returned to his mug, wishing for some of the liquor Murago had plied him with the night before. Kinsa’s companion walked over to the bar and frowned at Durakel.
“Everything okay here, Kinsa?”
“I can handle myself, Agarn. Guy here just seems fond of staring at us.”
Agarn scanned Durakel, noting a pair of gold rings, and cocked his head to the side.
“What’s a noble doing out in the village drinking at midday?”
Returning Agarn’s piercing gaze, Durakel shrugged his shoulders and looked between the two, “My bag of silver and I are looking for a few extra swords.”
Kinsa’s eyes flashed and she smiled, gesturing towards their table. She turned to Agarn and flicked her head toward the barkeep before leading Durakel to a chair. He sat down and cracked his knuckles, smirking at the sudden pleasantries from Kinsa. As she watched her partner and the barman return with trays loaded with ale and stew, Durakel kept his eyes on Kinsa. A small curved scar marred the tanned skin on her right cheek, her leather armor had seen better days, and another pair of parallel scars ran across her muscled left forearm.
The barkeep and Agarn placed the stews and ales on the table and then the barkeep strode off to man the counter. Kinsa grinned as the food arrived and looked up, catching Durakel watching her again. Her smile slipped for a moment before she focused back on the food.
“My thanks, brother. Now, I think we should get to talking with this bag of coins.”
Agarn chortled as he took his seat next to his sister, grabbed a bowl, and faced Durakel. A green cloth pouch tied with a thin leather cord and full of silver clanked as it hit the table. The siblings shifted in their seats, Durakel scratching his beard and watching their eyes dance.
“What exactly is this coin supposed to buy?” Agarn spoke up, stern frown back on his face.
Pursing his lips, Durakel stared at Agarn and considered the question. He leaned forward on the table, glancing at the intricate tattoo climbing a few inches onto Agarn’s neck. Durakel fiddled with his bowl of stew and answered, “I’ve got a problem to handle, and I’d like a few more people to help me handle it.”
Kinsa snorted and began eating as her brother’s frown deepened. Agarn sighed and glanced sideways at his sister before replying, “Can’t see how I can help solve a problem I know nothing about.”
“I take it she can handle a bow. Have you ever seen battle?”
Laughing again, Kinsa revelled in seeing her brother’s nostrils flare and jaw clench. Agarn grabbed his mug and sipped his ale, glaring at Durakel. Regaining some composure, Agarn set his mug down and glowered.
“It’s the robe, isn’t it? Nobody ever thinks the man in the robe could possibly swing a sword! So what if I want to be comfortable, you boar. Not everyone has to traipse across the land in full sweaty, stinky, heavy armor.”
Wide eyed, Durakel tamped down a bemused laugh as Agarn’s skin flushed during the tirade. Durakel glanced over at Kinsa and her eyes betrayed her amusement as she wiped a cloth across her mouth to disguise a grin. Agarn grumbled and aimed his ire at his bowl of stew, which began to vanish. The other two followed suit and allowed the food and ale to disarm the conversation.
Durakel licked his lips and wiped off the remnants of the meaty stew, washing it down with the last of his ale. He sighed and sat back, resting his hands on his sword belt and waiting for Agarn to stop muttering and scraping at his empty bowl.
“Agarn, I did not mean to suggest you couldn’t wield a sword. I was just curious if you had seen battle. So you are a swordsman, then?” As he asked Agarn, Durakel noticed Kinsa stifling another smile.
Her brother coughed and cleaned his face with a cloth, reaching for his empty mug. Checking inside he frowned and reached for Kinsa’s. She slapped his hand and snickered. Thwarted, Agarn sighed and answered Durakel, “Well, no, I am not a swordsman, but I have seen battle. I just detest how so many warriors seem to think that wearing normal clothing removes your ability to fight.”
The man’s answer elicited another chuckle from his sister and a raised eyebrow from Durakel. Watching Agarn squirm in his chair, Durakel scratched his beard and let his sight wander across the pair. He again observed the tattoo winding up Agarn’s neck and tried to ascertain its meaning. Several green lines rose a few inches above his robe’s collar and flared out before meeting in a triangle. The evasive bald man straightened in his chair and the markings vanished beneath the robe.
“So, if you have seen battle, what’s your weapon of choice?”
A wry smile slid across Agarn’s face and he spread his arms and performed a half bow, “I am a healer, among other things.”
Durakel grunted and polished off his mug of ale, fiddling with his sack of coin. Weighing it for a few moments in his hand, he yanked the cord tying it shut, releasing a stream of silver coins. Embossed with a pickaxe, the coins came from the bank of Ironhill and often held more value than unmarked coins because of the quality. Durakel cracked his knuckles, observing Kinsa licking her lips and Agarn’s eyes twinkling. He stacked the silver coins into even piles and fenced them in with his hands, face hardening as he finished reeling in the siblings.
“A healer would prove quite valuable, as would an archer. But, I will need to see your skills at work before I throw my silver at you.”
“Of course! Why don’t we head outside and I can toss a few arrows at you and let my brother fix you up.”
“I might have to pay the two of you just for the humor,” Durakel chuckled.
Boisterous laughter crashed into the tavern as three sweaty farmhands stepped inside. They dove straight for the bar, ordering flagons brimming with ale and turning to survey the quiet room. Spotting Durakel, the youths took several deep gulps and wandered over to his table. The lord stood, extending his gauntlet and clasping the three farmers’ forearms in turn. He gestured to the empty spots at the table and the workers fell into their seats, sighing and leaning back in their chairs. A bemused grin slid across Durakel’s face as the siblings lost the excitement produced by the stack of silver.
“Did you think there would be no competition for the coin, my friends?” Durakel asked, looking down at Agarn and Kinsa. His grin widened as he retook his seat, resting his elbows on the table and spinning one of his rings. He relished the confusion on their faces, waiting for their voices to return.
Kinsa spoke first, brow furrowed as she glared at the newcomers, “What sort of problem do you have that requires this many bodies?”
“After I see what you can do, I’ll give you half the silver when we leave town and half the silver when we return.”
Rubbing his neck, Agarn pursed his lips and stared at Durakel. The two remained unblinking for a terse moment before Agarn tilted his head and asked, “What if we’re not interested?”
“Then you miss this chance to earn the glory of Ironhill and a heap of silver.”
The three farmers burst into cheers and raised their flagons, clinking them and spilling ale onto the table, and drained them. Slamming their mugs down, the men roared, “For Ironhill, for silver, and for more ale!”
The siblings shook their heads, sharing a glance before studying Durakel and the cheering farmers. Well built, the lord filled his armor and carried a hefty sword across his back. A pair of golden rings and a chain necklace with a silver hammer attached spoke of wealth and a handful of scars on his arms and leather sleeves revealed time in battle.
Agarn murmured to Kinsa, leaning over and dipping his head to catch her response. They straightened up and nodded, reaching across the table to offer their hands to Durakel. He grabbed their forearms and grinned, green eyes latching onto theirs.
“For Ironhill and for silver, my friends.”